The Still (42 page)

“Because it is not his own.” Rust selected gray breeks that set off the silver in my jerkin. “Still, it wouldn’t do you harm to make amends. Seek her out.”

“Must I?”

“It would be politic.” He untied his own jerkin. “Where do you ring for a servant? I’ll have a bath also.” He grimaced. “Chela’s in pain.”

“She lives?” I was startled. She’d coughed much blood.

“A physicker bound her chest tight, with strips of cloth. He says she must cough, like Elryc, but not otherwise move. No bending or twisting.”

“And she’ll survive?”

“There’s hope. She’s angry I won’t stay with her.”

“Why don’t you?”

He said carelessly, “Because I love you more.” I’d have made less note of it had his neck not gone red. Seeing my stare he growled, “Find Tresa and make your apologies, in case she has her grandsire’s ear.”

A servant came in response to his ring, and I left.

I had no idea where Tresa’s apartments were, or what the Earl’s reaction would be if I sought them unchaperoned. I’d best ask his permission. Downstairs, I stopped a houseman. “Where may I find Lord Cumber?”

I followed the corridor he indicated, and came to a grandiose double door of worked bronze.

“Mind they pick the fresh ones! I want no wilting petals!” The door discharged a liveried servant, and slammed shut.

“Aye, sir.” The houseman gave me the short bow of courtesy, in passing.

Tentatively, I approached. “Uncle?” I raised a hand to knock.

“—something of a young fool, but he
did
have that manner about him. What say you, Imbar?”

My hand froze, an inch from the bronze.

“I say you gain nothing. Why provoke Duke Mar?”

Uncle Raeth coughed. “Why not? He’s a great boor, as well you know.”

“But the boy’s a lesser one, and will come to nothing. Mar might yet defeat Eiber. What then—”

“Then we’ll send our congratulations, and a pretty present. We’re too strong to besiege, unless he raised all of Caledon to war.”

Imbar sighed. “Do as you wish. When have you not?”

“If I knew what I wished, we wouldn’t be speaking of it.” The old man’s voice was testy.

“Why’d you let him in the gate? Did you see a shade of Josip in him?”

A pause. “As years pass you grow more spiteful, Imbar. Am I the same? Josip is long dead.”

“And no longer a bone of contention, but the question remains.”

“No, he’s not another Josip, though he’s pretty enough. Can I not respect him in a fashion, for—”

“You? Respect?”

“As I say, spiteful.”

“You’re my model, Rae.”

A pause. I glanced to either side, ready to flee or knock if steps approached.

A creak, as if of a protesting chair. “Well, no matter. You’re right about Mar. No need to alienate the regent; Lord Rodrigo hasn’t the chance of a demon in a Ritehouse to push him aside.”

I closed my eyes in despair.

“Still ... he has that something. Definitely his father’s son.”

“Will you hold him for Mar, or send him away?”

A cackle. “You’d have him in my cells, for your pleasure?”

“Him? A whipping perhaps, to teach him manners, but no more. It’s the other with whom I’d have words.”

“Rustin? An odd one; from the look of him you’d never know his father gave up the keep without a murmur.”

“I’d wipe that haughtiness from his face in a nonce.” Imbar’s voice held spite, or something more. “But the Prince, you won’t risk Cumber for him?”

“You worry as if it were to be yours, not Bouris’s. You know I’ve made provision for you.”

“Rae, I wasn’t for a moment—”

The old man’s voice softened. “I know. Come, help me with these damned leggings. The Prince? Cumber comes first. Yet ... a pity to disappoint him. We’ll see. I doubt I’ll hold him for Mar.”

I crept away, disconsolate, to seek Rust’s counsel.

At the stairs, the same servant who’d directed me to Raeth’s quarters stopped me. “My lord, if it pleases you—” He glanced about. “The Lady Tresa would have a word.”

I followed him, to an oaken door, knocked.

A token curtsy, and Tresa turned aside.

“I’m here. What did you want?” Inwardly I flinched; I hadn’t meant to sound so gruff.

“To apologize, my lord. For last night’s confusion.” She blushed. “I thought you remembered me from the burial.”

“I was but nine.”

“And I barely eleven.” Tresa smiled, and for a moment her face was one I could like.

“I don’t recall any of the guests. It wasn’t only you.”

“That’s nice.” She frowned. “Why is that, do you think?”

“It’s a private matter.”

“I’m sorry.” She shrugged, as if helpless.

