by Stuart Hill
Sharley nodded again with what he hoped was regal arrogance and followed the tall man, who drifted ahead in a cloud of colour and perfume. He led them directly across an antechamber to a huge set of doors that were studded with brass nails and had scrolled hinges. With exaggerated dignity he slapped the wood three times with his open palm. Eventually, a small grille in one of the doors opened, and the Chief Eunuch announced the arrival of the ‘special’ visitors in a surprisingly high voice.
The doors swung ponderously open, groaning and rumbling on their massive hinges, and they were led inside. Immediately a hissing and bubbling started up amongst several groups of people waiting in the garden beyond. As Sharley passed them he gained the distinct impression that there was more than a little anger towards him amongst the groups of petitioners who’d probably been waiting several days to see the Prince.
Before Sharley lay a beautiful garden far greater and richer than any others he’d seen on his journey through the city. Orange and lemon trees were interspersed with palms, cascading fountains and quiet pools of water lilies, and brilliantly coloured birds and butterflies flew about the trees in small flocks. The Chief Eunuch bowed to him and politely indicated a path that crossed the lawn and headed towards a large pavilion at the centre of the garden. But Sharley would have continued to stand in open-mouthed awe had Al-Khatib not taken his arm and guided him forward.
“Come, the Crown Prince awaits us in his private apartments.”
“He has his own apartments?” Sharley asked enviously, remembering his poky little room in one of the many towers of his mother’s citadel.
“Indeed, and his own courtiers and retainers in the Court of the Lions. It was thought expedient by the palace authorities that Prince Mekhmet should learn of the workings and, shall we say . . . intrigues, of courtly life before he assumes the reins of power.”
Sharley felt like the most awkward and stupid of country bumpkins as he gazed on the sophistication of the Desert Kingdom’s palace society. He’d only ever associated with housecarles, the servants, Maggie and his family before he’d begun this journey into new worlds and strange experiences. But rather than falling into despair, a strange sense of resignation washed over him. He could never hope to be anything other than himself, and if that was found to be wanting by Prince Mekhmet and his courtiers, then there was nothing he could do about it.
Walking under the pavilion’s gold-leafed ceiling was like entering a stone forest. A myriad columns and archways, striped with alternating blocks of light-coloured marble and dark granite, stretched away into the distance. His eye and mind confused by the mass of pillars and patterns, Sharley felt as if they were struggling through a labyrinth, but the Chief Eunuch led them through it until eventually they came to another set of towering doors. Once again, he slapped the wood with the flat of his palm, and once again a small grille was opened.
A terrified Sharley was about to meet Crown Prince Mekhmet at last, though he’d sooner have faced Scipio Bellorum and his entire cavalry, armed with a butter knife and wearing nothing but a pair of carpet slippers. After a few moments he took a deep breath, regained a little composure, and stepped forward into a wide and luxurious room.
At first, he was confused by the brightly coloured silken hangings, deep carpets and exquisitely upholstered divans, and thought the room was empty. But eventually he began to make out groups of richly dressed people – who, he assumed, must be courtiers – lounging about on the divans or standing about in small knots, talking and laughing. In one corner sat a small orchestra playing quietly, and in the centre of the room a fountain trickled its musical tinklings into the air.
The Chief Eunuch hurried to a point on the farthest wall where the only chair in the entire room stood on a raised dais. After a few moments a distant figure stood and clapped its hands. Silence fell, and then a powerful voice rose into the air.
“In the name of the One, give greetings to Charlemagne Athelstan Redrought Strong-in-the-Arm Lindenshield, Prince Regent to the Exiles and son of the warrior House that defeated the hated Polypontian Empire and Scipio Bellorum.”
Sharley was amazed that all of his titles were known so well. Al-Khatib discreetly urged him forward and he realised that he was expected to cross the huge room to the throne. Gritting his teeth, and praying to whoever would listen that his leg wouldn’t give way, he set off. By the time he reached the fountain he was sweating in panic but, as he’d forgotten to remove his hat, headdress and winding scarf, nobody noticed. Also, his slow, careful limp gave him a strange air of dignity that made even the most cynical courtier watch his progress with interest.
