Her ladies, gasping in horror, sought to hush her.
Dagnarus regarded his mother with contempt. He turned on his heel, turned his back upon his father and brother.
“And what do the gods have to say for themselves?” Dagnarus asked the Most Revered High Magus, with a slight, sneering smile. He pointed to the vellum. “I am Lord. Lord of what?”
Reinholt stared at Dagnarus as if he were speaking a foreign tongue. Then, recollecting himself, the Magus looked down at the vellum on the altar. He reached out a shaking hand to lift it, exhibit it to the witnesses.
The vellum was drenched with blood.
When Dagnarus had struck the altar, he had caused the jar of lamb’s blood to overturn, soaking the vellum. But those nearest could see that the vellum bore writing, letters of black, as if they had been scribed by flame.
“Lord of the Void,” read the Revered High Magus. He dropped the vellum to the altar as if it had burned his fingers.
Dagnarus’s bravado failed him a moment. His face went nearly as white as his stricken father’s, his hand clenched over the hilt of his sword. He stood in silence for the time it takes to draw a shivering breath. For a fleeting instant he was the child Gareth remembered: unloved, bereft, lonesome, abandoned. Gareth would not have been surprised—he even half expected—to see Dagnarus suddenly collapse, fling himself at his father’s feet, and beg forgiveness. Ambition, black as the armor, and pride, hard and cold as its shining surface, encased Dagnarus. He lifted his head, his eyes glittered.
“Be damned to you!” he said to the Magus. Gesturing with his hand, Dagnarus included all those in the Temple. “Be damned to you all! And know this—one day I will be your master!”
Helmos had been tending his father, leaning over him, chafing the icy gray hands, asking if he was in pain. Helmos had paid little attention to Dagnarus, until this statement. He understood his brother’s intent, he foresaw the danger with clarity given him by the gods.
“Seize him!” he cried. “Hold him fast! Slay him, if need be!”
The Dominion Lords, led by Lord Mabreton, drew their swords and started to close in. Dagnarus placed his back against the altar. Strong and skilled though he was, he was weakened from his terrible trial and could not hope to withstand all ten, plus the battle magi who were also coming to add their skill in the apprehension of the avowed Lord of the Void.
“Hold!”
The voice was the King’s, barely recognizable, but strong enough to be heard over the clash of metal and the stamping of feet.
Tamaros had managed, the gods alone knew how, to lift his crippled body from his chair. Balanced precariously, he reached out his left hand.
“Do not harm him!” he commanded, his voice a harsh croak. “The fault is mine. Let him go.”
Tamaros collapsed, crumpled to the floor. His crown rolled from his head, rolled across the stage and came to rest at Dagnarus’s feet in a pool of lamb’s blood.
Helmos did not see it, he was stooping over his father. The Dominion Lords saw it; so did the Revered Magi. No orken were needed to read that terrible omen. The Dominion Lords stood with swords at ready, but they did not strike. Tamaros was King still. He had issued a command and it must be obeyed.
Dagnarus picked up the crown. He held it sparkling in his hand. Walking past the Dominion Lords, not sparing them a glance, Dagnarus tossed the crown to Helmos.
“Keep it warm for me, brother,” Dagnarus said.
Jumping down from the stage, he landed with lupine grace upon the main floor of the amphitheater. Gareth and Silwyth joined him, Silwyth guarding the prince’s back. The Dominion Lords remained standing, twitching like dogs who smell their prey and are kept at bay by their masters.
Dagnarus walked up to Valura. She had made no outcry beyond that one heart-rending scream when she thought she was watching her lover perish. She gazed up at him, pale and beautiful as a lily cut from its stem. Dagnarus stretched out his black-gloved hand.
“If I am to be Lord of the Void, will you be my Lady?” he asked.
Valura hesitated only an instant. She glanced past Dagnarus to her husband, then, ignoring the screams and cries of her women, Valura placed her hand in Dagnarus’s hand. Turning her back upon her husband, she accompanied Dagnarus up the aisle. The two walked with strange and terrible majesty toward the huge double doors. Gareth and Silwyth came behind, the elf keeping constant watch at Dagnarus’s back.
