Gareth looked up to find Dagnarus had turned from the window. He was staring at the boy with such a hostile aspect that Gareth’s flow of words stopped as swiftly as if the prince had popped a cork into his mouth.
“Your Highness,” said Evaristo, into the sudden silence, “Gareth has read this passage well, but with some difficulty. Perhaps Your Highness would like to read it correctly.”
To Gareth’s astonishment, Dagnarus cast Evaristo a look of such black malevolence and hatred that the boy would not have been surprised to hear the prince order the tutor beheaded on the spot. Evaristo was unperturbed.
“Your Highness?”
Dagnarus’s back stiffened. He turned away from his tutor, stared out the window.
“I do not choose to read,” he said in a stone-cold voice. His neck was red, a pinkish red contrasted against the smoky red of his hair.
“Very well, Your Highness,” said Evaristo. “Gareth, please continue.”
Flustered and upset, fearful that the prince would hate him, Gareth lowered his head over the book and mumbled something to the effect that the words were too difficult. He could not continue.
Evaristo merely smiled, said only that perhaps a night’s sleep would restore his memory. Setting the ork book aside, Evaristo asked Gareth what he intended to do with himself when he came to manhood.
The boy had never given the matter any thought. He was still so shaken by the book incident that he could make no reply, but sat staring down at his hands.
“Your father is Lord of Walraith, I believe,” said Evaristo. “Perhaps you intend to be nothing more than lord of the manor.”
“The estate is my mother’s, and it is entailed,” Gareth said, not looking up. “Upon her death, it goes to a cousin.”
He was not quite clear what this meant. All he knew was that his mother and father never ceased complaining at the unfairness of it all and had handed over a considerable amount of their fortune to lawyers in an effort to free themselves.
“I see. That is why you were brought to the royal court. Well, then, you will need a trade, an occupation. One suitable to your standing, of course. Perhaps you might consider becoming one of us, Gareth,” Evaristo continued. “A magus. Provided that you have the necessary aptitude for magic.”
Dagnarus whipped around at this and fixed his green eyes upon the boy.
Gareth looked to the prince for approval, doubting he would receive it. He was astonished, therefore, to see Dagnarus nod emphatically and form the words, “Take it!” with his mouth.
“I should like that of all things, Revered Magus,” Gareth said, adding hurriedly, “but I will not leave His Highness.”
Evaristo glanced again at Dagnarus, and seemed pleased to note the bond between them. “Don’t worry, Gareth. Formal training of a magus does not begin until you are twelve years of age. At that time, you must enter the Temple as a novice. However, that day is a long way off.”
No more was said upon the subject.
“And so you are going to be a magus,” said Dagnarus, returning to the sandbox after Evaristo had departed.
“If that is what Your Highness wants me to do,” Gareth said meekly.
“I do. But you must promise me that you’ll end up smarter than Evaristo if you study to be a magus. That nattering old ninny!” Dagnarus squatted by his sandbox, quite disgusted.
The toy soldiers had been painted with a fine eye for detail. Gathering up his nerve to touch them, Gareth picked up a miniature chariot and was amazed to discover that the wheels actually spun.
“They used to be enchanted,” Dagnarus said offhandedly.
“Really?” Gareth nearly dropped the chariot.
“Yes. When I said the word ‘march,’ the soldiers would march about and the horses would pull the chariot back and forth. My uncle made them—my mother’s brother. He’s a sorcerer in Dunkarga. But Evaristo lifted the enchantment.”
“Why?” Gareth was disappointed and tried to imagine the tiny soldiers marching across the sandbox, the little chariot dashing about madly.
“He says that magic is serious. It’s not meant to entertain small children. We shouldn’t meddle with it. He’s an old killjoy, like all priests.”
“If that’s the way you feel about magi, why do you want me to become one?” Gareth wondered.
“Because you will be my magus, of course,” said Dagnarus. “You will keep an eye on the other magi for me and tell me of any who appear to be growing too strong. Magi are very powerful, you know. What with their magic and all, I was thinking of becoming one myself, but I can’t do that and be king at the same time. Your being one will work out much better.”
