The Still (75 page)

I dallied on the rampart. After a time I noticed a depression in the stone of the rampart deck. With cupped hands I spooned water from the rain barrel, until it filled the hollow. I waited patiently until it was Still.

I sat, back against the wall, staring at the tiny pool between my legs. Slowly I lowered my palms. I whispered words now familiar. The bright cold sun beat on my head. I closed my eyes, said again the encant.

“Now, lad, how say you?”

I opened my eyes. The cave was yet hazy, though much brighter than before. I could see my progenitors more clearly. “Grandsir.” I bowed.

“Your mother is adrift. She’ll be with us presently.” Tryon studied me. “You’ve composed yourself.”

I blushed. “I’m not squalling with panic, you mean.”

“I say what I intend, living one.”

“I’m sorry, Grandsir.” I bowed. “I meant no offense.” Now I sounded the terrified boy in Mar’s cell.

He grunted. “Father Varon, would you speak with the young King?”

A rumble. “No.”

I stammered. “Perhaps I shouldn’t have come. I’ve escaped. I’m on the ramparts of Verein.”

“What need have you?”

“Wisdom. Safety. A horse.”

He chuckled. “In that order? Wake yourself, Varon. He’s amusing, and now he’s using water so we can see.”

Other spirits drifted near. I said timidly, “You’re all my ancestors?”

The waspish one who’d spoken at my cell said peevishly, “Think you I sired such a malformed outcast?”

“But I—Mother said ...”

Tryon waved the creature silent “They’re kings of the land, as you are. Varon is the first of your ancestors. He overthrew the previous clan.”

“Perfidy it was, and treason!”

“Give it rest, Cayil.” Tryon rolled his eyes. “Some folk never abide their overthrow.”

“Nor will my line, ’til time ends and—”

“Your line’s mostly extinguished.”

“That’s true,” Cayil admitted, glumly. “But I can bedevil your crimes through eternity.”

“Not my crimes, Varon’s. I wasn’t born when—”

“Silence, whelp!” Varon’s rumble quivered the floor. “I did no ill deeds.”

Cayil’s voice rose an octave. “My tribe did you strike, my house crumble, my—”

“Deserved!”

I covered my ears, but Varon spoke no more.

Tentatively, I said, “Grandsir, what is my station? Am I still King, as to the Still?”

“You’re here.” It seemed an answer.

“About the True ... must I still keep it? Must I never deceive?”

He frowned. “Elena should have explained all that.”

I flushed. “I didn’t listen well.”

“Deceive not your friends. Enemies ...” He pondered. “If they demand you speak True, you must else we’ll lose you.”

“It’s a great strain.”

A glint of a smile. “So I found it.”

“Grandsir, what ought I do?”

Tryon frowned, and eased himself to sit, legs crossed, on the dirt floor. “Tell us your tale, boy. We’ve had but glimpses, when you’ve sat bemused.”

Slowly at first, I spoke of what had befallen Caledon. Sometime during my recital, I felt Mother’s arm drape gently across my shoulder. When I stumbled, she stroked my nape in reassurance, recalling dim memories of childhood.

“... so the Norlanders are upon us,” I said. “I’m free of the cell, but have no crown, no horse, no army. No escape.”

Mother said, “Forget the coronet. The crown isn’t a hat, it’s acknowledgment of your lords that you’re rightful heir.”

“But the symbol is taken for—”

“Don’t lecture me!” Her tone was sharp. “Was I not Queen?”

“Yes, ma’am.” I bowed, as I would in life.

“Have you raised your standard?”

“Not formally. I was taken in Cumber.”

“Do so.”

“Yes, madam. But who’ll answer the call? Since my crowning I’ve been boxed in Cumber Castle, done nothing except quarrel with my lords—look at me.” I rubbed my scar. “I’m grotesque! Who would follow such a king?”

“Men see past a face. If it troubles you so, buy a Return from the Warthen, and undo the moment!”

“Could I?”

“Of course. Though the cost—worry later about a petty scar.”

Tryon said gently, “He’s new at this, Elena.”

“’Twas you who called him lame of brain, a nit—”

Tryon colored. “When he was acting the role. But still he’s King.” Tryon turned to me. “Raise your standard, yes. No matter your previous state. With the Norlanders upon us, the bones are recast. New alliances will follow. Even Mar will seek treaty, either with you or the Norland.”

“You suggest I ally with him, after his perfidy?”

“He’s greedy, but no fool. He’ll know his best chance is to throw in with one of you.”

“I can’t, Grandsir. Forgive me.”

