Trembling with anger at the thought of what Old Windhover had manipulated him into doing, he wanted to denounce the magician right there in the marketplace and expose the king for what he was. The memory of the wizard’s voice in his head, though, kept him still—along with his knowledge of how terrible the truth of the situation really was. Saying it aloud, here in the marketplace, was too much. No one would believe him, and the plan Old Windhover had set in motion would roll along while Roderick suffered a terrible fate for so publicly slandering the king.
There were other ways of saving the lady, other ways of rolling the bones and getting the upper hand against the magician and his machinations. Maybe he had already found the answers in the weeks of reading Old Windhover’s books and just didn’t know it yet. And maybe all it was going to take was a sharp eye and a ready hand.
Roderick looked at the lady as she wept on her mother’s shoulder. Her sobs were all he heard, even though the muttering of the crowd was loud enough to drown out the sound.
I’ll save you, he thought. I promise.
Then he led the king back to the sedan chair, trying not to think of all the other promises he’d already failed to keep.
***
What promises? Why just the evening before, he’d been sitting on a high stool in Old Windhover’s outer chamber, stacks of books on the floor around him and a heavy copy of Practical Uses for Mammal Organs balanced on his knees. A candle guttered on the nearby table, and torches affixed to the walls threw light and shadow across the quiet room, littered with books that the old wizard had charged him with sorting and cleaning. The books were tempting, crying out not only to be dusted and shelved but to be read. And even though Roderick had promised himself many times that he would not let the books’ contents distract him from his purpose, the pages were just so tempting… Promises made to himself were easy to break, but there were still more to come. Darker promises.
When the door burst open and the wizard blustered in, Roderick almost fell off the stool. The old man moved quickly into the chamber, faster than Roderick would have thought him capable, a flurry of billowing cloak and flying gray hair. He went straight to one of the piles of books that Roderick should have finished sorting days ago and pointed at one with a black cover. “That one,” he said, his voice conveying urgency but not panic.
“Yes, sir,” Roderick croaked as he set Practical Uses on top of another pile and hurried to do his master’s bidding. Moments later, he had rescued the book from its stack and handed it to the magician, stealing a glance at the spine as he did so but finding himself disappointed. The title, had it ever been printed there, was long worn away, and the plain black cover offered no hint of its contents.
Old Windhover took the book with only a cursory glance. Then he said, “There are three parchments hidden in the bust of Mediger the Mild. Bring them to the king’s chambers at once.” And without another word, he turned with one more flurry of cloak and hair, leaving the room, raising a cloud of dust as he went.
The king’s chambers? Roderick thought, his mind racing. Why on earth would you want me in the king’s chambers?
Pushing his questions aside, he ran his fingers over the bust of Mediger the Mild, found the secret spring in its base, and pulled the scrolls from inside it. Each was sealed with black ribbon, and he felt his curiosity rising again. He could peek at one of the parchments, just for a second or two, if only to make sure he had the right ones… But he knew where that line of thinking would lead him. The unsorted books all around were evidence aplenty, and something told him that Old Windhover was not in a trifling mood this evening. The urgency Roderick had heard in the wizard’s voice—it had not been anything he’d heard before.
Soon after, the parchments held carefully in his hands, he arrived outside the king’s chambers. Two guards stood at either side of the door, their faces doleful. Farther along the hallway, Roderick saw several noblemen huddled together. The king’s council, he assumed. One or two looked his way as he approached, their expressions blank.
“Old Windhover sent for me,” Roderick said to one of the guards. “I’m his…assistant.”
He held up the rolled parchments as though they were some sort of authentication. The guard made no move to inspect the documents, just opened the door to admit the magician’s helper.
