“Never, at least not from without, not by force. But intrigue—the fighting within—has laid many a king low. Even those great walls cannot stop deceit.”
The two descended the gentle slope of the hill and splashed quickly across the stream. Already the last light of the day failed them. But the lights were twinkling in the village that crowded close beneath Askelon’s protective ramparts. As they moved closer, the great, dark shape above them became lost to the night, a mountain vanishing behind a shadow. The lights showing rosy from the windows drawing nearer with every step threw warm light upon the snow. Quentin heard voices from within the houses they passed, and occasionally the yeasty smell of hot bread would meet his nostrils, or the tang of meat basted over an open hearth fire. Suddenly he felt very tired and hungry.
“Will we go to the queen directly?”
“No, I think not. Tomorrow will be soon enough. I want to find out how things sit at court these days. It has been some time since I was here.” He paused, reining up his horse so that Quentin could draw abreast of him. He spoke in a lowered tone. “Tonight, you are my nephew—if anyone should be curious. Speak only if spoken to, and say nothing about the queen or king to anyone at all. Watch me at all times, do you understand?”
Quentin nodded quickly.
“All right, then,” continued Theido in a more relaxed voice. “How about some supper?”
Quentin glanced up and saw that they had stopped outside an inn of some size. A weathered sign that bade travelers welcome hung over the door, and it sported the painted likeness of someone or something Quentin could not quite make out.
As they dismounted, the door burst open and a short man in a tunic and pantaloons with a white cloth wrapped around his bulging middle came bustling forward. “Welcome! Welcome!” the man chirped. “Supper is just being laid. If you hurry, you may yet find places at the board! Quickly now! Never mind; I’ll take care of your horses.”
“Very kind of you, Milcher,” said Theido with a chuckle. “You’re as blind as ever—you don’t even know who it is you’re dragging in out of the night. Nor do you care!”
“Who is that? Is that Theido?” The man came closer and peered into the traveler’s face. “Yes, of course. I knew it was you. Recognized your voice. Come in, come in. Too cold out here to be wagging your tongue. In with you! In with you both!” He took the reins from their hands and led the horses away behind the large rambling structure.
“Hurry now. Supper is just being laid!” he called out as he disappeared around the corner.
Theido and Quentin stepped up to the entrance, and as Theido shoved open the broad door, he placed a hand on Quentin’s shoulder. “Remember what I told you.” He laid a long finger to his lips. Quentin nodded with a furtive smile.
“Yes . . . Uncle.”
5
The room was loud with voices raised and the clink of pewter ale jars. Smoke from the candles upon the table, from torches on the wall, and from the improperly drafted fire in the huge fireplace filled the low-beamed room. The scene was at once jolly and reckless, boisterous and enthusiastic. Quentin found himself grinning heartily not ten steps inside the door.
Theido propelled them both toward a long table standing just a few paces from the hearth. Contrary to what Milcher had insinuated, there were plenty of places at the table; most of the guests were taking liquid nourishment this evening. But the innkeeper had been right— they were just in time. No sooner had they settled themselves upon the rough bench at the far end of the table than platters of steaming food appeared. The heaping plates of meat and vegetables and several kinds of bread and cheese were served by a stout woman with a ready smile and red cheeks and a thin, gawky boy who lurched clumsily as he smacked the pewter plates down. “Careful, Otho!” called the woman amiably. “You had your supper; now let these fine gentlemen eat theirs in peace.”
The comical pair retreated to the kitchen then, only to reappear at frequent intervals to pester the diners with more food and drink. “Eat!” the woman scolded. “Eat, eat, eat! Please! You’re not eating!”
As the diners finished, they left the board to others who sat down at their places. Theido and Quentin, at Theido’s command, ate leisurely and with slow deliberation. Theido’s watchful gaze swept over the roisterous scene, alert to any hint of discovery. But even his quick eyes failed to see a small, dark man appear at the door like a shadow and slink into a darkened corner. The spy left moments later, undetected.
