A few minutes later, Salder himself arrived, escorting a now less-bedraggled Princess Gwýnnett. Túathal gestured that Salder should seat her on a folding chair with curved arms at the opposite end of the table. The king knew the chair wasn’t particularly comfortable, especially without the pillow that was on the chair beside him. Gwýnnett sat, glaring at Túathal. She understood the game he was playing, or thought she did.
Salder moved to assist Tibbo and Tannis by finding a gold-plated pitcher and pouring cider into mugs at each of the ten places.
“Did you sleep well, my dear?” asked Túathal with a slight sneer.
“Like a babe,” said Gwýnnett, offering an insincere smile. “I hope you can’t say the same.”
“Sheathe your claws, little kitten,” said Túathal. “There are other ears to hear.”
“A prisoner should strike whatever blows she can to gain her freedom, wouldn’t you say?” offered Gwýnnett.
“But an honored noble guest should mind her manners,” countered the king.
Their exchange was interrupted by Uirsé, the dark-haired young wizard, entering the tent. She bowed to Túathal.
“Your commanders await your pleasure outside, Sire,” she said.
“Send them in,” said the king, “then check my breakfast for poisons. Pay particularly attention to anything at her end of the table,” he said, nodding toward Gwýnnett.
The princess gave the young wizard a saccharine smile and lifted her hands above the table, palms up. Uirsé didn’t meet Gwýnnett’s eyes, but noticed the heavy rings she wore on both hands.
Uirsé stepped out of the headquarters tent momentarily, then returned with eight hard-looking men and women wearing gambesons or archers’ leathers, with Duke Néillen, the senior-most commander in the lead. The duke passed much closer to her than necessary. Uirsé felt his hot breath on her bare neck. She held in a shudder and stepped farther away until she stood behind the king while the rest of the commanders found their places. When everyone was seated, Uirsé used her wizardry to carefully scan the table for poisons, paying particular attention to Gwýnnett’s rings. There was no telltale glow to Uirsé’s magic-augmented sight.
“Enjoy your meal, good gentles,” said Uirsé, giving her assent to proceed.
“Took you long enough to complete your scan,” muttered Túathal to Uirsé when she’d finished. “Don’t bother with a privacy sphere,” said the king. “There’s not much Dâron can do to stop me now, anyway.”
Uirsé said nothing. She just withdrew to stand near Salder, Tibbo, and Tannis, where she could inspect any new food or drink before it reached the table. She was privately amused by Túathal saying, “stop me now,” rather than, “stop us now,” even with the leaders of his army arrayed before him. Her loyalty was to Verro, not his older brother. Túathal was not a man to inspire such feelings.
Without waiting for Túathal to start, Princess Gwýnnett plucked a dried peach from a platter and nibbled it suggestively, trying to keep and hold eye contact with the king as she did. Túathal ignored her. Instead, he speared a sausage with his eating dagger and took a roll from a platter. He spread butter on the roll and watched the others at the table break their fasts. Dawn wasn’t far off and this would be his last chance to confirm the military side of his long campaign was ready. The commanders reassured Túathal that their forces were prepared for battle and knew the roles they must play. The king smiled as each reported. Túathal’s expression held just enough malice to ensure the men and women around the table wouldn’t dare to disappoint him.
“Return to your troops,” said Túathal once the last commander finished. “You know where to muster. Do your part and we will crush Dâron on the field of battle. Today is the day we unite north and south by the sword. Tamloch and victory!”
“Tamloch and victory!” said the commanders, raising their goblets and saluting their king.
Túathal gave Duke Néillen and his other, less senior commanders a malice-free smile as they departed. Once they’d left the tent, he reflected that Verro’s report given a few hours earlier was the most important one. The southern Clan Lander barbarians attacking Dâron’s army from behind would truly turn the tide.
He hoped his brother would get him word from the blasted Bifurlanders soon. They were the only detail he hadn’t fully confirmed. He’d have to trust them to hold firm to their allegiance from noon on one day to dawn on the next. Still, Túathal felt uneasy. Trust was not something he extended often. While he waited for word, he decided to amuse and distract himself with the princess.
