“Best go on ahead and ask it,” Balen said, taking a puff of his pipe, “while you’ve still got any hands left.”
The short man’s face colored at that, and his hands dropped awkwardly to his sides as if he didn’t know what to do with them. “Of course, sir, I’m sorry,” he said, apologizing, though for what Balen couldn’t tell. “It’s just … the princess, you see ….” He took a moment, standing straighter and lifting his head slightly as he gathered his courage, “well, it’s my duty, you understand, to keep her safe.”
Balen nodded, studying the man. The chamberlain was a nervous sort by nature, ill at ease, but Balen liked him anyway. There was something about the man, an innocence, he guessed, that it was hard not to like. “No small task that, given what I’ve seen of her. The woman’s got a mind of her own, that’s for sure.”
“Yes,” Balen said in a relieved sigh then his eyes went wide as if he’d caught himself in some great sin, “I mean … sir, that is to say that the princess is, of course, right to live her life the way she sees best. Only, as her protector, I find myself … concerned.”
Concerned was a vast understatement from what Balen saw on the man’s face. Love, is what it was. Not the love a man has for a woman, but the love a father might have for a daughter, maybe. “Protector, is it?”
The chamberlain colored again as if he’d been mocked, “Sir, I know that I am not strong or clever, nor do I have skill with the blade, like Mr. Envelar, but—”
“Stow that, lad,” Balen said, “I meant no offense. The way I see it, the princess is lucky to have a man as committed to her cause as you. All I meant was, do all chamberlains go as far? Would all of them be willin’ to give their lives for their lords or ladies, as you are?”
Gryle sniffed, “I’m sure I don’t know, sir, but my lady deserves the best. Unfortunately,” he said, deflating, “she only has me.”
Balen grinned, and it was his turn to offer comfort, patting the man on the shoulder, “Aye, well, I’m sure that’ll be plenty, chamberlain. She’s lucky to have you.”
Gryle nodded slowly, “Thank you for your kind words, Mr. Balen. Only, I need to find the princess. I wonder, do you think Captain Festa would be kind enough to bring me back to Baresh after he drops you and the others off in Avarest?”
Balen studied the man in wonder. For a man who thought himself a weakling and useless, he was prepared to risk going back to a city where, if he was found, he would be tortured and killed. It wasn’t the first time the man had asked the question either. Balen shook his head slowly, “Why don’t you stay with us, Gryle. That May seems to know what she’s about—a clever woman in more ways than one from what I’ve heard. I’d think sticking with her would be the best thing. The safest thing.”
Gryle hesitated then swallowed, “Forgive me, sir, and I understand, truly. But … the princess, sir. It’s my duty—”
Balen raised a hand, forestalling the man, “I understand, chamberlain, I do. I’ll tell you what, Festa will want to stay in port for a week or two at least, gathering supplies and buyin’ stock to trade to other cities for a profit. Why don’t you give it a bit? See what happens and what we hear. Might be, we’ll have news from your princess or one of the others before long.”
The chamberlain considered this then gave a reluctant nod, “As you say, Master Balen. I will stay on with Miss May for a time, if she’ll have me. It would be wise, I suppose, to get some supplies of my own for the trip back. I wonder, do you think that the shops here might sell cinnamon? It is the princess’s favorite.”
Balen raised an eyebrow. Protector indeed, he thought. “Well,” he said, shrugging, “I guess we’ll have to ask.”
CHAPTER
EIGHTEEN
“This had better be good, Caldwell,” Belgarin said. “I’ve enough things to do without you wasting my time.”
“Of course, my lord,” the bald man said, bowing his head before turning and leading Belgarin on down the corridor, “I believe that you will find it most enlightening.”
“I had better,” Belgarin said, “but I warn you, Caldwell, my temper grows short, and I weary of your excuses. It is not enough that you could not find my wayward sister or her companions—not when I put the entire force of my command within the city at your disposal—no, what’s more, you even managed to let the old swordmaster escape.”
