As he watched her pack a carpetbag, he regretted that he wouldn’t be giving her any kind of a honeymoon. It didn’t seem like she expected one, but it would have been so nice to be able to play a little longer before the cares of the world bore him down again.
Back at the palace, they waded through their introductions to all of Sean’s friends and all the pertinent personnel, then he took her to his room so she could unpack.
She looked around the apartment as she made her way through, and Sean was forced to compare what was here with what he had seen at her home. He didn’t know how many rooms there were in either place, not yet anyway, but the room they had used at her home had been tastefully neutral with plain, unbleached white curtains and a matching bedspread. There had been no ruffles and no blatant metal either; such things would be a crass display of wealth. A couple pictures had hung on the white plaster walls, and the side tables both had held a simple oil lamp and a small figurine, likely made by one of the children. There had been a small rug on both sides of the bed and another larger one in the middle of the polished hardwood floor. In the corner of the room stood a washstand with a basin and matching pitcher of water; the towel rack on the back of it had held a towel and washrag, until they’d made use of them.
Sean’s apartment consisted of three rooms. The first was a sitting room with a round table and three chairs. A small bookshelf sporting several leather-bound books stood in one corner. In another corner, near the fireplace, stood a small lamp table with another chair beside it. The tapestry that hung on the wall showed some battle or another; Sean had scarcely looked at it. He barely made use of the room at all.
The bedroom had a heavy four-poster with thick curtains of black velvet and burgundy satin lining. They were tied back to reveal a black bedspread with the family crest stitched into it. It was new, though slightly outdated, having the flower instead of the star; Sean wondered where Mattie had found it. The three sword belts Sean had acquired hung from pegs behind the door. The tapestry hanging in here was of a herd of horses climbing over some rocks, coming directly at the painter.
The walk-in closet was filled with clothes he hadn’t had the time to go through. Every other nook and cranny had a small table of one type or another, and they all held either a lamp or a candle.
Another room that opened to the sitting room, as well as the bedroom, was the bathroom. It had a sink with a pitcher of water, and a bathtub big enough to slouch down in. The tub had a small firebox under it to heat the water, just like the one his Aunt Marinda had, though most of the time Sean heated it with magic. In one corner was a cupboard kept full of towels, washrags and a wide assortment of toiletries, and in another corner was a small closet containing the toilet, though it looked more like an outhouse. Someone had recently scrubbed it free of an entire layer of wood and added a lid to cover the hole. This room alone was bigger than the room they had slept in just that morning.
The whole place was made of stone; the walls were made of stone blocks about three feet square, and the floors were of polished marble covered with thick rugs. Sean had always heard that stone castles were cold and drafty, but apparently, castles built by mages didn’t follow the same rules.
Armelle’s explorations were interrupted by a knock at the door. Sean opened it to two servants who brought in a light lunch for them and set it on the table. They then quietly bowed their way out of the room.
Wanting nothing more than to spend the rest of the day with his new bride, Sean drug himself out of the room after lunch and turned to face the stairs that led farther up. He soon found himself standing at the top of the stairs looking down the row of closed doors spaced between guarded hall mouths that led to more doors. He was standing there trying to plan his next move as well as steel himself for his next action when Ferris, Larry, Cordan and Hélène caught up with him.
“Where’s Ludwyn?” asked Sean.
“He’s down that second hall on the left, fourth door down,” said Larry. “We have two guards posted on his door at all times.”
“Get him please. We’ll start here.” Sean stepped up to the first door on his right. He waited until they brought his uncle, then without a single glance at him, he stepped into the room.
Fifty rooms were on this floor, likely originally intended as guest rooms, and Sean thanked God above for every empty room. The variety of agonies he found was mind-boggling. He didn’t want to record it; to do so would mean reliving each event long enough to write it out, and he couldn’t face that again. The collection made the worst horror movie Sean could imagine pale to that of a cartoon by comparison.
Sean managed to correct most of the damage completely; a few of the victims would need more help, and a handful may never be completely cured, but he vowed to do his best for all of them.
Sean went and hid in the library after he was finished with that floor. He gave a vague excuse of intending to dig out some maps in order to justify going on alone, but once inside, he just closed the door and found a dark corner. He needed to be alone for a while; after hours of horror, he couldn’t face anyone just now.
Armelle found him there. He had sought out a back table away from the open window to let himself fall apart for a little while. He didn’t hear the door, nor her steps, as she came up behind him. He jumped when her small hands pulled at his shoulders, but he knew instantly that it was her. She pulled him back and he let his head fall back onto her breast. She brushed her hands on his face and let her fingers comb through his hair while she hummed a little nonsensical tune and rocked ever so slightly.
It was soothing and quieting. He was just starting to wonder about the tune she hummed when she asked in a small voice, “Can I ask you something?”
Keeping his eyes closed a few moments longer, he pulled her around to sit in his lap. “You can ask me anything you want.”
“It’s about your…your uncle; I’ll understand if you don’t want to talk about him,” she clarified a little further.
