Sky Trillium

Voyager

JULIAN MAY

Sky Trillium

For Pat Brockmeyer

Contents

Cover

Title Page

PROLOGUE

CHAPTER 1

CHAPTER 2

CHAPTER 3

CHAPTER 4

CHAPTER 5

CHAPTER 6

CHAPTER 7

CHAPTER 8

CHAPTER 9

CHAPTER 10

CHAPTER 11

CHAPTER 12

CHAPTER 13

CHAPTER 14

CHAPTER 15

CHAPTER 16

CHAPTER 17

CHAPTER 18

CHAPTER 19

CHAPTER 20

CHAPTER 21

CHAPTER 22

CHAPTER 23

CHAPTER 24

CHAPTER 25

CHAPTER 26

CHAPTER 27

CHAPTER 28

CHAPTER 29

CHAPTER 30

CHAPTER 31

About the Author

By the same author

Copyright

About the Publisher

PROLOGUE

The old madman had fallen unconscious at last, prone on the dining room table amidst the remains of the meal. The prisoner let his glittering glass blade descend until its point touched the dark, wrinkled skin of the Arch image’s neck.

One thrust. A single movement of his arm and it would be ended.

Do it!

But the prisoner held back, cursing himself for a sentimental coward, his mind a storm of conflicting emotion. The cup of poisoned wine lay upset near Denby’s flaccid brown hand. Dregs puddled on the shining gondawood surface, slowly whitening the varnish beneath. The magnificent table, more than twelve thousand years old, was probably ruined; but its insane owner would survive. At the last, standing over the helpless form of the Archimage of the Firmament with the razor-sharp fruit knife in his hand, the prisoner found it impossible to kill his captor.

Why do I hesitate? he asked himself. Is it because of the old man’s crotchety good humour, or his awesome office, that he neglects so scandalously? Do I hold back because Denby Varcour spared my life, even though he sentenced me to share his grotesque exile? Or is magic at work here, protecting this ancient meddler even though he lies vulnerable as a sleeping child before me?

Never mind all that. Do it. Kill him! The poison has only rendered him senseless. Kill him now before it is too late!

But the prisoner could not. Not even the power of his Star sufficed to drive the blade home. Denby lay there snoring gently, a smile on his furrowed lips, quite safe, while his would-be murderer fumed and fretted. The reason for the failure was unfathomable but the impossibility remained.

Shaking his head in self-disgust, the prisoner replaced the glass knife on the platter of juicy ladu that was to have been their dessert. With a last uneasy glance at the unconscious madman, he hurried out of the room.

It took only a moment to snatch up the sack of warm clothing and stolen magical implements he had secreted in a cupboard in the salon anteroom. Then he was off, running down the dim, silent corridors toward the chamber of the dead woman, located nearly two leagues away in another quadrant of the Dark Man’s Moon.

The prisoner knew he had no time to waste. The sindona messengers and bearers were withdrawn into the Garden Moon as usual, but there was no telling when one or another of the terrible living statues might decide to cross over and seek out their lunatic master on some cryptic errand. Should a sindona find Denby drugged, it would know in an instant what had happened and call out the sentinels.

And if those beautiful demons caught up with the prisoner, he would die. The sentinels would discover the new empowerment of his Star, and not even Denby’s senile whimsy would suffice to spare his life.

The fleeing man paused for an instant. Clasping the heavy platinum medallion engraved with a many-pointed image that hung around his neck, he called upon its magic to survey his prison. The Star reported that the aged enchanter was still unconscious and no sindona were abroad. The only things that moved in the Dark Man’s Moon were the tenders, those odd mechanical contrivances that crept about on jointed legs like great metallic lingits, doing domestic chores.

One of these machines confronted the prisoner now, coming suddenly into view around the corridor’s sharp curve. It carried a basket of flameless lamp-globes and moved patiently along, ‘sniffing’ with one of its armlike appendages, seeking burned-out ceiling lights that might require replacement.

‘Out of my way, thing!’ The prisoner barged past the bulky device, nearly upsetting it and causing its collection of glowing globes to spill onto the floor. His foot landed on one of the lights and he lost his balance and fell to his knees.

