by Roger Taylor
Gavor shook his head. ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘He’d been walking all day, he was very tired. Besides, he wouldn’t have left without waking me.’
‘Perhaps a lady?’ Andawyr volunteered tentatively.
Gavor croaked dismissively. ‘Definitely not. You really don’t understand my friend.’
Andawyr pondered for a moment. ‘The Gretmearc can be a wild place at times, at least parts of it, but it’s not normally dangerous for anyone who isn’t looking for trouble. Your friend will be all right, I’m sure.’
‘No, Andawyr.’ Gavor repeated his denial. ‘I can’t explain. Something’s wrong. I must look for him again. Thank you for your kindness, but I must go.’
Andawyr looked at him intently and then raised his hand. ‘A moment if you will, Gavor. It’s not often I meet someone as interesting as yourself, and you’ve given me great enjoyment listening to your progress through the night.’ He chuckled again. ‘Please let me help you look for your friend.’
His voice was unexpectedly deep and soothing, and Gavor felt the fatigue ease from his limbs as a warmth spread through them. The urgency of his concern lessened.
‘Tell me all about your friend,’ the voice continued. And Gavor did. All about Hawklan and his memory, and Anderras Darion, the tinker, the strange finding of the black sword, the trip across the mountains, and the birds and the figures in the mist.
The old man had pulled his hood up over his head and was sitting very still. Occasionally he asked a question in that same soft soothing voice, and occasion-ally Gavor saw his eyes catch the lights of the Gretmearc and flash brilliantly. He seemed to be very interested in the tinker and the birds.
‘I really must go now,’ said Gavor eventually.
‘You must allow me to help you find your friend, Gavor,’ said Andawyr. ‘I insist.’ He raised a finger to indicate he would hear no refusal. ‘From what you say, I fear you may be right. I think your friend could be in great danger, and many others besides. And I doubt he’s in any position to defend himself. Just excuse me for one moment.’ And he turned and went into the tent.
Gavor heard him talking to someone, then he reap-peared, smiling and rubbing his hands. Gavor stared at him awkwardly. He had no wish to return his kindness with rudeness, but this little old man wasn’t going to be much use.
‘Andawyr,’ he said. ‘It’s most kind of you to offer. But you don’t even know what Hawklan looks like, and you can’t possibly travel as fast as I can.’
‘True,’ replied Andawyr. ‘But I know the Gretmearc-almost its every nook and cranny, and you don’t. Believe me, you’ve barely begun to get to know it. You couldn’t cover it in seven such nights as you’ve spent tonight. Ten, even. And we healers must stick together, mustn’t we?’
Chapter 18
Dilrap puffed and flustered his way down the stairs and along the marble floored corridors of the Palace. The formal robes of his office seemed to have been specially designed to accentuate his wobbling shape and his fluttering concerns: long, wide sleeves eternally having to be hitched back so that he could use his hands; a full length and voluminous gown hanging down from his stomach and, when not threatening to trip him, snagging on some nearby object; a neckline totally unsuitable for such sloping shoulders requiring the almost permanent use of one hand or the other, and a ceremonial hood which invariably fell in front of his eyes whenever disarray in his garments required attention.
Luckless heir to the traditionally hereditary position of King’s Secretary, Dilrap fought a perpetual and losing battle to live up to the dignified standard set by his late father. He had much of his father’s integrity and fine intellect, but he was also burdened by a fair portion of his mother’s more hysterical temperament, and this, coupled with years of coping with the arbitrary wilfulness of King Rgoric and the searing contempt of Lord Dan-Tor, had effectively reduced him to a jumble of bewildered reflex responses.
His attire signalled the same message relentlessly. Even when standing still, he was apt to look as if he had been caught unexpectedly in a strong breeze, so many and varied were his jerks and twitches.
Today, he was worse than usual. The King’s fey and wayward mood persisted still. Too long parted from the ministrations of Lord Dan-Tor, Dilrap concluded, though in the past, he had to admit, the King’s first adviser had been absent for far longer periods without the King becoming so… unsettled.
