Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May
Orrion had insisted that it was his right to be the first to stand on the mountaintop and Bramlow agreed, so Corodon had no choice but to give in, muttering resentfully. While the others waited below, the Prince Heritor climbed the last few ells on all fours, then pulled himself upright on a kind of broken-walled natural terrace that comprised the summit. What he found caused him to shout in astonishment. ‘Bazekoy’s Bones! I don’t believe this. Come up and see, lads!’
Bramlow and Corodon scrambled to the top and the three of them stood huddled together in the brisk wind. The nearly level area was partially covered with a thin layer of snow. The most abundant variety of rock round about them was grey granite; but there was also a sizable outcropping of nearly translucent mineral, bluish-white in color. Some large chunks of this had broken apart and fallen in a heap that bore a rough resemblance to a chair or throne.
Corodon gave a whoop of delight. Before the others could stop him, he plumped himself down on the unusual formation. ‘Futter me blind – it’s real! A Demon Seat! What say all three of us beg a miracle? I know what I’d ask: Let me be Prince Heritor in place of Orry. I’ll gladly wed Princess Hyndry. They say she’s a fine lusty wench for all that she’s a widow, and older.’
‘Coro, you prattling fool!’ The novice dragged his brother down and flung him into the snow. Corodon uttered a half-hearted curse.
Orrion helped his aggrieved twin back onto his feet. ‘Let him be, Bram. He meant nothing by it. It’s only his bit of fun.’
Vra-Bramlow knew better; but he swallowed his indignation and growing sense of unease and squinted up at the clouds. They had thickened and the sun had dropped halfway to the horizon, resembling a disk of dull white vellum against a murky background. ‘We can’t stay here long. Do you still want to do this, Orry?’
The Prince Heritor drew in a breath. ‘Yes. Tell me how.’
While Corodon crouched in a sheltered niche, munching sausage and drinking from the wine flask, Bramlow explained the simple conjuration procedure.
‘Stand by the seat and place one hand on it. Close your eyes. Try to clear your mind of all distracting thoughts. Assume an attitude of childlike humility and reverence, as a worthy petitioner of the Sky Realm should.’
Corodon gave a muffled snort of laughter.
‘Be quiet!’ Bramlow barked. ‘Another sound from you, and I’ll make you wait downslope.’
‘What then?’ Orrion demanded. ‘How shall I summon the demons? Do I simply state my wish: Let me be able to wed Lady Nyla Brackenfield?’
‘Don’t call them demons. They might be insulted. If you must address them, say Lords of the Sky. The ancient writings were unclear as to the wording of the petition. I’d say, first name yourself, then speak out your plea naturally but briefly. Avoid any tinge of fear or disrespect. These beings must decide for themselves whether you’re worthy of their miracle.’ He folded his arms about Orrion in a brief embrace. ‘Good luck, my brother.’
‘And so say I also,’ Corodon called gruffly. ‘May you receive your heart’s desire.’
Vra-Bramlow withdrew a dozen paces, dropped to his knees in the shallow snow, and bowed his head.
Orrion approached the seat as if he were a man half-asleep. A sudden gust of cold wind hit his face like a knife-cut. He removed his gloves, placed his right hand upon the irregular milky slab that formed the back of the natural throne, and closed his eyes.
‘Great Lords of the Sky!’ He spoke firmly. ‘I beseech you to grant me a favor – if it should be your will, and if you find me worthy.’
For a long time nothing happened. Then he felt a slow-growing warmth beneath the hand that rested on the frigid rock surface. One of his brothers gave a soft gasp of mingled fear and amazement. Orrion dared to crack open his eyelids for the merest instant and saw that the entire Demon Seat formation was aglow with an interior luminosity, at first dim as a will o’ the wisp, then increasingly bright. The heat beneath his right hand gradually increased. Before he could think what to do next, he felt a sudden thrust of pain smite his brain. Then there were voices speaking in unison, deep and inhuman, questioning him in an oddly hesitant manner.