After a while Milcher, the busy little proprietor of the inn, stepped around to see how his newest guests were accommodated. “You will be staying the night with us, I trust?” he asked.
“Yes, you will have us at your mercy,” replied Theido with a grin.
“Good. I thought so—I have already stabled your horses for the night. But who’s this?” he exclaimed, noticing Quentin’s benevolent stare. “I don’t think you’ve introduced me to your friend, Theido.” He beamed down upon the boy with a face red from running on his endless errands.
“Haven’t I?” said Theido casually. “Well, I thought you knew. This is my nephew, Quentin.”
“Oh, of course! I knew it all along, didn’t I? But my, so big already. Hasn’t he grown.” With that the little man was off again, buzzing like a bee in some other corner of the noisy, crowded room.
“Let us hope no one else takes an interest in my family life tonight. Milcher can talk more than any twenty women. I would rather our little visit was known by as few as possible.”
“You think someone might be looking for us?” The thought had just occurred to Quentin.
“It is likely. Whoever killed Ronsard, or had him killed, must know by now that the secret he carried did not die with him. Although we cannot be sure. Maybe they did not know about the message.”
“You mean he was not attacked by outlaws?”
“No, lad. Or at least not altogether. Outlaws may have been hired for the deed, but they would scarcely have gone up against a king’s knight without better reason than his purse. Even an outlaw values his life more than that, I think. No, it was probably someone who knew what he carried, or suspected his mission.”
“Prince Jaspin, maybe?” The intrigues of court were new to Quentin, but he found himself irresistibly drawn to them. His quick mind leaped ahead to all sorts of possible collusions, a fox in a yard of plump chickens.
“Maybe. It would not be the first time he has used others for deeds he would not do himself. But I think there is some other—I cannot say why. I feel it here.” He pointed to his stomach. “And now, if you are well stuffed, we might as well be off to bed. We must still find a way to guarantee our private audience with the queen tomorrow.”
Milcher returned and bustled them off to their room, where his wife, the jolly, red-faced woman, had laid aside the bedclothes of a high, sturdy bed. A smaller, more portable pallet had been placed near the fireplace, which warmed the apartment. The chamber was square and plain, but private and cozy enough. There was no window, a feature Theido had requested.
“Sleep well tonight, good guests. Sleep well!” said the innkeeper, closing the door to their chamber and tiptoeing quietly away.
“I would just loosen my belt if I were you,” warned Theido as Quentin, seated on the edge of the pallet, began pulling off his tunic. “Tonight we must be ready for anything.”
Not far distant, high up on the hill in Askelon Castle, a candle burned low in a spacious and richly appointed bedchamber. The floors were of white marble and the walls hung with exquisite tapestries depicting the occupant’s favorite pastime: the hunt. A magnificently carved table spread with a vast cloth of dark blue embroidered with thread spun from silver supported a surface littered with maps and scrolls of parchment. At one end of the domed room—for it was the uppermost chamber of the east tower—a crackling fire burned brightly in an ornamented fireplace overhung by a heavy oaken mantel carved with the crest and blazon of a previous resident.
A melancholy figure sat hunched in a great chair with
a high back and wings on each side to keep off the draft that seeped through the old castle walls. The chair, more a small throne, was drawn near the fire, but its tenant seemed to draw neither warmth nor comfort from the dancing flames. Instead he stared dejectedly into the blaze, with a tall horn cup of wine, untasted, in his hand.
Prince Jaspin scarcely stirred when the sound of a sharp rap reached his ears from the outer door of his private chambers. A breathless chamberlain presently returned with the news that a certain knight wished audience with him. Upon learning the man’s name, Prince Jaspin exploded.
“Send him here directly, you old fool! I have been waiting days to hear his news, and you keep him cooling in the corridor like a side of beef. I should have you flayed!”
The chamberlain, well accustomed to his master’s fits, did not hear what was said in his absence, leaving at once to bring this most desired visitor before the angry prince.
“Tell me, Sir Bran, what news? Have you found him yet?” Jaspin leaped from his chair as the knight entered.
