The orken sat down. He had said all that was necessary to be said. Helmos was grateful for the support, though he had the feeling that the ork had done more harm than good. King Tamaros was angry now, recalling the incident in question, an incident that had been downplayed as a misunderstanding—a rather humorous misunderstanding. Tamaros was not pleased to be reminded of it, nor was he pleased that the unfortunate incident, which had involved the Sovereign Stone, had been brought up before the Council. Several of the Dominion Lords appeared mystified by the ork’s blunt statement and were looking to the King for answers.
Lord Mabreton, taking his cue from the irate king, decided to sidestep the issue. “Are there any more words to be spoken either for or against the nomination of Prince Dagnarus?”
The elf looked at Dunner, who was known to all of them to be the prince’s longtime friend. The dwarf sat with head bowed, uncomfortable. He agreed with Tamaros, so far as his praise of Dagnarus, and yet the dwarf found himself agreeing with Helmos, as well. Dunner was sadly torn. He liked Dagnarus as well as a dwarf could like a human, and he wanted very much to vote for Dagnarus, for the ballot was not secret. The prince would know the names of those who had voted in his favor and those who had not. Dagnarus would never forgive those who had not. Yet Dunner wondered if he could do so with a clear conscience. For the first time in his life, the dwarf wished himself an ork, wished that there was a flight of birds or a swarm of insects to make clear to him what to do.
“It is long past the supper hour,” he said at last, finding something useful in the strange human custom of eating at set times. “I cannot think over the rumbling in my belly. Let us adjourn for food, then come back and hash this out.”
The Council voted to adjourn and reassemble in two hours. Tamaros remained behind until all had departed, talking pleasantly, answering questions, thanking those who expressed their support. Helmos remained seated. Several of the human Dominion Lords came to him, spoke to him in low tones. He thanked them for their concern, and they, too, departed. Eventually, father and son were alone.
“Father,” Helmos began. “Please believe—” His words died.
Tamaros rose to his feet. He regarded Helmos with sadness and with pity. “It had never occurred to me that you could be this jealous of your brother. That you could so completely misunderstand and misrepresent him. The fault is mine. I have failed as a father to both of you.”
“Father!” Helmos stood up. “Father, please…”
Tamaros turned his back and left the room.
When the Council of the Dominion Lords resumed meeting two hours later, the vote was seventeen to six in favor of Dagnarus.
In the end, Dunner voted for his friend.
Shakur
“Ah, here you are!”
The loud voice split the quiet of the library, completely unexpected, like a lightning bolt streaking out of a clear blue sky, and therefore twice as startling. Heads bent over books reared up, readers gasped, hands jerked, causing ink bottles to spill and pens to blot. The librarian was on her feet, her face pinched and pale with anger, and then she saw the person responsible. The angry words were too far advanced to be retrieved, but she was able to garble them sufficiently so that she did not reprimand the prince.
Dagnarus brushed aside her incoherent gabblings, strode among the tables, and came to Gareth.
“I’ve been looking for you everywhere!” Dagnarus stated, as if it were Gareth’s fault that he was not where the prince thought he should be.
Gareth had recognized the prince’s voice and was already on his feet, feverishly gathering up the books he had been studying, his face and ears hot and crimson with embarrassment. The other scholars dare not show irritation at the prince, but a young Temple novice was fair game, and so they glared angrily at him.
“Now look what you’ve done!” Gareth said to the prince beneath his breath.
“A fox in the chicken coop,” said Dagnarus, glancing around. “Dull old farts. I daresay most of them haven’t felt such excitement in years. Forgive me, Librarian,” he said in meek and mild tones, bending over the Librarian’s hand and kissing it reverently. “I did not mean to create such a stir. I am a soldier, not a scholar, and am unaccustomed to being in such silent, solemn, and studious surroundings. I have urgent matters to discuss with my advisor, Gareth. Matters of state. Most important. Do forgive me.”
