“Sorry if I seemed abrupt. It’s just that ... a terrible day.”
I said nothing.
Willem took the bit in his teeth. “Rodrigo, I can’t get you into the vault. Only your mother had access.”
“By her key alone?”
“Please, Roddy, this is a very awkward matter. My duty is to the crown, and there’s no declared—”
I leaned forward. “It took two keys to open the vault, and you have one. Give it here.” I held out my hand.
His hand shot to his neck, returned almost instantly to the table. “What use would it be without the Queen’s key? Have you that?”
“In its time. I’ll start with yours.”
Willem offered a placating smile. “The Duke has pledged to guard the assets of the realm until there’s a proper accounting by the regent. Don’t make that face, my lord, you know you’re too young to rule.”
“Uncle Mar is not regent.”
“The Council will appoint him after the burial. It’s for the regent to give you the key, but certainly you should ask. You’ll find your uncle—”
I growled, “Are you his man or mine, Willem? You must choose.”
A time passed, while Willem’s thick fingers drummed on the massive desk. Then he sighed. “Young Rustin of Stryx, be so kind as to open the door and see my clerk isn’t crouching at the keyhole.”
Swiftly Rustin complied, flinging open the heavy door, peering both directions. “No one.”
The Chamberlain’s voice dropped. “I’m caught between two hooks, Roddy. May I call you that still, for the nonce? Yes, you’ll be King, if your mother’s wishes are followed.”
I shivered. He’d said it so baldly, it somehow made my peril more real.
“And I assure you, it’s my desire as well.” His tone turned pious. “Not that I, a mere clerk, have any say in the matter.”
“You’re of the Council.”
“Well, yes, but I’m one voice among seven, and not much heeded. It was your mother’s edict set me among the great nobles, on her Council of State.” He might be speaking truth, though I couldn’t know, never having been allowed to attend a Council meet. Mar, Grand-uncle Cumber, Lady Soushire and Lord Groenfil, Vessa as Speaker of the City, and Lord Warthen of the Sands were the other Council members. Imposing figures all.
“Go on.” I waved aside the distraction.
“Roddy, I have no dominion of my own, no benefice. I serve at the whim of the throne. If I go against you and you’re crowned, you won’t forget. But if I go against Margenthar and he’s regent—Roddy, he’s almost sure to be appointed, he’s made promises and has the pledges—why, he’ll throw me into the cells without a moment’s thought.”
He looked away. “I loved Elena. Would that I’d had noble blood and could have been her consort.” Abruptly he stood, went to the window. After a time, a melancholy sigh. “Ah, well. That water’s long since flowed to the sea.” He sat again. “I want you crowned king. Do you understand that? Had your mother had her wish”—his voice dropped to a whisper—“I could have been your father.”
“Well, then—”
“But I am a realist. Were you to walk in here with your mother’s key around your neck”—he peered at my open shirt, and it was all I could do to keep from glancing at Rustin—“still, I could not give you mine. Not unless I were sure you were crowned, and Margenthar’s power broken.”
Rustin. “Who guards the vault?”
“Don’t think of it, youngsire. They’d strike you dead.”
“Who?”
“Usually, two men from the household troop. But this morning Margenthar had them replaced by five from his own regiment.”
I said in awe, “So soon?”
For the first time the Chamberlain’s tone was gentle. “Roddy, your mother’s death was not ... unforeseen.”
I swallowed. “Thank you, sir, for forthright speech.” I got to my feet. “Is there any way you could—I mean ...” I blushed.
He waited, eyebrow raised.
“Funds. I mean, my usual stipend doesn’t seem enough.”
“Of course.” He went to a closet, slipped a chain from round his neck, unlocked the door. Inside, a chest. He smiled. “Petty cash.” He counted out twenty gold pieces, tinkled them into a small purse, handed it across.
A full year’s stipend. “Thank you.”
He closed the chest, replaced it in the closet, fished again for his chain. Something glinted, gold. Abruptly he turned his back to us, moved his bulk between me and the lock. When the closet was secure he thrust his hand in his garment
I fingered the purse. “Will Uncle Mar know of this?”
