Bracing himself, the High Magus rose to his feet and, first casting a look at Tamaros, a look that was eloquent and speaking, the High Magus turned the scroll for the King to read and then read it himself in a loud, almost defiant voice.
“It is my duty”—he should have said “pleasure” but he had sense enough to alter it at the last moment—“to present to the people of Vinnengael their new Dominion Lord, chosen by the gods as the Lord of Sorrows.”
Lord of Sorrows.
Dismayed, Gareth thought immediately of the orken and their bad omen, of the sea in flames. He held more respect for them and their beliefs from then on.
A murmur, low and thrumming, rippled through the audience. They didn’t like it; they wanted it explained. Gareth’s father, brow furrowed, was talking to his neighbor. Gareth’s mother, fanning herself with the handkerchief, was talking breathlessly to her neighbor. Gareth looked at Dagnarus, to see his reaction, but Silwyth was bending down to speak to the prince at that moment and hid him from his friend’s view. King Tamaros was highly displeased, his anger obvious in his scowl, his clenched fist, and in his stance, which was hunch-shouldered, like a fierce old owl.
“It is the will of the gods,” continued the High Magus in his defensive tone, adding sternly, “We question their will only at our own great peril.”
“Yes, but what does it mean?” the King demanded, angry not at the High Magus, but at the gods. The King was frustrated, hurt in his pride. The father was frightened.
The High Magus took his time delivering the answer. While he considered, Gareth looked at the person everyone seemed to have forgotten: Helmos.
He had stood through all this turmoil steadfast and calm and radiant, still with the gods, perhaps. Whatever fears and foreboding everyone else was feeling left him untouched. His armor protected him from more than arrows and sword strikes. The shining armor was an outward symbol of his faith and its luster remained undimmed. He knew what the gods meant and intended. He knew it for himself and that was all that mattered. The rest of the world would discover the answer in time. Or not.
“I believe that what the gods are saying, Your Majesty”—the High Magus spoke hesitantly, feeling his way—“is that your son, Helmos, will be the Dominion Lord who will take the sorrows of the people upon himself, make their pain his pain, stand between them and evil.”
A soft sigh went through the Temple. Helmos nodded once, slightly, almost imperceptibly. Yes, the High Magus had got it right.
King Tamaros looked stunned, then his face flushed. He was embarrassed. He turned to Helmos.
“Forgive me, my son.” Tamaros raised his gaze to the heavens. “Gods, forgive me! For a moment, my faith wavered. But you understand, you who are all-wise, all-knowing. I am a father.”
He wept unashamedly, and there was not a dry eye in the Temple. Gareth’s mother sobbed into her handkerchief and, feeling for his hand, squeezed it hard. His father sniffed and snorted and looked as if he knew just how Tamaros felt. Gareth’s parents never loved him half so well as they did upon that day, and he loved them at that moment. They all came to their senses after it was over, but for a time, the magic lingered.
In the midst of the weeping, Dagnarus rose from his seat and ascended the stage. He strode forward, oblivious to the raised eyebrows of the magi, and went to stand before Helmos. The prince held out his hand.
“Let me be the first to congratulate you, brother,” he said in his clear voice.
This was not a planned part of the ceremony: that was obvious from the troubled glances flitting among the magi. But Dagnarus’s words and actions pleased King Tamaros, who was feeling loving to all the world just then. Dagnarus was a beautiful child, standing in the altar-light, his red hair glowing like flame. He was respectful and admiring of his brother, gazing up at him with the reverent awe one might expect of a child his age.
Helmos clasped his younger brother’s hand. King Tamaros rested one hand upon Dagnarus’s head, the other upon Helmos’s shoulder, linking the two in kinship’s bond.
The High Magus made a small, oblique gesture. One of the magi skimmed silently forward, rolled up the vellum in haste, and removed it from the altar. This done, the High Magus relaxed. He was all smiles and shed his blessing upon the crowd.
Helmos left the amphitheater to cheers from the crowd. Clad in his wondrous swan armor, proud and handsome, he rode down the rose-covered street.
