Here at the foot of the stairwell, one passed into a wide vaulted chamber that served as Castle Stryx’s banquet hall and assembly place.
To the right of the massive stair, an entryway led to the vaulted offices where Mother’s chamberlain, Willem of Alcazar, managed the business of the household and oversaw Griswold’s stables, the cooks, and the various servants. In the opposite wing, Margenthar, Duke of Stryx, maintained his sumptuous quarters.
Uncle Mar. Mother’s only brother. He had his own castle at Verein, but lived much of the year with us. From his apartments in Castle Stryx he conducted affairs of state, as Mother’s surrogate.
I glanced back to the silent stairwell. Upstairs, the north wing housed our favored courtiers and staff such as Willem and Griswold. The south hall held the Queen’s own chambers and above them, my own, my brother Elryc’s, and the nursery where Pytor still dwelt.
The servant finished polishing the sconce. With a familiar slight bow of acknowledgment, he went about his business. I trotted down the half flight to the massive, carved outer door. The guard swung it open with proper deference. Ignoring him, I snatched a cloak from the cupboard to shield me from the downpour.
“Your brother asked for you, youngsire.”
I glared. “Which one?” Why did the guard still call me “youngsire”? If I corrected him I’d only look petulant. Reluctantly I let it pass.
“Lord Elryc. He wanted—”
“I care not.” I skipped down the stone stairs and crossed the rocky courtyard. At the outer wall, where the horsepath turned sharply to break the charge of an invader, a gatesman opened the small daily door set in the huge weathered portal of state. Holding my cloak tight, I left the grounds.
Castle Stryx. Set against the high cliffs of the Estreach, it was accessible in force only by Castle Way, or above from the rocky foothills that sloped from cliffs to our ramparts.
I strode down the hill toward the city. The rain was abating, but not soon enough. I’d be soaked ere long.
Thinking of Mother’s admonishments, I snorted with disgust. Of course the Still wouldn’t fail, were I True. That was its nature. So I’d been taught for as long as I could remember.
Great kingdoms possessed great Powers, small realms only minor encant.
Each Power had its own properties. When carried into battle, the Rood of Norland lent our northern neighbors ominous strength. The White Fruit of Chorr was said to make whoever ingested it forever a servant, and secured for the King of the Chorr the loyalty of his intimates. In Parrad, the very trees could be made to speak. The Powers followed crown and land, inseparably. Within every kingdom it was so. Our vassal earls themselves had some small Powers; Lady Soushire’s ire spoke to dogs, and drove them to rage.
Our own endowment was the Still. Of little use at war, it nonetheless had its merit. Carefully wielded, it was said to bestow some degree of foresight. And Mother said it embodied the age-old wisdom of the rulers of Caledon. Just how, she’d not made clear.
How would I feel, when at last it was mine to wield? I shivered. I couldn’t know until Elena Queen was gone, and despite the Powers I’d gain, I dreaded that day.
Perhaps even after Mother’s death I’d not know the Still. The Power was conferred with the crown, and it wasn’t certain I’d live to wear it.
I bent, picked up a small stone, and flung it up the hill. A slim figure in cloak and hood ducked behind a tree. I snarled, “Walk with me, lout, or run to your nurse, but don’t skulk behind me, sniffling!”
Sheepish, my brother Elryc came forth, a forearm raised lest I concealed another stone. “Let me go with you.” At eleven, his voice still piped. His limp brown hair was cut as if a bowl had been laid over his head.
My voice was sharp. “I suppose Pytor’s just past the bend?”
“He’s at fencing.” We all had our lessons. Even I, who no longer needed them.
I grunted. One shadow was less bothersome than two, and Mother would be annoyed if Elryc complained again. “Come, if you must.” I set forth down the hill.
“Where to?”
“Rustin.” My tone was curt.
“Why not send for him?” My friend Rustin, son of Llewelyn, Householder of Stryx, was a nobleman in his own right. His House was autonomous and no fief. But nonetheless Rust would still have eagerly answered my call.
“Too many eyes watch, near the castle.”
Elryc sniffed. “As if there were fewer in the city.”
I glanced at him with new respect. “Well said. You learn.”
“What are you and Rustin up to, that you don’t want watched?”
