Ironcrown Moon: Part Two of the Boreal Moon Tale

In the royal retirement room adjacent to the great hall, High Queen Risalla sat at a dressing table enduring the attentions of her personal maid, who was rearranging her hair. The Sovereign himself rested on a padded long chair, seeming to be lost in deep thought. He had hardly exchanged a dozen words with the queen since they had left the gardens. The room was warm and he wore only his black undertunic, hose, and soft ankle-boots, having shed his ornate overrobe of black tissue velvet with white gold ornamentation. His valet was busy daubing spirits of wine on a grease spot on one of the sleeves.

‘Sire,’ the queen said, ‘I have a special request to make of you.’

Conrig frowned absently. ‘What is it, madam?’ He had significant concerns of his own this evening, following a brief confidential talk with Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook towards the end of the feast. And there was also Ullanoth’s impending visitation…

‘I’m concerned about our children. With so many special events going on today, I had no time to look in on them. Your Reverend Brother dosed the boys with a physick he declared would surely cure them of their catarrh, and it’s true that Bramlow and Corodon seemed well on the road to recovery yesterday. But I’m worried about little Orry. He’s so much more delicate than the others.’

‘Send a page to inquire how the lad does,’ the preoccupied king said, only half listening.

Risalla waved the maid away, rose from her stool, and came to stand beside her husband. She was a woman of five-and-twenty whose face often seemed bland and plain in repose; but when she was animated, as now, her cornflower-blue eyes glowed with a disconcerting vigor. For the festivities she was attired in a high-waisted gown that revealed nothing of her six-month pregnancy. It was made of violet silk, embroidered about the low neckline with a pattern of vine leaves picked out in gold thread. A chain supporting a single large diamond pendant hung at her throat. Her honey-colored hair was dressed in a high coil of braids adorned with tiny twinkling sprays of gold wire and amethyst brilliants. A delicate golden diadem, yet to be pinned into place, waited on the dressing table.

‘No, husband,’ she said firmly. ‘Sending a page won’t do. I insist on going to the nursery myself, before Orrion and the others are put to bed. Do come with me! You haven’t visited the children all week.’

‘It won’t be long before the dancing begins,’ Conrig objected. ‘We have to step out first, as well you know. And after that we must prepare for the special visitation of the Queen of Moss.’

Risalla’s lips tightened in determination. ‘The housemen are only beginning to put up the lanterns around the dance ground. There’s ample time.’ She took his hand, drawing him to his feet. ‘Surely the Prince Heritor of Cathra is deserving of your sovereign attention.’

Something flickered in Conrig’s dark eyes. But then he let a slow, wintry smile soften his face. He was a tall man and well built, still youthful in appearance at thirty years of age, fine-featured with a short beard and hair the color of ripe wheat. The famous iron crown, originally the rusty top hoop on a small cask of tarnblaze but now polished and given a handsome blue-heat finish, lay unobtrusively on his brow.

‘Dear madam, you defeat me once again. We’ll surprise the little rascals at their supper, and I don’t doubt that we’ll find all of them in good fettle, save for their disappointment at having to miss the Solstice celebration.’ He said to the valet, ‘Trey, summon my escort. And carry on scraping off that splash of gravy while I’m gone.’

‘Thank you, sire – dearest husband.’ Risalla spoke with every evidence of humble diffidence before adding in a drier tone, ‘After all, it’s not as though the dancing could begin without us. And Conjure-Queen Ullanoth is a very patient woman…or so I’ve heard.’

Conrig Wincantor, Sovereign of High Blenholme, stood with his wife outside the closed door to the royal nursery. A look of contained chagrin stiffened his features. Shrieks of childish laughter, furious shouts from an adult female, and the sounds of smashing crockery were audible through the thick oaken planking. The household knights of the royal escort kept straight faces with difficulty, while the two palace guards on duty in the corridor came to attention and smote their polished cuirasses in salute.

Inside the nursery, there was a jarring thud and someone began to scream hysterically. A shrill voice cried, ‘I’ll catch him!’

‘Oh, my,’ Queen Risalla murmured, with a sidelong glance at the king.

Conrig scowled and addressed the senior door guard. ‘What the devil is going on in there, Sergeant Mendos?’

