The Queen and the Mage

by Wilma van Wyngaarden

  “We have been feeling the pinch the last few days,” sighed Arron West, who ran the narrow four-story inn with his widowed sister and her gangling son. He sat on the other side of the dining table, watching Orwen eat and nervously tapping his well-manicured fingers on the polished top.

  “The Protector went off on a journey some five or six days ago… and when the cat’s away the rats will play! The night air rings with feasting and corruption in the castle hall. Barricades are set up on every country road, with rogue soldiers demanding tolls and fighting with those who resist. Not to mention catching the odd young victim to sell to the aforementioned rats! No one can travel, and the countryside is unsafe. When Woliff comes back—tell me, is he likely to rein in his vicious army?”

  “I do not know,” Orwen said. “It seems this is not a good time to sell some fine quality jewelry, then, is it?”

  “What jewelry?” asked Arron, his hooded eyes widening. “Have you some with you?”

  “I do.” Orwen set down his knife and fork and reached into an inner pocket. He carefully unwrapped the lambskin package and displayed an ornate gold necklace, two sets of earrings, and a wide bracelet inset with precious stones. “They are part of the royal collection that our new queen has decided to sell. They were her stepmother’s, and no love was lost between them.”

  “Ah, the murdered queen.” Arron inspected the items, his lips pursed. “I could be interested… Is there more?”

  “There could well be. These are, however, all I have with me on this trip,” Orwen said, returning to his meal.

  “Name your price.”

  He named it. Arron nodded and re-wrapped the jewelry. “I will take them… I can turn them over when things return to normal. Or perhaps they will buy an escape if or when I need it!”

  Orwen flinched in sympathy. “I hope it will not come to that. We have heard of the tensions escalating here in Gryor. But I have just learned of a few things… not the least that Gryor’s Protector himself has journeyed to Rellant to present our queen with a proposal of marriage concerning King Joff.”

  Arron’s eyebrows went up comically. “Do tell!” he drawled. “I had not heard that.”

  “We had heard a proposal was on the way. But I and my fleet had connections here and missed their visit. I have been told Woliff had other intentions of which I cannot speak...”

  “Oh, do tell me the gossip!”

  Orwen shook his head quickly. “I’m told he is on his way back, and should arrive here later tomorrow. It is my plan to miss him entirely, seeing the road tolls have discouraged my buyers. I shall return later… hopefully the situation here in Gryor resolves itself and business returns to normal!”

  “Yes, hopefully!” Arron echoed. He eyed his guest soberly. “You know that there may be a time of unrest in the coming weeks, do you not?”

  It was Orwen’s turn to raise his eyebrows in a silent question.

  “War, Orwen Miller—this is what I have heard.” Arron lowered his voice. “There is a leader poised to lead an uprising, from some distant village.”

  “Is there indeed! I am glad to hear that!”

  “I am told it is King Joff’s sister.” Arron crossed his arms on the table and leaned closer. “The princess Selenna, some years younger than the puppet. She was burned in the fire that killed the late king Corric and the two other princes some years ago. I’m told she was taken from the Walled City after the fire and survived, but she lives as a recluse because of disfigurement.”

  Orwen stared at him in disbelief. “Is there any hope of her leading an uprising? This is not the news I hoped to hear.”

  “No one knows what actual power she holds. There is a growing network of citizens that look to her as their leader. They are plotting a rebellion. We have not felt as much here in the Cities, but in Gryor’s countryside the abuses are becoming intolerable, particularly these few days since the Protector left his seconds in charge… and they have run wild in the castle, we hear, while soldiers prowl like wolves through the countryside.”

  “Good Goddess,” Orwen muttered hopelessly. “We had planned to help against the current regime, but can not supply troops in support. Logistically, it is impossible. We can offer only information and encouragement to some suitable leader… whatever value that has. Time is running out.” He stared at his host. “Our primary intention is to save ourselves, as the corruption in Gryor has spilled over into Rellant. Whatever our court can do, we will, but I don’t know…”

  “Can Selenna lead a revolt? I have no idea. All I know is that rebellion is brewing, and I may find the Western Star is in the middle of a battleground!”

