Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels)

by Green, Simon R.

  “What is it?” he asked quickly. “What’s happened?”

  “The Regent has summoned all three princes to attend a special audience at Court,” said Roderik. “The last time he did that, it was to inform them of their father’s sudden death. I hate to think what he might have to say this time.”

  “Does he know about us?” said Jordan. “About me?”

  “I don’t see how,” said Gawaine. “But that doesn’t mean much where the Regent’s concerned. The man has an uncanny knack for discovering things that everyone else had thought were safely hidden. It wouldn’t matter so much if he wasn’t so damned honest. Beats me how he’s survived at Court all these years.”

  Jordan worried his lower lip between his teeth and thought furiously. If he remembered his briefing correctly, with the king’s death it was traditional for a Regent, chosen in advance by the king, to rule over the day-to-day problems of the kingdom, until a new king was declared. The Regent at this time was one Count William Howerd, first cousin to King Malcolm. A fair man, but a hard man, had been Roderik’s summing up. And too honest for everyone’s good, Gawaine had added.

  “How soon does he want to see me?” said Jordan. “And where’s DeGrange and Argent? Shouldn’t they be in on this?”

  “DeGrange is busy checking into whether there really is a traitor among our people,” said Gawaine. “He’ll join us when he can.”

  “I’ve sent word to Robert,” said Roderik, “but we can’t wait for him. The Regent wants to see you immediately. Lewis and Dominic are probably already on their way to Court by now. We must leave at once, Your Highness. It would look very bad if you were to arrive late.”

  Jordan nodded, and let them usher him out of the main door and into the corridor. The two guards followed along as an honor escort. It was only then that Jordan remembered he’d left the dog behind in the bedroom. Ah well, he thought, I could hardly have taken it into Court with me. I just hope it doesn’t crap on the carpet while I’m gone. He glanced at Sir Gawaine, striding hurriedly along beside him.

  “What do you think of the new clothes? Is it a suitable outfit for meeting the Regent?”

  “It’ll do,” said Gawaine. “You’ve worn worse, in the past.”

  Jordan scowled. “You’re a great help. Look, what if the Regent really has found out about us? What can we do?”

  “I don’t know about you,” said Gawaine, “but if things do turn nasty, I personally will head for the nearest window, crash right through it without pausing, and keep on running until I reach a different country. Somehow I don’t think the Regent will see the funny side of all this.”

  “Terrific,” said Jordan.

  He thought hard as they hurried down yet another corridor. Of all the confusing details in his new role, the missing will interested him the most. Whoever took it must have either wanted to know who the king had named as his successor, or believed the will held a clue as to the whereabouts of the crown and the seal. But it seemed clear that neither Lewis nor Dominic had the crown and seal: if they had, they’d have made themselves king by now. Jordan didn’t like the way his thoughts were heading. If the princes didn’t have the will, then who did? Could there be some other, separate party at work?

  Jordan looked up, startled, as his party came to a halt before the huge double doors that led into the Great Hall. Two servants swung open the doors, and stood rigidly to attention as the herald announced the arrival of Prince Viktor and his party to the assembled Court. The packed hall fell silent as Jordan, Roderik, and Gawaine stood a moment in the great doorway, taking in the scene, and then a slow ripple moved through the Court as the men bowed and the women curtsied. For a moment, Jordan wanted to look behind him to see who was there, and then he realized they were paying homage to him, Prince Viktor of Redhart. He nodded curtly in response, and the courtiers relaxed a little. Jordan strode unhurriedly forward into the hall, and Roderik and Gawaine moved with him. The two guards fell back a few paces, to give them the illusion of privacy. The courtiers chatted quietly on unimportant matters, but Jordan noticed that their eyes never moved far from him or his party. He stopped and looked boredly around him, doing his best to project an air of total indifference. Roderik leaned close to murmur in his ear.

