The Waiting King (2018 reissue)

by Deborah Hale

  To give him credit, Lord Idrygon rallied his shaken composure quickly.

  “Your pardon for beginning our acquaintance on an inhospitable note.” He made a stiff bow to them. “These are... surprising tidings indeed. I think you had better come ashore with me now. No doubt you will desire an audience with the Council of Sages as soon as one can be arranged.”

  Maura gave a tentative nod. She supposed they would. Was it the Council of Sages who had sent the messenger birds? Would they be able to answer some of her questions, at least?

  “And you will surely wish to prepare yourselves for the audience,” continued Lord Idrygon. “Rest, groom, tend your hurts. I offer you the hospitality of my house for your stay on Margyle.”

  On the still night air, Maura fancied she heard a hushed buzz spread among Gull’s crew. The tone of that murmur told her Lord Idrygon’s offer of hospitality must be a great honor.

  But his mention of tending injuries reminded her she had other obligations. “Our thanks to you, sir. But two crewmen were wounded during our fight with the Han. They may need me in the night.” She patted her sash. “I am a healer, though perhaps modest in skill compared to many on the Islands.”

  “The wounded men should be brought ashore now, as well,” said Lord Idrygon almost before Maura finished speaking. The haste of his offer suggested eagerness, but the set of his well-bred features looked more as though he was compelled to swallow some foul tonic. “They will be taken to a place where they can receive the best possible care.”

  Put that way, Maura couldn’t very well refuse the man’s invitation, could she? She glanced at Rath, her brows raised.

  He replied with a repentant shrug. His earlier belligerence seemed to have deserted him. “Go, stay, it’s all the same to me. Whatever you think best, aira.”

  “I believe we should accept Lord Idrygon’s generous invitation. He is right that we ought to make ourselves presentable before we meet with anyone else.”

  She did not want to risk making as unfavorable an impression on the Council of Sages as they had on Lord Idrygon. At least he appeared willing to give them a second chance. Others might be less forbearing.

  “Very good.” Lord Idrygon bowed again. This one looked less apt to crack his spine. “The wounded crewmen, we would find them below decks?”

  When Maura nodded, he turned and gave some hushed but forceful orders to three men he had brought on board with him. All wore the same boots with slightly curled toes, tight-fitted leggings and high-collared tunics, though theirs were shorter than Idrygon’s.

  The instant he finished speaking, two of his men headed toward the hatch while Idrygon and the third man escorted Rath and Maura to a long slender boat moored beside the Phantom.

  As they climbed down into the craft, Maura heard Idrygon call over his shoulder to Captain Gull, “Make sure you do not sail until we have had a chance to talk!”

  Rath tried protest that none of this was Gull’s fault, but Idrygon gave no sign he heard... or cared.

  They rowed ashore in silence. By the light of the waning midsummer moon, Maura could make out a large number of pale-colored buildings clustered on gently sloping hills that surrounded a small bay. A sense of safety and tranquility hung about the place. It seemed to open its arms and welcome her, perhaps recognizing how deeply she craved what it offered.

  Langbard’s cottage and Hoghill Farm had once seemed like peaceful havens to her. But even there, peril had always lurked. Kept at bay by Langbard’s power, it had skulked in the shadows waiting for a moment of weakness or inattention to strike. Here, she sensed true peace, unlike any she had ever known.

  At last the boat tied up to a small wharf. Idrygon disembarked with quick, lithe movements then turned and extended his hand to Maura. Once he had helped her ashore, he offered his hand to Rath, who ignored it, almost tipping the boat as he staggered onto the wharf.

  A mild sea breeze wafted up from the bay, but it did not smell of brine and fish like the air in Duskport. Instead, the subtle mingling of flowers and herbs reminded Maura of her garden behind Langbard’s cottage and the warm spring in the Blood Moon foothills where she and Rath had rested on their journey.

  Idrygon froze for a moment, as if watching or listening for something. Then he strode off into the night calling softly, “This way.”