  “So it seems!” He laid down his fork again. “Well, sir, that is the best meal I’ve had since leaving Rellant. I am leaving early though, and will miss breakfast.”

  “I will pay you for the jewelry. Wait here.” Arron picked up his dishes and left the room, returning shortly to count out a stack of coins. “I thank you and if all goes well in your world and mine, bring me more! Will you be staying here tonight as planned?”

  He shook his head regretfully. “Considering your words, I must change my plans. I will return to my fleet.”

  “The dinner is on me. Good evening, Orwen Miller! Let us hope to enjoy more frivolous gossip than tonight’s when I see you next!”

  Orwen stood up, stashing the money in his inside pocket. “I hope we will. Best of luck to you and the Western Star!” He left the inn and walked as casually as he could through the streets and back to the docks. He passed the soldiers at the port office, fielded their challenge and made his way back along the wharf to his boats.

  “Halloo, Macory!” he hailed his captain cheerfully. Macory poked his head out of the cabin and came out to drop the ramp.

  “Are you staying on board tonight?” he muttered uneasily as Orwen came on board. “I don’t have a good feeling…”

  “Keep quiet. We are waiting for the night wind to raise itself. Then we are going, even if we have to tack like fools,” Orwen said under his breath as he surveyed the sky. “Go tell the other crews to be ready within the hour… it should be a dark night with that heavy cloud cover rolling in. We will drift away from the wharf—unnoticed!”

  Gryor’s courtiers were feasting again. As some of them had continued carousing all night long and into the new day, there was no exact time when yesterday’s feast ended and the new one began. In fact, the festivities in the lords’ lodgings and the great hall within the Walled City had been dragging on for days.

  “When is the Protector returning?” one bleary-eyed, half-drunk son of a nobleman asked of no one in particular, as he staggered through the great hall where the main feast was replenished by cowering serving men. “When is our High Priest Woliff back? We have missed him and his excellent entertainment!”

  “Have we?” bawled someone else, taking aim and splashing wine into the young man’s goblet as he stumbled past. “We have gone on well enough without him, have we not? Who needs to see more of Woliff’s sorcerer’s lame magic and their attempts at spells that do nothing and go nowhere?”

  “Hush, hush! Do not even speak such words! Mangus can throw fire…”

  “But not with any great aim…!”

  “… and he can see through a crystal…”

  “… but who can confirm what he sees…?”

  “And he can see the past of those whose belongings he holds in his hands…”

  “… so he says, but does he not already know the past of everyone in this City…? He and his informers!”

  “Hush, hush!” came the worried reply. “What if Mangus is truly in possession of the powers he claims… he will know you are scoffing at him… they will be back in a few days, will they not? How long since Woliff left?”

  A languid lady, who needed to renew her paint and powder, change her stained gown, and perhaps find a pair of slippers for her bare and dirty feet, counted shakily upon her fingers as she reclined in her chair. “Eight days, he said. He has been
gone three, four, five days, has he not? Three more days! Perhaps tomorrow someone should whip the servants into cleaning up… it may take a day or two!”

  Laughter broke out in response. “At least a day or two!” said the castle steward, a middle-aged man known as Purlet. His filthy embroidered tunic strained open over his spreading belly. “My assistant and I were left in charge, but the Protector’s last directive was to be sure to enjoy ourselves while he is gone. Have we met his expectations, ladies and noblemen?”

  “We have! We have!”

  “Can anyone give evidence of our enjoyment and excesses throughout the last few days?”

  “We can! We can! Just see here… and here! We must try to hide at least some of the evidence!”

  “Not yet. I have sent out my trusted servants to find some fresh young entertainment… we will have another auction with our wares available to the highest bidders!”

  A chorus of cheers and jeers rose through the stale, smoky air of the Great Hall.

  “Who has enjoyed what I have already provided? Who wants more?”

