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Seven
The
king had already closed his eyes when Vra-Kilian Blackhorse came into the royal
bedchamber in
Maudrayne
and her ,red-bearded barbarian shaman went out obediently, but Queen Cataldise
had no fear of her imperious older brother and refused to budge.
"I
won't have you upsetting the King's Grace, Kilian," she said, gentle but
inexorable. "He has just taken a sleeping draft. Any news of our troublous
son Conrig can wait until morning. Please go away and let us be."
"It's
all right, Catty," murmured the king. His eyes opened and he beckoned the
Royal Alchymist to come close. The two men were the same age, five-and -fifty;
but the monarch was a pale and flabby ruin of a man once stalwart and handsome,
while the wizard retained a well-muscled body beneath his scarlet robes, and
his close-cut black hair and tidy beard were barely touched with grey.
"I
have no news from the Prince Heritor," Vra-Kilian said dourly.
"Stergos was adamant that Conrig would reveal to you the results of the
war council's deliberation only face-to-face. He's leaving Castle Vanguard on
the day after tomorrow, but he has at least three days' ride ahead of him,
perhaps more if the weather turns bad."
The
king gave a groan of dismay. "It's my own fault. He doesn't trust me, and small
wonder . . . but I can't wait for him. Every day's precious now! I must set out
for Zeth Abbey while I still have the strength." A hand crept out of the
bedclothes and gripped that of the alchymist with surprising vigor. The sick
man struggled to rise while both Kilian and Cataldise hastened to restrain him.
"Windspeak Abbas Noachil at once. Tell him to expect me. I will make the
pilgrimage and ask my one Question!"
The
alchymist's dismayed gaze met that of the queen. She shook her head. "He's
spoken of little else since you left us earlier this evening, Brother. Since ..
. the Tarnian healer delivered his final diagnosis."
"Your
Grace," Kilian said to the king, "your duty to Cathra is to regain
your good health, not endanger it by undertaking a long and arduous journey for
such a fanciful reason. Abbas Noachil would be the first to tell you that this
so-called oracle—"
"Nevertheless,"
the king interrupted. "I intend to make the pilgrimage."
"I
forbid it," said Vra-Kilian. "You are gravely ill. As the Royal
Alchymist, charged by Saint Zeth to preserve the spiritual and bodily life of
the King's Grace, it is my obligation—"
"Be
silent!" said Olmigon in a voice abruptly loud and resolute. Kilian
blinked in amazement. "The cavalcade will leave
Vra-Kilian
inclined his head. "As you command, sire." Radiating glacial
disapproval, he swept out of the chamber.
"Catty?"
whispered the king, when the door had closed.
"Yes,
my dearest love." The queen came to him, setting straight his nightcap,
which had fallen awry with his exertions, and patted his hand before putting it
back beneath the coverlet.
"You
don't think I'm being fanciful, do you?"
"Of
course not:'
"That
Kilian! Thinking he could forbid me to do something. The man takes too much on
himself."
"He's
only thinking of your welfare," said the queen.
"Huh!
He makes fun of the oracle. Probably Conrig would, too." "You must do
as you think best, husband."
"Yes.
I'm the king."
She
kissed his cheek. "High King of Blencathra and absolute monarch of my
heart."
He let
out a gusty sigh. "Conrig said he'd make me Sovereign of Blenholme. The
young idiot!"
"I
think not; Cataldise said firmly.
"So
you take the boy's part, do you?" He spoke with more disappointment than
anger.
"Conrig
is an extraordinary young man, not a boy. You know that for the truth. Our son
is not always tactful, I must admit, but he has a remarkable grasp of
statecraft?'
"Damn
him! Everyone thinks he's brainier than I am. You'll never catch Kilian or
Falmire patronizing him in the Privy Council meetings the way they do me."
"You
are wise in your own way, husband. But Conrig's arguments for Sovereignty were
cogent and impressive. Even those members of your council who opposed him
conceded the logic of his position—as you did, in the end. It wasn't Conrig's
fault that . . . King Achardus responded to the Edict in an uncivilized
manner:'
Olmigon
turned his face away from her. "I made a terrible mistake, Catty,
promulgating the Edict without a show of force. I realize that now. The
slaughter of the delegation lies heavy on my conscience. And the sea blockade's
a failure, too, even though Tothor Dundry and his lick-spittles in the
Admiralty are too stubborn to admit it. Last week I conferred with other
fighting captains—bluewater sailors, not parchment-shuffling peacocks—who
weren't afraid to tell me the truth. There's calamity brewing. I can feel it in
my bones. I've never had such a horrid premonition before. Conrig thinks he's
so clever, trying to organize a land invasion of Didion. But what if he's
misread the situation and the real danger threatens us from the sea? What
then?"
"The
Question you would ask of the oracle; the queen said in a soothing tone, hoping
to distract him. "Will it pertain to our son's proposed war against
Didion? Is it your desire to assist Conrig in some way, perhaps by asking how
such an enterprise might best succeed?"
