The Trouble With Kings

by Sherwood Smith

  Memories of childhood. Of my first court gown, and Papa’s pride. My first ball, and he danced with me himself. My first concert, Papa clapping the loudest at my choices, my hand-picked musicians, all of it spun through my mind, vivid, brittle, crystalline pictures, fragile as snowflakes, then they melted away. Maxl. Papa—

  Papa.

  The threat of war was not from Jason. It was Garian, and had been all along. Gloating. Gloating about my father dying, and sending Maxl and Jason at one another’s throats, just so he could claim an empire…

  Angry voices from the outside the tent. Garian, Jewel.

  “Apparently you have not yet attained a semblance of civilized behavior, Jewel. How tiresome you are, you and your fool brothers. How much pleasure I will take in being rid of all of you.”

  “You are stupid, and pompous, and rude, and a bore!”

  Garian laughing. So confident, so cruel.

  Lightning flickered somewhere to the west.

  I groped my way to Jewel’s baggage, neatly packed in the corner. Felt around, found the fabric of her chemises. Worked my fingers in—and there was the knife.

  I was still in my gown. I took off the overdress with its tiny tinkling beads and lay down in the green linen underdress.

  Closed my eyes.

  Opened them, and the tent was dark, and Jewel’s breathing was slow and even. Lightning flared, thunder rumbled.

  Rain hissed down.

  Time to act.

  I slipped out of the tent and ran across the camp to Garian’s. I crouched outside the flap, lifted it with a finger. Waited for lightning, which flared, blue-white and close.

  He was there, sleeping alone. I saw how he lay, and a voice from far away said, You’ll have to act fast, because you’ll only get one chance.

  Papa—he killed Papa. He intended to kill Maxl, as well as Jason Szinzar.

  Not, though, if I could get him first.

  I was going to take action, for once in my life. I eased in, my feet bare and soundless, and crouched beside Garian’s long body. I raised the knife. When the next flash came it would guide my strike.

  White and stark, the light ripped through the tent, revealing tousled red hair in his eyes, partially covered bare chest and—too late—a drop of water like a diamond falling from my wet hand.

  I stabbed—an iron hand caught my wrist. It twisted with uncompromising strength, making me gasp with pain; this was no practice drill, each mindful of the other’s safety. This was a duel to the death.

  I dropped the knife into my other hand. Rose to my knees to throw my weight behind another strike.

  Entangled in his blankets, Garian bore down with his hand and then yanked, throwing me off balance. We rolled over and over, winding together in blankets and my skirt as we each fought to stay on top.

  We bumped against the other side of the tent. I writhed, desperate to free my knife hand, which was caught in one of the folds of cloth.

  Garian’s breath drew in. He swung a hand, knocked me backward. The knife flew free of my fingers, and a moment later he got me pinned down flat, hands on my wrists, and a knee across my own knees. I wrenched every muscle and bone in a desperate effort to get free, but his weight and strength and the enveloping mass of bedding kept me from moving.

  “I wait only for the light to identify you, my would-be assassin, before I kill you. No one, ever, threatens me and lives.” And he hit me again.

  Then he shoved my wrists together over my head, and I knew he had the knife.

  “Your wrists have a womanish feel. Which one are you?” He bent closer; I felt his breath on my face, and his hair brushed over my neck.

  Lightning flashed. I saw his face above mine, mouth tight with anger. “Flian?” His eyes widened. “My very last guess. Too bad I will never find out what inspired you—”

  He brought the knife down.

  I tried, uselessly, to writhe free, but he was far too heavy and too strong, and so I closed my eyes—

  At a sound from behind he jerked, something thudded against his arm—and the knife blade’s lethal arc struck off center.

  Cold fire flowered in my left shoulder. The knife yanked out, an oblique angle that caused the blade to scrape against my collarbone, and fresh anguish rent its way through me. I lay, gasping, trembling too hard to move.

  Breathing, grunts—a struggle. Someone had entered the tent and attacked Garian from behind. I heard the sounds of violent exertion. Lightning glanced off that blade, now dark with blood streaks.