Lord of Sorrows.
Star Brothers
Shortly after Helmos’s transfiguration, the royal court celebrated Dagnarus’s tenth birthday. The prince’s birthday was celebrated with elaborate festivities, though Gareth was told that the party was not as spectacular as it had been in years past. Missing were the elven fireworks displays. The elves did not send Dagnarus a present that year either, nor did he receive the customary gifts from the dwarves and the orken. Their ambassadors did not attend the party.
King Tamaros looked somber and preoccupied, as did Helmos and the King’s advisors. They were halfway through the feast—which consisted of roast calves’ heads, gilded and silvered, and a whole roast sheep, among other delicacies—when a page slipped into the hall. Coming to the King, the page whispered in his ear. King Tamaros looked alarmed and grim. Rising to his feet, he beckoned to Helmos and to two of his advisors. Leaning down, Tamaros gave Dagnarus a kiss on the cheek.
“You will find your present from me in the stable, son,” said the King.
“Thank you, Father,” said Dagnarus, his eyes shining.
Tamaros and his retinue departed. Once they were gone, there was a general run on the door by the remaining lords, departing in haste to find out what was going on.
Queen Emillia was incensed over this “slight,” as she termed it, and, after His Majesty left, her shrill voice could be heard above the revelry, whining and complaining about His Majesty’s selfishness. One of the returning nobles eventually informed Her Majesty that the King had been called away because all the ambassadors from the other races and the ambassador from the King of Dunkarga were threatening to leave the court that very night. King Tamaros had gone to try to placate them.
Even Queen Emillia had brains enough to realize that this was serious, particularly as it appeared her own father was involved, and so she silenced her complaints, to the great relief of those seated around her.
Gareth feared Dagnarus might be upset at his father’s sudden and abrupt departure, but, on the contrary, the prince’s spirits were as high as his friend had ever seen them. Dagnarus talked with animation, teasing one of the lords to tell him what this wonderful present in the stable might be and pretending to be frightfully disappointed when told it was nothing but a bale of moldy hay.
“What does this mean, about the ambassadors?” Gareth leaned over to ask during a lull in the conversation.
“It means war,” said Dagnarus, his eyes gleaming red in the firelight.
“War!” Gareth was shocked.
He wanted to ask more, but Dagnarus was too much in demand. A steady stream of courtiers came to the table to offer their felicitations, each making certain that the prince knew how much his gift had cost and how much more valuable that gift was over another. Soon, the jugglers and the minstrels came dancing in, and the boys had no more chance to talk.
Nor did Gareth have the opportunity to question the prince the next morning. Dagnarus was up before the sun, eager to begin the day and see his new horse. Gareth rose with reluctance, groggy and stupid from the revelries of the night before. His head throbbed. Only the finest wine was served at the King’s table, and, even watered, as they gave it to the boys, it was still potent. Gareth came more fully alert when he entered Dagnarus’s apartment. The lords in attendance spoke together in low mutterings, glancing askance at Silwyth, whose calm, placid face registered no more emotion than did the cloudless sky outside the window.
“What news of the ambassadors?” Dagnarus asked from his bed, where he sat, drinking chocolate.
“They
are still in Vinnengael this morning, Your Highness,” answered one of the lords. Gareth never did know all their names; they were nothing to the boy but an assortment of faces, like pastries at the banquet—each one different but all cut from the same sugary dough. “It is said that the King, your honored father, spent all night attempting to convince them not to leave.”
“The elves are the most contentious,” said another, and bowed in the general direction of Silwyth. “Your pardon, sir.”
Silwyth, who was laying out the prince’s clothes, acknowledged this with a slight inclination of his head, but did not look at the lord. Dagnarus glanced at Silwyth and smiled slightly. Silwyth’s almond eyes slid over those of the prince, and Gareth guessed that Dagnarus knew more about what was transpiring from his chamberlain than from any of the gossipy noblemen.
Gareth hoped to question the prince, but when he went to look for him, before his tutoring session, Dagnarus was gone—off to the stables to look at his present, a magnificent stallion.
