The Still (8 page)

I hugged myself, in want of response.

“Please, Rodrigo. Let us sort this out together.” His hand came forth, entreating.

“Uncle, crown me now, and give me the Vessels with which to practice my Power. Then I’ll not fight your regency. You’ll lead our armies if we’re attacked, and I’ll strengthen us with the Still.”

Margenthar’s hands went to his hips, and he stood staring at me, biting his lip. Then, “I don’t see why not.”

My joy knew no bounds. “How soon—”

“I’ll need the Council’s approval, of course. And we certainly can’t stage a coronation on the heels of a funeral. A month or so, perhaps three. Time to invite foreign nobles, make a splendid affair of it.”

“The Vessels are mine. I want them now.”

“Do they not need the crown, to be potent?”

“You know that as well as I.” I watched his face for deception.

“If you can’t wield the Power, best the Vessels remain in safekeeping.”

“I’ll look after them. Uncle, don’t look so disgusted. Would you rather I went to Council and objected to having you as regent? Surely I have
some
friend in the meet.”

Mar gauged the shadows on the window ledge. “We’ll be late for the Rite, boy. You don’t want me as regent? Well, Soushire is eager for it, and she’s gathered two votes. Would you have Larissa speak for Caledon?”

“Lord, no!” The Lady of Soushire was obese, smelled of garlic, and boasted a foul temper.

“I admit, if you go to Council, you might shake one vote loose from me; I won’t tell you whose. I guarantee you, a Soushire regency will be the result.” He threw his cloak over his arm. “Come along, we’ll walk to the Rite together.”

“And the Vessels?”

“Are under guard.”

“On second thought, I rather admire the Lady of Soushire.”

“You’re so foolish as to do that? Well, on your own head be it.”

He’d called my bluff. I took breath to concede defeat.

He spoke first, and his tone was cross. “Very well, I’ll see you get your Vessels.” I did my best to hide my elation. “I’ll have to clear it with the Council, and that must wait until I’m regent. May Lord of Nature help you if they’re stolen.”

I nodded.

“Hurry now. Your mother waits; we must show her respect.”

“Yes, Uncle.”

Elryc bounced on his feather mattress. “We won! We won!”

“Uncle Mar gets his regency, brother.”

“But you’ll have the crown and the Power. Can Uncle Mar hurt us, then?” He sniffled.

Rustin stirred from his cushion. “Elryc, stop that confounded prancing. My head aches.”

Elryc slowed, but did not stop. “Can he, Roddy?”

“Well ... we’re safer.” I’d bearded the lion in—literally—his den. I smiled at the thought of it.

Rustin swarmed to his feet, caught Elryc’s wrist, flopped the boy onto his stomach, dropped alongside him, a firm grasp on his arm.

“Let go!” Elryc.

“I told you to be still, and you weren’t.” Rust’s eyes rose. “What worries me is—”

“Roddy, you’re King! Tell him to let me loose!”

“—the three months until coronation. Much could happen in—”

“Roddy!”

I growled, “Let go the Prince’s arm, Rust. That’s right. Now, sit on his back.” Elryc squawked. “And box his ears if he utters another sound. I never agreed to three months. I’ll talk to the Seven, and we’ll see.”

“Nearly all of them were at the Rite.”

“It wasn’t the moment.” Despite my best efforts to be a man, I’d wept like a child while the Ritemaster carried the flickering tapers three times round my mother’s draped form. To make things worse, Rustin had put his arm around me, in comfort, and seemed oblivious to my rage when I threw him off. Lord knew what the nobles must think of me, after I’d carried on, and suffered a boy’s embrace.

Rust asked, “When do the Seven meet?”

“Tomorrow, at the third hour.”

“Where?”

“I’m not sure. In the great hall, I think.”

“Odd your uncle didn’t tell you.”

“Roddy?” Elryc. “Ow! Let me up, I’ll be quiet. Stop, Rust!”

Rustin cuffed him again, inquired of me by a raised eyebrow. I nodded. Released, Elryc curled in a corner of his bed, knees drawn tight, his mien sullen.

We sat in silence, until I drew a sharp breath. “Rust ... How is Uncle Mar to give me the Vessels, if we have the key to the vault?”

“He doesn’t know you have it.”

“He certainly knows he doesn’t have it.”

Rust pondered. “They’d have searched the Queen’s chamber.”

