Sorcerer’s Moon: Part Three of the Boreal Moon Tale

The wizard eased the translucent small pendant into the goblet, then severed its chain. Had he touched the moonstone with his own bare flesh, he would have been hideously burned. Concealer was bonded to me, and no one else could use it or even handle it with impunity.

‘Where is the second sigil?’ Catclaw demanded. ‘The one called Subtle Gateway, which transports a person instantly from place to place? I have been commanded by the King’s Grace to seize both amulets from you and bring them back to him.’

In spite of all my warnings, sigil sorcery obviously still held an unhealthy fascination for Conrig.

I responded in a near-whisper, which was all I was capable of without betraying myself. ‘I threw the thing into deep water months ago. His Grace knows full well how much I abominate moonstone magic. Concealer is a minor sort that causes only insignificant discomfort to the user, but Gateway was one of the so-called Great Stones. Conjuring it induced an appalling agony and put my very soul in peril to the pain-eating Beaconfolk. When I rescued Princess Maudrayne and completed my mission, I had no more need of it. I was glad to get rid of the thing.’

I was lying. But Catclaw was not about to find that out until I learned what he planned to do with me – along with Induna and Maris.

One of the ship’s officers stepped forward. ‘Shall we go ashore and search for the stone in his house, my lord?’

‘Why bother?’ I told the Lord Constable. ‘The sigils are worthless to the High King, whether he realizes it or not. When I die – and I presume my fate is sealed – any sigil owned by me becomes inactive: a worthless piece of rock. I learned how to use them only by a lucky accident. No one knows how to bond them to a new owner save the Salka who made them in the first place. Once, Queen Ullanoth of Moss and her lunatic brother Beynor also knew the secret. But she’s dead and he has disappeared.’

Tinnis Catclaw frowned and appeared to be considering the matter.

Emboldened, I asked the all-important question. ‘Do you now intend to kill my betrothed and her mother as well as me?’

The constable waved a dismissive hand. ‘The threat was only a bluff, a ploy to bring about your capture. Not even the Sovereign would dare harm a well-known shaman-healer such as Maris of Barking Sands, nor her daughter – who is an anointed Sealady of Tarn, albeit one of minimal rank. Such deeds might provoke the touchy Tarnian leaders beyond endurance. At this moment the girl and her mother are harmlessly sleeping off their enchantment, lying in the straw beside a mare and her newborn colt. The hireling wizards have followed my orders and scattered to the four winds. All they care about is how they’ll spend their bags of Cathran gold.’

I sighed in relief. The only persons that I had ever taken to my heart would be safe now from Conrig’s revenge…but only if I abandoned them.

‘How do you intend to dispose of me?’ I asked.

Catclaw pulled himself up in a dignified huff. ‘Your just punishment will be meted out strictly according to Cathran law. Once this warship rides the high seas, you’ll be tried for treason. Your disavowal of fealty meets the legal criterion. As Lord Constable, I have the judicial authority to order your summary execution. You’ll hang from a yardarm.’

‘But do you solemnly swear to me that Induna and Maris will be spared?’

‘I’ve already said so,’ Catclaw retorted testily, ‘and I’m a man of honor.’

‘Oh, yes?’ I hissed. ‘Did Princess Maudrayne find you honorable?’

His face drained of color. He gave a sharp command to the seamen who held and surrounded me. ‘All of you – move away from the prisoner! Draw your swords and stand ready, but step back. Farther yet! If he stirs, slay him where he stands.’

The astonished men retreated a good eight feet away. Catclaw stood very close to me and his voice would have been inaudible to the others.

‘Since you are to die within the hour, I’ll tell you how I dealt with Princess Maude. I was indeed commanded to kill her. I confess that I wrote her suicide note. It stated that she could not bear to live if she would never be allowed to see her son Dyfrig again, as the High King had decreed. I offered her poison…but gave her instead a potion that rendered her senseless and slowed her heart. She lay cold and still as a dead woman on the deck of my frigate, which was docked at Donorvale Quay, ready to return to Cathra with the boy. The Tarnian authorities bore witness to the sudden and tragic demise of the princess. Her body was placed in a lead coffin and kept in my own cabin, covered with a blanket of roses, until it could be buried at sea. This was High King Conrig’s command, following my own suggestion. Poor little Dyfrig was devastated by his mother’s suicide and could not bear to watch the ceremony. But the coffin my crew consigned to the depths of the Western Ocean was empty.’

I nearly choked upon that which I held inside my cheek. ‘Alive?’ I gasped.

