The Still (27 page)

“See?” he said reasonably. “It’s not an easy thing to bear. When Rustin—”

“Take it back, or I’ll slice you where you sit!”

“Of course I take it back, it isn’t true. Sit, calm yourself.”

“You call my father traitor, and think I’d sit—faugh! It’s a lie!”

“Didn’t I just say so? It was by way of example.”

“What do you mean, example? My father betrayed no one!” My fist wavered; in frustration I slammed the dagger into the plank table. “No one!”

“I was showing how you’d feel—”

“I know how I feel to hear your lies! How could you say such a thing? He was beloved of my mother the Queen, and died respected by all.” I was trembling.

“Yes, youngsire. Sit.” He ushered me to my chair. The blade quivered next to my mug. “It’s how Rustin feels, you see.”

“What?” I worked loose the blade. “But Llewelyn
is
a traitor. There’s no reason for Rust to get so—”

“Llewelyn’s his father.”

“I know that; think you I’m a dunce?” I found my bread, bit off a savage chunk. What had come over Fostrow, making such a claim? Llewelyn would die, by Tantroth’s hand or our own. Did Fostrow think I’d show mercy, by playing tricks on my wits? Wait ’til I told Rustin how little more than a word drove me to—

Rustin already knew.

I swallowed. Fostrow’s foolery aside, Rustin had no right to feel wounded. What he should feel was shame, remorse. He’d expressed no such to me. Had my father betrayed us, I’d curse his name, revile his memory, spit on his—

I’d love him.

Subdued, I swallowed my bread. If it had a taste, I knew not.

Rust was deep wounded.

Perhaps I could explain, help him in some way. I pushed back my chair. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Be kind to him, laddie.” Fostrow’s look was almost approving.

I knocked on our door. No answer. “Rust?” I waited. “Let me in.”

Could he have gone out? I hadn’t noticed him come downstairs. I tried the door; it was barred. Someone had to be inside, unless he’d crawled out the window.

From inside, a scrape. Then silence.

Ah, well. If he wanted to sulk, I’d see him after. I started down to the public room. No need to make a fool of myself, begging at his door.

I slowed. What difference did it make what these rustics thought? I was Prince of Caledon, and could do as I wished. Who was Rustin, for that matter, to deny me entry? I’d had enough of his sullenness; if he was upset, he could by Lord of Nature tell me why. I went back to the door, banged hard. “Rust, open!”

No answer. Relief was what I felt, instead of anger. I’d half expected him to come charging into the hall, pummel me for disturbing his pout.

I knocked once more, felt the unyielding handle. It was unlike Rust to let me bother him so, without response. I pushed harder, got nowhere. I stepped back, gave the door a kick, then another. Harder and harder I kicked.

“Boy, leave my door be!” Jennison, below. “If he’s inside, he’ll be out when—”

My boot smashed against the bar, until at last the door splintered, gave way an inch. In a frenzy, I struck again. The panel sagged, fell away. I reached through, lifted the bar, rammed open the shattered door.

Rust hung in the center of the room, from a beam, eyes open, face empurpled. His feet twitched. One hand was at this side, the other clawed at the knot around his neck.

With a cry I dashed forward, stumbled over the chair he’d kicked aside, got under him, threw my arms around his waist, heaved upward. He was impossibly heavy, and did nothing to assist.

“Someone, help!” My voice was muffled by his breeks. I tossed my head, yelled louder. “Genard! Fostrow! Innkeeper!”

Thudding feet. “Oh, Lord!” We swayed, as someone put his shoulder to my burden.

Rust’s foot lashed out, caught me in the stomach. “Get him down, quick!”

“A knife!”

I daren’t let go. “In my belt!” A hand reached for my dagger, and suddenly Rust weighed twice as much as before. We tumbled to the floor.

Fostrow and the innkeeper sorted themselves out, attacked the knot. They couldn’t cut it without slashing Rust’s throat; instead they fiddled for maddening moments until it came loose.

I heaved Rust over onto his back. “Does he breathe?”

As if in answer Rustin’s mouth opened wide. He took in a swallow, wheezing breath, gasped it out. His eyes bulged.

“Breathe!” Desperate, I massaged his throat. It might have helped; perhaps nature reasserted herself on her own. He gasped, coughed, wheezed, began to breathe more normally. Slowly, his face lost its unhealthy hue.

Babbling voices, over our heads. Someone wanted to throw water, others to light a fire. Someone suggested leeches. Fostrow, with genial patience, shooed them all out until the room was quieted. We helped Rust to the bed.

