by Diane Duane
This, of course, even the most enthusiastic of their detractors were reluctant to actually suggest in the open. To completely dispossess one of the ruling Four Hundred—the dispossessors might themselves become the dispossessed if the mood of certain people at court should change: the more powerful, those closer to Cillmod, or to Rian. So nothing was being done yet. There were always rumors that, after Cillmod’s proper enthronement—after the Regalia were recovered, as well as Hergótha the Great, and most specifically the White Stave, without which nothing could be done—then many old scores against Freelorn’s supporters would be redressed. It was the potential redressees that Herewiss found himself visiting in those first few days: some of them muted and cautious, some of them openly scornful of Cillmod, some of them staying quiet, feeling that their best chance for themselves and their people was to lie low and see what happened.
“It’s worked for a long while now,” said one of them. “Those bad years we had, anyone who spoke too loud might be dead suddenly, for one reason or another. Your own people—someone else’s—spies, counterspies were everywhere.”
Orfen laughed and shook his head. He was a small, dry, wry man, sharp-eyed, like a hawk that sits up on a bough that looks at you, unreachable, unconcerned, and amused. Orfen’s lands were some of the most extensive up north, near the North Arlene borders. Those lands were always assumed to be disaffected from the Arlene throne, because of distance if not a different set of political needs.
Herewiss sat with him in the warm bay window of his house on one of the winding streets that led up to Prydon Castle. “No, my boy,” Orfen said to Herewiss, “we’ve all been studying to be quiet, or to say the right thing, in the past years.” He looked at Herewiss from under his brows, and twisted his arthritic hands together. “There have been some people spoke out against Cillmod—or Rian—” He shot Herewiss another look. “And odd it was how bad their weather went. All my part of Northern Arlen for a while, the crops rotting in the ground, two years ago—no, three. After Lahain and what’s his name, Ruic south of me, began saying in the City that there should be a party for the Old King’s son, to bring him back. The people starved. Lahain, they plowed him in. Ruic—he went up this street on his knees: I saw him go.” The old man’s eyes gazed up the long hill of cobbles. “Up on his knees he went to the palace, and asked pardon of the king—” He made the word sound like a bad joke—”to take the curse off his land, so his people shouldn’t die. He was one of the ones who cared, you see. And true enough, the weather got better. A lot of us began walking more quietly after that.”
“And Lahain?” Herewiss said. “They plowed him in, as you say. Did it work?”
“Not until the new lady came in and swore fealty, a few months later,” the old lord said. “The timing was noticeable.”
Herewiss had gone away from that meeting quite sobered. Some control of the weather was possible, on a small scale, to someone working with the Fire, and on a very small scale, to someone using mere sorcery—though it tended to be fatal if overdone. But there was no way to produce a drought of a year or two. And mere sorcery should not be able to interfere in the bond between a lord and his or her land, when such a bond existed. Rian, he thought now, looking himself up and down in the mirror. I’m going to have to make some quiet inquiries. Maybe tonight.
Moris put his head in the door, saw Herewiss, and snorted. “Still admiring yourself?”
“Still. —I’ll be ready in a moment.”
There was no denying it—he looked fine. He had a plain surcoat, white wool with gold wire picking out the Brightwood arms, quite restrained—but it was everyday court wear, too restrained, he thought, for this occasion. Especially since Brightwood people had a reputation in both Darthen and Arlen for being country cousins, dour, plain-spoken and uncomplicated. Herewiss thought it wise that the courtiers here should think they were dealing with someone other than the embodiment of the cliché. So, last night, he had done a small Firework: had spoken to his father briefly, and then had reached out and pulled back in his hands the old surcoat, his father’s surcoat, that he had slouched around in long ago with the Prince’s chain tied around it for a swordbelt. It fitted him much better now. It was a moment’s work with the Fire to difference the arms to the way he wore them now—the Phoenix rising from the flames, yes, but the flames blue, and the ruby of the eye now glancing back sapphire instead. The silk was very old, of Steldene make; it had been lovingly kept for perhaps a hundred and fifty years now, and age had turned its original snow-white to the color of new cream in summer. But the yellow gold and red gold plaque-work in which the Phoenix was done shone even in the dim room with its one candle, looking rich and venerable. White silk trews—his own—to go with the surcoat, and the plain pale leather boots, cream to match the tunic: and over everything, Khávrinen. He looked at it over his shoulder, with satisfaction. Normally one did not go armed in the presence of the King: but Rodmistresses did not have to give up their Rods. If challenged, he intended to make an issue of it. “Besides,” he muttered, “I’m not going to see the King.”
