by DAVID B. COE
They had been in the king’s tower since midday, as far from the city marketplace as they could be. The lone window in the duke’s private chamber looked out over Amon’s Ocean and its rocky coastline, and Filib could hear breakers pounding endlessly at the base of the dark cliffs. Gulls called raucously as they wheeled above the ramparts of the castle, and the sea wind keened in the stone like Bian’s spirits.
Yet, with all this, and with his uncle droning on yet again about the proper method for keeping account of the thanes’ fee payments, Filib could still hear music coming from the city. He toyed absently with the gold signet ring on his right hand, wondering where Renelle was at that moment. In the city, no doubt, enjoying the Revel with everyone else.
“Filib!”
The young lord looked up. His uncle sat across from him at the broad oak table, anger in his grey eyes, his mouth set in a thin line.
“Yes, Uncle?”
“You could at least do me the courtesy of pretending to listen. This may not be as fascinating as whatever you’re dreaming about, but I’m sure it’s every bit as important.”
Filib grinned. “Important, yes. But as I’ve told you, it’s not necessary.”
The duke frowned, gesturing at the scrolls before him. “This method—”
“Is not mine, Uncle,” Filib broke in. “I know that you like it. I know that you feel my method isn’t as orderly or as clear as yours. But it works for me. If you really intend to give me control of the fee accounting, you’re going to have to let me do it my way.”
“This isn’t just my method, Filib,” Tobbar said, his voice softening. “It was your father’s as well. And the king’s before him. Dukes of Thorald have been accounting this way since before the Queen’s War. Do you really think it’s your place to abandon the practice?”
Filib closed his eyes. His father. How was he supposed to argue with that?
“All right,” he said, opening his eyes again and passing a hand through his hair in a gesture his mother would have recognized. “But can we do this later? Please? The Revel—”
“The Revel?” Tobbar repeated, sounding cross again. He gestured impatiently at the door, as if the musicians, sorcerers, tumblers, and peddlers who traveled with Bohdan’s Revel stood outside the chamber. “You’re nearly two years past your Fating, Filib. You should know by now that dukes and lords don’t have time for the Revel. We’ve more important things to do. Besides, the Revel will be here for another five or six days. You’ll have plenty of time for all that later, after we’re done.” He picked up one of the scrolls again and began to study it. “The Revel,” he muttered once more, shaking his head. “Do you think your father would have been more interested in what’s going on in the city than in the thanes’ fees?”
Filib had been expecting this. “Actually, yes.”
Tobbar looked up again. Filib could see that he was fighting to keep the grin from his face.
His uncle sighed, then smiled. “You’re probably right.”
“I’m not sure I see the point of giving me control of the accounting anyway,” Filib said. “I’ll be king before long. And then it will fall back to you. Why bother with all this?”
“Maybe I want a respite from it,” the duke said. “As you say, this will be mine to do for the rest of my life. I’d like someone else to do it, even for just a short while. And I don’t want that person ruining my scrolls with poor work. Besides,” he went on after a brief pause, “as I’ve told you before, kings have accounting to do as well. Where do you think our tithe goes every fourth turn?”
“A king has ministers to do this. Certainly Grandfather does.”
Tobbar shook his head. “Only recently. When he was younger he did it all himself.”
Filib let out a long breath. “Fine, you win. I promise to learn your method. But not today. Not until the Revel leaves for Eardley. Please.”
The duke put the scroll down and leaned back in his chair, a grin on his face, much as Filib’s father might have done. “It is good this year, isn’t it?”
“The best I can remember,” Filib said, grinning as well. “It seems a shame to miss any of it.” He sensed his uncle’s hesitation and he pressed his advantage. “The fee accounting will still be here long after the Revel is gone.”
“True,” Tobbar said, the smile lingering. “I suppose that girl of yours is down there as well?”