Gareth had never been at court, but he was a child of the court, so to speak. The royal family and their gossip and intrigue were meat and drink to his parents. Though only nine, Gareth knew quite well that Dagnarus was second in line for the throne, that his elder brother, Helmos, was crown prince and would succeed his father, King Tamaros. Since Tamaros came of a long-lived family—his mother had seen her ninetieth year—his death wasn’t expected anytime soon. Only by the gravest mischance would Dagnarus ever gain the throne, so Gareth’s parents had said.
He had brains enough not to repeat this.
“When do you think you’ll be king?” Gareth asked instead.
“When I’m ready,” Dagnarus replied.
Placing the chariot and its rider at the head of his army, he gave it a push that sent the chariot spinning down the sand hill, careening madly toward the miniature enemy.
They played in the sandbox until the servants arrived with supper.
The boy and the prince ate their supper in the playroom. They ate plain fare, for it was well-known that young stomachs could not digest rich food. The rabbit stew wasn’t as good as Nanny’s, who put garlic in hers. Gareth mentioned that to the prince, who said he would speak to the chamberlain with instructions to the cook. They sopped up the gravy with bread. After supper, the chamberlain came in to say that Her Majesty wanted to see her son and meet the whipping boy.
Dagnarus made a face, but he said nothing. He submitted to having his hair combed and his mouth wiped, though he rebelled at the idea of changing his hose, which were dirty at the knees from crawling around the sandbox. He and Gareth—who was reduced to a state of almost pitiable terror at the thought of meeting the Queen—accompanied the chamberlain through the castle’s corridors to Her Majesty’s quarters.
“Suppose she doesn’t like me,” Gareth whispered to Dagnarus as they passed a row of armored knights standing still as death in the corridor.
Even in his trepidation, Gareth thought how terribly uncomfortable it must be for these knights, accoutered as they were in full plate and chain mail, to stand at attention like that and never move. He could not see that they even breathed, and he was quite worried about them, fearing that they might have smothered beneath those heavy helms. He said so to the prince.
“You are such a child!” Dagnarus said, hitting Gareth in the arm. “The suits of armor are empty. They’re only placed there for show. There are no knights inside.” Pausing a moment to chuckle, he added, “What makes you think my mother won’t like you?”
“The chamberlain said I was ugly,” Gareth answered.
“He did?” Dagnarus looked displeased.
“What if your mother doesn’t think I’m a fit companion?”
“Don’t worry, Patch. I like you, and that’s the only thing that matters.”
The chamberlain was not permitted to enter the women’s apartments, and he transferred custody of the boys to the Mistress of the Wardrobe, a stern-looking woman, who curtsied to the prince, examined Gareth with intense and disapproving scrutiny, and led them in to the Queen.
They entered through ornate, gilt-edged doors and walked into rooms of incredible wonder and beauty. At least that’s what Gareth thought then. In later years he would come to see that the furnishings were ostentatious and in poor taste. The smell of perfume was all-pervasive
and made him giddy. He sneezed three times, receiving a thwack on the head from the Mistress at each one of his indiscretions. The scent came from oil lamps that burned brightly, illuminating the bedchambers. Though it was daylight outside, the curtains were drawn. Her Majesty found that sunlight was harsh on the eyes and bad for the skin.
The boy and the prince passed through six sets of outer rooms decorated with tapestries and blazing with light from the oil lamps—an amazing display of wealth, for oil was not native to Vinnengael, but had to be shipped from the land of the orken, who trade in whale oil and ambergris.
Her Majesty was in the sitting room off the bedchamber, which Gareth could just glimpse through an open door. She slept alone; the King’s bedchamber was in another part of the palace, although the two connected through a private passageway. Gareth’s own parents did not sleep together, so this arrangement did not surprise him. Indeed, Gareth thought for years that only the poor slept together, and then because they could not afford better.
