The Sword, The Ring And The Chalice - The Sword Part 2

"I am Bork, your majesty," the hirelance said. His voice was respectful, but his eyes were not. "You will surrender your sword."

The stablemaster moaned.

Ignoring him, Tobeszijian never took his gaze from Bork.

"No."

Bork spread his feet in readiness. His face was hard and wary. "This can go hard, or it can go easy. The sword and your surrender." Forty to one was impossible. But Tobeszijian had no intention of fighting them yet anyway-there were other things to accomplish first. He mastered his outrage at the man's impudence and made no move to obey. "This fortress is under your control?" he asked.

Bork smirked. "I command it."

A muscle jumped in Tobeszijian's jaw. Otherwise he did not move. "I am the king, hirelance. Your prisoner or not, I do not surrender my sword to the likes of you. When your master comes to face me, he can demand my sword, and to him alone will I give my answer."

Bork did not like his defiance, but Tobeszijian's gaze held the iron confidence of birthright and lineage.

He stared the hirelance down, and when Bork's gaze dropped, Tobeszijian knew he'd won temporarily.

"I will ask this again," he said quietly. "Where are the queen and the royal children?"

"Your queen remains in residence, but not for long, we think." As Tobeszijian's fingers clenched around his sword hilt, Bork showed his fangs in a broad smile. Behind Tobeszijian the stablemaster whimpered in fear, but fell silent instantly as Bork's cruel gaze shifted to him. Tobeszijian never took his eyes off the hirelance, and inside his glove he could feel his ring growing hot. What else had taken possession of his palace? He could not stop his imagination from running wild, wondering if the Nonkind now roamed the hallways and pa.s.sages freely. Had Muncel forged a complete alliance with Gant? If so, he must be mad.

With great effort, Tobeszijian pulled his whirling thoughts back under control. He was sweating despitethe cold morning air. He told himself to keep his royal dignity. He must betray no fear, no rage, nothing to indicate he had lost mastery of himself. "Now, your majesty," Bork said, his voice as smooth as a serpent's glide. "You will come with us to the-" "I will see my queen," Tobeszijian said sharply. "If she lies ill, she is in need of me."

Bork opened his mouth, but Tobeszijian said, "What you have orders to do can be done later. I am now within these walls. You guard the only way out." Bork's eyes seemed to shrink in his face until they were two dark pinp.r.i.c.ks, but he protested not.

Tobeszijian turned his back on the Believer, although he half-expected the man to strike. He caught the stablemaster's attention, and the man gaped at him in open fear. "Yes, your majesty?"

"A fresh horse," Tobeszijian said. "My palace may be emptied, and my friends vanished, but I will not forgo all custom." It was the king's custom to pause here in his stableyard to change mounts and strip off his mail and armor in exchange for a courtly tunic before riding into the palace grounds. Most of the time he divested himself of his weapons also, handing them over to his squire to be cleaned. The king's squire, a lad named Rustin and the son of Count Numitskir, had not gone on the hunting trip this year. Shortly before their departure, he'd disgraced himself with a slattern who claimed he'd fathered a child on her.

Since squires in training to become knights were expected to remain celibate until after they took their knightly vows, the boy had effectively ruined a promising future. In haste to depart, Tobeszijian had told himself he would judge the matter after his return. It seemed now that he would not. He wondered what had become of the boy. For that matter, what had become of his entire court? Would he ever know?

If he allowed himself to feel his shock, he realized, he would not be able to continue. He refused to think beyond his purpose, which burned like a fire coal in his breast. The future might hold his death at the hands of these rabble, but he would not consider that now.

"Let us amend custom today," he said to the stablemaster. "Just the horse." The stablemaster gulped and nodded, bowing low and backing away to snap his fingers frantically at the boys, who were staring with their mouths open. "It's been told that you can ride the darsteed," Bork said, and pointed at the opposite side of the stableyard to a round building with a cone-shaped roof of slate. Lights shone from the tiny windows fitted high in the walls. A bugle of fury, m.u.f.fled by the stone walls, came from inside, along with a series of rapid thuds.