“Certainly, Your Highness,” said the librarian, much mollified by his words, which he uttered with disarming sincerity. Though she was quite absorbed in her work, to which she was wholly dedicated, his good looks and charming manner made his kiss on her hand very delightful. She blushed with the honor and the attention and cast an oblique glance from under her lowered lashes to make certain the other magi noticed.
The prince departed the library, his fur-lined riding cloak creating a small whirlwind that swept books off tables and sent papers rising into the air. Gareth followed in the path of the storm, which cut a wide swath of destruction before the prince was safely out into the corridor.
“What—” Gareth began.
“Not here,” said Dagnarus, and, grabbing hold of Gareth’s sleeve, he dragged his friend off farther down the corridor, into the part of the castle where the empty suits of armor kept their rusting vigil.
“What is it? What’s wrong?” Gareth asked.
Dagnarus had evidently come from outdoors—his cheeks were bright from the crisp, cool air, and he still wore his cloak and riding boots.
“I’ve been hunting,” he said.
“Hunting?” Gareth stared, unable to imagine what this had to do with him. “Did the hunt go well, Your Highness?”
“Not for game. For a man.”
“Yes?” Gareth was still perplexed.
“A fugitive. You remember that burgher who was stabbed in an alleyway down in the lower city last week?”
“I heard of it, yes. Robbery, I believe?”
“That’s what it was meant to look like—purse and jewels stolen. But the sheriff was suspicious. For one thing, the knife blow that killed the man was quick, clean, struck straight to the heart. He died instantly without a cry. Then, the jewels showed up again in the possession of the grieving young widow, who was being comforted for her husband’s untimely demise by a very handsome young ‘cousin.’ ”
“An assassination, then,” said Gareth.
“Exactly. These two, who were lovers, wanted to be rid of the husband, but not his money. So they plotted to kill him. The assassin would steal the jewels, to make it look like robbery, but the greedy little widow couldn’t bear the thought of actually parting with them, so she instructed the assassin to bring them back to her. She and her lover were captured, they made a deal with the sheriff to agree to banishment on condition that they stand witness against the assassin. This they’ve done. He almost eluded us—he’s a wicked, cunning rascal—but we tracked him down in the mountains.” Dagnarus grinned, elated with the chase, pleased with the capture.
“I am glad such an evil man has been brought to justice, Your Highness,” said Gareth, “but what—”
“What has this to do with us?” Dagnarus leaned close. “I have our candidate. Our first Vrykyl.”
Gareth felt the blood leave his head in a rush, pool somewhere around his gut, which sank with the weight. Light-headed, he stumbled backward, leaned against the wall.
“What’s the matter, Patch?” Dagnarus asked, displeased. “You looked shocked. Don’t tell me you weren’t expecting this? Here, lower your head before you pass out on me!”
“I wasn’t expecting this, Your Highness,” Gareth said, doing as he was bid, hanging his head until the blood returned. “I never supposed…not so soon…”
“We must seize time by the fetlock, as Dunner would say,” the prince returned. “I am eager to see if this works. And we may never have a subject more suitable. A trained killer, caught, sentenced to hang next week. We offer to free him if he’ll perform a job for us. A job requiring nothing exc
ept that he openly embrace the Void. I don’t see how this wretch can turn us down.”
Gareth lifted his head. He could see his face, which looked ghastly, reflected in the armor across from him. The disembodied knight seemed to be regarding him with stern disapproval.
“Your Highness, next week you enter the Temple to begin the Seven Preparations. You should be concentrating on this. I gave you the books to study. You must—”
“I looked at them. Boring old tomes. You will study for me, Patch. You will help me through the tests. Come along,” Dagnarus urged, seizing his friend by the hand. “I want you to see this fellow. You must explain to him what is required; I don’t understand it all. Do we have to get something in writing?”
Dagnarus turned on his heel, eager to proceed. Gareth clutched at him in desperation, dragging him back.
