by David Keck
The lads on Durand's bench leapt back. Durand could see the Rooks chuckling between themselves. Each man of the Holy Ghosts turned, half to Durand, panting with his hand on a sword, and half to the Rooks.
He saw Deorwen's eyes on him, flashing deep and dark.
"Enough of this farce!" roared a voice from the head of the hall.
The warrior King of Errest stood poised over the high table. From the straw, Durand watched, feeling living things swarm under his boots.
"Let's have done with it" said the king. "We're all here; I see no reason to dance round this business all night. Beoran? Yrlac? What say you?"
Creation boomed outside as the bearded Duke of Beoran leaned on his elbow to savor Ragnal's show of temper.
Radomor, however, swiveled slowly. "Now, my cousin. Let it be now."
Ragnal regarded his opponent then: a man who had fought for him under the summer moons, a man who shared his blood. At the center of this wreck, Durand saw real hatred.
"A fearsome thing is the wrath of princes," said a voice.
Durand nearly emptied his guts, for this was no whisper in his ear. It writhed in his skull like a fistful of worms locked tight behind his jaws.
The Rooks were looking his way from the midst of Radomor's green thugs. And, if they had been smiling before, now what fun the bastards were having.
"These jackals. Hardly fit for conversation, whatever their virtues elsewhere. Far more pleasant to chat with old friends. Have you told your dashing lord how you watched over his sister? Hours and hours. She and that poor baby. Do you suppose she took comfort, knowing there was a kinsman standing nearby?"
"So be it cousin," Ragnal was saying, "and as I am still ruler of this land, I call the Great Council to begin, and, though I am the subject of its debate, I claim my right to preside." He turned his glare on the assembled company. "Be you ruled by ancient custom, the judgments of the kings and the word of our patriarchs. No man speak false or bare steel till we've done with this business, on pain of damnation."
Durand thought he heard a murmur of assent bubble up from the throng around him, but his head was taut with the seething malice of the voice.
"And now we shall hear it" the voice said.
Ragnal loomed over the table, almost sneering as he spoke. "Here is the matter: To furnish this realm with an army to pacify the marches, I borrowed coin from this council. As surety for the sum, I have pledged"—he plucked the Evenstar Crown from his head—"this bauble and all the trouble it has brought me. Now that the term of this loan is concluded, I am informed by my treasurers that there can be no repayment." There was an apologetic ruffle from the black functionaries. "Therefore, I must petition this, my Great Council, to forgive the debt."
Leaning there, with his mane and beard of copper gold, the King of Errest looked up and down the high table.
"Who," he rumbled, "will speak for forgiveness?"
For a moment, no one could move.
Someone nearby was saying, "Durand. Durand what is the matter with you, boy?" Then it was Deorwen's voice, and someone telling her, "For God's sake, go."
"Who will the brave one be?" said a whisper grinding and slithering in his brains.
Durand closed his eyes, gulping for air and clenching his fists.
At the high table, he saw a tall lord stand: the Duke of Garelyn, neighbor of Duke Abravanal. They had bound their duchies through the marriage of their children. He looked like a wild Marcher, with his long mustaches, or some arcane lord from the deep of Fetch Hollow. The duke smoothed his long surcoat and knelt before the king.
"I would have the honor, my King, if it pleases you to grant it."
"He is well-spoken for a country lord, do you agree? Like a dog trained to walk on its hind legs"
Durand clasped his head in both hands. He could feel his friends close around him, but he could do nothing to answer them.
"Have we given you our thanks for old Gol? That plan was all his own—his ambush—though he may have made certain assumptions. It is strange how like children grown men can be. In the end, he only wanted back into Radomor's good graces. But we had no need of him any longer. All that blood, and his own knife. He would have held it a thousand times, and then for it to grate among the bones of his neck..."
Durand could taste blood. He could feel the veins and tendons in his throat. He could feel the catching edges of razor steel. The words writhed and twisted. People were trying to drag him from the hall. He shook himself free.
