“You frown, my prince.”
“I was thinking of Tresa.” Uncle Raeth’s granddaughter. I’d allowed myself to dream that perhaps, one day, the requirements of the Still set aside, I might frolic in the fields of her munificence. I had hope, until she saw my scarred face, and fled from my presence. Now, I would die rather than accept her pity.
“No doubt she’s well. Three times she wrote, and you—”
“Let’s not speak of it.”
An uneasy silence.
“Come along, Roddy.” Rust tugged me toward the imposing stone steps and the door of state that led to me donjon’s great hall.
“I’d rather—”
“Now.”
Meekly, I followed.
I was no longer a boy. At seventeen, I was master of myself and my kingdom. As Guardian of the King’s Person, Rustin took unfair advantage of the license I’d freely and trustingly given; at times he ordered me about most imperiously. I found it easier to comply than to sunder our friendship. And, to tell truth, there were times I needed his counsel and even—though I might never admit it—his restraint. My temper was fearsome. Of late, since I’d begun to wield the Still, it seemed worse than ever.
The door to the Keep was guarded, within and without. The sentry bowed as he thrust it open before me. “King Rodrigo.”
In the great hall, welcome warmth, and the glowing faces of my nobles. Rust and I crossed to the vast fireplace, whose flames were so mighty they must be roaring through the chimney to the sky. “Are you heating the castle, or razing it?” My tone was sour.
At the table, nursing his mulled wine, Elryc stirred. “I had them throw on logs. My ague ...”
I sighed. My brother’s frail frame was always battered by one ailment or another. But he was wise beyond his twelve years, and counseled me well.
In the seasons since we’d wended our way home to Stryx and evicted my odious Uncle Margenthar, Elryc had shot up like a weed. A hint of hair darkened his lip, and his voice had plummeted from the upper registers. Soon, he too would lie with women, and we would grow apart.
“What news from Eiber, Roddy?” Elryc left his place at the table, stood warming himself at the furnace of a fire.
“Tantroth still holds his western hills. But the Norlanders have his Eiber Castle and all the lands to the sea.” A log fell. Gloomily, I stared at the cascade of sparks. “When the weather breaks, we’ll have to send more men.”
“To Uncle Raeth first.”
“It’s the same.” The lands of Raeth and Tantroth adjoined.
“It is not.” Impatient, Elryc shook his head. “We can trust Raeth.”
Raeth of Cumber, my father’s uncle, was a canny old party, who like any lord schemed constantly to enlarge his domain. But we’d reached an understanding, he and I, that had deepened into mutual respect. And I knew that he had truly loved my late father. I said, “I promised Tantroth—”
“Send a token force. Give the bulk of your men to Raeth; they’ll serve Tantroth as well in Cumber.” True, if they’d draw the Norlanders’ relentless hordes from Eiber. But Hriskil’s troops were so many that our forces were a nuisance, a fly buzzing at a campfire.
“Sir, I wish you a good night.” Anavar’s Eiberian accent seemed thick tonight, but my landless young baron bowed with due courtesy. These days he showed me careful civility. Noble or not, he was my ward, and in recent weeks I’d beaten him twice for too haughty a mien. He, like Elryc, had grown, and was of that age I’d not long ago passed, in which one knew all there was to know. Rustin, of course, disapproved of my chastisement. I paid little heed; Rust disapproved of almost all my notions, and it gave me fervent satisfaction to set the boy right.
“Sleep well, Anavar.” Self-consciously, I drew him into a moment’s hug. He was my ward, and had no father near. And he’d ridden at my side in battle.
Wet and shivering from my morning bath, I snapped my fingers. My servant handed me a thick cloth. I dried myself as quickly as I could, still shy that my body showed fewer signs of manhood than it ought. At seventeen, my chest was bare, and I passed razor over cheeks but once a fortnight, if that. If only my beard would grow; I’d look more manly, and it would help hide my hideous scar.
I shivered. My room had no fire. Nothing barred me from moving to Mother’s old chamber where I could make myself warm, but I could not. A foolish hesitation, I knew, but how could I explain the usurpation, when I met her through the Still? If she took offense ... Besides, I liked my familiar room.
