Gareth had good reason to know this for a fact, for once, walking through the market with Nanny, he had seen the Lord of Strength lift a cart loaded with building blocks off an injured dog. He had used nothing but his bare hands and the gift of the gods, according to Nanny. The boy had been awed at the sight of the knight, resplendent in his tunic bearing the symbol of the Dominion Lords—two blue griffons bearing a golden disk.
“And I suppose the Lord of Courage is courageous.” Gareth had never met the Lady Mary of Krammes, but he had heard stories of her valor.
“Not only is she courageous,” said Evaristo, “but she has the ability to inspire courage in others.”
“What about the rest? What does the Lord of Knowledge do? Does he know everything there is to know?”
“That would make him a god. No, Gareth, the Lord of Knowledge is able to see into another’s heart and know his true motivations. The Lord of Beasts has the gift of being able to communicate with animals.”
“Why is there no Lord of War?” he asked, running through the list.
“A Dominion Lord’s duty is to promote peace, Gareth,” said Evaristo, smiling. “We have no need for a Lord of War.”
“Dagnarus will be sadly disappointed,” Gareth said. “He plans on being the Lord of War when it is his time to be made a Dominion Lord.”
Evaristo’s smile vanished. He looked exceedingly grim. Plucking the list from the boy’s hand, the tutor tucked it into a large portfolio, which he carried with him from the Temple. “Come, Gareth, we have spent enough time on Dominion Lords. For their sake, we have neglected the dwarves. Explain to me what you have learned about the Unhorsed.”
That night, the feast was held in honor of Helmos. The food was plentiful and lavish. The wine flowed. The courtiers gushed. The King was proud. The Queen, fancying herself slighted, was petulant and sulky. Gareth was entranced, so thrilled and awed he was unable to eat. He spent the evening staring with adoring eyes at his hero, who seemed surrounded by a golden glow. Helmos appeared set apart from the rest, exalted, as if he were already inside the Temple, with the gods.
Dagnarus was bored, or so he maintained. When the two boys were led away to bed—right when the party was starting to grow boisterous—Daganarus paused a moment, jerking away from Silwyth’s guiding hand, to look back at his elder brother.
“I will have this,” he said.
“Gods willing,” said Silwyth.
Dagnarus flashed a green-eyed, fire-eyed glance at him and smiled.
After His Highness was safely tucked away for the night, Silwyth sat up late in his room in the palace, a room in which he always felt stifled, for the windows were nothing more than thin slits in the massive walls. The elf longed for his bed in the woods of his home, longed to breathe deeply of crisp, cool, pine-scented air. Oftentimes he woke in the night from a terrifying dream in which he was being suffocated.
Taking advantage of the fact that most of the castle’s inhabitants were in a state of pleasant inebriation and he was not likely to be summoned to attend the prince at this late hour, Silwyth took out brush and ink and composed a poem to be carried to the Shield. The poem was long and filled with symbolism, images of rainbows in the waterfalls, eagles soaring above the palace walls, silvery fish rising to the surface of the lake. Any human reading it—any human who happened to be able to translate the elven language—would have dozed off from sheer boredom. The Shield, upon reading it, would see beneath the flowers, the stems, and the leaves to the poem’s roots, its true meaning.
As per your orders, I have insinuated myself into the King’s household. I am chamberlain to his younger son, a froward boy, who at the age of nine, is ambitious; quick to learn, but impatient of study;fearless, willful, comely. A dangerous combination, especially for a human. He may be of use to us in the future. I view him as one might a charmed viper. So long as the music plays and the charm holds, he will be tractable. If the music ever ceases, he will rise up and strike.
As to Lord Mabreton, he is all you could ever hope him to be. Relations between his faction and the humans are deteriorating rapidly. Lady Mabreton remains in seclusion in her distant dwelling on the River Hammerclaw. She has not yet put in an appearance at court, for which we must be grateful. The song of her beauty would drown out the braying of her donkey of a husband.
The King’s elder son, Helmos, is to be made a Dominion Lord. The Divine’s influence grows weaker. We should be prepared to act.
