His voice had risen to a shout, but Jordan no longer listened to him. Viktor was as mad as his brothers: his years in exile had driven him over the edge. In his search for people to punish for his own pain, he would bathe the Castle corridors in blood and plunge his country into a war it couldn’t win. Thousands of innocents would die. And he, the Great Jordan, would have made it all possible. Because of him, a madman would be king, and all the lands would be swept with blood and fire.
Jordan closed his eyes for a moment, and visions of death and destruction filled his sight. He couldn’t allow that to happen. He rose slowly to his feet and stood behind Viktor. The prince didn’t even know he was there. He never saw Jordan draw the knife from his boot and drive it into his back.
Prince Viktor died quickly, and Jordan knelt beside him as the breath and the life went out of him.
CHAPTER 7
* * *
Wolves in the Fold
Jordan looked at the bloodstained knife in his hand, and automatically reached for a cloth to clean the blade. His senses suddenly cleared, and he scrambled to his feet. His fellow conspirators could be back at any minute, and if he was found standing over the dead prince with the bloody dagger still in his hand, the best he could hope for would be a quick death. Jordan swallowed hard and tried to think clearly. The first thing to do was hide the body. He slid the knife back into his boot and crouched down beside Viktor.
The prince’s head lolled suddenly to one side as Jordan struggled to pick him up. The glazed eyes seemed to stare at him accusingly. Jordan gripped Viktor by the arms and got him half off the floor, but had to drop him again almost immediately. The deadweight was too heavy and too awkward to lift. Jordan stooped down, swearing under his breath at the time this was taking, and grabbed Viktor under the arms. He took a firm hold and then dragged the body over to the bedroom. He kicked the door open and hauled Viktor in. He got him as far as the wardrobe, and then let him drop.
Jordan sat down on the edge of the bed to get his breath back. He felt a little easier now that the body was no longer in open view. His gaze fell upon the wardrobe before him, tall, wide, and conveniently bulky. Jordan got to his feet and opened the wardrobe door. It was packed with clothes, but there was still a lot of spare room … Clothes. A thought struck Jordan, and he looked quickly down at his shirt front. Incriminating crimson blotches stared back at him. He must have got them while dragging Viktor’s body. Jordan took off his cloak and vest, and pulled off the offending shirt. He couldn’t stand the thought of being touched by Viktor’s blood. The empty glass vial fell out of his sleeve, and Jordan froze as he saw the dried Blood that still marked his arm from the Testing. He screwed his shirt into a ball, and used it to scrub at his arm. It didn’t help much. He threw the shirt onto the bed and turned his back on it. He grabbed a shirt at random from the wardrobe and pulled it on, his fingers fumbling clumsily over the buttons.
Easy, Jordan, easy. Take your time and get it right. You can’t afford to look flustered.
He pulled on his vest and cloak, looked at himself in the full-length mirror, and decided unhappily that it would have to do. In his own eyes he looked guilty as hell, but at least now the evidence wasn’t so clear cut. He threw the bloodstained shirt into the back of the wardrobe, and then bent down and manhandled Viktor’s body in after it. He knew he should have hidden the body first and then got changed, but he wasn’t thinking too clearly at the moment. He straightened up, and began to breath a little more easily. It was only then that he noticed Viktor’s eyes were still open. They seemed to Jordan to be following him. He wanted to reach down and close them, but some last-minute squeamishness made him reluctant to touch the body any more than he absolutely had to. He stepped back and slammed the wardrobe door shut on Viktor’s staring eyes.
He stood still and rubbed at his aching temples as a sudden wave of dizzyness passed over him. Strain, that was all it was—just strain and tension. Everything had happened so quickly … He’d never planned on killing Viktor. The thought had never even crossed his mind. But sitting there, listening to Viktor rant and rave, Jordan had slowly discovered that he couldn’t bear to think of all the good people he’d met dying bloody deaths at this madman’s whim. Those people had trusted him as Viktor, and he couldn’t see them betrayed in that trust.
