by T. O. Munro
“Burying the story of the Helm in shit?”
“But it seems it is what it appears, nothing more or less than a lunatic’s obsession with his alimentary health.”
“No one who wore the Helm has ever spoken of its power, Haselrig, or written of it. The Helm’s secrets each wearer carries to the grave. Once they have set the thing upon their head their lips are sealed about its secrets.”
The antiquary looked up sharply. “Say that again, your reverence.”
“Once they have set the thing upon their head their lips are sealed about its secrets,” Udecht repeated slowly unnerved by the gleam in Haselrig’s eyes.
The antiquary slapped his palm against his forehead. “Fool that I am,” he cried. “I have only searched Chirard’s writings after he became King, after he had worn the Helm. If what you say is true, its powers would have struck him dumb on the subject. But before he became king, before he set it on his head, maybe he discovered some secret of the Helm that initiated his orgy of kinslaying just so he could access its powers.”
Haselrig stood up abruptly. “Come Udecht, get rid of this rubbish. There are a dozen shelves of the writings of the young Lord Chirard that we have not even touched.”
Udecht rose less happily, unsure whether the antiquary’s new found optimism would prove a cause for long term celebration. However, he was grateful that it had distracted Haselrig from probing more deeply into the Bishop’s weaknesses. He had no desire for anyone in Maelgrum’s service to know how often and with what fears he thought of the distant daughter he had known so fleetingly.
***
“He is so small,” Hepdida said in wonderment as tiny pink fingers curled around her thumb.
“You were that small once,” the lady said, the kind lady with the long dark hair and the pale face.
“Can I hold him?”
“Of course.”
Hepdida reached and the wet nurse let the girl slip her arms around the bundle of cloth and tiny life. “If I ever have a child I will love it and protect it and never let it go,” Hepdida murmured looking down into the dark brown eyes that fixed her with unblinking curiosity.
“I am sure you will,” the lady said. “Here sit down with him, let his head rest in the crook of your elbow.”
Hepdida settled into the chair swallowed by its high back and deep upholstery. The baby Andros gurgled contentedly at her.
“I never had a brother or sister,” she said.
“I had three brothers,” the lady replied sadly. “That was not always a good thing, but I miss them. I miss all of them.”
Hepdida looked up at her. “Udecht still lives, Niarmit told me she would know if he had died.”
“I would know too,” Giseanne said, her hands crossed in front of her. “Udecht lives and I hope he may someday be happier than he is now.”
“He is thinner than he was,” Hepdida said searching for some comfort for the kind lady with the sad voice. “I mean,” she added hurriedly, “I think that is better for him.”
“I know. He always had enough to spare a few pounds,” Giseanne reassured her, taking the seat opposite the nursing chair. They fell silent in contemplation of absent fathers and present babies.
“Now, my dear,” Giseanne said. “What about those clothes I promised you. We can’t have you wondering the palace in those travel stained rags.”
“Really,” Hepdida looked up reminded suddenly of the lady’s promise when first she had been spirited away from Niarmit’s entourage.
Giseanne nodded to a maidservant by the door who promptly disappeared. “When I came here from my wedding, one of my ladies in waiting was of a size with you. She left the ceremonial gowns when she returned to Morwencairn. I have them still.”
“You are too generous,” Hepdida gushed as the servant returned bearing two elegant dresses, different concoctions of forest green and delicate coral.
The wet nurse approached to retrieve the Lordling Andros, as Giseanne urged. “Go, try them on. I am sure poor Laetitia has no use of them now, where-ever she is.”
Hepdida hesitated in reaching for the coral gown. “I am sure the Goddess has watch on your lady in waiting.” She felt the emptiness of her words having seen what had become of the inhabitants of the captive city of Morwencairn, but the lady seemed reassured. Hepdida grabbed at the shimmering dress as a starving man might seize a hunk of bread and dashed into the ante-chamber.
