His first concern was to make certain that the reporters had no idea of the truth. This done, he had little care for any other news and he threw the paper aside. He sat gazing out at the green hills and denuded trees, black lace against a cloudless steely blue autumnal sky, and waited in dread for news.
The day before the queen had fallen ill, Mary had sent Henry a message saying she had made her decision about the succession and asked him to come to the palace the following day to discuss it. That night, she had lapsed into unconsciousness and she had been too ill to speak to him ever since. He fully expected her to name Elinor as his future queen. He had already written his letter of resignation.
Henry was genuinely grieved to think of his world without Mary. He had known her for many years and he would miss having her berate him, cajole him, exasperate and confound him. She was far more than his queen. She was a dearly loved friend and he had no idea what he would do with himself when she was gone.
Henry picked up his teacup, absently took a drink, only to discover he had let it grow cold. He grimaced and was about to ring for hot water when Dr. Broughton entered the room. The physician was gray with fatigue, for he had slept very little.
“Good morning, my lord.” Dr. Broughton looked about vaguely. “If it is morning. I am not certain. I have lost track of time.”
“I will ring for more tea,” said Henry. “How is Her Majesty?”
Dr. Broughton gave a weary smile. “The crisis is past. The problem is with her heart, not the tumor. Her Majesty is weak, but she is conscious and resting comfortably.”
“Thank God! When will you allow me to speak to her?” Henry asked.
“You may do so now, although against my better judgment,” said the doctor. “I advised rest and quiet, but, of course, Her Majesty refuses to listen to me. Do not stay long, my lord, and try not to antagonize her.”
“I will do my best,” said Henry with a faint smile.
“I must warn you to prepare yourself, my lord. Her Majesty survived this attack. She will not survive the next. The malignancy is spreading.”
Henry did not trust himself to speak. He gave a brief nod and departed.
An old servant ushered Henry into the queen’s bedchamber. The curtains had been drawn and the windows closed, leaving the room dark and hushed and stuffy, smelling of sickness and some herbal remedy Sister Hope had concocted.
Queen Mary lay at ease in the enormous four-poster bed, propped up among a mountain of pillows. Sister Hope stood beside the queen, taking her pulse.
Mary was exceedingly pale. She seemed to Henry to have aged years. Her plump cheeks sagged, and her eyes were bruised and sunken. She still retained her indomitable spirit, however. Always a proud woman, she had taken time to prepare herself to receive visitors. She wore a lacy cap over her braided gray hair and a brightly colored silk dressing gown, with a woolen shawl around her shoulders.
She was fondly watching the monkey Jo-Jo gambol about the bed, performing his one trick, which was a little bobbing bow, in return for grapes. Sister Hope had ordered the servants to bring the monkey to the queen’s bedside, saying that animal energies had healing benefits. Henry doubted this was true, but, seeing the queen smile at the monkey’s antics, he could almost admit to liking the annoying little creature.
His moment of tender feeling did not last long.
Jo-Jo caught sight of Henry, gave a shrill shriek, and scrambled up the bed curtains. The monkey crouched on top of one of the bedposts, chittering at Henry and refusing Sister Hope’s attempts to persuade him to come down.
The queen laughed, but her laughter ended in a gasping cough. Sister Hope gave her a drink of a posset and Mary breathed easier. She lay back among the pillows.
Henry advanced quietly, walking with slow and measured tread so as not to disturb her.
“For mercy’s sake, Henry, step a bit livelier,” Mary ordered peevishly. “You are not following our casket to the graveyard. Not yet, at any rate.”
She coughed again and motioned for Sister Hope to give her a drink of the posset and to help her sit up.
“You may leave now, Sister,” said Mary. “We need to speak to Sir Henry in private.”
Sister Hope flashed a cautionary look at Henry as she passed him. “No more than ten minutes, my lord.”
“Shut the door, Henry,” said Mary.
Henry did so and returned to her side, trying to ignore Jo-Jo, who was jumping up and down on top of the bedpost and screeching.