A
mulish expression darkened Olmigon's face. "Maybe. Curse the boy! Why did
he have to go behind my back, plotting with Vanguard and Beorbrook?"
"They
are the best military leaders in the kingdom," Cataldise replied placidly.
"He wanted their advice and needs their approval and assistance."
"But
I'm the king?' His words were slurred, and he fought in vain to keep his
eyelids open as the sedative drug took effect. "I'm the king, Catty. I
don't give a damn if Con loves me. But he has to respect me. The Question . . .
I'm going to know what'll happen! . . . Ask old Bazekoy ..."
"Yes,
love," said the queen. "Tomorrow we'll be on our way. But for now, go
to sleep."
Olmigon
Wincantor, High King of Blencathra, set out on his pilgrimage during the last
week of the Hunter's Moon, after leaving with the Lord Chancellor a writ
commanding Prince Conrig to await his return before undertaking any military
action against Didion.
The
cavalcade was a modest one. Queen Cataldise and Conrig's wife, Princess
Maudrayne, shared the great coach with the ailing king. Drawn by eight strong
horses, it had wheels two ells in diameter and was hung from steel
blade-springs to give a more gentle ride. The spacious interior was padded
leather, with a bed for the invalid set up along one side and places for the
women on the other, - together with compartments for all manner of necessary
supplies. The Royal Alchymist, the king's valet, and two lords-in-waiting
occupied another coach that followed, and a third bore the Master of Wardrobe,
two of the queen's ladies-in-waiting, a tirewoman to deal with the fine
laundry, and the Royal Cook. At the last minute, Princess Maudrayne's chief
lady-in-waiting had come down with the grippe and could not join the party, so
one of the queen's ladies was cornmanded to attend her. Ten knights of the
household rode horseback at the head of the procession, and at the rear was a
contingent of the King's Guard and a dozen minor retainers.
The
procession moved northwestward over the excellent Cathran highroads. Vra-Kilian
estimated that it would take ten days to travel the three hundred leagues to
Zeth, moving slowly but steadily. They would press on well into dusk, when
spunkie lights rose from the hedgerows and swales and danced in the
ground-mists, until they reached a suitable castle or large manor house, whose
resident windvoice had received advance notice from the Royal Alchymist of the
king's imminent arrival. The train would continue on its journey at dawn the
following morning.
It
passed through Wincantor Duchy's stubbled grain fields, now with cattle and
sheep turned out in them to glean fallen corn and enrich the soil with their
manure. Further north, the acreage was striped black and green, burnt-over
fallow fields and those sown with winter wheat. In the orchard country of the
At
every town and village along the way, free folk and serfs gathered along the
roadside in silent respect. But no one cheered and no children strewed the way
with autumn flowers, for Olmigon was not a ruler beloved by the commonalty—nor
by the burgesses and nobles, either. He was apparently fated to be remembered
as a remote, self-absorbed king of no distinction, controlled by venal and self-serving
advisers, loved only by a handful of intimate courtiers, most of his children,
and the two royal women who attended him on this final pilgrimage.
Olmigon
himself was not unaware of this melancholy state of affairs but had always
managed to shunt it aside—until the Tarnian shaman dared to pronounce his death
sentence. At that point inspiration had come to him, vivid as a bolt of
lightning. In asking his one Question, foolish old King Olmigon Wincantor
believed he had one last chance at glory.
Ironically,
he was correct.
The
road steepened and became more narrow as the entourage left settled lands and
approached the looming ramparts of the Bladewind Crags, which gleamed white in
the hazy sun. By the tenth day of the journey, the route had become little
more than a rutted, rocky track. From time to time the royal coach lurched
violently, causing the sick man to utter soft moans. But when the queen and
princess bent over him they saw that he continued to sleep soundly.
"Red
Ansel's medicine is still doing its good work," Princess Maudrayne said,
touching the king's brow. "There is no fever or sweating. Let us check the
belly-binding."
"The
healer should have come with us," Queen Cataldise said resentfully.
"You should have insisted. What kind of a doctor abandons his
patient?"
"Ansel
had done all he could for the King's Grace. He was urgently needed at the
bedside of the Tarnian ambassador's small daughter. If need be, Vra-Kilian can
windspeak him for medical consultation at any time."
"It's
not the same thing," the queen fussed. "His obligation is to my
husband and to the Crown, who will be paying his fee as well as his traveling
expenses—not to a mere sick child."
Maudrayne
said coldly, "A man such as Ansel Pikan is not a hired hand nor a common
doctor to be ordered about like a servant. In my country he's reckoned a
mystical healer of the highest degree, more revered than your Abbas of Zeth. He
came to Cala because I besought him from the bottom of my heart—not because of
any promised stipend. Yes, I intend to reward him well! But I will do it from
my own treasure. Is that quite clear? And if Ansel chooses to use his healing
powers on a mere sick child in the meantime, that's his business and none of
the Crown's?'
