A great deal more to say apparently. The meeting of the magi and the Dominion Lords and the King continued far into the night.
The Dominion Lords backed Tamaros, arguing that the creation of their elven, orken, and dwarven counterparts would ensure the peaceful coexistence of the races. This would prove the humans’ good faith, prove that the humans trusted the other races to act in good faith themselves, create staunch allies, secure the Portals.
The magi worried that some evil person—ork, elf, dwarf—would gain the immense power of a Dominion Lord.
“We will provide guidelines,” said Tamaros, “suggesting what they should look for in a candidate. But these are only guidelines, not mandatory rules. The Sovereign Stone itself—being a gift of the gods—will reject any candidate for Dominion Lord deemed unsuitable.”
“Is the stone a gift from all the gods, Your Majesty?” asked the Librarian, known to be of a philosophical bent, laying emphasis upon the adjective.
“Why do you ask?” demanded the King warily. He knew better than just to answer yea or nay, since neither one was likely to be right according to the philosophical mind.
“Evil does exist in the world, Your Majesty,” the Librarian answered without answering.
“Evil exists in the Void, in absence of the gods,” the King countered.
“The Sovereign Stone fills up the Void,” said Helmos, growing angered. His father had been elated by the gift of the Sovereign Stone. He had brought it to them expecting the same elation, and Helmos could see that his father was deeply hurt by what he considered unreasonable doubts and far-fetched suspicions. “Where there was nothing before to unite the races, now there is something.”
“I only thought it right to mention it, Your Majesty,” said the Librarian meekly. “My apologies if I have offended.”
“Your Majesty,” said the Most Revered High Magus, “you have honored us by seeking our advice. Surely, then, it is our duty to ask hard questions, difficult questions, questions you may not like to hear. But it is better to ask them now and to be satisfied with the answers, than to wish later to our great sorrow we had asked them. I believe I may safely speak for us all when I say that we honor the gods for their gift and we honor even more the man whom the gods have chosen to honor.”
Tamaros bowed his head.
“But I must say that I find this vision of the gods disturbing,” said the High Magus gravely. “As you have related the meeting, we must believe that the gods are selfish, uncaring parents, who view us as small children, unworthy of their time. Is that true?”
“I have accurately described what the gods gave me to see,” Tamaros said stiffly. “I am certain the learned”—he cast a cold glance at the Librarian, who quailed beneath it—“will debate the interpretation for centuries to come.”
“Still, Your Majesty,” said Reinholt sternly, “in a matter this important, I feel I must ask this question, as painful as it may be. Was it the gods you saw as uncaring parents? Or yourself?”
The other magi were aghast. None could believe that even a man as highly placed as the Revered High Magus had dared ask such a question. Tamaros apparently could not believe it either. The King was outraged. He had never been so furious. He took great care to control himself for the moment, however. His rage was visible only in a sharply indrawn breath, the sudden extreme pallor that swept over his face, and the glitter of his eyes.
No one knew where to look. They could not look at the King. They did not want to look at the High Magus. They dared not look at each other, for fear that exchanged glances might be taken for complicity. They stared at the floor, therefore, or the wall or the ceiling. None looked at Helmos, or they would have seen him troubled, saddened.
When Tamaros spoke, his voice was dangerously calm. “Thank you, Revered Magus. And you are right to ask questions. With the Sovereign Stone as with all gifts of the gods, we must have faith in the gods to guide us along the right path.”
There was no doubt in anyone’s mind that the meeting was adjourned. They were all glad to leave. Everyone had noticed, though they did not dare mention it, that Tamaros had not answered the question.
The Most Revered High Magus bowed before the King—a formal bow that was meant to remind His Majesty that although he was political leader of his people, Reinholt was the spiritual leader and that he felt himself duty-bound. The Dominion Lords departed, after receiving the King’s warm and personal thanks for allying themselves with him.
Helmos remained with his father, who had not only gained back the twenty years he had shed but appeared to have added twenty more.
