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  The Still

  ( Rodrigo of Caledon - 1 )

  David Feintuch

  David Feintuch

  The Still

  Prologue

  When I was young, before a wasting illness gripped her, Elena Queen of Caledon took me to the secluded vault that held the Vessels. I was barely twelve, and in the dank windowless corridor a nameless dread prickled my spine. I didn’t want to think about our Power, or behold its implements.

  Deep in the bowels of Castle Stryx, at the corridor’s end, a smoky torch hissed and sputtered in a sconce. Brusquely, Mother dismissed Chamberlain Willem and the ever-present sentries.

  The Queen withdrew a chain with two keys from her bosom. Facing the massive bronze door that barred the vault, she inserted each key into a recess so deep it swallowed her whole arm.

  She paused, and a fleeting smile warmed her eyes. “Don’t worry, Roddy. The locks won’t eat my fingers.”

  “I didn’t-I wasn’t …”

  “You hadn’t heard? Perhaps it’s best for now.”

  The second tumbler clicked; the door swung open. She ushered me into the vault.

  Dusty oaken chests filled much of the chamber. I picked at the hasp of the nearest. “What’s inside?”

  “Leave it. We’ve not come to muse over keepsakes.”

  “How about this one?” I bounded across the cell. “What’s that ewer? Why are these swords-”

  She stamped her foot. “Stop racing about. Must you finger everything in reach?”

  Sullenly, I threw myself on a trunk, but Mother settled on a dark walnut bench, patted the seat beside. “Rodrigo, never speak of what I show you.”

  I sat at her side. “I won’t, not even to Rustin. By the True I swear.”

  Her hand shot out to cover my mouth. “Hush. You’re too young for such vows.”

  “But Hester says …”

  “I say.” Abruptly she was Queen.

  “Aye, madam.” I made the short bow of assent. Still, pride coursed within. “I only meant to assure you-”

  “And you have. But I include family, not just your playmates. Even Uncle Mar.”

  I shifted, impatient at her caution. “You said you’d show me the Vessels.” Somewhere beyond the light, water dripped.

  “Then pay attention. We ride this afternoon to Warthen’s Gate, so I haven’t much time. What do you see?”

  My eyes darted to an ornate marble stand, on which a crimson pillow rested. Atop sat a gleaming pitcher. I recalled her whispered stories in the night. “Is that the Chalice?”

  “Well said.”

  I jumped to my feet, peered at its luminous surface. “May I hold it?”

  “No you’d better-”

  “Please?”

  She sighed. “For a moment. But carefully.”

  I took the ewer from its pillow, sat to examine it. “This pours the stillsilver.”

  “Yes.” Her fingers brushed the damp hair at the nape of my neck. The tenderness startled me. Since my father died, she’d seemed ever more distant, and our quarrels had grown more fierce. Perhaps she was hardening me for the isolation of the throne. Perhaps she preferred my brothers. I never knew.

  “Go on, Roddy.”

  I tried to concentrate. “You pour into the bowl. The Receiver.”

  “Receptor.”

  “Then it happens.” I regarded the empty Chalice. “Show me.”

  Her laugh was brittle. “I can’t.” Her hand fluttered to the golden clasp in her hair.

  “Please, Mother.”

  “What did I tell you about my Power?”

  “That it’s gone. But not for me. Show me how to use it.”

  “When the time nears.”

  “Later, always later.” I stamped my foot. “Always you treat me as a child.”

  “As you are.” Her tone cooled.

  “Or perhaps you fear my betrayal!”

  “Don’t be a fool.”

  “I’ll bet you showed Elryc, and he’s just eight.”

  “Roddy, didn’t I tell you the Power won’t manifest until I die?”

  “You love him more! You’re planning to renounce me!”

  Her slap stung. “That does it.” She was on her feet. “Out!”

  “But I only-”

  “Now you’ll go to Willem.” Her voice was low, an omen I should have heeded earlier. “If your father saw you he’d knot his fists in shame. Renounce you? Don’t remind me of it while you try my patience!” She shoved me from the vault, locked the bronze doors behind us. The tumblers clicked loudly as they fell into place.

