by T. O. Munro
“I did,” Abroath replied flatly. It was an equivocation. He had not lied, but both he and the Prince would draw a different meaning from his answer. After all Rugan had not asked whose definition of suitable was to be used. Abroath had considered the matter most carefully and decided there was none more suitable than himself. He hoped the Prince would not probe him further, into the sin of plain falsehood.
Rugan hesitated, his suspicions raised by something in the Prior’s manner, or perhaps the reddening blush appearing at the tips of Abroath’s ears and upon his bald tonsured pate. Abroath crossed his fingers and thought a silent prayer to the Goddess as Rugan opened his mouth to speak.
No words came out. There was a crashing salute from a sentry who practically ran into the assembly, followed by three women.
“Your highness…” the sentry began.
“What is the meaning of this?” the Lady Kychelle found her voice first but her question was not directed at the guard. “Explain yourself Seneschal Quintala!”
Abroath, by virtue of his late arrival, was nearest the opening and most able to examine the newcomers. He had heard of the Prince’s half sibling, but never met her. His father had talked only of the other half-elf. His brothers had spun stories that made him blush of the particular favours she was alleged to bestow on men of sufficient stamina and prowess, a group they earnestly asserted themselves qualified to join. And now, she stood before him, skin darker toned than her half-brother’s, hair a scintillating silver, swept back over sharply pointed ears. She was smiling so broadly it was almost a grin.
“Grandmama, brother dear, may I present your new Queen, her Majesty Niarmit, Monarch of the Salved.”
The Seneschal stood aside with a sweeping bow to make way for the second in the party, clad in leathers, with red hair dulled with the dust of a hard journey. There was a burst of low chatter from the gathering of soldiers as they gasped their shock at each other. Only Abroath, his eyes on this strange new queen, saw the look of deep irritation as her green eyes flashed towards the bowing, smiling laughing Seneschal.
There was a thump of a staff on a table as Kychelle commanded silence for her words. “This is no time for foolish pranks, Quintala. Your brother stands on the threshold of a great victory. I know not what road you have travelled but take your imposter away before you are both arrested. It is only the greater business in hand which prevents me from dealing with you as you deserve this instant.”
The threat only intensified the Seneschal’s amusement and she seemed ready to launch some riposte, but the newly pronounced queen waved her into silence.
“Please forgive the intemperate manner of our announcement, we have ridden hard and it took more time than we anticipated to find you. We bring news of great peril. A fresh force is arriving from the south, from Undersalve.”
“I know you,” Rugan was saying. “You are Niarmit of Undersalve.”
Kychelle’s brow furrowed in thought. “The daughter of that old fool Matteus?”
“I will thank you madam, to speak more graciously of him that raised me,” Niarmit snapped. “But, much as it pains me to confess, I am no daughter of Matteus.”
“What of this peril to the south?” Rugan demanded. “How many?”
“About twelve thousand, brother.” Quintala interjected. “I might say twelve thousand souls, but some of the foe are less complete than that.”
“You lie!” Rugan declared, the colour draining from his face.
“It is a tidy force I grant you, enough to make you retreat perhaps. But then you are under my Queen’s command now, so your usual favoured option will not be yours to choose.”
“Insolent witch!” Rugan spat, his eyes blazing with a fury far hotter than his joy at the birth of his heir.
“Enough!” Kychelle slammed her staff on the table. “Sentry, summon the guards and bring strong chains.”
“No, grandmother,” Rugan cried. “There is some thread of truth in this tangled tale, and I would know more clearly what peril we face before I have these interlopers restrained.”
“More truth than you can bear, dear brother,” Quintala assured him with a mocking twist to her mouth.
“Silence Seneschal,” the Queen Niarmit commanded with a vigour to rival the Lady Kychelle’s. “You have said quite enough, now let me tell our tale in good order and at swift pace. The Goddess has granted us little enough time to waste it in argument.”
Quintala’s eyebrows rose at the unexpected rebuke and then she gave the Queen a low bow of excessive servility.
Rugan gave a quick nod. “On the matter of time at least, you are right, Lady Niarmit.”
