by K. C. Julius
The older of the two pointed to where a narrow-faced noble in hunting attire waited, with marked impatience, for the white mare being led toward him.
“You’d best see that gentleman, m’lord. The High King has finished hearing petitioners for the day, but Lord Lawton is His Majesty’s Master of the Chamber. He’ll know best how and when you might get an audience.”
Gilly gave a stiff nod, then kicked his horse over to the now-mounted Lawton and effectively barred the lord’s path.
Lawton scowled at him. “You would do well to move your horse out of my way, sir,” he demanded in an icy tone. “I’m late as it is.”
Morgan urged his mule to his friend’s side. “I think my lord will thank Sir Gilbin if he does not. Master Morgan,” he said, with a cordial bow of his head.
Lawton’s jaw dropped, revealing his unsightly crooked teeth. “You’re—”
“Here to see King Roth,” the wizard said. “We’re hoping you can help us arrange this.”
* * *
Guards were summoned to take Morgan to the throne room while the master of the chamber went in search of his sovereign. Gilly and Regis tried, and failed, to accompany the wizard, and Morgan could hear Gilly’s protests all the way down the long corridor from the inner courtyard.
Marched into the majestic hall, Morgan was brought to stand before the Einhorn Throne, the ancient seat of Drinnglennin’s kings. It was a work of wonder, wrought from the horns of the magical forebears of coilhorns. Like so many other marvelous creatures, the last einhorns had vanished at the fall of the Before. The rare horns were overlaid in places with rose gold, and the wide cushioned seat was covered with silver lapin fur. Three steps, symbolic of the three members of the Tribus who supported the High King, led up to the throne, and a wheel of gold, divided into twelve parts and etched with the sigil of each of the lower realms, served as its backrest.
Morgan recalled vividly the last time he’d stood before this seat of power. King Owain had sat in it then. It was the only time the wizard and Urlion had been together in this majestic room. The occasion had been the then-boy prince’s investiture as Owain’s heir. Princess Asmara, who must have been around ten years old at the time, stood straight and still off to the side during the entire ceremony, except when she had to whisper a cautionary word to her fidgety younger brother. Storn was barely out of clouts, and the lengthy rites had bored him nearly to tears. Morgan wondered how differently things might have turned out if the Konigur reign had not terminated with Urlion.
It seemed to be taking Lawton some time to locate King Roth. Morgan didn’t mind; he studied the fine tapestries depicting the former kings and queens who had heard petitioners and passed judgments in this ancient hall down through the centuries. Although faded with age, the gold threads in the weavings still glistened in the light of the candelabras.
His gaze moved to the great chalice at the left of the Einhorn Throne. Encrusted with jewels and standing as tall as a man, the Chalice of Brennhines had been presented to Princess Ceenguled by her husband, Prince Kasworan, the last of the Brennhines kings. Morgan’s eyes fell then on the Paros, the enclosure of linden wood that shielded the Tribus from view, to the left of the throne. He silently admitted to a pang of regret, seeing this reminder of the time he’d counseled his kings from behind the screen.
The sound of rapidly approaching footsteps signaled he was about to receive his own taste of royal judgment. The tall, handsome Nelvor who entered the room was accompanied by a dozen of his courtiers, among them several Albrenians. They were followed by Lord Vetch, with Princess Grindasa on his arm.
Queen Grindasa, Morgan mentally amended. I’ll need to remember that.
The young king’s expression was stern as he strode to his throne, and Morgan could see he had little of his father in him, regardless of whether he’d been sired by Nelvor Nandor or Urlion Konigur. Both had been dark-haired, while Roth’s locks were fair. The reek of wine accompanied his sauntering entourage, and the bruised smudges under Roth’s pale blue eyes suggested he’d made some less than clever choices the night before.
Well, he’d have that in common with Urlion at least. That and his height.
Vetch dismissed Morgan’s escort with a wave of his hand. The murmuring courtiers fell silent. The wizard kept his gaze respectfully lowered, awaiting His Majesty’s pleasure. The soft sound of another door closing assured him the Tribus were also present, behind the screening Paros.
