The Still

Chapter 12

The inn at Shar’s cross was a stout-ribbed structure, whose great oaken beams buried themselves in fly-specked walls. I slurped at fragrant lentil soup, glad of its warmth, greedy for the nourishment after days on end of tough jerky, dried peas, apples, tea.

The town of Shar was more substantial than I’d expected. From their stalls hugging the roadway, drayer, carter, cooper, clothier, bootmaker, scribe, coinchanger, candler, smith, and leatherer all cast hopeful eye on the passing traveler.

The inn had but half a dozen rooms, and two of those taken when we’d arrived.

Hester had disappeared with Elryc into the chamber the two would share. Rustin, the stableboy, Chela, Fostrow, and I would have to sort ourselves into two other chambers, which were all she’d pay for, and that only for the one night, “So my Elryc may sleep with walls about him.”

It wasn’t fitting, but I was helpless in the matter. My own coin was lost to the wasps and mosquitoes. Genard lived on our charity, and Fostrow claimed likewise, though I suspected he lied. Chela flounced her hips and dared me to search, when I asked what she had.

As to Rust, I knew he had sense to bring what he owned, but I dared not ask. Borrowing his sword had called forth a reaction totally unwarranted in its intensity. Despite our interlude under the tree, his eyes hardened and his lips went grim every time his eyes chanced to fall on my blade. Almost, I considered doing without, to end the unpleasantness.

It wasn’t meet, that a king should share a bed with two, even three of his vassals. Camping under the stars was one thing; we all shared Lord of Nature’s hard earth. While I sat brooding, Rustin’s hand strayed to Chela’s leg.

I fidgeted. There was no combination of sleepers I found tolerable, save that I have my own chamber, as befit my station. Before I could devise a way to suggest it, Rust overthrew my plans. “Genard can sleep with me, my liege. As can Chela. You and Fostrow will have more room, two to a bed.”

I slammed down my mug, beer sloshing on my hand. “How if I proclaim myself, and ask lodging in the name of my House, since you’re too stingy to buy it?”

Rustin’s voice went quiet, as the forest before a fearsome storm. “I have few coins, my prince. You’d have me toss them to an innkeeper, instead of providing food?”

I tossed my head. “Do as you wish, vassal.”

He tore viciously at his bread, attacked it. Then, “Innkeeper!” He waited until the man appeared. “You have one room unused, yes? Set the bed for my companion, here. The soldier and the boy will share, and the girl and I will have the other.”

He pulled his purse from inside his breeches, held it below the edge of the table, counted out the pence. I couldn’t tell what remained. “Good night!” Taking Chela by the hand, he stalked off. She ran along, docile, turning only to flash me a grin of malice.

Tossing and turning on my straw during the night, I heard every creak of the joists, the windows, perhaps of the straw in the next room. I knew to a certainty that Rust would sport with his housegirl.

I willed myself to fall asleep, fidgeted until the straw was matted and stony. Finally, I slipped on my breeks, padded shirtless down the stairs to the silent eating room, sat alone in front of the embers at the hearth, rocking, hugging myself. I smelled of dried sweat; my hair was awry, my eyes glued half-shut. And I had a thirst.

Someone had left a wide-mouthed mug, nearly full of beer or water. I licked my lips, reached for it, hesitated not knowing why. Slowly, as if of their own volition, my fingers opened, and I placed my palm atop the mouth of the mug. Were the liquid an inch higher, I could stroke it with the palm of my hand, caress it with my fingertips.

I rested my left hand atop my right, pressed as if trying to meld my palm with the rim of the glass. Why, Mother, couldn’t you trust me with the Vessels? Now, while Rustin rutted with Chela, I suffered humiliation and agonies of self-denial, and for … what? I’d lost the kingdom to Uncle Mar, if not Tantroth. I had but a haphazard crew of ragged followers who cared not one whit for me.

Slowly, I rocked my torso, head bowed, holding my hands still over the glass. Forward, back. Ah, Mother. Would that you were not under the cold earth.

After a time, I woke with a start. Slowly, I peeled my aching wrist from the mug, rubbed the indent left by its rim. Wearily, I stood, looked down into the still liquid of the glass. Then, I crept up the cold rough steps to my solitary room, closed the door.

“I won’t put Elryc into a cart; he’d be cold when we took him out!” Hester glared as if it were my fault. “There’s nothing for it but to stay, ’til he’s himself.”

A light rain tapped on the windowpane. “He can’t be that ill. Just yesterday-”

“Your brother burns like the demons’ lake.” Her swollen knuckles tightened, over the rough plank table. “I can’t be away from him. See for yourself.” She stood, grimaced, hobbled toward the stair.

“Come along,” I said to Rust. It was more order than request. Somberly, he followed.

