“Aye, that day.”
“Orwal was unharmed. You leaped on me prancing and gibbering like a loon. I slapped you.”
“Yes.” I could smile now, at the recall.
“What of it?”
“You di—d—died.” The shadow of anguish engulfed me.
“Roddy, my love, what fancy is this? Look at me!” He pinched himself. “Is this not flesh?”
“Yes.”
“Why spread such caprice? You muddle even Groenfil’s thoughts.”
My fingers clasped his forearm. “Rust, had you no ... dream, perhaps? Of dying that day?”
“None I recall.”
“That we had words?”
“No.”
“That Uncle Mar lunged—”
For an instant his eyes narrowed. “Ahh, did I tell you of it? An imp in the night. Next morn, I thought no more of it.”
“It’s true. Mar struck you dead.”
“You’re daft.”
“No, he’s not.” Behind us, a defiant voice. Anavar.
Rust said, without looking, “Get thee gone, youngsire. This solely concerns the king and me.”
“Roddy, he’ll never believe you. Let me—”
“Baron, you try my patience.” Rust’s even tone belied the menace in his eyes.
I said, “Sir, I pray you, let him sit. He would tell you what we both know.”
“That I’m dead? How can it be?” Rust got to his feet. “I’ll hear no more of it! Control your fears, the both of you, lest you unsettle the camp.” His departing nod to Anavar was less than cordial.
“My lord ...?”
“Oh, sit, Anavar.” I hugged my knees. “Sometimes we seem in a maze without exit.”
“You were king without regent. He was buried in Cumber.”
“Yes, but ...” I brooded. “How oft have you seen me weep since that day?”
“Not once. Oh, about the Norland wagon outside Pezar, but other than then ...
I twisted my jerkin, bared my shoulder. “Look.”
“There’s nothing to see.” Anavar knotted his brow. “Oh! No scar from the arrow!”
“I’m better off with Rust. And it’s best we let the matter drop.”
“If you say.” He seemed doubtful.
“And put down that flaming stick, you’ll cause hurt.”
Thirty
FOR SAFETY WE AVOIDED the main roads, which slowed us. Nonetheless, at day’s end we threaded our way through the heavy wood that marked the eastern border of Verein. As we walked our steeds, Rustin asked, “Do you propose we mount a siege?”
I smiled. “No.” The very idea was preposterous: a band of cavalry dragging behind them catapults, towers, the accoutrements to storm a well-defended keep?
“What then?”
My tone was cool. “Why, I’ll ride to the gate and demand entry.”
He snorted. “That would be like you. I’ll pull out the arrows, after.” He guided his Orwal around a clump of nettles. “I doubt Mar’s folk will be as amiable as Badir.” Rustin had smooth-talked the Warthen’s envoy into opening the High Pass, making possible our late unsuccessful mission to the Sands.
I said, “We’ll see. I doubt they’ll have men to oppose us.”
“It won’t take many. Horses don’t climb walls.”
“But you did.” For a moment, behind closed eyes, I recalled our exploit, a year past. At Verein Rustin had swarmed up a rope to search for me, just as I searched for a way down. He’d taken me, wounded, home to Cumber.
Rust pursed his lips. “In the tent last night, we didn’t speak of that nonsense by the campfire.” He matched Orwal’s pace to mine. “What means modru?”
“ ‘Killed.’ You’ve been speaking to Danzik?”
“Margenthar vos modru.” His lips moved, piecing it out. “Even your Norlander thinks it’s so. You’ve bewitched them all.”
“I’m sorry, Rust. I shouldn’t have.”
He stared a while at his pommel. Then, “You’re an inept liar. It’s what I like about you.”
“Above all?”
“No.” His tone was despondent. “Please don’t tease just now.” He flicked away a fly. His voice was so soft I barely heard. “If I’m dead, what am I?”
“You’re as alive as I.”
“But was I always?”
“Who’s to say what dreams—”
“Don’t, Roddy.”
I despaired of truth. How could I help him underst—I caught breath. “Tonight, if you’ll give me your trust.” Relief made me weak. “Besides, we need make camp. We must approach Verein’s wall before first light.”
“Why?”