“You are the wizard Master Morgan?” King Roth’s voice was strong and ringing.
“I am, Your Majesty.” The wizard raised his gaze and lowered himself to one knee. “I have come to swear my fealty to you, sire, as I did to three Konigur kings before you. On my honor—”
“Ha!” Grindasa lurched forward, her hands clawed before her. “You have no honor, regisscido!”
Lord Vetch leapt to restrain the queen, then led her gently back to stand at the foot of the throne steps. She offered no resistance, but her ire-filled eyes never left Morgan’s face.
The king’s own expression was stony. “I have no wish for an oath of loyalty from you, old man. You stand accused as a traitor to our realm, the murderer of our beloved father and sovereign, Urlion Konigur.”
So. This is how it is to be.
“Your Majesty,” Morgan replied, keeping his voice even, “your father died of natural causes. I will gladly tell you all you wish to know regarding my last audience with him. But first, I must speak with you and your Tribus in private, on a matter of grave concern to the realm. If you will give me—”
“You are not in a position to make demands, master!” King Roth’s ice-blue eyes flashed. “You are on trial, and I am your judge. You will be accorded an opportunity to offer your defense, should you choose to do so, as it is the right of even the lowest criminal under the law. Otherwise, you shall show respect during the proceedings, and speak only when requested to do so.”
An elderly man dressed in the robes of the lord chancellor cleared his throat loudly. It took Morgan a moment to recognize the round-faced, owl-eyed official as Thameth Wynnfort, the second son of old Ulfur Wynnfort of Tyrrencaster. The last time Morgan had laid eyes on Thameth, he’d been preparing to take his vows as a monter to the Elementa. He must have done so, for the five-headed star hung from the heavy chains across Wynnfort’s chest. Could it be that Roth had given a monter one of the most powerful offices in the land? If so, this was a flagrant violation of the separation of temple and state decreed in the Law.
Wynnfort looked as though he was as ill at ease with his unsanctioned position as Morgan was. “Your Majesty,” the lord chancellor said in his reedy voice. “The prisoner hasn’t yet made his plea.”
Roth frowned, and the creases in his brow deepened when a sharp rap came from within the Paros.
Morgan released a grateful breath. The knock signaled that one or more of the Tribus wished to advise the king. Now Morgan would be granted the opportunity to put his arguments to them, and once they all learned of the dire state of affairs, Celaidra and Audric, and likely even Selka, would support him. Together they would able to convince Roth of the danger Lazdac’s growing power presented. Once this had been achieved, Morgan felt confident he could defend himself against the trumped-up charge of murder.
Surely Roth will heed his Tribus, even if he doesn’t trust me.
“It seems I am to receive counsel.” The king did not trouble to conceal his irritation. He descended from the throne and stalked toward the small chamber that adjoined the Paros. The wizard had often sat at the round table within it. “See that the prisoner is secured,” the king called over his shoulder.
Roth’s courtiers eyed one another uncertainly, and despite the circumstances, Morgan couldn’t help feeling a wry amusement. The guards had been dismissed, and none of these young men looked eager to sully their hands with the menial task of binding a criminal.
&
nbsp; Lord Vetch likely considered himself above the task as well, but he hadn’t risen to power without a clear understanding of the requirements of duty, regardless of how unsavory they might be. “My lords,” he said, in a voice pitched perfectly to convey both authority and respect, “I will attend to the prisoner. It is likely our king will be some while in counsel. May I suggest you take your ease in the king’s salon, until such time as this assembly reconvenes? Refreshments can be organized—Ewart, see to this.”
The squire behind him departed to carry out his lordship’s order. The young courtiers filed out after him, no doubt relieved that they wouldn’t be forced to stand around awaiting the king’s return. Lord Wynnfort hesitated for a moment before following, wringing his fleshy hands as if they had a life of their own.
