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

They entered in an untidy crowd, the Virago and seven other great barons, three viscounts, three counts, and Parlian Beorbrook, the kingdom’s chief military officer, all of them caring nothing for the niceties of precedence as was the way of easygoing northerners. Last came the host of the clandestine gathering, who slammed the tall double doors firmly behind him and shot its twin bolts into place.

‘His Grace will join us in a moment,’ Tanaby Vanguard said, nodding towards another closed door that gave onto the inner chamber. He wore a simple houserobe of russet velvet, a thin man with finely drawn, unreadable features whose nose jutted like an axe-blade. Chestnut hair thickly streaked with grey fell to his shoulders. Unlike most of the other men, he was clean-shaven.

Beorbrook spotted the table of drinks by the window and strode to it purposefully, hauling his dented old silver cup out of his belt-wallet. ‘Is that a Snapevale Stillery flagon that I spy?’

‘Leave be for a moment, Parli,’ said Tanaby, ‘until the Prince Heritor arrives.’

‘How sober do we have to be for this bloody mystery confab anyhow?’ the earl marshal muttered. He was a hale man in early middle age, broad rather than tall, with muscular legs grown bandy from horseback riding, and enormous gnarled hands. Blue eyes cold as an Ice Moon sky were sunk deep beneath shaggy black brows. His beard was also black, although his hair had gone snow-white. He wore a doublet of dark blue leather, intricately worked, having stiff sleeve-wings that emphasized his extraordinary shoulders. His chain of office was conspicuously absent.

‘You must decide the need for a clear head yourself,’ Tanaby told his longtime friend. ‘As for blood, there may be quantities of it in the offing if we here decide so.’

The marshal gave a grunt and some of the others exchanged wary glances or small grim smiles. Except for Vanguard, none of those present were intimates of the prince. They knew only that he favored some sort of retaliatory strike against Didion, and as Lord Constable of the Realm had the power to lead one even if the Privy Council balked — provided that the king himself did not expressly forbid it. Tanaby’s carefully worded messages bringing these northern nobles to a secret meeting had sparked battle-fever in some and skepticism in others, but all had agreed to listen to the prince and decide whether or not to support him in the undertaking.

A fire burned in the broad greystone hearth, before which were sixteen common stools, arranged in a semicircle. In the middle was a single collapsible field-chair fashioned of carved walnut and faded brocade, fronted by a small table. All of the usual furnishings of the solar, save for the sideboard with the liquor, had been removed.

‘I realize we aren’t here for a cozy chat, my lord duke,’ drawled Lady Zeandrise, eyeing the comfortless seats. She still had spurs on her booted feet. ‘But is it necessary for us to perch like a gang of tomtits on fenceposts during this conference?’

There were a few chuckles. Tanaby said, ‘The unusual arrangement, dear Zea, was meant to evoke the lack of coziness we may expect to experience if we agree to participate in the prince’s venture.’

‘I see.’ The baroness kept a straight face. ‘Well, it’s been a dull year in Marley. The harvest’s safely in and ample enough in spite of the Wolf’s Breath, and my knights and thanes are restless and in need of distraction.’ She glanced out the window at the spectacular sky. ‘A pity we only get these magnificent sunsets when the volcanos belch.’

Old Baron Toborgil Silverside said, ‘King Achardus of Didion and his starving people must take faint comfort in such beauty.’

‘Famine smite the lot of them dead,’ growled Beorbrook, ‘and may a hundred thousand vultures shite their bones!’

‘And so let it be forever,’ Count Ramscrest added, in a voice hard as granite.

A respectful silence fell over the group, for everyone knew that the marshal’s two elder sons and Ramscrest’s youngest brother had been in the ill-fated royal delegation presenting the Edict of Sovereignty to the King of Didion. Ramscrest’s brother had left a widow and three small children. As for Beorbrook, only his third son, Count Olvan Elktor, untried in battle at twenty-one and thick as two oaken planks, was now left to inherit the most strategically important duchy in all of Cathra. There was small hope that Olvan would ever fill his father’s boots as earl marshal, and it seemed likely that the office and its great perquisites would pass out of the Beorbrook family with Parlian’s demise.

All at once the door of the inner chamber was kicked open with a sharp rap and Conrig appeared. The Prince Heritor was dressed all in black, as was his custom, and his wheaten hair and short beard looked almost coppery in the ruddy light, a strange contrast to his dark brown eyes. He had two magnums of wine tucked under each arm and a corkscrew dangling from his right hand.

‘Good evening to you all, my friends, and thank you for coming. Be at ease, and let there be no idle ceremony.’ When they continued to stand motionless and uncertain, he said to Vanguard, ‘Godfather, help me cope with these bottles, which I brought specially from Brent Lodge for this gathering. It’s a brisk new Stippenese vintage from the Niss Valley that will quench our thirst without dulling our wits. Time enough for ardent spirits after you’ve all listened to my proposal and made up your minds about it.’

They relaxed then, and there were low-pitched words of greeting to Conrig from the older nobles and diffident nods from the young ones. Cups were drawn from velvet or leather pouches and held out for filling by the prince himself, who called each person by name and made casual talk. Lady Zeandrise had her weathered hand kissed by the royal winebearer and pursed her lips tightly to forestall a smile.

Finally Conrig poured into Tanaby’s own simple beaker of waxed honeywood and let the duke do the honors for him. The prince’s silver cup was lined with gold; a great amethyst formed part of the stem, a talisman against drunkenness … and poison.

‘A toast,’ he said quietly, lifting his drink. ‘To the good sense of those here present, which must determine whether the plan I propose will be acceptable or die aborning.’

‘To good sense,’ Tanaby echoed, ‘but also to daring.’ He had already been taken into Conrig’s confidence and knew some details of the scheme, but had withheld judgment of its merit pending this consultation with the others.

They took their seats in a poorly concealed aura of excitement, with the Prince Heritor seated on the folding chair and the others spread out on either side. Young Baron Kimbolton put more wood on the fire. The sunset was rapidly fading.

‘Do you like the wine?’ Conrig inquired pleasantly.

Most voiced their approval. Count Munlow Ramscrest grimaced and shifted his great bulk so that his stool creaked ominously. His oversized mantle, trimmed with black wolf fur, spread around him like a sledge robe. ‘I would as lief take honest Cathran mead any day over foreign grape-gargle. Still, it does cut the phlegm.’

The others roared with laughter.

But then bluff Ramscrest asked the prince flat out, ‘Your Grace, does this plan of yours involve mere punitive strikes against Didion, or would you wage open warfare?’

‘I intend to mount an invasion,’ the prince replied, ‘and seize Holt Mallburn, and force Achardus to accept the Edict of Sovereignty or have it stuffed down his gullet.’

Ramscrest’s face, as homely and full of bristles as that of a boar, broke into a beatific smile. He said, ‘Oh, yes. Yes indeed!’

Some of the others began to exclaim and call out questions, but the penetrating voice of Parlian Beorbrook cut through the clamor like a brazen trumpet. ‘And what does the King’s Grace think of this brave notion?’