“Lord of Nature, please don’t tell him!” The Chamberlain smiled, weakly. “The accounts will be, um, smoothed.”
“Now, sir.” I leaned over his desk, my face close to his. “Will you vote in Council to crown me?”
“No. I cannot.” He raised his hands, as if to shrug. “I won’t sacrifice myself in a hopeless gesture.”
I hesitated. “Sir Willem, if I have three other votes, will you cast the fourth?”
“It depends on the circumstances, whether it’s sure—”
“Answer!” My tone snapped like a whip.
He looked away, waited, but eventually his gaze found its way back to mine. At last, “Prince Rodrigo, if thou hast three votes in Council, I will vote to crown thee King. I so swear.”
“Done.” I offered my hand, and he took it.
I strode to the outer door, followed the corridor to the nearest turn before I sagged against the wall.
Rustin threw his arm across my shoulder, squeezed.
I shrugged off his hand. “Don’t. We failed; all I got was coin and a useless promise.”
“Outside.”
We found a secluded spot, under the courtyard wall. He said, “Now you have coin, should we need to flee. And you know where Willem stands. Not only that: his key. Did you notice?”
“He keeps it round his neck, with his others.”
“And his promise is far more than you had before.”
“Bah.” I kicked at the earth. “Without the Still—”
“And of most import ...” Rustin, eyes dancing, waited for my full attention. “He saw you act the King. That’s worth more than the rest put together.”
Uncle Mar summoned me as the sun set, before the Rite of Mourning. My inclination was to ignore his call, but Rustin persuaded me to respond. I found Mar in his opulent quarters on the first floor of the castle. The door was ajar: servitors and henchmen bustled about the outer halls.
“Ah, there you are. Giles, leave us while I have a word with my nephew.” In a few moments we were alone in the sumptuous anteroom to his sleeping chamber. It was a well-aired room, his favorite place of business. Handsome murals adorned the vaulted ceiling, and colorful tapestries softened the walls.
The Duke surveyed me affably. “This afternoon we got off on the wrong foot, lad. You must be reeling with shock. I could have been more gentle.”
“Thank you.” It was all I could do not to snarl.
“Would you forgive me?” He clapped my shoulder. “We’ll have to get along, you and I.”
I ached to throw off his hand. “Why, Uncle?”
A look of surprise. “Well, perhaps not me, you’re right. The Council’s made no appointment yet. But someone will be regent until you’re of age.”
“Why?”
“Think, Roddy. Tantroth prowls his frontier, and beyond Eiber lurks Hriskil and his Norlanders. Think you they’d linger a moment outside our borders, knowing a stripling held the throne?”
“Our guards are—”
“For that matter, do you imagine our yeomanry would rally to a standard set to earth by a beardless boy? No, we need the confidence of the common folk to defend the realm.” He paused for breath.
“Uncle, Mother is dead. I’m to be King.”
“Undoubtedly. We all want that. But, Roddy ...” The Duke threw open a tall window, bre
athed deeply of the dusk. “Will you have a kingdom to rule, or no? Would you rather be a half king, an exile, like poor Freisart of Kant?”
“Is that a threat, sir?”
“Confound it, boy.” He strode across the chamber to shake me like a puppy. “Don’t fight us on this, we’re doing it for your own—”
“Us?”
“The Council. It’s arranged. Your poor mother’s been dying for years. We’ve talked—”
“Plotted behind her back!” I stood on tiptoe; we were nose to nose.
“Nonsense! We’re the Council of State; could we risk going unprepared?”
“To thwart her wish?”
He bellowed, “To save your throne!” With an effort, he lowered his voice. “Roddy, always you unravel my temper. You lost your mother today; I must make allowances. But look you: I also lost my sister!” His eyes glistened.
I said nothing.
“Children we were together, Elena and I, so little time past. She was elder; the land would be hers to rule. I had no quarrel with that, and have none still. Our father Tryon’s old duchy, the City of Stryx, was mine after his death, and gladly the Queen and I shared a home. Even our old playmate Willem of Alcazar found refuge with us. We raised our families together; you and your brothers, my sons Bayard and Chayne, Willem’s Kronin. Can we not still live in peace?”
