A Rising Darkness

by Nikki Dorakis

  “Tea?” I handed the queen a cup of rubyspike. “And you may address me by my title, Queen Eilen.” I added quietly. I dismissed Aarin with the instruction to call in the door guard. “You will excuse me, majesty, but having witnessed the young prince’s propensity for very physical activity first hand I can see no reason why, like his brothers, Gor should not in fact learn the skills befitting his station as a prince of the realm.”

  “Oh suddenly the cretin is a prince of the realm is he?”

  “Oatcake?” I held the plate out to the queen. She made an impatient, dismissive gesture. “I would hardly refer to Prince Gor as a cretin, highness. He is an artist of impressive skill and from all I have seen of him, I would say he sees the world through less complex and more honest eyes than most may claim to. And since the King intends that all of his sons shall be seen equally . . .”

  “The only reason Gor is here is because Jae’nt nearly killed your dog-boy and was disinherited.” The Queen gave me a triumphant look.

  “Oh is that the talk?” I asked carelessly. “I think you have been misinformed, majesty. Prince Jae’nt was imprisoned for his conduct and was assigned to carry out Jalin’s duties as part of his sentence until such time as the boy recovered. He remains in my household to increase his understanding of matters of state.”

  “And you expect me to believe that do you, Ez’n?” The Queen paused as Dthor-Aid’n and Faedron entered the room.

  “Please await my call gentlemen.” The soldiers saluted and stepped back through the door pulling it closed behind them. “You may believe as you wish, my queen. My instructions from the king concerning Jae’nt were quite specific. I was to teach him to appreciate the responsibilities that are part of his station. It is my understanding that the king considers Prince Gor’s education now requires the more specialised skills of the tutors available here in the capital. He intends that the youngest prince shall take his proper place at Court once he has been properly inducted to his role.”

  “Oh does he! Does he indeed? We shall see about that!” The queen spat hurling her cup into the grate.

  The fire spat hissing angrily as it evaporated the tea.

  “Yes, Queen Eilen, he does.” I gave the queen an unyielding look.

  The sound of the smashing crockery alerted Dthor-Aid’n and Faedron who appeared almost immediately. I put up my hand and the men returned to the outer office. In that instant the queen must have realised that she had overplayed her hand for her demeanour changed instantly from hostile to contrite.

  “Oh! Lord Ez’n! Please forgive me! It is just that I am so concerned for Gor. He is not as robust as he likes to think.”

  I gave the queen a sympathetic smile. “I quite understand, your highness. I can imagine that caring for Gor alone as you have all this time must have been a terrible strain.”

  “Oh, Lord Ez’n. If only you knew how difficult it has been.”

  “Well, my queen, it is now no longer a burden you need bear alone. The tutors I have appointed will be only too pleased to help ease the strain.”

  The queen’s jaw dropped. “Oh, but I . . .”

  “Please, highness, please,” I said smoothly, “there is no need to thank me. I am here to serve the crown as are we all. Now, if you will excuse me, I must attend to other matters.”

  Without waiting for a reply I rose assisting the startled queen to her feet and began guiding her towards the door before she even seemed to realise. I left her, then, with the guards instructing them to escort her back to her quarters where I expected she would promptly fly into a fit and smash anything that came readily to hand.

  At the main door Dthor-Aid’n glanced over his shoulder and winked at me—a gesture I effected not to notice. I turned to Myrna. “I will have that glass of porter now, Myrna.”

  The young woman smiled. “Or would you prefer brandywine Ez’n?”

  “Whichever comes most readily to hand,” I said as I returned to my study. “And whichever one is best for a pounding headache!”

  †

  CHAPTER 15

  SINS PAST AND PRESENT

  JANIR LEANED forward setting the scroll aside and taking the cup of tea I held out to him. He regarded me with a slight frown. I shrugged an apology. The Treaty was completed but for that intractable blank space. With King Keelan just about two day’s march from the city now, the pressure was on to produce the final draft. But since I was lacking totally in inspiration there was little I could do other than stare at the vellum and wait for a brainwave or divine intervention. The king gave me a look that conveyed exactly what he thought of divine intervention and laughed at me. He took a mouthful of tea and set the teacup down.

