The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 4

  Full support, indeed. He’d have me strip Caledon bare to restore his duchy, which, when freed, he would promptly remove from my vassalage.

  I glanced up, hoping to catch Rust’s eye, but he was chatting amiably with Willem. Further down the table, Genard clowned with boys of his station. He’d taken a grease cloth, rolled it as if a scroll. He made a great show of breaking the seals. As he pretended to read, his brow knotted, and his lips moved laboriously with each word.

  I threw down my letter. What was the world coming to, that a stableboy mock a king? Had I a blade handy, I’d gut him like ... no, instead, I would give him his own. I splashed water into a bowl, waited impatiently for it to settle. It was high time I practiced the other attributes of my art. When the bowl was still, I cupped my hands atop its rim, closed my eyes, muttered familiar words of encant.

  Slowly, the great hall faded. Over and again, I murmured the words of my Power. When the open mouth of the cave loomed, instead of entering as usual, I opened my hooded eyes, fixed them on Genard.

  He read again from his pretended scroll, threw it down, fashioned the cloth into a sort of crown, plopped it on his head. He made elegant, exaggerated gestures toward his tablemates, as one noble greeting another.

  Elryc nudged him sharply, but Genard paid no heed. He climbed his bench, danced a clumsy jig. Conversation fell to a hush.

  “Look, I’m a king!” Genard’s voice was a strangled squawk. He leaped to the floor, began to dance and twirl, ever more foolishly.

  Hands cupped over the bowl of still water, I watched his face grow red from exertion.

  Genard capered around the hall, spinning, twitching, grinning like the oaf he was. His arms flapped. “I’m king!” His frenzied feet jerked and twisted ever faster. Sweat beaded his forehead, his cheeks. A great gaping grin, and behind it, eyes wide with terror. He stumbled, caught himself, began to hop maniacally from foot to foot.

  A hand shot out, splashed a goblet of wine full in my face. I spluttered, wiped my burning eyes.

  As my hands left the bowl Genard collapsed. He lay gasping, his face purple. His chest heaved. Elryc crouched, a protective hand on his shoulder.

  “To your chamber, lord King!” Rustin’s eyes blazed.

  “He mocked me. Did you—”

  Rust’s stiffened palm lashed out. A thunderclap, that rocked my head. “This very instant!”

  My hand shot to my blazing cheek. He raised his hand again. I flinched. His eyes were merciless. Mortified, I stumbled from my seat, rushed to the door.

  “Sir, take your leave!”

  “My lords, my ladies—I—please excuse—I must go!” I bolted to the stair, galloped up the steps to my bedchamber, trying to rub the sting from my cheek.

  My fist hammered the feathered bed.

  I loved Rustin as a brother, and I had lost him forever. I had no choice but to banish him from Stryx, from Caledon itself. If only ... but no, he’d struck me in front of my court, my intimates. Before my brother. Even Genard. I stifled a sob.

  On the stair, in the hall, unhurried footsteps. Behind me, the door closed. The bolt slid.

  “Rodrigo.”

  A dread. Why didn’t Rust call me Roddy, as always? Cautiously, I turned my head.

  He lowered himself, to sit alongside me. For an instant his hand flitted to my shoulder, but withdrew. His eyes were sorrowful. “There’s evil in you, my prince.”

  “Rust, he mocked my reading. He sat there moving his lips, peering at a cloth, scratching his head ...”

  “Practice the skill, if you would not be mocked.” He waved it away. “His misdeeds are not the issue.”

  It was a colloquy I mustn’t allow. “I’m sending you away.”

  “I call you to your vow.”

  “Release me.”

  “I will not.”

  Astonished, I raised my head. “Rust ...”

  “I love your life more than my own. Know you that?”

  In my throat, a lump. I could only nod.

  “Yet I despise your cruelty, the power you flaunt, the hurt you willingly bestow.” He tapped my chest with each word. “There ... is ... evil ... within ... you!”

  “In front of everyone, you ...” I couldn’t even say it. “I banish you, Rust. From all of Caledon.”

  “Very well, my lord. Live without the Still.”

  “You can’t—that’s not your ...” I swallowed. “Mother will understand. And Tryon.”

  “If you see them. Shall I pour stillsilver, that we learn who of us speaks truth?”

