A wineskin was handed to the rider, who sounded as if his voice would fail. He tilted it over his face and let the wine pour into his mouth. It ran down his chin, joining the deeper red splattered over his tabard. He threw aside the wineskin. “There is more. Richard of Salador has fallen, as has the Earl of Silden. And the King has been wounded.”
Concern showed on Brucal’s face. “How does he fare?”
“Badly, I fear,” said the rider, holding his nervous horse as it pranced around. “It is a grievous wound. His helm was cleaved by a broadsword after his horse was killed beneath him. A hundred died to protect him, for his royal tabard was a beacon to the Tsurani. He comes now.” The rider pointed back the way he had come.
Pug and the others turned to see a troop of riders approaching. In the van rode a royal guardsman with the King held before him. The monarch’s face was covered in blood, and he held to the saddle horn with his right hand, his other arm dangling limply at his side. They stopped before the tent, and soldiers helped the King from the horse. They started to carry him inside, but he said, in a weak and slurred voice, “No. Do not take me from the sun. Bring a chair so I may sit.”
Nobles were riding up even as a chair was placed for the King. He was lowered into it and leaned back, his head lolling to the left. His face was covered with blood, and white bone could be seen showing through his scalp wound.
Kulgan moved to Rodric’s side. “My King, may I attend?”
The King struggled to see who was speaking. His eyes seemed to lose focus for a moment, then became clear. “Who is speaking? The magician? Yes, Borric’s magician. Please, I am in pain.”
Kulgan closed his eyes, willing his powers to ease the King’s suffering. He placed his hand upon Rodric’s shoulder, and those nearby could see the ruler of the Kingdom visibly relax. “Thank you, magician. I feel more at ease.” Rodric struggled to turn his head slightly. “My lord Brucal, please bring Lyam to me.”
Lyam was in his tent, under guard, and a soldier was sent to bring him out. Moments later the young man knelt before his cousin. “My liege, your wound?”
Kulgan was joined by a Priest of Dala, who agreed with his assessment of the wound. He looked at Brucal and shook his head slowly. Herbs and bandages were brought, and the King was cared for. Kulgan left the priest to his ministrations and returned to stand where the others looked on. Katala had joined them, holding William in her arms. Kulgan said, “I fear it is a mortal wound. The skull is broken, and fluids seep through the crack.”
In silence they watched. The priest stood to one side and began praying for Rodric. All the nobles, save those commanding the infantry, were now arrayed before the King. More horsemen could be heard riding into camp. They joined the others who stood watching and were told what had happened. A hush fell over the assembly as the King spoke.
“Lyam,” he said in a faint voice. “I have been ill, haven’t I?” Lyam said nothing, his face betraying conflicting emotions. He had little love for his cousin, but he was still the King.
Rodric ventured a weak smile. One side of his face moved only slightly, as if he could not control the muscles well. Rodric reached out with his good right hand, and Lyam took it. “I do not know what I have been thinking of late. So much of what has happened seems like a dream, dark and frightening. I have been trapped within that dream, but now I am free of it.” Sweat appeared upon his brow, and his face was nearly white. “A demon has been driven from me, Lyam, and I can see much of what I have done was wrong, even evil.”
Lyam knelt before his King. “No, my King, not evil.”
The King coughed violently, then gasped as the attack subsided. “Lyam, my time grows short.” His voice rose a little, and he said, “Brucal, bear witness.” The old Duke looked on, his face an implacable mask. He stepped over next to Lyam and said, “I am here, Your Majesty.”
The King gripped Lyam’s hand, pulling himself a little more upright. His voice rose as he said, “We, Rodric, fourth of that name, hereditary ruler of the Kingdom of the Isles, do hereby proclaim that Lyam conDoin, our blood cousin, is of the royal blood. As oldest conDoin male, he is named Heir to the throne of our Kingdom.”
Lyam shot Brucal an alarmed look, but the old Duke gave him a curt shake of his head, commanding silence. Lyam bowed his head, and his sorrow was heartfelt. He tightly gripped the King’s hand. Brucal said, “So do I, Brucal, Duke of Yabon, bear witness.”
