The Widow and the King (63 page)

‘I …’ He thought.

It's a lesson. Like in Develin. They are teaching me again.

‘Anyone who listens to him,’ he said.

Aun grunted. He was sceptical. But the more Ambrose thought about it, the more he liked the answer.

‘When they want to come to me,’ he said.

‘We can do
as we did at Aclete. We can help them to find the law.’

‘If you do this, others will make themselves kings,’ said Aun.

‘If they then hear witless peasants crying that you are the true King who gives justice in the face of cruel lords, they will come to hunt you.’

‘He will sleep in hedges,’ said Mother softly, looking at her friend.

‘And he will hold his courts under trees in the rain. And he will beg for his food, and those who follow him will do also …’

‘It's not that,’ Aun said. ‘Though I cannot keep a warhorse and a coat of mail by scrounging for bowls of broth.’

‘You have done everything that could be asked of you,’ she said. ‘You could go home, to Lackmere, now. If Orcrim and the Widow's child take Develin …’

‘No.’

Ambrose looked up, realizing that it was no longer he who was having to make a choice. He had fumbled his way to his answer. Now they were waiting for Aun.

The silence lengthened, as the man who owned him King frowned at the ring of stones.

‘All right,’ he said. ‘Under the Sky it is, for now. Whatever that means. And I guess that means the March, where we are known. I hope we can find at least one blacksmith who knows his craft well enough.’

‘The cup, then,’ she said.

Ambrose passed it to her. His arms felt very light when it was taken from them. He watched her turn it in her hands.

‘So, my darling. You have talked of a hidden power. Here it is. Through the cup you can reach to the power that lies deep in this pool. You may see far, and speak far,
and pass where no man should be able to pass. With it your father defeated armies that outnumbered his, took fortresses that were held against him, and even made himself King in Tuscolo, for a while. Prince Paigan gave some of the same powers to Raymonde, and with it he, too, made a king. Is this what you want?’

Ambrose frowned. He had almost taken it the evening before, from the hand of his enemy. He hated to think of that.

‘No,’ he said flatly. ‘Why do you want me to?’

Her mouth twitched. ‘I don't. But I did want to be sure. And if you had said you wanted it, I should have told you that for such power there is always a price. The Tears themselves demand it. You spoke with Paigan Wulframson. You saw what lay behind his eyes. I think you can guess what price he must have paid. You would do the same.’

‘Can we destroy it then?’

Her fingers traced the chipped rim. ‘Of course,’ she murmured. ‘It is just stone. It was cut from the rocks by the pool. I can show you the place from which it was taken. But – I am within this bowl, and so are seven others. Within this bowl, too, is the dream of Beyah, and in her grief she dreams of all the world. When it fell yesterday, I felt it. I do not know what will happen if we break it. I do not know what to do.’

‘Who are the others?’

‘Don't you know? They hunted you. They would have torn you to pieces if their master willed it. But they also knew you. They spoke to you. Do you remember what they said?’

Ando, Anson
. Those lipless words.

Ambrose …

Grandson! It had been saying, ‘Grandson’!

‘One of them is my ancestor?’ he said, appalled.

‘One of them is all that remains of Talifer, son of Wulfram. Another was once Rolfe, son of Wulfram, the father of the house of Ferroux. He came to you in the garden, as your Angel said he would. He came to you as he was, leading his brothers. Why, I do not know. But he and his brothers were there when the Angel spoke through your father. No doubt they believed, as we all did, that the prophecy concerned you. So I guess they came to you to beg for help – or perhaps for pardon.’

To beg him for help. If there had been an appeal from those lipless throats, he had not heard it; any more than Chawlin had heard him when he had called for rescue. He had been as deaf as the man who had died.

‘Can you think what evil had been done, to have such a price as lies in the bottom of this pool? At the founding of our Kingdom countless thousands were slaughtered, driven from the land, forgotten, so that Wulfram's sons, and his people, might divide it between them. Then Paigan trapped each one of his brothers, and brought them here, and confined them to a living death at the bottom of the pit. Here they have remained for three centuries, while their bodies deformed slowly under the grief of the tears the goddess has shed over what they had done. And only the gold remains as a sign of what they were.’

‘Can they be cured?’