Filib felt something tighten in his chest. He had no doubt that she was still angry with him about last night. It had been the Night of Two Moons in Adriel’s Turn. Lovers’ Night. They should have been together, she would tell him. Of all the nights of the year, this was theirs. That’s what she would say, her dark eyes flashing, or worse, brimming with tears. As if he didn’t know. As if he had any choice in the matter. She knew the limits of what they shared, he’d have to tell her. Again. She knew that certain things lay beyond his control, that this was one of them. But still, she’d be angry and hurt. Who could blame her?
“Yes,” he said, trying to keep his tone light. “She’s probably there.”
“You’ve grown quite fond of her, haven’t you?”
Filib shrugged, looked away. “I care about her. Shouldn’t I?”
“Of course you should. As long as you remember who she is, and who you are.”
Filib kept his eyes trained on the window, but he nodded.
“What you said earlier about becoming king soon is true, Filib. I expect your grandfather to abdicate within the year. It’s time you started thinking about a wife and heirs. We’ve been lucky. The king’s long life has ensured the continuation of Thorald control of the crown, despite your father’s death. It’s time now that you did your part.”
“Has Mother put you up to this, Uncle?” Filib asked, meeting Tobbar’s gaze.
His uncle gave a small smile. “Not directly, no. But she has mentioned her concerns to me. She fears you’ve grown too attached to the girl.”
“Her name is Renelle.”
Tobbar’s expression hardened. “Comments like that concern me as well. Her name isn’t important. In the larger scheme of things, neither is she. If you wish to keep her as a mistress, I’m sure that can be arranged. But I don’t want you—”
He stopped suddenly, a stricken expression on his ruddy face. “Last night!” he breathed. “You didn’t …”
Filib looked to the window again. “No,” he said, his voice thick. “We didn’t.”
His uncle let out a sigh. “Good. That would have been a terrible mistake, Filib. You need to be building ties to the other houses right now. And what better way to do so than with a good match.”
“I know all this, Uncle!” Filib said, his voice rising. “I don’t need to hear it again from you!”
Tobbar fell silent. Filib looked away once more, but he could feel his uncle’s eyes upon him.
“I’m not even sure the legend applies in this case,” the young lord said after a lengthy silence. “It says only that a love consummated on the Night of Two Moons in Adriel’s Turn will last forever. My …” He swallowed. “My affair with Renelle was consummated long ago. Last night probably wouldn’t have mattered.”
“Perhaps not,” Tobbar said softly. “But you were right not to take the chance.”
Filib nodded again. A lone gull glided past the window, its cries echoing off the castle walls. Tonight, he promised himself. I’ll be with her tonight. After I ride.
The two of them sat without speaking for some time, Filib staring out the window, the duke, no doubt, watching him. His uncle deserved better than his tantrums. In the five years—five years!—since the death of Filib’s father, Tobbar had done everything in his power to prepare Filib for the throne. Where a lesser man might have allowed jealousy and resentment to keep him from such duties, Tobbar had embraced them. In Aneira, Caerisse, and every other kingdom in the Forelands, Filib knew, a man in Tobbar’s position would have been next in line for the throne, with his heirs inheriting the crown after him. Only in Eibithar, with i
ts ancient Rules of Ascension, did the line of succession pass over the younger brother in favor of the eldest son of the deceased king. The rules had been established by the leaders of Eibithar’s twelve houses after the death of King Ouray the Second, the last of the early Thorald kings. By creating a peaceful process for sharing royal power among Eibithar’s five major houses, the dukes sought to give the land some stability, while preventing one house from establishing an absolute dynasty.
Under the Rules of Ascension, only the king’s eldest son or eldest grandson, if he had come of age, could inherit the throne. If the king had no heir, power passed to the duke of the highest-ranking house not in power. Thorald had always ranked highest of all the houses, for it was the house of Binthar, Eibithar’s first great leader. After Thorald came Galdasten, Curgh, Kentigern, and Glyndwr. Thus, if Filib’s grandfather, Aylyn the Second, had died in the interim between the death of Filib’s father and Filib’s Fating, the duke of Galdasten would have taken the crown. Or rather, the duke of Curgh, Filib realized, remembering with a shudder the dreadful incident at Galdasten that killed the duke and his family several years before.