“Now open that window,” said Mary. “We need sunlight and fresh air.”
“Your Majesty, I don’t think that would be wise—”
“Do as you are told, Henry,” Mary said, wagging her finger at him. “And while you are at it, dump out that green mess that is stinking up the room.”
Henry drew aside the curtains and opened the window a crack, letting in the crisp, cool air. He did not empty the pot of steaming herbs, not choosing to brave the wrath of Sister Hope, but he did remove it to a far corner of the bedchamber.
Mary called to Jo-Jo and bribed him with grapes to come down from the bedpost. The monkey regarded Henry with intense dislike and Henry returned the favor.
“We trust you would like us to have him removed,” said Mary with a smile.
“If Your Majesty would be so kind,” said Henry.
The queen rang for the old servant, who took Jo-Jo away, still screeching imprecations at Henry. Mary propped herself up among the pillows, waving away offers of assistance. She pointed to a chair by her bedside.
“Sit down, Henry. We have much to discuss.”
As Henry drew up the chair, he saw Mary grimace, suck in a sharp breath, and clench her fists.
“Should I summon the doctor?” Henry asked anxiously.
Mary shook her head. He stood at her bedside, feeling helpless, his heart wrung with grief to see her suffering. The spasm eased. The queen gave a shivering sigh.
Henry took his seat by her bedside. “The sister can give you something for the pain, ma’am.”
“Laudanum,” said Mary, grimacing. “Muddles the wits and we need a clear head. We need to discuss the matter of our heir.”
“This can wait until you are stronger, ma’am,” said Henry. “The doctor assures me that you are going to make a full recovery—”
“Pish-tosh, Henry! For a spymaster, you are a dreadful liar!” Mary snorted. “Be quiet and listen. We have made our decision regarding our heir. Our attorneys have drawn up the paperwork so that all is legal. Hand me that dispatch pouch.”
Henry did as she ordered, handing over the leather pouch. Mary opened it, drew out a letter, and gave it to Henry. The letter was sealed shut with the royal seal. The outside bore his name and the words “To Be Opened After My Death,” along with the queen’s signature. Henry turned the letter over in his hands.
“Are you going to tell me your decision, ma’am?” he asked quietly.
“No, we are not,” said Mary, fixing him with a stern eye. “We have a few matters left to resolve. We can always change our minds. We just wanted you to know in case this damn malignancy carries us off before we are ready.”
“I accept your desire to keep the matter confidential, ma’am,” said Henry, choosing his words carefully, “although I venture to suggest that my knowing in advance would be extremely helpful in making the requisite arrangements—”
“Why would you need to do that, Henry?” Mary asked with a glint of mischief in her eyes. “According to you, we will be making a full recovery.”
Henry was silent, pressed his lips together.
“Now don’t sulk, Henry,” said Mary, giving his hand a playful slap. She then clasped her hand over his. “You have served us well and faithfully for many years, dear friend. We could not have asked for a more loyal and devoted servant.”
Henry swallowed, unable to speak, and muttered something about the damn herbs clogging his windpipe.
“We ask you…” Mary paused, then amended her words. “I ask
you as a friend, Henry. Be the same devoted servant to your new monarch.”
Henry recalled his own letter lying in his desk drawer. “In truth, I was thinking of retiring from public service, Your Majesty. I am no longer a young man. Lady Ann complains that I am never home. I must oversee young Henry’s schooling…”
“Do this for me, Henry,” Mary said softly. Her voice was ragged with fatigue, pinched with pain, yet her grip on him was firm. She sat up straight, drew near him. “Or, if not for me, then do this for your country. You have devoted your life to Freya, Henry. Do not abandon her when she will need you most.”
Henry thought of Elinor. He clasped the letter and gave a bleak sigh. “Very well, ma’am.”
“Give me your word, Henry,” Mary urged, pressing him. “I know you and I know that once you give your word, you will not break it.”
