Not all the birds had died from the steward’s balefire. A dozen of them dived shrieking toward the Regent, still standing beside the throne. Jordan started toward him to help, and then stopped as the Lady Gabrielle lifted her arm and pointed imperiously at the birds. They fell clumsily out of the air, making harsh croaking sounds. Jordan frowned, confused, and on moving closer saw that the birds were gasping futilely for air. Of course, Gawaine said she had air magic. She’s drawing the air out of their lungs … He looked at Gabrielle with new respect. Somebody else I’d better not upset.
The steward skidded to a halt before the man melting into the wall, and her sword of light bit into the stonework beside him. Dark blood spurted from the broken stone. The wall heaved and convulsed around the emaciated body, and then formed into a jagged mouth that spat the body out. The man fell limply to the ground and lay still, moaning faintly. He was little more than skin and bone. The wall had all but sucked him dry. The steward stood over him, her shimmering shield between them and the stone mouth. It grinned at her, and stretched wider and wider until it was the length of the wall. Squat, bulky teeth appeared behind the thick gross lips. The steward cut at the mouth with her sword. The stone yielded helplessly to the glowing balefire, but the blade was too small to do any real damage to the gigantic mouth. A deep rumbling growl issued from the stone, and back down the hall Jordan wondered crazily what the stone mouth would sound like once it learned to speak. The steward backed away a step. She made a quick gesture with her hands, and her sword and shield disappeared. The stone mouth pursed its lips, and then smiled slowly.
“We are coming … we will be here soon … we are coming … we are coming …”
There was nothing human in the voice: only an awful, purposeful evil that made Jordan want to wince away from the sound. Many of the courtiers did. The steward stood her ground, her face drawn and tense, and spoke a second Word of Power. A blinding light flared up around the steward, blazing soundlessly as it fought in vain to consume her, but bound by her will to do her bidding. She gestured sharply, and the balefire flew away from her to sink into the wall. The huge mouth twisted in agony. There was a silent flare of light too bright to look at, and when everyone’s eyes had cleared, the mouth was gone and the wall was just a wall again.
The steward knelt down beside the man she’d rescued, and felt for a pulse in his neck. After a moment, she nodded tiredly and stood up again. She gestured to the nearest servants, and they hurried forward to take care of the shrunken figure. Jordan looked closely at the man as he was carried past, and was relieved to note that the emaciated chest was still rising and falling, if only just. He looked back at the steward to congratulate her, and then hesitated. She was clearly unsteady on her feet, and for the first time Jordan realized just how much her magic had taken out of her. Her face was pale and drawn, and sweat trickled down her brow. Her hands were shaking slightly, but when Damon Cord hurried over to stand at her side, she brusquely waved away his silent offer of support.
She looked slowly round the quiet hall, taking in the silent courtiers and what remained of the dead Unreal creatures, and finally she nodded wearily. She turned to the throne on the dais, and bowed to the Regent.
“That’s it. I’ve done all I can here. But things are going to stay unsettled until there’s a king on the throne again. My sorcery is strong enough to cope for the moment, but that’s all. Tell the people why we’re here. We can’t put this off any longer.”
“Is the hall clear of the Unreal now?” asked the Lady Gabrielle.
The steward looked at the Monk. Lewis stiffened slightly. For a moment Jordan thought the steward was going to say something, but then the moment passed, and she just looked away. “I’ve done all I can, my lady. Let the Regent say his piece, and then we can all get out of here. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve got work to do.”
“Yeah,” said Cord. “Lots to be done.” He hefted the sword in his hand, and grinned nastily. He opened his hand and the sword suddenly disappeared. Jordan jumped, startled, as the mace in his hand disappeared, too. He flexed his fingers nervously, and fought down an urge to check inside his sleeves in case the mace was hiding there. Heather elbowed him sharply in the ribs as the Regent began speaking, and Jordan quickly paid attention to what was being said.
“My friends,” said the Regent, “we live in dangerous times. Without a king on the throne, the whole of Redhart could soon fall prey to the Unreal. But with the will and the crown and the seal missing, we have been unable to declare any of the princes as king. All three brothers have had ample time to find the crown and seal, and they have all failed. We cannot, dare not, wait any longer. It is therefore my unfortunate duty to proclaim the Rite of Transference, as established in precedent. From this moment on, any man with Blood who presents crown and seal to the Stone in the correct ceremony will be declared the next king of Redhart.”
For a long time, nobody said anything. The shocked silence just seemed to echo on and on. Jordan looked frantically at Gawaine and Heather for some clue as to how he should be reacting, but they looked just as blank as everyone else. Jordan rummaged quickly through his memory, but couldn’t recall anyone saying anything about a Rite of Transference. He looked across at Prince Dominic. The man’s face was if anything even paler than before, but his icy calm hadn’t wavered in the least. As Jordan watched, the Lady Elizabeth whispered urgently in Dominic’s ear. He nodded absently, then turned and left the hall, followed by Elizabeth and several of the courtiers. Jordan looked quickly over at Prince Lewis, but he was already heading for the door, too, followed by Ironheart and the Monk. Jordan slapped Sir Gawaine lightly on the arm.