  “Lewis and Dominic don’t seem to have arrived yet. That’s ominous. Given their head start, they should have been here long before us. I’m going back to find DeGrange, and see what’s happening. Gawaine will look after you. For the moment, don’t take any risks. Just scowl at everyone and say nothing. They’ll accept that as normal behavior, particularly after a bad day’s hunting. I’ll be back with you as soon as I can.”

  He bowed formally to Jordan, and left unhurriedly. Only another actor would have spotted the telltale stiffness of tension in Roderik’s back and shoulders. Jordan looked casually about him, keeping his face carefully calm and neutral. This wasn’t the first Court he’d ever visited, but it was the largest hall he’d ever seen. It had to be easily two hundred feet long, and half again as wide, and was packed from wall to wall with brightly costumed courtiers. With their vivid colors and never-ending gossiping, they reminded Jordan of so many chattering parrots.

  At the far end of the hall, stood a roughly carved marble throne, set atop a raised marble dais. Beneath the throne, clearly visible between the squat legs, was a roughly hewn block of weather-beaten stone. Jordan studied it thoughtfully. Presumably this was the Stone to which the crown and the seal had to be presented: the Stone that was the heart and focus of Castle Midnight’s magic. It didn’t look like much, but then neither did the throne. Its surface was cracked and pitted, and the bas-relief carvings were crude and functional. Even with the thick cushion on the seat, the throne looked very uncomfortable to actually sit on. It looked strangely out of place in the ostentatious elegance of the Great Hall. Jordan let his gaze drift casually over the wood-paneled walls. It wouldn’t do for him to be caught gawking like a tourist. But there was no denying that the woodwork was very impressive. Each panel of lightly stained beech wood held fantastic and intricate carvings of the people and animals of Redhart, at work and at play. The detail was incredible. Jordan wished he had a sketch pad with him. He studied the richly wax-polished floor and the wonderfully carved and painted domed ceiling, and felt a sudden desire to turn and run from the hall. How could he ever hope to fool people who spent their days in glorious surroundings like this, taking its beauty for granted? Surely they must have recognized him immediately for the crude common impostor he was, and were only waiting for the right moment to cry out on him?

  Something of this must have shown in his face, for Sir Gawaine was suddenly at his elbow, leaning forward solicitously.

  “Are you all right, sire? You look a trifle pale.”

  “I’m fine,” said Jordan quickly. “Fine. I could use a drink, though.”

  The knight bowed. “I will fetch you one immediately, sire.”

  He moved off toward a buffet table set to one side. Jordan felt a sudden urge to call Gawaine back rather than be left on his own in the midst of strangers, but his pride wouldn’t let him. He was the Great Jordan, damn it. He was the actor and they were the audience: he was in control. They only saw what he wanted them to see. The hall was certainly impressive, but he’d seen better. At the peak of his career he’d performed at Forest Castle, and Duke Alric’s Palace in Hillsdown. Three nights at each, and not once had he failed to get a standing ovation. He could handle these people. What had Roderik said: speak to no one and scowl at everyone. Easy. He caught the eye of the nearest courtier, and let his features fall into his most intimidating glare. He used it mostly when walking through strange market towns and bazaars, when he wasn’t too sure of the local mood. It was his I am poor but incredibly violent so there is absolutely no point in trying to rob me look. Jordan had put a lot of work into that glare, and was quietly proud of it. It never failed to have an effect. On a good day he could get people parting to either side of him like waves. The glare seemed to b
e going down well at Court, too. The courtiers around him apparently felt a sudden need to be somewhere else, and the man Jordan had chosen as the direct target for his glare had gone distinctly pale. Gawaine returned with a glass of wine, and Jordan gulped at it thirstily.

  “Ease up on the glare a little,” murmured Gawaine. “We don’t want to scare them too much—we still want some of them as our allies. And remember, you’re supposed to be recovering from a chill. You’re looking a bit too strong at the moment.”

  “Understood,” said Jordan quietly. “Just as a matter of interest, why am I getting such strong reactions? That guy there looks scared to death. All right, it’s a good glare, but not that good.”

