Chance (23 page)

“There,” he breathed.

“Put it back!” hissed Worth.

“Nay, indeed. I plan to feed my brothers and sister if you will not.” Ward reached for Hal's sword. Worth restrained him.

“You will get yourself killed!” he cried, forgetting silence. “If I did not submit to the lord's demands we would all be dead!” His wife stirred, and he lowered his voice again. “Put that helm back. What, boy, do you think they will tamely let you have it?”

Ward shook off his father's grip. “They are outlaws,” he said impatiently. “They have no recourse.”

“No recourse!” Worth choked, then laughed heartily and silently, a rare event for him and one his son could least stand, to be laughed at. “Do you mean to tell me you have not noticed Hal's power?” he gasped. “You cannot face him and prevail.”

Anger and frustration rushed through Ward—the interfering old man! He struck out at his father with the hand that clutched the silver helm, knocking Worth sideways with a metallic thud. The next instant he was himself flung backwards, landing hard on the dirt floor. Hal's hands pinned him there, and he lay frozen, unable to move, stunned by the blazing wrath in those moonlit eyes; he had never seen such flashing fury. Hal panted with rage, and yet when he spoke he spoke evenly. “Now listen,” he said. The phrase was a command. “I will lie and watch you filch from my pack, and if there were any coin in there I'd let you have it. I would have given it to you before now. And I will lie and watch you finger my helm. But I will not lie and watch you strike your father. That you do at your peril.”

Worth was standing behind Hal, pale. “Don't hurt him, Lord,” he begged, and Ward realized with a sudden pang that Worth's fear was all for his worthless son.

Hal got up and in the same effortless motion he lifted Ward upright, grasping him by the shoulders, shaking him. “If I had a father like yours,” he said intensely, “if I had ever had a loving father, even for a day—”

“Hush, Hal.” Alan stood beside him. “You'll wake the little one.”

He released Ward and turned away from him. “Let's go.”

“In the middle of the night?” Alan asked mildly.

“Ay, so much the better. The wind is up again; it will cover our traces before dawn. Let's go.” He turned to the goodman. “The deer is hanging in the brush behind the cowshed, frozen. Eat it or trade the meat for what you need.”

“What can I give you for thanks?” asked Worth. “I owe you so much.…”

“Your loyalty. You will know what to do when the time comes.”

Now Hal was King, Sunset King. Worth had helped make him so. And now he had encountered Ward again. The youth stared back at him, white-faced, and he had seen himself through those frightened eyes.

Hal vaulted down off his elfin steed, waved his retainers onward and strode to where Ward stood, took his limp hand in welcome. The youth trembled under that touch.

“Ward! I can't believe it!” Alan stood by Hal's side, warmth and concern in this voice. “What brings you to Laueroc? Nothing wrong, I hope?”

The youth lifted his lowered eyes, incredulous. They were greeting him as old friends! His lips moved, but he could not produce an answer.

“Is your father all right?” Alan asked worriedly.

“Fine!” Ward stammered. “He lost an arm in the fighting—” He looked down again. His so-called coward of a father had led the assault on the lord's stronghold while he, Ward, had trembled in line, missed his aim—

“But he is all right without it?” Hal asked.

Ward nodded.

“Of course, he would be,” said Hal. “He has that quiet courage. How are your mother and the little ones?”

“Fine.” Ward managed the one word and no more. He faced his King whom he had wronged, his King who had swept away the lordsmen like dirt off the land. His head swam and he could not meet those gray eyes. “Lord,” he whispered, “please kill me and have it done with.”

“Mothers, what am I to do with him?” Hal appealed. “Ward, can't you tell I mean you no harm?”

“Bring him in,” Alan said. “This is going to take a while.” At a soft glance from Hal he smiled and went in himself, to his castle chamber, his lady and his supper. Hal led Ward and the horses to the stable. He rubbed his steed dry with a cloth while Ward watched in wonder. How one so kingly could care for his own—

“Surely you don't really want me to kill you, Ward,” Hal remarked. “What is the matter? Why have you come to see me?”

“I—Lord, I am so ashamed. I must make amends somehow.”