Because Thorald was the preeminent house in Eibithar, and because power always reverted to the highest-ranking house, Filib’s house had held the throne for more years than any other. Filib’s father would have been pleased to know that his death would not keep Filib from taking his place in Thorald’s pantheon of kings.
A knock on the duke’s door broke a lengthy silence. Tobbar and Filib exchanged a look; then the older man called for whoever had come to enter.
The door opened and Enid ja Kovar, the duke’s first minister, stepped into the chamber.
“Sire,” the Qirsi woman said as she entered. “I was just—” Seeing the younger man, she stopped. “Lord Filib, I didn’t know you were here. Forgive me for interrupting.”
“It’s all right, Enid,” Tobbar said. He glanced at his nephew. “I think we’re done.”
Filib stood. “Thank you, Uncle.”
“I’m going to hold you to that promise, though. When the Revel leaves, you’re going to learn the old method.”
“You have my word,” Filib said, grinning.
“You’re off to the Revel, my lord?” the first minister asked, her yellow eyes reflecting the light from the window. Like all the men and women of the sorcerer race, she had white hair and skin so pale that it was almost translucent. Enid wore her hair pulled back from her face, making her appear even more frail than most Qirsi. Filib sometimes found it hard to remember that she wielded such powerful magic. Yet just two years before, when a late-night fire threatened to sweep through the center of the walled city below the castle, he had seen this wisp of a woman raise a dense mist that dampened the flames, and a stiff wind that blew against the prevailing natural gale to keep the fire from spreading. Without her magic the townsfolk might not have been able to put the fire out before it claimed the entire city.
“Yes,” Filib told her. “I’m heading to the Revel now. Have you been?”
She gave an indulgent smile, as if he were still a child. “I find the Revel … tiresome. However, I will be at the banquet tonight. I trust I’ll see you there?”
The banquet. He had forgotten. He had no choice really; he had to be there. He was hosting it, along with his mother and Tobbar. But how would he explain this to Renelle? She’d be there as well, though not at his table, of course, and she’d expect to be with him after. But he needed to ride. It was going to be a very late night.
His uncle was watching him closely, awaiting his reply to Enid’s question.
He made himself smile. “Yes, of course I’ll be there.”
Tobbar continued to stare at him, as if expecting him to say more.
“I give you my word, Uncle,” Filib told him. “I’ll be there.”
Still, his uncle did not look satisfied. “Then why are you behaving as though it’s the last place you intended to be? Is this about that—?” He stopped himself. “Is this about Renelle again?”
“No, it’s not.” He exhaled heavily. “I had planned to ride tonight,” he said at last. “That’s all. It’s not important. I’ll just do it after the banquet.”
Tobbar paled. “I’m sorry, Filib. My memory is not what it once was.”
“I’m afraid I’m a bit lost,” Enid said, looking from Filib to the duke.
“My father was killed during a hunt the night of Panya’s full,” Filib said. Just speaking the words made him shiver. He still remembered being awakened by the tolling of the guardhouse bells and hearing his mother wailing in the next chamber.
“Forgive me,” the Qirsi woman said. “I hadn’t come to Thorald yet. But it was my understanding that this happened in Kebb’s Turn.”
Filib nodded, playing with the ring again. “It did. But each turn, on this night, I honor my father by riding to the place of his death. And on this night in Kebb’s Turn, after leading the hunt as he once did, I remain there until dawn.”
“It seems a fine way to remember him, my lord,” Enid said.
“Thank you.”
“I’ll see to it that the final course is served early enough, Filib,” his uncle said. “I should have remembered. Forgive me.”
“There’s nothing to forgive,” Filib said with a shrug. “Mother says I’m foolish to do this more than once a year.” He smiled. “Actually she called it unhealthful. But I’ll have to stop anyway once I leave for Audun’s Castle, so I feel that I should continue until then.”
“Each of us honors your father in his or her own way,” Tobbar told him. “Including your mother. I see nothing wrong with your rides, and I’ll tell her as much the next time I speak with her.”
