“Thank you,” he said. “You were right. It’s easier this way.” He wasn’t any more ready to face the people of Goldstone than he had been, but at least now he had less to fear if things went poorly.
“As I told you before, I only want to help.” Duke Castar leaned across the small space. “As to the rest of it… let me apologize again. I hope you know that I have every confidence that you will be a great king. I never meant to make you doubt that. But I know what wearing the grey means to you. You are a better knight than any man I’ve met, but you can’t have the sword and the crown both. The people won’t accept another Knight-King. As much as I want what is best for the Peaks, I also want what is best for my friend.”
“It doesn’t matter,” said Rudol. “I am my father’s heir. There’s no choice to make.”
“There could be. Rudol, the last Windwalker has come to the Peaks, and the Sky God must have sent him to us for a reason. It isn’t my place to say what that reason is, but when you are king, it could be yours. Eroh might choose another, if you wanted him to.”
“And be remembered as the man who ended Aryllia’s legacy? I can’t just give the crown away.” God Above, I wish it could be that easy.
“No one could fault you for heeding a message from the Lord of Eagles. And you know as well as anyone that there are more ways to serve the Peaks than sitting the throne.”
“But the boy came to you. You said you didn’t want—”
“It doesn’t matter what I want. I’m not asking anything from you, Rudol—I simply respect you too much to play pretend.” That meant something. There were few people that Rudol trusted to speak plainly with him, considering who his father was, but he wanted to believe that Duke Castar was one of them. “Give the crown away if you think that is the right thing, or keep it. Just don’t close your eyes to the fact that the choice is there.”
“If it is, then my father will make it when he wakes,” Rudol said, but even to him it sounded weak. King Gerod hadn’t shown any sign of improvement for two turns now, and he’d been ill for a long time even before he’d collapsed.
“And I pray to the Spirit of All that he will,” said Castar. “But every man must rise Above, one day or another. It is very possible that the decision will be yours, and very soon. Isn’t it worth thinking about?”
“Perhaps it is.” Rudol said nothing more, and Duke Castar didn’t press him. He was grateful for that—if few men were brave enough to speak the truth to the king’s son, fewer still were wise enough to know when there was no more left to say.
They were entering the marketplace now, on its rise partway between the Copper District and the Silver. The streets leading through the market were crowded, full of men and women rushing to get the best spots in the square for Duke Castar’s address. They stepped aside for the carriage, but still Rudol could see them moving beyond the curtains. Too many. He was surrounded, and this mob was larger than Cadill’s by far. His fists clenched tight.
The noise grew as they neared the central square. The carriage was clearly emblazoned with the Castar family arms, and people chattered excitedly as it passed. The cushioned walls muffled the words, but even so, their excitement was clear enough. They were eager to hear what their duke had to say.
Peeking through a crack in the curtains, Rudol could see the dais at the center of the market square, a wide platform perhaps five feet high. Duke Castar’s men had cordoned off an area around it. Inside that cordon, the carriage came to a halt, and a guardsman knocked three times on the door to let them know that it was safe.
Duke Castar opened his door first, and when he stepped out, the cries of the crowd rattled the windows. Careless in their excitement, they shouted blithe treasons: “Hail the king! King Lenoden!” and “The Windwalker’s chosen!” and more.
Rudol sat for a moment, listening to those voices. He should have been angry, he supposed, but more than anything he was just tired. Tired of trying. He knew what he’d see when he left the safety of the carriage and faced the crowd: disappointment. Duke Castar would soon put a stop to the more treasonous cries, but these people didn’t want him to. They hadn’t come to hear their duke swear fealty to someone else. They wanted to believe that this man they admired was the Sky God’s chosen king.
Maybe you do too, little brother. Admit it: you want out of this as much as I did.
And as much as he hated it when Josen was right, Rudol couldn’t find it in himself to deny that.