There were twenty-seven kitchen staff. Ten were women, and seven were child apprentices.
I had them all hanged, of course.
All right, Viktor was dead. What was he going to do now? Run for it? He wouldn’t even get out of the castle. Jordan frowned. There was only one thing he could do: take Viktor’s place for real. Be Prince Viktor. Give Castle Midnight the kind of prince and ruler it deserved. He’d always wanted to play the part as it should be played, and this was his chance. Of course, if his fellow conspirators ever found out what had happened … He decided he wasn’t going to think about that. He’d just have to do such a good job that the others would never have cause to doubt that he was who he claimed to be. And he’d better come up with a damned good cover story to explain his, the actor’s, sudden disappearance. They might believe he’d got scared and run off, but not that he’d leave without trying to collect his money first. They knew him too well for that. Jordan sighed. Right now, he wanted more than anything to just sit there and feel sorry for himself, but he couldn’t spare the time. There was too much to be done. Somebody knocked at the main door, and Jordan’s heart jumped madly. There wasn’t time to come up with a cover story, or even to practice his new double role. The conspirators were back, and he was on.
He hurried out of the bedroom and back into the main room. He spotted the ruby will lying on the floor, and pocketed it quickly. If things went wrong, and he had to leave in a hurry, at least he’d have something to show for his trouble. A quick look around, to check that everything was as it should be, and then he took up a commanding posture by the fireplace, and called for whoever it was to enter. The door swung open, and Count Roderik and Robert Argent came in, followed by Sir Gawaine and the Lady Heather. Jordan nodded brusquely to them. Gawaine closed the door and stood guard beside it, one hand resting comfortably on the head of his ax. Heather started to smile at Jordan, and then stopped, suddenly unsure as to exactly who she was smiling at. The others glanced around the empty room, and stirred uneasily as they realized Jordan was on his own. He smiled coldly.
“If you’re looking for the actor, he’s in the jakes. No doubt he’ll be back in a minute.”
Roderik bowed formally. “Forgive me, sire. Now that you’re recovering from your illness, you’re looking so much better, it’s hard to tell the two of you apart.”
Jordan snorted. “I wasn’t ill, I was being poisoned. And the day you can’t tell the difference between a prince of the Blood and a strolling player will be the day I find myself some new advisers. I never thought he sounded much like me anyway.”
“Now, darling,” said Heather soothingly, “don’t be so touchy. Come and sit down here, with me.”
Jordan nodded grudgingly, and allowed Heather to sit him down in the most comfortable chair and fuss over him. As before, she ended up sitting on the arm of his chair, and Jordan slipped his arm around her waist, as he’d seen Viktor do. “Well then,” he said finally, “let us discuss Dad’s will. Oh do sit down, all of you. You make the place look untidy, standing around like that. If I’d wanted statues in my room, I’d have bought some.”
Roderik, Argent, and Gawaine pulled up chairs facing him, and sat down. Jordan noted approvingly that Gawaine was the only one who’d placed his chair so that he wasn’t sitting with his back to the door. Roderik frowned unhappily, and leaned forward.
“There isn’t really much in your father’s will that can be called favorable,” he said slowly. “Favorable to us, that is. Malcolm mentioned his fear of a sudden death, which suggests he believed someone might be planning to murder him, but there’s nothing in the will to suggest he knew who the murderer would be. Assuming, of course, that Malcolm w
as murdered. We have no direct evidence.”
“It was murder,” said Jordan. “Dad’s death was too sudden and too convenient to be anything else.”
“As you say, sire.” Roderik bowed slightly, before continuing. “The only clue as to the whereabouts of the crown and seal lies in the single phrase with those who have gone before. It seems likely he was referring to the previous kings of Redhart—those who preceded him on the throne.”
Jordan chewed on the inside of his cheek as Viktor’s background knowledge bubbled eerily at the back of his mind. He looked sharply at Roderik.
“Dad hasn’t been buried yet, has he?”