  “I understand my wife is extremely displeased with you, Ez’n.”

  “Good news always travels fast, my king.”

  Janir smiled. “I think you might have supplanted me as the target of her ire, my little dragon.”

  “I live to serve, majesty.” I responded laconically giving the king my best acidic smile.

  “And so, Gor . . .” the king began but got no further as the door flew open and the very subject on his lips struggled into the room carrying a canvas almost as tall as the prince himself.

  Resting the canvas briefly against one shoulder Gor smiled and waved, pulling the painting over to where Janir sat looking somewhat shocked. The young prince peered at the king as if he was examining an unusual specimen under a magnifier. He made a short sort of grunt as if satisfying himself that the stranger before him could be trusted before leaning forward and offering the king his hand.

  “Hullo. I’m Gor.” He took Janir’s hand and shook it cordially. Then turning to me he said. “This is for you. I painted it yesterday.”

  Without the slightest ceremony he took Janir by the shoulders leaning him back in his seat and using him as an easel to display his work. He pulled the covering cloth off the work.

  It was an exquisite piece, painted in Gor’s curious geometric style, depicting a dark-haired young man mounted on a white horse. The rider’s gaze seemed to be fixed on a point on a distant horizon, his cobalt blue eyes glistening with a strange silver fire. In the centre of his forehead the Eye of Zoar blazed ruby red and gold. The horse too had bright blue eyes and in place of a star the Eye of Zoar burned indigo and silver.

  Gor took hold of the painting so that Janir could see it. “I know Ez’n likes my pictures so I did this one for him.” The prince turned to me once more pointing to a place beside the hearth. “I painted it to go there.” He said and then peered at the king once more. “I like you,” he said candidly, “I think I will paint you tonight. Goodbye, sir and Ez’n.”

  With that he sauntered out paused at the outer desk to tell Myrna he thought she was very pretty and left.

  I almost laughed at the king’s thunderstruck expression. “And thus, speaking of Prince Gor, your highness, it appears that you conjured him.”

  The king’s face went crimson then white. “That—that boy cannot possibly be a son of mine.”

  “King Janir,” I said sternly, “That “boy” is a prince of the realm and an artist of quite exceptional talent. You will have to receive him formally. And sooner rather than later.”

  “Never.” The king retorted. “I will not acknowledge him.”

  “Then you will regret it, sire.”

  The king regarded me coolly. “Is that a threat, Ez’n-Kyr?”

  “It is counsel.” I answered quietly.

  The king shrugged and then took hold of the painting. “It’s you, of course,” he observed, “you and Vyrnath. The likeness is obvious even through the stylisation. It’s a well executed, masterly piece.”

  “You must receive the prince formally, King Janir, or rue the slight.”

  “No.” Janir answered simply and left.

  Maegor sat staring disconsolately into his tea. I sat quietly waiting for the man to speak. At length he took a mouthful of the tart red brew and set the cup aside.

  “It is as you s
uspect, Ez’n,” he said at length. “The boy fits at the very mention of his father and the sound you taught me stops the seizure as easily as snuffing a candle.”

  I leaned forward and put a comforting hand on the sergeant’s shoulder. “Thank you, Maegor. This cannot have been an easy task for you.”

  “Why would anyone condition a child to seizures,” he asked, troubled tone reflected in every line on his face. “It is beyond obscene to do such a thing.”

  “Yes it is,” I agreed, “As to the why of the situation, I can only begin to guess, but I surmise that the queen intends to use Gor in some way as a weapon against the king.”

  “Unless you can find a way to cut her bowstring.” Maegor offered.

  “As you say, my friend, unless I can find a way to prevent it.”

  Maegor rose slowly, making a short formal bow before making his way to the door. He paused and turned. “You know, Ez’n, he soils himself when he fits and then skulks around like a badly beaten dog.”