Queen Emillia was seated at her dressing table, admiring herself in the mirror while one of her ladies brushed her hair, which was thick and luxuriant, the same color as her son’s. At first glimpse she could be termed “pretty.” A second glance revealed imperfections. She knew how to dress to enhance the looks she had, but there was no denying the fact that her eyes—while a lovely color—were set too close together, above a nose that was overlong and brought to Gareth’s mind the noses of the hunting dogs of the tapestry. Her lips tended to pucker, as though she had been constantly eating persimmons. If those lips had smiled, rather than pouted, and if the light in her eyes had been that of intelligence rather than ambition, the aspect of her pinched face would have changed for the better. As it was, her face seemed to be drawn together to form a single point, ending at the tip of her nose.
Completely self-absorbed, she found fault with everything and everyone with two exceptions: her lapdog and her son. She lavished her affection on these two in equal parts, treating them similarly in that she gave them to other people to look after and only took notice of them when they were clean and neat, fed and brushed, and not likely to snap.
Her supporters—and the Queen did have supporters, every person of power has supporters in a royal court, for, as the elves will tell you, the winds of fortune may blow steadily from one direction for years, only to shift around in the night and knock down your house—her supporters said that it was no wonder she was irritable and ill-tempered. Emillia knew quite well that her husband didn’t love her. She knew that he didn’t even like her very much. Theirs was a political marriage and, from the constant trouble her father—a minor king in Dunkarga—continued to cause, it must have seemed to King Tamaros that he had made what was popularly known as an ork’s bargain.
Dagnarus resembled his mother only in the luxuriant red hair. He had inherited his good looks from his father’s side of the family and, indeed, was the portrait come to life of his grandfather, painted when he had been crown prince.
“My poppet,” said the Queen, and gave her son her cheek to kiss.
Emillia did not look directly at Dagnarus, but saw him only by reflection. All the time she spoke to her son, she was directing the servant in the arranging of her hair, which would then be adorned by a wimple. She was only twenty-five, had married a man nearly seventy.
Dagnarus kissed his mother with a show of filial affection that sent the ladies-in-waiting cooing and pronouncing him a “sweet” child.
The Queen’s hair was not being done to her satisfaction, apparently. The part was off-center and was giving her a headache. Fuming, she ordered them all away, calling them idiots, and turned at last to fuss with her son. She combed his hair with her fingers, adjusted his tunic, twitched at his belt, and petted him as she might have petted her dog, which was barking at the boys with great ferocity.
Gareth was staring at the dog when he heard his name mentioned. Dagnarus caught hold of Gareth’s wrist and dragged his friend forward. The Mistress of the Wardrobe, breathing down the boy’s neck, exerted pressure on his shoulder blades, but Gareth had been well schooled. He sank to his knees before Her Majesty and remained there with his head bowed until she should deign to acknowledge his presence.
“Let us see what you look like, child,” said the Queen.
Gareth lifted his face.
Her Majesty’s eyes widened. She gave a little gasp of horror and fell back in her chair. Clutching at her son, she dragged him away from the marked child and shielded him as though the mark might be contagious.
Mortified, Gareth covered his face with his hands and wished he might sink through the rug and the marble floor beneath it.
“No! Impossible! Why wasn’t I told?” the Queen cried.
The Queen’s ladies came fluttering to Her Majesty’s aid, bearing water and wine and feather fans to restore her. Gareth could see nothing, but he could hear the rustle of their skirts and smell their perfume as they crowded around the Queen. One of them stepped on him in her eagerness to attend. Another advanced upon Gareth holding a pillowcase in her hand, with the intention of clapping it over his offending head. Gareth heard his own mother’s voice crying out that the unfortunate child should be removed immediately.
“No, he shall not,” said Dagnarus.
Wriggling out of his mother’s grasp, the prince reached down and took hold of the first part of Gareth that came to hand, which was his hair. Dagnarus hoisted the boy to his feet. Gareth’s face burned with shame. He hung his head. Dagnarus took hold of his friend’s limp hand and locked his own hand over it like a manacle.
“Patch is my whipping boy, Mother,” said Dagnarus. “I like him, and I’m keeping him.”
The Queen looked up from amidst the arms of her ladies, where she had taken refuge.
