The Still roc-1

by David Feintuch

  “Shouldn’t we put out-”

  “Let it burn; we need more time.” I scuttled along the floor, until the smoke lessened, and we found ourselves outside the great bronze doors.

  “Mother’s key!”

  Rust peeled it from his neck, thrust it into my hands. “But which lock?” I stared at the deep entry holes.

  I swallowed. A false key, and the offending hand would be severed. Or so the whispers had said.

  “Genard, open it” I handed him the key.

  “Hah.” He tossed it back. “Your Powers, your fingers.”

  I lifted the point of my sword to his throat. “Open!”

  He swiveled to Rustin. “Is he that wicked, my lord? Would he?”

  “He thinks he would.” Rust took the key from him, placed it in my hand. “Roddy, you’d best hurry.”

  I kept my arm rock-steady as I extended it toward the lock, into the gaping hole. They would have been persuaded I was fearless, had I not moaned and kept my eyes glued shut.

  I felt for the keyhole. Nothing. I probed farther, yelped as something sharp pricked my fingertip. I yanked out my arm, sucked my fingers. “Give me the torch!” Trying not to singe my ear, I peered in the hole. “Demons of the lake!”

  “What, Roddy?”

  “It’s been forced!” The iron of the lock was bent and broken. I pressed on the door; it didn’t budge.

  In the distance, shouts.

  I ran to the second lock, squinted. It was whole. I thrust in my key.

  It didn’t turn. With all my strength I twisted. It moved not an iota. I withdrew the key, stared. “What means this?”

  Rustin waved away a puff of smoke. “That your key fit the forced lock.”

  “But if they didn’t force both …”

  “We’ll know when we get in.” He took Stire’s spear, thrust it into the hole, twisted. Outside, the cries grew nearer.

  Rustin strained, to no avail. In fury, he withdrew the spear, rammed it into the lock, over and again.

  “Here, let me.” I slammed the spear into the long keyhole, smashed it against the lock. Something caught. I twisted hard. Rust seized the shaft, added his own weight.

  A snap.

  I pulled out the spear, pressed tentatively on the door.

  The top of the door glided away from us, as the bottom rose and whacked my shins. I cursed, stepped aside, raised it the rest of the way.

  A few chests were overturned in the corner; I ran to one, flung it open. Moldering scrolls of state. In the others, trinkets and gifts. I stood, perused the shelves.

  A cushion. My breath hissed. I remembered that bolster. I hurried to it.

  Still impressed in it were the hollows where long the Chalice had lain, and near it the Receptor.

  They were gone, and with them, my Power.

  A groan escaped my lips.

  “Look, m’lord!” Genard’s eyes were wide. He pointed.

  The crown of Caledon, Mother’s formal diadem. It lay carelessly on a cedar stand, as if discarded, and without value.

  After all I’d risked, the agonies I’d endured, my nights of shame, the Still was gone.

  “Take it!” Rustin.

  I stood as if made of stone.

  Genard snatched up the crown, wrapped it in his grimy jerkin.

  Rust poked among the chests. “Roddy, there’s no coin here.”

  “I know. Mother had Willem keep most …” My voice trailed off. Not only had I lost the Receptor and Chalice, the most valued objects in Caledon, but now they could be wielded against me. If, in all the realm, another virgin could be found to mount the throne.

  “Hurry.” Rustin tugged. When I resisted, he wrapped his arm around me, guided me down the hall toward the smoke. “Genard, guard the crown and meet us outside.”

  “Aye, sir.” The stableboy took a handful of deep breaths, plunged into the swirl.

  “He’ll steal it!”

  “No.” Rust pressed me into a kneel. “Keep your head low, for the air.”

  “Fire! Save us! Hakkk!” Genard coughed and wheezed. “The castle burns!” His voice faded.

  Rust pushed and prodded, forcing me through the smoke. Rivulets of water, in the passage. Voices shouting, near.

  I’d lost the Still.

  Amid bellows and frenzy, we thrust through a milling crowd, fought our way clear to beyond the scullery.

  Rust seemed a madman, his hair awry, blue eyes shining from a filthy mask. “Do I look as awful as you?” He led me to a well. “Rinse-no, perhaps not.” He stayed my hand.

  “They have my Power.” I couldn’t focus my thoughts.

