And then a voice from deeper in the connected rooms spoke calmly on the quiet. “Oh, very well, Reggie. Come on in. But this had better be good.”
Reginald moved quickly forward, passing through the antechamber and into the Prince’s main room. Christof kept this large and open space full of exotic plants and flowers, in hundreds of spectacular varieties, grown and trained across all four walls and the ceiling. The floor was one great lawn, expertly trimmed and maintained. Originally, this room and its adjoining chambers had belonged to the old Prince Lewis, brother to Good King Viktor. (Lewis had not been good, or even close to becoming King.) But Christof read accounts of how Lewis had kept his rooms full of magnificent plants and extraordinary flowers . . . and decided the idea appealed to him. So he just booted out the previous occupants and moved in, because you can do that sort of thing when you’re a Prince, and set about turning his new quarters into one great living garden, a new green world, all for himself.
The King could have overruled him. Could have ordered Christof to give the rooms back. But since the rooms were so very far away, and because the occupants weren’t actually anyone important, and since as long as the Prince was preoccupied with his new interests he wasn’t bothering the King . . . nothing was said, and nothing was done.
The room was a jungle, the air thick with the scents of huge, pulpy, hideously coloured flowers, which seemed to slowly tilt their great heads to follow Reginald as he passed. Things stirred in the shadows of the great vines and heaving vegetation that covered the walls. Reginald kept moving forward, and found Christof in the farthest of the rooms, standing thoughtfully before his easel.
Prince Christof was wearing a traditional painter’s smock over his fashionable clothes, busy at work on his latest painting. He liked landscapes. But since he never went anywhere, he painted scenes from his imagination. These large and detailed landscapes were always very colourful, wild and magnificent, and positively packed with people and incident—but they were never anywhere anyone would want to go. Christof had a violent, even brutal, imagination, and the scenes he painted were always inhabited by things that had no place in the real world. Christof heard Reginald approaching and addressed him without turning around from adding one last detail to his new masterpiece.
“I need more crimson,” he said. “I’ve run out again. There’s always more blood than you expect. This had better be important, Reggie. And I mean really important.”
“Your father has sent the Steward through a dimensional door, to talk with your exiled brother!” Reginald blurted. “Taggert carries a message to Prince Cameron from your father!”
Christof sighed, and put down his paintbrush and palette on a handy stool. The mood was gone; he’d have to try again later. He cleaned his hands carefully on a piece of rag, tossed it away to one side, and finally turned to meet Reginald’s anxious gaze with his best reassuring smile.
“So. My dear father wishes to talk to the Broken Man. To my dear older brother. Cameron . . . It’s all right to say the name, Reggie. He isn’t going to suddenly appear out of nowhere, just because you said his name aloud. That’s someone else entirely. Now, how do you know this? You do know this for sure, don’t you, Reggie? I’d hate to think you were disturbing my quality time over some mere gossip.”
“I have my sources, my contacts; you know that, Christof!” Reginald said quickly. “It’s the only way to stay safe in this Castle, with hot and cold running conspiracies everywhere you look, and factions and intrigues chasing each other up and down the corridors. The King summoned the Steward to an empty Court—except it wasn’t empty! The King and the sorcerer Van Fleet were there! And the King had Van Fleet open up a dimensional door, to send the Steward out to the hills, just like he did with Catherine’s carriage!”
“And what message did my father have the Steward convey to my dear departed brother?” said Christof.
“Well, I don’t know that, exactly,” Reginald admitted. “My source wasn’t close enough to hear. But what else could it be? Your father hasn’t talked to Cameron, directly or indirectly, since he sent him into exile. What could the message be, but an invitation to return?”
“Hush, hush,” murmured Christof. “Do try not to over-excite yourself, Reggie. It doesn’t suit you. Remember, my father didn’t force Cameron out. He agreed to go. That’s why he was allowed to take up his new life as a hermit inside Redhart borders. I don’t believe there was or is a force in this country that could make Cameron do anything he didn’t want to. But I suppose you’re right. I can’t see my father breaking his long silence for anything less than Come on home, my boy; all your sins are forgiven. Because war is in the air, and my father feels the need for his greatest warrior once again. My father never lets go of anything he owns that might prove useful one day.”
Christof took Reginald in his arms and hugged him warmly, and Reginald hugged him back, with as much relief as affection. Christof stepped back and kissed Reginald on the forehead. “You have done well, my dear. Now be a good fellow, and run along. I have arrangements to make. We will get together again, you and I, for a nice little sit-down and a chat. Once I’ve got all this sorted out.”
Reginald nodded quickly and left as rapidly as dignity would allow. Christof was his friend, his very close friend, had been for years; but when Christof got that look in his eye, and that tone in his voice . . . it was time for any sane man to make himself scarce. Because Christof was never more dangerous than when he was plotting.