“Would you like a good seat for the battle?” he asked. “You can sit by my side on the viewing platform I’ve erected.”
Princess Gwýnnett raised an eyebrow at Túathal’s choice of words and bit into a sausage, chewing sensuously before she licked her lips and swallowed.
“Do you intend to show off your captive?” she asked.
“I intend to remind Dârio that I’m holding you, while having my future queen next to me as all my plans are realized,” Túathal answered.
“I suppose we both can gloat at Dâron’s loss and our gain,” said the princess. She licked grease off her lips and looked suddenly thoughtful.
“What?” asked Túathal.
“How do you expect to ensure our son isn’t killed or injured?” asked Princess Gwýnnett, all mis-guided attempts at seduction put aside. “If he dies…”
“Don’t worry,” said Túathal. “Duke Háiddon would never let Dârio enter the battle.”
“Hah,” said Gwýnnett. “You don’t know our son as well as I do. He will fight. How do you propose to protect him?”
“I can tell all our commanders not to engage any unit Dârio is part of,” said Túathal, tentatively. “I’ll give orders to take him alive if they somehow do engage with him.”
“Will you give the same order to the southern Clan Land chiefs?” asked Princess Gwýnnett.
“You have a point,” said Túathal. “Verro can gate him away from the battle as soon as the Clan Landers come through their gate. I’ll let him know I’m adding one more thing to his list.”
“You depend on Verro for so much,” observed Gwýnnett. “I hope he doesn’t break under the strain. He’s too handsome a man to waste—and he likes women.”
“Don’t get any ideas,” said Túathal. “He’s in love with someone else. You’re not in her league.”
“We’ll see,” said Gwýnnett. She stood and motioned to Salder. “Escort me to my tent. I have to prepare to watch a battle.”
Salder started to cross to join the princess. Uirsé glanced at Salder and raised an eyebrow as he passed her. He returned the same expression.
Dârio of Dâron was King Túathal’s son? Her king was plotting with the king of Dâron’s mother? She had to tell Verro.
Chapter 62
At the River’s Edge
“I’m ready,” said Dârio as Damon emerged from his tent. “Are you?”
“Of course, Sire,” said Damon. He extended his arms to give the shimmering fabric of his robes a chance to shake out and drape properly. “Is it time?”
“It’s nearly dawn,” said the young king. “Time to earn your title.”
“You can have my title,” said Damon. “I’m planning to give it up soon anyway.”
“Who do you have in mind for the job?” asked Dârio.
“There’s only one suitable candidate,” said Damon.
“You’re probably right,” said Dârio, “but it still seems odd for a sixteen-year-old to start at the top.”
“Says the man who was king of Dâron at that age,” noted Damon.
“You’ve got a point,” said Dârio.
“The role has little to do with experience and everything to do with raw magical power,” said Damon. “Your grandfather handed it to me before I was twenty.”
“Then prove his confidence in you was well-founded,” said Dârio.
A few minutes later Damon was on his flying disk heading northeas
t toward the river with Dârio holding on behind the Master Mage. They flew through thick white fog that flowed up from the riverbank like clouds climbing up the slopes of a high mountain. A glowing ball above Damon’s head didn’t help Dârio see farther than Damon’s iridescent robes in front of his nose. The old wizard seemed to know where to land, even if everything looked the same to the king in the featureless mist.
Dârio scraped his boots across a wide flat rock that his companion had selected as a landing site. The king could hear and smell the river rushing by, just beyond Damon.
“Put my flying disk on my back, please,” said Damon. “These robes make it harder for me to do it for myself.”
“Certainly,” said Dârio. He took in the wizard’s bent shoulders. Damon looked tired. Dârio wondered if it was fair to expect a man his grandmother’s age to do what he’d been asked to accomplish. He gently lowered Damon’s flying disk over his shoulders by its straps.