Placing the final brushstroke, Silwyth summoned one of his servants, a man of his own household, who had traveled to Vinnengael with his master. Silwyth handed the poem, rolled into a compact scroll and tucked neatly into a carved bone scrollcase, to the servant.
“Take this to the Shield of the Divine. Here is money for the Portal and my authorization to enter it. No eyes except those of the Shield may rest upon this document. If you are in danger of being captured by the enemies of the Shield—be they human or elven—you will first destroy the document and then destroy yourself.”
The servant bowed to indicate he understood and was willing to accept the duty imposed upon him. He thrust the scrollcase into his tunic, where it rested against his heart. Bowing again, he took his leave.
Silwyth, his own duty done, did not bother to go to bed. He went to stand by the window that looked down upon the courtyard below, empty but for the castle guard.
War will suit me very well, Silwyth thought, watching the soldiers mark their rounds. The first human soldiers that come through the Portal will prove the downfall of the Divine and the rise of the Shield. And when the Shield ascends, so do I.
The sun’s rays, struggling to creep into the elf’s pinched windows, brought to mind the view of the dawn that was his on rising from his bed in his own home.
Tears stung Silwyth’s eyes; he wept unashamed.
The Burning Lake
The next morning, Helmos entered the temple to undergo the Seven Preparations. The fortnight during which he was gone was the longest in Gareth’s life. The day on which Silwyth came to tell Prince Dagnarus that his brother, Crown Prince Helmos, had been chosen by the Council of Dominion Lords to be a Dominion Lord, that he was the first ever to have received a unanimous vote, was a golden day in Gareth’s existence, never mind that Dagnarus was in a bad mood and punched Gareth in the face over nothing, splitting open his lip.
The morning of the ceremony of Transfiguration, Gareth was awake before Silwyth summoned him. Awake and already half-dressed in the new clothes which his parents had purchased for him. This was a day of firsts. The boy’s first time to see the Miracle of Transfiguration, his first time to enter the Temple of the Magi, his first short tunic. Putting on the short tunic, tugging it over his new, parti-colored hose, Gareth felt six feet tall already. Silwyth pinned on the child’s cape and arranged his hair under his cap.
Dagnarus proved unusually querulous and difficult. Ordinarily, he was wide-awake, the first out of bed, teasing the attendant lords, who stood around his bed blinking sleepily and stifling their yawns in their sleeves. This day, the prince slept late, or pretended to. The lords stood about in their finery, watching the sun rise, fidgeting and looking increasingly grim. Gareth was in a panic, fearing that he might miss the ceremony, though it was at least six hours away.
Silwyth took matters in hand. He opened the windows, letting in the fresh air and the light of a truly remarkable and glorious sunrise. Gareth stared in wonder at the bright bands of red streaking across the sky, deepening to purple, flaring to orange and then to gold, and he was thrilled for Helmos, to have this good omen.
Silwyth opened the bed curtains, saying, as he did so, “His Highness rings, gentlemen. Let us attend him.”
Quite the contrary, His Highness hadn’t rung. The small silver bell stood on the nightstand; Dagnarus glared at Silwyth from the pillows.
“Good morning, Your Highness,” said the chamberlain. “I wish you joy of this day. You have slept somewhat past your time, undoubtedly by reason of ex
citement for your honored brother. This does you much credit, Your Highness. A lesser prince might feel jealous over the attention paid to an elder sibling. A truly great prince will feel that the honor attending his brother reflects well upon himself.”
To give Dagnarus credit, he had probably not realized until that moment that he was jealous of Helmos, not until Silwyth pointed it out. The feeling was only natural. Dagnarus was the spoiled and petted child, the younger, the darling. Yet Helmos was the child beloved.
King Tamaros could not love Dagnarus as he loved the only child born to himself and the woman he would think of to his dying day as his one, true wife. Being a kindly man, Tamaros felt guilty that he could not love his younger son. He wanted to love Dagnarus, he tried hard to love him. His efforts were plain for all to see and unfortunately took the form of indulgence. Tamaros never scolded Dagnarus, or spoke harshly to him or denied him anything he wanted, except the one thing he wanted most—his father’s true affection. As for Dagnarus, he was always striving to win the love that dangled before him like the carrot hanging just out of reach of the donkey chained to the waterwheel.
