“Here are the arrangements that have been made for you. Yes, yes, I know why you are here. You are to be housed and fed with the squires, and you will be permitted to copy the manuscript in the library between dawn and dusk. You are not to intrude upon the count’s private quarters. You are not to bother any of the knights. You are not to interfere with any of the castle personnel. You are not to handle any weapons. You arc not to enter the tilting grounds. You are not to interfere with any of the servants. You are not to steal food from the kitchen ...”
As the list of prohibitions went on and on. Kevin thought wryly he could almost wish he was back with his Master—at least there’d been fewer rules!
I can’t stand this place! he decided suddenly. The sooner I finish the stupid job, the better.
“Master D’Krikas,” Kevin asked as soon as the being fell silent, “is there any reason I can’t continue my copying after dark? I mean,” he added cajolingly, “it would save precious time.”
“No, no, no!” the seneschal snapped. “Have you no idea of how expensive candles are? Have you? No! Burning candles so a human can do some copy work would be a waste of good wax.” D’Krikas stood, gray cloak swirling, tall, thin body towering over Kevin. “And no one your age, boy, can be trusted with open flame around so many fragile manuscripts!”
The seneschal folded himself back behind the desk. Once more writing in the huge ledger, D’Krikas said curtly, “That is all. You may leave.”
Kevin hardly wanted to return to the squires’ quarters. But where else was there? By now, it was too late to start copying the manuscript. And after D’Krikas’ never-ending list of prohibitions, he hardly dared go exploring! Since Am didn’t seem to be anywhere around, Kevin retraced his steps as best he could, and didn’t get lost more than once or twice.
Dinner, he suspected, wasn’t going to be any brighter than anything else that had happened this day.
It wasn’t. Dinner was a miserable affair served on rough trestle tables set up in the squires’ quarters. Even though the bardling had been assigned a seat among the squires, he’d might as well have been in the middle of a desert, because no one would talk to him. Kevin busied himself in trying to chew the stringy beef, and in trying to convince himself the squires’ coldness didn’t matter; as soon as he’d finished copying that cursed manuscript, he would never have to see any of these idiots again.
Once they had finished eating-and the food scraps and trestle tables had been cleared away, the squires disappeared, still without a word to Kevin. He gathered, from the bits of their conversations he overheard, that they were going off to wait on their knights.
Who are probably just as brainless.
Left alone in the now empty hall, the bardling shivered, grabbing for his cloak. The place seemed even more silent than before, and twice as chilly. Evidently Count Volmar didn’t believe in pampering youngsters, because there wasn’t a fireplace anywhere in the hall.
Never •mind, Kevin told himself. A true hero doesn’t mind a little discomfort.
Or a little loneliness.
The silence was getting on his nerves. The bardling took out his lute and practiced for a long, long while, trying to ignore everything but his music. At last, warmed a little by his own exertions, Kevin put the instrument back in its case and stretched out on the lumpy cot he’d been assigned. The hour, he thought, was probably still fairly early—not that there was any way to tell in here, without so much as a water dock or hourglass. But there wasn’t anything else to do but sleep. The pillow was so thin it felt as though the feathers had been taken from a very scrawny bird. “He one blanket was too thin for real comfort, but by adding his cloak to it, the bardling was almost warm.
He had nearly drifted off to sleep when the squires returned. Kevin heard their whispers and muffled laughter, and felt his face redden in the darkness. They were laughing at him. He knew they were laughing at him.
Miserable all over again, Kevin turned over, and buried his face in the pillow.
Interlude The First
Count Volmar, tall, lean and graying of brown hair and beard, sat seemingly at ease in his private solar before a blazing fireplace, a wine-filled goblet of precious glass in his hand. He looked across the small room at the woman who sat there, and raised the goblet in appreciation. She nodded at the courtesy, her dark green eyes flickering with cold amusement in the firelight.
Carlotta, princess, half-sister to King Amber himself, could not, Volmar knew, be much younger than his own mid-forties, and yet she could easily have passed for a far younger woman. Not the slightest trace of age marred the pale, flawless skin or the glorious masses of deep red hair turned to bright flame by the firelight.
Sorcery, he thought, and then snickered at his own vapid musings so that he nearly choked on his own wine. Of course it was sorcery! Carlotta was an accomplished sorceress, and about as safe. for all her beauty, as a snake.
About as honorable, too.
Not that he was one to worry overmuch about honor.
“The boy is safely ensconced, I take it?” Carlotta’s smile was as chill as her lovely eyes.
“Yes. He has a place among the squires. Who, I might add, have been given to understand that he’s so far beneath them they needn’t bother even to acknowledge his presence—that to do so, in fact, would demean their own status. By now, the boy is surely thoroughly disillusioned about nobility and questioning his own worth.”
“He suspects nothing, then? Good. We don’t want him showing any awkward sparks of initiative.” Carlotta sipped delicately from her goblet. “We don’t want him copying his Master.”