  Though Maura had no idea where they were going, it seemed Idrygon might be taking them by a roundabout, little-used route. Now and then he would stop for a moment and listen before going on. He acted as if he was smuggling something forbidden, and possibly dangerous, onto the island.

  After walking uphill for a time, then doubling back, at last they reached a large house. Again Idrygon stopped, listened and peered into the darkness before pulling open a door of elegantly carved latticework and ushering them inside.

  A single tiny lamp burned in a sconce beside the door. By its light, Maura could see they had entered an enclosed courtyard at the center of which a small fountain gurgled softly. A number of potted shrubs stood in clusters, giving the place the air of a forest glade transplanted indoors.

  “It’s beautiful!” she whispered. “I could sleep quite comfortably here.”

  She could sleep comfortably anywhere the ground was not rocking beneath her. Ever since they’d stepped off the boat, she had relished the firm foundation of solid earth under her feet.

  “No need for that.” Idrygon sounded mildly shocked at the idea of their spending the night in his courtyard.

  His reaction made Maura grin to herself in the darkness. This would be a far more comfortable sleeping place than most of the ones she and Rath had shared on their journey.

  “There is a guest chamber you may use.” Idrygon took the lamp from the wall sconce and started toward a wide archway in the right hand wall of the courtyard.

  After a few steps, he stopped so suddenly that Maura and Rath almost bumped into him. When she peered around their host, Maura could see a faint light coming toward them. It flickered and grew brighter, as someone approached, also bearing a lamp.

  An instant later a man emerged through the archway. At first glance, he looked so much like Idrygon that Maura fancied he might be some enchanted reflection.

  The other man startled at the sight of them. “You are late coming home!”

  “And you are late going to bed, Delyon,” replied Idrygon in a chiding tone. “What keeps you up?”

  Delyon held out his right hand, which gripped a scroll. “Reading.” He sounded almost guilty. “What else? Have you brought guests with you?”

  He held up his lamp to get a better look, which gave Maura a better look at him. His clothing was almost identical to Idrygon’s, but he had a rumpled air about him. He wore his hair a bit longer, and the way it curled around his face had a softening effect on his fine, regular features.

  “I have brought guests.” Idrygon took a step toward him, perhaps to block his view. “But the hour is late and introductions can wait until morning.”

  “I suppose they can.” Delyon yawned, then headed across the courtyard, raising his scroll in a kind of salute. “Sleep well, guests. I look forward to meeting you tomorrow.”

  “My brother,” said Idrygon. Then, as if to explain or apologize, he added, “Delyon is a scholar.”

  They passed through the archway and by several doors on either side of the wide, tiled gallery furnished with clusters of chairs and small tables.

  Finally Idrygon stopped in front of one door and threw it open. “I hope this will serve you for tonight.”

  Behind her, Maura heard Rath give a snort of laughter. She knew what he was thinking. This spacious chamber would be easily the most luxurious place in which they’d ever spent the night... apart from the Secret Glade, perhaps.

  A wide, low bed thrust out from the opposite wall with a canopy of fine netting draped over it, suspended from a hook in the ceiling. A pair of chairs and a small table occupied one corner, in front of a shuttered window, while another corner held the most e
laborate washstand Maura had ever seen. Finely woven rush matting covered the floor, from which rose a faint aroma of dried flowers.

  “This will do very well, my lord.” Maura tried not to laugh. “We thank you for your hospitality.”

  “It is an honor.” He set the lamp down on the elaborate washstand. “I believe you should find everything here that you might require for the night. I would ask that you remain here in the morning until I come for you.”

  A simple enough request, but it made Maura uneasy somehow. Before Rath could take it into his head to protest, she answered, “If that is what you wish, you are our host.”

  “Very good.” Idrygon stepped back out into the hallway and drew the door closed behind him. “Sleep well.”

  Maura turned to find Rath had pushed the netting aside and settled onto the bed.

  “Ah! Hope this will serve, indeed! We could have brought back half of Gull’s crew to sleep with us!” He winced as he raised his arms to tuck behind his head, but his features soon lapsed into a roguish grin. “I’m glad we didn’t, though.”