Then there were all these unsavoury new Guards cluttering up the place. They seemed disciplined enough, but without exception they radiated a peculiar viciousness, and, when off-duty were, for the most part, ill-mannered and uncouth. Ethriss alone knew where most of them had been collected from.
And now these four grim-faced Lords with their warlike formal dress! Dilrap nervously flicked the shoulders of his robe as he pursued his reluctant errand.
He had tried to tell the King that the suspension at the Geadrol was at best unwise and at worst illegal. Tried to suggest that perhaps he should wait for the return of the Lord Dan-Tor. But all to no avail. Receiv-ing nothing for his pains but a stinging rebuke, he had chosen to say nothing when these sinister new Guards appeared, to replace the seconded High Guards who had been stood down for the Festival. To say nothing, even though he had known full well that such a guard, independent of the Lords, was indisputably illegal and would further enrage those who, Grand Festival or no, must surely be coming, angry-eyed, to confront their King over his suspension of the Geadrol. As for calling them his own High Guard, that merely added calculated insult to the deed.
Dilrap’s mind shied away from everything that had happened recently, not least the implications of how such a large and organized force could suddenly have sprung into existence. The whole mess stank of Lord Dan-Tor’s scheming prematurely implemented by the king to appease who knew what fevered whim. He wanted none of it. Let the Lords deal with the King, if they could. Let the King explain everything to his Lords, if he could.
And here they were. Two black clad Guards opened a pair of double doors for him, and as he felt them close behind him, Dilrap leaned back briefly before stepping around the elaborately decorated screen that hid the door from the rest of the room. He wished, as he wished almost every day, that he was far away, tilling soil, or tending cattle-just doing something else-anything else, in fact.
With a twitch of the head, and hitching the right shoulder of his gown into a position of temporary equilibrium, he prepared to address the four Lords.
The room was large and elegant, though its wooden panelling and paintings of past Kings and past tales were thrown into a dusty shade by the spring sunshine flooding in through the tall arched windows that ran down one side. The four men, dressed formally and fully armed, as was the tradition, looked out of place among the delicate tables and chairs, even though their attitudes showed no belligerence. They had been standing in silence for some time in different parts of the room, and Dilrap watched them as they turned and quietly converged on him like predators finding prey.
He had known them all for many years. Eldric, a solid, old-fashioned Fyordyn Lord; paternal, compas-sionate and just, with a personal aura like a rock. Arinndier, taller and physically more imposing than Eldric, but giving the impression almost of being his elder son. Hreldar, well-rounded and jolly. In Hreldar, Dilrap saw a physically kindred spirit, though the Lord’s easy and pleasant disposition was far removed from his own nervous clamourings. And finally Darek; lawyer Darek. Thin-faced, lean, and generally coldly formal. Dilrap always had the feeling that Darek found him distasteful, though his conduct was invariably punctili-ous. Ironically however, Darek had considerable respect for the Honoured Secretary’s legal and administrative skills, and no small sympathy for the man.
Now however, Dilrap’s long acquaintance with them told him nothing. Eldric seemed concerned and uncertain. Arinndier looked almost nervous. Hreldar was uncharacteristically grim, and Darek had a look of fierce restraint in his eyes that Dilrap could not meet.
He bowed.
‘How long will it be before the Lord Dan-Tor re-turns, Honoured Secretary?’ asked Eldric.
Dilrap twitched and shrugged his shoulders. ‘He’s been gone for some weeks now, Lord,’ he replied. ‘He doesn’t normally leave the King for too long if he feels that his fever is likely to return, but I fear he’s mis-judged the matter this time. I fear also that wherever he is, he knows nothing of the King’s condition or he’d have been back by now.’
Knowing the answer, Eldric asked. ‘And you don’t know where he is?’
Dilrap hitched up his gown again then, looking at Eldric squarely, shook his head.
‘You know the Lord Dan-Tor, Lord. He comes and goes as he pleases, and tells no one, least of all, me. I’ve no idea where he is or when he’ll return.’