His advisor turned, his expression as lifeless as ever. “Your Majesty, surely, you must not think that I—”
“What I think, Caldwell, is that I have, perhaps, trusted the wrong person. What I think is that I have listened to your advice, and it has led us nowhere. Understand that though we might not have the old man, one head will work as well as another on the headsman’s block. The executioner cares little and the axe less, whose life it takes.”
“As you say, Your Majesty.”
Belgarin studied the man’s bland expression, a sneer rising on his own face. He had considered replacing Caldwell more times than he could count. The problem was that, until recent events, Caldwell had proved himself a capable and well-informed advisor. It had been him, after all, who’d warned Belgarin that Eladen planned to assassinate him under a veil of truce, allowing Belgarin to act first and beat his brother at his own game. It had also been Caldwell who’d known of Adina and her companions coming to Baresh in the first place. The man had proven his effectiveness on more than one occasion. Yet, perhaps, his effectiveness was coming to an end.
Belgarin waved the man on, frowning in disgust at the slime covered corridor walls on either side of them. Underground as they were, the dungeons were ever damp, and the walls would be cleaned one week only to be filthy the next. The man had better have a good reason for bringing him down here. “What of the guard who was on duty when the old man escaped? He’s been questioned?”
“Thoroughly, Your Majesty.”
The man said nothing else, and Belgarin frowned, “And?”
“The Parnen captain, my lord. The guard claimed that he remembered the man coming down into the dungeons, remembered challenging him, asking about his identity, and nothing after.”
“He remembers nothing?”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Caldwell said, “so he claimed.”
Belgarin barked a harsh laugh, “Truly, you are a fool, Caldwell. Am I to believe then that this guard had somehow lost his memory, coincidentally about the one occasion on which he was questioned? Do you not think it possibly, nay likely that the man lied? That you and your questions did nothing to uncover his secrets?”
“Forgive me, Majesty, but no. What secrets the man knew, he told. I made sure of it personally.”
Belgarin frowned, “You speak of torture now,” he said with disgust. “It is a filthy business, one that no man or woman of noble birth would participate in.”
“Lucky then, your Majesty, that I am not of noble birth. And, if it pleases you, I do not speak of torture, but of serving my king in whatever way I might.”
“Oh yes a loyal servant aren’t you, Caldwell?” Belgarin asked, frowning at the man’s back.
If the man heard the challenge in his king’s tone, he gave no sign. “Of course, Your Majesty.”
“Very well,” Belgarin said, “You and I will talk about the guard later. Now, tell me about the woman.”
Caldwell nodded, “Of course, my lord. She lives in the poor district. From what I gather, she ran with a small gang—petty crimes, mostly, robbing and mugging. She claims to have been having a drink at a local tavern when she saw the man and recognized him from one of the notices we put up throughout the city. Her and those with her attempted to detain him but failed.”
“Failed?”
“Yes, Your Majesty. It seems that he resisted.” Caldwell stopped and turned to Belgarin, the cell keys in his hand. A short distance up the hallway, two lanterns had been lit on either side of a cell, no doubt the woman’s. “Your Majesty, forgive me but I must warn you. The woman is not … in the best condition, now. It was felt that she might have been h
olding back some information so … steps were taken.”
Belgarin sneered, “I am no child to be hidden away and kept safe, fool. I am your king, and you would be wise to treat me as such.” He snatched the keys from the bald man’s hands and shouldered his way past, smiling a small smile as Caldwell bumped against the slimy wall in his haste to get out of the way.
Belgarin unlocked the cell door and stepped inside. The smell hit him immediately, and he barely managed to suppress a gag. He brought a silk kerchief from inside his tunic and covered his mouth and nose, looking at the figure lying hanging from manacles in the ceiling. Despite his words to Caldwell, he felt his stomach roil uncomfortably, and he had to struggle to keep his rising gorge in check.