The chamber was large and ornately appointed, but the young man barely glanced at the embroidered wall hangings and jewel-encrusted cups laid out at the bedside; his eyes instead were drawn to the sight of the magician at the head of the old king’s bed and a priest in high ceremonial robes at the foot. The priest was muttering a prayer in a language Roderick did not understand while Old Windhover stared impatiently at the king stretched out on the bed before him. The old king looked gaunt, his papery skin all yellow and his long white hair tangled around his head.
“Oh, do get on with it!” Old Windhover said to the priest, who paid him no mind and kept muttering. The magician shook his head and motioned Roderick over. He took the parchments, giving them a quick glance before saying, “What you’re seeing or are about to see must never be spoken of. Not to your family, not to a bride should you ever find one, and not even to me unless I speak of it first. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” Roderick answered, his voice barely audible.
When the priest had finished, the magician ordered him out. The priest’s protest died on his lips when the old man shot him a look.
“Your job,” Old Windhover said once the priest was gone, “will be to restrain His Majesty.”
“Restrain?” his helper asked.
“Kindly do your job, Roderick,” was the only reply. Hesitantly, the magician’s helper knelt upon the bed, his legs as close as he could get them to the king’s body without actually touching the royal torso. Then he took a deep breath, leaned over, and put a hand on each bony shoulder.
Beside the bed, the magician began reading from the parchments, unintelligible words similar to those the recently removed priest had used. Nothing happened at first, but when Old Windhover rubbed an ointment on the king’s forehead and placed a leaf in the king’s mouth, Roderick felt the king’s cold skin grow a little bit warmer. When the magician had finished with the second parchment, he put his ear to the king’s chest, nodded, and started reading the third. And when the last incantations from the final parchment had echoed off the high ceiling of the chamber, Roderick felt a tremor in the king’s shoulders. Looking down at the body in fear and fascination, he saw the chest rise almost imperceptibly and then fall again. There was a rattle in the king’s throat and then a full exhalation into Roderick’s face. Then the king opened his eyes, locking his gaze onto the eyes of the magician’s assistant…
Roderick stared back. He saw confusion in the king’s eyes—along with fear, torment, and loss, all followed quickly by anger. But then, most profoundly, there followed looks of shame and embarrassment. Roderick could not have guessed why the king was so upset; all he knew for certain was that the old king was not happy about being revived.
That was when the king began his inhuman howling. Tears streamed from his eyes—eyes that darted in their sockets, focusing on nothing—and the panic in those eyes only seemed to make the wailing worse.
Old Windhover shouted, “Hold him! Hold him tight!” This struck Roderick as strange since the king was offering no resistance, but after a few more seconds of howling, the king tried sitting up. It was all Roderick could do to hold his shoulders still. When the king started thrashing his arms around, trying to dislodge the magician’s helper, Roderick had to bear down harder and feared he might break the king’s bones.
And then, mercifully, Old Windhover was leaning forward and inserting the end of a dropper into the king’s mouth. Seconds later, the wailing and thrashing ceased. The king lay quietly on the bed, his eyes still darting in panic, but he gave no other sign of resistance, or even awareness of the other men’s presence.
The breath that escaped the king’s mouth fe
lt cold on Roderick’s cheeks, raising gooseflesh on his arms and neck. And when he looked into the king’s eyes, he realized that the old man wasn’t really looking back. Rather, he looked but seemed incapable of understanding anything he saw. Realization crept into Roderick’s mind like the slow understanding he gained from reading the wizard’s books.
“You didn’t just cure him, did you?” Roderick asked.
“Cure?” Old Windhover said, half chuckling. “I didn’t cure him at all. He’s beyond curing.”
“He was…dead then?” Roderick asked.
The wizard nodded.
“And…now?”
Old Windhover leaned in, his fingers on the king’s throat, looking for his pulse. “The basic facts remain unchanged.”
“But…how? He’s…alive, isn’t he?”
“Put your ear to his heart.”
