“Fight only ...”
“What?”
Fostrow blinked, seemed to concentrate. “... just wars.”
“NOW!” Rustin tore me from the huddled form, whose chest still rose and fell. He grasped my boot, raised it to the stirrup. “Move or die!”
Numbly, I swung into the saddle. Rust tore loose his empty scabbard and gave Ebon a mighty thwack. “Go!” Ebon shot toward the gate. I clung to the pommel. Rust galloped behind.
We raced through the gate onto the north road. Behind us, the cries of war faded.
The beach was rocky. The black fleet of Eiber lay offshore, riding on the swells. We were within bowshot of the ships, but who would keep archers aboard boats moored for the season? We were safe from that quarter.
What I hadn’t expected was the rows of tents in the field to our right. The Eiberian camps had been roused by the clamor of battle in the keep. A few quick-witted officers had devised a roadblock, but they’d barely dragged wagons and brush into place.
Tursel waved shoreward. We scrambled through sand and stones. A horse went down; the rider screamed; a mate stopped long enough to hoist him behind. We raced on, and plunged into the hills.
Ebon pounded methodically along the trail. I rode dazed in the saddle, side aching. When the tents had faded from sight I spotted a familiar trail. “Tursel, hold!”
He swung his head, saw no one pursuing. Reluctantly, he slowed. “What, Lord Prince?”
“Call a halt.”
“They’ll be on us ere long.”
“But not yet.” I pulled Ebon to a standstill.
“What now?”
I fought to think through a haze. “That path. I think it leads to Besiegers’ Pond.”
“So?”
“Above is the castle.”
“What of it?”
“I’ll go. Rust, come along if you wish.”
“Roddy, we’ve no time for nonsense!”
“Oh, there’s sense to it.” My teeth chattered, as if from cold. “Tursel, take your troop and cut west at the fork. Lead our pursuers to the hills.”
“But why—”
“I’ll meet you at Shar’s Cross.”
“No. Lord Rustin, take the Prince’s reins. You, Thiel, guard his left.”
I rose in my saddle. “By the True and my crown, touch me not!”
“Roddy—”
“Tursel of Cumber, lead our troop to the hills. Move! Anavar, come along.”
“Me, sir?” His voice was a squeak.
“Yes, I’ll need another.” I lashed Ebon, and he leaped from the pack. “All you men, go to the hills. Your King commands it.” I cantered into the thick wood.
Muttered curses, and Rustin emerged from the branches. Behind him, the crackle of hooves on downed wood. Anavar shot out of the brush. He reined in at my side.
If I’d not known the trail as a boy, I could never have followed it on this moonless eve. As before, I had to dismount and lead Ebon through the worst thickets. A stitch in my side made my task no easier. Finally, we emerged at the still pond.
“Roddy, I’m no use unless you explain what we do.”
I patted Rust’s shoulder. “The trail leads to Castle Way, at the turn.”
“Don’t teach me geography!” He was at the end of his patience. “Where do we ride?”
“Why, to the castle gates.” I counted on the likelihood Tantroth would post no guards so close to the walls.
It was dark when we reached the turn. Below gleamed the torches of the keep. It looked like an anthill disturbed; men ran hither and about. Horns blared. As we watched, a great body of men gathered, and rode off to the north.
I turned Ebon up the bill. Anavar said nervously, “What are we about sir?”
“We go within.” As we reached the last bend I pulled off my sword, dropped it alongside the road. “Do likewise, both of you. We’re boys caught out in the night.”
Rustin growled, “Roddy, enough of this folly.”
I said sharply, “Be still! I command it!” He drew in breath, but lay down his sword.
At the top of the hill, the great doors were shut. Above, soldiers patrolled.
A few steps from the gate I handed the reins to Anavar, jumped off. My side stabbed. Perhaps I’d broken a rib in the night’s melee. Carefully, I stooped, found a stone. I trudged to the gate, hammered without cease.
Someone leaned over the parapet. “Stop that racket, lad!”
I tried to speak like Genard. “We been caught outside, Lor’! Soldiers runnin’ round. Lemme back in!”
“Who are you?”
“Master Griswold’s boys.” I stole a glance to Anavar, who was doing his best to seem loutish. For emphasis he scratched his rump.
