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

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       EIGHT

      The cavalcade arrived at the gate of Zeth Abbey at the end of a dreary, overcast afternoon. The animals and most of the travelers were bone-tired and covered with grey dust, the latter a legacy of the Wolf’s Breath. The periodic bouts of falling ash had afflicted this region of the kingdom more than the parts further south, strewing the ground with pale patches like thin frost, even after summer thunderstorms and the soft rains of autumn had washed much of it away. In a fine paradox, the ash greatly enriched the soil; but only when the Wolf’s Breath ceased to dim the sun would folk reap its benefits.

      King Olmigon had roused as the coach covered the final league of the journey, taking both water and nourishment and declaring that his pain was much diminished. When they rolled into the abbey his mind was clear and his spirits high. Abbas Noachil, a stooped ancient with shrewd, bird-like eyes, stood in the forecourt with all of the resident Brethren to welcome the royal party.

      Supported by the two lords-in-waiting, Olmigon alighted from the carriage, then settled into an open chair-litter that would be borne by four of the red-cowled Brothers. The queen and princess flanked him and the Royal Alchymist hovered behind. Olmigon was dressed in a loose gown of white velvet, having a hood edged with blue fox fur. As befitted a pilgrim, he wore no crown and no ornament. A wooden disk with the gammadion’s voided cross burnt into it hung from his neck by a leather thong. His hair and beard were a dingy yellowish color and sadly sparse, and weight-loss occasioned by the rigors of the trip had left his face seamed and wrinkled as a withered apple. His eyes were opaque hazel pebbles sunk in rheumy pits.

      ‘God’s peace and the blessing of Saint Zeth be upon you,’ Abbas Noachil said. ‘Who are you, and why have you come to this holy place?’ The question was a formality, because the Royal Alchymist had windspoken the progress of the procession to Noachil every day it was en route. But it was necessary that the king make his unusual request with his own lips.

      ‘I am Olmigon Wincantor, High King of Blencathra.’ His voice was little more than a whisper, but without tremor or hesitation. ‘I have come here, where Bazekoy the Great, Emperor of the World, breathed his last, in order to ask my one Question and receive a true answer, as is my right. Know that my own body is failing, and I am prepared to sing my Deathsong at any time, and grant me prompt audience so that my request may be fulfilled.’

      ‘Enter the Abbey of Zeth,’ Noachil said, lifting his staff in blessing, ‘and follow me to the imperial sepulchre.’

      The assembled Brethren began a solemn chant, and the king was carried up a shallow flight of stairs and into the cloister that led to the emperor’s mausoleum, which was built of native limestone like the rest of the abbey. At the bronze doors decorated with scenes from Bazekoy’s life, a waiting Brother gently restrained Queen Cataldise and Princess Maudrayne.

      ‘No lay persons may enter during the questioning,’ the abbas explained. ‘Later, you royal ladies may venerate the emperor’s ashes and pray to his spirit, but for now I ask you to accompany Prior Waringlow to the guest-hall.’

      A brief look of resentment crossed the face of the princess, who had made no secret of her desire to view the mysterious oracle. But Queen Cataldise said, ‘Come, Daughter,’ taking her elbow, and they went away.

      Abbas Noachil said to the king, ‘Your Royal Alchymist, Vra-Kilian, may attend the rite, if you wish.’

      Olmigon said, ‘No! And I command that no man will hear my Question or know the answer until I deign to reveal it. Not even you, Father Abbas. I pray you conjure up a spell of couverture to shield me from windwatching during the consultation.’

      ‘It shall be done.’

      Kilian opened his mouth as if to protest, then shut it with an audible click of teeth and spun on his heel to follow the women. He had tried to ascertain the king’s Question many times during the trip, without success.

      Noachil lifted his staff and smote the bronze door three times. It opened of itself, revealing a vaulted interior lit with scores of candles that burned within blue glass vessels hanging from gilt chains. The stone pillars of the shrine were iridescent black iris-stone from Foraile and the floor was a complex mosaic of lustrous gold and white tiles. At the far end of the mausoleum, which might have been thirty ells square and at least that in ceiling height, rose a dais with a titanic statue of the emperor, carved from marble and lit by azure lamps. The brothers carried King Olmigon to the statue’s feet, where a marker was embedded in the floor.

      ‘Beneath this plaque lie the ashes of Bazekoy’s body,’ said the abbas. ‘You may pray for a time, if you desire.’

      ‘Is it here that I pose my Question?’ the king asked, seeming rather disappointed.

      ‘No. That will be done in the chapel to your right.’

      ‘Then let’s get on with it,’ Olmigon said peevishly. ‘Time enough for prayers later. The pain’s coming on again, and I don’t want to pass out before getting what I came for.’

      Noachil was not offended. In fact, he smiled. ‘So might the emperor himself have said, in your place. He was never known as a patient man.’

      He made a sign to the bearers and they carried the king to a dim alcove, shut off from the main chamber by a wrought-iron gate. Unlocking this, the abbas went to a low altar that held a domed golden reliquary about two feet high. On either side were large candlesticks surmounted by blue glass cups with chill flames burning inside. After the brothers had backed off reverently through the gate and retreated out of sight, the abbas unlocked the reliquary and swung its doors wide.

      Inside was a sizable crystal urn full of liquid, in which floated a human head.

      ‘God’s Teeth!’ whispered Olmigon.

      Abbas СКАЧАТЬ