Volmar’s mouth tightened. Oh, yes, the Bard, that cursed Bard. He could remember so clearly, even though it was over thirty years ago, how it had been, himself just barely an adult and Carlotta only ... how old? Only thirteen? Maybe so, but she had already been as ambitious as he—More so. Already mistress of the Dark Arts despite her youth, the princess had attempted to seize the throne from her half-brother.
And almost made it, Volmar thought, then corrected that to: We almost made it.
Amber had been only a prince back then, on the verge of the succession. His father had been old, and there hadn’t been any other legal heir; Carlotta, as the court had been so eager to gossip, was only Amber’s half-sister, her mother quite unknown.
But there were always ways around such awkward little facts. Once Amber had been declared dead—or so it had been believed—in heroic battle (when actually, Volmar thought wryly, Carlotta’s magics had turned him to stone), the poor old king would surely have ... pined away. Volmar grinned sharply. Why, the shock alone would have finished him; Carlotta wouldn’t have needed to waste a spell. The people, even if they had, by some bizarre chance, come to suspect her of wrongdoing, would have had no choice but to accept Carlotta, with her half-share of the Blood Royal, as queen.
Ambitious little girl ... Volmar thought with approval. What a pity she didn’t succeed. Sorceress or no, she would have been too wise to try riding alone. She would have taken a consort.
And who better than one of her loyal supporters? Even one whose role in the attempted usurpation had never become public.
Volmar suddenly realized he was grimacing, and forced himself to relax. His late father had been an avid supporter of the old king, and if he had ever found out his own son was a traitor ...
But he hadn’t. And of course if only Carlotta had safely become queen, it wouldn’t have mattered. The only traitors then would have been those who failed to acknowledge her!
If only ... Bah!
Carlotta would have become queen if it hadn’t been for the boy's Master, chat accursed Bard and his allies ....
“Forget the past, Volmar.”
The count started, thrown abruptly back into the present “You—.. have learned to read minds ... ?” If the sorceress suspected he planned to use her to place a crown on his own head, he was dead. Worse than dead.
“You must learn to guard your
expressions, my lord. Your thoughts were there for anyone with half an eye to read.”
Not all my thoughts, the count thought, giddy with relief.
Carlotta got restlessly to her feet, dark green gown swinging about her elegant form. Volmar, since she was, after all, a princess and he only a count, stood as well:
politic courtesy.
She never noticed. “Enough of the past,” the sorceress repeated, staring into the flames. “We must think of what can be done now.”
Volmar moved warily to stand beside her, and caught a flicker of alien movement in the flames. Faces ... ah. Carlotta was absently creating images of the boy, the bardling. “Why do you suppose he sent the boy here?” the princess murmured—”And why just now? What purpose could the old man possibly have? You’ve convinced me the manuscript is merely a treatise on lute music.” She glanced sharply at Volmar. “It is, isn’t it?”
“Of course,” Volmar said easily, hiding the fact that he wasn’t really sure which of the many manuscripts stored in the library it might be; his father had been the scholar, not he. “My father collected such things.”
“Yes, yes, but why send the boy now? Why is it suddenly so urgent that the thing be copied?”
“Ah ... it could be merely coincidence.”
“No, it couldn’t!” The flames roared up as Carlotta whirled, eyes blazing. Volmar shrank back from her unexpected surge of rage, half expecting a sorcerous attack, but the princess ignored him, returning to her chair and dropping into it with an angry flounce. “You’re the only one who knows how I’ve been in hiding all these years, lulling suspicions, making everyone think I was dead.”
“Of course.” Though Volmar never had puzzled out why Carlotta had hidden for quite so many years. Oh. granted, she had been totally drained after the breaking other stone-spell on Amber, but even so ...
“Maybe that’s it.” Carlotta’s musings broke into Volmar’s wonderings. “Maybe now that I’ve come out of hiding, begun moving again, the Bard has somehow sensed I’m still around. He is a Master of that ridiculous Bardic Magic, after all.”
Volmar was too wise to remind her it was the Bardic Magic she so despised that had blocked her path so far. “Eh, well, the bardling is safe among the squires,” he soothed. “I’ve been debating simply telling him the manuscript isn’t here and sending him away.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Sorcery crackled in the air around Carlotta, her hair stirring where there was no breeze. “The boy was sent here for a purpose, and we will both be better off when we find out just what that purpose might be.”
“But how can we learn the truth? If the boy becomes suspicious, he’ll never say a thing. And I can hardly order the imprisonment or torment of an innocent bardling. My people,” Volmar added with a touch of contempt, “wouldn’t stand for it.”
“Don’t be so dramatic. The boy is already quite miserable, you say. No one will talk to him, no one will treat him kindly, and he’s faced with a long, boring, lonely task.” Carlotta smiled slowly. “Just think how delighted he would be if someone was race to him! How eager he would be to confide in that someone!”