“It will unsettle them more.” I urged Ebon along, contemplating my intent.
A league from Verein, well before dusk, we camped in a wooded valley.
In our shabby, frayed tent, I sat cross-legged on the floor. Rustin watched, apprehensive, from the cushioned straw. I uncorked the ewer, brought forth the bowl.
He licked his lips. “How will you—”
“Shush. I know the way of it.”
“You tortured Jestrel, ’til I forced an end.” He chewed his lip. “Genard, that day you made him dance. Tanner too. The cruelty of your Power—”
I studied his face. Then, with a sigh, “Fear not.” I thrust home the cork, rewrapped the ewer in its soft cloth.
He hauled me close, shook me hard. “You call me coward?”
“No, sir.”
At length he let go my tunic, smoothed the fabric, gave me an absent pat. “You ought. Look at me.” His eyes were troubled.
I settled myself at his feet, my back toward him, and placed his hands on my shoulders. “Regret nothing, my lord. As I do not.”
For a long while Rustin kneaded my shoulders. Then, at last, “Get it done.”
“You’re sure?”
“As ever I will be.”
I poured the stillsilver, leaned back against the centerpole, spread my palms over the bowl. My lips moved.
When Genard danced, I’d moved him by my will. When I’d sweated truth from Tanner, the same. And so with Jestrel. No doubt it was how Mother had bound Tantroth, and Vasur the Warthen. I’d forced Genard and my servant boys, but in this summoning, I must be tender. And I must not only read thoughts, but create them, that Rust see the past as I do. Had I Power to achieve so much?
Rustin sat before me, a calm block of fear. Gently, so gently, hands tight over the stillsilver, I stroked him. His eyes shot open in surprise. I paid no heed.
How to do this?
I must not invade him. Instead I would present him my sight, my hallowed memory. I dredged up my recall, smoothed it. That dank day, three leagues from Fort. Rustin’s ire, and my own. “Let the hateful greet the hateful!” Rust drew sharp breath. No matter, Rust. It’s over and done. Mar’s sneering conclave. My refusal.
“Roddy, stop!” From great distance, a plea.
I cherish thee, guardian of my soul.
My uncle strode down the road. Idly, I watched. Rustin bestirred himself on his distant rock.
“I remember that, but—”
Mar neared.
“Where are the guards you surrounded him with?”
At the rock, Rust handed Mar his sword.
Poring over stillsilver, I whimpered.
On the bed, Rustin cried, “Whatever it is, don’t show me!”
Mar plunged the sword through Rust’s throat.
My world ended.
Blood-drenched, I reeled in torment.
From the bed, a howl. “Oh, stop! If you love me, I beg you, don’t—”
I am thine, my lord, now and forever. I sent it to him and made it soothe. But I must persevere, that he know.
I sat dazed in my royal tent, toying with my blade upon my skin, drawing fine droplets of blood.
From the cushions, a cry.
I bent, rocking, to my stillsilver.
Anavar, Elryc, Tresa, all tried to coax me from my breeks stained with Rustin’s blood.
In Cumber’s courtyard, the mound of earth. Desolation, then and forever after.
“No, Roddy, be it not so!”
It is not so, my friend of life. I could not bear it.
“But to use your only Return! Your scar, Tresa, your marriage ...”
I’ll pay a whore, or wear a sack on my head. What value fucking, if it costs me you?
From the bed, such anguish as I’d never conceived. I stroked it, tried to draw it off, failed.
“I can’t—no more—I beg you, King!”
That’s the worst. There’s only ...
Cumber, Uncle Raeth. The wagon at Pezar. Danzik and vade. The dreadful victory, my penance in the surgeons’ tent. My wound that festered. The loneliness I couldn’t bear.
Rustin lay, eyes closed, knees drawn up. Inwardly I spoke, had no response. I bathed him in a loving light, sustained it as long as I might. Slowly, with my strength, it faded.
Presently, I became aware of the dingy tent, the feeble flickering tapers, the drawn still figure on the bed.
I unclenched my aching palms, rubbed the indent from the hard-edged bowl.
I dried my cheeks on my sleeve. Carefully I poured the stillsilver into its ewer, carefully replaced the cork. “Rustin ...”
