The Shield glanced around. “What was that?”
Dagnarus clapped his hand over his friend’s mouth. “Silence!” the prince whispered with dire urgency in Gareth’s ear.
Gareth, shivering, nodded. The boys remained crouched behind the partially open door, not moving a muscle, not even daring to breathe.
“Only that, my lord.” One of the guards pointed.
The cat pounced, held a mouse beneath her paw.
“Ah, the hunter’s reward,” said the Shield, smiling.
Silwyth wiped the blood from his knife with a white cloth, tucked the knife and the bloodstained cloth into his long flowing sleeve. Artfully, he arranged Lord Mabreton’s clothing so that the bloodstain on the back was not visible.
“What do you intend to do with the body, my lord?” Silwyth asked.
“I will have it sent back to our homeland, where he can be given a proper burial. I will do his family no insult. I will not give his ancestors cause to haunt me or his House cause to rise up against me.”
“Yet they will see that he died of a knife wound in the back, my lord,” Silwyth observed.
“True.” The Shield turned to the guard carrying the body. “When you are safely out of the palace, thrust your sword into the body from the front. Lord Mabreton died doing his duty, misguided though that duty was. We will grant him a soldier’s death, that his family may receive him with honor.”
The guard bowed his head to indicate he understood.
“You, Silwyth, will have to show the guard the way out of this impossible place,” said the Shield.
“Yes, my lord. I will show him a passage that leads beneath the waterfalls and from there out by a secret route I have discovered. If anyone stops us, I will say that the lord is drunk. It would not be the first time.” He hesitated, glanced at the Shield as if he would say something more, then lowered his gaze.
“Speak, Silwyth,” said the Shield, smiling expansively. “You have done me great service this day. I owe you an impertinent question or two.”
“I was wondering…Lady Mabreton…” Silwyth seemed embarrassed.
“The beautiful Lady Mabreton.” The Shield rested his hand upon Silwyth’s shoulder. “Lord Mabreton has an unmarried brother—recently widowed, I understand—who will no doubt be glad to take the lady for his wife. Do not worry. She will not be made to pay for her husband’s follies.”
Silwyth nodded, relieved.
“She will accompany the body home,” the Shield continued. “I spoke with her last night. The sudden death of her husband will come as no great surprise to her. Nor do I think she will be overwhelmed with grief. And now, I am already late for an appointment to meet His Majesty. I trust I will see you again during my visit, Silwyth?”
“If my duty to the young prince permits, my lord.” Silwyth bowed.
The Shield continued on down the corridor, accompanied by his guards. Silwyth went in the opposite direction, guiding the guard who bore Lord Mabreton’s body.
“Silwyth murdered that man!” Gareth gasped, when the corridor was completely empty, when the last footfall could no longer be heard. “He stabbed him—in the back! I saw his face!” He shuddered and put his hands before his eyes, to shut out the dreadful sight. “I saw his face!”
“Stop it! You’re behaving like some silly chambermaid screeching over a rat,” Dagnarus scolded. He pinched his friend’s arm, hard. “Put your head between your legs. You’ll feel better. How I wish I understood elven,” he added, frustrated. “What was that all about? What were they saying?”
“I don’t know,” Gareth mumbled. “I don’t feel good.”
“Tell me, damn it!” Dagnarus gave Gareth a shake that forced him to lift his head. “Tell me what they said.”
Dagnarus’s face was pale, the green eyes burned, burned through the sick feeling in Gareth’s stomach, burned through the shock and the horror.
“Tell me, Patch,” Dagnarus commanded. His voice was steady, he exerted a calming influence.
Gareth obeyed, as he was accustomed to obey.
“It was about the Sovereign Stone,” he answered, his voice shaking. “The Divine wanted it for himself, I guess. This man is the Shield of the Divine and he thinks the stone should belong to him. The lord said that it belonged to the Divine and then…then…” Gareth gulped.
“So Silwyth works for the Shield,” Dagnarus muttered.
