The King (Rodrigo of Caledon Book 2) Page 6

  My heels tensed at the spurs. “At a gallop?”

  “And leave our foot soldiers in our dust?” Tursel’s eyes twinkled. “Steady, my lord. A canter will do.”

  I blushed. It was hateful to be a boy, at war.

  We maneuvered through the crossroads in surprisingly good order, and turned away from Danzik’s camp, toward the hills. Only two wagons got mired in the roiled sand, and a score of willing hands propelled them to firm ground. I darted Ebon back and forth, urging greater speed, helping clear the way, checking the progress of our soldiers, until Rustin caught my reins and led me protesting to the side of the road.

  After a time Anavar joined us, and I occupied myself governing his behavior, his stance, his manner, until I caught him exchanging amused glances with Rust. Then I subsided into sulky silence that lasted almost an hour.

  We rode well past dark, by torchlight. Hunger and dancing shadows left me dizzy. Grateful to make camp, I dismounted, ran into the bush, relieved myself of an endless stream.

  My bondsmen were hard at work. As they ought to be, having spent the day at nothing more strenuous than walking alongside the wagons, or sneaking rides when their betters’ eyes were elsewhere.

  Bollert tended horses. Tanner helped raise tents, starting with mine, then busied himself at the cookfire. I’d left him to lick his wounds. Mother, I knew, would have had him hanged to set an example. Even now, she urged me to do so. But, thievery aside, he was a willing enough worker, once taught. I couldn’t send him to guests’ rooms, light-fingered; that meant I’d have to occupy him myself. Rustin was right; I had no business taking on such a burden.

  Tursel set pickets and outriders, and urged me to bed. We’d have ample warning of attack, he said. Sleepily, I undressed, handing my garb to Tanner.

  Rust was already beneath the covers. “Thank you for what you said.” His voice was soft. “Consider it this week’s kindness. Fold it, you loon. On the chair, where he’ll have—” He sighed, as Tanner fumbled haplessly with my clothes. “Did you live in a barn?”

  “Only a year, m’lord.”

  Instantly, Rust was out of bed. “I’m sorry, Tanner.” He took the leggings from the abashed young bondsman, folded them. “Like so. They gave you a blanket? Good. Go now.” He closed the flap.

  Outside, fire painted fanciful pictures on the canvas.

  Silence. Then Rust said, “If I touch you, you’ll bolt from the tent.” His tone became wistful. “Never have you feared me.”

  “I don’t.” My protest rang hollow.

  We lay apart.

  An hour passed. I had not a prayer of sleep. “Rust, I’m sorry I don’t feel ...” I could barely say it. “I know you covet me.”

  “As you say, my prince, that time is done.”

  “Can you abide it?”

  A sigh. “I must, if I’m to be with you.” Affably, he patted my flank. “Sleep, Rodrigo. I’ll content myself with friendship.”

  Soushire was at best a day’s journey, even if the trail was uncontested. We rode in silence. It was a miserable day, gray, damp and aguey. The trees dripped. It was too warm for a cloak, but without it one’s clothes would be soaked. We gnawed on cold rations for midday meal, and plodded on our way.

  Tursel was cautious that we avoid Norland patrols. Three times we stopped, waited in the silent steaming wood while his scouts probed the valleys ahead.

  It was dusk before we reached Lady Larissa’s lands. We camped in a pasture rather than ride on and rouse her castle after dark.

  In a vaulted receiving room of her keep, Lady Larissa of Soushire clasped pudgy hands over her ample stomach. “Your uncle asks only that we make common cause against—”

  “I won’t invite Duke Margenthar into our counsels.” I shot a glance to Rust, to see if he disapproved my obstinacy, but his face showed nothing. He clasped his hands behind his back, wandered to the diamond-paned window of her hall. The Earl of Groenfil was on the march and would join us within hours.

  She said, “Consider, sire. His holding of Verein is but a long day’s ride from Stryx, and would provide the Norlanders a substantial base from which to assail your royal seat of power. When you spurn Margenthar—”

  “Madam, he strangled my brother. What’s more, he’d betray us on a whim. For the mere joy of it.”

  “Can you afford to choose your friends?”

  I nodded, to concede the point. “If I tell him when and where we strike, what’s to stop his selling the knowledge to the Norlanders?”