‘I ‘spect it’s the monkey, Your Grace,’ said the guardsman, his countenance wooden. ‘Little Prince Bramlow commanded that it join them for supper. Viscountess Taria’s abed today with a megrim and the younger ladies and the nursemaids haven’t a lick o’ sense among the lot of ‘em, so they agreed. Silly wenches thought it’d be fun to see the wee beast sit down at table with the royal lads. Cheer ‘em up, like, since they couldn’t attend the festival. I said it was a bad idea –’

‘Bazekoy’s Bones!’ growled the king. ‘Where’s the creature’s keeper?’

‘Gone away, sire. The young ladies made him leave. He didn’t want to let the monkey off its chain, y’see, and Their Graces insisted.’

‘Fetch the stupid cullion,’ Conrig snapped. ‘I’ll teach him to tend to his duty!’ He hauled the door open and entered the nursery, followed by the queen. The knights of the royal escort tactfully remained in the corridor.

The large suite of rooms housing the royal children was illuminated by mellow twilight entering through open casement windows. On a food-splattered but otherwise empty table in the center of the supper area stood a sturdy boy some four years of age: Prince Bramlow, the oldest son of Conrig and Risalla. He was barefoot, wearing a red nightrobe as befitted an acolyte of Zeth, and held a bunched tablecloth in his hands as he stared keenly up at the unlit iron chandelier overhead.

A monkey the size of a large housecat sat on one of the candle-arms. It clutched a bowl of strawberries and chittered with evil glee as it pelted the human inhabitants of the room with well-aimed pieces of fruit. The floor around the table was littered with capsized furniture, broken plates, cups, spoons, and scattered cushions – all commingled in a soggy mass of spilt porridge, slices of bread, mashed berries, and a pool of milk spreading from a cracked pitcher.

Two very young ladies-in-waiting huddled together behind a wooden settle, weeping, their fine clothes rumpled and splashed with berry juice. A third noblewoman, somewhat older, stood with her back to the far wall. The giggling two-year-old boy struggling in her arms was Prince Heritor Orrion, who seemed to be in good health. His twin brother Corodon jumped up and down and squealed with laughter. A pair of nursemaids approached the table, glaring up at the monkey. One maid brandished a broom and the other held a clothes basket at the ready.

‘Here goes!’ Bramlow cried out to them, shaking the tablecloth he held. The piece of fabric billowed, soared from his hands like a living thing, and wrapped itself neatly about the simian vandal, who tumbled into the waiting basket with a muffled howl. The two younger princes clapped their hands and cheered. Bramlow hopped off the table, bowed formally to the king and queen, and stood there grinning as the triumphant nursemaids carried the struggling captive out of the room. The unencumbered ladies-in-waiting made deep curtsies and waited, their faces now full of dread. The woman holding Prince Orrion set him on his feet at a gesture from the queen.

Risalla said, ‘Nalise, Erminy, Vedrea, you may leave us. Wait outside until you’re summoned.’ The ladies fled, closing the door behind them, and the queen regarded her sons with a sad expression. ‘You children have been very wicked.’

‘Yes, Mama,’ the three of them chorused. The younger boys looked frightened and stood close together, hand in hand. They were not identical: Prince Heritor Orrion was slightly smaller than his twin brother, plain-featured and sandy-haired like Bramlow, while Corodon had his father’s striking good looks and hair so fair it shone like silver.

‘Wicked,’ Conrig repeated in a terrible soft voice. ‘But especially you, Bramlow. And you know why.’

The older boy lifted his chin. ‘Yes, sire. It was bad to use talent to catch the monkey. But –’

‘Only an ordained Brother of Zeth, dedicated to the service of the realm and pledged to harm no human person, may use overt forms of windtalent. A child who uses overt talent for vain or silly reasons commits a serious sin.’ Conrig’s voice deepened and Bramlow winced. ‘A royal child who dares to exhibit overt talent in front of others, reminding them that one of our ancestors tainted the blood by mating with a nonhuman, comes very close to committing treason. Even though you’re still too young to go to Zeth Abbey and begin your arcane studies, you are old enough to know right from wrong in this important matter.’

The boy dropped to his knees on the dirty floor. ‘I’m sorry, sire. Really, really sorry.’

‘You will be punished, Bramlow. For one week, you’ll remain alone in your room, with only bread and milk to eat. A novice Brother will guard you. You are forbidden to wind-speak Uncle Stergos or any other talented person, neither may you scry nor perform any of the other kinds of subtle magic that are usually allowed to you. The watching Brother will know if you disobey.’

‘I – I promise I’ll be good.’ Tears gleamed on the four-year-old’s face. ‘Please don’t punish the monkey!’