Elryc lay dozing atop a straw mattress. My nose wrinkled; the chamber held the dank odor of sickness. “Give me to drink, Nurse.” His voice was the high pipe of a child, with a thready weakness that startled me.

“How are you, brother?” I took the glass from Hester, raised his head from the pillow.

He slurped. Water ran down his chin, across his puny chest. “Roddy, did you hear them last night? Demons, on the windowsill!”

“Nonsense.” My tone was gruff. “A fever vision.”

“Two of them, with black horns.” He coughed, from deep in his chest, cried out in anguish. “Oh, it hurts.”

“Good.” Hester prodded his leg. “Cough more, boy. It keeps you alive.”

I waved it away. “What foolishness is this? Let him rest in peace.”

“Cough!”

“Hester, take some air, regain your sense. I’ll-”

Her fingers clawed at my hair, wrenched me from the bedside. “What know you, ignorant lout? Let him cough out the demons, lest they seize his lungs! Begone.” She swept me to the door. “And take your overgrown shadow along!” She hurried Rustin along in front of her, slammed the door in our faces.

Rust shrugged, a smile flickering. “Did she ever marry? I pity the man whose wife has such a tongue.”

“If so, he killed himself.” I trotted down the stairs, out into the cool rain. “Come, let’s see what delights the town has to offer.”

“You jest.” He hunched down his head, walked alongside. “Where’s Genard?”

“With the horses, I suppose. Who cares?”

Just off the main road was a small market square, but only one stall was set up for the day. At the edge of town, an ambitious House of Rites was constructed of quarried stone, with a tile roof. Set in the outer walls were niches and alcoves designed for decoration, but vacant. “Looks like their coin ran low.”

Rust pondered. “I wonder if there’s a Ritemaster.”

I scurried after. “You need to cleanse your soul?”

“Don’t we all?” He took the steps two at a time, tried the door. It was unbarred.

Inside all was dark and gloom, until our eyes grew accustomed. Then, the tall narrow windows served well enough. Rust advanced toward the Circle of Rites.

“How may I help you?”

I jumped. The voice from the shadows was deep and strong, the face bearded.

“Hail, Master.” Rustin put on his best face. “Is the place open to travelers?”

“For most Rites. There is that of initiates, but you need not concern yourself with intruding.”

Rust bowed. “Thank thee for thy welcome, Ritemaster.”

“Onter, I am called. What would you, here?”

“The Rite of Cleansing.”

I stirred, not overjoyed at the prospect of a dreary hour mumbling the expected responses. “Rust, I don’t need …”

“Wait at the inn, if you prefer. I won’t be long.”

I sighed. Outside was a bleak drizzle, and we’d be stuck in this forsaken hamlet another night at least. I had no hurry. “All right.” I took my place at the Circle.

The Ritemaster looked us over. “Who are you?”

Rust spoke before I could. “I am Rustin son of Llewelyn, of Stryx Keep. My friend Roddy’s mother worked at the castle.”

A lie, and to a Ritemaster. I hoped it wouldn’t annul the peace Rust hoped to find.

The Ritemaster seemed to accept his words. “We won’t see many more of your kind, until Tantroth is decamped.”

“Pray that it’s soon.” Rust.

“Aye, but little chance of that. He’ll dig at the walls of the keep ’til winter, I warrant.”

Rust pursed his lips, but said nothing.

“And then, who knows. They say the boy Prince turned coward and fled, and Duke Mar is beside himself with worry.”

I recoiled from Rustin’s sharp jab, to nurse my ribs. My mouth snapped shut.

The Ritemaster sighed. “Ah, well, who can blame the child, with fair Elena but recently laid into the ground? He must be greatly hurt.”

My unspoken rebuke melted like spring snow. I settled on my haunches, awaiting the Rite.

The aim of the ritual was to rid the soul of worries and fears, of the self-contempt engendered by unspoken sins. Confession was made to the Vessel of Rite, not to the Ritemaster, but at home I’d oft suspected the Master listened too carefully to one’s whispered words, and so I usually withheld that confession which wasn’t seemly.

Today, I felt grubby and unclean, both of body and soul. Chela’s arrival had driven a wedge between Rustin and me, and I resented that he didn’t have sense to send her packing. The moment she appeared, I should have put my foot down. But I’d been distracted by Fostrow, and now it was too late.

As a result, at night I writhed in torment, imagining the pleasure that was denied me, and could take only the feeble substitute of my hand. Though Rustin did his best to bide his scorn at my virginity, Chela did not. Her saucy grin, wriggling hips and provocative stare were deliberate incitements. Try as I might to ignore them, my mind went ever to the enchantments of her body.

Like anyone, I knew the ritual almost by heart. I muttered the responses at the proper times, waited until the clay vessel was passed. When it came to me, I found myself whispering the dark and petty jealousies, the resentments, the lust that consumed me. After, the Ritemaster smashed the vessel, bowed to end the Rite.

