All conversation stopped as Harald entered the Hall. The great babble of voices died quickly away to nothing, the musicians stopped playing, and the dancers froze in their places. Even the roaring flames in the huge open fireplace seemed muted by the sudden silence. Harald stopped just inside the doorway and looked about him. A vast sea of masks stared impassively back.
Darius’s Hall wasn’t all that large, as Castle Halls went, and the two or three hundred people present filled it comfortably from wall to wall. The number was about right for a Castle party, large enough to be impressive without being intimidating, but somehow the masks made a difference. Simple black domino masks predominated, but at least half of Darius’s guests had chosen to wear their own individual masks; ornate and bizarre, gorgeous and grotesque, the masks watched Harald with a fixed intensity that came close to unnerving him. Their unmoving expressions, their exaggerated glees or sorrows or snarls, were so far from anything human as to be almost demonic. Directly before Harald, to his left, a white-faced Pierrot stood arm-in-arm with a horse-headed mummer. To Harald’s right, a grinning Death leaned companionably on the shoulder of a shrieking Famine. A Fish stared goggle-eyed, and a Cat winked. And everywhere; simple black dominos and painted faces and lorgnettes of beaten gold and silver. Harald stared at the masks, and the masks stared back.
And then the sea of false faces suddenly parted, as two figures came forward to meet him. A little of Harald’s tension drained away as he recognized Lord Darius and the Lady Cecelia, and he moved his hand away from his swordhilt. Darius wore long heavy robes of dusty gray, whose cut and style fought in vain to make him appear slimmer. His mask was a black silk domino. Cecelia wore an ornate ball gown of blue and silver, studded with semiprecious stones, that covered her completely from neck to ankle without concealing any of her splendid figure. Silver bells hanging from her cuffs and hem chimed prettily with her every movement. Her mask was a dainty lorgnette of beaten gold on a slender ivory handle. Darius bowed to Harald, and Cecelia curtsied. Behind them, the sea of masks also bowed and curtsied. Harald nodded briefly in return, and Darius gestured urgently to the musicians at the far end of the Hall. A lively music sprang up, and the sea of masks was suddenly just a gathering of party guests as they broke apart to talk, or dance, or sample wines and sweetmeats and sugared fruits from the well-stocked buffet tables. Two servants moved forward and quietly closed the door behind Harald. He heard the heavy bolts slam home.
“Welcome, Sire,” said Lord Darius. “We’ve been expecting you for some time.”
“So Sir Blays informed me,” said Harald, smiling politely.
“Did you have any trouble getting here, Sire?”
“None I couldn’t handle.”
“Would you like me to get you a mask, Harald?” asked Cecelia brightly. “I’m sure I can find just the thing to suit you.”
“Indeed,” said Darius. “My guards were under strict orders to provide you with a mask.”
“They did try,” said Harald. “I convinced them it was a bad idea. After all, I am here to be recognized, aren’t I?”
“Of course, Sire, of course.” Darius gestured quickly to a passing servant, who stopped and presented Harald with a tray of drinks. Harald took a glass of wine, drained it, put it back on the tray, and picked up another glass. Darius waved the servant away before the Prince could try for a third, and then studied Harald warily. Something was wrong; he could feel it.
“Why did you choose a masked Ball, my Lord Darius?” asked Harald, sipping at his wine in a manner that suggested only politeness kept him from pulling a face.
“To be honest, Sire, it was the only way I could persuade most of them to come. No doubt the masks give them a comforting sense of anonymity. There will be an unmasking later, once we’ve all had the opportunity to … get to know one another a little better.”
Harald nodded solemnly. “Then if you’ll excuse me, my Lord and Lady, I’d better go and mingle with my fellow guests, hadn’t I?”
“That is the purpose of this party, Sire.”
Harald smiled, and moved away into the crowd of bobbing masks. Darius and Cecelia watched him go.
“Something’s wrong,” said Darius slowly, his right hand moving absently to the poison dagger concealed in his left sleeve.
“Wrong? I don’t see anything wrong, darling.” Cecelia took an elegant sip from her wine glass, and peered quickly round the Hall. “The party’s going splendidly; everyone’s here that should be.”
