by Peter Wacht
Toreal watched his master carefully, ready to leap out of the way at a moment's notice. Rodric's temper was quite mercurial. As the bearer of bad news more often than not lately, Toreal had become particularly adept at dodging expressions of his master's anger, such as the gold goblet that had barely missed his head and slammed into the far wall just a few minutes before. Though Rodric's tantrums were common, they still unnerved him. Toreal repeatedly ran his hand through his short, bristly hair in consternation. Realizing what he was doing, he shoved his hands into the folds of his grey robes. As the Chamberlain of Eamhain Mhacha, his position demanded that he maintain the appearance of calm and control, even under the most trying of circumstances. And any circumstance that directly involved Rodric was always trying.
"I’m sorry, milord," said Toreal in a soothing voice. He used the same voice with his young children when they were upset, and it normally quieted them down. It had much the same effect on Rodric. "I can only relay what was said to me by the messenger sent by Lord Eshel. He truly appreciates your offers to assist him in gaining the throne of Inishmore, but if he had known that you would be stationing our troops on his properties in Laurag, he says he never would have agreed to it."
"He would have agreed to it, Toreal, if I required he sell his mother into slavery. He can't win the throne of Inishmore by himself. Without me, he's nothing but another hungry dog fighting with all the others over a very large bone."
"True, milord," replied Toreal in a more confident tone, pleased to see that his master had calmed down. "What shall I say in return?"
"You shall tell him quite simply that the agreement we signed still stands, and that if he does not adhere to it, he will no longer receive the gold he so desperately needs. Tell him also that I will relay to some of his closest friends in Laurag the details of our arrangement. As soon as they find out that he's essentially become my vassal in hopes of winning the throne, he won't live out the day. Tell him he'd then become the bone for all the other dogs to fight over. Tell him that, Toreal.”
"Harsh words, milord."
"They are, Toreal, but necessary. He has a copy of our agreement. He should have read it before he signed it. It says quite clearly that in exchange for Armagh's gold he would allow me to quarter one hundred Armaghian soldiers on each of his properties in Laurag at his expense."
Eshel had in fact tried to read the entire agreement, but had been distracted by the wine Rodric continued to pour for him as they discussed the final details of the treaty. If nothing else, Rodric was meticulous. He knew how to get what he wanted, and the easiest way to do that was to play upon his opponent's weaknesses. One of Eshel's many weaknesses just happened to be Ferranagh red wines.
"Without the law and the agreements made between Kingdoms and between persons, we would have nothing to hold our society together…"
Toreal listened to Rodric's lecture with one ear. He had heard the High King’s rationalizations of his political actions many times before. Rodric loved having everything in writing, if for no other reason than to do what he was now doing to Eshel. At first the hypocrisy of Rodric's words had shocked Toreal, yet after hearing the same speech over and over, he no longer paid attention. Rodric adhered to an agreement only for as long as it suited him. Once it proved a hindrance, he would be the first to break it. Yet still Rodric expected others to follow their agreements with him to the letter, seeing their unwillingness to do so as a personal betrayal.
"Now leave me, Toreal. I have more important matters to attend to today."
"Yes, milord. I will relay your response at once." Bowing before turning on his heel, Toreal slipped out of the room and closed the door behind him, leaving Rodric in silence.
The High King leaned back into his chair and pulled the folds of his purple robes tighter around him. Dealing with a fool like Eshel was simple, and much like the bite of a mosquito — more of an annoyance than anything else. Dealing with his next visitor would prove more difficult, and much like the bite of a bloodsnake — deadly. He never relished these meetings, but it was the price he had to pay for getting what he wanted. As Rodric constantly reminded himself, the High King was to be feared and respected. Still, Rodric’s next guest never failed to make him afraid.
CHAPTER FORTY ONE
A Lesson
Rodric realized at a very young age that there was little difference between a king and a common man besides the quirk of fate. Though that knowledge didn’t please him, he could certainly put it to use. It was quite simple really. Power was based on perception. If you appeared to be a king, rather than a common man, than in most people's eyes you were a king. That had made life much easier for Rodric, since he didn't look like a king at all. The storybooks glorified kings such as Ollav Fola, whose shadow supposedly covered out entire armies. They spoke of his long blonde hair and striking features.
