Frost

by Mark A. Garland

  "Some five years ago," Lurey said, "when they were just eleven, they started trying little sorceries. I remember because I had just been to their manor for the first time that year."

  Shassel nodded acknowledgment. Dorin stayed silent, and let her go on. "They managed a few spells," she said. "They taught each other, and became charged with the enthusiasm one feels at such a time—though much more so than they should have. With the taste of their newfound powers fresh in their minds and our lands clearly next in Andair's sights they decided to take matters into their own hands, and teach Andair the lesson he needed to learn. The kind of lesson they believed their blood required of them. The sort of task that would have fallen to me, had I been here."

  "Or to me, had I been here, but it fell to them," Frost said, nodding.

  Dorin went to open his mouth, but the glare from Shassel make him close it again.

  "Yes," Shassel said. "We lived closer to Weldhem then. They were able to slip away from the family I had left them with and go to the city on their own. They got into the castle and past many of the guards to the great room, where they attempted a heraldry spell on Andair, one intended to transform the king into a goat. The spell did not work, by all accounts, but it worked well to the advantage of the court mage Andair was keeping at the time. A buffoon, that one, but he was able enough to sense the twins' location, and they were captured instantly."

  "He would have a time of that now," Dorin insisted.

  "No doubt," Shassel replied. "In any case, they were seen publicly as a bad joke, but I suspect privately Andair took them much more seriously. They are your blood, and mine, and Andair knew as well as anyone what that implied. When their father came to see to them, distraught and angry, he too was arrested. They were made a public display, and as an example to others, Dorin, Dara and their father were all beaten in the city's northern square. It was supposed to be a punishment, not an execution, but Andair's soldiers went too far.

  "The twins survived, but their father became wild with anger, and was ultimately beaten to death for their crimes. So you see, they do not blame you for the mistakes you made with Andair; you were not much older than they are now, and they have made their share. They blame you for your absence since that time. They blame us both, but you most of all."

  Dorin kept his tongue. She had said it all, even though he had expected her to flag at the very end. Dorin felt a weight, very old and heavy, lift off of him, or a part of it at least.

  "I didn't know," Frost said, turning to the twins. "I wish I could tell you everything that is in my heart and unburden yours, but proper answers are not always easy to come by."

  "Yes, we know," Dara said.

  "I cannot change the past, but the future is a different matter," Frost said. "Andair will pay for all he has done, I promise. He will pay most dearly."

  Dorin head the words and tried to set them aside, but he could not. He felt drained by all that had just happened, and yet . . .

  There was something about Frost—a dauntless nature that spoke to something deep inside Dorin's soul, a roguishness that seemed not quite familiar, yet destined to be. He wasn't sure whether Dara felt it, though he guessed she might, a little at least. And the feeling was growing despite no desire on his part to allow such a thing. None of that could put aside the rest—the cowardly way Frost had abandoned his home, his family and his pride. The trouble was, Frost was not the haggard, shallow, sorry husk of a man Dorin had expected, and as he had spoken those last words Dorin saw the unmistakable gleam of unrequited hatred and vengeance in his eye.

  "You'll have your work cut out for you, Frost," Shassel said, "just getting on with these two. But I can already tell you have grown enough these many years to make a fine mentor for them. Perhaps even an example, though that may take more time."

  "A mentor?" Frost moaned. "Such a generous offer."

  "One you should think about carefully before accepting," Dorin warned. "It may be too little, too late." He looked to Dara for support and found her lost in her thoughts as he had been, though she hadn't yet snapped out of it.

  "I have a talent for bringing people together," Shassel said. "You will all get along, I'm sure. In the meantime we must return home. Whatever Frost decides to do, I grant that he did not come all this way simply to hide in these woods indefinitely."

  "I suppose not," Frost said wearily. "At least not . . . indefinitely."

  "I do have to get back to work," Lurey said, breaking his silence only now, though he was careful not to sound too worried. "My goods do not peddle themselves while I am sitting here enjoying your company, and I have many places to visit this month."

