It was the twenty-sixth year in the Reign of Aegyptus, forty-sixth High King of the City-States of Misenos. In the month of rains, the armies of the west-lying Senta and Perahta kingdoms of Volney, commanded by the Sentite warrior-king Adalwolf the Black, marched upon the Dianthe River Valley, which in those days represented the frontier of Aegyptus's kingdom. The Volker warlord Adalwolf was joined by heavy cavalry from Parcia and archers and horsemen from the Kingdom of Qadam. The invading armies defeated the rich Misenian cities of Pyramus and Damasken. With these strategic conquests, Adalwolf threatened the Misenian kingdom's very existence. The City-states of Misenos fielded an army led by the crown prince Mikolas Cercyon Mezentius. The wizard warlord of Alysia, Lord Valten, son to High King Aegyptus and his Volker mistress Guiliane, joined Prince Mikolas with one thousand elite Alysian swordsmen. The invaders met the combined armies of Mikolas and Valten on a plain called Salomea under the ancient ruins of Eufemia. Adalwolf the Black was confident in his numbers. The battle for the Kingdom of Misenos went on four days. Thousands died. On the fifth day, Valten and Adalwolf matched swords for the fate of their kingdoms in man-to-man combat. Although Lord Valten was victorious, he was compelled to a terrible sacrifice. The consequence of these events resonated many years throughout the kingdoms of the Continent.
* * *
The lacquered doors of the throne room parted with a breath of lavender-scented air. Erymanthus Petrukas, called Haemon, a commander in the Order of the Knights of Parthenia, faced a tapestried royal chamber divided by a brace of untenanted benches draped in cloth of gold. Here and there pleated purple drapery clutched by molded leaves of brass suggested a succession of balconies, but the balconies for now were shuttered by antique alabaster panes guarded by soldiers in the ceremonial armor of Loxian Guard swordsmen.
At the foot of a broad four-tier throne poised twin marble tables. These were immense, massive. Positioned left of the raised marble dais, the first table seated the elderly aristocrats of the Imperial Council, their secular scribes, and various attendants. On the right hand of the royal seat perched the portly priest-clerk-- the High King's record-keeper --and two men of regal stature wearing costly gray silk. The gray-robed nobles were Vitusian prelates. They came from the city of Calydon on behalf of the High Priest of Vitus.
Although the Knights of Parthenia had time out of mind carried the honor of Royal Protectorate, Haemon Petrukas saw no member of his prestigious order about the throne room. It was the first time Haemon spied the High King absent his elite knights. With an imperceptible shift of his head, Haemon confirmed it. The myopic veterans of the Loxian Guard, the local militia, had displaced the Royal Bodyguard.
Unheard of, unthinkable.
Yet there was Mikolas Cercyon Mezentius, Prince of Misenos and Lord of the Parthenian Knights, attired in courtly black, without weapon and cape, two steps below the throne-- unattended. No, not unattended. His profile was all Haemon saw, but Mikolas communicated danger in other ways. They had been brothers in war. At a sharp angle below the gaunt, seated figure of the High King, gold-haired, green-eyed Mikolas stood still. A step below Mikolas hovered two of the silver-armored Loxian swordsmen. Although the armored Loxians kept a fitting distance, Lord Mikolas was their charge, in custody.
All this Haemon digested in the moments before the portly clerk bounded to his feet.
"We call into the glorious presence of His Most Excellent Magnificence, Aegyptus Machaon Mezentius, High King of Misenos, the bodyguard commander of Prince Valten Leonardas Mezentius. Advance, knight-commander, and be known."
The formality was unexpected, yet not. Last night, Haemon had returned to the Misenian royal seat of Asthrinasipal. Observing the customary practice of report, he had made directly for the palace. But he had reported nothing. He had been closed inside an apartment in the Ivory Tower, fed, and brought a fresh uniform. He had thought, then, he was being prepared for formal inquiry and wondered how the High King would receive him.
Haemon, a career knight, thirty-three years old, had spent the months of spring rains and early summer on a journey of import. He had accompanied Lord Valten to Volker lands. He had waited with Valten in Volney's hinterlands the hands of days required for the Volker ceremony. And Haemon had returned to Misenos alone. There was no opportunity, on this venture, to travel by sea. Haemon had gone and returned through the horse runs of Volker Ludkhana and the cities and inland routes of Parcia.