Rodric didn't have the long blonde hair or strong chin. His skin was splotchy rather than fair, and he had coarse black hair and a plain face. Worst of all — in his own opinion — he was short. Still, he soon discovered several ways to make up for his natural disadvantages.
As he paced in front of the Golden Throne of Eamhain Mhacha, he glanced nervously at his arrangements for the hundredth time. He had little to fear. The servants had learned long before that to fail in even the slightest task was to be avoided at all costs.
The throne room of Eamhain Mhacha, despite the rain that poured from the skies and struck heavily against the glass windows that ran from floor to ceiling, still shone brilliantly thanks to the hundreds of torches affixed to the walls. The pure white marble columns that rose to the ceiling reflected the light throughout the chamber. Even more impressive, the throne itself glowed liked the sun. The brightness appealed to Rodric. The aura of brilliance centered on him, giving him a dramatic sense of grandeur. The purple robe and large golden crown he wore to mark his station aided the deception.
Of course, his retainers and the hundred soldiers — silver breastplates shining brightly, their faces resembling the stone of the columns — who ringed the room only added to the effect. All in all, Rodric was rather pleased with his efforts. The nervousness that normally plagued him at times such as these had diminished. He actually felt comfortable for once. He was the High King of Eamhain Mhacha! No ruler was more powerful than he! Rodric's confidence disintegrated in a split second.
"Milord," said Toreal, having opened one of the massive doors to the throne room just enough to squeak through. "Lord Chertney."
The doors swung inward at a shocking speed. Toreal barely escaped being crushed as the two slabs of oak slammed against the walls, the boom echoing violently throughout the room and startling its occupants.
"Rodric," said a dark shadow standing on the threshold. "It was good of you to see me on such short notice."
Shivers of fear ran up and down Rodric's spine. Crawling beneath his throne and hiding passed through his mind. He hated the fact that he was afraid, and he hated the man who stood at the other end of his throne room even more for making him afraid. Rodric stepped back as the shadow strode into the room, but his heel ran into one of the legs of the throne. He had nowhere to go. In an attempt to retain his dignity, Rodric sat down in the golden chair.
Lord Chertney looked more like a king than Rodric ever would, and Chertney knew it. The tall, wraithlike man glided closer to Rodric, his eyes burning intensely, his posture speaking of power and dominance. The black leather armor he wore sucked in the light of the torches, creating a shadow that settled around him.
"I would like to speak with you alone, Rodric," said Chertney, coming to a halt just a few steps in front of the throne, his deep voice booming throughout the room. Though Rodric's throne sat on a dais, much to Rodric’s chagrin Chertney still towered over him.
Rodric stared at the insolent smile on Chertney's face and the slicked back hair. The swine! Rodric fought hard to maintain his composure. How dare he enter his throne room without permission! How dare he call the High Kin
g of Armagh by his first name! How dare he tell him, Rodric, what to do! Though his face turned red with anger, he replied in a calm voice.
"Lord Chertney, it is a pleasure to have you with us once again. I'm sure that whatever you wish to discuss can be heard by those here with us."
More than anything else, Rodric wished desperately not to be left alone with this man. If he truly was a man. The soulless eyes made him wonder. Rodric's kind, composed words did not have their desired effect.
"I will speak with you alone, Rodric," hissed Chertney, his eyes blazing red with anger. "If you won't clear the room, I will do it myself."
A cold sweat ran down Rodric's back as he gazed into those eyes. It was rumored that Chertney drank the blood of the men he killed in battle to absorb their strength. Rodric had dismissed the story as just that, a story. Now, staring into those eyes, he believed them. Knowing that having Chertney order his people to leave his throne room only would increase Rodric's humiliation, he tried to save face.
"I can see, Chertney, that you must have a matter of great import to discuss with me," he said with some composure, though he seethed inside. "As you wish then. Toreal, please clear the room."