‘She was the most beautiful woman I’d ever known,’ Tinnis Catclaw said. ‘Conrig Ironcrown cast her off when it seemed she could not bear him a son. He declared her an archenemy of the Sovereignty and commanded her death. But I had long loved her from afar. I still do – even though I am now able to visit her only on rare occasions in my hunting lodge north of Swan Lake, where she willingly remains hidden for the sake of Prince Dyfrig. Maude is a proud and spirited soul. But she is…kind to me. And kings do not live forever.’

‘Great God,’ I murmured. ‘You are as much a traitor as I.’

He smiled. ‘And yet, I don’t believe you’ll use your windspeech to reveal my secret before you die.’

‘No,’ I agreed. It was the farthest thing from my mind. ‘Conduct your trial, my lord. Prepare the rope. But I ask a favor, as one turncoat to another. Dress me in decent clothing beforehand, restore my knight’s belt and purse, and forgo shackles. I swear I’ll behave with dignity. And as I go to my death, let your wizard stand a few ells away holding the chalice with my sigil. It would give me a melancholy comfort to have it near me.’

He agreed.

Later, while the great ship sliced the waves on its southerly course, and those members of the crew who were not on watch gathered in solemn ranks to witness my dispatch, I mounted the improvised scaffold unfettered.

‘Do you have any last words?’ the Lord Constable asked me.

‘My lord, I bear you and the King’s Grace no malice,’ I told him. Tell Conrig that. And now, farewell.’

He stepped back to accommodate the hangman. I lifted my arm and cried out, ‘Concealer – to me!’

The sigil flew out of the cup and into my waiting hand. A roar of surprise rose from the astounded crew. But before a man of them could move, I intoned the brief spell that conjured the tiny door-shaped carving called Subtle Gateway, hardly larger than a thumbnail, which had been concealed in my mouth since I quit the manorhouse.

Agony smote me like a thunderclap. I knew that it was going to last for a long time, disabling me profoundly – perhaps even fatally – and this time there’d be no respite vouchsafed by Induna. The Great Lights would eat their fill of my pain without hindrance.

But if I survived, I’d open my eyes in the southernmost region of the continental nation of Andradh, over two thousand leagues away, far beyond the reach of Conrig Ironcrown, Sovereign of High Blenholme Island, and perhaps even beyond that of the Beaconfolk themselves.

I did survive.

And dwelt in Andradh among the Wave-Harriers for the next sixteen years, until Induna came knocking on my door and, against all odds, convinced me to become the Royal Intelligencer once again.

ONE

It was a kind of daydream that overcame High King Conrig Wincantor at inconvenient moments, snatching him from the real world into a fantastic…elsewhere. Without warning, he would find himself in a cramped chamber, dimly lit and stifling, surrounded on all sides by a hostile mob.

The adversaries howled and darted at him like malignant phantoms, clutching at his crown – his priceless Iron Crown. They reached out with hands and claws and tentacles, howling curses and filthy insults, trying to rip the symbol of Sovereignty away from him, saying he had no right to it.

‘I do!’ he bellowed. ‘It’s mine. I earned it and defended it. Leave be! Go away!’

He fought them with all his mortal strength and with all his secret uncanny talent as well, smiting with his longsword and smashing and blasting the foe with magical bombards. Some of the raging attackers were human, persons that he’d loved who gave only hatred and malice in return; some enemies were rebellious vassals flouting his rightful authority; some were dimwitted grotesques trying to pull down the great edifice he’d built, in a pathetic extirpation motivated only by envy and spite.

Enemies all!

He’d fought them for years. He’d never surrender.

‘I won’t give in!’ he cried, holding tight to the crown. ‘I’ll rule this island and rule the world.’

‘No,’ they roared. ‘Never!’

‘Yes! I shall conquer. I shall!’

Always, as those last defiant words rang out, the frantic tugging weakened, yielding to his superior strength. The grasping tangle of limbs fell away from the prize, leaving him in sole possession. He crowned himself anew with the dark metal circlet and felt the old joy ignite within him, banishing all doubt and fear. Thwarted, the mass of enemies melted away, while his shout of triumph echoed in a vault of sunlit clouds.

‘My foes are many, but I crush them all. I bow to no power in the Sky or the Ground Realm. I reign. I rule!’

It was the simple truth…So why didn’t his enemies understand that and let him be? Why did they keep returning over and over to trouble him with these unquiet waking dreams?

Why?

It was maddening.