  “On a previous occasion, shortly before you went into exile, one of the courtiers was foolish enough to ridicule your choice of clothing. You gave him a chance to apologize, and when he refused you called up your fire magic and fried the man where he stood.”

  Jordan looked at Gawaine, but there was nothing in the knight’s face to suggest that he was exaggerating.

  “What happened?”

  “The man died, sire. Eventually.”

  “I gathered that. I meant, what happened to the prince?”

  “Nothing.”

  “Nothing? He wasn’t punished, or disciplined?”

  “Of course not, sire. There wasn’t even a trial. You are a prince of the Realm. And you did give him a chance to apologize.”

  Jordan thought about that. He didn’t like the taste of it at all. In his time, Jordan had played all kinds of aristocrats, from lords to barons to dukes to kings, and every single one of them had followed the old ways of duty and honor. It wasn’t enough to have noble blood: a ruler had to show noble behavior to justify his exalted position. A noble could only rule with the consent of his subjects: the alternative was a land permanently wracked by civil wars. That was the tale he always told, the tale he’d told so often he had finally come to believe it himself. Jordan suddenly felt very tired. The truths he was finding at Castle Midnight kept hitting him like hammer blows. Perhaps the more so because deep down he’d always known them.

  He knew about King Malcolm. Most people did. The king had fancied himself a general, and had sent his troops into battle after battle to test his own theories of warfare. At first he took on the bandits and outlaws in his own land, and then, as his confidence grew, he moved against his neighboring countries in a series of border campaigns intended to spread the boundaries of Redhart. With his elemental magic to aid him, he won more battles than he lost, but still the campaigns cost him more in revenue and men than his newly conquered lands could replace. And so it went. King Malcolm had not been a cruel man, as kings went, but it could not be said he was greatly loved by his people for all his victories. His sons appeared to be cast from the same mold: only worse. Dominic is mad, and Lewis is vile … and now it seemed Viktor was no better. It came as no real surprise. Jordan had seen a dangerous weakness in the prince’s face, for all his brave words, added to a petulance that changed all too easily into arrogance and viciousness.

  I will sit upon the throne of Redhart if I have to see all the corridors of this castle awash in blood to do it …

  Jordan sighed inwardly. His dreams and illusions had never really been any more than that. His audiences might have believed in the heroic nobles he had portrayed for them, but he never had. Not deep down, where it counted. The aristocracy held its power and position by force of arms and magic, nothing more. Anything else was just a dream …

  Jordan drank the last of the wine Gawaine had brought him. It was too sweet for his taste, but he was thirsty and it was something to do. He felt restive without any planned moves or actions to fall back on. He strolled casually forward, headed nowhere in particular, and the courtiers fell unobtrusively back before him. Gawaine moved silently at his side. It didn’t have to be just a dream, Jordan suddenly realized. He was a prince now, and could act as a prince should. But if he did, he’d be acting out of character, and could be revealed as an impostor. Besides, there was Count Roderik to consider. Viktor might think he was in charge, but it was clear to Jordan that Roderik was the real brains and power in this conspiracy. It wouldn’t surprise Jordan to discover that Roderik was using Viktor, rather than the other way around.

  Jordan looked around for another drink. He was damned if he was going to get through this sober.

  Brion DeGrange sat in his study, nursing a glass of wine and staring at it bitterly. There was a time he’d been a real drinking man, but not anymore. The geas wouldn’t let him do anything to himself that might interfere with his duties as head of security. The bastard spell wouldn’t let him get drunk, no matter how much he needed to. One glass of wine an evening, sometimes two. A mug of beer with his dinner. And that was it. He couldn’t get drunk, he couldn’t run away, and he couldn’t even kill himself, let alone the men who’d done this to him. DeGrange scowled at his half-empty glass. He might have been an outlaw, but at least he usually granted his enemies the kindness of a quick death. And he’d never kept slaves.

  One day, he would have his revenge. One day.

