Blood and Honor (Forest Kingdom Novels) (17 page)

Cord glared balefully about him, and his gaze settled on a portly noble to Jordan’s left. He smiled slowly, and hefted his mace. Foulness dripped from the metal tines. The noble shook his head, and began to back away.

“No! Please … it’s a mistake! I’m Real, Real as you! Do I look like one of those things? Just look at me!”

Cord moved steadily toward him. The noble backed away even faster, and the courtiers scattered to give them both plenty of room. The noble glanced behind him, and found he’d run out of room. There was nothing there but a wall. He looked at Cord, and his face suddenly went cold and dead. He grabbed a woman’s arm and pulled her to him, holding her before him as a shield. His eyes were empty and lifeless.

“Stay back or I’ll kill her.”

The voice was distant and horribly distorted. It didn’t sound human, though it came from a human throat. The Unreal man pulled a knife from its sleeve and set the edge against the woman’s throat. A drop of blood slid slowly down her neck as the sharp edge nicked the skin. She whimpered once, and looked beseechingly at Cord. He smiled at her reassuringly, and then his left arm snapped forward too quickly to follow, and the mace flew from his hand to smash the noble’s shoulder. The knife fell harmlessly to the floor, and the creature’s shattered arm hung limply at its side. Cord reached into thin air and pulled out a great two-edged broadsword. It was wide and strong as a butcher’s cleaver, and the edges had been filed into jagged serrations. Cord sprang forward and swung the sword at the noble’s neck. The creature dropped its hostage and tried to duck under the blow, but Cord had timed it too well. The blade sliced clean through the neck, and the head flew howling through the air. The body didn’t fall. The hostage screamed once, and fainted. A long split appeared in the noble’s suddenly bare chest, stretching lengthwise and forming into a mouth that reached from neck to groin, lined with shining teeth. A long leathery tongue shot out of the opening and wrapped itself around Cord, pinning his arms to his sides. His great muscles bulged as he tried to break free, but the tongue was too strong for him. It began to contract back into the body mouth, dragging Cord with it.

Jordan stepped forward and picked up Cord’s mace, which had fallen practically at his feet. He had to use both hands to lift it, and he grunted in surprise at the weight. He advanced cautiously on the Unreal noble, hefting the mace as best he could. He knew the steward had said not to interfere, and given any choice he would have been happy not to, but he couldn’t just stand by and watch a man die. He moved forward as quietly as he could, and sneaked up to the thing from behind. Without a head, the creature shouldn’t be able to see or hear him, but he wasn’t taking any chances he didn’t have to. A second mouth appeared suddenly in the creature’s back, lined with chomping teeth. It knew he was there. Jordan stopped dead in his tracks and switched the mace awkwardly to his left hand. He used his other hand to palm a fire pellet from his sleeve, crushed it, and threw the flaming ball into the creature’s snapping mouth. It slammed shut on the fire reflexively, and then staggered on its human feet as the flames took hold inside it. The blazing light could be seen clearly through the creature’s flesh. Jordan stepped forward and swung the mace double-handed, crushing the thing’s other shoulder. It went to its knees under the impact of the blow, and the tongue holding Cord loosened its grip just enough for him to pull himself free. He raised his broadsword and chopped at the writhing body like a woodsman hewing at a stubborn tree trunk. The creature gradually fell apart into twitching pieces that took a long time to die and lie still. Jordan looked away, and saw the severed head grinning up at him. It snarled silently. Jordan smashed the thing with the mace until he was sure it was really dead. He finally looked up, panting, and Cord nodded to him approvingly. Jordan grinned back.

Not all the birds had died from the steward’s balefire. A dozen of them dived shrieking toward the Regent, still standing beside the throne. Jordan started toward him to help, and then stopped as the Lady Gabrielle lifted her arm and pointed imperiously at the birds. They fell clumsily out of the air, making harsh croaking sounds. Jordan frowned, confused, and on moving closer saw that the birds were gasping futilely for air.
Of course, Gawaine said she had air magic. She’s drawing the air out of their lungs …
He looked at Gabrielle with new respect.
Somebody else I’d better not upset
.