"Hmph!"
said the queen, unmollified.
The
women were not friends, as happens often enough with wife and husband's
mother, but thus far on the long journey they had contrived to keep peace
between themselves for the sake of the dying man whom both of them loved.
Cataldise Blackhorse was of ancient Cathran stock, a small person, deceptively
mild in demeanor, rosy-cheeked and stout but with iron-colored eyes and a will
to match. She was the one who had begged Olmigon to appoint her brother
Vra-Kilian to the post of Royal Alchymist. The king had been unable to resist
her plea, to his lasting regret. Until Conrig came of age and became Lord
Constable, Kilian had dominated the Privy Council through sheer force of
personality. The prince and the wizard had been at loggerheads ever since, with
Olmigon frequently caught in the middle.
Princess
Maudrayne Northkeep was the favorite niece of Sernin Donorvale,
the dauntless First Sealord of Tarn. Tall as a man, with high breasts, curling
auburn tresses, and piercing blue eyes, she was so lovely that Conrig would
choose none other from among the eligible Tarnian maidens—in spite of her
reputation as a short-tempered hellcat with a tongue like a rapier. Their
mating
had been a clash of titans, wildly ecstatic at first, then tempestuous as the
Prince
Heritor became obsessed with achieving the Sovereignty of Blenholme and spent
less and less time with his demanding wife. Of late, their relations had been
not
so much stormy as detached and ominously formal. And Maudrayne knew why.
Her apparent inability to conceive a child had frightened and infuriated the
princess. Her temper soured and her desperation grew as Conrig's ardor cooled.
He still treated her with respect, but they bedded joylessly now, only in hopes
of engendering an heir to the throne. Oddly, as the princess became estranged
from her ambitious husband, she drew closer to the morose and suffering
king—two tormented souls who had begun to fear that they had failed in their
duty through fault of their own.
Maudrayne
now carefully uncovered Olmigon's abdomen and examined the stout truss
contrived by the Tarnian healer that now confined the ruptured bowel to its
natural place. Then she restored the king's garments and the covering.
"All is in order with the binding. His Grace seems much improved the last
few days, no doubt buoyed up by anticipation?'
Queen
Cataldise gave the younger woman a hard glance. "And what will happen when
his hopes are dashed? My husband would have been content to remain safely in
Cala if your uncouth witch-doctor had kept a tactful tongue in his head?'
"Ansel
only spoke the truth," Maudrayne retorted, "as must all of his kind.
The King's Grace asked plainly how many days were left to him. In my home-land,
the dying have a right to know this, so that they may put their affairs in
order. It's a stupid Cathran custom that healers should lie to the patient
about impending death, out of misplaced kindness."
"So
you say, madam! And I say your custom is cruel to deny all hope of remission or
recovery. Is your precious Ansel a seer as well as a physician, to state
positively that my royal husband will surely die within two moons—making him
determined to undertake this vain journey that can only hasten his demise and
perhaps disrupt the peace of the realm?"
"Red
Ansel is indeed a seer," Maudrayne shot back. "A mighty practitioner
of both natural and supernatural science. He did the king good service, and
only an ingrate would speak ill of it. As to the pilgrimage, if it comforts
Olmigon's uneasy heart, how can it be vain? I thought you approved?'
"Approve?
Bah! Any educated person knows that the Promise of Bazekoy is only an ancient
superstition. No Cathran monarch for the past three hundred years has given the
oracle credence—only my poor simple-hearted darling. Yet I could not distress
him by telling him so."
"The
king has a right to ask his Question. So said Abbas Noachil himself, when
windspoken by the Royal Alchymist. Call it superstition if you dare, madam. I
say this pilgrimage will give the king consolation in his final days."
"And
shorten his life!"
"He
knew the price and accepted it. So must you. If his Question receives a clear
and felicitous answer, it may bring solace to the Cathran people as well as to
His Grace?'
"If
we only knew what he intends to ask!" the queen fumed. "But he won't
say. What if the oracle stands mute? Worse, what if it's only some ancient
charade once countenanced by the Brothers of Zeth, but now, in this more
enlightened age, become mercifully obsolete?"
"The
king will ask his Question," Maudrayne repeated. "Abbas Noachil
conceded him that right, but he did not say whether there would be an answer.
Thus it is with all prayers. And yet we continue to storm heaven, madam—you and
I as well as the king."
She
fixed her mother-in-law with a challenging stare, and Cataldise had the grace
to look away, abashed.
"I
never counseled my son to put you aside for barrenness," the queen said in
a low voice. "Nor did the king. Both you and Conrig are young. There is
time for you to have children?'
"That's
true. Remind your son of it! Ah, God—if only I could put my own Question to
Bazekoy! I know what I would ask. But the emperor's oracle only speaks to a
dying ruler of Cathra. The rest of us can only petition the unseen, silent God
and try not to despair."
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