The prince’s playroom had become increasingly Gareth’s playroom, or rather his schoolroom. Evaristo entered, also looking a bit draggled. As a mark of courtesy, he had been invited to the prince’s party, although Silwyth had so arranged it that the tutor sat at the very lowest table. Evaristo had been so pleased at the invitation, which he had not expected, that he took no offense. Though he winced at the light, he was in a good mood and, seating himself at the table, opened the first book of the lesson. The tutor no longer looked for Dagnarus. He would have been astonished past measure if the prince had walked in.
“Master,” Gareth said anxiously, “Dagnarus says that there is to be a war. Is that true?”
Evaristo looked startled; adults are always startled to find that children take an interest in what are considered to be adult affairs. But he believed in giving truthful answers to such questions. He was not one who talked down to children or tried to shield them from unpleasant subjects. He did pause to choose his words carefully.
“King Tamaros is a wise man,” Evaristo said at last. “It is to be hoped that in this case wisdom will prevail over folly.”
“Whose folly?” Gareth asked.
Evaristo was grave. He studied the boy, considering how much he was likely to understand.
“Did Prince Dagnarus discuss this with you, Gareth?”
“He hasn’t yet, but he will,” he answered, which was no more than the truth. Dagnarus discussed everything with his friend. “I’m to be his advisor when he’s King, you know. And he wants me to have practice.”
Evaristo sighed, displeased, though not at his pupil. “I wish His Highness would not speak so. It will make people think he wishes harm to befall his brother, for that is what must happen if the younger son is to be King. Of course, I’m certain he doesn’t mean such a thing, but it doesn’t sound proper to those who don’t know him.”
Gareth, who did know him, kept silent.
“Very well, then, Gareth,” Evaristo continued, “I will tell you what is happening. I will tell you the truth, though if certain people were to catch wind of what I say, I would be in serious trouble.”
Court intrigue. It salted the food, watered the wine, sugared the fruit. Gareth had dined on it since the first day of his arrival. He promised Evaristo solemnly that he would never tell a soul except Dagnarus. The boy felt honor-bound to mention this.
“I am certain His Highness already knows much of what I am about to say,” Evaristo replied in wry tones. “The folly started with Queen Emillia’s father, King Olgaf of Dunkarga. Olgaf is a grasping, covetous, discontented man, ruler of a grasping, covetous, and discontented kingdom. The people of Dunkarga have always envied Vinnengael its wealth and beauty and power, all of which they want for themselves. They could achieve it, if they worked at it, but they don’t want to work. They want someone to hand them the prize.
“They want the Portals,” he said. “Or rather, they don’t necessarily want the responsibility of the Portals, they want the wealth the Portals bring. As you know, for we have worked out the sums, Vinnengael takes a percentage of all goods brought through the Portals for trade. That is only right, for there is great expense involved in maintaining and guarding the Portals, regulating who enters and who leaves. The percentage we charge is fair, and the merchants do such a prosperous business that they are happy to pay it. No one is complaining about the fees or the taxes. King Olgaf has more sense than to make those an issue, though that is where the heart of the matter lies for him.”
“Is Dunkarga a poor country, then?” Gareth asked.
“If they are, it is their own fault,” Evaristo returned snappishly. “King Tamaros was quite willing to share the wealth with his poorer neighbor. He reduced the fees Dunkarga’s merchants paid to bring their goods to the Vinnengael markets to almost nothing. He encouraged the dwarven, elven, and orken traders to travel to Dunkarga to sell their wares. A few did, but they didn’t stay long. Dunkarga proved inhospitable to those of other races. Two elves were beaten, a dwarf was driven out of town. They nearly hanged one of the orken merchants for cheating. King Olgaf did nothing to stop this or to try to change his people’s isolationist attitudes, which are merely a reflection of his own. He wants to reap the fruit without first sowing the seed.
“The one task Olgaf labors well at is stirring up strife. If he spent one-tenth the energy helping his own kingdom as he spends in causing trouble for others, Dunkarga would be a mighty power.”
