by Dave Duncan
Raider seemed perfectly relaxed, enjoying
the conversation. Wasp now understood his friend's interest
in politics, and Ambrose was listening intently.
"His hand was forced in Tenthmoon of that same
year, when the Chivian ambassador presented
an ultimatum. On pain of war, he demanded that
the Lady Charlotte be returned immediately and her
abductor handed over for trial in Chivial. You
will forgive my mentioning, sire, that in Baelmark
everyone assumed that the trial would be brief and the
execution leisurely. It seemed an
excessive response to an amusing caper, but
since the alleged pirate was the most powerful earl
in the country, Ufegeat had no choice but
to summon the witenagemot. My father took Mother
with him to Nor`eddael, which was Ufegeat's city on
Wambseoc and the then capital of Baelmark.
She took me, although not from choice, I
suspect."
Wasp's expanding grin shrank rapidly when the
King noticed it.
"Boy, that caper you are talking about cost the
lives of five Blades and some men-at-arms."
"I am aware of that, sire," Raider said
somberly. "I have heard their deaths described in
the Litany. If you will pardon a momentary
digression, what is not known in
Ironhall is that the other side lost
twenty-five men in that fight, all of them slain
by Blades. This was repeatedly charged against my father
in the debate. Perhaps Commander Montpurse could have
that fact added to the record."
"I will see to it myself," the King growled. "The
Commander will repeat nothing he hears in this room."
Neither, Wasp suspected, would Wasp.
"Thank you, sire," Raider said. "As for
Gerard of Waygarth, I recall hearing my mother
speak of him. I think she eventually repented of
her anger and decided that he had acted from nobler
motives than she had at first believed, but I
never did hear what happened to him."
No one questioned a monarch, and that comment darkened the
royal countenance. "I really cannot recall at the
moment." The King's show of indifference was very
unconvincing. "Do you remember, Commander?"
"Before my time, sire," Montpurse said.
"According to Guard tradition, he died while
resisting arrest. Bled to death from a large number
of wounds, I believe."
The threat might be moonshine, but it made
Wasp shrink a little deeper into the corner of the
settle. Raider hastily resumed his story.
"Four earls found excuses to stay away and
send their tanists. The ambassador presented his
demands, the wise men mumbled cautions, the young
firebrands thundered. My father made a masterly
speech. With his life at stake, he somehow
managed to convert the debate into a challenge and then
won by the narrowest possible margin, eleven to ten.
King Ufegeat was still throne-worthy, a man of
strength, and he chose to fight rather than yield. The
scops still sang even in my day of their battle.
Father never claimed it was an easy victory, but
in the end he managed to bring Ufegeat down. He
spared his life, which was condemned as a piece of
foolhardy sentimentality.
"Had my father lost either the vote or the duel,
he would certainly have died. He maintained--and I
do not think he was entirely joking--that it was I who
made the difference. I had been conceived in the
dragon ship, on the voyage home from
Chivial, and by the time of the witenagemot my mother's
condition was known. Visible to the women, not the men,
he would say; but it was common knowledge, and he drew
attention to it in his speech. If the witan chose
to knuckle under to the Chivians' demands, they would
be handing over an innocent, unborn
Cattering to hereditary foes. How could Baels
ever descend to such shame? I suspect the earls
were more worried about an outbreak of civil war than
about me, but perhaps I made a difference. If I
carried even one vote, I changed history, because
of course the new king's first act was to make the
Chivian ambassador eat his ultimatum in
public, seal and all. Trade between our two
nations ended and random piracy became all-out
war."
To the Baels, it was always Prince
Ambrose's War. They believed he had fanned
the indignation in the Chivian Parliament and
bullied his ailing father into launching a conflict he
had been resisting ever since he came to the throne.
Ironically, King Taisson's health soon
rallied and he reigned for almost a dozen years
more. Long before he died, the Chivians were cursing
him for what they called Taisson's War.
There was never any serious prospect of the
Crown Prince being allowed to see action, so the
fleet he had promised Aeled he would bring
sailed without him. It raised the peaks of
Baelmark on the first day of Fourthmoon 338,
and that night it was blown onto the reefs called
Cweornstanas, the Millstones. Only a tenth
of the men aboard ever made it home to Chivial.
The rest drowned or went to the slave markets.
From then on Baelmark had no fear of invasion and
Chivial was fighting a defensive war.