  Roars of glee drowned him out. He held up a hand for silence. “And I have had a message from our Lady Teria—if there is anyone who can still perform, please join her and her ladies in the west tower… now or later! Continue, ladies and noblemen!” Shouts, laughter and off-key songs erupted once more.

  “Pigs,” a kitchen lad spoke viciously to the other two men who had brought in more food from the kitchen. “Gryor’s courtiers are pigs—foul, oinking, reeking hogs. Where is the body of that unfortunate lass killed in here last night?”

  “Hauled out and thrown into the sea, like the serving man whose throat was cut by the madman over there in the velvet cloak,” another whispered. “Watch your back and stay close together. Do not allow yourself to be caught in here alone! This is shameful… hideous… it is a parody of a court compared to the days of our late King Corric… and that only a few years ago!”

  “Why does the king not stop it?” the third whined.

  “Joff? He cannot—he is Woliff’s puppet, a mere toy of this foul court… and he is mad.”

  “They call him ‘mad’! But what and who is truly mad?” The lad rolled his eyes in despair.

  “The Protector may be surprised by what he unleashed when he left…” muttered the first as they hurried together from the hall in a tight group. “Three more days of this!”

  In King Joff’s tower, with the doors barricaded and his personal guards on armed duty, the young king paced. He snarled in furious impatience as darkness fell and the din and clamor from the great hall carried on throughout the Walled City.

  “When will this be over?” he raged, as he had many times since Woliff’s departure five days ago. “When will they shut up? Will they never reach the end of their depravity? How much longer do I have to hear and know all of what they are doing? Am I not the king? Why did Woliff leave the scum Purlet in charge? Why have I no power to send the wastrel courtiers skulking home to their pig sties?”

  The captain of the King’s Guard, Ryall, stood looking out the window to the sea as if the weight of the world rested on his shoulders.

  “Do you want to go out hunting again, King Joff?” he asked without looking at the young man he guarded.

  “Hunting!” Joff spat on the stone floor as if it were a roadside. He stomped back and forth in agitation. “Yes, why not? A-hunting we will go… as we have gone out each day and come back to the ribald feasts attended by these same corrupt and stinking courtiers! Any of Gryor’s noblemen with any decency is gone home to tend his Keep. A line should be drawn—a list should be made. These buffoons should be strung up for the seabirds to peck to death. Let us go a-hunting, Ryall! Let us fall upon the drunken horde in the great hall! Let us slaughter the scum that befoul this castle!”

  “When do you want to go hunting, King Joff?” said the captain without emotion. “Which way shall we go?”

  “Let us ride out now! If we saddle up and ride north before midnight, at least I will not have to listen to the cacophony here. If not, I swear I will unsheathe my sword and strike every head in the great hall from its plague-ridden body! I doubt you could stop me.”

  “Let us go, then. I will have the horses brought up and we will ride out the gates shortly.”

  Six horses stood saddled near the gates of the Walled City, their shod hooves striking sparks as they shifted and sidled. King Joff raced down the grand staircase from his quarters in the east tower. Captain Ryall matched his step and four other members of the Guard were close behind.

  Joff was cursing foully as he went, his long coarse hair streaming out behind him. He vaulted onto his horse, one of his hot-blooded northern plains mounts, and his accompanying Guard mounted the others. The young king drew his sword and raised it high. The blade flashed in the light from the courtyard torches. He cursed the soldiers guarding the gate, screaming, “Open up! Open up! Make way, damn your eyes!”

  The gates creaked open, with the guards falling over themselves, their wide eyes gleaming fearfully. “The madman is on the loose… why do they let him out?” they muttered among themselves.

  When all six horses were through and clattering away over the cobblestones, the guards crashed the gates closed once more and stood shaking, their hearts pounding and breath coming quickly. “Why not let him out?” growled another under his breath. “He rides like he’s insane—maybe this time he will break his neck! Would there be any loss to the kingdom?”

  “They are all mad, all of them! Watch your backs!”

