The servant? His mind reeled. He’d dismissed her existence, forgotten her presence as one always did with servants, but this one did not have the meek demeanor of a serving woman. She wrenched his arm behind his back.
“No!” Richmont roared. “You can’t do this! I’ve plans in place that will bring you down! My valet stands ready with letters he shall distribute the moment he knows something has happened to me. The information in them will destroy you. Is that what you wish? Your reign torn down in disgrace?”
“Richmont,” Estora said calmly, almost kindly, which surely meant she mocked him. “Meet Green Rider, and swordmaster initiate, Beryl Spencer. Formerly Major Spencer, aide to Lord-Governor Tomas Mirwell.”
Richmont shuddered. He’d heard of her, known what she’d done to Tomas Mirwell, but the rest was all rumor. Her secrets lay even deeper than Richmont could dig. Now he identified that tone in Estora’s voice—pity.
“Were these the letters you were speaking of?” Beryl Spencer asked from behind him. She shoved a bundle of letters beneath his nose.
Spane gasped, recognizing his own seal on them.
She drew him close against her and whispered in his ear, “Your valet proved most cooperative. You and I shall have much to discuss.”
“I’ve nothing to say to you.”
“How disappointing.” But Beryl’s tone indicated she was not disappointed at all. “I’ve already unraveled a good many of your schemes, picked apart your connections and networks, questioned those whom you believed loyal. I received many answers. Far fewer than you thought were truly loyal. People, it may surprise you to know, generally dislike being threatened and extorted, and most are more sympathetic to Queen Estora than, say, you.”
Her voice was soft, lovely, almost melodic. She terrified him.
“By the time we finish our interview,” Beryl added, “you will reveal everything I wish of you, and there will be a reckoning for the murder you arranged for one of my fellow Riders. Your desires, your plans, and any status you once enjoyed are perfectly meaningless while you are in my hands. And finally, when I’m done with you, the king and queen shall have you for judgment.”
Richmont was handed over to the iron grip of a Weapon. Before he was led away, he cast one more glance into the chamber. Estora stood by Zachary’s bedside, neither of the two paying him the least attention, but gazing at one another and talking quietly. Beryl Spencer walked beside him, smiling pleasantly.
Richmont Spane wanted to cry.
Estora sat trembling in the chair beside Zachary’s bed. The scene with Richmont had rattled her more than she cared to admit. She put her face into her hands.
“My lady?” Zachary queried. “Are you well?”
“Yes,” she replied firmly. And then more hesitantly, “No.”
He regarded her silently for some moments before speaking. “It is never easy,” he said, “to be betrayed by one who was trusted.”
He spoke from experience, she knew. How could one in his position not? His own brother had tried to destroy him.
“You’ve also been burdened with far more than you should have while I lay here insensible all this time,” he continued. “And this on the heels of your father’s death. I know how responsibility to the realm prevents the time and space for proper grief and grieving. Now that Destarion has stopped dosing me so heavily, I hope I can remove some of that burden from you.”
“But you are still recovering.”
“And improving daily.” He yawned. “Colin has told me a little of what is transpiring in the realm, and I see there are things I need to put to rights. And we must discuss this awkward situation between us, but perhaps not just now.”
He was drifting off to sleep. It would be a while before he was allowed to rise and command the realm again. Today’s encounter with Richmont had been too much, but he’d insisted on it, against Destarion’s advice.
He had taken the news of their marriage calmly, though she suspected Destarion or Colin had broken it to him before she’d a chance to do so herself. He’d remembered the rite of consummation as a dream, he said, and an odd light had caught in his eyes. There was a sense of loss about him she could not explain, which served only to make her feel more desolate.
His chest rose and fell in easy breaths, his face peaceful. She did not know what more he wished to say about their “awkward situation.” Did he wish to rescind the marriage? Punish her? Was the marriage one of the things he must “put to rights”? She would not know until he awoke again and pronounced his judgment.
KING AND QUEEN
Estora sat in state in the throne room, wearing the crown of Queen Isen that still required adjustment from the royal jeweler, and a mantle of heather and cobalt, seeded with pearls from the coast of Coutre. The colors represented the union of Hillander and Coutre. Work on the mantle had begun as soon as the betrothal was announced and was ready for her even before the assassination attempt on Zachary.
Across her lap rested the scepter, also once wielded by Queen Isen, that went with the crown. It was said that the crystal crescent moon at its tip had to be replaced more than once when the queen, during fits of impatience, had used it to smack those who displeased her.
Estora was bedecked, bejeweled, and thoroughly uncomfortable sitting in the queen’s throne, now perched on the dais next to the king’s. The king’s chair remained vacant, and those who stood before her—five lord-governors and their aides—demanded to know exactly what was going on and what had become of the king. Mostly she let Colin handle the questions, which bordered on insolence.
“How do we know this marriage is not false?” young Lord Penburn demanded not for the first time. He’d been one of her suitors and only lately had she heard the extent of his displeasure at having been rejected.
