by J. C. Staudt
“But, your majesty—”
“Would you defy my command, Lord Darion?”
Darion was unused to being called Lord instead of Sir, though he possessed both titles. The king’s tone took him aback. “I—I would never dream of such a thing, your majesty,” he stuttered. “Rylar Prince is rumored to have remained in Korengad while his father leads the campaign. I merely meant to confirm this as the truth.”
Olyvard’s lips hinted at a smile that never came. “It is the truth,” he said. “The ford is in no danger of a sudden and disastrous sacking, lest you worry. Some of my finest Warpriests attend the battlements even now. Should the Korengadi attempt a direct assault on the gates, they will be repelled.”
“What of their alliance with Berliac and the Thraihmish dwarves, your majesty? Why do the kingdoms conspire against you?”
Olyvard laughed, long and loud. His advisors, still standing beside the dais, joined him. “Cowards feel less cowardly when gathered in great number. Surely a man such as yourself has slain enough cowards in his time to know that.”
“I suppose so, your majesty.” Darion also supposed it was possible the other kingdoms had allied because they’d had enough of Dathrond’s supremacy. If so, why had Tarber, the Mage-King of Orothwain, kept silent from his seat at Deepsail? Orothwain was second in power and wealth only to Dathrond, yet so far as Darion knew, Tarber King had remained neutral.
“In any event, you are here now,” said the king. “Let us not speak of the war or its intrigues any longer. I have spent far too many hours burdened with such things of late. I am honored to have a man of such storied deeds at my side, truly.”
“The honor is mine alone, your majesty.”
“I’ll hear none of it. Now, go take a rest and get yourselves cleaned up. You will of course join me for supper in the high hall this night.”
“As you will, your majesty.”
“Go, then. The castellan’s boy will show you to your rooms.”
Alynor paused. “There is one other thing, if I may, your majesty.”
Darion gave her a cautionary glance.
“Lady Mirrowell,” said the king, as if noticing her for the first time. “Yes? What is it?”
“We traveled here with three companions,” she said, ignoring Darion’s warning. “They should very much like an audience with you.”
Olyvard raised his eyebrows, intrigued. “Why might that be, my lady?”
“Each has his own reasons,” she said. “The archer would bend his bow at the ford in your name. The minstrel wishes to sing and play for your soldiers. And the falconer seeks service in your house, or that of another great lord in Maergath.”
“An interesting troupe, these companions of yours,” said the king. “However, my armies are rife with archers as it is. The number of musicians and fools begging to perform in my halls and castles grows daily. And I’ve a cast of falcons to rival the skies of any kingdom in the realm—and a collection of skilled trainers to handle them. While I am certain these fellows of yours are a talented bunch, I am in need of no such services. What about you, Master Carthag? Have you need of an archer, a singer, or a falconer?” He addressed the old castellan as he came in through the doors at the back of the great hall.
Carthag thought for a moment. “No, your majesty. Not that occurs to me at the moment.”
“There. You see? I’m afraid war attracts many leeches, my lady. Dathrond yields only so much blood, and your friends are late to the suck.”
Darion saw the quiver in Alynor’s lip, but she was brave. “My thanks, your majesty,” she said with a curtsy.
“Was there anything else, Lady Mirrowell?”
“Nothing, your majesty.”
Olyvard gave a satisfied nod. “Carthag, fetch your boy. He is to accompany Lord Ulther and Lady Mirrowell to their chambers.”
“Majesty.” Carthag bowed and left.
A lanky, pimple-faced youth led them to a set of rooms in one of the keep’s many towers. There were so many twists and stairs and corridors along the way that Darion lost all sense of where they were until he looked out the bedchamber’s large steeple window and found himself staring straight into the face of the mountainside. He’s put us in a back room… and not even one with a view to the sea, he balked. Surely a distinguished guest, such as he claims I am, deserves better.
“This is preposterous,” said Alynor when the errand boy was gone.
