“How would you like to lose your lands and title,” said the king as he turned away from Salder and Gwýnnett to reply to the duke.
“I’ll take this goblet,” said the princess. “It’s best to save the one with the most wine for the king.”
Gwýnnett took the goblet closest to her then abruptly looked over Salder’s head.
“Is that a wizard or a buzzard?” she asked softly.
“Where?” asked Salder. He turned and looked up, but saw nothing.
“Never mind,” said the princess. “It’s gone now, and good riddance.”
“Yes, Your Highness,” said Salder. He carried the tray with the remaining two goblets to the king and duke.
“Noble gentles, your wine,” he said.
Túathal snatched up the goblet with half an inch more wine, leaving the last one for Duke Néillen.
“To better days than this one,” said the duke. He raised his goblet and drank it down. The king grimaced and took several swallows.
Salder was able to take Túathal’s partially full goblet from his limp fingers so none of its contents spilled. He put the rescued goblet on the floor of the observation platform next to the sleeping bodies of Duke Néillen and the king and whistled three times. A pool of red wine was slowly working its way over the edge of the platform from the goblet Princess Gwýnnett had dropped when she fell.
Doethan and eight blue wizards on flying disks rose up to the level of the platform. Tibbo had one foot on each of two disks, to better manage his size and bulk. Tannis waved at Salder and smiled from her position behind one of the eight blue-clad wizards.
Tairí stared at the new arrivals for a few seconds, looking like a field mouse surrounded by cats. Then he took his flying disk off his back and jumped over the rail.
Chapter 73
And the Emperor of the Roma
“Let him go,” said Duke Háiddon. “Don’t you see that you’ve lost?”
“I haven’t lost,” said Verro. “Your king is in check.”
Dârio brought his hands up to tug at the green tendril around his neck, but it didn’t loosen.
Nûd moved forward to get a better look at Verro. Eynon realized why Nûd was interested in Tamloch’s Master Mage. The two of were very much alike. They could be older and younger editions of the same man. Both were tall and muscular, with dark hair and eyes. Verro’s voice was mellow, while Nûd’s was raspy, but that could be due to something as simple as Nûd growing up in the thinner air of Melyncárreg. Or a cold, Eynon realized.
Verro saw Nûd near Duke Háiddon and the tendril’s tension reduced. Dârio’s neck was still trapped, but at least he could draw a full breath.
“Excuse me, sir,” said Eynon. “Several other powerful mages are on their way here. You won’t want to fight them.”
“I don’t need to fight them,” said Verro. “And I’m not here to harm Dârio. I’m here to ensure he doesn’t leave until my brother can arrive to surrender.”
“You’re holding the king of Dâron to make sure he’s here so the king of Tamloch can surrender to him?” asked Merry. “That doesn’t make any sense. Why would Dârio go anywhere if Túathal is coming to admit his defeat?”
“Because I’ll be taking Dârio to Tamloch immediately afterward,” said Verro. “Túathal will be naming Dârio his heir.”
A small gate opened between Verro’s party and the royal guards. Damon stepped out with Quintillius ducking his head to fit through behind him. A contubernium of eight legionnaires along with two purple-robed wizards crossed the gate’s interface to join them.
Verro and his wizards stood their ground. The newcomers’ gate stabilized, and Damon and his Roma companions circled to stand near Inthíra, Merry, Eynon, Nûd and Duke Háiddon.
Eynon was surprised by Quintillius. He was the tallest man Eynon had ever seen and had dark black skin. Previously, Eynon had only come across black-skinned people in illustrations from Robin Goodfellow’s Peregrinations. The world was full of marvels. Both the wizards with Damon had the same sort of skin. One was a short, well-padded older woman with hair like a black sheep’s fleece. The other was a tall, skinny young man not much older than Eynon. The purple of their robes made a striking contrast with their faces. Eynon wondered if any people across the Ocean had striped or splotched skins. He hadn’t read of any like that, but there were still so many more books to read.
Damon stepped forward to confront Verro. “Going after young men instead of young women now?” he asked.
Eynon thought the master mages looked like two hungry hounds ready to fight for a bone. He’d never seen as much hatred in Damon’s eyes before. These two had history together. What had Verro done to anger Damon? Eynon wondered. It couldn’t just be holding Dârio.
