Conqueror’s Moon (21 page)

The appropriate response to the affronted Light was right there in the book—also given in the foreign tongue, and thus quite useless to Snudge.

The Vital Precautions chapter had a long list of magical missteps with consequences that were mortal—or worse. Reading them with a sinking heart, he had almost dropped the terrible book down the dunghole right then and there.

I can’t do this! he’d said to himself. I want to be Prince Conrig’s intelligencer— not risk my life mucking about with sky-monsters that can squash me like a gnat.

But niggling curiosity, and a feeling that he would be nothing more than a craven child if he gave up so easily, had compelled him to turn back to the beginning of the little volume and skim through it as best he could. The unfamiliar spelling and peculiarly shaped letters bothered him less and less as he read the short chapters; but there were still certain explanatory sections he could make no sense of, as well as the all-important spells written in the foreign tongue.

The much longer chapter with the catalogue of sigils included a precise drawing of Iscannon’s piece of moonstone and its proper name, Concealer, together with its uses and its activating incantation. The thing was a futtering miracle! Not only was it capable of making its wearer invisible, it could also hide other specified living or inanimate things within a radius of “four armes longthes” if given the proper command. With that feature, he learned, a sorcerer might conceal the horse he was riding on or even a small boat, or shield a group of people huddling within about four ells of him.

But only if he pronounced the alien spell properly. If he said the words wrong, the sigil might kill him in various hideous ways, or the annoyed Beaconfolk might play one of their capricious jokes—such as casting him into an abominable arctic netherworld minus his skin, where he’d spend eternity in frozen agony.

I’m stumped, Snudge admitted miserably, as he lay in bed. He might as well throw both the sigil and the book into the sea, as Conjure-Prince Beynor had commanded. There was no way he’d ever be able to use this magic safely.

By now he had read or paged through virtually every volume in Vra-Kilian’s main Alchymical Library. He knew for certain that none of them had been a pronouncing dictionary of that distinctive weird language. Neither had there been such a book in the locked cases in the inner sanctum. Perhaps the inability to pronounce the spells was the fatal flaw that had deterred the villainous Royal Alchymist from utilizing his own large collection of sigils.

Shite…

By rights, Snudge concluded, I should speak to Prince Conrig before getting rid of Iscannon’s sigil and the book. His master might want to confer with Princess Ullanoth, who doubtless was familiar with such dangerous sorcery. Perhaps she’d tell the prince how to pronounce the spell of invisibility.

But all the boy’s instincts rebelled against that course of action. Ullanoth had warned Conrig that the sigil was too dangerous to keep. Rather than share its spell with him, she’d more likely demand that he turn the moonstone over to her immediately, or throw it away.

Snudge heard young voices in the corridor outside. The armigers were returning. As they trooped into the room, some of the boys giggled and gave owl hoots when they saw Snudge already abed, but he cursed them good-naturedly and drew his feather-tick over his head. After the usual noisy scrambling about subsided, Belamil snuffed the light and commanded silence. Everyone settled down just as the castle chimes struck the first hour of morning.

I’ll decide what to do tomorrow, Snudge thought.

But he’d reckoned without his nightmare, which was about to change.

==========

In it, he fought Iscannon as usual, and felt himself succumbing to the icy enchantment. But when he stabbed the spy to the heart and heard the windvoice cry out desperately for Beynor, the Conjure-Prince entered Snudge’s dream in a completely different aspect.

No longer at sea, the Mosslander was sitting at a table in a darkened room, wearing a quilted robe decorated with rather silly little stars. His expression was different; the erstwhile haughty self-confidence was gone and he looked both angry and diminished, as though he had experienced some great defeat or humiliation.

I know what you’ve done, Deveron Austrey.

“Oh, really?”

The question is, what am I going to do about it?

“I hope you don’t intend to bore me with your usual threats and insults— or bring me more painful nightmares. They’re a nuisance, nothing more. If you could have harmed me seriously, you’d have done it already. You’re all piss and wind, Prince Beynor.”

Not quite! But in light of recent events, I’m reconsidering our adversarial relationship, and I suggest you do so as well. It would be mutually profitable if we were allies instead of enemies.

“I doubt it.”

Let me explain. I know about the book you stole.

“I didn’t steal any book.”