  “You can stop looking at me that way, Rath Talward!” Maura investigated the washstand where she found a ewer of the most delicate glazed pottery filled with water, as well as a matching basin and some washing and drying clothes. “If you reckon I mean to let some battered brawler have his way with me, you had better think again.”

  “But Maura...”

  “But what?” She filled the basin and carried it to the bed, some clothes spread over her arm. “Gull did not sully my honor this evening. He only showed me how to dance... which is a good deal more than I can say for you.”

  In a gentler tone she added, “Now peel that shirt off so I can see how badly you’re bruised.”

  She set the basin on the floor beside the bed and wet one of the cloths. As Rath struggled out of his shirt, she swiped at the dried blood all over his lower face. “You must remember you are not an outlaw anymore. You are a king. You cannot answer every imagined insult with your fists.”

  “We have had this talk before.” Rath threw his shirt onto the floor, then clamped his hand around her wrist. “Besides, I thought you liked the outlaw.”

  He drew her toward him, as much with the shimmering heat of his gaze as with the tug of his hand.

  Maura tried to hold on to her anger, but it slipped through her grasp like a rope greased by Rath’s rough-edged charm and by the long-forbidden feelings she was now at liberty to indulge.

  “Behave yourself, now!” She swooped to kiss a spot on his neck she knew was ticklish. “At least let me clean you up and apply a poultice where Gull kicked you—that’ll teach you to pick on a man half your size!”

  Removing her sash, she mixed a potent compound of laceweed, marshwort, moonmallow and winterwort, bound with a bit of water warmed over the lamp flame. Then she smeared it on Rath’s belly and bound it with the last of her linen strips.

  “This reminds me of the time you tended me after I fought Turgen.” Rath chuckled. “When I squirmed under your touch, you worried that you were hurting me.”

  “Make fun of my innocence, will you?” Maura seized the water basin and pretended she meant to douse him.

  “Have mercy, aira,” he pleaded, laughing. “I am sorry I picked that fight with Gull. It was a daft thing to do. I should have known such a little fellow could never command the way he does without being able to fight like a demon. I swear I’ll beg his pardon the next time I see him.”

  “I suppose...” Maura set the basin back on the washstand and dried her hands. “Will you promise to make better use of your wits after this before you let your fists fly?”

  “I will!” He promised, opening his arms to her in an unmistakable invitation. “You have my word.”

  “The word of a king?” Maura inquired as strolled back toward the bed. “Or the word of an outlaw?”

  “Why, the outlaw, of course.” Rath grinned, his dark eyes twinkling with irresistible mischief. “He is the one who needs your help to mend all his wild ways.”

  Maura gave a deep, purring chuckle. “I am not sure I want all his wild ways mended.”

  Slipping into his arms, she whispered, “I will make you a bargain.”

  Rath clasped her to him. “Anything!”

  “If you will promise to play the king in the council chamber,” she vowed, “I will let you play the outlaw with me.”

  Play the king in the council chamber. Play the king in the council chamber. Rath repeated the words over and over in his mind like an incantation for one of Maura’s spells. He feared it would take stronger magic than hers to turn him into a king.

  Would the sages of the Vestan council think so, too? He could feel the weight of their curious, uneasy stares resting upon him while Lord Idrygon explained how the Hanish Ore Fleet had come to flounder in their warding waters.

  After a miserable night’s sleep, Rath had woken with a headache so fierce none of Maura’s remedies could do more than blunt it. All their preparations for this appearance before the Council of Sages had not helped his head... or his temper.

  He craned his neck and twisted it, trying to relieve the pressure around his throat. Though Vestan tunics flared out below the waist, the chest and arms were close fitting, as was the high collar. The one Idrygon had lent Rath fit very snug on his muscular torso, and like a noose around his neck.

  Maura caught his eye and flashed a reassuring smile. She looked every inch a queen in her loose, sleeveless gown of pale blue-green linen with slender filets of matching ribbon twined through her hair.

