The Jackal of Nar (28 page)

“Trosk,” sneered Jojustin. “Now there’s a wretched man. Every bit the butcher Gayle is. I’m surprised they’re not brothers.”

“I can’t believe it,” said Richius. “To let his men be massacred like that. It’s incredible.”

“It’s despicable,” corrected Jojustin. “Even for a Gayle.” He shrugged in disbelief. “But fools still follow them, and the emperor still listens to their advice.”

“They’ve probably told Arkus about my father, then,” said Richius.

Jojustin nodded. “Probably.”

“Well, if the Gayles know it then the emperor does, too. Why would he even consider letting me rule here if he thinks my father betrayed him?”

“Arkus has no quarrel with you, lad. As far as he’s concerned you were in Lucel-Lor trying to win the war for him. He may suspect Darius betrayed him, but he has no proof. All he has is the word of those cutthroat Gayles.” Jojustin smiled slyly. “And we all know what liars they are, right?”

“Right,” declared Patwin with a conspiratorial wink. “Don’t worry, Richius. None of us knows anything.”

“We’re just going to deny it?” asked Richius. “Pretend it didn’t happen?”

Jojustin’s face hardened. “Of course. Arkus can’t prove anything, and that’s the end of it. It doesn’t matter what he might suspect. You are of the royal blood of Aramoor. No one else alive can claim that, and Arkus knows it. Who else would the people follow? Some puppet of the emperor’s? No, Richius. You are king here, like it or not.”

“Well, I don’t like it. Even when I was a boy I dreaded this day. I’m no king.”

“Why do you say that?” asked Patwin. “You led us into battle, kept us all alive.”

“It’s not the same,” Richius interrupted. “And I didn’t keep everyone alive, did I?”

“Men die in war,” said Jojustin. “That’s the way it is. How many men did you have under your command? Almost five hundred, right?”

“Only three hundred came back.”

“After almost a year of brutal battle,” Jojustin countered. “And you were fighting
Triin
.” He spat out the word with disgust. “The devil’s own.”

“That’s ridiculous,” said Richius. “They’re not devils, Jojustin. They’re men, like you and me.”

“Not like me,” said Jojustin defensively. “I know what they are. They’re all sorcerers. And they don’t worship God.”

“They have gods,” said Richius. “Just not our God.”

“Oh, yes. What do they worship? Snakes? And the Drol are the worst of them. You’re best rid of that place, lad. We should get a priest in here to bless the lot of you.” Again he slipped his hand onto Richius’. “I’m proud of you, Richius. God would be proud of you, too. You’re more of a king than you think. Read the letter. Read it and put all this bad business behind you. You have a kingdom to rule.”

Jenna suddenly returned to the room carrying a decanter of wine. When he saw her come in Richius quickly jerked his hand back. She gave him a long, insufferably sympathetic look.

“Your glass,” she said lightly. Richius held out his glass and let the girl pour some of the mahogany liquor into it. He thanked her and she went on to the others, all the while keeping an eye on him as she poured. She finished quickly and left the room, but the silence she left in her wake was palpable.

Lord
, thought Richius.
She probably thinks I’ve gone mad.
He lifted his glass to his lips.
Maybe I have.

He drank. The spiced wine was hot, almost unbearably so, yet he kept swallowing until his glass was drained. He was still hungry, but since he had raked his eggs into unappetizing streaks, he reached for another slice of bread.

“After breakfast I’m riding for Gilliam’s,” he said. “I have to start readying the men if there is to be war again.”

“Don’t go chasing phantoms, Richius,” said Jojustin. “You’re only going to scare everyone over nothing.”

“If I’m to be king I have to start looking after my people. And you can’t guarantee me that Arkus isn’t sitting in Nar right now thinking of ways to destroy us. We have to be ready if his legions come.”

“All right, then,” conceded Jojustin. “Go. Maybe the fresh air will clear your head, get you thinking straight again. But take Patwin with you.”

Patwin looked up from his plate. “Me? I just got back from riding. Why do I have to go?”

“Because I want you to look after Richius. There’s no telling how many more of those Triin dogs are lurking around.”

“It’s not necessary,” said Richius. “I can take care of myself.”

“I would feel better if there was someone with you. Oh, and another thing. Jenna tells me she saw you in the garden last night.”

“So?”

“At night? You know how dangerous that is. How can we protect you if you go wandering off? You could have been killed.”

“The sentries were close enough to protect me. And I like to get out of the castle sometimes.”

