“Yes, Your Highness, I am aware of that.”
Dagnarus turned, hands on his hips, and regarded Silwyth intently. “You know I want this. You know I must have it if I am ever to be King. What are my chances? What do you hear?”
“Your Highness might be nominated,” said Silwyth, though he said that doubtfully. “But the Council of the Dominion Lords will not approve.”
“The vote does not have to be unanimous.”
“True, my lord, but your brother, Helmos, is Head of the Council, and it is doubtful if the other humans would actively oppose him, though some are said to be leaning in your favor.”
“Damn Helmos!” the prince said vehemently. “Damn him to the Void!”
“Take care, Your Highness. Such sentiments might be overheard.”
“There’s no one around but us,” Dagnarus said impatiently, but he lowered his voice. “What is your advice?”
“You must win the King to your cause, my lord. The other Dominion Lords might well overrule Helmos if they knew that they were acting on the wishes of His Majesty.”
“Exactly my thinking,” said Dagnarus. “And now, I would like to give a small gift to Lady Mabreton. You know best. What shall it be and how shall it be presented? Jewels? Do elven women like jewels?”
Again Silwyth hesitated, and this time the hesitation was so pronounced that Dagnarus noticed.
“What is it, Silwyth? You look as if you had drunk vinegar. Are you yourself in love with this woman?”
“No, my lord. Far from it,” said Silwyth coolly. “Elves do not fall in love or, if we do, we do so at our own peril. My marriage is arranged, and when the young woman comes of age in the next fifty years, we will be wed. But the Lady Mabreton is quite beautiful and the one time we met she was extremely kind to me. I would not want to see her hurt.”
“I’m not going to hurt her, Silwyth,” said Dagnarus earnestly. He laid his hand upon the chamberlain’s shoulder. “She refused even to look at me when I saw her with my mother. I only want to win a smile from her. That is all. If she hates humans so much, perhaps I might cause her to change her opinion. Do a service to both our nations.”
“Perhaps, Your Highness.” Despite the prince’s wheedling tone, Silwyth did not appear convinced.
“Come, Silwyth,” said Dagnarus. “You know me. You know that my heart is proof against a woman’s wiles. From what you say of this lady, her own heart is not likely to be touched by a mere human. She is unhappy, and who can blame her? Forced to spend her time in the company of my mother! What harm can there be in making her life here a little more pleasant?”
“None at all, my lord.” If Silwyth sighed, he did so inwardly, so the prince could not hear. Silwyth knew well where his loyalties lay. He was not about to jeopardize his position for anything, not even a woman whose lovely flower blossomed in the garden of his mind. As he had told Dagnarus, the Shield would never reach out to protect Lady Mabreton. Silwyth plucked her flower and handed it, though not without the sigh, to the prince.
“As to a gift, elven women consider most jewels to be flashy and ostentatious. However, some are acceptable, these being the diamond, for its purity, the blue topaz and the sapphire, which are favored by the gods of air. However, if Your Lordship does not mind the expense—”
“I don’t,” said Dagnarus. “I have been lucky at the dice lately.”
“Then I suggest a small brooch made of the rare turquoise, which is known for its magical power to protect from harm those who wear it. Such a gift will express your admiration, also your thoughtfulness. It will be a gift she can wear openly, with honor. One that her husband could not fault, nor prevent her from accepting.”
“Excellent. Where do I find this?”
“Turquoise is only to be found among the Pecwae, Your Highness. They are the only ones who know its source. Their jewelry is delicately fashioned, suitable to elven women, and highly prized among our people. If Your Highness likes, I will take it upon myself to go to the market and make the purchase.”
“Yes, do that, Silwyth. Bring the bauble to me, and I will give it to her.”
“Very good, Your Highness.”
“And on your way, stop by the Temple and leave a message for Patch. I wish to speak to him. In fact,” the prince added, struck by a sudden idea, “I wish to have him present at the banquet. I will secure him an invitation; my father is fond of him and expressed a desire just the other day to see him again. We may be talking late, so make up Patch’s old room for him. I presume he can free himself from the clutches of those clucking old hens of magi to spend an evening away from his dank little cell?”
