Then the dark eyes fixed on him, as unnerving in their intensity as Danton’s own had been, and he sputtered some words of embarrassment and apology as he knelt before his prince, motioning for his fellow guards to follow suit, while one of them ran off toward the palace to spread the news.
Salvator said nothing, simply motioned for his companions to follow him through the gate. Ten paces before the other monks had been his equals; now, falling into step behind him, they became his attendants.
By the time he reached the palace door the news of his arrival had clearly reached the building and servants who had obviously been surprised by his arrival scurried about in a desperate attempt to look as if they had been expecting him all along. It should not have pleased him, to see them so anxious to receive him properly . . . but it did.
For that sin of pride, he promised himself, he would offer atonement later.
The great oak doors swung open, seemingly of their own accord. The servants who ushered him inside clearly felt that if they bowed down low enough they might be forgiven any other shortcomings. It disturbed him a little how natural it felt to pass them by without acknowledging their existence in any way. It was as if the moment he entered this place his old persona wrapped itself around him, obscuring the man he had worked so hard to become. Was that a good thing? His father would have said it was, but he was not so sure.
He walked far enough that the monks behind him had room to enter. By the time they were all safely inside and the great doors shut behind them, a familiar footstep could be heard approaching. The servants looked away from Salvator as they waited, as if afraid that gazing upon him directly might anger the Royal Heir.
Or perhaps they were afraid of his god, he mused.
Unlike the rest of the palace staff, the castellan who arrived was calm and unruffled. Jan Cresel was some years older than Salvator remembered him, but otherwise much the same. Back in his childhood, Salvator had conspired with the other young princes in various attempts to shake the man’s composure. They had never succeeded. The palace could be crumbling down about Cresel, its vast roof about to fall on his head, and he would appear every bit as calm and collected as he was today.
“Prince Salvator.” He bowed deeply, formally, at exactly the proper angle for welcoming a future king. “Her Majesty is pleased by your return.”
Salvator turned back partway toward his companions, directing Cresel’s attention to them. “These good brothers chose to accompany me in order to discourage trouble upon the road. I trust they are welcome here.”
“Of course. We are honored to have the good brothers as our guests.” His nod toward them was polite but by no means deferential. “The road is long; you must be tired and thirsty.” He gestured to a nearby servant, who quickly stepped forward. “See they are assigned suitable accommodations and have food and drink brought for them.” He looked at Salvator again. “Is there anything else your companions will require?”
“That is all for now.” How easy it was to fall back into his old role. Like an old familiar garment that he had forgotten about but which, donned years later, still fit perfectly. He had not expected that.
“Then, Highness, no doubt you will wish to refresh yourself before making formal presentation. If you will permit me, I will show you to your rooms.” Normally the castellan did not take on such duties himself, but apparently this time he thought it was the proper thing to do. Or perhaps he simply wanted Salvator to know that he accepted his place in the new order of things, monk’s robes and all. Perhaps not all the servants were equally accepting and he wanted to make a point of it in front of them.
“Not necessary, Master Cresel. I found the journey quite invigorating. Where is my mother?”
The expression on the castellan’s face made it clear that he was fully prepared for this turn of events—and any other surprises the young prince might come up with. “Awaiting you, Highness. Of course.” He turned slightly, inviting Salvator to follow him. “I will take you to her.”
Danton’s palace was much as Salvator remembered it . . . and much changed. The halls were the same gray stone, outer walls as thick and windowless as a fortified castle—indeed, the central keep had once served as a fortress, in the days when this region had guarded the vulnerable flank of a newborn kingdom—but there was no longer a sense of gloom about the corners and the dull, aging tapestries that had adorned the walls for as long as Salvator could remember had been either replaced or cleaned. He liked it better this way, he thought, surprised by the brief pang of guilt that followed the thought. As if approving of change was somehow an act of disloyalty.
Any king with a Magister can have his possessions polished and perfect, Danton had once told his son, or even conjured out of pure gold if he desires. But history, tradition . . . these are things that sorcery cannot counterfeit. These are the true measures of a man’s wealth. The High Queen had gone along with that during Danton’s lifetime, of course. But Salvator did not doubt that her first act of mourning had been to assign of veritable army of house-keepers to scrub the place clean and to consign to storage the most faded decorations, or else to have witches restore them to pristine condition. The transformation of his childhood home from gloomy keep to gleaming citadel was both refreshing and—inexplicably—disturbing.
High Queen Gwynofar was waiting for him in the audience chamber. Like the palace itself she was much as he remembered her from his childhood, yet also much changed. The sorrows of the last few months had stolen the blush from her cheeks and though her expression was warm and welcoming at the moment, he could sense the sadness that lay behind it. She was dressed in black, of course. Layers of black, as if each loss required its own separate mourning, with the edges deliberately tattered. The color made her pale skin seem strangely fragile, like that of a porcelain doll. Even in less sorrowful times he had always been amazed by the aspect of delicacy about her, for he had seen her rule by his father’s side—weathering Danton’s most murderous rages, reining in his worst excesses—and he knew what sort of strong stuff she was made of. Few outside of the family understood her strength. And Danton had played such ignorance to his advantage. Foreign dignitaries, mesmerized by Gwynofar’s delicate beauty, would whisper secrets to her that they would never reveal to Danton himself. In their foolishness, they convinced themselves that she would not pass them on to her husband as soon as they were gone. It had always seemed foolish to Salvator, but Danton had assured him that it was a common weakness among men, to let down their guard in the presence of a beautiful woman.
