Glasswrights' Master (8 page)

Conquered by fools. Treacherous tools. Blood stood in pools.

Hal's anger crashed against his self-condemnation, against the nagging echoes of his own failure that had chased him ever since he left Morenia. Like a blind man familiar with a smooth path, he repeated the litany of his mistakes: He should have realized the danger before it struck. He should have determined that the Fellowship would move against him. He should have known that Holy Father Dartulamino would rise up, would sell him out to the Briantans, the Liantines, to anyone!

As if Puladarati could read the raging accusations inside Hal's mind, the leonine councillor gave him a stern glance before saying, “Very well, then, Davin. The city was taken by fools. We're all wise men here. We're all brave. Tell us how we can take it back. Fashion a solution for us.”

“Wise!” Davin snorted.

Hal felt a stout stick break across the rigid back of his control, a flash of anger and frustration sharper than he had felt since before the aborted War Rites in the cathedral. “Silence, old man!” He sprang to his feet and pointed a shaking finger at Davin, barely aware that Puladarati was jumping up to match his stance. “Loyal men died for me back there! They were not fools. They were not cowards. They were victims of a circumstance they did not choose, one they could not have predicted! They were men who were true to me, true to the house of ben-Jair, true to Moren and what she has stood for throughout all history.”

The words rushed into Hal's head, tumbled out of his mouth. They were hotter than the broth that Davin drank, hotter than the raging tears that Hal had smothered since his escape, hotter than the doubts that whispered behind his every thought. “Years ago, you came to us in shame, old man, having aided one of our greatest enemies. We took you in because we are merciful, and we fed you and we clothed you. We gave you a room to work in and supplies and assistants, all so that your old age would be comfortable. We looked to you as a confidant, as a companion, as a vassal.”

Hal's anger annealed into something new, something rigid, something stronger than all his years of self-doubt. He filled his lungs and braced himself against that rage, steady, firm, confident for the first time since he had fled to Sarmonia. “We expected great things from you, Davin of Amanthia. We expected you to serve us until the end of your days. You may not now walk away like a child who is tired of a game. You may not abandon us like a craven, a coward. You
will
find a way for us to return home. You
will
find a way for us to enter Moren. You
will
find a way for us to liberate our city and free our people and regain the crown and throne that are rightfully ours.”

A hot breeze whipped across the clearing, carrying the smell of a woodfire. Suddenly, Hal realized that his entire company was staring at him. Every voice was silent, every mouth open.

Embarrassed, Hal returned his attention to Davin. The old man gazed at him as well, a curious light in his bottomless eyes. Hal expected anger. He expected rebellion. He expected a sullen refusal to cooperate.

Instead, he found respect.

For a heartbeat, anyway, and then that emotion was replaced by Davin's usual hint of a smile, by the sardonic attitude he affected when he wanted most to annoy his liege. “As you command, my lord.”

Hal nodded once, accepting the agreement as if it were the most natural thing in the world. Then he turned his attention to Puladarati. “Tell the men to finish their meals. We'll organize a hunting party for the afternoon, give them something to do.”

“Aye, my lord.” Hal heard the emotion, even though he could not see it on his retainer's face. He heard scarce-smothered laughter, and he knew that Puladarati was pleased with him. With him? Or with Davin? What did it matter? The old man had agreed to explore options to regain Moren, and the company would bring them fresh meat. More than that, no one could ask of a banished, endangered king.

 

* * *

 

Hal waited until the moon had risen before he ducked outside his tent. A guard ghosted up to him immediately, whispering, “My lord?”

“Nothing, Litanalo.” He gestured to the forest with a matter-of-fact wave of his hand. “I'll be back in a moment.”

“I'll come with you, my lord.”

“No need. Keep watch over the camp here.” Hal put enough steel into his voice that the suggestion became a command. The soldier was clearly reluctant, but he yielded.

Hal disappeared into the fringe of the forest, but he did not pause to tug down his doeskin breeches. Instead, he cast his head from side to side, checking for the faint path that led away from the clearing. By daylight, the earth showed, but at night, he needed to rely on the shadows of tree branches, the memory of having passed this way three times before in the fortnight that his men had hidden in the southern forest.