“I agree. These rooms are unacceptable.”
“Not the rooms,” she said. “That the king will not help our friends. He’s the king, for heaven’s sake. He can do whatever he likes.”
“Do not presume to know his intent or his limitations, my lady. His incomes are strained. He cannot hire every singer and sellsword who shows up at his gates.”
“These are not just any men,” she insisted. “They are men we know personally, and whose skills and honor we vouch for.”
“I’ll make no guarantees for that bloody singer. He can strum a tune, aye, but he hasn’t a speck of honor in him.”
“You’re missing my point. It is the king’s lack of regard which upsets me. We’ve traveled halfway across the realms at his request. The least he could do is honor a small one of ours. Does he deny us because he does not have the means, or because he simply does not care?”
“He cared enough to send for me,” said Darion. “And he wants me by his side. I can only presume it is because he values my wisdom and prowess. Whether he holds me in any regard beyond that is not mine to judge.”
“You should have been the one to breach the subject with him. He might’ve listened to you. You will try again to convince him, won’t you?”
Darion sighed. “I make no promises, my lady. To do so would be to risk appearing defiant to an explanation his majesty has already given.”
“Then risk it,” Alynor said. “Risk it, for the sake of Kestrel and the others, who have come so far and trusted us to help them.”
Why does she care so much for that singer? Darion had to wonder. In truth, the thought had been pestering him for some weeks now. He had been so concerned with getting to Maergath that he’d been able to set his discomfort aside for a time. Now he found himself under a spell stranger than any mage-song he had ever awakened. The more he tried to push it down, the more it seemed to rise to the surface. I’m jealous, he realized, fully grasping it for the first time. I am actually jealous of that scrawny, contemptible little worm and his unbearable music. My lady wife second-guesses my every breath and movement, yet the singer can do no wrong in her eyes. “The welfare of three grown men needn’t be our concern,” he snapped. “I have bigger things to bother with just now. Like why I’ve come all this way only to be kept from battle in favor of stalking the king’s footsteps like some browbeaten dog.”
Alynor’s lips tightened. “As you say.”
“You’ve taken such an interest in the plight of that singer. Do you care nothing for mine?”
When the tightness in her lips twisted into a hard frown, Darion knew he’d crossed a line. “What would you like me to say, Darion? That I am sorry the king has requested your counsel instead of sending you off to die? You’ve come here to serve him. If that is your aim, you must do as he commands.”
“I would be unlikely to meet my death at the ford, Alynor. Without Rylar Prince, the Korengadi have no caster whose power comes close to mine. I’m certain I could break the siege myself in a few days’ time. His majesty must know that. Then this would all be over, and we could return home to raise our child in a time of peace. Why does he hold me back?”
Alynor placed a hand on her belly, softening a little. “I wish I knew, my dearest.”
“I fear we must suffer to wait until the king comes to his senses. That may take a long time. Perhaps even long enough to see our child born here in Maergath.”
“That would be a long time indeed,” said Alynor.
“I do not think I have ever asked,” Darion said. “How long has it been?”
“Nearly three months, by my best guess,” she said.
“Soon it will become difficult to hide.”
She frowned. “Yes. Why should we want to hide it?”
“No reason, my lady. We ought to be well looked after here, should you require an apothecary. I am sure his majesty employs the best.”
When they went to the high hall for supper that night, a feast awaited them on as grand a scale as Darion had seen in years. Dozens of guests sat at the massive oak table while Olyvard King took his chair at the head. His queen, an exotic woman of island birth called Esvalda Tilusia of Therberos, sat at the foot. A four-piece ensemble played soothing songs on lute, harp, flute and drum, while dancers leapt and tumbled at the edges of the hall, twirling long ribbons in time to the music.
Lady Alynor leaned over and whispered into Darion’s ear. “The king’s incomes are strained, you say?”