“Your father’s going to be furious when he hears,” Gareth pointed out. “He thought the Sovereign Stone was going to bring peace. Instead, this…”
“My father must never know about it,” Dagnarus said firmly. “You will never tell anyone what we saw today. If you do, Patch”—the prince paused, searching his mind for the most dire threat he could find—“if you do, I’ll have you kicked out. I’ll say you stole from me. I’ll have your parents kicked out of court, too. Your family will be ruined. You’ll be begging in the streets!”
Gareth stared, horror-numbed.
“I’ll do it!” Dagnarus said in a tone that left no doubt. “You know I can. You know I will. Promise me, Patch. Promise me that you will tell no one what we saw here today.”
“But, the man was murdered…”
“It’s none of our concern. Promise me, Patch! Promise!”
“I promise,” Gareth said thickly.
“That’s good.” Dagnarus petted his friend, as if rewarding an obedient dog. “That’s good. The news would have hurt and worried my father terribly. You wouldn’t want that, would you?”
Gareth shook his head. He knew full well that Dagnarus wasn’t the least bit concerned about hurting his father. This was something else, something Gareth didn’t understand or want to understand.
“How will we face Silwyth?” Gareth asked miserably. “How can I let him touch me after…after that.”
“Don’t be silly!” Dagnarus said scornfully. “Argot’s killed hundreds of men, and you don’t mind if he touches you.”
“It’s not the same,” Gareth argued. “He killed men in war.”
“This is war, Patch. Just a different kind of war. An elf kind of war. Come on. We’re late as it is. Dunner will be wondering what happened to us.”
“Why are you staring at me, Gareth?” Silwyth asked that night, as he served the boys their dinner of rabbit en casserole and bread. “Does my face suddenly displease you?”
Dagnarus kicked Gareth beneath the table.
Gareth lowered his head, stared instead at the meal, which he could not eat. He couldn’t help himself. He had seen Silwyth kill a man in cold blood. Even an elf, Gareth thought, should show some residue of emotion after committing a deed as heinous as that. But Silwyth was as unruffled and unperturbed as ever. Dagnarus glared at his friend, reminding him of his promise. Gareth, pleading illness, went early to his bed.
But he could not sleep. Through his closed eyelids, he saw the face of the dying elf. He saw Silwyth’s face, impassive, uncaring, as he plunged the knife into the man’s back. In the next room, in Dagnarus’s bedchamber, Gareth heard Silwyth’s voice, calm, smooth, speaking to the prince, making him ready for bed.
Shivering in the darkness, Gareth wished the voices to be silent. But then he realized that if the voices fell silent, he would be utterly alone with the ghostly face of the dead elf. Gareth crept from his bed and pressed his body against the door. He could not enter the prince’s chamber, not without arousing Dagnarus’s scorn and perhaps even his anger. But Gareth needed to be as close as possible to the living, in order to banish the dead.
The prince was in his bed and Silwyth was pausing as he always did before leaving the prince for the night. The elf held a candle in his hand preparatory to withdrawing. Gareth could see the light beneath his door.
“Will there be anything else I may do for His Highness?” Silwyth asked, as he always asked.
“I hear that Lord Mabreton has left the court. Isn’t his departure rather sudden and unexpected?” Dagnarus asked.
Gareth shuddered at the
prince’s temerity. He opened the door a crack, fearful that Silwyth—who had already committed one murder that day—might decide to compound it by murdering the prince.
Silwyth did not immediately answer. He gazed at Dagnarus, who met the elf’s gaze, held it, sent it back.
“Not quite unexpected,” said Silwyth, breaking the long silence. “He was given a choice, and he made it.” He paused another moment, then said, “I wondered why Gareth looked at me so strangely at dinner, as if I might devour him. You two saw what happened?”
Dagnarus nodded. Gareth shut his eyes, fearing the worst.
Silwyth held the candle steady. The flame never wavered.
“Did you understand what you saw, Your Highness?”
“Not completely,” Dagnarus admitted. “Patch doesn’t speak elven all that well. I know that the Shield wanted to be the one to take the Sovereign Stone and that Lord Mabreton wanted to take it himself. Why did he have to die? Why didn’t he just leave when the Shield wanted him to? Why didn’t the Shield let him leave?”