  "Good," Shassel said. "Then we can leave this afternoon."

  Dorin turned to Dara, who was focussed now, though she did not look well. He decided he must look at least as bad. "What is it you plan to do?" he asked Frost, though he avoided the sorcerer's eyes.

  "I will tell you," Frost said, "on the way."

  CHAPTER NINE

  "Your son is here to see you," Enrude said, the oldest of Kolhol's squires, and the most trustworthy, which was why the king kept him around much of the time. "He says it is urgent."

  "Of course he does," Kolhol said. He let his pages finish dressing him, wrapping him in a thick saffron-hued tunic that helped with the chill of early morning, then he came out of his chambers and proceeded down the hall. The pages and Enrude followed. His son, Haggel, mostly kept to his own part of the keep. It had been that way ever since Haggel's mother had died, just about the time when Haggel was becoming a young man . . . of sorts. She had doted over Haggel. "Probably along to tell me he is finally doing well at his lessons."

  "Anything is possible, my lord."

  That was part of Enrude's charm—he understood the difficulties, and so the humor. Kolhol grinned only a little, then sobered as he entered the great hall where his son was waiting. Some mornings they missed one another—Haggel liked to sleep late, unless he had something big and, most often, disagreeable on his mind—that was surely the case today. A fine day already, Kolhol lamented, as he took to his chair.

  Kitchen servants had put out breads and cheeses, and were just entering with a bowl full of freshly scrambled eggs. A handful of Kolhol's other servants and their families mulled about at tables along the right side of the room. Kolhol dismissed everyone and told them to wait in the gallery. Everyone but Enrude.

  "A good day, my liege," young Haggel said, as he sat across from his father and began the morning feast without delay.

  "A little chilly, but beyond that, I have not had a chance to notice," Kolhol said, noting the "my liege" instead of "Father."

  "You need to get out of this old dark castle now and then," Haggel said around a mouthful of eggs. "It's bright and sunny outside. Just the sort of day that makes a man feel anything is possible. Anything at all. Tell me, do you ever feel that way anymore?"

  Not a big man, Kolhol thought, taking a bite out of a thick slice of buttered bread, sizing up his son. The boy's proportions were at best average. Which was odd, since height and a strong upper body tended to run in the family—for that matter in most Grenarii families. Kolhol himself had a stout frame and good height, and he was still as robust as most men years younger. Kolhol's father had been even more intimidating and his father before him. And all of them wearing fine manes of thick brown hair.

  Yet here was Haggel, built wiry and dark, even his hair, like one of the western barbarian tribesmen—the sort Haggel's mother had thought so intriguing once, long ago . . .

  He has good teeth, though, Kolhol thought, watching him bite through crust and tear away chunks from the wheat loaves. Kolhol had lost several of his teeth, which made meals more difficult to enjoy and the choices fewer. But fewer choices and age seemed to go hand in hand—that was the kind of revelation in which no man took comfort.

  "I feel different things on different days," Kolhol replied finally. "Then do whatever I please. This day, for instance, when I get around to go
ing outside and having a look for myself, I might send for my bird and go hawking."

  "No greater ambitions?" Haggel asked, studying his own bread now instead of his father's face, examining it as if it were a puzzle.

  Kolhol was not eager to reply. He knew where this was going. As he knew well that his son had been waiting to broach the subject for weeks. He'd hinted around and had even been blunt about it a few times, as he was about to be now. Kolhol would have preferred getting into such an argument over dinner, when plenty of ale was on hand. But he liked to keep away from the ale at least until midday as it tended to make a man sluggish and lax. "I am in no hurry to invade and conquer Worlish."

  Haggel's features twisted as if he'd eaten something foul. "Why not?"

  Haggel glanced at Enrude before answering. Enrude made no expression at all. He would keep silent all the while his king and the young prince were speaking, as was expected. That usually suited Kolhol well enough, but just now he would have welcomed a grunt, or a roll of the eyes. "Because it is not yet time."