"You have fought by our side, Garelyn," Ragnal said, "and been our staunch ally. We can think of no man better."
Garelyn nodded deeply and stalked into the space before the high table as the gale churned and wailed like Lost souls at the arrow loops. The man had to pitch his voice loud over the storm.
"Your Majesty, your Highness, and honored lords of the Council. I will speak plainly. Our silver was not squandered. It was not spent on horses and hunting lodges. It has not bought mansions in Eldinor or wine from Vuranna. In short, it wasn't spent as I might have spent it." Some of the gathered nobles laughed. 'The silver was spent where we were told it would be: on putting down Mad Borogyn and his Marchers. It went to knights and marshals. It went to stablemen and common soldiers. It bought remounts and victuals. It bought these things, and, with them, it bought peace and security on our eastern marches. We have not fattened our king's purse with this money; we have bought safety and freedom for our merchants and tradesmen and our brothers in the marches. Were we mistaken in rendering this money to the king? Was His Majesty mistaken in calling upon us? Should we send back our hard-bought peace for the return of cold silver? I say we should not. My king has bought my peace with my money. I, for one, will not—"
As he spoke, the whole castle shook.
A bolt crashed against the rock of Tern Gyre itself, sending the tall lord staggering. Durand pictured turrets sliding into the sea. He felt the jolt through straw and hands and knees.
"He had been doing quite well. Let us hope the storm has not disturbed his pretty speech."
The duke, eyes darting at the high row of arrow loops, made to continue.
"We are forced," he said. "We are forced to speak in base terms—terms of commerce—when the very security of this realm is at issue. Only because this council would not grant its king the aid his cause required is this payment called 'loan' at all. Only because this council would not take up the duty its honor demanded was our king forced to hazard his crown. Where a soldier in the field risks his life to defend his home and honor, our liege lord risks his crown to defend our homes and our honor. This debt is not his shame, but our duty. Only by taking up our duty will we be free to lift our heads."
The tall duke stood a moment, grim-faced with his long mustaches. The storm flickered. He really might have been a Fetch Hollow man.
"So says Garelyn," he concluded. "Let him who wishes deny it."
The Rooks were clapping their hands, laughing, while Durand's head crawled with their whispers.
On the dais, Ragnal turned to fat Hellebore, smug Beoran, and the Duke of Yrlac.
"Who among you would speak against forgiveness?"
"Great King," said Beoran, "if it pleases you."
"Another performer! And we had thought to entertain with our little puppet show. We might have saved our efforts."
Durand pressed the heels of his hands into his eyes. Beoran took Ragnal's snort as permission to stand and bowed from the waist—looking every bit a cocksure ship's master. "Your Majesty, your Highness, members of the Great Council."
Durand looked up to see Beoran smiling, splitting his iron beard in a genial grin full of teeth. "If the storm will allow me, I'm afraid that I have been left to pose the obvious question: Is the king not to be held to the same standard of honor as even the meanest of his subjects?"
Durand heard snarls around him.
"My!" exclaimed the writhing voice. "He is a daring traitor, is Ludegar of Beoran. Ware pride, Your Grace! Ware pride!"
>
Durand could barely breathe.
The Duke of Beoran waited with his hand spread over his inflated chest Finally, he raised that hand.
"I do not intend to be flippant. The matter is serious. If our king gives his word, is he not to be held to that oath? If he vows a thing, is he free simply to discard it? I think we know what the answer must be.
"I say His Majesty undertook just this risk when he begged his loan from this Council. Would we have granted it to him if we had known that we would never see it back? Are we all so wealthy? I fear that His Majesty knew what he did. I fear that he understood that we could not afford so great a gift and so must be cajoled. That we must be given some hope of seeing our fortunes again, or we would not open our hands. In short, I think he'd have promised us a moon."
Durand stared up through the whispers. Lamoric's men were all round him now.
"Our king is not some roving gallant free to beguile his realm with false promises."
