“The High Warlock and the Night Witch were extreme examples of their kind,” Hawk said carefully. “I take it you were never close to your parents?”
“I only ever knew my father, and that from a distance. He wanted nothing to do with the raising of us. I knew him well enough to know I wanted to be nothing like him.” Sir Vivian’s voice was steady, but his eyes were very cold. “Magic made him what he was, and ruined his life. He knew how to make himself a legend, but he never did learn the trick of being a man. As for my mother, she murdered young women and bathed in their blood to keep herself young and beautiful. No one knows how she and my father got together, or why she chose to give birth to me and my brother, Gawaine. When I was younger, I sometimes thought of going into the Darkwood to search for her. Though whether to embrace her or kill her I was never sure. Then the Blue Moon came, and it was all too late. She’s supposed to have died in the Demon War. I can’t honestly say I care much, one way or the other. She is irrelevant to who and what I have made of myself.”
“What about your brother, Gawaine?” asked Fisher. She’d never heard Sir Vivian open up so much before, and she was curious to see where it might lead. She only knew him as a traitor against King John, and it was clear there was much more to him than that.
“Gawaine? As children we were inseparable, but we grew apart as we grew older. He was the real hero of Tower Rouge. He decided he would stand and fight, no matter what the odds. Just because it was the right thing to do. I only stayed because I couldn’t leave him on his own. Everyone liked Gawaine. He was the charming one, the courtier. He was the warrior, the hero. I was just his companion, his brother, his shadow, following where Gawaine led. I was happy to do it. He forced me to make more of myself by following his example. I became a hero rather than disappoint my beloved brother.
“And then he married Emma. Beautiful, charming, and utterly empty-headed. She enchanted Gawaine, but not me. I knew her for what she was—a leech living off his fame and courage and potential. Just like me. We drove Gawaine to distraction, fighting each other over him. In the end there was a scandal, Emma’s fault, of course, and they went away to Redhart. I heard Emma died there recently. I’m glad. Perhaps my brother will come home now. Though I hear he’s become right-hand man to Redhart’s new King and Queen, Viktor and Catriona.”
“How did you feel about Harald?” asked Hawk, trying hard to make the question sound casual, just carrying on the conversation.
“The King?” Sir Vivian’s mouth pursed. “Not an easy man to get to know. Never really liked him. He betrayed me once, but he was right to do so. I was involved in a conspiracy against King John, a stupid thing. You can look up the details if you’re interested. King John could have had me executed. I certainly expected him to. But he saw something in me, gave me a second chance. He sent me into internal exile, to teach the peasants how to defend themselves against the demons. If I was still alive when the War was over, I could come back and be Pardoned. I fully expected to die out there in the long night, but I was glad of a chance to prove my loyalty and gratitude to the King.
“When the Demon War was over, I was still alive, and no one was more surprised than me. I came back to Forest Castle to find my King was dead. But Harald welcomed me, forgave me, knighted me, and made me High Commander of the Castle Guard. He trusted me so much, he put his safety into my hands. I would have died for him. Instead, I failed him.”
“We won’t know that for sure until we discover who killed Harald, and how,” said Fisher. “If it was the Magus, or someone as powerful as him, what could you have done? Tell us about your time in exile, Sir Vivian. Everyone says it changed you.”
Sir Vivian looked at her and Hawk with his cold face and colder blue eyes, and for a long moment an uncomfortable silence filled the small room. Fisher wondered if she’d pushed him too far. And then Sir Vivian smiled for the first time.
“It changed everything. King John knew what he was doing when he sent me to fight alongside the peasants. He knew I despised them. At first I saw it as part of my punishment. But fighting beside the peasants, standing firm with them against endless waves of demons, I saw their true worth. Their courage, formed by a never-ending struggle to wrest harvest after harvest from the unforgiving land and treacherous weather. I saw the strength and purpose that comes from generations of service to the land. I saw them as people, not some abstract lower order, and they won my heart and admiration because they were truer and better than I ever was. So when I returned at last to Forest Castle, I came as their champion. And I have tried to serve their interests ever since. It wasn’t a difficult choice; man for man, they were all braver and more honorable than any of the nobles at Court.”