“If Your Highness were to send a written request stating that Master Gareth’s presence is required at a function of state, the Master of Students would be bound to accede. Otherwise, I fear obtaining him might be difficult. Novices are required to attend strictly to their studies with no outside distractions.”
“Must the request be written? Well, I suppose it can’t be helped.” Dagnarus tugged impatiently on a large signet ring he wore on the first finger of his right hand. “Here. Compose the letter, sign it for me, and seal it. Instruct Patch to meet me here at the hour the candles are lit. See to it that he has something decent to wear, will you? His shaved head sticking up out of the wide collar of those shabby robes makes him look like a turtle.”
“Yes, Your Highness.” Silwyth accepted the ring.
He had handled the prince’s correspondence for many years now, the last ink-blotted and misspelled note the prince had written having been wrung from him by the tutor, Evaristo. The tutor had been dismissed from his duties when the prince was twelve, at the time Gareth, who had been the tutor’s only real pupil, had entered the Temple of the Magi to study magic. Tamaros had dismissed the tutor for the prince, having reluctantly come to accept the fact that his youngest son was not and never would be a scholar, though the father continued to hope that, once the wild streak in his nature had been appeased, Dagnarus might at last come to know the rewards of quiet study. A forlorn hope, to say the least.
“I am away to see my father,” said Dagnarus, taking one more critical look at himself in the mirror. “Wish me luck, Silwyth.”
“I do, indeed, my lord,” said Silwyth. “You will need it,” he added, but he spoke in elven, a language the prince had never bothered to learn.
Heart’s Desire
“Honored Father, I give you greeting,” said Dagnarus, entering the King’s study with a flourish of his cloak which set the papers flying as if stirred by a rising wind.
Crossing over to the King, his cape catching on the corners of books and dragging them askew, his loud footfalls breaking the contemplative silence, his raw, animal spirit seeming to vie with the fire to see which could burn quicker and brighter, Dagnarus shattered the peace of the King’s study as effectively as if he had been a crossbow bolt fired through the window. King Tamaros looked up from his work with a welcoming, indulgent, if somewhat trepidatious, smile. Although the sight of his handsome son warmed him like spiced wine, Tamaros was never certain how that wine would go down. At his age, nearing ninety, the King had come to appreciate reliability and stability. Not even Dagnarus’s admirers, of which he had many, would have used those two words in connection with the prince.
“Greetings, my son,” said Tamaros, laying aside his work.
The view from the room was spectacular, providing a scenic vista of the world from each of the cardinal points, encompassing the mountains, the plains, the great city, the magnificent waterfalls with their rainbow scarves, and above all the blue dome of the sky and the radiant sun. The King had entered this room every day for a lifetime of days, but he always paused and gazed in reverent awe, humbled and mindful of the grace of the gods. Dagnarus never spared the world a glance and even complained of the room’s brightness.
“How can you read in here, Father? The sunlight is so strong, I am half-blinded.” The prince perched upon the edge of his father’s desk, dislodging
books and crumpling papers. Composing his face, becoming serious, Dagnarus softened his voice. “I have sad news, I fear, Father. I wonder if you have heard it.”
“I’ve heard nothing,” said Tamaros, concerned. He marked his place and shut his book. “What is it, son?”
“Lord Donnengal is dead,” said Dagnarus in sorrowful, respectful tones. “I thought you would want to know so that you could extend your condolences to his family. I came as soon as I heard.”
“This is indeed unhappy news,” said Tamaros, truly grieved. “How did it happen?”
“He was out hunting—a sport in which he took great delight, as you know—and suddenly grabbed his chest, uttered a great cry, and fell off his horse. His squire and his groom did all they could—unlaced his doublet and loosened his girdle, but there was no help for him. His heart had burst, so they say.”
“A hale and hearty man,” said Tamaros. “A man in the prime of his life.”
“Come now, Father,” said Dagnarus, amused. “Lord Donnengal was sixty if he was a day.”