You’re the only one who could have taken it. No one else would have dared enter the Royal Alchymist’s sanctum. No one else in Cala Palace has a use for the ancient book he kept hidden there.

“Hah! So you admit you aren’t certain I have it! You weren’t windwatching me.”

No one can windwatch you, Deveron Austrey. This is why you’re such a danger— and such a potential asset. I knew someone must have taken Iscannon s sigil. No sigil, alive or dead, can be perceived by a windwatcher, but persons possessing them usually give themselves away by their actions. Since neither the prince nor his brother Stergos seemed to have Iscannon’s stone, that left you—the strangely unwatchable servant boy. A sight of you was flashed to me by Iscannon even as he died.

“And you snuck into my dreams.”

I have that ability. It was a source of great distress to my dear sister until she learned how to shut me out. I even used it on my father, to sway his poor mad mind.

“Will you stop beating about the bush and tell me what you want?”

All in good time. Would it surprise you to know that Vra-Kilian, the Royal Alchymist of Cathra, is my creature? He discovered that the small magical book was gone almost as soon as he returned to Cala Palace. He had no notion of who might have taken it while he was away on the pilgrimage.

“So Kilian’s the traitor! Thanks for the information. I’ll tell Prince Conrig right away. He’s suspected the alchymist for some time.”

Don’t talk like a fool. There’s no way Conrig can prove his uncle’s treachery. Your word on the matter is worth less than a fart in a beermug.

“Elegantly put, my prince.”

I’m not a prince any more. My father Linndal died—may the Moon shine kindly on his spirit—and he named me his successor and debarred my sister Ullanoth from the throne. I’m Conjure-King Beynor now! The news will be windspoken all over High Blenholme by tomorrow.

“Congratulations. But why bother telling me?”

You can be very valuable to me, and vice versa. My sigil and the book that you stole from the Royal Alchymist—

“How many times must I say that I don’t have anything that belongs to you. And nothing that Kilian has a true claim on, either.”

He believes otherwise… and he knows that you’re the thief. I told him so. He’ll be coming for you unless you agree to serve me. He’ll slice off your body’s flesh by inches, you upstart horse-lackey, and toast the bloody collops and force-feed them to you, unless I call him off.

“Do you know what I think? I think you’re lying again. If you’d told Vra-Kilian that I have his book, he’d be here in the dormitorium with his henchmen trying to drag me out of bed. And I’d be screaming for my master, Prince Conrig, and eleven hopping-mad armigers would be whacking at wizards and raising a ruckus that’d lift off the palace roof.”

You think you’re clever, Deveron Austrey, but—

“Stop trying to bluff! You’re not absolutely certain that I have the book and the sigil, and you don’t know where I might have hidden them. Vra-Kilian and his magickers will never find the things… and they’ll never find me if I decide to hide. Cala Palace is enormous! I can windwatch Kilian, but he and his ”windbags can’t scry me, any more than you can. If necessary, I’ll stay out of reach in Conrig’s apartments until his force leaves for—for the north country. I’m the Prince Heritor’s liege man, damn your eyes, not a paltry servant!“

Very well. You win.

“… What’s that supposed to mean?”

I have no intention of setting the Royal Alchymist on you. I’m actually extremely disappointed in him. I’ve decided to offer you his job—together with the rewards that go with it.

“What!”

Become my secret retainer, Deveron Austrey. Conrig Wincantor gave you a sword and a suit of armor and some flimsy promises of manorlands when you’re twenty. I’ll give you power and riches beyond imagining, and do it right now.

“Until I ‘disappoint’ you, Conjure-King! Then you’ll toss me to the monsters.”

Your skepticism is understandable. So I’ll give you a demonstration of my good faith and regal generosity. I’ll instruct you how to activate your sigil of invisibility, with no strings attached. As a free gift.

“I don’t believe you. You’ll trick me. Destroy me!”

Why should I bother? I’m trying to make friends. To win you over. You can find the proper words right there in your stolen book, under the picture of Concealer, but they’re useless because you can’t say them correctly.

“If I had the book, that’d be true.”