‘Is that what you want?’

He remembered the wretched voices, pleading in the darkness by the fountain; the hand that had stretched towards
him; the voice of the Angel who had sent him to them.

‘We must.’

‘I thought this would be your answer, although at this moment I do not know how it may be done. But for this reason I have told Orcrim that we should not resume the stone-raising. No cure can come to them if they remain down there. And first we must decide what we are to do with this cup …’

She paused, looking into the empty dry bowl.

‘I think – if I could be sure that in breaking this thing we would remove the Tears from the world altogether, I would say it should be done, even if I and seven others must be removed also. And if I could be sure that neither I nor they would be changed by destroying it, I should again say that it should be done, simply to remove a thing that has been used to work evil. But I do not know. And so I do not dare speak.’

‘I can imagine no world without grief,’ said Aun.

‘We will keep it, and guard it,’ said Ambrose.

‘Septimus gave the same order,’ she said. ‘And it could not be obeyed.’

‘We will be more careful,’ said Ambrose. He could not permit them to destroy it if there was a risk to her. And perhaps there was some point in being King, after all, if it meant they had to agree.

‘Who will take it then?’ she asked.

‘You should,’ said Ambrose.

Still she turned the bowl in her hands, as if poring over memories. She was not laughing now. ‘Well,’ she said. ‘Until we think of something …’

She was interrupted by a cry from behind them.

‘Orcrim! Orcrim!’

‘Oh, he's awake,’ sighed Mother.

Caw had passed a poor night, shifting restlessly in pain from his wound. Hob and some of the others had watched over him by turns, talking with him when he was able to talk, trying to ease his fears as the darkest hours passed. Hob had said that he had seemed to relax a little at first light. By the time Ambrose was up, Caw had dropped into a shallow sleep.

‘We'd better see,’ said Ambrose.

He turned and made his way through the camp. Aun followed him. Around him members of the Company were loading their horses and tightening straps for the first stage of their journey back to the March.

‘Orcrim!’

‘I'm here,’ said Orcrim, coming up to stand over the wounded man, who lay wrapped in cloaks on the ground. He was carrying the banner of the Doubting Moon. Like Mother, he seemed to be in a good mood this morning. ‘How are those scratches?’

‘You're going, aren't you?’ gasped Caw.

‘The job's done here. We're off to Aclete with my lady Develin, to see if we can nip over the water and sort her out at home. With luck we'll sort out a nice place for you at the same time.’

‘Help me up,’ said Caw.

‘Oh, no. You're staying, my man. We'll lift you down to the house, but that's as far as you are going. I was planning to ask your former mistress to make sure you don't starve.’ He bowed slightly to the woman who had appeared at Ambrose's side.

‘How – thoughtful of you, sir,’ she said coldly.

‘No, damn you!’ said Caw.

‘… And you can come down to Aclete nice and easy in a month or so,’ said Orcrim.

‘Orcrim! She'll poison me!’

Orcrim gave a look of mock surprise.

‘I don't think so. You won't, will you?’ he said to her.

‘She'll look after him,’ said Ambrose. ‘So will I.’ He turned to her. ‘It must be us,’ he said. ‘They'll need everyone they've got, when they reach Develin. And you told me you begged for his life, once.’

‘Yes,’ she said. ‘Although I have never begged to bear his company.’

‘I beg that you should,’ said Ambrose. ‘For a month, at least,’ he added.

‘You have already asked much of me today,’ she said. ‘And I rose so joyfully this morning.’ She sighed. ‘Well, Caw,’ she said after a moment. ‘It seems our Prince has passed judgement on both of us, and sentenced us each to a month under the same roof. May Umbriel count it as atonement for what we have done.’

Caw stared helplessly at the sky, and did not answer.

‘What about you, Old Iron?’ said Orcrim to Aun. ‘Are you coming with us?’

‘No, I will stay here.’

‘What will you do?’

‘As before. I will keep
him
alive, as long as I can.’

He jerked his head towards Ambrose.

‘And – the things we spoke of ?’

Aun grinned. ‘We'll not march on Tuscolo this season, I think.’