Now Haemon marched into the throne room. It was late summer and he was ready to tell what he knew. At the foot of the dais, he clapped his fist to his chest and dropped to one knee. The Loxian guardsmen in the throne's forechamber had disarmed him, but Haemon made the habitual sweep with his free hand to shift the sword blade. It alarmed him slightly that the blade was not there, the irregularity. He crossed the empty hand over the first, the salute of the initiate. It was not inappropriate.
The clerk ordered him to stand.
Haemon rose crisply, but kept his dark head bowed. He was immaculately attired, clean-shaven and groomed. And the only man in the chamber dressed as a royal bodyguard.
"Be known," repeated the portly clerk.
"I am Erymanthus Haemon of the Galinthian house of Petrukas, a lawful heir of said house, a commander in the Order of Parthenian Knights."
"You are known." The clerk sat.
Documents rustled against marble: the Imperial Council scribes, scratching into their stiff ledgers what was said. There came an instant, then, of stasis. Their tools hovered over parchment in anticipation.
Haemon chose another kind of stasis. In addition to the stasis of his body, he seized upon a stillness of the mind.
His father was king of Galinthia. At home the horizon was the same one way as the other except where the green and dun riverland dipped into valleys that ran as far as the coast. Generally the air in that region of Misenos stayed mild. Rivers ran everywhere, even underground. After a career of border skirmishes with Parcian marauders, his father had gotten rich supplying the High King during the Hupei war. King Aegyptus had used the ports in Galinthia as a staging point into Hupei and Parcian lands. Haemon's invitation into the Parthenian Knights was won while he scouted up the Dianthe River Valley for the High King's troops. He had been twenty-one, blooded, and fed up with river raiders. While on campaign he had reported to a knight no older than himself-- Mikolas. The rest was known.
Seventeen days ago Haemon once again crossed the Dianthe River. Nearly-- nearly --he turned home. His father's seat would welcome him for a time. A sentimental whim, on Haemon's part, but an anomaly just the same. Not once in all the years had Haemon gone home. The lure resonated like a warning. Perhaps Haemon was only uneasy in his skin, from what he had seen in the black enchanted forests of Volney.
Now he almost laughed. A circle closes because it must. Who had said that? Who else but Lord Valten, the priest-warrior born of two lands?
Haemon stood with his dark head bowed, and waited for the High King to do as he would.
The King asked, perhaps dully, "What news of my son?"
Haemon thought, Is Lord Valten your son now? And swallowed thickly, ashamed to have forgotten himself. See this to the end, he scolded silently. That is best.
"My words will bring His Majesty no joy," Haemon said in a moment. "He lived to his pledge and sealed the breach between the kingdoms of his mother's land. They have his law as the law of the sacrifice, which is sacred to them. It should hold a dozen years or so."
"Heresy," snapped one of the Vitusian priests.
Haemon knew better than to object. He kept his eyes on the polished tile, his fists crossed in the pose of subject, and sealed his mouth.
"I don't care about their breach, their gods. Is it your vow that my son went of his accord?"
Haemon raised his head. "Yes, Your Majesty."
"It was no trick of law? He was not traded upon?"
Traded upon by whom? Haemon was shocked. The query clearly demonstrated the precarious position of Mikolas, the loss of favor. Meanwhile, the face of the King loomed, pushed forward on its withered neck. The eyes in the gaunt skull were bright as water.
"Against my life, no, Sire. Upon my soul, never."
"But he is dead."
"Yes, Your Majesty."
The King jerked his head to one side and exhaled in agitation.
Haemon thought, He's worked something here while I've been gone. The question he asked.
The Vitusian priest, who had exclaimed, "Heresy," now gestured. "Did he perish in a pagan rite, or by some other means?"
Haemon said, "The rite to which he consented was a means to an end. He wanted it said in this way: he was granted the power to wield law over all the kingdoms of Volney because he was the sacrifice. This is more binding than even a king's law. The three tribes of the Volker people came together in an unusual way to witness it. He used his power over them to seal a breach. Such a breach gave us Adalwolf. The breach is mended."
The Vitusian priest gazed coldly. "But was he attended by a priest of Vitus?"
"No."
"There was no one to whom he could confess?"
"We performed a battlefield confession."
The Vitusian priest snorted. "You overstepped."
The King turned his head. "Is it not the office of a Parthenian Knight to intervene on behalf of a royal in mortal danger?"
"That is my office, Your Majesty."
"Then why are you here?"
"To tell His Majesty how my lord died, and answer whatever His Majesty asks."
"I ask, did you offer yourself in his place?"
"Yes."
"Yes." The High King glanced sharply at Mikolas. "He says yes." He tapped his armrest fitfully. "Well, then. How did he die?"
