He reviewed my duties and his expectations. He stressed the importance of the job I was undertaking. Kjeldor's enemies were forever looking to our borders for a sign of weakness. Our leader was more than a symbol of our freedom; he was the foundation of our freedom.
He explained to me the politics of the court, as well. The king and his wife, Lady Rothchild, were not on the best of terms. He warned me that Lord Rothchild was what the duke referred to as a "free spirit," and that didn't sit too well with Lady Rothchild.
It was a politically motivated marriage: a Kjeldoran king and a Balduvian queen-just the thing to bring peace to the warring factions. It worked for a time, too. The war had moved off the battlefield and onto the domestic front. The sides had, for a while, ceased to be represented by wily generals and battle-scarred troops and instead had been traded for a pair of bickering spouses.
Although the court tried to portray the royal couple as close, the cold, political nature of the marriage was common knowledge. She was unpleasant to look at and not well liked, but even if she'd been the fairest creature in all of Terisiare, all the women of Kjeldor would have hated her for envy.
After the conversation, I set out on my own, armed with Lord Rothchild's official schedule. I headed to the archery range, where I'd been told Lord Rothchild would be practicing until late afternoon. The range was deserted, so I wandered the palace grounds trying to find him. I acquainted myself with my new surroundings as I walked, asking the servants and gardeners I encountered if they'd seen Lord Rothchild.
By late morning, I at last caught up with Lord Rothchild. He was sitting on a box in the royal distillery, sampling the various spirits.
He noticed me immediately. "Come hither, young Finroy," he called. "Sit with me and share the solace of a smooth port wine."
"Yes, Your Highness," I answered, as I pulled up a crate and sat with the most revered man in all Kjeldor. Although my nerves were rattled by the presence of His Majesty, his easy way helped to temper my nervousness.
"I'm sampling a variety of blends for my upcoming meeting with Lord Barsus of Ojum," he said gesturing to four half-empty bottles beside him. "It's so important to have the right beverages at meetings between leaders. The proper drink can lubricate the political machinery. That's the secret of diplomacy.
"The Balduvian's bloodthirsty urges could never have been subdued with a fine wine such as this. A harsh people like that require a harsh drink-a drink with savagery and bite, the kind of drink that hacks at your tongue and leaves you for dead. Once you understand the people, it becomes plain that only cackleberry gin is right for ones such as they. Serve it at negotiations, and you are bound to earn their respect."
I sat with him for hours as he expounded his theories of diplomacy through alcohol. Lord Rothchild could engage a listener on just about any topic.
In the days that followed, I discovered that Lord Rothchild's official schedule was to be interpreted loosely, and he was most often in the place you least expected him to be. Searches would often yield surprising, or occasionally embarrassing, results. He could often be found in the royal gardens deflowering one of Lady Rothchild's many handmaids or rolling in the hay with the stablemaster's daughter.
If he wasn't in either of those two places, a trail of empty bottles usually led the way. I began to wonder that with all of Lord Rothchild's "commitments, " he managed to find time to rule. Devareaux always seemed to be at the events of state, though, to cover for him.
The best course of action seemed to be to leave Lord Rothchild to his own affairs, but my job wasn't any easier because of it. If Lady Rothchild wanted to take a stroll through the gardens at the wrong time, it could inspire a domestic incident. I had to make sure that didn't happen.
The lord was reckless with his reputation, so I learned to be everywhere at once. Lady Rothchild hated it when he drank, and he drank constantly. The best I could do was to try to keep the conflict to a minimum.
But for all his failings, when Lord Rothchild took the podium the magic began. He could spellbind an audience with his smooth and easy ways, whipping them into a patriotic fervor or soothing them to a quiet hush. It was as though he were a conductor leading a symphony orchestra.
For his part, he loved the adulation and would promise them anything just to hear the applause. Sometimes I wondered if he really knew what he was saying, but his words were so sweet that it didn't matter.
His public appearances were always great events, but the people of Jornstad were especially excited about seeing him at the Snow Festival, where he'd promised to joust with Sir Udo, champion of the lance.