We got up from the cold floor and stretched. I felt surprisingly better. Rust put a copper in the offering bowl, thanked the Ritemaster once more. “By the way, does the town perchance have a steamhouse?”

“On the edge of town.” He pointed. “A few minutes walk.”

“Is there a charge?” Rust colored. “Our journey was in some haste, and we haven’t much coin.”

The Ritemaster smiled gently. “No. It’s open to all.”

We emerged into a drizzle. “Satisfied, now?” My voice was caustic.

“I feel better. Don’t you?”

I shrugged, reluctant to admit the truth. I glanced both directions, wondering what else we could do to pass the day.

“Come.” As if he were Prince and I vassal, Rust strode back toward the inn.

I hurried to keep up. “Now what?”

“Fresh clothes. You don’t want to wear those filthy things again, do you?”

“If you think I’m about to roast myself in a steaming-”

“There’s cool water too, and tepid, if you’re fearful.”

“Of what?” I was indignant.

“A hot bath.” I swiped at his arm, but he evaded me, raced up the stairs. “I’ll get your clothes, if you like.”

I followed him to the room, dug my saddlebag out from under the straw where I’d hidden it. My crown, wrapped in a shirt, filled one bag. Reluctantly, I pawed for a garment. “This is a waste of time.”

“But you’ll be clean.”

Before I could object, he clapped my back, ushered me toward the stairs. I made up my mind to resist. “Rust, go on ahead, I’ll-”

“No, you come too.” He propelled me along the hall, dropped his voice. “I find your reek offensive.”

In a white rage, I stalked across the road, tramped through the mud toward the edge of the wood, debating whether to seize a stone and bash in his head. By the time we reached the brick steamhouse my rage had ebbed only slightly.

Rustin struck flint, lit the taper, used it to ignite the kindling that waited in the hearth, while I gathered more wood for the next user, as was the universal custom.

The steamhouse was a crude affair, with little adornment, but had tubs for washing, stones to make the steam, an adequate supply of water. Built around a well, it featured two clammy tubs that one filled with buckets, an arduous task Rustin left to me. I was too cross to object, and after a while the hard work soothed my fury. The water was cool but not unpleasantly so, and when the tubs were full, I stripped off my clothes, sank in with a sigh.

I wiggled my toes, resting my neck against the headboard, my nose barely above water. “It’s nice, but rather pointless without soap.” In the next tub, Rust splashed.

“Lucky that one of us remembered. I’ll toss you mine, when I’m done.” He lathered. I suppressed a pang of envy as his muscles rippled. He had the body and the bearing of a king. I was clumsy as a houseboy, unless I set my mind to maintain a regal manner. Authority came naturally to Rust, while I had to strain to achieve what I deserved.

A splash, that woke me from my musings. I wiped my eyes, groped for the rough soap.

After, soaking in the cool tub, girding for the steam to follow, I felt almost forgiving of his crudity, his brutality of expression. “Rust?”

“Aye, my prince?”

“What are our stations, yours and mine? Are you vassal or friend?”

“Why, I-” He swallowed. It surprised me to see him disconcerted. “Can I not be both?”

“Are you truly my vassal?”

This time he didn’t hesitate. “To the very life, my lord.”

“Then why do you bully and insult me? Does that show respect?”

He climbed out of his tub, sat nude and dripping on the edge of mine. Our eyes locked.

“And why do I allow it?”

He essayed a smile. “Perhaps because you enjoy it?”

“I hate you when you’re vile, or haul me about like a baby or a dimwit.” My tone held a petulance I wasn’t sure I felt. “Why can’t you be courteous and respectful?”

“I’m vassal, not servant. There’s a difference.” He scooped a handful of water, ran it through my hair. “My blood is noble, as is-”

“And that!” I slapped away his hand. “Always you’re playing with me, as if I’m a stuffed doll.”

His voice grew taut. “What would you have me, my lord? Shall I be vassal, and no other?”

“Yes!” I heaved myself out of the tub, took the shovel from the wall, padded barefoot to the hearth, prodded the stones baking on the red embers. “Let’s get on with it, before I’m too cold.”

“Aye, my lord.” Rust’s voice was without inflection. First closing the windows, he took the shovel from my hands, carried the rocks carefully, one at a time, to the pit. I sat on the bench, one knee curled under my chin, while he drew two buckets of water, set them aside, took the clay pot, filled it, splashed water on the white-hot rocks.

He sat, on the bench opposite, breathed deep.

In the flickering candlelight I waited for steam to fill the room. Outside a bird chirped hopefully. Rust sat patiently.

After a time, I found the silence oppressive. “I didn’t say you couldn’t speak.”

“Yes, my lord. What shall we talk about?”

“Stop it, Rust!”

“Aye, my lord.” He said no more.