• • •
Some time later, Malcolm Barrett, Champion to King William, strode up to the guards at Christof’s door in a way that made it very clear he wasn’t in the mood to take any nonsense from them. And given how harsh and brooding the Champion had been ever since Princess Catherine left, the guards exchanged a quick look and got the hell out of his way. The door opened before Malcolm, and he strode straight in. He allowed himself a small smile as the door shut quietly behind him and the guards shuffled back into place. He had to take his amusement where he could find it these days. He walked through the antechamber and into the main room, looking interestedly at the vivid green world Christof had made for himself inside Castle Midnight. He had to admit he was impressed. Hard to believe the Prince had accomplished so much without access to High Magic. Malcolm approved of doing things for yourself, without leaning on sorcery. He looked up sharply as Christof came forward to meet him, wearing more-formal clothing than usual. The two men bowed to each other.
“If you’re so fond of greenery, you should take a stroll through the ornamental gardens, my Prince,” said Malcolm. “Get out in the open air. Do you some good.”
“Please, call me Chris,” said the Prince. “We’re all friends here.”
“We are?” said Malcolm. “When did that happen? Well, I suppose we can always pretend, until proved otherwise. I got your message, Chris. What is so important that we have to meet so urgently?”
“We need to talk about my father, and what he’s done,” said Christof.
“Catherine’s gone,” Malcolm said shortly. “And she won’t be coming back.”
“I’m afraid my father’s coldheartedness doesn’t stop there,” said Christof.
He gestured for the Champion to sit down, and the two men settled into the very comfortable chairs set out. Malcolm noticed the third chair, which suggested another guest still to arrive, but said nothing. He leaned back in his chair and studied Christof thoughtfully.
“All right,” he said. “What has the King done now?”
“Something rather surprising, for a man supposedly so dedicated to peace,” said Christof, crossing his long legs elegantly. “Given that he gave up his only daughter, my sister and your beloved, to ensure the success of his Peace agreement.”
“Get to the point,” said Malcolm. His voice was flat and harsh, enough to make Christof stir uneasily in his chair.
“The King has sent his Steward to talk to my older brother,” said Christof. “Prince Cameron, that was.
Yes . . . the name that no one ever speaks anymore. It seems the Broken Man is to be brought home, and have the soldier’s laurels placed on his brow again . . . Ah! Excuse me, Malcolm. That will be my other guest. A moment, if you please. Do make yourself comfortable. There’s pink champagne in the ice bucket on that table, and some very special dainties I had sent up from the kitchens.”
Christof rose from his chair in one easy, languid movement and went to greet his new visitor. Malcolm looked at the food and drink on offer but didn’t touch any of it. He didn’t have much appetite of late. He made himself eat soup and biscuits because he knew he had to eat something, but he barely tasted them. His life held little flavour with Catherine gone. He looked around as he heard footsteps approaching, crunching heavily across the grass floor, and then he stood up to bow briefly to General Staker.
The General marched into the room as though he were on parade. Stiff and unyielding, as always, he didn’t even glance at the amazing plants and flowers around him. He did seem a little surprised to find the Champion there, but bowed stiffly to him anyway. Christof got them all settled in their chairs with a minimum of fuss, keeping up a stream of charming conversation in an attempt to put his guests at their ease. With little success. The General and the Champion barely acknowledged each other’s existence. They’d never had anything in common before, and the way they bristled just at being in such close proximity to each other made it clear to Christof that he had his work cut out for him.
“This had better be as important as your message made out, your highness,” growled the General, cutting right across one of the Prince’s more amusing anecdotes. “Everyone else may be full of the joys of Peace breaking out, but I’m keeping my men at the ready. Because somebody has to.”
“Well, quite,” said Christof. “As I was just saying to the Champion, it appears my father may not be as committed to the cause of peace as everyone assumes. He has just sent a message to my exiled brother, Prince Cameron, inviting him to return.”
Staker sat up straight in his chair. “The Broken Man? The King’s really ready to bring him back?”
“So it would appear,” said Christof. “I’m still awaiting confirmation on the details of the message. And, indeed, on what my dear exiled older brother’s response might be.”
“How can the King do this?” said the General. “He swore to all of us that he would never allow the Broken Man back inside this Castle!”
“Question is, do we want him back?” said Malcolm. “He was our greatest warrior, by all accounts, but . . .”
“Yes, but!” said Staker. “We could use him on the battleground, no question, if there is to be a war, but afterwards? His reappearance at Court could upset the balance of power, and set all the factions we’ve got at one another’s throats. Greatest soldier Redhart ever knew, no arguing with that. I fought beside him on the border; scariest thing with a sword in his hand I ever saw. If we are going to war, we’ll need him. Excellent tactician. But if your father should go back on his word, and restore Cameron as his heir . . . No. No! Put the Broken Man on the throne, and it’ll be one battle, one war, after another. Because that’s all Cameron knows. I fight to win, not to fight . . . He can’t be King! He’s . . .”
“Broken,” said Christof. And they all nodded.
“I never met the man,” Malcolm said slowly. “He was always off on the borders, while my training kept me here at the Castle. My father met him a few times, when he was Champion before me. I don’t think he liked or disliked the man, but he did say . . . there was something off, about Cameron.”
“They called him the Broken Man because he came out of my dear mother’s womb broken,” said Christof. “There was always something lacking in Cameron. To be honest, he spooked the hell out of me as a child. I was always glad when he left, to go back to the borders again.”
