Conqueror’s Moon: Part One of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May
be sure to wangle the information from her somehow.’
‘Yes, yes. But send her to me now.’
‘Very well, Father.’
The wrinkled eyelids were closing and the king’s lips were slightly open, breathing some final words that Conrig was unable to understand. The prince stood looking down at the helpless old man for a moment.
Could I have done it, he asked himself, if he had forbidden the invasion?
But he knew the answer.
Conrig left the bedchamber. Queen Cataldise was waiting patiently outside, together with the Royal Alchymist, several medical attendants and bodyservants, and four members of the Palace Guard.
‘Mother.’ He bowed to her and smiled. ‘The King’s Grace wishes you to attend him briefly before he sleeps, to share with you the good tidings that he and I have reconciled our differences and are now in loving accord.’
‘Oh, Con!’ Tears sprang to her eyes and she embraced him. ‘I’m so very glad.’
The Royal Alchymist insinuated himself forward confidently, presuming to take the elbow of Cataldise and guide her toward the bedchamber door. ‘I would also like to look in on His Grace, to see to his bodily needs.’
Conrig blocked the wizard’s progress. ‘I think not.’ Firmly, he removed Kilian’s hand from the queen’s arm, ignoring his indignant expostulation. ‘Go in alone, Mother. It’s the king’s wish.’ He then nodded to the four guardsmen, who stepped in front of the door as the queen passed through, unsheathing their swords.
Kilian drew himself up furiously, locking eyes with the prince. It was the selfsame coercive and obdurate glare, fraught with uncanny menace, that had so intimidated Conrig when he was a boy. The wizard exclaimed, ‘Do you dare to forbid me access to His Grace? Stand aside, you men!’
The guards stood their ground.
Conrig said. ‘King Olmigon has told me plainly that he no longer requires your services, either as a physician or an adviser. Furthermore, it is the king’s command that you accompany me now to an extraordinary meeting of the Privy Council which I have called.’
There were gasps from the assembled retainers.
‘I don’t believe you!’ Kilian said.
‘Believe it,’ the prince retorted. His face was like iron and his voice became very soft. ‘It would be unseemly — and quite useless — for you to use magic to force your way into the royal bedchamber. The king and I now speak with one voice and I carry his writ to that effect. Come! It’s very late, and the other members of the Privy Council are waiting for us.’ Conrig paused, and a cold smile touched his lips. ‘Of course, if you’re too … weary after your long journey to attend the meeting in person, you may retire to your chambers and windwatch the proceedings.’
For an instant, black hatred flashed in Kilian’s eyes. Then he lowered them and spoke with respectful submissiveness. ‘Of course I’ll come.’ The two of them strode off together down the corridor.
The long return trip to the capital from Zeth Abbey had been a trying ordeal for Princess Maudrayne. The king had suffered great agitation of mind, clearly the result of the oracle’s pronouncement, which he would not discuss. Along with his anxiety, Olmigon’s pain intensified and he required more and more of the Tarnian healer’s soothing elixir in order to sleep. The two royal women were obliged to care for the king together night and day, since he refused to abide the presence of anyone else — especially the Royal Alchymist. He could no longer control his natural functions and had to be swaddled like an infant; and his appetite, which was already delicate as a result of his malady and the stress of traveling, dwindled to the point where he could take only milksops or broth laced with wine.
By the time the returning cavalcade reached the town of Great Market, some forty leagues from the capital, Olmigon had so weakened that Cataldise and Maudrayne began to fear for his survival. They pleaded with him to break the journey. Why not stop for several days in the mayor’s fine mansion, where they were being accommodated? The king could rest and regain his strength.
But he would not. ‘I have vitally important business to discuss with my son Conrig,’ he declared. ‘We’ll leave here at dawn, as usual — and tomorrow night I’ll sleep again in my own bed.’
It was around half-past ten when the royal coach finally entered Cala and rumbled up cobblestoned Blenholme Way to the palace on the hill. The streets of the great city were already cleared of common people by the watch, and a red crescent moon hung low in the western sky above the river ramparts. Advance riders had heralded the party’s arrival, and the palace forecourt blazed with torches. A cheering throng of courtiers greeted the ailing king, who was eased from the carriage and installed in a litter that would bear him to his chambers. Servants dashed about in response to the queen’s commands and those of Vra-Kilian. The other members of the entourage, famished and exhausted, began to melt away.
Princess Maudrayne was glad that little attention was paid to her, and that her husband was not among those greeting the return of the king. She was able to slip away with Rusgann Moorcock, the sturdy, plain spoken tirewoman who had become her personal maid during the pilgrimage, after Queen Cataldise preempted the services of both ladies-in-waiting.
Unaccountably, the haughty princess and lowborn Rusgann had become friends. Maudrayne’s sharpness didn’t bother the other woman a bit. When the princess was egregiously rude, Rusgann didn’t hesitate to reply in kind, just as independent-minded Tarnian servants were apt to do when provoked. They had many a zestful quarrel, exchanged complaints about the hardships of the trip, and even found things to laugh about.
And in time, Maudrayne had shared her secret …
Well ahead of the crowd attending the king and queen, the two women made their way through the palace to the princely apartments. Only the Lord Chamberlain’s wife Lady Truary, a dame given to irksome inquisitiveness, made bold to waylay them in the corridor beyond the Hall of Presence, in hopes of learning news of the oracle’s reply to the Question.
‘Princess, I’m so glad I found you!’ Truary cried, dropping a perfunctory curtsey. ‘Do come with me to the Blue Room, where other Privy Council wives and I have ordered a delicious collation and mulled wine. The whole palace is wild to know what Emperor Bazekoy said! Was there a good omen? You must tell us!’
Doughty Rusgann stepped in front of her mistress. ‘Now then, my lady. You must contain your curiosity. We’ve been on the road since sunup, hurrying along because the King’s Grace was determined to arrive here tonight. Princess Maudrayne is exhausted and has no time for you now.’
The noblewoman pouted. She was dressed in sky-blue satin, ermine-trimmed, and dripped with jewels. ‘But we’ve waited for hours and hours! Surely Your Grace can spare us the courtesy of a brief chat. We don’t care a bit about your travelworn appearance.’
Maudrayne’s garments were caked with dust and her auburn curls had become a sadly bedraggled mop. It was unforgivably tactless for Truary to have made mention of it, but the princess smiled serenely. ‘I hope I am always courteous, lady. It’s my duty to every subject of my royal father-in-law, no matter how low … or highborn.’
Truary blinked, not certain whether or not she had been insulted.
Neither the Lord Chamberlain’s wife nor any of the other peeresses in her set were warm friends of Maudrayne. When she came to Cala to marry Conrig six years earlier, the court ladies had fluttered about her like frivolous butterflies eager to test the nectar of an exotic new flower sprung up in their midst. Soon enough they discovered that the imposing Tarnian bride was indifferent to fashion, flirting, gossip, and party-going — traditional pastimes of the noblewomen of Cala Palace.
Instead, the seventeen-year-old Maudrayne read books on