His voice was muffled. “I pray thee, leave me.”
I struggled to my feet, weak as a cub. “I’ll go walk—”
“’Til morn. Let me see only myself. I beg it.”
I stumbled into the night.
All was still. The campfires burned low, except for one. I drifted toward it. Danzik was seated on the trunk of a fallen tree, occasionally feeding the fire a bone-dry branch from a pile he’d assembled. Wordlessly, I slumped alongside.
“Rood is simpler,” he said presently, in his own tongue. “Hriskil carry, enemy go this way and that. Confuse.”
I glanced at the tent. “You heard?”
“Hear him cry out like silversmith at Pezar. You hurt?”
“More than I meant.” I brooded.
“He blood-friend?”
“Beyond.” Did all Power bring misery on the wielder? “Danzik, when Hriskil uses the Rood ...” Haltingly, I translated my question.
“Not pain like Warthen, but ...” He pantomimed great weariness. “Every time, even when only one.”
“Only one what?”
“Person he use against.” Seeing my incomprehension, he added, “Like Llewelyn.”
I jerked up straight. “The Rood brought Llewelyn to his camp?” Rustin’s shame was deepened, not knowing why his father, householder of Stryx, betrayed his Keep to Tantroth of Eiber. A moment afterward, I realized I must have mistranslated; Llewelyn had surrendered our Keep months before the Norlanders took Eiber.
“No,” I said, “Hriskil must be near to wield the Rood. It was in Stryx that Llewelyn proved himself traitor.”
A sly smile widened to a grin. It threatened to consume his face, beard and all. “You never knew.”
I waited, but Danzik played at keeping his secret. In sudden fury, I lurched to my feet, stumbled off to find Anavar’s tent.
“Hriskil went to Stryx.”
It caught me, like a baited hook a pike.
Danzik reeled me in. “Seven men. In trade ship. Coura.” Brave. “Why Caledi will never beat Norl.”
I half-fell on the rotting log. “Hriskil sailed to Stryx? In secret? To suborn Llewelyn?”
“With Rood. No harm tell now; he win Caledon.”
“But, why?” We hadn’t been at war; it was near a year before the Norland invasion.
“By taking Keep,” Danzik said in his own tongue, “Tantroth could attack Stryx.”
“And?”
“Then Tantroth army was not in Eiber.” How, with most ease, might Hriskil clear his way to Cumber? By luring Tantroth to Caledon, leaving Eiber scarce defended.
Danzik said more, but I staggered into the dark, my mind awhirl. Daylight would be time enough to weigh Hriskil’s vile cunning.
I was king of Caledon, or what was left of it, and had not a place to rest my head. Muttering foul imprecations, I stalked past Danzik’s campfire. I’d sleep under stars, near Ebon. In the morning I’d be stiff and sore. So be it. I paced the camp, to tire myself for sleep.
I passed my tent. Within, a sound I hoped never to hear again. I stopped dead.
It won’t do, Roddy. He made you what you are. You can’t leave him so. I stared into the night. Slowly, I eased myself to the ground.
A long while I thought, before I stirred.
A solution was at hand.
For a moment I hesitated, fearful. Be not afraid, I told myself. It’s no more than you want.
“Rust?” I pushed open me flap. “For the pain I caused thee, I beg pardon.”
His eyes were bloodshot. “Away, or I’ll pitch you out.”
“I’m sorry, but, no, sir.” I squatted by his side. “Why is it one or the other of us must be miserable?”
He raised his head. “We’re star-crossed. What do you want?”
“Why do you weep?”
“For what I cannot have.”
“Me?”
A nod.
“I am yours.”
“You are made for marriage, my prince, and a woman’s sweet loins.”
“But I—”
He raised a hand. “And if you can’t have that, it’s because you think yourself ugly, yet squandered your Return on me. I’d gain happiness from your misery. That, I cannot abide.”
“I have a solution.” My heart thudded as I pawed through my saddlebag. “Rouse yourself and help.”
“How?”
“Knot the flaps. Tightly.”
“Why?”
“Do as I ask.” My false calm moved him; he strung the upper and lower cords, knotted them well. I pulled out the ragged cloth I sought, threw aside the saddlebag. Slowly I unwrapped the content. “Light another candle, Rust.”