Tobeszijian's nostrils flared. He felt the darsteed's fiery rage reach his senses, and his own pent-up rage and grief responded like fire in his chest. His heartbeat quickened. For a second his blood raced in his veins. He sent his mind to it: I am homeIhomeIhomeIhome. The creature needed exercise. It had been neglected during his absence, cooped up in there the whole time. He could feel its explosive need. Soon, he promised it.

The savage fire of its mind came crashing back to him, making him sway slightly in the effort of absorbing it. RunIrunIrunIrun.

Soon, he promised it again, and his heart felt as savage as the beast.

The darsteed inside the fortified stall bugled and kicked. Tobeszijian blinked and broke the contact, realizing that Bork was staring at him in open conjecture.

Bork smiled and gestured at the stablemaster. "Your king would ride his mighty darsteed. It's in need of exercise." Tobeszijian frowned. Ordinarily he rode the darsteed into battle instead of a charger. The darsteed was a creature from a nightmare, a beast of war and terror. By the laws of tradition, all kings of Nether had owned a darsteed since the days when Nether first defeated Gant and seized the terrifying beasts as prizes. But the creatures were kept locked up and viewed at a safe distance. No Netheran king, until Tobeszijian, had dared to actually ride one. Thanks to his eldin blood, he could control the brute. When Tobeszijian appeared on the battlefield in full plate armor and antlered helm, bearing his two-handed sword and a war hammer, and riding astride a black fearsome creature that breathed fire and roared with all the violence of h.e.l.l itself, few Kladite raiders could stand and hold their ground. Few Gantese Believers and Nonkind would either. Yet Bork was trying to provoke him into bringing it out. Tobeszijian wondered if the hirelances had gone inside to look at the beast and if it had injured any of them. Grimly he met the Gantese's eyes. He would use the darsteed, all right, but not yet. Not until the proper time.

"Ride it," Bork urged him. "We have heard of your legend, King Tobeszijian. We would see it for ourselves. No one will bring it out for us." Tobeszijian said nothing.

He longed for Kuliestka at his side. By now the lord protector would have tried to put an end to these insults, and gotten himself spitted on the end of a sword. Grief rose inside Tobeszijian, twisting painfully, but he choked it down. He must be iron. He must remain every inch a king if he was to keep himself from being shackled and led away in total humiliation to the guardhouse. "Forgive me, majesty. We dared not take the beast outside while you were gone," the stablemaster said nervously. "Since Vlout died of that head kick, no one can handle it except your majesty."

Tobeszijian frowned, momentarily distracted. "You were told to find a replacement for Vlout immediately."

"I tried, majesty, but-"

Tobeszijian lifted his hand to silence the man.

"Ride it, great king," Bork said, openly mocking him now. The stableboys came leading up a bay courser fitted with an ornate saddle of silver and a velvet saddlecloth. Rosettes had been braided hastily into its shining black mane, and its dark hooves gleamed with oil. It tossed its fine head and pranced sideways, its delicate nostrils snorting white plumes in the frosty air.

"That's a lady's mount. Not worth a king's backside," Bork said, grinning and showing his fangs."Let's see the darsteed."

Tobeszijian was conscious of time running out, of his tiny advantage slipping from his fingers. He must turn the tide of this game, and swiftly, before all was lost.

"The queen's health is my concern now," he said coldly. "When I have seen her, I will consider your request."

Bork growled in his throat and moved sharply. Perhaps he meant to strike Tobeszijian, or perhaps he was only making a rude gesture. Either way, Tobeszijian turned on him and caught his fist in midair, straining to hold it when the Gantese would have pulled free. Bork's eyes narrowed to black dots of evil.

He snarled, baring his fangs.

But Tobeszijian's blue eyes blazed right back, and his mind-unskilled but strong-crashed against Bork's. Back awayIback awayIback away, he commanded. Bork snarled again. The other guards were closing fast, scenting a problem even while the two men stood close to each other, glaring and lockedtogether, their struggle hidden as yet between their bodies.