  Joff and his Guard left the streets behind and urged their horses into a gallop, racing by the soldiers’ village that bordered the Unwalled City. “King Joff!” roared Captain Ryall as the dark shadows of guards raised a futile command to stop and identify them. “Stand aside for the king!”

  With the settlement behind them, the troop turned on to a forest track and sped headlong through the darkness, leaving it to the horses to find their footing. All night they rode through woods and pastures, sometimes following a road for a short time and sometimes passing by a village. They avoided all but whatever way opened before them in their wanderings.

  When hints of dawn crept across the sky, Joff and his five guards were ambling quietly at the edge of a cropped sheep pasture. It was quiet but for the horses’ snorts, the jingling bits and the thump of hooves on the earth. The night air was cool and fresh, except for the tangy smell of the horses’ sweat wafting to the riders’ nostrils.

  Joff for once was calm. Captain Ryall’s eyes gleamed in the faint light and his senses remained keen even though they had been riding for hours.

  “Why not ride north for a few days, King Joff?” he suggested. “Let us go back and saddle fresh horses. We will pack supplies and ride to the mountains. When we return, the Protector will be back and the court should be back to its usual routine, chafing as you may find even that…”

  “It is chafing even now,” Joff spat off the side of his horse. “Well, why not ride north? It will postpone the chafe for that much longer. I despise them all! Why can’t we just keep riding like we are now?”

  Ryall showed his teeth in a wry grin. “Let us postpone the chafe! We are not too far from the Cities now… we can turn onto the road ahead and ride back. Before most citizens are at their morning chores, we will head out again. What say you?”

  “I say we go,” King Joff snarled.

  There was a sudden piping scream, apparently from the top of a nearby tree. “Eeee! Eeee!”

  Startled, the riders’ heads turned toward the sound. “What was that, a bird?” muttered a soldier as the horses pranced sideways.

  “Nothing I ever heard before,” another answered uneasily.

  “Eeee!” the sound came again, a thin cry from the indistinct bank of leaves above. “King Joff of Gryor! Are you indeed he—king of the realm?”

  “Who’s asking?” Ryall grated, his eyes searching for the owner of the voice. There may have been a tiny flicker of mov
ement among the leaves, a stone’s throw away, but no one was discernable in the half-light.

  “I am speaking only to the king himself!” an angry shriek came in response. “To King Joff... the sovereign king of Gryor!”

  “Is that a bird?” Joff whispered incredulously to Ryall. “A talking bird?”

  “I am not a bird, King! I am a tree-dweller from the deep forest… Hear me—I am the great Keet!”

  The riders had stopped. They huddled together, with the horses tossing their heads against tight reins.

  “I believe it is a… a mythical creature,” a soldier spoke up bravely. “One known as a treelet, or a trellet.”

  Ryall shot him a disbelieving glance.

  “The elders talk of them,” the soldier added hastily. “I have heard stories of them from the likes of village folk!”

  “I am a trellet indeed. I am the great Keet!” came the boastful screech, several yards distant from where it had first sounded. “I bring a message to King Joff for his ears alone!”

  “Begone, trellet!” Ryall snapped. “Do you think we leave the king unguarded?”

  “Oh well, then,” the great Keet returned nastily. A moment later his voice continued, now chirping from somewhere behind them. “Do not listen, ye peasants! King Joff, take your rightful throne—seize the day! In two days… or is it three... King Joff reaches his eighteenth birthday!”

  “It’s two days…” muttered Joff, sounding distracted. “What’s he blathering about?”

  “Seize your power!” The thin cry grew fainter as its owner moved away through the gloom. “Seize your throne, King Joff!”

  “A mythical creature with a nonsensical message!” Joff exclaimed. He laughed, a harsh, ugly sound. “Seize my power… I have none! And my throne is usurped by the Protector.”

  “Trellet!” Ryall commanded. “Come down and show yourself.”

  But the great Keet had finished. He spoke no more.

  “He’s gone,” said the guard who had identified the creature. “The old folks say it’s a good omen to be followed by a trellet.” He met Ryall’s gaze with a hint of belligerence, but said no more.