  “Madam, I pray thee …”

  She strode down the corridor, a firm grip on my sleeve. Her guards fell in alongside. “It’s too late for courtesy and high speech, Rodrigo. When will you learn to hold your tongue?” She swept me along. “To the Chamberlain, this very moment!”

  Afterward, my rump smarting, I yearned for the solace of my comrade Rustin, in his family’s keep that bestrode the harbor, but I was sent in haste to make ready for our journey through the hills to the Warthen of the Sands, Mother’s distant vassal.

  Uncle Margenthar, Mother’s spokesman in matters of state, came along, as did his son Bayard and half our court. Were the Duke of Eiber to sweep down from the north, Castle Stryx would be ill-tended. But no mishap befell the realm.

  The very day we returned I raced to tell Rustin the wonders I’d beheld. He presented me with a magnificent young stallion he’d trained, the best horse I’d ever seen, and I dissolved in tears.

  Summer storms swept the granite battlements, Mother’s peasants scythed wheat in the baking sun, and riding my glorious new mount through fields and town and rutted roads, I began to grow out of my childhood.

  It was then I knew the torment.

  Part I

  Chapter 1

  Thunder rumbled across the ramparts and cobbles of the keep. Gray sheets of summer rain reduced the courtyard of the donjon to an inland sea of mud that lapped at the battlements.

  Safe within, I smoothed my damp hair and knocked at Mother’s chamber, exhilarated from a long gallop to outrun the sudden summer storm. Below, Stryx harbor whipped into a froth and hurled whitecaps across the low shore road. Perhaps when the Still of Caledon was mine at last, I would choose my own weather, and ride free of care.

  At Mother’s iron-belted door, Nurse Hester met me with her customary scowl. “She’s resting well. Say nothing to rile her, or I’ll-” She subsided, wrinkling her nose at Ebon’s sweat redolent on my leather jerkin. As always, Hester’s speech was too free. She’d nursed me from infancy, as she had Mother before, and our rank held no awe for her.

  “Hold your tongue, old woman.” Then, quickly, before she could shrivel me with a fierce reply, “How is she?”

  Her gnarled hand whipped round. I flinched, but she only waved a swollen knuckle under my nose. “Think you that lanky and long makes you a man, Rodrigo?” Her voice scratched like a blade on glass. “Courtesy marks a true nobleman, and grace!” With that, she hobbled to Mother’s bedside, dabbed her dozing lady’s forehead with a damp towel.

  “My lady, the boy Rodrigo”-I reddened at Hester’s emphasis-“answers your summons.” As if in emphasis, thunder rumbled the windowpane.

  Mother blinked, focused her troubled blue eyes on mine.

  I bowed to Elena, Queen of Caledon. Mine was the informal bow, the house bow, scarce more than a nod, but required of me nonetheless. I blurted, “How do you feel?”

  “Roddy.” A smile eased creases worn by long months of pain. “Sit.” She patted her plump featherbed.

  “Madam, he’ll soil the linens; he’s come from that great stinking horse.”

  “Then have them changed; it’s past time you let me sit by the window.” Mother
tapped the teal coverlet. Obediently, I perched at her side. Her brow wrinkled at the sway of the bed on its ropes. Hester muttered disapproval, but retired to the scarred plank table across the bedchamber.

  I asked, “Do the herbs help?”

  “I’m long beyond that.” Mother’s tone was cross. “As well you know.”

  “Lord Tannel said-”

  “Elwyn Tannel is a fool, like all surgeons and physickers. If I didn’t chew his dreadful lozenges he’d nag me to my grave faster than this disease of wasting.” She grimaced. “Lord knows of what the tablets are made. Stable droppings and frog’s bowels, or whatever Estland vogue holds sway this season.”

  I kneaded my knuckles, waiting.

  She asked, “You rode with Rustin?”

  “He was attending Llewelyn. Ebon and I raced almost to Whiecliff before the clouds gathered.”

  “With Elryc and Pytor?”

  “No!” I grimaced. “I see enough of my brothers.” If I let them, they’d follow me everywhere. Elryc, eleven, sniffed constantly, and Pytor whined more man any boy of eight should be allowed. They trailed me about the castle grounds, sometimes urging me to join their games, but often merely to see what I was about. Perhaps they even reported to some inquisitive noble of Stryx. We were none of us free from schemes, liaisons, intrigues of state.