  With what might have been compassion, Rust took my hand, steered me along the foundation wall. Moments later we were in the cool of the stables. A flickering taper was wedged in its sconce.

  He swung shut the doors. “Sit. No, there by the water pail, out of sight.” He disappeared.

  Outside, in the dusk, excited shouts faded to unheard whispers.

  Tantroth sought Caledon, and might yet have it, but the Still was beyond him. And so was the crown. The demon’s imp who served as stableboy would sell it for a song, if he wasn’t gutted and tossed in the offal by a thief larger than he.

  Something rough jabbed at my lap. I pushed it aside, my eyes on the beams above, my thoughts awhirl. A fly buzzed at the bucket of water, rippling it.

  My fingers toyed with the tight-bound hay on which I sat. What now, Mother? I’ve lost the Vessels, a guttersnipe has your crown, Elryc and Hester are gone, Pytor’s imprisoned, and we’re under Tantroth’s siege. Uncle Mar has me at his mercy.

  All is lost.

  A figure crossed the anteroom. Rustin.

  I asked, “Did you find the brat?”

  “He sits at your feet, my prince.”

  I looked down. “Where’s my crown, thief?”

  Genard flushed at my epithet. “Where you dropped it.”

  I stared past him, at the gold bauble in the dust.

  “Genard, we need horses.” Rustin seemed strangely impatient. I no longer cared.

  “Aye, m’lord. How many?”

  “Can you ride? Of course, you work the stables. Where can we find soldiers’ garb?”

  Genard bit his lip. “Each day the washerwomen take garments to boil, and dry them on the rocks by the well.”

  “Do the soldiers haul back their own clothes?”

  “No, m’lord. The women bring them the next-”

  “Come along, I’ll need help. Roddy, stay here.” They went.

  Perched on my hay, I dangled the crown, from time to time twirling it on my finger. No coronation. No Power.

  If Tantroth my cousin, Duke of Eiber, had his way, no realm either. Time would soon tell; by now he’d have landed at least his first force, and would be racing to secure the Castle Way.

  I stared at the bucket. No need any longer to hide my face; I could wash off the grime, meet my fate like a king. Placing the crown on my head, I reached toward the still water, half-mesmerized.

  “Who goes?” A familiar voice, which I couldn’t place.

  My voice came from far away. “Rodrigo of Caledon, Prince and heir.” Again the fly buzzed at the bucket, and I shivered. I thrust out my hands, palms down, to guard the water.

  “What do you in my stable?” The old man. Griswold.

  “I hide, from the Duke.”

  “Why?”

  “He is my enemy.”

  “What makes him so?”

  “He would have my birthright, and my realm.”

  The old man’s voice wavered in and out of earshot. “Where go you, now?”

  “I flee.”

  “Whence?”

  “To my brother, and the witch who raised me.”

  “For what purpose?”

  My arms ached from the effort of keeping them still, but the fly must not have at my pail, before I washed. “To gain their alliance, and my strength.” The words might be mine, or might not.

  “And then?”

&n
bsp; I came slowly to my feet and spoke in a tone of resolve. “I shall claim my kingdom, and seek my Power.”

  The door swung open. “Roddy, we found-Oh!”

  Griswold scowled. “He’s in a muddle. Where do you take him?”

  “To safety.” Rustin dumped his pile of clothing; the stableboy added an armful of helmets. Rust snapped, “Genard, saddle our horses.”

  “Who rides?”

  “You, me, Rodrigo.” Seeing the crown on my head, Rust frowned, removed it. He plunged his hands into the bucket, splashed my face, wiped it on his sleeve. “We need more riders. Who?”

  I stirred.

  Griswold snapped, “Fetch Kerwyn.”

  “Aye, sir.” The boy ran.

  Rustin helped me dress in soldiers’ garb still damp from scrubbing. When he had my clothes arranged he wrapped the crown in my old shirt.

  “How will we get out?” My mind began to work, as if awakening from long disuse.

  “Through the gate.” He shucked his own garments, donned the guards’ clothing.

  A time passed, moments or hours. Kerwyn, ridiculous in a trooper’s jerkin, led two horses. Behind him came Genard with two others.

