At least, that was the way Rune felt.
"I'll take the condition of 'friendly,' " she said. "That may be the hardest to find."
"Ah, 'nearby' for me," Gwyna decided. "I'm not as good as the rest of you are at this. That's going to be the easiest to concentrate on."
"'Knowledge.' " Kestrel chose with as few words as possible.
"That leaves me with 'willing,' the compliment to 'friendly,' and probably just as difficult a condition to fill," Talaysen finished. "All right are we ready? In tune? One run-through to get the fingers working and the mind set, then we start concentrating. Remember, listen for the under-song, and match it. And on four-"
"Mortals. So ponderous."
The voice behind Rune was full of humor and amusement, but it startled her heart right out of her body; she jumped a good foot, and dragged her bow across her strings with a most unmusical squawk.
With a full-throated laugh, their visitor stepped between her and Talaysen into the circle of firelight, stole a cushion from the pile behind her back and dropped gracefully down onto it. If all she had seen was his costume, she'd have known him for elven; no human could have stitched those fanciful silken feathers of scarlet and gold, a tunic in the likeness of a phoenix. But the sharply pointed ears gave his race away as well, and the distinctly unhuman cast of his features as he turned to smile at her.
"You really should have learned by now that you've trained your wills," he scolded gently. "For creatures sensitive to magic, you need only be thinking about your needs and channeling the magic with the thought of the music. For mortals, perhaps, as earth-bound as you are, you will need a formal ceremony, or the music sung aloud. But not for us. Now, what is it that I can answer for you? In return, of course, you will come to the Hill to play for our dancing tonight."
"Of course," Talaysen said with grave courtesy. Rune couldn't speak; she was still trying to get her heart to take its proper place in her chest. "Thank you for responding to us."
"Oh, how could I not?" the elf laughed. "You are legend, after all! The mortals favored by the High King-you do realize, don't you, that one day you'll have to perform for him? And the favor he will ask for his protection might be a weighty one. Or-not. He has his whims, does the High King."
His smile was a bit malicious, but Talaysen simply shrugged. "Nothing comes without a price," he said philosophically. "But what we would ask of you is so little that you may consider it inconsequential."
"And that is?" The elf crossed his legs tailor-fashion, propped one elbow on his knee, and rested his chin on his hand.
"We want to know what the people of this land think of their King-and what they thought of the last one-"
"What, this lad's father?" At Kestrel's start, he laughed again. "Don't trouble your head, child, your secret is safe with us. While King Rolend has the wisdom to welcome us and leave us in peace, we never meddle in mortal politics. So, you wish the tale of King Rolend and his wicked brother, King Charlis, hmm?"
"Wicked brother?" Talaysen raised an eyebrow. "Is that an elven judgment, or the judgment of history as written by the victor?"
The fire popped and crackled, flaring up briefly, and reflecting from their visitor's eyes. "Both, actually." The elf sobered. "I hope the boy there has no great illusions about the quality of his parent-"
Kestrel shook his head. "H-hardly knew him."
"Good. Your father should never have been given power, and that is our judgment. He was ill-suited to it, being spoiled and accustomed to having his will in all things. I take it you have been asking discreet questions of the fat herds out there?" The elf nodded towards the road and the dairy farms beyond. "And they have been full of praise for King Rolend? They are right to be. Under his brother, they and their lands groaned beneath taxes so ruinous that their children went to bed hungry one night out of three-and that here, in the richest land in the Kingdom. And what did the wicked King Charlis spend their money on?"
He looked at Rune, who shrugged. "Armies?" she hazarded, shifting her position a little.