“Sleep under the wall. Lord Margenthar commands the gates be locked from sunset.”
Lord of Nature help us if Mar were here. Yet surely he had too much cunning to trap himself far from Verein.
“If we’re not tending horses by dawn, old Griswold will thrash us. Please, the small door at least!”
With much grumbling, the small door was unbarred. “I hope he beats you bloody, you fools. Why are you outside the walls when—”
I snatched a torch from a post, held it as close to my face as the heat allowed. My voice rang from cobbles to keep. “I am Rodrigo, son of Elena, Prince and heir to Caledon. Summon our chamberlain Willem.”
Murmurs of disbelief. Someone called, “Seize them!”
I slapped my leg; the sound echoed in the night. “Where is my chamberlain?” A hand loomed. Contemptuously, I struck it away. “Willem!”
For a moment all hung in the balance, then my royal manner prevailed. As I stepped forward, men gave way. “You, there, go to Willem’s chambers! Rouse him!” A man ran off.
Another asked hesitantly, “Does the Duke know you’ve come?”
I snarled, “You question me?” I snapped my fingers. “Lord Rustin, take his rank.” Rust came forward, his manner imperious.
“Bring us wine.” If I drank, I’d spew it into the dust; my nerves were that tight. Still, I had to maintain appearances.
Torches gathered. Men crowded round to marvel. I stood stiff, wishing I didn’t feel faint.
It was years before Willem appeared on the steps from the donjon, a furred robe thrown over his shoulders. “Who goes in the night?”
He seemed to have grown in stature since Mother’s death. For a moment, I recalled the charade Uncle Mar and I played out before the nobles, the day she left me.
“It is I. Rodrigo, Prince.” Even in the dark, I could have sworn I saw him pale. “Come.” I held out my hand. For a moment I thought he’d let my arm dangle, but he walked slowly down the steps, took my hand, bowed. The bow of courtesy, from host to guest, no more. I saw, and he knew I saw.
“Roddy, how did you—does Margenthar know?”
From the castle guards, rising murmurs. “Stire can’t be far, find him. Hold them until—”
I said quietly, that no others might hear, “I call you to your pledge.”
“What pledge?”
“Your vote in Council.”
His eyes darted. “You said—you’d need three.”
“I have them. Vessa, Cumber, Soushire.”
Silence.
Rustin watched me by the torchlight. There was something in his eyes akin to reverence.
Willem chewed his lip. “Roddy, I can’t leave. Mar would ...”
I said, “You cherished Elena. Am I not her heir?”
Willem looked ready to weep. “Now? Right this moment?”
“Or never. A horse awaits.” I gestured to the gate.
A soldier growled, “Where in the demons’ lake is Stire?”
“He’s coming.”
“Now.” Ignoring the bite in my side I strode toward the gate, my pace steady. “Do you join us, Chamberlain?”
As if rehearsed, Anavar and Rustin fell in alongside. At the gate, I turned. Deep breaths, for strength; never mind the hurt. “Look o
n me, Caledon! I am Rodrigo.” I flung off my hated black cloak, the remnant of my disguise. “I will return as your King. Know me now, and then. Fight Tantroth, our enemy. But oppose me at your peril.”
On the ramparts above, running boots. I clapped my hands. “Anavar, Lord Rustin, Willem. Come.” I strode into the night.
I tried not to hurry as I made my way to Ebon. Anavar held my bridle as I struggled to mount. I gritted, “Fetch our swords. You’ll ride with Rust.” Seated, I glanced back. Rust followed.
Chamberlain Willem was a step behind.
I reached across, gathered the reins of Anavar’s mare, presented them to Willem. “Welcome.”
His face was grave. “I do this for Elena, and because you cajoled my promise. Not for you, youngsire.”
I felt giddy. “No matter. You’ll come to love me.” I spurred down Castle Way.
Chapter 36
WE PLUNGED INTO THE WOODLANDS that concealed the pond and picked our way toward the seacoast road. I dozed in the saddle, my shirt drenched with sweat. I sought Fostrow’s face. I knew I’d oft abused him. I would learn remorse, if I lived long enough.