“If they’re going, I’d better go, too,” he muttered urgently. “We’ve got to discuss this, and fast.”
Gawaine nodded, and he and the Lady Heather walked beside Jordan as he stalked silently out of the Court. Jordan hoped like hell that Count Roderik, Argent, and DeGrange would be waiting for him in his quarters when he got there. He’d only been in this job a few hours, and already the scenario he’d been given was falling apart. What the hell was the Rite of bloody Transference? Jordan ground his teeth together. This was all he needed. More bloody complications. He’d better get some advice, and quickly. Or come the next morning, there could be a new king on the throne that none of the factions had counted on.
CHAPTER 4
* * *
Unexpected Visitors
“That devious bastard! He’ll plunge us all into civil war before he’s through!”
Count Roderik stalked back and forth in Jordan’s suite, waving his hands around as he fumed. Jordan leaned back against the mantelpiece and let him get on with it. Roderik hadn’t stopped whining since he arrived, and Jordan was getting more than a little tired of it. After all, Roderik probably wouldn’t have been half as angry if he hadn’t had to baby-sit Viktor while all the excitement was going on at Court. Jordan looked surreptitiously at the others, to see how they were taking it. Sir Gawaine was standing at parade rest by the closed main door, his face showing a polite interest that wasn’t mirrored in his eyes. Robert Argent was sitting slumped in a chair, gnawing at a thumbnail and scowling at nothing in particular. The Lady Heather was sitting on the arm of the chair Prince Viktor was sitting in. They both looked more thoughtful than worried. Viktor looked up irritably as Roderik drew near him.
“Oh do be quiet, Roderik, I’m trying to think. We’re all upset, but we haven’t the time to indulge in hysterics.”
Roderik stopped dead in his tracks and glared at Viktor. “Your Highness, may I point out that you are quite possibly only hours away from losing your throne and your position? To say nothing of your life? As things stand, anyone can just walk up to the Stone with the crown and the seal, and be made king on the spot!”
“Anyone with Blood,” said Viktor. “That does limit the field rather. I agree things are somewhat desperate, but no more so now than they were a few hours ago. If my brothers and I and all our
people haven’t been able to find the crown and seal in all this time, I don’t see how anyone else can hope to. No, our only real fear is that someone already has them hidden, and has been waiting for this chance. Poor fool. Whoever it is, he won’t get within ten feet of the Great Hall. DeGrange and his men are already guarding all the approach corridors, ostensibly to keep the peace but actually under my direct orders to kill any pretender who appears. A nice touch, I thought, using DeGrange. It gives the Regent the illusion of security, while ensuring my interests remain covered.”
Gawaine stirred unhappily. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Your Highness. Your brothers’ men have also established themselves near the Great Hall, no doubt with similar orders. There have been a few skirmishes already.”
“Really?” said Heather. “Who’s winning?”
“No one’s winning!” snapped Roderik. “We’re all losing! While we waste time fighting among ourselves, the Regent is sitting there laughing at us.”
“Don’t shout at me, Roderik,” said Viktor softly. “I have a headache.”
Roderik looked at Viktor and seemed to remember where he was and who he was shouting at. He bowed stiffly. “My apologies, sire.”
“That’s better,” said Viktor. “Don’t let it happen again, there’s a good chap. Now then, I think we’d all benefit from a short break. Heather, hand around my pipes and tobacco. You know where they are. And there are drinks in the cabinet for those who’d like them.”
Jordan shot a quick guilty look at the drinks cabinet, and tried to remember if he’d put the whiskey decanter back in the right place. Luckily, nobody seemed interested in a drink or the rack of long clay pipes that Heather passed around. Everyone was too tense to even think of relaxing. Jordan scowled briefly. He could have done with a stiff drink, but he didn’t like to ask if nobody else was drinking. They all sat or stood in silence for a while, each of them lost in their own thoughts, and finding little pleasure or hope there.
“I think I’m missing something,” said Jordan finally. “You all seem to be implying that the Regent is risking civil war in Redhart for a reason. What reason? What could he hope to gain?”
“It’s complicated,” said Argent, without looking up. “Basically, King Malcolm made Count William the Regent because William is an honest man. Possibly the most honest and honorable man at Court. Unfortunately, because of his overly strict sense of morality, William has never approved of the present royal line. He certainly doesn’t approve of the three princes who stand to inherit Malcolm’s throne. By William’s lights, none of them are worthy of it. So, by declaring the Rite of Transference, he is hoping a new royal line will emerge to sit on the throne and replace the existing line. That new line would of course be heavily dependent on the Regent when it came to actually running the country …”
“Just what is this Rite of Transference?” said Jordan. “I mean, what exactly does it do? And while we’re on the subject, why wasn’t I told about it before?”
“Because it hasn’t been used in three hundred years,” growled Roderik. “The last time it was declared, it was used to establish the present royal line, after extensive inbreeding had made the old line worthless. I’d forgotten the damn thing was still on the law books.”