“That’s fine,” said Jojustin. “You should get out more. But why the garden of all places?” He looked down broodingly at his own breakfast. “The stain’s not even gone yet.”

Richius didn’t answer. Despite the garden’s recent history, he felt a closeness to the place he could not explain. Perhaps the bloodstain was the very thing that drew him there. Like Jojustin had said, the blemish was still quite visible, clinging to the flagstones like spilled wine on a carpet.

“I’m comfortable there,” said Richius at last. “Besides, I really don’t think an assassin would try to get me there, not with all the guards around now.”

“I promised your father I’d look after you,” said Jojustin. “I can’t let you take such chances. Please, stay out of the garden. At least at night?”

“I’ll try,” said Richius, hoping the halfhearted answer would satisfy his steward. These constant, loving concerns for his welfare were becoming a burden.

Jojustin smiled at him, genuinely pleased. “Thank you, lad. I don’t want to make a prisoner of you. Just a few more weeks, till things settle.” He shuddered. “So much killing. Why—”

There was a sudden, jarring silence. The old man went rigid with surprise, his eyes locked on Richius’ hand, following it as it lowered his glass to the table.

“Jojustin?” asked Richius, alarmed. “What’s wrong?”

“Your ring. Your royal ring. Where is it?”

Richius swallowed hard. He’d been trying to hide the loss of the ring from Jojustin since returning home. Panicked, he grabbed the first response that bloomed in his mind. “Upstairs. I forgot it when I woke up.”

“Forgot it? That’s not like you, Richius. That’s your king’s
ring. You have to wear it all the time. You can’t just take it off whenever you want to, you know that. You …”

Their eyes met squarely.

“You lost it.”

Richius could hardly find his voice. “Yes.”

“Lord, Richius. How could you? Where did you lose it, do you know?”

“I don’t know,” Richius lied. He could never explain to Jojustin how he had given the ring to Dyana. “It probably fell off when we were fleeing Ackle-Nye. I had it when Patwin found us; after that I can’t recall.”

“I don’t think so, Richius,” Patwin interjected. “I was going to ask you about that. You weren’t wearing your ring when we met up in the Run.”

“Well, maybe I lost it in the valley,” said Richius impatiently. “There was a war going on, you know. Anyway it’s gone.”

“But that ring was your seal of kingship,” said Jojustin. “You have to wear it.”

“Why? Aren’t I king without it?”

“It’s tradition. It marks you as the royal line of Aramoor. You’re supposed to wear it until you die, be buried with it like your father was. The people must see it.”

“I’m sorry,” said Richius. “But it’s gone. And anyway it was only a ring. Can’t we just have another made?”

“Of course we can, but that’s not the point. Your father gave you that ring. You have to bear something of his with you always. Something more than just the crown.”

Before Richius could answer, Jojustin was up and snapping his fingers.

“Wait,” he said, pushing back his chair. “I have just the thing for you, lad. Something that wasn’t buried with your father. Don’t go anywhere, I’ll be back in a moment.”

Jojustin turned and left the dining chamber, leaving Richius and Patwin behind to exchange confused looks.

“What was that about?” asked Patwin.

Richius shrugged. “He took that better than I thought. The way it was going, I was beginning to think he’d never notice.”

“He notices everything, Richius. Like how odd you’ve been lately. Give him a little room. He’s just worried about you.” Patwin pinched another sausage between his fingers,
popping it into his mouth and saying, “We’re all worried about you.”

“Patwin,” said Richius affably. “You’re all making it so hard to be angry with you. But you can stop worrying now, I’m fine.”

“Really?”

“Of course.”

“Then why don’t you read your father’s letter?”

“Oh, no. Not you, too.”

“Well, I carried the damned thing around for almost a month. The least you could do is read it.”

“Why should I?” Richius shot back. “Why is it any of your business? My father wrote that letter to me, not you or Jojustin or Dinadin. It’s my concern, not yours.”

“Easy,” Patwin interrupted. “We already know what the letter says. We guessed it a long time ago. Now
you
have to know it. You won’t be able to go on until you do.” Patwin’s expression softened. “Jojustin’s right, Richius. Read the letter and put all this madness to an end. Be king.”

Richius could hardly speak. “Maybe,” he said, the word emerging in a whisper.

“I’ll help you all I can. We all will. Dinadin, too, I’m sure.”

“That,” said Richius pointedly, “I’m not so sure of.”