  “I swore to let you guide me, as older brother, as a father. Not to strike me as—”

  “As you strike Anavar?”

  “He’s a boy!”

  “What are you?”

  “Seventeen, and—”

  “A child.” Head in hands, he rocked. “A spiteful child, my prince. When you were crowned, I marveled at your wisdom, your gentle nobility, the courage that led Groenfil and Soushire and Cumber, all of Caledon, to your standard. You were a glory!”

  I squirmed in the heat of his praise.

  “But since the snows, what has befallen you? You beat Anavar, jeer at Genard, mock Willem, box Elryc’s ears—”

  “Once!”

  “Shall I box yours, if once is but a trifle?”

  “No!” I cupped palms over ears. In this mood, he was capable of anything.

  “How dare you misuse your Power to avenge yourself on a helpless boy?”

  “How dare you berate me? I’m king!”

  “And a fool! You’d make an enemy for life, over a table jape!”

  “You have no leave to censure me!”

  His whole form smoldered. His fists knotted and unknotted. Then the heated coals burst into flame. He stood. “I’ll leave, as you decree. Imps take your oath! Demons take the Still! You’ve no will to keep your word. See if you have power to rule Caledon.” He strode to the door, unbolted it, hurled it open. “I bid you good-day!”

  And he was gone.

  From my high window, cursing, I watched him cross the dusk, to the stable. Long moments later, he cantered to the gate, bid the guardsman open.

  Out the gate. I couldn’t contain my glee.

  Down the hill. A good riddance.

  He was halfway to Stryx before I came to my senses.

  I bounded down the stairs. “Guards! Saddle and mount! Stop him!” I thrust the sentry toward the stable. “Now, you fool! Tell Lord Rustin I’ll keep my vow!”

  Bootless, I danced from foot to foot. It took them forever to saddle their mounts, canter out the gate.

  I rushed upstairs, thrust my head out the window. I couldn’t see him, but perhaps, behind a bush, an overhang ...

  A dozen guardsmen raced down the hill, spears in their saddle grommets, swords bouncing. Lord of Nature, did I tell them not to hurt him? What if they ... I bit my knuckle. Surely they knew.

  Night was fallen. I paced my chamber, feverish and distraught. Elryc came, but in a frenzy I sent him away.

  At the foot of the hill, Rust might turn left to town, or pass through the Keep to the northern coast road. If my guards missed his track ...

  It was only for the Still. Not for Rust himself. Without the Still I couldn’t hold Caledon. I cared not a whit for my erstwhile friend, my mentor, my gentle confidant—

  An anguished sound, akin to a sob.

  I bit my knuckle, hurled myself onto the cushions. It wasn’t Rustin whose absence cleaved my heart. It was the Still.

  Truly.

  “My Lord?” A voice in the hall, hushed.

  “Send him in!”

  “Sire, he’s ...” the guardsman hesitated. “We have him, at the edge of town. He refuses to come. We weren’t sure if you wanted him ... ah, by force.”

  “Tell him ...” Best put it in writing. I searched for parchment, found none. Very well. My humiliation would be known to my guards, and the world. “Tell him I sincerely beg his pardon and ask that he resume his station. That I won’t contest him again. That
I beg his return, to teach me what he might.”

  The door closed.

  For the Still.

  It was for the Still.

  Three

  “HAVE I LEAVE TO go down?” My voice was hopeful.

  “No.”

  It was the third day. I was imprisoned in my bedchamber. No lock secured the stout oaken door, no bars, no gaoler save myself and Rustin’s iron word.

  I squirmed. The vile things he’d said to me, while I’d laid sniveling on my bed. Step by remorseless step he’d made me acknowledge the impulsive, thoughtless cruelty I’d inflicted upon my household, my family, my ward Anavar. In a way I was glad of the respite from their sight; I knew not how to face them.

  My dinners were the simple fare we fed our servants, but I didn’t really mind. Though I missed the wine; Rustin forbade me even a drop. As punishment, he said, not that he thought me a drunkard.

  Asking pardon of Anavar was excruciating, of Genard even more so. Rust had found some fault in my manner, shut out the stableboy, cuffed me lightly over and again until I pleaded desperately for a chance to make amends. It wasn’t that his blows hurt. It was the disgust, the contempt with which he bestowed them. Had I truly earned such disfavor?