“And how did King Harald feel about this?” asked Hawk.
“I never spoke with him about it,” Sir Vivian said slowly. “I believe in democratic reform, slowly and from within the system. But the King would not allow even such mild arguments. He knew how I felt, but he never raised the matter, either. It didn’t affect my service to him, or my loyalty.”
“Where do you stand now?” Fisher asked him.
“My position hasn’t changed. Whatever form of democracy we eventually embrace, the change must come slowly if we’re to avoid civil war. I still serve the Throne, Felicity, and Stephen. The Court is a confused place at present. Everyone wants change of some kind, but there are so many factions and so many vested interests, all of them intent on protecting their own territory. I have never wanted power for myself, but I have to deal with those who do, to keep the peace. These days I negotiate as much as enforce the law in Forest Castle. God may know where the Land is going, Captains, but I do not. I cling to my duty, to Felicity and Stephen, because that is all that’s left that is clear to me.”
“One last question,” said Hawk. “Where were you when the King was killed?”
“Alone, in my quarters, dealing with the day’s paperwork. No witnesses, but the guards outside the door would have seen me leave.”
“Your guards,” said Fisher.
“Of course,” said Sir Vivian.
“Thank you for your assistance, High Commander,” said Hawk, pushing himself slowly away from the wall. Fisher did the same. Hawk made himself smile easily at Sir Vivian. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“I don’t normally bear my soul so easily,” said Sir Vivian in his cold voice, rising to his feet. “But I will do anything to uncover the killer of my King. The King who forgave me and believed in me. And perhaps because you remind me of someone I used to know.”
He bowed to Fisher, and then to Hawk, and left the room, closing the door behind him.
Tiffany joined up with Chance and the dog Chappie outside the Court. Though she couldn’t tell Chance, she’d been conferring with her sister witches on the nature of the vision she’d Seen, of a future Kingdom overrun by the darkness and the Blue Moon. Not only had they not been able to reassure her, but the more they discussed it, the more scared and alarmed her sisters became. A certain amount of tears, hysterics, and communal hugging had followed before they were able to control themselves again. The Sisterhood encouraged releasing your emotions, as long as you were careful to do it in private, so as not to disillusion the populace. But when all was said and done, they were only witches, and very young, and they knew their limitations.
Tiffany communicated her vision to the Academy so that more experienced witches could examine it, wiped her eyes and hugged her sisters a few more times, then went in search of her other source of comfort, the Questor, Allen Chance. She found him waiting patiently outside the closed doors of the Court. The day’s Session was finally underway, the Queen was on the Throne and in a really bad mood, and the day’s business had already descended into bickering, name-calling, and the occasional head-butting. Chance was in no hurry to make an appearance before the assembled Court, not least because he had nothing new to say of any importance. He smiled happily at Tiffany as she appeared, her beauty and charm a breath of fresh air
in a dark and gloomy place. Chappie wagged his tail furiously as Tiffany bent over to make a fuss of him.
“Any idea where Hawk and Fisher are?” she asked finally, straightening up to fix Chance with her direct green gaze.
“Last I heard, the Shaman was on his way to talk to them,” said Chance. “Two immovable objects on a direct collision course. Since none of them are noted for backing down or being in the last diplomatic, we can only hope it won’t all end in bloodshed.”
Tiffany frowned. It looked out of place on her pretty, unlined face. “I don’t like Hawk and Fisher. Violent, brutal people. It wouldn’t surprise me if they were trying to force confessions out of people.”
Chance hesitated, torn between his desire to defend Hawk and Fisher and his inability to explain why. “I’m sure they’re only interested in discovering the truth,” he said finally, somewhat lamely.