“It’s all right; ask your question. I don’t mind.”
“Why did you take him with you into those rooms? How could you subject those poor people to his presence? Cordan was telling Mattie about it.”
“I don’t take him in order to inflict his presence on them; I take him so that he can watch me take his play things away from him. Every one of those people I cured was one tiny hold on this country, one piece of candy I took away from him, and he watched it unable to do a thing about it. I intend to force him to watch every single victory I take from him. I want to leave him no illusions about how much hold he has left.”
“Oh,” she said. “Well then…” She reared back and looked up at him.
I love those eyes. I wonder what she sees. I hope she doesn’t see my uncle in me the way I do.
“You be careful of him. He’s the evilest thing ever created. You be very careful around him.”
“I am, believe me, I am,” said Sean.
She stood and pulled him to his feet. “Come on. Supper’s got to be ready by now. Let’s go eat.”
“I’m not very hungry,” said Sean. The horrors of the afternoon had killed his appetite.
“You have to keep up your strength. You have to eat. We all need you strong and healthy. I need you strong and healthy.” She pulled him out the door and down the stairs, leading him to one of the many dining halls – maybe they were all dining halls – he still didn’t know.
Sean picked at his meal, but managed to consume enough to make Armelle happy. When they were back in their room, she asked him about the sword belts he had hanging there. He gave her a brief history of how he had acquired each one.
She zeroed in on the biggest one. “So, you haven’t tried this one yet. It’s still early; do you feel up to showing me what you do with them?”
Sean smiled. I can show off for my wife. “Come on.” He took up the heavy belt and slung it over his shoulder.
Down in the throne room – the only room big enough and uncluttered enough for su
ch a thing – he drew the big sword. After several false starts, he found a rhythm that let him manipulate the heavy sword. He also found several maneuvers that would allow him to throw it, but there were no targets here and he wasn’t about to launch it at the stone walls just for practice, besides, Master Mushovic would never have approved. The thought earned its own portion of his smile.
He remembered the one time he’d tried to figure out just such a maneuver. Going early to class with a box, packed with more boxes, to use as a target, Sean tried several methods of throwing a sword. He quickly narrowed his efforts down to the saber; it felt better and had a decent weight. Throwing it like a spear had the best accuracy, but to qualify as a trick, it took too long to set up. Overhand also took, he felt, too long; it was too far out of the norm for the handling of a sword during a fight. Directly underhanded did too. Cross-underhanded felt the best. It was a move that would flow with a cross-parry; all that was required was for him to carry his hand on down by his belt, then forward and throw.
Master Mushovic entered the room just as his third throw in a row landed successfully in his target. “Why would you want to throw away a perfectly good sword? If you didn’t want to be armed you shouldn’t have it in the first place.” The tone of his voice carried an edge to it Sean had never heard before.
“But what if…”
Mushovic didn’t give him time to explain his actions. He strode across the floor with purpose in every step. “Anyone who allows himself to be put in a position where he needs to throw his blade is either incompetent,” he whacked Sean on the back of his head, “or a fool,” and he punctuated that word too. “Either way, it’ll get you killed.”
“But sir…” protested Sean as he pushed his hair back out of his eyes.
Mushovic scooped up a foil Sean had neglected to return to the rack and pointed it at Sean. “Sword throwing is just an effective way of disarming yourself.” He took a pose as if to begin a lesson…or worse. “If you ever throw your blade, be prepared to lose it. Most of the people I know won’t give it back, since it is obvious you didn’t want it anymore.” He continued to stand between Sean and his sword. Not quite threatening and yet not quite not threatening.
Sean couldn’t figure out for sure if Mushovic was serious or not. Every time he moved toward his sword sticking out of the box, Master Mushovic moved to be in the way. He might have been holding only a foil, but Sean knew how good Mushovic was; he wasn’t a teacher for nothing.
Finally, treating this as just another problem to be solved, Sean snatched up another sword nearby, one of his discards from his throwing efforts. The epee was the same length, but several ounces heavier. After being soundly defeated and disarmed at every turn, and thwarted in every effort to reach his preferred weapon, Sean’s hand and arm throbbed from the uncharacteristic abuse. “All right, all right, I get it. It won’t happen again. I’m sorry.”
“Sword throwing is akin to sword swallowing and is just about as effective. In both cases, it’s only good for a few laughs. If you want to be a clown, join the circus.” Master Mushovic’s voice was a little quieter this time. He watched as Sean picked up the remains of his bright idea, placing each of the swords in their place with a finality that spoke of defeat.
Then Mushovic spoke again, softly, very softly; he wanted Sean to hear, but he especially wanted him to listen. “If you ever make a perfect move in front of someone, never try to repeat or demonstrate that move to them again; never let them see you try to make it happen a second time. Just make it appear as if nothing special happened and never say a word about it, not to anyone. This will leave them believing that you can actually do it whenever you want. Having someone believe you can do it is just as good as being able to do it in the first place; it gives you a mental edge against them.” He retrieved the sword from the box target and strode to a point near where Sean had been standing. He adjusted his distance with two small steps back, then threw it, end over end, sinking the point into the box. The move was deceptively casual, and could follow any but the most outside moves, without so much as a blink of hesitation.
