Ironcrown Moon: Part Two of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May
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.