“Your ways are too ... unsubtle for my taste.”
“We’ve no time for subtlety.”
I thought on it. Jestrel would have made of me a plaything, a devoted pet. He deserved Tantroth’s attentions.
And yet, despite his new-shown loyalty, could I be sure Tantroth would tell me all his torture unveiled? And did I want to forgo the ... yes, the pleasure of putting the question myself?
“No.” It came out a bark, and I tried again. “No, my lord. I pray thee, sit.” On my knees, I rummaged through a chest, pulled out a bowl, and a corked ewer of my precious stillsilver. For what I would attempt, water would not answer.
I poured the silver liquid, and immediately it was still.
I set down the ewer, let my palms droop across the bowl. My skin grew warm. Eyes closed, I murmured the familiar words.
The mists blew away, and I stood before the cave. In that far world I sat, composed myself.
My eyes sprang open. “Bring the silversmith.”
Tantroth jerked to his feet. He hurried out. In a moment he was back, with my bodyguard and Jestrel.
I said to Kadar, “Leave him.”
“But—”
One look was all it required. Hastily, he left.
Jestrel licked his lips. “My gracious lord ...”
I muttered, and he was silent.
Again, I felt my way through a mist. I’d never wielded the Still so, and was surprised by the certainty that I could. Slowly I groped my way, and, outside the cave, Jestrel was before me.
Greed. Fear.
I slipped within.
A frightened boy in far off Orlot, prenticed to a choleric smith, whose specialty was fine filigree for royal tables.
The boy’s first casting, made from collected scrap. A beating from his master. “Remelt it, that it be put to good use.”
Stubbornly, other work, until his growing skill was noticed. Then the master smith wanted all.
Ai! Get out of my mind!
A runaway, attaching himself to a caravan. Sleeping with horses, clothes acrawl with vermin, until in a far Ukra town he saw the scarred and battered sign of a silversmith.
I opened an eye. Jestrel was sweating. I snapped, “Tantroth, a chair, under his legs.” As if dazed, the silversmith sank into it.
Years of work. A growing reputation. A share in the smithy. Restlessness, a dismay that youth was passing.
A visit from King Freisart, and an invitation. The exiled king had not yet depleted all his coin, and to the earnest smith he seemed the opportunity of a lifetime.
Long years with the ever-more-penniless Freisart. Contempt, alloyed with reluctant affection; the old dethroned monarch had been kind, within his impoverished means. And he’d esteemed Jestrel’s talent.
You’ve no right! Leave me!
I probed deeper, thrusting aside fibrous strands of memory.
Growing desperation. A man must make his mark. Where to settle? How to amass wealth beyond his young dreams?
A visit to Chorr. Introduction, of course, to the king.
Sleepless, sweating nights. Did he dare?
A casual word from the king, and a moment seized. Would you like to see my works, sire? Those pieces I’ve kept for myself?
Get out!
The king of Chorr himself, impressed by the awesome talent. And men the gamble, staking all on a cast of me bones. Half of what the king saw before him, if only he might ...
An endless moment of appraisal. Yes, but not while he tarried in Chorr. Handed to him at the border, and he may never return.
Could the king be trusted?
What choice had he?
Half his worldly goods gone. An endless fretting journey through the mountains, to the remote border. A guard waiting, with a sealed box.
Now, when to use it?
Not on Freisart; the old man owned naught worth the having. Hriskil of the Norlands—what a prize, but the barbarian fool had not the slightest interest in fine silver. He hadn’t a chance of seeing the king alone, though he’d tried.
The Ukras tolerated Freisart, fed him, housed him, but even Freisart of Kant never had audience with the Empur himself.
In desperation Jestrel thought of feeding his foul gift to a king’s treasure-keeper, and looting a royal house. But where men to flee? And who would protect him against limitless wrath?
Sheer anguish. Let me die!
To Caledon. After endless scheming, an audience with Elena. She loved his silver, but wouldn’t touch the fruits. She didn’t care for sweetmeats.
Despair.