Three times. . . . Hal had treasured those stolen moments more than anything he had enjoyed back at court. They had almost made his flight and hiding in the woods worthwhile. They had almost redeemed the betrayal of Dartulamino, of his troops at his own city's gates. Such was the power of an infant, the power of an heir.

There–the two oak trees that grew together, like twins joined in the womb. Hal ducked behind them and found the shadow of the last trail through the woods. There was a whiff of stagnant water from a pond that had overflowed its banks. His feet caught in mud for an instant, but he was close to running now, eager, desperate to be at his destination.

A fallen tree rested across a fast-running stream, already looking as if it had lain there for decades, even though Hal knew it had been set in place less than a year before. He eased across it, aware that the bark would be slippery with dew. He passed the large stand of ferns, and then the crumbling stone remains of some ancient gamekeeper's hut. Under a falling arch, around a bend in the trail, back to another loop of the stream, the water moving even faster here, cutting deeper into the forest floor. A few steps forward. A few more, and–

“Halt!” The command was barked into the air, loud and fearless. Hal splayed his hands by his sides, resisting the urge to reach for his sword, to slip his fingers into his boot for the dagger hidden there. “Who dares disturb the sleep of Lady Jalina?”

“Her lord and husband,” Hal said wryly, taking a step back so that the moon would better light his face.

“Si– My lord!”

The guard fumbled with his greeting, and Hal could read the man's intention to drop to one knee. With a regal wave of his hand, he dismissed the formality and asked, “Is my lady still awake?”

“Of course, my lord.” The voice came from beyond the guard, a woman's voice, husky in the night. Hal doubted that Mareka had been awake before her guard had shouted out his alarm, but she was now.

The guard disappeared into the darkness and Hal stepped toward his queen. He brushed a kiss against her cheek, oddly discomfitted by the thought that others must be watching them; soldiers must be observing their every move by moonlight. Mareka merely cocked her head to one side, and then she took him by the hand, leading him into the hut that was built into the riverbank.

It never failed to surprise him when she touched him. He could still remember the moment in Liantine when she had first come to his chamber, when she had taken off her shawl and overwhelmed him with the power of her octolaris nectar. The antidote to spider poison was strong, a danger in its own right, and Hal had been swiftly snared.

Not that Mareka wasn't attractive without such means. The Liantine woman was slight, dark, apparently as vulnerable as a child. Hal knew, though, that she was stronger than he had ever been. She had manipulated him to her own ends, first in her homeland of Liantine, then in her adopted land of Morenia. She had found the strength to cremate four infant corpses. She had stood unyielding when an entire kingdom demanded that he set her aside, when all his people cried out against her guildsman birthright and her flawed womb.

Mareka was no child. She was born to the spiderguild and accustomed to identifying the needs of the wealthy–identifying those needs and filling them, no matter what the cost.

Hal nearly shook his head, surprised that he still thought of his wife in such mercenary terms. Mercenary? Or merely accurate? Surely, she had manipulated him when first they met. Surely, she had played him falsely. But that was three years past, nearly four. Now, she was the mother of his son. The mother of his heir.

“Marekanoran?” he asked, as breathless as the naif who had once succumbed to Mareka's octolaris-enhanced charms.

“Here.” Mareka closed the rounded door behind them and took up the rushlight she had set in an alcove. She moved across the room with confidence; this was her home for now, her refuge, and she moved as if she were in her apartments in the royal palace.

Hal followed, his heart beating faster. He wondered if Mareka was playing with nectar even here, but then he saw the cradle, and he knew that there was no evil here, no manipulative potion. He was merely excited to see his only living child, the son who would carry his name down through the ages.

“He's grown!”

“Aye.” Mareka bent down and lifted the boy, oblivious to his fussing as she folded his swaddling around him. She touched a fingertip to his nose, brushed imaginary fluff from his brow. “He eats and sleeps–that's a recipe for growth.”

“He's sleeping well, then? You said that he was restless when last I visited.”