  “Self-interest, I would think.” She selected a dried plum, examined it, frowned, chose another. “What’s to stop him giving Danzik the castle of Verein?”

  I chewed my lip. The lady’s questions meant she was in parlay with my uncle. It wasn’t surprising, considering the proximity of their estates. But by bringing me Mar’s proposal, she was willing that I know it. That was surprising.

  I asked, “What does Groenfil think?”

  “He says his brother-in-law Mar has a force that should be treated with care.”

  “Yes, Madam. What does he think?”

  It was her turn to bow for a point scored. “That Mar is a snake, but a dangerous one, and Groenfil wouldn’t have those words heard outside his chamber, lest they be told to Mar.” She busied herself with the tray of fruits.

  Without giving answer, I bade good night and retired to the quarters she’d prepared for my use.

  Groenfil was yet to join us. The delay was maddening. By the time he did, it would be too late in the day to set forth. A bad omen; even were we to lunge for the coast on the morrow, Danzik’s spies would give him an extra day’s warning.

  I sent a servant to request that a ritemaster be summoned.

  Afterward, fretting over Lady Soushire’s words, I paced our chamber, while Rust lounged by the window. Anavar sat crosslegged on the floor, cleaning his fingernails with his bejeweled dagger. I growled, “I won’t have it, Rust. I’ve forgiven Tantroth his invasion. I’ll ride with Uncle Raeth’s Imbar, whom I detest. I’ll make treaty with the Ukras, should it be possible. Anyone but Uncle Mar.”

  “All right.”

  “He ruined my face. He threatened to geld me. He took me captive under Tantroth’s truce.”

  “Understood.”

  “I won’t do it!”

  Anavar grinned. “Calm yourself, sir. You fight shadows. None of us suggested you treat with Mar.”

  “He’s stable dung. He’s—”

  Rust put an arm around my shoulder, lifted the ewer brimming with wash water over my head.

  “Rust, don’t!”

  “You’ll compose yourself?”

  “Yes!” Rolling my eyes, I sank onto the bed. My unhinged guardian was capable of any affront.

  The aged ritemaster was from a small village, a holding of Soushire. Perhaps Lady Larissa summoned him often; his cart was laden with his vessels and the implements of his rites. His name was Hembir.

  We were taking a considerable risk; if word got out that the king might be possessed, my following would melt away. Furthermore, I had little doubt that Lady Soushire had a spyhole to our chamber; she’d have been foolish not to.

  All that, I knew, but to share my body with an imp was unbearable. The mere thought gave me cold sweats.

  Sworn to secrecy on the mightiest of oaths, Hembir was told what we wanted. We would perform the rite in my chamber, while waiting for Groenfil.

  Even Anavar was banished from the room; ward or no, he’d been told nothing of what we contemplated. Only Rustin, I and Hembir remained.

  After the ritual bath, I lay shivering on my bed, dressed only in white. Even my pant rope was banned as the wrong color.

  “Ritemaster, if there’s no imp ... ?”

  “The rite will do no harm.”

  “Will it hurt, if an imp is within?”

  “It will not pain your body. But the essence of your being ...” Hembir toyed with his white mustache. “My lord, it’s best we begin.”

  Most rites were
mumbo-jumbo, weren’t they? The Rite of Mourning was useful, and that of confession, in which one’s shameful secrets were banished to the breaking jar, but as for the rest ...

  Hembir wouldn’t hurt me. If he did, Rustin would instantly put a stop to it, and to him. Why then, did acrid sweat trickle down my flanks? Why did my heart pound so hard the bed quivered on its ropes?

  Hembir began his ritual. The taper was passed around the bed. Incense filled the room. “Tombala, iskerd ot forra. Seti onis Rodrigo asta! Tombala, iskerd ot forra ...” Hear, creature of night. Take thyself from Rodrigo. His chant was soft, yet compelling. The incense stung my eyes.

  Nothing happened. After a time my heartbeat eased.

  Seven times Hembir carried the candle around my still form. He upended a jar, took from it a damp cloth. Without warning he seized my robe, threw it open, drew a wet circle on my chest.

  The candle guttered.

  Hembir’s eyes narrowed. “Something’s there, my lord.”

  “Get it out!” Almost, I tore at my ribs.