“I give you my word, ma’am,” said Henry.
He brought her hand to his lips, then gently rested her hand down upon the silken coverlet.
“Thank you, Henry,” said Mary, sinking back among the pillows. “The doctor assures us we will be fit to travel within a week’s time. Make the arrangements for our journey and then go home to Lady Ann and the children. We will send for you if we have need.”
Mary closed her eyes, her strength exhausted. “Close the window. There is a decided draught. And send for Sister Hope.”
Henry did as she asked, closing the window and drawing the curtains to darken the room. The queen appeared to sleep. Henry paused by the door to take out his handkerchief, wipe his nose and try to compose himself.
“You have my word, Your Majesty,” he repeated.
FORTY-SEVEN
Franklin spoke to his superior, Captain Martin, about Kate’s idea to move the green beam weapon outside the cavern so that the magical constructs on the walls did not interfere with the contramagic on the gun.
“We might as well go ahead and haul the weapon to the ship,” Franklin added. “We have to do that anyway.”
Martin agreed. Soldiers loaded the weapon into a wagon and drove it to the black ship, which was tethered to the dock. Kate at last found out what was contained in those two large crates: the crystal discs that were apparently the ammunition and spare parts for the green beam weapons. The gun was to be mounted on a carriage affixed to a rotating platform on the forecastle. The rotating platform allowed for a wide field of fire.
Franklin oversaw the work. The gun was heavy and awkward to lift, and mounting it on the carriage proved difficult, for neither he nor any of the sailors knew how the gun had been fitted into the carriage. The Bottom Dwellers had little knowledge of the weapon; most had been too young during the war to have served on board the black ships.
The Freyan sailors had been forced to guess how it was to be mounted. Judging by their dark looks and mutterings, they were not much happier than Kate about working with the heinous weapon. They did as they were ordered, however, not wanting to risk a flogging or the threat of being left behind.
While Kate worked, she kept a hopeful watch on the sky for Dalgren, and a nervous watch around camp for Trubgek. She did not see either one, but she had the uneasy impression Trubgek was lurking somewhere, watching her. She eventually grew weary of searching the shadows, and tried to forget about him. She had other worries.
The crew had reached an impasse trying to attach the weapon to the rotating platform. Franklin talked about returning the gun to the cave. Kate couldn’t allow that to happen. But the gun seemed to crouch on the platform like some evil beast, mocking her by stubbornly refusing to lock into place.
“Swearing at it won’t help,” Franklin told Kate impatiently. “Neither does standing around staring at it.”
“‘When all else fails, hit it with a hammer,’” said Kate, quoting one of Olaf’s favorite sayings.
She did not have a hammer, but the blunt edge of an axe proved a convenient substitute. Before Franklin could stop her, she grabbed the axe and gave the gun truck a whack. The weapon dropped into place.
Franklin shook his head over her methods, but he was pleased to report to the captain that the gun had been successfully mounted on the foredeck. Martin ordered him to test it, see if it worked.
“The captain wants us to test it,” Franklin told Kate the next day.
“Are you sure that is wise, sir?” Kate asked nervously. “We don’t want to set the woods ablaze.”
“The firing mechanism should work without using ammunition,” he replied, referring to the brass and crystal discs.
“What is the firing mechanism?” asked Kate.
Franklin indicated a complicated construct, an elaborate knotwork of magic enscribed on the barrel near the breech.
“According to Huston, this construct should glow when the weapon is charged and ready to fire,” he said. “As you can see, it remains dark.”
Kate studied the magic on the gun and shook her head. “The constructs covering the weapon are all breaking down. You can see the fading constructs on the crystal rods and here on the brass muzzle. Huston used the seventh sigil, but it’s not working. I can’t figure out why.”
“You had better,” said Franklin grimly. “Captain Martin does not tolerate failure.”
Franklin had to return to his other duties, but he assigned a corporal named Jennings to assist her.