“I found a potion to help with that. It's making him stronger, too.”

A warning pricked behind Hal's ears. “A potion?”

“It's nothing, really. An old wive's cure. You needn't worry.”

Old wives. Those would be the herb witches that Mareka had consulted, the women who had conspired to help her bear this son. Disdain brought hot words to his lips, sneers that any Morenian noble would cast upon such superstitious creatures.

But what right did he have to suspect them? How could he challenge the herb witches when they had done what his own medics could not, what his own priests had failed to do? The witches had given him a living heir, and he would forever be in their debt.

Nevertheless, he feared whatever brew Mareka was feeding Marekanoran, worried that the draught might carry some subtle poison.

As if to forestall argument, Mareka offered him the bundle of cloth. Automatically, he stepped back. His hands suddenly seemed too large, too awkward, and he knew that he would trip over his own toes if he took a single step. The cloth would slip away from him, the child would squirm when he least expected it.

A tiny smile quirked Mareka's lips. She understood him. She understood his fears, and yet she would not ridicule him, not when he merely thought to protect his child,
their
child. She gestured for him to sit in the chair beside her fire, a sturdy three-legged stool with a stark frame back. He complied and held out his hands.

The child weighed more than he had before–what was it, five days past? Or did Hal misremember his own son? The boy squirmed as Hal took him, sleepily stretching amid his soft swaddling. Hal quickly lowered the baby to his own joined knees, intent on balancing the precious burden, protecting him, keeping him safe from harm.

Marekanoran's eyes flew open, as if he were surprised by the strange touch. Hal's gaze met his son's, and he felt a shock of recognition, a rush of power. This was his heir. This was the child who would carry the ben-Jair blood into the future. This was the son who would cap the meaning of his life, the meaning of his father's life, and all his fathers before him. Pride swelled inside Hal's throat, crushing tears against his eyes. Pride, and love, and a great, glorious sense of righteous power.

“He's doing well, Mareka.”

“Aye.” He heard the smile in her voice. “Ah! There! He's awake now!”

Her announcement was accompanied by the infant opening his mouth, gathering in air as if he were determined to live on breath alone. Then, he began to squall, the sound echoing off the earthen ceiling in the close room.

Frantic, Hal tried to gather up the baby, but his motions were awkward, and the boy began to slip from his knees. Hal started to speak to the child, trying to calm him, but he knew the boy would not understand any words. He was an infant, after all, a helpless, senseless creature.

The sound grew louder, more forceful, and Hal cast a nervous look to the ceiling above them. It was plastered, and it looked secure, but it might crumble at the assault.

“Mareka!” he started to cry, but she was already moving forward, already lifting the baby, already clicking with her maternal tongue, cooing in a soft voice that Hal had never heard her use before.

As soon as the child was taken from him, Hal sprang to his feet. “Is he all right? Did I do something wrong? Did I hurt him?”

“He's fine,” Mareka said, taking the stool that Hal had vacated. She balanced the baby with one hand as she reached for the carefully draped neck of her gown. “He's only hungry.”

Hal could feel the blood rising in his face as his wife bared her breast to their child. He knew that her actions were only natural, that mothers throughout Sarmonia, throughout Morenia, throughout all the known world, fed their children. All babes suckled. And yet, he wanted to open up the argument again; he wanted to demand that Mareka have a wet nurse.

And she would have, if they were back in Moren. She would have, if he had made his kingdom safe for her. She would have, if the Fellowship were not howling for her death, for Marekanoran's murder, if war were not whistling about them. His blush of embarrassment turned to one of anger–raw fury at himself.

Before he could vent that rage, before he could offer up yet another round of promises, of apologies, the door to the cottage glided open. “Sire!” called a familiar voice.

A familiar voice, but the title was unfamiliar, here in these foreign woods. Hal stepped forward automatically, blocking the newcomer's view of the hearth, of Mareka. “Yes, Farso?” He did not even try to keep his puzzlement from his voice. How had the nobleman known that he was here? How had he been permitted into the protected sphere of Mareka's camp?