“Wear these.” Rustin thrust me breeches and shirt of his choosing.
I opened my mouth to object, but thought better of it. Rust amused himself making sure my jerkin matched my breeks; why deny him the pleasure? In truth, my sense of color and style was rudimentary. Someday, when I had time, I’d study the art he and others practiced with such ease.
“Why so fancy?” My jerkin was decorated with gold thread.
Rust pulled me onto a bench, dried my hair with rough affection. “Because you’re king. And Freisart comes today.”
I laced the jerkin. “He must be desperate for shelter.” Poor Freisart of Kant, a distant relative, had long ago lost throne and castle. He spent his days wandering from noble to noble, pitied and disdained.
“Your hospitality is ample.”
I snorted. Stryx was but a shadow of its former self. What riches Tantroth hadn’t plundered in his occupation of the city, we’d lost to Uncle Mar during his regency.
I snapped my fingers to the servant. “Run tell cook I’ll break fast in a moment. In the great hall.”
“Hold, Roddy,” said Rust, reaching for my hairbrush.
“But—”
His look had become grim. Taking the brush, I worked the tangles from my hair.
Rust was notorious for his moods. Usually amiable, at times his good cheer would shatter like an icicle dropped onto stone. Perhaps our return to Stryx caused him pain. The view of his father, Llewelyn’s, Keep below would do him no good; Llewelyn had surrendered to Tantroth, without need, on Eiber’s attack.
When I was presentable Rust laid down the brush, took my face between his hands, gently touched my forehead to his. “Now, you’re handsome.” He pulled me to the door.
On the way out, I caught a glimpse of myself in the silver mirror, and shuddered. Only in Rust’s eye was I handsome. Though, were one to see only the right profile ... Uncle Mar had ruined my looks forever, with his cruel knife, but before his ministrations ... yes, I could have been called handsome.
“You still are.”
I raced him down the stairs. “Are my thoughts so plain?”
“Every nuance. I despair of you in matters of state.”
I snorted, knowing Rust but tweaked me. Though he thought me a callow boy in personal matters, his respect for my statecraft grew daily. Was it possible to be cleft in twain, a dunce in private matters and wise at public affairs? At times I felt so. Yet I was not such a dolt as to spurn his tutelage, even though more often than not I found it galling.
Freisart’s green, brown-hemmed robes were clean but threadbare. Round-faced, with weary bags under his eyes, he greeted me like a long-lost brother. It was his first visit in years; when last he’d come, Mother had received him in the great hall while I watched with the castle brats from the alcove.
“My brother, Elryc, his man Genard.” ‘Man’ was stretching it; Genard, at thirteen, was younger than Anavar. A stableboy of the castle, he had vaulted to liegesman because of good service to Elryc. My struggle to keep his pride in check was constant. Among Freisart’s sparse entourage were two bony ladies who shared a sour expression, introduced as royal cousins. Three servants. And a prosperous-looking fellow, meaty, with a thick red beard.
“Jestrel, my lord. A wondrously talented silversmith. He served my court in ... past days.”
“Welcome.” I eyed him dubiously. I didn’t mind providing for Freisart—well, I minded, but not all that much—but this fellow wasn’t even nobility.
&nbs
p; “My Lord King.” Jestrel bowed low. “A pleasure. An honor.” His eyes flickered to my scar, and away. “We’ve heard of your exploits.”
“Have we?” My tone was barely civil. Who was he to praise me?
“Why, yes, my lord. Even in Ghanz they say—”
My breath hissed. “You come from Ghanz?” The principal city of the Norlanders, in the cool hills where Hriskil summered. Was he a spy, to ferret out our troop dispositions?
Freisart said gently, “We’re welcomed in all quarters, Roddy, now we have no land. We’re a threat to no one.”
I flushed, for having made him speak of his shame. To ease the moment I said, “Tell me of Ghanz.”
“High hills,” said the exiled king. “A city surrounded by tall wood. Hriskil is a builder. No, an alterer. He enlarges, remodels, rebuilds palaces ’til his nobles go mad. Dust and mortar throughout. Draperies in storage. Cold meals always, because the kitchen’s never quite finished.”
“You came directly?”
