“Now in time the queen died, as queens do, giving birth to yet another daughter; and the Great King married again. Only this time he chose a lady from the conquered race, one of our own. Here is their son, on the right, with the dark hair. He was called Magnus.
“Now the Great King loved his second wife, and the son she bore him, more than he loved the first. And when his life’s thread had worn thin and was near to breaking, he made his desires known regarding the succession; to the astonishment of all, he chose Magnus as his heir instead of the firstborn son.
“Well, you can imagine what happened after that. It was war all over the kingdom, with Harald, who claimed to be the rightful heir (and surely you can see his point), driving Magnus off the throne, after which the once-conquered people rose up in revolt. Many died in those terrible times.
“And it was all utterly pointless, for Magnus was a mystic and a scholar, not a warrior or a man of the world; he had no desire to rule a country or lead an army. Yet all over the kingdom his people were dying in his name, dying to defend his right to an unwanted throne. So he formally renounced the crown and acknowledged his brother as king.
“But it was already too late. The pot was boiling; everyone was angry—conquered and conquerors alike. Our people were convinced that their king had been forced to abdicate. Their people were sure the crown had been stolen from the rightful heir.
“Finally Magnus made a proposal. There was a large island belonging to the kingdom called Budenholme, just off the coast. As the soil was poor and rocky, it was mostly uninhabited. Magnus said it was all the land that he would claim. He would go and live there, never to return, but any of his people who wished to follow him must be permitted to do so. He would become the ruler of his own tiny kingdom.
“Harald agreed to this, and provided Magnus with ships to carry everything he and his followers would need to start their new life on the island. Then he left them in peace to live as they wished, just as he had promised.
“But there were others, wild raiders with fast ships who swore allegiance to no king. They noticed that the once-barren island was now sprouting cottages and wheat fields; the hillsides were covered with herds of grazing sheep. And so they came sweeping in time after time, stealing sheep, pigs, grain, and now and then a comely maiden. It was so easy—why, the innocents who lived there didn’t even have an army! They had no weapons at all!”
“Horrible!” Molly said.
“Yes, it was. So clearly they would have to find another home, someplace safe, quiet, and remote. But where?
“Magnus needed to consider the matter, and to do this he needed to be alone. So he climbed to the top of the highest hill and built himself a crude little shelter, just enough to keep off the sun and the rain. And there he stayed—we don’t know how long—living on nothing but the bread and water that were set outside his door every morning. And during that time King Magnus had a vision.”
Molly gasped.
“He saw a lush valley fed by rivers and guarded by mountains on all four sides, the coastal range dropping precipitously down to the sea. He saw a few peasants living there, growing crops, cut off from the rest of the world since the time before time. He saw dense, honey-colored stone ready to be quarried for building. And he saw his men at the top of soaring cliffs with a system of winches and ropes, hauling their things up from the ships below, animals and bedsteads alike. And best of all, he saw the way in to that sweet, protected spot: a narrow canyon near impossible to find if you didn’t know the way, cutting right through the southern mountains.
“When he came back down the hill—ragged and dirty, no doubt, and with a scraggly beard—he told his people to pack up their belongings and get the ships ready to sail. That is how they came to settle in this place and build this beautiful city. It was a labor of many generations, but these walls and these mountains have kept us safe ever since.” Pieter took a deep breath, his face glowing with pride.
“That’s amazing,” Molly said. “What a wonderful story.”
“Indeed. And as you shall see, we have created a paradise here, untouched and untroubled by the world.”
Molly stared thoughtfully at the great sheet of vellum.
“But what about all the rest of the scroll—that part, and that? All those little pictures and lines?”
“It’s a map of our people, showing the leaders of the seven clans, from the time of Magnus to the present generation.”
“What does that mean—clans?”
“They grew out of family groups long ago. There would have been a patriarch named Gunnar, for example, who was a great hunter, so his descendants became the Gunnarclan, who now serve as the archers on our ramparts. We don’t allow weapons here, as you know, but we have made that one exception. As we are not a warlike people and have no army, we need at least some protection. Just in case.”
“No army?” said Tobias, astonished.
“We have mountains instead.” Pieter smiled. “So, that’s the Gunnarclan. In the same way, long ago, there was a man named Stig, who was a sailor. His descendants are the Stiggesclan, from which our Voyagers are chosen. They don’t sail in ships, not anymore; but they are the only ones who are permitted to leave our valley and go out into the world—secretly, you understand—to learn of new things and bring back wisdom to our people.”
“And you?”
“I’m of the Visenclan. We are scholars, mostly. This is my family line, here.”
“But what about the one in the middle? It has more names than the others. And so many lines lead to it, and there’s so much gold paint.”
Pieter smiled. “That is your clan, lady—the descendants of King Magnus.”
“Gaw!” cried Tobias, forgetting himself entirely. “You’re a royal princess, Molly!”
“Is it true?” she asked.
“In a way. Not exactly. The king’s line is here.” He showed them where the Magnus clan had split several times, some lines dying out, a few running side by side all the way to the bottom. “See the little gold crown I have painted here? That’s our king, Koenraad; and below him you see his son, Prince Fredrik. You are part of this other line, here. But it’s true you are of royal lineage—noble, I believe you’d call it in your country.”