"When I am at liberty, I will show you the brute's paces," Tobeszijian said, straining to hold the hirelance. His voice grew rough from the effort he was expending. Back away, his mind commanded again.

Bork unclenched his fist and stopped the struggle abruptly. His eyes held anger mingled with confusion.

Tobeszijian knew he could not control the Believer, but he could influence him. He pushed again, and saw Bork blink. The Gantese stepped back. "At your majesty's leisure," he said, and gestured scornfully at the bay, which shook the rosettes tied to its long mane and pawed the ground. "We shall still be here."

Relief came sharp and sudden, like a dagger thrust. Feeling his knees weaken, Tobeszijian turned away and swung into the saddle with all the grace and strength he could exhibit. He rode through the smaller gates on the other side of the stableyard and took the winding road that led to his palace. Not caring what any of them thought, he spurred the animal to a gallop and didn't look back.

The palace grounds sloped uphill, enclosing a small, well-groomed forest of ash trees that bordered either side of the stone-paved road. Spurring the bay courser again, Tobeszijian rode through the trees and glimpsed the small, sleek herd of royal deer nibbling at the still-green gra.s.s they'd pawed up from beneath the snow. Their heads flashed up in alarm as he galloped past, and they turned as one, bounding away.

The road dipped, curved through a snow-rimmed stream, and wound steeply up through a stone archway that had once marked a gatehouse and the crumbled remains of the original fortress walls. Ivy now grew over the fallen stones. Frost had burnished the leaves to tawny colors. From this point the road became older, rougher, narrower. The forest grew right up to it on either side. Then abruptly the trees ended, revealing the top of the hill, which was entirely cleared. The palace stood there, silhouetted against the rosy, pearlescent morning sky. The peaks and spires of its roof seemed to stretch to the heavens. The palace was a magnificent sight that never failed to lift Tobeszijian's heart. Three stories tall, the long, multiwinged palace stood there airily in its setting of snow, sky, and shrubbery. Its pale yellow stone had been quarried from the rocky hills near Lake Charva, and it featured long rows of tall windows. Every window was fitted with actual gla.s.s, a luxury so rare and costly it had once threatened to deplete the treasury.

Delicate columns of white marble supported archways over each window. The columns were carved fancifully in the shapes of serpents, lizards, tree branches, and vines. Winged gryphons lunged from the rooftops as waterspouts, and leaping sea-maids with outstretched arms were carved from marble to form the bal.u.s.trades on either side of the broad steps leading up into the state portico. Nowhere else in Grov or all of Nether could such a building be found. It was too ornate, too whimsical. It gave the eye no rest.

It was as different from the original fortress on this spot as the sun was different from the moon. Yet its ramparts remained strong and practical. Behind it the sheer stone cliffs dropped straight down into the Velga River, creating a natural defense on that side. Runtha's Folly, some folk called this bizarre yet beautiful palace. Begun by Tobeszijian's grandfather, Runtha I, and completed by his father, Runtha II, the palace's unusual appearance was blamed on the eldin and their unwelcome influence.

For many centuries eldin and humans had coexisted peacefully in Nether, even joining themselves into the Church of the Circle and forming the basis of modern religion now held by half the known world. The Chalice of Eternal Life was held sacred by both humans and eldin, who believed in the same history of the Origins and the same G.o.ds. Folk of the eld, however, had magic which the humans did not. They could enter the second world, which humans could not. Eldin and humans found they were usually more comfortable apart, and in general they kept their communities separate. Less than two hundred years ago, Tomias the Reformer-a monk and visionary believed to be from Mandria, although he claimed no land as his origin-had entered Nether, bringing with him a different branch of the church and a radical system of beliefs. Tomias and the reformers considered the eldin to be part of the darkness and superst.i.tion which had held Nether chained for too long. Church magic, held firmly in the hands of the crimson-robed churchmen, was preached to be honorable and true to the Chalice, derived from its sacred power. Eld magic was said to be derived from perversion and secret liaisons with the darkness, a force that would tarnish the Chalice. But any human could enter the Circle and worship the Chalice, bringing it glory, providing he or she came with a true and willing heart. To serve, a worshiper needed only to feel faith. No actual performance or action was required, refuting what had been the former custom of penitence and ritual. Tomias advocated separation and division between humans and the eldin, claiming that the folk of eld had no actual place in the Circle and need not be considered an equal part of it.