  Trust was for commoners, who had naught to forfeit.

  “I met our outguard patrol, Mother. Tantroth remains in his hills; no sign that his folk approach.” Not that we really expected him to lunge, yet.

  Her voice gentled. “I’ll try to give you time, Roddy.”

  She had so little time to give. I kept my expression hard, lest she and Hester think me a weak mewling youngsire.

  Mother said, “Tantroth will wait, at least ’til I fall into unwakeable sleep and the family gathers to glean my last breath. The Norduke may covet our crown, but he’s not fool enough to risk his head.”

  Our crown. I thrilled. As eldest son of Elena Queen, mine would be the inheritance, but I must ever be cautious. Until her death Mother had power to renounce me, and in that case, I were nothing. Despite our frequent harsh words, I’d never truly had reason to think she’d cast me down, but one treads lightly in the halls of kings.

  Mother’s voice dropped. I strained to hear over the steady drumbeat of rain on the ledge. “Roddy, concern yourself with more than Tantroth. On my death he’ll strike for city and crown, but other hands crave the realm. With luck they’ll thrust him back before turning on each other. Then, you-”

  “Which lords would seize the throne?”

  “Margenthar, Groenfil, half the earls of the realm. They-”

  My tone dripped disdain. “What petty Powers have they to threaten Stryx? The bark of dogs?”

  “Scorn not what you don’t ken. Groenfil’s gales topple oaks on his peasants’ cribs, and Cumber could set our keep ablaze if the mood came upon him. Any of them would seize the kingdom, given-”

  “But Uncle Mar is my godfather.”

  “Interrupt again, boy, and I’ll send you to Willem!”

  On the bedcover, out of Mother’s view, my fist tightened. She kept me a child, or tried to, when I’d become a man.

  Mother seized my wrist. Off balance, I nearly fell across her bosom. “Mar is your uncle by birth, and your godfather by maneuver.” Her voice grated in wrath, whether at me or Uncle Mar, I knew not. “Yet first and always, he’s Duke of Stryx, with sons of his own and ambition that burns. That’s why his pledged troops are barred from Stryx. If you think his pledge of loyalty weighs against his aspiration, you’re a fool!” She panted for breath.

  Time to regain her respect. I raised an eyebrow. “Madam, do you mistake my inexperience for idiocy?”

  It brought a pleased smile, as I knew my calm assurance would. Her voice softened. “No, else I wouldn’t waste my dying hours plotting with you.” She patted my hand.

  “Are you …” My voice shot into the upper register; I fought it down to a tenor. “Is it near that time?” It was all I could manage to hold her gaze.

  “Not quite yet.” She attempted a smile, but pain stabbed and turned it to a frown. “Perhaps I’ll rally again. When you’re eighteen, you’ll be safe. Well, no one is ever truly safe, but with the Still …”

  “I’m sixteen. What if-”

  “Fifteen.”

  Two months weren’t enough to matter. “What if I’m not yet eighteen when you …” I couldn’t say it to her face.

  “Rodrigo, we die. Your father Josip did, I’m working at it. You will too, in your own time. It’s no disgrace. Say it!”

  I sighed. “If I’m not eighteen when you die.” Mother had her ways. I had to submit; else I might find myself slung across Chamberlain Willem’s table, gasping from the blows of his strap.

  She nodded her satisfaction. “Was that so hard? Now, once you gain the crown you’ll have your wits to protect you. And hopefully, the Still.” Her eyes darted to me. “Have you-?”

  I shook my head, unwilling to trust my voice.

  “Control yourself, at any cost”

  “Mother!” I sought another topic, but not before my ears flamed and my humiliation was complete.

  “Did you hear?”

  I snarled, “How could I not?”

  “To wield the Power, you must-”

  “I know!” Could I for a moment forget, with her constant harping? I bounded to my feet. “Mother, I’ve appointments to keep. Good day. I hope you feel better.”

  Her voice snapped like a whip. “You have no leave!”

  Fuming, I sat again.

  “Immature child! Insolent whelp! Is it any wonder I fret?”

