Sword of Jashan (Book 2)

by Anne Marie Lutz

  “I know. You are not easy to befriend, all wrapped around with watchdogs and watching me always with those eyes.” Froman held up a hand. “We are nothing like each other, but friendliness aside, you are the rightful righ heir to the throne. Even sort of brattish as you are.”

  Ander sucked in a breath, outraged.

  Froman cut off his response. “Do you know what happened to the man who survived the attack on you?”

  “He has been slain.”

  “Yes! Privately, in the cells, instead of before a court as such things are usually done. It is whispered that he denounced Lord Callo. He said a yellow-eyed righ had hired him to take you, and then Sharpeyes ordered him slain before he could spread that word to anyone else, even before Mage Oron could interrogate the man.”

  “So?”

  “So he did not want the Royal Bastard denounced in front of the court! Sharpeyes wants that abomination to be King after him. A product of a union between a righ and a ku’an they say, a bastard that should have been exposed at birth!”

  Ander stared at the agitated lord. “And this has led you to tell me all this because?”

  “My lord father is right, damn his eyes. I have been wrong to disregard you, and I ask your forgiveness for that. You are the rightful heir, son of the King’s brother and a righ noblewoman. You belong on the throne when Sharpeyes dies, not some bastard who should never have lived. It is an insult to all righ that he should even try to replace you! Sharpeyes has always been devious, but even my lord father says now he grows too bold.”

  “He is used to always having his way,” Ander said. “I am glad you support me. But Lord Callo has always said he does not wish to take the throne.” He watched Froman intently, gauging the young lord’s reactions.

  “That is just talk.” Froman paced across the room. “Of course he wants the throne. Otherwise, why did he even come here? He is smart enough to know that if he admits it, he will not last a sennight. I am not the only one who thinks he should never have lived.”

  Ander said, “Sit down, my lord.”

  Froman jittered in place for a moment, and then burst out: “I cannot sit down! Not until you give me some idea what you are thinking about all this. Will you call ran Gesset in to kill me for abandoning you in the woods?”

  “Oh, sit down! You make me nervous.”

  Froman swore and sat down, his eyes glaring into Ander’s.

  “Is this punishment?” Froman said. “Because if so, I . . .”

  “I am not going to have you slain for your honesty,” Ander said.

  “Oh.” Froman took a deep breath and looked up into Ander’s eyes. “I half suspected you would. My lord father threatened that you would, even if Sharpeyes cares not what becomes of you. Thank you.”

  “You are welcome.” Ander stood and waited for a moment to make sure the room did not start swaying again before he took a few steps away from Froman. The height advantage made him feel better. “Now look. Lord Callo says he had nothing to do with the attack on me.” Froman snorted. Ander raised a hand. “I have no thought whether to believe him this time, but did you know he saved me twice at Northgard from attempts on my life by armed men?”

  “No. Perhaps he was just trying to mislead you.”

  “He is a puzzle. I like him, you know. We spent time together, talking about color magery. He did not try to slay me then. He is friendly, and does not stand on ceremony. I think he has been despised all his life.”

  “So? If he has tried to assassinate you, what does that matter?”

  “If he has, it matters naught. I will order him killed with no remorse.” Ander shoved down the anxiety that came with that statement. He did not think he would ever be the kind of King who would order someone slain, without remorse. “But if he has not, and is merely being manipulated to set the righ against him, then I have no reason to turn him away.”

  Froman had relaxed a little, and now stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back on his hands. “What? Not the fact that he is a half ku’an bastard?”

  “Certainly not.”

  Froman’s head jerked up.

  “Think about it! If he is my friend, then he can use those talents to strengthen my reign. Why would I dispose of him? He is very strong, you know.”

  “My lord father says he will die before long anyway. He says an untrained color mage cannot live, and with this additional ability from his Ha’lasi sire, the energies will eat him alive.” Froman sounded as if he would like to watch that happen.

  “Or he may succeed at winning over the mage energies. He has gone with Yhallin to do whatever unholy treatment she deems needful.” Ander shivered. He did not like what he had heard of Yhallin Magegard.