I hugged myself, in want of response.
“Please, Rodrigo. Let us sort this out together.” His hand came forth, entreating.
“Uncle, crown me now, and give me the Vessels with which to practice my Power. Then I’ll not fight your regency. You’ll lead our armies if we’re attacked, and I’ll strengthen us with the Still.”
Margenthar’s hands went to his hips, and he stood staring at me, biting his lip. Then, “I don’t see why not.”
My joy knew no bounds. “How soon—”
“I’ll need the Council’s approval, of course. And we certainly can’t stage a coronation on the heels of a funeral. A month or so, perhaps three. Time to invite foreign nobles, make a splendid affair of it.”
“The Vessels are mine. I want them now.”
“Do they not need the crown, to be potent?”
“You know that as well as I.” I watched his face for deception.
“If you can’t wield the Power, best the Vessels remain in safekeeping.”
“I’ll look after them. Uncle, don’t look so disgusted. Would you rather I went to Council and objected to having you as regent? Surely I have some friend in the meet.”
Mar gauged the shadows on the window ledge. “We’ll be late for the Rite, boy. You don’t want me as regent? Well, Soushire is eager for it, and she’s gathered two votes. Would you have Larissa speak for Caledon?”
“Lord, no!” The Lady of Soushire was obese, smelled of garlic, and boasted a foul temper.
“I admit, if you go to Council, you might shake one vote loose from me; I won’t tell you whose. I guarantee you, a Soushire regency will be the result.” He threw his cloak over his arm. “Come along, we’ll walk to the Rite together.”
“And the Vessels?”
“Are under guard.”
“On second thought, I rather admire the Lady of Soushire.”
“You’re so foolish as to do that? Well, on your own head be it.”
He’d called my bluff. I took breath to concede defeat.
He spoke first, and his tone was cross. “Very well, I’ll see you get your Vessels.” I did my best to hide my elation. “I’ll have to clear it with the Council, and that must wait until I’m regent. May Lord of Nature help you if they’re stolen.”
I nodded.
“Hurry now. Your mother waits; we must show her respect.”
“Yes, Uncle.”
Elryc bounced on his feather mattress. “We won! We won!”
“Uncle Mar gets his regency, brother.”
“But you’ll have the crown and the Power. Can Uncle Mar hurt us, then?” He sniffled.
Rustin stirred from his cushion. “Elryc, stop that confounded prancing. My head aches.”
Elryc slowed, but did not stop. “Can he, Roddy?”
“Well ... we’re safer.” I’d bearded the lion in—literally—his den. I smiled at the thought of it.
Rustin swarmed to his feet, caught Elryc’s wrist, flopped the boy onto his stomach, dropped alongside him, a firm grasp on his arm.
“Let go!” Elryc.
“I told you to be still, and you weren’t.” Rust’s eyes rose. “What worries me is—”
“Roddy, you’re King! Tell him to let me loose!”
“—the three months until coronation. Much could happen in—”
“Roddy!”
I growled, “Let go the Prince’s arm, Rust. That’s right. Now, sit on his back.” Elryc squawked. “And box his ears if he utters another sound. I never agreed to three months. I’ll talk to the Seven, and we’ll see.”
“Nearly all of them were at the Rite.”
“It wasn’t the moment.” Despite my best efforts to be a man, I’d wept like a child while the Ritemaster carried the flickering tapers three times round my mother’s draped form. To make things worse, Rustin had put his arm around me, in comfort, and seemed oblivious to my rage when I threw him off. Lord knew what the nobles must think of me, after I’d carried on, and suffered a boy’s embrace.
Rust asked, “When do the Seven meet?”
“Tomorrow, at the third hour.”
“Where?”
“I’m not sure. In the great hall, I think.”
“Odd your uncle didn’t tell you.”
“Roddy?” Elryc. “Ow! Let me up, I’ll be quiet. Stop, Rust!”