“Talk. Whatever.” Sometimes a young lord wanted to be by himself, or with his own kind. Elryc nodded as if he understood. We trudged along the muddy path.
The City of Stryx nestled at the foot of the winding supply road, called Castle Way, that twisted upward from the wharfs toward the castle gate. Tradesmen who struggled with loaded carts and sweating oxen cursed Castle Way’s narrow turns and steep banks. No matter, our concern wasn’t their convenience, but our security. The Norland was but two days sail from our harbor, and Hriskil’s hostile ships had more than once scudded into the bay, bristling with pikemen and shieldbearers.
The midsummer sun battled with the persistent drizzle. I considered abandoning the road, crashing through the underbrush, sliding down the steep hillside. Less distance, but more work, and I’d muddy my breeks. On a drier day, without Elryc, I’d walk by way of Besiegers’ Pond. A shallow pool, hidden by brush, it lay but a few dozen paces off the road. Oft I lounged on its banks beside the inviting still waters, and thought private thoughts.
“What did Mother tell you?” Elryc plodded beside me.
“That I’m to have you thrown in the cells, the moment I’m King.”
He started with alarm, but realized I couldn’t be telling truth. Sullen, he muttered, “I hope you lose the Power!”
I jerked him to the side of the road, flung him against the rocky shoulder. “So says my brother?” I raised my arm.
“Don’t, Roddy!”
I punched him in the chest; he squealed his pain. He hadn’t much flesh between skin and bone.
“The brother who begged me to hide him from Uncle Mar, the day you poured wine into his boot?” I jabbed him again. “Lose the Power? What would come of you, little one? Would you be heir, or a corpse thrown in the gutter alongside mine?”
“Stop or—I’ll tell!”
I cuffed him again for good measure, let him slide sobbing to the soggy ground, knowing it wasn’t a good day for the Queen to hear I’d lost my temper.
I crouched, waiting while he wiped his tears. “Did I say you’d learned, Elryc? I was wrong. Hold your feelings tight. What when I’m King? How, if I remember this day, and hold it against you?”
His breath came in a shudder. “You won’t.” I glared, but his reddened eyes rose and held mine. “You bully me and make me cry, but you won’t really hurt me. You never have.”
“Fool.” I scuffed at his knee with my toe. “Come along, or I’ll leave you bawling in the dirt.”
He got to his feet. “About the Power—”
“Don’t start again.” I moved on, and he scurried to follow.
“I don’t really want you to lose it. But what of the True? You lied to me, Roddy.”
“That doesn’t count.” A moment’s doubt, which I resolutely quenched. “Not between us.”
“You’re sure?”
“Mother told me.” Another lie. I fell silent, before I ruined myself utterly.
Chapter 2
THE WEEK PASSED QUIETLY. I visited mother, once with my brothers, then alone. She seemed less ill.
Meanwhile, preparations were under way for the meet of our Council of State. Duchess Larissa rode in from Soushire; the other members were expected anon. To escape the hubbub I waited until Elryc was at lessons, sternly bade little Pytor stay behind, and crossed the stony courtyard to the stables.
Kerwyn the groomsman bent into the half b
ow, that of a household servant to his masters. “An hour, my lord. Ebon’s at his oats, and Genard is combing him.”
The afternoon was young and I had no errands, but I stamped my foot with irritation at the delay. “I’m ready now.”
“Ebon is not.” Kerwyn gave an apologetic shrug. “Truly, my lord, Griswold is most insistent that the horses be fed.”
“Bring my mount!” At times, servants were impossible.
“If my master heard, it would cost me a day’s wage—”
“Imps take your wages!” I unknotted my pursestring, fished out a silver pence, flicked it onto the straw. “I’m your master. Bring Ebon!”
Kerwyn bit his lip, bent for the coin, nodding. “A moment, my lord.” He disappeared through the tall double doors to the inner stable.
I paced, fuming. Palace freemen recited petty rules and instructions, forgetting whom they were supposed to serve. In reality, we, the House of Caledon, served them. Vast sums from our treasury supported fools like the lazy, argumentative stablehand I’d sent away.