“Dati says to stop admiring yourself and come on,” Moris said.
Herewiss glanced at Moris. His dressing had taken him rather less time, but then he was going as a simple well-dressed equerry, no more: the dark blue of Darthen, glittering only at the shoulder with the Eagle done in silver. As well for Moris, Herewiss thought; he wasn’t saddled with parental injunctions about looking like a prince. Though I’ll cut a fine enough figure even for my father, he thought, as long as I don’t spill anything on myself that’s not white....
“Mori,” he said, “keep your ears open tonight.”
“What should I be listening for?”
“Mmmm... Anything interesting, but principally... sounds of people who seem too friendly.”
Moris nodded. “There have been a few of those this week, haven’t there?”
“Yes. I’d like to see how many more. Andaethen’s list of potential sellouts to Lorn—the bad ones, the ones she things will be unreliable—it’s too short.”
“The trouble with you,” Moris said, “is that you’re a cynic.”
Herewiss laughed. “I wish it were true. May it get to be so! I’m worried that I’m not enough of one, in this place. Living in the country, or moving around by ourselves the way we were for so long... you tend to forget the nastiness that happens in court, in big cities. The power-brokering, the petty influence peddling... “ He shook his head. “And one misstep could mean that everything else we’ve worked for goes crumbling— Never mind. Let’s go down.”
Andaethen was waiting at the bottom of the steps for them; her horse and Moris’s, and Sunspark, were saddled and waiting for them. Herewiss patted Sunspark and swung up into the saddle, looking appreciatively at Andaethen. The tabard of a herald and ambassador of Darthen in full state looked well on her. The cloth of it was hardly to be seen for the gems. It was an old joke in the Darthene court that its heralds and ambassadors went in greater state than its kings and queens; and certainly Herewiss had never seen Eftgan wearing anything like this. The silk of the tabard was in the correct heraldic sable, but diapered with subtle vine-twists and swirls done in crumbs of onyx and jet; and front and back, the white of the striking trian Eagle was a single blaze of diamonds. The rich silk of the shirt and long divided skirt underneath it looked almost plain by comparison. “Come along now, Andë,” Herewiss said, striking before she could, “and stop posing there to be admired. Can’t be late for my own party. Especially after I saw that note to you about the food! What is your arrangement with the Castle regarding cooks? Are you renting them yours?”
“So if I do let my staff work up at the castle sometimes?” Andaethen said demurely, swinging into the saddle herself. “And if they do drop the occasional overheard word in my ear? And if I occasionally let them hear something I think it wise for Cillmod to hear? Well. Besides, the pastry chef they have up there is terrible. It’s merely self-preservation to lend them our
s for a night.”
Herewiss glanced down at Sunspark. And how are you going to manage this?
I had thought you might tell me.
He almost burst out laughing. Me? Tell you anything? Loved, I’ve long since learned my measure in these things. Just don’t burn the place down...
They rode to the castle. Kynall was not at the heart of its city, the way Darthis Castle was. The land near the river rose up in a bluff about three hundred feet high, there: steep and sheer on one side, kindlier on the other. The original castle was built atop that bluff, its wall encircling the bluff proper, and the former townlands, now the city, swept down from it and toward the river. Each successive wall around the built-up parts of the city came always back to that steep bluff. It was not as grand a seat as Darthis’s, but there was a feeling of great security in it, of having your back up against a high place that would be difficult to winkle you out of.