Molly was struck speechless. Royal blood—who would have thought it?
Pieter now opened a drawer and took out a strange object. It was like half of a ball made out of glass. He positioned it carefully at the end of her branch of the Magnus line, peering down and adjusting it slightly. “There!” he said. “Don’t touch it, lady. Just—it’s better if you stand and look straight down. Now tell me, what do you see?”
“Oh, you have made the words larger.”
“Not me, the magnifying glass.”
“Is it magic?”
“No. It’s science, the science of optics. But what I wished you to notice is the word that’s being magnified.”
“Oh. I don’t know how to read.”
“That’s all right. I’ll help you. Now imagine two valleys, side by side.” He drew the shape with a finger in the air. “That is the letter W.”
“But I know that one already!” she cried. “I also know the letter M.”
“Well, how clever of you!”
She flushed then, hearing her own words and hearing his reply. No doubt he’d meant to be kind, but to say to a man who could read anything, a man who knew all the letters and could write them down as well—to say I know M and W as though that were some great accomplishment . . .
“I had a necklace,” she explained. “The king of Westria has it now. My grandfather made it as a love-gift for my grandmother, so he worked both of their initials into the design: M for Martha and W for William. That’s the only reason I know. Otherwise, I’m as ignorant as a toad.”
“No you’re not. You just haven’t had an education. But you’re as sharp and clever as any young lady of my acquaintance. Now look again—don’t move it; I have it perfectly placed—and tell me what
you see.”
“The letter W.”
“Exactly. And combined with the others that follow, it spells out the name William.”
“Like my grandfather?”
“That is your grandfather, lady.”
“Oh.” And then, after studying it a while, “But there’s nothing under it, no little lines running down . . .”
“Not yet,” Pieter said, turning the scroll around so the top part, with the three kings, was on their side of the table now and the word that said William was in front of him. From out of his pocket he pulled a new device—two metallic rings, each holding a circle of glass just as strips of lead hold the panes of a window. The rings of metal and glass were connected by a squiggly bit of wire in the middle.
“Eyeglasses,” Pieter said, slipping the squiggly bit onto his nose. “They magnify as the glass dome does, so I can see to work small.” Then he sharpened his pen with a knife, wiped it clean with a cloth, and dipped it into the ink.
“You must tell me the names. William begat—?”
“What is ‘begat’?”
“William’s issue. His children.”
“Oh. There was just my mother.”
“And her name?”
“Greta.”
He nodded and carefully began to write the name on the scroll. When he was done, he drew a remarkably straight line running down from it and looked up again at Molly.
“How would you like to be listed, lady?” His eyes, as seen through the circles of glass, were distorted.
“You look like a demon in those eyeglasses.”
“I assure you I am nothing of the kind. Now how shall I list you? As Marguerite? Or your full title? It’ll be tight, but I think I can manage.”
Molly pinched her lips and thought. “Not the title, no.” She chewed on a fingernail, thinking some more. “Just Molly,” she decided. “That’s who I really am.”
“All right.” She watched, scarcely breathing, as he slowly, carefully, made the tiny strokes on the paper that spelled out her name, and enrolled her for all time as one of the people of Harrowsgode.
“Oh, Master Pieter—is that really my name? Tobias, you must come and see!”
“It’s wonderful,” he said, leaning over to look. “Exactly the way a princess’s name ought to be written.”
“I’m not a princess,” she said, though her face fairly glowed with pleasure.
Just then the assistant returned, closing the door very gently again—no doubt he’d been scolded for slamming it—and handed Pieter a single scroll.
“Only one reply?” he asked. Then, checking to see who’d sent it, “Nothing from the Council?”
“No, Master. They were very busy. They just took the letter and sent me on my way.”
“I understand.” He opened the scroll and scanned it quickly, nodding with satisfaction. “What about Richard Strange?” he asked. “Did you not go to Neargate?”
“I did. He’s agreed to host the gentleman.”
“All right, then,” Pieter said to Molly and Tobias. “It grows late, and all is now arranged. Shall we away?”
“Where?”
“To your lodgings. We have no inns in Harrowsgode, as we have no travelers; but you’ll be quite comfortable, I promise. Marguerite—excuse me, Molly—you’ll be the guest of a near relative, Claus Magnusson, a professor at the university. His father was William’s brother, so that would make him a cousin of sorts. The family knows Westrian, so language won’t be a problem.”
“What about me?” Tobias asked.
“You’ll be staying with a gentleman named Richard Strange. He was born in Westria, so he knows the language. I’m sure you’ll suit each other splendidly. Now, come. Get your things. Robbin, you take Lord Worthington over to Neargate. I’ll see to the lady. Do you want my mother to accompany us?”
“No,” Molly said. “It’s just a stuffy old custom.”
“As you like, my dear. Shall we go?”
And then they were out the door and through the gates of the university, where they parted—she to go one way and he another. It had all happened too fast.
