“What are you saying?” Tamaros demanded, angered.
Helmos sighed deeply, sat down across from his father. “I am saying what I have not wanted to say, what I hoped I would never have to say to you, Father. My brother must not become a Dominion Lord. When I say he is unsuitable, I do not speak idly. He is a wanton wastrel. He spends his nights drinking and carousing with men and women of unseemly character. His by-blows, got on these unfortunate women, could populate a town!”
“Rumor,” said Tamaros, glowering. “Envious gossip. Perhaps Dagnarus does gamble and drink a bit too much wine now and then, but I enjoyed a game of dice myself when I was young.”
Helmos shook his head. “He is next door to illiterate, Father. He can barely write his name.”
“He attends the levees,” Tamaros countered. “Those times I have called upon him for judgment, he has rendered it wisely and justly. His reputation as a soldier and a commander cannot be faulted.”
“He is intelligent,” Helmos admitted. “He has native wit, an earthy common sense. I do not deny that. Nor do I deny that he is courageous and a good leader of men. So let us leave him as that, Father. Let my brother be content with leading our armies. Do not—I repeat—do not, Father, grant him the magical power of a Dominion Lord! I would not think he would want it anyway. The sworn and sacred duty of a Dominion Lord is to preserve peace.”
“True,” said Tamaros. “That was what was originally intended. Or at least so I thought. Perhaps…perhaps I was mistaken.”
Rising to his feet, Tamaros walked over to the eastern side of the room, looked out at the mountains. It was late afternoon. The sun was westering. Its red-gold rays gilded Tamaros’s face, illuminated him, as if he had been dipped in gold, a graven image to wisdom and duty, a King whose legacy would extend through time, a godlike King of mythic proportions.
Helmos thought to himself, I will be a good King. Not a great one. He sees that. And though he loves me, I am a disappointment to him. Well, I am what I am. The gods made me. I cannot change.
Tamaros, his hands clasped behind his back, turned to face his son.
“I had hoped that by giving each of the races the Sovereign Stone, we would come together, learn to live together in peace. My hopes proved fruitless. The elves continue to nibble away at our borders, the dwarves have seized and now rule several human settlements, which they claim were built upon their land.”
“The dwarves believe that all of Vinnengael is built upon their land,” Helmos observed dryly.
“True, true, but I had hoped their attitudes would change. It seems that the Sovereign Stone has made the other races bolder and has made us seem weaker. They think that since now they have the Sovereign Stone, they can attack us with impunity. Perhaps we need a Lord of Battle, a Dominion Lord whose sworn oath is not only to preserve the peace but who will do so by means of a sword if that proves necessary.”
“And if we produce a Lord of Battle, what is to prevent the elves and the dwarves and the orken from producing their own Lords of Battle?” Helmos argued with unusual vehemence, rising to face his father. “No, Father. Do not be disappointed in the Sovereign Stone. Have faith in it, in the gods. You expect too much too quickly, that is all. Your dream of peace will be fulfilled, but it will take time. We are working with the other Dominion Lords to understand each other, to respect each other’s beliefs. Only then, when we trust each other, can we begin to work to change those beliefs that block the way of true peace.”
“There is wisdom in what you say, my son, but you are not yet King. I am, and I must do what I think is best for our people, both in the short term and the long.”
The sun dropped beneath the horizon. Shadows crept through the room. The graven image was now that of an old man, bowed with many cares, stooped and worn.
“Tell me that you have not already promised Dagnarus this, Father,” Helmos said quietly.
Tamaros made no reply, but turned his back and stared out the window.
Helmos was silent long moments. The shadows in the room lengthened. One of the servants entered to light the candles. Helmos made a motion with his hand, and the servant silently departed.
“I have never in my life gone against your wishes, Father,” said Helmos at last. “But I will not side with you on this. I oppose my brother’s nomination, and I will do all that I can to block it.”
Tamaros still said nothing, still stared out the window.