Elena was drawn and pale. Rumors of ill health abounded. What of her son, the whelp—
Please, lord king! Please, gracious sire, humbly I beg you—
—the whelp Rodrigo. An ill-raised lout, to be sure, but—
I never meant you to know!
—he’ll be king, unless his mother disowns him.
He’s always off riding with his red-haired companion. Civil words in the corridor, to no avail. The boy stalks past with nose in the air.
My palms wavered. I hadn’t known I’d met him. It must have been ... I bent anew to my work.
A visit to Tantroth, but me duke was preoccupied with war and had no time for trinkets.
Years had passed since Chorr. He would have to lower his sights. But he wanted so to be eminent. To have splendid horses and servants. Perhaps a barony, or more; did not the finest hand at silver in all the world deserve recompense?
And so Freisart, old and wheezing, came again to Caledon.
A sob. Please ...
If Freisart hadn’t died that season, Jestrel would have left him. It was past time.
Rodrigo wasn’t much; from all signs he’d be no great loss. And he barely held his castle. But he wore a crown, and if he thwarted Hriskil ...
A man might have the prominence he deserved.
Slowly I peeled open my eyes. Tantroth sat deathly still.
“Call the guards. Escort the smith to his tent.”
Jestrel wept silent tears.
When he was gone Tantroth asked, “What did you learn?”
“It was no plot of state.”
“You read his being?”
A nod. My hands hovered over the viscous bowl.
“I’m impressed, my lord. As you intended.” A bow. “With your leave ...” He strode out.
I bent anew to the stillsilver.
The tent flap jerked open. Tantroth stumbled in, white of face, walking as a marionette. “Rodrigo, what—” It was all he could manage.
My eyes remained closed. “The fruit.”
With a convulsive motion the duke reached into his shirt, dropped the greasecloth before me. Reluctantly I forced my fingers from the bowl. I opened the cloth to see the fruit, rewrapped it. “Thank you.”
“Aye.” A futile attempt at an airy wave. “Good-day, my lord.” He abandoned the field.
Outside, the young voices chattered.
“Anavar!”
“Sir?” He poked his head into the tent. “Lord of Nature!” He ran to me.
“A stool. Set it outside.” Weak as a kitten, I clung to him, managed a few steps to sunshine.
“Are you hurt? Can you rise?”
“I wielded the Still.”
He settled at my feet. “Tantroth looked like death. Did you have words?”
“I told you to keep from his sight.”
“I doubt he saw me.”
“He had a ... demonstration.” Perhaps henceforth Tantroth would feel less contempt when he thought of his king.
“Not like—when Genard ...”
“I didn’t torment him.” Nor Jestrel, though I ought have. Ill raised lout? No great loss? He’d regret his words. His thoughts. Jestrel would know agony beyond the worst dreams of the night. When I was through he’d bless the death I allowed him.
“Roddy?” My brother, with his young shadow. “You’re well enough to talk?”
I nodded.
“Genard, fetch him ch
ill water from the stream.” Without a murmur of protest, the stableboy ran off.
Elryc ducked into the tent, emerged with a second stool, plunked it next to mine. “I’m worried. This adventure with Tantroth ...”
“It’s the best compact we could get.” First Tresa, now him. Would I have no peace?
“Our striving’s become about Eiber, not Caledon.”
I said, “Eiber is of Caledon.”
“Oh, of course. But for Tantroth’s three thousand men, you commit your whole force to his salvation. What of our own?”
I opened an eye. “Aren’t you a trifle late?”
Elryc blushed. “He argued persuasively.”
“Don’t fret, brother. We do what we may.”
“Roddy ... ?” His voice was tremulous. “It’s so hard for you without Rustin.”
I lurched to my feet, stumbled into the tent, sank on the bed.
His voice followed. “I’m sorry. Truly!”
Suddenly I was encircled, by him and Anavar, and Genard. I covered my face.
“Give him privacy!”
“Get out of my—”
“Don’t spill it!”
Despite myself, my lips twitched. “Listen to you. A worse gaggle of servants I’ve never ...” I couldn’t go on.
Anavar perched on the bed, cross-legged. “My lord, should we never mention him?”
“We won’t,” vowed Elryc.
“You must,” Genard said.