At last he stood before the throne and, heaving a quiet sigh of relief, he looked at the seated figure for the first time. His leg almost gave way then and there! He’d obviously been brought to the wrong place and he was standing before the Sultan. A man sat on the throne and returned his gaze from large liquid eyes that narrowed as he observed Sharley’s small travel-stained figure. He had a neatly clipped beard that outlined his fine features perfectly, and on his head was a silken turban with a huge red jewel in the centre.
But then he stood up and Sharley saw that he was barely taller than he was, and when he spoke to a courtier standing nearby, his voice had the uncertain waver and growl of adolescence. This was Prince Mekhmet! But he had a beard! How could he be a week younger than him? Sharley was almost affronted. His own facial hair barely grew at all yet, and when it did, it sprouted in apologetic little wisps that he hurriedly shaved off before anyone could see them and start teasing him.
The silence began to grow uncomfortable.
Suddenly realising he was still wearing his headgear, Sharley swept off hat, headdress and scarf in a single movement, releasing his hair in a startling red halo that blazed about his head like a mane. The Prince and courtiers gasped aloud. They’d heard rumours of the barbarian’s colouring, but they hadn’t believed it. His skin was an amazing milky-white – where it hadn’t been burned red by the sun – and his eyes were the colour of blazing emeralds.
Mekhmet bent forward in fascination to gaze on this Prince of the legendary north. He’d heard that the people there were almost savages, barely civilised at all, and that they even wore animal skins rather than clothes. Yet the boy standing before him seemed human enough. In fact, he looked scared, and he was beginning to blush, his amazing white skin changing to a magnificent red as though wine had been spilled on fine linen.
Mekhmet felt sorry for him, thousands of miles from home, in a foreign Court, carrying the burden of Royalty, and now subjected to the scrutiny of the sort of rich good-for-nothings that were all pigeonholed under the title of “courtier” for the want of anything better. He tried a smile of welcome, and was immediately rewarded with an answering grin that lit up the barbarian’s face and made his amazing green eyes sparkle.
Well, that was a small success anyway. Encouraged, he decided to try and talk to him, hoping that Al-Khatib would join them quickly enough to translate. “Welcome to my Court, Prince Charlemagne.”
“Thank you, Crown Prince Mekhmet. May the One smile upon your House for a thousand generations.”
He spoke the language of the Desert People! Well, how amazing. Obviously intelligence wasn’t lacking in the cold north. “I’m pleased to hear that we will be able to converse without the need of interpreters.”
“No, indeed. I’ve been practising your tongue ever since I was invited aboard Al-Khatib’s ship on my journey to your shores.”
“But that can only have been a few weeks ago!”
“Yes, that’s right. Maggie . . . that is, Maggiore Totus, my tutor, says I have a gift for languages.”
“And he’s right. You have a gift indeed.”
Sharley smiled again as his confidence grew. “There’s no great skill involved really. It’s just a matter of listening, making the link between word and meaning, and then repeating.”
Mekhmet was astonished. He’d never heard anyone deny the complexity of
their talents before. Modesty was considered something of a weakness in the society of the palace – beyond the usual polite phrases of etiquette, of course, but no one believed them. Everyone knew that “Welcome to my humble home” meant “Look at my wonderful furnishings and décor. You could never afford it, and even if you could, you don’t have the taste to carry it off.”
Mekhmet decided to see this astonishing honesty as refreshingly barbaric. “Well, I’m sure I couldn’t learn a language as fast as you obviously have,” he went on, experimenting with the alien idea of modesty, and finding it oddly pleasant.
“Of course you could!” Sharley said firmly, ignoring the horrified murmurs from the courtiers that he’d dared to contradict the Crown Prince. “Say after me . . .” and he slowly enunciated an Icemark greeting often used by the housecarles.
“Eh up . . . hairy arse . . . how’s things?” Mekhmet repeated slowly. “What does it mean?”
Sharley translated as best he could, and the dignity of the Crown Prince slipped slightly as he giggled. “Hairy arse! And is that a polite greeting?” he asked, incredulously.