  "When will it be time?" Haggel asked. "When will you be ready? During all your glories in these lands no one sat about telling you to wait. Yet now that it comes my turn, you keep me from—"

  "From running off and getting yourself killed, and half my army in the bargain."

  "Our army is more than adequate for the job. We have half again as many men as Andair, and all of them well trained. Perhaps they suffer from a lack of leadership."

  Kolhol tried mightily to hold his temper as he looked across the table. Haggel was eyeing him back, showing more backbone than was common for the boy. The same kind of unfounded self-righteous rot his mother was so capable of.

  Haggel's full head of hair and short-cropped beard made him look more daunting—Kolhol had taken to shaving these past few years—but lately everything had gone to his head. Haggel seemed to think he was ten feet tall, and no one else in the world knew quite as much as he. Kolhol tried to remember if he had been that way at that age, but that had been nearer to thirty years ago than twenty, and near the bitter end of a war against the Thackish barbarians to the north, a war that had gone on for more than a decade and cost his father his life.

  Kolhol had built a great kingdom from the ruins, and conquered all lands now known as Grenarii. He'd plundered lands to the north as well and extended the kingdom even further. But he had known war all his life, and seen defeat as well as victory. Haggel, having only been alive for seventeen years, only knew of victories, then relative calm.

  "I will not be so easily provoked," he told his son, and perhaps himself. "What I see here is a boy turned to a young man who has ambition enough, but lacks experience and the wisdom that comes with it. I did not prevail against all our barbarian cousins and their allies by running off and getting men killed. It takes a good head as well as might. I used both, and still it was only luck that carried the day more than once."

  "It was not luck that won the day," Haggel said. "And not might or cunning alone; it was the relentless pace you kept, never giving quarter, never letting up, never waiting or hesitating."

  The boy had been filled with far too many stories told by noblemen, freemen and soldiers alike. True, Kolhol had never minded being known for his ruthlessness—those he had fought against had been the enemy, and they would have shown no mercy had they been the victors, he was sure—but even through the most ale-soaked memories he still knew it was the grace of the Grenarii gods that had seen him through, and he no longer wished to rely on the providence of gods, or luck. He'd been much more willing to die for his cause in those days as well, for the goal of conquering all Grenarii and uniting the ancient tribes. He was less eager to die for the sake of conquering Worlish. Or even continue discussing it.

  "You will stop making stupid plans," Kolhol said harshly, through with bantering. "I made mistakes in the past, then learned from them. I can only hope you will one day do the same. The trick is to keep your mistakes from getting you and your army killed."

  "I will crush any who—"

  "Shut up and listen!" Kolhol howled, pounding the table with one fist. He waited till the words echoed back to him from the walls of the great hall. He took a long, deep breath. "Our army grows by the day, I am pleased with their training, and I have had my eye on Worlish for a very long time. There is little doubt it will be mine one day. Ours, one day," he corrected with a groan. "That day is not far off, but for now I lose nothing by biding my time and making my plans, by sending spies to look for weaknesses, and looking for a sorcerer who might even the odds. Andair has a powerful ally in Gentaff."

  Haggel boiled at this, as Kolhol expected he would. "We have Tasche," the boy insisted. "A match for any man of magic!"

  "So he is fond of saying," Kolhol muttered, shaking his head. He had suffered a run of charlatans these past few years. The rewards, protection and celebrity of being court wizard was lure enough for many a trickster. But more than tricks would be needed against one such as Gentaff. The boy had no idea. And for some reason known only to the gods, Tasche and Haggel got along. In fact they'd become inseparable. Kolhol looked at his breakfast and decided he wasn't hungry at the moment. Though he could see when he might be. Just after Haggel had gone.

  He took no pleasure from the fact.

  "Andair's wizard, Gentaff, is twice Tasche's age and has twice the reputation," Kolhol said evenly. "Men like him do not suffer fools gladly." He leaned over the table and glared at his son. "Neither do I. Do not underestimate Andair's army either. He has a large one now, with many lords who have sworn fealty to him. And mercenaries, more each day. As I said—"

  "Which is why we should attack now!" Haggel interrupted. "Before he gets any stronger!"