Don’t be tedious. Now: you must always keep this kind of sigil against your flesh for it to work. To be unseen, say or whisper: BI DO FYSINEK. To be visible again, say: BI FYSINEK. If you want the magical cover to extend about four ells around you—to shield other people, for instance—say: FASH AH. To make the cover shrink again: KRUFAH. It’s all quite simple. Say the words, Deveron.

“Bi do fysinek. Bi fysinek. Fash ah. Kruf ah.”

No no no! Don’t use your disgusting Cathran drawl. Roar the words! Speak deeply as I did, breathing roughly.

“BI DO FYSINEK. BI FYSINEK. FASH AH. KRUF AH.”

Perfect. What a great memory you have! Now there’s a bit more to learn, and I’ll admit that this is the rather sticky part. Concealer is dead, because it was conjured to Iscannon, and he’s dead. To make it live again, you must—um—introduce yourself to the Lights as the new owner. The safest way to do this is with a long incantation written there in your book, but you’d never remember how to say it all, so you’ll have to do things another way.

“I know. By wearing the sigil, then touching it to the moonstone disk on the cover of the book. Then the monster howls: CADAY AN RUDAY? and I start to die.”

Hah! So you’ve already tried it.

“And not about to do it again—not for a peck of rubies.”

No, listen. The Light was only asking what you wanted. They do get a bit testy if one doesn’t answer properly. The correct reply is: GO TUGA LUVKRO AN AY COMASH DOM. It means, “May the Cold Light grant me power.” Then the Light asks you your name, and you say it in the same gruff accent. That’s all there is to it.

“If the magic was as simple as that, sigils wouldn’t have such an evil reputation. Neither would the Lights.”

Well, activating a lesser sigil does hurt a bit, but not more than a strong lad like you can easily bear. And there are things that can get you into serious trouble, but that happens mostly with the more complicated and powerful stones. An invisibility charm is about as simple and foolproof as Beaconfolk magic can be. That’s why I let my late associate Iscannon borrow and empower Concealer, and why I’m offering it to you.

“Many a spy would sell his soul for such a thing…”

I want you to be my spy—and I have no interest at all in your soul, provided that it doesn’t get in the way of your loyalty to me. What do you say, Deveron? Prince Conrig’s scheme to conquer Didion will never succeed. I know all about his plans. He’ll get himself killed by sorcery or Didionite battle-axes up on Great Pass, and take a lot of fine warriors along with him to hell. And you, too, unless you re-enlist on the winning side.

“How old are you, Conjure-King?”

Sixteen, as you are, Deveron Austrey. And in my kingdom, an adult man by law.

“Interesting. Thank you for the offer, but I don’t want to be your minion. I’m already pledged to Prince Conrig, and my word is good.”

You’re a shortsighted fool.

“Perhaps. But now I know how to make the sigil work—so what does that make you?”

A brand-new king who made a sad misjudgment. We live and learn! Well, other pressing matters demand my attention. I assure you that I wont be troubling your dreams anymore. Think of me as you make use of Concealer. I might even suggest that you avail yourself of it this very night to raid Vra-Kilian’s treasure trove of sigils. He’ll certainly hide it somewhere else tomorrow, now that he knows an intruder has access to his sanctum, and you’ll never find them with a windsearch. Good-bye, Deveron Austrey. I don’t think we’ll meet again.

==========

Snudge woke, adequately warm and unparalyzed beneath his covers. The sky outside the window was black, with a few stars, and it felt as though it was still fast night. His surmise was confirmed a few moments later when the chimes struck the fifth hour of the morning. At this time of year, the sun didn’t come up until nearly seven.

He remembered every word of his conversation with Beynor and knew beyond any doubt that it had not been a figment of his imagination. It was real.

And so was the imminent danger.

Steal the Royal Alchymist’s collection of sigils right now, after activating Concealer? Did Beynor really think he was so asinine?

I don’t think we’ll meet again…

Right. And Snudge had a good notion why! He had no intention of playing into whatever booby trap the Mosslander had prepared for him, but something had to be done, and he didn’t dare wait until morning to do it. He felt beneath his palliasse, finding the wrapped book and the sigil inside his wallet just as he had left them. He couldn’t possibly keep them now, even if Beynor had told the truth about the activation spell. There was Vra-Kilian to consider.

In the dream-conversation, Snudge had boasted that he wasn’t afraid of the wizard. Now that he was awake, he sensibly reconsidered.