“So be it. Use your Power on the guard, and I’ll hang you.” I went to my dinner.
“To Rodrigo, king of Caledon and my liege lord, greetings from his cousin Tresa of Cumber.
“I cannot imagine why you apologize for a scroll in your own hand. We engage in no contest of scribes for the clearest lettering. Your script is legible, and crossed out words matter not a whit, nor your charming variance in spelling. The honor you do me by writing of your own person is one I treasure.
“May your union with Lord Groenfil and Lady Soushire be blessed by good fortune, though I fear this missive will not reach you until the issue is decided. If Danzik may be turned aside, so you are free to aid your vassals of the north, I will rejoice no less than you. Grandfather is weary of war, though he would never say as much. I know it by the deepening lines on his forehead, the ever-rarer smile he bestows.
“As he threatened, he sent me to Cumber at first snowmelt, and I pass my days setting matters right in the town and castle. Tantroth did great harm in last year’s siege, as you saw.
“That I may see you soon gladdens my heart. I will say this now, that it not poison our meeting: I truly regret the dismay that sent me fleeing at the sight of your grievous wound; I was overcome with horror that your mother’s brother Margenthar could scar your beauty so terribly.
“If I allowed thee to think it was more, I pray thee, forgive me, in the generosity of thy soul.
“Looking forward to the day we may meet again, Tresa, daughter of Aptar and Stira, of the House of Cumber, salutes thee fondly.”
Rust set down Tresa’s scroll, made himself comfortable on the bedcushions. “No matter how you peer into that silver, your face is unchanged.”
“When she first saw me ...”
“She was shocked. Now she’ll pay it as little heed as I.”
I grimaced at my image. “I’m a ruin.” The scar my uncle had inflicted ran its jagged course from eye to chin.
“You’re what you always were. There’s no shame in a scar.”
“I hate it.”
“If it troubles you so, buy a Return.”
“The Warthen might demand half Soushire.” That, beyond the pain I’d bear.
“Whatever the cost, pay it, if you’re so troubled.”
“Rust, you really think I might?” Even had I the cost, a Return was by no means certain. It wanted the Warthen’s consent, and he could accomplish few Returns, lest he be worn beyond redemption.
“I think you ought, if you grimace at the sight of yourself.”
I slumped on the bed, beside him. “It’s partly that. And also...”
“You’re afraid to meet her. Why?”
I shrugged. “Uncle Raeth holds our frontier. I can’t afford to alienate—laugh again and I’ll dump you on the floor!”
With effort, he twisted a smile into a frown, but it wouldn’t stay transformed. “I’m sorry, Roddy.” He didn’t sound it.
“You’ve had Chela, and other girls. I’m as shy as—” I bit it off.
“As a virgin.” His tone was gentle.
I stood, smoothed my jerkin. “Let’s speak of other things.”
“She’s smitten with you, I think.” Idly, he perused the scroll. “Did you reply?”
“This afternoon.” Tongue between my teeth, cursing my errors and blotches.
“Between the two of you, they’ll need widen the trail, to accommodate your couriers.” Mischief, in his grin.
I loomed over him. “What penalty, if I strike the regent?”
“None, tonight.”
Once more I examined my cheek in the silver. “Perhaps, while we’re in Cumber, we ought send envoy to the Warthen.”
Seven
THE RITUAL WORDS OF encant mumbled, my palms pressed over the receptor, I dashed into the cave, shaky with relief. “Mother!”
“Ah. You’re back.” She rose from the fire.
“Why did you—why couldn’t I—” I threw myself into her embrace.
“There, now.” Awkwardly, as seldom in life, Elena Queen of Caledon comforted me.
After a time, I drew back. “What happened? Try as I might, I couldn’t summon ...”
“Of course not.” Her tone was placid. “You wielded the Power.”
“I’ve oft used it to visit you and Grandfather.”
“Don’t be silly.” She drew me to the fire, made herself comfortable beyond the outermost stones. Across the firepit, shadowy figures perched. “From time to time you visit, but only twice have you used the Power.”
“There’s a difference?”