Fresh and appealing, this message of reform took quickly in Grov, and from there it spread across the rest of Nether. It became fashionable to deny that the eldin even existed, fashionable to build stone churches and to burn the old paneathas which had stood in wall niches, honoring the old G.o.ds, since time began.

But as a young man, Runtha I shook off the influence of the reformers. One day while riding in the forests alone, he was thrown when his horse stumbled. Knocked unconscious, he awakened hours later to find that night had fallen. Surrounding him was a group of eldin with eerie white flames shooting from their fingertips, lighting the clearing without need of lanterns. Although little contact had been made between humans and eldin since the mission work of Tomias the Reformer, he was treated that night to eld hospitality. Runtha I discovered for himself that the eldin were a gentle, merry people with spirits of light and laughter. He made friends with his hosts, who showed him many wonders and visions. Returning a few days later to his frantic and much-worried court, the young king embraced the old ways and set about undermining the stranglehold of the reformed church. He shortened the sermons and permitted townspeople freedom of choice between the reformed church and the old festivals. Eld groves were preserved by royal decree, and this palace was constructed around the old, dank, original Hall of Kings.

A Mandrian was sent for, and he created these formal gardens of clipped yew hedges, leaving only a small copse of natural hust trees on one side, out of sight. There, roses and sea holly were allowed to grow wild in a thicket. Tended by eldin and much loved by the present queen, this magical place became a riot of color in the spring, when the hust trees bloomed in long white racemes that hung to the ground and all sorts of flowers burst from the ground to open crimson, gold, and pink petals. The bees grew drunk and fat with pollen, the fragrance of flowers filled the air, and the wind would blow a wealth of rose petals across the gra.s.sy paths. As his horse came surging over the last steep segment of road, Tobeszijian summoned a mental image of Nereisse his wife, so pale and graceful, walking there in her grove, her wispy draperies catching on branches, fallen petals hanging in her knee-long blonde hair and scattering behind her. He felt a pang inside him as though he'd been p.r.i.c.ked.

It was her pain, reaching to him.

Oh, great Thod, he prayed frantically, let me reach her in time. He kicked his horse forward, making it kick up spumes of powdery snow, its iron shoes slipping dangerously on patches of ice.

No one waited on the broad steps to greet him. Few lights shone in the windows. The tall double doors stood closed, with no servants ready to open them. He saw no curls of smoke spiraling from the chimneys on the roof. He had never, in all his lifetime, imagined the palace could be this deserted.

The sight of it, abandoned and empty, pierced his heart. A corner of his mind raged, wanting specificnames and faces, ready to condemn and a.s.sign blame. But it was not that easy to separate the tangled skeins of the political web. Who at court was not an enemy of some kind? The lord chancellor, the lord of the treasury, the keeper of the seal, the guardian of the armory, the cardinal of the church, the steward of the household, and yes, especially yes, the king's own half-brother were all problems, siding continuously against him and the policies he tried to set.

Only five years on the throne, Tobeszijian thought grimly, and my reign is already in grave danger.

He could blame part of it on the alliances his father had forged shortly before his demise. He could blame more of it on Prince Muncel's ambition and greed. He could blame the rest on the church and its zealot leader, Cardinal Pernal, who wanted no half-eld king on the throne.

Spurring the courser, Tobeszijian sent it scrambling madly up the broad steps to the very doors of the palace. Leaning from the saddle, he pounded on the wooden panels and listened to the echo of his summons fade inside. No one came.

Dismounting, he shouldered open the heavy door. Inside, the place was shadowy and cold. He drew Mirengard, flung back his cloak to free his arms, and strode swiftly through the rambling palace.