“No,” said Sharley. “It’s what friends say when they meet.”
“Oh!” said Mekhmet, trying to remember the last time he was greeted by anyone other than a servant, courtier, or immediate member of his family. “Oh,” he said again in a small voice.
“Eh up, Mekhmet, hairy arse, how’s things?” said Sharley, and stepping forward he held out his hand. “I’m known as Sharley to anyone who matters.”
Mekhmet stared at the hand held out in front of him. Eventually realising what he was expected to do, he grasped it, and even gave up the attempt to maintain his usual unsmiling expression. The barbarian’s grin was just too infectious, and he grinned back. “Eh up, Sharley, hairy arse, how’s things?”
“They’re great. For the first time in weeks, they’re just great.”
CHAPTER 18
Thirrin’s moods swung between despairing grief and enormous pride. Cerdic had fallen leading his troops to silence the Imperial cannons, and the werewolf who’d brought news of his death said he’d fought like a hero of the sagas. But she couldn’t get the sound of his absurd giggle out of her head, or the memories of him as a child with Eodred, playing tricks on the housecarles, or running screaming and laughing through the corridors of the palace with an irate soldier in pursuit. They’d once even set fire to a werewolf officer’s pelt – fortunately no harm had been done apart from a few scorch marks and the terrible smell of burnt hair. Thirrin had always defended them, saying that their excesses were just ‘warriors’ exuberance’. But now there were no pranks or laughter – one of her beautiful boys was dead, and the other had retreated to his room and refused to come out. It had been almost a fortnight since the battle and Eodred had eaten next to nothing; Thirrin was beginning to fear he’d starve himself to death.
Cressida was doing her best, applying equal measures of bullying and sisterly love, and the fact that he was still alive at all was probably entirely due to her. In fact, it was only due to her, and her timely arrival on the battlefield, that any of them were still alive.
And above all of Thirrin’s other griefs and fears was Sharley. There’d been no news from or about him for weeks now. The seas around the Icemark were blockaded by a mighty fleet of Zephyrs and Corsairs, allied to the Polypontians, and no messages or letters of any sort could get through. As a result, though Oskan tried to reassure her, she had no concrete way of knowing if she’d lost one son or two. At her lowest points she almost believed Sharley was dead, drowned under the waters of any number of seas or oceans, killed by hostile natives or suffering from some terrible disease. In the middle of one of the biggest armies the allies and soldiers of the Icemark had ever gathered, she felt completely and utterly alone.
Thirrin rose wearily to her feet and crossed to the window where the city opened up before her. As Queen she was expected to be strong and carry on no matter what. So far, she’d managed to do just that, pointing out to the people that theirs was the only army that had ever defeated Scipio Bellorum in the field, and in their last battle they’d repeated that feat. But they’d paid a high price for their victory, far higher than she dared reveal to the population. Not only had Prince Cerdic fallen, but so too had the Basilea of the Hypolitan and her Consort, and almost the entire sweep of experienced staff officers. The rank and file had been decimated too, with thousands killed from all three species: human, Snow Leopard and werewolf. In fact, the Snow Leopard numbers were so depleted Tharaman-Thar had said they could hardly be called an army any more. But at least that would be remedied when reinforcements arrived from the Hub of the World. Krisafitsa-Tharina had gone to the Icesheets to bring them south, while her mate did his best to salvage what he could from the survivors of the battle. But it was many days before the Thar’s booming laugh was heard echoing along the corridors again, and it had taken a drinking competition with his old friend Olememnon of the Hypolitan to finally break his sombre mood.
Tears began to trickle down Thirrin’s cheeks as her mind ran over the events of the last few days. It had been happening a lot recently, which was hardly surprising, but sometimes she wasn’t even aware that she was crying until a tear dropped on to whatever report she was reading, or King Grishmak quietly handed her a hankie, gathered from somewhere in his thick pelt. She wiped at her face irritably. This wasn’t good enough – she had a country to run and that allowed no room for private grief. There probably wasn’t a single family in the entirety of the Icemark that didn’t have some tragedy to grieve over as a direct result of this war, or the last one, and yet they functioned, they got on with life. As Queen she should be setting a good example, not drawing comfort from the strength of her subjects.
