Conqueror’s Moon: Part One of the Boreal Moon Tale. Julian May

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      ‘Well, we still have the option of turning back at Breakneck Pass,’ the duke said. ‘I daresay the witch Ullanoth will keep a close magical eye on events in Didion over the next five weeks. She’ll know if we’re expected by the foe, and give us warning.’

      ‘If it suits her,’ the earl marshal said cynically. He fell silent as the prince returned.

      ‘I told them to bring the covered body to the gatehouse armory,’ Conrig said. ‘Let’s fetch Lord Skellhaven and have a look at it.’

      ‘I’ve never clapped eyes on the wanker in my life,’ said the seagoing viscount. ‘Look at him. Just another underdeck swabbie.’ He bent forward suddenly and spread open the body’s blood-stiffened shirt, where a yellow gleam had shone momentarily in the torchlight. ‘Booger me! What kind of lackey wears a heavy golden neckchain like this?’

      Vanguard and Beorbrook exchanged glances. If Skellhaven did know the identity of the spy, would he have called attention to the betraying chain?

      The viscount unfastened the gold from around the corpse’s neck and held it closer to the armory’s sputtering wall torch. ‘I’ll tell you something about this bauble, Your Grace. It’s Mossbelly-made. Nobody else uses twisted-wire links like these, and the thing’s worth a pretty penny.’

      Conrig said, ‘My lord, did anything unusual take place before you set out to Castle Vanguard, or on the journey?’

      ‘Hmm. We had a problem at one inn a day’s journey from here. A dozen or so of the lads got royal gut-aches after eating rabbit pies that’d turned. They moped and moaned and browned the hedgerows all the next day riding into Castle Vanguard. Some of ‘em still feel a mite seedy.’

      Conrig addressed the duke and earl marshal. ‘My brother Stergos has told me that when a man is ill, he is more susceptible to the spells of a magicker. Perhaps this fellow’ — he tapped a dead shoulder — ‘did away with one of your retainers and took on his identity.’

      ‘It’s possible,’ said Skellhaven. ‘Those few who weren’t sick were in a rare kerfuffle for doing all the extra work and might not have noticed a clever stranger. I sure as hell didn’t.’

      ‘We’d like to believe that.’ Conrig’s face was carefully neutral.

      The nautical lord’s eyes blazed. ‘Huh! So you think I might be in league with Didion, do you, Your Grace? Well, you’re wrong! I hate the whoresons and their fancy ships that sail rings around our own while the Diddlies raid our coastal settlements and rape our women. And now that the Wolf’s Breath’s laid the scum low, I say let’s drag ‘em kicking and screaming into the Sovereignty! Civilize Didion once and for all. If you don’t trust me to join your invasion, so be it. But you’ll be losing the services of some of the best fighters in the north country.’

      The prince said, ‘Ride with our force, Hartrig Skellhaven, and welcome.’

      The viscount gave a curt nod. ‘Can I keep the gold chain?’

      Conrig and Snudge returned to the darkened library just as the nightwatch called the midnight hour. The great room had grown cold and the fire burned low. Moonlight shone through one of the long windows. The three Heart Companions were snoring among the stacks and the armigers had disappeared upstairs.

      ‘Go to your own bed now, Snudge,’ whispered the prince. ‘I’ll disrobe by myself. You’ve done well this day and I won’t forget it. You’re looking rather ill. If you think you might suffer bad dreams over the killing, take a good tot of spirits for a nightcap.’

      ‘Thank you, Your Grace. Do you think I should watch Lord Skellhaven to be sure—’

      ‘I believe he’s an honest man, by his own lights. Don’t worry about him. And for heaven’s sake, don’t strain yourself with any more windwatching tonight.’

      ‘The body—’

      ‘The duke will see to it. We’ll say the man died of virulent colic brought on by the dicky rabbit pie. Off you go, now.’

      The prince entered his improvised sleeping chamber. The great bed with its brocaded tester and coverlet had to have been disassembled and brought in piece by piece, for it nearly filled the entire scribe’s office. There were tarnsticks on a sidetable beside the candle and he struck one. The thing flared, then died. Damp, probably. Conrig cursed and scratched another against the wood of the table. When it also refused to light he used his talent to ignite the wick, closed the door, and removed a silver flask from his trussing coffer. He tossed back a hearty swig of malt liquor and sat down on a stool to pull off his boots —

      Froze as he felt the presence, smelled the warm green scent of vetiver.

      The bed hangings parted, and a lovely narrow face peered out. Her eyes shone like green jade and her long wavy hair was the color of pearls, covering her bare breasts like a silken shift.

      ‘You!’ he exclaimed, starting to his feet. ‘Were — were you watching again?’

      Smiling, she put up a warning finger. ‘Hush. We don’t want to disturb the others, my prince. I saw you with Vanguard and Beorbrook and Skellhaven, but I did not eavesdrop, for I cannot do lip-reading. My lips are fashioned for other purposes.’

      ‘Great God, lady-!’

      She had left the bed, naked as a fish, and was unfastening his doublet, easing it off, opening his shirt. ‘All has gone perfectly, hasn’t it? And now you shall tell me everything and then claim your reward.’ She opened her arms and the veil of shining hair fell to each side. ‘I assure you that my Sending enjoys every attribute of my true self.’

      The prince felt the blood rising within him. He had to force the words from his throat. ‘I-I am a married man, and faithful to my vows.’

      A laugh, sweetly scornful. ‘Your sharp-spoken Tarnian wife has given you no children during your six years of marriage, and for some time you have secretly despised her.’

      ‘That’s not true!’

      ‘You have even considered putting her aside, now that the alliance with Tarn is no longer crucial to Cathran state policy.’ ‘How did you know—’

      ‘I know so many things about you.’ She embraced him. Her mouth was hot and tasted of exotic honey. ‘Are you afraid of me, Conrig Wincantor?’

      ‘No,’ he lied, and crushed her to him, returning the kiss.

      Snudge lay on his pallet in the room above. He had drunk a fair amount of ardent spirits and his talent was extinct as a result, useless as a blown-out taper. But his mind’s eye still saw a wrathful face, a wide-open mouth full of rotten teeth, ferocious magic glittering in jet-black eyes. He sensed his own doom approaching, cloaked in paralyzing frost, and his windvoice screamed.

      Damn you! You won’t! You won’t do that to me!

      His dagger vibrated with the last drumbeat throb of a stricken human heart. He heard the frenzied windcry-Beynor! — and those eyes bright with dreadful life turned flat and dull and dead, only to open again and threaten and freeze and die once more.

      He prayed for sleep, but it would not come.

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