by Ed Greenwood
“I know that room,” Sarasper whispered, all of the color gone from his face. “It’s in Silvertree House. Embra must not accompany us—or she’ll perish, to be sure: the curse of the Silent House.”
“And how is it you know that?” Hawkril rumbled in astonishment.
“Something Baron Blackgult once said,” the old healer said wonderingly. “I never knew what it meant until now.”
They heard Embra gasp behind them, and whirled around, reaching for weapons.
The sorceress was stretching out her hand to the Stone of War—and her fingers were passing through it, as though it was but an illusion. It was pulsing with faint flashes of light, and with every flash its image grew more ghostly, fainter … and fainter…
“What’s happening?” Craer snapped, his dagger in his hand. “Embra?”
“It’s taking itself away,” the Lady of Jewels said slowly. “Just as the writings said it would, if used thus. Going somewhere else.”
“Writings? What writings?” The procurer seemed suddenly furious. “Does everyone know all the secrets of Aglirta but me?”
As the Stone of War faded entirely away, Hawkril laid a large and steadying hand on his friend’s shoulder. They all looked at the Stone of Life; Embra was clutching it against her breast with both hands, as if fearing to lose it, too.
“Everyone feels like that betimes, Longfingers,” the armaragor said roughly. “We just have to get up and go on. Just now, there’s a king waiting for us—think of that! It’s not every Aglirtan who gets to be the first to greet a king who’s slept for a thousand years!”
Craer blinked at him, suddenly abashed. “You want me to greet him?”
“I thought you’d want the first chance to dip into his pouches and pockets,” Hawkril said in dry tones. “You being the procurer … and the desperate one of us two, remember?”
And for once—just once in his swift, eventful life—Craer Delnbone could think of nothing to say.
Raurdro Muthtathen had never much liked this muddy little patch at the bottom of his river pasture. He’d failed to see why it remained so wet, with a stream either side of the field and no trees hereabouts with roots to hold the damp … and failed all over again right now, as he reached out with a hoe and a dark expression to uproot a tangle of muck weed.
And to stare astonished at the round, hand-size stone that appeared in midair with a brief, silent flash of light, right in front of him, and fell into the mud beside his hoe with a loud plop.
Raurdro reached down to pluck it out and hurl it to the stonepile back over his left shoulder, looking to the sky but seeing no playful bird or anything else that might have dropped or hurled it. Disbelievingly, he hefted the stone in his hand.
It was warm and made his palm tingle … almost as if it was alive, thrumming with its own inner energy. The astonished farmer stared down at it, his wits just beginning to tell him to throw it away, hard and fast, before …
The shimmering in the air behind him became the full-blown arrival of a gray-scaled woman in wine-dark robes. Her forked tongue darted at the farmer’s back as she brought her hands up from her sides, in twin throws.
Her loud hiss brought Raurdro lurching around to face her—in time for his nose and cheek to take the wide-stretched fangs of the flying snake the serpent-priestess had launched from her left hand. The other snake swerved and darted over to sink its fangs into the wrist of the hand that held the strange stone.
And as Raurdro gurgled, stiffened, and took a step back—the last step he would ever take—the priestess pounced with the speed of a striking snake, snatching the Stone of War from his hand.
“Have my thanksss, dead man,” she hissed, as the shimmerings started to take her away again. Her snakes darted hastily into the radiance so as not to be left behind, as a cold breeze arose out of nowhere to blow across a pasture in Ornentar … a breeze that ruffled the hair of the purple-faced, foam-lipped farmer who lay on his back, staring forever at a blue and cloudless sky.
Epilogue
Sunlight gleamed on a tabard that flamed with its own sun—the symbol of the Risen King of Aglirta. The wearer of the tabard would have topped six feet in height had he been standing on the ground. He was sitting in a saddle almost as high as that, on the largest and most magnificent horse the graveyard had seen for many a century. He wore a plumed hat, gauntlets as heavy and impressive as those of any fighting baron, and a coldly formal expression. Only his eyes betrayed his rising anger. They were like two tiny suns straining to join the competition.