  I swallowed. “I’m sorry, Mother.” She could be pushed just so far, and without intent, I’d overstepped the line.

  She regathered her breath. Then, “If I don’t recover, even with the Still, the risk is great.”

  “Will they go for my life?”

  “Yes.”

  My stomach churned, but I let nothing show in my face.

  She added, “Not at first, I judge. A regency, so they’ll have time to set their men in place. Later, a sudden accident, a flux of the intestines. Perhaps a stray arrow. The kingdom will pass into their hands.”

  “What should we do?”

  A sigh. She lay back, her face gray and pained.

  Old Hester, disregarding rank and propriety, tottered across the bedchamber, hauled me from the bed. “Say your farewells and begone to your stables. She needs rest.”

  I shook off the old crone’s arm, but even I could see Mother was played out. “Good-bye, Mother.” My tone was stiff, as befit a prince to his Queen.

  Weary, drifting, she nodded, murmured something I could not hear. I made my bow, turned to leave. As the door creaked open her words came more clearly. “The Power. It is key to all. Be True and it will not fail.”

  Before I could respond, Hester shooed me from the room like an irate hen.

  I strode past the rooms of Mother’s maids in waiting to the iron-studded door that segregated the Queen’s quarters from the body of the donjon. Slamming it behind me, I stalked to the great stone central stairs of Castle Stryx. No one was about. I perched sidesaddle on the wide walnut banister, slid down to the ground level of the keep.

  In the lower hall a servant on a stool dug wax from a sconce; as I hurtled past he gave a startled yelp. Nonchalantly, I hopped off the rail, paused to look about as if to survey our citadel for the first time.

  Here at the foot of the stairwell, one passed into a wide vaulted chamber that served as Castle Stryx’s banquet hall and assembly place.

  To the right of the massive stair, an entryway led to the vaulted offices where Mother’s chamberlain, Willem of Alcazar, managed the business of the household and oversaw Griswold’s stables, the cooks, and the various servants. In the opposite wing, Margenthar, Duke of Stryx, maintained his sumptuous quarters.

  Uncle Mar. Mother’s only brother. He had his own castle at Verein, but
lived much of the year with us. From his apartments in Castle Stryx he conducted affairs of state, as Mother’s surrogate.

  I glanced back to the silent stairwell. Upstairs, the north wing housed our favored courtiers and staff such as Willem and Griswold. The south hall held the Queen’s own chambers and above them, my own, my brother Elryc’s, and the nursery where Pytor still dwelt.

  The servant finished polishing the sconce. With a familiar slight bow of acknowledgment, he went about his business. I trotted down the half flight to the massive, carved outer door. The guard swung it open with proper deference. Ignoring him, I snatched a cloak from the cupboard to shield me from the downpour.

  “Your brother asked for you, youngsire.”

  I glared. “Which one?” Why did the guard still call me “youngsire”? If I corrected him I’d only look petulant. Reluctantly I let it pass.

  “Lord Elryc. He wanted-”

  “I care not.” I skipped down the stone stairs and crossed the rocky courtyard. At the outer wall, where the horsepath turned sharply to break the charge of an invader, a gatesman opened the small daily door set in the huge weathered portal of state. Holding my cloak tight, I left the grounds.

  Castle Stryx. Set against the high cliffs of the Estreach, it was accessible in force only by Castle Way, or above from the rocky foothills that sloped from cliffs to our ramparts.

  I strode down the hill toward the city. The rain was abating, but not soon enough. I’d be soaked ere long.

  Thinking of Mother’s admonishments, I snorted with disgust. Of course the Still wouldn’t fail, were I True. That was its nature. So I’d been taught for as long as I could remember.

  Great kingdoms possessed great Powers, small realms only minor encant.

  Each Power had its own properties. When carried into battle, the Rood of Norland lent our northern neighbors ominous strength. The White Fruit of Chorr was said to make whoever ingested it forever a servant, and secured for the King of the Chorr the loyalty of his intimates. In Parrad, the very trees could be made to speak. The Powers followed crown and land, inseparably. Within every kingdom it was so. Our vassal earls themselves had some small Powers; Lady Soushire’s ire spoke to dogs, and drove them to rage.