“My lord, I am unworthy of such honor.” Silwyth made the requisite response.
“You are worthy, Silwyth,” said the Shield, further honoring the guardian by using his name. “I have watched you for a long while, keeping you in mind for just such an assignment.”
“What does Your Lordship require me to do?”
“Lord Mabreton’s task and the task of the other elven ambassadors to the humans will be to convince King Tamaros that the Divine is well within his rights to take control of the Portal. King Tamaros is wise for a human. He will not want to get involved in what he knows are elven affairs. The Divine plans to manipulate King Tamaros into sending human soldiers to guard the elven entrance to the Portal.”
“Is the Divine mad?” Silwyth forgot himself, spoke out freely and too loudly.
A glance from the Shield counseled Silwyth to lower his voice. The servants had been sent away, but almost certainly some in the Shield’s household were paid spies and might be skulking about in the shadows. The Shield would know who these people were, of course, and would be watching them, intercepting their communications. But still, wisdom lay in discretion.
“No, the Divine is quite cunning, in fact,” said the Shield. “If Tamaros believes that an elven war will be a threat to Vinnengael—if he thinks, for example, that I have designs upon the Portal because I want to use it to send my troops to make war upon him—then he will have no choice but to order human soldiers to guard the entrance. When you and I and the people of House Kinnoth are refused admittance, when our merchants cannot travel to Vinnengael to sell their wares, when our coffers run dry, the Divine can say to us without losing face that it is the humans who seek to weaken us.”
“Does the Divine want a war with the humans, my lord?”
“He would like to see House Kinnoth go to war against the humans, yes, Lesser Guardian. With our house diminished, he could seize the power we now wield.”
“And what makes him think human armies would distinguish between our two houses, my lord?”
“Precisely,” said the Shield. “Humans are like fleas. Once they invade your dwelling, it is difficult to rid yourself of them. The Divine does not see this. He is a man who cannot see beyond the tip of his own nose.”
“What is your will for me, my lord?” Silwyth asked, his blood thrilling.
“You will have no official rank, of course. You travel as a scholar and as such you will present yourself. Tamaros is a scholar; he will take you to his heart, provide you with access to his great library, which is in the castle proper. Ingratiate yourself to him, Silwyth. Make yourself a pleasant companion, earn his trust. And if ever the opportunity arises for you to enter the King’s household, seize it with both hands. Thus you will keep me informed of all that the Divine’s representatives do and say, and, with luck and skill, you will be able to insinuate yourself into a position to thwart them.”
“My joy at having earned your trust, my lord, lies beyond my ability to express it,” said Silwyth, rising to his feet and bowing so low that his forehead nearly touched his knees.
“Yes, I see that your joy acts like a tonic. It is capable of healing a sprained ankle.” The Shield smiled broadly. Rising, he extended his arm to Silwyth. “Come, Lesser Guardian. I fancy the ankle pains you a great deal. Accept my arm. I will escort you to the house. You will limp on that ankle for a few days, I should think.”
“You are right, my lord. The pain is excruciating. I thank Your Lordship for the help.”
With the Shield’s assistance, the Lesser Guardian limped through the garden and into the house, where the Shield’s lady-wife honored him with a sleeping roll for the night.
Silwyth was still limping the next day when he joined Lord Mabreton and the Lady Valura at the entrance to the Portal that led to the city of Vinnengael.
The Reading Lesson
Life in the palace was far different from the life Gareth had known, a life which, for the most part, had been spent wandering around the empty rooms of his parents’ house, staring enviously out the window at the rough-and-tumble play of the peasant children or holding Nanny’s yarn as she wound it into a great ball. Weeks passed while Gareth tried to learn to understand his altered circumstances and adapt to them. His problems were enhanced by the fact that no one took the time to explain to him what he was supposed to do and how he was supposed to act. They expected him to absorb it, as a plant absorbs sunlight.