“One does not,” the herald on the horse said severely, “ignore a summons from the Risen King of Aglirta.”
The old man standing in front of the Silent House squinted up at him. “I’m not ignoring it. I’m refusing it.” He started to turn away, then looked back and said, “You’re probably too young to appreciate the difference.”
He turned away again and added without turning. “Your tabard’s torn down your right side, did you know?”
The herald’s face went scarlet. “I—ah—sir! Goodman Sarasper! The king calls you to court!”
The old man turned around again, a certain sharpness around his eyes. “Old I may be, but there’s as yet—thank the Three—nothing whatsoever wrong with my ears. I heard you, and I hear you now. You have done your office—and have my leave to depart. Or are you too young to heed hints, yet?”
The air in front of Sarasper shimmered, barring the old man’s way back into the Silent House. The emptiness blossomed with many winking lights, fading and falling like tiny stars as they shaped a tall, slender figure clad all in black, sleek shoulders and a glistening fall of silver-mounted jewels, and…
The herald sat in his saddle gaping openmouthed as the air gave forth the Lady of Jewels, standing in the old healer’s way and smiling faintly. She lifted her eyes to the herald, gave him a smile, and then pointed him firmly back the way he’d come.
Without another word, he bowed his head, turned his horse, and went. It is not the business of heralds—even Voices of the Risen King—to argue with sorceresses cloaked in all their power.
“Embra,” the healer growled, squinting at her with more eagerness and favor than he allowed his voice to tell the world he felt, “are you as reluctant to stand before the River Throne as I am?”
“Of course,” the head of House Silvertree replied. “Which is why we’re going there together—each one dragging the other along. I don’t want to be the Baroness Silvertree, trusted by none, and be named a traitor whenever my father and his mages reappear. Barons and tersepts in plenty are just itching to ride here and settle their grudges against anyone wearing the name of Silvertree … and they’ll use swords to do it.”
She smiled affectionately at the old man, tousled his hair with her spread fingers, and asked, “And why are you so reluctant to answer the royal summons?”
Sarasper gave her a dark look. ‘Too many soldiers for my liking. Most barons want a healer in chains, as their own hidden healing machine—perhaps this king does, too.”
The Lady Silvertree pursed her lips and nodded her head slowly. “I don’t think he’s that way, but I see your peril … who’s to know until it’s too late?”
Sarasper nodded gloomily and clapped a hand against one vine-cloaked wall of the Silent House. “Here, at least, I have passages to hide in and dark places to run to,” he growled. “Over yon …”
He jerked his head toward the river, and the island there. Castle Silvertree it had been, all his life, but Flowfoam Isle it had been when there was a king in Aglirta before, and Flowfoam Isle it was again now. The Risen King’s court. Aglimmer with a hundred lamps at dusk every night, and the Silverflow busy with boats at all hours. Sarasper shrugged to show Embra what little he thought of his chances of escaping it, if King Snowstar should desire him to remain—and she nodded soberly.
“Where have you dwelt, this month and more?” he asked suddenly. “Is there aught left of your own castle, ‘tother end of the isle? Or
were you judged too dangerous to be that near his High Mightiness?”
Embra’s face split into a sudden smile. “There are lodges here and there among the gardens; I’ve been quite happy to move into one of the smallest and most secluded. As to the court—yes, it was amazing how many righteous lordlings rose up out of nowhere to demand me out of my lands and away.”
She leaned against a mossy headstone of some long-forgotten ancestor and added serenely, “I told them all to go and talk to the king—and warned them that if anything befell me, the walking statues would awaken and tear apart the entire isle, themselves, king, and all, and there’d be no one alive to stop them.”
Sarasper’s dry laugh turned into a wheeze, and worse. He was still coughing, face in a rueful smile and leaning on the wall for support, when an all-too-familiar voice asked, “Is this a private moment of passion? Or may I have the next dance?”
“Craer!” Embra cried, only a breath or two behind Sarasper’s croak of “Little thief! Welcome!”