“You should ... have let me ... die.” His voice was no more than a croak.

“Never.” I massaged his hand, as if it were cold.

His free hand went to his throat, where rope burns would show a long while. “It hurts.”

“Good, you fool, you moron! Dolt!”

He wriggled loose his hand, raised it to my cheek. “You’re weeping.”

Angrily I wiped my face. “I’m sweating. You made me work too hard.” I stopped, lest my voice break. “How could you!”

His eyes were bleak. “How could I not? Now I’ll have to ...” I barely caught the next words, in his misery. “Try again.”

“Not while I live!”

To my astonishment, Fostrow came behind me, clapped me on the shoulder as if in approval, squeezed gently, and left the room.

“How can I look anyone in the eye, with my father a traitor?”

“Llewelyn is not you. You’re my Rustin, and I”—I hesitated—“admire you.” I tucked the blanket over him, clothes and all. “Stay with me, Rust. Else ... how shall I become King?”

N
EXT MORNING I CAME DOWNSTAIRS
yawning, and wandered into the public room.

To my amazement, Elryc sat beaming, with Chela and old Hester. When he saw me his smile faltered, but he greeted me with a civil nod.

I asked, “Are you well enough to be about?”

“I haven’t much strength. Hester had to catch me, or I’d have fallen down the stairs.”

“You’ll sleep all day, if you wish, in the cart. Eat, Roddy. We must be off.”

Rust came to join us, his throat livid. His dull expression made me uneasy. I urged Hester to let us ride in the cart, on the pretext of tending Elryc.

Later, as we jounced along, Rustin gripped my wrist. “I swear, I’ll avenge what Father’s done. With my own hand, I’ll kill hi—”

I clapped my hand over his mouth, almost too late. “Would you have demons and imps hound you the rest of your days? How could you be so foolish!” No man could swear such a horrendous thing, and remain sane.

“I meant—”

“Oh, Rust, you swore it to yourself, not to me—If to me, I release you, and gladly—promise you’ll go to a Ritemaster, and expiate your oath!” The Rite of Setting Aside.

“I ...”

“You must!”

He lay back, as if too tired to object. “All right.” For one vanquished, he seemed strangely grateful. “I promise.”

The road to Fort led ever upward, and the going was slow. We passed an occasional dreary hamlet, watched dull-eyed farmers’ wives in peasant smocks work their fields. Summer was near past, and theirs was a constant battle to save crops from marauders and weather.

At midafternoon we stopped for a meal. Hester tucked Elryc into blankets, and brusquely bade me gather wood.

Why was I less than nothing, and my brother everything, in Hester’s dim eye? As I’d grown I resisted her attentions, but that was natural for a growing boy, and surely Elryc had done the same. Would Mother have entrusted me to her care, knowing Hester would come to despise me?

Chela crossed the glade, hips swaying, deftly avoiding outstretched hands. Unbidden, she dropped into a crouch by my side. “You saved Rustin. Thank you for that.”

I watched for mockery, but saw none. I grunted. She flicked her skirts with casual disdain, flounced off.

A full day we spent, alongside the cursed wagon, while Hester sat like a gargoyle on the high box seat, reins in hand. I rode Ebon, and imagined myself King, in procession among my people.

At last the dusk lengthened, and Hester found a meadow in which to pull off. Then we worked no better than churls until the horses were watered, gear set out, a fire begun, and cookpots arranged. Hester growled every time I took my ease. She expected me to labor alongside my own servants, which was mad. I was too tired to object.

I dawdled at my meal until I could hardly hold open my eyes, then went reluctantly to bed.

Inside the cart Hester had erected her usual tent, where she nestled with Elryc. Quietly I crawled beneath the wagon, and spread my blanket.

Nearby, Chela and Genard were fast asleep. I made my place on the outer side, near Rust.

He lay altogether too near Chela for me to sleep. I waited for his hand to steal to her body, but though he tossed and turned, he made no move to her.

Resolutely, I tried to ignore them. Why did Rust dally with such a slut? Had he no eyes for the finer things in life? On the other hand, why would the son of a traitor care if his reputation was—no, that wasn’t fair. But she was a vile woman, mocking, throwing herself about, rubbing against ... I felt a yearning I dared not attend. Not when I lay so near to Rust, and the girl.

Near dawn, Chela stirred, crawled from under the wagon. I watched her through barely parted eyelids. Shamelessly, she scratched herself, wandered off.