“Dagnarus will have no cause to blame you for this, Father,” Helmos added. “I will take all the blame upon myself. You will let it be known publicly that you support him. He will not love you less for it.”
“You will do what you think is right, as I have taught you,” said Tamaros, but his voice was cold. “It pains me, though, to see my sons at war.”
Helmos stood quiet, struggling with himself, longing to please his father but unable to do so by going against his own heart. He knew what he might say to clinch his arguments, knew what he might say to discredit his brother utterly, to blast and destroy Dagnarus forever in his father’s eyes. But these words were so black, so ugly, so heinous that Helmos could not bring himself to speak them aloud. He truly feared they might shock his father to death. Besides, Helmos lacked proof. His source was untrustworthy, a woman reporting words about Void magic mumbled in sleep, a woman who had come to Helmos seeking money to buy her silence. His father would refuse to believe her wild tale, and Helmos could not very well blame him.
He must carry this burden alone.
“I am sorry, Father,” he said, and left the room.
Tamaros stood for a long time in the darkness, for the servant whose task it was to light the candles had overheard the quarrel between King and crown prince and was too shocked and awed and frightened to reenter.
The Whipping Boy Grown
Gareth was bone-tired.
He had spent all that day, from very early morning until well after dark, at his studies, his proper studies. He had spent half the previous night at his improper studies, his secret studies. He had not meant to stay up so late, but he was on the trail of a discovery that both appalled him and intrigued him, and he could not abandon his pursuit of the knowledge until his eyes had given up on their own, closing despite him.
The morning bell had caught him slumped over his book, stiff in the shoulders and with a painful crick in his neck. He had been dull and stupid in class that day, drawing the ire of his master. Looking forward to his bed, planning to go to sleep early, he was dismayed to receive the prince’s summons to attend a banquet and spend the night in the palace.
Gareth thought longingly of refusing, of pleading indisposition, but the Master of Students—who had given Gareth permission to attend the banquet in the palace and who was now regarding the young man with undisguised envy—would think such a refusal extremely strange and might start asking questions. Then, of course, Gareth would have to answer to Dagnarus, who would be furious. The prince was always furious when his will was thwarted.
Gareth attired himself in the court clothes Silwyth had pointedly left in his cell for him, the dalmatic, the long-skirted tunic known as the houppelande, then much in fashion, the woolen hose and cloak and jeweled girdle and leather slippers. He thought, as he was dressing, how uncomfortable and restricting such clothing was after having become accustomed to the freedom of ecclesiastical dress, which, for novices, consisted of a simple brown robe worn over one’s smallclothes, shoes, and stockings.
Gareth had no mirror—the magi were supposed to be above such weaknesses as personal vanity—and thus he was not forced to look at himself wearing the cap Silwyth had supplied to cover his shaved head. The large purple patch that had marred his face when he was young had not vanished (as Gareth had secretly hoped it might). He was not a comely youth to begin with. The hat made him look ridiculous. There was no help for it. His Highness had ordered it, and His Highness was always obeyed.
Gareth left the Temple without a word to anyone, though many of the novice
s were walking about on various errands prior to the hour when they would take their simple meal. He had few friends among the other novices. Reticent and diffident by nature, self-conscious because of his birthmark, Gareth tended to be quiet and withdrawn at school. His reserve caused his fellow students to call him proud, too snobbish to lower himself to be friends with anyone less than a prince. The truth was, he left them alone for their own well-being. Gareth’s clandestine studies into the ancient and forbidden religion of Void magic set him apart from the other students—the innocent students. He feared becoming too close to anyone, feared discovery, feared that if he was discovered, then anyone else closely associated with him might be forced to share his fate.
This did not apply to the prince, but then all that Gareth did or was or could be he dedicated to Dagnarus.
The brisk walk to the palace helped to wake the former whipping boy. The guards greeted him with friendly nods and brusque jerks of the head; most had known him since he was a child. He waved off the page who would have shown him through the castle—Gareth knew the way better than the boy. He paused before a mirror to look at himself and, as he had suspected, the hat did indeed make him look a fool.