"They might have forgiven armies. No, he spent it on his own amusement. On exotic pleasure-slaves, on foods from far beyond his borders; on magical toys and rare beasts for his menagerie. On extravagant entertainments for himself and his court-caging the gardens under a great tent and heating it until the trees bloomed in midwinter, flooding the walled court with water and staging a battle of ships." The elf shook his head, and his long hair rippled with the motion. "He neglected his Queen, who did not share his exotic tastes, and his son, who was an inconvenience. That neglect killed his Queen, and cost him the regard of that son. Oh, a few loved him. The Bardic Guild, whom he showered with gifts and gold. The men of the Church, whom he gave license to pursue anything not human as unholy and anathema-which meant ourselves, of course. The select courtiers he favored, and the Dukes and Sires, who he left to themselves, so that they could feud and rule their lands and people as they chose, and make riot of the countryside. But no one else."
"But King R-Rolend?" Kestrel asked. As far as Rune could tell, he wasn't the least upset by the unflattering description of his father.
"Ah, now that is interesting." The elf taped the bridge of his nose with a long, graceful finger. "He is mixed, like most mortals; some bad, but most good. He remitted many of the taxes when he stole the throne, and spent what was left in the treasury restoring the lands. The honest Churchmen, whom he raised up after casting a-down the corrupt and proud, favor him and his policy of tolerance to those not human. His people love him, and love his son, who is so like the father that one must look for gray hairs to determine which is which." The elf smiled sardonically, and cast a glance at the bracelets Rune and Talaysen wore. "He has received certain-considerations-from my people. The courtiers no longer receiving rich gifts do not favor him. The corrupt men of the Church curse his name and lineage. The Sires, who must now bend to the laws of the land, grumble among themselves. And the Bardic Guild is-very quiet, lest he recall where so much of the kingdom's coin vanished. From time to time men gather and speak of a 'rightful King,' and talk of rebellion, but nothing comes of it."
"No one is as perfect as you claim King Rolend is," Talaysen said dryly.
"Did I say he was perfect?" The elf shrugged, and his wing-like eyebrows flew up towards his scalp. "He is mortal. No mortal is perfect. He hears the rumors of a 'rightful King,' and he fears, of course. He has had men put to death for simply whispering such words. With every year, he grows less flexible, less forgiving, harder. Power brings him temptations, and he does not always withstand them. But as Kings go, there have been worse, and these people give praise to their Sacrificed God daily for the one they have."
He stood up from his cushion, so smoothly Rune hardly knew he was doing so until he was looking down at them. "Have I given you all that you desire?"
Talaysen looked over at Kestrel, who nodded, slowly.
"Well, then. I have answered your invitation, now you must answer mine."
"Willingly," Talaysen said, getting to his feet. Rune and the others did the same, gathering up their instruments. She cast a nervous glance at the wagon and mules; the elf followed her glance and thoughts with the lightning-quick understanding of his kind.
"Never fear for your goods and beasts," he said-he didn't quite mock. "They will be guarded. The fire will be tended. Now, to the Hill, and the feast, and the dancing!"
Certainly. And allow me to get my little dig in at you and yours, my friend. "Gladly," she said sweetly, as they followed him into the forest. "And we promise to stop when you are weary."
His teeth gleaming back at her in a vulpine smile were all the answer he gave.
The King's private study seemed full of lurking shadows tonight, not all of them born of firelight. Some of them were born of unpleasant memory.
Why did I ever take the throne?
Rolend's temple throbbed, and nothing the Healer-Priests did for him would make the pain stop. One of them had the audacity to tell him t
hat he was doing it to himself. He slumped over his desk and buried his head in his hands.
He was doing it to himself. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.
The question of why he had taken the crown was rhetorical, of course; he'd usurped the throne to keep his brother from looting the country to the point where the people would rise up and slaughter anyone with a drop of noble blood in his veins. And that had been nearer than anyone but he and a few choice advisors even guessed.
Shadows danced on the wall, shadows that mimed the conflict of men and their dreams. He had hoped to capture Prince Sional; the boy had been young, young enough, he had hoped, to be trained. Young enough even to come to understand what his uncle had done, and why, and forgive him one day?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. It didn't matter. The boy's tutor had taken him and fled. For years he had forgotten the child-had hoped, when he thought of him at all, that the boy had died. But then the rumors had started-that the old man had fled to the Bardic Guild in Rayden, that he had the boy with him. There was no telling what hate-filled lies he'd brought the child up on; the Bardic Guild hated him because there were no more rich plums falling into their laps from the Crown. Doubtless the Guild in Rayden had seen to it that the boy learned only to hate and fear his uncle, and to dream of the day when he would take back the throne. Doubtless they had filled his head with idle ballads of foul usurpers and the noble heroes who threw them down.