“Why no, Rodrigo. Through Eiber, and Cumber, and the Sands.”
Anavar said eagerly, “Cumber, my lord? How goes it with the Earl’s granddaughter?”
My hand closed around the boy’s nape. “Haven’t you better to do than annoy King Freisart?”
A gulp. “Yes, sir. Pardon.” To Freisart of Kant, he made a shamefaced bow. “Excuse me, I’m due at ... I must go.” He hurried off, his ears red.
Rust raised an eyebrow, but said naught.
“We dine at seventh hour, my lord king.” I made a short bow, that of host to guest.
“Is Tarana dead or alive?” Hester peered at me through her better eye.
“Your sister’s gone these four years.” I slumped on her bench in the ancient stone-walled nursery, head on hands.
My old nurse sighed. “I was afraid so, but my mind gulls me.” Her gnarled familiar hand stroked my neck. “You’re almost grown, lad. Elena would be proud.”
“She says she is.”
“You tell her ... ?”
“Every time.” With each visit to the cave, I brought Mother Hester’s words of endearment. The feeble old lioness had raised Mother in her day, before my brothers and me.
“Elryc is troubled,” she said.
I searched her wrinkled face. “Is this more than a dream?”
“Think you I’m daft?” She waved a claw at my nose. “Yesterday, on this very bench.”
“What about?”
“You.” She sighed. “Be a good boy and heat the tea.” Dutifully, I set the pot on the embers. “You make them cry, Roddy. Anavar and Genard.”
I dismissed it. “Servants.” Well, not Anavar, though he’d been bondsman before I’d freed him. As for Genard, he needed a good cry more often than he got one.
Her voice grated like glass on slate. “A churl’s misery is as great as a lord’s.”
Rustin argued the same. In theory, I knew he was right, but ...
“You humbled Anavar before Freisart.” She eyed me accusingly. “Why, Roddy? Did I raise you to be cruel?”
I made a helpless gesture. “He inquired after Tresa. I couldn’t allow it.”
“Only to please you. Because you were too embarrassed to ask.”
“I was not!”
“Bah. A moonstruck boy as king. You’re head over heels in love, think you we’re all blind? Wait a bit longer, there’ll be naught but the roasting teapot.”
“Imps take it!” I reached for the pot, came to my senses just in time. I wrapped my fingers in cloth, reached gingerly for the handle. Violent water sputtered into her cup. “There.”
“How oft must Tresa say she’s sorry?”
“I ought to go, Nurse. I promised Willem—”
“A coward to boot.” Her tone was acid.
I sighed. Hester’s vexation knew no bounds. “What would you I say?”
“That you’ll ignore Tresa no longer. You shake your head? Ask Llewelyn’s boy his mind. Rustin has sense, for a colt.”
Resigned, I bowed to take my leave. She pulled me close, gave me a fierce hug that brought a sting to my eyes. “Send Elryc, when he has time.”
“Yes, Nurse.”
“And Pytor.”
Pytor was dead. She herself had searched for him, unearthed his craftily hidden corpse, and in the doing unstaked the tent pegs of her mind.
Jestrel the silversmith took a long draught of unwatered wine. “Yes, Cumber’s a pretty town. Too pretty. I prefer the—shall I say austerity?—of the Sands.”
Mother had taken me to visit, when I was twelve. I recalled grim cliffs, a drab joyless town. And of course the fine castle, strangely built, in which we were given grand welcome.
“Have you met the Warthen, my lord?”
“Only in formal greeting.” I reddened. Mother had deemed me too young to sit through a long banquet; I’d been sent to eat with the servants and retainers. I remembered the Warthen of the Sands as a tall somber figure whose eyes bore a constant pain.
“He’d just done a Return,” Jestrel said. “He was downright skeletal.”
Elryc’s face was flushed. Unobtrusively, I watered his wine. Genard looked annoyed, as if I’d usurped his function.
King Freisart swayed dreamily. “Oh, the Return I’d buy.”
The Warthen’s rites were a well-guarded mystery. Through them, the Warthen’s petitioner could return to an event in his life, no matter how far in the past. Not merely return, but, reenact, and change what had been.