  She’d admired his hair, too, after Idrygon’s mother-in-law had washed it and cut it in the Vestan style. Rath had no illusions this short trim suited his shaggy mane the way it did Idrygon’s straight hair or Delyon’s crisp curls. But he’d stopped fretting about his hair when the forceful old lady had proceeded to shave him so close he feared she would scrape all the skin off his lower face.

  No question—this being a king was an uncomfortable business. Rath wondered why a war-leader needed to look well-groomed any more than an outlaw did. But Idrygon had insisted with some confusing talk about council factions and support for an invasion. Though Rath had not warmed to his lordship since their first meeting, he knew enough to respect Idrygon as a man of ability, drive and vision. The kind of man who might be able to make the dream of a free Embria come true if he put his mind to it.

  “To conclude—” Idrygon’s words drew Rath’s attention back to the council chamber “—we cannot hold Captain Gull and his men responsible for what happened when they acted on instructions from this council. How do we know the storm that blew the Ore Fleet toward our coast was not the Giver’s will at work?”

  Though Idrygon spoke in a tone of hushed reverence, Rath questioned whether the man felt any more true belief in the Giver than he’d once had.

  “Your pardon.” A voice of quiet authority drew all eyes to a tiny old woman sitting three places to the right of Idrygon. “I am not aware of any instructions from this council that might have summoned Captain Gull to our shores at such a hazardous time. I hope you have not taken it upon yourself to act in the council’s name without our knowledge or consent, Idrygon.”

  Her cheeks were sunken, her dark hair heavily frosted with white and she looked as though a hard gust of wind might blow her off the island. But her penetrating gaze and regal bearing told Rath she was not someone a smart man would cross if he had a choice. He wondered if anyone else on the Vestan Islands dared address the forceful Lord Idrygon in that chiding tone.

  “I protest, Madame Verise!” Idrygon looked so offended, Rath knew he must be guilty of whatever the old lady had hinted at. “My aim has always been to serve this council, the Vestan Islands and the kingdom of Embria.”

  This, Rath sensed, was altogether true.

  Madame Verise must have known it, too, for she waved a withered hand. “Oh very well, then be plain, lad. What summons of ours brought that ship from the Dusk Coast? And while you ar
e at it, who are these guests you have brought before the council?”

  She did not sound as though Rath’s sacrifices in the cause of good grooming had impressed her much.

  “How clever of you to pose those two questions together, Madame.” As Idrygon looked around at the council, he did not rub his hands with glee at the opening he’d been given. But Rath sensed he wanted to. “For they are inextricably bound.”

  Rath wondered if inextricably meant what he thought it did.

  “The summons,” said Idrygon, “is one we have sent out so often, in vain, that some here may have forgotten we do it. Others, including me, to my shame, may have come to believe it was all a fool’s deed and that those messages would never be answered.”

  Fevered whispering broke out around the Great Circle. By watching who whispered to whom, Rath could guess which side they supported. Idrygon’s talk of factions, which had only aggravated Rath’s headache first thing this morning, suddenly began to make sense.

  There seemed to be two generations of sages—elders like Madame Verise, roughly the age Langbard had been. They made up the majority of the council. Perhaps a third of the counsellors were closer to Rath’s age, including Idrygon and his brother, Delyon.

  According to Idrygon, many of the older generation had become content with their peaceful, prosperous life on the Islands and were in no hurry to go to the aid of their suffering countrymen on the mainland. When pressed for action by younger members of the council, they urged delay until the coming of the Waiting King and the Destined Queen.

  Well, the Council of Sages was in for a surprise today!

  As Maura listened to Lord Idrygon speak, she felt as if she were teetering on the edge of Raynor’s Rift, with that terrifying chasm gaping before her.

  “Every year, spring and midsummer, we send out those messenger birds.” Lord Idrygon looked around the Great Circle, fixing each of the sages with his forceful gaze. “‘Her time has come.’ ‘Come at once. Captain Gull of Duskport will convey you.’ Only the name of the captain has ever changed with the passing years. We have never known where these birds were bound, nor had any assurance they did not simply fly away to become food for hawks.”