‘I beg pardon, master,’ the lamp-tender said humbly. ‘Are you injured? Shall I summon one of the consolers to treat you?’

‘No! Don’t! I forbid it!’ Sweat broke out on the prisoner’s brow. He struggled upright and managed to speak in more normal tones. ‘I am not hurt. I command you to go about your normal duties. Do not summon assistance. Do you understand?’

Four inhuman eyes studied him. Denby’s weird creations were the most solicitous of servants, quite capable of forcing him to accept the medical attention of a sindona consoler against his will if he actually needed it.

Dark Powers! he prayed silently. Don’t let it call a sindona. Don’t let all my careful planning come to naught and my life be forfeit because of a witless machine!

‘It is true that you are unhurt,’ the light-tender said at last. ‘I will resume my work. I regret any inconvenience I have caused.’ It blinked its eyes in salute and began to pick up its scattered load.

The prisoner walked off in a semblance of nonchalance; but when the lamp-tender was out of sight he began to run again, feeling fear swell within him. What if the cursed machine summoned the sindona anyway? What if the sentinels were already in pursuit?

He was racing flat out now, his formal dining-robes flapping and his boot-shod feet thudding on the resilient corridor floor. A lump of cramping dread knotted his belly and every breath was now like a sword-cut. Dwelling in this damned place for two years had robbed him of his bodily strength as well as crippling his resolution. But he would mend if he could elude the sindona and finally take advantage of the dead woman’s second gift …

He was in the disused part of the Dark Man’s Moon now, a silent warren of empty galleries and parlours, uninhabited bedroom suites, and abandoned workshops and libraries. It was here that the rearguard of the Vanished Ones had lived twelve times ten hundreds ago while they strove hopelessly to stem the advance of the Conquering Ice.

Denby had willingly given him permission to explore the ghostly rooms, apparently unmindful of what might be found there. Early in his incarceration, the prisoner had come upon the chamber of the dead woman and received her first precious gift. With its help, he had collected his small trove of magical devices; but they were useless, of course, so long as he remained Denby’s captive. The Dark Man was invulnerable to ordinary magic.

A long time later, after the prisoner had discovered the truth about himself and about the world’s imbalance, he had found the dead woman’s second gift: the means to escape this strange prison and its demented jailer. Her third and last gift, without which the other two were useless, he had found just two days earlier. There was no magic in this gift at all, and for that reason Denby had succumbed. The old man had not died, as the prisoner had hoped, but if the profound swoon only lasted a short while longer –

Star Man, where are you going?

Merciful Dark Powers, the sentinels had found him! Their voices rang in his brain like great brazen bells.

What have you done to the Archimage of the Firmament? What stolen goods do you carry in that sack? Answer us. Star Man!

At any moment they might materialize in the corridor with him. They would point their fingers in judgement – and his life would end in a puff of smoke while his naked skull bounced hollow on the floor.

Star Man, this is your final warning. Stop and explain yourself!

But he only continued to flee. Suddenly they appeared out of thin air, four of them, less than ten ells behind him and striding purposefully in pursuit. The sindona that were called Sentinels of the Mortal Dictum resembled living statues of ivory, taller than a man and more beautiful than any human being. They wore only crossed belts of blue and green scales and iridescent crown-helms, and they carried golden death’s-heads that symbolized their lethal duty. The pace of the sentinels was ponderous and deliberate and he kept well ahead of them, but he was nearly spent. His heart seemed about to burst and his legs were faltering and would not bear him much further.

Where was her chamber? He should have reached it long ago! But the eerie corridor seemed endless, and the sentinels were drawing closer moment by moment. His vision reddened, then began to dim.

I am finished, he said to himself, and pitched forward toward blackness, losing his grip upon the sack. As he fell he took hold of his medallion in a last gesture of futile appeal. The Star seemed to lend him fresh strength. Lying there, he was able to lift his head and open his eyes.

He saw the four pale sindona, golden skulls cradled beneath their left arms, marching toward him. And he also saw that a miracle had been vouchsafed. He lay before a door, massively fashioned of solid metal, marked with a huge, tarnished likeness of the same many-rayed silvery Star he wore around his neck. The portal had neither latch nor keyhole. It was only a few paces away.

Like a dying thing, he crawled with agonized slowness, then lifted his medallion on its chain and touched it to the door.