“Why? That row we had?” Hal paused as he pulled down fodder, looked at the youth. “It was nothing. We can forget it, we have both grown since then. Alan tells me that everyone hates his father one time or another, that it is part of the love.”

Ward winced. He had lately left his father with a harvest to get in, all for no better reason than his own uneasy ache. “I feel as if I've done nothing right in all my life,” he said.

Hal snorted, blanketing a horse. “Let go of shame for a while, Ward, and think! Turn and face the thing that is chasing you.”

The youth stood stiff with fear again. “But that's just it,” he whispered. “The shame.”

“Not a certain dream in the night?”

Ward shook and sweated as if the fever had hold of him at last. “I knew it was real,” he said hoarsely.

“I gave you strong herbs,” Hal said. “You should have been fast asleep. You should never have seen.”

“I was a coward, I would not move to help you—”

“Help me!” Hal exclaimed. “Even Alan could not help me much that night. I could scarcely help myself. I could scarcely stand.”

“I am a coward!” Words burst out of Ward. “I saw your power, you defeated Death himself, you are—you are a wizard, or a god, I don't know what you are, you saved us all and I hated you for it, I am such a wretch! I am terrified of you, I wish you would strike me so I could hate you—” Ward covered his quivering face with his hands. “Liege, help me,” he choked.

Incredibly, he felt arms around him. “It is all right, truly it is,” said Hal softly. “Those were dark days, dark years. You were filled with bitterness, and I—after that night with Arawn I was so tired I had no patience, no strength to befriend you. I must always struggle to befriend. Your fear is the price Arawn mentioned, the price I pay.”

Ward stopped trembling and glanced up, startled. Hal nodded at him, his face bleak, his gray eyes unnaturally bright.

“It is not just you.… Ward, whatever gave you the notion that you are a coward, that you do nothing right? You are here, are you not? Here, inches from me? Why?”

“Amends.…”

“Then you are honorable as well as brave.” With a small smile Hal released him. “There is no need for amends. Just seeing you here is enough.”

“It is not enough,” said Ward with a daring that surprised him. “Lord, there must be something I can do.”

“A penance?” Hal grumbled. “No need.” But Ward did not hear; a thought had taken hold of him.

“You say my fear—people's fear—is the price you pay for—being what you are?”

Hal only nodded, watching him.

The youth felt as if he was risking his life. All wary instincts made him feel that way. Nevertheless, he squared his shoulders, straightened himself with a long indrawn breath and met the bright gray eyes. It had to be done, even if he should die for his temerity—

“Why, then, Liege, if it pleases you, I for one will no longer be afraid,” he said, unwavering. And he saw with delight that for once in his life he had done something exactly, ineffably right. Joy touched those shining eyes.

“Amends are made,” Hal said.

THE DOG-KING OF VAIRE

I am Fabron, speaking to you from the reaches of the wind. I was king of the canton of Vaire in Vale when I was alive. I came to my throne by virtue of threats and greed, but I tried to be a good king. I wanted to be well remembered. I rode the rounds of my canton yearly, hearing my people's concerns, and every horse and retainer of my entourage wore ornaments of my own making, most of them gold. I had been a smith, and smiths were honored people; we worked magic with metal, and metal conferred its own ancient magic on us: we were healers, smiths and the sons of smiths. At least, some of us were.… For myself, I wore a breastplate all in chain links, and a chain belt to my sword, and the staghound—the emblem of Vaire—leaping on my helm. I dressed in sober velvets to set off my artistry. Jewels and brooches show better thus.

But it was not in such array that Frain first saw me—Frain, my son, who did not know me. Spring had come and was turning into summer, but I was not holding court or preparing to ride through my domain. Mela, my wife of many years, lay ill with a wasting fever, and I stayed constantly in her chamber, seeing no one. She did not ask for me. Indeed, she had turned dead to me many years before, after we had sold Frain. Not that she was cold or disobedient—she was ever an obedient wife—but something had died within her. I did not understand; I thought we would have many babies, and what matter was one the less? High King Abas had had need of a child to prove his continuing fertility and to keep his vassals content. He had paid me dearly for it, first in gold, and later in power when I threatened to expose him. But I had paid dearly, too, over the years. Frain was our first child and our last. I had not reckoned, perhaps, on the anger of the goddess who abides in all women. So Mela lay moaning and did not speak to me or cry out my name, and I could not help her. I felt somehow to blame—I always felt to blame for any ill in her life since I took Frain from her.