“The corporal is a channeler. He says he might be able to help,” Franklin told her.
“Do you know anything about the seventh sigil, sir?” Kate asked Jennings.
He shook his head.
“Then you won’t be of much use,” Kate said, but she said it beneath her breath, guessing that Jennings was not here to help her, but to keep a watchful eye on her.
The corporal perched himself on a camp stool beside the gun. He was a nondescript young man of medium height, going prematurely bald. He wore spectacles and looked more like a clerk than a soldier.
“Jennings…” Kate tried to think where she had heard his name and suddenly remembered. “You traveled with that fellow they call Weasel. He’s a strange one. Where did you dig him up? Out of a molehill?”
Jennings blinked at her from behind his spectacles. “I am here to observe, not to engage in idle gossip.”
“I haven’t seen Weasel around lately,” Kate said, trying again. “Do you know where he went? Did he leave?”
“He might have,” said Jennings. “We traveled here by griffin and the beasts were ordered to remain in case of need.”
Kate was elated. Trubgek must have departed. She went back to her work in better spirits, able to concentrate on studying the magic.
The crafting involved connecting the seventh sigil to the contramagic constructs already in place on the weapon, then adding magic constructs that mirrored the contramagic. The seventh sigil was necessary, for without it the contramagic would destroy the magic. The use of the seventh sigil caused the two halves to work together, with the result that the energy of the whole far exceeded the energy of the two halves. Or at least that was how it was supposed to work.
“What does this construct do?” Jennings asked, pointing.
“That’s the seventh sigil,” Kate said. She looked at it more closely. “Mirror image…”
She left the forecastle and ran down the stairs that led below deck.
“Where are you going?” Jennings demanded.
“To find the answer,” said Kate.
She went into her cabin and eventually located de Villenuve’s book on the seventh sigil under her cot. She carried it back up on deck with her. Jennings had summoned Franklin, who was waiting for her with a displeased expression on his face.
“I know what’s wrong, sir,” Kate said, before he could open his mouth. “Was Huston self-taught in magic? Never mind. It doesn’t matter.” She pointed to an illustration in the book. “He was using the mirror image of the seventh sigil, not the actual sigil. The mirror image worked to combine the magic and the contramagic, but not very well. The contramagic weakened the
magic, which began to break down.”
“I hope you are right, Private,” said Franklin.
Kate began her repairs on the weapon. She kept an eye out for Dalgren, but eventually gave up watching when clouds rolled down from the mountains. Mists twined around the trees and dripped off the pine needles. If he was searching for her from the air, he wouldn’t be able to find her, and she wouldn’t be able to see him.
The next day the wind shifted. The clouds vanished and the sun shone brightly. Kate kept an eye on the sky as she repaired the magic. The work was incredibly delicate and often frustrating, for if she made a mistake with the seventh sigil—as Huston had done—the contramagic would seep through it and devour the construct before she could stop it. She would have to start over. And she had to repair innumerable constructs.
Despite the clear sky, she saw no sign of Dalgren again that day and she began to worry that he had been injured or had completely lost track of her. The next day dawned clear and bright. Kate and the ever-present Jennings began work early.
Franklin came out daily to inspect her work. He could see for himself that the constructs were starting to glow again and he was pleased. Kate’s only worry now was that she would be finished in a day or two and she had still seen no sign of Dalgren.
That afternoon, she was down on her knees, stringing together a row of magical constructs, not paying attention to the sky, when Jennings said suddenly, “There’s a dragon.”
Kate stood up so fast she made herself dizzy.
Soldiers and sailors working to load supplies onto the troop ships stopped their tasks to stare. The dragon was Dalgren. Kate knew him by the dangling foreleg, the twisted horn on his head, the way he flew.
“No need to stand there gaping at the beast, Private,” Jennings told Kate irritably. “Dragons live around here. We see them occasionally when they go out hunting. We were alarmed at first, but they are Travian, not Rosian. They leave us in peace and we do not bother them.”
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