by Dave Duncan
said.
Durendal almost dropped the bench he was
holding. "I don't feel as if I won.
I'll cut those ropes and get you out of here."
He cleared away the last of the wreckage.
"But there is no octogram, is there?" The
familiar croak had shrunk to a sound like rats
gnawing rafters. "The lodge was burning."
"No, no octogram. The King is
dead."
"The reading was correct, then. I knew you would
kill him one day."
"I think you killed him." Durendal drew his
borrowed sword. "You gave him that filthy
conjuration. The man I met today was not the king I
served all my life."
"Hairsplitting. You seek to justify your
treason."
"Perhaps." He cut the ropes binding the
spindly ankles, horrified at how cold the
flesh was to his touch.
"You are wasting your time," Kromman whispered.
"How long till sunrise?"
"About an hour."
"Hardly worth the effort, then, is it? My
back is broken. I am in very little pain."
Durendal moved the lantern closer.
Kromman's clothes were caked with blood. It was
incredible that this frail and brittle old man had
not died an hour ago, even if only from the
cold.
Baffled, Durendal said, "I have to go and get
help. You take a lot of killing,
Inquisitor, but I daren't try to move you."
The bloodstained mouth twisted in a grimace.
"If my pride allowed me, I would ask you
to use that sword. Would it give you a lot of
pleasure to kill me now?"
Durendal sighed wearily. "None at all.
I grew too old for vengeance. You had nothing
to fear from me."
"Only the death of my king."
He was abhorrent and contemptible, but he was
dying. He could be pitied for that. There was certainly
nothing to gloat about.
"I grant you that some of your motives were
honorable."
"My, is that the best you can do? Well, if we
are making up, then I ask you, out of common
kindness, to put me out of my misery. I beg you.
I implore you, Sir Durendal. You would do as
much for a dog." The corpse eyes gleamed with
mockery. Even now he was playing his spiteful
games.
"You want me to feel guilty, whether I
agree or not, don't you? Well, I don't
feel guilty about you, Kromman. I don't
hate you, I just despise you, because all you ever
wanted was power over other people--and when you
had it, you used it only to hurt. I don't think
you were ever really human. You certainly aren't
human now. I'll go and fetch some help."
There was no reply. Leaving the lantern,
Durendal climbed out of the wreckage and trudged
back up to the lodge. He sent a healer and two
stretcher bearers, but the old man was dead when they
got there.
When the sun came up, turning the blizzard
white instead of black, Durendal was standing in a
makeshift morgue in the village. The King
lay in improvised state in another room. This
one held the rest of the night's grisly toll:
Scofflaw, Kromman, four Blades, three
Ironhall candidates, one footman who had
been caught in the rampage--and Quarrel.
They gazed in silence upon the hero.
"He died saving his ward," Durendal said.
"Take his sword, Prime. Her name is
Reason. See she is put in her proper
place and honored forever."
"That's your job, my lord."
"I have other commitments."
He was a regicide. He would be taken back
to Grandon to pay the penalty for high treason. In
himself he was unimportant, but he feared that the
entire seniors' class of Ironhall might
die with him, and that would be a tragedy.
The Lord Chamberlain was Durendal's
son-in-law. The High Admiral was his
neighbor at Ivywalls. Three other members
of the Regency Council were former Blades, and
two more had been his proteges in Chancery. The
Council's first act was to summon him
to Greymere and order him to resume running the
government. He moved back into his old rooms
as if nothing had happened. The country remained
peaceful, mourning Ambrose with more nostalgia
than love, plus no small apprehension for
what might follow him. His body was brought
to Grandon to lie in state and was then returned to the
elements with all due pomp and respect.
The Baelish ship had sailed from Lomouth
while the storm still raged, much to the astonishment of
local manners. Commander Dragon's
introduction to ocean travel must have been
a memorable experience, but would a middle-aged
woman venture the return voyage at that
season, or would she send a regent? Or would
she, Durendal wondered in private, ignore
the summons and throw Chivial into chaos and civil
war?
Three weeks to the day after Kromman had
brought him his dismissal, a meeting of the Council
was interrupted by news that a flotilla of
Baelish ships had been sighted on the Gran.