  In my secret heart that no man must ever see, I feared it was so. All my life I’d toyed with a desire to hurt. Crowned, now that all bowed to me, temptation abounded. Especially when I was weak, after invoking the Still, it was so easy to order Anavar about, berate the servants, twit Genard, abuse the stablemen. Who could gainsay me?

  I hunched on the bed. Better had Rust intervened earlier, before his temper had been well and truly ignited. A few sharp words ... well, he’d said them, and I’d paid no heed. He ought have given warning, then, that he’d tolerate no more cruelty.

  I’d had that, and ignored it.

  An arm fell around me. “Why do you mope, youngsire?”

  I swallowed. “How do I make myself better than I am?”

  “Could this be remorse?” Rust raised my chin.

  “Please don’t laugh.”

  He rubbed my shoulders. “Welcome back, my prince. Now you’re the Roddy I love.”

  “Do you really?” It was a whisper, scarce spoken.

  “Always.” He sat by my side, folded his legs. “Roddy, I think all men have a touch of evil. But in a king, it’s a great hazard. You more than most must learn to control your darker nature.”

  “It comes on me without thought.” I was earnest, a puppy seeking his master’s approval. “That day in market, I bought Anavar a sheath he coveted. Then I slapped him.”

  “You did worse.”

  I searched my mind. “How?”

  “You are king. We depend on your constancy.” He slipped from the bed, knelt on the rush mat. “Tantroth’s rider came with dispatches. I turned the castle on its head, searching for you, before learning you’d sworn the gateman to secrecy and stolen down the hill. Like a mere boy, but now you’re king!”

  I felt my ears redden.

  “What must your people think? Then, to top all, you ran riot in the market. The hatter, the furrier ... you destroyed their livelihood, yet without them you are naught.”

  “How so?”

  “Think you that by grace of nobles alone you rule? The furrier, his sons, his nephews and neighbors man your ramparts, tromp alongside your wagons, guard your camp, cook your stew, sling your arrows. Lose their faith, Roddy, and you lose all.” He offered me a cloth. “Wipe your eyes.”

  “Do you know I’m sorry?”

  “Yes, my prince.” He tousled my hair. “But it won’t do. You must master your behavior, not regret it.”

  I craved absolution, and there was but one way to earn it. “What will you do to me?”

  “Nothing. It’s beyond that. I’d have you seek a ritemaster. There’s a good one not far from Lady Soushire’s court. We’ll be there in a few weeks.”

  “For the Rite of Cleansing?”

  “Expulsion.”

  I took shuddering breath. “Think you an imp has seized my soul?” I’d sworn by them often enough, and as any dolt knew, that summoned them.

  “Perhaps.”

  I swallowed bile. “What if he can’t—can’t be—”

  “I’ll love you still.”

  Blindly, I groped, fell into his soothing embrace.

  “There’s one more thing,” Rust said gently. He rummaged through a chest, dropped a handful of scrolls in my lap. “Practice reading. Put a finger to your lips, like so. Learn to keep your mouth still, and Genard won’t mock.”

  Meekly, I complied.

  On the sixth day, he let me downstairs, for an hour. I flung open the door, breathed in the chill wind with unfettered joy. “Have I leave to go out?”

  “Not today.”

  I battled a gush of rage. I won, but it left me shaken. “As you say, sir.”

  Approvingly, he clapped me on me back. “Perhaps I was too hasty. Say hello to Ebon.”

  In a trice I was out the door, cloakless, careless, racing to the stable. I met old Griswold, under the hayloft, forking hay into a handcart.

  “Do you ride today, my lord?”

  I found a juicy apple I thought Ebon would like. “Rustin won’t let me.” Lord of Nature! I colored, aghast that I’d made so public an admission of my state.

  Griswold seemed not to notice. “Genard’s taken him for exercise each day.”

  “But he’s Elryc’s man now. Does he still work the stable?”

  “No, and it’s a pity. The new boy is ...” he sighed. “He did it for Ebon. And just possibly for you.”

  “You ... heard?”

  “Yes.” His visage was stony.

  “I’m sorry.”

  “Your mother would be not proud.”