  I regarded the man seriously. “A fact I thank you for disclosing, Maegor.” I said, “Take your ease now, my friend. I will see you in the refectory tonight.”

  When I was alone I began to pace. So, the queen had managed to get Gor conditioned to fit had she? And the boy soiled himself during the seizures did he? No doubt this was a fact that Eilen intended to use to humiliate the king at some juncture and the most likely time would be at some point when Janir was entertaining Keelan of Morla.

  The Morlans were not known for their tolerance of those they viewed as defective. It was well-known that any child born to a Morlan woman was placed on a crying board and left overnight in the outdoors to see if it would survive. The practice, though brutal by many so-called civilised standards, did ensure that only the fittest of the young survived and the many trials of endurance boys underwent as they passed to manhood ensured that only the strong survived.

  If Eilen presented Gor to Janir, as I had no doubt she intended to do, and timed a seizure to occur in front of the Morlan assembly the King’s reputation would be sorely damaged for in the eyes of his allies he would be seen first as harbouring some defect himself and second he would be seen as weak for allowing a defective child to live to be a burden on its society. And while Janir maintained his distance from his youngest son and refused to acknowledge him formally he was walking right into Eilen’s web and there was nought I could do but watch and wait to attempt a repair of whatever damage was wrought.

  “Ez’n the king requires your presence at once.” Malek stood in the dining room doorway gaping like an owl caught in daylight.

  I looked up from by breakfast and set down the toast I was eating. “At this exact moment?”

  “If it please you Ez’n, the king said for you to come immediately and bring the Morlan Treaty.”

  I pushed my plate aside signalling for Alna to clear the table. “It is no small wonder that I am not suffering from bleeding guts with the number of interrupted meals I endure,” I muttered as I stamped into the office.

  Myrna, who in her customary fashion had arrived a good secta before she was actually due to start work was waiting with the Treaty to hand as I entered and handed it to me together with a number of other tracts she thought I would probably need and Iannos was waiting by the front door with my cloak and dropped it over my shoulders as I passed.

  “If it please you, Ez’n, we must hurry.” Malek said nervously.

  “It does not please me, Malek,” I said coolly, “Please relax a little and relinquish your distress—you will live a good deal longer. No doubt the king will remain where he is until I arrive,” I told the cadet. “And please, Malek, slow your pace. I am a wizard, not a gazelle!”

  When we reached the royal apartments Janir was waiting in the anteroom with Balten and Jae’nt. He gave me a brief nod of greeting, dismissed Malek with the merest flick of his hand and signalled me to join him over by the ingle.

  “Keelan arrived late last night, Ez’n,” Janir said quietly.

  “A rather contagious habit of late,” I observed drily.

  “He is very keen to see the treaty. Is it ready?”

  I shrugged. It was as ready as it had ever been. There was still the annoying blank space in the middle of it. “I am sorry, Sire,” I told the king, “but I have simply no idea what is supposed to be there. I know it is something important, but the wording eludes me.”

  The king looked vexed momentarily. His expression lightened. “Oh well, I am confident that you will think of something convincing to tell the King, Ez’n.”

  “Are you, Sire? I wish I shared that confidence.”

  The king gave me a crooked, almost mischievous smile that I did not quite like. “And one more thing, Meriq,” he said almost grinning, “I hear that Keelan spent quite some time talking with Markos before coming here. He seems very keen to meet you. How fierce can you look—Morlans respect ferocity.”

  I set my face into the sternest expression I could manage. “How’s this?”

  The king laughed. “I said “fierce”, Ez’n, not savage! I am sure it will do.” He laughed again signalling to Jae’nt to get the door. “Ready?” he asked.

  I shrugged. I was as ready as I would ever be, I supposed, and if as Janir said Keelan had spent some considerable time in conference with Markos he would already know that Zetaria’s viceroy was little more than a boy—and an ungirdled boy at that. Yet still there was one thing that could well work in my favour; Morlans were very superstitious when it came to talk of magic and wizardry. No doubt Markos would have apprised his father of as much of the gossip concerning my reputation for magic as he could and I intended that I would exploit the Morlan’s general gullibility regarding mages to its fullest extent.