Rustin cuffed him again, inquired of me by a raised eyebrow. I nodded. Released, Elryc curled in a corner of his bed, knees drawn tight, his mien sullen.
We sat in silence, until I drew a sharp breath. “Rust ... How is Uncle Mar to give me the Vessels, if we have the key to the vault?”
“He doesn’t know you have it.”
“He certainly knows he doesn’t have it.”
Rust pondered. “They’d have searched the Queen’s chamber.”
I nodded. “Hester told them nothing, I’m sure of it. A team of horses couldn’t draw tidings from her when she’s in a mood to be obstinate.”
“Which means he knew he couldn’t keep his promise to you.”
I stood. “Let’s go.”
“Where?” Elryc.
“The strongroom, of course.”
“At this hour?” He yawned. “Why?”
“I want ...” I wasn’t sure what.
Rust said, “It’s unwise. They ought not see you’re interested—”
“Come.” I was out the door, and Rust had little choice but to follow.
“What about me?” Elryc’s wail pursued us.
“To your bed, brat!” We raced down the stairs.
The strongroom was reached through winding passageways from the kitchens and winery. Perhaps the builders thought such design would make the chambers less tempting to invaders, but the builders were tasting earth these many generations, and couldn’t be asked.
Rust and I wandered casually into the kitchen, as was our custom, and Rustin helped himself to an apple from the cold bins. Out to the hall, with no one in sight. We raced giggling down the stairs, through the tunnels.
When I was a toddler my father scared me with old tales of brave men imprisoned in the cellars, but now I knew better. We rushed past the chamber that held our casks of aging wine, supposedly a torture room in the days of my great-grandfather Varon of the Steppe. We turned past the armory, silent at this hour of night, found the double doors of the passageway leading to the strongcellar. From the far end, a murmur of low voices.
I slowed, tiptoed my way along the musty corridor lit at either side by a smoking torch. Something chill ran down my back; I’d been here before, but only by day. Though day and night were indistinguishable in the dank cellars, somehow one knew the ho
ur.
“It’s around the corner.” My whisper echoed.
“What do we do?”
Stroll into the anteroom of the vault, as if we boys always skulked the cellars at night? Creep along, cheek pressed to the wall, and peer carefully round the corner? That didn’t suit my royal station.
“This is my castle. I want a look at the chamber door.” Boldly, I strode like a prince to the intersecting corridor, stopped just short of the corner. With an apologetic shrug I dropped to my knees, then my stomach, inched forward until my forehead was at the turn. I peered out.
A handful of guards. Two dozed outside the closed wrought-iron gate some paces from the vault, while the others inside played at dice. A peaceful scene.
A hot breath on the back of my neck. I jerked, sucked in air.
“Quiet, dunce.” Rustin pressed his palm into my back, his face just above mine as he knelt at my side. “Where are the locks?”
“Past the gate, see the two square holes?” The vault’s thick bronze door was pierced by handholes at either end. The locks themselves were recessed an arm’s length within the door; it was said a false key triggered a blade that slashed down, severing the offender’s hand. When I’d asked Mother, she merely smiled, and said it would have to wait until I was older.
“We’ve seen it. Now what?”
I was wondering the same myself. I studied the guards, and the anteroom. The vault could be reached only through the corridor we’d just traversed. The doors behind us at the far end of the corridor were left open for convenience, but in an emergency they could be sealed from within.
Within that vault lay my crown, and my Power. The crown was little good without the ceremony of coronation; Mother had made sure I understood at least that much. One couldn’t gain the Still of Caledon, even in a state of sexual innocence, merely by propping a gold diadem on one’s head. The Rites must be followed, but if they were, and the crown was possessed, even a usurper might wield the Power.
A strong force could seize the anteroom. Swords or spears would quell the outside guards; arrows would slaughter those behind the gate.
But there’d still be the great bronze door, and it wanted two keys. Softly, we crept away.
At the safety of the winery, Rustin said only, “We can’t storm the vault, Roddy.”
The Still Page 6