Orrion Wincantor, Prince Heritor of Cathra and unwilling bridegroom-elect, felt a need to stop and take stock of the situation before climbing any farther. He dropped behind his older brother, Vra-Bramlow, and his twin, Prince Corodon, and paused to catch his breath and stare up at the looming bulk of Demon Seat in morose silence.

Why did I let Bram and Coro talk me into this? he asked himself. Scaling a mountain in order to perform forbidden sorcery! The notion was idiotic…and damned dangerous as well. Coro might easily have broken his leg when he lost his footing and took a tumble back at the torrent, and he himself was rock-bruised and aching. But they’d nearly reached the top now, and it was probably too late to suggest they turn back without seeming to be craven.

Was it also too late to disavow the magical tomfoolery? Might he yet find a way to laugh off the venture after they’d gained the summit, claiming that he’d never intended to ask the Sky Demons for a blasphemous miracle and had only made the ascent to distract himself from his heartache?

But that would be a lie.

The view of the surrounding Cathran countryside was stupendous. From the ledge where he rested Orrion could see most of Swan Lake, the distinctive spiky crest above Beorbrook Hold, the isolated monolith of Elktor, and even a faraway twinkling to the east that had to be the famous crystal window of Castle Vanguard. Below him the steep ridges of the mountain’s south flank, thrown into prominence by bright sunlight, resembled notched axe-blades. The glacial ice lying between them was grubby from leftover ash that had been deposited by eruptions of Tarnian volcanos two decades earlier. A few pink and gold alpine wildflowers bloomed in crevices nearby. The summit rocks above showed patches of brilliant white, dusted by the first light snowfall of approaching autumn.

Summer that year had been uncommonly warm, melting more snow than usual from the Dextral Range. Even Demon Seat, the loftiest peak on High Blenholme Island, had lost most of the shroud that ordinarily softened its grim contours. The unusual sight of those bare slopes, visible to the three royal brothers from Swan Lake, had been the inspiration for this adventure. Orrion had yielded to the others’ urgings on a fatalistic impulse. It was a last resort. Why not chance it?

He bowed his head in misery. ‘Oh, Nyla,’ he whispered, ‘if only there were another way! Dearest friend of my childhood, everyone at court knew that I had chosen you for my bride. Even Father gave tacit consent – until that bastard, Somarus of Didion, murmured against the Sovereignty. And now, Nyla, our only hope lies in dark magic.’

Magic, that bane of the Wincantor family…

Prince Heritor Orrion had a profound distrust of uncanny powers. His study of certain Didionite documents, reluctantly provided by his mother Queen Risalla when he insisted on knowing the truth about the fall of Holt Mallburn, had convinced him that his father Conrig had made use of illicit Beaconfolk sorcery to establish his Sovereignty, thus committing a terrible sin against the Zeth Codex. Beyond doubt Conrig Wincantor had schemed with Ullanoth of Moss to conquer Didion’s capital city through foulest magic. He had also relied on the Conjure-Queen’s moonstone sigils to win the Battle of Cala Bay, forcing Didion to become the vassal of Cathra.

Over the years, the Lords of the Southern Shore had kept those shameful allegations of sorcery alive, just as they continued to stoke the fires of calumny hinting that Conrig himself was besmirched with windtalent. Now, with the latest Salka threat, Duke Feribor Blackhorse and his fellow conspirators openly speculated that the Sovereign was preparing to use Beaconfolk magic once again, to counter the monsters’ massive invasion of northern Didion.

But so what if he does? Orrion asked himself. Am I any better than my flawed sire? At least his sin might save our island from the Salka, whereas the deed I contemplate committing is motivated only by a selfish desire to escape a loveless marriage.

The brothers had begun their melancholy journey from Cala Palace to Boarsden Castle in Didion, where the betrothal ceremony was to take place, over a tennight earlier, allowing ample time for a side trip to Swan Lake. The two royal princes were each accompanied by six Heart Companions, young nobles who were close friends. Vra-Bramlow, the novice Brother of Zeth, had no retinue, as was fitting for one belonging to the austere Order.

Prince Orrion was a keen salmon angler. (Sportfishing with an artificial lure was now all the rage, having been newly introduced from Tarn.) His brothers hoped that a few days on the beautiful body of water would lift Orrion’s depressed spirits. The three princes and their entourage had been invited to stay at a rustic lodge owned by Count Swanwick, a trusted ally of the royal family. But the fish proved elusive and the diversion was turning out to be a failure.