“Richius, he’s just angry. It’ll pass. In his heart I’m sure he knows the truth of things. And if he doesn’t, I intend to help him remember. You had nothing to do with Lucyler’s death, or anyone else’s. So don’t go believing Dinadin’s nonsense, because it will only make you crazy.”

“You’re a good friend, Patwin, but you don’t have to spare me. Dinadin’s mad at me for a hundred reasons, and at least half of them are true. My father did abandon us. I did keep us all in Dring longer than I should have. And Voris took Lucyler away because I wasn’t there for him. Dinadin’s right.”

“He’s not right!” said Patwin angrily. “You were our leader.
You
had to make the tough decisions, not Dinadin. And wasn’t it his idea to go to Ackle-Nye in the first place?”

Richius leaned back in his chair and peered through the dining-chamber door. Jenna was in the kitchen. He could hear her insistent scrubbing of the pots and knew she couldn’t hear them, but he had no idea when Jojustin would return.

“Listen, Patwin,” he said almost soundlessly. “I’m not riding
for Gilliam’s, not today at least. I’m going to the House of Lotts.”

“Dinadin’s?”

Richius nodded. “I want to talk to him, see if we can put this ugly mess behind us. You’re right to say I’m going to need him. We all have to stay together to protect Aramoor from Arkus.”

Patwin looked stricken. “Do you really think the legions are coming?”

“Maybe. If they do we’ll have to be ready for them. Don’t misunderstand me, Patwin. I hope to God Jojustin’s right, but if he’s not …”

“Then it is war again,” said Patwin solemnly. “I’ll ride with you to the House of Lotts. Gilliam’s, too, if you wish.”

Richius put his hand on Patwin’s shoulder. “You’re always welcome.”

At that instant Jojustin burst into the chamber, a giant broadsword in his fists. The suddenness of the old man’s entry made Richius spring from his seat, startled beyond words.

“Here it is!” Jojustin cried.

Richius recognized the weapon at once. He had seen it strapped across his father’s back countless times. In all the castle, loaded though it was with swords of every design, there was none so large and ominous as this. With its chipped blade and battered hilt, it looked like a relic from a bygone time. It didn’t gleam like other swords, for its metal had long since turned a lusterless gray. But it had a glow all its own, a kind of aura that only those intimate with its past could see.

“Jessicane,” Richius said softly, reaching out to take the sword from Jojustin. He let his fingers caress the blade, feeling the cool, imperfect metal against his skin. Jessicane. The name of a wife and a mother, a woman all but unknown to Richius, after whom this weapon had been called. “Jessicane,” he repeated, speaking directly to the sword. “I thought for sure you’d been buried with Father.”

“It’s yours now,” said Jojustin. “So everyone will know you are king.”

Richius hefted the weapon to the level of his chest. It was far larger than he was used to, at least a full foot longer than his own sword. But his father had been a giant of a man, easily capable of swinging such a huge weapon. Even when he had grown to
manhood, Richius looked like little more than a schoolboy next to his father, and since his two years in Lucel-Lor had only weakened him, he found the sword difficult to lift with one hand. He managed, though, despite the small ache it sent coursing through his wrist, and held the sword out for the wide-eyed Patwin to inspect.

“The sword that won the war,” said Patwin dramatically. “I never thought to see it so close. Can I hold it?”

“I suppose so,” said Richius, gingerly passing the sword over to his comrade. Patwin quickly wiped his oily hands over his tunic and took Jessicane as though it were something holy, careful not to soil the weapon’s already well-worn hilt.

“Ooohh, heavy.” He twisted the sword in his grip and scanned every inch of it, every nick and blemish, hardly breathing as he did so. At last he handed the sword back to Richius, saying, “It’s beautiful. But you can’t carry it, Richius. It’s too old.”

“Nonsense,” said Jojustin. “You just run your hand over its edge and then tell me how old it is. That sword’s as sharp as the day it cut Gayle’s heart out.”

Gayle, Richius knew, was Angiss Gayle, the long-dead uncle of Blackwood Gayle and the brother of Talistan’s present king. At the drop of his name, Richius braced himself for the story he was sure would follow.

“Your father was only twenty-seven when he killed Gayle, Richius,” Jojustin continued. “Not much older than you are now.” The old man’s eyes glassed over as his mind skipped back through the years. “The three of us were all so young then, your father and Edgard and I. I’ll never forget the moment he plunged that sword into Gayle. We were both there with him, fighting alongside him. Lord, that was a day!” Jojustin sighed. “But I must have told you that story a thousand times.”