“I don’t understand. An adult—”
“No, you idiot! Don’t you remember what it’s like being that young? The boy is only going to confide in someone his own age.”
As usual, Volmar forced down his rage at her casual insults. Ah, Carlotta, you superior little witch, if ever I gain the throne beside you, you had better guard your back! As innocuously as he could, he asked, “Who are you suggesting? One of the squires?”
“Oh, hardly that”
Her shape blurred, altered ... Volmar rubbed a hand over his eyes—He’d known from the start that Carlotta was as much a master of shape-shifting as any fairy, but watching her in action always made him dizzy.
“You can look now, poor Volmar.” Her voice was an octave higher than before, and so filled with sugar he dropped his hand to stare.
Where the adult Carlotta had sat was now a cloyingly sweet little blonde girl of, Volmar guessed, the bardling’s own age, though it was difficult to tell age amid all the golden ringlets and alabaster skin and large, shining blue eyes.
“How do I look?” she cooed.
Honest words came to his lips before he could stop them. “Sweet enough to rot my teeth.”
She merely threw back her head and laughed. Her teeth, of course, were flawless. “I am a bit sickening, aren’t I? Let me try a more plausible form.”
The sickening coyness faded. The girl remained the same age, but the blonde hair was now less perfectly golden, the big blue eyes a bit less glowing, the pale skin just a touch less smooth. As Volmar grit his teeth, determinedly watching despite a new surge of dizziness, he saw the perfect oval other face broaden ever so slightly at the forehead, narrow at the chin, until she looked just like ...
“Charina!” the count gasped.
“Charina,” the princess agreed. “Your darling little niece.”
Too amazed to remember propriety, Volmar got to his feet and slowly circled her. “Marvelous!” he breathed at last. “Simply marvelous! I would never know you weren’t the real—But what do we do with the real Charina?”
Her voice was deceptively light. “I’m sure you’ll think of something.”
“Ah, yes.” Volmar smiled thinly. “Poor Charina. She always has been a bit of a nuisance, wandering about the castle like a lonely wraith. How unfortunate that my sister and her fool of a husband had the bad taste to die. Poor little creature: too far from the main line of descent to be of any use as a marriage pawn. No political value at all. Just another useless girl.”
“Not so useless now.” Carlotta/
Charina dimpled prettily.
“Poor Charina,” Volmar repeated without any warmth at all. “So easily disposed of. She never will be missed.”
Chapter IV
Kevin woke with a jolt as something smothering landed smack across his face, molding itself over his nose and mouth—Gasping, he clawed the monster aside —and found himself holding a damp towel.
“Very funny!” he began angrily, only to find himself talking to empty space. The last of the squires was just leaving the hall, laughing with the others.
Fuming, Kevin got to his feet and found the garderobe facilities, grateful that at least the count didn’t insist his underlings use lowly chamber pots. Going to the communal washing trough, he discovered the squires hadn’t left him more than a few inches of water, barely enough to splash on his face. Grumbling, he dressed, pulling his clothes from the chest at the foot of his bed, and sat down to a solitary breakfast—at least they’d left him something to eat—of a roll and some scraps of cheese, washed down with a lukewarm goblet of khafe.
Now, all he had to do was find the count’s library.
Easily said. Kevin wandered helplessly through the castle corridors for a time, sure he was going to be shouted at by D’Krikas for being where he shouldn’t be. At last, to his relief, he intercepted a page, a wide-eyed boy even younger than Am, who shyly gave him directions, then hurried away.
At last, the bardling thought wryly. Someone whose status here is even lower than mine.
The library was a large, dusty room lined with tall shelves piled high with scrolls and books of all sizes. It was so redolent with the scent of dusty old parchment and leather that Kevin sneezed. Obviously scholarship wasn’t high on the count’s list of priorities!
As he glanced about the crowded room, the bardling shook his head in gloom. The room faced onto an inner courtyard, safely away from attack, so at least the windows were large enough to let him see what he was doing. But there wasn’t a title anywhere, not on books or scroll cases. There wasn’t any sign of a librarian, either. There probably wasn’t one, judging from the dustiness of the room.
All right The sooner he started looking, the sooner he’d get this whole stupid job finished.
By mid-afternoon, Kevin was dusty, weary of climbing up and down the rickety library l
adder and sick to death of the whole room. Ha, by now he probably knew more about the contents of the count’s library than anyone, including the count! And what a weird collection it was, without any logic to it! Why in the world would anyone want to keep not one but three copies of The Agricultural Summaries of Kendall County for the First Twenty Years of King Sendak’s Reign? And what was a treatise on politics doing tucked in between two volumes of rather bad love poetry?
How can the Master even know for sure the manuscript’s in here?
By Bardic Magic, of course. Kevin started to sigh, then coughed instead. Blast this dust!
The bardling stopped his hunt long enough to snag some lunch from a startled page, then dove into the library once more. A book about farm tools. Another. A catalog of cattle diseases. One on swine, wild and domestic. A book on—
“Ow!”
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