The Still roc-1

by David Feintuch

  The captain dismounted, hurried toward me, his hand well clear of his sword, and my tension eased. “My lord, you’re to return to the castle at once.”

  So Mother had noticed my absence. Although Rustin had sent word that I was spending the night, actually it was I who was supposed to inform her. Well, she demanded I ask, not merely inform, but …

  Above, the distant call of a trumpet. I ignored it, aware of the smith’s boy who’d come out from his bellows, of windows thrown open and faces peering from above. I strove for dignity. “We’ll be along presently. Leave us, now.”

  Mother would be all the more furious if I spurned her summons, but she’d humiliated me in public. How could I submit, under the eyes of mere tradesmen?

  “Sir, Llewelyn himself said I was to see you home, and Lord Rustin to the keep. I dare not disobey.”

  “Llewelyn isn’t my master,” I said coolly. “We have business at the wineshop for an hour or so.” To Rustin, “It won’t hurt Mother to wait a few-”

  “The Queen your mother is dying.!”

  For a fleeting instant the street swam. Rustin touched my arm.

  The guard stammered, “I wasn’t to tell you! She fell into sleep that will not wake. Your uncle Margenthar ordered you summoned at once.”

  Again the mournful peal of trumpets from the high ramparts.

  I shuddered. It was a dirge I’d last heard six years past, on my father’s death.

  Mother was gone.

  My voice was dull. “Had I not fought with you and stayed the night, I’d be at her bedside.”

  Rustin snapped, “Captain, a horse for Rodrigo. We’ll return it later.”

  I clutched his arm, wishing I didn’t feel a stupid young boy. “Rust, I’m frightened. Come with me.”

  “All right. Two horses, then.”

  The guard said, “Lord Rustin, your father wants you-”

  “I must attend my lord the King. I’ll be home after.”

  I gulped. My lord the King. What had befallen me? Dazed, I swung myself into the proffered saddle, spurred the perspiring bay into a canter toward the familiarity of the castle. Perhaps I could stay with Rustin a few days, during the rituals. But I also had need to guard Mother’s body, lest … I knew not what.

  Ahead were the iron-belted doors of the keep. I veered to the Tradesmen’s Cut, to save time. Rust galloped behind. “Rodrigo!”

  “King?” I repeated.

  “Well, not yet.” His face was set. “Not crowned.”

  “Will I be?” I clutched the pommel as if to keep from falling.

  “Am I a Ritemaster?” Then Rustin’s eyes softened. “Now, your troubles begin.”

  “Aye,” I said. Then, under my breath, “King.” I felt a chill, and there was no wind.

  Chapter 3

  My borrowed mount was wheezing by the time we took sight of the outer wall, and it was all I could do not to leap from the saddle and lead him on foot. I missed Ebon, left in our haste at the keep. To my right, Rustin paced his gelding. The captain of Llewelyn’s guard led the way. The rest of the troop straggled behind.

  The winding hill of Stryx was not made for processionals.

  As we neared, I studied the outer wall. Within, drums pounded a solemn beat. Trumpeters manned the ramparts, resplendent in the formal livery Mother had designed for state occasion, and which had so impressed Hriskil of the Norland that he’d had it copied in his own colors.

  At the conclusion of each dirge the trumpets fell silent. For minutes, there could be heard only the thump of the kettle and the roll of the toms, until the trumpeters began again. Lanford, officer of the gate, who’d chased me in play through the orchard when I was but a sprig, commanded the hornsmen standing atop the wall.

  As the horns fell silent once more I made for the low daily door, dreading that it would not open, that I’d have to dismount and knock, a supplicant in my own house.

  No movement.

  Rustin took a deep breath. “Make way for Rodri-”

  Not the daily door, but the high portal of state swung wide in all its splendor, the bolt-studded iron straps creaking shrill.

  I caught my breath. At the head of a gathering in the courtyard stood Uncle Mar, Duke of Stryx, in full dress and cloak, attended by the stout Lady of Soushire, Lord Groenfil, and their retinues. They’d journeyed here for a council meet that Mother would never hold. Now they’d stay for a funeral.

  We passed through the portal, and I realized for the first time how thick was our outer wall at its base. I muttered to Rustin, “Were they waiting for us all the while?”