We stared.
Elryc’s vassal fidgeted, but his tone was stubborn. “You don’t make him think of Rustin. He does that each day, if not every hour. My ma said sorrow festers if it don’t see light.”
Silence.
I sighed. “She’s wrong. I’m king, and have no time for grief.” I wiped my eyes. “It’s just you caught me unaware.”
“Father says—”
I groaned. I’d never met Anavar’s father, and could easily loathe him.
“Death is like a blow to the eye. It’s a goodly time before you see the world straight.”
“Say you I don’t see where I go?”
“It’s a figure of speech. It means—”
“I know!” I cuffed him, but lightly. “Don’t think me stupid.”
He held my eye. “Did I deserve that, or was it cruelty?”
I chewed my lip, afraid of the answer. “Cruelty. I just wielded the Still, and it wells within me. Did I hurt you?”
He evaded my question. “May have a boon in lieu of pardon?”
“I suppose.”
And so we went to the alehouse, to consider a stallion.
“I want her returned to Cumber,” said Uncle Raeth. He squinted against the setting sun. I shivered, still weak from my bout with the Still. The long walk to the tavern hadn’t been wise.
“Speak to me, not the king.” Tresa’s eyes flashed.
Raeth snapped, “You order it?” I could have sworn his hackles raised.
“If you meant me to fear you, Grandfather, you ought have begun earlier.” She planted a kiss on the tip of his nose.
He made a show of annoyance as he wiped it off, but failed to hide his smile. “You see, my liege? You failed to command her, when you could. I am aggrieved.”
I rubbed my stomach, still full of Raeth’s provender. “Think you she’d obey me, when love won’t sway her?”
“She has love as well for—don’t step on my foot, Tresa, my bones ache enough!” He sighed. “I’ll face my death if I must. I won’t face her death.”
“Bosh,” she said, cutting us off. “You’d rather I be Hriskil’s whore?”
“Tresa!” The old man was scandalized.
“If the Norlanders tried to make me so, think I wouldn’t die?” She looked from one to the other of us, crossly. “So I can’t swing a mace with skill, or set a pike. Is that what you do?”
“I’m old, and command—”
“Just so. I’d be far more use here than at home.”
I spluttered, “A noblewoman in camp? Outrageous!”
“Very well, I’ll tell that to Lady Soushire. I believe she’s in her tent.” Tresa stalked off, her skirts billowing:
“Tresa, come back!”
She swept on.
I shrugged at Raeth and raised my voice. “My lady, I pray thee, return.” She halted, placed hands on hips, regarded us quizzically. I put on my most courteous smile, and she retraced her steps.
Tresa would defy Raeth’s authority if need be, and I wasn’t about to test my own. It appeared she would remain.
I’d selected a choice apple, and was on my way to visit Ebon.
“King?”
I pulled Bollert’s fingers from my sleeve. “You’re not to touch me.”
“Aye, m’lord. Jestrel weepin’ and says you’ll kill him.” The lights of a hundred campfires glinted from his eyes.
“He’s under guard. How did you—” My eyes narrowed. “You spelled the sentries?”
An embarrassed shrug. “Didn’ do harm. Left everythin’ as it was.” His words were quick. “No stealin’. Hadda know. Was it ’cause of Tanner an’ me? His li’l squirrel an’ all? We put him in noose?”
“For that you broke into—” I controlled myself. “No, it’s not because of you.” I collared him. “What must I do to banish your warped Power? Hood you? Put out your eyes?” I shook him. “You begged to be let free, and I—”
“King, didn’t harm, didn’t take nothin’.” He was sweating. “Search me.” He pawed at his clothes. “Didn’ tell Jestrel nothin’!”
“It was that important you know?”
He started to speak, made a hopeless gesture. “All my life, never had more ’n copper coin. Hadda get boys t’ steal. Wasn’ much. Eggs, sometimes chickens. Never killed no one. Don’ want Jestrel dead ’cause of me.”
“Bah. You’d have seen Tanner dead.”
“Steada what?” His tone was contemptuous. “Confess an’ hang?”
“A thief with morals? Miracles abound.”
“Don’ understan’.”