Having had his faults pointed out to him, albeit subtly, Dagnarus altered his behavior. In an instant, he changed from sulking child to gracious prince. He apologized to the lords for having kept them waiting and then magnanimously dismissed them from his service that morning, saying that he knew they would want to be arraying themselves in their finery. The lords were pleased and left him with many wishes for joy on this day and presents to mark the occasion. Gareth stayed. Dagnarus had given the boy a look that meant he wished him to remain.
Dagnarus was also to wear the short tunic, which pleased him and put him in a better humor. Unlike most small boys, the prince enjoyed dressing up. He knew that fine clothes enhanced his beauty and, even at that early age, he understood the power his good looks gave him over others.
While he ate and dressed, the two boys discussed the events of the day, badgering Silwyth with questions.
“Why isn’t my father a Dominion Lord, Silwyth?” Dagnarus asked.
“Your father is blessed above all men in being given the gift of creating the Dominion Lords. It would be unseemly in him to bestow such a gift upon himself, just as it would be unseemly for Your Highness to buy yourself a gift.”
Silwyth placed a golden circlet upon Dagnarus’s brow and said that it was time to attend his father and mother.
“Why are no elves Dominion Lords, Silwyth?” Dagnarus wondered, as they were making ready to depart.
“That is a very good question, Your Highness,” said Silwyth. Neither his face nor his voice betrayed any emotion, yet his customary coolness warmed with ire; a flicker of flame burned in his dark, slanted eyes. “I believe that certain people have been asking His Majesty the very same thing.”
Dagnarus and Gareth exchanged glances, but they had no time then to discuss this ominous statement or what it might mean, for the prince was led away to attend to his duties. Gareth went to meet his parents.
His mother cried when she saw him in his short tunic and said that she had lost her baby.
The Temple of the Magi was an enormous building located on the same level as the palace. A vast open square separated the Temple from the palace. Decorated with reflecting pools and fountains, flowers and trees in stone urns, the Temple was a sprawling complex of many buildings, including the Hall of the Healers, the University, where those students training to be magi were housed and where they studied, and the chambers and offices of the ten High Magi themselves, with their attendant scribes and secretaries and servants.
The centerpiece of the Temple was an immense amphitheater under a high-domed roof. The amphitheater was used for various purposes. Religious ceremonies for the holidays were held there. The heads of the guilds met there once a month to discuss business. There the people could come and commune with the gods, place flowers on the altars, light candles for their prayers to be answered. On that day the ceremony of Transfiguration would be held there.
Emerging from the palace in company with his parents, Gareth gazed down upon the usually empty square, now a veritable sea of bodies. The entire population of Vinnengael was in attendance, for the gates to the third level had been thrown open wide, in joy of the occasion, and those who lived on the first level, down by the waterfront, or on the second level by the marketplace, were permitted to enter the royal city. Many people had traveled from Dunkarga, not only to see the parade, which would be all they would see of the ceremony, but to sell their goods at the fair being held in Helmos’s honor.
Captain Argot cantered past on his warhorse. Both man and horse looked stern, for he and his soldiers were charged with keeping the crowd, which must have numbered in the tens of thousands, under control. Soldiers lined the route from the palace to the Temple, standing foot to foot, arms locked together, forming a living wall behind which the people surged and heaved, all eager to catch a glimpse of the royal procession. Other soldiers stood in a triangle-shaped formation upon the palace stairs. They carried huge bronze shields and, in case the crowd became unruly, the soldiers would form a wedge of bronze that could cleave through the melee with ease.
Gareth’s family took their places with the rest of the nobles, for they were to march in the parade. His Majesty’s chamberlain was sorting them into a line according to rank and standing; Gareth’s family was near the front, which suited him fine, although it annoyed his father. The higher the rank, the nearer the end of the line. This meant that they would reach the temple stairs first, however, and Gareth would have a chance to see the rest of the procession.