Giseanne’s eye was true, the dress was a perfect fit. Hepdida swirled and twirled before a tall looking glass, trying to admire herself from every angle. As a child she had imagined herself a princess, and then a simple soldier’s sweetheart, before the bold brave Captain Kimbolt had become the focus for all her fantasies. As the dress spun around her she was again that child in her mother’s room dancing in the dress too fine for Sahira to have owned. She stopped, remembering then the torn silk, her mother’s fury, the stinging slap and the hissed warning that her father must never be told.
It was with subdued pleasure that Hepdida returned to show Giseanne her gift and she was glad she had bitten back the shining adolescent joy for Quintala stood at the lady’s shoulder and the half-elf did not look pleased.
“Your cousin has had us scouring the palace for you, my Princess,” the Seneschal said with a grim visage but a twinkle in her eyes.
“What fear can your mistress have for the lady’s safety in my husband’s house?” Giesanne asked lightly.
“I think her only fear was that the young Princess might be making a nuisance of herself.”
Hepdida frowned and flounced at Quintala’s words, recognising in them the ungarnished truth.
“I find her quite charming,” Giseanne soothed. “She has certainly made a good impression on the little Lordling, and do you not think she brings new life to this old gown?”
Quintala nodded, “she certainly looks every part the Princess, now, though the Lady Niarmit would not want her to trespass too heavily on your generosity.”
“You mean my cousin’s worried I will spoil her game of politics,” Hepdida snapped.
Quintala’s eyebrow shot up at the outburst but it was Giseanne who spoke. “It is no burden, Seneschal. I have been here in pampered safety while your mistress and the Lady Hepdida have been braving many dangers. I am grateful to be able to offer them any comforts I can, and you too Seneschal. You have ridden a varied wearying road since last we spoke.”
“The journey had its surprises,” Quintala admitted. “I did not expect to return in such circumstances. In truth, I am not sure I expected to return at all.”
Giseanne reached for the half-elf’s hand and squeezed it warmly. “When you left it was with an angry and impatient heart. I hope the fires of your self-reproach have burned out now, Seneschal. My brother trusted you, trusted you with all he held dear.” Quintala tried to pull her hand away, but Giseanne gripped it tighter.
“I failed him, failed them both,” the half-elf said thickly.
“That was the enemy’s doing, not your failure,” Giseanne assured her as Quintala freed her hand at last. “Rebuke yourself no more. Look to the future.”
“I will serve my Queen,” Quintala said stiffly. “My Lady Giseanne is too kind, always too kind.” She turned to Hepdida and gave a short bow. “I will tell her Majesty that I have found you, my Princess and that you are neither come to nor causing any harm where you are.”
“Thank you, Seneschal,” Giseanne answered for them both. “The Lady Hepdida has another dress to try and then I think the little Lordling would welcome another hold.”
***
Thom looked around the circle of faces trying to gauge their reaction to the story he had just told. It had been a frank confession of his sin of wizardry, his exile beyond the barrier, his induction into Maelgrum’s gathering army and the thankfully small part he had played in the disasters the Dark Lord had subsequently wreaked upon the kingdom of the Salved. Niarmit had told him to speak plain and he had given them the ungilded truth. Seeing
now their stern expressions, he wished he had made more of his own repugnance at the actions forced upon him.
“So,” the mitred prelate at Rugan’s left began. “You were at this battle of Proginnot where you say King Gregor fell and you served the enemy there?”
Thom nodded glumly. “I was with the legion of the undead, Bishop Sorenson.” He used the name with all due reverence, instinctive subservience to ingratiate himself with the representative of the boy Prince of Nordsalve. “King Gregor and his cavalry charged us, charged them that is, into them, through them. He was chasing down his brother Xander, but Xander was the victor in that combat. I saw him waving the two swords, the Father and the Son. The one he must have got from Prince Thren, the other from Gregor.”
“But Xander perished in the capture of Morwencairn?” the darker haired of the two Lords of Oostsalve interrupted. Why the Prince had sent both Abroath’s brothers was as much a mystery as to why Rugan had admitted both of them to the council, they could surely only have the one vote.