"There is a lake in the upper region. A hidden trail runs to it. On the day of the eclipse, they gave him a draught. He went to sleep. They put him on an altar, led the altar floating into the lake, and let it sink."
A clerk of the Imperial Council coughed. Then there was the incessant scratching on parchment, the King's rugged breathing, and no other sound.
Haemon thought, Mikolas, I am sorry.
On the night before the man-to-man battle, Mikolas had said, "Haemon, your time of service to Lord Valten is done." A handful of hours ago, Valten had released Haemon from his post as Valten's bodyguard commander. Feeling that Valten's mission deserved distinguished company, Haemon had dismissed his men but vowed to continue in any case as Valten's escort. "You cannot go with him," Mikolas had urged. "Better that you stay here with the army. I will not order you to leave my brother but understand Valten is going to Volney as an administrator of his mother's land. He knows his people and his office."
Mikolas, you were right.
One Vitusian priest bowed to the other, whispering.
The King, meanwhile, wagged a gloved finger. Haemon stiffened. Boots rang on the tiles from behind.
Two Loxian guardsmen drew even with the knight. One reached perfunctorily for a tether on the knight's cloak. Haemon lowered his hands. The purple cloak with its ornate folds slipped. The second guardsman tore at the opposite tether. There was a hook on this side. It connected to the rank braid. When the cloak dropped, the rank braid tugged awkwardly. The guardsman used his knife here, slashing the rank braid in half. The cloak drifted, unhindered, to the floor. Next, the thongs and buckles of the knight's breastplate. Haemon lifted his arms without protest. He thought that it should have been done by another commander, this. Otherwise, he was detached.
A Vitusian priest spoke. "Your Majesty, if I may."
"Quickly."
"Yes, certainly. Knight, was the dead man retrieved from the lake?"
"Yes."
"Yes. And-- what? Buried? Burned?"
The King sat straight.
"They lay him in a tomb up there. He had already agreed, it was part of their rite. He bound me to do nothing. I could not even locate the place, now, though I am pledged not to try."
"Pledged to whom?" the Vitusian priest asked.
"Pledged to my lord, Prince Valten."
"He lies up there," the King said. "Did you wait for sign that he could-- might revive? His sorcery was unique and uniquely powerful."
"Your Majesty, he said that revival was not possible. I thought that he should know."
"Did you." The High King nodded. Meanwhile, the bright eyes smoldered. "And what of his kindred? Hasn't his kinswoman any right to his remains?"
Haemon thought, Lady Guiliane is one of them, and knows. Lord Valten was unconcerned on this point.
"I left that to my lord, Sire."
"Then, is there no more, nothing, he gave you to say to me?"
There was. Lord Valten gave, "Tell the King you stayed true to the knight's code." But Haemon would not say that now. He had been stripped of rank, plucked for sacrifice of another kind. The truth would sound feeble, in this place. The truth would change nothing.
"No, Sire."
The King threw back his head. "Is there one here who would speak for this knight?"
Haemon lowered his gaze. Such cruelty diminished the proceeding. With the High King, it was not the why-- but the how. These moments of smallness. No need to destroy the good with the bad.
Of course, no one spoke.
The King would amuse himself with that. Hold forth that it was the measure of beasts, not men, and perhaps confirmation of the fragility and convenience of courage. The King would not guess that love spoke another language, or that these things had been decided long before there was a Valten Leonardas, a battle at Salomea, a parting at Eufemia.
"The garden downstairs," said the King. He gestured to the Vitusian priests. "One of you, see to him."
The guardsman beside Haemon bladed his body to show the way. Haemon glanced somewhat at each guard. There was no affection between the war bands, but in this they were likeminded. Men of honor required no spectacle, rope, or rough hands.
Haemon scanned the royal chamber. This was to have the vision of Mikolas. He gave no more time, however, to the prince than he gave the King, to whom he bowed.
The King said, coarsely, "You have my leave."
Haemon stepped back and left under his own power. A Vitusian priest strode after.
* * *
His father had expected loyal sons.
Aegyptus was sole heir of a man who never dreamed to be high king, until the dream was made for him. A different world, that. Mikolas envied what they must have had, two likeminded men, Andronicus High King of Misenos and his chief-at-arms, Aegyptus, the King's only offspring.
Aegyptus had expected from his sons the same fluidity of purpose.
He, Mikolas, was born seventh. Of the those born before him, it was the eldest Mikolas most distrusted. A scowling bull of boy, spiteful and intemperate, his oldest brother. The heir had command of the royal army but could not evoke its love. Aegyptus had believed otherwise. So Mikolas learned young that his father was fallible. And he, Mikolas, learned clarity of another kind, in order to survive the temper of intemperate men.