Haggard, gray with fatigue—the arguments had been long and wearing—Tamaros stood before the altar and gazed lovingly at the Sovereign Stone, loath to leave it, even to go to his well-earned rest.
“Why can’t they understand?” the King demanded querulously. “I cannot live forever. Perhaps, my son, you may be granted the gift of continuing to create Dominion Lords. Perhaps you may not. And after you, who knows? The Sovereign Stone ensures that the power of the Dominion Lords for good will continue. And now that power will extend into the other races. I am convinced that this stone”—he placed his hand reverently upon it—“will bring peace to the world forever.”
His son rested a loving hand upon Tamaros’s thin shoulder. “They are good people, Father. Dedicated and loyal. Yet, their minds are limited sometimes by petty cares and concerns. They see no farther than the tips of their own noses. You see the beautiful vista that lies before us.”
“And yet,” Tamaros said, not hearing his son, regarding the Sovereign Stone with a gaze that was now troubled, “and yet, I wonder. The gods told me…” He paused, uneasy, unsettled. “The gods told me: ‘It is sweet upon the outside, but bitter to the taste in the center.’And ‘It may be too rich for you to digest just now.’What do you suppose that means?”
“The Sovereign Stone would be too rich for one,” said Helmos, after a moment’s thought. “Yet, shared, the dish becomes exquisite. I believe that, again, the gods are telling you to share this gift.”
Tamaros laid his own hand upon his son’s. “You are a good son, Helmos. A good son, a good man. The ceremony of the gifting of the Sovereign Stone will be the grandest ceremony the world has ever seen. A joyous day, it will mark a turning point in the history of the world.”
The King began to make preparations for the ceremony. One of the earliest decisions he made was that his younger son, Dagnarus, would be an important part of the ceremony. The prince, a child, representing all the world’s children, would carry the Sovereign Stone from the altar to the King, who would then separate the stone into its four equal parts and distribute them to the representatives of each of the races.
Tamaros made this decision for several reasons—Dagnarus was a beautiful child, he was not intimidated by crowds, he knew the importance and value of royal ceremony. Those were the practical reasons for the decision to choose the prince. The other reasons were less tangible, felt, but not admitted. Truth be told, the words of the High Magus had disturbed Tamaros deeply. If Reinholt was saying such things, others were thinking them. Tamaros included Dagnarus in the ceremony out of defiance. He would show the world that he loved his children. Both his children.
Dagnarus was immensely pleased to be playing such an important role. The only fly in the honey for the prince was that now he had little time to spend with his new horse. He had to rehearse his part over and over again, something he found tedious in the extreme. When he wasn’t rehearsing, he was being measured for new clothes, which was even worse. Much as he loved finery, he detested having to stand perfectly still for the measurements. Since Queen Emillia was in charge, the clothes, when finished, were not right. The cloak was either too long or too short, the dalmatic was either too tight or too loose, his hat too large or too small and so Dagnarus was continually being hauled into Her Majesty’s chambers for measuring, while women with pins in their mouths fussed over him and mumbled.
“
Dagnarus!” Gareth grabbed hold of the prince as he was about to round a corner. “Look! Coming down the hall! Mistress Florence!”
Mistress Florence was in charge of the Queen’s dressmaking and hence was now in charge of Dagnarus’s ceremonial finery. She had a determined look on her face and a tape measure in her hand.
“This way!” said Dagnarus, who had been setting out to search for Dunner, hoping to persuade the dwarf to teach more horsemanship.
The boys ducked behind a convenient column, held their breaths until the seamstress scurried past them on her way to the prince’s chambers.
“She won’t find Silwyth there,” Dagnarus whispered. “And Evaristo’s gone for the day.”
“Which means she’ll come searching for you. Hurry up!”
The boys sprinted down the hall.
“How do you know Silwyth isn’t there?” Gareth asked. “Where else would he be?”
“On one of his mysterious errands,” said Dagnarus. “He always leaves when we’re out of the way.”
“Does he?” Gareth wondered. “He’s always there when we come back.”