Rodric’s voice sounded faint. “Lyam, one boon do I ask. Your cousin Guy has done what he has done at my command. I grieve for the madness that drove me to have Erland deposed. I knew his going to the dungeon was his death warrant, and I did nothing to halt it. Have mercy on Guy. He is an ambitious man, but not an evil one.”
The King then spoke of his plans for the Kingdom, asking that they be continued, though with more regard for the populace. He spoke of many other things: of his boyhood, and his sorrow that he had never married. After a time his speech became too slurred to understand, and his head fell forward upon his chest.
Brucal ordered guards to attend the King. They gently raised him and carried him inside. Brucal and Lyam entered the tent, while the other nobles waited outside. More new arrivals were gathering, and they were told the news. Nearly a third of the Armies of the Kingdom stood before the commander’s pavilion, a sea of upturned faces extending down the hill. Each stood without speaking, waiting out the death watch.
Brucal closed the tent flap behind and shut out the red glow of the sunset. The Priest of Dala examined the King, then looked at the two dukes. “He will not regain consciousness, my lords. It is only a matter of time.”
Brucal took Lyam by the arm and led him to one side. In a hushed whisper he said, “You must say nothing when I proclaim you Heir, Lyam.”
Lyam pulled his arm from Brucal’s grasp, fixing his gaze upon the old warrior. “You bore witness, Brucal,” he whispered back. “You heard my father acknowledge Martin as my brother, legitimizing him. He is the oldest conDoin male. Rodric’s proclamation of succession is invalid. It presumed I was the oldest!”
Brucal spoke quietly, but his words were ungentle. “You have a war to end, Lyam. Then, if you should accomplish that small feat, you have to take your father and Rodric back to Rillanon, to bury them in the tomb of your ancestors. From the day Rodric is interred, there will be twelve days of mourning, then on noon of the thirteenth, all the claimants for the crown will present themselves before the priests of Ishap, and the entire, bloody damn Congress of Lords. Between now and then you’ll have plenty of time to decide what to do. But for now, you needs must be Heir. There is no other way.
“Have you forgotten Bas-Tyra? Should you dither, he’ll be in Rillanon with his army a month before you. Then you’ll have bitter civil war, boy. As soon as you agree to keep your mouth shut, I’m ordering my own trusted troops to Krondor, under royal seal, to arrest Black Guy. They’ll toss Bas-Tyra into the dungeon before his own men can stop them—there’ll be enough loyal Krondorians around to ensure that. You can have him held until you reach Krondor, then cart him off to Rillanon for the coronation, either your own or Martin’s. But you must act, or by the gods, we’ll have Guy’s lackeys brewing civil war within a day of your naming Martin the true Heir. Do you understand?”
Lyam nodded silently. With a sigh he said, “But will Guy’s men let him be taken?”
“Even the captain of his own guard will not stand against a royal warrant, especially countersigned by the representatives of the Congress of Lords. I shall guarantee signatures on the warrant,” he said, clenching his gloved fist before his face.
Lyam was quiet for some time, then said, “You are right. I have no wish to visit trouble upon the Kingdom. I will do as you say.”
The two men returned to the King’s side and waited. Nearly another two hours passed before the priest listened at the King’s chest and said, “The King is dead.”
Brucal and Lyam joined the priest in a silent prayer for Rodric. Then the Duke of Yabon too
k a ring from Rodric’s hand and turned to Lyam.
“Come, it is time.”
He held aside the tent flap, and Lyam looked out. The sun had set, and the night sky glittered with stars. Fires had been lit and torches brought, so that now the multitude appeared to be an ocean of firelight. Not one man in twenty had left, though they were all tired and hungry after the victory.
Brucal and Lyam appeared before the tent, and the old Duke said, “The King is dead.” His face was stony, but his eyes were red-rimmed. Lyam looked pale but stood erect, his head high.