Pulse throbbing, I stalked around the pit, stood in front of him, raised my fist. He gripped the bench as his eyes met mine.

Slowly, I lowered my hand. “Demons take you!”

“I’ll be what you want of me, Roddy, but I can’t cleave myself in twain. Would you have servant, or friend?”

“Vassal!”

“Aye, my lord. I am that.”

I wanted to throttle him, but again he’d defeated me. The more humiliation in it, as he’d had no need even to raise a finger. “Be what you wish,” I muttered, and went back to my corner to sulk.

Rustin threw more water on the rocks, until the air was thick. My sweat coated me like a chill blanket, but the soap had cleansed me and the feeling wasn’t unpleasant. Despite myself, I began to relax.

“We should do this more often.” Rust’s tone was peaceable.

“Aye.” I knew I sounded curt, and, sighing inwardly, chose to soften it. “I’ll have Hester load a steamhouse onto her cart.”

He giggled. Then, abruptly, “I’m sorry my manner troubles you, Roddy.”

It was why I couldn’t hate him for long. “It’s all right, Rust.” I stood, indicating I’d had as much of the steam as I could manage. He doused the rocks, overwhelming their heat with the rest of the water. I shivered.

“I do want you to be a great king,” he said.

Basking in his transparent sincerity, I stood hugging myself while he poured a cold clean bucket of water over my head. I gasped, rubbed water out of my eyes, groped for my towel.

“You’re handsome, Roddy, when you care for yourself.”

“Hah.” I was half a head shorter than he, and nowhere as muscled. In my silver mirror, I sometimes glimpsed a calculating expression I didn’t much care for. What would he say, if he knew I’d oft practiced his smile, alone in my chamber?

We dressed, tidied the bathhouse for the next user, went out into the day. In companionable silence, we started back to the inn. My bundle of old clothes seemed soggy and distasteful, and I held them with reluctance. Nonetheless, I thought, Rustin carried his washing fetish too far. I stepped over a mud puddle. Even when you’d been riding on a hot day-

“Look.” Rust sounded amused.

Genard churned down the road, arms windmilling. Halfway to us, he sprawled headfirst in the muck, bounded again to his feet, resumed his run. I watched with amusement.

“Come quick!” He sucked in breath. “Elryc’s dying!”

“Lord of Nature!” A stab of fear wrenched my gut. Not Elryc, so soon after Mother. I’d be truly alone.

“Hester sent Fostrow one way, me the other. She says to hurry!”

We raced back to the inn. I scrambled up the stairs, flung open the door to their room.

Hester’s eyes were bleak. “Hear his lungs gurgle. He can’t draw breath.” She bent over the small form that lay listless on the straw.

Elryc’s chest rose, fell again. The movement seemed so slight.

I cried, “Do something!”

“I know not what!” With an effort she tottered to her feet, moved toward the door. “The crisis came so fast I had no idea …” She pulled herself together. “I’ll seek an herbs-man. Perhaps he’ll know a remedy.” She brushed Rustin aside. “You boys stay with him, at all cost. If he goes, it mustn’t be alone.” She vanished.

I stroked Elryc’s head, snatched away my hand. “He burns!”

“He’s been hot since the morn.” Genard moved close.

“Get away, you’re covered in mud.”

“This room’s stifling.” Rustin crossed to the window, threw it open. “How can he breathe, without air?”

Obstinately, Genard kept his place by the bedside. I gritted my teeth. In a moment, I’d fling him from the window.

Elryc muttered, opened his eyes. His breath rasped. “Roddy. You’re all staring. What’s wrong?”

I sat. “We’re worried for you, brother.” I kept my voice light. “You slept long.”

“Aye.” He drifted off. After a few moments he was back. “It’s more, isn’t it?” He studied us. “Do I die?”

Rustin shook his head in negation.

“No, m’lord.” Genard.

“Tell me.” A long hacking cough, which left him exhausted.

I took his hand. “We fear we may lose you, but … We’ll stay at your bed.”

He nodded, as if agreeing. Again, the awful cough. It shook me to the soul. I blurted, “Forgive me!”

A look of puzzlement.

“For not letting you go down the hill with me. For the times I punched you, and told Mother lies.”

A tear glistened. “Now I know I die. Else you wouldn’t …” A gasp for breath. “… I wanted to see Fort. Be nice to Genard for me.”

The door hurled open. “Let me see him.” The Ritemaster, Hester panting at his side.

I blocked the way. “His soul is clean; he needs none of your mumblings! Leave him in peace.”

“Fool!” The old man pushed me aside. He put his hand to Elryc’s chest. “Breathe.” Feebly, my brother complied.

The Master pursed his lips. “The drowning fever, and we may be too late. He’ll need strong tea, lots of it. Send to the kitchen for hot water.” He strode to the door. “Stay with us, boy, I have a balm that will help you piss away the fever. Breathe hard.” He bolted down the stairs.