It was Vra-Bramlow who conceived the audacious scheme to resolve his brother Orrion’s predicament once and for all. Before revealing his idea to the twins, he windspoke one of Castle Vanguard’s young alchymists, who had been a fellow student of occult science at Zeth Abbey, to verify that an ascent of the currently near-snowless Demon Seat would be feasible. A Vanguard resident would know if anyone did, since the peak was part of that dukedom.

Vra-Hundig reluctantly conceded that daring men might be able to climb to the top of the mountain, using trails that in other years were deeply buried in snowdrifts. A couple of madcap young fellows had scaled the peak some sixty years ago for the fun of it, but one of them perished of exposure during the descent. Hundig described the likeliest access routes in detail and wondered who among Vra-Bramlow’s friends would be lunatic enough to attempt such a useless feat.

No one, the royal novice had reassured his former classmate. No one at all. The inquiry was only intended to settle a bet made with his twin brothers.

The next morning, as the princes and their companions broke their fast in the fishing lodge’s hall, Bramlow quietly told Orrion and Corodon about a certain ancient tract he had recently come upon in the abbey library. It contained convincing accounts of miracles worked atop Demon Seat in days long gone by. Why shouldn’t Orrion seek a miracle of his own on the mysterious mountain?

‘I know the possibility’s a slim one,’ the novice alchymist admitted, ‘but the manuscript said that the demons grant favors to petitioners who are worthy – and who is worthier than you, Orry? One day you must take up leadership of the Sovereignty, the heaviest burden in all of Blenholme. It’s not right that you should be deprived of your one true love, merely to strengthen the weak reed of Didionite loyalty.’

Corodon smirked. ‘What a pity King Somarus rejected my hand for his daughter in place of Orry’s. I’m so much better looking!’

‘But you aren’t the Prince Heritor.’ Bramlow’s dark brown eyes flashed with anger. This was no matter for levity.

‘I can’t see how magic could change the mind of Somarus,’ Orrion said, looking dejected. ‘Not with that villain of a chancellor making decisions for him. I suspect Kilian Blackhorse was the one who thought up the marriage ploy in the first place. God knows what sort of convoluted plan that traitor has in mind for me and Princess Hyndry, but his malice toward Cathra has never flagged.’

‘If I wore Father’s Iron Crown,’ Corodon said, ‘I’d put down Kilian like a mad dog! Then I’d depose that insolent fat rogue Somarus and replace him with a less surly kinglet.’

‘Easier said than done,’ Orrion said. ‘Didion is a patchwork realm – a rabble of mistrustful barbarian chieftains, clannish timber-lords, and greedy shipbuilding magnates and merchants who control the true wealth of the land. At present, none save Somarus seems able to keep the lot stitched together. Should Didion fall apart and be unable or unwilling to continue helping Cathra and Tarn fight the Salka, then all of Blenholme is likely doomed. If my marriage to Princess Hyndry can keep King Somarus loyal to the Sovereignty, then I have no choice but to submit. I thank you for proposing that I seek a miracle, Bram, but the notion is too outlandish to take seriously.’

‘Orry, don’t be such a lily-liver!’ Prince Corodon exclaimed. ‘Is your love for Nyla so tepid and gutless that you’d renounce her without a fight? I’d move heaven and earth if I were in your shoes, even though the odds for success were long. Listen: Bram and I will climb the peak with you. It’ll be a rare adventure!’

‘Our Heart Companions will think we’ve lost our minds,’ Orrion protested, nodding toward the long table where the young noblemen were chattering noisily. ‘And what if they gossip, and Father finds out how I tried to flout his command by calling upon demons?’

‘We could let the men accompany us for part of the way, to the base of the mountain,’ Bramlow said. ‘Then the three of us can try for the summit together. We say nothing of our true intent. Instead we tell them we intend to plant the flag of the Sovereignty up there on a tall staff, where anyone with a good spyglass may see it and be astounded. It’s a silly stunt, but we could say it was Coro’s idea.’

‘Yes, blame me!’ the daredevil prince crowed. ‘Why the hell not?’

‘Because we might suffer injury,’ Orrion said, ‘or even fall to our deaths.’

‘My friend Vra-Hundig at Castle Vanguard told me that the trail up the mountain is not especially difficult,’ Bramlow said. ‘What usually makes the summit inacessible is the heavy snow – which has melted this year.’

Orrion could feel his opposition weakening. ‘Bram, tell me true: do you seriously believe these so-called demons might exist and be willing to help me?’