The banquet room was hot and noisy, blaring with the light and heat from a roaring fire and myriad stone-lights and candles. Gareth made his obligatory reverences to his parents—his father was already in his cups, red-faced and boorish; his mother was intent upon the latest gossip and barely gave her son a glance. The food had not yet been served; the guests stood about talking and drinking spiced wine. Some young people were performing an impromptu round dance in a corner, accompanied by a flutist and a lute player. Gareth made his way through the throng. He could always locate Dagnarus in a crowd. Gareth had simply to find the largest knot of fawning courtiers, and His Highness was certain to be in its center.
Gareth stood on the outskirts of the group, who were laughing uproariously at one of Dagnarus’s tales. Happening to catch the prince’s eye through an opening between heads, Gareth raised his hand to let Dagnarus know he was there. He expected Dagnarus to respond with nothing more than a slight arch of his eyebrow and was astounded when the prince—bringing his story to a rather abrupt end—surged through the crowd, which parted as a school of fish parts before the shark, and seized upon his friend.
“Patch! I’ve been waiting for you this hour or more. What makes you so blasted late? Well, never mind.” Dagnarus talked on, not giving Gareth a chance to open his mouth. “Come with me. I have an errand of the utmost delicacy and importance. Besides, I want you to see her.”
The prince stood on his toes, to peer over the heads of the crowd. Finding that which he sought, he seized hold of the bag sleeve of Gareth’s houppelande and dragged him off.
“Make way! Make way!” Dagnarus called, doing a creditable impersonation of a town crier, to everyone’s merriment. The prince opened a path for himself, tugging Gareth along in his wake. Unable to see where he was going, Gareth caromed off people left and right, trod on people’s feet, knocked ladies’ tall hats askew. Emerging hot and flustered and disheveled, Gareth was appalled to find himself in the presence of the King, the crown prince and princess, and an unknown elven couple, all but one of whom were regarding him with amusement. The exception was the elven woman, whose languid gaze noted him, dismissed him, passed over him to stare at the stone wall.
Gareth was accustomed to the ways of elves, having studied them both in books and through Silwyth, the elven chamberlain. He knew the low regard most elves had for humans, and he would have ignored the insult, ignored the woman as far as politeness dictated, but for two things. The first, she was the most extraordinarily beautiful woman Gareth had ever seen in his life, and the second, the look she was giving the stone wall. Her look did not say, as Gareth had expected, “I find this cold rock more interesting than those who surround me.” Her look was wild and furtive, and said, “If the gods had pity on me, they would dissolve this rock and let me escape!”
Gareth’s attention was drawn away from the woman. He had to doff his cap and bow to the King, who—owing to his age—was seated in a chair, and to Helmos, standing at his father’s right hand, and who looked upon Gareth with a warm smile. Gareth averted his eyes in confusion. His clandestine studies weighed upon him, particularly whenever he was in the company of Helmos, whom he revered and admired more now that he was able to value him with adult understanding. Gareth took the first opportunity to turn from Helmos and his winsome, fragile wife, Anna, to the elven couple.
“Lord and Lady Mabreton, the newly arrived ambassadors,” said Helmos.
At the name “Mabreton” Gareth was transported in an instant to the scene of the assassination he had witnessed as a child. He stared at the lord in a kind of panic, stories of ghosts coming to mind, until Dagnarus said the word “brother,” which cleared up the matter immediately.
Still, the shock had been severe. Gareth remained in a sort of daze. Fortunately, he never had much to say and was able to retire into relative obscurity, where he could observe without being called upon to contribute. From his vantage point, he noted that Lord Mabreton, though he bore a strong family resemblance to his late brother, was warmer, more genial and charming than his brother had been. Gareth looked again at Lady Mabreton. She had withdrawn her gaze from the wall but only to stare intently into the warm, bright orb of a stone-light adorning the great oaken table where they were soon to be seated.