There’s that reproach of hers again, Darion thought. A jest, perhaps, but a cruel one, aimed at my unwillingness to help the singer. It always comes back to the singer. Darion wished they had never met Kestrel. He wished they’d never met any of them. Sitting in the midst of this insufferable dinner, he began to wish he hadn’t answered the king’s summons at all. It was going to be a longer war than he’d counted on.
Chapter 17
Kestrel and the others were not pleased when Darion and Alynor broke the news.
“The king wanted none of us?” Kestrel asked in disbelief. “Not even me?”
Alynor shook her head.
“I’m going home,” said Jeebo. “This is no place for a man like me anyway.”
“The half-breed is referring to himself as a man now,” said Triolyn. “The waiting has made us all a bit presumptuous, it would seem. No bother. I can wait. The longer this siege goes on, the more room the king will find for men of quality in his ranks.”
“Why wait for the king’s approval?” said Kestrel. “If he doesn’t want us now, we cannot be certain he ever will. I, for one, refuse to return home empty-handed. Yet neither shall I stand by while the war goes on without me. There comes a time when one must seize one’s own destiny.”
Alynor looked at him with concern. “What do you mean to do?”
“Not wait here, certainly. I’ve plenty of coin left. I’ll take ship for the ford on the morrow. Any of you who wishes to join me is welcome to.”
“Alright, then. I’m coming,” said Triolyn. “How about you, half-breed?”
Jeebo’s bird shuffled along his shoulders, crossing to the side opposite the archer. Jeebo looked thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, “Maybe I will go. Ristocule and I might do our part to keep the soldiers fed.”
Ristocule gave a piercing squawk, as if to protest.
“That bird has a better chance of catching an arrow if you bring him to the battlefield,” said Triolyn.
Jeebo set his jaw. “Faranion will watch over him. He always does.”
Now Alynor was truly concerned. “Are you not still worried you’ll be taken for spies and hanged when you arrive?”
“I was,” Kestrel said calmly. “That’s why I arranged a fallback plan. I hope you do not take offense, milady. I simply could not rely on the king’s order for a certainty.”
“I understand,” she said. “What is it, then?”
“A few drinks and a song or two with the captain of the city guard was all it took to get us an official commendation,” he said, grinning. He held up a thin scroll. Around the captain’s wax seal, Darion could see faint ink lines written in a sloppy hand. “Not as convincing as an order from the king, perhaps,” said Kestrel. “But it should suffice for keeping us off the noose.”
“Well done,” said Triolyn. “Maybe now we’ll all be jailed instead of hanged.”
“If you’d prefer a safer alternative, we might corner three Dathiri soldiers in an alley and relieve them of their mail and colors.”
Triolyn scowled. “Too messy.”
“That settles it, then. First thing in the morning, we three are off to the front with formal authorization.”
“Forged authorization, more like,” said Darion.
“Faranion will bless our passage,” said Jeebo. “May his winds bear us swiftly across the seas so that we may fight in his name.”
“Who can argue with a man who claims to act on his god’s behalf in both peace and war?” said Triolyn. “Tomorrow morning when I piss into the Maergath Sea, you must speak a benediction over me, falconer. That this god of yours may bless my efforts, and guide the winds to stop me wetting myself.”
“Faranion bears no good will toward those who blaspheme his name,” Jeebo said solemnly.
Kestrel smirked. “As one who blasphemes regularly, I can attest to that.”
“Be well, fellows,” Alynor said. “Whether by the gods’ grace or otherwise.”
“We shall, milady.” Kestrel made a sweeping bow, then took Alynor’s hand and gave it a soft kiss.
When they turned to go, Darion saw Alynor glance over her shoulder. Was that longing he saw in her eyes? Sorrow? Gods, surely it could not be… desire? “You have nothing more to fret over, my lady. Nor need we bother the king any longer with this trifle. Those three have started down their own path, and I pray the realms are better-served for it.”
“I worry more for them now than I did before,” she said.