She took a deep breath and went to look for Oskan. She was secretly as worried about him as she was about Eodred. He’d said almost nothing about Cerdic since hearing the news of the battle, and had withdrawn into himself. He’d not only shut a physical door on the world – Oskan Witchfather had closed away his mind, and it would take an enormous effort to bring him back.
Thirrin strode through the corridors with a power and a purpose that made everyone stand aside and salute as she swept by. But Oskan wasn’t to be found in the infirmary where the wounded survivors of the battle were recovering, or were slowly sinking into the Peace of the Goddess with the help of the healers who worked there. Thirrin asked some of the witches if they’d seen him, but none of them had, and she set off on her quest again, sending out messengers to all points of the citadel in search of her Consort.
But then it occurred to her that when Oskan needed time alone he often went to his cave in the Great Forest, or if there was no time to do that, he’d descend to the deepest part of the city’s undercroft, where he’d been healed of his terrible burns in the last war with the Empire. She quickly retraced her steps to the infirmary and made her way down to the cellars. From there, she found the broken and crumbling spiral stairway that wound steeply down into the black of the natural caves that lay beneath the city.
On reaching the bottom of the steps the strong, acrid scent of the place filled her nostrils and she almost retched, but controlling herself she raised the torch above her head. The wet, glutinous mud of the cave floor sent up a myriad luminous reflections that dazzled her, but she could see Oskan sitting on a chair in the centre of the rough floor.
She splashed across to him, but then, startled, she took a step back. She’d expected him to be in a trance, and his white eyes and heavy broken breathing were familiar symptoms that didn’t bother her at all. But sitting on the back of his chair was a fabulous eagle, its wings outstretched and its fierce head pointing directly at her. She raised her torch higher to see it better, and realised she could see right through it. The creature was obviously a protective spirit whose task it was to look after the warlock while he was vulnerable. But Thirrin had never seen such a creature before, and could only assume some other power had sent it to
act as a guardian over her husband.
“Don’t worry,” she said in awe. “Oskan Witchfather is my Consort. I’ve come to watch over him too.”
The eagle flapped its wings in a noisy display of strength, and proved its power to be effective even in the physical world as the blast of wind caused Thirrin’s hair to stream about her head. But then the creature settled down and started to preen its feathers. Thirrin scrutinised Oskan’s face, and with a sudden rush of affection she noticed the fine lines and wrinkles that were just beginning to mark the corners of his eyes. She was certain they hadn’t been there when she’d marched off to battle – perhaps at last Time was beginning to write its story on his features. She watched as his face twitched and moved in his trance, the lines deepening and smoothing as the muscles contracted and relaxed.
“Where are you, Oskan?” she asked, leaning forward and gently taking his hand. “What battle are you fighting?”
The warlock was aware of her presence and was comforted by it, but this didn’t distract him from his quest. Ever since the news of the battle had reached him, something had shifted, and he’d realised that the reasoning power of all the Icemark’s High Command and their allies had been clouded and obscured by Magical means. Something or someone had wanted them to be destroyed. Thirrin would never have been stupid enough to fall into such an obvious trap if there hadn’t been some sort of magical control influencing her. All the military leaders had years of combat experience, and yet they’d all willingly marched off to the slaughter. Not only that, but he, Oskan, had let them go! Whoever the witch was, he or she was powerful indeed, but not powerful enough to bamboozle them all. They’d made the mistake of not including Cressida in the bewitchment, and that had been enough to thwart their plans.
Oskan was seethingly, ragingly angry. His son had died as a direct result of this malign influence, and he was determined to avenge him. There was something else nagging at his mind too – something he almost didn’t dare acknowledge. Could somebody closer to the family than he cared to admit be responsible? But who? Surely not Medea. Not his own daughter. His mind swerved away from the thought. No. It was impossible. Whoever it was, they’d covered their tracks well, but he would find them. He plunged deeper, through the mist of the Spirit Plane and into the Magical Realm . . .