Darius shook his head stubbornly. “It’s Harald; the way he’s been acting. He should be more … well, excited, dammit. The people in this room could put him on the throne, if they choose to, but to look at Harald you’d think he didn’t give a damn what they thought of him.”
Cecelia shrugged prettily. “Dear Harald’s never given much of a damn what anybody thinks. He doesn’t have to; he’s a Prince.”
“You could be right,” said Darius. He drank deeply from his wine glass, and on lowering it was surprised to find it empty. He frowned, and put the glass down on a nearby table. This was no time to be getting the worse for drink. “Come, my dear; our guests are waiting, and if Harald won’t charm them, we’ll have to do it for him, damn the man.”
Cecelia laughed. “You mean Gregory and I will have to charm them; you’ll be too busy making political and business deals.”
“Of course,” said Darius. “It’s what I do best.”
They shared a smile, and then moved away in different directions.
Harald strolled slowly through the party, nodding politely to those he recognized, and smiling coldly at those he didn’t. He ignored all invitations to stop and talk, and wandered back and forth across the Hall until he was sure he’d seen everybody at least once. He finally ended up before the blazing open fire, and stood with his back to it, quietly enjoying the heat as it seeped slowly into his bones. Even the many thick stone walls of the Castle couldn’t seem to keep out the unnatural cold that had fallen across the Forest. Bitter frosts blighted all the Land, and every morning the snow lay more thickly on the Castle battlements. Even the moat was beginning to ice over.
Harald shrugged, and sipped at his wine. Across the Hall, Darius was glaring at him. Harald looked away. He wasn’t ready to talk to anybody yet. Instead, he amused himself by watching the masked guests as they moved gracefully through the intricate measures of a dance, or gathered in hungry little groups round the buffet tables and scandalmongers. It seemed to Harald that, for all the different kinds of masks, there was still a definite pecking order. High Society had their own individual and highly stylized masks, each with its own subtle clues as to who’s features lay concealed beneath. The lesser nobles wore the wilder and more bizarre masks, as though making up in originality what they lacked in social standing. The traders and the military made do with the simple black domino masks that Lord Darius had provided.
Directly opposite Harald, three men wearing no masks stood together. Harald inclined his head slightly to them. The three Landsgraves nodded in acknowledgment, but made no move to approach him. Harald frowned, and met their eyes in turn. Sir Blays stared calmly back, Sir Guillam bobbed his head and simpered nervously, and Sir Bedivere … Despite himself, Harald shivered suddenly as he tried and failed to meet Sir Bedivere’s cold, dark eyes. He knew now, beyond any shadow of a doubt, that if he had fought the Landsgrave that day in Court, Sir Bedivere would have killed him easily. Harald glowered into his empty glass. He hadn’t forgotten or forgiven the Landsgrave’s insult to his father, but he vowed to himself that if it ever came to a fighting insult again, he’d have more sense than to challenge the Landsgrave to a duel. He’d just stab the man in the back, or put ground glass in his wine.
“Welcome to the party,” said a chill voice, and Harald looked up to find himself face-to-face with a black-and-white Harlequin mask. Its rosebud mouth smiled politely, but no humor showed in the pale blue eyes behind the mask.
“I know that voice,” murmured Harald. “L
ord Vivian, isn’t it? You’re in charge of the Castle’s guards, in the Champion’s absence.”
Lord Vivian reached up and slowly and deliberately removed his mask, revealing a gaunt, raw-boned face so pale as to be almost colorless, topped with a thick mane of silver-gray hair. There was a calm and studied stillness to the face that suggested strength and determination, but the eyes were hard and unyielding. Fanatic’s eyes. His frame was lean and wiry, rather than muscular, but there was a deadly grace to his few, economical movements, and Harald noticed that Vivian’s right hand never strayed far from his swordhilt.
“I command the Castle guards,” said Lord Vivian slowly, “Now, and always, my King.”
“I’m not King yet,” said Harald.