Her husband, who appeared quite fond of her, cast her anxious glances and would sometimes pause in the middle of a conversation to ask her in elven if she was warm enough, should she like a cloak or another glass of wine? She replied coolly, in monosyllables, and did not look at him. Gareth gathered by this that she could not speak the human language. No wonder she found the conversation boring. Except that she did not look bored. She looked trapped.
Others came to claim the King’s attention. Helmos was required to attend to his father. Dagnarus was able, with adroit tact, to insinuate himself between the elven couple and the King’s party, edge them away so that they formed a small group of their own. Gareth, at a commanding glance from Dagnarus, accompanied them, somewhat mystified. Dagnarus had never before evinced the slightest interest in elves, except as enemies across a battlefield. Now he was going out of his way to be charming and winning. He was talking to the lord, but his gaze went continually to the lady, and suddenly Gareth—feeling extremely obtuse for not having thought of this before—understood.
He was appalled. Dagnarus never spoke to Gareth of his love trysts. Gareth had made it clear at the beginning of his friend’s sexual exploits (at about the age of fifteen) that he was not interested, wanted to know nothing of them. Gareth had made a few tentative forays into the world of romance, only to find himself pitied and rejected. He had turned his marred face from love forever. He dealt with his own physical needs by paying for them, having found a comfortable, older whore in a well-established house, who, if she mocked him, at least did it behind his back. Gareth had trusted that Dagnarus would have sense enough to keep away from the ladies of the court, unless he actually proposed to marry one of them. And here he found his friend enamored of an elf, a married woman of noble blood. Nothing could be more improper, nothing more dangerous.
And that, Gareth realized in despair, was just what was needed to add spice to Dagnarus’s desire.
“Your lady wife does not appear to be enjoying herself, I fear,” said Dagnarus. “She must consider us boorish dolts.”
“Quite the contrary, Your Highness,” said Lord Mabreton, with another of those fond, anxious glances at his wife. “Lady Mabreton does not understand your language and thus she finds it tedious. She studies to improve herself, but that must, of necessity, take some time.”
Gareth, who was now watching the lady closely, noted a glimmer in her blue eyes and a heightened color in her cheeks and guessed that the lady understood far more than she was willing to admit. Probably too proud to let it be known that sh
e spoke Elderspeak, a language the elves consider uncouth and crude.
“My honored mother, the Queen, is deeply worried about your wife,” said Dagnarus. Reaching into a jeweled pouch he wore at his side, he removed a small bundle done up in black-velvet brocade with a purple silken ribbon. “I took the liberty, therefore, of obtaining a gift my mother hoped might serve to tell Her Ladyship how much we value her presence among us. Would you be so kind as to present this gift to your wife, Lord Mabreton.”
Dagnarus handed the bundle to the lord with a graceful bow. He did not once glance at the lady.
“That is very good of your mother, Your Highness,” said Lord Mabreton, pleased. “You must present it to her yourself. My dear,” he said tenderly, shifting to elven, “the prince has a present for you. You will make me exceedingly happy by accepting it.”
Lady Mabreton turned her gaze from the stone-light and looked directly at Dagnarus. Her countenance did not change. Her eyes were placid and still as an ornamental lake. She bowed to him in the elven manner, but she did not accept the gift.
Dagnarus’s color rose. He was not accustomed to being treated in such a cavalier fashion. Rather than serve to drive him away, however, her disinterest seemed to captivate him more than ever.
“Shall I unwrap it for Your Ladyship?” Dagnarus said, and, with a graceful flick of his hand, he untied the bow.
The fabric fell away from the object. Silver sparkled, a stone blue as the sky—indeed the Pecwae believe that turquoise comes from little bits of the sky that have tumbled down to earth—made a bright spot of color against the black fabric.
The turquoise stone was large, the largest Gareth had ever seen, and was exquisitely cut into the shape of a lotus blossom, couched in a wonderfully delicate silver-filigree setting. The lady’s eyes widened at the sight. Ice maiden though she might be, she was not proof against something so lovely and so valuable. Pecwae jewelry was reputed to be magical.
Well of Darkness Page 25