“Dagnarus! Are you…certain?…Look, look at him.” She gave a wave of her hand in Gareth’s direction and averted her eyes.
“I will have this, Mother,” Dagnarus said. “I want it.”
That was all he had to say to her, then or ever. I want it.
The Queen permitted Gareth to kiss her hand, so long as he was careful not to touch his marked cheek against her skin. Gareth’s mother, radiant, suggested that the mark might be camouflaged with powder. The Queen was struck by this notion, and Gareth thought for one terrifying moment that they were going to go through with it, but Dagnarus again came to his rescue.
“The mark was put on his face by the gods,” said Dagnarus, adding in all innocence, “You wouldn’t want to insult them by seeming to disrespect them, would you, Mother?”
The Queen’s eyelashes fluttered. Like most people of modern thinking in Vinnengael, Queen Emillia did not put much faith in the gods, who for her were far distant. According to her and many members of the royal court, the Revered Magi were closer and able to manifest their power so that one could see it and utilize it. Therefore, people looked to them and their magic for aid rather than to the gods. King Tamaros was the exception. A devout man, he was strong in his faith and it seemed that the gods appreciated this, for Tamaros and—through him—all of Vinnengael had been singularly blessed.
But though Queen Emillia did not think much of the gods herself, she insisted that her child at least appear to worship them. Emillia was no match for her sharp-witted son. He had her backed into a corner, and there was nothing she could do to escape, except to complain again of the headache and say weakly that she was going to return to her bed.
The ladies were dispatched in all directions, some running for water to cool Her Majesty’s forehead, others running for poultice of nettle to soothe her eyes. Gareth’s mother lifted her gaze to heaven in thanksgiving, then shoved him out of her way as she rustled off to fetch lavender water to chafe Her Majesty’s hands.
Dagnarus said graciously that he hoped his mother would be feeling better soon, and he and Gareth left the bedchamber. Dagnarus wore a smile on his lips and kept Gareth’s wrist clasped firmly in his hand, as though he dared anyone to try
to take his friend away from him.
As for Gareth, it had been on the tip of his tongue to blurt out that it was an old beggar woman who had cursed him, not the gods. He kept silent, however. He was learning to trust Dagnarus, learning to leave everything to his better judgment.
Tangled Threads
When the tutor, Evaristo, had originally been appointed three years before to teach the young prince, who was then six, the tutor and his wife rejoiced, thinking their fortunes were made. Evaristo was an ambitious man, fond of his comfort, pleased with his snug house in the city, and hoping to provide a good life for his children. Evaristo knew the reverse all too well.
When he was a youth growing up poor and ignorant in the streets of Dalon’Ren, Evaristo had been a hedge-wizard—as it is known disparagingly in Loerem—an itinerant sorcerer who picks up the crumbs of magic let fall by the gods and uses these to cast spells. There were many hedge-wizards living in Loerem, utilizing their magic with varying degrees of success. Magic, like the sun or the air, the water or the dirt, is available to any man or woman with the skill and the desire to lay claim to it. Some are better than others at using magic, just as some are better stone masons or better lute players. There are those who have a true gift and talent for magic and those who merely dabble in it.
Evaristo was talented at it. Magic proved useful to the survival of himself and his family, Dalon’Ren being then a town with few laws and even fewer people to uphold those laws. Magic gained Evaristo the respect other boys earned with their fists.
Evaristo might have become one of the feared robber-sorcerers, who roam the woods and prey on travelers, but it was then that the church of Vinnengael, under the auspices of King Tamaros, began to try to impose order upon the ranks of those who lived by the use of magic.
This met with considerable resistance. The rumor went out that the church was planning to arrest all sorcerers and either force them to join the church or forbid them to use their art. Many hedge-wizards fled to the hills, others—like sixteen-year-old Evaristo—prepared to fight. The church, which was then led by Revered High Magus Dominaa, acted wisely. Dominaa sent out the priests with instructions to neither arrest nor intimidate talented wizards, but to do everything in their power to tempt them into adding their talents to the church’s vast reservoir of magical power.
Well of Darkness Page 6