  “No, he was sent off with her to get him out of the way of the pissed-off nobles around here who would otherwise have his head for the attack on you.”

  Ander said, “I do not abandon my friends. I do not care if he is a half-righ. I will not abandon him unless he has chosen to be my enemy. The same goes for you, Lord Froman. You say you have thought about this. Do you wish to swear loyalty to me?”

  Until just recently Ander had no house, and no allies. Now he had Balan ran Gesset, Commander Eran who had bent the knee to him after the attack at Lake Heart, Mage Oron, Hon Jesel and possibly this strong young lord at his side. If he could ever resolve this suspicion against Lord Callo, then he thought he could count Callo and Hon Kirian, and Chiss among those who would swear him personal loyalty.

  “It’s why I came to talk to you. It is wrong, what they are doing—whoever is behind it. You are a righ, a color mage, and rightful heir by birth. The King cannot just set you aside when someone he fancies more steps up. Not to mention a bastard who shouldn’t be permitted here at all! The righ will not like it, my father says.”

  Ander grinned. “I will accept. You are not a flatterer, Lord Froman, but you are honest, and I can use an honest man.”

  Froman stood, and bowed. “My lord! I will stand with you in every fight. Even this damned political fight you face. I have friends I can convince to join me, if you don’t mind a lot of asses with more money than sense. But do not put me next to the Royal Bastard.”

  “I will remember that. But I do not want to hear you maligning him any more.” Ander felt the world go pale again, and then Froman was gripping his arm, guiding him to the bench.

  “Something is wrong after all,” Froman said. “I’m getting a Healer. I do not need people saying I have hurt you again.”

  Ander did not protest this time. He sat bowed over his lap and held onto the bench as the world swung wildly about him. After a moment, he lay down. His hands slipped on the dry wood of the bench.

  Froman had left, but Balan loomed over him. “Lord Ander? What is going on?”

  “Dizzy. Several times now. Froman has gone to get a Healer.”

  “Your face is bloodless. Is there anything I can do?”

  Ander shook his head. He closed his eyes and the dizziness receded. Weariness dragged him down, and he remained on the bench. After a few moments he heard Lord Froman speaking to someone else. The new man had a soft, deep voice.

  He recognized that voice. “Hon Jesel.”

  “Indeed. I was close by,” Jesel said. “What is wrong, Lord Ander?”

  Ander explained. He did it in short sentences, too tired to go into long explanations. Jesel’s cool hands felt his forehead, held his wrist briefly, and touched the side of his neck.

  “Can you open your eyes?” Jesel asked.

  Ander did so. The room no longer spun around him. Jesel peered into his eyes, then extended a hand and helped Ander to sit up on the bench.

  Ander looked around, wary. The room did not spin.

  “Has this ever happened before, my lord?” Jesel asked.

  “A few times, in the last sennight or so. Not this severe.”

  “What’s wrong with him?” Froman demanded.

  “At first glance, I can tell you nothing,” Jesel said. “You have no f
ever, my lord, and you do not appear to have lost weight.”

  “He just finished a match in the ring,” Balan said.

  “Were you hurt?” Jesel’s eyes turned to Froman, who stood glowering, legs slightly braced as if he was expecting an accusation.

  “I did not hurt him!” Froman said. “He was fine, except when he got sick as we finished. Is he a mite frail, for a boy of fifteen, do you think?”

  “He did not hurt me,” Ander agreed. “I am better now, Hon Jesel. Hungry, though. If you see nothing amiss, I want to go and eat.”

  “Perhaps that is all.” Jesel looked uncertain.

  “I will order a servant to bring you meat, right away,” Froman said. “There are two of them wasting time outside.” He strode to the door.

  “Something with sugar, too, my lord!” Jesel called after him. He returned to his examination of Ander. “My lord, I think something is wrong. You must let me examine you under better circumstances.”

  “I feel better. There is no need.”

  Balan glared at him. “Do it, my lord. It is not like you to be dizzy and fainting all over the place. If something is wrong, better you know early.”

  “All right!” Ander glared back.