“I don’t think anyone wants to see Cameron on the throne,” said Staker, “but there are forces that would put him there, as a figurehead for their faction.”
“But what can we do?” said Christof in his most reasonable voice. “I found out about this too late to stop the Steward. He’s already gone, through Van Fleet’s damned door. And no doubt he’ll be back again equally quickly, with my brother’s answer.”
“I could put some archers in place,” said Staker. “Put an arrow through the Steward the moment he reappears. Make it clear what happens to anyone who tries to make contact with the Broken Man.”
“How very basic of you, General,” Malcolm said acidly. “Kill the messenger, for the message he carries. The King would only send someone else! Probably me! And such direct action would immediately let the King know he was being spied on! No, we want the Steward to return safely, so we can learn what the Broken Man said to him. He may refuse to come back, after the way he’s been treated. He must have his pride.”
“No,” said Christof, “I’m afraid that’s wishful thinking. Dear Cameron was always very big on duty, and responsibility. And he never could say no to Father. He always did what Daddy said. Even when Daddy told him to leave. And he never could resist a war . . .”
“Are we really sure there’s going to be war?” said Malcolm. “I mean, after all the effort everyone’s put into making the Peace agreement?”
“Your father must think it’s a real possibility,” said the General. “Or he wouldn’t have contacted your brother in the first place.”
“My banished brother, let us not forget,” said Christof. “Banished before the whole Court. Not an easy thing to undo, not after what my father said at the time.”
The General snorted loudly. “Nothing like an imminent war to concentrate people’s minds on what really matters. As long as Cameron can lead us to victory, how could anyone deny him anything? Including his reinstatement as the Royal heir?”
“So what are we to do?” said Christof. “What can we do that isn’t treason?”
The word brought the whole conversation up short, and the three men looked steadily at one another for a long moment.
“We wait,” Malcolm said finally. “And see what happens. If Catherine’s marriage to the Forest Prince goes ahead; if the Peace agreement goes through; if the disputed territories come back under our control after all these years . . . Then maybe there will be peace. And no reason for the Broken Man to return. He can rot in his cave and play hermit for the rest of his life. No reason for us to do anything.”
He looked meaningfully at the General, who shifted uncomfortably in his chair. “I will abide . . . by what occurs. And wait for a sign.”
He rose abruptly to his feet, bowed to the Prince and nodded to the Champion, and strode swiftly out. Malcolm started to get up, but Christof gestured quickly for him to stay, before hurrying after the General to see him out and say a few last words. Servants came in with more food and drink. Malcolm sat where he was, looking at nothing. It wasn’t as if he had anywhere to go, or anything to do. The King hadn’t called on him for anything, hadn’t even spoken to him, since Catherine left. The King might think he was being kind, but Malcolm would have preferred to be doing something . . . just to keep busy, so he wouldn’t have to think about things.
Christof soon came back and sat down opposite Malcolm. He sat for a while, and then leaned forward, choosing his words carefully. “I haven’t seen you at Court, Malcolm. What have you been doing since my sister left us?”
“The King has been kind enough not to bother me,” said Malcolm. “Probably just as well. I don’t think I could look him in the face just yet. I can see why he kept news of the arranged marriage from us, I can understand why he wanted to avoid raised voices and unpleasantness . . . but even so, to just spring the whole thing on me and Catherine in front of the whole Court—I don’t think I could speak to him in a suitably respectful way. Not just yet.”
“You still haven’t come to terms with it, have you, Malcolm?” said Christof.
“You make it sound as though she’s dead!”
Christof kept his face c
alm and his voice sympathetic. “For you, she must be. It’s the only way. You’ll never see her again. You must know that. She will be Prince Richard’s wife, Queen to his King, and she will never leave the Forest Land again. She’s dead to you, Malcolm.”
“Unless there’s a war,” said Malcolm. “Then all bets are off, all agreements null and void. If there’s a war. But I can’t, I mustn’t, think that way. Because Catherine wouldn’t want to be saved if the price turned out to be two countries torn apart by war.”
“Then you have to move on,” said Christof. “As though she was dead. Grieve for her, and let her go. Move on, and make a new life for yourself. Surely a King’s Champion must have . . . duties, responsibilities, that need attending to? We talk about the possibility of war because we must. That’s our duty. But nothing is set in stone, nothing is certain. Our lives are what we make of them.”
“I know,” said Malcolm. “There are things I could be doing, should be doing; but I just can’t seem to work up the enthusiasm. It’s been such a short while since Catherine and I were happy. We were in love, and she’d decided to set a date for our wedding; did you know that, Chris? And then I had no choice but to give her up, let her go. Now there’s just this terrible empty hole in my life where she used to be. Mostly these days . . . I just sit around in my quarters, doing nothing, thinking nothing, just waiting for the day to be over. So I can go to bed and lose myself in sleep for a while. And if I’m lucky, I won’t dream. I can’t seem to make myself care about anything . . .”
“Oh, Malcolm, Malcolm . . . Don’t.”
Christof leaned forward and took Malcolm’s hands in his. The Champion held on to the Prince’s hands like a drowning man. And for a while neither of them said anything.
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