The emptiness drove a wedge of dread deeper into his heart. There had been no looting. The carpets and furniture still filled the rooms. But no living thing stirred. He heard nothing except his own rapid footfalls. He pa.s.sed through a set of tall double doors into the icy gloom of the original Hall of Kings. The room was narrow and cramped with age, its arched ceiling blackened by centuries of fire smoke and grime. Windowless and bleak, the room's only illumination normally came from torches kept burning in wall sconces set between long tapestries. The torches did not burn now, not even around the mult.i.tiered paneatha. The ancient gilded icons of the G.o.ds, their painted images so dim and worn they were nearly unrecognizable, were gone. Tobeszijian halted there in shock. Lowering the tip of his sword to the sagging wooden floor, he reached forward and touched each bare arm of the paneatha where an icon should have been hanging.

"Blasphemy," he muttered beneath his breath, and looked up. On the wall, above the crude and age-blackened throne of the First, should have hung a triangular-shaped sword made of black iron, its hilt wrapped with leather, its double edges nocked and jagged from battles fought in the dim beginning of history of his ancestors was gone.

He knew then what else he would find missing.

Fear plunged to his vitals. It was as though while he was away, the world had ended. And during this plotting, he hadn't known, hadn't guessed. How could he have been so blind? He stood in the empty Hall and felt lost, as though he'd been dropped into the third world and could not find his way back out.

Drawing several ragged breaths, he sought to calm himself and knelt before the ancient wooden cabinet that stood beneath the wall niche of the paneatha. Opening its doors, he reached inside, found the hidden depression, and pressed it.

With a faint rumble and sc.r.a.pe, a portion of the wooden floor slid aside. Dank air rose into his face. He ran to light one of the torches, using the striker and stone kept always near the paneatha. When the torch was burning bright, popping as its pitch warmed within the twist of straw, he held it aloft in his left hand and gripped his sword with his right. Thus armed, he descended the rickety wooden steps into the yawning darkness below the Hall of Kings. At the bottom of the steps stretched a cramped chamber with walls of frozen dirt and stone. In the center were double, semicircle rows of stone benches. On the opposite wall stood a crude stone altar with a cauldron overturned next to it. The torchlight flickered overthe reliquaries on the altar, showing him the green-patinated bronze bowls intended to hold salt and sacred water, the old bronze knives of ritual, the rods of white ash, the stubs of Element candles, the incense burners, rune-stones, a small bell, and the dried remains of vines that had once wreathed the altar.

This was the original worship site. The Chalice of Eternal Life had been placed here when the First received it from the G.o.ds. For generations the Chalice had been well guarded by Tobeszijian's ancestors.

Although Tobeszijian's father had been besieged by church officials to surrender the Chalice to them so that they might display it prominently in the newly completed Cathedral of Helspirin in Grov's center, Runtha II would not agree. The Chalice belonged here, he said. Runtha had argued that the Chalice was not to be worshiped instead of the G.o.ds. Its power protected the land and the people of Nether. But that power was not to be channeled by churchmen for the working of miracles designed only to increase numbers of congregants. The very day following Tobeszijian's own coronation in the Cathedral of Helspirin, Cardinal Pernal had approached him and requested that the Chalice be moved to the cathedral, far from the primitive cave where it had been hidden from the people for too long. He pointed out the arching ceiling of the nave, so high it seemed lost in the misty shadows. He showed Tobeszijian the sanctum and the stand where the Chalice would be displayed, high enough so that all who came inside the enormous cathedral could see it, with narrow slits of windows surrounding it in order that its light might radiate outside the building at night.

That day, Tobeszijian gazed around at the unfamiliar cathedral, with its fine carvings and its statues of saints instead of the icons of the old G.o.ds. He noticed the brilliant blue paint and the extensive, elaborate gilding. Oh, there was no doubt the Chalice would be displayed in as beautiful a setting as man could devise, but Tobeszijian felt uneasy. Since childhood, he had kept in his memory the rites and the ancient phrasing of the oath of protection sworn by him and every other king of Nether since the Chalice came into their care. He had responsibilities that were secret, unknown to this powerful churchman in his crimson robes, responsibilities that did not permit the Chalice to be put on public display. For one thing, its power was too strong, needing containment by magical means involving soil, salt, running water, and ash wood. Like his father before him, Tobeszijian refused the church's request. Cardinal Pernal's face had gone quite white and pinched around the nostrils. His dark brown eyes had blazed with fury that he clearly had difficulty containing. With his mouth set in a tight line, he bowed to his king, and Tobeszijian left him to fume as he wished.