  “No, you blockhead, the guards alerted them when we neared. We’ve been visible for ten furlongs.” Rust snorted. “Do you know nothing of ceremonies?”

  Mother had enjoyed the planning of them, but she brushed aside my idle curiosity and sent me out to play. No, I knew not what I should. I had better learn, for Uncle Mar’s arrangements had the desired effect, and my knees trembled against my stallion’s flanks.

  A groom darted forward, cupped his bridle. I waited, unsure whether I was expected to dismount.

  “Rodrigo of Caledon.” Uncle Mar stepped forward, his cloak flowing. A tall man, broad-chested, with a neatly cropped gray-streaked beard, he dominated the courtyard. “I bear tidings of sorrow. Thy mother the Queen has passed from life. All here, nobles and men, mourn with thee.” His hand closed around the hem of his cloak, and he gave it a wrench. The material tore and hung loose.

  A moment passed. Lady Soushire shifted in vexation before I realized they awaited a reply. I glanced at Rustin, but found no aid. “Thank you.” It seemed inadequate for the occasion. “I-We thank thee, my lord, and all those who grieve with us.” I tugged furiously at my jerkin, but it wouldn’t rip. Blushing, I gave it up. “We will don mourning clothes in our chamber. Elena Queen was a good lady, and true. She will be missed.”

  “Aye, that and more.” In three measured strides Margenthar was at my side, extending his hand. “I’ll escort you.”

  I swung down nimbly. “I know the way, Uncle.” Could he forget I lived in this castle, as did he?

  “Protocol,” he muttered under his breath. “Behave yourself.” Louder, “Those kinsmen who would see the body of Elena may step forth.”

  My words came fast on his, and equally loud. “Yes, as soon as I have my time to bid her farewell. Gather the kinsmen, that they may follow my visit.”

  His arm twined with mine as we walked at stately pace toward the entry of the donjon. Softly, “I’ve made the arrangements, and you’re not to befoul them. Open viewing is part of the ritual.” His fingers dug into my forearm.

  We proceeded past the banister down which I’d so recently slid. Would I ever be free to act the child again in Castle Stryx? I looked for Rustin, but he was caught somewhere behind the nobles, in the long slow procession.

  At the entry to the hall wherein lay Mother’s chambers I whirled to face the stairs. “Elena Queen is dead,” I sang out. Larissa of Soushire looked startled; Uncle Mar glided purposefully toward the open door.

  “Now do we, Rodrigo King and heir, commune with her remains-”

  “King?” A snarl, half whisper, that only I heard. Uncle Mar’s eyes blazed. “You overstep yourself. The Council of State hasn’t yet-”

  “-in the ancient and secret rite of our House. We shall be alone with her for that purpose.”

  He hissed, “Secret rite? What nonsense is this?”

  I slipped between him and the door, gripped the brass handle with sweaty hand. I flashed a tight smile full of malice, as I murmured, “We’re in public, Uncle.” I clapped my hands. “Where is my liegeman? Rustin, come forth!”

  A muttered oath, as Rust thrust his way through the astonished ranks. “Here, my lord.”

  “Out of the way, boy.” Uncle Mar reached for the door.

  I stepped back, barring Uncle’s way, scowled at Rustin. “Your place was at our side. Heed what you were told, worthless vassal!”

  While Uncle Mar gape
d I slipped through the doorway, hauled Rustin after. I swung the door closed, blotting out the staring faces, Mar’s rage, the nobles and their minions. I slid tight the bar.

  Rust shook his head. “Rodrigo! Even Father never spoke to me so, before nobility.” Something in my face stilled his jest. “Oh, my liege!” He caught my head in the crook of his arm, pressed me tight. “Don’t cry, Roddy. I can’t abide it.”

  I wiped my eyes. “I was scared witless.”

  “Mar couldn’t tell. Nor I. All we saw was that you defied him in front of them all. And then to dress down a noble, in full view of the court. No man would dare provoke an inevitable duel, save the King.”

  I tugged him along the corridor toward Mother’s chamber. “You’re not angry, then?”

  “Mortified.” He tried to glower, but his approval broke through like a sunbeam in a scattering storm. “Unless you’re acknowledged King. What shame could there then be, in accepting rebuke from the King himself?”

  “Then I must be proclaimed.”