‘So?’ Orcrim waited for a moment, as if expecting Aun to say more. Then he shrugged. ‘One thing at a time, maybe. Well, my lord,’ he said to Ambrose, handing him the banner. ‘After forty years I am leaving the service of the Doubting Moon. I am sorry for that. But before summer I look to have a hearth of my own in Develin, and some good southern vines. If anyone here comes to my door while I live, there will be warmth for you of one sort or another that you will find good, I swear. And maybe we can talk of other things again. My lady?’

Sophia had come up, leading her horse.

‘Are we ready?’ she asked him.

‘We need the litter for my friend here. Hob!’

‘A moment,’ called Hob, from where he and a few others were bending over something on the ground.

‘A moment, he says,’ said Orcrim cheerfully.

Sophia gave Ambrose a quick, tight smile. Ambrose did not know what to think, or say. She had lost so much, and suddenly she was leaving. There were all those dangers ahead of her, as she tried to go home.
Goodbye, good luck. I'm sorry about Chawlin.
Words could say so little. And there was no time now. The Company was on the point of going. A smile was all the farewell that would pass between them.

He watched her lead her horse a little way down the difficult slope to where the horsemen were forming. He had liked her a lot – more than he had realized. She was a good person. She was also very strong. Even looking at her now, dusty and grieving, he could see the way she carried herself. He could imagine a kind of glow coming from within her that would lift her and at the same time touch those around her. He thought that if ever she
managed to take her mother's seat at Develin, people would quickly look up to her. Perhaps one day he would be able to go and see. He hoped so.

The litter appeared – a frame of wood made from the heavy tripods and the levers, with a bed of rope wound to and fro to support a man's body. They lifted Caw onto it. Four men took their places around it. Orcrim was calling from the head of the line, waving with his gauntlet. The Company began to move, slowly, scraping and clattering as they coaxed their mounts down the steep rocks. Caw cursed as the litter-men began to lift him down the slope, a pace at a time, feeling their way. Ambrose stayed where he was, watching them go.

‘That's the way he was thinking of,’ said Aun suddenly, pointing to where Sophia was bringing her horse down to the faint track that ran around the end of the ridge. ‘If you wanted it. Wed Develin now, and you would have a better chance at the throne than any man alive.’

‘No,’ said Ambrose.

‘If you don't take it, someone else will.’

Ambrose thought that Orcrim and Aun knew a lot about how the Kingdom worked. But they did not know Sophia.

‘I think there's going to be a Widow in Develin again.’

One by one the Company passed. A man took a moment to raise his hand in salute. Others copied him. Ambrose shook out the folds of his banner to let them see the Moon that they were leaving. He remembered that there must have been a full moon last night. But he had not seen it rise because of the high horizon of the mountains, and he had not seen it set either. He had slept, and
he had dreamed. And now it would be waning again, clouded by new doubts, as it made its way upon its endless journey through the sky.

There's a piece missing. There always would be. That was what the Doubting Moon meant.

There would be fear. There would be grief that could only be endured. He could not part the Cup from the World.

He could only hope that people would listen to him.

By late afternoon the Company were picking their way along a scrubby slope that fell to the valley floor a thousand feet to their left. Near the head of the line, Sophia allowed her horse to follow the leaders, while the flies of the hillside wove around her ears. Her eyes alternated over the path immediately before her and the big view out across the valley to her right. She could see the blue of the sky and the detail of the distant ridges. She could look back and still pick out the knuckle of rock where they had left Caw with Ambrose, his mother, and Aun in that strange house. She could see the huge peak of Beyah that rose far beyond, white-capped and purple-sided with the shadows of the clouds.

She saw the beauty in the mountains; but it did not speak to her.

An hour before, the little track they were following had passed by some huts of a curious, circular build that she had not seen before. The men had said that they were the dwellings of hillmen, but that they must have been abandoned in the last season. The low stone walls and little dark doorways were shells that had once held life, but were
now empty. Perhaps life would come back to them after the defeat of the enemy by the pool. But no life would come back to her heart.

It was already more than a day since Chawlin had died. Sophia could not believe that it had been so long. She felt that she had been distracted by other things. The war to avenge him had passed, and she felt that she had done little in it – mostly to have marched with the others in dark places, while her arm throbbed and the horses misbehaved. The horses were behaving now, but her arm still hurt and hurt: another distraction.