“I’m here, too,” Hawkril rumbled, stepping into view around the corner of the Silent House. A moment later, he’d swept the Lady Silvertree off her feet in a surprisingly gentle bearhug, his greeting a deep and purring roar.
Embra was surprised to find her eyes wet with tears. “Put me down, you lumbering bear!” she cried, more amused than upset. There seemed to be backslapping and sly tradings of jests occurring near at hand, where the procurer and the healer stood. She delivered a few playful blows to the armaragor’s head and shoulders, found warm lips seeking hers … and found their touch good.
It was in fact quite some time, and she’d delivered herself of several moans with her lips still locked on those of Hawkril Anharu, when a comical chorus of loud and oh-so-casual throat clearings brought her back to noticing Sarasper and Craer—and their raised eyebrows.
“Why, Craer,” she observed, without a hint of embarrassment, “you’re all over silks and furs! Whence this finery?”
The procurer pointed down toward the river. “Court. King. Ladies to impress. No longer do I look good in a dress.”
“Shall we?” Hawkril rumbled, waving his own hand toward the water. “The herald gave me to understand that there’s a boat waiting for us.”
“Ah,” Sarasper said a little grimly, “did he also promise that it would be waiting to bring us back again, at our pleasure?”
“No, O Suspicious Skulker,” the procurer said, “he did not. By the Three, Sarasper, set aside your mistrust for one night at least! There’s a king in Aglirta again, set there by our hands … do you think he means to murder us, by way of thanks?”
“You’re expecting a lordship?” the healer asked dryly, looking the magnificently garbed procurer up and down. “For Hawkril, too?”
“Why, yes,” Craer replied seriously. “A title, a keep each to call our own, and retirement there forthwith to indulge in a little hunting, a little drinking, a little—pray pardon, Embra—wenching …”
“Lord Delnbone,” Sarasper said softly, “would you mind drawing back your right sleeve?”
The procurer gave him a brittle smile, and did so. Two knives gleamed in a double forearm sheath there, ready to be plucked and thrown in an instant.
The healer nodded, not quite smiling. “And the other sleeve?”
Craer displayed another pair of knives and then bent, unbidden, to touch the hilts of knives in both boots, as well as the one they could all see at his belt. None of his three companions doubted he had others, carried in places of rather better concealment.
“Trust in our new king strong and surging, eh?” Sarasper asked innocently. “Lordships for all, eh?”
“Sarasper,” Craer told him in tones of gaiety, “I said I was expecting a lordship. I didn’t say I’d lost my senses.”
“Ah,” the old man replied. “Well. I was intimating you had, and still am.”
“Nothing changes much between us,” Hawkril observed. “Shall we to the boat?”
They moved forward without hesitation, together.
“Leave us,” the Risen King commanded, in a voice that rolled to the corners of the room, sharp with sudden command. Courtiers and trumpeters and guardsmen alike blinked, hesitating.
“But your Majesty,” the officious steward who’d found most—but by no means all—of Craer’s knives protested, “these folk come armed! With weapons and spells! Who knows wha—”
“It would grieve me to grow accustomed, so early in the resumption of my reign, to having to repeat my orders,” King Snowsar said mildly, allowing his eyes to flash just once as he strode forward to loom over the suddenly pale courtier.
The room emptied in a rush that owed more to haste than dignity. The steward actually uttered a squeak as he turned and bolted.
The Band of Four kept their faces carefully impassive. The king directed silent looks at Craer and Hawkril, then nodded at the doors. The two turned to make sure the known ways out of the room were secured and relatively free of folk pressed against them to listen, and Embra glided forward to murmur, “Lord and King, there is a secret passage behind that tapestry, and spy holes above us here. Might I suggest we use the way behind your throne, and repair to a chamber I know to be rather more secure?”
The corners of the king’s mouth twitched. “And have them tearing apart the castle looking for me?”
Sarasper shrugged. “It’ll give them something useful to do.”
The king’s mirth built into a roar of laughter. When he could speak again, he turned to the Lady of Jewels and said, “I know I can trust you. Lead us to your secret place.”
