by K. C. Julius
The man called Derrlyn screwed up his eyes at Whit. “Like as not, ’e stole ’im. Is tha’ the way of it?”
“Looks like ’is lordship’s lost ’is tongue.” Saywen leaned over and took hold of Sinead’s reins. “He stands to lose more ’n that, soon enough.” He gave an ugly laugh and kicked his horse to a trot, with Whit in tow.
* * *
Whit spent the long ride south in a state of vexed frustration. The knights kept their distance, leaving him in the company of the louts, Saywen and Derrlyn, and Whit passed the time plotting all manner of revenge to inflict on them. He was sorely tempted to use magic to effect an escape, but the monter’s decrying “the taint of heathens” had sounded a disturbing note, reminiscent of the ignorance and prejudice that had held sway on the continent ever since the last Purge. The use of magic might further mark him as guilty, beyond his mere association with Master Morgan.
The wisest course of action seemed to be to bear the discomfort of the journey and share his grievances over this rough treatment personally with the High King at Nelvorboth.
However, this didn’t rule out all magic use—only that which would be identified as such. He couldn’t, for instance, illuse to make himself appear to be a goblin, but he could savor the sound of Saywen’s screams upon waking to see a gigantic hairy spider on Derrlyn’s face, and he fully enjoyed Sir Harlin’s curses when his horse was discovered to have thrown all four shoes.
Sometimes Whit didn’t even need magic to get his small revenge. When Ewig insisted on accompanying Whit as he went to relieve himself, Whit led the knight into a cluster of planter’s bane; the knight clearly didn’t know to avoid their poisonous leaves. Whit later had to hide a smile when Sir Ewig began to relentlessly claw at his crotch, muttering darkly about poxy wenches.
Whit didn’t spare the monter, either. He suffered a nasty burn on his tongue while drinking broth that somehow refused to cool one evening. That’s a taste of the taint of heathens for you, thought Whit spitefully. And once I’ve seen the king, you’ll all regret causing me this inconvenience. The blow to his cheek had split the skin, and though he’d been able to clean it, if it left a scar he would present it as evidence of the mistreatment he’d suffered.
Crossing Nelvorboth, they rode through forested land and alongside rolling meadows much like those of Lorendale and Cardenstowe. The farms they passed all appeared quite prosperous, and they began to overtake great wains brimming with apples, beets, and cabbages, as well as carts of squealing pigs and honking geese bound for market.
It was late afternoon when they rounded a bend and Nelvor Castle appeared in all its splendor. Whit had heard it said that it rivaled Cardenstowe and Drinnkastel as the mightiest of Drinnglennin’s fortifications, and although he believed his own fortress to be superior, he had to admit Nelvor was an impressive sight, especially in the long light that made it glow golden on its hilltop perch. He recalled that it had originally been built as a motte-and-bailey with three wards, but its wooden fortifications had long since been replaced by stone, and each successive lord had added something more, seeking to leave his own stamp on the lofty seat of the largest Drinnglennian realm. Kenwyn Nelvor had constructed a luxurious palace at the heart of the city, and his great-grandson Ennon had torn it down to build an even grander one in the following century. The infamous Gelfin had later commissioned expansive gardens that sprawled over five hectares, and the grounds included intricate mazes, a jungle of sculpted animal statuary, and a multitude of pools and floral displays.
The most recent renovations had been made by the late Nando Nelvor, who’d brought in Albrenian architects to reconstruct the private apartments to suit the taste of his foreign bride. Master Cortenus had described these as “extravagant,” and he had cause to know; before coming to Cardenstowe, the learned man had tutored one of King Roth’s cousins at Nelvor.
The approach to the castle was via a long avenue bordered by majestic castanyas, beyond which lay an expanse of manicured grounds. Under other circumstances, Whit would have been excited to visit this legendary palace and to explore the surrounding town, but now his thoughts were occupied with his upcoming audience with the High King, under circumstances that were far from desirable. He’d rehearsed what he wanted to say, but by the time they clattered under the arched gateway into the main courtyard, his mind had gone blank. Despite the chill in the air, he felt sweat trickling down his back.