Eldric nodded.
Darek spoke unexpectedly. ‘Regrettably our busi-ness can’t wait. We must see the King now. Take us to him.’
His voice was cold and severe and caused a cascade of twitchings to envelop Dilrap. Eldric turned and looked at Darek sternly. He did not speak, but his expression made it clear that Darek should rein in his anger more tightly. Darek’s face did not change. Eldric turned again to the Secretary.
‘If you please, Honoured Secretary. Our business is indeed urgent, as I’m sure you’re aware. Will you conduct us to the King?’
As Dilrap bustled back through the winding corri-dors of the Palace, he was acutely aware of the four grim men restraining their strides to keep just behind him. The click of their hard-shod heels on the marbled floor and the creak and clatter of their leather clothing and weapons punctuated the continuous hissing of his own robes and his anxious and noisy breathing.
They paused only once on their relentless march, when a familiar figure emerged from a small ante-chamber. Tall and straight, with black hair and searching brown eyes, Rgoric’s queen was a beautiful woman, for all the strain of her husband’s long illness would haunt her face on occasions. A rider in the Muster, daughter of Urthryn, the Ffyrst of Riddin, Sylvriss exuded a presence that drew all eyes to her, and she was loved and respected universally by the Fyordyn.
Clad in a long simple robe, she dominated the group more than any man could have, but other than to acknowledge their formal greetings, she did not speak. It was obvious why the Lords were there, and facile small-talk between them at that moment was as inappropriate as serious discussion was impossible. But she held Eldric’s gaze for a long moment, in a silent reaffirmation of her loyalty both to what he represented and to her husband, and an acknowledgement of all the complex realities that that implied.
Be true, the gaze said.
Then with a brief bow, she was gone, and the group continued its way, though a little more slowly, their stern resolve tempered now by sadness.
‘Honoured Secretary, where are you taking us? This isn’t the way to the Audience Room,’ said Eldric as Dilrap turned unexpectedly into a wide, lavishly decorated passage. Hitching his robe back onto his left shoulder he looked awkwardly at Eldric out of the corner of his eye.
‘Lord, the King holds council in the Throne Room these days,’ he replied, then he bustled ahead quickly as if to avoid questions. A hiss of anger reached him which he clearly identified as Darek’s and, without turning round, he knew that Eldric would be once again admonishing his friend.
With an almost audible sigh of relief he reached the doors to the Throne Room. They were guarded by two black-liveried men. The Lords exchanged glances. They had continually encountered Guards wearing this livery since arriving at the palace. It was the livery they had seen the previous night being worn by the marching troop that the servant had identified as the King’s High Guard. Hitherto they had not spoken to any of them, but as one of them turned an icy and insolent gaze towards them, Eldric could not forbear.
‘Which Lord do you serve, Guard?’ he asked. ‘I don’t recognize your livery.’
The man did not answer, but turned away and put his hands on the ornate handles of the double door. Eldric’s eyes widened and his face became livid. Dilrap intervened swiftly.
‘They’re only allowed to speak to their superior officers, Lord. The man means no disrespect. Doubtless His Majesty will explain when you speak to him.’
Eldric seemed disposed to pursue the matter, but the guard had opened the two doors wide, and was standing in his original position, staring straight ahead, eyes apparently unfocussed. Eldric looked at him and then along the stretch of carpet leading into the centre of the Throne Room. Dilrap was already wobbling along it into the distance, to announce their arrival to the King, and no time could be spared to deal with this upstart and his silent impertinence. Clenching his fists, he gave the guard a murderous scowl and then strode forward to meet the King.
The Throne Room was the largest hall in the Palace and was normally used only for ceremonial occasions and large banquets. It had two wide balconies running along each side, the upper one being the larger, and the lower one being supported by a wall perforated by a line of arches, forming a gloomy corridor which gave the appearance of a series of alcoves.
Spring sunshine flooded in through a single large window at the end of the hall, but it mingled unpleas-antly with the unnecessary glare of Dan-Tor’s globes. Rows of arms and armour lined the hall and glinted coldly in the unhealthy light.
