by Deborah Hale
He considered for an instant. “On second thought, I would not. If Vang and his men had not come to our aid as they did, our cause would now lay dying out on the heath!”
“We are in a sorry pass if we need to call on allies of that sort.” Idrygon shot a withering glance at Vang, who stood in the corner scowling at all of them.
Was the bandit chief having second thoughts about throwing his support to a doomed cause?
“Watch who you insult, fancy boy,” he snarled. “You are a guest in my stronghold. And no more welcome than a musk-pig. Keep lipping off like that and I’ll make the Han a present of your fine head.”
“Try me, ox.” Idrygon slid his blade a few inches out of its sheath. “When I’m done carving you up, you’ll only be good for feeding our enemy’s hounds. And even they might turn up their snouts at such foul meat.”
Vang whipped out a long knife with extra blades bristling from the wrist guard. “We’ll see which of us gets made into dog meat, islander!”
Rath feared it might be him, as he leaped between the two men. “Enough, you fools! Would you do the work of the Han for them? Bad as things may look now, they will only get worse if we lose either of you—or both.”
Was this what it would mean to be king? he wondered. Spending all his time trying to keep hostile factions from each other’s throats? Trying to forge a united kingdom from a handful of insular regions whose folk neither respected nor trusted one another—only to end up being resented by them all? It was not the way he wanted to spend his life.
But what other choice was there? Steal away and leave the Han to continue their brutal occupation? They would tighten their hold even worse in the wake of this uprising.
“Vang—” he pushed the bandit chief back toward the corner “—your choice to support the rebellion may have meant the difference between success and slaughter. I will not forget what I owe you and your men.”
Though he shot Idrygon a menacing scowl over Rath’s shoulder, Vang did back off. “You will not forget? Is this daft talk true, then? Have you been playing the king all this time?”
“Not playing.” If only that’s all it were. Suddenly Rath felt so tired he could sleep for a month. “By some ancient enchantment even I do not understand, I am the Waiting King.”
He gestured toward Maura who stood quiet and thoughtful in the opposite corner of the room. “And this is the Destined Queen who woke me. Together, I still believe we can liberate the kingdom as the old stories foretold—but we cannot do it alone. We have been blessed in our allies. Without Idrygon’s foresight and planning, the rebellion would never have reached this point of open battle for our freedom. Without Vang’s intervention at a key moment, all the effort that went before would have come to nothing.”
Maura strode from her place in the corner to stand beside him. “Without Rath’s leadership, the people of Umbria would never have risen to fight for their freedom. And without his persuasion, we would only have gained the refuge of the forest at a cost in blood we could ill afford. He needs your help now as much as he did on the battlefield. Will you come to his aid or will you betray him?”
“Treachery is not my way,” growled Vang, who looked like an overgrown, disfigured child being unfairly scolded. “Any enemy of mine will know I am his enemy and expect no mercy. My sworn ally can count on my loyalty come what may.” He thrust out his chin, directing a challenging look at Idrygon. “Can you make such a boast, my fine islander?”
“Do you question the honor of the House of Idrygon, filthy outlaw?”
“He does not!” cried Rath. “And neither should you question his. If I hear one more word of an insult from either of you, I will knock your heads together until your thick skulls soften enough to heed reason! Now, let us all put our minds to the problem before us.”
“I hear men are deserting us in droves,” said Idrygon, as if Rath’s threat could not possibly apply to him. “They have seen the massed might of the Han and they have lost faith in the Waiting King. They are slipping off through the woods, looking for unguarded spots from which to make their way back home.”
He gave Maura a look of grave mistrust. “Unless you have taken possession of the talisman, we will be overrun whenever the Han choose to attack.”
“The staff, you mean.” Vang made a show of sheathing his knife.
“How does this scound—?” A warning glare from Rath tempered Idrygon’s tone. “How does he know about the staff?”
Instead of trading more insults, Vang replied with a mysterious, insolent chuckle that left Idrygon sputtering with fury.
Suddenly, Maura surged up on her toes and whispered in Rath’s ear. He listened, torn between a desperate need to hope and a fear of hoping too much.
When she finished speaking, Rath nodded, then glanced at Delyon, clad in an assortment of borrowed garments. “Go with her. If anyone can help her now, it is you.”
“What was that about?” demanded Idrygon when his brother and Maura had departed.
“An answer to your question, of sorts,” said Rath. “The staff is here, but protected by powerful enchantment. Maura will need all the time we can buy her, and even that may not be enough. We must prepare to repel an attack on Aldwood if necessary and hold out for as long as possible.”
He turned to Vang. “Is there a high point in the castle where I might be seen and heard by the greatest number of my men?”
Vang thought for a moment. “The north tower has a balcony that looks out over the great courtyard.”
“Good. Take me there.”
“Not good.” Vang shook his head. “Parts of that tower are ready to tumble down any moment. I’ve had more sense than ever to go up there.”
Rath shrugged. “I am not asking you to go. And if that tower falls with me in it, you and Idrygon may battle one another to the death, with my blessing.”
Vang looked as if he might relish that prospect. “It is your neck, Wolf. Never say I did not warn you. If you are fool enough to climb up that tottering pile of stones, I will show you where to find it.”