Quintala bounced up ready to correct Rugan’s choice of title, but Niarmit with a curt flick of her hand stayed the half-elf’s interruption.
The Prince went on, “perhaps we could start with precisely who you are. We believed you dead, but if my sister has spoken any sense you are not only resurrected but transformed.”
“I am not of the line of Matteus. I never was. I am Gregor’s bastard, conceived while my half-brother Eadran was still in his mother’s womb. With Eadran and Thren both dead, I am Gregor’s heir.” She paused, letting the company absorb the implication of her words. Then she turned her gaze on Rugan whose face was lined with the confusion of denial. She spoke softly, with eyes hooded almost in apology. “King Gregor is dead. Prince Rugan, I am your Queen, you are my vassal.”
“No!” Kychelle screamed. “A tawdry story badly told. I have no doubt you are no child of Matteus. His vigour was spent long years before he wed your mother. No doubt she amused herself with every passing servant and one of them perchance has sired you. This pretty tale of royal infidelity was doubtless dreamed up to give some gilding of honour to a most dishonourable progeny. My grandson and my great grandson will never bend the knee to you, bastard born bitch.”
Rugan waved Kychelle’s invective into silence. “What proof have you of what you say Lady Niarmit?”
Niarmit nodded, “proof enough, Prince Rugan. I have three proofs to share with you.”
She reached around her neck and pulled out a heavy jewelled ankh, its oval head filled with a great pink hued gem, and laid it on the table. “You know this, it is the Royal Ankh.”
“It looks like it,” Rugan conceded.
“It chose me as Gregor’s heir. It was brought to me glowing red and white and when I took hold of it, its colour settled as you see. It acknowledged me as his heir and now it tracks my heir, the Bishop Udecht.”
“Udecht lives?” Rugan asked.
“Who brought this trinket to you?” Kychelle demanded.
“The Lord Feyril found me in Dwarfport.”
“Another old fool enters this tale,” Kychelle spat. “I might have guessed at that, ever pulling the strings of his human puppets was Feyril, master of marionettes. Bah, Dwarfport, what kind of place is that to find a queen, and what business had a woman like you there? Employed in your mother’s occupation no doubt?”
“I will thank you Lady Kychelle, to speak of my mother with due courtesy or not at all,” Niarmit spoke low and hard but she met the elf lady’s gaze and held it with a fierce intensity until Kychelle looked away.
“Forgive my Grandmother,” Rugan urged lightly. “You bring us a tale that is as fantastic as it is ill timed. Emotions naturally run high. However, a piece of jewellery such as this is no proof. I could conjure a dozen items of like appearance, as could my sister here. Indeed her presence makes that enchantment seem a most likely option.”
Quintala shrugged. “Think what you will, brother, the ankh is genuine. I had no part in its manufacture.”
Niarmit nodded slowly. “I have been to Morwencairn and I have worn the Helm of Eadran the Vanquisher.”
Rugan’s mouth dropped “Where is the Helm now?”
“We left it behind, but not before I had placed it on my head and it had marked me, see!” She swept the hair back from her temple to reveal a horseshoe shaped mark etched in her skin.
<
br /> Kychelle gave another snort of derision. “A story too convenient to be anything other than a lie. Wore the Helm? Left the Helm? Marked by the Helm? Lady when I see it set upon your head, then I may believe you’ve worn the Helm of Eadran.” She strode along the length of the table leaning on her staff. “Show me child.”
Niarmit turned her head to allow the elf’s inspection, suffered her even to brush over the mark with her thumb as though seeking to wipe it away. “Hmm, no proof at all,” was her verdict. “Old King Bulveld and half the monarchs of the Salved never wore the Helm at all. They had a mark tattooed upon their skin in imitation of the Helm’s brand. Doubtless this is the same trickery, used to support an imposter.”
“Why are you such a horrible old lady?”
The third of the new arrivals emerged from Niarmit’s shadow to challenge the elf. Abroath saw that she was younger than Niarmit, dark haired and not much more than a child. She was dusty from the same hurried ride. Yet the dust did not hide scars on both cheeks that must once have been deep and painful.