“My prince,” Gareth said earnestly, “consider this well! Where will we do this deed? How are we to break him out of prison? What will happen if we succeed? Where is he to go? What will become of him? This creature will not be some pet snake to which we toss a rat every month or so. He will demand souls, Dagnarus. No,” he said, bowing his head again. “No, I can’t go through with it. Don’t ask me…”
“You are the only one I can ask,” Dagnarus said softly, bitingly. His hand closed painfully over Gareth’s thin arm. “Why did you give me this dagger if you didn’t intend for me to use it?”
“I thought…You know what I thought,” Gareth replied in despair, not looking up.
“You thought to dissuade me from being a Dominion Lord. But the Council has voted. I am to be one, and there is nothing and no one in this world that will stop me. As to this Vrykyl, he is an experiment. How can I make plans for him if I do not know how this works? Where do we stash him? If we succeed—and I have yet to believe it—I will put him up in one of my hired rooms at the Hare and Hound. They know me there and, most important, they know my money. They ask no questions. As for what he will eat…” Dagnarus shrugged. “Beggars abound in Vinnengael. We might even be said to be doing a public service.
“Patch,” Dagnarus continued, his grip tightening. “Listen to me, Patch. I want this. You cannot refuse me.”
I could, Gareth thought wearily. But you would never forgive me. And I could not live with your hatred, your anger. Face it, Gareth. You made this decision already. You made it when you took the dagger from the old man. You renewed it when you gave the dagger to Dagnarus. All else is just an excuse, an excuse for your weakness, your cowardice. Admit it. You are as interested in the outcome as he is. You want to know if this will work. You want to know if you have the power to raise the dead.
“Very well, Your Highness,” he said.
“Come on!” Dagnarus hustled his friend along, eager as a child to show off a new toy.
“Your Highness!” The gaoler rose to his feet. Extremely surprised, he made a belated bow. “Revered Magus.” He made another bow, not so low, to Gareth, who kept his face covered with the hood of his cloak. He and the prince had decided that it would be better if no one recognized him. People might start to ask questions.
“How can I be of service to Your Highness?” the gaoler asked, understandably curious.
Tamaros in all his years as King had never visited the dungeons beneath his castle, nor had Helmos, the crown prince. Tamaros sent agents to make certain the prisoners were being treated humanely—their cells clean, decent food, not beaten or tortured for sport. Beyond that, he had little care for them. This was not surprising. The prisoners had forfeited all their rights by breaking the laws the King had established, laws that were just and fair. In making certain that they were not mistreated, Tamaros showed far more consideration for Vinnengael’s prisoners than any other ruler had ever done previously.
“That prisoner we brought in today—the assassin. I helped to capture him,” said Dagnarus, smoothing his gloves. “I have been approached by this Revered Magus, who begs to be allowed to question this man. There is some thought he may be implicated in the strange death of one of their brethren in Neyshabur last year. Since I helped catch the wretch,” Dagnarus added carelessly, “I feel a certain proprietary interest in him.”
“Of course, Your Highness. I understand completely,” said the gaoler. He began to sort through his collection of cell-door keys, which he kept on a large iron ring. “I am always pleased to be able to assist the magi. This way.”
They walked along a narrow corridor carved deep inside the cliff upon which the castle stood. The dungeons where the most dangerous, most hardened criminals were kept were far below the main portion of the castle, down almost at sea level. One descended innumerable steps in order to reach them. Cavelike cells, delved out of the same rock, branched off the corridor on either side. The corridor was brightly lit by torches that smoked in the dank air.
The prison had only a small staff of guards to keep the prisoners in order. There were very few escapes. An escapee had first to break out of a wizard-locked door—nearly impossible, even for another wizard. Then he must elude his captors and climb three hundred stairs to reach an exit, an exit that brought him out into the military’s barracks.
“Forgive the long walk, Your Highness,” said the gaoler, “but we have put him off to himself in one of the cells clear in the back. He’s a rum one, he is. I doubt Your Highness remembers—you would have been just a child at the time—but the last time he was in here he managed to escape. One of the few who has done it, I’m proud to say.”