The steward skidded to a halt before the man melting into the wall, and her sword of light bit into the stonework beside him. Dark blood spurted from the broken stone. The wall heaved and convulsed around the emaciated body, and then formed into a jagged mouth that spat the body out. The man fell limply to the ground and lay still, moaning faintly. He was little more than skin and bone. The wall had all but sucked him dry. The steward stood over him, her shimmering shield between them and the stone mouth. It grinned at her, and stretched wider and wider until it was the length of the wall. Squat, bulky teeth appeared behind the thick gross lips. The steward cut at the mouth with her sword. The stone yielded helplessly to the glowing balefire, but the blade was too small to do any real damage to the gigantic mouth. A deep rumbling growl issued from the stone, and back down the hall Jordan wondered crazily what the stone mouth would sound like once it learned to speak. The steward backed away a step. She made a quick gesture with her hands, and her sword and shield disappeared. The stone mouth pursed its lips, and then smiled slowly.

“We are coming … we will be here soon … we are coming … we are coming …”

There was nothing human in the voice: only an awful, purposeful evil that made Jordan want to wince away from the sound. Many of the courtiers did. The steward stood her ground, her face drawn and tense, and spoke a second Word of Power. A blinding light flared up around the steward, blazing soundlessly as it fought in vain to consume her, but bound by her will to do her bidding. She gestured sharply, and the balefire flew away from her to sink into the wall. The huge mouth twisted in agony. There was a silent flare of light too bright to look at, and when everyone’s eyes had cleared, the mouth was gone and the wall was just a wall again.

The steward knelt down beside the man she’d rescued, and felt for a pulse in his neck. After a moment, she nodded tiredly and stood up again. She gestured to the nearest servants, and they hurried forward to take care of the shrunken figure. Jordan looked closely at the man as he was carried past, and was relieved to note that the emaciated chest was still rising and falling, if only just. He looked back at the steward to congratulate her, and then hesitated. She was clearly unsteady on her feet, and for the first time Jordan realized just how much her magic had taken out of her. Her face was pale and drawn, and sweat trickled down her brow. Her hands were shaking slightly, but when Damon Cord hurried over to stand at her side, she brusquely waved away his silent offer of support.

She looked slowly round the quiet hall, taking in the silent courtiers and what remained of the dead Unreal creatures, and finally she nodded wearily. She turned to the throne on the dais, and bowed to the Regent.

“That’s it. I’ve done all I can here. But things are going to stay unsettled until there’s a king on the throne again. My sorcery is strong enough to cope for the moment, but that’s all. Tell the people why we’re here. We can’t put this off any longer.”

“Is the hall clear of the Unreal now?” asked the Lady Gabrielle.

The steward looked at the Monk. Lewis stiffened slightly. For a moment Jordan thought the steward was going to say something, but then the moment passed, and she just looked away. “I’ve done all I can, my lady. Let the Regent say his piece, and then we can all get out of here. I don’t know about the rest of you, but I’ve got work to do.”

“Yeah,” said Cord. “Lots to be done.” He hefted the sword in his hand, and grinned nastily. He opened his hand and the sword suddenly disappeared. Jordan jumped, startled, as the mace in his hand disappeared, too. He flexed his fingers nervously, and fought down an urge to check inside his sleeves in case the mace was hiding there. Heather elbowed him sharply in the ribs as the Regent began speaking, and Jordan quickly paid attention to what was being said.

“My friends,” said the Regent, “we live in dangerous times. Without a king on the throne, the whole of Redhart could soon fall prey to the Unreal. But with the will and the crown and the seal missing, we have been unable to declare any of the princes as king. All three brothers have had ample time to find the crown and seal, and they have all failed. We cannot, dare not, wait any longer. It is therefore my unfortunate duty to proclaim the Rite of Transference, as established in precedent. From this moment on, any man with Blood who presents crown and seal to the Stone in the correct ceremony will be declared the next king of Redhart.”

For a long time, nobody said anything. The shocked silence just seemed to echo on and on. Jordan looked frantically at Gawaine and Heather for some clue as to how he should be reacting, but they looked just as blank as everyone else. Jordan rummaged quickly through his memory, but couldn’t recall anyone saying anything about a Rite of Transference. He looked across at Prince Dominic. The man’s face was if anything even paler than before, but his icy calm hadn’t wavered in the least. As Jordan watched, the Lady Elizabeth whispered urgently in Dominic’s ear. He nodded absently, then turned and left the hall, followed by Elizabeth and several of the courtiers. Jordan looked quickly over at Prince Lewis, but he was already heading for the door, too, followed by Ironheart and the Monk. Jordan slapped Sir Gawaine lightly on the arm.