The beatings he suffered were on his own account, therefore, and not on his master’s. As it happened, Dagnarus—normally a sullen and rebellious student—was particularly well behaved during those early days of Gareth’s arrival, and Evaristo, the prince’s long-suffering tutor, took pride in the fact that his idea of procuring a whipping boy was a grand success. Dagnarus’s behavior had improved because he did not want to see his new little friend hurt. That was Evaristo’s fond notion and one he imparted to Their Majesties. It was some time before they were all disabused, Gareth included.
The first few nights, alone in his little closet that was just off the prince’s enormous bedchamber, Gareth cried himself to sleep. Stiff and sore from the beatings meant to teach him courtly behavior, he longed for home and Nanny with a longing he seriously thought he might die of. Home had been dull and lonely, sterile and cold, but it was familiar. He knew what was expected of him there.
Not much. He was, after all, a child.
In the palace, Gareth was no longer a child. He was considered an adult, albeit one built on a slightly smaller scale. He was expected to act like an adult, not a child. To be just, the beatings that the chamberlain and the tutor administered were not meant to torture Gareth. They were meant to help him, at age nine, reach adult maturity in the shortest time possible.
Gareth’s first beating came on the first morning of his arrival.
The whipping boy’s duties included attending His Highness every morning upon His Highness’s rising. At home, Gareth had been used to sleeping as long as he wanted—the more time he spent in bed, the less time the servants had to deal with him. He considered it cruel in the extreme to be turned out of his warm bed at what Gareth considered an ungodly hour. Prince Dagnarus despised lying abed. He was up early, in order to miss nothing of the day, and he would go to bed late, to miss nothing of the night.
A long night of shooting peas over the walls of the book fortress, combined with the excitement and tension of the day, left Gareth sleeping soundly through the ringing of the bell that summoned the servants to His Highness’s bedchamber. The flat of a servant’s hand on Gareth’s bare bottom roused him from his slumbers. The servant threw the boy’s clothes on him so fast that his smalls were all bunched up under his woolen hose and his tunic was on backwards. The servant sent him off to the chamberlain, who grabbed the sleep-drugged child, shook him into wakefulness, and hustled him into the royal bedchamber.
Gareth stood next to the servants, watching while His Highness dined in bed, drinking hot chocolate and eating warm sugar buns that smelled heavenly to the boy, for in the excitement yesterday, no one had remembered to feed Gareth. His stomach rumbled loudly in the silent bedchamber, causing a servant to whip around and, with astonishing swiftness, rap Gareth on the head.
Winking his eyes from the pain, Gareth tried to stop smelling the chocolate. To distract himself, he looked around the bedchamber, with its enormous carved wooden bed surrounded by heavy velvet curtains, the wooden chests and wardrobes filled with clothes, the prince’s pointed-toed shoes lined up in a row, the tapestries which had purportedly been sewn by the Queen’s own hands.
Dagnarus sat propped up by a mound of pillows. Across the bed was a velvet throw decorated with the family crest of two griffins holding the sun, done in golden thread. He ate the sugar bun quickly, yet neatly and with grace, and drank the chocolate. He submitted to having his face and hands washed and his hair combed. Then the prince climbed out of bed.
Despite his best efforts, sleep crept over Gareth.
He yawn
ed, a wide, gaping yawn that cracked his jaws.
The chamberlain, with cool aplomb, turned around and slapped the boy across the face with such force that his blow sent the child tumbling into a wardrobe.
The prince glanced at the whipping boy, then glanced away. Gareth, nursing his bruised and stinging cheek, hoped the prince would reprimand the chamberlain for his cruelty, but the boy’s hopes were dashed. Dagnarus said nothing. He retired to the privy attached to the bedchamber, there to perform his morning ablutions.
Because of its proximity to the river, the palace was furnished with fresh, running water, which circulated throughout the palace by means of a system of ingenious waterwheels and channels. Gareth had never seen anything like it. He had always used the outdoor privies at his own house and he couldn’t help feeling that emptying one’s waste inside the palace walls was filthy and indecent. The child found it difficult to overcome this feeling and it had caused him great distress his first night there until he discovered that he could sneak away to use the servant’s privies, which were located behind a wall of the courtyard outside.