“That’s how I know,” Dagnarus said with a wink. “He’s too punctual. It means he’s doing something behind our backs and taking care not to get caught. That and I saw him—No, this route, down the stairs.”
“I thought you said we should find Dunner in the Great Library. This isn’t the way.”
“The other way will take us too close to my mother. Down the stairs, down the hall, down a corridor, up the stairs, and we come by the Great Library from the opposite direction.”
Slowing his pace, Gareth worked out this route in his head. “But that will take us into His Majesty’s quarters. That’s near the council chamber. We’re not allowed to play there.”
“We’re not playing,” said Dagnarus, casting his friend a scathing glance. “I never play. Not anymore. Besides, no one will be there this time of day. My father and Helmos will be preparing for this afternoon’s levee.”
The boys climbed the broad stairs, rounded a corner, and saw what appeared to be an army of elves, wearing their bright-colored lacquered armor and armed with swords and spears, marching down the hallway.
“Gods save us!” Gareth gasped.
There was nowhere to hide, no long tapestries or stands of armor, no wide columns or friendly alcoves. Dagnarus wiggled the handle of a nearby door, found it unlatched. Pushing open the door, he dragged his friend inside the room and partially shut the door behind them, leaving it slightly ajar. Putting his eye to the crack, he peered out.
“Is it war?” Gareth asked, his voice quavering. “Are they coming to kill us?”
“Don’t be silly,” Dagnarus returned, irritated at his friend’s thickheadedness. “They’re wearing their ceremonial armor and there’s only twenty or thirty of them. They’ve come for the Sovereign Stone ceremony, of course. There’s Lord Mabreton arriving to meet them.”
“Oh,” said Gareth, feeling stupid. “Who is it, then?”
“I don’t know.” Dagnarus frowned. “Come to think of it, it is odd that they should be here. Their king—what do they call him?”
“The Divine,” said Gareth.
“Right. The Divine sent word to my father saying that Lord Mabreton would be the elf chosen to receive their portion of the Sovereign Stone. Now all these other elves have arrived. I wonder why.”
“Perhaps they’re here to guard the stone on its way back to the elven lands,” Gareth suggested.
Dagnarus opened the door another inch, to Gareth’s terror. “Lord Mabreton doesn’t look at all pleased to see them. Here’s luck! They’re stopping right in front of us! Now we’ll find out what’s going on. I’ll be the one to tell Silwyth news for a change, instead of the other way around. Whoever this elf is, he’s important. You speak elven.” Dagnarus motioned his friend over to the door. “Tell me what they’re saying.”
“I don’t speak that much elven,” Gareth protested in a whisper, but Dagnarus only scowled at him and gestured angrily at the door. Gareth sighed, knelt on the floor, and peeped warily out into the hall.
Dagnarus was right. Lord Mabreton regarded the arriving elven contingent with ire and displeasure, both emotions recorded on his face. He managed to smooth them away, but with visible effort. Crossing his hands over his chest, he bowed as the other elves approached.
The elf in the lead—a large man of middle years—did not wear armor, but was dressed in rich, brocade robes, thick and so covered with jewels and embroidery that the robes might well have served as armor. He walked ahead of his retainers, came to a halt in the middle of the corridor. The elf made no sign that the boys could see, but the retainers accompanying him halted as one, acting on some unspoken command. The elf in the lead advanced toward Lord Mabreton, stopped only when he was practically standing on the lord’s toes. He was too close. Elven protocol required that a respectful distance be maintained between persons unless one or another had issued an invitation to cross the invisible barrier. One of the elves would have to step back.
The two stared at each other. The strange elf crossed his arms over his chest. Lord Mabreton lowered his gaze and fell back a pace, though he did so with an insipid coldness not lost on either the other elf or the two unseen spectators.
“Shield of the Divine,” said Lord Mabreton, looking uneasy, “I am sorry I was not on hand at the Portal to greet you, my lord, but I was only now informed you had arrived. We are always honored by your presence, but we cannot but wonder why you have chosen to come to Vinnengael at this time.”