Muttering, I reknotted my purse, tied it to my fraying belt rope. In a gesture of munificence I’d thrown to the floor a half month of my stipend for sundries, and the Chamberlain would merely laugh were I to ask for more.
The door opened. I glanced over my shoulder, expecting the stableboy, leading Ebon. Instead, I met the stern eyes and graying beard of Griswold, Master of the Stables. “How may we serve you, youngsire?”
I flushed at the rebuke. Were he pleased with me, it would have been, “my lord.”
“I came for Ebon.”
“So Kerwyn said. He isn’t ready.”
“He’s mine to ride when I wish!”
Griswold pursed his lips, considering. Then, “After you take a horse, there’s none to stop your killing him. Here in stables, they’re mine to protect. You can’t feed him a bag of oats and then—”
“That’s for me to say!” What these folk needed was a firm hand.
He sighed. “Very well. I’ll tell Queen Elena you overruled me.”
I stopped short. “Griswold, there’s no need—”
“She’s my mistress. I must.”
I swallowed. “She’s ill. I don’t want her disturbed.” His stern visage didn’t waver. “Very well, I’ll wait.”
“Good.” He opened his hand. The silver glinted. “Stablehands are paid well enough; no need to spoil them. This is a month’s wages.”
I reached for my coin. “That was only for—”
His hand snapped shut. “Kerwyn didn’t earn it, so he won’t keep it. But you gave it away, so it’s no longer yours.”
I held fast the shreds of my temper. “Neither did you earn it, sir.”
“True. It’ll go to the Chamberlain, with an explanation.”
“Imps take you, Griswold!” Chamberlain Willem would tell Mother, and she’d have him close his purse to me for a month if not more.
“Yes, youngsire, you’ve always had a temper.”
“Don’t do this!” My cheeks flamed.
“You do it to yourself. If you’d be our King, learn the art of persuasion. At least pretend to have patience. Exhibit grace.”
I forced the words through unwilling lips. “I’m sorry, Griswold.” The gall of a servant, to lecture me.
“Too easily said.” The old man turned, passed through the door, swung it half closed behind him. “Unless ... you’d like time to consider the fix you’ve put me in?”
I knew that he knew he had me. In despair I asked, “How?”
“Comb Ebon yourself.” That wasn’t so bad. As we passed through the gate he added gently, “And a few stalls need cleaning. Time for an energetic lad to reflect, while he busies himself.”
I cursed long and fluently, but without voice. Petulantly, I followed. A day of revenge would come.
Late in the afternoon, in foul temper, I rode Ebon down the trail as fast as was safe. Rust would no doubt be within his father’s stronghold that guarded the harbor. If not, Stryx was not so large I couldn’t find him.
At the foot of Castle Way the road passed through a formidable gate in the walls of Llewelyn’s keep. Another gate, near the shore, released traffic to a seaside road that passed through town.
The arrangement of road and keep would force an invading army to subdue Llewelyn’s stronghold before attacking the hill to the castle. Over time, tradesmen’s wagons had bypassed the keep by driving through an adjoining field, but even the awkward Tradesmen’s Cut was well within arrow reach of the keep’s high walls.
I had word sent to Rustin. Of course, the gatekeepers dared not hold me waiting like a commoner. Within the sprawling keep, I paced Ebon slowly along the garden path.
Rustin loped to meet me. “Rodrigo!” His smile was framed by a mop of curly red hair.
“Rust!” I was almost giddy with relief. Rustin’s moods changed like the summer breeze. At times, we’d be giggling over some trivial incident, when his face would darken abruptly, and all joy would vanish from his voice. It was best then to leave until his good humor returned. When I’d sought him with Elryc, a few days past, I’d given up after an hour and trudged back up the hill.
Still, at seventeen, two years older than I, Rust was my closest comrade. I hesitated to say “friend.” A Prince of Caledon dared have no friend.
In the presence of his family we adopted semi-formal manners. In their company he was accustomed to give me the bow of intimacy, that nod of the head and the so-slight movement of the back. But, secluded in the orchard, we’d sprawl easily in the soft cool grass, and he would hear out my confidences, and offer his own.
He knew how I felt about my uncles, about the earls of the realm. He’d heard which lessons I liked and which I could barely abide. Heraldry, for example. Why in Lord of Nature’s name should a young royal have to study the marks on shields and banners? We had clerks for that folderol.
