He strode stiffly past the empty throne towards the King’s private chambers, and his duty lay heavy on his shoulders. He didn’t care. It was all he had left.
Julia watched him go, and bit her lip. She wanted to call after him, but her pride wouldn’t let her. It was his place to come to her; she was damned if she’d give him the satisfaction of seeing her crawl. After all she’d been through, after all the months of believing him dead and gone, when word had reached her that Rupert had finally turned up safe and sound, she’d been so filled with joy and disbelief she hadn’t known whether to laugh or cry or jump up and down on the spot in sheer exuberance. She’d bullied the Seneschal into telling her where Rupert’s rooms were, and had run all the way there to welcome him back, only to find him cold and insulting. She would have explained about Harald and the marriage, if he’d just given her time, but, no, he was too busy being hurt and angry. He had no right to be that way. He didn’t know what it had been like in the Castle, on her own, with the darkness closing in. With him gone, and the dragon sleeping, maybe even dying, it wasn’t surprising she’d turned to Harald. She’d needed somebody, and there wasn’t anyone else … Julia watched Rupert leave the Great Hall, and her hands closed into fists so tight they ached.
She glanced at Harald, who was staring thoughtfully at the slowly closing door through which Rupert had just passed. There was no doubt that Harald had become a major part of her life recently, but Julia still wasn’t sure how she felt about him. He was kind, attentive, even charming, and yet sometimes she’d look up from his smile and find herself staring into eyes so cold they made her shiver.
There was no denying Harald had his faults, but Julia had been very impressed by the quiet, competent way he’d taken charge of things, as the darkness grew steadily nearer and day by day the situation deteriorated. King John had done his best, but with more and more refugees streaming in from the ravaged countryside, events had quickly proved too complicated for any one man to handle, and the King had reluctantly been forced to admit he could no longer cope without help. Harald and the Seneschal had taken most of the load off his shoulders, but King John had grown increasingly bitter and depressed over what he saw as his failure to retain control of his own Kingdom. He spent less and less time at Court, with the result that Harald had gradually taken most of the responsibility upon himself, until now he was most often in command. He seemed to be doing a good job, or at least as good a job as anyone could have managed under the circumstances.
And yet, despite all his problems, Harald still found the time to come and talk with her, and keep her company. He’d come a long way from the brash, insensitive bastard who’d pursued her so relentlessly in the early days. Julia grinned suddenly. If nothing else, it seemed she’d had a civilising effect on the man. She stared at Harald almost fondly, and then her smile faded away as his expression suddenly changed. Harald was still staring at the closed door that led to the King’s private chambers, but as Julia watched, Harald’s normally calm and pleasant features disappeared to be replaced by hard unyielding lines that completely changed his face. Julia stared at him, fascinated; it was like discovering a whole new person underlying the one she was used to. She frowned thoughtfully; she wasn’t at all sure she liked this new Harald. She could see strength in his face, and determination, and an obvious iron will, but there was also fear, and in a flash of insight Julia realised that Harald was afraid of Rupert. And then the moment passed, and Harald’s usual calm mask re-appeared. He turned to smile at her, and surely it was only her imagination that made Julia see a cold killing fury in his eyes.
“Well now, Julia,” said Harald pleasantly, “I’m afraid I’ve got to go and see father now, but I expect there’ll still be a little time afterwards, before I have to lead our troops out to battle. Why don’t you join me in my rooms in an hour or so, and we can spend some time together before the dawn.”
“Yes,” said Julia. “Of course. Harald, I …”
“It’s Rupert, isn’t it?” said Harald. “Don’t worry about him, my dear. You’ll forget him soon enough, once we’re married. You won’t even have to talk to him again, if you don’t want to. In fact, that might be best. Rupert’s been something of a bad influence on you, Julia, though to be honest, I never did understand what you saw in him. Still, as soon as our meeting with father is over, I’ve no doubt he’ll find somewhere to hide until he has to come out and fight with us at dawn. For all his fine talk, Rupert’s never really been much of a one for fighting.”