Doubtless they had made him grateful to them for sheltering him-encouraged him to trust in their word, and the words of those who waited for his return.
Doubtless he was now a handsome young puppet for their playing; everything a King should look like, but nothing of substance. And certainly no more in his head but the insubstantial sugar-fluff of vanity and dreams.
The Bardic Guild was very, very good at creating the semblance of dreams.
Those Churchmen he trusted had warned him of this. When he heard their prophecies fulfilled, he acted. He dared be nothing less than ruthless, so he called upon the wizened, unhuman folk of the fens, the ones his people termed "goblins," and gave them Sional's hair, bidding them make him seeking-charms. And when the charms came back, wrapped in leaves, he gave them to his agents and told them to kill. His conscience had troubled him, but he had soothed it with visions of who would use the boy for their own ends, if they found him. He would not give them that focus.
He had slept better, then, except for the times when he agonized about ordering the death of a mere child-he had been sure, despite the three times that the boy had escaped, that eventually they would find him and dispose of him. He had been utterly certain of that-until tonight.
Tonight the last of his agents had sent him word. One of their number was dead, killed by magic. The boy was gone. No one knew where, or how. The entire area had been combed and recombed, and not a trace of him could be found. The Gypsies he had last been with professed to know nothing of him, and had closed ranks against King Rolend's agents. There were forty or more of them, and only three of the agents; the men had wisely deemed it time to retreat.
My hold on the throne is shaky enough. Once my enemies find out the boy lives-and they will-they'll track him down. He may even come to them. Even if he's still innocent-even if by some miracle the Guild did not fill him full of hate for me, they will when they find him. And they'll use him. A boy of eighteen has no chance against them.
He groaned aloud, and then looked up as footsteps from the royal suite warned him of someone's approach from the private rooms. He had no fear that it might be an enemy; his guards were loyal and alert, and the only way into the suite besides this door was through a window. But he hoped that it wasn't his wife; she was as dear to him as his right hand, but he did not want to be soothed at the moment.
"Father?" His son hesitated on the threshold, just within the reach of the firelight, and Rolend sighed with relief. Victor was welcome; he wouldn't try to pretend that troubles would just go away if he ignored them. And he wouldn't try to soothe his father. "Father, I heard you-ah-"
"It's my head again, Victor," he replied. "It doesn't matter; I was going to call for you anyway."
"Ah." The young man-twenty, and mature for his age-walked on cat-quiet feet into his father's study, then settled into a chair beside Rolend's desk. Looking into his son's face was like looking into a time-reversing mirror. The same frank brown eyes under heavy brows, now knitted with concern-the same long nose, the same thin lips and rounded jaw. "Bad news, I take it?"
"They've lost him." No further explanation was needed; Rolend had kept his son advised of everything from the day he'd taken the crown. That accounted for his maturity, perhaps. Sometimes Rolend felt a pang of guilt for having robbed the boy of a carefree childhood, but at least if something happened to him, Victor would have the knowledge, the wits, and the skill to keep himself and his mother alive.
"Oh." Victor's expression darkened with unhappiness. "Father-"
"Speak your piece." Victor was about to say something he thought Rolend wouldn't like, but the King had never forbidden his son to speak his mind before and he wasn't about to start now.
"Father, I can't be sorry. I think you were wrong to try and-" The young man hesitated, choosing his words with care. "To try to-get rid of him-in the first place. He has never done anything to give you a moment of lost sleep-never even tried to come home! Why should he try to conspire against you now?"
