The captain stood by the body of his prince, trembling slightly in anticipation of Danton’s rage, wondering if perhaps his career as a Royal Guard was about to come to a bloody and unpleasant end.
“Sir?”
He blinked twice, then looked toward the guard who had addressed him and nodded for him to continue.
“He’s got something in his hand.”
The captain looked down at the body once more. Indeed it did seem there was something clasped in Andovan’s hand—crumpled paper with writing on it—a note perhaps?
“Shall I take it up, sir?”
“No.” He said it quietly, in the manner of a man who knows the next hour is going to be bad, and what is on one piece of paper will not make it better. “Leave it for His Majesty to deal with.” Ramirus would be checking the castle for intruders even as they spoke; it was the kind of thing best done by Magisters. If there was an intruder, Ramirus would find him and deal with him.
If it was one of the foreign Magisters—as it well might be—that could take some time. The captain had never been happy about having so many strangers within the castle, least of all the type that could walk through walls or strangle a man with a thought. What if one of them was responsible?
Only when all that was done would the gates be opened. And the High King Danton—who was called Danton the Fierce, and Danton the Cruel, and sometimes Danton the Unforgiving—would come to see the bloody remnants of his royal seed, and would decide what was to be done.
My Father—
Forgive me.
I know the name of my illness, though none will speak it aloud. I know the manner of death that awaits me, the growing weakness that turns a vital man into an invalid by stages, and I know that none can cure it. I know that at most I have a few years left of life, while my soul’s fire flickers and dies within me, leaving me no more than an empty husk of flesh into my last hours.
Forgive me, father, that I choose a swifter death this night. Forgive me that I choose to be remembered by you as a prince in the prime of his life rather than as a dying shell of a man who lacked the strength to leave his bed. Forgive me most of all that I did not seek your counsel in this, for I knew that you would forbid me such an act and cling to hope until time had drained me of the last of my living energy and left me to die that terrible death.
There is no hope. Not for this disease. A thousand generations of men have declared it so, and even these many Magisters you have brought here cannot make it otherwise.
Forgive me, my father. Remember me for what I was before I died, and take comfort in the time we had together, for it was precious while it lasted.
Now the gods have decreed that time is to be ended, and no man may stand against their word.
Andovan
King Danton was not a gentle man at the best of times. Now, with his swarthy countenance distorted by fury, grief, and utter shock, he could have stood among the demons of the nether gates without drawing notice. Indeed, in his current mood they might have been hesitant to stand too close.
No mortal man dared approach him. No man dared speak. Not even the Magisters who flocked about the scene like curious carrion-birds—some of them quite literally, having chosen bird form as the safest means of overseeing the scene in the courtyard.
Even Ramirus was silent. The greatest Magister of the greatest human kingdom knelt by the side of his prince’s body, weaving what magics he could to determine the cause of the tragedy. It was a dangerous undertaking, given the risk of connecting with a Magister’s consort, even as a corpse. For all he knew the bond between Andovan and his killer had left some anchoring trace in the prince’s soul, and if in seeking answers he were to make contact with that conduit, he might well become food for that unnamed Magister himself.
All of which could not be explained to Danton, of course. The only concepts the High King understood were outrage, failure—and blame.
“Who did this?” he demanded. “Who did this to my own flesh and blood? I will have his head!”
The Magister Royal spoke quietly, hoping his tone would help calm the man, knowing in his heart that it wouldn’t. “I do not see any signs that force was used on him, Majesty. There are no traces of violence on the body, save his own final act.” He looked up at the king. “I can tell you no more from his body. I am sorry. The power we draw on is a thing of life, and once life has left the flesh there is little left to be analyzed.”
Danton made a sound low in his throat that might, in a lion, be deemed warning growl. “I don’t want your excuses, Magister. Only answers.”
Ramirus’ jaw tightened as he regarded the body again. There was no answer he could give Danton that would satisfy him, he knew that, but failing to provide answers at all was an even greater risk. “Despair clings to his body like a shroud,” he said at last. “Not the despair of a single moment; that would have dissipated by now. This is something longer lasting, something of more significance.” He stopped at that. No need to state the obvious.
A flicker of pain—or was it anger?—crossed the High King’s brow. “My son was a strong man. Not a coward. He would not have let a disease defeat his spirit.”
He would have if he knew the source of that disease, Ramirus thought. If he understood that he had been reduced to the status of milk cow in some Magister’s herd. “What is in the note, Majesty?”
The dark eyes fixed on Ramirus with unabashed hatred. For a moment it looked like Danton was about to say something, but finally, with a snort, he simply passed it over.
Ramirus read. He kept his expression steady as a stone as he did so, aware that not only Danton was watching but also Magisters that he might consider enemies.
Then, when he had finished, he drew in a deep breath and read again. Binding a whisper of soulfire to learn the essence of the letter—who had written it and why—tasting the tenor of the words, judging their truth.
It seemed the whole courtyard was frozen while he did so. Even the birds did not stir, waiting for his judgment.