“He beat you in your last duel, didn’t he?” said Julia, and then wondered why she’d said it.
Harald looked at her sharply. “That was a fluke. He’d learned a few new tricks, that’s all. Next time …”
“Wait a minute.” Julia’s eyes narrowed suddenly. “Did I miss something, or did you really just say that Rupert would be going out to fight again at dawn?”
“Well of course he’ll be there,” said Harald. “It’s his duty.”
“You can’t be serious! You saw him in Court, he’s exhausted!”
Harald shrugged coldly. “He doesn’t have any choice in the matter. Rupert, father and I will be leading the charge against the demons; it’s expected of us. After all, you can’t expect the rabble to follow if royalty won’t lead, can you? Not that it actually matters whether Rupert turns up or not, as long as I’m there. I’m the eldest son, and I’m the one they’ll follow.”
“He’ll be there, and you know it,” said Julia. A slow, cold anger wrapped itself around her like an old, familiar cloak. “Rupert knows his duty. He’s always known his bloody duty. And he’s not a coward.”
Harald laughed unpleasantly. “Rupert’s always been a coward. He still needs a nightlight in his room before he can sleep!”
Julia turned her back on him, and started down the dais steps. Harald hurried after her.
“Julia! Where are you going?”
“I have to see Rupert. I have to talk to him.”
Harald grabbed her by the arm, and stopped her at the foot of the dais steps. She jerked her arm free, and clapped her hand to her swordhilt.
“Get away from me, Harald.”
“No, Julia,” he said firmly. “It’s too late for that now. You made your choice, and you can’t go back on it.”
“Don’t be too sure about that, Harald.”
“Oh, I think I can be, my dear. Or do you really believe Rupert would take you back, once he’s found out just how close you and I have become during his absence?”
“I thought he was dead!”
“I doubt that’ll make any difference to Rupert. He’s always been rather … old-fashioned … in such matters. Face facts, my dear. You’ve made my bed, and now you must sleep in it. Forget Rupert. You’re going to be my wife, Julia, and as such you must learn to obey me.”
Julia brought her knee up sharply, and Harald doubled over, gasping for breath. Julia left him there before the throne, and hurried, almost running, to the door through which Rupert had already passed. It was horribly clear to her that if she didn’t talk to him first, Rupert would go out to face the waiting demons believing that she didn’t care for him. And she couldn’t let him go to his death believing a lie.
She hurried out of the Great Hall and down the corridor that led to the King’s private chambers. She soon came to the King’s door, and stood there a moment, composing herself, before knocking politely. Nobody answered, and when she tried the handle it wouldn’t turn. She beat on the thick wooden panels with her fist, and then fell back suddenly as a single glowing eye opened in the wood of the door, and looked at her. Julia shuddered uncontrollably as she faced the shining, metallic eye. All her instincts were telling her to turn and run, but still she stood her ground and glared defiantly back.
This door is sealed, said a cold voice in her mind.
“You must let me in,” said Julia shakily. “I have to see the King.”
Prince Harald, Prince Rupert and the High Warlock may enter, said the cold vo
ice. To all others, this room is sealed. Leave now.
“I have to see the King! It’s important!”
Leave now.
“Damn you, let me in!”
Julia reached for her sword, and a bright flash of balefire sent her sprawling to the floor. She shook her head to clear it, and then clambered unsteadily to her feet, carefully keeping her hand away from her sword. The eye in the door stared calmly back at her, bright and metallic and utterly inhuman.
Leave, said the cold voice. Leave now.
Julia glared helplessly at the unblinking eye, and then turned and walked back down the corridor. The eye watched her go, and then closed, disappearing back into the wood of the door. Julia slowly made her way back to the Great Hall. Whatever King John wanted with his sons and the High Warlock, it must be pretty damned important to justify such a strong warding spell. She’d just have to talk to Rupert later, that was all.