The door opened. I looked up wearily, expecting another officious servant, but it was Wayte, my captain of guards, with an iron dagger at his throat. Other guards were milling about outside the door like beleaguered sheep. They were armed, of course, and so was Wayte, but they risked his life if they drew a weapon.

It was Frain who held the dagger on Wayte. I knew him at once, for I had made shift to see him a few times during the years, standing behind a buttress and watching him in the courtyard at Melior when he was too young and careless to notice. He was a sturdy youth now, with auburn hair and high, freckled cheekbones, and an earnest, open look about him. He seemed hardly more dangerous than the toothless baby I had given for gold. Yet there he was with his arms locked around Wayte's shoulders and the dagger at his throat. The captain stood almost a head above him.

“I beg pardon, my lord,” he said to me. “They told me I could not see you, but my business could not wait.”

His voice was clean and courteous, like his looks, but there was nothing crawling about it, no anxious entreaty. He is a prince, I thought, and I longed to go to him and embrace him. Instead, I kept my place and spoke gruffly through my beard. “Let that so-called captain of mine go,” I said.

He did not move. “Your word, my lord, that I will not be harmed.”

I nodded, waving the other guards away. Frain loosened his grip, and Wayte bowed and left without a word, his face angry and white. The fellow was expecting my wrath; he did not know the joy he had brought me.

“Prince Frain,” I asked as collectedly as I could, “what brings you here?”

He whistled softly. “I had not expected, my lord, that you would recognize me! Have you heard of the events in Melior, then?”

“No, I have had no news from Melior. I know your face, that is all. What has happened to bring you here with your fine linen half torn from your back?”

He glanced down at himself ruefully. “Your guards would never have admitted such a vagabond. Have I your lordship's leave to seat myself?”

“Of course, of course!” I exclaimed hastily, suddenly aware of the poor account I was giving of myself. I was in a lethargy of despair from Mela's illness, roughly dressed, scarcely washed or combed, and now scant in courtesy. I bustled to clear a space on my cluttered couch. “I beg your pardon. Please sit and tell me what news you will.”

Such a tale he told me. His so-called brother Tirell had rebelled against his mad father at last, it seemed. Abas had done murder, and Tirell had led Frain on a wild ride into Acheron itself—Acheron, where no sane man will set foot. And then fighting, and a strange, ominous black beast—I gaped in amazement, but Frain's voice was so careful and modest that I believed every word he told me. Finally, in canny desperation, Tirell had sent Frain to me.

“Tirell hopes—no, expects—that you will help us overthrow Melior,” Frain explained.

“He is mad, you have said,” I remarked dryly.

“Aye, so he is. Though perhaps”—Frain cocked a clear eye at me—“not in that regard.”

“How is he mad, then?”

Frain sighed, thinking, and for the first time I saw real pain in his fine brown eyes; he had kept away from emotion before. “He has taken his love and grief,” Frain said slowly, “and turned it all to hard hate and vengeance with a cutting edge. He hardly moves or speaks except for vengeance. There is no human warmth in him these days, not toward any being of human kind.”

“But he fends for himself well enough day to day?” I asked.

“All too well,” he wryly agreed.

“And you, Prince Frain—” How I yearned to call him Frain, my son. But I would not do that. Long silence is not lightly to be broken.

“You need not call me prince,” he put in. “I have never been ‘princed' much. Tirell is the prince in Melior.”

“And you, Frain,” I said softly, “do you accord with Prince Tirell in this bid for the throne?”

“I have followed him since I was old enough to walk.”

“And now that you are old enough to think,” I returned sharply, “will you follow a madman?”

“Thinking is the least of it,” Frain replied slowly. “To be sure, he is brave, and comely, and honorable in his way, and there is vision in him, perhaps even some wisdom. But I believe I would follow him even if he were a wretch. Because of something in me; I don't know what.”