Roderick hesitated. Not only was the magician asking him to be even more familiar with the person of the king than he already had dared, he also felt too frightened to lower his ear, fearful of what he might—or might not—hear. The wizard’s gaze compelled him, though, and so he dipped his head down and put his ear to the old man’s chest. He heard nothing.
When he sat up again and looked at Old Windhover with awe, the magician chuckled. “It’s not a trick, Roderick. A different force flows through his veins now, not blood. He will appear as one alive for a short time, time enough for us to complete the task that’s been set for us by the council.”
“Task?” Roderick said, his voice quavering.
“The king in his youth paid little attention to his advisors, and in his old age the habit was cemented. When the council bade him take a wife and produce an heir, he always claimed there would be time for that another day. And now the king has run out of time.”
“I…still don’t understand,” Roderick said.
“Do you have any idea what will happen if the king dies without an heir?” Old Windhover said, his tone condescending.
“No, sir.”
“Every shirttail relative going back ten generations will descend on this castle, from minor nobles within our own borders to pig farmers three kingdoms away, all with a claim to the throne. And it won’t likely be settled without a skirmish or two, if not an all-out war. When the dust settles, do you know where the old king’s allies and advisors will end up?”
Roderick swallowed. “Not…in good places?”
“To put it mildly. I have talent and persuasiveness enough to keep my head from ending up on a pike, but the same is not true of the men on whom my continued comfort depends. The deaths of those on the king’s council will mean changes in my situation that I do not care to endure.” The magician paused and gave his helper a long, cold stare. “Do I need to explain to you how your fate is tied to mine, young Roderick? How a change in my station will mean an even greater change in yours?”
Roderick’s ears buzzed at the thought. “No, sir,” he said.
“Good.” The wizard rubbed his hands together and turned his attention to the living corpse. “Your job will be to keep the king under control. In his current state, His Majesty could do damage to others and himself. He could wander off. He has no idea who or what he is. He functions on the lowest of instincts now. He will eat and drink and sleep. I’m trusting at least one other base instinct will remain fully functional, or else this whole effort is for naught.”
Roderick nodded without fully understanding. And then he watched in horror as Old Windhover began gathering up his things, clearly intending to leave his assistant alone with the dead king.
“What do I do if he begins to yell and thrash around again?” he asked, panic in his voice.
The magician paused and thought about it. “He should get more used to his new state. The docility he exhibits now should remain after the drug has worn off. If it doesn’t, though…” He handed Roderick a sealed phial and a dropper. “Two drops on the tongue should do it. No more or you’ll undo my earlier work, and then there’ll be no reviving him again.”
He turned away, ready to leave.
“Sir?” Roderick asked.
He looked back, a raised eyebrow his only response.
“For how long do you expect this…job to last?”
“As long as the king does. He’s already started to decay. Before long, the body won’t be viable. If we want to keep our positions in this castle, we’d better hope we’ve achieved all our goals by then.”
“Yes, sir.”
The wizard leaned forward, staring into Roderick’s eyes. “The king must have an heir, Roderick. I am doing my part to ensure the outcome, but you must do yours as well.”
“I understand. I’ll do what I must,” Roderick said, and when the magician failed to look away, he added, “I promise.”
Old Windhover stared a moment longer, as though prying into Roderick’s soul to see the truth behind his words. Then he nodded, almost imperceptibly, and left.
Roderick stared down at the witless creature on the bed. For the first time since coming to the castle, he regretted that he had ever left his home in the Nevergreen. He could have gotten along there just fine for the rest of his life, could have found a buxom forest girl to grow gray with. But the castle had lured him with all its promises of secrets and fine things. Now he found himself surrounded by more fine things than he’d ever imagined and secrets so great that the truths behind them made him shiver.
He sat up with the animated corpse, too frightened of it to sleep. In the morning, Old Windhover returned with two trays of food, one for Roderick and one for the dead king. The magician’s prediction had been accurate—when the potion had worn off, the king had remained docile. He sat up in his bed now and let the magician’s helper feed him. He did not howl again, nor did he thrash about, and Roderick was glad to note that the dead king had no interest in biting at his fingers when he placed food between the corpse’s lips.