Protect Misenos. From childhood the history and celebrity of his father's protectorate had dazzled Mikolas. Built well and made for war, Mikolas had lived nothing else. Protect Misenos. Therefore, Protect the King. He was bred on the tales of hero knights. He embraced the warrior brotherhood, which was in any case his birthright, as seventh son.
With his brothers he had slight dealings. Perdix he once pitied. But Mikolas noticed that Perdix was the creature of Aegyptus, an insect unnoticed on the column, a spy. Mikolas went his own way, training with the Parthenian Knights. It was satisfying work. He met Haemon in Galinthia.
Mikolas was drawn immediately to the city-king's nephew. Athletic and well proportioned, Haemon was a warrior and mercurial, like a star in the dark; and he was, besides, quite good-looking, with sleek hair and fair eyes. Once in the past Mikolas had experienced love with a man. It had not lasted but the passion surprised him and left an imprint. He had believed the event singular in nature. Perhaps, the intensity, albeit brief, had instructed this. And the man had been older, a warlord in Nashipur. It had seemed appropriate, as Mikolas understood such things.
When Mikolas discovered Haemon, he perceived an alteration within himself similar to the scorch by lightning of an ancient tree upon a mountain. A conflagration of elements had revealed the extraordinary fact of a second soul mate. (His first love, a girl from his childhood, perished before her nineteenth summer.) Forever after, though Mikolas had learned never to fear or dwell on his own death, he would know fear in quantity. The mark was indelible.
The best course, the acceptable course, was to leave the object of his affection, the being through which Mikolas might now experience irreparable harm, in Galinthia, where, presumably, the warrior-prince, Haemon, would conduct an average life interrupted infrequently (and as Mikolas's career permitted) by dalliances of an intimate nature. But Haemon had proved obdurate and incensed with passion for glory and purpose.
It would end badly. Mikolas had no doubt, then or now. To allow Haemon into the royal city was the equivalent of exposing his, Mikolas's, breast to a spear. He had said this, once, and Haemon had sighed. I am your weakness, and you are mine. Yes, well.
Love required, therefore, certain necessity. When they were twenty-seven and the city had closed for grief at the heir's murder by raiders in the north, something had been said.
They will look harder at you now.
Yes.
It will be different.
And it was.
Haemon had been courted by the second oldest (now the oldest) prince, in order to seduce Mikolas to rebellion. That had been a dangerous season. Yet they survived.
But after it was done, when all but two of Mikolas's brothers had died of one folly after another, the city turned prickly and hazardous.
And the King.
Whatever remained of reason and restraint within King Aegyptus, that fell away into the red haze of suspicion. Mikolas had known, then, how Haemon would be used, and what he would die of.
This.
He had watched his idiot brothers perish.
One night at Heze Garrison, headquarters of the Parthenian Knights, there had been opportunity to talk. In the palace it was not easy to achieve privacy. Heze was also hazardous, a place of open spaces and shadow. That night Mikolas had said, "It could happen to me, a bad death by warrant. For his heir, he'll take Perdix from the priesthood or the half-blood in Alysia, the one by his Volker mistress, and that will be that. Every day he's found some way to warn that he does not need me."
"Only to keep you at his fingertips."
"It's more than that. It's more than that."
"You shan't die alone."
Of course not. No, Telemachus Zarek, Aegyptus's old confidant and the appointed general, under Mikolas, of the Parthenian Knights, would take care to finish Haemon as well.
Then Haemon said, "I want to be remembered for those things that I have done and not how well I knelt for the blade."
"My fear, too, is to pass beyond the world with my best work undone, my dreams unmet, my promises empty. When it happens by warrant, how do you go with any peace? How do you set down your weapon and say this is who I am?"
Aegyptus had expected loyal sons.
And he had expected to rule his own wizard. Lord Valten was a sorcerer by blood, a formidable adept whose mixed lineage had proven useful to the King. Aegyptus had determined Valten's place at court. It did not matter that the Vitusian priesthood balked. Let the priests scold. A sorcerer, waiting on the King rather the other way round.
The High Priest of Vitus had foreseen young Valten's usefulness and uprooted to Salomea. It served him well that he, the High Priest of Vitus, was caught in the struggle with Adalwolf. Mikolas suspected the Vitusian priesthood of having some hand in the catastrophe at the battle of Salomea that broke Valten's power and left the lord of Alysia without resource to magic. So the game was played.