I’d made it worse. Exasperated, I blurted, “Because my father was gone, and Mother was weeping, and she held my hand tight, and I needed to piss. Too many people crowded round, cooing their sympathy. I just shut them out, and pretended Father rode me on his back.”

“Did you like to do that?”

“Shut people out?”

“Have your father ride you—”

“Of course. Is there anything else?”

“No, my lord, not if you’re impatient to—”

“Who said that?”

“I assumed, from your manner—”

“Don’t judge my manner, madam, until you know me well.” I retreated to the door. “I accept your apology. Good day.”

I took the stairs three at a time. Only when I was safely out of sight did I slow my pace.

It was midafternoon before Rustin returned to our room.

I demanded, “Where were you?”

“Out.” His tone had an edge.

“With Chela?”

“For a time.”

I decided to let Rust wallow in his ire, but before long a servant summoned us down to the donjon.

Earl Cumber’s face was grave. “I think you’d better hear his words directly.”

Standing before my uncle was a crier, in Mother’s colors. He started when he saw us. “You have him here?”

“No. He has himself. Tell us again,”

At this call to his profession, the crier drew himself up, closed his eyes as if in a trance, reopened them when his words flowed.

“Margenthar, Duke of Stryx, to the Earl and good people of Cumber, greetings. Know ye that the fugitive Rodrigo Prince of Caledon has taken Prince Elryc his brother from his lawful guardian, to roam we know not where. And that my words shall be cried in every town square, and posted, that they may receive them, for the brother of the princes, Lord Pytor of Caledon, lies gravely ill at Verein, and—”

“Rust, he’s threatening—”

“Quiet!”

“—if the said princes are not returned to the guidance of the Regent Margenthar, their young brother may pass to his death with no parting words. And if any person shall come upon the fugitive princes, they must seize—”

“Demons take him!”

“Will you—”

“He’s made us Pytor’s ransom!” My fists were knotted so tight my palms ached. “If he harms one hair of Pytor’s head ...”

Uncle Raeth silenced the crier. “You have the gist of it. What think you?”

“That I’ll spear him to the wall. Better, I’ll cut out his liver.”

“Roddy!” Rustin’s voice was like ice.

“He threatens Pytor!”

The Earl watched us, unperturbed.

Rustin sighed. “I’m sorry, my lord Cumber. His wrath does have merit.”

Uncle Raeth’s hand fluttered in a wave of consent. “Of course. I find it fascinating.”

I wheeled on him. “Don’t mock me about Pytor’s life!”

“Don’t tell me what to do in my own donjon.” He beckoned, and his valet rose from his unnoticed couch, across the room. “Shall we sympathize, Imbar? Mar has them in a vise: their lives for Pytor’s, it would seem.”

“They’ll ignore the Duke, I wager. Regardless of the risk to the brother.”

“What choice have they?” Raeth.

“To go back.”

I said, “I can’t!”

“Mar is a doting uncle; he’ll raise them well, but how can our boy understand, Imbar? He’s so full of loathing and contempt that he’s blind to Mar’s charms.”

Words failed me. With a curse, I fled the hall, bolted up the stairs to our chamber. Inside, I threw myself on the bed, pounded the pillow over and again in rage.

Out of breath, Rust came upon a moment after. “A brilliant leave-taking, my prince.”

I hurled my pillow at him, wishing it were a rock.

He batted it aside. “Are you perchance irked? One would never know.”

“Stop that!”
I leaped from the bed, charged him with fists flailing. “Mock me again and I’ll—”

He spun me around, dragged me to the washbasin. I struggled; he kicked my feet out from under me. “Control your temper, my prince.” He emptied the wash pitcher on my head.

I sat stupefied, dripping, my shirt plastered to my chest. “You bast—” I stopped just in time; his open palm reared to chastise me. I wiped water from my eyes, with a soggy sleeve.

“You wish to be King, Roddy? Then set your feelings in check. Let no man know how to wound you. Be circumspect.”

“Did you hear what the crier said?”

“Think you the Earl is awed by the working of your face, the knotted fists, the rage you cannot control? Think you he’d have you for his King?”

“Forget the throne.” I turned away. Only a sniffle escaped me. “I want to go home.”

“To Mar?”

“To Stryx.” I fell on my bed.

“Out of that wet shirt.”

I complied, to save the trouble of arguing. My eyes were damp; I rolled on my stomach, that he might not see.

“I’m sorry, Roddy.” He sat, stroked my back. “Perhaps I spoke too harshly.”