  Haggel was sweating. He sat with his jaw set, lips pursed, breathing like a bull in heat through his nostrils while he balled his fists on the table in front of him. He had small eyes set too close together. Kolhol didn't. An unintelligent look, the king thought; he had killed dozens like that in battles too many to count. Though possibly not enough of them . . .

  "I will take Worlish when I am ready, and you will be a part of it. If you live, you will have lands enough for any two men. But first I must know in my heart that we will win. That we can crush them swiftly. That it is their blood, not ours, on the ground when it is done."

  Haggel pounded his fists on the table with a double thump. "I have no doubts, not one, that it will be so!"

  "You make that clear, but know this—when you invite trouble it is usually quick to accept."

  Haggel's expression grew pained. "That makes no sense." Kolhol stared at Haggel just long enough to realize the boy was serious. He glanced at Enrude again, who rolled his eyes this time. Kolhol had all he could do to keep a straight face. "Do not trouble yourself over it," he told Haggel. "And do not trouble me with more talk of war this morning—I wish to finish my meal in peace!"

  Kolhol snarled smugly to himself at his choice of words, then stuffed eggs into his mouth, and promptly bit his tongue. He winced, then looked up and decided Haggel had missed the point anyway.

  "One day," Haggel muttered as if to himself, but loud enough to be sure he was heard, "I will do as I will."

  "And I promise to bury you proper after you have," Kolhol grumbled back.

  Haggel finished his meal in two gulps, then stalked off. When he had gone, the squires and servants that had earlier been about were summoned to return.

  Amid the bustle of this, Enrude approached and bent to his lord sovereign's ear. "I did not like the look of him today," he said, while attempting to sound as respectful as possible. "More so than usual."

  "Nor I," Kolhol said.

  "Your son grows more restless by the day; it has been that way since early spring. He spends too much of his time among your best warriors, and all the more consorting with lords of every rank, usually over plenty of ale and roasts."

  "They appreciate good food and my best ale when it is given," Kolhol said.

  "The
more generous Haggel is, the more inclined to him the lords become."

  "But they owe no fealty to my son. He is a joke to most of them, which brings me no pleasure, but I will lose no sleep over it."

  "He spends the rest of his time with Tasche," Enrude went on, apparently not the least dissuaded. "They speak in whispers and behind closed doors, and often leave the keep together. They disappear into the countryside. Sometimes for days at a time. I have been having them watched, as you instructed. They visit with the heads of families that once held power before you defeated them, and they are not above engaging freemen or pages. Even some of your court squires have been found in their company, cloistered away in some corner or other. Most are only playing the game, as you say, letting whatever grace might fall upon them fall—or they are planning for the future, one in which young Haggel might be ruler. But some, for reasons of greed or ignorance, are loyal enough to Haggel himself, I think, at least on the face of it."

  Kolhol had already suspected much of this, but now he was faced with it, and it left a very bitter taste in his mouth. "Keep a list. When I grow tired of all their plotting, dreaming and scheming, I will have a few of them chained, killed and hung from a gibbet for the crows to pick at. That will quell the rest of them. Sometimes I think Haggel is still irked over the fate of his good friend—what was his name?"

  "Indem."

  Kolhol nodded. The princely son of one of Kolhol's largest and loudest nobles, and always with Haggel. But his father had fought bravely and well for his king and his lands until the day he died, with honor, fighting a wound that finally would not heal. Indem, though at least the size of his father, had little control over his temper and even less good sense. On a winter hunt two seasons past, an argument had erupted, and Indem had seen fit to challenge Kolhol at sword point. Kolhol had thrown his own blade aside and grappled with the prince hand to hand. Indem had made the error of picking up a fair-sized rock and pitching it; it struck Kolhol's arm as he tried to block the impact and opened a gash just above the elbow. While Haggel watched, Kolhol, driven by anger and blood-lust, had leaped at Indem and broken his back in an instant. At his own request, Indem's squires had killed him after that.