“Dagnarus!” Helmos cried. His voice carried throughout the Temple. “Dagnarus, my brother, I give you a chance to yet redeem yourself. Renounce this evil that has seized hold of you. Our father commands that we show you mercy and we will obey him. He loves you, Dagnarus. For our father’s sake, turn back.”
Dagnarus turned, then, but only in defiance.
“The Void take you, brother,” he called out loudly. “And our father.”
The King Is Dead, Long Live the King.
Dagnarus’s horse, in ceremonial trappings, with roses braided into its mane and tail, stood in front of the Temple. Held by one of the Royal Guards, a man whose heroism in battle had won him this honor, the horse was to carry the newly confirmed Dominion Lord in triumph to the palace. The Royal Guard formed a ring around the horse, protecting it from the curious onlookers, who, unable to squeeze inside the Temple, were waiting to cheer the new Dominion Lord.
The crowd was merry, and boisterous; they might have been waiting for the fairgrounds to open. Many had brought flasks of wine to quench their thirst. One group sported its own minstrel, who had composed a song in Dagnarus’s honor and who was now singing it for the sixteenth time to much applause and a continual shower of coins. Some children began an impromptu round dance, while groups of orken were teaching some of the more gullible humans to play a dirt-simple gambling game involving three shells and a pea.
Whispers that something had gone terribly wrong flew from the Temple like great bat-winged birds, their shadows falling over the crowd, silencing the songster and ending the dance. The Temple doors stood open, that as many might see and hear as possible. Now those clustered near the doors reported to those behind what was transpiring. Those behind passed the word to their neighbors.
“The Void…the Void…the Void…” was the whisper that brought shocked looks and gasps and protestations of disbelief.
The crowd surged forward, the same idea occurring to each person simultaneously, that he or she must push inside to see what was going on. The soldiers guarding the Temple door were quick to respond. They forced the mob back, but the soldiers, too, had heard the same rumors and were looking troubled and glancing often at their commanders.
“Find out what is happening!” Captain Argot ordered, but at that moment, he had his answer.
Dagnarus stood at the top of the Temple stairs. The sunlight struck the black armor, and it glistened with a thousand dark and eerie rainbow hues. His visor was raised, he looked swiftly about, pausing at the head of the steps to take in the situation. He ignored the buzzing crowd, ignored the appalled soldiers. They might have been so many insects. He could crush them if they annoyed him.
Turning, Dagnarus said something to Silwyth, made a gesture. The elf nodded. Satisfied that his order would be obeyed, Dagnarus proceeded to walk majestically down the stairs with Valura at his side, holding fast to his hand. No one made a move to stop them. The crowd and the soldiers fell back before him. Parents snatched up crying children, covered their eyes against the terror. The orken made the sign to ward off evil as Dagnarus passed by.
The guard holding Dagnarus’s horse stood his ground until the black-armored apparition drew near him. Then he could stand it no longer. The guard ran, willing to accept punishment for failure to obey rather than to risk losing his soul to the demon prince.
The prince’s horse was well trained and did not move. The color of its master’s armor made no difference to the animal; the fear, excitement, and tension reminded it of the battlefield. The horse swiveled an eye at Dagnarus and shook its mane,
as if to say impatiently, “Let us get on with it, then!”
Dagnarus paused to rub the horse’s neck. “You, too, are loyal,” he said softly, touched. “I will not forget.”
Lifting Valura in his arms, he swung her up to ride postillion. Moving easily and gracefully, as if the armor were a slick black coating on his skin and not heavy metal and mail, Dagnarus mounted his horse. Silwyth had commandeered one of the horses of the guard for himself and Gareth, who sat behind the elf, his arms clasped around Silwyth’s slender body.
A wail came from the Temple and the cry, shouted from many throats, “The King is dead!”
Captain Argot heard the cry. He looked first to the Temple, then back at Dagnarus, who was settling himself in the saddle. Argot spurred his horse forward. Reaching out, the Captain caught hold of the bridle of the prince’s horse.