The woman had once been beautiful, even in the fitful light of the lanterns he could see that. Of course, it had been a commoner’s sort of beauty. The kind that would be pleasant enough for a roll in the hay, but lacking in the regal possession of a lady of higher station. Still, whatever beauty she’d once held was gone now, and the truth of what remained was made all the worse for knowing it had once existed. It put him in mind of when he’d been a child, laughing and running through his childhood castle.
He and a childhood friend had been playing at a game of chase, his father away visiting another part of the kingdom. He’d made his way through the castle, looking for a place to hide from his friend—a boy whose name he no longer remembered. He was running, his eyes searching frantically for some likely nook or cranny, when he came upon the formal dining room, a room his mother had told him was no place for children, forbidding him to go into it when not accompanied by an adult.
Of course, he had gone in, as children will when given such orders. His friend had found him there, and in his haste to get away, he’d knocked over an ornate porcelain vase, breaking it. Later, his mother had led him back to the room, made him study the broken pieces. “Irreplaceable,” she’d said, her voice not scolding, only tired and resigned and all the worse for that, “A beauty from a kingdom that no longer exists, now broken and shattered.” She’d turned to him then, and he thought it had been something like hate in her eyes when she spoke, “Why, Belgarin, must you always break things? Why must you always destroy?”
That had been all. No whippings or beatings—not for the firstborn prince. Not even any scolding, no more than that, at least. Only those words, said in a weary, tired tone, those eyes studying him. Only the words. But they’d stayed with him, always. Why, Belgarin, must you always break things? After that, he rarely played games with the other children. Instead, he’d put his effort and will toward being the prince he should be. He had watched with something like envy when he traveled the streets of the city with his family and seen common children playing games of chase, wanting to join in but knowing that such things were beneath a prince. Why, Belgarin, do you always break things?
Not this time, mother, he thought. This time, I will unite us. I will put back together a kingdom that father, in his doddering old age destroyed. I will make it right. He stared at the woman hanging there, thinking of that broken vase, the way it had looked lying shattered on the ground. “Gods be good,” he said.
She was naked, her body covered in cuts and burns. Her face hung down in what could have been sleep or exhaustion, but he could see enough of it to see that it was covered in blood, making it appear as if she wore a crimson mask. The fingers of her hands were twisted and broken, hanging at unnatural angles. Belgarin forced himself to swallow the bile gathering in his throat as his advisor stepped into the room beside him.
“Tell the king what you told me,” Caldwell said, and if he felt anything for the woman hanging there, he did not show it. There was no mercy or compassion in his words, only a cruel efficiency.
“My … my lord?” The woman said, her voice low and raw and full of pain.
Belgarin opened his mouth to speak, to demand that Caldwell cut the woman down and put her out of her misery. She was obviously dying and in great pain. Still, he hesitated, the words coming to his mind, somehow helping to block out the pain and agony he saw in front of him. We all do what is necessary.
“Speak, woman,” he said, “and I will see you released of you bonds and set free, your pain stopped.”
With a great effort, she raised her head then. “Promise?” She said and a fresh wave of revulsion overcame Belgarin as he saw that all but two of her teeth had been pulled from her mouth and there was only a ragged hole where her left eye had been.
Belgarin forced his gaze away from her mouth, and the bloody ruin of her left eye and stared into the one remaining, the white of it all the brighter in that mask of blood. “I give you my word as king.”
“The man,” she said, pausing as she weakly spat a mouthful of blood onto her chin, “we tried to stop him. Wanted … the reward. Knocked me out, but I woke and saw him and … a woman.”
“A woman?” Belgarin said, stepping forward despite the gruesome sight, “Are you sure?”
“Y-yes, my king.”
“What did she look like?” Belgarin said, stepping closer so that his face was no more than a foot away from the woman’s own. “Tell me.”
“Brunette,” the woman said, wincing at pain that could have come from any number of her wounds, “Pretty. I remember … remember thinking she looked noble born. Something about the way she walked.”
“And this woman,” Belgarin said, “she was with the other? The man?”
“Not … not at first,” the woman gasped, “but later. In the room.”
Belgarin turned to Caldwell, “I thought that Adina had left on the Parnen’s ship. The Clandestine.”
