Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May
of War at Boarsden Castle. They’d twiddled their thumbs up there for weeks, apparently unsure of how to proceed against the Salka invaders.
I could survey the situation, Beynor told himself. Make my final decision about approaching the candidate after studying the possibilities. The journey to Boarsden would take only three or four days.
He replaced the inactive sigils in the blackened leather pouch and stowed it securely inside his shirt. Then he buckled on Moss’s Sword of State and hurried to the cave mouth to bespeak the horses. Both of them, along with Jegg’s pony, had fled in terror when the Great Lights’ green thunderbolt struck the boy dead. But the animals would return readily enough at the irresistible summons of his magic.
In the dragon’s devouring abyss, darker than night and shot through with giddy red sparks, Induna of Barking Sands waited passively for death. Meanwhile, she dreamed of the time she had finally found Deveron.
The tropical night had been well advanced when the three-masted clipper ship tied up in Mikk-Rozodh and she was allowed to disembark. It was not the most propitious hour for a respectable woman to be wandering the docks in an unfamiliar port city. The Andradhian captain of the speedy merchantman, a grandfatherly sort who had treated her with unfailing courtesy during the long voyage, offered to have his third mate escort her to decent lodgings; but she declined with thanks, asking only to be directed to the nearest place where a small boat might be hired. Even though she was bone-weary and hungry, she knew she could never rest until she passed on the message she had come so far to deliver.
‘You’ll find punts at yon waterstairs,’ the captain said, ‘beyond the last slip, along the canal where the four torches flare. But are you sure you want to travel the backwaters of Mikk-Town so late at night?’
No female shaman had anything to fear from ordinary men. ‘I’ll be fine. Thank you again for your great kindness.’
Induna descended the gangplank, cloaked and carrying her embossed leather fardel on a strap secured over her shoulder. The canal was only about a hundred ells away. Nautical loiterers on the quay snickered and elbowed each other as she passed. One called out insolently, pretending to admire her red-gold hair, which was uncommon in the south, and asking what a Tarnian wench was doing so far from home.
It was a good question, she thought, but one too late to worry about now.
The Source had told her the name he was using and said that anyone in the Andradhian city of Mikk-Rozodh would know how to find him. She studied the small group of men gossiping at the foot of the waterstairs and selected the oldest, a thickset greybeard neatly attired in green canvas breeches, stout sandals, and a curious mesh shirt that revealed the silver hair on his chest.
‘Goodman, I would like to hire a boat. Do you know the dwelling of Haydon the Sympath?’
He stepped away from the others, smiling good-naturedly, and touched the wide brim of his hat, which was woven of black straw. ‘Aye, mistress. He’s a Tarnian – as you are yourself, I’m thinking. But he’s well thought-of in these parts in spite of it.’
The other boatmen guffawed. Tarn and Andradh were ancient foes, even though their people shared the same Wave-Harrier blood. An Andradhian invasion of Tarn nearly two decades ago, beaten back only with the help of Ironcrown’s navy, had finally forced the proud Sealords to join the Sovereignty.
‘Is Haydon’s home far from here?’ Induna asked.
‘Not even an hour away. But it’s late and he’s a prickly sort, not to be approached after dark except for good reason. Does he know you?’
‘Yes, from many years ago.’
‘Then let’s be off. My name’s Momor and here’s my punt. The trip will cost four silver pennies of Tarn, if you’ve none of our coin.’
The price was exorbitant but she had no choice. He helped her to board and settle herself, then stood on a stern platform and poled the slender craft along the canal and into the heart of the city. The clipper’s crew had informed her that this region of southern Andradh was a low-lying collection of inhabited islands, most of them joined by humpback bridges, heavily populated along the shores and blessed with lush soil that supported rice farms and plantations of tropical fruits. These commodities, much valued in Tarn and elsewhere on High Blenholme, had formed the outward-bound clipper’s cargo. On the voyage home it had been loaded with casks of dried salmon, salt cod, whale oil, opals, and gold. Induna had been the only paying passenger traveling the more than two thousand leagues from Mesta in Tarn’s Shelter Bay to Mikk-Rozodh.
Once Momor’s punt left the harbor area, with its tall-masted ships, sturdy warehouses, and bustling taverns and brothels, the buildings along the canal changed in character. At first the dwellings were grand, constructed of fine timber and imported stone, with balustered steps leading down to well-lighted landing stages. She saw only a handful of people moving about on the shore. A number of other punts and the occasional private barge or paddle-scow moved up and down the waterways, but most of the citizens seemed to have already retired to their homes.
Further along, the canal narrowed and began to wind sharply. Momor turned into a side-channel where the houses became meaner and more closely crowded, although still neat enough. They were made of pole and thatch, set on stilts in the mud, and often connected to one another by board walkways. Tiny watercraft were tied to laddered pilings below them. A multitude of feebly glowing lamps shone from unglazed windows, screened from flying insects by cloth or bead curtains. She saw people moving about within the houses, heard laughter, crying babes, music, and the nightcries of frogs and birds. The odors of exotic cooking and human waste vied with the rich perfume of the flowers that filled ornamental containers on almost every rickety balcony.
Induna unfastened her heavy cloak and folded it on the thwart beside her. Beneath it she wore a simple russet-colored linen gown. Momor said, ‘That’s right, mistress. You won’t need a wool mantle here in Mikk-Town. Our weather’s a far cry from that in Tarn. Nice and warm year-round. Overwarm during the rainy season, if you want the truth. You planning to stay long?’
‘I don’t know,’ she said wearily. The message was all that really mattered.
During the voyage, she had tried to visualize her reunion with Deveron countless times, but without success. In truth, she didn’t know his heart, his true self, well enough to speculate. Their time together before he was forced to flee had been too brief. Even after they were engaged to marry he had not opened his mind to her as windtalented lovers were wont to do. He was unfailingly gentle and considerate, but always on guard. They had kissed and caressed and laughed together but had never joined their bodies. It was not the custom in Tarn to swive before wedlock – although one honored more in the breach than the keeping by many young couples. But Deveron had respected it.
‘Does he know you’re coming, lass?’ The boatman’s bantering voice had turned compassionate.
‘No.’
‘Is he a relation?’
‘In a manner of speaking. We – we were once betrothed, but unhappy circumstances caused us to part. It’s been many years.’
‘Oho! So that’s the way of it. And now things’ve changed for the better and you’re come to tell him the good news, eh? Well, Haydon the Sympath has no wife or regular doxy here. He keeps house for himself. So mayhap you’re in luck.’
She said nothing, having no illusions about her upcoming reception. If Deveron had wanted her to join him in his exile, he would have found a way to get word to her long ago, although Tarn was far beyond windspeech range, even for persons as highly talented as the two of them. But he had not sent for her. She knew that he had escaped from Conrig Ironcrown’s agents sixteen years earlier; but whether he lived or not had been a mystery that was solved only when the Source bespoke her and sent her on this improbable journey.
‘Your