Vetch turned his attention to Grindasa. “My queen, will you not retire to your solar as well? I fear the strain of this rogue’s sudden appearance has been too much for you.” Morgan heard something more than obedience in the commander’s tender tone, and wondered if the lord high commander served the lady in more ways than one. Grindasa, recently returned from Nelvorboth, had been notorious in her prime for her long list of sexual conquests, including the several years she was mistress to Urlion. That affair had ended in bitter disappointment and a pregnancy, the wizard recalled, but at least Nandor had accepted the babe as his own.
And now Grindasa’s gotten all she wanted from Urlion through her son: the title of queen and a guiding hand on the reins of power. That is, if she isn’t already driving the royal coach herself.
He’d never trusted her, especially since she’d clung so tightly to her Albrenian roots. Now this stubborn adherence could prove even more dangerous. If she should urge the young king to break with Gral over the border disputes between this eternal ally and Albrenia, all hope of a unified front against Lazdac would be lost.
Grindasa allowed the commander to escort her to the door, but not before she cast a look of loathing in Morgan’s direction. Then Vetch and Morgan were alone before the Einhorn Throne.
Morgan held out his wrists helpfully, but Vetch merely scowled. “Make a move, and you’re a dead man,” he growled, his hand resting menacingly on the hilt of his longsword. “I rather wish you would try to escape. It would save us all a wearisome trial. I’ll give you a clean death, which is more than you deserve. The penalty for killing a king calls for a merciless end before you descend into the Abyss.” His black eyes glittered speculatively. “I admit to being curious to hear why you did it. Tell me, and I’ll make a quick end to it.”
“You make it sound as though my conviction on this ridiculous charge is a foregone conclusion.”
Vetch’s laugh was venomous. “Surely you don’t believe you can convince the king and Tribus of your innocence. You were seen leaving the late king’s chambers only moments before Urlion was found dead.”
“By whom, I wonder? Those who should have been guarding him? I found the king alone and unattended. Where were his heralds? And Master Tergin?”
Where was Maura? he added silently. Urlion had said he hadn’t seen his niece that day. “I was with Urlion when he died, but as to whom is to blame for what killed him—”
“Yes?”
“I do not know the answer,” the wizard admitted.
The sound of a door closing behind the screen heralded Roth’s return. His gaze shifted between Morgan and Vetch. “Where is Wynnfort?”
The outer door swung open. “Here, sire,” said the lord chancellor, who must have been listening at the door.
“Shall I recall the courtiers and your mother, sire?” asked Vetch.
“There is no need,” Roth replied, resuming the throne.
The wizard’s heart lifted. The Tribus had offered wise counsel, and they could now sit together to plot a course of action.
“Upon the advice of my Tribus,” the king continued, “and in their presence, this trial shall proceed. Lord Vetch, you will serve as witness for the court, and Wynnfort shall deliver the sentence.” For the first time, the young king’s lips curled into a smile. “You seem surprised, Master Morgan. Did you think that because you once held a place on the Tribus, you would receive preference from those who more honorably serve on it now? If so, you were mistaken. So, master, do you confess to the murder of Urlion Konigur?”
“Before I enter my plea, Your Majesty, may I ask what your Tribus advised?”
“You may not.” King Roth’s reply was as cold as a crypt. “The next words you utter will be your confession. Otherwise, Lord Commander, you will cut out the prisoner’s tongue.”
When no knock came from within the carved panels of the Paros, Morgan knew then he would find no support from that quarter. Had they all been in league with regard to Urlion’s enchantment? What else could explain their silence?
“Ahem… you will answer… ahem… His Majesty’s question, Master Morgan,” Wynnfort said.
“I do not confess to this crime,” Morgan declared loudly, as though the room were filled with observers. “Nor will I ever. I did nothing intentionally to harm King Urlion. But I did tell him the truth, and it proved too much for him to bear. I fear my king died of a broken heart.”
“Or a poisoned one?” Grindasa, recently returned from Nelvorboth, had slipped back into the room from an antechamber on the right of the hall. She crossed to stand opposite Wynnfort at the foot of the throne. “You see, my son? He does not deny it!”