“Yes, he is here—in the village,” the knight said, bending low from the waist in a quick bow.
“In the village! Where? I shall seize him at once!”
“I would caution you against such a move, Your Grace. It would attract too much attention. We do not know how many there are—he might have brought some of his men with him. Anyway, it is better done in daylight.”
“Yes, I suppose you are right.” The prince settled back into the silk cushions of his chair, much pleased by the news. “We must not blunder the opportunity as we did the last.” He paused and asked casually, “Are you certain Ronsard is dead?”
“Quite certain.” The knight, dressed in a fur-lined cape and gloves over a rich tunic of fine brocaded linen, began removing his gloves. The chamberlain brought a chair and took away his cloak. The powerfully built knight poured himself a goblet of wine from a standing flagon and downed half of it in one swallow. “You do live well, my prince,” he said as he sat down opposite Jaspin.
“Those who support my cause will not need neglect their appetite for finery, I can assure you. Have I told you, Bran, I am thinking of giving you Crandall for your efforts? What would you do with it, I wonder?”
“Give it to me, and you shall see,” retorted the knight.
“You are anxious, aren’t you?” The prince laughed. “Yes, by and by we shall see. I would give it to you now, only that spoiler Theido—or whatever he calls himself—is still loose and roaming about. We cannot have him coming forward and pressing his claim . . . How awkward that would be.”
“I can deal with him,” sneered Bran, pouring himself another goblet of wine.
“As you dealt with Ronsard?” the prince jibed.
“You will remember we did not know it was Ronsard until the very encounter. Anyway, with his wounds and the freezing cold, he did not go far. That I know.”
“But you never found the body, did you?” the prince said firmly.
“It was snowing, by Zoar!” the knight snapped angrily. “Do you not believe me? The snow covered everything within the hour. His horse wandered off and left him where he fell, and the snow covered him.”
“Yes, yes, I know. The snow—you watched the ambush from some distance . . .”
“And by the time I got there, I could find but two of my own men!”
“Well, it is over. Now to put an end to our other problem, this outlaw leader—what do they call him?”
“The Hawk,” said the knight sullenly.
“Yes. Strange this Hawk suddenly showing himself—and so close at hand. How do you explain it?” insinuated the prince in a sly voice.
“I do not explain it!” The knight banged his silver goblet down upon the arm of the chair; wine sloshed up over the rim, wetting his hand. “Happenchance—it’s a coincidence, nothing more,” he said, straining to control his temper. “Or perhaps one of the worthless robbers I hired for this . . . this transaction returned to his den and wagged his tail for his master.”
“Possibly, possibly. There is no honor among dogs, you know,” Jaspin quipped.
The prince sipped his wine and sat silently for a time, gazing into the fire now beginning to dwindle. “I suppose we shall have to ask our friend Hawk tomorrow.”
The knight smiled quickly and drank deeply of his wine. “Yes, we will hear the rascal sing tomorrow.”
6
The knight, Sir Bran, after finishing his wine, exchanged a few words with the prince regarding the impending capture of the outlaw Hawk the next morning. The prince dismissed him then and waited until he had gone before calling his chamberlain and discharging him for the night as well.
As soon as he heard the door to the outer chamber creak shut, he got up and, taking the candle from the table, made his way to a darkened alcove across the room, hidden from view behind a lower portion of one of the giant tapestries. Slipping behind the tapestry, Jaspin entered the alcove and, fishing among the folds of his clothing, brought out a key with which he unlocked a private door set back and cunningly secreted at the farther side.
The prince stepped silently into his secret chamber, placed the candle upon a small table waiting there, and settled himself into a chair before the table.
Upon the table sat a small box resting on an elegant cloth of velvet. The box, richly enameled in fiery red and inlaid with gold tracery and pearls, gleamed, its fine artistry shimmering in the flickering light of the single flame.