Brucal held something above his head. A glint of deep red fire reflected off the small object as it caught the torchlight. The nobles who stood close nodded in understanding, for it was the royal signet, worn by all the conDoin kings since Delong the Great had crossed the water from Rillanon to plant the banner of the Kingdom of the Isles upon the mainland shore.
Brucal took Lyam’s hand and placed the ring upon his finger. Lyam studied the old and worn ring, with its device cut into the ruby, still undimmed by age. As he raised his eyes to behold the crowd, a noble stepped forward. It was the Duke of Rodez, and he knelt before Lyam. “Your Highness,” he said. One by one the others before the tent, nobles of both East and West, knelt in homage, and like a wave rippling, all those assembled knelt, until Lyam alone was standing.
Lyam looked at those before him, overcome with emotion and unable to speak. He placed his hand upon Brucal’s shoulder and motioned for them all to stand.
Suddenly the multitude was upon its feet, and the cheer went up, “Hail, Lyam! Long live the Heir!” The soldiers of the Kingdom roared their approval, doubly so, for many knew that hours ago the threat of civil war had hung over their heads. Men of both East and West embraced and celebrated, for a terrible future had been avoided.
Lyam raised his hands, and soon all were silent. His voice rang out over their heads, and all could hear him say, “Let no man rejoice this night. Let the drums be muffled and the trumpets blown low, for tonight we mourn a King.”
—
BRUCAL POINTED AT the map. “The salient is surrounded, and each attempt to break through to the main body has been turned back. We have isolated nearly four thousand of their soldiers there.” It was late night. Rodric had been buried with what honor could be afforded in the camp.
There had been none of the trappings common to a royal funeral, but the business of war made it necessary. He had been quickly embalmed and buried in his armor next to Borric, on a hillside overlooking the camp. When the war was over, they would be returned to the tombs of their ancestors in Rillanon.
Now the young Heir looked over the map, gauging the situation in light of the latest communiqué from the front. The Tsurani held in the North Pass, at the entrance to the valley. The infantry had dug in before them, bottling up those in the valley, and isolating both the forces along the river Crydee and what was left of the salient.
“We have broken their offensive,” said Lyam, “but it is a two-edged sword. We cannot attempt to fight on two fronts. We must also be ready should the Tsurani try to move against us from the south. I see no quick ending yet, in spite of our gains.”
Brucal said, “But surely those in the salient will surrender soon. They are cut off, with little food or water, and cannot expect to be resupplied. In a matter of days they will be starving.”
Pug interrupted. “Forgive me, Lord Brucal, but they will not.”
“What can they gain by resisting? Their position is hopeless.”
“They tie up your forces that would otherwise be attacking the main camp. Soon the situation in Tsuranuanni will be resolved enough for magicians to return from the Assembly. Then food and water can be transported in without interference. And each day they hold strengthens the Tsurani as reinforcements arrive from Kelewan. They are Tsurani and will gladly die rather than be taken captive.”
Lyam asked, “Are they so honor bound to die, then?”
“Yes. On Kelewan they know only that captives become slaves. The idea of a prisoner exchange is unknown to them.”
“Then we must bring all our weight to bear upon the salient at once,” said Brucal. “We must crush them and free our soldiers to deal with other threats.”
“It will prove costly,” Lyam observed. “This time there will be no element of surprise, and they are dug in like moles. We could lose two men for each of theirs.”
Kulgan had been sitting off to one side with Laurie and Meecham. “It is a tragedy that we have gained only a broadening of the fighting. And so soon after the Emperor’s offer of peace.”
Pug said, “Perhaps it is still not too late.”
Lyam looked at Pug. “What do you mean? Kasumi must have already sent word that the peace was refused.”
“Yes, but there may still be time to send word that there will be a new king who is willing to talk peace.”
“Who will carry the message?” asked Kulgan. “Your life might be forfeit if you return to the Empire.”
“We may be able to solve two problems at once. Your Highness, may I have your leave to promise the Tsurani in the salient safe passage to their lines?”
Lyam considered this. “I will, if I have their parole not to return for a year’s time.”
“I will go to them, then,” said Pug. “Perhaps we can still end this war in spite of the calamities that have befallen us.”