Finally Danton had had enough. “My son did not write these words,” he said hoarsely.
“I am sorry, Majesty.” Ramirus’ voice was a whisper. “He did.”
“Then they were forced upon him.” The dark eyes narrowed suspiciously. “One of your kind took control of him, perhaps. There are enough of them here now, yes? And some hardly friends of my throne. Do you know for a fact it was not one of them? Can you know that?”
Ramirus drew in a long, deep breath before responding. The truth of the letter was clear, and it was a truth Danton would never accept.
“There is no sign of coercion about this paper,” he said finally. “The words that are written here came from his heart, which no man controlled, and flowed through his willing hand to the paper. Nowhere is there trace of any other motive or cause.” He looked up at Danton. “I am sorry, Majesty, but that is the truth.”
With a roar the High King snatched the letter out of his hand. “You! I bade you cure him. Did you do that? I ordered you to protect him! Is this what I receive? Is this the service you promised me when I offered you patronage?”
“Majesty—”
“SILENCE!” In a fury he looked about at the birds, his dark eyes piercing through them as if he knew who each and every one of them were and what they were thinking. One of them stepped back a bit as the malevolent gaze fell upon it, a motion more human than avian.
“These!” Danton cried. He pointed at the birds. “I want them out of my kingdom! You understand? These and all those that came with them. Playing at consultation while my son’s spirit died within him. Did you laugh about that in the shadows,” he demanded of the birds, “while he wasted away? Perhaps some of you helped my son along in his despair? What a crowning glory to take home to your own masters, Danton’s own son destroyed!
“And you.” His eyes were black as he faced Ramirus again, his face red as a demon’s. “You invited them here. You showed my son to them as one would show a freak in a ca
rnival, so that they might report my weakness to their masters, then sat back while he was dying and did nothing. Nothing!”
Danton drew in a deep breath; the guards who had gathered were holding theirs. “Hear me now, Ramirus. You are cast out of my presence, now and forever. I will give you such time as it takes a mortal man to walk to the borders of my kingdom, and after that, if you dare set foot in my lands again, may the gods have mercy upon your wretched soul.”
He turned his eyes from the kneeling Magister, with a totality that made it clear he was dismissing not only his presence but his very existence. “You!” he said to the captain. “Bring my son’s body inside.”
As the guard scurried to obey, Danton cast a last malevolent look at the sorcerous birds surrounding him. “You will all be out of this city by dawn,” he growled. “And gods help you if you delay.”
It was later than midnight, but not yet dawn.
The moons were near setting, and their light showed but dimly through the thick woods that surrounded the city. A small hooded lantern set on the ground shed a bit more, still not enough to make out more than shapes and shadows in the meager clearing, mere fragments of description:
A man on a rock. Still, still as the rock itself. Waiting.
A staff in his hand. A horse nearby, tethered in the darkness.
A traveler’s pack, canvas and leather, with a roll of woolen blankets affixed to the nether end.
After a moment there was a rustling in the trees surrounding him. Most men would not think twice about such a sound, assuming its cause to be the wind, or perhaps some small animal rummaging for food. This man knew the sounds of the forest better than that, sensed its wrongness, and marked its significance. Leaning down, he picked up the lamp beside him while his other hand loosened the hunting knife at his belt, just in case.
A figure stepped into the clearing. He was dressed all in black, and his long hair glistened like a jet waterfall in the lamplight. He gazed into the lamp for a moment, then made a small gesture with one hand; the light changed direction, so that it no longer shone directly in his eyes.
“You are wary tonight,” the newcomer said.
“Should I not be?” Andovan put the lantern back down. “You’re still an enemy of my father’s, Colivar; that much hasn’t changed.”
“With nothing to gain now from your death, Highness.”
“Don’t call me that.” His voice was grim, determined. “Prince Andovan is dead. Let him rest in peace.”
The dark eyes glittered. “As you wish.”
Andovan stood, hoisting his travel pack to his shoulder as he did so. “It went as planned?”
“Exactly so.”
“Then I shall see the man’s family receives the money that was promised before I go.”
“It has already been seen to.”
Andovan looked at him sharply. “You are thorough, in matters of death.”
“I am always thorough,” Colivar informed him.
The prince drew in a deep breath and savored it for a long moment, as if sorting out all the tastes of the forest air. “So now I am free to travel, as my father would never have allowed. Free to follow what clues the gods will vouchsafe me, to find this witch of yours. . . .”
“Hardly mine, your . . . Andovan.”
“My father would have killed them all, you know. Slaughtered every witch within reach, in the dim hope that the right one would die. He is like that.”
“There is no guarantee she is in his kingdom at all. You know that.”
“He would have done it anyway.” Andovan sighed heavily. “I’ll be surprised if by dawn he does not find someone to blame for something enough to have his head.”
“And thus the great respect that neighboring monarchs have for him.”
Andovan’s expression darkened. “Take care with your words, Magister. He is still my father.”