“You will be,” said Vivian. “The Champion isn’t coming back. His body lies rotting in the Darkwood. I speak for the guards now, and every man-to-arms in this Castle follows my orders. With us at your side, no one will dare dispute your claim to the Forest throne.”
“Indeed,” said Harald. “But why should you support me, rather than my father? You swore an oath of allegiance to him, upon your life and your honor.”
“That was before the coming of the Darkwood,” said Vivian flatly. “My oath to protect the Land takes precedence over all other oaths. My loyalty is to the throne, not who sits on it. The Forest is endangered, and your father is no longer capable of doing what must be done.”
Harald raised an eyebrow. “I take it you have something in mind for me to order as King?”
Vivian smiled coldly. “Take the fight to the enemy, Sire. Unite all the guards and men-at-arms into a single great army, and send them forth against the darkness. Under my command, they will butcher the demons and drive them back.”
“And then?” asked Harald.
“And then, my troops will set a wall of fire between us and the demons; a searing, bright-burning flame that will drive the foul creatures back into the darkness from which they came!”
“Even assuming such a tactic would work,” said Harald thoughtfully, “hundreds of the outlying farms would be lost in the fire. Thousands of peasants would die.”
Vivian shrugged. “Regrettable, but necessary. If the Darkwood isn’t stopped, they’ll die anyway. What does it matter if a few peasants must die, if by their deaths they ensure the survival of the Forest Kingdom? I’m a soldier; my men and I take that same risk every time we go out into battle. Afterwards … we can always build more farms, and the lower classes breed like rabbits, anyway.”
“Quite,” murmured Harald. “Still, I fear the Barons would not take kindly to such widespread destruction of their lands.”
“My army would stand ready to support their King against any foe,” said Vivian calmly. “No matter where such enemies might be found.”
“A comforting thought,” said Harald. “I will think on your words, my Lord Vivian, and your most generous offer of support.”
“In return for my position as High Commander of the Guard, Sire.”
“Of course, Lord Vivian. But of course.”
Vivian bowed slightly, and replaced his Harlequin mask. Faded blue eyes glittered coldly behind the black and white silk, and then Lord Vivian turned away and disappeared into the milling crowd. Harald frowned, and shook his head as though to clear it. Vivian’s presence at the party was hardly a surprise, but somehow Harald felt almost disappointed. He’d expected better of the man.
He glowered into his empty glass, tossed it over his shoulder into the fireplace, and casually acquired a fresh glass from a passing servant. The wine was lousy, but Harald was damned if he could face this party entirely sober. He looked up to see a masked Lord and Lady heading uncertainly in his direction. Harald sighed, and nodded politely to them. He’d better speak to somebody, or some of the guests might get nervous and leave. And that would never do. He bowed to the Lord and to the Lady, and they bowed and curtsied deeply in return.
The things I have to do, thought Harald sardonically. The things I have to do …
More masked figures came and went as the Ball wore on. Harald met three Lords he had suspected, two he hadn’t, and a handful of local traders; it seemed the Darkwood was bad for business. The vast majority of those he met turned out to be courtiers, which was pretty much what he’d expected. On the one hand, courtiers tended to be conservative by nature for, as landowners or Sherrifs of the King’s land, they had much to lose and little to gain from any political change. But, on the other hand, when all was said and done, most courtiers were lesser nobles who wanted very much to be greater nobles. And the only way to achieve that was to acquire more land, or move to positions of greater influence within the Court. Which was why they came to Harald, hiding behind their masks of silk and leather and thinly beaten metal. The masks changed, but the story was always the same; support in return for patronage. After a while, Harald stopped listening and just said yes to everyone. It saved time.
Cecelia and Gregory paraded arm-in-arm the length of the Hall and back again, smiling and chatting and making sure that everyone’s wine glass was full to the brim. With her beauty and his firm masculine good looks, they made a handsome couple, bold and bright. Cecelia was at her sparkling best, her malicious little quips and barbed comments reducing even the most stern-faced to indulgent smiles and open laughter. Whilst not the most diplomatic of men, Gregory could be charming when he put his mind to it, and with Cecelia at his side to inspire him, the young guardsman strolled amiably among the uncertain, radiating confidence. Bluff and hearty, his sure manner and calm good humor steadied quavering nerves and spread a sense of purpose among the wavering. There were few glances at Cecelia’s arm linked through his; everyone knew, or at least suspected. There were a few sidelong glances in Darius’s direction, but nobody said anything. Since Darius knew and apparently didn’t object, the subject was closed, at least in public. Among the courtiers, eyes met and shoulders shrugged. Politics made for strange bedfellows. Sometimes literally.