“Was he?” Tamaros looked up wistfully. “I suppose you are right.” He sighed, shook his head. “Would it not seem that I question the judgment of the gods, I would say that I have lived too long. Too long. The friends of my youth are dead, and now I throw brands on the funeral pyres of their children.”
Clasping his hands, he bowed his head and whispered a silent prayer for the passing of a well-loved and much-respected friend. Dagnarus, though burning with impatience, had sense enough to hold his tongue, grant his father time to mourn. At length, growing restless, Dagnarus broke the silence.
“I wonder if you realize, Father, that Lord Donnengal’s passing leaves a vacancy in the ranks of the Dominion Lords.”
Tamaros glanced up, his prayers interrupted. “Indeed it does,” he said, adding with a hint of rebuke, “In due time, we will discuss filling it.”
“Father,” said Dagnarus persuasively, “it is only right and proper that you nominate me to fill the vacancy.”
“My son,” said Tamaros, regarding Dagnarus with fond sympathy, “you do not want this.”
“On the contrary, Father,” said Dagnarus, nettled, “I want it very much. I am of age. The post is mine by right of birth.”
“Birth, title, rank, fortune—none of that plays any part in the selection of a Dominion Lord. The calling comes from the gods without and from a person’s heart within. You want it now because you do not understand what becoming a Dominion Lord entails—a life dedicated to the pursuit of peace, for one thing. And you, my son, are a warrior born.”
“A calling you despise!” Dagnarus said, his face darkening with anger.
“Not so, son,” Tamaros said sharply. He might have outlived two generations, but he was not frail and he was not feeble-minded. “Vinnengael is strong because her army is strong. Our neighbors respect us. They know that we will not try to recklessly expand our landholdings at their expense. But they also know that we will defend our borders against any and all incursions, as you yourself are aware, having fought recently in the wars against the elven raiders.”
“I beg your pardon, Father,” said Dagnarus, seeing that he had made a mistake and that fits of temper would not be conducive to his cause. “I spoke in haste without thinking.”
Unable to sit still any longer, the prince left his place at the edge of Tamaros’s desk and began to walk around the room, brooding, his arms clasped across his chest, his head lowered.
“You made Helmos a Dominion Lord,” Dagnarus said, pausing to regard his father with eyes bright as green flame. “I am as much your son as he is. I have as much right to the honor as he does.” He leaned forward, wheedling. “How will it look, Father, if by some terrible mischance my brother dies without producing an heir and I ascend to the throne? The people will have no regard for me, because I am not a Dominion Lord like my brother before me. ‘He is not considered worthy.’That is what they will say. That is what they have said,” he added pointedly.
“Who?” Tamaros demanded, angered in his turn. “Who has said such things?”
Dagnarus lowered his gaze; his thick lashes dampened the fire of his eyes. “I will not name names, Father. I would not have them fall out of your favor because they happened to speak the truth. Neither you nor the magi consider me worthy.”
“Certainly you are worthy,” said Tamaros uneasily, forced to go on the defensive. “Your bravery and your courage are undisputed. Your deeds in battle are celebrated throughout the realm. Worthiness is not the issue here, my son. Suitability is. By nature and temperament, you are not suited to be a Dominion Lord, Dagnarus. And whether you are a Dominion Lord or not has nothing to do with whether or not you will be a good ruler. Content yourself with being an excellent soldier—”
“And why, Father, may an excellent soldier not be a Dominion Lord?” Dagnarus countered. His face was flushed with the righteousness of his cause, his countenance aflame. In that moment, he was kingly and noble and earnest, and he impressed his father deeply. “You yourself have said that in order to ensure our peace, we must be prepared to go to war to defend it. The Revered Magi go to battle alongside us, with prayers upon their lips, holding swords as well as spellbooks in their hands. The gods do not turn from them, but support them and bless their cause. There has never been a Lord of Battle among the human Dominion Lords, true, but that does not mean there was never meant to be one. All elven Dominion Lords are warriors.”
Entranced, charmed, Tamaros gave serious consideration to his son’s persuasive words.
Dagnarus, seeing his opportunity, pressed home his point. “At least nominate me, Father. The other Dominion Lords must vote on me, and if they choose not to sanction me, then I will bow to their will and the will of the gods. But you, at least, should be seen to endorse me. Refuse me this, and people will say that I lack your trust and respect.”
