by Ellyn, Court
Who among Valryk’s acquaintances would recognize such a name or care if he spoke it? “Agreed. How can I help you?”
Lothiar let out a breath and lent back against the sideboard. As tall and heavily armored as he was, his movements were so graceful that his weight disturbed neither bottle nor glass. “Times are changing, Highness, for all of us. Your kind and mine. We need to help each other if we’re to survive.”
“My people are in danger as well?”
“You are allies of the dwarves, yes?”
Ah, here it came. “Of course.” He hadn’t considered that he was an ally of Lasharia’s enemy. Did that change where they stood, she and he? “They mine and mint our silver. Now our gold. Our relationship is secure. As far as I know.” Rarely had he felt his exclusion from his father’s affairs more keenly than now.
“The dwarves are cunning. They lulled my people into trusting them as well, then they cut us off from all trade and commerce. We went to war when our children began starving. Now our resources are stretched so thin that we can’t hold much longer. If we surrender, we will be slaughtered.”
“Then surrender is not an option,” Valryk blurted. “It’s unacceptable.”
“If we retreat, we must flee deep into the Drakhans, far from our homeland.”
And Lasharia would go with them. Did the summons and her portal work over long distances? He couldn’t bear the thought of her a fugitive in some unkind land too far away to be comforted.
“There are rumors that the dwarves mean to extend their no-trade policy toward humans as well. And why not? The only things they value are their veins of silver, their hoards of stones. Not loyalty. Not when it comes to their wealth.”
Famous was the tale of how the dwarves broke down Brynduvh’s walls to retrieve the gold that the White Falcon had stolen from them. Fierce and relentless.
“I might have sought your father for help,” Lothiar added, “but he isn’t the one. His is a vision of keeping the peace, no matter the sacrifice. What he doesn’t know is that war is about to sweep over him. He’s been looking in the wrong direction, Highness. East, not south. That’s where the true threat lies.”
“What is it you need?” Valryk feared that his answer must be “no.” He had no army to give. Nothing but coin, and little enough of that was his. It wouldn’t be enough. He felt Lasharia receding from him like a childhood memory.
This fact was obvious to the Captain as well. His gaze was penetrating. “Let’s be honest. Your father has outlived his era and his usefulness. As allies, you and I can give one another more than we dreamed possible and accomplish far more than we can on our own.”
Valryk’s heart thudded painfully in the base of his throat.
“The kings of Aralorr have always had enemies,” Lothiar went on. “Once our place is secure, my men and I are at your disposal. What if, one day, you were not just king of Aralorr, but emperor of all the Northwest? And what warriors are the Mahkah-pi? You could rule from the Glacier to the rivers of Zhian.”
Lothiar let the implications settle in the cell while he turned to refill his goblet. Valryk felt the darkness open a toothless mouth and swallow him whole. He didn’t know precisely when he leapt from his chair, but he found himself pacing wildly.
“You’ve been living on survival, Highness. We both have, for far too long.”
“All the Northwest, eh? That is quite a promise from one who comes begging for help.”
“Beg?” The Captain’s eyebrows peaked. “I have never begged for anything in all my long years. Of that you can be sure. If you turn me down, I’ll seek aid elsewhere. I haven’t approached the White Falcon yet. Or King Ha’el of Leania. Or your cousin, the future Duke of Liraness. Might one of them be more apt to hear me?”
“The hell they will! I’ve not turned you down. I only expect a man to keep his word.”
Lothiar grinned. “As do I.”
Once Valryk composed himself, he resumed his chair as if it were a throne, and mimicking his parents, he stilled his face to hide his thoughts and feelings. He did not dare look at the full picture the Captain unfurled before him. He suspected the tapestry was already complete, that his opinion about how it should look came too late. More, the landscape it depicted was too dark, too frightening to acknowledge. Yet it thrilled him.
Lothiar’s voice cut through the threads. “We have many things still to accomplish and not much time left. Who among your lords do you trust most?”
“Trust? None.”
Lothiar’s pale, shining head nodded. “Wise for one so young. Regardless, you will need the help of a general.”