News of the disaster--or good fortune, depending
on point of view--was proclaimed in
Waro`edburh on the very day Queen Charlotte
gave birth to Atheling Radgar. Her labor was
hard and he was never to have any brothers or sisters,
but the babe was healthy and the mother survived. The omen
of the timing was widely noted and Baelmark rejoiced
that her King had an heir to continue the line of
Catter.
Like many thegn-born, Radgar grew up speaking
Baelish to his father and another language to his
mother without realizing that there was anything unusual about
that arrangement. His mother was beautiful, and his father
wore a sword--little else mattered.
His first world was his parents' favorite country
home at Hatburna, a sheltered glen
on the southern slopes of Cwicnoll, and
especially their private cabin, which stood a little
farther up the valley than the main buildings and which
his father forbade anyone else ever to approach. It
was no larger than a ceorl's hut, a single
room with a stair up to a sleeping loft. The
boy's earliest memories were a composite of many
late, gloomy dawns with rain beating on the roof
louder even than the distant drone of the waterfall
and his parents' voices drifting down, while he
lay snug in bed wondering whether it was safe
to climb out into the chill air and totter upstairs
on his short legs. If all went well they would
pull him in between them and all three would cuddle
together for a long time, for life ran slow in a
Bael
ish winter. Rarely he would be sent away
again. If they were talking, the decision rested on his
mother's voice, which might be happy or angry, for
his father's was always the same deep, reassuring
rumble. If they were playing tickling games, as was
frequently the case, he could be certain of a warm
welcome if he waited until they had finished.
Even when living in Waro`edburh, in the royal
quarters on the north side of Cynehof, King,
Queen, and atheling slept in close proximity.
Mother had an adjacent cabin where she entertained
friends and where her maids lived; Father had one on the
other side where he held private meetings.
Uncle Cynewulf, the tanist, lived in the
largest with Cousin Wulfwer and a varying succession
of women, and others nearby were occupied
by Chancellor Ceolmund, Marshal Leofric, and
numerous house thegns. Leofric's son Aylwin
was Radgar's age and became his best friend as soon
as they were old enough to admit friends into the scheme of
things.
In summer he ran wild, growing brown as
old leather, and every summer his world expanded. At
three he had a pony. At six he was sailing
boats with Aylwin and a dozen others, all
amphibious as frogs. About then he began
to realize that he was different: he was royally
born. They were sons of thegns, coerls,
loetu, or thralls, but he was an atheling. The
only difference that made, his father explained
frequently, was that he must be the best at everything.
This he staunchly believed and not infrequently
achieved. Around then, too, he began recording
distinct incidents, single events that would remain with
him when he left his childhood behind.
There was the time he fell off a cliff and
broke both legs so badly that they took a
week to heal, even with the best enchantment.
There was the time he almost killed Aylwin, although
Aylwin outweighed him handily. He was not
to recall what had caused the fight nor even the
fight itself, but he remembered his father's terrifying
anger. "You are an atheling!" the King said. "You
must learn to control that temper of yours. You cannot
even save it for battle as other men may, because you
will be a leader and leaders must be able to think clearly
at all times." Radgar never forgot the beating that
followed--not the pain, but his father's tears when it was
over, when they embraced and wept together.
"Promise me, son, that you will never make me do
that again!"
He did, though. Older boys who tried
to pick on the King's son discovered that they had
roused a dragon. On three separate occasions
his opponents had to be taken to the elementary for
healing and one lost an eye in spite of it.
Eventually the unwisdom of provoking him became
known, and his father realized that beatings were not going
to solve the problem.
There was the time he and Aylwin took a
sailboat out through Leaxmu`ed and back in through
Eastweg in a nor'wester. They had just turned
eight. Their hysterical mothers insisted they be
punished for that stupidity and so they were, if a
few halfhearted slaps on the butt could be
counted as punishment. Somebody told
Sigebeorht the scop the story, and that night in
Cynehof he sang it to the fyrd as if it were an
exploit of legendary heroes. The thegns put the
pair of them up on a table and cheered and pounded the
boards as if they had just come back from a great
foering with half the wealth of Chivial. That was
worth all the beatings in the whole world. Mother was not
amused. Father got very drunk.
Then there was the first time he met Healfwer.
It began when Aylwin outgrew his pony and was
given a horse. Radgar complained to the highest
authority about the unfairness of this. Obviously
an atheling should be better mounted than his thegn, although
by then he knew enough not to put his grievance in those
terms. He just said, "Father, I need a horse."