As they rode up past the third and second walls, up the narrow, curving streets lined with walled houses and gardens, Herewiss looked up at the Castle and thought with ill grace of how annoying it would be to have to mount a siege of this place. He had played here as a child. He knew the cobbles and the walls all up and down these roads, the houses and the faces that used to look out of them, and some that still did. No, he thought. It was bad enough to come back to a place you knew as a child and find it all changed, and yourself too. It would be worse to come back, and destroy it, and know yourself responsible.
They came to the gate through the castle wall, and Herewiss looked at it, slightly shocked. There had been some changes made. In Freelorn’s father’s day, it had been simply a gate; now, in addition to that old iron-bound door, twenty feet wide, there was also a portcullis on the inside, and one on the outside. And the guard presence around it was surprising. Was this meant for me to see? he wondered as they rode under the gateway, and the hoofbeats rattled around them so loudly as to make conversation impossible. He glanced over at Andaethen; she rolled her eyes in response.
In the courtyard they dismounted. There too the armed presence was considerable; many men, drawn up in ranks, in the livery of Arlen. All were looking at the three of them, very thoughtful. Herewiss saw the groom come over to hold Sunspark’s headstall, preparatory to taking it away, and said, What do you think?
I think I should like to see what’s going on, Sunspark said. As the groom reached for its reins, it vanished away in a swirl of fire. When the fire gathered together again and went out, the Steldene hunting cat was standing by Herewiss’s side, blinking sleepily at the groom. The cat was some three times the size it ought to have been, almost half the size of the horse. The groom stood there, staring, holding a bridle; the saddle had thumped to the cobbles beside him.
“Thank you,” Herewiss said, nodding graciously to the man, as if this kind of thing happened all the time. Inwardly, he was having some difficulty maintaining his composure. He knew this courtyard, mostly from playing in it, tearing around after Lorn in a dirty tunic: or later, from staggering into it with Lorn, late at night, slightly sozzled and singing rude songs. The sight of all these armed men was surprisingly unsettling. He met their eyes, and watched their eyes drop, and felt a flush of satisfaction... and then shame at being satisfied. I’m not here to make them afraid of me.
If you’re not, Sunspark said silently, then we’re wasting our time.
The castle doors, with their brass facings showing the Lion, were opened for them. More liveried servants, armed and unarmed, lined the way in. Andaethen led; Herewiss went after her, with Sunspark padding along beside, and then Moris, with the rest of Andaethen’s entourage.
He knew the way to the main presence well enough. Right out of the white marble front hall, then another right down a paneled corridor, and a third, down that long banner-hung hallway that led to the core of the castle. Not its keep: that was off in one corner. Its heart was the hall that Healhra’s children built—plain polished white stone, the marble that seemed to underlay everything in this part of the country. The doors to the hall were open, the light of candles and torchieres from inside gleaming off the polished wood. The sound of music came from inside, and laughter, and talk. This was the scene Herewiss’s mother had described to him, which he had seen several times in his travels with his father, when visiting here. The crowd, dressed in their splendor: the silks, the jewels and velvets, all afire in the candlelight. But one thing was wrong, as he made his way down toward the dais, looking up at the small group of men and women who stood there, arranged around one who sat, all watching him come. It would be the wrong person sitting in that plain old chair, itself more ivory-colored with age than white. Not Lorn, and not the old King either. All wrong, and—
—he got close enough to get his first good look, and it smote him to the heart.
What’s the matter? Sunspark said, hearing his stricken feeling.
Nothing, he thought. Nothing I shouldn’t have expected. For the man in the throne looked much like Freelorn, more than Herewiss would have thought possible. Why should I have been surprised? It’s not as if they don’t have the same father....
The cheekbones were the same, and the nose—the set of the face somehow both cheerful and impertinent. But at the eyes, everything changed. Lorn’s were soft and thoughtful. This man’s were chillier. They rested on Herewiss with a tired expression seeming to indicate the long put-off examination of a problem that had been lurking over the horizon for a long while, and suddenly, finally, presents itself to be dealt with.