"Oh pride, pride, Beoran"
"Every plowman owes the service he's sworn to. Should not the king be held to the same high standard?" Beoran asked. "He has made his promise, and to his promise he must hold. Through guile he has pocketed our money, and now the time has come to repay it And, if he has not the coin, then he must pay the forfeit." Now half the hall was roaring, baying like hounds. Half the hall was on its feet. 'The forfeit he, himself, chose!"
Jeers and shouts resounded in the feasting hall, but Radomor sat on, grave as the dead. His Rooks took it all in, amused at the braying and howling around them.
"Enough!" pronounced Ragnal.
He was up, both hands braced against the high table. Even the storm seemed to heed him.
"While I am still king here, we will have silence or sweep this hall of rabble. The Heavens' protest is enough."
All around Durand, friends and strangers stood cowed.
'Wow we see the king as the battling warlord, berating his Council and his lords before their vote."
But the hall did not remain silent, and soon murmurs stewed and lightning flashed.
Durand noticed that Ragnal's black-clad functionaries were still picking at their food.
"You have heard the arguments for and against," said Ragnal, "and now I call upon my priest-arbiter."
The stooped prelate stood, smoothing the brocade over his chest. An Eye the size of a gold plate bobbed there. Finally, he nodded that he was ready.
"Is this a matter for the Great Council?" Ragnal demanded.
"It is, Sire. The issue is between the sovereign and his Great Council. His is the debt, and theirs is the power to forgive it."
"And the Crown?"
"It is within the rights of a king to set his kingship aside, as evinced in living memory by the ..." The man hesitated. "By the abdication of Carondas, King of cherished memory."
"Have we spoken to you of our Radomor?" squirmed the voices in Durand's skull.
"Then we will hold the vote," said Ragnal.
"There he was on the battlefield Among the Heithan barrows. Struck down doing his king's bidding. Struck down by chance. His career was a star rising, Durand Dashed in a moment."
The arbiter's beard waggled. "There are several systems. The black and white stones. The split wands. The—"
"Is the choice mine?"
The arbiter blinked up into his king's face.
"Not wounded, only, but dying, you see. This is how we found him. Not a limb could he move, nor a finger lift. Everything he had made was laid waste in the Heithan muck. All lost."
"The choice is yours, Majesty."
Ragnal's savage grin spread, flickering in the stormy night.
"It is in such moments that a man takes up his doom. What is the sacrifice of a few picked men? Who would miss them or guess where they went in a battle?"
Creation raged at the windows like a city on fire, like refugees screaming over the walls before an invader's wrath.
"Then it will be an open vote. We will ask and each will answer. This is no time or place for games."
"It is permitted, Majesty," the arbiter hedged, but Ragnal only nodded his grim satisfaction. His liegemen must deny him to his face.
"Then," the king said, "we will begin.
"My Duke of Garelyn, we will put our question first to you. Come forward."
The tall lord walked through a paroxysm of thunderclaps, but fought his way around the table to kneel before his lord.
"We have petitioned this, our Great Council, that our debt be lifted. You must answer us, 'yea' it should be as we desire or 'nay' it should not. How say you Garelyn?"
"Garelyn answers 'yea.'" Durand could scarcely hear him, even without the storm and the Rooks rustling in his brains. "The debt should be forgiven."
Ragnal nodded sternly.
"He is wise to call first upon his allies. Perhaps he will cow the weak-willed among his enemies. The Book of Moons tells us that a slender reed cannot stand against the gale."
"We thank you Garelyn and call upon Windhover to answer."
A short dark man—not the blond Prince of Windhover— stalked through the howls of the Heavens and dropped to his knee.
"What is this?" the spinning words gabbled. Is Prince Eodan not a tall man and blond as his brother? Where is our poor king's brother, do you think? Why does he linger in Windhover at such a time ? "
Durand strained to watch the dais as the Rooks' whisperings rattled at his mind, round and round. The dark man handed up a scroll under a black clot of sealing wax. He saw it swung to Ragnal's arbiter. "I bear a writ under the prince's seal, Majesty, and have been sent to speak his will."
The arbiter gave his nod.