Sean was left gape-mouthed with astonishment, the sword in his hand all but forgotten. “Always remember to count the revolutions of your blade when the tip strikes and stick to that distance, or increments thereof. Now, that may have been the luckiest throw in my life, but you’ll never know, since that is the last time you will ever see me throw my blade. Now, go home and get some ice on that hand. Think about what I said. Never think you can afford to disarm yourself. You never know what tricks the other guy has up his sleeve.”
While Sean thought on the past, his routine smoothed out. The moves he used welled up from the back of his mind as if from old memories – memories from another past. Though he had used a claymore before in his sword classes, he had never been taught these forms. The footwork was filled with sidesteps and turns. His grips were anywhere from close to the pommel to close to the twin tangs guarding the ricasso, close together or wide apart. The blade cut the air with an audible whomping sound every time he spun to attack a new target.
Immersed, Sean was just about to attack yet another imaginary target when his lovely wife stepped inside his swings with graceful ease. Without dancing the Dance, she became the object he protected from the imagined enemy. She joined him as he stepped, never more than a few inches from his side – never breaking touch – and of course, her hands found many sensitive places to casually touch as they moved. Her beautiful green eyes glittered with humor as she stepped and turned around him, never staying in one place, never presenting a target, never being a weakness to his defense. By the time she was done with him, he certainly hoped the imagined foes were all dead. He threw his spoils over his shoulder and ran with her shrieking and giggling up the stairs to make mad passionate love to her, scarcely taking the time to loosen clothing.
After a long hot bath and a soothing rubdown followed by other distractions, he slept like a log. He was relieved that the horrors of the day didn’t leave any nightmares behind.
Changing the Rules
The next morning, well rested, with his brain operating like he preferred, Sean snagged Elias the moment he saw him. “Dad, you remember that captain the first day? I think you knew him by name. Is he still here?”
“Yes he is. The healers are not willing to let his daughter travel yet.”
“Get him; I’d like to speak with him. Is that messenger still around too; you know, the one that came in to report at the same time?”
“I’m not sure. Manuel has taken over the palace security and the city garrison. Messengers would be reporting to him first.”
“Fine, I want to see him too if you can find him.”
Elias nodded and left.
Carris appeared just as he was finishing breakfast. “My lord, you wished to see me?”
“Yes I did. What’s your name?”
“My name is Carris Quiers, my lord.” He bowed. “Might I express my thanks for what you have done for my daughter? As soon as she is strong enough, we will be gone from here as you commanded.”
“I wanted to talk to you about that,” said Sean. “I would like to ask you to stay, but only if you’re willing.”
“But my lord, I don’t understand.”
“If I asked you a question, do you think you could tell me the truth, regardless of who or what the question was about?” When he started to look affronted, Sean continued. “It’s human nature to color facts to put one’s self in a better light, or to keep one’s self out of trouble. Your light is already known and your trouble couldn’t possibly be any deeper; what I need from you is cold hard truth, facts without embellishments. Can you do that?”
“For the life of my daughter, I will do anything you ask,” said Carris.
“The life and welfare of your daughter will never be an issue between us. I am not my uncle. Your daughter can remain here while you work with me, or she can go live with other family or friends if she wishes. You yourself are no
t required to stay, but you are the one person who has worked closely with my uncle, and therefore, you are in a position to answer any questions I might have about what he has been up to over the last dozen plus years.”
“I’m not exactly sure what it is you want of me, my lord,” he said.
“Not very much; you will have no specific duties or responsibilities. You will not be in charge of anything or anyone. In exchange for food, shelter and protection, if such is at all possible physically or magically, I want access to what you know. That’s all. I just want to be able to pick your brain once in a while.” A look of terror flashed across his eyes and Sean realized how that last sentence must sound to him after having served his uncle so recently. “All I want to do is ask you questions and be confident that your answers will be as truthful as you can make them; I’ll even accept ‘I don’t know’ if that is indeed the truth.”
His Adam’s apple bobbed convulsively. “And you will let me remove my daughter from your reach? You will let me decline with no repercussions?”
“No repercussions at all. I think I can recognize most of my uncle’s work. The hostages upstairs are being healed as fast as I can. I’m going to allow them to write to their families, and I’ll see that they get home as soon as they are able. One of the things I wanted to know from you is who they are held against. That would help me know who to talk to and what to say.”
“My lord, those people are not hostages against particular families, not all of them anyway. Most of them were taken at random from very public places where a lot of people could see them vanish. He took great pleasure in watching the people panic when they saw someone vanish from their midst, suspecting with some surety where he or she had gone, knowing that there was nothing they would dare do about it, and fearing what they faced here. He also took great pleasure in sending those he turned into demons back to the same towns he took them from for much the same reasons, though few people realized that part.”
The Making of a Mage King: Prince in Hiding Page 29