“Eleven years had you, when first I showed you the Vessels.” Her tone was tart. “As was your way, you wouldn’t listen. As you grew I explained over and again.” A sigh, of exasperation. “Knowing a mind, forcing a will, these use the Power you must husband. Like a dammed stream, once opened, it wants time to refill. Why were you such a headstrong boy?”
“I had no wisdom.”
“And now?” A deep voice, from the shadows.
“I would acquire it, Father Varon. If I might.”
“Look you, youngsire.” He cleared his throat. “The Still isn’t to be wasted. What if you spend yourself making a stableboy dance, and Hriskil plants himself that day before your gate? Would you bid him wait a four-day, that you might restore yourself?”
“No, Grandsir.”
“Well, then.”
“Did I do ill, learning truth of my bondsmen?”
A rumble. “Who’s to say good or ill? Spend your purse on silks or steel, whatever your need. Just know the cost.”
“Grandsir, might a churl wield a Power?”
“Of course not.”
“Yet I think it’s so.” Haltingly, I told him of Bollert.
“It cannot be. You dreamt it”
“I felt his compulsion.”
“Only royal houses—”
From the far corner, a waspish voice. “Not so, Varon.”
A withering blast. “WHO INTRUDES?”
“Save your fury.” Cayil of the Surk, my predecessor whom Varon overthrew these ages past. “It awes the boy, but not Cayil.”
“What say you, petty king?”
“Hah! Not so petty I couldn’t hold you at bay ten years or more. Even your sappers couldn’t—”
“By Lord of Nature, give it rest!”
Carefully, I retreated from the firepit.
Cayil snapped, “While you play at anger, your mewling son flees. Look!” A contemptuous gesture, toward me. “But you miss my gist.”
A heavy breath, perhaps of resignation. “Which is?”
“I knew a churl who had Power. Rowlan, she was, a washgirl. Saucy face, swaying hips ...” Cayil’s expression was dreamy. “And she could summon beasts. Horses, cats, wolves. Even birds heeded her call.”
“Impossible.”
Cayil’s voice grew shrill. “Think you all wisdom came from the Steppe? That your brute spearmen knew all there was to fathom?”
“Churls have no Power. It’s what separates—”
“This one did. Take it for truth. And Hastar told me of another.”
I tugged at Mother’s robe. “Hastar?”
A whisper. “Long before Cayil. He’s seldom with us.”
“Hmpff.” Varon seemed nettled. “A sport of nature, your churl,” he told me. “Kill him.”
“I thought of it,” I admitted. “But ...
“Don’t let Power spread. It’s an end to order.”
“Yes, Grandsir. Oh! ... We captured Danzik. What now?”
“What of Cumber?” Elryc perched crosslegged on my rope bed.
I curled in a ball. It had been a long, eventful day, starting with the battle for the coast road. I was weary, and I hurt. Even the night candles seemed too much light, and I was dangerously close to weeping, as so often after using the Still. “We didn’t speak of it tonight. His advice, before we took Danzik, was to ignore all else, and save Tantroth of Eiber.”
In the corner, Anavar exa
mined the stick he was whittling. “Better to save Raeth of Cumber.”
Genard looked up from the string he’d wrapped around his fingers. “But you’re Eiberian.”
Elryc prodded him. “Shush, Gen. Let the nobles speak.”
“Sorry, m’lor.” Genard sounded abashed.
I glanced up in surprise. What magic did Elryc wield, that the stableboy deferred without cavil?
“I’m Eiberian born,” said Anavar, “but pledged to Rodrigo and Caledon.”
“But ...” Reluctantly, Genard contained himself.
To be perverse, I told him, “Go on.”
“Anavar, if the king rides to Cumber, Hriskil’s free to attack Eiber. What of your family, your home?”
Succinctly put. I looked at Genard with new appraisal.
“My sister.” Anavar’s eyes were distant. “And father. They’re at our holding, near Stoth. Hriskil is further west. If he attacks, they may die, but if Roddy sends men, will Tantroth use them against Hriskil, or to some devious end of his own devising?” He slashed viciously at his stick. “Besides, I can’t be of two loyalties. I’ve chosen Rodrigo.”
“Why?” Genard and I spoke as one.