I nodded. “Hester told them nothing, I’m sure of it. A team of horses couldn’t draw tidings from her when she’s in a mood to be obstinate.”

“Which means he knew he couldn’t keep his promise to you.”

I stood. “Let’s go.”

“Where?” Elryc.

“The strongroom, of course.”

“At this hour?” He yawned. “Why?”

“I want ...” I wasn’t sure what.

Rust said, “It’s unwise. They ought not see you’re interested—”

“Come.” I was out the door, and Rust had little choice but to follow.

“What about me?” Elryc’s wail pursued us.

“To your bed, brat!” We raced down the stairs.

The strongroom was reached through winding passageways from the kitchens and winery. Perhaps the builders thought such design would make the chambers less tempting to invaders, but the builders were tasting earth these many generations, and couldn’t be asked.

Rust and I wandered casually into the kitchen, as was our custom, and Rustin helped himself to an apple from the cold bins. Out to the hall, with no one in sight. We raced giggling down the stairs, through the tunnels.

When I was a toddler my father scared me with old tales of brave men imprisoned in the cellars, but now I knew better. We rushed past the chamber that held our casks of aging wine, supposedly a torture room in the days of my great-grandfather Varon of the Steppe. We turned past the armory, silent at this hour of night, found the double doors of the passageway leading to the strongcellar. From the far end, a murmur of low voices.

I slowed, tiptoed my way along the musty corridor lit at either side by a smoking torch. Something chill ran down my back; I’d been here before, but only by day. Though day and night were indistinguishable in the dank cellars, somehow one knew the hour.

“It’s around the corner.” My whisper echoed.

“What do we do?”

Stroll into the anteroom of the vault, as if we boys always skulked the cellars at night? Creep along, cheek pressed to the wall, and peer carefully round the corner? That didn’t suit my royal station.

“This is my castle. I want a look at the chamber door.” Boldly, I strode like a prince to the intersecting corridor, stopped just short of the corner. With an apologetic shrug I dropped to my knees, then my stomach, inched forward until my forehead was at the turn. I peered out.

A handful of guards. Two dozed outside the closed wrought-iron gate some paces from the vault, while the others inside played at dice. A peaceful scene.

A hot breath on the back of my neck. I jerked, sucked in air.

“Quiet, dunce.” Rustin pressed his palm into my back, his face just above mine as he knelt at my side. “Where are the locks?”

“Past the gate, see the two square holes?” The vault’s thick bronze door was pierced by handholes at either end. The locks themselves were recessed an arm’s length within the door; it was said a false key triggered a blade that slashed down, severing the offender’s hand. When I’d asked Mother, she merely smiled, and said it would have to wait until I was older.

“We’ve seen it. Now what?”

I was wondering the same myself. I studied the guards, and the anteroom. The vault could be reached only through the corridor we’d just traversed. The doors behind us at the far end of the corridor were left open for convenience, but in an emergency they could be sealed from within.

Within that vault lay my crown, and my Power. The crown was little good without the ceremony of coronation; Mother had made sure I understood at least that much. One couldn’t gain the Still of Caledon, even in a state of sexual innocence, merely by propping a gold diadem on one’s head. The Rites must be followed, but if they were, and the crown was possessed, even a usurper might wield the Power.

A strong force could seize the anteroom. Swords or spears would quell the outside guards; arrows would slaughter those behind the gate.

But there’d still be the great bronze door, and it wanted two keys. Softly, we crept away.

At the safety of the winery, Rustin said only, “We can’t storm the vault, Roddy.”

I nodded and, despite myself, yawned.

“Yes, it’s late.” He clapped my arm. “I’d best be home.”

“Stay, Rust!” It was a plea, without thought.

“I’ll be back on the morrow.” Despite my entreaties, he left for the stable.

When I woke, I found Elryc had crawled into my bed during the night. I left him asleep, and descended bleary and tousled to the kitchen. Cook broke three eggs into a butter-rinsed skillet, and served them with a slab of goat cheese and a hunk of steaming bread torn from a loaf just out of the oven. I sat next to Kerwyn, the stablehand, and took a huge bite.

Mother was wise, but in some things she plainly erred. My brothers and I were royalty, not mere nobility, and a certain distance from the house servants was suitable. How could commoners respect me if we rubbed shoulders at a kitchen table amid the droning flies? But ever since I’d been freed from Hester’s care I’d been consigned to this kitchen, except for dinner.