‘The animal will be confined to its cage for a sennight,’ said the king, ‘and its keeper will receive a sound thrashing. Keep in mind that it is your fault that they suffer. Now retire to your room and pray for forgiveness until the midnight sun touches the horizon. Then go to bed.’

‘Yes, sire.’ Bramlow rose up, bowed, and trudged away into an inner chamber.

When he was gone the queen spoke to the twins. ‘It was very wrong of you to ask the ladies to bring in the monkey without its chain and collar. A monkey isn’t a person. It can’t be trusted to behave. Do you understand this now?’

Corodon smiled slyly. ‘Bram said it be great fun. It was!’

‘But wrong.’ Orrion’s face was solemn. ‘We sorry, Mama.’

Queen Risalla gathered the boys to her, kissing them. ‘How do you feel today? Do you still cough and sniffle?’

‘No, Mama. All well now.’ Corodon beamed.

‘And did you eat supper before the monkey spoiled the food?’

‘Some porridge,’ Orrion mumbled.

‘Monkey took strawberries,’ Corodon said. ‘We didn’t get none.’

‘Didn’t get any,’ the queen corrected him. She rose to her feet. ‘The ladies will make you milksops to eat in bed. No strawberries for you tonight. That will be your punishment. Now bid your father goodnight.’

Conrig lifted and embraced each boy gravely, looking deeply into their eyes before kissing them. The infinitesimal glint of talent was imperceptible to him, as it was to the Zeth Brethren and every other adept save Conjure-Queen Ullanoth and possibly Snudge – who’d never said a word about it, curse him!

Talent. That blessing and curse was present in all three of his offspring. But Risalla was once again with child, and if God pleased, Conrig would know tonight if the unborn was a normal-minded heir and the Sovereignty secure.

Much later, as the time of Ullanoth’s visitation approached, Conrig and Risalla waited in the king’s private sitting room in the royal apartments. The draperies were drawn against the still-bright sky, but open casements admitted both cool air and the sounds of laughter and dance-music rising from the gardens. Risalla had changed into a summer nightrobe of fine primrose-colored lawn and reclined on a cushioned couch. The hypnagogic draught prepared by Vra-Stergos, which she had swallowed only a few minutes earlier, was already making her drowsy.

‘I still don’t see why this examination is necessary.’ The queen did not bother to hide her resentment. ‘You required no such thing of me when I was pregnant with the other children.’

‘Ullanoth has fashioned a new spell,’ Conrig prevaricated. ‘It will not only tell us the sex of our new child, but also whether or not it has talent.’

‘Talent!’ Risalla’s tone was uncommonly peevish as she drifted between wakefulness and sleep and her usual invincible self-control dissolved. ‘What does it matter if this babe shares poor Bramlow’s arcane abilities? You have your precious heir to the throne in Orrion, and there is always Coro in case…in case…’ Her eyes closed, but she gave a start and was wide awake again. ‘In case of misfortune – may heaven forfend. I don’t see why I must sleep during this procedure, either. Why shouldn’t I know what Ullanoth does to me and to the child in my womb? I hate the notion of her casting a spell on us! I hate her, God forgive me, though I truly know not why.’

Her vehemence startled Conrig. He was fairly certain that she was unaware of the longstanding liaison between him and the sorceress, and the queen’s temperament was ordinarily so coolly dutiful and tranquil that she seemed as incapable of jealousy as she was of sexual passion. In contrast to his mercurial first wife Maudrayne Northkeep, whom Conrig had adored until he came to believe that she could not give him children, Risalla Mallburn kept close custody of her emotions. It had never occurred to him to ask if she loved him; he deemed it sufficient that she was gently mannered, reasonably attractive, intelligent, fertile, and a princess royal of Cathra’s traditional antagonist, the vassal nation of Didion.

‘The Conjure-Queen will do nothing to outrage your dignity,’ Conrig reassured her. ‘She will only look at the child in a special way, without even touching you.’

‘I still hate being in her power. Helpless.’

‘Perhaps it’s your Didionite heritage that makes you uneasy. You have a natural distrust of magic, due to your people’s hostility to the sorcerers of neighboring Moss. And it’s only natural that you should still resent Ullanoth’s rôle in Didion’s…submission to the Sovereignty.’

‘Our defeat!’ Risalla sighed and her eyes slowly closed again. ‘To say nothing of the shame that most of our warriors died not in honest battle, but as the prey of bloodsucking tiny monsters, commanded by your good friend, the Conjure-Queen. All Didion knows that she invoked the Beaconfolk as well as the spunkies to ensure your victory. And so do many of your own nobles, here in Cathra. They believe you are in league with the Lights.’