  Rustin adjusted his own helmet, mounted his chestnut mare. “We’ll need to show swords and shields; all we have is that half-sword of yours. I’m going to the armory.”

  “You’ll be recognized.”

  “Your household troops and the men of Verein still don’t know each other.” He clattered to the door in soldier’s garb and boots, reached down to the catch. “Besides, no one looks at a soldier’s face. I grew up in a soldier’s house.” He was gone.

  Genard fussed at his uniform. “It overflows on me. How will I keep the arms from-”

  “Quiet.” Griswold rolled the boy’s sleeves and leggings so they seemed less outlandish. “You’ll be a small young soldier. Kerwyn, keep your faceplate down; everyone knows that nose of yours. I want you both back, soon as it’s safe.”

  The door swung open. Guards with torches, their swords drawn. “Stableman, have you seen the boy Prince?”

  Griswold’s eyes never strayed to mine. “Not of late.”

  I blinked, coming at last into the remainder of my senses. My fingers played at my guardsman’s knife. I said, “We’ve already searched, trooper.”

  “Captain Stire was attacked. He’s livid.” The man’s eyes flickered to Kerwyn, and the stableboy in man’s clothing. Then past the shirt thrown casually on the hay. “I’ll try the kitchens.”

  After they left I eased myself back on the hayroll, hoping the others wouldn’t see the tremble of my knees. I gathered my wrapped crown to my chest, hugged it. We waited in silence, until steps approached. Rustin.

  He grinned. “Three swords and scabbards. And shields.” He distributed them. “I used Stire’s name.”

  “They’re looking for me. Fostrow must be loose.”

  “No matter, now.” He handed me the reins to a snorting gelding. “Up, my prince. Stay close, and let me speak. I’m the captain.”

  He wheeled his mount out the door, clattered toward the gate. We spurred to follow. “Lanford!” A bellow. “The ale-man’s cart! Where is it?”

  The gatekeeper frowned. “Left an hour ago, guardsman. They finally got the wheel high enough to repair-”

  “And you let them through? The Duke will have your ears, if not worse!” Rustin’s horse pranced with conveyed excitement “You fool!”

  “What-why shouldn’t I let-they were desperate to get down the hill and away, before Tantroth’s troops blocked the road.”

  “The boy Rodrigo was on the cart!”

  “We checked every barrel. And looked under-”

  “He was the helper in brown, perched on the backboard! Open the cursed gate. Hurry, they can’t be far down the hill.”

  Swearing, Lanford swung open the gate, and we charged through. Behind us the doors thudded shut.

  The wind tore at Rustin’s exultant cry. “He’ll have your ears!”

  Chapter 9

  “Now what?” Rust slowed his mount, sideslipping to avoid a cart full of sacks and squalling babies, pulled up toward the castle by a gasping townsman.

  “Down the hill like the demons themselves were after us.” I sounded as sure as I felt. “From the towers they can watch us almost to Llewelyn’s keep. If we dawdle, they’ll wonder why we were in such an all-fired hurry to get out.” I spurred.

  The hill was crowded with refugees. As we rode I peered below to the harbor whenever shrubbery was sparse enough to permit.

  Castle Stryx faced west. In the last rays of daylight, Tantroth’s black-sailed fleet lay silhouetted against the pale pink sky of the inlet. Sensibly, the Duke of Eiber had made no attempt to land at the wharves along the waterfront near Llewelyn’s stronghold. Instead, their ships were beached a league south, where their foreguard could get a foothold before Llewelyn’s men fell on them.

  I was appalled at the number of townsmen struggling toward the gates. There was ample room within the castle’s outer walls, but if Tantroth succeeded in mounting siege, how long could our stores sustain such a quantity of folk?

  “Make way for the guard!” Rustin, sword raised, cleared a path by gesture and voice.

  “Look, Ma, it’s the Prince!” A youngster tugged at her mother’s hand; the woman shook her head. “No, not that one, Ma! The one behind!” Her voice pierced, and other faces swiveled to peer at us.

  I thrust down my helmet, did my best to look inconspicuous, but word of my passage leaped down the hill.

  “Sire, do you join the guard below?” An old man clutched at my bridle. “Will you save the town?”

  Never mind the flimsy hovels of the city; how could I save myself? Not if I stopped to parlay with fools. I threw an airy salute, cantered past.