Devareaux informed me that there were big plans for Sir Udo. He was to be assigned a regional governorship or a diplomatic position. Devareaux and Lord Rothchild wanted to bolster Udo's popularity, and what better way than public association with the most popular figure in the land? It was his concern for how the masses felt that kept our nation strong and stable, said Devareaux.
The contest was to be the following day, so after my usual duties were completed I headed to the armory to polish Lord Rothchild's armor. I stepped into the room where few were allowed to go and set down the cloth and bottle of whale oil I'd brought with me. I took a moment to gaze upon the contents of the royal armory. I'd never seen so many weapons in my life: rows upon rows of pikes, halberds, hammers, and swords. Every sort of ranged weapon was there, from fine elven bows and javelins to ordinary slings and armor of every sort. Some of it was comprised of tiny links, looking almost like wool sweaters. Other pieces were plated with great sheets of overlapping metal. Still other pieces had scales like dragon skin. These were no mere weapons; they were treasures, and the place was more museum than armory.
Draped over a mannequin in the center of the room was a breastplate and helmet, the armor that would protect Lord Rothchild from Sir Udo's ferocious lance. On its front, inlaid in gold and silver, was a stylized picture of a lion, mouth open in mid-roar, paw raised and ready to strike. The eyes of the lion were rubies, which shone like the setting sun. Its claws were of inlaid ivory and lapis lazuli.
A high-crested helmet sat atop the breastplate. It was plated in gold and bore an intricate flower pattern. Around the sturdy visor, where there should have been blossoms, the artisan who fashioned the helmet had instead set a variety of precious and semiprecious stones. The crest was adorned with huge red feathers that were not from any bird I'd ever seen, and the helmet's metal surface was unmarred by even the tiniest scratch. I wondered if it had ever been worn.
Most kings would be satisfied if this armor were their entire treasure trove. The workmanship was exquisite, with a level of detail that only magic could produce. I didn't know how Lord Rothchild had acquired the breastplate, but I was pretty sure it wasn't made locally.
For almost two hours I polished the armor. When I was done, my arms ached and my back hurt but the armor shone like the moon on a clear night. Looking at it, I could see my reflection clearer than in a still mountain lake.
The next day, it seemed as though every man, woman, and child in Jornstad had turned out to witness the festivities. I was as anxious to see Lord Rothchild square off against the popular Sir Udo as anybody in the crowd, but I was a little nervous. I made my way past the concessionaires, staggering under the weight of Lord Rothchild's armor, which I'd brought in a canvas sack.
It was a little too warm for a Snow Festival, but everyone seemed to enjoy the chance to set aside their work and socialize. Children tugged on their parents' clothing, coaxing them to buy a sugar stick or rag doll. Kjeldorans, young and old, perused the wares of the local artisans, admiring the workmanship of a designer cloak or haggling over the price of a commemorative "Lord Rothchild: Fifth Anniversary" plate.
A band was playing "Live Free, Kjeldor"-a happier version of the traditional march. Lovers danced to the strains of flutes and elven lyres, music caressed the clouds, and a smile was on every face.
I walked to the stable area, from where Lord Rothchild would
enter the jousting arena, and positioned myself in the doorway. There I could watch the people go by as I awaited the lord's presence.
I listened to the music and searched the passing faces to see if I could find Evara. She'd sure be impressed if she came by and saw me working for Lord Rothchild. In the huge sea of faces I was unlikely to find her, but I decided to lean against the wall and look bored, as if I hadn't a care in the world, in case she could see me.
Time passed, and still Lord Rothchild did not arrive. People began to assemble in anticipation of the joust.
A harlequin dressed in red and white taunted passersby in a playful fashion. He imitated their mannerisms through a dancing puppet. The creature almost seemed to have a life of its own, its strings the only giveaway.
My thoughts turned again to Lord Rothchild. He still had not appeared. He's a responsible leader and the most powerful man in the province, I kept telling myself. Of course he'll show. If he can run a kingdom, he can certainly show up for a major event like this one-especially one as important as this, where he's the main attraction.