Jordan frowned. “All right, so it’s legal. But can the Regent back it up? Does he have the troops? And would the Court stand for it? I mean, their interests are tied in with the princes. Aren’t they?”
“Not necessarily,” said Prince Viktor. He looked increasingly tired and drawn, but his voice was still steady. “The aristocracy is based on Blood, and as things stand, anyone with Blood could use the crown and seal to make themselves king. As far as the Court is concerned, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to ascend to the throne. Not that it’ll happen that way, of course.”
“Why not?” said Jordan.
Viktor looked at him pityingly. “Because neither I nor my brothers will stand for it, that’s why not. As you pointed out, in the end it all comes down to force of arms. The Regent commands the castle guards, but as princes, we each have our own private troops, more than enough to take the crown and seal away from whoever has them.”
“You’re talking about waging a war in your own country,” said Jordan slowly. “Not just against the Regent, but against your brothers as well. How many of your people would die in those wars? Not just your guards and men-at-arms; how many peasants and townspeople, how many farmers and merchants, how many men, women, and children would have to die to make you king? Hundreds? Thousands?”
“At least,” said Viktor. “It isn’t important. It is my right to be king. And it is the duty of all my subjects to fight and if need be die for their king.”
“I’m not sure raising an army would prove all that easy, Your Highness,” said Gawaine quietly. “With so many questions still unanswered over King Malcolm’s death, nobody trusts anybody anymore. The way things are, neither you nor your brothers can be as sure of support as you once could.”
“No one can blame me,” said Viktor. “I was still in exile when the old man died.”
“Yes, sire, you were,” said Gawaine. “But you could have ordered it done.”
There was an awkward pause.
“Look,” said Jordan, “it seems to me that we’re worrying too much about things that haven’t happened, and might never happen. If we worry about every little thing that could go wrong, we’ll never get anything done. Let’s stick to the things that matter. For example, how was my performance? Nobody’s said a thing about that yet. Was I convincing? Do I need to work on the voice more?”
“Trust an actor to care only about his reviews,” said Heather.
“You did very well, sire,” said Gawaine, smiling slightly. “You were Prince Viktor to the life. And stepping in to help Damon Cord against the Unreal was a good move. It never hurts to be conspicuously brave in front of the right people. It might even draw us some popular support at Court later on.”
Viktor sniffed. “That’s as may be. In the meantime, we’ll let you know if your work’s not up to standard, actor.” He rubbed tiredly at his forehead, and gestured pettishly at Gawaine. “I’ve done enough for one evening. My head hurts. I’m going back to my quarters.”
“Not yet, Your Highness,” said Roderik quickly. “We still have the other glamour spell to do.”
Jordan gave Roderik a hard look. “Another glamour spell? No one said anything to me about another glamour spell.”
“It’s just a little something to help you in your performance as Viktor,” said Roderik smoothly. “You’ve done very well so far, considering, but whilst you look and sound very much like Prince Viktor, you still wouldn’t convince anyone who knew the prince well. It’s not your fault. You haven’t had a chance to meet His Highness in person before now, so you haven’t been able to acquire all the little mannerisms, phrases of speech and so on, that help to make up his private and public faces. This new glamour spell will graft these things directly onto your memory, much as the first spell gave you Viktor’s appearance. That’s really all there is to it.”
Jordan thought about it. There was something about this new spell that disturbed him very deeply. The first spell had simply altered his outer appearance. That hadn’t been so bad, once he got used to it. Actors did it all the time, with costumes, wigs, and makeup. But this new spell would change the way he spoke and moved, perhaps even the way he thought… And yet he couldn’t say no. They were right. There wasn’t time to learn the part by observation; he had to be perfect straightaway. And this was the only way.
“All right,” he said steadily. “Let’s do it.”
Roderik gestured for Jordan to sit down in a chair facing the prince, and he did so. His palms were wet with sweat, and he rubbed them unobtrusively against the chair arms to dry them. The prince was sitting up straight in his chair, despite his obvious tiredness. He didn’t even look worried, the smug bastard. The Lady Heather looked at Jordan as if he was some interesting exhibit
in a private zoo. And stuff you too, thought Jordan, just to keep things impartial. He tried to settle himself more comfortably in his chair, but each position seemed worse than the last. It was all in his mind, he knew that, but it didn’t help his nerves at all. He hated to be kept waiting. Robert Argent was watching him closely, and Jordan kept his expression carefully calm. He glanced across at Sir Gawaine, hoping for a little moral support, but the knight had turned his face away, as if he couldn’t bear to watch what was about to happen. Jordan began to regulate his breathing, keeping it slow and steady, and set about calming his nerves as he had so often before, standing in the wings of a stage, waiting to go out on the boards and do what he was born to do. His composure slowly came back to him, and his muscles began to relax in ones and twos. He was the Great Jordan. He could handle this. Roderik looked at him and then at the prince. He nodded, satisfied, and then raised his left hand and gestured sharply. Static sparked and snapped on the air before him. He forced out a shout, jerky sentence in a harsh, guttural tongue, and the world disappeared.
Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels) Page 15