Forty-seven
I HUDDLED IN MY chosen chamber in Ghanz’s chill palace. I lived not in King Hriskil’s grand rooms, whose wide windows gave out on the central courtyard, nor in his vanished queen’s perfumed soft chambers, whose reed carpets and muraled walls were wondrously gentle.
There was no splendor to my court. Had I, in Rust’s retirement, become something of an ascetic? I drank wine sparingly, ate what was put before me, dealt as best I knew with the consolidation of our realms. Willem of Alcazar held Stryx Castle on my behalf. Tantroth was at last restored to his realm. Tresa was home in Cumber, seeing to its restoration. In far Verein, in a high chamber, Duke Margenthar gibbered and twitched, attended by his son, Bayard, and Lady Varess. I let them remain, though the land and castle were awarded to Anavar, who could make no use of it.
For days after our courtyard battle, Anavar had lain senseless while ritemasters and healers near suffocated him with their ministrations. For a time the orb of one eye was larger than it ought be, when his eyelids were pried open.
Anavar woke slowly, over a week’s time, wasted and famished. Eagerly I fed him thick soups and soft foods, and slowly his strength returned, but not his essence.
It was as if he’d returned to childhood. His speech was simple, his thoughts unclouded, and his form, always youthful, showed no sign of growth.
Elryc and I journeyed once to the coast, to see our Norland villages. On our return we’d found Anavar curled in a closet, clutching an old cloth as if a mother’s breast. He hadn’t eaten or touched his bed since our departure.
From that time on, I kept him near. He slept in a corner of my chamber, rose when I did. As time passed he grew more alert. He fed himself, cleaned himself after defecation, walked where he was led. He could even ride, after a fashion, though a steed such as Edmund was beyond his means. He took great delight in following me about the city, on a dainty mare, content that I hold his reins.
On my next visit to the coast, he and Genard rode along and slept in my tent.
Elryc and I grew closer, and spoke seriously about the dangers to the kingdom and the brooding strength of the Ukra foe beyond our eastern border. Genard served my brother faithfully, and fretted when Elryc took to his bed with yet another ague. He seemed to recover, fell ill again. This time he did not arise. Genard held one hand, I the other, as we saw Elryc off to that distant land shrouded in dark.
I was besotted for five days, and no liege man dared come near. It took that long for Rustin to ride from the Keep, to coax me from utter despair. Three weeks he remained, and I clung to him as of old.
Eventually I roused myself, resumed care of Anavar and took pity on poor lost Genard. Daily, Elryc’s erstwhile vassal helped me bathe Anavar in the marble tub in Hriskil’s former chamber, a fixture too heavy to contemplate moving. It was a task I had a score of servants to perform, but Anavar was comforted by my touch, and I would give him what diversion I might Every tenthday or so, I shaved the down from the Eiberian’s cheeks with a honed blade. Trusting, he would sit perfectly still until I was done. Often Genard fingered his own hairless chin, knowing it would remain so, and I would give him a rough hug, find some game or task to soothe his melancholy.
In a year or so, when Genard grew older and perhaps more sedate, I would make him Master of the Horse of all Ghanz, and he’d have men and boys aplenty to do his bidding. For now, I taught him figuring, even the art of reading, though it gave me great amusement to see him knot his brow in fierce concentration over his letters. Then I would think of the frantic dance I’d set him to, after he’d mocked my own reading, and my mirth would fade.
Hriskil, former king of the Norland, lived.
I’d set his execution for midday, not long after he refused my mercy. He’d strode to the block unaided, contemptuous of his fetters. He’d stopped abruptly, stared at the headsman’s axe before him, turned to me. “Flavo ke iv, Rez.” I will taste of it, King.
“You’re sure?”
He exhaled, and something of his proud bearing left him. “Qay.”
I had him brought to the throne room, bound and hooded. All my courtiers were banished, the doors sealed. I uncovered his mouth, fed him the White Fruit, waited a few moments, unhooded his eyes. He gazed upon me and became forever mine. It was a month later that he placed the Norland crown on my brow, in the presence of my nobles assembled.
As for his army in Caledon, it melted with the snows. I offered amnesty to all who surrendered what they’d seized. That Hriskil himself fervently endorsed my offer surely helped persuade them. In weeks, Caledon’s strongpoints were again ours.
Danzik grudgingly consented to become my principal advisor in Ghanz; he knew the nobles, he said, and would fend off their mischief. To him I was “Rez,” as ever, and he “Guiat.” He would veztrez coa tern.
My bondsman Tanner remained in my new household. I sent him to tutors, to make of him what they might. In the chill evenings, the business of state completed, I would sit with him while he pored over his slate, and Anavar played quietly in the corner.
Tanner delighted in my notice, and I did my best to explain what he couldn’t fathom. When his attention wandered, as a boy’s must, I punished him with a stroke or two of a thin willow switch I kept for the purpose, enough to sting, but lightly so he would grin after, knowing I was deliberately far more gentle than his dour tutors. We reached an accommodation, and it wasn’t long before I had to steal surreptitious glances at his scrolls, to stay ahead of his learning.