Tamaros began to think, uneasily, that Dagnarus had a point. Helmos was over thirty, in excellent health, strong of mind and body, rarely sick. But the ways of the gods are mysterious and capricious. Accidents happen, an accident had claimed Helmos’s mother. And as of yet, Helmos and his wife, Anna, had not produced an heir, much as they had wanted and prayed for one. Ten years had passed since their marriage, and still they were barren. There was every possibility Dagnarus might succeed to the throne, and if it was known throughout the court and the kingdom that he had been turned down for the honor of becoming a Dominion Lord, people would wonder and doubt and perhaps look about for another king.
Civil war—every ruler’s greatest fear. Tamaros had been raised on his grandfather’s story of the bloody civil war that had nearly proved Vinnengael’s downfall. He had heard how the elves and orken and dwarves had taken advantage of the human’s battles to surge across the borders and gobble up great chunks of land, land that had been won back, but only through more blood and toil. Tamaros must do whatever he could to ensure that his kingdom remained intact, peaceful, stable.
Dagnarus is different from his brother, different from the other Dominion Lords, true, but if we are all the same, Tamaros argued to himself, then the world will stagnate. Some must tend the flock, others must butcher them.
“There is a risk, Dagnarus,” said Tamaros, inwardly marveling and rejoicing at his son’s beauty, his robust health, his obvious lusty enjoyment of life. “Becoming a Dominion Lord is dangerous.”
“I am a soldier, Father,” said Dagnarus. “Risks are a part of my calling.” He was earnest and humble and more markedly beautiful than ever. “Will you nominate me, Father?”
Tamaros sighed. His heart misgave him, but he could not say no. “I will, my son.”
“Thank you, Father, for giving me this chance!” Dagnarus was more brilliant than the sun, at that moment, he half blinded—or wholly blinded—his father. “I will make you proud of me. And now, I will interrupt your work no longer. With your gracious permission, I take my leave.”
Tamaros nodded. Dagnarus departed and Tamaros c
ould hear his son’s voice raised in a lilting dance song as he strode down the hallway. Tamaros did not return to his work, but sat staring unseeing at the volume in which he had previously been engrossed.
The King was still sitting, staring at the book unseeing, when his other son, his elder son, Helmos, entered.
Quiet, unobtrusive, Helmos came to stand at his father’s side. He waited in silence until Tamaros should be aware of his presence.
“I see that you have heard the news, Father,” Helmos said with gentle gravity. “I am sorry I could not be the one to bring it. I know how deeply Lord Donnengal’s death must touch you.”
“Dagnarus came to tell me,” said Tamaros, reaching out his hand to press the hand of his most beloved son.
“Dagnarus!” Helmos frowned.
“He said that he knew the news would grieve me and that I would want to know so that I could send my sympathy to his widow and children.”
“My brother grows very tenderhearted suddenly,” said Helmos, casting a troubled glance at his father.
Tamaros smiled ruefully. “I am not quite a doddering old fool. Not yet. I know his true motive in telling me. He wants”—Tamaros gazed hard at his son—“to fill the vacancy left by Lord Donnengal’s death. Dagnarus wants to become a Dominion Lord.”
“Impossible,” said Helmos shortly.
“I am not so sure.” Tamaros was thoughtful.
“Father! You can’t be serious! I beg your pardon, Father. I meant no disrespect, but Dagnarus is completely unsuitable—”
“That word,” Tamaros interrupted. “ ‘Unsuitable.’ We mean that he does not conform to our standard of what a Dominion Lord should be. But I wonder—who are we to set standards? Is it not the gods who choose? Perhaps they have chosen him.”
“How, Father?” Helmos asked.
“By putting the desire in his heart,” Tamaros replied.
“My brother is beset by a great many god-given desires, then,” Helmos returned bitterly. He and his adored wife wanted children so badly, and the gods denied them, whereas Dagnarus fathered bastards with the casual ease of a strolling tomcat. “And he satisfies them all.”
Well of Darkness Page 24