Prince Jaspin wasted no time but placed his hands upon each side of the box and lifted it away. On the table before him remained a curious object resting on the cloth—a pyramid of gold incised with strange hieroglyphs. The entire surface of the pyramid had been inscribed with elaborate and fantastic runes that were, he considered, the source of its unusual power.
Prince Jaspin gazed upon his prize with an odd glint in his eye, as if lit by some unnatural source from deep within. The pyramid always had this effect upon him; he felt bold, invincible, and clever beyond human cleverness.
The golden pyramid was the gift of Nimrood, known as the necromancer, a cunning old sorcerer whom Jaspin employed as partner in skullduggery. Many a night did Jaspin draw upon the secret of his strange object and the knowledge of its inventor. But of late, Jaspin received less and less assurance from his accomplice and felt seeds of deep distrust beginning to sprout.
Placing his hands on two sides of the pyramid, Jaspin closed his eyes and murmured a soft incantation. Slowly the pyramid, pale in the dancing light, began to glow with a ghostly luminescence. The glow became brighter, casting Jaspin’s features into high relief and throwing shadows of his hunkered form upon the wall. As the unearthly illumination reached its apex, the sides of the pyramid began to grow indistinct and hazy, although they remained solid under the prince’s touch. The pyramid, now lit with an almost piercing light from within, became translucent; Jaspin could see his own hands dimly through the sides. In a moment the strange device had become completely transparent, almost invisible, and Jaspin looked long into its crystal depths.
A pale green mist shrouded the interior from view, but as Jaspin watched, the mist began to thin into stringy, straggling wisps. Now the form of a man could be distinguished, walking as if from a great distance, toward Jaspin. But even as the man walked, he drew closer with alarming speed so that instantly Jaspin was face-to-face, as it were, with his old sorcerer.
It was not a face to be admired. Twisted. Cruel. Two piercing eyes burned out from under a heavy, menacing brow. Despite the wizard’s obvious age, wild dark hair shot through with streaks of white formed a formidable mane around the man’s large head. The face was creased with interwoven wrinkles, each crevice representing an evil its owner had contemplated.
“Ah, Prince Jaspin!” the necromancer hissed rather than spoke. “I was expecting your summons. I trust everything is as I said it would be!”
“Yes, your information is always good, Nimrood,” the prince replied, his eyes gleaming. “The
knight Ronsard appeared just as you predicted and was intercepted before his work could be completed. Unfortunately, we may never know what that errand was—he was killed in the ambush.”
“A pity. He could have told us so much, no doubt. But we have other ways.”
“And another of your seeds is about to bear fruit, wizard. The outlaw Hawk has surfaced again—as you suggested he would. This time we are ready for him. By midday tomorrow that irksome band of renegades will be without a leader.”
“Do not make the mistake of underestimating him once again,” the conjurer warned. “He has outfoxed you before, as you well know.” The necromancer grimaced, and his wrinkles deepened ominously.
“Do not think I will let him slip away again. My headsman’s blade is thirsty, and an outlaw’s blood is just the refreshment I shall recommend. His head shall adorn a pike in the village square. Those bandits will see how lightly I consider their threats.
“I shall have no opposition when the Council of Regents meets, and I shall be named king. The petitions are already signed.” The prince rubbed his hands in greedy anticipation of the event. “All is ready.”
“What about the queen?” the wizard asked slyly. “Will she agree to step down so easily? Is her power already so diminished?”
“The queen will agree to see things as I see them. She is strong, but she is a woman. Besides, if I offer the choice between Eskevar’s life or Eskevar’s crown, I rather believe she would choose his life.”
“She may lose both, however—as will Eskevar! Ha! Ha!” cackled Nimrood.
“That is your concern, not mine. Leave me out of it. You get the king, and I his crown—that was our agreement. I do not want any difficulties. I cannot afford to arouse the suspicion of the people; I need their support for a while.”
“I am your servant, Prince Jaspin,” the wizard replied. “Is there anything more you require?”
“No, I think not. All is ready now,” the prince replied. He added, “Is my brother comfortable?”
The Dragon King Trilogy Page 4