And beautiful she was, there was no denying that. Even in her middle years, shrouded in the black of mourning, she appeared regal and elegant. Those seeing her for the first time would make note of the cascade of golden hair that fell to the small of her back, the clear blue Kierdwyn eyes, and a face that was enhanced rather than despoiled by the first few lines of age now fanning out from the corners of her eyes, drawing attention to their depths. Men would die for such eyes, he thought. Some probably had.
As soon as she saw him, she reached out instinctively toward him: a mother’s welcome. “Salvator!” Then she stopped suddenly, remembering what he was; her hands fell down awkwardly by her sides, even though she clearly ached to touch him. “Forgive me. Your vows—”
“The apology is mine to make, Mother.” How strange the title sounded on his lips! He had the sudden dizzying sensation of being caught between worlds, unable to manage stable footing in either. “But until my vows are set aside I must hold to them, and yes, that requires I have no physical contact with women.” He smiled slightly. “Even my mother.”
What did she really think of his faith? The Penitents’ view of the Protectors and their mission was far from flattering. Had she taken that into consideration when she’d asked him to return, or had she hoped that such things would cease to matter once he set aside his priestly robes? There was no need to ask the question aloud; he knew what the answer would be. High Queen Gwynofar would have weighed ever
y option before asking her second child to come home. She knew what his religion was about. She understood the risks of such a course. And she had judged it the best of all her options, even so.
So here he was, in this strange place that was no longer home to him, where the very stones under his feet seemed to echo his father’s presence. You served a great dream, he thought to Danton, and brought peace to this continent, albeit at the point of a sword. I would have preferred that Rurick inherit such responsibility, but in his absence I will do my best.
With a smile Gwynofar indicated a nearby table, where a large brass platter of breads and cheeses and another of roasted lamb were flanked by several heavy pewter pitchers and a matching goblet. It was quite an impressive array, given how little warning she’d had of his arrival. Clearly she had been prepared for his return and had even taken into account that he might circumvent the usual protocols in his arrival. Thus had she been with Danton, he remembered, always anticipating his needs. It was yet another quality in her that strangers tended to underestimate.
“I didn’t know how hungry you would be when you arrived,” she told him, “so I prepared a bit of everything.”
He was indeed hungry and felt his stomach tighten at the sight of such a banquet. He quelled the sensation with effort, giving thanks to his god for testing him thus. Sacrifice had little value if it came too easily.
His hesitation was clearly not what she had expected. “You are allowed to eat, yes?”
A brief smile flickered across his lips. “It would be a short-lived faith if we were not.” He stepped forward to the table, and after a moment’s contemplation took up a small piece of bread and a cup of plain water. “However, as a personal offering, I have sworn off all but the simplest fare until my coronation. Doubtless the royal cooks will be relieved.”
She drew in a sharp breath as if to protest, but he raised up a hand before she could begin. “You asked me to set aside my vows in order to become king. That I will do, in proper time. Until that hour I am what I am, Mother. You called home a priest. Would you expect me to comport myself as anything less?”
She bit her lip for a moment. “You are as stubborn as your father was, you know that?”
“So my teachers told me. Often.” He bit off a piece of the bread and washed it down with a mouthful of water. It quieted the beast in his stomach somewhat.
“However,” she said, “You must eat a good meal before your coronation. You cannot afford to look weak before the vassals of Danton’s empire.”
He opened his mouth to argue the point—but then he saw the resolve in her eyes and he sensed the steel will that lay hidden behind her black silk and gentle manners. It was already a lost battle, he realized. Even Danton had given way to her when he saw that look in her eyes.
Swallowing the last bite of bread (and how his stomach cried out for more!), he turned his attention to a nearby window and the view it offered of the devastated landscape surrounding the palace. “Tell me how my father died. I have heard the public details, of course, but I wish it from your tongue.”
It was a horrific tale, one that began with a proud king’s mental dissolution and ended in his bloody death at the hands of his own family. Gwynofar played but lightly upon that last part, perhaps not wishing to discuss why the High King’s own son had decided he must die. The fault did not lay with Danton; she made that quite clear. A foreign Magister allied to a Souleater had used Danton like a puppet and their family had paid the price for it. Salvator nodded as he listened; that much he had already been told.
But it was when she spoke of the Souleater itself that he listened most closely. It was the first detailed description he had ever heard from someone who had actually seen one of the demons, and it made his blood run cold as a strange elation that was half fear and half awe suffused his veins.