No! cried the sentinels. Their right arms rose in unison to point annihilation toward him.

The door flew open. There within was the dead woman, seeming to turn her head and smile at him, silently offering sanctuary.

Somehow he was drawn swiftly inside and the door clanged shut behind him. He was enveloped in night – a night spangled with unblinking stars. The room was so cold that the breath was torn from his heaving lungs in a frosty cloud and the sweat coursing down his face turned to crackling ice. An involuntary moan escaped his stiffening lips. He had forgotten that one visited the dead woman only on her own terms.

Near paralysed with pain and the intense cold, he pulled a cloak from his sack, flung it about himself, and drew up the hood, muffling his face to the eyes. Then he fumbled to pull on fur-lined gloves. Staggering to his feet, he stood with his back pressed to the locked door, fighting to reclaim control of his mind and body.

Would the sindona be able to break in and capture him?

The dead woman smiled serenely and seemed to say, No. Not without the explicit command of the Dark Man himself and he is still bereft of his senses.

She sat in a thronelike chair, not really looking at him at all. One entire wall of her chamber was a gigantic window, and her glazed eyes, wide open, seemed to stare with rapt fascination at the scene outside. A shining blue-and-white sphere hung in the midst of a million untwinkling stars. The Garden Moon and the Death Moon were out of sight, tracing their course in the heavens somewhere behind the abode of the Dark Man, so there was nothing to detract from the heart-wrenching beauty of the vision. Uncounted leagues distant, the World of the Three Moons hovered like a massive clouded aquamarine.

The imperilled world. The world that was his home, that he alone could save. The world that had certainly been her home as well, twelve thousand years ago.

She had died with her eyes fixed longingly upon that blue orb, with one hand clasping a Star hanging on jewelled links at her breast and the other holding a curiously wrought little glass phial with a few frozen droplets remaining in it. Her body was perfectly preserved in the deep cold, dressed in rich garments of mournful black. Her hair was dark, streaked with silver. She had been middle-aged but of surpassing beauty, a captive like himself. The archives of the Dark Man had told him some of her tragic story:

Her name was Nerenyi Darai, and she had been the founder of the mighty Star Guild. One who loved her beyond all reason and loyalty had ‘saved’ her from the fate that had befallen most of the other members of her group, only to see her voluntarily relinquish life rather than evade the Conquering Ice in his despised company. The loss of Nerenyi had driven Denby Varcour, greatest hero of the Vanished Ones and Archimage of the Firmament, out of his mind.

The prisoner bowed deeply before her body, trying to control his shivering. He would not live long in this rigorous place. If the dead woman’s second gift proved inoperative after aeons of disuse, he would surely freeze to death before Denby awoke and ordered the sentinels to seize him.

‘I could not kill him after all, Star Lady,’ he confessed to her. ‘Perhaps his magic protected him. But I suspect it was my own soul that demurred, unable to take his life in such a craven manner as he lay smilingly unconscious, replete with good food and wine. Should another day come when he and I meet in honourable magical combat, man-to-man, I will not hesitate to destroy him. Will that suffice?’

The voice that might have been hers replied, It will. Have you found the basic instruments of enchantment – those that will enable you to resume your work?

‘I have.’ He lifted the sack. ‘My Star eventually led me to all of them, even though it took some time. I am ready now to return to the world, regain the three pieces of the Sceptre of Power, and perform the world-saving task you have commanded.’

The Three will do their best to prevent you.

‘Lady, no human being will stop me – not even the one I love. I swear it on the Star.’

When he had first found Nerenyi Darai, some instinct bade him touch his own medallion to hers … and the ancient magic of her Guild had done its work, granting him the full potency of the Star at last. It was the dead woman’s first gift.

The second gift was a viaduct, one of those wondrous passageways that the Dark Man and the sindona used in order to travel instantly from place to place about the hollow Moons. But this particular viaduct, invisible now, as its kind always were until an adept commanded their opening, led from the Dark Man’s Moon back to the world below. Its existence had been revealed to the prisoner on one of his later visits.

Nerenyi Daral had warned him that the Archimage of the Firmament would know instantly if anyone attempted to use the viaduct. And then Denby would either lock it or bid it convey the prisoner to some ghastly new place of captivity. Only if the Dark Man were killed or disabled would the passage lead to freedom.

