Fire and Sword (2 page)

Orkid Gravespear, Chancellor of Grenda Lear, found his queen standing on the south gallery of the palace. When he did not find Areava in her sitting room, he had known she would be here. It struck him as ironic that, like her hated brother Lynan had once done, she came to this place when she wanted to be alone. He paused at the wide double doors that led to the gallery, his bearlike frame almost filling the space, and studied her for a moment.

Areava was a tall, blonde-haired woman whose back was as straight as a stone wall. She inherited her beauty from her mother, the late Queen Usharna, but her character was a strange amalgam of her mother’s wisdom and her father’s selfish willfulness. He had not yet hit upon a method to get his way with her as he had with Usharna.

The thought made him smile ruefully. It had occurred to him after Usharna’s death that she had in fact hit upon a method of getting her way with him and making it seem it was the other way around. But Areava was too direct for that and had not yet learned her mother’s trick of subtle cajoling.

Areava was staring out over the royal city of Kendra, toward the harbor and Kestrel Bay beyond. She held her tiara in her right hand, and her long hair sifted gently with a cooling southerly breeze.

Orkid coughed politely into a hand and came to her side.

“I need some time alone, Chancellor,” she said without looking at him.

“We all need that, your Majesty, but you of all people can least afford it.”

He saw her grimace in irritation. “I hear my mother’s voice when you speak like that.”

“She was the wisest of women.”

“Not so wise, perhaps.”

“How so?”

“After my father died she married the General and begat Lynan.”

Orkid sighed deeply. He had suspected her current mood had more to do with Lynan than with other affairs of state.

“You are being wise at her expense,” he said.

She nodded. “Yes. That was unfair of me.” She faced him. “Strange, isn’t it, how we always refer to Lynan’s father as ‘the General’? Why not ‘the Commoner’ or simply ‘Elynd Chisal’?”

“Because he was the greatest general Kendra has ever seen.”

“Was Usharna the greatest queen Kendra has ever seen?”

“Undoubtedly.”

“Then why do we not call her simply ‘the Queen’?”

“In time, we may. But you may surpass her, your Majesty. Future generations may quibble about which of you should be called nothing but ‘the Queen.’”

“And the other nothing more than ‘the mother of the Queen’ or ‘the daughter of the Queen’? I don’t like the sound of that. I don’t want to be greater than Usharna.”

“You should. If you do not strive to be the very best monarch Kendra has ever had, you will not be doing your duty.”

Orkid watched with fascination as the red Rosetheme rage filled her cheeks. “How dare you—!”

“Do I have your attention now?” he interrupted sharply, his thick beard adding to his grim expression.

Areava’s mouth snapped shut. Her face was still flushed, but the corner of her lips turned up in a smile she was finding hard to repress. “Is this how you treated my mother?”

“No, your Majesty. She was my teacher in all things.”

Areava heard the genuine sadness in Orkid’s voice, and felt pity for him. “You are my teacher, then?”

“No, Queen Areava. I am your chancellor. And we have work to do.”

She resumed looking out over the city. The trees that filled the gardens and parks of Kendra’s richest citizens had turned red and gold, filling the city with splendid color. “I cannot get Lynan out of my head. I had truly believed he was dead and gone forever, and when that mercenary ...”

“Jes Prado,” Orkid said with some distaste.

“... Prado told me he was still alive, I felt like I had died instead.”

“I understand. I felt the same way. But we still have work to do.”

“I want to be rid of him, Orkid. I want my kingdom free of his influence, free of his taint.”

“He is harmless, your Majesty. He is with the distant Chetts, a petty people living in a wasteland without cities or armies.”

“No, you are wrong. While he is alive, Lynan can never be harmless. The
idea
of Lynan is a canker and, like a canker, it will spread if not cut out. He is a mule born of a monarch and a commoner. And he is a kingslayer.”

Orkid sighed deeply. “This is something you should discuss with your council. Indeed, there are many pressing matters that you should discuss with your council.”

“And what will be their advice, do you think? The same as yours, mayhap?”

“Your Majesty, if I had that kind of influence with the council, I would not be an Amanite. They will support you in all things, but can advise beyond my poor measure to do so.”

