The Still (74 page)

“Uncle?” I stood respectfully. “Could you—if it please you, might you explain?”

“What say you?”

“About Pytor, and why I’m here. Oh, no, sir!” I jumped back, as his eyes narrowed. “I wasn’t reproaching you. It’s just ... I don’t understand the statecraft. Why did Pytor come to be of more value dead?”

He considered. Then, “No harm in discussing it.” That didn’t bode well. “As you grew in stature and power, you see, Pytor’s worth dwindled. You were close to ending the regency; once you were crowned, he’d be but a puny rival. And Pytor was ailing; he wouldn’t eat, and pined for that foul-tempered biddy who raised him. But most important, his presence turned greedy eyes at my lands. Whenever I rode from Verein I risked a lunge from Soushire, or Eiber, or the Warthen, who perhaps saw more value in him than did I. So I simplified the game, as it were.”

I stood appalled, a mechanical smile frozen to my lips.

“Likewise, my boy, you diminish in value. Cumber’s near worn down; we’ll have at him any day. I might even hold off on your death and offer you in trade for their capitulation, letting them find they’ve ransomed a gelding. Who knows?” He shrugged. “I must be off.”

“Thank you for visiting, sir.”

When he left I pounded the wall until my fist was raw. Mother, you were supposed to help me stop gibbering. So what if I saw he was contemptible; why didn’t it lessen my fear?

Again I paced, running my fingers across the stones. My soul was stuffed with impatience, as Rustin had once stuffed my mouth with grass. I would bear it no longer. All Grandsir and Mother offered was words. A touch of understanding, perhaps, but nonetheless only words. I wouldn’t suffer Mar’s knife, or Stire’s blows. I would die this very day. I pulled at the slabs of the door until my fingers bled.

What if I kicked the door shut just as the guards opened it to bring dinner? I’d catch one man at least, perhaps even crush him. But there were always two, sometimes three, and always well armed.

Besides, I’d be in dark. If only they’d leave a torch in the sconce ... I fingered the iron, stopped short. Did it move to my touch?

No more than a trifle, if that.

I worked the sconce back and forth.

Dinner came, and the guards went. In the dark, I worked endlessly at the sconce.

By early morn I was out of my straw, making sure the holder was replaced properly in its hole. Would they notice? Was it wedged tight enough to hold a torch?

I waited feverishly until the guards departed, and pulled my toy from its aperture. A rounded nub of iron, with a hole in the center in which to set a brand. My only implement, and what use was it? It might split a guard’s skull, if I smashed him hard enough. If I got close. If he didn’t first run me through.

Disgusted, I hurled it at the stone wall. A clang, as it fell. I stared, darted across the floor, snatched it up, hurled it again. Yes. Definitely a spark.

I fumbled at my straw. Was it too damp?

The afternoon passed with no visit from Mar. I nibbled at my dinner while the guards watched, knowing not what I ate, worried only that the sconce and its torch would tumble from the wall while they waited.

When night deepened I rapped the sconce repeatedly against the base of the wall, near the bits of dry straw I’d so carefully shredded. I had but one good hand, and the task was maddening.

The sconce cast off sparks one strike out of three, and invariably they flew wild.

Surely someone would hear my drumming.

Time after time I struck the stone; on occasion my spark flew home. Desperately I frayed more straw.

A glower, that died. After a sweaty eon, another. With fingers that trembled I fed straw to the flicker.

In nothing but loincloth and boots, I screamed my terror, over and over in the night. No one came. My shrieks grew louder, more desperate. I crouched by the far wall, head touching the floor.

At last, a muffled curse amid the crackle of my blazing pallet and clothes. The door swung open. “What’s this?”

“I’m burning!” Smoke billowed. Howling, I scrambled to my knees.

The guard said, “Where are—”

I flung the chamber pot with all my might. It split the guard’s face and shattered. He dropped like a stone. I seized his torch, darted to the door. The second guard drew sword and lunged. His blade came within a hair of skewering me. I thrust the torch in his face. His head snapped back as his sword whirled to chop off my arm. Dropping the torch, I lurched at his backswing. I caught his forearm, held clear the sword, slammed him into the corridor wall. The sword fell.

We grunted in sweaty struggle. I kneed him, bruised myself on his mail. He clawed my eyes. Suddenly he clutched me in a hug. His fists knotted behind me. My feet left the floor. My eyes bulged with the effort to draw breath. Mother, where’s your demon-cursed Still when I need it? The guard’s grizzled face was near. The world swam. I lunged, sank my teeth into his neck.