The enthusiasm of the crowd faltered noticeably when he finally climbed out of the carriage. It was hard to mistake Rudol for anyone but who he was, towering above the guards in his doublet of Aryllian blue and gold without a hair on his head. The lowborn knew enough to understand that Duke Castar wasn’t going to declare a claim for the throne with the king’s son standing beside him.
He climbed the small stair to join Duke Castar on the dais, and the excitement died altogether. Muffled jeers sounded from a few small corners of the crowd, and once a lone voice shouted Benedern’s words: “Our kings have lost their way!” But scattered as it was, the discontent was enough to raise a sweat at Rudol’s brow.
Duke Castar raised a hand for silence before it could get any worse. “Prince Rudol is an honored guest in Goldstone, and he represents his father the king. As long as he stands here, there will be silence.” His people obeyed almost immediately; he had to pause only briefly before the noise fell to a barely audible murmur. “Now, we have called you here today to put certain rumors to rest…”
Rudol stood silently with his hands clasped behind his back, watching the duke speak. He knows how to do this. Duke Castar commanded the lowborn much as Josen did, with effortless confidence. But somehow it didn’t bother Rudol the same way. Duke Castar’s authority was earned, born of proven leadership rather than a pleasant smile and a hundred false stories. He governed his duchy well, and his people responded to it. And watching him address his people, a thought that should have been forbidden rose in Rudol’s head.
He would be a good king.
He knew he couldn’t surrender Aryllia’s Crown, no matter how much he wanted to. It was his birthright, his responsibility. His burden. That was what his father would have said, and his grandmother, and his wife, and a large part of him agreed. How many times had he told Josen the same thing? And yet when he looked at Duke Castar now… They’ll never respect me like that. And the boy did come to him.
It wasn’t Rudol’s choice to make, not yet, and even if it had been, there was no choice. Not really.
But it was worth thinking about.
Shona
It was late in the evening when Castar returned to Shona’s chambers. She stood from her chair as he entered, and laid the book she’d been reading on the nearby desk.
“You don’t need me to tell any more lies, do you?” she said. “I’d hoped I was done with that for the night.” It had been Castar’s decision to excuse her and her parents from dinner with Rudol and Carissa, and though she didn’t know what reason he’d given for their absence, Shona had been glad of it. After watching that absurd bit of theatre in the market square, she’d had enough of deceit.
“I only came to thank you,” Castar said, closing the door firmly behind him. “You made the right choice today, Shona. I know it was hard for you.”
“You don’t know the first thing about it.” Shona scowled at him, and then let her lip curl upward just a bit. “But I was about the only thing that went according to plan, wasn’t I? Carissa isn’t about to let Rudol abdicate. You didn’t expect that.” She wouldn’t have either, before Josen had disappeared, but over the last few cycles Carissa had proven surprisingly adept at protecting Rudol from any influence but her own.
“Rudol will feel differently when his father is gone,” Castar said, but it seemed forced to her—like he was trying to sound more confident than he was. “The lowborn have seen me standing beside the last Windwalker. When the time comes to crown a new king, it will be my name they cry, not his. And mo
re than anything, Rudol hates to be unwanted. I planted a seed today. When the time comes, he will beg me to take his place.”
“But what if he doesn’t? What if Carissa convinces him otherwise? What if the people don’t rise up for you?” Shona let her slight smile twist into a smirk. Prodding the wounds in his composure was one of the few satisfactions left to her. “Not even the brilliant Lenoden Castar can plan for everything.”
“Do you really think this is about who has the best plan, Shona?” Castar shook his head sadly, a teacher disappointed in his student—he had a tendency, she’d noticed, to retreat into condescension when threatened. “You of all people should know that nothing ever goes to plan, least of all politics. What matters isn’t that events transpire the way we expect them to, but how we adapt to what events do transpire. And that is simply a question of who has the best information. Whatever decisions Rudol or anyone else makes are based on rumors and lies. I am the only one who knows the whole truth. When an opportunity arises, I can seize it before anyone else realizes it is there.”