His Highness returned and proceeded to allow the servants to dress him. Gareth stood still as a rabbit with the hounds around, afraid to breathe, lest he do it wrong.
After the prince was dressed, Dagnarus left to pay his respects to his father, King Tamaros, who was also an early riser. Gareth was whisked back to his closet, fed a leftover sugar bun tossed to him by a servant, and drank a cup of thin milk. He was then marched off to the playroom, there to await His Highness.
Dagnarus soon returned. “Well, thank goodness, that’s over,” he announced, settling down eagerly in front of the catapult. “You’ve no idea what a chore that is—bidding good morning every morning to my father.”
Gareth edged his chair closer to the prince, hoping that His Highness would see the bruise upon his cheek and feel some pity. He was doomed to disappointment. Dagnarus’s attention was concentrated solely upon his war engine.
Gareth was curious. “Why? Is he horrid to you?”
“What a dolt you are!” exclaimed Dagnarus, casting Gareth a scornful glance. “Of course he’s not horrid to me. My father is never horrid to anyone, not even to those that deserve it. It’s boring, that’s all. The same thing, every day. He and my brother sit in that room with their books and their papers and their advisors, mulling over this treaty and worrying over that tax when there’s lots more interesting things they could be doing.”
“My father says that Vinnengael is the center of the world,” Gareth said, having only a vague idea what that truly meant. “I suppose there’s a lot of work for your father to do to manage it.”
“He could leave it to others,” Dagnarus said. “He’s king, after all.” Tiring of the catapult, the prince shoved it petulantly to one side. He fidgeted around the playroom, scoffed at the idea of reading a book, and dragged Gareth over to the large sandbox, which took up at least a quarter of the room. There the prince began to arrange tiny soldiers made of lead into formation at one side of the box.
“Sit down, Patch. You will be the general of the opposing army.”
“I saw your brother once, during a parade,” Gareth said, dutifully taking his place at the opposite end of the sandbox, though he had no idea what he was supposed to do with the opposing army. He stared at the tiny lead figures with some perplexity, afraid to touch them. They seemed very fragile. “He is a great deal older than you, isn’t he?”
“Twelve years older,” said Dagnarus. “He’s my half brother, really.” He added, with a careless air, “He hates me.”
“What?” Gareth looked up, startled.
“It’s true. He hates me. He’s jealous of me.”
“Why?”
“Because I’m Father’s favorite.”
Gareth believed the prince. At that time, Gareth would have believed the prince if he had told him that the castle was likely to fly off its foundation and go whizzing around among the waterfalls.
The chamberlain flung open the door. “Your Highness, your tutor, Evaristo, is without.”
Dagnarus made a face, rolled his eyes, and sighed.
“Send him in,” said the prince, continuing to arrange his soldiers.
“He hit me very hard,” Gareth said, sniveling a little, and giving the chamberlain a baleful glance, hoping to elicit some sympathy.
“He’s an old fart. I shall be glad when Mother gets rid of him. As for hitting you”—Dagnarus shrugged—“you deserved it. You must never gape in my presence, Patch. It is disrespectful.”
Gareth swallowed his sniffles. “What’s your tutor like?” he asked, changing the subject. “Is he mean?”
“Bah! The man’s a soft fool. Schooling’s a waste of time anyway. I learn ten times more from Captain Argot than I do that ninny Evaristo. Usually I don’t even bother to be here when he comes.” Dagnarus glanced up from his soldiers. “I’m only here because if I wasn’t here…” He paused, frowned, and knocked over a stand of soldiers with a flick of his finger.
“If you weren’t here, they’d beat me,” said Gareth, warmed by what he thought was the prince’s compassion.
“That’s not it!” Dagnarus scoffed. “It’s your duty to be beaten, after all. It’s just…” His gaze focused, frowning, on his soldiers. “I don’t want them to send you away,” he said in a low voice.
“Revered Magus Evaristo,” announced the chamberlain.
Dagnarus scowled. Gareth glanced up with trepidation, fearful that here was new torment. His fears dissolved when he saw the smiling-eyed young man who entered the room.