“Who is there besides the War Commander?” Kelyn couldn’t be trusted with these plans. He would run to the king, tongue flapping.
“Son of Ilswythe.” Lothiar spoke the name like a snarl. “Traitors, all his breed. No, it must be someone else.”
“I had considered his son. You said yourself you might approach Kethlyn …”
“Will he listen? Or is he of the same ilk as his father?”
“If I consider anyone friend it’s Kethlyn. But he has no practical experience. Perhaps Eliad would be more suited. On the other hand, it’s unwise for me to keep an older brother too close to the throne.”
“And what of your father? My people will be ash and wind if they do not have aid soon. Lasharia, too. We cannot afford delay.”
Shamed, Valryk snapped, “I cannot promise you anything until I have sole rule.”
“That’s what I thought.”
Lothiar glanced aside, and the darkness shifted. Lasharia emerged from the shadows. She must have been in the corner the whole time, listening to every word. Moonlight gleamed redly in the black enamel on her armor. Her face, as pale and luminous as star-glow on water, gazed at him mournfully. He would lose her if his courage flagged now. If he failed to take the first, most terrifying step of all …
~~~~
About the time the trees began to turn gold, King Rhorek fell ill. His physicians were unable to determine the cause of the fever or prescribe a cure. The queen remained at his bedside, mopping his brow herself and arguing with the physicians. Valryk visited the sweltering, incense-clouded room several times a day, though he couldn’t stand to watch. He must’ve been gray-faced enough to worry the physicians. They asked if he felt ill, too. He did, but not for the reasons they feared. Watching his father waste away a little more each day, groaning in pain, was too much. His death should have been quick, not this slow agony. The king might be an idealistic, willfully blind dotard, but he didn’t deserve an end like this. He had earned his epithet “the Benevolent” for a reason. He only ever wanted the best for his people.
As did Valryk.
He had a heated talk with the Captain.
The next morning, Queen Briéllyn woke everyone in the royal wing with a wail that sundered the soul. Valryk wrapped himself in his robe as he ran. Physicians flapped about the king’s suite like panicked chickens. Captain Lissah and several Falcon Guardsmen clustered at the foot of the bed, gawking and whispering. The queen sobbed into the bedding, an arm flung across the king’s breathless chest.
“Mother?”
She flung herself around and buried her face against her son’s belly. Her sorrow turned her arms into vices. The embrace was enough to bruise. Valryk didn’t dare stop her. He hadn’t expected such an outpouring from her. Had she loved him, really?
Valryk permitted himself only a glimpse at the corpse. How gray and shrunken, eyes and jaw closed by some compassionate doctor, no doubt. But tension still creased his face, and his fingers were knotted about the sheet. In pain to the end. Valryk couldn’t afford to dwell on it. It was over now. He was glad for that.
The rest would be easy.
“Your Highness?” Captain Lissah eased toward the bedside. “Pardons, but a word.”
The other Falcons were gone. Boots tramped outside in the corridor, coming and going; voices barked orders and affirmations. Sounded like restrained panic.
Valryk left
his mother in the care of her handmaid and stepped aside with Lissah.
“We have reason to believe this wasn’t a natural illness,” she whispered.
Valryk didn’t have to feign astonishment. How could Lissah know? “What reasons?”
“The men on watch last night … they claim they saw a robed figure in the corridor. They ordered him to halt, but he didn’t. They pursued but found themselves in an empty room. They searched but found nothing.”
“Disappeared into thin air?” Valryk pressed on a sarcastic grin. “Do you know what this sounds like to me? Men trying to shunt responsibility. Men who fell asleep on the job, perhaps?”
“I assure you, Highness, those men—”
“Yes, yes, they’ve never failed before. But it amounts to the same thing, doesn’t it? Sleeping guards who failed to keep out an assassin, or guards who did the deed themselves and made up a story to cover for it. Either way, you have murderers to root out. And if your Falcons are telling the truth, you’d better find the culprit before he strikes again. We wouldn’t want two kings dead inside a fortnight, would we?”
The lines around Lissah’s eyes smoothed over as she donned a blank face. “No, Your Highness. Sire.” She bowed and marched out quick.
As Valryk expected, no assassins were found.