  At Mother’s chamber, from habit, I knocked.

  Within, half a dozen of Mother’s ladies clustered about the bed. Nurse Hester, her acid voice for once stilled, her eyes bleak, trudged wearily to her plank table.

  Lady Rowena of Halle bowed deep, the formal bow of state. “I’m so sorry, Rodrigo.” I thanked her, and shooed the ladies from the chamber as graciously as I could. Only Hester refused to budge.

  As they departed, fluttering, a small form shot across the room, buried itself wailing in my arms. I staggered from the force of his assault. “Easy, Elryc.”

  “Mother’s gone!”

  “Be a man.” I tried to pry loose his fingers. “Don’t disgrace yourself.”

  Rustin opened his mouth to speak, decided on silence. Before he turned away, I saw his reproach.

  I clawed at Elryc’s fingers that locked round my waist stifling my breath. I shifted the boy to a safer position, cuddled his head under mine. How could I forget he was but eleven? “I’m sorry.” Awkwardly, unused to giving kindness, I patted his head. “Cry, Elryc. As much as you have need.”

  I thought he would never stop. Even when his breath slowed, his head remained buried on my breast, as if joined to my flesh in one of those occasional caprices of nature.

  I made my way to the bed.

  They had done washing the corpse, and had Mother laid out in white. Her form was wasted, but seemed more at peace than ere I’d known. She was one with Lord of Nature, and the peace was fitting.

  “Let go, Elryc.” I tried unsuccessfully to lower myself on the edge of the bed. I worked to loosen his grip, knowing it was unfitting to fling him to the floor, as I would on another day. “Sit on that footstool. I won’t leave you. Here, take my hand.” I looked to Nurse Hester. “When did she die, and how?”

  “My lady slept the night and did not wake. I thought to bring her the sweet Francan cheese that she so liked. So I left her a few moments. When I’d returned, she’d slid into the deep sleep from which few return, while her foolish ladies babbled among themselves. It was then we called you.”

  I looked at the Queen’s still form, and swallowed. “Leave us, Hester. I would be alone with my mother.”

  The old woman fixed me with a disapproving eye. “What concerns have you with my lady’s remains, eh? It isn’t fitting-”

  I jumped to my feet, almost knocking Elryc from his perch. My authority wavered; it was barely six months since Hester herself had hauled me by an ear to the door and expelled me from Mother’s chambers, fuming at some impudence in my tone.

  “I must be alone. Can’t you understand?” No answer. I hissed, “Get out, else I’ll fling you from the window!”

  Her eyes widened; she studied my face. Then, with a look of contempt, she made as if to spit on the floor, went instead to Mother, kissed her softly on the brow. With dignity she hobbled to the door.

  “You too, Rust. Wait outside.” I snapped my fingers. “Go, Elryc.”

  “No.” My brother folded his arms. “I stay.” He caught at a sob. “She was my mother too!” A determined look settled on his features.

  “Very well.” I closed my eyes, my melancholy broken only by Elryc’s sniffles. “Shut up, brother, or I’ll-I’ll warm your rump!”

  “You haven’t the right.”

  “We’re orphans. Someone has to look after you. If not me, then who? Uncle Mar?”

  “At least he doesn’t throw stones at me.” Elryc’s sulky expression wavered as I crossed back to the bed. “Why’d you chase them away?”

  “I don’t know. So I could get to know her.” It made no sense, even to me. I knelt, took Mother’s hand. To my shock, it was cold. “Madam, I’m-” My voice seized; I could but kneel, stroke the lifeless fingers, knead the rings that once I’d kissed. I stifled a sound.

  A small palm, on my shoulder; from it, a gentle squeeze. A sniffle. Then, to my infinite astonishment, a shy kiss, on the top of my head. Unable to speak, I buried my face in the bedclothes, cuddling the cold hand that responded not.

  In the mournful distance, Elryc wept.

  When I felt able, I got to my feet, gave Elryc a gruff embrace, pushed him away. “We’re in for it.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “I’m not crowned, and the best we can hope for is a regency.”

  “The best?”

  “Others covet the throne. Perhaps even you.” I threw him a crooked smile.