Vra-Bramlow took hold of the silver novice’s gammadion, emblem of the Zeth Order, that hung on a chain around his neck. ‘By my halidom, I do. Dearest brother, we all know other improbable myths of this island that have a basis in truth. I admit that this one strains credulity to the bursting point – but recall our dying grandsire and the oracle of Bazekoy’s Head. It seemed ludicrous that the oracle should have spoken the truth: yet it did. So what say you? Shall we dare the demons? Decide now, for it will take us at least a day to reach the mountain’s foot, and another to make the climb. We have not a moment to waste.’

And here I am, Prince Heritor Orrion thought sadly. Grasping at the most puny of straws, putting my two brothers at risk, ready to commit a horrendous sin. But I would do anything, even forfeit my life, if I might thereby wed my darling Nyla, rather than the barbarian princess chosen for me by my heartless sire –

‘Orry! We’re waiting for you. Stop gawking at the scenery and get moving!’

He felt resentment at the sound of his twin brother’s strident voice echoing among the crags. It was not Coro’s place to give orders to the Heritor. Nevertheless Orrion rose to his feet, adjusted the baldric that supported his leather fardel of food and drink, picked up his iron-shod staff, and resumed his ascent of the steep, zigzag trail.

A couple of hundred ells above him, Corodon and Vra-Bramlow stood side by side, watching the toiling figure.

‘He’s finally coming,’ the younger prince said in exasperation. ‘Too bad Orry’s legs aren’t as long as ours. The climb’s been hard on him. If nothing else, this day’s work might pare a few pounds from his belly and let him cut a better figure in his court raiment. Then we won’t have wasted our time scaling this rockpile, even if the poor wight fails to conjure his impossible miracle.’

‘Don’t tell me you’re skeptical about magic!’ Bramlow lifted a teasing eyebrow. ‘You, of all people? Orry would be disappointed to hear it.’

Corodon turned about and seized his older brother’s shoulders. ‘Bram, you promised! Never even hint of what you know about me to Orry or to any other person. If you do, I swear I’ll cut your tripes out, even though it be sacrilege to harm a Brother of Zeth!’

Chuckling, Bramlow pried the clutching fingers away easily and took tight hold of Corodon’s wrists, rendering him helpless. The brawny young alchymist used no talent in the subduing, only main strength. His features were pleasant and bland, as usual.

‘I said I’d never betray you, Coro, and I won’t. Not unless you do deliberate harm to Orrion. But your mean-spirited insults are becoming tedious.’

Corodon relaxed and gave a nervous laugh. ‘You know I was only joking. I love my twin with all my heart! But if he found me out, his bloody great sense of honor would make him spill the beans to Father. I’d have to join you as a celibate in the Order – and living such a life would kill me.’

‘It’s not so bad. We have spells to calm the urgings of the flesh.’

‘Oh, wonderful.’ Corodon rolled his eyes. ‘And many simple joys of wizardhood to take their place, no doubt! But I’d never become a mighty Doctor Arcanorum as you will. My talent is so piss-poor that the alchymists can’t even detect it. I curse the day I let slip my stupid jumping coin trick and betrayed myself to you. If you turn me in to the Order, I’d be lucky to be nominated to the Brother Caretakers! Do you want me to spend my life mopping abbey floors or raking chickenshite?’

‘Then learn to control your spiteful tongue and stop teasing Orry. You resent that he’s Prince Heritor, rather than you, and that’s only natural. But you must give him the respect he deserves. God help you if you make mock of him when we reach the summit and he conjures the demons. This is a deadly serious business to him.’

‘I know. I’ll do as you say. Only let go of me – he’s coming.’

Corodon tore loose from Bramlow’s grip. He slid a short way downslope to greet his twin heartily and offer him wine. Orrion accepted the flask and drank a little for the sake of politeness. The two of them rejoined Bramlow and stood arm in arm.

Both princes were eighteen, two years younger than the novice, short of their majority and the belt of knighthood, but old enough at last to fight at their royal father’s side, should the Army of the Sovereignty ever snap out of its indecisive funk and attack the Salka invaders. Corodon was the younger by less than an hour’s time, taller even than Conrig’s six feet and with his father’s striking good looks. He had the king’s shining wheaten hair as well, which he wore over-long, and his mother’s sapphire-bright eyes. His public demeanor was both charming and fearless, and he was well regarded by many of the important lords at court. But Prince Corodon conspicuously lacked the level-headedness of the other royal offspring, even including their solemn little sister, Princess Wylgana, at sixteen the youngest child of Conrig and Risalla and presumably the last. Corodon’s brash and often foolhardy behavior had caused certain members of the Privy Council to secretly thank heaven that he had not emerged from his mother’s womb ahead of his nonidentical twin.