Now, however, as Tobeszijian walked into this small, dark cave beneath his palace, he saw that this first Circle had been violated, and that the Chalice was gone.

Behind the altar, the natural spring which pooled in the ground had been filled in with dirt and stone, choking it. Tobeszijian touched it and felt dampness, but nothing more. He swore softly. Skirting the spring, he walked deeper into the darkness, holding his torch aloft to light his way, although he already knew.

With every cautious step, his heart raged and grieved. Yet he had to look, had to see for himself all that had been done to defile this holy place. On the back wall rose a pillar of black obsidian, hewn and polished. The Chalice of Eternal Life should have been standing atop that pillar. It was not. At the base of the pillar, the hearth of Perpetual Fire lay cold. Removing his glove, Tobeszijian thrust his hand into the white, powdery ashes, but there was no lingering ember to cast warmth. The fire had been dead a long while. "Muncel," he said aloud in despair, "what have you done?" The silence seemed to mock him. He stepped back, stumbling a little, then turned and fled, running across the chamber and back up the steps into the Hall of Kings. He kicked the trapdoor back into place and flung his torch into a wall sconce with such force it nearly went out. Wrenching himself around, he strode through the rest of the Hall, pa.s.sing the rows of ancient weapons-some mysterious, others primitive-hanging on hooks as reminders of thepast. Slamming his way through another set of doors, he left the Hall of Kings and strode through a pa.s.sageway as gloomy and deserted as the others. More doors. He burst through them and entered a reception gallery of light and warmth so intense it hit him like a blow. A row of windows along the left wall filled the room with morning sunlight. At the far end, he could see a tall stove, tiled with bright colors and radiating a blast of heat that made him realize how cold the rest of the palace had grown.

His anger sank into a deep, secretive corner of his soul, and was replaced by a renewed sense of caution. If the palace was deserted, who had built this fire? Gripping his sword with both hands and holding it ready before him, he moved down the corridor on quick, quiet feet, trying to still even the faint jingling of his silver spurs. He wanted to call out Nereisse's name, but he held his tongue.

The gallery looked magnificent in the sunlight. Its tall mirrors, even more costly and rare than the gla.s.s in the windows, hung on the right-hand wall, reflecting back the sunlight streaming in. The place was all dazzle and glitter, prismed light refracting on the walls and shimmering from the faceted b.a.l.l.s of bard crystal hanging on chains of gold from the ceiling. It was the Gallery of Gla.s.s, famous throughout the kingdoms. His pa.s.sage beneath the bard crystal b.a.l.l.s set them swinging lightly, and he could hear them sing in faint little sighs of melody. The gallery had never failed to enchant all who entered it. Dignitaries from foreign lands often came and sat here by the hour, marveling at the dazzling array of light and color and sound. During festivals, it pleased Tobeszijian to allow dances to be held and madrigals to be performed in here. The fine carpets would be rolled up, and the floors polished. Candles would be lit everywhere until the mirrors blazed with their reflection. The ladies would swish and spin about, laughing to see themselves in the mirrors. The jewel-like colors of their gowns glittered like kaleidoscope pieces on the faceted surfaces of the bard crystal b.a.l.l.s overhead, while the crystal sang with the melodies, their tunes eerie and soft.

Sweat beaded on Tobeszijian's brow, and he turned at the end of the gallery to climb a broad wooden staircase, carpeted by handwoven rugs sent by the Wandering Tribes in tribute. The carved wooden heads of idealized danselk, covered with paint and gilding, formed the posts on either side of the head of the staircase. Their antlers held candle stubs long since burned out. A draft of the heated air from the Gallery of Gla.s.s blew up the staircase, but it did not reach far. At the top of the stairs, he rounded the corner and nearly collided with an elderly servant of the Order of the Chamberlain. Stooped with age, his straight gray hair cut in a severe bowl shape above his ears, the servant wore a stiff tabard of embroidered livery in the royal colors of burgundy and gold. His collar of servitude was embossed with the royal coat of arms. He held a key in his mottled hands, and worry puckered his old face.