  The sight of it enabled me to rise, stumble out and run.

  Rain hit my face and I stopped, my mind clear for the space of one breath. My purpose had altered. War—betrayal—He always keeps his word, the fool.

  I could not kill Garian, but I could warn Jason of Garian’s plans.

  Instinct aimed me, arrow to mark.

  Jason would know what to do.

  How did I get down to the riverside? Again my mind is blank. The next memory is the stark reflection of lightning in the horses’ eyes in the makeshift pen. They were nervous and skittish. I don’t know how I found mine or how I got away. I suspect the rain, and some wind-collapsed tents in the servants’ camp, made it difficult to see one figure in a dark gown fling herself on a horse’s back and ride out.

  Lightning again revealed the mountains to the south. I held on to the horse’s mane with my one good hand, for the other had gone fiery at my shoulder and numb below.

  The horse bucked and sidled whenever lightning flashed. I kept my seat with increasing difficulty, until a flash almost overhead made the animal rear. The rain-slick mane whipped free of my hands.

  I was in the air, suspended outside space and time. Not again, my mind wailed! I am Flian Mariana Elandersi—

  Pain, and darkness.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I woke to find myself gazing up into a pair of dark, deep-set eyes. The background was a hazy smear of rock and moss and close-growing pine in weak, early morning light.

  “I’m Flian,” I croaked.

  “Yes.” A deep voice betrayed mild surprise.

  “You’re Markham. I didn’t lose my memory this time.” I wriggled my legs. “And I don’t hurt—”

  I heard a soft laugh. “You landed in mud.”

  Gasp, when I wriggled my arms. “Shoulder. Pain. Pain hurts!”

  “That was Garian Herlester’s knife, not your fall from the mount.”

  Fire licked along my shoulder and arm and across my chest. “Uhn,” I said, remembering what had happened.

  The intelligent remark caused a narrowing of the dark eyes.

  I struggled, found the words, forced them out despite the pain that each breath brought. “We have to. Get to. Jason. Warn him.”

  “Warn him?”

  “Garian. Lied to my brother. To provoke. Attack from—home.”

  “An attack from Lygiera?”

  I tried to get up. “Fast. We have to. Oh.” I discovered that I had been bandaged, my arm fastened securely so that my forearm rested across my middle. It wasn’t comfortable—but, as I grimaced and grunted my way into a sitting position, I realized that nothing was going to be comfortable. It felt as if someone had packed a burning cinder into the bandage. Every move of my shoulder was agony—but at least it was wrapped up.

  “I took the liberty of dressing the knife wound,” Markham said.

  “Thank you.” I thought of my no-doubt grimy chemise, and my face burned. At least I hadn’t had to be awake for what must have been a thoroughly nasty episode. “Would you help me up?” Memories of Garian’s gloating statements crashed through my aching head. “I must get going.”

  Markham bent and picked me up. But instead of setting me on my feet outside the makeshift shelter he’d made beneath a rocky outcropping, he carried me to a saddled, waiting horse. A big war charger, big enough to bear his weight and mine as well. He set me on the front of the saddle, then mounted behind me. He took the reins, but before we moved he reached into one of the sa
ddlebags and pulled out a heavy flask.

  “I suggest you try this, highness. One sip at a time. It might make the ride easier to endure.”

  He opened the flask and handed it to me. The aroma of strong rye whiskey made me sneeze. I took a cautious sip, for I had never liked strong liquors, and almost choked. The stuff tasted terrible, and it burned my mouth and throat. But the burn turned into a kind of glow, and the agony in my shoulder at every tiny movement eased enough to be bearable.

  I took another sip. Again, the glow. My head buzzed, but it was preferable to the ache. “May I keep it?”

  “Certainly. But not too much.”

  I was scarcely aware of his arm sliding round me. I sank my head against his chest as the horse picked its way down an incline and reached a path, then began an easy, steady canter.

  Markham knew how to pace the horse for the best possible speed. Every time we progressed at a gait faster than a walk, I had recourse to a nip from the whiskey flask.