Evaristo was thirty, though his thin face and cheerful countenance made him appear younger. He wore the habit of his order, the brown robes of the Order of Knowledge, and the symbol of his order—a golden key around his neck. Over his robes he wore a red scapular, which only magi may wear and which sets them apart in a crowd. He carried several large books in his hands.
Evaristo appeared considerably startled to see the prince.
“Your Highness, your presence here is a pleasant surprise,” said Evaristo. “To what do I owe this great honor?”
Dagnarus glowered, the green eyes sparked. Obviously, he did not like to be teased. Jumping to his feet, he glared at the tutor.
“You should not speak to me in that tone! I am your prince.”
“You are an ignorant little boy who pays no attention to his studies and who will grow up to be an ignorant man,” said Evaristo calmly. Ignoring Dagnarus’s anger-flushed face, the tutor smiled down at Gareth. “And this must be the whipping boy.”
“My name is Gareth,” he said, bowing low.
“Your coming has made a difference already, Gareth,” said Evaristo, placing his books upon the table and arranging chairs around it. “It has been many days since His Highness deigned to attend class.”
Evaristo was moving chairs and so he did not see the slight, mocking smile touch Dagnarus’s lips. Gareth saw it and understood it immediately. Though he had known Dagnarus less than a day, Gareth knew him better than did Evaristo. Dagnarus would be here this morning, to make certain that his new companion would not be considered a failure and whisked away.
As for Gareth, he considered beatings a fair trade in exchange for education. Learning to read and to write had been among the happiest moments in the home that was already starting to fade from his memory, as a dream that seems so clear on waking, yet dissipates with the day’s events.
Evaristo was a wise man, a patient man, an excellent teacher to a pupil who wanted to learn. He worked with Gareth for an hour that first day—during which time Dagnarus kicked the table leg or used his quill pen to draw, on the leaves of the rare books, crude pictures of soldiers running each other through with gigantic swords.
Eventually, growing bored, the prince left his chair and roamed over to stare longingly out the window, to where the soldiers were drilling in the courtyard. After their drill was ended, he amused himself by dropping bits of tile, pried l
oose from a window, down onto the pavement far below, watching them smash into pieces, startling unwary pedestrians.
Evaristo, gratified to find someone who appreciated him, paid little attention to the prince. Gareth, after his initial shyness, was eager to win his teacher’s approval.
Gareth read every text handed to him, beginning with the primers Nanny had given him to occupy himself so that he wouldn’t bother her during her nap time, and finishing with one of the books he had so coveted yesterday.
The book had been written by the Head of the Order of Knowledge, known as the Librarian, especially for the young prince’s edification. The book was one of a set that gave detailed accounts of each of the major and minor races living in the known world. The race Gareth read about that day was the orken.
He had seen orken lumbering about the marketplace on those days when he had been permitted to accompany the menservants on their errands. The orken lived on the waterfront, on the shores of Lake Ildurel, a lake so huge that it had tides, like a sea. The orken were themselves a seafaring race, and plied the boats that sailed from the lake to the true ocean, the Sea of Ayrkis. Only a few orken lived in Vinnengael; their homeland was far to the south, although their true homeland might be considered the sea.
Orken are taller than humans, with massive chests and thick necks, arms, and thighs. Their clothes are loose-fitting and comfortable, consisting of trousers and shirts with open necks and long, flowing sleeves. They rarely wear cloaks even in the coldest, most inclement weather, for their skin is tough, and they are impervious to the cold. Most orken, male and female alike, are sailors. The orken homeland consists of villages and cities built along the seacoast; no orken live in the interior. Orken are traders and fishermen in their own minds, pirates in the minds of others. They are considered slow and stupid by humans and elves.
Gareth’s interest in the orken overcame his shyness at reading in front of the prince and the tutor. The boy first located the orken homeland on a map, then he started reading about their history, stumbling over the crude-sounding names of the orken cities, names such as Quash’Gaat and Kallka. Enthralled, he read on and on until he felt eyes upon him.
Well of Darkness Page 5
