The Continental freebooters were soundly defeated at sea, while the prince’s outlaw Didionite land-force scuttled back over the White Rime Mountains into the wilderness of the Great Wold, never having unsheathed their swords.
While these events transpired, I myself grew from a youth into a man. My wild talents ripened with maturity, known only to my royal master Conrig, to his brother Stergos who had become the Royal Alchymist, and to a handful of other trusted intimates of the High King.
During those early years of Conrig Ironcrown’s reign, my duties were important but rather humdrum. I spent most of my time spying on Cathra’s quarrelsome Lords of the Southern Shore, holders of the original fiefdoms established under Bazekoy over a millennium ago. This group of affluent merchant-peers, who had played only a minor role in the establishment of the Sovereignty, remained a continuing thorn in the High King’s side because the ancient laws of Cathra made it difficult for the Crown to increase taxes on their considerable revenues. Also, unlike the rest of the nobility, the Lords of the Southern Shore possessed the immemorial right to veto changes in the Codex of Zeth, the charter affirming the rights and privileges of Cathran aristocracy and defining limits of regal authority – including the succession to the throne. It was the Codex that specifically excluded anyone possessing the least whiff of magical talent from Cathra’s kingship. This rule dated from Bazekoy’s time, and prevailed in Tarn and in Didion as well. Only Moss, youngest of Blenholme’s nations and founded by a brilliant sorcerer, was an exception.
Less than a year after Conrig’s second marriage, High Queen Risalla gave birth to a strapping son who was named Bramlow. Unfortunately Lord Stergos, the Royal Alchymist, almost immediately determined that the child had moderate arcane powers. In a move that surprised and bewildered his Privy Council and loyalist nobility, the High King pressured the Lords of the South to amend the Codex so the boy could be named Prince Heritor in spite of his talent. The lords refused, backed up by the powerful Brethren of the Mystic Order of Zeth, who inflamed the sentiments of the common people against the king’s dubious proposal. In the end, Bramlow was consecrated to the Order as an acolyte, the inevitable fate of windtalented royal offspring.
Excepting Conrig himself…
Oh, yes. My royal master was himself possessed of an all-but-insignificant portion of magical aptitude, imperceptible to the scrutiny of the Brothers. His urgent push to amend the Codex in Prince Bramlow’s favor was actually an attempt to safeguard his own position as High King of Cathra and Sovereign of Blenholme, in case his great secret should be revealed.
I, with my own undetectable ‘wild’ powers, had discovered Prince Heritor Conrig’s puny talent by accident years earlier – and almost paid for it with my life. Instead, the prince decided to make me his personal snudge, or spy. Later, I inadvertently betrayed my master to his older brother Stergos, who kept the perilous confidence in spite of serious misgivings.
Ullanoth of Moss, the beautiful young sorceress who later became that nation’s Conjure-Queen, also knew about the king’s talent, but had motives of her own for not disclosing it. Only two other persons had found out Conrig’s secret: his first wife Maudrayne, whom he believed to be dead, and her friend the Tarnian High Shaman Ansel Pikan, who was very much alive. So far, Ansel had also kept silent. But he remained a potential threat who might possibly betray Conrig and precipitate the dissolution of the Sovereignty. Killing the powerful shaman was no easy option. The only person who might be capable of doing the deed, Ullanoth herself, demurred for fear of offending the touchy Beaconfolk, who were the source of her powers. She did counsel Conrig with the obvious solution to his dilemma: sire a ‘normal’ son as soon as possible. Then, if worse came to worse, the attainted High King could abdicate in favor of the infant Prince Heritor and make use of an obscure point of law to declare himself regent, preserving his grip on the Sovereignty for at least twenty years, until his son’s majority.
Two years after Bramlow’s birth, in 1131, High Queen Risalla was delivered of healthy male twins who were named Orrion and Corodon. Lord Stergos and the other Brothers of Zeth who examined the babies pronounced both of them free from magical talent. Orrion, the elder by half an hour, was affirmed as Prince Heritor.
Unfortunately, the Brethren were mistaken in their assessment of the twins – as I learned to my dismay when I first beheld their tiny faces. As with their father Conrig, I was able to perceive that the infant boys had the faint but unmistakable spark of talent in their eyes. It was my clear duty to inform the king, but perhaps understandable that I should have delayed making the dire announcement. Knowing about Conrig’s own hidden talent had already placed my life at grave risk; if I confessed to knowledge of his newborn sons’ taint as well, who knew what my liege lord might do?
As it happened, I was spared the unwelcome task by none other than Queen Ullanoth, who had scried the little boys from a distance with the powerful moonstone sigil named Subtle Loophole. After confirming her discovery, she did not hesitate to tell Conrig the truth about the twins. She advised the dismayed king to keep the matter secret, continue pressing for a change in the law of succession…and beget still more offspring. In appreciation of the Conjure-Queen’s wholehearted pledge of silence, Conrig doubled the annual benefice already vouchsafed to her loyal but needy little realm in exchange for magical services rendered.
Thus it appeared, as the fateful summer of 1133 began, that most of the problems that had threatened to undermine Conrig Ironcrown and his fledgling Sovereignty were well under control. The realm of Cathra enjoyed unprecedented prosperity. Thanks in part to my own underhanded activities, there was a welcome respite in the intrigues and machinations of the Lords of the Southern Shore. High Queen Risalla was happily pregnant again. Didion’s fractious robber-barons were quiet, licking their wounds following yet another failed small insurrection by Prince Somarus. Embittered Tarn seemed finally resigned to its vassal status and paid its exorbitant taxes without a murmur. The Continental nations had apparently shelved their expansionist schemes for the time being and were content to engage in orderly trade. Even the Dawntide Salka monsters were lying low, not having raided the shore settlements of Moss for over a year, thanks to fierce storms created by Conjure-Queen Ullanoth and a sharp retaliatory strike on the islands by the Sovereign’s navy under Lord Admiral Hartrig Skellhaven.
I myself was a contented man that year, celebrating my twentieth birthday and entry into adulthood on the second day of Blossom Moon.
As part of the great Summer Solstice festival a few weeks later, I was initiated into knighthood together with fifteen other armigers from all parts of Cathra, becoming Sir Deveron Austrey. We received the accolade at the traditional ceremony at noon on Midsummer Eve. To my surprise, I was not made a simple Bachelor like the others but was created a Knight Banneret of the Royal Household in recognition of my confidential services to the Crown. The commander’s honors included a velvet purse containing a hundred gold double-marks, twice the boon vouchsafed to the Knights Bachelor; a smallish fortified manor house called Buttonoaks with a freehold of six hundred goodly acres, situated in the rolling hills below Swan Lake, which was supposed to provide me with a decent income and a place to live when I was not needed at the palace; and the services of two armigers rather than one, together with an apprentice windvoice who would ostensibly enable me to communicate with my superiors via the arcane network of Zeth Brethren. (My own windtalents were, of course, a state secret.)
After the dubbing ceremony, High King Conrig kindly suggested that I quit the court for several weeks and visit my new demesne, which lay less than three days’ easy journey to the north. With the realm at peace and likely to remain so for some time to come, the king anticipated no immediate need for my particular services.
I agreed to the idea eagerly and made ready to leave at once, glad of the chance to avoid the elaborate Solstice banquet and the many entertainments that would take place over the next several days. I found the pomp and splendor of court festivities tedious. In my rôle of Royal Intelligencer, I often moved among the great ones of the Sovereignty; but I had been born a commoner of low estate, the son of a palace harnessmaker, and preferred more modest pleasures.
I invited a close friend, Sir Gavlok Whitfell,