A tiny glass container in Nerenyi’s hand had been her third gift. Sheer happenstance had finally drawn the thing to his attention two days ago and caused him to ask what it contained. When he found out about the poison, he began at once to plan his escape.

‘I am ready to go now,’ he told her. ‘Star Lady, I beseech you to open the world-viaduct for me.’

Do you swear on the Star to recreate my Guild and carry out its great purpose, restoring the balance of the world?

He grasped his medallion with one gloved hand. His fingers were losing sensation and the deadly cold was fast penetrating the cloak as well.

‘I do swear,’ he said.

Then take my own Star, dear adopted son and heir, and give it to one in whom you place your utmost trust. With the help of the reborn Guild, reclaim the Sceptre of Power. It is still capable of banishing the Conquering Ice. Learn to control its perilous faculties and let the Sky Trillium shine again.

Reverently, he detached her dead fingers from the medallion, lifted the jewelled chain and pendant from her neck, and put it into his sack. ‘I will do as you command … But now, Lady, I beg you to let me go forth, else I will surely freeze to death on the brink of freedom.’

Go. Viaduct system activate!

A crystalline musical chime rang out and an upstanding ring of light about two ells in diameter sprang into existence to the left of the dead woman’s chair. Within it was an area of featureless black from which a musty warm wind flowed.

‘Is the viaduct ready to transport me?’

Yes. All you need do is enter. Once it would have led only to the domain of the Conquering Ice, and so it was useless to me. I came here through it, hut I could not use it to escape. But in these latter days, when the Sempiternal Icecap is temporarily diminished, the viaduct will debouch in a safe place.

He hesitated. ‘May I ask where in the world I will emerge?’

The Star-Voice was stern. You will go where you are sent, and there you must begin immediately to carry out your mission. Quickly! Denby is about to awake. He will be at the door in a moment.

‘Then, Lady, goodbye!’

Holding tight to the sack, he stepped into the glowing ring and vanished. There was a second bell-like sound and the circle winked out. The remnants of the prisoner’s last breath, clouds of minute ice crystals, swirled in the frigid air around the enthroned dead body.

The door of the chamber swung open. The four sindona sentinels marched in, their golden skulls held at the ready. Shuffling after them came a very old man with dark skin and frizzled snow-white hair. He was enveloped in a mantle of golden worram fur.

‘Orogastus!’ he called. His voice was strong and resonant and might have belonged to a much younger man. ‘Are you still here?’

He has departed, one of the sentinels said.

‘Well, that’s a relief,’ said Denby Varcour. ‘Now we can get on with saving the world – if it can be saved! A pity he didn’t finish me off, but I might have known I’d have to see the thing through to the end.’ He flapped one hand at the sindona, ordering them back out into the corridor, then went and stood before the frozen corpse.

‘Forgive me, my beloved Nerenyi. It was too good an opportunity to miss. I could not let it be too easy for him, you see.’

As always, her tranquil features smiled.

CHAPTER 1

Prince Tolivar lay there in the dark, fully clothed except for his boots, trying desperately not to fall asleep.

He had not dared to leave the silver oil lamps or even a candle lit, for fear someone would see the light shining beneath the door. The only illumination in the chamber came from fitful lightning flashes through the window, and from the clock on the stand beside his bed, an artifact of the Vanished Ones with a face that glowed softly green. It had been a gift on his last nameday from his Aunt Kadiya, the Lady of the Eyes. She was the only one in the world – aside from good old Ralabun – who did not despise him.

Some day he would show them all, especially his hateful elder brother and sister, Crown Prince Nikalon and Princess Janeel. The time would come when they would no longer tease him and call him a useless second prince. They would fear him instead and grant him the respect he deserved!

If he got his treasure back …

Lying there, Tolivar gritted his teeth and willed that the slow-crawling minutes go faster. Ralabun would not come until two hours after midnight – if he came at all. ‘He must come!’ the Prince whispered to himself. But he had not dared to tell Ralabun why he was needed, and the old creature might have dismissed the unusual summons as a boyish whim. He might forget to come, or even fall asleep waiting. Tolivar himself was having great trouble keeping his eyes from closing.