I loped up the narrow steps to the third floor, wherein lay the nursery. Out of courtesy, I knocked, waited for Hester’s grunt of admission.

“Hello, Pytor.” I felt a pang of remorse. My towheaded brother’s eyes were red from weeping, his voice muffled.

“Roddy.” He abandoned Hester, threw his puny arms around my neck. I picked him up, rocked him gently.

“He lay awake until the moon was high,” said the old Nurse. “Neither song nor sweets could bring him peace.”

Pytor was but eight, and now had none but an ill-tempered crone to look after him. I resolved to be kinder than in the past. “Will you walk with me today, to the burial?”

“May I?” For once, the whine was gone from my brother’s voice.

“You on one side, Elryc on the other.”

“I get your hand.”

I tousled Pytor’s locks. “Whichever you want.” Hester grunted her approval. “He needs that.” She glanced at my apparel. “You won’t wear those rags to your mother’s rest.”

I looked down at my jerkin and breeks. “And why not?”

“They’re torn, they’re stained with raspberry jam, they’re a size too small.”

“I can look after—”

She snorted. “When pigs fly. I’ll find something suitable.”

I let it be, secretly relieved. Let her act the servant that she was; how else was a king’s mind to be on affairs of state?

The gentry, the nobility, and the royalty of the surrounding boroughs of Stryx had gathered for the procession and burial. Uncle Mar had sent couriers with Mother’s last breath. It was fitting, else many could not have arrived in time. Especially in summer, funerals must be held quickly, and one grew used to dropping the day’s tasks to answer a distant summons.

I walked in the front row, Pytor’s hand in mine, alongside to Uncle Mar. To my disgust, Elryc was nowhere to be seen. No matter how upset he was, missing the burial was a vile act he’d regret the rest of his life. One I’d make him regret.

“Ow, you’re hurting me!”

“Sorry, Pytor.” I loosened my grip.

Behind us, within the second rank, walked Llewelyn and Joenne. I was amazed that Rustin chose to be absent. When I’d paid my respects, Llewelyn inclined his head with a stony stare that forbade any inquiry.

I tried to suppress my hurt. Rust and I could have quietly weighed our plans during the long, slow processional, though Uncle Mar wouldn’t have been pleased to see him at my side in the front rank.

The windswept hill was strewn with faded markers. The realm of Caledon had been knit for many generations before Varon of the Steppe seized it, and rulers with names ancient beyond ken were here laid to rest. From hand to hand, crown to crown, the Still had been passed.

Pytor sobbed into my waist while the words of descent were chanted, and the ropes slowly loosed. Old Hester worked her way past nobles and gentry, rested her twisted fingers on his shoulder.

Slowly, the coffin settled into the grave. Despite myself, I shivered. “See, Pytor? They’ve brought marigolds, her favorites. Send one to her, with me.”

Unable to speak, he nodded, pressed tight against me while I made my way to the floral urns, picked out two stems to pluck. I gave him one, knelt in the damp earth beside the pit. “Throw yours in first, then I.”

“Together.” His voice was a quavering reed.

I held his hand and my flower, guided his forward. “Now.” We dropped the blossoms on the casket. Uncle Mar waited, his eyebrow raised.

I nodded. Uncle Mar took the spade, poured a shovelful of earth onto the lowered coffin. I restrained a wild urge to leap in and brush it off. When he handed me the spade I’d have thrust it away, but that all eyes were on me.

For an endless moment I stood motionless atop the pit. Then I dug into the earth, hurled a huge spadeful into the grave. Mar reached to take the shovel. Ignoring him, I ground the blade into the dirt, tore out another clod, flung it onto my mother.

“Rodrigo.” Mar’s hand grasped at the haft. I shoved him in the chest with the flat of my palm, nearly sent him sprawling. I slashed at the ground, hurling chunks of dirt and stone into the pit.

Murmurs of disbelief; voices calling. Pytor tugged frantically at my sleeve. I shrugged him off, dug anew.

A gnarled, wrinkled hand on my neck. Sharp-nailed fingers pulled my face against a black garment, a familiar hand rubbed the small of my back. “There, boy. It’s done.” Insistent fingers pried the spade from my grip. “Leave him! Think ye that I know not still the soothing of him?”

“Hester, let me—”

“Not yet.” Firmly, she held me close, while around us the assembly dispersed.

Finally, mortified, I pulled my nose from her garment, blinked in the sudden light. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have done that.”