Thom nodded. “That is right Lord Leniot, I heard Marwella, the leader of the Necromancers recount the tale. The Prince Xander was not well liked amongst the mages in Maelgrum’s army so the story of his fate was retold many times over. He was killed as the city fell. He wore the Helm and it destroyed him.”
“By the Goddess, it must be a truly evil traitor to find no friends in an army of exiles, orcs and undead,” Leniot’s bearded brother exclaimed.
“Indeed Lord Tybert,” Thom conceded. “I only knew of him. We never exchanged any words. But Prince Xander was a man of rude and uncertain temper; few sought out his company or long enjoyed his favour.” He bowed towards Rugan’s wife seated impassively at the Prince’s right hand. “Begging you pardon to speak ill of your brother, Lady Giseanne.”
She waved his apology aside. “An ill truth is better than a kind lie, Master Thomelator.”
“Tell me again,” Bishop Sorenson said. “Of what happened when Morwencairn fell. You say these poor soulless beings were let loose upon the population.”
Thom swallowed hard and nodded. “Yes, they were driven through the gates which the dragon had burned away.”
“Dragon!” Lord Leniot snorted.
“I saw it,” Thom snapped. “With my own eyes.”
“Before you yourself drove a horde of undead to sack the city and kill its inhabitants,” Kychelle broke in with a voice like cut glass.
“It was not a horde,” Thom stammered. “Not mine, my duty was only ever to round up stragglers.”
“Lady Kychelle you miss the point,” Niarmit’s flashed a glance at Thom to bid him silent. “Thom has told you that Xander was destroyed when he tried to wear the Helm. That is proof that, despite the deaths of Gregor, Thren and Eadran, Prince Xander was not next in line to the throne. That there was another child of Gregor’s betwixt him and the power he craved. Is not this proof that I am Gregor’s heir?”
“Lady Niarmit,” the elf replied hands folded on the gnarled wooden staff before her. “It is you who miss the point. We have before us a man who has admitted engaging in a practice of magic forbidden to all humans, who has admitted treacherously serving the enemy in not one but two battles against the soldiers of the Salved. If it is on the uncertain word of this self-confessed criminal that you choose to rest your case, then it lies on shaky ground indeed.” While Niarmit’s jaw dropped in stunned surprise, the elf rounded on Thom. “Tell me, Master Thomelator, when did you last take your dose of mentis torpens?”
“What?” The unanticipated question quite threw the bewildered illusionist. He looked across at Niarmit for guidance, but the Queen was as wrong footed as he. “I… er.. that is…Mentis Torpens?” Thom stammered.
“Come Master Thomelator, answer,” the elf upbraided him.
“Please, my Lady, call me Thom.” Thom tried his best winning smile. ”Only my Mother and the crone Marwella ever called me much by my full name.”
“Well I am certainly neither your mother nor a crone,” Kychelle retorted hotly. “And answer the question, when did you have your last dose of mentis torpens.” She stamped her staff on the floor. “Mind numbing juice, you sometimes call it, used to make criminal mages safe.”
“Er… I haven’t.”
“What,” Kychelle bridled. “Don’t tell me, Lady Niarmit, that you have brought into our council a practitioner of arts forbidden to all humans yet still fully able to deploy any spell he should chose!”
Bishop Sorenson reached for his crescent symbol. The brother Lords looked at each other and then the nearest exit. The elf Lady glared around in enjoyment at the disquiet she had inspired. “What proof have we that any of this is true, that Gregor or Xander are even dead with witnesses of this calibre!” She pointed in turn at Thom and Hepdida whose earlier testimony had been heard in muted silence. The Princess’s scarlet cheeks and furious expression were in rude contrast with the elegance of her new clothes and freshly braided hair.
“They speak true, Lady Kychelle. I will vouch for that.” Giseanne had stood up holding out her right hand on which sat a heavy sapphire set in a great ring. Her intervention had stolen even Kychelle’s wind and Giseanne held the ring aloft. “You know this ring, you all know it. One of a set of four that my mother had made for me and my brothers. What you do not know is that the rings carried a subtle enchantment a gift my mother shared only with me.”