  * * * * *

  Ander’s outer chamber held an ornate couch and a long table. The door to the inner chamber was open, allowing a breeze to circulate from the windows in the other room. Ander sat down on the edge of his bed, waiting for Jesel.

  When Ander heard voices in the hall outside his door, he knew Jesel had not come alone. He sighed. All he wanted was to lie down in peace, and be left alone. Perhaps he would sleep, or maybe, if he felt a little better, work on the half-finished portrait of his betrothed he was copying from a miniature she had sent him. It sat in the corner of the room, drawing his eye; he would like to avoid the fuss he knew was approaching, and paint instead.

  Jesel entered, his jaw set and his face a little red. Ander knew why as soon as he saw who bustled into the room after the Healer: Lady Dria Mar, in full court dress; his tutor Shan-il; and a fat man in a belted green tunic who wore the insignia of the Healer’s College.

  “Lord Ander,” Jesel said helplessly. “I am sorry, but they insisted.”

  “You can at least introduce that man,” Ander said. As he spoke, the room swayed about him again. His stomach churned. He did not feel up to this hassle.

  “This is Hon Char Irilan, head of the Healer’s College. Your lady mother demanded he accompany us, apparently not trusting to my diagnosis although I have been with your family for years.” Jesel’s voice betrayed his insult.

  “Now, now,” Lady Dria Mar said. “You are young, and he is the rightful heir to the throne of Righar.”

  “I was always the heir, and he was always young,” Ander said.

  Dria Mar cast him a forbidding look. “Circumstances are different now.”

  “Shan-il—Mother—would you please go away? I will talk to Jesel and the Lord Healer, if I must.”

  “He is of legal age, Lady Dria Mar,” Shan-il said.

  “So he is.” Dria lifted her chin. “I want a full report, Hon Char.”

  “You will have it.” The heavy man’s voice was deep and unctuous. Ander disliked him as soon as he heard it.

  With Lady Dria Mar and Shan-il gone, Hon Jesel summarized for the Lord Healer what he had learned from Ander.

  “Hmmm,” said Char. “Dizziness. Weakness. With a sudden onset since you came here, my lord Ander?”

  Ander nodded. He noticed Char cast a heavy-lidded look at the younger Healer. The man sounded serious. Hon Jesel himself, whom Ander had known for years as he grew up through the common illnesses and injuries of childhood, looked uncharacteristically grim. It was clear they thought something was really wrong.

  Jesel asked a few questions under Char’s watchful eye. He examined Ander’s eyes, his mouth and throat, and the color of his skin after he pressed it hard. It seemed to Ander that Jesel was checking him more thoroughly than he otherwise might a teenage boy who had felt dizzy after a morning’s exercise in the heat, and no breakfast.

  Finally Ander had enough. “What?” Ander asked them.

  “May I speak to Hon Char first, my lord? In private?”

  Ander looked from Jesel to Char. “No. This is my health we’re discussing, and I have had enough of all this secretiveness this morning. You may speak in front of me or I will ask for another Healer. What is going on?”

  “May I beg your indulgence, my lord?” The heavy man looked really exhausted. Ander realized the man was not used to standing for so long.

  “Yes, yes, sit,” Ander said. He waved to them both.

  Jesel sat in the chair at the foot of Ander’s bed where his manservant sometimes worked on his clothing. Char, who was wheezing, slumped into the brocade chair near the window, and poured himself a mug of wine from the green-glass pitcher that stood there. Then the man looked into the mug, frowning, and set it aside. Ander did not see him sip from it again.

  The Lord Healer turned to Jesel. “I take it you noticed the heartbeat?”

  “Unusually fast, and a little weak,” Jesel said.

  “And the yellowing of the white part of the eye?”

  Jesel nodded.

  “My lord,” Char said. “Has your stomach been upset lately?”

  “A little, perhaps. Now and then.”

  “Forgive me, my lord,” Char said. He wiped his forehead with one thick forearm. “May I ask if there are any differences lately in the amount of urine you have been producing daily?”