King Aeled did not even look up from
the dispatch he was studying. "You can have a horse when
you can read."
Radgar withdrew to consider the terms. They
seemed irrational--what had reading to do with
horses? On the other hand, there was no trap
involved that he could see. Anyone could learn
to read; he had just never tried, that was all. He
found his mother writing letters. Despite the war, she
still corresponded with friends in Chivial, sending the
mail through Gevily.
He said, "Mother, teach me to read ... er ...
please."
"Yes, dear. Bring me a book."
She was not surprised? That made him
suspicious, but he brought a book. Soon she
was surprised. For three days he gave her no
peace at all, and in the end she squeezed him in
a big hug and said, "You are a wonderfully
clever boy. Go and show your father."
He marched into Cynehof, where the King and
Uncle Cynewulf and Chancellor Ceolmund
were conferring with the Gevilian ambassadors. He
went to the high table where the men sat, deep in
conversation. He waited.
After a few moments his father frowned at him and
said, "What do you want?"
"A horse."
The King passed him a sheet of paper. He
read the first paragraph aloud, slowly but without a
mistake. The King took it back.
"Which horse?"
"Cwealm."
"He'll kill you!"
This reply opened dazzling prospects, because
Radgar had been so certain of outright refusal that
he had a list of six backup choices ready.
"You asked me!"
"I should know better by now. Show me you can
manage Steorleas and you can have Cwealm."
Steorleas had been his third choice. Radgar
yelped, "Yea, lord!" and sprinted for the door,
wondering why the men were suddenly laughing.
He showed that Steorleas, despite his name, could
be steered. Again he demanded Cwealm, this time as a
matter of right. To his astonishment--and his mother's
horror--Father consented. To everyone's astonishment
and relief, Cwealm also failed to live up
to his name, in as much as he did not murder
Radgar, or at least he had not done so
by the end of the first week when he and Aylwin went
riding up into the hills. He was considerably
bruised, but alive. Undoubtedly his string of
successes had made him overconfident and he was
looking for another challenge.
As they climbed, distant peaks came into view
--Seolforclif, Hatstan, and Fyrndagum--and
also other major islands, Hunigsuge,
@thaerymbe, and Wambseoc. The land grew ever
more rocky. When at last they reined in, they had
reached Baelstede, a bare shoulder of mountain where
>
men had kept watch for invaders in the days long
past. Ruins of their shacks stood there still, but one
glance showed that there was nothing there worth exploring.
Aylwin was pointing. "Eastweg!"
Some of the glints of open water in the maze of
islets below certainly represented parts of the
channel, although there was room for argument as to which.
Ten-year-olds could not resist exploring any
room for argument, but before the discussion could become
heated they became chilled.
"We'd better move the horses," Aylwin
said.
"Yes."
They turned to study the prospect they had been
ignoring. The ground was a rubble of sharp black
clinker, falling away sheer on two sides and
rising vertically on another, but there was a defile
in that cliff. They could go back down the trail
they had just come up, or they could go into that defile--
they had no other choice. The gap, which was visible
from the town far below, was called Weargahlaew and it
was one of very few places in the whole shire
forbidden to them. There was no room for argument on
this--Weargahlaew was off limits. Even a few
months ago, that would have been the end of the matter, but
there comes a time when a boy realizes that some
restrictions apply only to small boys and he
has outgrown them.
The wind wailed through the cut, a sound to make a
scalp prickle; but the more Radgar stared at the
gap and the very faint track leading to it, the more he
managed to convince himself that he had gone there once,
maybe more than once, a long time ago. He
realized that Weargahlaew was why he had come.
"Let's go and look."
Aylwin had been waiting for this. "They'll
take Cwealm from you!"
"Why? There aren't any wolves near here."
"Then why is it called that?" Aylwin
said ominously.
Hloew could mean "cave" or "grave."
Wearga meant either "of the wolves" or "of the
outlaws"--intriguingly vague. It was true that
there were scary stories of Chivian outlaws
lurking in the hills, either prisoners who had
escaped before they could be enthralled or castaways
still at large since the Great Wreck in the year
Radgar was born. It was also true that rank
disobedience like this might lose him Cwealm and the sun
was not far from setting, but when Aylwin put the
matter in terms of danger he was left with no