She closed her right hand over the ring on her left and shut her eyes. “With its faint dweomer I can sense the moods and feelings of my brothers, each in tune with their own jewel. Gregor’s diamond, Xander’s ruby and Udecht’s emerald.”
As Giseanne concentrated hard, Kychelle sniffed the air catching at some scent of magic. At Giseanne’s side Rugan was looking at his wife in stunned surprise his eyes widening as he too sensed the enchantment at work.
“The ring has told me of the deaths of Gregor and then of Xander at just the times young Thom has described them. You will recall the second occasion Lady Kychelle. It was the violence of Xander’s end that had me fainting in the gardens. The ring tells me also that my brother Udecht still lives even now as the Lady Hepdida has told us.”
She opened her eyes to look around at the stunned council. “So if you would doubt young Thom then you must call me a liar too, and I must make my own confession of indulgence in a small way in the forbidden arts of magic. I would hope that in these troubled times some allowance might be made for me and also for Thom here. Surely this is a time when laws may be bent a little for the greater good?”
There was a babble of voices, cut short by Rugan’s roar of command. “I call a recess in this council. There are words I must have with my wife. We will meet again tomorrow morning.”
***
Standing before Maelgrum in his great vaulted halls did not grow easier with repetition. Haselrig shivered though the atmosphere was free of the cloying freezing mist which usually heralded the Dark Lord’s displeasure. Indeed Maelgrum’s empty red eye sockets throbbed red with something akin to pleasure while Rondol and Marwella, again in attendance, seemed more at ease in their proximity to power than Haselrig had ever felt in the long years of exile. The antiquary glared at the towering sorcerer and the withered crone, begrudging them the ascendancy that had once been his. However, he looked swiftly down when Rondol met his gaze. It was not wise to anger those who rode high in Maelgrum’s favour.
“How goesss your resssearch, Hassselrig?”
“We make progress, Master. The Bishop here,” Haselrig said, jerking Udecht’s chain. ”Has afforded a useful insight and our studies now pursue a new direction.”
“Udecht ssservesss you well then?”
“Any help I have given your slave has been entirely unintentional,” the Bishop retorted with ruinous timing.
Immediately the air temperature dropped and clouds of vapour condensed at the undead wizard’s sleeves, while the red glowing of his eyes brightened and hardened into brittle luminous scarlet.
There was a
crack as Rondol summoned his whip of lightning, but Udecht turned on him with equal insouciance. “Strike all you like, lickspittle. The world holds no more fears for me,” the Bishop taunted.
“Your departure from it will be a long drawn out affair, Eadranspawn,” the sorcerer snarled. “Filled with more pain and suffering than you can imagine.”
“And then your dead form shall rise and serve our Master in his legion,” Marwella added her own promise. “I will see to it personally.”
“Whatever you think my mind and soul, by no further accident will lend assistance to your foul cause.”
“Bishop,” Haselrig’s pleading turned into a splutter. “Do not vex the Master so.”
“Let me take him, Master,” Rondol cried flinging his whip behind him for the strike. “Let me take them both.”
With the slightest inclination of a bony digit Maelgrum stayed the sorcerer’s blow. He rose from the throne and came down the steps in a cloud of freezing mist that had the Bishop’s teeth chattering loosely in his head. The undead wizard bent his skull to peer into Udecht’s eyes. A stench of death and decay enveloped the antiquary and the Bishop but, while Haselrig found himself standing in a puddle of his own making, Udecht glared back in trembling defiance into the mask of a two thousand year old herald of death.
“How ssstrange it isss, that a man ssshould have no care for hisss own life or sssafety.”
“I should have died in Sturmcairn, all the time I have now is stolen.”
“But think, Bissshop,” Maelgrum said as he caressed Udecht’s cheek with a blackened fingertip. Beneath the touch, the skin froze and darkened into a deep frost bite which drew an involuntary whimper from the Bishop’s throat. “Think what you would have missssed in that fate. No chance to ssseee the daughter you dared not acknowledge until now?”