Instantly he let go, struck at my face. I wrapped my arms round him and gnawed.

A cry of horror. We were on the floor, rolling and thrashing. Weaponless, I pummeled him. I dared not take breath.

After a time all was still. I lay beneath an inert form, choking on blood. Footsteps pounded.

I heaved free, sucked in barrels of air. Somehow, I tottered to my feet, and seized the nearest torch. I whirled. The footsteps skidded to a halt.

A moan of terror. Guards fell over themselves in their retreat. “It’s a demon!” Backing away, they made signs of propitiation.

Demons of the night! My heart seized. I lunged toward the stairs, and escape. The guards broke and fled. I risked a glance back, and saw no demon.

Leaning against the wall was the mirror Uncle Mar used to taunt me. I thrust it aside, not before catching a glimpse. I was bleeding half to death, but felt no pain. I wiped my mouth. My arm came away with blood.

I stumbled over the guard I’d fought. I turned him over, searching for a weapon. My back prickled. Some night beast had torn out his throat.

I backed away, unable to make a sound.
What monster had done thus?

Again I wiped my mouth. I was quiet a moment, then doubled over to spew my dinner.

I was the demon.

I snatched up a sword, slippery with blood. Verein’s guard would soon rally.

At the corridor’s end, a long winding stairs. I took two steps upward, stopped short as shadows flickered. Another step and I could see them: a handful of guards at the landing, all with drawn swords.

Well, I’d chosen to die. I raised my sword high over my head, filled my lungs. With a bloodcurdling screech I charged the torchlight. Men clawed past each other to safety.

When I galloped to the top of the stairs the guards were gone. I raced on. From the width of the corridor, I guessed I must be at ground level.

A hue and cry echoed. Soon or late they’d rally, and take me down.

In younger days I’d visited Verein, but in my present state I had not the slightest idea where in the castle I was. But they’d expect me to head for the outdoors. Instead, I wheeled round the corner and charged up the second stairs.

I met men-at-arms rushing down from the sleeping floor, buckling on their gear. I slashed at one, tripped another and threw him to the ground.

I thudded down unfamiliar halls, flinging open doors. I needed a window, or a back stairs. I dared not risk going higher, to be trapped in the garrets of the keep.

I caught glimpse of a familiar face: Baron Stire, peering from a doorway. My teeth bared. Sword raised, I charged. He slammed shut the door. I pounded at the stout wood until I came to my senses. No time. Move.

I lunged past three doors, skidded past an open stairs. I plunged down, found myself in the kitchens. At this hour, no one toiled at the ovens.

I tore past guttering candles, found a likely door, heaved it open. The welcome breath of cold air. I rushed into the night, slammed into a barrel, rolled into thorny bushes.

My sword was gone. I slapped the ground, desperate to find it. A dull pain. I sucked a torn thumb, gripped the sword as best I could. Clutching a bleeding shin, I hobbled into the dark.

It was two hours since my escape.

The castle was in an uproar. Dogs howled. Guards pounded the battlements, sweating grooms led horses, soldiers raced to their posts. Torches flared.

Double watches manned the gates. Cries of alarm and shouted orders made clear I was the goal of their search.

I lay low, perched on the slate roof of the smokehouse. My thumb wasn’t badly cut, but it smarted to distraction. I shivered. In my near month of captivity, winter had begun to settle on the land. It was too cold to lurk about in a torn loincloth.

I needed clothes. Warmth. And most urgent, a wash, or they wouldn’t need the dogs to track my bouquet. I was sweat-soaked, blood-covered, and grimy from my ordeal in the cell.

The smokehouse, behind the kitchen, was far from the walls of the keep. I stole down from my aerie, padded to the well, hauled up a bucket, scrubbed my face. There was nothing to wash with. Cursing, I stripped off my loincloth, rinsed and wrung it, used it to scrub off the worst of my filth.

If I’d thought I was cold before, I’d been mistaken. My teeth chattered. I poured out the bucket.

“Who goes?”

“Just me.” I turned, bucket in hand, and clubbed my interlocutor in the temple. He went down, moaned once, and was still.

I squinted in the pale moonlight. A groom, perhaps, or a houseman. No matter. I stripped off his clothes, donned them, tied and adjusted until I looked passable.