“If he had left the palace without the Sovereign Stone, Lord Mabreton would have failed in his duty to the Divine. He would have lost face. He would have been forced to return home dishonored. In order to regain his honor, he and his House would have declared war upon the Shield and his House. The Divine, in order to avenge the insult given to his servant, Lord Mabreton, would have taken sides against the Shield. The elven nation would have been plunged into civil war. It is conceivable that because of the Portals, Vinnengael itself could have been drawn into the war. No one wins a civil war, Your Highness. The loss of life would have been incalculable.”
“My father believes the Sovereign Stone will bring peace to the world,” said Dagnarus. “Yet one person has already died because of it.”
“The stone has brought peace, Your Highness. War has been averted. Peace will be maintained. The death of one has saved the lives of many. The lord’s spirit will understand that, when he goes to join his ancestors. Do you plan to tell the King?”
Silwyth asked this quite casually, either certain of the answer or prepared to deal with any eventuality.
Dagnarus shook his head. “No. I’ve told Patch to keep silent, as well. No matter what you say, my father would not understand. He would be distressed. He was already angry at the Revered Magi. He said if there was any more trouble or dissent over it, he would lock the Sovereign Stone away and never use it. And that would be a pity,” Dagnarus concluded softly. “Have you seen the Sovereign Stone, Silwyth?”
“No, Your Highness, I have not had the honor,” Silwyth replied.
“I have,” said Dagnarus.
Gareth listened closely. The prince had said nothing to him of this. He’d said nothing to anyone.
“My father permitted me to hold it one day when we were practicing for the ceremony. I could feel the power within it, Silwyth. The diamond made my skin prickle the way you feel lightning about to strike near you. The hair on my arms rose, and my body tingled all over. It was frightening and thrilling, all at the same time.”
“You felt the power of the gods, Your Highness,” said Silwyth.
“Yes, I know. Such power should not be wasted. What will the elves do with their piece of the stone, Silwyth?”
“The Shield will take it to keep in the name of the Divine. The Shield will make Dominion Lords, who will act in the name of the Divine to keep the elven nation safe and who will work with your people, Your Highness, to promote the good of both great nations.”
“What will the dwarves and the orken do with their share of the stone, do you suppose?” Dagnarus mused.
“I have no idea, Your Highness,” Silwyth said disdainfully. “Whatever they do, I cannot see that it will be of much importance to us.”
“I will ask Dunner,” said Dagnarus. Yawning, he snuggled down into his soft pillows. “I will go to sleep now.”
“May Your Highness sleep well,” Silwyth said. He withdrew toward the door, taking the light with him.
“Silwyth,” Dagnarus called, as the elf had his hand upon the door handle.
“Yes, Your Highness?”
“My brother will inherit that power, won’t he? He will inherit our part of the Sovereign Stone.”
“Yes, Your Highness. When he becomes King.”
Silwyth waited for Dagnarus to respond, but the prince was silent. Thinking that his charge had fallen asleep, Silwyth withdrew, softly shut the door, leaving the prince in darkness.
Dagnarus sighed, a sigh of frustration, a sigh of longing.
Once the brighter candlelight was withdrawn, moonlight was able to enter, stealing through the window like a ghost of the sun. Gareth, peeping through the door, could see the prince lying on his back in his bed, arms beneath his head, staring, frowning, into the moonlit darkness.
Gareth crept softly back to his own bed, wishing in his heart he had never heard that sigh. He lay down, afraid to close his eyes, fearful he would see once again the face of the dead elf.
But Lord Mabreton must have gone to his ancestors. He must have been rewarded for doing his duty, because Gareth never saw the elf’s face again.
The Well of Darkness
Evaristo was concerned about his pupil the next day. Normally cheerful and eager to learn, Gareth was silent and preoccupied. He kept glancing sidelong at the door, and—when Evaristo proposed that they study the elven custom of ancestor-worship—Gareth shook his head violently and refused to open the book.