‘Holy Flower, don’t let me nod off,’ he prayed. He was already badly frightened at the prospect of what lay ahead. If he slept – and the awful dream came again – he might be tempted to give it up.

It probably had been foolish of him to hide the treasure out in the Mazy Mire, but the stratagem had seemed necessary. Ruwenda Citadel’s ancient stones were themselves permeated with magic, and sacred Black Trillium blossoms bloomed everywhere now on the knoll, thriving beneath the light of the Three Moons. Worst of all, his other aunt – the formidable Archimage Haramis – had taken to visiting his mother too often here in the Summer Capital, which was their childhood home. Tolivar could not risk the White Lady discovering his secret, so he had found a place away in the swamp to hide the precious things.

No one would take them from him. Not ever.

‘They are mine by right of salvage,’ he reassured himself. ‘Even if I am only twelve years old and still unable to make use of them fully, I will die rather than give them up.’

The unwelcome thought stole again into his mind that he might very well perish tonight, drowned in the surging black river.

‘Then so be it,’ he muttered, ‘for if I leave the treasure behind in Ruwenda during the rains, it might be swept away in a great tempest. Or it could be buried in mud before we return next spring, or even found by some stray Oddling and handed over to the White Lady. Then I would have nothing to live for.’

If only the Wet Time had not come so inconveniently early this year!

But Aunt Haramis had said that the world was badly out of balance, and the strange weather reflected it, as did the restlessness of the volcanoes and the increasing number of earthquakes.

The River Mutar that skirted Citadel Knoll had surged to flood stage almost without warning. King Antar and Queen Anigel had decided that the Court of the Two Thrones dared not wait until the end of the month to adjourn to the Winter Capital of Derorguila in Labornok. Instead, the royal entourage must depart within six days, before the mire waters rose too high.

Prince Tolivar, the youngest of the royal family, had reacted to the announcement with panic. So long as the storms continued, the Mutar’s current would be too strong for him to paddle upstream alone in the skiff he kept hidden for his secret excursions. He had prayed both to the Holy Flower and to the Dark Powers who aided wizards, begging for just a few dry days and a respite in the flood. But the entreaties were in vain. The time of the royal retinue’s departure drew closer and closer until now there were only two days left. Tomorrow the caravan would begin to form. In daylight he would not be able to sneak out of the Citadel without being seen. He had to get the treasure tonight, or leave it behind.

Tolivar tried to banish his desperation as he listened to the rain beating at his bedchamber window. It was a sound that provoked sleep. Several times the Prince found his eyes closing and managed to snap back into wakefulness. But the time passed so slowly, and the raindrops’ drumming was so monotonous, that eventually he could not help drifting off.

Once again, the familiar nightmare began.

It had haunted him for the past two years: the rumbling terror of the great earthquake, smoke from burning buildings, himself a snivelling captive, his small-boy fear coloured with the guilt of betrayal. And then miraculous escape! A sudden surge of courage in his heart that had emboldened him to take the great treasure! In the dream, he vowed to use it and become a hero. He would save the city of Derorguila from the attacking army, save his royal parents and all the embattled people. Even though he was only eight years old, he would do it by commanding magic …

In the dream, he used the magical device, and they all died.

All of them. Loyal defenders and vicious invaders, the King, the Queen, his brother and sister, even the Lady of the Eyes and the Archimage Haramis herself, dead because of the magic he had wrought! A great pile of bodies lay in the bloody snow of the palace courtyard outside Zotopanion Keep, and he himself was the only one left alive.

But how could it have happened? Was it really his fault?

He fled the horrible scene, running through the devastated city. Snow fell thickly from a dark sky, and the gale wind that drove it spoke with the voice of a man:

Tolo! Tolo, listen to me! I know you have my talisman. I saw you take it four years ago. Beware, foolish Prince! The thing’s magic can kill you as easily as it killed the others. You will never learn to use it safely. Give it back! Tolo, do you hear me? Leave it out there in the Mazy Mire. I will come for it. Tolo, listen! Tolo –

‘No! It’s mine! Mine!’