“I have come to see the ceremony,” said the Shield in mild tones. “A ceremony in which, I understand, you are playing an important part.”
Lord Mabreton’s uneasiness increased, though he attempted to hide it. His gaze slid out from under the intense gaze of the Shield. He cast darting glances up and down the corridor, which was empty, except for the elves.
“An unimportant part in an unimportant ceremony, my lord,” Lord Mabreton said in deprecating tones. “The Divine has asked me to represent our people. The ceremony is scheduled to be held seven days from now. I am certain you will find the wait fatiguing, cooped up as you and your retinue would be in this dank castle. I offer my own house for your lordship’s stay—”
“A house that is indeed very fine, also very far from Vinnengael,” said the Shield. “I stopped at your house, Lord Mabreton, on my way here. My soldiers find it most commodious. Your beautiful wife is a gracious hostess.”
Lord Mabreton flushed in anger. He made an involuntary movement with his hand, a movement that caused every guard in the Shield’s troop to place his hand upon his sword hilt with a precision that made Dagnarus nod in critical approval.
The blood left Lord Mabreton’s face in a rush, replaced by a sick pallor. Slowly he lowered his hands, held them, trembling, at his sides.
The guards kept their hands upon their swords. They stood at rigid attention, taking note of everything from the sweat beading Lord Mabreton’s brow to a cat slinking through the corridor, searching for a mouse.
The Lord seemed to be struggling to find something to say to this. The Shield saved him the bother.
“I am certain the Divine is right now composing a poem intended to inform me of the gift of the Sovereign Stone, a poem that will explain its powers, among which, as I understand it, is the power to create elven Dominion Lords. Such a wonderful gift from the gods deserves a poem of magnificence. No doubt the Divine will spend months working on it,” the Shield added dryly. “Months during which he has the Sovereign Stone in his possession. Months during which he will create his own Dominion Lords.”
“He is the Divine,” said Lord Mabreton, blustering, his anger overtaking him. “And I am the representative of the Divine! The Sovereign Stone is his by right!”
“I am the Shield of the Divine,” said the Shield, his voice glinting with a dangerous edge. “The protector of the Divine. The Sovereign Stone comes to me by right. You must step
aside.”
He advanced forward. “Or be pushed.”
Lord Mabreton lost his senses. Enraged, he shouted, “Do you dare to threaten me? I am a Guardian. A loyal servant to the Divine. You dare not touch me! Not without bringing your own House crashing down around your ears!”
Dagnarus punched Gareth on the shoulder. “Look! Silwyth!”
“I see,” Gareth whispered, rubbing the bruise.
Silwyth had rounded the corner at the far end of the corridor. He walked up behind Lord Mabreton, who, intent upon the Shield, did not see the chamberlain or hear his soft-footed approach. Silwyth came to within five or six paces of Lord Mabreton and then halted, watching the Shield.
The Shield of the Divine folded his arms across his chest, gazed coldly at Lord Mabreton, then gave an almost imperceptible nod.
“You are right, Lord Mabreton,” said the Shield in a mild and conciliatory tone. “I dare not touch you.”
Silwyth glided up behind Lord Mabreton. Silwyth’s hand jerked. The boys saw a flash of light glinting off steel.
Lord Mabreton looked immensely surprised, then shocked. He gave a grunt, his knees buckled. In one smooth gesture, Silwyth withdrew the knife from Lord Mabreton’s back and caught the man in his arms, preventing him from falling to the floor.
So swiftly, so silently, so smoothly was the murder accomplished that neither boy realized immediately what he had just seen.
At a gesture from the Shield, one of his bodyguard lifted Lord Mabreton’s body and slung it over his shoulder. The lord’s head and arms dangled down the guard’s back. The guard wrapped his arm securely around the lord’s legs.
The lord’s eyes, wide-open and unmoving, stared straight at the boys. An expression of astonishment was frozen upon the man’s features. A trickle of blood drooled from the gaping mouth.
“He’s…he’s dead!” Gareth gasped with horror.
Well of Darkness Page 17