“Lead on.” Rath plucked a flaming brand from one of the wall sconces.
“What do you mean to do?” Idrygon did not appear disposed to approve whatever it might be.
But Rath was done with asking Idrygon’s permission. If he was going to be king, it was long past time he started acting like one. “Something I should have done a while ago. If I had, we might not be in this pass now.”
Before Idrygon could argue him out of his plan, Rath set off after the bandit chief.
By the time they jostled their way through the crowd to the base of the north tower, he had managed to seize a second torch. He wished he could get his hands on that potion of Dame Diotta’s to make his voice carry, but there was no time to search the supply wagons now. He would just have to hope the tower’s height and perhaps a little aid from the Giver might help his words reach the ears of as many rebels as possible.
Vang unbarred the door. “Watch yourself on those steps, and on that balcony. I wouldn’t trust my weight on either, and it’s a long way down.”
Keeping Vang’s warning in mind, Rath picked his way up the steep spiral stairs that wound their way up the inner wall of the tower. It would have been an easier climb if he were not toting a flaming torch in each hand, but there was no help for it. Once he reached the top, he needed to be seen by the men below.
Halfway up, part of the stair crumbled under his weight and he nearly lost his balance. Somehow, he managed to recover it without dropping either of the torches. The rest of the way up, he climbed even more slowly, testing each step with his foot before committing his full weight to it.
At last he reached the top of the tower. Part of the narrow balcony had crumbled away and the rest looked as if it would not be long to follow. There was a small blessing though—or rather two. On either side of the archway that opened onto the balcony were stone brackets in which Rath secured his torches.
Then he looked down into
the courtyard below. A few faces were turned upward, their gazes drawn by the lights, no doubt. Most were paying him no heed, but talking among themselves in a steady rumble his voice alone could not hope to penetrate.
“Comrades!” he cried. The noise below did not lessen and no more faces turned toward him. In fact, some that had been now turned away.
Rath muttered a curse, then pulled his lips taut between his outstretched fingers and blew a long, loud, piercing whistle. A heavy hush fell over the crowd below. Rath sensed suspicion and hostility in that silence.
One voice rang out through the shadows. “Who’s up there?”
While Rath searched for the right reply, someone else answered in a challenging tone, “Him what’s been playing king all these weeks.”
“The Waiting King!” shouted someone else. “Naught but sorcerers’ tricks, that. He played us for fools and led us into a death trap!”
A grumble of agreement rippled through the crowd.
“Quit yammering!” ordered someone in a tone of harsh authority that sounded like Vang Spear of Heaven. “Let the fellow answer for himself.”
Before he lost another opportunity, Rath sent a silent plea for inspiration winging to the Giver and began to speak.
“Comrades, I swear to you, I am the Waiting King, though there have been times I’ve doubted it as much as you do now.”
Like a subtle shift in the wind, he felt the mood of the crowd alter, becoming a trifle more receptive. Suddenly, words welled up inside him and he knew he must seize his chance.
“I am not some drowsing king of old who knows nothing of your lives and troubles. I have delved in the mines. I have sweated and trembled for a sniff of slag. I have done a good many shameful things to keep myself alive. But I have also discovered the hero buried inside that outlaw. I believe there are sleeping heroes inside each one of you, no matter how you have lived before. The time has come to wake those heroes!”
A few shouts of agreement greeted his words. Rath thought he recognized the voices of Anulf and Odger among them.
“When dawn comes and the enemy attacks, will you stand and fight?” he challenged them. “Will you be heroes?”
A great surge of cheers and whistles burst on the night air.
Then, like an echo, a wave of noise answered from beyond the forest—the harsh jangle of metal blades beating against metal shields.
Delyon stared in horror at the metal axes, picks and saws rusting on the floor of the huge underground chamber in the skeletal grasp of long-dead hands. “It seems we are not the first who have tried to claim the staff. A dangerous business.”
“So it is, gone about the wrong way.” Maura hoped her guess was right. She did not want to end up as another pile of bones on this floor warning off future searchers.
Would another Destined Queen come here someday if she failed? Maura pushed the thought from her mind. She must not fail! Not after all she had gone through to reach this night and this place.
“When I was a child, Langbard told me all kinds of stories about Lord Velorken.” She ran her hand over the rough, unmarked bark of the nearest tree-trunk pillar. “I recall one where Velorken was trapped in an enchanted forest. The harder he tried to cut down the trees that surrounded him, the denser they grew until his ax blunted.”
“And he became weaker with each stroke.” Delyon began to walk between the great pillars, taking care to avoid the piles of bones. “My grandmother told that old story to Idrygon and me when we were boys.”
“Do you reckon it holds a clue to help us claim the staff?” asked Maura.
Delyon gave a slow nod. “It is as likely as anything. But I forget how Velorken escaped that forest prison.”
Maura searched her memory. “Did he not climb the tallest tree, then crawl from branch to branch until he reached the edge of the wood?”
“That’s right.” Delyon’s gaze traveled up the pillar beside him. “Idrygon always hated that story because force did not solve Velorken’s problem.”