“Nor do I. What exactly did you do to the guards?”
Bollert scuffed his torn boots in the dirt. “Went up to ’em. Looked at ’em, asked proper. They let me in. After, thanked ’em, asked ’em not to tell king.” He colored.
I waited.
“Lor’ King, maybe wasn’t right I made ’em, but I tol’ you, didn’ I?”
“Argh.” I was at a loss. Rust, what would—“You like working with horses, don’t you?”
“Aye. When they be fed, their minds calm ... they have peace and like it.”
“If you spell anyone—anyone, Bollert, do you hear?—without my permission, I’ll take you away from horses. You’ll wash clothes with the women and never touch a horse again!”
Had I threatened him with hooding, my words couldn’t have had more effect. He cringed. “Won’t do it, King! Never!”
“Remember when next you’re tempted.”
Torches sputtered and smoked. Quietly, Tantroth’s company of horsemen gathered.
Tresa and I walked hand in hand among the pickets. Kadar and three guards trailed. Would I ever be free of them?
While a black-clad soldier held the reins of Tantroth’s mount, the Duke strode among his men, tugging at cinches, checking bridles, tucking kitbags.
“What if he’s taken?” Tresa’s voice was no more than a whisper.
I said, “I cede Eiber, and go home.” Without Tantroth, I’d have no choice.
“Really?”
“What else? I’d—” She squeezed my fingers, and I startled. “I’d be left ... Hriskil would—aargh.” I pulled free my hand. “I know not courtly ways,” I blurted. “Don’t mortify me.”
She caught my hand, tickled my palm. I managed not to yelp.
“Roddy ...” She giggled. “Are you afraid of me?”
“Of course I am.” My voice was gruff. “How often must I tell you—”
“Here, let me show you.” She took my head between her hands, bro
ught it to her own. Our lips touched.
My heart did a somersault. I wrapped my arms around her, hoping my guards had enough sense to stand well away.
A cough. “I wouldn’t dream of interrupting.” Tantroth’s tone was dry.
I thrust us apart. “We’re not—it’s just—what do you want?”
“To take leave.”
“Again?’ I couldn’t help how it sounded. The duke and I had bid a formal adieu in my tent, an hour past.
“Since you ventured out ...” A formal bow, which I had little choice but to return.
“Fare thee well, Tantroth.”
He snapped his fingers to his groom, took his reins, swung into the saddle with a grunt. “Two days hence. Be set to march.” His hand raised in a signal.
I expected a gallop, a swirl of dust, but they left at the walk, silent as ghosts. I groped again for Tresa’s hand, held it in silence.
It wasn’t ’til the horsemen were out of sight that I realized they’d set off in the wrong direction. I sputtered. “Eiber ... the pass ... Caledon—”
“They won’t go directly, lest Norland scouts observe.” Tresa’s tone was matter-of-fact. “He’ll circle the town, through the hills.”
“He’ll be all night.” I felt a reluctant respect for his courage, and stamina.
“No doubt.” She shivered. “I’m chilled, Roddy. Would you join me in my tent?”
“No! I mean, thank you, but ... it wouldn’t be meet.”
“Poor Roddy. You’ll have to get over it, if we’re to campaign together.” A quick kiss, full on my lips. “I enjoyed our walk.” And she was gone.
The guards followed me to my tent, took up stations outside. Within, a sleepy Tanner roused himself to help me pull my boots, and set out my basin.
I sent Tanner to rest in a tarped wagon. In my night clothes, I fell on my soft bed.
Tresa’s face floated before me.
Inflamed, I couldn’t sleep. We’d held hands, embraced, kissed. Was it possible she felt other than revulsion at my visage? I felt again the soft pressure of her bosom, tossed and turned in rising passion. At length I surrendered to boyhood, the only man in camp—in all Caledon—denied a woman.
Twelve
I PASSED TWO DAYS in lethargic fog, barely leaving my tent. I didn’t demand solitude; on the contrary I welcomed Anavar, my brother Elryc, even Lady Soushire and Groenfil. But the persistent mist and damp were apt accompaniment to the haze of my mind.
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 17