“If they’re going, I’d better go, too,” he muttered urgently. “We’ve got to discuss this, and fast.”

Gawaine nodded, and he and the Lady Heather walked beside Jordan as he stalked silently out of the Court. Jordan hoped like hell that Count Roderik, Argent, and DeGrange would be waiting for him in his quarters when he got there. He’d only been in this job a few hours, and already the scenario he’d been given was falling apart. What the hell was the Rite of bloody Transference? Jordan ground his teeth together. This was all he needed. More bloody complications. He’d better get some advice, and quickly. Or come the next morning, there could be a new king on the throne that none of the factions had counted on.

CHAPTER 4

Unexpected Visitors

“That devious bastard! He’ll plunge us all into civil war before he’s through!”

Count Roderik stalked back and forth in Jordan’s suite, waving his hands around as he fumed. Jordan leaned back against the mantelpiece and let him get on with it. Roderik hadn’t stopped whining since he arrived, and Jordan was getting more than a little tired of it. After all, Roderik probably wouldn’t have been half as angry if he hadn’t had to baby-sit Viktor while all the excitement was going on at Court. Jordan looked surreptitiously at the others, to see how they were taking it. Sir Gawaine was standing at parade rest by the closed main door, his face showing a polite interest that wasn’t mirrored in his eyes. Robert Argent was sitting slumped in a chair, gnawing at a thumbnail and scowling at nothing in particular. The Lady Heather was sitting on the arm of the chair Prince Viktor was sitting in. They both looked more thoughtful than worried. Viktor looked up irritably as Roderik drew near him.

“Oh do be quiet, Roderik, I’m trying to think. We’re all upset, but we haven’t the time to indulge in hysterics.”

Roderik stopped dead in his tracks and glared at Viktor. “Your Highness, may I point out that you are quite possibly only hours away from losing your throne and your position? To say nothing of your life? As things stand, anyone can just walk up to the Stone with the crown and the seal, and be made king on the spot!”

“Anyone with Blood,” said Viktor. “That does limit the field rather. I agree things are somewhat desperate, but no more so now than they were a few hours ago. If my brothers and I and all our people haven’t been able to find the crown and seal in all this time, I don’t see how anyone else can hope to. No, our only real fear is that someone already has them hidden, and has been waiting for this chance. Poor fool. Whoever it is, he won’t get within ten feet of the Great Hall. DeGrange and his men are already guarding all the approach corridors, ostensibly to keep the peace but actually under my direct orders to kill any pretender who appears. A nice touch, I thought, using DeGrange. It gives the Regent the illusion of security, while ensuring my interests remain covered.”

Gawaine stirred unhappily. “I’m afraid it’s not that simple, Your Highness. Your brothers’ men have also established themselves near the Great Hall, no doubt with similar orders. There have been a few skirmishes already.”

“Really?” said Heather. “Who’s winning?”

“No one’s winning!” snapped Roderik. “We’re all losing! While we waste time fighting among ourselves, the Regent is sitting there laughing at us.”

“Don’t shout at me, Roderik,” said Viktor softly. “I have a headache.”

Roderik looked at Viktor and seemed to remember where he was and who he was shouting at. He bowed stiffly. “My apologies, sire.”

“That’s better,” said Viktor. “Don’t let it happen again, there’s a good chap. Now then, I think we’d all benefit from a short break. Heather, hand around my pipes and tobacco. You know where they are. And there are drinks in the cabinet for those who’d like them.”

Jordan shot a quick guilty look at the drinks cabinet, and tried to remember if he’d put the whiskey decanter back in the right place. Luckily, nobody seemed interested in a drink or the rack of long clay pipes that Heather passed around. Everyone was too tense to even think of relaxing. Jordan scowled briefly. He could have done with a stiff drink, but he didn’t like to ask if nobody else was drinking. They all sat or stood in silence for a while, each of them lost in their own thoughts, and finding little pleasure or hope there.

“I think I’m missing something,” said Jordan finally. “You all seem to be implying that the Regent is risking civil war in Redhart for a reason. What reason? What could he hope to gain?”