—
THE TSURANI GUARDS, nervous and alert, tensed at the sound of an approaching rider. “They come!” one shouted, and men seized weapons and hurried to the barricades. The southern earthworks were still intact, but here at the western edge of the former salient the pickets had thrown up a hasty barrier of felled trees and shallow trenches.
Bowmen stood ready, arrows notched, but the expected charge did not come. A single figure on horseback came into view. His hands were raised overhead, palms together in the sign for parley. And more, he wore the black robe.
The rider walked his horse to the edge of the barricade and asked, in perfect Tsurani, “Who commands here?”
A startled officer said, “Commander Wataun.”
The rider snapped, “You forget your manners, Strike Leader.” He took note of the colors and devices on the man’s breastplate and helm. “Are the Chilapaningo so lacking in civility?”
The officer came to attention. “Your pardon, Great One,” the man stammered. “It is only that you were unexpected.”
“Bring Commander Wataun here.”
“Your will, Great One.”
The commander of the Tsurani salient came a short time later. He was a bandy-legged, barrel-chested old fighter, and Great One or not, his first concern was for the welfare of his troops. He looked at the magician suspiciously. “I am here, Great One.”
“I have come to order you and your soldiers back to the valley.”
Commander Wataun smiled ruefully and shook his head. “I regret, Great One, that I may not. Word of your exploits has been carried to us here, and that the Assembly has called your status into question. You may be no longer outside the law by now. If you had not come under a sign of parley, I would have you taken, though it would cost us dearly.”
Pug felt a hot flush come to his cheeks. He had known it was likely the Assembly would cast him out, but to hear this still caused him pain. Ruefully, he knew that because of the training he had undergone, he would still feel a sense of loyalty to that alien place and would never fully feel at home in his native land.
With a sigh Pug said, “What then will you do?”
The Force Commander shrugged. “Hold our position. Die if we must.”
“Then I will make you an offer, Commander. You must decide if it is a trick or not. Kasumi of the Shinzawai carried an offer from the Light of Heaven to the Midkemian King. It was an offer of peace. The King rejected it, but now there is to be a new king who is willing to make peace. I would ask you to carry word to the Holy City, to the Emperor, that Prince Lyam will accept peace. Will you do so?”
> The commander considered. “If what you say is true, then I would be a fool to waste my men. What guarantees are you willing to make?”
“I give you my word, as a Great One—if that means anything still—that what I say is true. I also promise that your men will be given safe conduct back to the valley, on promise they return to the Empire for a year’s time. And I will ride to the valley entrance, to your lines, as hostage. Is that enough?”
The commander thought it over for a moment as he surveyed his tired, thirsty troops. “I will agree, Great One. If it is the Light of Heaven’s will that the war end, who am I to prolong it?”
“The Oaxatucan have long been known for their bravery. Let it be said they are also worthy of honor for their wisdom.”
The commander bowed, then turned to his soldiers. “Pass the word. We march…home.”
—
WORD THAT THE Emperor would agree to peace reached the camp four days later. Pug had given a message to Wataun to be carried through the rift. It bore the black seal of the Assembly, and no one would impede its swift delivery. It had been addressed to Fumita, asking him to carry word to the Holy City that the new King of the Realm would not require retribution but would accept peace.
Lyam had shown visible emotion when Pug had read the message. The Emperor himself would come through the rift in a month’s time and would sign formal treaties with the Kingdom. Pug had felt close to tears when he read the news, which soon spread through the camp that the war was over. A great cheering could be heard.
Pug and Kulgan sat in the older magician’s tent. For the first time in years they had been feeling something like their old relationship. Pug was finishing up a long explanation of the Tsurani system of instructing novices.
“Pug,” said Kulgan around a long pull on his pipe. “It seems that now the war is over, we can return to the business of magicians. Only now it is you who are master, and I who would be student.”
“There is much we may learn from each other, Kulgan. But I fear old habits die hard. I don’t think I could ever get used to the idea of your being a student. And there are many things you are capable of that I still cannot do.”
Magician: Master Page 36