“So you admit you’re just making this up as you go,” said Shona, and revelled in the frown it brought to his face. “What happens when someone guesses better than you? If Rudol stumbles upon the truth, it will mean war.”
“There is always that chance. Long for that day, if it makes you feel better. My feelings won’t be hurt. I know this is not where you want to be.” And as he said that, a smile came over Castar’s face very suddenly. “Although… perhaps there is something I can do about that.”
Shona didn’t like that smile at all. He’d thought of something, and she could already tell she wouldn’t like it.
“My dear,” he said, “I think it is past time I brought you home.”
27. A Chance Meeting
Zerill
“What’s that sound?”
Zerill held up a closed fist, and Josen fell silent, to her great relief. He’d become better at that of late, at least.
There was something there, though. She’d heard the noise growing in the distance well before he had, and recognized it immediately. Footfalls on the nearby road, the murmur of distant loudspeech. Highlanders. And not just a few. From the sound, it had to be hundreds, and getting very close.
There. She pointed. Orange light flickering through the trees, perhaps fifty yards ahead, and then the squires holding the lanterns, followed by a line of stormcloud-grey tabards. She ducked behind the nearest boggrove, and gestured behind her for Josen and Verik to hide themselves.
It wasn’t just knights. Some wore the grey, but behind the vanguard, most wore red, with a golden peak at their breast. These men were armed with simple longspears or straight-bladed swords, and lighter armor than the knights. Even without the color and sigil it wouldn’t have been hard to guess where they came from—the road led southwest to Goldstone. These were Lenoden Castar’s men. Why would he march his forces against another duchy? Are they going to war? She flicked a curse on her fingers. Why now? She was two days from delivering Josen to Greenwall, at most. Two days away, and suddenly the Swamp is full of highlanders.
It had been a long enough journey already, made longer by Josen’s weakness—more than thirty days from the Kinhome. Zerill had guessed that Korv would send hunting parties along the shortest paths to the Plateaus and Greenwall, their two most obvious destinations. She’d taken a more circuitous route, cutting between the two duchies and weaving between highlander outposts, then circling back southeast toward Greenwall. She’d changed direction more than once and left false trails wherever she could.
There were Abandoned near even now, she knew—she’d seen signs, and more than once come within a held breath of capture—but not as many as there would be on the nearer side of the mountain to the Kinhome. And very soon, Josen would be safe in Greenwall, where no amount of hunters could reach him.
Unless these highlanders interfere. This many armed men weren’t gathered for nothing. One way or another, she was going to have to adapt her plans to their presence, and that meant learning what they intended to do. We may even be able to use them—Korv won’t want to come too close.
Keep hidden, she signed at Verik. And keep him hidden. She tilted her head toward Josen—he was huddled behind the tree, trying his best to keep his still-raspy breathing quiet. I’m going to get a closer look.
Verik nodded. Careful, was all he signed back, but she could see the concern in his eyes.
Zerill pulled free a leather strap tucked at her waist and fastened it to her spear at both ends, then slung the weapon over her back. After checking it to make sure it was secure, she unwound the belt of hide the first strap had been tucked into; it wrapped around her waist several times, and opened into a long band. She passed the band around the trunk of a suitably narrow boggrove and gripped one end each hand, then dug her boot spurs into the bark and stepped quickly up the trunk, moving the strap with her as she went.
She could feel Josen’s eyes on her until she passed too far into the darkness for him to see. He was fascinated by the way she climbed—the first time he’d seen it, he’d annoyed her with questions for hours. What was normal for her was anything but for him, she supposed, just as the sunlight and safety he took for granted above the mist always amazed her. The attention made her uncomfortable, though. It was a minor enough thing, but letting a highlander learn even the smallest secret of the Abandoned went against every instinct she had.