Rolend sighed, and tried once more to make the boy see the whole truth of the situation. He didn't blame Victor for the way he felt; the boy remembered his cousin quite clearly, and when Victor thought of the assassins his father had sent out to Rayden, he probably pictured himself in Sional's place. "Even if he were as innocent as a babe, son, he's still a danger to me. As long as he lives, he can be used against me. And the hard fact is, he's not the cousin who you taught to ride and the one you gave your old pony to. He's probably been fed hate and bitter words with every meal, and he's probably looking forward to spitting you like a skewered capon, right beside me."
Victor shook his head stubbornly. "I can't believe that, father. Master Darian loved Queen Felice, and he hated Uncle Charlis for what he did to her. He's the one that took Sion, and he took him into Rayden, not to the Guild here! You know that no branch of the Guild really gives a clipped coin for what happens to another, so long as nothing happens to them! I can't believe that Master Darian would bring Sion up to be as twisted as you think."
"It doesn't matter, son," Rolend sighed. "It really doesn't matter. Once the Church and the Guild here find out he's alive, they'll have him. And once the Church mages have him-the dark ones, anyway-they'll strip his mind bare and put what they want in there."
Now Victor fell silent, and nodded. Reluctantly, but in agreement. He'd seen at first hand what a dark mage could do to someone's mind, when they'd taken back what had once been a faithful guard from those who had captured him. No matter what had been in there before, when the dark mage was done, there was nothing left of the original but the shell.
"I don't like it," he said, finally. "But I can't think what else you could do."
"Do you think I like it?" Rolend burst out. He lurched up out of his chair and began to pace in front of the fire. "I've ordered a murder-I ordered the murder of a child. I sent those agents out when the boy was fourteen-perhaps fifteen! But what else am I to do?" He sat down again, heavily; buried his face in his hands, and confessed to his son what he would not have told another living man, not even his Priest. "I hate what I've done, and I hate myself for ordering it. And sometimes I think that perhaps this is my punishment from God for trying to murder a child. Maybe I deserve to find myself facing Sional across a blade. But what else could I have done?"
"I don't know, Father," Victor whispered. "I don't know."
Rune took her turn at the reins, with everyone else closeted inside the wagon. The capital city of Kingstone loomed ahead of them, a huge place that had long ago spilled out past its walls. She wo
ndered what was going on in Kestrel's mind right now. They were near the end of their goal, and still he had not decided what he wanted to do-
Well, if he has, he hasn't told us.
The elf hadn't lied, or even exaggerated. The people of Birnam were content with King Rolend on the throne, and were secure in the belief that his son would be just as good a ruler as his father.
Nor had the elf made any mistake in the quality of King Rolend's enemies. He had them, but they were all too often the kind of men-and a few women-who made Rune's skin crawl. Selfish, greedy, venial, power-hungry . . . there were some honest folk among them, people who felt that the "rightful King" should be on the throne. Frequently they voiced a legitimate concern: could a man who had ordered the murder of his own brother, for whatever reason, however good, remain uncorrupted himself? How long would it be before he found other reasons to order the deaths of those who opposed him-and how long would it be before merely disagreeing with him became "opposing" him?
Power corrupted; power made it easy to see what you wanted as something that was morally "right." Power made it easy to find excuses. Had King Rolend already fallen victim to the seductive magic that Power sang?
Those who voiced those questions hoped for the "lost prince" to return as someone who had not yet fallen victim to that seductive song. Rune couldn't help noticing that they used the same words in describing this mythical Sional as the Priests used in describing the Sacrificed God. . . .
But behind all these well-meaning and earnest folk, these dreamers and mystics, there were always the others. The powerful who had lost the power they craved, the Priests who had been toppled from thrones of their own, the pampered and indulged who had fallen from grace.
If they found Sional they'd make him over into exactly the image the others craved. The pure innocent.
The pure innocent fool, who'll say whatever they tell him to say. . . .
But there was one possible way that Sional could win back his throne without becoming a puppet. To take it the same way that his uncle had. Except that instead of soldiers, he'd have Bardic magic on his side. Magic that might even make it possible to avoid killing King Rolend and the cousin he vaguely remembered.
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