  King Keelan was seated in one of Janir’s high-backed chairs by the fireside flanked by Korlaq and an equally grizzled veteran whom I did not recognise but whom I thought must have arrived in the king’s party. The Morlan monarch turned slightly at the sounds of our entry but made no attempt to move other than to tuck a lock of steel grey hair that fell across his face back behind his ear.

  Markos glanced from his father to me, rolled his eyes in what seemed to be exasperation and moved to his father’s side. “Your majesty,” he said in clipped, formal tones, “May I present “Crown Prince Balten, Jae’nt, Prince Royal and Ez’n-Kyr Meriq ibid-Syrrith, Master of the House of Zetaria.”

  Markos stepped aside as his father rose with a little difficulty and turned towards us. As he stepped forward I noticed that he was favouring his right leg slightly. He was still wearing his thick scarlet cloak which he threw over his right shoulder as he approached. He was quite tall and, like most of the Morlans I had already encountered was impressive in his physique which, like Korlaq’s and the king’s other escort, had yielded little of its tone or bulk to age. His face was square with dark bronze, well weathered skin stretched over sharp, clear bones. One could quite clearly see the resemblance between the King and his son, there would never have been any doubt of lineage and just as one could see Keelan in his youth in Markos, one could as easily foretell how Markos would look if he lived to be a veteran.

  Like his soldiers Keelan sported the high plated boots but here all similarities in dress ended. He wore a red and gold doublet over a chainmail tunic that hung low over his left knee rising almost to his hip on the right. He stood for a moment looking me over like some predator calculating the jump for a kill. Then he moved forward, ignoring the hand that Balten had extended in anticipation of greeting him and strode past the Crown Prince to me.

  Keelan extended his hand. “Ez’n-Kyr Meriq.”

  I took the hand and made to bend my knee but the king pulled me up short.

  “It is not fitting that you should bow to a debtor, Lord Meriq. I understand from my son that Morla owes you a debt.”

  I glanced from Keelan to Markos and back to the king. “Your majesty, you have me at a disadvantage, for I confess I cannot begin to think of what debt Morla may have.
”

  “He owes you the lives of your family, my Lord,” Keelan said seriously. “No man under my command may slaughter civilians, loot or pillage and neither,” he continued with a slight sideways glance at Balten, “may he kidnap a child and give it into servitude.”

  “Your Highness, my family died in the war. It is the way of war to take lives.”

  Keelan nodded. “It is as you say, Lord Meriq. But war is fought between soldiers and Kings. Morla does not dismiss the killing of civilians as collateral damage.” The king reached into his doublet and produced a scroll which he handed to the veteran on his right. “Aldrigan, these are the names of the men I believe to be responsible for the death of the Ez’n’s family. You are to bring them before me without delay.”

  “Yes Keelan.” The man gave a short bow, “At once.” With a short formal salute to Janir the soldier took his leave.

  “Now—let us discuss the Treaty you have been working on Ez’n, I am very keen to see it.”

  “And what exactly is this?” Keelan pointed at the space in the centre of the treaty.

  “It is a blank space,” I answered.

  The monarch raised an eyebrow at me, his hand twitching on the handle of his dagger as if he was contemplating drawing it. “I can see that, Lord Meriq. But why is it there?”

  “I confess I have no idea, your majesty. It has been plaguing me for some time.” I was about to explain more concerning the space when I suddenly found myself becoming increasingly hot. The room seemed to spin crazily around me and then faded from view.

  When finally my senses returned to normal it was to find myself seated by an open window with Markos holding out a goblet of water to me. Korlaq and Keelan both were looking at me as if I had just sprouted two heads, the king himself being a good couple of shades paler than his original teak coloured tan. Jae’nt had a hand clasped to his throat as if he was choking on a fish bone and Janir was leaning heavily on the table staring at the treaty. Balten for his part appeared to have developed a strange fascination for the fire. I looked around at the gathering.