Indeed, no one wanted to march in front. The chamberlain was having a difficult time of it, arguing, persuading, cajoling, bullying, shouting himself hoarse. Places in line had been settled in advance, but the plans had fallen apart at the last moment, when one noble had fancied himself insulted. The chamberlain had made the mistake of moving him to the rear and now the rest were demanding that they be moved as well.
Gareth paid no attention to the arguing. He was watching Captain Argot, and thinking of the time he had ridden on that very horse. The captain was yelling down to his men, something having to do with orken. Several of soldiers shook their heads; they appeared worried. Gareth was panicked, fearful that the orken might be going to cause trouble, then he realized, after a moment’s inspection, that there weren’t any orken. This was unusual, for orken love celebrations and parades and can always be seen in the crowd, standing head and shoulders above everyone else, their mouths agape with the wonder of the spectacle.
Argot leaned down from his horse to speak to his men, and Gareth listened intently, for Dagnarus would be interested and eager to hear what was afoot. He was always interested in anything involving the soldiers.
“They’re not plotting something, do you think?” Argot shouted, to be heard above the noise.
“No, Captain!” roared one of his lieutenants, moving closer to be heard. “Their shamans said that the omens were bad.”
Argot smiled grimly. “What was it—a flock of geese flying north from south, instead of south to north?”
The soldier chuckled. “Something like that, Captain. Did you see the sunrise this morning, sir?”
“Yes, more’s the pity,” said Argot. “I haven’t been to bed for two nights running. I must admit it was remarkably beautiful, the gods shedding their blessing on the occasion.”
“Well, the orken thought it remarkably frightening,” said the lieutenant. “Lake Ildurel turned red—red as fire. The orken who were out in their boats for the early-morning fishing began to bellow and howl like the water was on fire, begging those ashore to come rescue them. Not an oar would any ork put in the water, though, until the red had disappeared. The fish they caught they threw back overboard, saying the catch was cursed. Now they’re all shut up in their houses, quivering in every limb.”
“Praise to the gods,” said Argot, with a relieved sigh. “At least that’s one worry we
won’t have this day.”
He rode off to deal with the next crisis—a woman shrieking that her jewels had been snatched.
The matter of precedence having been settled—not at all to Gareth’s father’s satisfaction—they once more took their places in line.
The nobles walked amidst the throng of cheering people, whose laughing, grinning faces were an odd contrast to the faces of the soldiers, who looked particularly dour and grim.
The people were happy and good-natured; life was good in Vinnengael then. The poor were well cared for by the Church; the prosperous middle class paid taxes, but did not feel themselves overburdened. The wealthy contributed to the general good and lived at their ease.
Behind the nobles came the ambassadors from the other realms—a majority of elves, a single dwarf, no orken. Because of the bad omen, not even the orken ambassador could be persuaded to march, though Gareth would later hear that King Tamaros himself had sent a kindly and reassuring message. After the ambassadors was a pause, to heighten anticipation. The crowd grew hushed, breathless with excitement.
By this time, Gareth’s family had arrived at the Temple steps. The guild head, the minor lords, the landed nobles, and the ambassadors lined the stairs, awaiting the King’s arrival.
A blast of trumpets marked the start of the royal procession. First came the royal standard-bearers, then the trumpeters, their instruments gleaming in the sun. Then came the ten High Magi, each denoted by the varying colors of the chasuble, worn over the white and gold-embroidered alb, common to all members of the priesthood.
After the magi came the kings of other human lands, riding in their horse-drawn chariots, accompanied by their knights. Behind them was the Queen and her court, she being borne along in a litter carried by four enormous men. She was flanked by the Mistress of the Wardrobe and other royal ladies-in-waiting, who were scattering petals from roses that had been grown indoors during the winter in anticipation of this day. The Queen’s father, Olgaf, King of Dunkarga, had been invited to attend the ceremony, but he had declined; an insult that had sent ripples of indignation through the court.
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