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

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СКАЧАТЬ I present Olmigon Wincantor, High King of Blencathra, here to ask his alloted Question ere he sings his Deathsong. If it be God’s will, give him answer.’ The abbas handed the king a silver bell, directing him to ring it when he had finished, and withdrew from the chapel.

      Olmigon felt no awe at this supreme moment, only a quizzical detachment. Could the head actually be real? It seemed made of wax, with an inhuman translucence to the flesh. The eyes were closed. Abundant hair, grey and slightly wavy, floated from beneath an archaic crowned helmet ornamented with rubies and huge blue pearls. Bazekoy the Great had a neatly trimmed moustache and thick sensuous lips that almost seemed to smile. Like so many Foraileans, he had a broad, snub nose.

      ‘But your body burned in its funeral pyre,’ the king said softly. ‘So how came your head here? If this really is your head …’

      The eyes opened: very large, very blue like the candleflames in their sapphire cups.

       Is that your one Question, Olmigon Wincantor?

      The king started like one touched by a burning coal. ‘No! My God, no!’

      A judicious nod. Then I’ll answer gratis, for you’re the first to seek my counsel in three centuries, and I thought I might have been forgotten! … A dream of strange Lights instructed me to render up my life here, on the island where my great conquests began. I came to this place, as directed, when it was a mere hermitage, and my warriors prepared for me the traditional funeral pyre of my people. But before my body was burned the resident wizard secretly removed my head and preserved it, so that I might literally fulfil a rash promise made on my deathbed. That impudent magicker was the one you name Saint Zeth, and I hold him no ill will, for through his boldness I was able to advise and console many a Cathran ruler face-to-face … until the times changed. Times do change, Olmigon! And a wise man accommodates himself and doesn’t cling to worn-out ways and customs. A truly great man, on the other hand, not only accommodates, but uses change to get what he wants.

      ‘So said my son Conrig.’ The king winced at a momentary stab of pain in his guts. ‘Damned ambitious pup! Wants to be Sovereign of Blenholme — wants glory, like you had.’

      Bazekoy smiled. You ‘re jealous, old man.

      ‘How dare you speak to me like that!’

       Jealous! Because your son’s vision is greater than yours could ever be. Because he overrode your pissy-arsed objections and forced you to issue the Edict of Sovereignty. Admit the truth of what I say!

      I—’

       It was a small-minded attempt to exert power that led you to overrule Conrig’s plan to send a well-armed delegation to King Achardus. Sheer hloody-mìndedness — or else malice, wishing his ploy to fail. Do you deny it?

      ‘I came here hoping to help my son!’

      Nonsense. You came hoping to justify yourself — to Conrig and to history.

      Olmigon took a furious breath, intending to defend himself against the oracle’s insults. But a terrible wave of agony swept over him, making him writhe, squelching his pride and leaving any notion of defiance in tatters.

      You are dying, the apparition said impiacably. Stop deceiving yourself. For most of your reign, you’ve been a silly fool, surrounding yourself with councilors such as your brother-in-law who flattered and manipulated you to their own selfish ends. When you were finally obliged to admit the Prince Heritor to your Privy Council, you were frightened by the strength of his character and the boldness of his plans. And envious! For shame, old man.

      ‘I thought the Sovereignty scheme was imprudent. So did many of my advisors. It was both risky and expensive—’

      Ah! Now we come to the truth of the matter. The merchants and the great lords whose wealth depends upon them resisted any plan that would raise their taxes — especially during the Wolf’s Breath time, when their profits are already curtailed. Never mind that unifying the island would make it a stronghold against southern enemies. And do away with the wasteful small disputes among the four kingdoms that have cost both money and human lives over the past hundred years.

      ‘All kings don’t have to be empire-builders.’ Olmigon’s eyes were watering treacherously.

       So. Would you have your son’s great dream of Sovereignty die with you? Do you intend to forbid the invasion?

      ‘Not if it has a real chance of success. What do you take me for?’

       Is that your one Question?

      ‘No … no.’

      Then ask it, old fool.

      Olmigon wiped his eyes with a palsied hand and pulled himself upright in the chair. On impulse, he had revised his original elaborate query to one that was starkly simple. ‘All right, damn you! Here it is … Can my son Conrig succeed in uniting High Blenholme in a Sovereignty?’

      There was a long silence.

      ‘Well?’ Olmigon said. ‘Are you going to answer? Are you real or only some bloody conjurer’s trick? Will Con be able to do it?’

      Only if you rise from your deathbed to assist him, said Bazekoy’s head.

      ‘What?’ the king cried. ‘Are you toying with me? What do you mean?’

      The Question is answered. Now leave me in peace, Olmigon Wincantor. If you have other questions, ask them of your son.

      The emperor’s gleaming blue eyes closed.

      The king gave a final bellow of impotent rage, then slumped back in mingled despair and puzzlement, tears coursing down his cheeks. The small silver handbell fell out of his hand and struck the floor with a sharp chime.

       NINE

      ‘What the devil kind of answer was that?’ exclaimed Prince Conrig. ‘Was the cursèd thing mocking you?’

      ‘I don’t know,’ Olmigon replied wretchedly.

      They were alone together in the royal bedchamber in Cala Palace. The cavalcade had arrived home around the eleventh hour, but the queen had refused to let Conrig visit his greatly weakened father until he had been put safely to bed. She would have forced the prince to wait until morning, but Olmigon would not take any sleep-inducing or painkilling medicine until he conferred with his son.

      ‘Sire — you’re certain the head of Bazekoy was real?’ Conrig could not hide his skepticism.

      ‘No, I’m not sure!’ croaked the king, in a feeble fury. ‘But the damned thing opened its eyes and looked at me, and its lips moved, and it had a snotty, overfamiliar manner at odds with any fake the Brethren might have rigged up. It was no puppet, I tell you! And if it was a sorcerer’s illusion, why did it insult me and then answer the Question with such casual ambiguity? Surely the Brothers of Zeth would have wanted to placate me with some soppy reassurance, rather than drive me daft with a riddle.’

      But the oracle couldn’t possibly be real, СКАЧАТЬ