Whit’s escort circled to the left of the original motte and entered a ward, its ornate curtain wall a stark contrast to the ancient tower. Red-and-silver banners set along its allure furled and snapped in the gusting wind.
A storm’s coming, Whit thought glumly. He knew it was illogical to take this as a bad sign, but he did just the same.
They threaded their way through crowds of people crossing the ward, and came to a halt in front of the gilded doors to the temple, whose soaring spires Whit had admired from a distance. The lout Derrlyn hauled Whit off Sinead’s back, and Whit was forced to watch, with a sinking heart, as the mare and Rowlan were led away. He could only hope they’d be well cared for until this ridiculous misunderstanding was cleared up.
“We shall give thanks for our safe passage home,” intoned the monter from the top of the temple stairs.
But when Whit made to follow the others inside, the holy man glared at him.
“Do not think to sully this sacred space!”
Although he had no interest in the gods, Whit protested. “I’ve done nothing that should bar me from the temple.”
“So say you,” Sir Ewig growled. He waved his two henchmen over. “Stay with him until we return. And see that he’s here when we come out, or you’ll be dancing on shortened legs.”
The guards seemed to take the knight’s threat seriously, for they swung their staves menacingly in Whit’s direction. Whit ignored them—and did his best to ignore as well the curious glances from those passing by.
You are Lord of Cardenstowe, and a wizard of power, he reminded himself, lifting his head high.
Heavy drops of rain began to splat onto the cobblestones, and the crowd scattered. Soon the courtyard was empty of all but Whit and his two captors. Whit started for the cover of the recessed temple doors, only to have Saywen’s pole block his way.
“Sir Ewig said you was to be here when he came back,” Saywen said, waggling his stave in Whit’s face.
“‘Here’ being the operative word,” Whit replied scathingly. “He meant ‘present,’ not wallowing in a downpour like a drowning toad.” You dolt, he added silently.
A flash of red drew his attention to one of the archways. A lady, wrapped in a bright lapin shawl, stared out at him. To his surprise, she drew up her hood and ran out into the deluge toward him.
“Whit?”
Pushing his sopping hair back from his brow, he looked at her blankly for a moment before he realized who she was. “Maura? What are—”
“What happened to your—”
Maura laughed, then sobered as she took in his bound hands and the two guards. “By whose orders do you hold this man?” she demanded of his captors.
“Sir Ewig, m’lady. He said we was to wait here with the prisoner.” Saywen tugged his forelock, clearly ill at ease addressing a noblewoman.
“Surely not in the pouring rain!” Maura pointed to the sheltered passageway she’d just vacated. “You will take Lord Whit under cover at once.” She lifted her now bedraggled skirts and preceded them, and her confidence that they would follow was rewarded.
Once they were all under shelter, Maura frowned at the two ruffians with disapproval. “I’m sure there’s been some mistake,” she said. “I know his lordship, and I’m certain the king will not be pleased to learn he’s been ill-treated in any way.”
“No, m’lady,” said Derrlyn meekly. “I mean, yes, m’lady…” The man was visibly shrinking under her stern gaze.
Maura raised her chin with regal hauteur. “I would have a private word with his lordship.”
“We’re under orders to guard ’im,” Saywen protested.
Maura’s violet eyes flashed. “Surely you can do this from a few yards’ distance. The man can’t go anywhere.” Without waiting for a reply, she drew Whit farther down the passage.
Her face now reflected concern. “Tell me quickly. Why are you here, and as a prisoner?”
“I was waylaid on my way to Drinnkastel, where I intended to swear fealty to King Roth. Then I made the mistake of mentioning to his men that I’d recently been in Master Morgan’s company. What’s our wizard friend done that’s made consorting with him a crime?”