At length, Evaristo decided that Gareth was jealous of the attention being lavished upon Dagnarus, who was, of course, not there. The prince had gone to feed and water his horse, for Dunner had told him that performing such menial tasks for the animal, tasks usually left to stable hands, would create a bond of affection between horse and master.
It is only natural that the child feels neglected, thought Evaristo, who knew Gareth’s parents. Adding to the child’s jealousy at being left out was the bustle and turmoil and excitement pervading the palace, with dignitaries from all parts of Loerem arriving daily, celebratory parties every night.
The boy was probably dyspeptic, as well as envious. The ceremony was in six days’ time, and Evaristo would be heartily glad when the ceremony was over and they could settle back down to normal. Meanwhile, he tried to think of something to do to win back the attention of his pupil.
“Gareth,” said Evaristo, and was startled to see the boy jump in his chair.
“Yes, Master?” Gareth lifted a wan face.
“Let us abandon our lessons today.” Evaristo slammed shut his book and shoved it to the center of the table. “There are too many distractions. Neither of us can concentrate.”
“I am sorry, Master,” Gareth said. “It’s just—” He hesitated, looking at Evaristo doubtfully.
“Just what, Gareth?”
“Nothing.” Gareth sighed deeply.
Evaristo waited, but the boy remained silent.
It would do him good to talk about his feelings, Evaristo thought. But he must choose the time. Forced confidences would cause the boy to come to resent him.
“How would you like to spend the morning in the Royal Library?” Evaristo asked.
“Truly, Master?”
“Yes, truly,” Evaristo said, well pleased with the success of his suggestion.
Gareth’s face had regained its color, his eyes brightened. He jumped to his feet energetically. “May we go now?”
“Yes, at once. You know that there are rules to be followed,” Evaristo said, as the two walked through the corridors, usually empty, but now crawling with servants and bodyguards, dressmakers and cooks, scribes and secretaries and the occasional dignified personage, holding himself or herself aloof from it all.
“Yes, Master,” said Gareth, trying to maintain the dignity suitable to the occasion.
“You do not speak,” said Evaristo. “That is the number one rule, and any infraction thereof will result in your being escorted out. If you have a question or you
want information, you go to the head librarian, write your question upon a board placed there for the purpose, and receive your answer.”
Evaristo looked severe. “It is commonly a joke among the novices to sneak up and write ‘Fire!’ upon the board, but I trust you will not be tempted to emulate them.”
“No, Master, of course not,” said Gareth, shocked.
“Good.” Evaristo nodded with approval. “The head librarian knows the location and contents of every book. That is his job. The books are grouped by category, all very ordered and logical, though it might not seem so at first. For example, you might expect to find a book on shipbuilding among the category for the orken, but such books have their own section. If, however, a book on orken superstitions happens to have a chapter on shipbuilding, you would find that in a different location. And if the book is written in the orken language and not the human, it would be in another location altogether.
“Don’t worry,” said Evaristo, resting his hand upon his pupil’s shoulder. Gareth was looking stunned, as if he were being pelted with rocks. “It sounds very confusing, I know, but you will soon become accustomed to it. For today, walk around, familiarize yourself with the rooms. Be careful not to disturb anyone reading, although I do not believe there will be many in the Royal Library this day. Everyone is preparing for the ceremony. If you find a book you would like to read, remove it carefully from the shelf. Place one of the wooden blocks you will see stacked about the room on the shelf to hold the book’s place. Carry the book to the head librarian, that he may see the title. Thus he knows who has the volume, in case anyone else requests it.”
The Royal Library was practically deserted. Not even Dunner was there. The head librarian, seated at a great podium, with the large blackboard on a stand next to him, frowned at the sight of a child entering his sanctum. Evaristo wrote “Scholar” upon the board. The librarian, who was a small and wizened man with a remarkably large head, undoubtedly to accommodate all the knowledge, gave an abrupt nod and went back to the volume he was perusing.
Evaristo selected a volume for himself and Gareth was left to gaze around in awe.
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