Today, we settled ourselves in his bedchamber on the third floor of the keep. He threw himself across a billowy divan; I crossed my legs in a thick, rough-carved cherrywood chair. I told him of my encounter with obstinate old Griswold. Rust said little, but snickered when I told how I’d been made to clean the stables.
I glared. “Great consolation you give.” Still, I felt better for the telling.
“Prince Rodrigo the stableboy!” Rust’s chest shook with a silent spasm.
“You mock me?” I scrambled to my feet, hand momentarily brushing my dagger.
“Oh, sit, dunce. Laugh at yourself before others do. Then they’ll have no need!”
Nonsense, of course. But, grumbling, I bore it, and let him coax me back to my seat. Rust was the only one I could talk with about Tantroth, Duke of Eiber. There was no doubt of our family’s position in that regard; everyone, including the uncles, expected Rust’s father Llewelyn to defend his keep and the city or die in the attempt, and there’d be no forgiveness should Llewelyn falter.
I led the talk in a roundabout manner, so Rust wouldn’t know my concern. We spoke first of clothing, and after a time I mentioned the bright dyes for which Eiber was famous. “They’re fitting me for a cloak of Eiber orange,” I said. Then, casually, “I suppose I should bid them hurry, lest the supply is interrupted.”
“How? By war?”
“It’s always possible.”
Rust pondered. “They say Eiber bristles with war implements, and Tantroth seeks an excuse to use them. Just a year ago he seized the Isle of Malth under some silly pretext.”
“And started a blood-feud with the Norlanders, who claim it.”
“He keeps a full-time army, you know. Imagine armed men who never return to their crops. A wonder his whole earldom doesn’t starve. Of course with such a horde he’s in no danger of falling. The dye trade should be safe.”
“Unless he wars on a second front.”
Rust leaned back, crossed his arms behind his head. “Ah, why didn’t you say so?” A gentle amusement was in his eyes. “Yes, he’ll attack us, when the time is rig
ht. At least, that’s what Father says.”
I listened.
“He’ll try for what he’s always wanted, Roddy. You’ll have to face it.”
“Imps take his grandfather, anyway.” I kicked at a pillow.
It was ancient history. First came Varon of the Steppe, who wrested Caledon and Eiber from Cayil of the Surk, and held them as fiefdoms. The son of his second marriage was Rouel, grandfather of Tantroth, the Duke of Eiber. But Varon’s son by his first marriage was Tryon, my mother’s father.
On Varon’s death the Steppe collapsed, overrun by the fierce Norlanders. Tryon seized Caledon, the most prosperous province, and was able to hold it even without benefit of the Still. His half brother Rouel, who seized Eiber, claimed Caledon was his by will of their father.
Over a generation’s time the Seven Wars decided the issue in our favor. After Tryon died, Mother was able to wield the Still, which balanced Eiber’s Cleave that sundered friends and allies. Now, the descendants of Rouel were the Nordukes, who held Eiber, in theory, as a vassalage of Caledon.
“Curse them all you wish,” said Rust. “It won’t help Elena hold the realm.”
“If only she had the ...” My voice trailed off.
We almost never spoke of the Power.
“Yes, it would help.” A quick grin. “But then you wouldn’t be among us.”
A soft knock at the door forestalled my reply. “It’s me, Sir Rustin. I had time before supper.” The door opened; a pretty little wench with russet hair peered in, hands twisting at her apron. “I’m so sorry! I—I mean—forgive me!” She glanced round in confusion, curtsied, and fled.
I growled, “What was that all about?”
Rustin shrugged. “Chela. She helps in the kitchen.” Under my gaze his cheeks reddened.
“Why would she—oh!”
His words came in a rush. “She’s just—we’re not particularly ...”
“It’s nothing to me,” I said, fighting for composure. “You’re grown.” Casually, I stood. “Well, I have business to attend. See you another day.” I escaped to the stairs, rushed out to the stable.
By the time I’d unknotted Ebon’s bridle, Rust had caught up to me. “I’m sorry she burst in.” His hand fell on my arm. “Wait.”
The Still Page 2