His clothes were made of rich stuffs, but in dark wine-colors, and plainly cut—not for him, it seemed, the more fantastic variations of sleeve and cuff that were popular these past few years, and obvious elsewhere in the room. Nor was he wearing the Arlene arms: whether out of policy or preference, Herewiss had no idea. Certainly it made some aspects of what he had to do easier. But here was this man, his sworn enemy, yes—but looking at him almost out of Freelorn’s face, almost out of his body, for he was only slightly taller, only slightly less muscular. Herewiss reached for his thought, more out of curiosity than anything else—
—and heard nothing. That by itself was strange. Or not, he thought. There has after all been a fair amount of control of minds going on—
The music went on soft in the background, a subdued slow dance music on the horns and flutes. Nearby, conversation began to flag as attention was distracted by the Darthene party’s entrance, as people turned and eyes fastened on them. Herewiss came to stand before the throne, and looked up at its occupant, and the people standing around him.
Ah, alas, Herewiss thought. Father was right after all. For all those men and women there were looking at him with the cool and hostile eyes of people wondering which one of them would lose their job to him. Fighting powers of evil was what I wanted, he thought. But looking into the cool eyes that watched him, and feeling the rage and fear and simple annoyance of people who saw him, not as the return of justice, but as a disruption of their schedules, or as a potential source of poverty and loss—
It’s not supposed to be like this....
“Andaethen,” said the man in the throne. “You’re welcome here.” And it was not Freelorn’s voice, not quite; but very close.
“Sir,” Andaethen said, “may I present my new assistant. Herewiss s’Hearn tai-Earnesti, prince-elect of the Brightwood and kinsman to Eftgan the Queen’s grace of Darthen. He comes to present his credentials.”
“He’s welcome,” Cillmod said. His eyes rested on Herewiss, cool, and he put out his hand.
Herewiss drew Khávrinen and leaned on its hilts. He bowed slightly and said, “I greet you, sir. But you will know that I come on the wings of the defiance and declaration of war from my good mistress and lady the Queen. Were there a king here, sir, I would kiss his hand. But the rightful King is elsewhere. Meanwhile, I do my duty to the throne of Arlen, at least.” And here he bowed again.
Cillmod leaned back a bit in the throne, looking not even slightly put of
f by Herewiss’s formal courtesy, or calculated insolence. “Prince of the Brightwood, you’re welcome regardless,” he said. “And regardless that it seems you’ve chosen the wrong side in this quarrel.”
“That the event will prove, sir,” Herewiss said.
“Doubtless it will,” Cillmod said, “and doubtless the Goddess will adjudicate that decision as she did the previous one, which placed me here. Meanwhile, this is a social occasion. Allow me to introduce my ministers.”
One by one they came forward. Herewiss bowed to them, exactly as he had bowed to Cillmod—no less deeply, no more—and noted names and faces.
“And Rian s’Heisarth—” Cillmod said. “My consultant on the royal magics.”
Herewiss could have choked on that one. A king should need a consultant on the royal magics about as much as he should need one on breathing. He looked as casually as he could at Rian, and reached out to feel his thought.
And felt nothing, nothing: a void more complete than the cloak of darkness and confusion that had been thrown about the others’ thoughts. He was the source. Herewiss looked up at the man standing near the throne: a man of medium height and build broad across the shoulders, silver around the temples and scattered through the rest of the dark hair. Everything about him was businesslike and restrained, even to the cut and style of the clothes; sober colors, but not somber, everything in good taste; a man you might pass by in any crowd of functionaries. Except that this was the source of the trouble—this rugged face with its assured, kindly, middle-aged look. This was the heart of the evil. And it smiled at him. Not an innocent smile, but not a wicked one either. Thoughtless, unconcerned, settled, secure—utterly calm. Not as if the man saw his destruction coming.