  “Yes, me.” He sniffled, took a deep breath. “I’ve thought of it, Roddy. I’d make a good king. I’d set aside all the boring ceremonies and rituals, and spend our gold where it would serve better.” He rested his head on my arm. “But not by killing you. I don’t want a crown that badly.”

  I shook him off. “Hold your tongue, simpleton. Never let it be known what you want. What if someone hears, and puts me aside, because you’re younger and more tractable?”

  As was his habit, Elryc looked wise beyond his years. “More likely they’ll kill us both, and raise Pytor to do what he’s told. His mind isn’t yet made.” He peered out the window, at the trumpeters below. “I don’t want to die, Roddy. Protect me.”

  “I can’t protect myself.” I sat again at the silent bed. “Mother, what do we do?”

  No reply.

  “Will the Power be mine, if I am King under a regent?”

  The silent form waited for eternity.

  I blurted, “If only I’d listened!” Always I’d been prone to interrupt her, impatient at the careful organization of her thoughts. “Forgive me, Madam.” I knelt, caressed once more the cold hand.

  “Does Uncle Mar have the Power?” For a moment I imagined Elryc’s high voice was Mother’s.

  “No, only a King can-” My eyes darted. “The Chalice and Receptor. Where did she keep them?” I ran past the trunk room into Mother’s dressing chamber, threw open the wardrobe, pushed aside the hanging clothes. Nothing. Once they’d been in the vault, but I recalled the day I’d been-what-thirteen? Mother had demonstrated the rite that summoned the Still, and like a foolish boy I’d been disappointed that no candles had dimmed, no thunder crashed, no velvet curtains swayed. Yet it couldn’t have been otherwise; Mother’s Power had long been extinguished.

  That day, the Vessels had been set on the marble table. Mother took my hand and placed it in the proper place. Excited, still a child, I’d had no curiosity as to where the emerald-studded Receptor had been stored. I’d seen no clue, and had not asked.

  “In a chest?” Elryc sounded hopeful.

  I cursed; Mother had at least a dozen trunks and a vast collection of garments. The Vessels could be anywhere. I flung open the first, pawed among carefully folded clothing, slammed down the lid. “Check that one with the brass straps.” I crossed to the door, undid the bar, pulled him in. “Rustin! Help us find the Receptor and Chalice.” I waved to the trunk room.

  “This is her chamber? I’ve never been admitted before.” When visiting the castle Rustin had the run of my quarters, and we roa
med the ramparts without hindrance. But though Mother might receive family or intimates in her rooms, no others ever saw them, even my companions.

  He opened a trunk, blushed at the undergarments within, resolutely plunged his hands to the bottom. “Not here.” He moved to another. “Where’d you see them last?”

  “There.” I pointed to the pleasant salon under the high windows.

  We searched on. A soft knock at the door, which we ignored. After a few moments, another, more insistent.

  With a curse for which Mother would have boxed my ears, I flung open the door. Rowena and Hester not far behind. “Roddy, you left Duke Margenthar and the nobles at the stairs! He demands I open the outer door, and really there’s no reason I shouldn’t.”

  “The reason,” spat Hester, “stands in front of you.”

  I snarled. “Five minutes, tell him.”

  “But you can’t-”

  The old woman closed in on Rowena, murder in her eyes. I blurted, “Hester, we need you inside. Please.”

  To the Nurse, mother took precedence over vengeance. She hobbled in and I slammed the door.

  “Where’s Mother’s Power?”

  She gaped. “In her soul, her essence. It’s-”

  “The Receptor!”

  She peered past me to the trunk room. “What do you louts meddle with, that’s none of your-her clothes? Elryc! Shut that lid or I’ll take a stick to you!” My brother leaped from the trunk. Hester brushed me aside, darted to the wardrobe, almost stumbling in her haste. “Have you no respect, no decency? Are you Llewelyn’s boy?” She snatched Rustin’s ear, led him yelping to the wall. “Your filthy hands touched my lady’s garments?” A cuff. “Out!” She herded him to the door.

  Rustin’s eyes fastened on me in silent plea; it roused me from stupor. I said, “Hester, he’s helping-”

  “Oaf!” The old woman stamped her foot. “What would Lady Elena think of these carryings on? Were she alive, she’d-” Again she stamped her foot, but no words came. Eyes brimming, she threw her hands to her face. Rustin rubbed furiously at his ear.