Elryc’s hand crept out from under the covers, squeezed mine. “I’m scared.”

“Breathe. Take in air.” I twisted, found Hester slumped over the table. “Why’d you wait, you old fool? He’s practically gone!”

Her eyes flashed. “It came fast upon us. If a fever killed by itself, he’d be long dead, and you with him. While I slept-”

“Silence, the both of you!”

I gaped. Never had I heard Rustin so.

He crossed to the bed, grasped my brother’s shoulders. “Live, Elryc. Roddy needs you, more than he knows.”

“I want to.” It was no more than a whisper.

I found my cheeks damp. “Live, that we may take the throne!” I fell to my knees. “Uncle Mar is a knave. I’ll make you Duke of Stryx, and you’ll rule at my side.”

Even in his current state, that caught his attention. “Really?”

It seemed vital that we not lower him into the earth. “You’ll have horses and servants and-you’ll sit at my right hand. I won’t set a plan in motion without you. I swear, Elryc!”

He coughed deep, spat a gob of yellow that oozed down his chin. He wheezed, “Didn’t you hate me?”

“Never.” I considered. “Only a little, as brothers who quarrel. Mostly, I-” My voice caught.

“What?”

“I love-”

The door slammed against me wall. “Is the water here yet? Boy, make haste!” The Ritemaster shoved Genard to the passage. “Prop him up.”

In moments Elryc was in Hester’s arms, half sitting, shivering as if from cold, his face flushed. Genard, tongue between his teem, stirred industriously at a foul-smelling brew. I watched from the corner to which I was banished, Rustin’s arm around my shoulder.

Sip by sip Elryc consumed the tea, gagging, fighting for breath. “Let me lie.”

Hester shook him. “Later. Drink.”

When he was done the Ritemaster brewed another batch. “Enough of this, and you’ll piss like a horse. Your breath will clear.”

I waited for a miracle, saw none. Elryc lay gasping, his face a sickly white. I snarled, “The man’s a fraud.”

“Give it time.” Rustin.

“Put more tea in him.” The Ritemaster.

I growled, “You’ve only made him worse. He barely breathes.”

“Nurse-” Rust guided me to the door. “Call us if-if there’s need.”

Downstairs, we waited at a table near the hearth. Rustin stared at the table. My mouth watered for a midday meal, but we ordered only wine. Mostly we sat in silence, sometimes we spoke.

From time to time Genard brought down a report. Elryc passed water, slept. He took more tea. His fever rose. I steadily drank my wine. Rustin seemed disgusted when I ordered more, and said he wouldn’t pay for it. Again Elryc slept. I absorbed the bulletins until my own breath came short, and the room drifted to and fro. Elryc woke, took more of the tea.

A hand on my shoulder roused me. I lifted my head from the table. Genard, in a clean well-made shirt that could not have been his. “He lives! The fever’s broke!”

“Good.” I lay down my head, fell back to sleep.

Late in the afternoon, I roused myself to a general air of disfavor. Chela sniffed, turned away with head high. Genard’s glance held active hostility; Fostrow merely looked sad and shook his head.

I begged a flagon of water, finished it in one breath, and trudged to Hester’s room. The old lady was sound asleep at the table. I tiptoed to the bed.

Elryc woke at my step. His face was wan, but his breath came more easily. “Roddy.”

“Shhh.” I sat, shifted the straw under the coarse blanket.

“I feel better.” He cuddled my hand. “Never will I forget how you sat with me, told me truth while others lied.”

I puzzled, tried to remember. “I said we feared for your life.”

“I needed to know.” He yawned. “Roddy, I’ve been thinking. We must raise a force. We won’t be treated seriously without men-at-arms.”

“We?” My eyebrow raised. “Are you to be King too?”

A silence, while he studied me. “You didn’t mean you’d share the kingdom, that I was to be Duke of Stryx?”

Careful, now. He could be made a potent enemy, forever. I said, “Of course I meant it, but you’re only eleven. That’s all in future. For now, you’ll go with Hester.”

His look was one of wonder rather than hurt. “You lie, and risk the True?”

“It wasn’t a lie when I-No! Besides, the True can’t apply to idle-I mean, of course I meant-”

“Let me sleep.” He turned his back to me.

“Elryc, listen.”

“Go away!” His voice was louder, and would wake Hester, and the madwoman would rage at me. I beat a sullen retreat.

I sought the privacy of my room, found the door barred. Rustin? I banged. Had he taken that slut Chela inside, for a bit of sport? Let him find his own chamber.

The door swung open. A swarthy fellow, with the look of a teamster. “Get thee gone!”

“This is my room!”

“Two of my pence say not, and so does the innkeeper. I’ve a wagon to load tonight, and would sleep!”