Mother said, “Then gather Pytor and Elryc to safety, lest they be made pawns.”

“Pytor’s dead. And Elryc.”

Mother raised her head, let out a shrill cry that made my bones throb. She drew fresh breath and keened.

Tryon watched without moving. In the dark corner, something stirred. A great form arose, drifted across the cave. Even in the heightened light, I couldn’t make out more than a hint of features. It rumbled, “Death comes to men.”

Mother’s lips moved. “My boys ...”

I felt rather than heard the response. “Comfort her, child.”

I took Mother in my arms. She beat against my shoulder. She scratched. I stood stolidly. After a time, her mourning eased.

I prompted Mother to sit, and crouched alongside. “I’m sorry. I thought you knew.”

“Who killed them?”

“Your brother, madam.”

Elena closed her eyes.

Tryon said, as if in apology. “At times when you’re not with us we sense your fears. But we haven’t your knowledge.”

I looked past him. “Varon? Sir? Would it be right—”

An angry blast knocked me flat.
“Who is he that dares?”

Mother said quickly, “He didn’t know.” To me, “Don’t speak directly to Grandfather. Let him attend you.”

I sat cautiously. “Why?”

“He’s gone far.” It seemed an explanation.

Tryon said, “Save Caledon, while you’ve time. Look for new allies against the Norland.”

“Who?”

“Tantroth of Eiber. The Warthen. Margenthar. Caledon’s a small boat in a stormy sea. Seek shelter.”

“But not with Mar.” I appealed to Mother. “He killed my brothers. He’d have castrated me.”

Mother said, “Tryon’s right.” She shook her head at my disbelief. “We can’t hate, Roddy. We’re practical. Not as in life.”

“Have you no emotions?”

“I grieve.” Her eyes teared. “Pytor was so small. Hester loved him so.” She met my gaze. “But I’m in the cold ground. It’s Caledon that counts. Ally with Mar.”

“No, I won’t have it!” With tremendous effort, I knotted my fists, tore my hands from the pool of rainwater. “I defy you!”

My palms were warm; I rubbed them in a gentle soothing motion, and stretched against the parapet wall.

I blinked. Much of the day had passed. Night was upon us.

Would they speak to me again, after my insolence?

I looked about, in moonlight and shadows. Interesting, that Mar valued Stryx more than his own domain. There were guards aplenty, but not enough to withstand determined assault. But the army he’d left at Cumber would swell his ranks at Verein, when they made their way home. Across the field four riders plodded. I wondered if they were the forerunners of his Cumber troop.

They rode for the wall, but not to a gate. In fact unless they veered, they’d be far from any portal.

Abruptly, as if reaching a decision, they spurred, cantered to the dark rampart. Their leader reined in, a long stone’s throw from where I sat. He unwound a rope from his saddle, attached a hook, swung it upward until it caught in an arrowport. His companions stood back, scanning all quarters. I ducked low. I couldn’t afford to be seen, no matter who breached the wall.

The agile young soldier swarmed up the rope. I risked another glance.

I stiffened.

Heedless of discovery I raced along the rampart, reached the climber just as his comrades hissed a warning. As I loomed above he snatched out his short sword.

“Take my hand, Rust.” I reached to gather him over the wall.

A sound came from him, that was no word. He almost fell from the rope. I clung to him until he gained his balance. He swarmed over the parapet. “You’re free!” His hand darted to my injured face. “Lord, no ...”

Below, Genard held Rustin’s mare. Alongside, Anavar sat his steed proudly, sword in hand. Captain Tursel beckoned us down.

On the far wall, a cry. A guardsman shouted orders. Horns blew. “We’re seen!” I climbed the parapet, swarmed down the rope. Rust kicked my head in his eagerness to follow. Burning my palms, I slid to the ground. I clawed at the waiting horse’s pommel.

“No, m’lord! I’m lightest!” Genard tore the reins from my fingers. “Ride here.” He let loose his stirrups, squirmed to make room in his saddle. I climbed onto the black stallion. Genard wrapped his arms about me so tight I thought I couldn’t breathe.

Rustin leaped atop his mare. A spear whizzed inches from my head. We dug in our heels, shot across the field. On the battlements, trumpets blared in frenzy.

We tore toward the distant hedgerow. I prayed there be no moles in the field; if my horse stumbled, I’d break my neck.

Squeezing my ribs, Genard bounced in the saddle. We neared the sanctuary of the trees. I craned over my shoulder, saw nothing but Genard. He yelled, “You ride, I’ll look.” Then, “Horsemen pouring out the gate, m’lord. A dozen. No, a score. They’re wheeling off the road. They—Look where you’re going!”