Something stirred in the back of Gareth’s mind at this, something unpleasant, for he felt his flesh creep. He could not name his fear, however, and finally put it down to the gloomy atmosphere of the prison—the foul smells, the sounds of hacking coughs, the tromping of booted feet behind, for Dagnarus had brought along two of his soldiers. Otherwise there was quiet. Thick stone walls and heavy iron doors, with only a small opening through which the guard could look when making his rounds, deadened all sound. There was no talking, except possibly to oneself, and this did not carry into the hallway. The prisoners, alone in their cells, might have been alone in the world.
“Here it is,” said the gaoler, halting in front of a cell located at the very end of the corridor. He brought forth his keys, which had been enchanted, found the one that fit, inserted it into the lock. There was a flash of light—that was the wizard lock being removed—then a dull click, which took care of the mechanical lock, and the door swung slowly open. Gareth had been holding his breath against the odors of unwashed body, urine, and feces, then realized that he might as well get used to it. They would likely be here for a while. He tried, however, to breathe as little as possible.
“Shakur!” the gaoler called out, “you got visitors. His Highness himself.”
There was no answer, except for a slight clanking of chains, which might have been made by a restless shifting of position.
“I’ll be right out here, Your Highness,” the gaoler continued. “Best to leave the cell door open.”
“We do not want to keep you from your duties,” Dagnarus said pleasantly. “This is a private interview.” Leaning near, he added in low, conspiratorial tones, “Wizard’s work. You understand?”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Though the gaoler looked dubious. “He’s a rum’un, Your Highness. Would just as soon slit your throat as spit at you.”
“I am well armed,” said Dagnarus, displaying sword and knife. “And I have my bodyguards, whom I will post outside the cell door.” He gestured to the two soldiers accompanying him. “Now you must allow me conduct this interview as I see fit, otherwise, Sir Gaoler, I will begin to think you question my authority.”
He spoke lightly, but the gaoler saw that he had gone too far. Bowing low, he departed, first admonishing them to “yell out” if they needed anything.
“Like fresh air,” Dagnarus muttered, wrinkling his nose. “If I were stuck down here, by the gods, I’d look forward to being hanged, just to have a chance to get outdoors.”
“Do you realize,” said Gareth, looking around with horror and speaking in low, hollow tones, “that if I were caught practicing Void magic, this is where they would send me.”
“Have you so little faith in me as that?” Dagnarus asked, with a flash in his eye. “You know I would not permit such a thing.”
“I know you would do everything you possibly could,” Gareth began deprecatingly. “But—”
“Come on,” Dagnarus interrupted, his voice cold. “We’re wasting time.”
They entered the cell slowly, pausing at the door to allow their eyes to become accustomed to the darkness. Some of the other cells had small windows, hewn out of the rock, but this cell did not. Apparently they feared that the prisoner might find a way to slide out of a hole six inches by six and then make his way down a sheer cliff. For all his trouble, he would end up being battered to death by the waves breaking against the rocks.
It occurred to Gareth that though they could not see the prisoner, he could see them perfectly well. Gareth moved closer to Dagnarus, who had realized the same thing and had his hand on the hilt of his sword.
“Shakur,” Dagnarus said, his voice echoing. “I am Prince Dagnarus. This is Gareth, my friend and advisor. We have come to speak to you. Gareth, bring a torch and shut the cell door—not all the way, just enough to insure our privacy.”
“I can provide light, Your Highness,” said Gareth coolly, not sorry to show off his magical skills to his friend and to the prisoner. Lifting his hand, he commanded the stone to catch fire, starting a small blaze in the center of the cell, a blaze that seemed to feed off cold rock. He saw, by the light, the skin on the back of his hand ulcerate. He tugged down the sleeve of his robe.
The fire burned brightly, shed light upon the prisoner, who had been lying on a straw mattress on the floor and who now sat up to stare, first at the fire—the making of which caused him to narrow his eyes—then at them. At the sight of the prisoner’s face, Gareth shrank backward until he bumped up against the cell wall.
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