“Are you sure you’re up for this?” asked Dârio. He patted the flying disk, then realized the old wizard probably couldn’t feel his touch through the layers of sparkling fabric in his voluminous multi-colored robe.
Damon had felt it, however. He turned to face Dârio.
“I know why I’m here,” said the old mage, “but why are you here?” Damon looked Dârio over from his boot soles to the top of his quilted arming cap, designed to fit under his helm. “Shouldn’t you be by Duke Háiddon’s side, inspiring the army?”
“There’s time for me to do that when we finish,” said Dârio. “I want to make sure you don’t overextend yourself…”
“I beg your pardon?” Damon objected. “You asked me to freeze the Brenavon—I’m going to freeze it. Don’t worry about me.”
“But I do worry about you,” said Dârio.
“And so do I,” said a soft alto voice from the fog. A woman in dark-blue robes and a deep hood stepped up onto the rock. Her movements were slow and deliberate.
“Astrí,” said Dârio. “Is everything alright? Did Queen Carys send you?”
“No,” said Astrí. “I mean yes, everything is fine, but your great-grandmother didn’t send me. I came because of him.”
“You mean Damon?” asked Dârio. “I didn’t even know you knew him.”
Damon stared at Astrí like a mother recognizing her long-lost child. His eyes were wide, and his mouth hung open.
“Damon and I are acquainted, Your Majesty,” Astrí replied after a few seconds. She turned her body to face Damon. “Close your mouth before you swallow too many midges,” she instructed the old wizard. Damon obeyed.
“I thought I’d never see you again,” said Damon. “My heart broke when you left.”
“You could have seen me any time you wanted,” said Astrí. “I know you have a gate from the castle in Melyncárreg to your quarters in the royal palace in Brendinas. I wasn’t hiding from you.”
“But the risk was too great,” said Damon. “If anyone had recognized you and connected us…”
“I was eighteen when I left court,” said Astrí. “I walked through that gate you made and into another life with you in the far west. No one would recognize the girl I was in the old woman I am.”
“You’re not old,” protested Damon.
“Yes I am,” said Astrí as she threw back her hood. Only a few traces of red remained in her short white hair, along with wisps of gray. Damon stepped toward her.
“Can you see now,” she said. “I wasn’t protecting me—I was protecting you, and our daughter.”
It was Dârio’s turn to stare. He’d never seen Astrí without her hood on. It wasn’t hard to see the resemblance between the gilded statue of the young princess that stood in front of the palace and Astrí’s face and form.
“You’re her,” said Dârio. “You’re Princess Seren.”
Astrí sighed. “I once was. I fell in love with magic—and this dashing young mage.” She gestured in Damon’s direction. He took two steps toward her and gave a small bow.
“Being young and foolish is one thing,” said Damon. “But keeping it up over the years takes real talent. There’s no fool like an old fool.” Damon shook his head slowly, but didn’t take his eyes off Astrí. “It’s been twenty years since I last saw you.”
“You didn’t need to worry,” said Astrí. “I kept up my masquerade and ensured my identity stayed secret. I was also there to watch over our daughter at court. My mother was glad to have my counsel as well.”
“Leaving me to raise our grandson on my own,” said Damon. “That was no way to bring up a boy.”
“Wait,” said Dârio. “Who’s your daughter? And your grandson?”
Damon and Astrí weren’t paying attention. Astrí took a step toward Damon and reached for his hand. He took it and smiled, lines of pain and worry vanishing from his face.
“That was your decision, and Fercha’s,” said Astrí. “You didn’t want our grandson anywhere near court.”
“Would you want Princess Gwýnnett to guess his identity?” asked Damon.
“Fercha is my aunt?” asked Dârio.
“Not exactly,” said Damon. “It’s complicated.”
Dârio looked like he’d been smacked across the back of his head by the flat of a sword.
“No, I most certainly do not want Princess Gwýnnett to guess his identity,” said Astrí, getting back on track after Dârio’s interruption. “That may be why I didn’t fight you too hard when you were determined to keep him in exile and raise him in Melyncárreg.”