And as they proceeded, the endgame. Valten had said, I am nothing without my power. Let me be useful one last time, for Misenos, and for my people in Volney.
Mikolas had thought, So it ends for you, that is how it will be, for me. He never told Valten that the wizard's value to Aegyptus had in a short time increased tenfold. What would that have mattered, to Valten? Mikolas never said, I must save you, to live. They were, the two of them, fighting to save their world. And at the ruins of Eufemia across the spent fields of Salomea, when Valten gave it all away, Mikolas had felt the break within, the bitter freedom that attended inevitability. And it had instructed, It is over.
There wasn't any doubt.
He and Haemon had parted like lovers, back at Salomea. Parted for life. The King did not know that, would not have understood. Haemon, returning to the city, would have been surprised to find all well. Mikolas had said certain things, that night. Haemon, too. If there had been a way to dissuade Valten-- rescue him, Haemon was to attempt it. Mikolas, however, had no illusion.
When he appeared before the King, Haemon had correctly assessed the knight brotherhood itself was on trial. Not only himself. Not only Mikolas.
"I want to be remembered for those things that I have done and not how well I knelt for the blade."
Haemon, I want that also.
* * *
The King said to Mikolas, "Go to the balcony. You were senior officer. Witness."
Mikolas did not miss the intended message: "You were …" He bowed at the waist, "By your leave." And turned, stepped from the dais, strode to the balcony. Experience and purpose so far had armored him. Experience had provided every detail of the formal inquiry, as well as its outcome, beforehand. Nothing unexpected had occurred. Purpose reminded that the survival of the knight brotherhood was everything.
The survival of the brotherhood would be decided in the next moments.
A Loxian guard freed the balcony's alabaster panes. Sunlight lanced Mikolas and washed over him. The brilliance drew him out. He himself disappeared inside its light. When his sight adjusted, he gazed down on a walled garden. This was well kept, but it was not a garden of leisure. The King used it for killing. Mikolas stepped to the rail but refrained from touching it. When prepared, Mikolas was capable of great strength. He would not need to lean on anything.
The garden.
It was late summer but the grass was like an emerald carpet. There were granite benches and sculpture at the lawn fringes. Three men moved between the stone pieces, the Loxian executioners and their charge, stripped of uniform but unbound. The Vitusian priest was absent. He had performed the rite outside the garden.
The men, below.
It was possible, on the balcony, to hear their speech.
A guard said, "This is good. Stop here."
Haemon, ahead, stopped and turned to face the guard.
The guard drew his knife, looked up, saw Mikolas, and froze. Then he cleared his throat. "You should get on your knees."
Haemon rolled his shoulders. Though his back was to the balcony, he had, as he marched into the garden, seen the movement of the doors. Otherwise, he might have refused to kneel, might have insisted on his right to stand for the blow. Now, the sooner over, the better.
He went down, lifting, as his knees settled in the grass, a pendant from around his neck. He collected the chain and ornament in the cup of one hand. With the other hand, Haemon gestured to the guard with the knife.
"Your hand is shaking. Give that to your companion."
The soldier was built like a barrel, strong and solid. He said, "No, I will do it."
"Then do it. I'm going nowhere."
The soldier advanced, edged the knife tip against the hollow of his victim's throat, and hesitated.
Although the big soldier was in front, Haemon felt the sun on his face and on his neck. He flicked a glance toward the wedge of sky visible beyond the soldier. Every sky, every sun, every moon since the battle at Salomea had been precious to him. While he gazed up, he lifted his fingers and passed them gently under the hand on the hilt of the knife.
"I know who is there and what he will be to you, one day. Be free of it. We are all caught in this net."
Fortified, the guard thrust with the knife. He aimed true, and there was enough to the blow that the blade caught the spinal column. The man on his knees convulsed and slumped. The waiting soldier caught the dead man under the shoulders and lay him in the grass.
* * *
Mikolas strolled inside. He halted before the throne.
"It is done, Your Majesty."
The King observed. Was there an irregularity of breathing? A pallor? A sheen of perspiration?
None of these things were detected.
The heir's heart was clear.
Good. This was good.
The King leaned forward. "Wait upon my word." But he hesitated, searched yet again for evidence that the heir might resent and even disagree with the action in the yard. "Bide a moment, while I consult my council."
Mikolas made himself a pillar, stone and iron, silent, while the King talked idly of the necessity of a formal warrant against the bodyguard of the Lord-Prince Valten, since the knight had been the son of a lesser-king. In a quarter hour, the King settled back, sniffed, and turned his hawkish gaze on Mikolas.