Darion tried to hold his temper. Curse my adherence to formality, he thought. Had I gone ahead to the ford instead of reporting to his majesty first… “Would you have worried less if I were with them, my lady?”
She gave him a baffled look, as if she suddenly believed him unfit to dress himself. “Less? You do think me rather heartless. More, my dearest. Much more.”
Darion realized he had asked her a question with no correct answer. Did she believe him incapable of protecting them, had he gone? Was that why she would’ve worried more? No matter what answer she gave, he could only imagine her meaning the worst.
***
Over the next few weeks, Darion endured a greater number of dry, inane meetings than he had the patience for. He sat dutifully by the king’s side, watching and listening; speaking his views when such futile exercises were called for. Each night he gave Alynor a lesson, then practiced his spells alone in the solar after she’d gone to bed.
It was during these weeks that Darion began teaching Alynor to fight. He knew it would require months of hard physical training before she could hold her own, and years before she grew seasoned. He would be better suited to train her after they returned home, where they would have the practice yard at their disposal. But in times like these, he reasoned, any small advantage he could give her was worth the time.
He often wondered how Kestrel and the others were faring, especially when he heard tell of the brutality and slaughter the siege had wrought at the ford. On several occasions, soldiers from the front were brought into the king’s meeting chamber to give testimony to the proceedings. Things were going well for Dathrond by the sounds of it; the ford was holding. Yet both sides had sustained casualties, and the conflict had devolved into a stalemate with no resolution in sight.
Meanwhile, there was no interruption to the king’s normal schedule of parties, dances, and dinners held at the castle. Olyvard was never at a loss for some new diversion by which to impress the members of his court. To Darion it felt as though he’d gone to Laerlocke after all, only the wedding feast had lasted weeks instead of hours.
There was something hollow and meaningless about it all. Through the veil of routine, Darion could feel a sense of dread spreading through the court. He could see it in the faces of the lords and ladies in the midst of quiet moments between conversation. They were frightened to death, but none were brave enough to admit it. They’re humoring his majesty, Darion knew. We all are.
Something else had been bothering Darion, too. For the king to have mustered his thousands of swords, spears and bows, along with hundreds of knights, only to have them sit behind the walls
of the Keep on the Ford day after day, week after week… it was madness. Darion began to suspect that Olyvard King was waiting for something. Biding his time until some anticipated event took place.
It was intuition alone which led Darion to believe it. Whatever the king’s reason for waiting, he did not make it known, and Darion dare not ask whether there was any truth to the theory. Instead he grew more and more restless, until finally he could stand it no longer.
He’d been trying to fall asleep for hours one night when he decided something had to be done, and he was the man to do it. Olyvard King was truly mad to keep him from the ford and deny his army a quick victory.
Darion slipped out of bed and stepped into his trousers, donned a pair of soft leather boots, threw his tunic over his shoulders, and tied his hair back with a leather thong. Then he crossed the room to where his sword leaned against the corner wall. Below it lay his armor, stacked in neat piles the way he always left it. Putting it on now would make too much noise and risk waking Alynor.
She rolled over in bed and croaked in a sleepy voice, “Where are you going, my dearest?”
He froze. If I lie to her, she’ll never forgive me for it. And yet, there is no other way. “The privy, my love.”
“Be careful. They’re everywhere, you know.”
She’s half in a dream, he realized, and chuckled to himself. He buckled on his sword belt and tiptoed to the door. He could hear Alynor tossing beneath the covers as he opened it a sliver and squeezed through.
When he closed the door behind him, the soldiers standing guard over his chambers were dozing off in the hall. Darion told them he was off to the tavern for an early drink. They let him go without question.
He descended to the keep’s ground floor, ducking guards and doubling back to avoid sentries whenever necessary. He did not know for certain whether the guards would try to stop him, but since this was his only chance to leave Maergath without alerting the king, he thought better than to risk it.