Dagnarus gazed long at the man who had been his friend and mentor since childhood, loyal soldier and comrade. The Captain gazed at the man he had admired above all others.
“Get down, my lord,” said Argot. “You are under arrest.”
Dagnarus did not move. He placed a hand on the horse’s neck, calming the beast, who was dancing impatiently, eager to be gone.
“Where do your loyalties lie, Captain?” Dagnarus asked.
“With my King,” said Argot, his face stern and pale.
“That would be Helmos now,” Dagnarus said dryly.
“Yes, my lord,” said Argot.
Dagnarus rested his hand on the hilt of his sword. “You taught me to use this, Captain. Do not force me to use it to slay you.”
“You will do what you must, my lord,” said Argot steadily. “As will I.”
“Curse you for a disloyal bastard!” Dagnarus said angrily, drawing his sword and raising it.
Seeing their commander’s bravery, his lieutenants and footmen were shamed into action and pressed forward to defend their captain. A ring of steel surrounded Dagnarus and his followers. Dagnarus, outnumbered a hundred to one, hesitated.
“Have no fear for me, my love!” Valura cried fiercely, withdrawing her arms from around Dagnarus’s waist. “Strike them down!”
“Let him go, Captain! That is an order.”
Argot looked up, astonished.
Helmos stood at the top of the Temple steps. “Let them all go. Such was my father’s dying command, and I will honor it. No one is to lay hands on my brother or those who choose to follow him so long as they leave the city of Vinnengael. But if they return to this city, as avowed worshipers of the Void, they will be considered outlaw and by law are subject to death.”
Argot did not take his eyes from Dagnarus, nor did he remove his hand from the bridle.
“Reconsider, Your Majesty!” Argot shouted. “We should seize him now before his evil power grows!”
“You have your orders, Captain,” Helmos said, and his voice was stern and heavy with grief and regret. “I am your King, and I will be obeyed.”
Slowly, Argot released his grip on the horse’s bridle. “Make way, men,” he ordered grimly.
Dagnarus sheathed his sword. With baleful looks, the soldiers fell back. Dagnarus spoke a word to his horse, touched the beast in the flank with his spurs. The horse leapt forward. People scrambled in terror to escape the animal’s mad rush. Silwyth and Gareth rode behind; the elf graceful and at ease in the saddle; the magus bouncing and clinging to Silwyth in fear and desperation.
The sound of the horses’ hooves drummed upon the cobblestones, drummed in hearts and heads. No one moved until the sound of that drumming had died away upon the hot, still air. And then the people, dazed and stupefied, looked at each other in disbelief and doubt.
For as long as any could remember, Tamaros had been King. He had been King for as long as their fathers and their grandfathers could remember. Some had come to think he would be King forever. Now he was gone, and it was as if a bully had kicked away the crutch upon which they, poor cripples, leaned. This morning, life had been safe, certain. Now nothing was certain anymore.
They looked toward the Temple stairs, toward their new King, but Helmos was not there. He had gone back inside to tend to the body of his father. Unhappy, anxious, bereft, the people began to disperse, hastening back to their homes, to lock up their valuables and take stock of their provisions, as in time of war.
“That was a mistake,” said Argot grimly. “I pray the gods His Majesty will not come to regret it.”
“It was his father’s dying command,” said one of the lieutenants, who had been on duty inside the Temple. “I heard the King clearly. He ordered that no one harm Prince Dagnarus.”
“A command that the new king should have respectfully chosen to disobey. Tamaros is dead!” Argot said harshly, his expression dark. “He is beyond the troubles of this world. But we live. And mark my words—we are the ones who will suffer.”
Helmos returned to the altar. A few people still sat huddled in their chairs inside the Temple, some too stunned by the calamities they had witnessed to move. A few others waited, watching, hoping for some miracle or at least reassurance. But most had departed, eager to tell friends and acquaintances all they had seen, to talk out their shock and their horror.
The healer had done what she could to compose the King’s body, shutting the staring eyes and making a futile attempt to smooth out the unsightly grimace that twisted the mouth. The Dominion Lords formed a guard of honor around the body, looked to Helmos for orders.