She had to talk to him, while there was still time.
Deep in the endless gloom of the South Wing, a concealed door swung slowly open, and Lord Darius stepped out of the wainscoting and into the corridor. He looked cautiously around him, but nothing and no one moved in the wide, empty gallery that stretched away to either side of him, cold and dark and silent. Darius smiled slowly, and pulled the door shut behind him. It closed with only the faintest or clicks, and no trace remained in the panelled wall to show where it had been. The only light came from a single foxfire lamp set high up on the wall, but Darius’s eyes had grown so used to the dark that even this dim glow was enough to light the corridor clearly. He glanced uneasily about him, uncomfortable in such an open space after so long in the cramped and narrow tunnels, and then crouched down on his haunches next to the wall. His once fashionable clothes were fouled and dirty, and hung loosely on his thinning frame. His unhealthy flesh was blotched and waxy pale, hanging in ugly folds and flapping jowls from having lost too much weight in too short a time. No fine Lord or Lady from the Court would have recognised Lord Darius now in the half-mad, scarecrow figure that crouched like an animal in the shadows because it preferred the darkness to the light.
His puffy eyes glistened brightly as he peered quickly about him, ready to turn and run at the first sign of danger. Again and again his hand moved nervously to the dagger concealed in his sleeve, but no shadow stirred, and no sound broke the silence, save for his own unsteady breathing. The South Wing waited, as it had waited undisturbed for so many years, but still there was a tension on the unmoving air, as though the very Stones themselves were aware that something evil walked the empty corridors.
There was a cold, brooding look in Darius’s face, as though he held some awful secret within him, of things done or planned in the dark because they could not stand the light of day. Rupert would have recognised the look. He had passed through the endless night, and something of that darkness was in him too, and always would be. The Darkwood had placed its mark on both their souls, but whereas Rupert strove to throw the darkness off, Darius had surrendered to it willingly, in return for what it had promised him.
Darius held up his left hand, and flames licked around his fingers without consuming them. He had power now, power from his dark Master, and with that power all debts would be repaid, all insults avenged. Darius laughed softly, and the flames disappeared. He crouched alone in the gloom, saying nothing, thinking little, waiting for those he feared and hated to come to him, there in the quiet and the cold and the darkness of the deserted South Wing.
King John sighed, and watched dourly as his breath steamed on the chill air. He pulled his cloak tightly about him, and moved his chair a little closer to the banked, glowing fire. Even in his private rooms, deep in the heart of the Castle, it seemed there was no escaping the bitter cold of the Darkwood. He stared thoughtfully at the High Warlock, sitting opposite him on the other side of the fireplace. The Warlock sprawled inelegantly in his chair, chewing on a chicken leg, his short tubby legs propped up on a footstool. The cold didn’t seem to bother him at all.
Lamps and candles filled every spare niche in the overcrowded room, but still the overall impression was one of gloom. Always, in the past, the King had been able to draw strength and comfort from the many layers of ancient stone that surrounded him, from the musics and the mysteries of Forest Castle, his legacy and birthright. For twelve generations before him, the Forest Kings had defended the land from all that threatened it, and something of that strength and determination had come to reside in Forest Castle itself, or so John had always believed. But now the long night had come, and all the ancient magics in the Castle walls had not been enough to keep out the Darkwood. The King scowled testily; times were hard indeed when a man couldn’t even find a little peace and comfort in the security of his own rooms. John smiled briefly, recognising the pettiness of his thoughts, and pushed them firmly to one side. He glanced again at the High Warlock, and memories ran swiftly through his mind, not all of them bad. He and the Warlock had never been especially close, but they’d worked well together, for many years. There was even a time he’d thought of the High Warlock as his strong right arm, but that was a long time ago. A very long time ago.