A sword gave the lie to my new garb, but I didn’t dare go without. Nonchalantly, blade pressed to my side, I strolled to the stable, waited in the shadows until it was unwatched, climbed into a loft, and lay to rest.

Come morning, my bones were chilled and I hadn’t slept a wink. I was girding myself for a foray to the kitchen when distant trumpets sounded the alert. The doors burst open, and soon the stable was cleared of mounts. I waited a few moments and jumped down to the floor.

Halfway to the door, the stall ahead opened, and a groom backed out with a barrow. I tensed, ready to strike.

He turned. We gaped.

“You!”

“Kerwyn?” Master Griswold’s man, from our stables at Stryx.

He backed away, mouth open to scream. I cried, “Wait!” Dropping my sword, I wrestled him down, put my hand across his mouth.

He bit down on my wounded thumb, and I nearly passed out.

“Idiot!” I wrenched my hand free, shook him ’til he rattled. “Are you
trying
to be killed?”

Outside, trumpets sounded anew.

“Let me go! They turned the castle upside down searching. They say you transmuted to a demon, that you ate a guard’s head. If I don’t give the cry ...”

“If I don’t run you through ...” Again I shook him. “What are you doing here?”

“Griswold sent me, when Duke Mar took most of the horses. Said he’d have no need of me. Prince, your face ...”

“A gift from your new lord. Why the alarum? Are they sending horse to track me?” Cautiously I eased off him, gave him a hand to stand.

His eyes widened. “You don’t know? Tantroth’s racing home to Eiber. The siege of Cumber is lifted. Our men retreat to Verein, and Tursel harries their heels.”

“We won!” I loosened my grip on his jerkin. “It’s over.” I could scarce contain my elation.

“No, my lord. It’s the Norlanders.”

Ice chilled my veins.

“They overran Eiber, sire. They descend in force on Caledon. Stire is off to garrison Llewelyn’s keep, and Duke Mar goes to reinforce Stryx.”

I sank onto a roll of hay. The Norlanders? Mother, look what calamity our disunity called down on us. No fools they; with Tantroth looting Caledon, the road through Eiber was open. Tantroth might have held them at the passes, if he’d had his full force to throw into the battle. But his army had been chasing me. Now he’d be hunted in his own land.

As I was in mine.

I raised my head. “Where do they strike?”

Casually, Kerwyn edged toward the door. “They say Earl Cumber leads his men to the northern reaches. Norland sail’s seen south of Stryx, well clear of the Eiberian fleet harbored under the castle.”

“South?” Then there was time yet to defend Stryx. I’d have to get word to Tursel, send for Groenfil and Soushire ...

Kerwyn brought me to earth. “You’ll have to hide, sire. Any guardsman will gut you on sight. Are you”—he hesitated—“really a demon?”

I sighed. “No, Kerwyn. Just a tired youngsire with a blade-split face. Don’t fear me. Help me of your own will, if you would. I need food, and quiet.”

He approached me with caution. “Truly? You’re just Prince Roddy?”

“King, now. But, yes.”

His relief was pathetic. “Aye, sire. I’ll see what Cook has. Stay hidden.”

After a meal—the first of my liberty—I thanked him fervently and bid him go about his business. But Kerwyn was no mummer, bringing oft-told tales to the castles. Soon or later, he’d betray me by word or look.

When he was gone I bundled my sword in a blanket, and trudged across the courtyard, eyes low. Somehow, I made it to the rampart unchallenged.

I curled up between two rain barrels stored behind an arrowport. From time to time I glanced about, and risked a sally from my rude base.

The bulk of Margenthar’s troop was gone. The castle gates were barred. Peasants and soldiers passed through the small doors set in the gate, but I didn’t dare present myself to the guards. My scar made me unmistakable.

No, I’d have to climb the wall. For that, I needed a rope, and night.

I crept about the least-guarded ramparts. In a store tower I found rope, and stuffed a coil under my clothes. When I thought it safe, I would tie it round the stone tooth of an arrowport, and lower myself to the ground. Somehow, I’d acquire a horse, no matter whom I had to kill in the doing.

Now that Mar was gone, the excitement of the castle subsided into routine. Haymen brought barrows of fodder, washerwomen took great baskets of clothes to the stream, boys played loudly while their elders cursed the bother. The rampart guard relaxed. On the opposite wall, a few played at dice, under the indulgent eye of a sergeant.