  Ander felt his face heat. “Uh, I haven’t noticed any change.”

  “He is a Healer, my lord,” Jesel reminded him. “It will help us determine what is wrong.”

  Ander fumed. “Some things are private. I suppose it is a mercy I am fifteen now, and my lady mother is not required to be in here with us, too! I am tired of waiting on you, Jesel. What is going on? Am I dying, or what?”

  “We hope to delay that by a few decades,” Jesel said, smiling at the boy to reduce his tension. “It is serious, my lord, but it can be resolved. May I ask: who brings your food and drink? Do you eat formally, with the King or your lady mother?”

  Ander paled. “Poison?”

  “It seems likely,” Char said.

  Ander swallowed. “Jashan’s eyes, I am beginning to feel like a target is drawn on my chest. What is this, the third attempt on me in just one season? This place is a hell of conspiracy. It was never like this before.”

  “The succession was never in question before,” Jesel said.

  Ander waved him to silence. “So, if someone is poisoning me, why am I not dead on the floor?”

  “It could be a slow poison, administered to you in small doses. Rest you, my lord, we are not yet sure. It is a likely possibility, based on your symptoms.”

  Ander sighed and closed his eyes, thinking. “I have usually eaten my meals here in my rooms. The King has not summoned me, and my lady mother and I have had a disagreement. So I eat here. Everything is brought from the kitchens, the same as far as I know as everyone else eats.”

  “And who brings it?”

  Ander shrugged. “Hurkness brings it.”

  “Is that the man Lady Dria Mar hired for you?” Jesel asked.

  “Him? No. That man was my mother’s creature, assigned by her to spy on me. I sent him away a sennight ago.”

  A wisp of breeze carried the taste of autumn into the room. For just a moment Ander felt his distress ease. Perhaps with the end of this miserable heat, his illness would go too.

  Jesel sighed. “My lord. You know well that you cannot just send your people away like that. How did you find your current manservant?”

  “The King’s steward brought him. How should I know where he came from? He is a silent kind of man. I have barely spoken with him.”

  Jesel and Char looked at each other. Then Char said: “Well. This is an oversight.”

  “I will inform Hon Balan immediately.”

 
; “You think someone in the kitchens has been poisoning my food? Why would they care?”

  “They would care if they were working for someone who wished you dead. I think we know from all the attempts over the past season that someone does in fact wish you dead, my lord.” Jesel packed up his bag.

  “I should have hired my own man,” Ander said.

  Jesel shrugged. “Or required someone to do it for you. You may trust Hon Balan to do that, I think. Or you may ask Shan-il, or another member of the house you are forming.”

  Char Irilan heaved his bulk from the chair and went to the door. Ander saw sweat stains under the big man’s arms as Char opened the door and called for a guard.

  “The servant named Hurkness,” Char told the man. “I want him detained. Now.”

  “Remember too, Lord Ander, that we are not sure,” Jesel said. “We must watch everything that comes into these rooms, and see if you begin to recover. I think you will.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  “Here we are.” Rhin swung open the wooden door to disclose a space no larger than a nobleman’s closet.

  Callo had never lived in luxury; his position as a bastard righ had forbidden it. His quarters in Sugetre had been those of a guard commander, allowing him some privacy but no room for extras. Still, he had never seen a room as tiny as the one Rhin led him to after their candlemarks-long discussion with Hira Noh.

  His head was swimming, just a little; Hira Noh had doled out the wine with a generous hand, no doubt hoping it would loosen Callo’s tongue. Callo had no concern for such a thing, since he planned to be honest with her. He had not enjoyed such a vintage since his time at Northgard Manor, helping to warn the boy’s stepfather against the King. Now Ander was in the eagle’s claws, rattling around Sugetre Castle with only a few loyal people to defend him against Sharpeyes’ machinations.

  Callo peered inside the room. There was a narrow bed, covered with a thin gray blanket. A bolt driven into the opposite wall could hold swordbelt, weapon and cloak. A chipped jug sat on a ledge above the bed; Callo feared if he rolled over and struck the wall in his sleep, the jug would crash down on his head.