“No,” said Verro. “As I’d said before you arrived, when Túathal joins us, he will name Dârio as his heir and unite Dâron and Tamloch.”
A gust of wind blew dust around the field where they were standing. Twelve small gold dragons landed two by two. Each pair held nets supporting passengers. King Bjarni, Queen Signý, Astrí and three women in gold-colored robes who were clearly wizards pushed their way out of the netting and got to their feet. The Bifurlanders joined Quintillius and his legionnaires, with Bjarni clasping hands with the tall Governor-General. Astrí moved to stand by Damon’s side and put her hand on his arm. Damon smiled.
Sigrun, Rannveigr, and the other blonde and mostly-braided dragon riders swarmed toward Nûd and Eynon, chattering in rapid, high-pitched voices.
“Why is the Tamloch wizard holding the strawberry merchant?” asked Rannveigr.
“It’s complicated,” said Nûd. He stepped away from the girls and stood on Damon’s other side, opposite Astrí.
Nûd spoke to Verro.
“I know who you are,” he said.
“Wait,” said Merry, looking south. “Someone else is coming.”
It was Fercha. She brought her flying disk in for a hard, fast landing beside Nûd, kicking up still more dust to join what the gold dragons’ wings had raised.
“This wasn’t how I wanted the two of you to meet,” she said, taking Nûd’s hand and locking eyes with Verro.
The tall wizard in green looked at Nûd while everything went silent around him. The dragon riders stopped their conversations to stare. A huge smile filled Verro’s face as he realized who Nûd must be. Then the smile was replaced by storm clouds ready to shoot metaphorical, if not actual lightning bolts at Fercha.
Verro released his grip on Dârio and took four quick strides forward to put his hands on Fercha’s shoulders.
“You never told me,” he said. “Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t want my son to be caught up in Túathal’s machinations,” said Fercha. “Even before he was king he was plotting, turning you into someone more like him and less like the man I married. I didn’t want the same thing to happen to Dârianûd.”
“Dârianûd?” asked Nûd.
Fercha didn’t answer.
“Now what,” said Merry, pointing to the north at nine wizards on flying disks approaching the field.
“Who else will show up?” asked Duke Háiddon. “Will the emperor of the Roma with a thousand ships from across the Ocean sail up the Brenavon?”
“If he does, we’ll stop him,” said King Bjarni.
Quintillius caught Bjarni’s eye and nodded his approval. The young dragon riders laughed, sounding like small golden bells.
Eynon saw some of the legionnaires smile as well. He crafted a set of far-seeing lenses from solidified sound and looked north.
“It’s Doethan,” he said. “And the wizards from the wisents’ gate. They’ve got passengers.”
Dârio rubbed his throat for a moment then walked around Fercha and Verro to join Duke Háiddon, Eynon, and Merry. The wizards who’d gated in with Verro didn’t try to stop Dârio. When the young king saw the looks on their faces after he turned around, it was clear they were shocked and puzzled by Verro’s words a
nd actions. The seven women and five men in green robes crossed their arms and waited for instructions from their leader.
The nine blue-robed wizards landed in the only remaining open spot near where Verro and his companions had appeared. Dârio saw his mother, Princess Gwýnnett, sitting on the back of one of the flying disks. He left Jenet’s side and rushed to help Gwýnnett. Jenet was glad to stay as far away from Dârio’s mother as possible. Gwýnnett seemed sleepy, but was waking up and able to stand with help from Dârio.
“Thank you, son,” she said, smoothing back her hair from the wind of her flight. “You’ll be twice the king your father ever was.” Dârio escorted his mother to the others.
Salder jumped off Doethan’s flying disk and ran to the disk where a wizard, a pretty young woman with dark hair, was beginning to wake. Merry considered joining him to help, but Salder’s focus was on the woman he was holding in his arms.
A short man with scarred and tattooed forearms was sleeping on another of the blue-robed wizard’s flying disks. Merry watched Tibbo toss the man over his shoulder like a rag doll and put him down gently on a patch of thick grass. Tannis, wearing a white apron, closely followed Tibbo’s actions.