“No, Your Highness,” said Roderik. “He’s still lying in state in the family crypt, according to law and custom.”
“So right now he’s lying among his ancestors—those who have gone before. That’s what the clue means. The crown and seal are hidden somewhere in the family crypt!”
Sir Gawaine coughed apologetically. “Our people have already searched there, sire. They found nothing. And it’s a safe bet your brothers would also have had the place searched. If the crown and seal were there, someone would have found them by now.”
“Not necessarily,” said Jordan. “Dad said they wouldn’t be easily found.” He rose abruptly to his feet, almost bowling over Heather. “Let’s go. I want to take a look at the crypt myself.”
“Very well, sire,” said Roderik, getting to his feet more slowly. “I’ll summon a company of guards to escort us.”
“No,” said Jordan. “I think the less who know about this, the better. I don’t know about the rest of you, but it’s looking more and more obvious to me that we have a traitor somewhere among our people. Think about it. You were attacked twice when bringing the actor back to the castle. Outside of us, who knew the exact route you’d be taking? Then again, somebody told my dear brothers that we were using the actor as a double in public. That’s why you were pressured into attending the Testing. And finally, somebody has been feeding me poison for some time. That had to be the work of somebody close to us—someone we trust. I’m not ready to point any fingers yet, but I don’t feel inclined to take any chances I don’t have to. We go alone down into the crypt—just the five of us.”
“Six, including the actor,” said Sir Gawaine.
“I’m not waiting for him and his damned weak bladder,” snapped Jordan. “We’ll leave word with the guards at the door, and he can wait here till we return. We don’t need him. Now let’s go. I’ve spent far too much time sitting around of late.”
He strode over to the main door, and was somewhat gratified to hear the others scrambling to catch up with him. He’d started to wonder if he was overdoing the arrogance, but from the sound of their haste, he’d got it just about right.
The royal family crypt turned out to be a huge stone chamber on the lowest floor of the castle. They had to go through two basements to get to it. The crypt was also a sanctuary: one of the oldest stable places in the castle. No magic would work there, for good or ill, and the dead slept undisturbed. King Malcolm’s family had lain in the crypt for generations, and their resting places were decorated with life-size bas-relief carvings, in varying shades of marble. Some looked unsettlingly lifelike in the dancing torchlight, as though the pale motionless figures were only sleeping and might awaken at a sudden noise.
King Malcolm lay in state upon the tomb that was to be his. His body had already undergone the undertaker’s arts to ensure preservation, but he wouldn’t be finally interred until the last protective spells had been woven around him. There were too many unpleasant things that could happen to a dead body in Castle Midnight. Jordan moved slowly forward to stand beside the king. The morticians had done their job well. Malcolm’s face still held a normal color, and he looked so peaceful he might almost have been sleeping.
Almost.
The others held back as Jordan studied the dead king. Up close, the illusion of peace wasn’t nearly as convincing. The makeup that gave the face a seeming of life was glaringly obvious to Jordan’s experienced eyes, and when he looked closely he could see the tiny black stitches that held the mouth and eyes closed. There was no odor of decay: just a faint whiff of formaldehyde. Jordan tried to read a character in the king’s still features, but death and the mortician’s skills had wiped all personality from the face. It might as well have been a garishly painted doll. Jordan closed his eyes and let his mind drift, hoping some of Viktor’s memories might hold a clue as to where to look for the hidden crown and seal. Nothing came to him but the beginnings of another headache. Jordan opened his eyes again, and thought hard. The answer had to be here somewhere. And he didn’t have long to find it. Argent was keeping watch outside the crypt, but they could be interrupted anytime.