“It’s complicated,” said Argent, without looking up. “Basically, King Malcolm made Count William the Regent because William is an honest man. Possibly the most honest and honorable man at Court. Unfortunately, because of his overly strict sense of morality, William has never approved of the present royal line. He certainly doesn’t approve of the three princes who stand to inherit Malcolm’s throne. By William’s lights, none of them are worthy of it. So, by declaring the Rite of Transference, he is hoping a new royal line will emerge to sit on the throne and replace the existing line. That new line would of course be heavily dependent on the Regent when it came to actually running the country …”

“Just what is this Rite of Transference?” said Jordan. “I mean, what exactly does it do? And while we’re on the subject, why wasn’t I told about it before?”

“Because it hasn’t been used in three hundred years,” growled Roderik. “The last time it was declared, it was used to establish the present royal line, after extensive inbreeding had made the old line worthless. I’d forgotten the damn thing was still on the law books.”

Jordan frowned. “All right, so it’s legal. But can the Regent back it up? Does he have the troops? And would the Court stand for it? I mean, their interests are tied in with the princes. Aren’t they?”

“Not necessarily,” said Prince Viktor. He looked increasingly tired and drawn, but his voice was still steady. “The aristocracy is based on Blood, and as things stand, anyone with Blood could use the crown and seal to make themselves king. As far as the Court is concerned, this is a once-in-a-lifetime chance to ascend to the throne. Not that it’ll happen that way, of course.”

“Why not?” said Jordan.

Viktor looked at him pityingly. “Because neither I nor my brothers will stand for it, that’s why not. As you pointed out, in the end it all comes down to force of arms. The Regent commands the castle guards, but as princes, we each have our own private troops, more than enough to take the crown and seal away from whoever has them.”

“You’re talking about waging a war in your own country,” said Jordan slowly. “Not just against the Regent, but against your brothers as well. How many of your people would die in those wars? Not just your guards and men-at-arms; how many peasants and townspeople, how many farmers and merchants, how many men, women, and children would have to die to make you king? Hundreds? Thousands?”

“At least,” said Viktor. “It isn’t important. It is my right to be king. And it is the duty of all my subjects to fight and if need be die for their king.”

“I’m not sure raising an army would prove all that easy, Your Highness,” said Gawaine quietly. “With so many questions still unanswered over King Malcolm’s death, nobody trusts anybody anymore. The way things are, neither you nor your brothers can be as sure of support as you once could.”

“No one can blame me,” said Viktor. “I was still in exile when the old man died.”

“Yes, sire, you were,” said Gawaine. “But you could have ordered it done.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Look,” said Jordan, “it seems to me that we’re worrying too much about things that haven’t happened, and might never happen. If we worry about every little thing that could go wrong, we’ll never get anything done. Let’s stick to the things that matter. For example, how was my performance? Nobody’s said a thing about that yet. Was I convincing? Do I need to work on the voice more?”

“Trust an actor to care only about his reviews,” said Heather.

“You did very well, sire,” said Gawaine, smiling slightly. “You were Prince Viktor to the life. And stepping in to help Damon Cord against the Unreal was a good move. It never hurts to be conspicuously brave in front of the right people. It might even draw us some popular support at Court later on.”

Viktor sniffed. “That’s as may be. In the meantime, we’ll let you know if your work’s not up to standard, actor.” He rubbed tiredly at his forehead, and gestured pettishly at Gawaine. “I’ve done enough for one evening. My head hurts. I’m going back to my quarters.”

“Not yet, Your Highness,” said Roderik quickly. “We still have the other glamour spell to do.”

Jordan gave Roderik a hard look.
“Another
glamour spell? No one said anything to me about another glamour spell.”

“It’s just a little something to help you in your performance as Viktor,” said Roderik smoothly. “You’ve done very well so far, considering, but whilst you look and sound very much like Prince Viktor, you still wouldn’t convince anyone who knew the prince well. It’s not your fault. You haven’t had a chance to meet His Highness in person before now, so you haven’t been able to acquire all the little mannerisms, phrases of speech and so on, that help to make up his private and public faces. This new glamour spell will graft these things directly onto your memory, much as the first spell gave you Viktor’s appearance. That’s really all there is to it.”

Jordan thought about it. There was something about this new spell that disturbed him very deeply. The first spell had simply altered his outer appearance. That hadn’t been so bad, once he got used to it. Actors did it all the time, with costumes, wigs, and makeup. But this new spell would change the way he spoke and moved, perhaps even the way he thought… And yet he couldn’t say no. They were right. There wasn’t time to learn the part by observation; he had to be perfect straightaway. And this was the only way.

“All right,” he said steadily. “Let’s do it.”