The Warlock stripped the last of the meat from the chicken leg and then, as John watched, casually broke the bone in two and sucked at the marrow like a child with a stick of candy. When he’d finished, he threw the bone into the fire and wiped his greasy fingers on the front of his robe. King John looked away. The High Warlock he remembered would rather have died than behave in so uncivilised a manner. The Warlock he remembered had been gracious and courtly, and even something of a dandy. Always the height of fashion, and never a lock of hair out of place. Right to the very end, his poise had never faltered; the tavern-keepers said he was the most dignified drunk they’d ever known. John smiled slightly in spite of himself, and then the smile vanished as he remembered other things. He closed his eyes, and after a while the awful memories subsided, though some of the pain remained to haunt him, as always. He looked again at the High Warlock, who was staring absently into the fire. The Warlock’s face was calm and impassive, and John had no idea what the man was thinking.
“I wondered how I’d feel when I saw you again,” said King John slowly. “Whether I’d hate you, or fear you. It’s been a long time, hasn’t it?”
“Yes,” said the High Warlock. “It has.”
“You look pretty much as I remember you. You haven’t aged at all.”
“Transformational magic —I can be whatever age I wish. Of course, the younger I choose to be, the faster I burn up what remains of my life. I’m an old man now, John, older than you and your father put together. You know, I miss Eduard, sometimes. I could talk to him. You and I, we never really had much in common.”
“No,” said the King. “But your advice was always good.”
“Then you should have listened to it more.”
“Perhaps.”
They both fell silent, and for a long while neither of them said anything. The fire stirred uneasily in the fireplace, and the sound of the crackling flames was distinct on the silence.
“There was no need to banish me, John,” said the Warlock finally. “I’d already banished myself.”
The King shrugged. “I had to do something. Eleanor was dead, and I needed to do something.”
“I did everything I could for her, John.”
The King stared into the fire, and said nothing.
“What do you think of young Rupert’s plan?” asked the Warlock.
“It might work. We’ve tried everything else. Who knows?”
“I like Rupert. He seems an intelligent lad. Brave, too.”
“Yes,” said John slowly. “I suppose he is.”
They looked at each other awkwardly. Too many years of pain and rage and hoarded bitterness lay between them, and they both knew it. They had nothing to say to each other; it had all been said before. The High Warlock got to his feet.
“I suppose I’d better have a word with Thomas
Grey. His powers appear to have grown somewhat in my absence, perhaps he can be a help to me after all. Goodnight, John. I’ll see you again, before we go out to battle.”
“Good night, sir Warlock.”
The King stared into the fire, and didn’t relax until he’d heard the door open and close. Even after all the years, the memories wouldn’t let him be. He closed his eyes, and once again he and the Warlock were standing together beside Eleanor’s bed. The bedclothes had been drawn up over her face.
She’s dead, John, I’m so sorry.
Bring her back.
I can’t do that, John.
You’re the High Warlock! Save her, damn you!
I can’t.
You haven’t even tried.
John …
You let her die because she didn’t love you!
The King buried his face in his hands, but no tears came. He’d shed them all long ago, and there was no room in him for tears any more. The door opened behind him, and he quickly sat up straight again, composing his features into their usual harsh mask. Rupert and Harald moved forward to bow respectfully before him. They stood shoulder to shoulder, but still there was a coldness between them. King John smiled tiredly. The day there was anything but coldness between those two, he’d eat his boots, buckles and all. Rupert and Harald waited patiently, staring calmly at a point somewhere over the King’s head. John braced himself. Neither Rupert nor Harald was going to like what he had to say to them, but he had to have their support.
“Sit down,” he growled finally. “You make the place look untidy.”
Harald sank quickly into the chair the Warlock had just vacated, leaving Rupert to go in search of another chair. John tried not to wince, as the sound of bumped furniture and falling objects told him exactly where Rupert was at any given time. Rupert finally returned, dragging a chair behind him. Harald had a coughing fit behind a raised hand, until the King glared at him. John didn’t look round to see how much damage had been done to his room; he didn’t think his patience would stand it.
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