~~~~
King Valryk’s coronation took place on the first day of the year 999. There was not a noble house in Aralorr or Evaronna who failed to attend. Some traveled all the way from Leania with King Ha’el and a hundred wagons laden with gifts of friendship. Even King Arryk sent gifts north, fine hunting hawks and a hundred crates of Fiera’s finest wine. Too bad Valryk couldn’t trust the Fierans enough to drink it.
The throne room blazed with silks and velvets. The banners and festoons ornamenting the walls hung limp in the heat of so many bodies. But outside, snow drifted past the stained-glass windows. Valryk made his way along the cerulean rug. A black velvet cloak trailed seven feet behind him. It was a massive thing, heavy with beads, jewels, and sable. Like an anchor, it slowed his stride to a majestic walk. To each side, lords and ladies bowed deeply while still managing to gawk. A few, men and women both, wept as he passed.
He had no trouble looking pensive. There was still much to be done, and his thoughts crowded as close as the hot, perfumed air. Near the dais, he glimpsed Kelyn, the Duchess of Liraness, and their brood. Cousin Carah looked resplendent in a silver gown. Her blue eyes, large and bold, lowered after everyone else’s. Beside her, Kethlyn was tall and golden. The Old Blood shined in him. Knowing Lasharia and Lothiar allowed Valryk to appreciate this heritage in his cousin. He attracted a sighing, giggling entourage of girls at every Assembly. All Valryk had to do was tag along to get his share of the attention.
Queen Briéllyn stood before her throne. Father had commissioned it for her upon her own coronation. She would never sit in it again. After today, her throne would be reserved for Valryk’s own queen, whomever she might be. Beside it loomed the silver throne. Hunting falcons, resting falcons, gliding falcons were entwined in the backrest.
Valryk kneeled upon the lowest step of the dais.
A bald woman cloaked in white emerged from the crowd. She climbed halfway up the steps and turned to address the spectators. Valryk didn’t know who she was, some shaddra from the Valley of the Faithful, summoned as soon as Father’s funeral fires went out. Today, this stranger represented the Mother-Father, and the words echoing high against the ceiling were the traditional chant that had been spoken over the kings of the land for a thousand years. King Bhodryn was said to have written the chant himself when he was crowned king of Westervael near the end of the Elf War. Only the trained ear could understand the antiquated language now, but it had something to do with honor and protection and service.
When the chant closed, Queen Briéllyn descended the steps and lifted the Falcon Crown from a velvet cushion in the shaddra’s outstretched hands. Onyx falcons flew about the band of gold.
Valryk’s belly twisted deliciously as Mother lowered it upon his head, cold and heavy. Here it was at last, and Lasharia was saved.
He stood and nearly stumbled under the suctioning weight of the cape. One slow step at a time he climbed the dais, turned, spread his arms, and lowered himself into the silver throne. A cry went up, five hundred voices shouting his name. The roar washed over him like victory and damnation all at once.
When the ceremony ended, Valryk signed his first decrees with all the realm in attendance. The first lowered taxes by five percent for the first year of his reign. The second allotted the crown a modest allowance for building projects. Even as he scribbled his signature he knew he ought to have requested a larger sum. Ah, well. A couple of favors in the right pockets would win him more coin for what he had in mind. Before the wax impressions had cooled, he rose and descended the dais. Now that the formalities were over, his nerves settled and his belly reminded him that he had neglected food since yesterday evening. Heads bowed as he passed back along the aisle. He beckoned his cousin. “Kethlyn, attend me.”
Pleased to be singled out on this momentous day, Kethlyn happily carried the train of the cloak as Valryk retreated to a private suite where he could change and rest before the banquet.
Valryk eased out from under the weight of the beaded velvet, sighed and stretched aching shoulders. “They say that’s the cloak I will also wear upon my pyre. Hnh. Damn thing’s so heavy it will snuff all flame. Ah, well. Another meaningless tradition soon to be expunged.”
Kethlyn handed the massive thing off to the chamberlain, then at a sideboard filled a silver goblet. Valryk stared at the cup and asked, “Was the wine from the decanter?”
“Yes, sire.”