The Prince woke with a start. He was safe in his own bedroom in Ruwenda Citadel. Thunder was faintly audible through the thick stone walls and the echo of his own terrified cry rang in his ears. He checked the clock on the bedside stand, discovered that it was still too early, and fell back onto his pillow uttering childish curses. The nightmare was so stupid! He had killed no one with magic. His family was alive and well and suspected nothing. The sorcerer was dead, but that was his own fault. Everyone knew that.

‘I will retrieve my treasure in spite of the rains,’ he said to himself, falling back onto his pillow. ‘I will take it with me to Derorguila and continue practising its use. And one day, I will be as powerful as he was.’

At last the little clock chimed two. Prince Tolivar sighed, sat up on the edge of the bed and began to tug on his stoutest pair of boots. His frail body was weary after a day spent gathering and packing the things he would take with him to Labornok. The servants had dealt with his clothes, but packing everything else had been his responsibility. Six large brassbound wooden chests now stood ready in his darkened sitting room next door, and four of them were filled, mostly with his precious books. There was also a smaller strongbox of iron with a stout lock that the Prince hoped to fill and tuck in among the other things.

If Ralabun would only hurry!

The clock now showed a quarter past the designated hour. Tolivar put on his raincloak. He wore both a short-sword and a hunting dagger. Opening the casement window and peering out, he saw that the rain had let up, although lightning still flickered in the west. The river was not visible from this side of the Citadel, but he knew it would be high and swift.

At last there came a soft scratching at the door. Tolivar dashed across the room and admitted a sturdy old Nyssomu male, dressed in dark brown rainproof leathers handsomely decorated with silver stitching. Ralabun, the retired Keeper of the Royal Stables, was Tolivar’s crony and confidant. His usual aspect was one of sleepy amiability; but tonight his broad, wrinkled face was ashen with anxiety and his prominent yellow eyes seemed almost ready to pop out of his skull.

‘I am ready, Hiddenheart. But I beg you to tell me why we must go out in such weather.’

‘It is necessary,’ the Prince replied curtly. He had long since given up urging Ralabun to bestow a more auspicious mire-name upon him.

‘It is a foul night to be abroad in the Mazy Mire,’ the old one protested. ‘Surely this mysterious errand of yours can wait until morning.’

‘It cannot,’ the Prince retorted, ‘for we would surely be seen in daylight. And early tomorrow the Lord Steward gathers all of the baggage of the royal family and begins forming up the wagon train. No, we must go tonight. Quickly now!’

The boy and the aborigine hurried down a back stairway, ordinarily used only by chambermaids and other lackeys who tended to the royal apartments. On the floor below, a mezzanine overlooking the great hall, was the chapel, together with the small presence chambers of King Antar and Queen Anigel and the adjacent offices of the royal ministers. Guardsmen of the nightwatch were on patrol here, but Tolivar and Ralabun eluded them easily and slipped into a tiny alcove next to the chancellor’s rooms where boxes of old royal correspondence filled three tall shelves.

‘The secret way is here,’ Tolivar said softly. As Ralabun gaped in astonishment, the Prince took out a single letterbox and reached behind it. He then replaced the box, and the entire middle shelf swung soundlessly outward like a door, revealing a black opening beyond. ‘Do you have your dark-lantern, as I requested?’ Ralabun drew it from beneath his cloak, sliding open the aperture so that light from the glowing swamp-worms within shone out in a wan beam.

The two of them entered the secret passage. Tolivar closed it behind them, took charge of the lantern, and began to walk briskly along the narrow, dusty corridor, bidding the Nyssomu to follow.

‘I have heard tales of these hidden passages in the Citadel from Immu, the Queen’s nurse,’ Ralabun said, ‘but never have I been in one. Immu says that long years ago, when the three Living Petals of the Black Trillium were still young princesses, she and Jagun led the Queen and her sister Lady Kadiya out from the Citadel through such a passage when the evil King Voltrik would have murdered them. Was it your Royal Mother who showed you this secret way?’

Tolivar’s laugh was bitter. ‘Nay. I learned of it from a more obliging teacher. Look sharp! We must go down these steep stairs here and they are damp and slippery.’

‘Who then told you of the passageway? Was it Immu?’

‘Nay.’

‘Did you learn of it then through one of the ancient books you are so fond of perusing?’