But the Return must be bought by suffering, moment by precious moment. And, aside from the Warthen himself, any wielder of the Power could only return to one event in his life. He might Return as often as he could abide, so long as he paid the cost. But once the event was chosen, he could return to no other.
It was suffering that made the Warthen’s eyes dark pools. It was said that he and the wielder suffered equally, when he sold the return, though he sold it for a mighty price. The Sands were a desolate place, bereft of rivers, watered by few springs. They sowed no grain, raised no sheep, grew no sweet olives. The wealth of the Sands came from the Return, and from those desperate enough to seek its use.
Once, when my tears of despair dampened his shoulder, Rust had stroked my jagged scar and whispered of the Return. The dream of restoring my face sustained me, on days the silver was too cruel. But the Warthen’s fees were beyond my reach. That I was his liege lord mattered not a whit.
Freisart had not the coin to contemplate a Return, and never would.
Later, in bed, Rust asked, “How must it feel, at the moment of change?”
I frowned, uncomprehending.
“Say your wife lies with another. You buy a Return, and go back to prevent the act. Do you know, after? Does she?”
“I think ... of course you do. Remember when Erastos didn’t drown?” His queen had carried on for weeks, weeping and gnashing her teeth. Then she’d seized the treasury, rushed to the Warthen. A fortnight later, it was known that Erastos had set sail on a different ship, one that reached shore safely, No one had told us. We simply knew.
Rustin said sleepily, “You’re right, but it feels ... odd.”
“So does that!” In the dark, I snatched away his hand. “I told you, Rust. No more.”
A long silence.
With resolve, I made my tone gentle. “When we were boys, we played as boys. Now I would be a man.”
“As I am not?”
“I didn’t say that. I treasure your wisdom, your sympathy, your example. Your ...” I forced the awkward word. “... love. But not in that manner. You told me you would abide my wish.” I waited, but, hurt, he said naught. Embarrassed, I cast about for a new track. “We can’t stay bottled in Stryx.”
After a moment, Rustin sighed. “Not again, my prince.”
“Again, and always. How will we eject Danzik, corked in our castle?”
“The Norlanders have only the coast road. They’ve moved against neither Verein nor Stryx. It’s we who have Caledon. And now we hold th
e Keep ...”
Llewelyn’s Keep, at the foot of Castle Way, guarded the approach to Castle Stryx. That’s why Llewelyn’s betrayal the year previous had been such a blow. If Tantroth of Eiber hadn’t renounced his own treason and made himself my ally, I’d never have regained it, or been able to eject Uncle Mar from Castle Stryx.
I said, “The Norlanders hold the coast road, and effectively the town; half our churls have fled, and the market is deserted. While we baste turkey for cousin Freisart, Danzik grinds Cumber to dust. And Tantroth, despite his wiles, fights for his life.”
“In two full moons the roads will be passable.”
“In two moons Cumber may fall.”
“You’re trembling, Roddy.”
“I’m frustrated.” After a moment I muttered, “No, not that way.” I sighed, determined not to yield. I could consign Rust to a chamber of his own, but I, more than most, knew one hated to be alone.
Two
“SO YOU WERE BUT a gnat, and they swatted you away. What of it?” My grandfather Tryon glared across the firepit of the gray cave, as clearly as if he lived.
“The Norlanders chuckle over their campfires. We lost seven men trying—”
“Every bite hurts.”
“Gnats don’t bite, Grandsir.” I paced the worn stone cave.
“But in time, in number, they drive you insane.”
I rolled my eyes. Mother’s hand flitted to my shoulder in a rare gesture of affection. I shivered. Would that during her lifetime ...
“While we guard Stryx, Grandsir, he’ll take Cumber.”
“Let Cumber go. It’s Eiber you must hold.”
“Nonsense. I—”
A blast of white rage nearly knocked my feet from under me. “SAY YOU WE SPEAK NONSENSE?”
“No, Father Varon!”
In his dim corner Varon of the Steppe, my mother Elena’s grandsire, first of our line, thrashed and rumbled. He’d gone far, since his death, and seldom returned save in fury. I bowed, the long, deep bow of obeisance. “Your pardon, sire. I meant no disrespect.”
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 2