According to its minutes, the Council then voted
to adjourn. In fact its members stampeded out the
door and up the stairs to the south gallery, which
commanded a good view of the river. The Baels had
wasted no time. No one had expected a reply
for at least another ten days, but there they were--
sleek, beautiful, and sinister in the winter
sunshine; three long vessels being rowed against
both wind and tide into the heart of the capital.
Although Durendal could make out no details at
that distance, the Admiral asserted that they were indeed
dragon ships. The absence of dragon prows or
red war sails, he said, was a sign that they came
in peace. The largest of them was flying an
elaborate banner that might be a royal standard.
Lord Roland retired to his quarters and
settled down to read a book. It was less than
two hours before a squad of men-at-arms arrived
at his door with a warrant for his arrest. It must have
been almost the first document issued in the new
reign, but somehow he did not feel especially
flattered.
Lord Thernford, Warden of Grandon Bastion,
had once been Sir Felix and before that a close
friend at Ironhall. He greeted his new guest
warmly and installed him in a comfortable suite of
rooms--bright, airy, and large enough for Lord Roland
to bring his wife to stay with him if he wished, and
keep two or three servants as well. The
following morning fresh orders arrived and a
shamefaced Felix escorted him down to the
dungeons. He was locked up in the very same
cell Montpurse had occupied, many long years
ago. It was clammy and cold and dim, and also
infinitely boring, for he
was allowed no
visitors and no news, but at least he was not
shackled as Montpurse had been. Queen
Malinda was not quite so malicious as the late
Inquisitor Kromman.
Nine or ten days later, he was taken up to a
bright room and interrogated by Grand Inquisitor
and one of his men. Why only two of them? And why
did the interrogation last a mere hour or so? He
must assume that they had already decided to put him
to the Question and were trimming the preliminaries to a
legal minimum.
Another two weeks went by. If the new
Queen chose to exert the full letter of the laws
concerning treason, not only would he be put to a very
shameful death, but Kate and the children would suffer with
him. His grandchildren would be left penniless orphans.
Malinda had nursed her hatred of Lord Roland
for many years, but now she could enjoy as much revenge
as she wanted. There was nothing she could not do to him and
his.
One afternoon, with no prior warning, two warders
brought a bucket of warmish water and a bundle of
fresh clothes. Clean and respectably
dressed, the prisoner was taken back up to the world
of light and fresh air. He had to wait a long
hour in unnerving silence before he was led in to see the
visitor, but he knew that he would not have been
treated like this if he were to he put to the Question. That
might come later, of course.
He knelt to await her pleasure, blinking
at the winter sunshine pouring through the window behind her.
She had always been a tall woman, heavy boned
and powerful. In bearing three children, she had lost
any trace of youthful charm, but at least she had
the sense to dress in sober, matronly style.
The diamond coronet that was her only adornment
added dignity to a face both cold and arrogant.
She looked convincing enough.
"We have read your statement. You plead guilty
to murdering our royal father."
"I did kill him, Your Majesty, with great
sorrow." His intention had only been to deprive
Ambrose of another rejuvenation, but that was
picayune hairsplitting. The intent and the
results condemned him.
"Why?"
"Because I believed that the monarch I had served
all my days was already dead. When he embraced that
terrible conjuration, he became something not human."
More hairsplitting, legal rubbish.
There were only two other people present, both standing
behind the Queen, both wearing the livery of the Guard.
One was Commander Dragon, glowering
darkly, but the other was young Hereward, and he was
smiling. With that realization, hope twisted in
Durendal's heart like a dagger.
"So we owe our throne to your regicide?" the
Queen asked.
Almost anything he might say in reply to that
damnable question could kill him. "I did my duty
as I saw it, Your Majesty, which is what I have
always done. Your noble father was my liege lord but also
my friend, inasmuch as a master and servant may share
friendship. I shall honor his memory for whatever time
is left to me, forgiving him that one final error."
"You rank yourself competent to judge your
sovereign's errors?"
"Ma'am, he had access to that conjuration for
twenty years and chose not to touch it. He was
tricked into it during his final illness, when he was
in a very distressed state of mind. If I judged
him, then I judged him as my friend, not as my lord.
If I have done nothing else, I believe I have
preserved his memory from shame."
The Queen pursed her lips.
He persisted. "I know this sounds foolish,
ma'am, but I am sure in my own mind that the
man I served so proudly and so long--the father you
knew, ma'am ... I think he would have
approved."