Maura paled. “You haven’t heard? Master Morgan has been accused of murdering my uncle Urlion.”
Whit couldn’t believe his ears. “What? But that’s nonsense!”
“Of course it is, but as he was the last one to see Urlion alive, it has been convenient to lay the blame of the High King’s death on him.”
“Well, it looks like I’ve put my foot in it, then. But who made this ridic—”
Maura glanced over at the guards, who were flicking their anxious eyes between the temple door and the two of them. “I’ll tell you all I know later, and vouch for you to Roth, only… how shall I tell him we met?”
“Roth? You’re on a first name basis with our High King?” This was encouraging news. “Well, I suppose that’s on account of your being dragonfa—”
“Shhhh!” Maura took hold of his arms and turned him with surprising force so that her back was to his keepers. “He doesn’t know about the dragons. No one does, except for us. I decided to wait until our wedding day to tell him.”
“Your wedding… You’re to wed the High King?”
“It was my uncle’s wish, according to Queen Grindasa. And you know I took an oath to serve Urlion’s rightful successor.”
“Serve him, yes, not marry him! You do know the Nelvors aren’t known for keeping their pledges.”
A flicker of apprehension in Maura’s eyes directed Whit’s gaze to a tall, well-built young lord striding in their direction along an adjoining walkway, trailed by half a dozen courtiers. He was immaculately dressed, and he would have been quite handsome if his fine features weren’t contorted by a scowl.
The man was directing his ire at a bald officer by his side. “I thought I made it clear. How is it that this matter has still not been dealt with?”
“Your Majesty,” the older man murmured, “we’d hoped the boy’s imprisonment would have come to a natural end by now. You know of the curse—” His steely gaze swept ahead and held Whit’s for an instant before he added in a low voice, “This discussion is best pursued behind closed doors, sire.”
“Blearc’s bones, Vetch! It’s not for you to decide where we speak. Bugger the curse—I want it done!”
Whit’s heart gave a sudden bump. This was the High King himself in such a rage! It did not seem the ideal time to make introductions, but the king had seen Maura and Whit and now swept toward them.
“My lady.” He turned to Whit. “And who might you be?”
Maura dipped into a curtsey. “May I present Lord Whit of Cardenstowe, my lord? He’s come to pledge his fealty.”
The king’s eyes lit with interest. “Cardenstowe—the mysterious missing lord! We are wondering why it has taken you so long to do your duty to your sovereign.” He frowned at Whit’s bound hands.
Belatedly, Whit offered a deep bow. “I’ve… I was away in the north, sire. In truth, I was on my way to Drinnkastel to make my oath, but there’s been... a misunderstanding...”
“Lord Whit is a great scholar, my lord,” Maura said brightly. “I’m sure he can be of service to you.” A day ago, her suggestion would have been music to Whit’s ears, but under the present circumstances, he felt a deep disquiet in the king’s presence.
“Lady Rhea said her son was away, studying with Master Morgan, Your Majesty,” said Vetch.
Whit felt a thrill of alarm. Had Vetch himself questioned his mother?
King Roth regarded Whit with pale, speculative eyes. “Is this true, Cardenstowe? Are you too a wizard?”
“I… I am, sire.”
For the first time, the king smiled. “You see, Vetch? The gods are good. They’ve sent a solution to our little dilemma—curse or no curse. Have these bonds removed. Lord Whit should be brought to my chambers, once he is presentable.” Then he turned on his heel and strode back the way he had come.
Maura cast Whit the briefest of glances before following in the king’s wake. Whit read a clear warning in her eyes. Watching her go, he felt chilled by more than the gusting wind.
* * *
Whit’s meeting with the High King was brief but harrowing. Roth got straight to the point.
“You have raised our doubts about your loyalty, Cardenstowe.”
“Your Majesty—”
“Silence!” the king thundered. “You will speak when we command it. Where is Morgan?”
“I have no idea, sire. We parted some time ago.”
“Did he tell you what he had done?”
“Sire?”