  Hembir relit the taper. I thrashed on the sweat-soaked bed.

  “Seti onis Rodrido asta! Tombala iskerd ot forra.”

  All the times I’d spoken so foolishly: imps take this, demons take that. I’d opened myself to a vile creature of the night. From within, it watched my every move, heard my every thought.

  “Don’t weep, my prince. I am with thee.”

  “Rust, I’m so—”

  From the depths of my chest, a horrid thump that raised me a handsbreadth off the bed, dropped me paralyzed. The room faded.

  Rustin dived across the room.

  Hembir rasped, “Don’t touch him!”

  “He’s—”

  With a gasp and a rattle, my breath renewed.

  “SETI ONIS RODRIGO ASTA!” The ritemaster’s face was damp with perspiration. He loomed over me, his mouth set in grim resolve.

  From within, a swirling. I couldn’t breathe, speak, swallow. My eyes bulged. The room faded to gray mist, not unlike that of Mother’s cave.

  “Tombala iskerd ot forra. Seti onis Rodrido asta!”

  My heart thudded. A form surged from the core of my being, hurled itself at Hembir. The old man flew across the bedchamber, slammed into the far wall.

  “GET THEE GONE, PUNY MANLING!” Varon of the Steppe, my great-grandsire. His eyes blazed. Abruptly he faded to smoke, disappeared.

  Hembir lay dazed, his taper extinguished, his jar shattered.

  On the bed, someone was mewling.

  It was Rodrigo, the king.

  Five

  “WHERE AM I?”

  It was evening, and I lay on a bedsheet. Gently, Rustin sponged me, with cloth from a basin.

  “We’re in—”

  “Soushire.” Memory sprang on me like a wolf in the night. I leaped from the bed. “Where’s a silver?” I found it by the door. I stared at my image, searching for the crater in my chest that must be, for the sign I was not alone within.

  Nothing. Only myself, trembling, scarred, nude.

  Rustin brought a robe.

  “Don’t come near! I may hurt—”

  He laid it across my shoulders, fastened the clasp.

  “Take care, Rust. I don’t know what I might—”

  He kissed me on the forehead. “Come, my prince.” He led me to the bed, guided my toes into a pair of breeks.

  “You’re not afraid?”

  “No, Roddy.”

  “You saw him?”

  “A shapeless form. After Hembir left, you thrashed about, muttering the name of Varon.”

  I stayed his hand from my lacings. “Rustin, if I beg a thing of you, will you do it? If I truly beg?”

  “It’s most likely.” His smile was the glow of dawn.

  “Kill me. Right now, while I have the courage. I don’t want to—”

  His palm stopped my mouth. “That you cannot ask.”

  “Everyone knows imps flee a corpse. Varon will too, and then—”

  “You’re not to speak of it, or I’ll beat you.” His mouth was tight. “I forbid it. What do you say to me?”

  “All right, I’ll—”

  He slapped my mouth. “What do you say?”

  “Yes, sir!” My voice caught. “I won’t kill myself, or speak of it.”

  “Oh, Roddy!” He gathered me into a ferocious hug. I clung to him, seeking his strength.

  After a time I wiped my nose, bent to finish the lacing.

  “Besides, my prince, you have another course.” He gestured to the ewer, and the empty bowl. “Go to them. Ask of it.”

  “Ask Varon?” My tone held horror.

  “Why not?”

  “What if he ...” I ground to a halt. Why not? Never had he hurt me. Sometimes I even amused him. It seemed, on reflection, a far saner course than ending my life. A knot in my stomach began to ease. “I like the idea. Yes. Bring the ewer.”

  “After you’ve slept. You’re weak as a kitten.”

  “Right now.”

  “It’s been a trying day, my prince.” His voice was exceedingly gentle. “My temper is near unraveled. Do as I say in this. I ask you with courtesy.”

  Headstrong I might be, but I was not an utter fool. “Yes, Rust. May I at least have to eat, and greet my Earl Groenfil?” I threw on a cloak, waited politely for his nod, hurried downstairs.

  We plunged down a ravine thick with undergrowth, our horses neighing and sliding on the wet earth. Earl Groenfil, his face dark, spat out orders, encouragements, warnings to his troops. Lady Soushire, more sedate, sat back on her white palfrey and let her men at arms struggle on their own. For my part, I relied on Tursel, who’d forgotten more of war than I’d ever learned.