‘Madam, you don’t know what you’re saying.’ He tried to speak calmly – for, after all, she was hardly conscious and Gossy had assured him that she would remember none of this tomorrow. Yet he had no doubt that Risalla spoke now from deep conviction, freed by the alchymical potion from the constraint of prudence that usually governed her tongue. It was no surprise to Conrig that the barbarous Didionites should believe him to be in thrall to Beaconfolk magic. But if it were true that his own people gave serious credence to the notion…

‘Who among the Cathran nobility has spoken so perfidiously?’ he asked her. But she only turned away and seemed to sleep.

There came a sound of hesitant knocking. The king rose from beside his wife’s couch and opened the door. The corridor was empty except for his elder brother Stergos, the Royal Alchymist, attired in splendid crimson vestments in honor of the festival. Although he was five years Conrig’s senior, he appeared to be much younger, with a clean-shaven round face and curly blond hair that always seemed slightly disordered. Tonight he was obviously ill at ease and his brow was dewed with perspiration.

Stergos whispered, ‘All’s well with Her Grace?’

Conrig nodded and the alchymist came quickly into the apartment, closing and locking the door behind him. ‘I bespoke Ullanoth in Royal Fenguard castle not ten minutes ago. She can ascertain nothing through her ordinary scrying, but if the unborn possesses talent, she will be able to Send to it as she does to you and me. First, let me make certain that your lady sleeps.’ With great care, Stergos lifted one of the queen’s eyelids. The iris with its dilated pupil had rolled upward. ‘Good. Now we must distance ourselves from Risalla if the experiment is to work. Let’s go into the queen’s sitting room.’

They passed through Conrig’s great bedchamber and Risalla’s adjacent one into the spacious solar where the queen and her ladies were accustomed to sew, read, and break their fast. ‘We should be at least twenty ells away from her,’ Stergos said, ‘so our own talent is incapable of giving substance to the Sending.’

‘What then?’

‘I am to bespeak the Conjure-Queen that all is in readiness,’ said his brother, perching on one of the chairs near the cold fireplace. The king took the other one. ‘She will attempt the Sending, while we pray she does not succeed. If Ullanoth walks through that door, it means that the babe’s talent permitted her to materialize beside Risalla.’

‘And I’m futtered once again,’ Conrig murmured bitterly. ‘Damn it, Gossy! If I could but convince the Lords of the South to do away with the impediment, then I’d be safe and so would my sons…What a king young Bramlow would make! Bold as a hawk and sharp as a varg sword! You should have seen the little rogue get the better of that bloody pet monkey this evening.’ He described the scene in the royal nursery, and Stergos had to smile in spite of his nervousness.

‘I punished the lad harshly,’ Conrig admitted. ‘A week’s confinement on bread and milk. He must learn self-discipline if we ever hope to have the talent restriction lifted. The Lords of the South will never yield if they envision a wizard with overt powers sitting one day on the throne.’

Stergos ventured, ‘Shall I windspeak the Conjure-Queen now?’

‘Wait just a moment.’ The king casually covered his mouth with his hand. ‘I must ask your advice on another matter before we converse with Ulla’s Sending. She almost never uses the Loophole to eavesdrop now because of her considerable pain-debt, and if we guard ourselves from scrier’s lip-reading our speech should be secure from her.’

‘What is it, Con?’ Stergos had drawn the hood of his crimson cloak over his head so that his face was concealed.

‘I had disquieting news from Parlian Beorbrook tonight at the feast. You know he’s just come down from an inspection of our Wold Road outposts in western Didion.’

‘Don’t tell me Prince Somarus is up to his old tricks!’

‘No. As far as the earl marshal can tell, the bastard’s laying low for the moment somewhere in the Lady Lakes region. Beorbrook’s news concerns something far more serious: a rumor that Maudrayne may be alive, hiding somewhere in Tarn. A traveler from Donorvale said that the rumor has spread like wildfire over the past two weeks among the fishermen’s taverns of the north-western shore, and thence to the low dives of the Tarnian capital.’

The hooded figure of the alchymist had given a great start as the king spoke his first wife’s name. ‘Saint Zeth preserve us – it’s not possible that Maude lives! The conjoined minds of the Brotherhood searched the entire island, virtually inch by inch, and failed to scry any trace of the Princess Dowager. Even Ullanoth’s Subtle Loophole detected nothing – and the sigil supposedly can oversee anyone, anywhere in the world.’