Evaristo sighed and shook his head, crossed his arms over his chest, and gazed severely out the window in the direction of Dunkarga, which lay on Vinnengael’s western border. “He is a clever old hyena, I’ll say that much for him. He has a nose for weakness, knows where and how to strike in order to inflict the most damage.
“First he decided that the easiest and quickest way to get hold of some of Vinnengael’s fabled riches was to make his daughter Queen. I recall well when he first sent his couriers to court with the offer. King Tamaros turned them down summarily. The King dearly loved his first wife, the mother of Helmos.
“Alas,” Evaristo continued with a sad and pensive air, “it is a fact of life that the blessing the gods grant with one hand they take away with the other. An accident, a senseless accident, ended the Queen’s life. A snake startled the horse she was riding. She was thrown from the saddle. Her back was broken. The healers could do nothing to save her.
“Queen Portia had not been dead a year before King Olgaf began his machinations, urging Tamaros to remarry. Well, he has achieved his goal. His daughter is Queen, but that hasn’t gained him much.
“So Olgaf is left to fret and stew and do what he can to raise Dunkarga in people’s estimation. And the only way this mean-spirited and narrow-minded fool can seem to do that is by tearing down Vinnengael. Thus he undermines Tamaros’s work whenever he can, either by planting suspicions and doubts in the minds of the elves and the dwarves and the orken, or encouraging those doubts already in place. This business, now, is all Olgaf’s doing. He put forward the name of an elf to be Dominion Lord.”
Gareth recalled Dagnarus asking of Silwyth , Why are no elves Dominion Lords? And Silwyth’s answer. That is a very good question, Your Highness. I believe that certain people have been asking His Majesty the very same thing.
“Tamaros explained to the elves that the gods had not granted him power over them. It was not his place to intercede with the gods on behalf of the elves. He did not want to be seen to be meddling in elven affairs—all of which one would think the elves would be glad to hear. Olgaf twisted the King’s words, however, and now the very fact that Tamaros has quite wisely refused to intercede with the gods on behalf of the elves has been upended to make it appear that he is preventing the gods from granting gifts to the elves.”
“What will the King do?”
“I don’t know, Gareth,” said Evaristo. “The elves have not declared war, yet, mind you. And the fact that His Majesty has persuaded their foremost ambassador, Lord Mabreton, to r
emain at court is an excellent sign.”
“Then you don’t think there will be war?” Gareth asked hopefully.
“The gods willing, no,” said Evaristo.
“The gods willing, yes,” said Dagnarus, over supper.
He was flushed and hot, scratched and bruised, and smelled strongly of horse, but Gareth had never seen the prince in a better mood. He did not want to talk about the war, not yet, though it was much on Gareth’s mind. Dagnarus was more interested in describing his horse, claiming it to be the most wondrous horse ever born.
“It is of dwarven stock, and everyone knows that their horses are the finest and strongest in the world. Of course, this horse was bred to be bigger than dwarven ponies, in order to carry a human, but it is the heart and the blood of a horse that count, and those come from the dwarven side, so Dunner says.”
“Dunner?” Gareth asked, thinking the name sounded familiar.
“Do you remember that dwarf we saw in the Royal Library? The one reading the book? That is Dunner. He is one of the Unhorsed, which means he can’t ride anymore. But he likes to be around horses, and when he is finished with his studies, he spends most of his time in the stables. He was there this morning, specifically to look at my horse, because he had heard it was such a magnificent animal.” Dagnarus fairly glowed with pride.
“Dunner is going to help me train the horse for battle the way the dwarves train their horses. And he is going to teach me to shoot an arrow from horseback. None of our soldiers can do that, not even Argot. The dwarves can rain down arrows on an enemy, slaying hundreds before the enemy can get close enough to fight back. And their ponies wheel in every direction at just a single whistled command. They can travel miles and miles without resting. A dwarven chief once rode two hundred miles in a day and night, changing horses only once. That is how they plan to conquer the world.”
“Do they?” Gareth was alarmed. He began to see himself ringed round with enemies.
Well of Darkness Page 13