“As I’ve said, my lord,” Colin replied, and Estora could tell that even implacable Colin was straining to remain civil, “the marriage ceremony and consummation were properly observed and witnessed. Those witnesses will be brought before you in due time.”
“There is one witness I should like to hear from,” said Lord Adolind, “but he has yet to make an appearance. Just how serious was this riding accident of his?”
“Yes,” Lord D’Ivary chimed in. “It has the stench of a deathbed wedding. What aren’t you telling us?”
Colin was getting red in the face. “You dare insult the queen with such speculation?”
“Is she truly the queen?” Penburn asked very quietly.
Estora stood. “Enough.”
The five and their aides silenced immediately and craned their necks to look up at her.
“Colin has explained the situation plainly,” she said. “The king is attending to urgent matters of state with his military advisors.” It was partly true, anyway. He’d had briefings from most of his military chiefs over the last couple days. “He will come before you when he is ready.” Which, she hoped, would be soon. He was improving each day. They had been unable, however, to complete the conversation begun after they’d given Richmont into Beryl’s hands. Zachary was either sleeping, or too busy catching up on the news of the realm, and constantly surrounded by others. She slept alone in her own chamber.
“While I should like to see the king and hear it all from him myself,” said an unchastened Lord Penburn, a sly glint in his eye, “I’d also like to know where Captain Mapstone is. There have been some rather strange rumors circulating.”
Estora could only imagine. She knew Lord Penburn took especial interest in Captain Mapstone because she was from Penburn Province, and her closeness to the king exalted her status with the lord-governor as one of his own people who had influence with the king. Estora had suggested the captain’s release from house arrest. Colin and Harborough demurred, preferring to move slowly, probably so they could prop up their own positions in the advent of Zachary’s royal fury.
Zachary had also asked for the captain, and had been put off, told that she was ill, but recovering rapidly. Estora did
not think prolonging the charade and lying to Zachary was going to help their causes any, and she decided if they wished to hang themselves, that was their business. She then ordered that the captain be released, but it appeared someone had delayed that order, something she would rectify just as soon as she finished here.
“The captain is—” Colin began, but he did not have a chance to finish his statement. The side entrance to the throne room creaked open and in walked two Weapons, Master Destarion, and Zachary’s secretary, Cummings, followed by—much to Estora’s surprise—Zachary himself.
The lord-governors immediately dropped to their knees and bowed their heads. Zachary ignored them. Dressed simply in black, he walked over to the dais, his gait a little slow, and his face pale, but it was really him. He mounted the steps. Estora saw what the effort cost him, the exhaustion, but he did it all without help. When he reached the top, he gave her a long indecipherable look, and they both sat.
“What Counselor Dovekey was about to tell you,” Zachary said, his voice strong and sure, “is that Captain Mapstone is in the mending wing.”
Colin blanched, and Estora gave Zachary a sideways look. There was an upturn to the edge of his mouth, a cant to his eyebrow.
Lord Penburn appeared alarmed. “Is she well, Your Highness?”
“I am to understand she is very well.”
The lord-governors glanced at one another. Where once they’d been unafraid to voice their questions, they no longer seemed to know what to say.
“It is good to see you, Majesty,” Lord L’Petrie finally said. “We’d wondered about your welfare. There’d been all manner of stories, and then the marriage.”
“You see me before you now,” Zachary said, “and I am no ghost. After my riding accident, it seemed prudent to move the ceremony up in case something more serious happened before I had the chance to take the lady as my queen.”
Estora exhaled a breath she hadn’t realized she’d been holding. He was sticking with their story. He all but proclaimed the marriage valid.
“I assume,” Zachary continued, “you’re all just disappointed to have missed the feasting and festivities.” The lord-governors chuckled. “Not to worry, we shall feast on the original wedding date, for we do wish to celebrate with our family and friends. Do we not, my dearest?”
Estora jumped when he addressed her. He’d never addressed her as other than “my lady” before. Was he mocking her? But his expression was serious. She swallowed. “Of course.”
“It is a great relief all is well,” Lord Adolind said. “And I congratulate you and your bride on your union. It will only strengthen the realm.”
“Hear, hear,” said the others.
“I know you have many questions,” Zachary said, “and much needs to be discussed about what is happening with Second Empire and Blackveil. For now, however, I must confer in private with my wife and advisors.”
Dismissed, the lord-governors bowed their way out of the throne room. When they were gone and the doors shut, Zachary slumped in his chair.
“Your Highness!” Colin cried. “You’ve exerted yourself far too much.”
“I am not finished exerting myself by far,” he said, giving Colin a dark look. “Cummings!”
“Sire?”
“Send for General Harborough, Castellan Sperren, and Captain Mapstone. I don’t care what they are doing or how inconvenienced they are.”
Cummings bowed and left by the side entrance. The time that ensued was interminable. Zachary sat in his chair with eyes closed, resting, perhaps collecting his thoughts. If any of them tried to speak, he silenced them with a curt gesture.
Estora had seen Zachary angry before, but this was deeper, colder.