I twisted past. “You can’t take-”

He collared me, slammed me against the wall, whirled me breathless to face the door. “My room, you sot! Out!” A mighty kick to my rump propelled me into the hall, bounced me off the wall opposite. I slid to the floor, my tailbone numb. Behind me, the door slammed.

I lay stunned, fighting tears, losing my battle. At length I limped down to the crowded dinner room. Rustin was nowhere in sight.

Fostrow sat at a side table, sopping bean soup with a great chunk of bread. “What hails, my lord?”

Cautiously, I sat, my buttocks throbbing. “What happened to my room?” My voice was small.

“Dame Hester found you snoring at the table. She remarked she had no coin to waste on extravagance.”

“But Rust was the one who paid-” I blushed.

“Rustin was here, and didn’t object.” He eyed me as if a curious specimen. “Youngsire, it’s not a good idea to guzzle jugs of strong-”

“Stuff it in your saddlebag!” After a moment I spoke more softly, to soothe the pounding of my temple. “Where are my clothes?”

“I have them. You share with me and Genard or, I suppose, Lord Rustin and his lady.”

“Lady!” I snorted. I’d sleep with the stableboy and the soldier, rather than demean myself with her. On the other hand, that would leave Rustin free to fornicate the night through, after having spurned his duty to his liege. I hid a smile of triumph. “I’ll stay with Rustin.” I looked about. “Did Hester deny us to eat, as well?”

“No, she said a good meal might clear your addl-your head.” He fished out a few pence. “Order as you will.”

A good dinner-broiled trout, new potatoes, corn sopped in butter, fresh hot bread-did much to restore my spirits, even though I watered my wine well to keep my head from exploding. After, I bid Fostrow good day with something approaching civility, went upstairs to jolly Elryc out of his sulk.

Hester met me at the door. “He’s asleep.” Her face showed fatigue, but vast relief. “He mends visibly. Perhaps we can leave in the morn.”

“Wonderful.”

“Pah.” In the hall, she shut the door behind her, kept her voice low. “You’re that anxious to see Fort? It’s long enough you’ll tarry, once we’ve arrived.”

“What does that mean?”

Her eyes narrowed, as if studying a rock. “You have elsewhere to go? War is in the land, your uncle’s under siege, and you threw away your pence. Would you roam with Rustin as a pair of young tinkers? Go to bed.” She slipped inside the door, shut it sharply in my face.

Who was she to order me about? Outside, there was still light. I went downstairs, strode out, nearly collided with Rust.

“Good evening, my prince.” Rust made a mocking bow.

Loud voices. I looked beyond him to the road. Two horsemen, in front of the inn. Townsmen had gathered. “Something’s afoot, Rust.”

Under the innkeeper’s watchful eye a stableboy was transferring a rider’s bags from his tired mare to a fresh gray, while the newcomer paced off the stiffness of his limbs. “I’d stay for your venison stew, Jennison, by the imps’ mist I would. But the news must haste to Lord Cumber.”

“Are you sure, Kariok?”

The man snorted. “It’s not a thing you could mistake. The keep’s fallen!”

I stood dumbstruck.

Rust blanched. “Say you what?”

“Tantroth holds the keep! Tell him, Kariok!”

“Aye, it’s true, and no good tidings be it.”

Rust stammered. “This-it cannot be. The keep had food and arms for months, and the walls were-”

“Walls do no good, undefended. The traitor Llewelyn dines in Tantroth’s tent this very day. He and his bitch-”

With a roar Rustin launched himself at the man’s throat. As they tumbled in the mud I leaped just in time to wrest the dagger from Rust’s hand, before he commit murder and be hanged.

“You lie! Llewelyn holds for the crown!”

“Jennison, Styrer, pull this madman off me!” Cursing, the messenger struggled free. Rustin flailed at his subduers, was dragged to his feet and pinioned, shouting his impotent fury.

Kariok’s face was red. “Coward, that you attack without warning!” Before any could react he lunged, slammed his fist into Rustin’s belly, and again. Panting, he drew back, while Rustin, retching, tried to double over. Vomit trickled down his shirt.

“Peasant dog!” Kariok brushed himself off. “Last day the keep was opened, while still the sky held light. I myself was among the guard Duke Mar posted on the hill! Llewelyn rode forth, acknowledged Tantroth of Eiber, went with him as his guest. Eiber mans the keep, and will have it for winter quarters. By Lord of Nature, I’ll teach this lout.” His hand shot to his dagger. “Hold him, Styrer. I’ll have his ears for remembrance!”

I stepped between him and his prey. “Pass me first.” My legs were unsteady. Why in Lord’s sake hadn’t I brought my sword?

“Out of my way!” He made as if to lunge.

“My friend meant no harm. He knew the keep well, and holds strong for Caledon. Forgive him.” Reluctantly, my hand went to my dagger.

“I’ll sew your ears to my belt next to his!” His hand came forward, and he took the fighter’s crouch.