“Of course. Forgive me.”
“He believed the ruse completely?”
“Why should he not? The peasant who took your place looked just like you, thanks to my art. He went to his death willingly, thanks to your bribery. The suicide note was genuine, written by your own hand, expressing your own true thoughts. What flaw was there for even a Magister to find?”
“Yes.” He muttered, “Truly, I would rather die by my own hand than waste away a cripple in some royal bed.”
“You have chosen a dangerous course, you know that. The sickness will progress. Its worst episodes will come without warning. Toward the end there will be no days of strength left to sustain you.”
He said between gritted teeth, “I will not die in bed.” Then, with a heavy sigh, he asked, “How long do I have?”
The Magister hesitated. “There is no way to know that. I’m sorry. But once the symptoms become this marked . . . not generally long.”
“A few years.”
Colivar’s eyes glittered, black onyx in the moonlight. “At most.”
“Very well.” Standing up, Andovan hoisted the pack onto his shoulder. He wore simple clothing, not the silken raiments of a prince but the layered, earth-toned wools of a commoner. Dressed thus he appeared to be but a simple traveler, not a prince of the blood who was raised to wealth and privilege.
He just might pull it off, the Magister thought. He had done all he could to support the young man’s quest, weaving spells that would draw him toward the one who had claimed him as consort.At least that was the theory behind it. In truth such a thing had never been tried before, and he could not test its efficacy nor strengthen its power without risking that the magical link which bound the two would claim him as well. And of course he could not explain to the young man who he sought, or what she had done; the prince was a homing pigeon, nothing more. A compass point to serve Colivar in his own quest for information.
A woman of power, the Magister mused. That is worth the experiment, is it not? Worth even a bit of risk to have that answer.
“Be out of the kingdom by dawn,” the prince warned him. “Don’t test my father in this, Colivar; he’s killed those with the power before.”
“I am aware of that, your . . . Andovan.” He bowed respectfully. “But I thank you for the warning.”
“Not Andovan. Not any longer. I shall have to come up with something else, yes?” The prince paused. “How odd it is, that we let go of our accustomed lives with little more than a night’s planning, but abandoning a name, that simple set of sounds, takes longer.”
“To change a name is to change a life,” Colivar said quietly.
“Yes,” the prince whispered. “Just so.”
He did not speak again, but set his foot upon the packed earth and began to move westward, his movement silent: a hunter’s step.
But you are not the hunter in this quest, Colivar thought. Merely . . . bait.
He waited until the dim glow of the prince’s lantern could no longer be seen, then drew the power of borrowed soulfire about himself and took on wings. Long wings, black wings, that beat at the forest shadows for strength, to bear him in a direction that was not home. Not yet.
Westward.
Somewhere in the world, unnamed, unseen, his own consort weakened.
The two moons set soon after.
Quickening
Chapter 11
MOTHER?”
The young boy blinked as he regarded the empty street. It was still filled with all the normal smells of life—greasy smoke seeping out of kitchen windows, the reek of emptied chamberpots outside residences, spilled beer and vomit soaking the mud outside the tavern’s side door—but other than that the place was empty. Eerie in that emptiness. The young boy stumbled a few steps forward, the word trembling on his lips. “Are you here?” he whispered. A lock of blond hair, crudely trimmed, fell over his left eye; he pushed it back with a grimy hand. “Hello? Is anyone here?”
He had fled the place earlier in the day, with his father’s rage bellowing behind him. He’d spent the afternoon playing on the moors, making mud-fortresses
with tiny grass soldiers to fight vegetable wars at his bidding. The last one had been to rescue a comely maiden from the grasp of an ogre. The ogre had beaten the woman, not once but often, until her younger brother had run off and raised an army to avenge her. They had defeated the ogre and dragged him off to be stamped to death by all the soldiers. By the time the sun had begun to set a circle of earth had been beaten down flat by their campaign, the grass ogre had been torn to pieces, and the boy felt marginally better.
Only marginally.
By now his father would have left the house or passed out, and his mother would be dressing bruises for all the family. It was safe enough now to risk a return, at least long enough to get some food. There wasn’t much in the house—a few scraps of old bread, a few cubes of old cheese—but he was hungry enough now that he’d eat anything. His mother would scold him for running away that morning, but not severely. She understood. She’d run away too, if she could.
“Hello?”
The stillness in the street was eerie. It was more than a question of everyone being indoors, though that was certainly strange enough. Or that they were all so quiet he couldn’t hear a single voice through the thin walls and tiny windows. But there was something more to the scene that bothered the boy, on a level he could not have given words to. It was the way that animals are sometimes bothered by unnatural things, that makes them want to tuck their tail between their legs and run. He felt like that.
As he walked down the street, calling out names in a trembling voice, he could feel the hair on the back of his neck rising. He fought to be brave. He had already run away once that day, and now that he was coming home he was ashamed of his former cowardice. Surely mere silence, no matter how mysterious, could not make him run away again.
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