Maura could believe that.
“But what are you suggesting?” Delyon shook his head. “That we climb one of these pillars? For all they look like tree trunks, they have no branches to provide hand-or footholds. And even if we climbed them to the top, it would only take us to the ceiling.”
“True.” Maura pulled off her walking boots and stockings. “But while you are thinking of a better plan, I mean to give this a try. We have nothing to lose. Come, give me a boost.”
“Perhaps there is some incantation?” Delyon suggested as he came and stood behind her.
Maura kilted up her gown around her knees. “If you can think of one that might work, by all means start chanting.”
In her own mind, a simple litany ran over and over—Please, Giver, I need your help. Only show me what to do and I will do it.
Delyon grasped her around the waist and lifted. Maura scrambled desperately for a hand or toehold in the rough bark, but found none. Perhaps Delyon was right—this was a daft idea.
“It will take you forever to reach the top at this rate.” Delyon sounded breathless. “You’re heavier than you look, lass. Can I let you down?”
“Aye.” Maura tried not to think about all the rebels who might be buying her time to search for the staff at the price of their lives.
Delyon let go of her…but she did not sink back to the floor.
The tree bark that had blunted saws and axes somehow gave way to the gentle pressure of her fingers and toes, permitting her a fragile hold.
“How are you hanging on there?” asked Delyon.
“I’m not sure.” Maura reached up with one hand and pressed it into the bark.
Slowly it shrank from the gentle, steady pressure of her fingers, forming a shallow cavity for her to grip. The same thing happened when she lifted her right foot and pressed her bare toes against the bark. She could not move quickly—only one arm or leg at a time—because she needed the other three to cling. But at least she could move. Moreover, the baffling enchantment that allowed her to climb was like a nod of approval from the Giver.
She made steady progress for some time, until she made the mistake of glancing down. Her head spun and her breath stuck in her throat. It was no Raynor’s Rift, perhaps, but the hard floor of the chamber still seemed perilously far beneath her. Especially given her tenuous grip on the pillar. What was to stop the bark that had yielded to her touch from springing back out again, hurling her down?
For a moment she stopped, pressing her body to the pillar and squeezing her eyes as tight as they would shut. She struggled to slow her breathing. Then she opened her eyes, fixing them on bark in front of her, as if the force of her gaze might provide some extra grip. With grim resolve, she began to climb again.
A while later she startled and almost fell when Delyon gave a cry of alarm. “Please don’t do that!” she called down to him. “What’s the matter?”
“Y-your hand. It’s disappeared into the ceiling!”
Maura glanced up. Sure enough, her arm looked as if it had been neatly severed just below the elbow. But she could feel her fingers burrowed into something above the solid-looking ceiling.
When she let go and lowered her arm, the rest of it appeared again, looking none the worse. “The ceiling must be an illusion.”
A little more cautiously, now that she could see what she was doing, Maura thrust her hand back up and felt around for her grip. After bringing her feet each a step higher, she poked her head through the ceiling. A gentle breeze whispered through her hair and the high vault of the sky stretched above her, glowing with the soft pearly hue of dawn.
All around her, the tall trees that had grown from the floor of the chamber now stretched thick, leafy boughs that wove together, creating a lush green carpet. Grabbing one of the branches, she hauled herself up and gazed around in wonder.
“This isn’t possible,” she whispered. The chamber below was far underground. Even if she had climbed to ground level, she should be in some part
of the castle. “But that doesn’t matter, I suppose. As long as I find the staff.”
No sooner had the thought formed in her mind than she could see a spot where some of the trees grew even taller than the others, creating an arbor like the Oracle of Margyle’s.
Maura crawled toward it, groping to make certain her hands and knees had a solid spot to rest on before moving forward. She did not want to fall through the canopy onto one of those rusted ax heads. Somehow, the delicate weft of leaves and branches always felt solid beneath her.
Her need for haste overcame her caution. Staggering to her feet, she began walking toward the arbor. Her first few steps were hesitant, but soon she gained confidence. By the time she reached the arbor, she was beginning to wonder if she would be able to climb back down through the canopy again.
“Surely if the Giver has brought me this far,” she whispered to herself, “I will be able to get the rest of the way.”
This arbor was a little different than the Oracle’s, Maura realized. Instead of being open at the sides, it had living draperies of vines falling from the roof to create walls. Gently pushing aside one bank of vines, she entered the structure.
In the center of it, resting on a low platform, lay the Staff of Velorken, just as she had seen it in her memory vision. Maura marveled at its beauty and at the aura of power and enchantment that surrounded it. Most of its length was a rich ruddy wood carved with long swirling tendrils of leaves. The top of the staff was a great hawk’s head carved from dark ivory. A pair of tawny gemstones gleamed as its eyes. The bird looked so real, Maura half expected it to open its beak and give a loud, shrill cry.
“I’m sorry to disturb you.” She lifted the staff from its resting place, surprised to find it much lighter than she expected. “But our need is great.”
She made her way back to the spot through which she had climbed. Holding tight to a branch, she dipped her head through the canopy and called Delyon. “Can you reach this if I pass it down to you?”