I swerved, barely avoiding a low branch that would have knocked us senseless. I waved to Rust. “Where’s a road?”

“Right this—whoops!” He reined in, hard. The thicket sloped down to a wide trail, on which a hundred horse and riders trod their way home to the castle. Desperately, he hauled on his reins, forcing his horse to retreat or throw him. “This way!”

We plunged into the copse, brambles tearing at our legs. From the west came the cries of our pursuers.

After a time, we halted, knowing we had to rest our steeds or lose them. Genard gibbered in my ear. “We’ll dodge them, have no worry. Can you see from that eye? Your face is torn like a—” I jabbed him with my elbow. “You were so pretty, before. Why is your hand crooked? Can you hold reins with—”

I hissed, “Get this toad away from me.”

“Hush, the both of you!” Rust’s tone brooked no argument.

Clouds passed across the moon. The weary horsemen trod on, those who didn’t join our pursuers. We stole back and forth amid brambles and bush, never able to lunge across the road. We spoke in whispers, walked more often than rode.

At last a dull fury wrapped me like a cloak. I was no boar to be trapped by beaters. I peered down the slope. My voice was a hoarse whisper. “At the first chance, cross the road at that ravine. I’ll join you on the far side.”

Rust only shook his head. Anavar said, “Are you daft?”

I snarled, “Obey the King!” I hoisted Genard from my saddle, held him while his feet found the ground. “Ride with another.” I wheeled my mount.

Rust cried, “Roddy, where go you?”

“Where you may not.” I spurred my stallion toward the flickering lights of Verein.

In the pale moonlight I saw parties of seekers combing the fields. Many bore torches. Somehow, they beheld me not. My horse was black, and my raiment dark.

I trotted to the gate, straight as a bee to the hive. Fear roiled my mind, and a rage so fierce I’d never felt it prior.

Outside the gate, pikemen stood alert. Horsemen clattered in and out. I stood in the saddle, reached past the nearest sentry, pried a torch from the wall. The man gaped. I spat at his feet. He recoiled.

I turned, rode twenty paces, turned again to face Verein.

I took breath, and screamed.

My mount started, and I soothed him with my legs. I held my shout ’til I was bereft of air, and took new breath. Again I shrieked, a long wordless sound of nightmare.

Men appeared on the wall, jostling to see what phantom beset them.

Slowly, I rose in the saddle. I held the torch near my face.
“Look upon me, and rue your treason!”

From the castle, utter silence. Behind me a rider spurred toward me. I spat,
“Come nigh at thy peril!”
He stopped short, as if he’d struck a wall.

An arrow thunked at my feet. I sat motionless. If this was my time, I would die. But I’d be hunted no more.

“King am I, of all Caledon.”
My voice echoed from cold stone.
“I ride to Cumber to raise my standard. You who would live, join me on the third day hence. Else guard your throat, for my bite is sharp!”

Another arrow plucked my shirt.

I made a sign of warding.
“Think ye a barb can harm me? Shoot, and wither, and die!”

Somewhere, a horse whinnied. I screamed again, until my throat was raw. From the wall a score of torches crackled and smoked, a hundred faces watched unmoving. Someone hissed an order. Arrows whipped past. First a few, then swarms.

“King Rodrigo am I. AND I WILL HAVE CALEDON!”

I wheeled, and galloped into the night.

I
PLUNGED ACROSS THE
road. Behind me foemen gave hesitant chase. When I stopped, they stopped. When I wheeled my mount, they scattered.

My horse trod on, at a pace he chose. I passed a grove.

A soft whistle. “Here, Roddy.”

I tugged the reins, guided my mount. “Rust. Anavar.” I let fall the reins. “We’ll be all right now, if we ride the night. But one of you, pull the shaft from my leg.”

Rustin spewed a string of foul oaths. His blade glinted, and ripped the cloth of my leggings. “You’ve bled.”

“Not much.”

“This will hurt.”

“Hurt is an old friend.”

He braced me, braced himself, pulled the arrow clear of my thigh.

In the distance, as if from a far mountain, I felt pain. I sat quiet, while he bound me with strips of his jerkin. “Can you ride?”

“If I sit still. Take my reins.”

Weary hours passed, while I thought of Mother, and Grandsir, and Caledon.

We stopped to drink.

My leg was sore and stiff, but I could walk if need be. In the dawn’s growing light, I took Rustin’s arm and hobbled from our camp.