It wasn't working. I was as apprehensive as ever.
I stared at the arena's great sundial and watched the shadow crawl across its face. Each moment felt like an eternity, and the crowd began to grow restless. Devareaux entered the stables and looked around. I fidgeted nervously and tried to avoid eye contact. Saying nothing, he shot me a stare that could kill a charging war beast, glaring at me until I thought he could see what I was thinking. His eyes slowly wandered to the empty armor sitting on the floor. Abruptly, he turned and left.
Even now Devareaux was probably headed to the palace dungeon, to find the most wretched, dank cell in existence, a place where night and day would have no meaning, and rats would nibble on my frail, undernourished body. A place that would be my home until my dying day.
I ran from the stables into the deserted streets. Dashing from place to place, I checked all of the usual hideouts for any sign of Lord Rothchild. There was no sign of him in the bathhouse, nor on the gaming field. He was not to be found in the distillery or the wine cellar. He wasn't in the armory, and I doubted that he'd be anywhere near the library.
My desperation grew, and I was all too aware that time was passing. I returned to the arena, foolishly hoping that he might have shown up during my absence. Of course he had not. No one had seen him, and his armor lay untouched.
I saw no way out. I grabbed the armor and donned it as quickly as my hands would move, fastening the buckles and strings as best I could. I placed the great helmet on my head, lowering the visor. As far as the crowd knew, / was Lord Rothchild, and I would have to do my best to live up to his legend.
I called a stable hand to help me, and with much assistance was able to mount the lord's white steed. I hastened through the gates and into the arena before my good sense could stop me. Riding into the light from the darkened stables, I was momentarily blinded, but I could hear the crowd erupt in a roar of admiration. For a moment, I basked in the glory and love of the townsfolk.
When my vision returned I beheld Sir Udo, waiting in the center of the arena. He was built like a war engine, solid as an obelisk. His armor was bright red with black trim, and it dazzled the eyes. Lights danced around him like shooting stars. Whether it was a trick of the light, my tired eyes, or magic I did not know.
He sat astride a coal-black horse. The stout beast's ebony hooves pawed at the dirt, and it impatiently dipped its head. The creature seemed barely able to restrain itself, so anxious it was for the crash of steel and the smell of dust and blood.
A stable hand passed me the banner of Kjeldor, and hefting it up, I rode around the arena three times, as was the custom. Ladies threw flowers onto the field, and children waved. I waved back, concentrating on not falling off the horse. I could not see very well, since the helmet did not fit properly and had become twisted a little to the left. Only one eye was lined up with the view slit.
The crowd's adoration was enjoyable, but the deception unnerved me, and I was anxious to be done with it. I guided the horse to the far end of a long, wooden fence and turned to face my opponent.
Sir Udo waited with a cool reserve, confident in his ability. I swallowed hard and dug my heels hard into my mount. In a flash I was off, the king's mighty steed rippling beneath me, gathering speed as it galloped toward the knight. My balance was precarious, having been jarred by the horse's quick start, and I held on with both hands, my lance tucked limply under my arm. The distance closed in a hurry, in fact far faster than I'd anticipated, and I wasn't able to lift my weapon very far before Udo's furious lance struck me square in the chest. The world receded as I flew back like a puppet on a string.
Everything seemed to suddenly get very quiet except for the screaming pain in my chest. I would have screamed, too, except I couldn't breathe. It was as though a wooly mammoth were standing on my lungs while a fire burned inside. When breath at last came, I was only able to pant in quick, shallow gulps. Each introduced me to a new world of pain.
I looked around to see knights and squires rushing to my aid. Gathering my wits, I staggered to my feet and waved them-off, lest they remove my helmet and reveal my deception to all assembled there. I wobbled toward the edge of the arena, desperately trying to look unwounded. I think some of the knights helped me along as Devareaux came forth to meet me, flanked by the royal guard. He dismissed the knights who'd been helping me, and I lost my tenuous grip on consciousness.