“My lord Tantroth has no honor.” He studied his stick. “And Roddy does.”
My eyes stung. I blinked, to no avail.
“Why cry,” asked Genard, “when he speaks well of you?”
Elryc nudged him hard.
“I’m not—if I am, it’s the Still. It leaves me weak, and confused.” With a prodigious yawn, I sat up, stripped off my blouse.
Elryc’s breath caught. “Your back is raw.”
“Rustin switched me.” Somehow, I made it sound of little consequence.
My brother’s hand caught mine, squeezed hard.
“It’s all right, Elryc.”
“I have salve,” said Anavar. “I used it when you ...” He rose, padded to his chamber.
Genard’s eyes were wide. “You allow it, m’lor’?”
I sought dignity. “He makes me a better man.”
Genard muttered something to Elryc.
“What was that?” I caught his wrist.
“I said, a pity he didn’t do it before you made me dance.” His gaze was defiant.
“Guttersnipe! Ignorant churl! Who cares what nonsense escapes your mouth? Out!”
“Come, Genard.” Elryc rose from my bed. “I bid thee all good night.” He guided his vassal to the hall.
At the door Anavar stood aside for them, knelt on my bed. He dabbed fingers in a pot of ointment. “By your leave, my lord.” Gently, he spread soothing salve on my smarting back. His sturdy hands worked their massage, bringing the day’s first peace. “Why do you weep, sir?”
“Because I’m everything I called Genard.”
“I didn’t hear.”
“Good.” My eyes stung. “Enough.” I sat, wiped my eyes. “I have work to do.”
“You need sleep.”
“After this.” Reluctantly, I made my way to Elryc’s chamber, knocked softly.
Genard opened. His face went taut.
“Where’s my brother?”
“He bids Nurse Hester good night.”
Unbidden, I brushed past. “Sit with me.” I slumped on the cushions of Elryc’s bed, put my head in my hands. “What I said was false and vile. It’s worse after I wield the Still, but the fault is mine. Cruelty lurks within me, awaiting escape.”
“Fah.” A snort of derision. “How like a lord, to make it sound noble. The truth is, you’re small of spirit, and meanly made.”
“Am I?” I tasted of it, with sinking heart. “I suppose so.” I bowed my head. “Genard, I’m truly sorry. I wanted to hurt you, and snatched the first weapon at hand.”
“Why take the trouble, m’lor’?” He sounded bitter. “What glory in besting a guttersnipe, an ignorant churl? I’m all of that. Is it wrong that I’d be more?”
“No.” My voice was subdued. “I give you leave to tell Rust. No doubt he’ll beat me again.”
He cried, “I don’t want you beaten, I want you not to hate me!”
“I don’t—”
The door swung open. Elryc’s face was tight. “Leave him alone! You’ve no right, Roddy!”
“It’s not what you—”
“This is my room. Have we nowhere to escape your foul—” He pursed his lips. “Go!”
“I’m sorry, Genard!” I fled to my chamber.
After a time, a knock.
“Enter.” My voice was muffled.
“Elryc sent me, m’lor’.” Tentatively, the stableboy approached my bed. “After I told him why you came. May I sit?”
I nodded, and felt the cushions shift.
“It plagues you,” he said, “that I say what comes to me. It drove old Griswold mad, in the stable.”
“As it does me, but you’re good-hearted.”
“Not so much. I jape at you.”
I turned carefully, so as not to scrape my back. “Why do you love my brother?”
He licked dry lips. “I’m thirteen summers, almost fourteen.”
I nodded.
“My whole life, he’s the only person ever asked if I was hungry, or had thirst.” He saw my puzzlement. “Griswold sent me to eat, when the work was done. And Cook gave me fruit, when I asked. But only Lor’ Elryc cared to know.”
“Is that so much?”
“When you’ve had no one.”
I was quiet a while. Then, “When I wielded the Still against you, Rustin made me ask your pardon, so I did. Now I ask of my free will. Pardon me, Genard. Pardon my jeers, my curses, the compulsion I set on you.” My voice was tremulous.
A long silence. “You said I could speak my mind?”
“Yes.”
“I hate how you make me feel. You’re noble; I’ll never be. That’s done. But a yeoman isn’t dirt, and need not feel so.”