"You will draft a formal warrant. Make it say that he was executed for neglect of duty. Neglect of duty is correct, is it not? His conduct is not typical of the order?"
"The order is charged to protect the members of the royal house," said Mikolas, evenly.
"So he was neglectful. Do as I say, a warrant. Have it ready for my clerk by tomorrow. You have my leave."
Mikolas bowed. He left.
Traveled the populated corridors of the Ivory Tower. Those who recognized him smiled thinly and bowed. He was, however, out of favor, and still in danger.
Prince Perdix.
At the end of the corridor.
Surrounded by his priests, Prince Perdix filled his lungs to offer words, a test most likely, something, but chose instead to immediately vacate Mikolas's path.
Mikolas went by him.
Perdix felt the air stir and settle but could not say that Mikolas had seemed upset. Hardened, perhaps. Yes, more so. Like a statue that breathed.
Mikolas left the Ivory Tower and arrived eventually at his private quarters. Inside his courtyard were Parthenian Knights in uniform.
He spoke to none of them. They knew, in any case, but would show no sign of it, in order to get their lord swiftly within.
The public room was clear.
So was the office.
Mikolas went all the way into his sleeping chamber. Outside his quarters, the Parthenians, his true brothers, began a change of the guard. This was a formal maneuver, accompanied by hearty cries of All's well. It was not the proper hour, no matter. They did it for their prince.
Safe within the walls of his bedchamber, Mikolas put out the light. Four or five candles had been lit. It was day still, and warm. Then he opened his mouth. His scream began. Within the bowels of agony it began-- where something vital tore and commenced to die. When the scream broke, he broke. The rending of his soul, and (in some way) his flesh was no less certain than if he had been dashed against the stones under a cliff. He felt next the desertion of physical strength. His legs buckled. He collapsed, cords of fire pulling and twisting the length of his body. He did not quite credit this anguish, for it was insufferable, even as he knew the pain, this pain, must be suffered forever.
* * *
Arriving after nightfall, Naunet Safiya Mezentius, Princess of Misenos, entered a courtyard filled with uncloaked Parthenian knights. By torchlight she spied her husband's warriors, huddled and also alone, unspeaking, on the walkway and in the yard itself. They were, in that number, an inappropriate congregation, sullen, obvious.
She approached Commander Toxeus Lysander, who stood at the entrance to her husband's residence. The lacquered double doors were shut, though normally in summer, at this hour, they were open to air.
"Send all but six away," she said and saw the commander's jaw knot, saw it through the changing torchlight.
But Toxeus never contradicted her. That was for Mikolas to do. And Naunet and Mikolas were never publicly at odds.
"Yes, your highness." He strolled ahead of the pack, took command of it. He sent the knights off two at a time, ordered them to the barracks.
She watched. Mikolas would have. The uncloaked knights disappeared through the gateway. Parthenians in mourning stripped the purple cloak. In the field, they made the purple mantles into a bed for their injured, for the slain. In garrison, it was symbol. Quite possibly, they burned the current garment. She was not sure. Someone had told this.
Toxeus approached. "My lady."
"Has supper come?" she asked. She meant, Are servants with him or is he alone?
"No, your highness."
"In an hour," she said, "send for supper. I will dine with him." She meant, He must appear to the public before too much time has passed.
"Yes, your highness."
"The King sent for Telemachus tonight." The King had dined in his private hall. Attendance was by invitation. Prince Perdix had been excluded. The old nobleman, Telemachus, appointed general of the Parthenians under Mikolas, ignored by Aegyptus for a season, had been remembered.
Toxeus grunted. He meant, It will take more than an order from Telemachus to accomplish the arrest of Mikolas.
It would take an order from the gods.
Lady Naunet grazed the front panel of her gown. She was tidily dressed. Her hair was bound. There was no wind. Nevertheless in her condition she had found that there was no taming the dark tresses. Naunet was with child.
"My maid comes," she sighed, "soon." And this meant, Keep her out. About the threat to Mikolas she had little concern. In her homeland of Meritia there existed a peculiar bird of prey. When it lost an egg from the nest, it destroyed the others. Aegyptus was such a creature. However, the egg, in this case, was talent, and power. Something valued. The King, coveting Lord Valten's sorcery, had despaired its loss and repaid Mikolas in kind. Now it was done.
Naunet slipped through the doorway. The forechamber was cool but airless. The summers in Asthrinasipal were mild.