Tiffany sniffed. “And how many people will they intimidate or brutalize along the way? There’s something disturbing about Hawk and Fisher. There’s definitely more to them than meets the eye, but I can’t See what. Even though I should be able to. I can’t help feeling I’m missing something where they’re concerned. Something important.”
Chance decided it was well past time he redirected the conversation. “They have their ways of uncovering the truth, we have ours. What matters is finding the killer, and making him pay for what he’s done.”
Tiffany smiled. “That’s so you, Allen. Always the reasonable voice.”
“Well, that’s my job. Though I do sometimes admire Hawk and Fisher’s directness. Getting straight answers out of anyone is increasingly difficult these days. With so many intrigues and conspiracies and clashing political factions in the Court, almost everyone has something to hide. And the nobility object to being questioned at all, on principle. Since they’ve already given their oath they know nothing about the murder, questioning them any further is tantamount to doubting their word and their honor. All we need is for some overproud fool to declare his honor has been slighted, and challenge the questioner to a duel. God alone knows where that would end. Particularly if he was dumb enough to do it to Hawk and Fisher. And an awful lot of the aristocrats have taken to looking me straight in the eye and asking pointedly if I’m as loyal to the Throne as my father was. The point being that the Champion was always unquestionably loyal.”
“You’re not your father,” said Tiffany, instinctively knowing what he needed to hear.
“No, I’m not. In person or in position. As Questor I’m supposed to see the virtue of every side of the argument and base my decision only in the service of truth and justice. But it’s so hard to see the truth here, and with Harald dead, no one seems to care about justice anymore. All anyone cares about is their own chances for advancement, and to hell with what the Land might need.”
“So who are you loyal to?” asked Tiffany guilelessly. “The Queen? The Throne? The Land?”
“To the people,” Chance said firmly. “The Queen and even the Throne may fall, but the people go on. They are the Land. And it’s my job to protect them from whoever or whatever threatens them. I admire the Queen. I’d like to uphold the Throne. But times are changing, and the Land will have to change with them. How about you, Tiff? Can you tell me where your loyalties lie?”
“Of course not,” said Tiffany. “I’m a witch. We’re supposed to be creatures of mystery. But I’m always loyal to my friends.”
Chance and Tiffany smiled at each other, and for a moment they didn’t need to say anything at all.
“All very illuminating,” growled Chappie, curled up and forgotten at their feet. “Personally, I’m loyal to whoever feeds me. Are you two going to have sex soon? The musk you’re giving off is almost overpowering. And it can’t be good for you, putting it off like this. What’s the matter? Why are you looking at me like that? Chance, why are you making that funny noise?”
Sir Robert Hawke, bladesmaster, former hero, and last remaining Landsgrave, sat at his desk in his modest but comfortable quarters, reading a letter for the second time. He should have been at Court, but he was pretty confident that the first hour or so would be spent jockeying for position, so he could afford to be late. If anything of importance was even addressed before midday, it would be a miracle. With Harald gone, there was no central authority left to rule on who had precedence, so of course everyone tried to speak at once. And since no one would back down for fear of appearing weak … Robert sighed and turned his attention back to the letter.
It was his divorced wife, Jennifer, as usual, demanding to know where this month’s bank draft for maintenance was. Apparently his two children were growing out of their clothes again and there were school fees waiting to be paid. Funny how they were always his children when money was needed. Robert tried to find a smile for that, but it was hard going. He should never have married Jennifer. He was just a guardsman, newly knighted, and charmed by a pretty face. She was minor nobility, dazzled at the prospect of marrying a hero from the Demon War, rather than some chinless wonder chosen by her father. They got on fine in bed, but out of it they were hard-pressed to find anything to talk about. They had nothing in common and her attempts to make a real noble out of him had driven them both to distraction. She left eventually, and took the two boys with her. Robert didn’t really mind. He’d never been able to talk to them, either. He didn’t miss any of them. He found politics much more interesting.