“How dare you speak to me!” Kychelle cried.
“How dare you be so rude? We have ridden hundreds of miles to warn you, to help you. Niarmit has saved many lives including mine and may well be about to save yours, but all you can do is insult her and her family and… just being old doesn’t give you the right to be such a nasty witch.”
Kychelle’s staff swung in a vicious arc aimed at the girl’s ribs, but it never struck home. Niarmit’s hand caught it and held it. The shock in Kychelle’s eyes deepened as she struggled to pull the staff back, but Niarmit would not let go. Instead she wrenched it from the elf’s grasp. Kychelle staggered and would have fallen, not from loss of balance but from the shock of being disarmed and assailed.
“How dare you!” the elf cried.
“Silence,” Niarmit commanded. “As my companion has said, I have borne your ill manners with good grace in order that my message will be more swiftly understood and acted upon. Speak ill or out of turn again and I will break this staff upon your back.”
Kychelle whirled round on Rugan. “Will you let me be spoken to like that? in your own court!”
“Forgive me grandmama, but in the midst of this heated debate there is a cold truth to be extracted before we can see who owes what amends to whom.”
“Indeed, Prince Rugan,” Niarmit acknowledged.
“And, while the Lady Kychelle may have expressed herself less decorously than would be considered politic,” Rugan went on. “She is right in that neither of your first two proofs are incontrovertible. A facsimile and a tattoo are equally plausible explanations for the proof you offer.”
Again the scarred girl was roused in indignation. “I’ve seen her wear the Helm, I saw her take it off. Are you calling me a liar?”
“I’m not calling you anything,” Rugan replied. “In fact, who are you?”
Before Niarmit could stop her, Quintala had launched another grinning introduction. “Brother dear, may I present the Princess Hepdida, only child of the Bishop Udecht and another one who stands in line for the throne before any progeny of yours.”
This time Kychelle did need to sit down. She staggered backwards and was helped into a chair by two of Rugan’s captains. “You mock me Quintala,” she muttered. “All your life your very existence has mocked me and now, at this time, in this place, you choose…. Quintala you are evil.”
“I must concede,” Rugan agreed. “That a second bastard, breaks all the bounds of credibility in this tale.” There was a murmuring of support around the table, which Abroath found himself echoing. “I know not what you may have suffered, Lady Niarmit, or what trickery my sister has put you to, but this is no time or place for such distraction. Sentry, summon the guard. You will be restrained until the battle is fought and we will speak more of your outrageous claims then. Please, go with them peaceably.”
There was ring of steel as Niarmit drew her sword from the scabbard over her shoulder, far faster than those near her could react. The officers and Abroath fell back a yard or more. Kychelle murmured, “guard, fetch the archers. The bitch is mad.”
Rugan was still, his tone measured. “Lady Niarmit, I would not shed any blood of the Salved on the eve of battle. Please, put up your sword. You are not well.”
“I said, three proofs, Prince Rugan. Here is the third.” Niarmit, equally at ease replied. “This is the sword of the father, one of a pair forged by Eadran to be borne by the King and his Heir. This weapon was recovered from the enemy and given to me by Bishop Udecht, my uncle Bishop Udecht. You know of it, you know it. Only one of Eadran’s line can touch this weapon. The blood line magic of the Vanquisher will not let any other handle it. I offer you my third proof, that I alone of all the warriors in this gathering can hold and wield this sword.”
She glared around at the wide eyed throng, and then flung the weapon onto the table where it lay pointing at Rugan. “Now let anyone of you lay hands upon it and prove me a liar.”
They gazed around at each other. “A clever bluff,” Rugan conceded without making any move towards the blade. “There is cunning in your madness, Lady Niarmit.”
“By the Goddess, let’s make an end of this farce,” Abroath declared, striding forward to seize the hilt of the sword.
There was a flash of light, a numbing shock and then everything went black for the white robed prior.