She glanced over at the others and realized the tall man who looked like Verro must be King Túathal. If the resemblance alone wasn’t enough, he was wearing an impressive green robe trimmed in gold and covered with hundreds of royal Tamloch quatrefoils outlined with gold thread. Túathal was standing, but still a bit unsteady on his feet. Despite that, he looked ready to shout at any-and-everyone within earshot. Then he saw Dârio.
Túathal rushed to stand before Dârio. He fell to his knees, then pulled Dârio’s arms down and away from Princess Gwýnnett. Bowing his head, he placed his hands between Dârio’s.
“I pledge you my fealty,” said Túathal. “You shall be my heir and rule my kingdom after me. Thus shall we end the enmity between our realms.”
“He talks a good game,” said Eynon.
“Shush,” said Merry. “Listen.”
Dârio looked down and spoke sternly.
“You’ve lost, Túathal. You’re defeated. Your forces are routed. You will no longer rule in Tamloch.”
Princess Gwýnnett smiled at her son. She didn’t know how easy it would be to get him back under her thumb, but she was quite glad to see him give Túathal a taste of his own medicine.
“By all rights I should have you executed,” said King Dârio. From the corner of his eye, he saw a sly smile cross his mother’s lips.
Verro faced away from Fercha when he heard Dârio’s words. He and Fercha had been talking quietly while the chaos of all the new arrivals had gone on around them. Now he stared at the young king, his eyes flashing a warning. Take care what you say next.
“But I will show mercy,” Dârio continued. “I’ll send you into exile in a tower somewhere inaccessible, like a pile of rocks off the Isle of Vines. You can plot all you want with the spiders and lizards.”
Verro nodded. Fercha moved up to stand beside him. Without Túathal’s influence, she’d help him make himself back into the better man he’d been when she first met him.
Túathal stood and glared at Dârio. He took a step back and regarded everyone around him with distaste, then brought his gaze back to Dârio.
“We could have done so much together,” said Túathal. “I would have taught you how to be a king who inspires fear and obedience, one truly worthy to rule.”
Dârio looked away, then turned back. “Don’t make me reconsider my decision,” he said.
“You would exile your own father?” asked Túathal.
“You’re not my father. Prince Dâri was my father. Tell him, mother,” said Dârio.
Princess Gwýnnett hesitated before speaking. “He’s right,” she said. “Túathal is your father.”
“That can’t be true,” said Dârio.
“Unfortunately it is, Sire,” said Doethan. “Baron Derry and I saw Túathal enter your mother’s chambers the requisite number of months prior to your birth. I performed a consanguinity test using one of Túathal’s hairs and confirmed you were his son on the day you were born.”
“It’s true,” said Verro. “My brother bragged about it, saying he’d put a cuckoo’s egg in Dâron’s royal nest.”
“So I’m not the rightful king of Dâron?” asked Dârio.
“With my brother banished to exile, you’re the rightful king of Tamloch,” said Verro. “You’re also my nephew. I’m glad to help you any way I can.”
“Let me take that under advisement,” said Dârio.
“Spoken like a true king,” whispered Eynon.
“Shush,” said Merry. She was watching her brother and the young dark-haired wizard. The two were arguing, but they were talking too softly for her to hear. Merry considered using her listening spell, but decided that wouldn’t be the best way for her to be a good sister to her brother who’d so recently come back from the dead.
Duke Háiddon stepped close to Dârio and put his hand on the young man’s shoulder.
“You’ll make a good king, lad, whatever crown you wear,” said the duke. “But if you’re not the rightful king of Dâron, who is?”
“I can answer that,” said Astrí.
Damon tugged at her dark-blue robes as she came forward, but he only managed to slow her down, not stop her.
“Please do,” said the duke.
Astrí lowered her hood. “Do you recognize me, Your Grace?”
Duke Háiddon looked at her closely. “We’ve met many times, but I’ve never seen your face, good wizard. You do look familiar, but I can’t say from where.”
“How many times have you walked through the palace gardens?” asked Astrí.
“Dozens of times. Hundreds,” said the duke. His eyes unfocused for a moment as he thought about his path through the gardens and what he’d seen there. Thousands of images spun through his brain.