“Oh, now you tease me,” she said disdainfully. “Mother depended on your advice as heavily as I do. And you may be an Amanite, but most on the council look upon your people with a kinder light now.”

“Because you are to marry one of us? Maybe.”

Areava frowned in concentration. “Perhaps you are right. I will call the council on this.”

“They will help you steer the right course, I am sure.” He turned to leave, having achieved what he came for. He would tell Harnan Beresard, the queen’s private secretary, to issue the summons for the council immediately. Areava needed hard work to drive her out of the despondence brought on by Jes Prado’s news.

“Orkid,” Areava called after him.

He turned around. “Your Majesty?”

Areava licked her lips, seemed hesitant to speak.

“Is there something else?”

“My brother, Prince Olio. Have you noticed anything ... peculiar ... about him lately?”

“Peculiar?” Orkid looked down in thought. “He seems overly tired.”

“Nothing else?”

Orkid shook his head. Prince Olio? He had given the young man barely a thought since Prado’s arrival at the palace. Had he missed something important? “Is something wrong with his Highness?”

“I don’t know. Maybe it is my imagination.”

“What exactly concerns you, Queen Areava? I will help if I can.”

“He is changing,” she said quickly, as if she did not really want to say the words.

“Changing?”

“He is not as, well, sweet as he once was.”

Orkid’s expression showed his surprise. “Sweet?”

“As gentle. He often seems sullen.”

“I am sorry, I have not noticed. I will make some enquiries, if you wish.”

Areava nodded. “Yes, but not so he knows.”

Orkid bowed and turned again to leave.

“And, Orkid, I may have agreed to call the council, but my mind will not be changed about Lynan. I want him hunted down. I want him killed.”

Olio was in a long, dark room filled with a thousand cots, and in each cot was a child. He looked at the first one, saw the rash of milk disease. The child’s eyes were half-opened, the pupils so wide there was almost no white; her breath came in short pants, like a stricken dog. Olio placed his right hand on the child’s head, and with the left tightly grasped the Key of the Heart. He felt the gentle touch of a magicker on his shoulder and power surged through the Key into his body and then into the body of the child. The rash evaporated, her eyes closed, and her breath deepened as she fell into a healing sleep.

A hole appeared in Olio’s chest, narrow as the nib on a pen, but he could see right through it. He heard a moan from the next cot. In it was a boy, tossing and turning, scratching the boils that disfigured his arms and face. Olio placed his right hand on one of the boils; again the power surged through him. The boils dissolved, the child sighed deeply, and smiled up at him. Olio smiled back, then noticed the hole in his chest had widened.

A cry of pain from the next cot. Olio saw another boy, his whole torso scarred by burns, the flesh turned black and red.

Olio healed him. The hole in his chest widened to the size of a spear shaft.

And now the whole room filled with the sounds of suffering children. It battered against him like a storm tide. “I’m coming,” he said. “Give me time.”

He went from cot to cot, healing each child, and the hole in his chest grew so large he was cut in half by it, its entire circumference no longer visible. He was exhausted, but still the children needed him.

On and on he went, curing the sick, all the while slowly being eaten away until, when he finally reached the last cot, he saw his right hand glimmer, become translucent and then disappear entirely.

He looked into the last cot. It was Lynan, small Lynan, his body white and swollen with the sea, his eyes gnawed away, his lips nothing but torn shreds. “Brother, I will heal you,” Olio said, and put out his hand. But there was no hand. Olio was nothing but air and light.

“Oh, no!” he cried. “Not now!”

Lynan’s bloated body moved, and Olio saw worms working through the flesh of his half-brother.

“No!” he screamed, and turned away ...

... and fell. Something hard slammed into his head. His eyes opened, and he saw he was on the floor in his own chambers. He groaned, tried to stand up, but could only dry retch instead.

“Oh, God.”

He pushed himself up with his hands, slumped against his bed. Something was banging in his head. He held his hands against his temples, then against his jaw. Stubble scratched his palms. His mouth felt as dry as sand, and completely filled with his tongue.

He tried to stand again and got to his feet, but doubled over as the drumming in his head reached a crescendo. He sat on the edge of his bed until the drumming eased, then went to the wash basin. He splashed cold water over his face, and the shock of it seemed to wash away some of the pain.