The four Lords marched the length of the hall in that purposeful and measured tread that could carry the Fyordyn High Guards tirelessly over miles of the harsh Fyorlund countryside. None gave any sign that they had seen the lines of black liveried guards standing mo-tionless around the hall, their full numbers being hidden in the gloom of the arches.
The Throne itself was set on a stepped dais so that its foot stood at about the height of a tall man. It was a great stone creation, undecorated, but highly polished, and it glistened with a myriad coloured minerals. Once, under the subtle touch of the traditional torchlight, it had radiated colours as from an inner glow. Now it glared garishly.
One of the many reasons the Throne Room was not used for small audiences was the fact that the Throne itself was monumentally uncomfortable. This gave rise to two theories concerning its manufacture, namely, on the one hand and somewhat mundanely, that it was indeed intended only for occasional ceremonial use, while on the other, more irreverently, that it was made for a King who had spent much of his life in the saddle.
This lack of comfort was immediately apparent in the posture of its present occupant. Eldric always felt a twinge of distress whenever he saw the King, the memory of what he had been always being close to the forefront of his mind. The tall, proud bearing hunched into permanently rounded shoulders, the lean hand-some face turned cadaverous, the keen eyes now shifty and the strong mouth peevish and pinched. Oddly however, what distressed him most were not these visible features, which at least carried an echo of the former man, but the touch of the King’s hand. Once warm and firm, it had become cold and flaccid, like a dead thing.
As the four Lords approached, the King wearily shifted his position, and resting his elbow on the stone arm of the throne, cradled his head in his hand. He acknowledged their slight formal bow with a cursory nod of his head and gestured towards Dilrap, now quivering by the side of the dais and trying to appear inconspicuous.
‘Lords,’ he began, his voice weary, ‘my Honoured Secretary tells me you have urgent business to discuss with me. Business so urgent that you must disturb me when my health is again far from perfect.’ Briefly, his face became petulant. ‘A King should look for more concern from his Lords.’
‘Majesty,’ said Eldric, ‘you know of our concern for your well-being, and that we would not lightly seek to dis
turb you. But as members of your Geadrol we… ’
The King leaned forward and looked straight into Eldric’s upturned face.
‘The Geadrol is suspended, Lord Eldric. You’ve seen my edict have you not?’
Eldric returned the gaze steadily. There was a long silence.
‘Majesty, we have indeed seen your edict. It’s one of the reasons why we’ve asked to see you,’ he replied quietly.
‘One of the reasons,’ burst out the King. ‘Do you then have a catalogue of complaints, Lords?’
Darek took half a pace forward as if to speak, but Hreldar laid a restraining hand on his arm. Eldric looked again directly into the King’s face, searching for the truth behind what was happening, searching for a way to reach the real man who lay behind the petulant, almost crazed eyes. He continued in the same quiet tone.
‘We have no complaints. Majesty. We seek only to find your reasons for your suspending the Geadrol and for your forming your own High Guard.’
The King seemed to waver between a passionate outburst and a more conciliatory reply. Eldric’s calm presence prevailed and Rgoric anxiously threw out a hasty reassurance.
‘Lord Eldric, I have no High Guard. You know the Law forbids that. This High Guard,’ he gestured around the room, ‘is that of the Lord Dan-Tor.’
Before Eldric could reply, Darek spoke harshly.
‘The people know these as your High Guard, Maj-esty. Where would they get such an idea from, if not from you? Besides, Dan-Tor is entitled Lord out of courtesy and respect for the services he’s rendered to you. He’s not Fyordyn and can never be a true Lord under the Law, thus he may not be granted the right to raise a High Guard.’
The point was valid, but the manner of its expres-sion unfortunate. The King’s manner reverted and his lip curled contemptuously.
‘Ah. Lawyer Darek. Your dilettante dabblings in the Law are well known. Doubtless your knowledge is adequate for discussions across the dining table, or for settling quarrels between stable hands, but is it appropriate here, I ask myself?’