Jordan looked around him, taking in the eerie carved figures that surrounded him. They’d all been sculpted with the usual enigmatic smiles, but to Jordan they all looked unbearably smug, as though they knew the answer but weren’t going to tell him, because he was an outsider and an interloper. He frowned suddenly. Different as the many faces were, they all had certain things in common. They were portrayed in their best and finest robes, each fold of marble lovingly detailed, and the sculptors had even added stone crowns and rings. Jordan smiled slowly as an inspiration blossomed within him. If you want to hide a crown and a seal, where better than among a great many other crowns and seals? Jordan glanced quickly around him. If they were here, they couldn’t be under an illusion spell; the sanctuary would cancel that out. But since he couldn’t see them, they must be physically disguised. He ran from tomb to tomb, checking each carved figure. The others watched uncomprehendingly. And then Jordan’s fingers stumbled over one of the stone crowns as it moved under his touch. He pulled it free and tapped it gently against the side of the bier. Brittle flakes of plaster fell away, revealing a bright golden gleam.
The others crowded in around Jordan as he carefully stripped away the plaster to reveal the true crown of Redhart. It was heavier than he expected: a simple unadorned circlet of solid gold. It is not the crown, but he who wears it. That is where true greatness lies. Lines from an old play echoed through Jordan’s mind. It seemed a long time now since he’d last stood on a stage, playing a simple straightforward role before an undemanding audience. He pushed the thought away, and pulled at the rings on the stone fingers until one of them came loose. Under the thin covering of plaster lay a heavy gold ring bearing the royal seal of Redhart. Jordan held the crown and seal in his hands, and then closed his eyes briefly as his tiredness caught up with him. The Lady Heather moved in beside him.
“Are you all right, Viktor? You mustn’t overtire yourself. You’ve been ill, remember?”
Jordan opened his eyes quickly and smiled at her. “I’ll be fine, Heather. The worst of it’s over now. The crown and seal are mine at last.”
“Until I take them away from you,” said Dominic.
The conspirators spun around, reaching for their weapons, only to stop and stand very still as Dominic’s guards spilled into the crypt. Jordan counted seventeen, and he could hear others moving outside. Even with Gawaine’s ax, the odds stank. He ostentatiously took his hand away from his sword, and smiled winningly at Dominic . The prince smiled at Jordan with half his mouth, but the single eye in the ruined face was cold and unamused.
“You always were the brightest of us, Viktor. I knew you’d work it out first, if any of us did. All I had to do was keep a close watch on you, and sooner or later you’d lead me right to the crown and seal. Not that it matters, but how did you know where to look?”
“Dad made a will,” said Jordan, carefully putting the crown and seal down on Malcolm’s bier. “He thought none of us were worthy to be king, but he did leave us a clue. It brought me here—the rest was just common sense.”
“So, you followed the clue and I followed you,” said Dominic. “Just as I’ve followed you all along. No matter where you went or what you did, I was right there with you. You know, you
’ve done very well, Viktor. I had you fed enough poison to kill a normal man twice over, but still you clung stubbornly to life. What a strong constitution you do have.”
“Then it was poison!” said Heather. “But how? I checked the food every way I could, and Argent tasted the food himself …”
She stopped, and looked past Dominic. The others did the same. Standing just outside the crypt doorway stood Robert Argent. He stared calmly back at them.
“My own dear traitor,” said Dominic. “My very own personal spy in your ranks. He kept me informed of your every move, and poisoned your food. Rather a nice touch, that, I thought. Who would ever suspect the food taster of being the poisoner?”
“I don’t believe you,” said Heather stubbornly. “I watched him eat the food and swallow it. He couldn’t have faked it!”
“He didn’t,” said Dominic. “Why should he? What harm can poison do to a dead man?”
He gestured languidly with his left hand, and a great bloody wound appeared on Argent’s chest. The sides of the wound were raw and livid, but no blood ran. Argent’s face never changed. He looked as he always did: calm, resigned, and very tired. Jordan looked at Argent, and his mouth went dry. There was no way Argent could have survived a wound like that. He was a lich, a walking dead man. All this time he’d been working with a dead man. Somewhere in the back of Jordan’s mind, a crazy little voice wanted to scream and jabber, but he fought it down. He’d already faced ghosts and monsters and reality gone wild. He could cope with a lich. He had to. Even if it was a man he’d fought beside, and trusted.
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