The advisor nodded, “As did I, Your Majesty. Witnesses on the docks saw her board. Apparently, she must have gotten off of it at some point that we didn’t see.”
Belgarin frowned, “That means she’s here.”
“I do not know, Your Majesty.”
Belgarin sighed. No, Caldwell did not know, nor did he himself. Still, there was someone who might. He rubbed a hand across his face, dreading the visit he knew he had to make. “See that she is freed, her pain stopped,” he said, studying his advisor.
The bald man bowed his head, “Aye, Your Majesty. I’ll have one of my men—”
“No. No, Caldwell,” Belgarin said, “you will not have one of your men do it. You will do this thing yourself.”
The advisor’s brow creased, but he nodded. “Of course, My Lord.”
Belgarin nodded then took one of the lanterns from the wall and started making his way out of the dungeon. He heard the woman scream behind him. “You said you’d set me free!” She yelled.
He winced at the words but walked on. And so you will be set free, he thought. Of all pain. After all, we all do what is necessary.
***
Belgarin would not have thought it possible, but the Knower looked even worse than he had on his last visit. The man’s skin was paler now, so white that it looked as if it had never seen the sun, and his features were shrunken in his face. The boy left quickly enough when Belgarin motioned for him to go, obviously relieved at being sent away from this mockery of humanity for a few moments. Once the boy was gone, Belgarin turned and stared at the old man lying in the bed, unable to fully keep the disgust out of his expression. How much ugliness, he thought, must one man endure to see things set right?
However much is necessary, he answered himself, no more than that.
“Aaah,” the Knower said, smiling his gap-toothed smile and displaying gums that were bleeding freely, no doubt what had caused the bib of blood staining the man’s shirt. “Your Majesty,” he said in a gurgling voice, “To what do I owe this unexpected pleasure? I have so few visitors of late.”
Belgarin recounted the occurrence at the western gate to the man as well as his conversation with the woman in the dungeon. When he was finished, the old man licked his lips with a tongue that was gray and swollen. “Ah, tell me more of the woman. Tell me, how badly was she hurt? Was she in v
ery much pain?”
Belgarin frowned in disgust, “Gods, man, have you no pity?”
The man laughed at that, a breathy cackle that sent blood and snot coming from his mouth and nose. “Pity? Pity, you ask? No, my lord,” he said, “I feel no pity. What pity once lived in me died long ago, withered and succumbed even as my body does now. Knowledge, after all, always has a price. Now, tell me more of this girl and her suffering. What little pleasure I now find can only be found in pain. Oh yes, Belgarin,” he said at the king’s disgusted look, “much pleasure can be found in pain.”
Belgarin frowned, deciding to let pass the fact that the man had called him by his given name. “I will not feed your perversity, monster,” he said. “Now, tell me, what is my sister’s next move? Where will she, the sellsword, and the Parnen go?”
The old man’s ruined mouth spread in a cruel grin, and he shook his head slowly. “All knowledge has a price, my king. Surely, you must know that. You need only look at the evidence of it lying in front of you in a pool of my own blood and shit. For small knowledge, the price is small. For great knowledge, knowledge that could decide the fate of kingdoms, the price must be greater still. Now, tell me of the woman.”
“I will not,” Belgarin said, gripping the man by the front of his bloody shirt in his anger and shaking him. The man weighed nothing, and he laughed that evil, cruel laugh even as his head bounced around on his neck like a mistreated doll’s.
“Oh, my king,” the man said once Belgarin’s anger was spent and he stood there panting. “What do you think you threaten? Pain? My world is pain. I wake to it in the morning, and I lie with it at night, a mistress that knows no mercy or surcease. A plague that continues to devour my flesh with each passing moment, yet leaves my mind clearer and clearer as the days go on. Do you think to threaten me with pain? Or is it death?” The man cackled again, “Oh, but I should be so lucky,” he sneered. “Death is no torment to the tormented, king. It is only a stopping, an ending. Oh, but blessed death.”
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