  It was a relief to leave the effort to the silent armsman. I knew I would come to no hurt, and that was as far as I could think. Once I had an inner vision of one of my dashing ancestors galloping with courageous strength over the mountains on her own, despite weather, wound and lack of food; once again I found myself a dismal comparison.

  No, my career as a warrior princess, short as it had been, was over, I thought morosely. Violence only works if you’re good at it. Otherwise, it hurts too much.

  At nightfall Markham found an old cave. He gathered firewood, made a fire, and when it was crackling merrily, he fetched from his gear a small, flat pan on which he pressed a handful of olives from the southern mountains, then sizzled some potatoes and shallots. I listened to the sizzle with happy anticipation, wondering how he’d managed to get all this accomplished and still find me.

  I said, “What happened?”

  “Lita saw you walking to Garian Herlester’s tent. She came to apprise me, not certain what was your purpose. I judged I did not have time to return to my tent for a weapon but still I was just a moment too slow. I could not prevent him from stabbing you, for which I apologize, but at least I was able to knock his aim askew. He had two of his retainers sleeping in the tent behind. Lita held them off while I contended with Garian.”

  “Did you kill him?”

  “No. The shouts of the others raised the camp, he lost his knife in the bedding. I tangled him in the quilts, and slipped out to avoid discovery. My purpose then was twofold: to get her highness safely away and to find you. Her highness refused to go with me.”

  I could imagine Jewel’s response to Markham. “I didn’t tell her the danger. It’s my fault—”

  “Her highness,” Markham interjected with a hint of wryness, “refused to listen, maintaining that she was not about to ride in a thunderstorm at midnight. Lita will accompany her when the weather clears. She is resourceful.”

  “But Garian doesn’t mean to let her leave at all.” A wave of anxious helplessness made me feel cold and sick. “I didn’t tell her. I couldn’t. What he did to my father. He said he will get Maxl and Jason at one another’s throats, and then form an empire. I tried to kill him first. But a raindrop fell off my hand—” My throat constricted, and I fumbled about and found the flask. I would not weep. Not until I could get home, and to Maxl.

  Markham went on as if I were not snuffling and gulping. “When Garian Herlester appeared in camp the first night, I made ready for a fast retreat, should the necessity arise.” As he spoke, he pulled the pan from the fire and spooned a goodly portion onto a plate, which he handed me, along with the spoon. He kept the pan for himself and ate with a knife.

  “So you were waiting for Jewel and me to leave?”

  “Yes. Though I was not certain that Herlester would permit that. My orders in any case were clear, to guard your safety but not to interfere with your freedom of movement.”

  “So Jason never intended to meet her at that river.”

  Markham gave me a considering look. “No. This journey took us by surprise, but as we moved westward toward Lygiera, Lita and I waited on your orders, whenever you wished to leave the princess’s party.”

  “I wish I’d told Lita. I-I had misjudged the situation.”

  “So, perhaps, did we.”

  “How’s that?”

  “When Lita saw you return with Garian and Princess Eleandra during the afternoon, she was not certain what your intentions were. She said that you did not speak during the time she packed for the morning departure, not to her or to Princess Jewel. We had agreed to stand watch at night after Herlester arrived. It was during her watch that you left the tent and approached his. Again, she could not divine your intentions, but she came to me because you did not exhibit the manner of someone keeping a tryst, if you’ll pardon the liberty.”

  I shuddered in disgust.

  “After you left I spent some time in searching the grounds, but when I heard someone cry out that a horse was missing, I knew it had to have been taken by you. I departed at once in pursuit, fearing that the rain would destroy your trail.”

  “And you found me. But it’s my fault that Jewel is in danger. All I could think was to warn Jason. I should have realized—remembered—warned her first.”

  “Do not distress yourself, highness. Princess Jewel is in no immediate danger. If she and Lita do not contrive their departure first, the king will assuredly find a way to bring her safely away.” He gestured. “Eat. Drink. Rest. Three days of hard riding will bring us home, but you will need your strength.”