“At least you kept this young fool from being the total ass he pretends to be,” said Damon, indicating Dârio with two fingers.
“Hey,” said Dârio. “Great-grandmother and Fercha and Duke Háiddon also helped with my masquerade.”
“I’m grateful to them,” said Damon, “and to you, lad, for heeding their wise counsel. You’ll be a good king, I expect.”
“Thank you,” said Dârio. “I hope so.” He noticed the fog was getting brighter, even though Damon hadn’t adjusted the glowing ball above his head. Fingers of red appeared to the east in the direction of the Brenavon. Damon turned and reached the same conclusion as Dârio.
“Time to get busy earning my title, as you said, Your Majesty,” Damon remarked.
“No,” said Astrí. “Not by yourself. You weren’t yet forty when you froze the Abbenoth and it almost killed you. It took almost a year for you to recover your strength. Let me help—I’ll do what I can.”
Damon leaned close and hugged Astrí.
“We both know your best magics have nothing to do with cold,” said Damon. “You could barely chill wine before serving it.”
“Then let me lend you what energies I can, and you direct them,” said Astrí. “Let me be your battery.”
“I’d rather you return to Melyncárreg with me, so we can spend our remaining years growing older together,” said Damon. He shrugged his flying disk off his shoulders and handed it to Dârio, then shifted so Astrí could put her arms around him from behind and press against him.
“That’s perfect,” said Damon. “It’s wonderful to feel you close again.”
“You’re supposed to be connecting to my magestone and its energy,” said Astrí.
“That too,” said Damon.
He looked over his shoulder at Dârio.
“You may want to step back, Your Majesty,” he said. “I don’t want to turn the king of Dâron into an icicle by accident.”
“Good idea,” said Dârio. He moved to the far edge of the flat rock, keeping as much distance between himself and the wizards as possible. He held up Damon’s flying disk like a shield and saw Astrí’s disk a few feet from him leaning against the edge of the rock.
“It’s time,” said Dârio, noting the increasing light to the east. The fog was clearing, and he could now see the river flowing by, its current strong.
“Lean in,” said Damon. Astrí did. Damon extended his arms, faced the river, and opened a congruent connection to a place of col
d. A chill wind blew out from him and swept across the river. A layer of ice formed across its surface. Damon bent over, coughing and shaking. Astrí helped him back upright.
“Did it work?” asked Damon.
Dârio looked out across the river. The ice coating the Brenavon was so thin it was almost translucent. A small dog would fall through its surface, let alone a Roma legion. Then they sensed a bright flash behind them. A second later, a loud boom shattered the morning silence and some of the nearest ice on the river.
All three turned and watched a huge red sphere of heat energy continue to expand, then contract in the sky not too far to the west.
“I hope that’s who I think it is,” said Dârio.
“So do I,” said Damon.
“Merry’s beau from the Coombe,” said Astrí, matter-of-factly.
“A suitable candidate indeed,” said the young king. “Do something to get his attention.”
“As My Liege commands,” said Damon.
“Just do it, old man,” said Dârio. “Give him a squeeze to encourage him, grandmother.”
“You’re not too old to be sent to your room without your supper,” said Astrí with a smile.
“Yes, ma’am,” said Dârio in a contrite five-year-old’s voice.
Damon launched three blue streamers into the sky.
Chapter 63
Eynon
Eynon quickly realized that it was hard to keep his bearings flying through thick white fog. The glowing ball above his head didn’t do much good—it just allowed him to tell the fog was cloud-white, not dark gray. He couldn’t see farther ahead than the fingers of his outstretched hands and the sun was not yet up to provide a reference point. Hoping to see stars for orientation was so much wishful thinking. Eynon formed a wedge-shaped shield around his body, like he had when escaping the gryffons, but that only made his flight more stable. It didn’t push fog out of the way, or if it did, there was more of the same fog ahead to replace it, so he dispelled the wedge.
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