Angels swam in the aether, singing the most beautiful melodies I'd ever heard. Millions of blue and green bubbles, glowing with an inner light, washed across my body like fireflies in a sea of liquid diamond. The angels' songs faded slowly, and a dull, thumping pain ushered me back to consciousness.
I awoke under the ministrations of Ariel, the royal herbalist. A woman in her early thirties, she had dark, flowing hair and kind eyes. She wore a loose white blouse, and a featureless coin dangled from a gold chain around her neck. I stared at the coin and realized my eyes were still too blurred to discern any detail. A steady buzzing hummed in my ears.
Ariel noticed I was awake. "How do you feel?" she asked.
"I don't know. I do seem to be in one piece."
"So what happened to you?" she asked, as she applied a magic elixir to my wound.
"Um… a hunting accident," I replied, still too groggy to make up a decent lie.
She smiled. "A hunting accident?"
"I was, uh, kicked by a horse."
She continued to smile. "Have you heard about the terrible blow Lord Rothchild sustained while jousting?"
"Indeed," I said. "How does he fare?"
"He'll be fine," she laughed.
Bit by bit, Ariel reconstructed me. As she wove spells and mixed potions, we talked. She told me the people of Jornstad were disappointed at Lord Rothchild's loss to Sir Udo but were already making up excuses for their champion's defeat. Sir Udo was more popular than ever, and citizens were crying for a rematch. I didn't want to think about it.
I got two lessons in white magic that day. Lord Rothchild's armor, it turned out, was enchanted with powerful magic. If the armor had been weaker I'd probably have been killed by the lance, although my broken rib might argue the point.
I also had a firsthand experience with miraculous healing magic. Ariel's unguents and potions had me patched up, and with only a day of rest I was ready to get back to work. Ariel said she could work wonders on wounds far more serious than mine.
Still I realized that the power to heal, impressive as it was, did not keep Kjeldor's enemies at bay. Powerful protection was not the reason for our nation's greatness. There must be more, I thought.
Ariel advised bed rest for the remainder of the day, but since I really wasn't tired, I sat in bed reading adventure stories.
Not long after, Lord Rothchild stopped by to check on me. I wanted to scream, "Where were you?" But, of course, one does not speak that way to a king, so we both avoided speaking about the obvious.
&n
bsp; "You are an astute young man, Finroy," he said with an air of discomfort. He was more subdued than I'd ever seen him, and there was a serious look in his eye.
"I'd be proud to have you as my regal overseer. You have shown your true mettle and performed your duties admirably. Congratulations."
"Thank you, sire," I croaked.
"Well, the healer told me you'll be making a full recovery," he said, changing the topic quickly. "I'm glad to hear it."
We made light conversation for some minutes, and then Lord Rothchild wished me well and excused himself.
Come evening another visitor appeared. Devareaux, whose only interest in me up to this point had been to issue dire threats, almost seemed to show actual concern for my well-being.
"Your service to the king is rightly appreciated," he said. "You are a true patriot and an upstanding citizen of the nation of Kjeldor."
Even when granting compliments, the duke had a foreboding manner. If I'd heard only his tone, and not his words, I might have feared for my life, yet his actions were friendly enough.
He presented me with a box of wafers, which were wet with some kind of paste. They were, he explained, a remedy his mother used to give him when he was hurt. The thought of Duke Devareaux having a mother was enough to make me smile.
I sampled one, and it was the most wretched, putrid concoction I'd ever tasted. Despite an almost overwhelming urge to spit out the pasty wafers, I choked them down, one by one. This was the first genuine kindness I'd been shown by this man, and I certainly wasn't going to insult him or his mother. I wondered why folk remedies were always so unpleasant.
We talked, and his candor was unusual. He told me that Lord Rothchild's father had died in a sporting accident when Lord Rothchild was only six. His mother was taken the following year by consumption. The young Lord Rothchild had grown up without any guidance, the adults in his life catering to every whim of the little prince.
The Colors of Magic Anthology (magic: the gathering) Page 5