Jennison the innkeeper surged his bulk forward, words gushing to quench the flames. “Now, now, my lords, gentlemen, soldiers, youngsire, look you, Kariok, you’ve had your revenge, the boy can’t stand unaided. No one doubts your word. Styrer, let go, there’s a good fellow. Cumber will wait while you two have had a good dinner, no? Smell the slices of roast boar I’ll bring …”

From somewhere, Genard materialized. He and the inn’s boy led Rustin away, while Jennison interposed himself between them and Kariok, who still smoldered.

I backed away, never once turning my back to the messenger, or lifting my hand from my dagger. At last inside, I turned, raced up the stairs.

Rust lay groaning across our bed, clutching his midriff. “Lying son of demons! Motherless spawn of the deepest lake …”

“Out.” I thumbed Jennison’s boy to the door, lowered the bar.

“Go!” Rustin’s tongue was thick. “Get their story, before they leave.” He moaned. “Oh, that hurt. Please, Roddy. Find out whence this foolish tale.”

“I’ll stay with him, m’lord,” said Genard.

I was reluctant, but Rust’s need was greater for knowledge than comfort. I slipped downstairs into the public room, where all were agog with the news. Kariok’s companion, Styrer, eyed me cautiously, but, palms outward, I made a gesture of peace, and he let me be.

The sordid tale unfolded. Eiber’s catapults had been strung, stones gathered, siege engines readied in two days of strenuous effort. I frowned at the hearing; decent war was fought at a more leisurely pace. When Mother’s army had subdued the rebellion at Soushire, a full fortnight had passed between surrounding the walls and readying the instruments of siege. It gave a gentleman time to reflect on the nobility of his doings. I sighed. One could hardly accuse old Tantroth, the black warrior, of being a gentleman.

Hardly a few arrows had flown, save those the guards on the walls and Tantroth’s men had unleashed at each other for sport, when Eiber’s envoys had ridden to the south gate, under flag of parlay. Instead of curt refusal, Llewelyn had allowed him entry, and they spoke into the night.

The next day, all was calm. Despite his apparent readiness, Tantroth attacked not. In afternoon, he sent another envoy. Before the sun set, Llewelyn himself had ordered the gates swung ajar.

There was no slaughter.

Llewelyn and Joenne rode at the head of an honor guard, flags flying, to Tantroth’s tent. Tantroth himself greeted them publicly, and embraced them.

Uncle Mar watched brooding from the towers, and no doubt sent messengers to Verein and to Cumber. This was wise; soon Tantroth’s troop would climb the hill unimpeded, and invest the castle. I supposed the two guardsmen at our inn had gone as we had, by way of Besiegers’ Pond.

Upstairs, I reported as much to Rustin.

He lay curled on the bed, his face anguished. “But why, Roddy? How could he?”

“I don’t know.” I forbore to say more. Llewelyn’s life was forfeit, of course. Perhaps Tantroth would let him live, though if he was cunning he would wait, and later, quietly, put an end to him. A man who betrays you once will do it again. Should Uncle Mar prevail, Llewelyn would lose his head as a matter of course. I hoped he’d do it before I came to power, to save me the trouble.

A long silence. “Leave me alone awhile.”

“You needn’t-”

“I beg you!” His voice caught. “You too, Genard.”

Saddened, I went downstairs, settled at Fostrow’s table, watched him placidly eat his dinner. The soldier asked, “What of your friend?” He poured me a mug of mulled wine.

“He sulks in his room.”

“Ah, laddie, you’re a harsh one.” He gnawed at a bone.

“Llewelyn betrayed us all.” I toyed with my wine. “Thanks to him I may never don my crown. I feel sorry for Rustin, but he should realize-”

Fostrow leaned forward, made an apologetic gesture. “Do you know compassion?”

“Oh, leave it.” I broke off a piece of Fostrow’s bread. “He’ll get over it. Besides, I never told him I blamed-”

“Well, it’s good you don’t feel ill toward him. After all, your own father was a vile traitor.”

The bread fell from my hand. My eyes widened. “How dare-damn you for a churl!” I leaped to my feet. “You’ll die tonight! Come, have at me!” My dagger glinted.

“See?” he said reasonably. “It’s not an easy thing to bear. When Rustin-”

“Take it back, or I’ll slice you where you sit!”

“Of course I take it back, it isn’t true. Sit, calm yourself.”

“You call my father traitor, and think I’d sit-faugh! It’s a lie!”

“Didn’t I just say so? It was by way of example.”

“What do you mean, example? My father betrayed no one!” My fist wavered; in frustration I slammed the dagger into the plank table. “No one!”

“I was showing how you’d feel-”

“I know how I feel to hear your lies! How could you say such a thing? He was beloved of my mother the Queen, and died respected by all.” I was trembling.