  The most difficult stretches were the sharp bends where our road nearly doubled back on itself. There the path was choked with wagons, bullocks, handcarts, mulesters, crying babies, anxious women, sweating peasants. At least we need not fear scrutiny from the ramparts; the road must look like a disturbed anthill.

  “Roddy, look!” Rust pointed. For a few paces we had a clear view of the sea road from Llewelyn’s keep past the swordsmith’s, into the town of Stryx. A small troop of cavalry clattered south toward the invaders; one lonely scarlet banner drooped on a standard.

  “Are they all we can muster?”

  “Those aren’t the first, I’m sure. And my father has to hold the keep, as well.” Rustin sounded defensive. “The stronghold guards this very road to the castle.”

  Thanks to the congestion, we were barely halfway down the hill. “Rust, let’s rest at Besiegers’ Pond.” The turnoff was near, and my mind reeled from the crowd of events. Scarce an hour before, we’d broken into the vault, after setting fire to Castle Stryx.

  “We haven’t time.”

  Ignoring him, I spurred off the road to the familiar path. For lack of choice, my companions followed.

  After the mad fear of the townsmen, the wood seemed a peaceful refuge. I picked my way toward the brackish pond, an eagerness arising.

  Kerwyn pressed his mount forward. “Sire, if there’s no further need, I’ll turn back.”

  “Very well.” I dismounted. “I need a moment to think.” I knelt by the still water. A thirsting mosquito buzzed, settled on my hand; I flicked it off.

  Rust frowned. “This is no time to-”

  “Do as I say.” In this familiar place of solitude, I felt a strange confidence.

  Perhaps, hours or day hence, Tantroth’s soldiers would settle on these banks, while awaiting the fall of my ancestral home. Had I a duty to climb the hill, join my people for what awaited them? How could I be King, and abandon my realm?

  “Am I not traitor, that I flee in time of battle?” I’d scarce formed the thought before I realized I’d spoken it aloud.

  Rustin sat cross-legged at my side. “No, my lord. Preserve thyself, to succor thy kingdom.” The intimacy of his high speech
warmed my courage.

  An avid blue-winged dragonfly, flicking in the day’s last grudging rays, drew intricate designs in the humid air.

  “Easy to say, to justify my escape. How then shall I be King, and succor my people?”

  Rust had no answer.

  I raised my hands, brought them palm down to the waters. “Would that I had my Power, and the wisdom it brings.” I closed my eyes, seeking calm.

  Rustin snorted. “Modesty, at last.”

  Returning to the castle was not the solution; Uncle Mar held Pytor, sought Elryc, and had reduced me to the status of a child. Despite honeyed words, Duke Margenthar had seized power in Caledon.

  Behind my shoulder, Genard coughed. “How long will you sit and stare at a lake like an addled Ritemaster?”

  I opened one eye. “I could throw you in, and contemplate the ripples.”

  “Aye, that’d be like you, m’lord.” But he settled, stirring only to slap an occasional mosquito.

  After a time I sighed. My vigil had brought no peace, only the sense of more pressing urgency.

  We made our way through the undergrowth to the cut of the road. The folk laboring up the hill moved with heightened anxiety. Perhaps it was that dark was nigh, and terrors swelled with the receding light. Cries and warnings floated up the hillside, from below.

  We descended the few remaining bends to the keep that straddled the road. With the last turn, its high outer wall came into view. Soldiers at the battlements brandished long-tipped spears. Below us, beyond the Tradesmen’s Cut, Castle Way ran through a high gate, passed between the inner and outer walls of the keep, and emerged again at the turn just above the seafront.

  To save asking entry at the keep, what had started as a cut across a muddy field had over the years become an awkward bypass, used by tradesmen and riders alike. The cut now streamed with townsmen.

  A blare of trumpets; sweating villeins turned their carts aside lest they be run over by a returning troop of Llewelyn’s horse. One townsman cursed roundly, raising his fist at the ruckus as the guardsmen shot past. He stood thus a moment, then froze, staring down the road toward Stryx.

  My grip tightened on the pommel.

  The man whirled to his cart. He tugged at it, glanced over his shoulder, abandoned it to dash toward the sandy shore. Others, on the shortcut, made desperate haste with their loads.