This, this is the Scourge of the Destroyer, that was sent in ages past to humble mankind. My father tried to stand among the gods and he was brought down for it. Now we must await our Creator’s judgment as he decides whether one such warning is enough, or whether those ancient horrors must be repeated in their entirety in order for us to learn our lesson.
He did not speak of such things to Gwynofar, of course. She was of a different faith, one based upon human pride, that dreamed of a final battle between Souleater and man, which man presumably might win. It was a primitive faith, simple in its understanding of the world, and in time he would have to address it. But not now. Now was a time for strengthening the bonds of family, not straining them.
We stand at the edge of a precipice, he thought, one step away from a great and terrible darkness. If we fail to keep our balance, who is to say whether our descendants will ever find the light again?
“You must decide where you wish your coronation to be held,” his mother was saying. “Little else can be done until that choice is made.”
With a start he realized that he had missed her last words. Time for meditation later, he admonished himself. “Here, of course. What better place to demonstrate the continuing strength of the High Kingdom than Danton’s own seat of power?”
She frowned; clearly the choice did not please her. “You know the palace cannot shelter so many. We will wind up with royal encampments in a charred ruin. That is hardly an appropriate setting.”
“Perhaps it will inspire them to reflect upon the nature of the world. That life as we know it is but a fleeting indulgence and that same god who created us can just as easily destroy us.” He walked over to the table as he spoke and broke off another piece of bread. Reflex. After a moment’s thought he put it down again. “Or perhaps it will inspire them to reflect upon the last time this land was cleared, when war ravaged the region, and no prince could afford to offer an enemy cover this close to his gates.”
He put down his cup and brushed a few stray crumbs from his robe. “But come now, Mother, show me what changes you have made in this place, and how the ancestor trees have grown in my absence. Meanwhile I shall attempt to answer all the questions you have for me, and we may begin our planning.”
Sunset lay like a wound along the western horizon, spilling crimson clouds into a bruised purple sky. On the black earth below a hundred lanterns sputtered as workers continued to haul away the charred remnants of a great royal forest, struggling to accomplish it by the deadline they had been given. The ground beneath their feet was bleak and barren as far as the eye could see; only the single castle that looked over it, and the stark mountains to the north, broke the rhythm of the landscape.
Standing alone atop the building’s highest tower, wrapping her arms against the sudden chill of the evening breeze, Gwynofar remembered when the forest had burned. Kostas had started the fire—Kostas, that vile creature posing as a Magister who had stepped in to counsel her husband when Ramirus had left them—and then ordered all of Danton’s servants to let it burn to its natural end. For three days and nights the sky had spewed forth ash in furious waves, a foul and unnatural storm. At the time Gwynofar had thought the fire no more than an act of spite, meant to strangle her heart with sorrow so that she would be more easily manipulated. Perhaps, she had reasoned later, Kostas had wanted her to hate him so blindly that she would not wonder at the strange supernatural chill that ran up her spine any time he entered a room. But no, even that was not enough to explain it. No matter how much she added up the pieces of the puzzle now, it was still not enough. Kostas had served a Souleater. Souleaters fed upon life. What did either of them stand to gain from such utter devastation? Surely her own discomfort, no matter how pleasing it was to him, was not enough to explain what he had done.
There was another piece of the puzzle somewhere. All the instincts in her lyr soul told her that it mattered. She had to find it.
“Your Majesty?”
The voice was familiar to her, a memory from a better time. She turned toward its owner with an ache in her heart. Would that things could go back to the way they were a year ago, she thought. Would that the gods h
ad not decided to test us so cruelly. “Ramirus.”
The ancient Magister bowed his head ever so slightly; his flowing white beard stirred in the evening breeze. “I promised you I would come.”
She sighed heavily. For a moment words deserted her.
“I take it things did not go well?”
She looked out over the landscape once more. “He means to hold his coronation here, Ramirus. He said that Danton’s ruined forest will serve as a reminder to both men and monarchs that life is but a fleeting thing, and that the same gods who created the earth can also destroy it.”
“Ah, yes. The creed of the Penitents. A curious tradition.” He came to where she stood, near the outer wall, and gazed out upon the landscape beside her. “You made a strange move, choosing that one to succeed Danton.”
She did not speak until she was sure she could do so without emotion. “There was no real choice.”
“You could have left him in the monastery. He might have spent a lifetime happily chanting his prayers and denying himself a woman’s pleasure, and never mourned his lack of temporal power.”
“Perhaps,” she agreed. “Or instead he might have discovered, after a few years of watching his younger brother rule, that there was more to existence than such a sterile plan . . . and then perhaps he would decide that he had been cheated and he would divide the High Kingdom against itself to claim what should have been his by birthright.” She sighed. “My summons was a test. If he had not answered exactly as he had, I would have placed my fourth son on the throne and left Salvator to his strange two-faced god. But Danton’s blood is strong in my second-born. Strong enough that when he heard the call to power he set aside his vows of faith to answer it without hesitation. Do you honestly believe such a man would have remained quietly in the background for his entire life? Do you think Valemar would have been strong enough to contain him?”
“Better, perhaps, for a woman to claim the throne.”
Wings of Wrath Page 3