“Ahem… my lady, the prisoner has been instructed… ahem… not to speak unless he wishes to confess.” Wynnfort looked as if he was literally washing his hands of the entire business.
“Who dies of a broken heart?” The king shook his head in disbelief. “A poor defense, master. Surely you can do better.” But he couldn’t resist asking the question Morgan had planted in his thoughts. “What truth was this of which you speak, so powerful as to slay a king?”
“It had to do with the cause of his illness,” Morgan replied. “It was for my king’s ears alone.”
“Here is your king!” Grindasa cried, pointing to her golden-haired son.
Vetch’s sword was halfway out of its scabbard. “You will answer the question!”
Morgan bowed his head. “Very well. I told King Urlion that I had discovered he had a—”
“Silence!” Roth thundered, all color drained from his regal face.
Even Vetch froze at the fury in the Nelvor’s voice, and Morgan observed a charged look passing between the commander and his king.
“This traitor has as much as confessed, Your Majesty,” Vetch said. “He provoked Urlion’s death. We don’t need to hear more of his lies in an attempt to conceal his perfidious act.”
They know, Morgan realized. They know something, either about the enchantment or about Urlion’s wife and son. The knowledge settled on him like a stone.
Roth leaned forward, gripping the arms of the Einhorn Throne. “Take this kingkiller to the low dungeons, and see that no one has access to him. No one! Is this understood?”
Vetch seized Morgan roughly under one arm and propelled him toward the door. “You’ve just sealed your doom, you old fool,” he muttered. “I took you for a wiser man.”
Morgan cast one final look at the Paros before leaving the hall. “Sadly, so did I.”
Chapter 24
Whit
Moving stealthily through the narrow port lanes, Whit cursed himself for a fool. While Fynn dashed down the beach, Whit had wasted precious time staring after him like a dimwit. And by the time he’d come to his senses, it was too late; by then, Fynn had already drawn the attention of the Helgrins, who reached him before Whit could spur Sinead after him. It seemed the boy had made the choice to return to the people with whom he had grown up. And from the back-thumping that ensued once they took charge of Fynn and made their way to the shoreboats, the lad had been clearly recognized as their yarl’s son.
But Whit had seen what the boy, in his haste to reach the Helgrins, might not have. Their longboats were flying the fiery eye, not the white bear of Aetheor. These raiders were not his foster father’s people.
Whit needed time to think about what this all portended. He backed Sinead deeper into the cover of the woodlands, and watched as several shoreboats were launched into the water, one of them carrying Fynn in the direction of the flagship. His heart gave a lurch as a distant shout rang out over the water. Fynn was on his feet in the pitching boat, fighting to free himself from the grip of one of his companions. The man yanked him down hard on the seat, then struck him full in the face.
This violence finally spurred Whit to action. He would not leave Fynn in the hands of these men. They might be the boy’s countrymen, but they weren’t his people, and they clearly weren’t his friends.
A rescue wouldn’t be accomplished easily. Whit would have to get through the remains of the town, steal one of the remaining shoreboats, and go after him—all without being seen.
He leapt down and hastily stowed his pack, then put out a sack of oats for the mare and the stallion, whom he left untethered. If the horses weren’t there when he got back, at least he’d know whoever had taken them would have feed.
If he got back.
His heart pounded in his chest as he crept stealthily out of the woods and onto a narrow street running parallel to the harbor. Little remained of the town he’d ridden into with Master Morgan, Halla, Wren, and Cortenus over a year ago. The Helgrins had made their indelible mark. Most of the houses were still in flames, and the heat was nearly unbearable. Bodies were sprawled on the cobblestones, telling a grisly tale of swift, brutal deaths. All of the corpses were missing thumbs, many of them limbs as well.
The sharp crack of splitting wood warned him only just in time to spin out of the path of a falling timber. It hit the ground in a cloud of ash and smoke, making him cough and choke. Anything that could burn—thatch, the dry timbers of the old houses, wood piles, and even manure heaps—had been put to the torch. The smoke mingled with the rusty tang of blood and sour bile, making his gut churn.