  As he predicted, so it came to pass. I had recourse to little sips from that whiskey flask with increasing liberality as the journey wore on. The terrible ache in my shoulder never seemed to abate. Despite my efforts to stay still, I managed to reopen the slash a couple of times, to sanguinary effect. The sight of my own blood made me reel with dizziness, and I drank the more, so that, on the third night, when the tired horse plodded down the road toward the torch-lit towers of Lathandra’s royal castle, the whiskey flask was nearly empty.

  We had ridden through every sort of weather, even snow, at the heights. It only twisted the warp of reality woven round me: the vision of softly falling flakes etched against the gray sky, the contours of the rocky peaks softened in their blue-white blanket, seemed unreal.

  I arrived in Lathandra drunk, but I had stayed the course, and without making any complaint. That last was necessary to my own eroding pride, because my thoughts remained somber, veering between knowledge of my father’s death and my disastrous attempt to summarily end Garian’s plans—and his life—which had only made everything worse.

  The tired beast plodded into the great stable yard, to be instantly surrounded with torch-bearing stablehands whose gazes followed us as Markham dismounted and lifted me down. Instead of setting me on my feet, he kept me in his arms as he crossed the court. A liveried guard sprang to open one of the iron-reinforced doors.

  After the month in the rarefied atmosphere of Dantherei’s royal palace, Lathandra seemed austere. Markham’s pace did not flag as he passed through a military portion of the castle into the residence with its quiet colors, its spare furnishings of dark walnut or rosewood.

  A footman appeared in a hallway.

  “Where is the king?” Markham asked.

  “In the salle. Shall I—”

  “I will find him.”

  The footman lagged behind as Markham continued at a fast walk along the length of two hallways. The footman had enough time to duck around and knock before Markham kneed the door open to a large, mostly empty room, except for a table at one end, some chairs and a variety of weapons. Markham kicked the door shut behind him without a backward glance at the crowd of servants gathering in the hall.

  Jason and Jaim were seated, Jaim on the table, Jason near it, drinking. They were sweaty and disheveled; two swords lay between them on the table. When they saw us, both got to their feet.

  “Markham and—Flian?” Jaim asked, and turned to his b
rother, jerking his thumb in our direction. “Were you expecting them?”

  “No.” Jason’s attention was on Markham as the latter set me carefully down. I tottered, the room swimming. Jaim was nearest; he shoved his chair behind me and I sank into it.

  “Tell him, Markham.” I clutched at my shoulder.

  Markham said, “Garian Herlester met up with our party. When we left, he was about to force the Princess Eleandra to turn toward Drath.”

  Jason waited in grim silence.

  “On learning of her father’s death, and of Herlester’s plans to initiate war between you and Lygiera, Princess Flian attempted to assassinate Prince Garian. When that failed, she wished to come here to warn you.”

  “So, what, Jewel is back with Garian?” Jaim grinned. “Pity him!” He then ran his gaze over me, his expression one of complete incredulity. “You tried to kill him? How?”

  “Knife.” I hiccoughed. “Crept into his tent. Would have made it. But rain dropped off my hand and warned him.”

  “Must’ve been a surprise, eh? I take it he tried to return the favor.” He indicated my once-green linen gown, which was thoroughly nasty by then.

  “Yes. Ran away. To warn Jason. Fell off my horse. But Markham saved me.” The room spun and my voice sounded far away.

  “…fever,” Markham was saying to Jason. “Blood loss.”

  “Have a lot to tell you. But oh. It does hurt. Where’s my whiskey?” I felt in my sleeve, where I had kept the flask, and pulled it out.

  Jaim laughed. “I thought it smelled like a distillery in here!”

  I uncorked the flask and was going to take a swig but Jason made a sudden movement and took it from my hand. “You did her no good by giving her that.”

  “She would not have made it otherwise.”

  Though Markham was a liegeman and always used titles with us, Jason spoke to him as an equal, and Markham answered back the same.

  Jason went to the door, opened it, spoke an order, came back in and addressed me. “Your news can wait. Now you must rest.”

  “No.” I lifted a hand in protest. “Wait. You can’t attack Maxl. Don’t fight him, if he comes. Garian wants you to have a war—”