We made better time on the road. But Rust grew ever more restless. “Roddy, we’re bound to meet Tantroth’s patrol returning.”
“I know. Take to the fields.” I veered eastward, regretting the ease of the road. I stank of death, sweat, and blood, some of it Fostrow’s. Even my hands were sticky.
“Will they chase Tursel all the way to Shar?”
I drowsed, until I realized Anavar’s question was to me. “Unlikely.” Ebon plodded, following Rust’s mount. I let him have his head, hanging on to the pommel. Willem rode behind with Anavar. Neither spoke.
The night oozed past in an agony of torpor, as we climbed east into the hills. We passed a few miserable peasant huts, then more. Finally, as the sky ahead began to blot out stars with the promise of day, I felt the world reel. I clutched Ebon’s mane just in time not to fall. “Rust ... let me rest.”
“Another league, my prince.”
I bit back a sob. “I cannot.”
Instantly, Rust jumped to the ground. “Anavar, keep guard.” His hand gripped my knee. “Steady.”
“Help me off.” He did. “Is there anything I can wear save this foul jerkin?”
“I’ve a blanket, no more. You can wrap that over your shoulders.”
“I stink in this.” I pawed at my shirt. Rustin helped me. It stuck to my side, and I cried out.
“Anavar.” Rust’s tone was a lash. “Knock them awake in that hut. Willem, hide the horses.”
I tugged at my jerkin. Something trickled.
I patted my side, and my hand came away red. Rust hissed. “You’re covered with—”
I giggled, recalling Rust and Santree at the crossroads. “The blood’s not mine.”
Rust’s tone was grave. “Yes, my love, it is.”
I pitched into his arms.
“Hold him.”
I clawed at Anavar’s wrists. “Mother, save me! It hurts!”
“Let me sew, Roddy, else you’ll bleed to death.”
“I’m all right. Just a broken rib. Ow, no!”
“Imps and demons!” He reared back, thrust his face into mine. “Stop it!”
I howled.
“Bite the sheath.”
“Rust, stop! I’ve no wound.”
“I see your bone.”
“No one stabbed me.”
“You fell on a sword, I think.”
Desperate, I pulled free from Anavar’s grip. “No more!”
Rust grasped my hair, lifted my head, slapped me hard. “Lie still! I won’t tell you again.”
I wrenched free my arms to cover my eyes, ashamed that Anavar and Willem see me cry. Obediently, I forced myself to lie still, until Rust was done with his torture. Then he wrapped me, cradled my head, brought more water to my lips. “Drink, my prince.”
I couldn’t help but whimper. “You hate me.”
“More water, Anavar.” He waited while the boy filled the dipper. “Drink.”
“Yes, Rust.” I peered through the gloom. “What’s that smell?”
“The hut. Sleep now.”
I blinked away cobwebs. “Where are we?”
“Near Shar’s Cross.”
“What am I lying on, rocks?”
“A churl’s bed. Be civil.”
“Why?”
“He’s by the wall, forming his opinion of his King.”
Time passed. I woke again, ravenously thirsty. “Can I sit?”
“We’ll raise you. Don’t strain.”
In a moment I sat propped in Rust’s protective arm, drinking greedily. Across the dank, low-roofed hut huddled a man in rags. His arm rested on a woman, who crouched below. At his side a grimy boy of nine or so watched our every move.
“Where’s Willem?”
“In the wood, helping Anavar water the horses. Tantroth’s men passed twice in the night.”
I flogged my mind; now was no time to laze. “They didn’t search?”
He shook his head. “Who of royal blood would enter such a dwelling?”
I focused on the churl. “Your name?”
The man opened his mouth, closed it without speaking.
“Who are you?”
The boy piped, “Eol.”
“Your name or his?”
“Fartha. He won’t talk.”
“Why?”
“He afraid.”
“Aren’t you?”
The boy said, “You g’a hurt us?”
“No.”
“See?” He tugged at the silent man’s fingers. Then to me, “Are you really King?”
“Prince. By new moon I’ll be King.”
His eyes grew wide. “Where crown?”
“It’s ...” I couldn’t think. “Where, Rust?”
“In safekeeping with Elryc.”