“But how will I see Tobias?” she asked. “We didn’t make any plans. I don’t even know where he’s staying.”
“Don’t worry. Dr. Magnusson will arrange it. No problem at all.”
9
The Great Seer
KING KOENRAAD WAS VERY OLD. He was nearly blind, profoundly deaf, and too frail to walk without assistance. He’d completely forgotten his once-beloved queen, dead now these many years; and he didn’t recognize Prince Fredrik, the son she’d borne him. Every night he’d ask his gentlemen of the chamber where his mother was and why she hadn’t come to kiss him before he went to sleep. He mostly stayed in bed, except on good days, when he’d have himself carried to a large leather chair in which he’d sit by the fire, a woolen blanket draped across his lap, summer and winter.
This was a tragedy for Harrowsgode. For though Prince Fredrik was everything you’d want in a king—sensible, judicious, and wise—he was not permitted to step into the breach and rule in his father’s place. The law quite clearly stated that a king’s position was absolute so long as he drew breath. That left the Privy Council in charge, since their official duty was to assist and advise the king.
The Council, all Magi, held their meetings in the Celestium, an airy chamber in the central tower of Harrowsgode Hall. There, all matters concerning the city were thoughtfully discussed, sometimes for hours, until consensus was reached and a decision made.
If the Celestium was the city’s reasoning mind, the buzzing hive of government offices below on the second floor was unquestionably its beating heart, for here those decisions were put into action.
The heart and mind were linked in the person of Soren Visenson, the chief counselor of Harrowsgode, whose title was Great Seer. Every morning he went downstairs to meet with his principal ministers to hear their reports and pass along the will of the Council.
On this particular day he’d stayed later than usual due to a meeting with the designers and engineers of a new citywide hot-water system soon to be up and running. They were just finishing their discussion when the Minister of Security came rushing in without even bothering to knock. He was flushed and breathing hard.
“Your Excellency,” he said, “please excuse the interruption, but I just received word that strangers have been seen entering the valley. There are five of them: three men and two women. The men are all carrying swords.”
A chill fell over the room—for though their city walls were strong and high, their moat deep and wide, and their ramparts always manned with well-trained archers, they’d never wanted, and had never had, an army. They’d counted on magic and mountains to protect them. And now, for the first time in the hundreds of years since they’d settled in the valley, magic and mountains apparently had failed them.
“It could mean nothing, my lord. There aren’t enough of them to do us any harm; and they came quite openly, bringing women. That’s not what you’d expect from a raiding party.”
“You said they were armed.”
“Yes, but I’m told that foreigners always carry swords for protection when they travel. Most likely they’re commonplace travelers who happened to lose their way.”
Soren shook his head. “Impossible. No one finds this place by accident. We need to question them closely and find out how they came here, and why. But disarm them first—and take care how you do it. If you frighten them they’ll fight back, and someone might be harmed.”
The minister nodded. “I understand. I’ll take my strongest men; we’ll go in the guise of a welcoming party and explain that we don’t allow weapons here. I doubt they’ll resist. They have a similar custom in Austlind, I believe—something about a visitor offering his sword to his host to show that he comes in peace.”
“Good. Then once they’re disarmed, arrest them. I presume there is someplace in the village where criminals can be confined.”
“I suppose; I’ll ask. But I’ll need a warrant to do it.”
“I’ll write one out now—for their arrest and for their execution. I’m sorry, but it can’t be helped. If they leave this valley they’ll carry tales, and others are sure to follow. But question them thoroughly first—one at a time would be best, I think—then come and report to me. I’ll be here all day.”
“Your Excellency,” the minister said with obvious discomfort, “such actions require the approval of the Council. And for execution, it has to be unanimous.”
“We don’t have time for that. I’ll explain to the Council later. For now my signature will be sufficient.”
“But, Your Excellency, I really can’t—”
The Great Seer shot him a look of cold rage. “Then I’ll have to find someone who can.”
The minister flushed with anger and embarrassment. “I’m sorry, Your Excellency. I only meant—”
Just then they heard the pealing of the bell in the village tower.
“We know, we know,” Soren muttered to himself. “Now go and round up your men—unless, of course, you’d rather resign, in which case please do me the favor of sending in your deputy.”
“No need of that, my lord.”
“I’m glad to hear it. Now go. By the time you’re ready, I’ll have the warrant.”
As the Minister of Security turned to leave, a messenger arrived. He, too, stepped through the open doorway without asking permission to enter. Protocol had fallen by the wayside that day.
“Your Eminence . . . Lord Minister,” he said, giving each of them a hasty bow. “The villagers have called up to the ramparts to say that there’s been a death. One of our own.”
“Not again!” The Great Seer leaned back and gazed at the ceiling, fighting for his composure. “Drowned?”
“No, sire. He survived the plunge, but then he took a shortcut through an enclosure, and a bull was in it. The animal killed the boy, or so it appears.”
Soren turned to his minister, who’d been edging toward the door. “How could your men have missed him?” he roared. “Up there on the wall in plain sight, climbing over—”
The Cup and the Crown Page 6