He did.
Staring fixedly at his eyes, I rolled the wizened white lump in my hand, opened my mouth.
Bewildered, he watched. Of a sudden, he cried out in horror, struck the dried fruit from my hands.
Doggedly, I scrambled to retrieve it.
“No, Roddy! Never like that! Do you think I’d have it so?”
I could bare speak, from deliverance or loss. “Sir, I am content.” In a way, it was so. Without Tresa, Rustin was all I might love.
“Lunatic! Imbecile!” His tears dampened my cheeks. “Dimwit!”
I could scarce breathe. Wriggling, I eased the vise of his arms. “May I stay, sir?”
A nod, all he could manage. With great care, he rewrapped the White Fruit of Chorr.
I crawled under the covers.
Determinedly, I closed my eyes, wondering what choice I’d made.
We rose by moonlight. I glanced at Rust, blushing, but he wasn’t the whole cause; after he’d slipped into a doze, I lay awake, contemplating the enormity of the gift he’d declined, and ashamed of my relief.
Throughout the camp, silent men stowed their gear, tightened cinches, set bridles and stirrups. Bollert brought Ebon and Orwal saddled and ready to mount, a blessing indeed.
“You’re serious?” Groenfil’s distaste was evident.
“Yes, my lord.” I met his stern gaze.
“Rustin, stop him. You’ve sway over our wayward liege.”
“Not when the moon is full.” Rust hesitated. “Roddy, you’re sure?”
“Yes, but I give you all leave. None but I need take part.”
“Ah, now, that’s why you made me regent. I countermand you. None have leave; all ride, by our order.”
And so we made our way through darkened fields, across a winding road, to a gully I remembered well. Idly, I rubbed my thigh, where the shaft had sunk.
At the walk, we came out of the gully, four hundred ghosts of the night. Hooves muffled, we took our places before the battlement of Verein. Motionless, we waited in silence astride our mounts.
We’d
timed it well; within half an hour the eastern sky kindled first light. Not long thereafter, a lethargic guard glanced over the parapet. His yell shattered the night. In moments, a dozen faces peered.
Shouts. A horn, blowing call to arms. Disarray. Someone thought of fire arrows, but by then there was no need; nascent day brightened the field. Five rows deep, eighty wide, the remnant army of Caledon stood as mounted statues before the wall. I sat in the front row, coronet on my brow. To my left, Earl Groenfil, to my right, Rustin.
Baron Stire, Uncle Mar’s chief lieutenant, shouted, “Would you be shot through?”
Rising in the saddle, I spoke not to him, but to all. “Hear the king! The time for civility is past. I will have Verein this day. Open the gate this moment, or I swear by the Still of Caledon I wield, that when my army—” I glanced over my shoulder, to the distant gully—“reaches this wall, all within shall be slaughtered without quarter! Every man, woman and child, every highborn, every servant. Every master, every man. Pikeman, cook, scullion, bawd, ritemaster, stableboy, cooper, leatherer, reeve. All, without exception!”
“What army? You bluff.”
“I bring pikemen, archers, swordsmen. I swear by the True.”
“Show us—”
“Tanner!”
The boy jumped off his mare, cast himself at my feet.
“The candle.”
A tiny tallow, a quarter hour’s measure, its base melted to a plate. He set it on the ground, struck flint to it over and again until the wick caught.
From the parapet, Stire watched, uneasy.
My voice rang. “You have until the candle gutters.”
Stire’s tone was a sneer. “Isn’t that Groenfil beside you? Will his sister’s death move him? She’s Mar’s wife, you know.”
“You’ll know not, nor any other on the wall. You will be first dead.”
“Show us your army!” Stire made a show of peering past me.
“I shall.” I paused. “In the quarter hour.”
Perhaps, if they’d had the men to make a fight of it, the baron could have rallied them. But as I’d guessed, in a bold gamble Uncle Mar had stripped his walls. From within the battlements we could hear murmurs of protest that grew to outright challenge. Well before the candle was but a nub, Stire poked his head past an arrowguard. “If we open?”
“Verein is mine.”
The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 41