I felt my ears heat.
“I don’t pardon you, m’lor’. I’ve too much hate of you. But go four weeks without making me a worm, and I’ll pardon you with all my heart.”
I seized his hand, and held it.
Rustin found us thus, when at last he came to bed.
I glared at Danzik, making little effort to hide my petulance. We would be a week, at least, augmenting and refitting our force before striking north of the Keep. We’d agreed to combine all the force the kingdom could muster; this very afternoon, as a year ago, I had set my standard fluttering in the earth and proclaimed proud words, summoning men of all Caledon. We’d dispatched criers to every town and village under our sway, and now were forced to await me results.
“Has he no civilized speech?” The Norlander had been brought to the great hall in chains; no harm in emphasizing to my court our accomplishment. Lady Soushire looked on in approval, beside Lord Groenfil.
Glowering, the Norland leader snarled more of his gibberish.
Rust’s tone was dry. “No doubt in his country the Norland tongue is thought civilized.”
Addressing Danzik, I spoke loudly and clearly. “Are you a noble?” If so, we owed him more courtesy than he’d received.
Among the courtiers, someone cleared his throat “My lord?” Jestrel, the silversmith. “I have some Norland speech.”
“Very well, ask this barbarian his station.”
“Aye, my lord. Danzik, er vos lini rez?”
“Farang vos!”
“Er vos?” Jestrel’s tone sharpened.
“Han.” It sounded grudging.
“He says not, sire. At first he told me... ah, he didn’t properly answer.” Jestrel blushed.
“Horn ordin Norl verta Caledi rez!”
“Eh? What does he say?”
“That a Norland commoner ranks with a king of Caledon.”
“Rust, I would teach him manners.” My voice was ominous.
“But you won’t.”
I sighed. “No. What is Hriskil’s intent? Will he land more troops?”
Jestrel mouthed more nonsense, and le
arned nothing.
I stirred impatiently. “Lady Larissa, my lord Earl, neither of you speak his tongue? I wish I weren’t ...” I remembered not to say more. I hated to be dependent on a commoner, not even of my court. Now Freisart was dead, who could say where Jestrel’s true loyalty lay.
Well, I had nearly a ten-day to wait, before we could prepare the army for so long an expedition as to Cumber, and beyond to Eiber. Not much time, but ... “Ask him if he would teach his language.”
Jestrel did. “No, he says.”
“Ask if he would teach a king. And earn the same food we eat, and a softer chamber.”
Even I could grasp Danzik’s vehement refusal.
“Imps take him, the stubborn ... tell him he’ll do his master no harm. I’d need the Norland speech to treat with Hriskil.”
Danzik bit his lip. Suddenly, to my amazement, he nodded.
And so, grown and crowned, I was prenticed to a Norlander.
Rust was annoyed, but I’d acted in front of my court, and he was loath to overrule me. He insisted Danzik be kept in chains, and an armed guard with us always. To keep peace, I acquiesced.
Without much else to do, I devoted several hours a day to my task. The Norland language was cruel, and hard on the tongue.
Danzik started with common words: soldier, churl, king. Since he had no civilized speech, I often wasn’t sure what he was teaching me. Genard, who insinuated himself into my lessons, came up with guesses as to the word Danzik meant, sometimes preposterous, more often quite correct. No matter how foolish Genard’s speculation, I managed not to mock him, remembering our conversation in my bedchamber.
The stableboy wasn’t a bad sort, really, when one got over his ways. As he’d said, his prime fault was blurting out whatever nonsense came to his head, no matter how disrespectful. Had I the managing of him, instead of Elryc, the quality would soon be whipped out of him, but I had to admit that once I became accustomed to his speech, the content at times held sense. Not that it would do to tell him so, lest he become even more presumptuous.
Danzik kept his bargain, though he didn’t mellow a whit. I dared not draw too close, lest he let fly with a gob of spittle as before. In any event, Rust had assigned Kadar as his guard, with instructions to keep us separated by force, if necessary. After the bodyguard once grabbed my arm and yanked me back to my chair, I kept my distance and risked no further humiliation.
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 10