***
“They are taking too long,” Thom muttered as he prowled between the horses. The dismounted lancers eyed him with disinterest. After the exhausting ride through the hills in search of Rugan’s camp they were simply grateful of the chance to rest themselves and tend their sweating mounts.
The illusionist swung round to confront the row of silver liveried Medyrsalve guards lining the path between the dirt spattered troop and the main camp. “Hey,” he cried. “What’s going on? We’ve ridden into the ground to bring you warning and you’re treating us no better than orcs.”
The guards looked back impassively, though Thom saw a few of them tighten their grip on the shafts of their spears.
“Easy, young Thom,” Kaylan’s voice low in his ear urged calm. “The Seneschal and the Sergeant may have misremembered the path, but Tordil’s star gazing set us right and we have got here in time. My Lady knows what she is doing. Have a little faith, trust her.”
“It’s been too long though. I may trust the Lady Niarmit, but I do not trust these fellows or their master.”
“Those of us who remember Bledrag field have plenty to reproach Prince Rugan with. But by your accent, Master Wizard, you are an Oostener. Your Prince and Rugan were ever as thick as thieves, your provinces entwined in mutual support. The silver soldiers are more your friends than mine.”
“Princes and thieves, aye, that’s true enough,” Thom agreed. ”Tolls at every stage along the Eastway and taxes in the harbour at Oostport. There’s many were ruined when Undersalve fell and the route down the River Nevers to trade with the Eastern lands was severed. There are many like me who found it strange that in times of such austerity, the grandeur and wealth of the two princes seemed only to grow.”
“All wealth is stolen,” Kaylan noted dourly. “The small people call it theft, the great people call it rulership.” When Thom gave him a sharp glance, he added, “I speak both as thief and as one of the small people.”
“Yet you serve the Lady Niarmit and would help make her ruler over all the Salved.”
“The Lady Niarmit is the most honourable person I have ever met. I would serve her with my last breath,” Kaylan replied with the bland certainty one might use to pass comment on cloudy weather.
“How is it then that a thief came to serve a princess?” Thom asked.
Kaylan shrugged. “These past five years have been the strangest of times. Mine is a short tale, a little strange perhaps, but I suspect no stranger than that of how a condemned and exiled user of wizardry became a close confidante in my Lady’s entourage?” He gave the illusionist a level sta
re.
Thom blinked beneath the inquisitive glare. “I owe the Lady Niarmit everything. I am pleased to repay her with whatever small service I can offer.”
Kaylan nodded. “There are many with debts as great or greater than yours, who nonetheless betrayed my Lady.” He let his finger rest on Thom’s chest just at the base of his rib-cage. “It was about there that my sword came through the last person who betrayed her.”
Thom drew a shallow breath. “Rest easy, Kaylan. I’ll not be the next.”
The thief bent his head close and whispered, “Be sure you aren’t, not ever.”
***
“Hepdida, tend to the monk. He may have hit his head on the way down,” Niarmit commanded as Rugan and the assembled company stood open mouthed.
“A trick,” Kychelle declared. “Some trick just like the others.”
Niarmit retrieved the sword from where the Prior had dropped it and swung the weapon with weary fury through the oaken table top. The timber cleaved apart with no more resistance than a sheet of parchment. She swung twice more until two legs were severed and the table tipped its quills and papers at her feet. “We have not the time for this,” she cried. “This is the sword, no fake, no artifice and in my veins the blood of the Vanquisher runs. Will you not heed the warning I have ridden so hard to bring.”
Rugan nodded curtly. “It seems you are indeed of Eadran’s line, though where exactly you lie within that illustrious lineage is yet to be proven. You have yourself raised the spectre of illegitimacy not once but twice. Who is to know for sure at what point your line branched out from Eadran’s legitimate heirs. Mayhap your heritage is as remote as was Gregor the First’s when he succeeded Queen Nena.”
“By the Goddess….”
“Still, for the blood that runs in you, we will admit you to our counsels and hear your advice.”
“She comes to command, not advise, brother,” Quintala spat.
“The regiments of Medyrsalve march to my orders sister, they are not the Lady’s to command.”