“If he doesn’t steal—I’m sorry. Don’t hit me. I didn’t mean it.”
“I won’t, Roddy.” His lips brushed my scalp. “Now you’re awake, take this.” He handed me a warm bowl.
“What is it?”
“Broth, flavored with potato and rabbit.”
“Ugh.”
“You lost much blood.”
I gulped the stew, as glad of the liquid as the nourishment. “Rust ...” My voice was hesitant. “How is it that Fostrow bleeds and dies, yet I bleed and live?”
“His wound was worse.”
“Am I favored?”
“By whom? Have you endowed Fortune’s Well with silver?”
“I rode all night, and he bled in moments.”
“His leg was half-severed. You had but a gash in the side.” He roughed my hair, gently at first, then with anger. “You could have died, you dimwit! Why didn’t you tell me?”
“I didn’t know.”
“You were soaked.”
“Sweat, I thought. How oft have you told me I sweat too much?”
“Never. Only that you bathed too little.” His eyes glistened. “My life is hard with you. But don’t make me live without.”
Across the room, the boy’s wide eyes stared.
“You, child.” I beckoned. “Would you serve a king?” He nodded. “Fetch more water.” I handed him the bowl. “Don’t spill it, and I’ll let you touch my sword.”
In a moment the lad returned, bearing the water with great care. Eagerly I downed it. Would my thirst never be sated? When I was done I groped for my sword, found it near my side. With an effort I pulled the haft a few inches from the scabbard, let the lad’s fingers trace the jeweled design.
I asked, “When do we ride?”
“I’m not sure. I may send Anavar to find our troop. Tursel must be fuming.”
“Or saying the Rites of our Passing.” The captain would be beside himself. Our force was divided not in twain, but in three. Elryc waited with the wagons, Tursel and the survivors of our raid lurked near Shar, and Avatar, Rust, Willem, and I hid in a fetid hut. I stirred. “Help
me sit. I have to piss.”
“Use the pot.”
“Are my ribs bound? Good. Let me walk outside.”
“You’re a dolt.” Still, he didn’t push me down.
“You there. Eol, is it? Take my arm.” The swarthy man darted over, eyes down. He let me throw an arm over his shoulders. With Rust tending my injured side, we shuffled to the door. It was great labor, and I gritted my teeth against pain and waves of dizziness. Outside, I blinked. “When was morn?”
“It’s long past noon.”
“Then we’ll ride. You’ll help me up.” I loosed my breeches.
“I’ll decide that.”
I was silent, until I’d wrung the last drop from my aching bladder. “No, I will. It’s a matter of state.”
“Not if—”
“Would you that Tursel took himself home to Cumber? We ride.”
Very soon I regretted the decision. The churl and his silent wife watched as I swayed in my saddle, jaw clenched. Rust ran back through the trees, swung onto his mare. “The road’s clear. Let’s go.” He took Ebon’s reins, led us in a slow walk.
We passed under a leafy canopy that gave way to patches of afternoon haze, while I nursed my ribs. Willem paced to my right, looking very much as if he regretted his impulse.
“How fat is our treasury, Chamberlain?” Deliberately, I made my voice sharp.
“Eh? No more than—I’ve paid as Mar directed, Roddy. After all, he was regent.”
“Are coins left for my stipend?”
He peered at my face. “You jape at me. I’m sorry if I seem ... Know you my gamble, trailing you out the gate?”
I said, “Know you mine?”
A long pause. “There were tales, whispered where Stire wouldn’t overhear. You charmed Raeth of Cumber, we heard. There were doings with Soushire. The Warthen wouldn’t see you.”
“I’ve been busy.”
“Yes. Elena would be proud.” He said it so simply, without guile, that I knew he’d spoken without thought.
“Would she?” I swallowed the hint of a lump.
“Yes. She wanted you fit to be King, and had no idea how to make you thus, except by my chastisement.” He eyed me. “You’ve grown, within.”
“Does it show?”
“Yes, Rodrigo. Though to hear you howl last night, one wouldn’t know.”
I flushed. “It hurt so.”
“Apparently.” Then, to the trees, “When you fled the castle, I’d not thought you capable of leading men to battle.”
The Still Page 51