Darius missed none of this as he circulated among his guests. Fools. He knew well enough that where reason couldn’t sway a man, charm often would. Possessing but little charm himself, Darius needed someone else to front for him on occasion; someone with good looks, an easy manner, and not enough brains to double-cross his master. Gregory might have been tailor-made for the position. It helped that Cecelia liked him. But then, Cecelia wasn’t exactly brilliant, either.
Darius sighed quietly, and looked around him. At least Harald had finally condescended to talk to his fellow guests, even if he did seem to be attracting mainly the lesser nobles of no real influence or importance. Darius sniffed cynically. About time Harald started pulling his weight and getting his noble hands dirty. Darius thought of the hard bargaining he’d just been through to get the two leading Forest grain merchants on his side, and smiled grimly. It wasn’t just politics and force of arms that made a rebellion, as Harald and the Barons would find out to their cost. In return for certain future concessions, Darius now owned all the stocks of grain remaining in the Forest Land. Not so much as one cart-load would leave the carefully hidden silos without his permission. The Landsgraves might think they owned him, but the Barons would soon learn better when they had to come cap in hand to the Lord Darius for grain to feed their troops … He chuckled coldly, and then quickly composed his face into calm inscrutability as Sir Blays approached him. Darius looked surreptitiously about for Guillam and Bedivere, but as yet there was no sign of them.
“Sir Blays, my dear fellow,” said Darius, bowing formally, “I trust you are enjoying my hospitality.”
“Your wine’s lousy and the company stinks,” said Blays. “Still, when you’re dealing with traitors, you learn to ignore things that would normally sicken you. I take it you’ve noticed Harald’s growing popularity? Courtiers who’d normally run a mile to avoid him are fighting each other for the chance to shake his hand in public.”
“Dear Harald does seem to be doing rather well,” murmured Darius. “Possibly
because he’s been a little overgenerous in his offers of patronage. Still, let him promise what he likes; it keeps the courtiers happy, and we can always put things right, later.”
“You mean the Barons will put things right, Darius.”
“Of course, Sir Blays. But of course.”
“Something’s worrying your guests,” said Blays suddenly. “Something that’s got them so scared they don’t even dare discuss it here. Have you any idea what’s got into them?”
“Curtana,” said Darius flatly. “They don’t believe it’s been stolen, any more than you or I do. No, my dear Blays; they’re afraid that John and his pet Astrologer now have the Sword of Compulsion, and are planning to use it against them, setting geas after geas upon them until they’re nothing more than slaves, with no will of their own.”
“It’s possible, I suppose,” said Blays carefully. “How about you? Do you think John has the Curtana?”
Darius shrugged. “What does it matter? If he has, there’s nothing we can do about it. If he hasn’t, then he’s defenseless against us. Besides, I’ve no doubt the sword’s powers have been greatly exaggerated over the years. All magic fades, in time.”
Sir Blays shook his head. “Legend has it that Curtana derives its power from the Demon Prince, himself. If that’s so, then the Curtana is once again one of the deadliest weapons ever to be wielded in this Land. If by some chance the King really hasn’t got it, we’d better find out who has, and quickly. John might hesitate to use the Curtana; there are a great many others who wouldn’t.”
“That’s a problem for another day,” said Darius. “In the meantime, the longer the Curtana stays missing, the better; its main value to us is as a weapon with which to isolate King John from his Court. The more scared they are of the King, the more likely they are to side with us.”
Sir Blays smiled cynically. “It won’t be that easy, Darius. It’s not enough for these sheep to be scared; they have to be pushed into action. And to do that we have to be able to offer them some kind of protection against both the Curtana and the King’s Royal Guard.”
Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) Page 31