  Until then, he worked hard as head of castle security. Partly because the geas demanded it, but mainly because it wasn’t in his nature to do sloppy work. If he did something, his pride demanded that he do it well. He’d never been able to settle for being second best. Even if that meant killing the man in front of him. DeGrange grinned wolfishly. That was what had got him outlawed, all those years ago, and he’d never regretted it. The bastard shouldn’t have got in his way. He winced as a familiar headache began, pounding dully in his temples. The geas was warning him. If he persisted in dwelling on his past as an outlaw and the things he’d done, the headache would grow worse, until the pain drove him screaming into unconsciousness. He’d learned the hard way that there was no profit in trying to fight the geas.

  He concentrated on calm, neutral thoughts, with the bitter ease of long practice. When all was said and done, security at Castle Midnight was never less than interesting. On a good day he could lose himself in his work and go for hours on end without remembering he was a slave. The pain in his temples slowly began to subside, and DeGrange sighed heavily. He drank his wine, hardly noticing the taste. He was getting maudlin again. It was the approaching autumn that did it. He’d always loved riding through the forests in the fall, the changing leaves hanging around the trees like bronzed tatters … he missed the forests. He hadn’t been able to set foot outside Castle Midnight in seven years.

  He looked about him, taking in the bare walls of his study. It wasn’t a large room, but it was warm, comfortable, and private. He’d lived in much worse, in his time. He called it his study, but actually it was his bedroom and living room as well. No sense in wasting precious space on a slave, after all. It wasn’t as if he was going to object. The room would have been too small for two people, but there was only DeGrange. There had been a woman once, who’d warmed his heart and given him a reason for living, but the king’s men had cut her down when they stormed his camp. If she’d lived, she would have been twenty-nine this year. DeGrange hadn’t found anyone else after her. The geas saw to that. A close personal attachment might interfere with his duties.

  DeGrange shook his head slowly, tears burning unshed in his eyes, gripped again by a familiar feeling of utter frustration. He was trapped, he couldn’t escape, and he couldn’t even strike out at his jailers. DeGrange threw his glass aside, and his hands clenched into fists. He struck out at the tabletop before him, slamming his fists against the unyielding wood over and over again. When he finally stopped, his hands were bruised and bloody and the warning headache throbbed fiercely in his temples. He hated himself for his weakness, but he hated Count Roderik more, and finally that hatred gave him the strength to regain his calm again. One day the geas might relax its grip on him, if only for a moment, or Roderik might make some foolish mistake. When that chance came, DeGrange was determined not to miss it.

  There was a p
eremptory knock at his door. DeGrange quickly thrust his bloody hands out of sight under the table. The door swung open, and Count Roderik walked in without waiting to be asked. The door was never locked: DeGrange wasn’t allowed a key.

  “What can I do for you, my lord?” said DeGrange. His voice was carefully calm and polite.

  “The Regent’s summoned Lewis, Dominic, and Viktor to a special audience at Court,” said Roderik. “Why didn’t you warn me about this?”

  “It’s the first I’ve heard about it, my lord.” DeGrange frowned. “I should have heard something … Either this was a very sudden decision, or he’s discovered that I’m your man first, and his second.”

  “Lewis and Dominic weren’t at Court when the actor and I got there.” Roderik paced back and forth in the small room. “They should have got there first. What’s keeping them?”

  “I can venture an educated guess,” said DeGrange calmly. He loved to see Roderik getting rattled. “Lewis and Dominic’s private troops have been jockeying for position in the castle for days. If the Regent’s troops weren’t there to enforce the peace, there’d have been open fighting in the corridors by now. Presumably Lewis and Dominic are waiting till the last possible moment to leave their own areas, while their troops make sure it’s safe for them to walk to Court.”

  “Yes. That makes sense.” Roderik stopped pacing, and looked steadily at DeGrange. “What do you make of the Great Jordan, now you’ve had time to think about him?”

  “He’s arrogant and conceited, like all actors, but that’s not exactly a handicap to impersonating a prince. He’s untrustworthy, of course—he has no real reason not to be. I’ve no doubt he’d betray us in a moment if anyone put any pressure on him. But he seems competent enough. Have you left him alone at Court?”