Someone knocked on his door.

“What is it?” he said thickly, making hardly any sound at all.

“Your Highness, Prelate Fanhow is here to see you.” It was the voice of his manservant. “Shall I let him in?”

“Of course you should let him in!” Olio shouted back. How many times did he have to tell the idiot that Edaytor Fanhow should never be barred from him? He looked up at the door, caught his own reflection in the mirror above the wash basin. At first he did not recognize the face.

“No, wait!” he tried to shout but could only make a hoarse cry. It was too late anyway. He could hear the servant’s footsteps as he scurried away to fetch the prelate.

He splashed more water in his face and looked at his reflection again. His eyes were red-rimmed, his skin so sallow it was the color of old ivory. Two days’ worth of whiskers made him look like a bandit, not a prince of the realm.

There was another knock on the door, and it opened. Prelate Fanhow, genial and round, entered and closed the door behind him. Olio hung his head down between his shoulders.

“Your Highness, are you all right?”

Olio nodded. “Just tired, Edaytor.”

“I’m glad to hear it. Should I return later?”

“Yes,” Olio said weakly, then quickly: “No. No, stay.”

He stood up straight so the prelate could see his face. Edaytor’s usually gentle and benign face blanched.

“Your Highness! What’s happened to you?”

“I’m not sleeping very well.”

“You look like you haven’t slept for a month.” The prelate found it hard to disguise his shock. Olio’s usually childish features had been transformed almost beyond recognition, as if he had aged twenty years in just a few days.

Olio forced a smile. “That b-b-bad, really? I m-m-must stop eating all that rich p-p-palace food.”

Edaytor did not return the smile. “You mean all that rich Chandran wine.”

Olio’s genial expression disappeared, replaced by a mixture of shock and anger. “How dare you—!”

“If I cannot say it to your face, Prince Olio, who can?”

“You p-p-presume too m-m-much—”

“Undoubtedly. Did you drink last night?”

“I don’t see how that’s any of your b-b-business.”

Edaytor said nothing. The prelate was starting to perspire, and was almost overcome by a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that told him the prince
had
been drinking.

“I don’t even like wine,” Olio continued after a moment, his tone now feigning anger. “I rarely drink it. I can’t...” He let his voice trail off.

Edaytor swallowed. “You can’t hold it, your Highness?”

“That isn’t what I m-m-meant!” Olio spat. “If you can’t open your m-m-mouth without m-m-making ridiculous charges about m-m-me, then b-b-best you don’t open it at all.”

Edaytor opened his arms the way a court suppliant might. “My lord, I mean you no offense—”

“It didn’t sound that way.”

“I
mean
you no offense. You and I are partners in a great experiment for the good of our kingdom, and I respect and admire you more than any other man I know, but to see you like this tears at my heart.” Edaytor swallowed again, this time to keep back his tears. He had been wounded by the prince’s manner but was ashamed to show it.

Olio gaped and put a hand on the wash basin to steady himself. His sleeve dunked in the water, and he looked at it absently. “It is I who offended you.”

“No, your Highness ...”

Olio waved him quiet. “No p-p-protestations. We cannot afford p-p-pretense between us.” He closed his eyes for a moment, and when he opened them they seemed to Edaytor to be twice as red as before. “I m-m-may have overindulged now and then, m-m-my friend, but I did not lie to you b-b-before. I am not sleeping well. I am having terrible dreams. The drinking helps me sleep. And it helps me forget the dreams I have when I do sleep.”

“About your healing?”

Olio’s face whitened. “How could you p-p-possibly know?”

“We are dealing with great magic, your Highness. Often those who practice it suffer the consequences. Some of those magickers I’ve assigned to assist you in the healing complain of exactly the same thing. The dreams always end badly, in grief and failure.”

“Yes, yes. That’s how it is.”

“And the drink would not help,” Edaytor added quietly.

Olio ran his fingers through his hair. The throbbing in his head had eased, but was still there. “I swear, Edaytor, it is not the drink.”

“Whether it is the drink or the magic, you cannot continue like this.”

“B-b-but all the sick! What will they do?”