“Pour it out. Open a new bottle, there in the cupboard.”
Though a furrow of confusion marked Kethlyn’s brow, he obeyed. “Shall I be your taster as well, sire?”
Valryk accepted the goblet and gulped. The wine seeped into his limbs. Ah, that was better. “No, I have different plans for you, cousin. Plans that I hope will be less perilous to your health.”
“I am grateful.”
Valryk set aside the goblet, lifted the Falcon Crown from his head, and stared at his reflection in the mirror-shined gold. “I can trust you, can’t I?”
“Of course, sire! I am your willing confidante, as my father was to yours.”
Valryk answered with a smile, sank into a plush armchair and motioned Kethlyn to another. “How many kitchens did we raid, growing up?”
Kethlyn laughed. “Funny to think about it now.”
“I’m only sorry I wasn’t permitted to join in your War Games. Mother thought they might lead to injury.”
“Ha, I’d forgotten about the games. And the queen was probably right. We earned more bruises and broken bones ambushing each other than we did learning to stay in the saddle.”
Chamberlains and ministers fluttered about, readying the king’s wardrobe, waiting to inform him of the week’s dinners and councils and games. With a wave of his hand, Valryk dismissed them. When he and his cousin were alone, he said, “There are bigger games afoot now.”
“Undoubtedly. For instance?” Kethlyn leaned forward on his knees.
“Suspicions of treachery already abound. Captain Lissah says my father was poisoned—”
“Sire!”
“—but that’s not to leave these walls. Such news would only cause hysteria. Rumors say there’s someone who seeks to wipe out Tallon’s dynasty, replace it with another. And your father’s name came up.”
Kethlyn leapt from his chair. “My father has no interest in the Falcon Crown!”
“Maybe someone wants it for him.”
“Outrageous.” Kethlyn paced. “Da loved your father. He’s been inconsolable since Rhorek’s death. Even if the rumors are true, Da would scoff at anyone who tried to put him on the throne.”
“Be that as it may, it’s in my best interest, and the interests of Aralorr, that I surround myself with advisers I
can trust. Advisers of like mind. Advisers with fresh imagination and energy. I want you to be one of them, cousin.”
Kethlyn gulped, sank into his chair. “What can I say? I’m honored, sire.”
“There are so many changes in the offing. I don’t know how I will manage them all.”
His cousin cast him a cocky grin. “With the help of trustworthy, determined men like myself. Of course. And my father. You can trust him, sire, you know you can.”
Valryk pushed himself laboriously to his feet, cracked his stiff neck, poured himself another round. Just a little more wine, to steady him. He filled Kethlyn’s goblet as well. Lowering it, he asked, “You were born a bastard, weren’t you?”
Kethlyn’s hand stopped halfway to the goblet. Astonishment, terror, made two flat stones of his eyes. “Where did you hear that?”
“Here and there. Years ago. I didn’t realize it was a sore spot. Your king begs your pardon.” Bull’s eye, Valryk thought and eased into the armchair.
“What matters is that he married my mother and claimed me.” His voice was barely any voice at all. One of his hands squeezed the arm of his chair as though it were all that anchored him from fleeing.
“That doesn’t mean he’s really your da, though, does it? You might still be a bastard.”
“I look too much like him for it not to be so,” Kethlyn declared.
“People see what they want to see. And since learning of the scandal, I wondered if you ever worried that your sister might inherit everything, steal Windhaven from you?”
“Of course not.”
“She calls herself the Duke of Ilswythe, doesn’t she?” Valryk chuckled. “Cheeky.”
“There’s no harm in it. Is there?”
“You would know. I hope. I mean I’ve watched your parents with Carah. They seem to spoil her. Do they favor her?”
Kethlyn breathed short and fast, even while he continued to lie about his fears with a shake of his head. “I’m not a bastard. Windhaven will be mine.”
Valryk felt wretched torturing him like this, but it was the only way to be sure. “Oh, cousin, there’s nothing to stop your mother from leaving Windhaven to her daughter. Our laws are full of loopholes, and bastardy is the biggest one of all. No, I am the only authority who can guarantee your inheritance.”