Almost daily, couriers flew between Cumber and Ghanz. Heedless of the risk of betrayal, I poured out my heart to Tresa, and her return scrolls comforted me with wisdom and care.
I visited with Mother, and Grandsire Tryon. Varon was oft gone, to his far place.
“So, Roddy.” Mother crouched beside me, before the chill fire. “Is this the last time?” Her fingers flitted to my shoulder.
“I think not, madam. But soon.” Visit by visit, I was steeling myself for the inevitable. Yet someday I would return to the cave and await my successor.
“Is the woman coming to Ghanz?”
“After the sowing.” Despite myself, I blushed. In some ways, I was still a boy.
As if reading my mind, she smiled. “You mastered yourself after all.”
“My lust, Mother. But not my cruelty.”
“Fah. You’re kind to that Tanner rapscallion, you adopted Anavar, even Genard doesn’t—”
“But not Hriskil.”
“He deserves no kindness.” She dismissed it.
But after, in my room, I couldn’t do as much.
Hriskil, having tasted of the White Fruit, was utterly devoted to me. He straightened my chamber, brought me soft cushions, eagerly refilled my tankard.
When the cruelty came upon me, I would confine him to comfortable quarters and deny him the sight of me. After, when I relented, he would rush about, smoothing my room, most anxious to express his pent-up servitude.
When Genard was despondent, and I felt particularly cruel, I would lock Hriskil away a day or two, then summon him to a room where every cushion was fluffed, my mug brimming, the fire crackling, and every imaginable want fulfilled. Expressionless, I’d let him rush about in growing dismay, desperate to give me ease.
One such day, he began gnawing at his fist, weeping, until I relented and asked some trivial assistance. Thereafter, I tried not to trouble him again, yet found it a hard vow to keep.
And so winter thawed into spring.
Now I sit awaiting Tresa, and our marriage. Tanner has memorized a florid speech of welcome, one of many she must endure. Mother says I need not fear the marriage bed, that Tresa will guide me in my ignorance. I trust it will be so.
I long for Tresa’s companionship, and what relief our bedding will provide me. And I yearn for an heir. I imagine drooling youngsters on my lap, giggling and squirming. The first of them will someday have Caledon, and if I have the say of it, will be virgin and true.
By the imps and demons,
I will be a good father. I have practice, raising two damaged children who are beloved to me, and young Tanner as well.
Rustin will come for the wedding, with Zetra and Jocyln, the boy and girl who share his Keep. How they sort themselves out at night, I fear to ask. When Rust rides through the gate, I’ll weep, and mope, and be jealous.
Yet, while he’s here I’ll show him Hriskil’s villa I’ve had redone in Rust’s favorite colors, not an hour distant. The various bedchambers he and his retinue could share, however they choose. The fine stables for his horses. Perhaps, just perhaps, he’ll see his way to staying in Ghanz, instead of at his father’s gloomy Keep. Perhaps, now and then, I’ll be able to ride Pezar to him, to pass a spring afternoon in the sunlight of his company.
Life, I’ve learned, is not an affair of joy. Elryc, Nurse Hester, Tursel, Anavar, Uncle Raeth ... on each tide, it seems, a barque drifts from shore, filled with friends and comrades who’ve shared adventures past. It hoists sail and slides into the mist, never to return. Each day, new companions crowd aboard and grip the rail, their faces set to unknown lands, and you know that one day, whenever fated, you too shall stride aboard to take your place on deck.
My new palace is bleak, my retainers civil and distant, my thoughts remote.
Tresa writes that my mood will lighten, that I’ve seen too much in too few years. Regardless, when all is done, I’ll have my Lady of the Hill, and in a way for which I can find no words, Rustin, regent of my soul, is never truly lost.
I’ve thrown myself into the Still time and again, consulting Mother, making my peace with my predecessors before it forever passes from my grasp. Yet once, idly, pondering the growing menace of the Ukras, I picked up Hriskil’s bent and bejeweled Rood, and an odd tingle coursed through my fingers so that I nearly dropped it. That, I imagine, will bear exploring, in dreary winter afternoons that stretch before me.
Of an evening, Anavar at my feet, logs crackling in the hearth, my palms cupping a ewer of stillsilver, I’ve searched desperately for his lost soul. Once, my hands over the ewer, deep in a glade, an elusive fawn with Anavar’s eyes dashed off into the wood. I raced after, and came within a mouse hair, but couldn’t catch him. If only I could reach the creature, persuade it to eat from my hand. That night, I wept.
I’m determined to try again, this night. Outside the cave, I’ve practiced running, until in my half-life, I’m swift as a gazelle. And I’ve devised a snare, made from twisted vine. I’ll catch it around his neck... I cannot, will not, accept that my loyal liege man, my young Baron Anavar is gone forever.
This night, and next, before Tresa’s entourage arrives at my court in full panoply and I am distracted, I’ll seek my lost Baron of the Southern Reaches.
I’ve little time. Tenthday, after the pomp and rituals of marriage, I will take Tresa into my bed, and lay down forever the Still of Caledon.
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This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, companies, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
copyright © 2002 by David Feintuch
cover design by Michel Vrana
978-1-4532-9691-2
This edition published in 2012 by Open Road Integrated Media
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The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 62
