sit up.’
They assisted him. Orrion looked about and realized that they were still at the summit of Demon Seat and it was yet daytime – although the louring grey clouds now hung so close it seemed a man might reach up and touch them. Corodon was strangely excited, while Bramlow’s face was stiff with shock and his eyes red from weeping.
Orrion managed a reassuring smile. ‘Have I been senseless long?’
‘Perhaps half an hour,’ Bramlow said. ‘We – we were very worried about you. The change in weather came very quickly. It might snow. We were wondering how to carry you to a more sheltered place when you finally came to yourself – thanks be to God!’
‘Well, I’m quite all right,’ Orrion said. ‘It seems I’ve survived my encounter with the demons.’
‘What were they like?’ Corodon asked eagerly. ‘We saw nothing of them, only a sudden dazzling light, and then you were lying on the rocks.’
‘After I begged my boon, I found myself afloat in a dark sky. I saw a multitude of ghostly faces glowing among the stars –’
‘Zeth save us!’ Bramlow exclaimed. But he bit off the words he would have said next, not wanting Orrion to know that he’d very likely conjured the evil Beaconfolk, and said only, ‘Were they fearsome things?’
‘Not really. They seemed almost bewildered that a human being would call upon them. But I stated my request boldly, as you advised, and they asked if I was sure I wanted it. I said I did. There was a great flash of blueish light, brighter than the sun, and I remember nothing more.’ He sighed. ‘I suppose there’s naught left to do but wait to see if my miracle will be granted. Just help me to my feet, lads. We should get going.’
‘Are you in pain, my brother?’ Corodon asked.
‘Not at all. I feel healthy as a horse.’
‘Orrion –’ Fresh tears sprang into Bramlow’s dark eyes and he gave a wordless cry before turning his head away, unable to speak further.
‘What’s wrong?’ the Prince Heritor said in alarm.
His twin regarded him with a strange expression. ‘Brother, your miracle has already occurred, but not in the manner that you might have wished.’ Slowly, he pulled open the blanketing cloak so that Orrion’s body was exposed.
The Heritor looked down at himself and felt his heart lurch.
Impossible! There was no pain – indeed, he felt as though nothing at all had happened. The sleeve of his heavy leather jerkin and the woolen shirt beneath had been burnt away to a point just below the right elbow; his lower arm and hand felt as normal as always…but they had apparently been rendered invisible. When his left hand probed the anomaly he felt a smooth stump of healed flesh and bone at the end of his truncated right arm.
‘Gone,’ he murmured, transfixed. ‘Yet it seems as though it’s still there. I’ve heard of men losing a limb in battle expe-riencing a like phenomenon. Odd, isn’t it, lads?’
‘His mind wanders,’ Corodon said. ‘Poor devil.’
‘Don’t you understand what the cursèd demons have done to you?’ Bramlow cried in a voice choked with horror. ‘They have taken your sword-arm, Orry! By the laws of our kingdom – and Didion as well – such a wound makes you ineligible for the throne.’
‘You’re no longer Prince Heritor, twin brother.’ Corodon’s face was suffused with a terrible exultation. ‘I am.’ His gaze flickered and he looked sidelong at Bramlow. ‘Not our royal father, nor King Somarus, nor anyone else can deny me. Isn’t that right, Bram?’
The novice said nothing.
Corodon turned back to Orrion. ‘You and Nyla are free to wed. I offer my heartfelt felicitations and wish you every happiness.’ He paused with a judicious frown. ‘It would be best, I think, if we explained matters to Father and King Somarus face to face, rather than breaking the news at long distance. What do you think, Bram?’
The reply was curt. ‘I dare not windspeak such incredible tidings. No one would believe me.’
On one level of his mind, Orrion felt an eerie detachment, as though he were watching some fantastic drama enacted by the palace players that had nothing to do with reality. On another level he was coolly rational. The ramifications of the demons’ action were clear and irrefutable, just as Coro had said. There could be no waffling on King Conrig’s part, no talk of Orrion learning lefthanded swordplay to evade the restriction.
Corodon must be named Heritor.
Coro? Impetuous, happy-go-lucky Coro become heir to the throne? The notion had never occurred to Orrion. The miracle he’d hoped for would have simply changed his father’s mind, so that he might marry Nyla and in time make her his queen. But now…
Vra-Bramlow stood close to him. ‘I shall never forgive myself for this, Orry,’ the novice muttered. ‘Never.’ And he thought: What am I to do? If I tell Father the truth about Coro’s talent, the crown will pass out of the Wincantor family – to Beorbrook’s adopted son Dyfrig, or even to our wicked cousin Feribor Blackhorse!
Orrion climbed slowly to his feet. His expression was still strange, even though his voice sounded calm. ‘I was willing to pay any price for my sweet love. I’ve paid, and I shall accept whatever penalty Father metes out to me – even banishment. All the blame is mine, Bram. You have nothing to reproach yourself for.’
Vra-Bramlow shook his head. ‘Not true,’ he whispered, but could say no more.
‘We can never tell Father the exact truth of this affair,’ Orrion said. He was staring into the distance, as if contemplating some faraway event. ‘He’s a hard man, and I’ll not have him revenge himself on either one of you. We three must agree on a suitable fiction to explain my loss, and we must swear never to deviate from it.’
‘Of course,’ Corodon exclaimed warmly. ‘Bram’s the cleverest. He’ll think up a proper yarn for us to spin. And let’s not forget to plant the banner before we leave, as we planned to do.’
‘Oh, for God’s sake, Coro,’ Bramlow groaned.
‘I’ll do it for luck, if for no other reason.’ Corodon opened his pack, shook out the scarlet silk pennon of the Sovereignty with its four interlocked golden crowns (Conrig still claimed the overlordship of Moss, even though the Salka had conquered it), and began tying it to his own climbing staff. Bramlow and Orrion watched as he built a cairn of rocks behind Demon Seat and set about fixing the royal banner atop it.
Orrion spoke quietly to Bramlow. ‘Can you bespeak a message to the Zeth Brethren in Cala Palace for me, or are we too far away?’
‘At this great height, I should be able to do it. No natural barriers impede my windspeech. What do you want me to say?’
‘The message is to be given to Lady Nyla. In my name, beseech her to hasten to Boarsden with all speed and meet me there, for the sake of our love. Ask that she also bring her parents, and that they travel with the greatest possible secrecy.’
The novice frowned. ‘Orry, are you sure about this?’
‘She and I must be near one another as I confess my transgression to Father. If he spares my life, I mean to wed Nyla immediately. This is why she must bring her parents.’
Deeply troubled, Vra-Bramlow said, ‘It might be better if we first meet Nyla and the Lord Lieutenant and his lady elsewhere than Boarsden Castle, so you have an opportunity to…prepare them beforehand.’
‘You’re right. Perhaps near the border, at Beorbrook Hold in Cathra?’
Bramlow shook his head. ‘You’d never be able to conceal your disability from the earl marshal’s alchymists. They’d insist on examining the arm if we try to pass it off as a climbing injury that I’d already treated and bound up. We’ll be able to fend off your Heart Companions that way, but not