"Yes, milord," answered Toreal, who had walked a good distance away from the doors, just to be safe.
The soldiers and retainers in the throne room didn't need much urging to leave. In less than a minute Chertney had his wish, the doors slamming shut just as Toreal stepped through.
The throne room that had glowed so brightly just moments before now took on a gloomy cast. The fear that tickled Rodric's spine settled in his stomach. He clenched the armrests of the throne, desperately trying to keep his hands from shaking.
"So, Chertney, you have your private audience," said Rodric.
Chertney raised an eyebrow. The false confidence in Rodric's voice appeared comical to him.
"This is not an audience," began Chertney, stepping on to the platform, his voice traveling to the farthest corners of the room with ease. "This is a lesson, Rodric. How are things progressing in the east?"
Rodric put on his most ingratiating smile. "Everything goes as planned. In just a few years, by law, the Highlands will be mine. But until then, our strategy has worked out quite well. The time for the next step approaches, and we will be ready."
Inwardly, Rodric cursed Killeran for an incompetent fool. He had given Killeran everything he needed — men, supplies, money — and more, and still he sent only a trickle of the wealth rumored to lie within those cursed mountains. How was he supposed to pursue his plans when—
Chertney's face darkened like a thundercloud. To him, Rodric was a weakling who had absolutely no idea what he was doing. He was a bug, and the only thing a bug was good for was being stepped on. Yet his master forbid it, for now. Though Chertney didn't understand why, he knew better than to dispute his master's decisions.
"What about the Lost Kestrel?"
"The what?" asked Rodric. "I don't understand."
"Of course you don't, Rodric. You're a fool. What about the Lost Kestrel?"
The insult failed to register. Rodric had heard that term before, but from whom? His confusion was obvious.
"The Lost Kestrel?"
Chertney ignored Rodric. "It is rumored that the grandson of Talyn Kestrel survived the attack on the Crag and has been hiding in the Highlands ever since. At first I thought it was just a story, created by the Highlanders as a way to keep their spirits up. I'm not so sure anymore."
"Yes, I've heard something of that as well," said Rodric, trying to appear knowledgeable. "It is nothing to worry about, Chertney. You're afraid of ghosts. The grandson died just like his—"
Chertney's withering glare pushed the High King back in his chair. "Just because it is a rumor does not make it false." Rodric cringed at the harshness of Chertney's tone. "Most rumors have a kernel of truth. The grandson's body was never found after the Crag fell. I know. I was there. I destroyed the Crag and turned over every piece of rubble looking for the boy."
"But that doesn't mean he escaped," protested Rodric.
The task for eliminating the Kestrel line had fallen to Rodric after Chertney destroyed the Crag, who had in turn left the matter in Killeran's hands. Yet, if Killeran's skills as Regent of the Highlands were any sign, it was entirely possible that he could have failed in that as well. He couldn't admit to that possibility, though. The ally who had given him that task did not tolerate failure. “He probably died like his father and grandfather as Rodric suggested. His body simply was never found. The forest in that part of the Highlands is extremely dense and almost impassable in certain areas."
"I used to think much the same, Rodric," said Chertney. "But I have been hearing some new, disturbing rumors originating from the Highlands. I have heard of a man or a beast — no one knows for sure — who is systematically eliminating the servants of our master when they walk in the Highlands. The Highlanders call him, or it, the Raptor. Though no one can say exactly what this creature is, they all agree on one thing. Do you know what that is, Rodric?"
Rodric wished desperately that he had the answer, but could only mumble incoherently. His hands began to shake again, and though he clenched the armrests with all his might, it didn’t help.
"Green eyes, Rodric. Green eyes that blaze in the night." Chertney leaned over Rodric to emphasize his point, and the tall man's imposing frame loomed over the High King, placing him in shadow. "Did you know, Rodric, that the grandson of Talyn Kestrel had green eyes? Green eyes that supposedly blazed in the night?"