  “She turned away, when I told her.” My voice was tremulous. Far more than Rustin’s ire, that had pained me.

  I fed Ebon, stroked him, crooned to him, and hurried back to the donjon, anxious not to breach my parole.

  Rustin was deep in converse with Jestrel, the silversmith. On an open cloth before them lay a handful of extraordinary castings. A lovely dove, whose silver wings glistened. A castle, complete even unto the silver banner flying high from a turret.

  “... two days ride beyond the high passes.”

  Rustin said, “We were stopped at the pass.”

  “A gift to the guards ...” Shrugging, Jestrel fingered a tiny silver squirrel. “It’s expected.” As I neared, he stood and bowed. “My lord, we were speaking of the Warthen.” A hesitation. “Sire, is it meet that we leave your city? Now that King Freisart’s gone ... I don’t speak for his cousins Bertholda and Rosalind, but surely your generosity must reach an end.”

  I’d been thinking as much, but his forthright manner swayed me. Before Rust could guide me I said, “You’re welcome, until the roads dry. Entertain us with stories of your travels.” He flushed with pleasure. “Beyond spring, I cannot promise you a bed. I may lose my own.”

  “Hriskil is a menace, yes.” Jestrel pondered. “Always building. He’s expanding the walls of Ghanz, even now. Lord of Nature knows why. The old walls were handsome enough, and it’s not as if he fears attack.” When the Ukras swarmed his eastern border, Hriskil had set the Rood over his troops, and the enemy lines had swirled in fear and confusion. Later, they’d made treaty.

  The seventh day, Rust freed me from captivity, with a stern lecture that dampened my spirits for at least an hour.

  A long, late, luxurious morning meal, then back up to my room to don my best garb, for the King’s Justice. A formality, really, but one Mother had insisted on.

  In Stryx, old Vessa had been Speaker of the City. I allowed him his office still, though it was much diminished now the town was impoverished. He was, in theory, spokesman and intermediary for the masses of townsmen who lived below our walls.

  But any churl, aggrieved by judgment of the king’s justiciar, could appeal past Vessa directly to the crown. In Mother’s reign, that meant the
queen herself. One day each fortnight was set aside for the purpose. She affirmed nearly all her officials’ decrees, but on occasion her sense of justice was offended, and she reversed them, ignoring their pained protest.

  I’d continued the practice. Few cases from outlying regions were brought, now the Norlanders held much of the countryside. My petitioners came primarily from Stryx.

  This day there were seven. Wearing a beautiful ermine robe and my favorite coronet, I took my place on the simple throne—nothing more than a raised chair, actually—at the far end of the great hall. Willem, a participant in the mummery, tapped his rod of office. “Let the petitioners approach!”

  The first case involved an old woman who’d refused shelter to her grown son. The justiciar had ruled in his favor, relying on the well-settled rule that a parent’s obligation never ceased. I confirmed his decision. In the audience Rust raised an eyebrow, but I ignored him. What if Mother had thrown me out on my ear? Would I not have demanded her succor? At any rate, it wasn’t my role to make law. Not in this setting. Although ...

  “I amend my ruling. Let the mother provide shelter, as if to a youth. It is her obligation. But let her set likewise the youth’s hours, and his work, and she shall say yea or nay to his drink.” The assembly tittered. Encouraged, I added, “And as to his consorting with women.” A roar of laughter. The son’s fists knotted, and his brow was a thundercloud.

  The next case involved three churls, a shared plowhorse, and the hours of sowing each man’s lot. I understood not a word of it, and let the ruling stand.

  They brought forward two bound boys, one about fourteen, the other my age. Filthy clothes, the sour smell of an alehouse. In the audience, a woman wailed; someone angrily hushed her. Two rough-looking men thrust themselves forward to stand with the youths, wringing their hats.

  The criminals shuffled from foot to foot. The younger seemed unconcerned. With a gap-toothed grin, he waved at someone in the crowd until a guard cuffed him still.

  Absently stroking my scar, I heard out the sordid tale. A drunken spree. Chairs smashed at the tavern. Drinks unpaid. The boys had fled into the alley.

  I sighed. But there was more.

  In the dead of night, they’d been caught stumbling about a widow’s shed, thrusting her squawking chickens into a bag.