The job disgusted him, though, in part because the living corpse had started to smell. Though he didn’t seem to take regular breaths, a foul smell poured from his mouth each time he opened it to take an offered bite.
When the meals were finished, Old Windhover said, “Get him dressed, Roderick. His sedan chair awaits at the bottom of the stairs. There’s no time to waste.”
***
The wedding was quick and quiet. Roderick stood beside the king, holding his hand throughout the ceremony lest he begin wandering around the chapel or accosting the handful of wedding guests. The king moaned or whimpered on occasion, and Roderick guessed that all in attendance, the Lady Jillian foremost among them, knew that the old king had no concept of what was taking place. But with Old Windhover standing to the far side of the altar, no one dared question the validity of the ceremony.
When it was time for the king to make his vows, the best Roderick could elicit from him was a grunt, achieved by giving the dead man a subtle poke in the ribs. This was sufficient, as the high priest declared the union eternal and retired to his chambers, probably to weep over the abomination he had just presided over. There was no kiss at the ceremony’s conclusion. When the Lady Jillian turned her face from the altar at the ceremony’s end, she looked first at her lord and then at Roderick, horror and confusion still registering in her eyes. Roderick managed a sympathetic nod and then forced himself to look away; her eyes were too beautiful, too plaintive to be gazed into for any length of time. Instead of drinking in her beauty, he steered the king out of the chapel, through an arched doorway, and straight back to his chambers.
Old Windhover waited there. “Prepare the king for his wedding night,” he said without ceremony.
“Prepare…?”
“Gods, man,” he said with disgust. “Time is of the essence. His body won’t last but a few hours more. If there’s to be an heir, it has to be tonight.”
“And you think the lady will…”
Roderick had wanted to say “be willing” but was unable to get the words out.
Old Windhover must ha
ve misread his helper, as he said, “Yes, yes. She’ll conceive tonight. I charged Lorentia with finding a bride who was ripe and ready. If there’s no child in nine months, I’ll have her head.” Then he gave Roderick a piercing look and added, “Or yours. Maybe both.”
He turned to exit, adding, “Make haste. The lady comes within the hour. I’m afraid you will need to remain present. If only for the lady’s safety.”
“Sir?”
“We wouldn’t want the king biting his bride, or anything else untoward.”
Bile in his throat, Roderick undressed the dead king and forced his spongy body down onto the bed, covering it with a downy quilt. Then he waited for the king’s bride, the living corpse making mewling noises and threatening to rise from the bed every few minutes. Roderick considered using another drop from Old Windhover’s phial to make the dead man more docile, but he refrained. There was a chance he might give the king too much of the potion, and the result would be disastrous. The king might die outright, ruining Old Windhover’s plans and jeopardizing the lives of everyone in the old king’s court, Roderick’s included. And if he didn’t die, if he was only left completely incapacitated…there would still be no heir, and the result would be the same.
When the Lady Jillian entered—a guard at either elbow, Old Windhover at her back, and tears dampening her cheeks—Roderick stood and felt tears of rage in his own eyes at the sight of her distress. He caught another meaningful look from the magician and forced his emotions into check. Moments later, the door had shut, and he heard it being locked from without. They were alone with the dead king.
The Lady Jillian fell to her knees, weeping inconsolably.
Roderick kept a respectful distance, his gaze shifting from the weeping woman to the living corpse on the bed. His mind raced as it had done since he’d read the proclamation in the marketplace, but he could see no way out of the situation. There was nothing in the old books, no knowledge he had gained through reading or observation that could possibly be of help to either himself or the corpse’s beautiful bride. Stepping forward, he knelt beside the lady, and though he knew it was not his place, he put a hand on her shuddering shoulder.
All These Shiny Worlds Page 5