‘So the Conjure-Queen says. But her close scrutiny took place four years ago, shortly after Maude was thought to have drowned. At the time, Ulla admitted that her search might have been thwarted by Red Ansel Pikan. The magical capabilities of the Grand Shaman of Tarn are unknown to her. He might have been able to block the action of the Great Stone. The painful search effort so debilitated Ullanoth that she was forced to avoid using Loophole for many months. Since then, as far as I know, she has made no further attempt to look for Maude.’

‘What are we to do, Con?’ Stergos’s voice was taut with shock. He and the king had found and read Maudrayne’s secret diary after her presumed death. In it, she had revealed not only that she had conceived Conrig’s child, but also her knowledge of her husband’s arcane taint. ‘If the princess lives and has birthed a son not possessed of talent, you are undone! She knows your secret and could divulge it at any time, with Ansel to testify to the truth of it. Even if your twin sons by Risalla are accepted as normal, the law says that Maudrayne’s boy must inherit your crown if you are deposed.’

‘If she lives! And if she tells what she knows and produces the normal-minded male child. Here is where I require your advice, Gossy. Would it be wise for me to once again enlist the Conjure-Queen in the search for Maude? I’m reluctant to do so, since it would give Ulla even more power over me than she has now. I feel I’d be jumping from the hot griddle into the fire-pit.’

‘My God, yes. Her ambitions…Con, you know I’ve never trusted the woman.’

‘Yes, yes,’ the king said impatiently. ‘Nevertheless, her Loophole probably holds out the best chance of locating Maude and any child she may have had.’

‘Perhaps not, if Red Ansel still keeps the Princess Dowager under his protection. But even the most powerful sorcery has limitations. For instance, Maudrayne and her child could not live permanently inside a spell of invisibility woven by Ansel. Such an existence would be insupportable to the healthy human temperament. Furthermore, a high-spirited woman such as Maude would never consent to be immured within some impregnable magical fortress for years upon end.’

Conrig gave a short mirthless laugh. ‘No, not Maude! She’d take her boy hiking on the tundra and sailing in her yacht on the arctic waters. She’d teach him to ski and to hunt elk and icebears and sea-unicorns. And if she does these things, there are bound to be local people who know about it. In my opinion, she might be sought and found by a clever and talented spy – such as my Royal Intelligencer, Snudge. What do you think, Gossy?’

Stergos hesitated. ‘If Maude is hiding in Tarn, she would surely be protected by the magic of more than one of the local shamans. Ansel would hardly spend all of his time shielding her. He has other responsibilities. Deveron Austrey would have a special advantage over the lesser northern adepts, since his talent is imperceptible to all but the most powerful. Furthermore, he’s impossible to windwatch, so they would be able to observe him only with ordinary eyesight. But what will you do if Deveron does discover that your former wife is alive, and has a son?’

‘That…can be decided later. But I believe there’s only one solution to the problem.’

‘For the love of God, Con, tell me you would not –’

The king cut off his brother’s horrified protest. ‘Say no more! This rumor may prove to be entirely false. We will not discuss the fate of the Princess Dowager now.’

‘As you please, sire.’

Conrig said, ‘I gave Snudge permission to leave Cala Blenholme and visit his new estate following his initiation ceremony. He said he’d ride out at once. You must bespeak him, ordering his return.’

‘Very well. I’ll take care of it as soon as we finish here.’ Stergos threw off his vestment hood. ‘We should delay no longer bespeaking the Conjure-Queen.’

‘Do it then,’ Conrig said.

The Royal Alchymist let his head sink into his hands and called out silently on the wind. After a few minutes had passed, he opened his eyes and said, ‘She will make an attempt to Send immediately.’

They waited, straining their ears, fearing the sound of approaching steps from the room where Risalla lay, but hearing only the distant sounds of music and revelry outside in the gardens. At length Conrig leapt to his feet.

‘I can’t stand it any longer. I’m going in there –’

‘That won’t be necessary.’

The sweet woodsy scent of vetiver wafted into the room. A silhouette was standing in front of the tall undraped window, completely enveloped in a deep-green cloak. Ullanoth’s Sending had flashed into existence with no warning. A hand, pale as milk and wearing a ring of carved moonstone on one long, graceful finger, emerged from the folds of cloth and extended itself toward Conrig.