Orrion knew instinctively that they spoke to his soul and were inaudible to the others.
WHO…WHAT…WHY?
He tried to keep panic from his response. ‘Great Lords of the Sky, my name is Orrion Wincantor. I’m here to beg a miracle of you, if you please. I – I ask your help because I have nowhere else to turn.’
HOW DO YOU KNOW ABOUT US? HOW DID YOU KNOW TO COME TO THIS PLACE?
‘My older brother read an ancient tract. It told how you had granted miracles to others many years ago.’
YES…SOME OF US FREELY GAVE BOONS TO HUMANS. WE REMEMBER NOW. WE HOPED TO GAIN AN ADVANTAGE OVER THE EVIL ONES. THOSE WERE STRANGE TIMES IN THE SKY REALM AND ON THE GROUND. THE TACTIC WAS NOT VERY SUCCESSFUL.
The demonic ramblings made no sense to Orrion. His hand, resting upon the stone, was beginning to feel uncomfortably warm. ‘Do I have your gracious permission to ask my favor?’
WELL…AT LEAST YOU ARE WORTHY, AS ARE THE OTHER TWO WHO COWER NEXT TO OUR CRAG…WHAT DO YOU WANT, ORRION WINCANTOR?
‘Great Lords of the Sky, if – if you will, grant me a miracle. Let me be able to wed my true love, Nyla Brackenfield, daughter to Count Hale Brackenfield, Lord Lieutenant of the Realm.’
There was silence. His right hand grew ever more painful, but he dared not lift it. Finally the inhuman voices spoke again, seeming puzzled.
WHY DO YOU REQUIRE A MAGICAL INTERVENTION MERELY IN ORDER TO MATE WITH YOUR CHOSEN PERSON?
‘I – Great Lords, I’m the High King’s son, heir to the throne of Cathra and the Iron Crown of Sovereignty. My father Conrig has picked another wife for me, in spite of my wishes. I must obey him for the sake of my princely honor.’
The demons fell into a silence that seemed endless.
Orrion forced himself not to cry out. The burning sensation in his hand continued to grow and was fast becoming unbearable. ‘Great Lords, if my request cannot be granted, then I humbly beg your pardon for having disturbed you. My brothers and I will depart from your mountain forthwith.’
WE THINK THE REQUEST IS NOT IMPOSSIBLE. IT IS HARD FOR THE SKY REALM TO INTERACT WITH THE GROUND BECAUSE IT UPSETS THE GREAT BALANCE OF POWER, BUT WE ARE WILLING TO HELP YOU. YOU WILL PAY A GREAT PRICE FOR THIS FAVOR. ARE YOU ABSOLUTELY CERTAIN THAT YOU WANT IT?
‘Yes. Please.’
THEN LIFT YOUR RIGHT HAND FROM THE MOON CRAG AND HOLD IT ALOFT.
For a moment, Orrion didn’t understand. Then he realized he was being told to let go of that awful piece of hot rock. ‘Yes! Oh, thank you!’ In a paroxysm of gratitude, he thrust his arm heavenward and dared to open his eyes.
He saw blackness around him, and abundant diamond-sharp twinkling stars, as though night had inexplicably fallen and he hung suspended in the heavens high above the earth. A formless drift of multi-hued Light, that slowly took the shape of many mournful faces, shone among the familiar polar constellations. Then a blue flare blinded him as it engulfed most of his uplifted arm like a blast of silent lightning.
He fell from the sky into nothingness, feeling no pain.
‘Orry! Orry, my poor twin, are you alive?’
‘He breathes. I can feel his heart beating. Draw closer to shield him from the elements.’
Slowly, Orrion Wincantor, Prince Heritor of Cathra, opened his eyes. A folded cloak pillowed his head and another covered his body. He was chilled but not otherwise uncomfortable. A cold drizzle was falling. His brothers knelt beside him.