Roderik gestured for Jordan to sit down in a chair facing the prince, and he did so. His palms were wet with sweat, and he rubbed them unobtrusively against the chair arms to dry them. The prince was sitting up straight in his chair, despite his obvious tiredness. He didn’t even look worried, the smug bastard. The Lady Heather looked at Jordan as if he was some interesting exhibit in a private zoo.
And stuff you too
, thought Jordan, just to keep things impartial. He tried to settle himself more comfortably in his chair, but each position seemed worse than the last. It was all in his mind, he knew that, but it didn’t help his nerves at all. He hated to be kept waiting. Robert Argent was watching him closely, and Jordan kept his expression carefully calm. He glanced across at Sir Gawaine, hoping for a little moral support, but the knight had turned his face away, as if he couldn’t bear to watch what was about to happen. Jordan began to regulate his breathing, keeping it slow and steady, and set about calming his nerves as he had so often before, standing in the wings of a stage, waiting to go out on the boards and do what he was born to do. His composure slowly came back to him, and his muscles began to relax in ones and twos. He was the Great Jordan. He could handle this. Roderik looked at him and then at the prince. He nodded, satisfied, and then raised his left hand and gestured sharply. Static sparked and snapped on the air before him. He forced out a shout, jerky sentence in a harsh, guttural tongue, and the world disappeared.

Night fell. There was no light, and the darkness was everywhere. Jordan discovered he couldn’t hear or feel anything either, and fought down a brief surge of panic. He clenched his hands into fists, but he couldn’t feel the chair arms they rested on, or even the pressure of the fingers against each other. The darkness swirled about him in a slow, steady rhythm, and his panic slowly ebbed away. There was nothing disturbing about the dark; in fact, it was almost restful. Like lying in bed at night with your eyes closed. He waited patiently. Something came into the darkness with him, and without knowing how or why, he knew it was Viktor. They drifted closer to each other, and then Jordan tried to scream as a flood of information washed over him in an endless tide.

The garden was full of flowers. Their rich and heady scent filled the air now that the rain had finally stopped. He picked a rose, and the thorn pricked his thumb. The drop of blood it drew was the same color as the rose … He rode across the empty moor as twilight fell, his horse plunging beneath him, a good length and more in front of his nearest rival. The cold wind blew tears from his eyes … Thick smoky air diffused the lantern light into a dim amber glow in the back-alley tavern. He knew he shouldn’t be there on his own, in the worst part of Kahalimar, and he didn’t give a damn … He had his hands around Dominic’s throat, and he was crying as he tried to murder his brother. Elizabeth watched them struggle, and there was nothing in her face but an endless weary contempt
.

Past and present rolled into a single kaleidoscopic mosaic that battered at Jordan’s mind in overwhelming detail. He swayed and shuddered under the assault, but still clung stubbornly to his own sense of identity. Years of pretending to be people other than himself had given his mind a strength and resilience beyond the norm, and even as Viktor’s memories strove to convert him into a duplicate of themselves, Jordan was already fighting back. He had to. His mind, his soul, everything that made him unique was in danger of being supplanted by the other man’s memories. He clung fiercely to what was his, and slowly, gradually, the pressure faded. He began to pick and choose among the endless stream of information that flowed to him from Viktor, taking only what he needed. How to move, how to talk, how to seem Viktor without actually being him. And still the memories came and went. Jordan moved among them at his leisure, searching for anything that looked useful or interesting. He came across something strange, and Viktor tried to pull back, to hide the memory from him. Jordan took control easily, and looked closely at what Viktor hadn’t wanted him to see.

Viktor lay on his back in bed, with Heather snuggled up against him. He stared up at the ceiling, his eyes idly following a long wavering crack in the plaster
.

“Viktor …” said Heather muzzily
.

“Yeah?”

“Do you really think there’s going to be a civil war?”

“Bound to be. Too many factions, and none of them willing to compromise. Best way, in the long run. I wouldn’t feel safe as long as my brothers or the Regent were still alive.”

“I can see that, Viktor. But if there is a civil war, thousands of people could die.”

“Probably. It doesn’t matter. They’re only peasants, after all. Breed like rabbits. Don’t go all squeamish on me now, Heather. I’m going to need your strength. I learned my lesson during those long years in exile. Look out for yourself first, and everyone else second, if at all. I don’t give a damn for the peasants or the courtiers or anyone else in this stinking country. None of them lifted a finger to help me when I needed help. To hell with them all.”