  Our trail was more downhill than not, and I’d had hope we’d reach the Norlanders’ camp near Stryx before night made battle impossible. But the sultry wind had died, and the skies grown ominously dark with brooding clouds that foretold a spring storm. We’d conferred, decided to bow to the inevitable, and chosen a suitable clearing for our camp. Another day wasted.

  Moreover, our early start from Soushire had made it impossible for me to lose myself in the Still before leaving; sometimes hours would pass before I could rouse myself from its mysteries. At least an early camp would give me opportunity to seek Mother’s cave.

  My tent was no more than half raised before the first raindrops were upon us, scouts of a host to follow. The more advice I gave Bollert and Tanner, the more clumsy their work. My exhortations, my curses, seemed to have no effect.

  The crash of thunder. Thick sheets of rain dropped onto the clearing. Sweating, Anavar wound tent ropes around the pounded stakes and pulled them tight. My tent was swaybacked, leaning as if too tired to stand, but erect. Hastily Anavar adjusted the flap, to deflect the pounding rain. Hunched atop Ebon, cloak over my head, I nodded grudging thanks.

  Hair plastered to his scalp, Anavar grinned up at me. Water dripped from his nose. His clothes were beyond soaked, as if fished from a washing stream.

  His eyes darted to his own’ tent, barely begun. Turning over the canvas, Bollert and Tanner dragged it carelessly through the mud.

  The pounding rain had soaked his tent beyond salvage; it would need a thorough drying to be usable. Anavar shrugged, gave a rueful grimace.

  I had little choice. “Sleep with us the night.” I had to raise my voice over the slap of raindrops on the turf.

  “Thank you!” He held my reins. “Would you I unsaddled Ebon?”

  “You’ll be soaked.”

  He laughed, and for a moment I felt the fool. I dismounted, raised my cloak, hurried into the tent.

  Tanner rushed about, hauling chests and accoutrements into the soggy tent. I shivered. As lodging it would do, but barely. I wondered how Groenfil and Soushire fared in their tents across the clearing.

  A campfire was out of the question; we’d have to make do with cold rations. I waited impatiently for Rust to appear; he’d gone off with Tursel to arrange the camp. Tanner dropped ca
ndlesticks, stepped on pillows, gawking at everything, though he’d seen it before.

  Anavar swept aside the flap, bringing a bedroll, a bundle of clothes and a pungent aroma of damp horse. He made a face. “All of it wet. May I hang it from the poles?”

  “For now.”

  In moments he had the royal tent looking like a washwoman’s hovel. He peeled off his jerkin, his leggings, padded to the pole, draped his fragrant garments with the others. He squealed with joy. “A dry blanket!” Eagerly he wrapped himself, vigorously pummeled his hair with a damp cloth. He flicked a thumb at Tanner. “Where will he stay?”

  “Eh? Under a wagon, I suppose.” It didn’t matter.

  I sent my bondsmen for our dinner.

  Time at last to pour water into a bowl, wait for it to still, lay my hands across the top, murmur the familiar words. I closed my eyes. The cave grew more distinct.

  “Oh, no!” A cry of dismay.

  My eyes popped open.

  Feverishly, Anavar scrambled about the tent. “I had it, I know I did!”

  I glowered.

  “My dagger, sir! I laid down my sheath; I’m sure the dagger was in it.” He held up the empty sheath. “Perhaps in the mud ...” Barefoot, he rushed out.

  A moment later he was back, tracking mud. “Gone!”

  “The jewelled dagger I gave you.” The gift of Lady Soushire.

  “I didn’t mean ... yes, my lord.”

  My eyes were glowing coals.

  The cave mouth widened. A deep breath, for courage.

  I strode in.

  As bare as the cavern always was, today it seemed ... disorderly. Fagots were strewn about, the fire stones dislodged.

  Mother rose from her place at the fire. “Rodrigo.”

  Varon was gone. I felt immense relief. I bowed, as I had in life. “Madam.”

  “What foolishness was that?” She gestured to a shattered stone. “Have you no sense?” She wrapped her fraying robe tighter against a chill only she could feel.

  “Did I ... ?”