What treachery was she up to? Did she mean to have my crown from the wagon? Steal the horses?

Stealthily, I sat up, cracking my head on the unseen axle. Furiously I rubbed my scalp. When I extricated myself from the wagon, she was gone.

Wrapped in my blanket, I tiptoed about the clearing. No sign. Thirsty, irritable, I found my way down to the nearby stream.

I knelt to drink, turning my head as I brought water to it. Abruptly I froze.

Not ten paces from me, Chela threw off her shift, stood naked, nipples erect, her every gesture a taunt. “You stare, Prince?” Slowly, she fingered her bare gleaming breast. “Rust would know what to do. Even Genard, if I woke him.”

I considered pretending I couldn’t hear, but she was intolerable. “I warn you, be silent, or ...”

Her laugh was harsh. “I’m frightened, Prince of Caledon.”

Clutching my blanket, on my knees at the slippery bank, I fought for control. Never again would she and I share a journey, if I had to ride alone to escape her. Better yet, I’d have her sent back to—no, it didn’t matter what Rustin said about it; he wouldn’t be in charge any longer.

My fists curled and unclenched. If I were dressed, I’d give her the thrashing she deserved. And it wouldn’t be so much trouble, to go back and slip on my breeches and boots. I wouldn’t need a shirt. Nor boots, except to kick her. I knotted the blanket, gritted my teeth.

She made no sound, as if afraid. Good. Fear was what such folk understood. It was probably how Rust had tamed her in the first place. I considered that, until my imaginings made my skin prickle.

I should go back, find my clothes. There was moon enough—no, she’d seen me make ready for bed; I needn’t bother to dress. I muttered a curse, bounded to my feet. Four strides and I’d crossed the clearing.

She knelt before me, hands on her breasts. When I loomed, a smile of triumph.

“It isn’t as you think!” My voice was harsh. I clawed at her, but she caught my arm, pulled me down. I stubbed my toe on an unseen stone, grunted in pain, lashed at her.

She laughed softly, fighting me off. “What of your Power, Princeling? Am I worth all that?”

“Still thy tongue, you—” My head fell against her breasts; I breathed the warm animal smell of her, wanted to bite until she screamed.

I pinned her arms, decided how best to punish her. A beating, yes. But more? What of my Power, of the Still of Caledon? Would I ever wield it? Was it worth the contempt of such as she?

Was I ever to be King?

Would I ever know what Rust knew, the soft moist juices in which he reveled each night, her caresses, her enfolding warmth?

“Get off, Rodrigo.” Her voice was uncertain. She snatched up her shift, hugged it to her flesh.

Pressing her into the grass with one elbow I wrestled away the shift. I held her arms, fondled her breasts, squeezed them until she cried out. I settled my groin against hers.

“Stop!” Her refusal drove me on. We’d see who was master of the House of Caledon. She shouted; I paid no heed.

I squirmed my loincloth down to my ankles, rubbed myself upon her, all the time fighting to hold her wrists. “Bitch! Whore! Demon spawn, I’ll show you who—”

She relaxed all at once, smiled, and in delight and awe I kissed her breast. I nuzzled the cleave that divided her.

Like an adder, her knee struck at my testicles. The force of it drove my whole body upward. I convulsed, made a choking sound.

In the whole of my life, nothing had ever hurt so.

I rolled, thrashing and moaning, unable to draw breath. Chela began to screech.

“Rustin! Help! Someone come! RUSSTTIINN!” She snatched her shift, threw it over her head. “Genard, wake!”

I shrieked, flailing from side to side.

A pounding of feet. “Lord of Nature, oh, Rust, hold me, he tried ... he—”

Howling, loincloth at my ankles, I clutched my ruined parts.

“How would he think I’d want him? Look at him, simpering halfman! He’s a boor, won’t wash, orders us about—”

“Shhhh.”

She wailed, “Rust, he was nearly in me!”

Standing above, Rustin ignored me, as if I were a hound scratching fleas. He embraced Chela, comforted her. At the embankment Genard appeared, groggy. “What is it, m’lord?” Empurpled, I couldn’t answer.

After a while, Rust sent Chela to the cart. He knelt by my side. “On your back. Draw your legs up tight.” There was that in his eyes, which, despite my torment, I dreaded to see. “Take deep breaths. It will pass.”

I grabbed his fingers, held them to my breast, squeezed as if to pass him a share of my misery. “I’m sorry. Sorry.” My words were a jumble, barely audible. “I didn’t mean ... Lord, oh, oh, oh.” I held him tight