Startled by this encounter, Tobeszijian swung his sword in reflex even as he recognized the servant. He shortened his swing and the mighty blade whistled harmlessly over the old man's head. Cringing to the floor, the servant lifted his hands and wailed in fright.

"Suchin!" Tobeszijian said in profound relief. He sheathed his sword and gripped the wailing servant's shoulder. "Suchin, do you not know me?" Gasping, the old man lifted his terrified face and un-squinched his eyes. He stared at Tobeszijian, his mouth falling open and his eyes growing rounder and rounder. All the color leached from his face.

"I live," Tobeszijian said firmly, gripping Suchin's shoulder even tighter. "I am flesh, not ghost."

Relief flooded Suchin's face at that a.s.surance. With a sob, he flung himself at Tobeszijian's feet and wept. "Majesty, you have come!" he cried. "At last, you have come."

Tobeszijian gazed down at the old man lying at his feet and wondered why he was still here. Had he been overlooked, or was he one of the betrayers like the captain of the guard and the stablemaster? But the king had no time for such questions now. "Suchin," he said firmly, "rise and take me to the queen."

Suchin obeyed, sniffing and wiping his nose on his sleeve. Hurrying to keep up with Tobeszijian's long stride, he pointed toward the state apartments. "Sire," he babbled, "what a relief that you have come home. We had given up all hope." "How does the queen?" Tobeszijian asked. Guilt choked him as he thought of the palace betrayed and invaded, the queen ill, the Chalice stolen, all while he'd been gone on his pleasure, hunting because he felt tired of his responsibilities. Thod's mercy, but he had much to answer for. "Is she better?" Suchin sighed and shook his head. "We thought it was nothing at first.

Princess Thiatereika fell ill several days ago. Her fever was strong, and kept her tossing and crying out."

Thiatereika, his only daughter. Tobeszijian felt as though he'd been struck by a war hammer. Too much was happening. Too much was being taken away. He could hear a wild, queer laugh in one corner of his brain, while the rest of him stared at Suchin in horror.

"Aye, sire," Suchin said. "Only the queen could soothe the child. Then her majesty took the fever too.

She would not give way to it, though, but fought it most valiantly, giving all her strength to the child's care.

Even when Prince Muncel came, she received him with pride, facing him down while she tried to hold the palace in the name of the king." Suchin's gaze flickered to Tobeszijian's face. "But she could not prevail and was sent to her chambers. She was kept a prisoner inside until the palace was emptied of everyone.

Gilda says her grace cried aloud yesterday afternoon and spoke your majesty's name. She did act most peculiar, weeping that you were dead. Then she swooned and was taken to bed. She lies there still."

Tobeszijian frowned, feeling fresh grief wash over him. She'd known of his danger, while he'd been oblivious to hers. He should never have left this year. He'd known better. Thod's bones, but he should have heeded the warning signs and stayed here to guard what was his.

"What does the physician say?" he asked, pausing while Suchin struggled to push open the double doors leading into the queen's chambers. Suchin looked at him almost fearfully and stepped aside. "There has been no physician to attend her majesty."

Speechless with anger, Tobeszijian stopped halfway across the threshold. He met the old man's eyes, and suddenly his sword tip was pressing Suchin's throat. "What infamy is this?" he shouted. "By whose order was a physician kept from Queen Nereisse?"

Suchin's face went as gray as his hair. His eyes widened with terror, and Tobeszijian pressed the blade deeper into that soft, wrinkled skin. "Her own order, your grace!" the servant said, gasping.

Tobeszijian had been expecting him to say it was Prince Muncel. Stunned, he released the old man, and Suchin sagged against the door, banging it into the wall. His hand trembled as he pointed at the tall bed standing in the center of the room. Sheathing his sword, Tobeszijian walked toward it in a daze of confusion and anguish.