Mikolas had trimmed the candles. The forechamber, catching through the open door a bit of torchlight, swam with shadow. She closed the door, shutting herself in the dark. The way into the main chamber was known. Next she crossed Mikolas's office. At his sleeping room, she hesitated. Generally, a servant or a knight would let her by. She never before passed the doorway without someone's nod.
Her hand on the latch, Naunet entered.
Mikolas would know her scent, her step.
She raised her face to the darkness. The shutters were striped with torchlight from the courtyard, which they could not exclude. The odd light was like grillwork. Next to a shutter, Mikolas sat in the big armchair, his chair, his fist under his chin and his face more or less in her direction.
He said, "What do you want?" And it was the voice of Mikolas-- the effulgent, evocative voice she had discovered when she was sixteen years old and he had come from the battlefield to make her his wife --but the words were not Mikolas's words.
She considered. "It is I, your wife Sechet." Her intimate name was often used in this chamber. Naunet and Mikolas were generally, behind closed doors, informal.
He straightened his fingers, a dismissal. In the partial light his eyes were adamant, and sharp as crystal. An illusion. But his eyes were cold. They turned from her.
"Not now."
Naunet sighed. "I have been neglectful in a duty owed my lord."
A sigh said he did not care. But when she sat opposite him in the narrow armchair, her chair, he said more. "Confess elsewhere or at another time. I am indisposed."
Her spine straight, she perched wide-eyed in the dark, fixing on her husband the look of a supplicant before her judge.
He grew impatient. "Lady, I wait for something."
Color drained Naunet top to bottom. She had heard it before, this clipped speech, but she had never in their years as wife and husband been the recipient of it.
"While you wait then," she suggested in a voice thin as smoke, "my lord."
He sealed his mouth, staring. It seemed to her that he was gaunt. Grief had wrung him dry.
She lifted a hand instinctively above her navel. A flinch, to shield the infant-to-be. His glance followed, empty. Her belly was flat. The seed was still very young.
"I have been selfish," she said.
He raised his eyes to where he imagined hers to be, in the dark. "How so?"
"It is not easy to hear."
"It shall have good company, your news, among so much I have heard today that I did not want to hear."
She fell silent.
"Lady, I will not want you to stay when my business comes."
Her mouth slipped open. "It is my fault things are this way between us."
"Again, I ask, how so?"
"It was your command, if you recall, that at Salomea the man we called Valten Leonardas should stay while you went away, stay and speak with me."
He was a stone, hard-eyed, watching her.
She lay two hands across her navel. "And when he stayed, I told him what you wished, what we wished. I said that I, barren ten long years, would accept into my womb the seed of a man with the blood of Mezenti kings, who was, in any case, not my husband. And that you my husband were agreeable. But he said, Lord Valten did, 'The malady is not your husband's. It is yours and I will remedy it.' Do recall, my husband, that he was a warrior, true, but also a wielder of sorcery. It was in his power to heal my condition."
"The malady was not mine, what does that mean?"
"I was the one unable to kindle life. You were able."
He tilted his head at that, opened his mouth, then shut it. "I was capable. You were not."
"Yes."
Mikolas rose up slowly in his chair. "What are you saying?"
She answered softly. "Nothing. Everything. I confess all. See it in my face. Hear it in my voice. But wait, you no longer look into my face or listen to my words. Before last spring I could not keep even an acorn of a thought from your notice. Now you miss that I am in mourning for your brother."
He turned his face from her. His chest rose and fell.
She asked, "Did you miss it?"
"Yes."
She nodded.
He said, "Tell me, then, that you took him into your bed like a camp follower. Tell me."
"It was not my bed, but his, and I went to it for love."
"To make the child you carry because he was going to die, and because my half-brother with his concubines and barbarian mistresses did not have enough heirs already. No, of course not. He must add to his brood by putting his seed into my wife."
"I did not bring my confession to you for easement, especially," Naunet answered immediately. "I am capable of carrying my sin--"
"It is more than sin, Sechet, to have lain with him when you did not have to."
"I know the Law, husband. As I know you. You would never give me to the executioners for treason but within ... within your heart, there would be and has been an unclean death, between us. Do understand that if it were necessary to do so, I would take my crime to my pyre, but it is not necessary. You are in terrible grief. Twelve years you have known Haemon. By such terms, my own grief is a grain of sand. What I bring, Mikolas, is a gift. As you say, Valten has heirs. When he was with me, he knew to control the process of procreation. He told me so. Therefore after I was with Valten, I had my courses. It was here, in the city, the last time you performed your husband's duty that this child was made. The end of spring, I know you remember it. I carry of you. But I did not know to tell you before now this child was yours. If I told you how I carried of you and why, I must tell you, too, that at Salomea I went to Valten for love, not duty, and pleased myself against your honor and the Law. I did not know how to tell you a man you trusted was grieved for by your wife. The truth has worn me out."