Silence. Then the Queen nodded almost
imperceptibly. "My father died in a fire of
unknown origin. A conjuration has been prepared
that will prevent you from ever saying otherwise. Will you
submit to that?"
"Gladly, ma'am!"
"Then we shall include your name in the general
pardon."
Fighting back tears, he bowed his head. "I
am indeed grateful for Your Majesty's mercy."
He would see Kate again!
Malinda had not done, though. "I have found little
cause to like you over the years, Lord Roland."
"If I ever caused Your Majesty distress,
it was with deep regret, and only because I believed
that I was doing my duty."
"It is only because I know that and respect you for
it that your head is going to remain on your shoulders,
my lord. And I am not ungrateful. Sir
Hereward, when the prisoner has submitted to the
conjuration we mentioned, you may give him back his
sword, but not before. Take him away."
Durendal rose, bowed, and backed,
and bowed again. ... Hereward came forward
solemnly, but grinned again as soon as the Queen
could not see his face. At her back, Dragon
was smiling, too.
Harvest, Hereward explained later, had been
located in the ashes and refurbished at
Ironhall. The new cat's-eye was less bright
than its predecessor and the armorers had some
doubts about the quality of the blade, but they
assumed that Lord Roland would not be putting it to any
strenuous use in future. Lord Roland agreed with
that prediction and kissed her.
No longer welcome at court, he lived
quietly at Ivywalls with Kate until she
died in the summer of the following year. Thereafter the
mansion seemed an absurd extravagance for one
bored old man of almost sixty. He yearned for the
company of his peers and something useful to do. When
Andy came back from sea the next time and
announced that he was through with voyaging to far quarters
of the globe, his father happily gave him the house
and estate outright. He belted on his sword,
mounted Destrier, and rode off to the west.
EPILOGUE
"That was very good," Grand Master said. "I did
not expect you to catch those last two."
"Kids' stuff!" The boy sneered.
"You think agility is of no importance to a
swordsman?"
"Um. Suppose tis."
"You are exceptionally agile. I think you would
do very well, but the choice is entirely yours, not
mine or your grandmother's. Yours. If you wish
to enlist, I accept you. If you do not, then I shall
tell your grandmother that I refused you. I warn you
that you will be embarking on a whole new ..."
As he went through the set speech, he watched the
play of emotions on the pinched and sullen face:
fear, contempt, a distrusted dawning of hope and
excitement. The spindly limbs showed no signs
of rickets, so a few good meals woul
d do wonders
for them, and a little pride would heal the wounded soul.
What boys of fourteen needed were fences to climb
over. If the gates were left open, they assumed
nobody cared. They could never understand that, though, and
if this young terror walked out of here today, he would be
hanged within a year.
"Have you any questions?"
"What about the other stuff?"
"It doesn't matter. It's forgotten. Your
name is forgotten. What people think of your new name will
depend entirely on what you do in future."
"Who chooses my new name?"
"You do."
"I want to be Durendal!"
"Oh, do you?" Grand Master chuckled. "I'm
afraid you can't have that one yet. He's still
alive."
"He is? But Grandmother says--"
"He's very old, but still quite healthy. Master of
Archives will help you choose another. There have
been many fine heroes whose name you can take. Pick
a good one and try to live up to it."
"Durendal was the best!"
"Some say so. Now, what is your decision?"
The boy looked down at his bare feet. Grand
Master held his breath. In five years he could
turn this young rogue into a first-rate swordsman.
If he didn't have five years left, others
would finish the work.
"You really want me? After what she told you
'bout me?"
"I do."
"All right. I'll try. I'll try real
hard."
"Good. I'm pleased. You are accepted.
Brat, go and tell the woman waiting outside that
she may go now."
Excerpt from Signal to Noise copyright
1998 by Eric S. Nylund
Excerpt from The Death of the Necromancer
copyright 1998 by Martha Wells
Excerpt from Scent of Magic copyright
1998 by Andre Norton
Excerpt from The Gilded Chain copyright
1998 by Dave Duncan
Excerpt from Krondor the Betrayal
copyright 1998 by Raymond E. Feist
Excerpt from Mission Child copyright 1998
by Maureen F. McHugh
Excerpt from Avalanche Soldier copyright
1999 by Susan R. Matthews
THE END