"Yes, well, that still doesn't mean the rumor is true," stammered Rodric, looking for a way to escape Chertney's gaze. With Chertney standing in front of him, his throne now resembled a prison. "Many boys have green eyes—"
"Yes, that is true, Rodric. I offer additional evidence. After the Crag fell, and the body of the grandson was never found, our master sent several of his other servants in pursuit, in case the boy survived. These servants have not found him during all the years they have searched, and these servants do not fail. They simply can’t fail.”
Rodric immediately picked up on Chertney's implication of his futility, but wisely chose to ignore the barb.
"My last bit of evidence: Your Regent captured a boy with green eyes. Despite my express order that I be notified if ever a green-eyed boy were to be taken, I never was." Chertney stepped back from Rodric, giving him room to breathe once again. "Last I heard, the boy had escaped, and during his escape, had burned down the fort that served as Killeran’s headquarters."
Rodric leaped to his feet in shock. "The fort burned—"
"To the ground," answered Chertney. "Nothing is left. And from what I also hear, the Highlanders eliminated a large portion of Killeran's reivers during all the excitement."
Rodric slumped back down in his chair, his mind too numb to take it all in. The fort destroyed? How was he supposed to mine the Highlands without the fort? He needed more gold and silver than ever before. Otherwise his plans would come to a halt.
"This boy with green eyes may be no one at all. Then again, considering the amount of trouble he has caused, and the fact that rumors of this Lost Kestrel persist, I think it would be well worth your while to make sure this rumor truly is a rumor. Do you understand what I am telling you, Rodric?"
"Yes," mumbled Rodric. "Yes, I understand perfectly. The boy with green eyes will be found. I will take care of it myself."
"You have restored my confidence," said Chertney, his sarcasm plain. "I suggest you get started right away. As soon as you have captured him, notify me. Remember, Rodric, our master is not one who accepts failure."
Chertney's words chilled Rodric to the bone. He felt as if he were standing knee deep in snow, his legs stuck in place, with a freezing wind tearing at his clothes and turning parts of his body to ice. For the thousandth time, he rethought his decision to serve the master Chertney spoke of, yet knew in his heart that it was too late. Once you made such an alliance, there was no turning
back. You either succeeded or died.
CHAPTER FORTY TWO
A New Player
The palace of Eamhain Mhacha was the largest in all the Kingdoms, containing miles of hallways that connected thousands of rooms and chambers — some known, some not. Corelia Tessaril waited several minutes before pressing the hidden latch that released the wall, which allowed it to swing smoothly into the hall right in front of her father's private chambers. The suite of rooms behind the throne room was reserved for the High King and his family. No one was allowed there without express permission, even the servants, so she had little fear of discovery. Still, it was better to be cautious than bold.
Stepping out of the cubbyhole carved into the wall directly behind the throne of the High King, Corelia brushed a thin coating of dust from her dress as the wall swung back in place. Her father had just bought it for her — a deep blue velvet with a tight bodice and flowing skirts. It had cost a fortune, but as her father liked to say, nothing was too good for the daughter of the High King. Of course, she took full advantage of her father's largesse, for she knew the true reason behind his generosity.
Her father did not provide her with the best clothes strictly out of the goodness of his heart, though he would never admit to it. Corelia had observed the political games played in the hallways of the Armaghian palace. Power ruled here, and there were many ways to gain and manipulate it, as well as lose it.
Beauty was just one. Corelia's long blond hair flowed to her waist, and her eyes were a smoky blue. They fit perfectly with her sultry voice. Though she was barely an adult, she had many admirers, and Rodric played that card cleverly and without a second thought. But that was all right with her. Corelia knew that she was beautiful, and she knew how to use it to her advantage. More important, she knew how to play the game of power. She had been playing it all her life, both for and against her father.
She knew much of her father's plans already, thanks to her many hiding places. Yet today's meeting with Lord Chertney offered a new and tasty tidbit of information. One that could prove profitable, if she could figure out how to make use of it. She bit down on her lower lip, hands on hips and one foot in front of the other, deep in thought. It was a pose that most men found irresistible.