He was tempted to file her letter on the forget-about-it spike. He could always claim he never got it. She only wrote when she wanted money. However much he sent, it was never enough. Jennifer either couldn’t or wouldn’t understand that one could be a knight, and a landowner, and a presence at Court, and yet still not be rich. Or anywhere near it. The land he owned was poor and over-farmed, not to mention overpopulated, and Robert just didn’t have the heart to authorize the cruel and brutal methods necessary to collect all the rent he was owed. He knew times were hard for everyone. He’d already mortgaged the land twice, with bankers sufficiently far away that they hadn’t heard how bad a risk it was. Of course, he could have been rich if he’d accepted even half the bribes he was offered every day for this political favor or that, but Robert still had his pride and a little honor left, however tarnished. He might take the occasional commission, money for advice or introductions, but only when he was reasonably sure nothing would come of it. Robert sighed heavily and let the letter fall back onto the desk. He’d write to her later, send her something. For the boys.
Robert pulled open a drawer in his desk, unlocked the secret compartment, and took out a bottle of blue-gray pills. He spilled two out onto his hand and swallowed them down with a mouthful of wine. Just a little something to give a tired man a boost. Keep his wits about him. Keep him sharp. He breathed deeply as the rush hit him, snapping him awake and alert like a bucket of cold water in the face. His heart hammered painfully in his chest and his fingers tingled. He felt like he could take on anybody. There was a time when he hadn’t needed pills to feel this way. But he was younger then, in his prime. Now he was … not old, no, not old. Just not young anymore. So he took a pill now and again to give him a bit of an edge. Everyone needed something to lean on.
There was a polite knock at his door, right on time, and Sir Robert called out for his visitors to enter. The door swung open and in they filed, the three miserable creatures with whom he was currently forced to deal. Politics made for strange bedfellows at the best of times, and when you were playing from a weak hand, you had to take all the support you could get. Sir Robert smiled and bowed without getting up, and everyone murmured polite greetings. Sir Robert waved a hand at the chairs set out for his guests, and watched sardonically as they sat down and did their best to look comfortable. No one here was his friend, but they could all be useful to each other, so they all pretended.
Sir Morrison and Lady Esther represented what was left of Gold and Silver interests in the Forest. Once, they had been great powers in the Land, but that was o
ver, and everyone knew it except for Gold and Silver. Sir Robert represented them at Court, as the Landsgrave, which meant that from time to time he had to take instructions from his putative superiors. Sir Morrison was tall and slender, dressed always in formal black, with a shaved head and a pencil-thin mustache. Calm, sophisticated, capable of dry humor on occasion. He saw democratic reform as a route back to power, and was quite prepared to trample over absolutely everybody who got in his way.
Lady Esther was a short, almost tiny woman who dressed well but carelessly, and wore far too much makeup. Her long dark hair was piled up on top of her head in an intricate style held together with delicate Silver combs and pins. Lady Esther was cold, calculating, and always to the point. Ruthless and quite without conscience, she would have been dangerous if she’d been more focused. She was on her third husband. Gossip had it she’d worn out the first two.
And finally there was Franz Pendleton, representing certain aspects of the business community, which saw big profits to be made from an enfranchised, more prosperous working class. And while business on the whole was buoyant, with goods flowing in from the south, much of the money spent on those goods went straight back to the south instead of to local established businessmen. So certain of these people wanted laws passed to control Southern imports, and since they weren’t going to get them passed by the aristocracy, who enjoyed the new luxuries from the south, and didn’t want anything to happen that might interrupt their flow, the current business thinking was that a democratic power base might be more open to influence. And finally, business people were looking for a cause that would stabilize the Land. Too much politics was bad for business. Democracy seemed to be their best bet. The Queen had little business acumen and cared less, the nobility couldn’t or didn’t want to see the dangers of unrestricted Southern trade, and absolutely no one wanted Duke Alric managing things from behind the scenes, for fear he’d asset-strip the Forest in favor of building up Hillsdown.
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