His first were to dispose of the Queen, who was still present, insisting that someone tell Dagnarus she wanted to speak to him this instant. Upon being informed, gently, that the King was dead, the Queen said sharply, “He is just having one of his fits. He will soon be brought round. Where is my son? Why doesn’t he come to me?”
“She is overwhelmed with grief. Take her back to the castle,” Helmos said, regarding Emillia with pity. “Give her some juice of poppy to help her sleep.”
“My lord,” said Anna, coming to stand by her husband’s side. Her face was wet with tears. “I am so sorry. So very sorry.”
He held her fast, finding comfort in her love. But he could not indulge in his grief long. He was King now. People were already hovering around him, waiting to pounce upon him with questions and demands. First, however, he would pay his final farewell to the dead.
Helmos and Anna knelt beside the body. Taking his father’s hands, already chill with death, into his own, Helmos prayed aloud, asking the gods to bless his father, to take him to their beautiful dwelling place where he would be once again reunited with the woman he had never ceased to love. Helmos laid the still hands upon his father’s breast.
Helmos then tried to ask a prayer of mercy and forgiveness for his brother, for he knew Tamaros would have wanted him to do so. The words would not pass the new King’s lips. He could not even speak them in his heart, and he understood then that it was the gods who were stopping his prayer. Not only would they refuse to grant it; they did not want to hear it.
His duty done to the dead, it was time for Helmos to start thinking about the living. Rising to his feet, he looked at the Dominion Lords, who stood in silent prayer around him.
“Where is Lord Mabreton?” Helmos asked.
“He is gone, Your Majesty.”
“Gone. Gone where?” Helmos demanded, though he could guess.
“Gone to avenge his honor, Your Majesty,” said the elf grimly.
Helmos looked grave. “I commanded that my brother not be harmed.”
“Lord Mabreton is not bound to obey the law of a human King, my lord,” the elf replied. “The only reason he did not challenge him in this hall is because it is a holy place in which blood may not be shed.”
Helmos felt a secret relief. He had been faced with an unpleasant dilemma. As a now avowed follower of the Void, his brother could not be allowed to live. Yet their father’s last wish was that the prince should not be harmed. The problem, it seemed, would be taken out of his hands.
“What will be
come of Lady Valura?” he asked.
The elf’s face hardened. “She will be captured alive, if possible. If she has any sense of honor left, she will request death from the husband whom she has wronged. Her request will be granted, you may have no doubt. If she does not, Lord Mabreton will drag her back to her home, where she will be handed over to her parents, upon whose House she has brought disgrace and ruin. Her husband may lay claim to all her family’s holdings and lands in reparation for the dishonor done to him. If she has born him any children, he will have them put to death.”
“The gods have mercy!” Anna cried. “The crime is their mother’s! They are innocent.”
“That is true, Your Majesty,” said the elf lord, bowing. “Yet the wronged husband could never be certain they were truly his children. He dare not trust the future of his line to a bastard. Now, if Your Majesty will excuse me, Lord Mabreton asked me to convey word to the Shield of the Divine of this sad occurrence. I must leave at once. The gods willing, I will return in time to attend your honored father’s funeral.”
“And Silwyth, what of him?” Helmos asked, recalling that the elf had chosen to throw in his lot with Dagnarus.
“I am not certain, Your Majesty.” The elven lord was a loyal follower of the Shield. He knew that Silwyth and his family were favored of the Shield, and he suspected that Silwyth had been placed in the royal household as a spy by the Shield. He could not very well admit this to the new King, however.
The elven Dominion Lord was, in fact, sorely troubled. For the first time in over a hundred years, the human kingdoms of Vinnengael and its subject states were weak, vulnerable. The elven lord liked Helmos, but did not respect him as the elves had respected Tamaros. Helmos was a scholar, not a ruler. Spies kept the elves informed on human politics; he guessed that now that Tamaros was dead, the kingdom of Dunkarga, ruled by Dagnarus’s uncle, had no reason to remain loyal and would split away. Perhaps even go to war. The elven lord would have bet all his considerable fortune that Dagnarus was probably headed in that direction right this moment.
Well of Darkness Page 42