“Yes, youngsire. Sit.” He ushered me to my chair. The blade quivered next to my mug. “It’s how Rustin feels, you see.”

“What?” I worked loose the blade. “But Llewelyn is a traitor. There’s no reason for Rust to get so-”

“Llewelyn’s his father.”

“I know that; think you I’m a dunce?” I found my bread, bit off a savage chunk. What had come over Fostrow, making such a claim? Llewelyn would die, by Tantroth’s hand or our own. Did Fostrow think I’d show mercy, by playing tricks on my wits? Wait ’til I told Rustin how little more than a word drove me to-

Rustin already knew.

I swallowed. Fostrow’s foolery aside, Rustin had no right to feel wounded. What he should feel was shame, remorse. He’d expressed no such to me. Had my father betrayed us, I’d curse his name, revile his memory, spit on his-

I’d love him.

Subdued, I swallowed my bread. If it had a taste, I knew not.

Rust was deep wounded.

Perhaps I could explain, help him in some way. I pushed back my chair. “I’m going upstairs.”

“Be kind to him, laddie.” Fostrow’s look was almost approving.

I knocked on our door. No answer. “Rust?” I waited. “Let me in.”

Could he have gone out? I hadn’t noticed him come downstairs. I tried the door; it was barred. Someone had to be inside, unless he’d crawled out the window.

From inside, a scrape. Then silence.

Ah, well. If he wanted to sulk, I’d see him after. I started down to the public room. No need to make a fool of myself, begging at his door.

I slowed. What difference did it make what these rustics thought? I was Prince of Caledon, and could do as I wished. Who was Rustin, for that matter, to deny me entry? I’d had enough of his sullenness; if he was upset, he could by Lord of Nature tell me why. I went back to the door, banged hard. “Rust, open!”

No answer. Relief was what I felt, instead of anger. I’d half expected him to come charging into the hall, pummel me for disturbing his pout.

I knocked once more, felt the unyielding handle. It was unlike Rust to let me bother him so, without response. I pushed harder, got nowhere. I stepped back, gave the door a kick, then another. Harder and harder I kicked.

“Boy, leave my door be!” Jennison, below. “If he’s inside, he’ll be out when-”

My boot smashed against the bar, until at last the door splintered, gave way an inch. In a frenzy, I struck again. The panel sagged, fell away. I reached through, lifted the bar, rammed open the shattered door.

Rust hung in the center of the room, from a beam, eyes open, face empurpled. His feet twitched. One hand was at this side, the other clawed at the knot around his neck.

With a cry I dashed forward, stumbled over the chair he’d kicked aside, got under him, threw my arms around his waist, heaved upward. He was impossibly heavy, and did nothing to assist.

“Someone, help!” My voice was muffled by his breeks. I tossed my head, yelled louder. “Genard! Fostrow! Innkeeper!”

Thudding feet. “Oh, Lord!” We swayed, as someone put his shoulder to my burden.

Rust’s foot lashed out, caught me in the stomach. “Get him down, quick!”

“A knife!”

I daren’t let go. “In my belt!” A hand reached for my dagger, and suddenly Rust weighed twice as much as before. We tumbled to the floor.

Fostrow and the innkeeper sorted themselves out, attacked the knot. They couldn’t cut it without slashing Rust’s throat; instead they fiddled for maddening moments until it came loose.

I heaved Rust over onto his back. “Does he breathe?”

As if in answer Rustin’s mouth opened wide. He took in a swallow, wheezing breath, gasped it out. His eyes bulged.

“Breathe!” Desperate, I massaged his throat. It might have helped; perhaps nature reasserted herself on her own. He gasped, coughed, wheezed, began to breathe more normally. Slowly, his face lost its unhealthy hue.

Babbling voices, over our heads. Someone wanted to throw water, others to light a fire. Someone suggested leeches. Fostrow, with genial patience, shooed them all out until the room was quieted. We helped Rust to the bed.

“You should … have let me … die.” His voice was no more than a croak.

“Never.” I massaged his hand, as if it were cold.

His free hand went to his throat, where rope burns would show a long while. “It hurts.”

“Good, you fool, you moron! Dolt!”

He wriggled loose his hand, raised it to my cheek. “You’re weeping.”

Angrily I wiped my face. “I’m sweating. You made me work too hard.” I stopped, lest my voice break. “How could you!”

His eyes were bleak. “How could I not? Now I’ll have to …” I barely caught the next words, in his misery. “Try again.”

“Not while I live!”

To my astonishment, Fostrow came behind me, clapped me on the shoulder as if in approval, squeezed gently, and left the room.

“How can I look anyone in the eye, with my father a traitor?”

“Llewelyn is not you. You’re my Rustin, and I”-I hesitated-“admire you.” I tucked the blanket over him, clothes and all. “Stay with me, Rust. Else … how shall I become King?”