No such cloud hung over Orrion, although some suspected that his eventual reign would be competent rather than outstanding. The Prince Heritor was shrewd, well-read, and only slightly pompous, a plain-featured youth of middle stature, solidly muscled rather than overweight. His newly cultivated moustache and his hair were the indeterminate pale color of dry sand, and his eyes were more grey than blue. He had long since outgrown the bodily weaknesses that had blighted his early childhood and now enjoyed good health. His fighting prowess was much less flamboyant than Corodon’s, but he wielded both the two-handed longs word and the lighter varg blade with acceptable skill – as an aspirant to Cathra’s kingship was legally obligated to do.

Vra-Bramlow said to the others, It’s time we were going. We must reach the summit within a couple of hours, or give up hope of returning to the Heart Companions before nightfall. Sleeping rough on the mountainside tonight might be very disagreeable. See those mare’s-tail clouds streaming out of the northwest? They mean that the weather could change for the worse.’

So they resumed climbing, with Bramlow taking the lead and using his windsenses to search out the best route among the confusing masses of rock. None of them had spare breath now for conversation, so each labored alone, occupied by unquiet thoughts.

There really was a Demon Seat.

Orrion had insisted that it was his right to be the first to stand on the mountaintop and Bramlow agreed, so Corodon had no choice but to give in, muttering resentfully. While the others waited below, the Prince Heritor climbed the last few ells on all fours, then pulled himself upright on a kind of broken-walled natural terrace that comprised the summit. What he found caused him to shout in astonishment. ‘Bazekoy’s Bones! I don’t believe this. Come up and see, lads!’

Bramlow and Corodon scrambled to the top and the three of them stood huddled together in the brisk wind. The nearly level area was partially covered with a thin layer of snow. The most abundant variety of rock round about them was grey granite; but there was also a sizable outcropping of nearly translucent mineral, bluish-white in color. Some large chunks of this had broken apart and fallen in a heap that bore a rough resemblance to a chair or throne.

Corodon gave a whoop of delight. Before the others could stop him, he plumped himself down on the unusual formation. ‘Futter me blind – it’s real! A Demon Seat! What say all three of us beg a miracle? I know what I’d ask: Let me be Prince Heritor in place of Orry. I’ll gladly wed Princess Hyndry. They say she’s a fine lusty wench for all that she’s a widow, and older.’

‘Coro, you prattling fool!’ The novice dragged his brother down and flung him into the snow. Corodon uttered a half-hearted curse.

Orrion helped his aggrieved twin back onto his feet. ‘Let him be, Bram. He meant nothing by it. It’s only his bit of fun.’

Vra-Bramlow knew better; but he swallowed his indignation and growing sense of unease and squinted up at the clouds. They had thickened and the sun had dropped halfway to the horizon, resembling a disk of dull white vellum against a murky background. ‘We can’t stay here long. Do you still want to do this, Orry?’

The Prince Heritor drew in a breath. ‘Yes. Tell me how.’

While Corodon crouched in a sheltered niche, munching sausage and drinking from the wine flask, Bramlow explained the simple conjuration procedure.

‘Stand by the seat and place one hand on it. Close your eyes. Try to clear your mind of all distracting thoughts. Assume an attitude of childlike humility and reverence, as a worthy petitioner of the Sky Realm should.’

Corodon gave a muffled snort of laughter.

‘Be quiet!’ Bramlow barked. ‘Another sound from you, and I’ll make you wait downslope.’

‘What then?’ Orrion demanded. ‘How shall I summon the demons? Do I simply state my wish: Let me be able to wed Lady Nyla Brackenfield?’

‘Don’t call them demons. They might be insulted. If you must address them, say Lords of the Sky. The ancient writings were unclear as to the wording of the petition. I’d say, first name yourself, then speak out your plea naturally but briefly. Avoid any tinge of fear or disrespect. These beings must decide for themselves whether you’re worthy of their miracle.’ He folded his arms about Orrion in a brief embrace. ‘Good luck, my brother.’

‘And so say I also,’ Corodon called gruffly. ‘May you receive your heart’s desire.’

Vra-Bramlow withdrew a dozen paces, dropped to his knees in the shallow snow, and bowed his head.

Orrion approached the seat as if he were a man half-asleep. A sudden gust of cold wind hit his face like a knife-cut. He removed his gloves, placed his right hand upon the irregular milky slab that formed the back of the natural throne, and closed his eyes.