"We have petitioned this council that our debt be lifted," said Ragnal. "You must answer us, 'yea' or 'nay.' How says Windhover?"
"How this question rings with double meaning now."
"Windhover answers 'yea,' Majesty," said the messenger. "The debt should be forgiven."
"How relieved our king must be. To have been put in such a place by his brother? It is beyond imagining."
Ragnal only nodded, calling the next duke to stand before him. Lamoric's elder brother took his father's place. Lord Moryn knelt at the feet of his liege lord, pale and rigid with the effort. Hellebore and Highshields cast their lots—this time, with apologies, against the king.
The Rooks teased the widow Maud as she surprised the Council with her steadfastness, lowering herself before the king and casting the votes of Germander and Saerdana both for forgiveness. Durand breathed like a runner, thinking that this was real hope.
"And she had them all guessing, while they fawned and circled her" said the thronging whispers. "Pride again, or vanity. Look at Hellebore there. The man makes faces as though someone has poked a lemon past his lips. Your king must be pleased It has all gone as he would hope."
Heremund, who'd been making the rounds in silence, touched Durand's shoulder, not saying a word. The touch went through Durand like a shock on a cold morning. A shattering pain shot through his skull.
Radomor sat as grim as ever. The Rooks were smug. The big Champion sat near the high table. The bloom of mildew over the walls had spread still further. In the space of a few breaths, the whole hall would be smothered over. They must get Deorwen from the castle.
But Duke Ludegar of Beoran was walking around the high table, a blade bobbing in fittings of black leather and bright steel.
The man knelt, and Ragnal spoke the formula.
"We have petitioned this council that our debt be lifted. You must answer us, 'yea' or 'nay.' How says Beoran?"
Durand tried to wring thoughts from his crowded mind, even as he felt blood slip from his nose. With the tide turned, now was the duke's chance to save face. Without Maud, the best he could hope for was a tie. They could not vote the king down.
Durand pawed a drop from his lip. The black smear—it was not blood—glistened for an instant, then flew like dry soot. Another wet drop landed.
"Beoran answer
s 'nay,' Majesty, and says the debt should be paid."
Ragnal nodded slowly, his face all stiff slashes under his beard.
"Now it comes," said the whispers, each syllable creaking at the sutures of his skull. "Now it comes."
Heremund and Berchard were speaking to him. He felt the not-blood running from his chin. The storm outside was madness now, howling fit to tear the stones from the old headland. His friends' hands were on him.
"We thank you Beoran, and call upon Yrlac to answer."
Now, Duke Radomor took his feet, slowly. Grime streaked his face. Tattered armor hung from his twisted shoulders. He crossed the dais and, locking the dark lodestones of his eyes on Ragnal's face, lowered one knee to the stone, and twitched a broad mantle wide over the dais.
"What will he say—will he say—will he say? "
"We have petitioned that our debt be lifted," said the king. "How say you, my Duke of Yrlac?"
Candles lashed and shuddered as Radomor stared up, his face brimming with defiance. "Yrlac answers 'nay,' cousin," Radomor said. "A man should pay his debts." He stood then, face-to-face with Ragnal. Even with his twisted back, the Duke of Yrlac looked down on his king. Somewhere outside, a great mass of stones fell thundering into the sea.
"Now watch, friend. Watch."
Durand caught hold of his blade once more.
"What is the vote?"
But it was tied. Unless Radomor meant to cut the king down before them all, it was finished. Beoran and Yrlac had both voted against their king, knowing they didn't have the numbers to carry it. You could not vote a man down with a stalemate.
A confused murmur arose in Tern Gyre as realization dawned among those loyal to the king: They had won.
"I don't understand," said Heremund. "I don't understand." Then, "Gods, Durand, are you all right? What's the matter?" Radomor had not left the dais.
"Sit down, Duke Radomor," said Ragnal, "you have not won today."
Radomor's bald skull tilted, only a fraction.
"You have been a loyal man," continued the king. "Now you must see where Beoran has led you."