Embra bowed her head and did so. The secret place proved to be a small, ornately paneled room crowded with a small table and some large, comfortable chairs. The king’s brows rose in pleased surprise at the sight; Embra gave him a grin and said, “As I’m sure you’ve already discovered, the Silvertrees made a few changes to your castle. I hope this one, at least, meets with your approval.”
“My lady, it does,” the king told her.
She turned and did something to a panel. It slid aside to reveal a window overlooking a long avenue of trees into the gardens. Outside, all was green and beautiful. They heard the King of all Aglirta gasp in pleasure.
He leaned forward to admire the view, spreading his hands flat on the table, and Embra calmly sat in the nearest chair and put her delicately booted feet up.
Her three companions eyed her, then shrugged and found themselves comfortable seating, too. The king seemed unsurprised at their dispositions when he turned around again.
He gathered their gazes with his own and said simply, “Have my thanks. Neither I nor Aglirta can ever properly repay you. I had hoped to shower you with land and gifts, bring out the best Silvertree vintages, and spend a month talking with you, getting to know my kingdom again. But that’s not to be; that month is time none of us has.”
“A task for us, then, not a revel,” Craer murmured.
The king nodded. “This is not,” he added quietly, “a time for celebration.”
He started to pace in the tiny room, restlessly, looking up to its ceiling and seeing not gloom and shadows but something in his memory. “Two nights ago, I dreamed of the missing Stones.”
“Shall we go and round them up for you?” Craer asked. “A grand quest for the King’s Champions?”
The Risen King shook his head, his eyes large and dark. “The dream changed, Craer.”
He seemed to stand taller, looming over the Four. “The people cry out in joy for their king restored—at least for now—and the barons cry out with them. Yet not a one of my loyal barons has joy in his eyes when he comes here … and all of them have men skulking here and there, answering only to them, sniffing out ways to make the River Throne weak or even topple me from it to make room for their own masters. I am besieged here among the silks and gold, one man encircled by wolves. The River Throne will fall if I leave it unwarmed for as much as twenty days, and I have no army that is not beholden first to
this baron or that. As you just saw, I find myself cloaked around and about by glib-tongued men whom I know not, who seek to raise themselves by clinging to me and speaking in my name … I dare not leave this island to do what must be done.”
The procurer raised an eyebrow. “And that would be?”
“Find the unfriends who aren’t here,” Embra Silvertree murmured. “The ones who keep hidden, biding their time and building their power—because they now hold other Dwaer stones.”
The king nodded slowly. “You freed me, never knowing why I slept.” He leaned forward and asked in a low voice, “What were you told would happen when I awakened?”
“The king will rise,” Sarasper replied, in mellifluous mockery of the voice of a sage, “to restore peace and bounty to the land.”
King Kelgrael nodded. “And yet that was never my task. In a time when the realm was strong and needed no king, I agreed to sleep, to await the time when I would be needed to fight a great foe of Aglirta. By freeing me, you—”
“Oh, no!” Embra gasped. “Three save us, no!”
The King of Aglirta nodded grimly. “You awakened that foe, too. Others less than friendly to Aglirta were alerted, too. Some of the Stones have fallen into cruel hands.”
As he spoke, the Dwaer riding in Embra’s bodice flashed, lighting up her throat with an eerie glow. As they stared at it, Sarasper said grimly, “Someone is using another Dwaer to seek this one.”
The Lady of Jewels nodded and passed her hand over the Stone. The radiance was suddenly gone, the room shadowed once more.
“My father lives, I do not doubt that,” Embra murmured. “I would be unsurprised to meet with one or more of his mages alive again, too.”
The king nodded. “I did not mean to accuse you, Lady, or impugn your loyalty. Aglirta has many enemies, not all of them risen since I first left my throne, and they grew to like lawlessness. They are gathering now, wolves beginning to circle.”
Something dark and swift flapped its wings past the window just then, causing everyone to start and snatch at weapons. A bat glared red-eyed at them for a moment as it fluttered, circling once before flitting from view.