The state bed of the queen was a ma.s.sive piece of furniture. Each post was as big around as Tobeszijian's waist and carved heavily with runes of blessing and the faces of ancient tree spirits. Since Nereisse had become queen, the ancient timbers of the bed had sprouted with twigs and green leaves, as though roots still fastened the posts to the soil. Some of the serving maids would not go near the bed, not even to strip the linens for cleaning. Others claimed they could hear the timbers groaning during the day, mumbling in the old tongues things no mortals should hear. Gold velvet hangings, so heavily embroidered they hung stiff, encircled the bed to keep out drafts. They were parted now on the side facing a roaring fire, and Gilda, the old nurse who cared for the royal children, sat there on a stool at the queen's bedside, sponging the queen's hands and face with a damp cloth. Nereisse's golden hair spread across the pillow. Reaching to her knees when she left it unbound, the tresses were normally thick and luxuriant. They sprang back from her face naturally, requiring no fillet or band to control them, and the curls and waves of her hair were never still but always in quiet motion, as though a soft breeze blew over her at all times. Now, however, no invisible breeze stirred her hair to life. It lay there tangled and limp, darker at her temples, where she was sweating.

Her clear skin was flushed, and her shut eyelids looked bruised and puffy. She was tossing her head back and forth on the pillow, her hands plucking at the fur coverlet. Gilda grasped one of her hands and held it firmly, patting it with the damp cloth, but Nereisse pulled free and murmured urgently, "Siob-veidhne broic kalfeyd edr hahld!"

The fire flickered abruptly low as though it might go out, and the air in the room seemed to vanish momentarily as if it had all been sucked away. Tobeszijian's hair stood up on the back of his neck, and he could feel the wild p.r.i.c.kling across his skin that told him she was speaking with power. That was forbidden here. She herself had forbidden it, saying it was not safe within the walls, with so many people about. Power, channeled through the eldin tongue, was for the outdoors, where it could be unleashed with force. Gilda looked up at Tobeszijian's arrival, and tears glistened in her rheumy eyes, trickling down her wrinkled cheeks. Her bottom teeth had long ago rotted out, leaving her mouth shrunken, and pulling her chin up nearly to her nose. She might look a crone, but hers was a gentle soul. She had never feared Nereisse or the children who had been born in this bed. She had served as Tobeszijian's nurse, mothering him when his own mother died, and she had stood as his ally during the days when his father took a new, this time human, wife who wanted nothing to do with her royal stepson.

"Sire, my sweet lady lies here poorly," Gilda whispered. "Very poorly." She slid off her stool, making way for him to bend over Nereisse. Tobeszijian gripped his wife's hands in his. They were burning hot.

She tossed her head, spilling the cloth Gilda had left across her brow. Tobeszijian stroked the queen's forehead, trying to ease the furrows which creased it. He kissed first her hot lips, then her shut eyelids, then the pointed tip of each delicate ear.

"My beloved," he whispered, grieving for her. She had the smell of death on her skin. She was so hot, his icy queen, so unnaturally hot. Usually Nereisse's skin was as cool to the touch as polished marble. He kissed her again, but her eyes did not open. He felt afraid. "Nereisse," he said in desperation, "I've come safely home."

At last her eyes did drag themselves open. They were blue-gray, tilted at the corners, and they stared at him without recognition. "Kalfeyd edr hahld!" she said.

He felt his hair blow back from his brow as she said the words, felt their force. Danger, she was saying.

There is danger.

"Nereisse," he said, stroking her cheeks, wanting her to know him. "It's Tobeszijian, come home to you.

Look at me, beloved. Hear my voice." But she tossed in his arms, crying out feverishly, then clutching her stomach with whimpers of pain.

"Help her!" he said to Gilda frantically. "Send for the physician-" "No!" Nereisse gripped his wrist, pulling herself up off the pillows. Her eyes stared into his as though she saw a stranger. "Keep away!"

"Nereisse, I'm here," he said, pushing her hair back from her face. She tried to bat his hand away. "No!"