Roth’s face flushed with impatience. “Did he tell you about murdering my father?”
Whit suddenly realized how much danger he himself was in. He picked his next words with care.
“I spent only a brief time in Master Morgan’s company, Your Majesty. I knew nothing of this charge.”
“Yet you admit to consorting with Morgan, and you’ve failed to swear your allegiance to us in a timely fashion.” Roth glared at him for a long moment, and then seemed to come to a decision. “If you would prove your loyalty, there is one sure way. I have need of a wizard.”
Whit felt a flood of relief. “Then you have found him,” he replied confidently.
The strain around the king’s eyes mouth relaxed as his slow smile transformed his now handsome face. “There is a boy in Toldarin, a nobody, who is falsely claiming to be Urlion’s legitimate son. Pure lies, of course, but at this time when we are newly invested, even such nonsense can be a threat to the stability and security of the realm.” He raised his chin, as if daring Whit to refute this.
“Yes, of course, sire.”
Roth picked an invisible thread off his satin sleeve. “The imposter must be silenced.” The king flicked his fingers, and Whit’s newfound pluck faltered. There was no mistaking Roth’s meaning. “I’m told magic leaves no trace.”
Whit was shocked speechless, and in the stillness, Roth narrowed his eyes. “Is this beyond your abilities? If so—”
“No, my lord, it is not.” Whit dropped his eyes to a spot on the floor between them. Had he just agreed to kill for this man?
“I’m glad to hear it. In that case, we shall overlook your association with the murderer Morgan, and your tardiness in presenting yourself to your king. You may retire to your chamber. See that you stay there. Once I have consulted with Lord Vetch, he will fill you in accordingly.”
Dismissed, Whit found himself standing alone outside the High King’s chamber. They hadn’t assigned a guard to him, although he supposed someone would soon be sent to make sure that he had returned to the room in which he had previously changed his soiled clothes.
He could hear the low voices of Commander Vetch and the king, but couldn’t make out their words. Knowing they were likely still discussing his promised service, Whit saw an opportunity too good to pass up.
He walked purposefully down the quiet corridor to the next door in the hall. It was locked, but after listening carefully outside it for a moment and determining the room was empty, a murmured request and a flick of his wrist got him inside. Then it was simply a matter of listening through the wall, for the king and his commander’s voices were now clearly audible to Whit’s highly attuned ears.
&
nbsp; “If the people were to learn of this boy’s existence,” Roth seethed, “it would mean the ruin of all we’ve worked for!”
“It’s not certain he’s Urlion’s lawful son,” Vetch replied.
“It’s not certain he isn’t, either. You said he wore a necklace that might prove his claim, which you inexplicably neglected to take from him.”
“I-I thought there was no safer place for it then with the lad, rotting in a cell.”
“Safer still if he were dead—another bone I have to pick with you. Have you put Lord Belnoth off?”
“He’s still asking questions about the boy and badgering me to let him speak with him.”
“His interest in the lad has complicated matters, sire. If the boy should die in his cell, along with his cellmate, it will raise questions.”
“And his disappearance won’t?” Roth snapped.
“Not if it appears he escaped, my lord, and then vanished.”
“How will we know if the wizard actually does the deed?”
“Have no fear, sire. I’ll send the two soldiers we discussed, the ones who require disciplining, to see that Cardenstowe keeps his word.”
“And you’ve plans to deal with them as well?”
“Rest assured, my lord. I shall meet them personally on the road upon their return, to confirm the deed was done. I’ll send the wizard on to you. After that, I’m afraid these men will meet with an unfortunate accident.”
“Who will you tell them the boy is?”
“Leave this to me, sire.”
“Very well. I know I can count on your loyalty, Vetch. And having the wizard bound to me through his part in all this should prove very useful in the long run.”
Roth’s words sent a chill down Whit’s spine.
He realized he’d been right about the storm being a bad omen. It portended a tempest of another sort, and he was caught in its eye.