“Will you hit me if I say I hate you?”

“No.”

For some reason, I couldn’t say it. Instead, I gave out a muffled sob.

Rustin sat at my side, stroked my flank.

For a long while my relief contested with rage, but by the time Fostrow knocked at the door, I was calmed.

“Dinner is soon,” said the soldier. “And you’re expected. Hester and Elryc will eat in their rooms. I’m uneasy, lads, if you don’t mind my saying it. Lord Cumber has but to say the word, and you’re a bird in a cage.”

Rust asked, “Where would you have us go, that the danger is less?”

“I don’t know.” Fostrow sighed.

The Earl served us in the great hall as before. I had no chance to speak to Lady Tresa. I did, however, use Raeth’s own greeting as an opening.

“My lord Earl, accept my apology for this afternoon.” I spoke in an offhand manner, as if apologies came naturally. “I was upset for my brother, and spoke out of turn.”

“Ah, Imbar, see how gracefully he makes matters right. Think nothing of it, my boy.”

“But I do. A king must be above such rages.” I walked with him to our seats. “How may I make amends?”

For a moment he pondered, then a roguish glint lit his eye. “Take our Tresa riding tomorrow, and let her show you our fair city. I hear you get along like a pair of twins.”

I flushed, held my thoughts to myself. “Gladly, Uncle Raeth.” The meal was sumptuous. We waded through course upon course, amid tedious small talk. With nothing better to do, I let myself be mesmerized by the flickering taper.

Uncle Raeth pointed to my glass. “You see, Imbar? He drinks as sparingly as his father.”

“One night isn’t proof of—”

“I’ll wager I’m right. Lord Rustin, does your, ah, confidant overdrink?”

“No, my lord.”

It was true. Perhaps I lacked some manly attribute; my cousin Bayard and his cronies had no hesitation at drinking themselves into stupor. More often than not, I was moderate in my wine.

“There you are, Imbar. I recall Josip diluting his glass ’til it were nearly clear. Once, I said ...”

His tale went on and on. Resigned, I pretended to listen. The candle in front of my plate seemed to dim. I squinted, wondering if I was drunk after all.

“Josip was much annoyed, and warned me not to ...”

Abruptly the flame went out.

I startled, almost dropped my goblet in my lap.

“A lovely boy, though sometimes his sense of humor was ...”

Castles were drafty, and candles were always blowing out. But I’d felt no wind. I stole a glance to the window; it was locked.

A servant took light from another candle to relight the one that had guttered, but all at once several more died.

Uncle Raeth stopped in midword.

Not waiting for a servant, I reached for the nearest candle, to hold it to the next.

“Let it be, lad!” Something akin to fear was in Raeth’s tone.

I hesitated. All at once, the candle I held throbbed as though it had a life of its own. With a yelp, I let it fall. It drowned in my sweet chestnut sauce.

As if suffocated by a demon’s breath, the remaining candles blew out. But for the flicker from the hearth, we were in dark.

“Morovi, ignite the torches!” The Earl, his voice sharp.

“Aye, my lord.”

From the hearth, a hiss, as of water. The blaze steamed, sent out sparks.

My neck hairs stood stiff. I stumbled to my feet, hand on my dagger.

The servant Morovi ran to the hearth with an unlit torch. The fire banked and died.

Lord Cumber snapped, “Everyone stay still! Morovi, to another room, and bring back fire. Hurry.”

“Yes, my lord.” A crash. “Sorry, sire. Someone put a chair ...” More sounds of blundering and muttered curses.

“My guests, this happens from time to time. No need for alarm. The place has a Power, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

“Roddy, sing out! I can’t find—”

“I’m in front of my chair, about—
arrkh!”
I stumbled against something sharp. Recoiling, I lost my balance, fell to my knees. My face struck a lap; hands shoved me away harshly. I toppled to my side.

Someone stepped on my hand. I gasped, yanked loose numb fingers. My head whacked the table. Half-dazed, I found a leg, slid myself under, curled tight.

Running footsteps.

“Rodrigo!”
Rustin’s tone held panic.

The door burst open. A torch flickered. “My lord?” Behind Morovi, other servants, and Fostrow, his sword drawn.

Earl Cumber said, “See if our candles stay lit! Be quick!”

I sucked at my aching fingers.

“Careful, man, you’ll set the cloth ablaze!”

“Sorry, sire, I ... there.” A pause. “Now the next.”