It didn’t take long to reach the canopy. With her spurs and her strap as a counterbalance she could sprint a hundred feet up a tree-trunk near as quickly as the same distance on level ground. When she was close enough, she released her strap with one hand and leapt for the lowest branch, used it to swing herself up onto the next. With practiced swiftness, she wound the strap of hide around her waist once more. Then, creeping across the web of interwoven boughs, she made her way toward the road.
As always with highlanders, she heard them before she saw them, but she saw them not long after. There were too many to miss, a procession stretching back along the twists and bends of the road until it disappeared into the trees. They were not loud, by their standard—they kept their voices low, tried to step lightly—but to Zerill’s ears, they might as well not have bothered. That many highlanders together could never truly be quiet. The sound of their breathing alone preceeded them by a hundred yards, and their wagons rattled and creaked like old bones along the uneven ground.
The noise was enough to stir a pack of boggards into retreat—the little white-furred creatures moved through the trees as gracefully as any of the Abandoned, swinging on long man-like arms and gripping branches with curiously nimble toes. Their sudden movement and frightened chittering drew attention from the ground, and Zerill pressed herself flat against a thick branch to hide. One curious boggard stopped to study her, big black eyes wide against its pale, wizened face; she swatted at it and it jumped away screeching.
She waited there, holding her breath until the boggards were gone and for a long while after. Then, when she was certain she hadn’t been seen, she rose again into a crouch and took a longer look at the force marching by below. At least two thousand men, she guessed, and likely more down the road that she couldn’t see.
The bulk of the force clustered around a number of wagons—some covered, but most of them open, laden with blocks of quarried stone. Squires with lanterns were scattered all down the line, but Zerill’s attention was drawn to the brightest light among them. A half-dozen lanterns shone around a spot near the center of the procession, forming a single source of brilliance as intense as the sun to her sensitive eyes. Looking directly at it was uncomfortable, but she knew the highlanders well enough to know that she’d find her answers where the light was brightest. Bounding quietly from branch to branch, she moved closer, trying to get a clear look.
It was a wagon, drawn by a team of stout mountain ponies, but instead of stone or supplies, it carried passengers. Squinting against the stinging light, Zerill counted six
or seven in the back, and two more on the driver’s bench in the front. A lantern hung at every corner, swinging wildly with each bump in the road, and several more were held by young squires on either side, marching amidst the grey-clad knights that circled the wagon protectively. Zerill’s eyes couldn’t pierce the brightness of the lanterns well enough to make out the faces of the men and women who rode in the wagon-bed, but when the man sitting beside the driver twisted in his seat and spoke, she recognized Lenoden Castar’s voice instantly.
“You might show a bit of excitement, Shona.” His voice drifted up into the misty treetops, betraying nothing deeper than wry amusement. “You’re nearly home.”
Shona. The woman she’d brought Josen to see. What is she doing with Castar? Why come through the Swamp at all, instead of using their flying baskets? Is she his ally or his prisoner? And is the boy with them? Too many questions, and whatever the answers were, getting Josen to Shona was going to be that much more difficult with so many men protecting her. Assuming she is even willing to help, or able. Zerill’s heart felt suddenly heavy in her chest, and the only thing that kept despair at bay was an equally strong surge of anger. Ancestors, why is nothing ever easy?
Shona didn’t respond to Castar—in fact, no one else in the wagon seemed much inclined to speak at all.
“Well, I’m sure you’ll feel better when we get there,” Castar said, and it sounded to Zerill like mockery, but without seeing his face, she couldn’t know for certain. Again, no one answered.
Zerill followed them for a time, hoping to hear something about their plans, or the eagle-eyed boy, or at least the identities of the others in the wagon, but no one spoke again. Maybe that says something in itself. It doesn’t feel like she’s a willing ally. But does it matter? I can’t risk sending Josen into Castar’s hands. That was all she needed to know, really—willing or not, the woman was in Castar’s power. Nothing else Zerill learned would change that, and she didn’t want to leave Verik and Josen alone for much longer. Careful and silent, she crept back the way she’d come.
The Swampling King (The Windwalker Legacy Book 1) Page 45