"He repaired you."
"That very night in Salomea. Without delay or payment."
Mikolas raised his arm, his hand, beckoning her.
Naunet considered his disposition, then rose and stood at his side.
Mikolas opened his hand to her stomach. His fingers closed gently upon the fabric of her gown, grazing the soft flesh beneath.
"Valten warned he and I were rivals. I always knew he desired you. He was a man after all. As for you, Sechet, I thought I knew you better."
"You have known me. We have loved, you and I, and always shall. But it is different, and well you know it, when the love is born in fire. It is not that I took him over you. You and he and the war left but one chance to know him. I pleased myself. If the gods are merciful, you are not thinking, now, of my betrayal. Rather, you are remembering yourself, the way your heart moved when Haemon entered the room. Do not suppose you have ever looked at me the way you looked at him. Do not."
"Your confession seems a boast."
She studied the top of his head, the gilt mane darkened by shadow. "Valten is gone and Haemon is gone and now it feels like something else."
"Like a mountain falling," Mikolas said, and he brushed her arm.
A tap on the door was followed immediately by Toxeus's voice. "My lord, two dispatch cases for you."
Mikolas froze.
Naunet saw her husband's face, its sharp, pale lines. She grazed his cheek with the tips of her fingers. He was ice.
"Are they from the High King?" she called to Toxeus.
"No, madam."
Mikolas demonstrated some unease.
"Shall I get them or send them away?" Naunet asked.
Mikolas was hoarse. "Fetch them."
This she did. "Toxeus, bring a candle."
"Yes, my lady."
While she waited, she stroked what the commander had given. The dispatch cases were narrow as a sword blade and no longer than her forearm. They were wood and leather, sealed with wax. Her forefinger brushed the seals, explored the ridges, the hollows.
She coughed softly. "At court, was it said, or mentioned, perhaps, how he died?"
Mikolas assumed that she did not mean Haemon. "They gave a draught and he slept. He did not know he was given over to drown. He is entombed in a cave. A proper burial, by their custom."
Toxeus brought a candle.
She took the candle dish through the doorway and closed the door.
When she turned she saw Mikolas had gone to a window. He opened the shutter.
She carried the candle to his desk. When she lay the dispatch cases against the candle dish, she eyed the seals. They were from Volney, emblazoned with the mark of its strongest house. The cases were similar to many traveling north and south between the Volker king of Ludkhana and his daughter, Aegyptus's mistress Guiliane.
Mikolas picked up the first case. "Whenever Haemon went away, we would arrange a place, a safe place, for dispatches. This time, I asked him to use the seal of the Ludkhana royal house.
"These he delivered to an inn of the city. There is a man at the inn who does this-- did this for him. The man delivered the dispatches to Heze Garrison. At Heze Garrison, someone sent them here."
"You knew they were coming."
"Whenever he returned from the field, a dispatch was only a day behind. Just in case. If all was well, we read it together."
"What did he send?"
"His will."
She startled, then shivered. "Let me leave you with them."
"In a moment." He broke the seal of one, separated the ends of the case. He turned one end up. "This case has our private mark. The other one does not. That one is from Valten."
Her gaze flickered up.
Meanwhile, he removed a rolled document, cast his end of the case away.
Naunet picked up the other case. When Mikolas set it on the desk it had made an odd rattle.
Now she heard it again, the rattle. "Mikolas, may I?"
"Yes." He was distracted.
She opened the case over her palm.
Two rings with thick metal bands fell into her palm.
She recognized the sigil of the Volker kingdom of Ludkhana. Her eyes clenched.
Mikolas never noticed. He unrolled his parchment, glanced over it. After a moment, he went to his chair and sat.
The dispatch cases, even the one from Valten, were for Mikolas.
Not her. Nothing for her.
She gazed into her palm at the rings. Valten had sent them away with Haemon. She picked up the case, inspected it.
A piece of parchment, small enough to cover two fingers held together.
Mikolas lay his head back, the parchment curled in his lap. He breathed roughly. But then he saw her, saw that she was shaking.
"Sechet."
"It is from Valten for you."
"What is it?"
"See it, see it for yourself." She thrust out her hand, strode to him.
He angled his head and looked into her palm.
A fragment of parchment, and on it the scrawl:
Find me. Free me. Save me.
1 comment:
Yes, really.
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