Laren wasn’t sure what was going on, only that Destarion had sent one of his journeymen to inform her she ought to see Ben. At first she’d been alarmed until the journeyman smiled and told her it was good news. A lightness spread over her, and she outpaced both the mender and her guard as she raced to the mending wing.
She found him sitting up in bed sipping broth. He was pallid and thin, but very alive.
“Captain!”
She collected herself, but could not help grinning. “It’s about time you woke up, Rider.”
“I know. I’m starving, but all they’ll give me is broth.”
Laren stepped all the way into the room and pulled a chair over to his bedside. “Perhaps you’ll remember what it’s like to be a patient when you’re well again and treating others.”
He glowered. “If my patients want steak, I shall give it to them.”
They laughed, then Laren asked, “Does Destarion know what changed, what allowed you to awaken? We were digging through the old case histories to see if we could find some way to help you, but found nothing.”
“I did not awaken all at once, or so I’m told,” Ben said. “And I’ve no idea how much was dream, and how much was real, but my connection to the king weakened until . . . until I was no longer needed.”
“Connection? You were connected to the king all this time?”
Ben nodded. “I was . . . I was trapped. His body fed off me, off my healing ability. I remember darkness mostly, but sometimes I was aware of a thread of light leaving me. And then sometimes I could hear someone reading to me—or to him, rather. I could hear other voices, conversations. And then—”
He blushed furiously. “Was Karigan back by any chance, er, visiting with the king?”
“No,” Laren replied. “She’s been in Blackveil. We’ve heard nothing from her.”
Ben seemed perplexed. “A dream then, I guess. Sure seemed . . .” He cleared his throat, still blushing. “Him, not me. Dreaming.”
Laren crooked an eyebrow. That kind of dream, she thought. As amusing and a little alarming as it was, she was more concerned about what it meant for Zachary if Ben was no longer providing him with healing energy. No one had told her anything. She’d not seen even Destarion for days now and wondered if they’d forgotten about her. She was about to ask Ben what he knew about it when a Green Foot runner appeared in the doorway.
“Your presence is requested in the throne room, Captain,” the girl said.
Laren rose, wondering if she’d find out Zachary’s fate, and, finally, her own.
JUDGMENT
Laren’s guard sputtered and cursed as he tried to keep up with her. He was not the youngest of soldiers and limped with a bad knee. Too bad, she thought. Confined to a room too long, no matter how spacious and comfortable, it felt good to be on the move, uncaged and stretching her legs to full stride, the blood pumping through her veins, even if she feared what may lie at the end.
She halted before the throne room doors to catch her breath and straighten her shortcoat, her guard stumbling up behind her. She recognized the Sergeant of Doors standing before her, with his vast ring of keys hanging from his belt. She nodded to him, and he nodded in return. To her guard he ordered, “Dismissed.” Then he and an underling opened the throne room doors for her to enter. She did so without looking back.
She strode down the runner as fast as decorum permitted, passing through columns of sunlight slanting through the tall windows that alternated with shadow. The light, the dark; the warm, the cool. She saw others there waiting for her, Castellan Sperren leaning on his staff of office, General Harborough whose blocky form was unmistakable, Master Destarion with his mender’s satchel slouched at his feet, and Colin Dovekey, whose black garb made him sink into shadow.
Estora sat upon her throne chair very still, seemingly turned to stone, her expression blank. Laren could not help but feel for her, placed as she was in so complicated a position.
Laren had taken in the assembled in mere moments as she walked, but her attention fell mainly on him. Zachary slumped in his chair next to Estora, his head bowed into his hand. Joy quickened her stride. He was awake! Out of bed even! It took great restraint for her not to run to him and hug him, but protocol did not allow it. Right now he was the king, and she his s
ervant.
Her joy was also tempered by concern for the way his shoulders sagged, his thinness and pallor. He’d always been robust and strong and it was difficult to see him looking, to her eye, almost fragile.
When she reached the dais, she dropped to her knee with head bowed. “Your Highness . . . es.” She bit her lip at almost forgetting there were two now.
“Rise, Captain Mapstone,” Zachary said, his voice as she remembered, though the tone somehow quieter. “Rise and stand beside me as you are accustomed.”
When she stood and looked upon him, he smiled warmly at her and her eyes blurred with emotion. When she moved to his side of the dais, he added, “You are looking well. I had been told,” and now his tone was acerbic, “you’d been indisposed.”
“I am well now that I see you up and about, my lord. I had not heard . . .” She swallowed and thought she had better stop. It was not her time to speak, and she was not sure she could manage it without loosing a torrent of tears. All of her fear for his life—what could have been—was so raw and near the surface.
“Yes,” the king mused, stroking his beard. “One hears and does not hear many interesting things. I’ve assembled you all, my closest, my most trustworthy advisors, because of these things I’ve heard, and judgment must be rendered.”
The tiredness came out in his voice with these words, but his countenance was fierce as he looked down on the others. They, in turn, cast their gazes to the floor, their expressions sober, even strained.
“Castellan Sperren.”
The old man stepped forward. Laren thought he might crumble to dust right in front of them. “Your Highness?”
Blackveil: Book Four of Green Rider Page 63