“Subtract more than forty years,” said Astrí.
The duke looked back at her, then turned his head toward Fercha.
“You look like her,” he said. “Like Fercha.”
“Why shouldn’t I look like my mother?” asked Fercha.
“I think I’ve figured it out,” said Eynon softly.
“What took you so long?” asked Merry.
Eynon watched Nûd, not the duke and Astrí. His friend was slowly easing away from the crowd, scanning the skies. Eynon took Merry’s hand and guided them both closer to Nûd.
“Astrí is your mother,” said Duke Háiddon. He looked from Astrí to Fercha to Damon. “And Ealdamon is your father?”
“Guilty as charged,” said Damon.
“Wait!” said the duke to Astrí. “Now I remember who you remind me of. You look like the statue of Princess Seren near the roses.”
Even the Bifurlanders and Roma had heard about Princess Seren. So had the wizards from Tamloch. Everyone was staring at Astrí and talking, wondering if Duke Háiddon’s speculation was true.
“My mother is Queen Carys,” said Astrí. “Fercha is my daughter. And her son—my grandson—is the rightful king of Dâron.”
The crowd began to buzz with excited conversations. Astrí, or Princess Seren, if she was to be believed, scanned the crowd for her grandson, but couldn’t find him.
Túathal looked daggers at Verro. His brother’s son would be king of Dâron while he couldn’t be by his son’s side ruling Tamloch. It was intolerable. Then waves of intense pain hit him, like sharp rocks in his gut. He fell to the grass, moaning.
Uirsé rushed to her king, with Salder behind her. She put her hands on Túathal’s abdomen and sensed the glow of poison inside him. Uirsé looked back at Salder. She was angry, but she needed him.
“Get me milk, or cream, as much as you can find,” she ordered. “And eggs. Raw eggs. I need to make him vomit.”
Salder nodded and ran toward the Dâron encampment, looking for the closest mess tent. They might have clotted cheese if they didn’t have milk,
he thought.
Dârio turned to his mother, as if expecting some sort of confession from her. Gwýnnett slipped an I-have-no-idea-what-happened mask on her face and gleefully contemplated two lovely little words beneath its surface. Slow acting.
Unfortunately, wizardry was better at detecting poisons than dealing with their effects. Astrí, Doethan and Verro offered to assist Uirsé. Mafuta, who’d overheard the young Tamloch wizard’s instructions to Salder, sent Felix through the gate to the Roma legions to see if he could find something to counteract the poison faster in their supplies.
Túathal’s face was pale and his skin was clammy. He pulled his knees against his chest and panted against the waves of agony racking his body. It was clear he was dying.
Chapter 74
The Reluctant King
Eynon and Merry missed Túathal’s collapse. They were following Nûd west, away from the center of the army. Nûd had moved toward the middle of the field, still dodging the occasional wisent cow or flathorn. Once he was far enough from the gathered dignitaries near Dârio, he started running and calling for Rocky. Eynon and Merry had expected Nûd to stay close to the Dâron lines so he could avoid detection, but he’d outsmarted his friends by shifting direction. By the time they’d figured it out, Nûd was on Rocky’s back flying west as fast as the wyvern’s wings could take him. To their surprise, he flew over the gate the wisents had used.
Merry spun her flying disk in front of Eynon’s to stop him from zooming off in pursuit.
“Wait,” she said. “We have to be smart about this. Flying disks aren’t much faster than wyverns, if they are at all. Where do you think Nûd’s headed? It can’t be Melyncárreg.”
“It can,” said Eynon. “It’s his home. He just needs to lose us first.”
“I’ll bet he won’t be staying in Melyncárreg if he goes there,” said Merry. “It’s the first place he’d think we’d look.”
“What do you think he’s planning then?” asked Eynon.
“I think he’ll go to Melyncárreg for supplies, then head off to find a place to hide in the western mountains,” said Merry. “I don’t know enough to be sure. I’ve only been to Melyncárreg twice, and didn’t see much in daylight, but it looked like there’d be lots of places for a man and wyvern to hide out there and not be found.”
The Congruent Wizard (The Congruent Mage Series Book 2) Page 41