“Thank you.”
“Be watchful tonight, though,” he went on. “For all that the Revel gives us, it also attracts more than its share of knaves and vagrants. I’d feel better if you’d take one of your liege men.”
“I’ll be fine, Uncle. I ride every turn, and I always do so alone.”
“Very well,” Tobbar said, shaking his head slightly.
Filib glanced toward the window. The sunlight on the castle walls had taken on the rich golden hue of late day. He barely had time to find Renelle before he’d be expected back at the castle for the banquet.
“Go on, Filib,” the duke said. “We’ll see you soon.”
He was walking toward the door almost before Tobbar had finished speaking. He stopped himself long enough to bow to his uncle and nod once to the Qirsi woman. Then he hurried out of the chamber, down the winding stone steps of the tower, and out into the daylight. With any luck at all, he’d find Renelle in the markets. He could only hope that in her happiness at seeing him she’d forget her anger.
The singer beside him was nearing the end of the first movement, her voice climbing smoothly through the closing notes of “Panya’s Devotion,” finding subtleties in the piece that most singers missed. This was a difficult passage, although no part of The Paean to the Moons could be considered easy, and she was handling it quite well.
Cadel couldn’t remember her name, though they had been practicing together since the second day of the Revel. It was not unusual for wandering singers in the Forelands to meet up with others of their craft, practice and perform with them for a short while, and then, after a most careful division of their wages, part ways to continue their travels. It was especially common in the cities hosting Eibithar’s Revel. Cadel and Jedrek had been making their way through the Forelands in this manner for nearly fourteen years; they had sung with more people than Cadel could recall.
He had never been very good with names, a trait that actually was quite useful in his other, true profession. But in this case, he would have liked to remember, merely as a courtesy. She had not been shy about showing her interest in him, allowing her gaze to linger on his face, even after he caught her watching him, and standing closer to him than was necessary when they sang. He liked bold women. Had he and Jedrek not had other business to
which to attend, he might have been interested as well. She was rather attractive, with short dark hair, pale green eyes, and a round, pretty face, and she was just a bit heavy, which he also liked. But most of all, she was a fine singer, her voice strong and supple. For that reason alone, he felt that he should have known her name. Her interpretation of “Panya’s Devotion” had earned his respect.
Jedrek and the woman’s sister, whose name Cadel had also forgotten, were backing her with a strong, even counterpoint, their voices twined like lovers. The two of them had spent the previous night together, Cadel knew, and it showed in their singing. Jedrek gave little credence to the moon legends, although he wasn’t above using the promise of a lifetime of love to lure a woman into his bed. He had been doing it for several years. Nonetheless, it still angered Cadel to see him behaving so recklessly under these circumstances. He hadn’t gotten the chance to talk to Jedrek about it this morning—Jedrek and the woman had arrived only a few moments before their performance began—but he would as soon as they ended their performance.
The first woman—what was her name?—had reached the end of “Panya’s Devotion.” The counterpoint was to complete its cycle once, and then it was Cadel’s turn. He took a long, slow breath, readying himself. The opening of “Ilias’s Lament” was by far the most difficult part of the Paean’s second movement. It began at the very top of Cadel’s range and remained there for several verses before falling briefly during the middle passages. It rose again at its end, but by then his voice would be ready. The opening, that was the challenge.
The counterpoint completed its turn. Cadel opened his mouth, and keeping his throat as relaxed as possible, he reached for the opening note. And found it. Perfectly. His voice soared, like a falcon on a clear day, and he gave himself over to the music, allowing the bittersweet melody and the tragic tale imparted by the lyrics to carry him through the movement.
Those who knew him—or thought they did—solely through his profession would have been surprised to see what music did to him. At times, he was surprised by it himself. How many times had he finished a passage of surpassing emotion, only to find that his cheeks were damp with tears? Yes, there was a precision to the art that excited him, just the way the precision demanded by his other craft did. But there was more. Music had the power to soothe him, even as it exhilarated. It offered him both release and fulfillment. In many ways, it was not unlike the act of love.