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  Erius frowned. “You told me that was all done with.”

  “They’re only dreams, my king, born of fear and wishful thinking. But, as you know all too well, my liege, a dream can be dangerous if allowed to take root in ignorant minds.”

  “That’s what I have you for, isn’t it?” Erius lifted a sheaf of parchments from the desk. “Chancellor Hylus reports more dead of plague, and winter crops failing as far inland as Elio and Gormad. No wonder the people think themselves cursed and dream of queens. I’m beginning to wonder how much of a kingdom I’ll have left to pass on.” The corner of his left eye twitched. “I destroyed the tablet, pulled down the steles, but the words of the Oracle have not faded.”

  Niryn’s fingers hardly moved as he cast a soothing spell. “Everyone is speculating on whether the truce will hold. What do you think, Majesty?”

  Erius sighed and rubbed a hand over his beard. “It’s a farmers’ truce, at best. As soon as the Plenimarans get a harvest in and replenish their granaries, I expect we’ll find ourselves marching back across Mycena. In the meantime, we’d better do the same. These damn droughts are as much our enemy as the Overlord’s armies. All the same, I’m not sorry for a bit of a rest. I’ll be glad of music and decent food again, and sleeping without an ear cocked for alarms.” He gave the wizard a rueful smile. “I never thought I’d grow weary of war, my friend, but truth is I’m glad for this truce. I don’t suppose my son will be, though. How is Korin?”

  “Well, Majesty, very well. But restless, as you say.”

  Erius chuckled darkly. “Restless, eh? That’s a nice way of putting it, much nicer than the reports I get from Porion—drinking, whoring, carrying on. Not that I was any better at his age, of course, but I was blooded by then. Who can blame him for itching to fight? You should read the letters he sends me, begging to join me in Mycena. By the Flame, he doesn’t know how it’s galled me keeping him wrapped in silk for so long.”

  “And yet what choice did you have, Majesty, with no other heir but a sickly nephew?” This was an old dance between them.

  “Ah, yes, Tobin. But not so sickly, after all, it seems. Orun’s reams of complaints aside, Korin and Porion both give him nothing but praise. What do you make of the boy, now that you’ve seen him for yourself?”

  “He’s an odd little fellow, in most respects. Rather sullen from what I’ve seen, but something of an artist. In fact he’s already made a name for himself at court with bits of jewelry and carvings.”

  Erius nodded fondly. “He gets that from his mother. But there’s more to him than that, I hear. Korin claims the boy is almost as good with a sword as he is.”

  “He does seem skilled, as is that peasant squire of his.”

  The instant the words left his lips Niryn knew he’d taken a misstep; the sudden wild glare was in the king’s eyes, presaging a fit.

  “Peasant?”

  Niryn skittered back off his stool as Erius lurched up, knocking the lap desk to the floor. The lid flew open, scattering wax, parchments, and writing implements in all directions. The sand shaker and a pot of ink burst, spreading a gritty black puddle across the worn boards. “Is that how you refer to a Companion of the royal house?” he roared.

  “Forgive me, Majesty!” These passions came on so suddenly, so unpredictably, that even Niryn could not forestall them. As far as he knew, Erius cared nothing for the boy.

  “Answer my question, damn you!” Erius shouted as the rage built in him. “Is that how you speak of a Companion, you scullion’s spunk? You limp pizzle of—”

  Spittle flew from his lips. Niryn fell to his knees, fighting the urge to wipe his face. “No, Majesty.”

  Erius stood over him, still screaming abuse. It began with insults, but soon devolved to incoherent raving, then to a choked, wheezing snarl. Niryn kept his gaze downcast as one did when faced with a vicious dog, but he watched from the corner of his eye in case the king reached for a weapon. It had happened before.

  The outburst ceased abruptly, as they always did, and Niryn slowly raised his head. The king swayed slightly, chest heaving, fists clenched at his sides. His eyes were as blank as a doll’s.

  Rheynaris looked in at the door.

  “It’s over,” Niryn whispered, waving him off. Rising, he took the king gently by the arm. “Please, Your Majesty, sit down. You’re weary.”

  Docile as an exhausted child, Erius let himself be guided back into the bunk. Leaning back against the wall, he closed his eyes. Niryn quickly gathered up the desk and its scattered contents, then dragged a small rug over the spilled ink.

  By the time he’d finished the king’s eyes were open again, but he was still lost in that strange fog that always followed these fits. Niryn sat down again.

  “What—what was I saying?” the king croaked.

  “Your nephew’s squire, my king. We were speaking of how some at court have been unkind about the boy’s upbringing. They call him a ‘grass knight,’ I believe. Prince Korin has always been very passionate in his defense.”

  “What? Passionate, you say?” The king blinked at him, struggling to regain his composure. Poor man, he still believed that the fits were momentary, that no one noticed. “Yes, passionate, like his dear mother. Poor Ariani, they tell me she’s killed herself …”

  No wonder General Rheynaris had sounded so relieved when he’d reported the king’s departure from the field. Over the past year his secret missives had been full of these episodes. The report of Orun’s death had sent the king into a rage so fierce it had required a drysian’s draught to calm him. Strange, since his regard for the man had cooled markedly over the past few years. Niryn had worked carefully at that, finally convincing Erius to relieve him of his guardianship. Orun’s influence over the boy had been easily construed as treason. Why would the man’s death upset him?

  Erius rubbed at his eyes. When he looked up, they were clear and shrewd again. “I’ve sent word to the boys to meet us at Atyion.” He chuckled. “My son wrote me quite a letter a while back, chastising me for not letting his cousin see his estates.”

  “That was Orun’s doing, of course,” Niryn told him. “He replaced the steward with his own man and had already begun to line his pockets.”

  “The greedy fool saved me the trouble of executing him.” He sat up and clapped Niryn on the shoulder. “Seems you were right about him. He finally overreached. I should have listened to you sooner, I know, but he was a good friend during my mother’s dark times.”

  “Your loyalty is legend, Majesty. His death has left certain complications, however. Atyion cannot be left without a Protector.”

  “Of course not. I’ve given the post to Solari.”

  “Lord Solari, my king?” Niryn’s heart sank as he recalled the young man he’d seen on deck.

  “Duke Solari, now. I’ve made him Protector of Atyion.”

  Niryn clenched his fists in the folds of his robe, struggling to hide his disappointment. He’d expected Erius to consult him on the decision of a successor. Now the greatest plum in the kingdom had fallen beyond his reach.

  “Yes, he’s a much better choice than Orun. He was one of Rhius’ generals, you know; loyal enough, but ambitious, too.” Erius’ mouth tightened into a humorless smile. “The garrison at Atyion trusts him. So does Tobin. I’ve sent Solari ahead to settle in.”

  “I see the wisdom in your choice, but I wonder what Tharin will have to say? Perhaps he had hopes in that direction, as well.”

  Erius shook his head. “Tharin’s a good man, but he never did have any ambition. If it weren’t for Rhius, he’d still be a landless third son, breeding horses at Atyion. I don’t think we need concern ourselves with what he thinks.”

  “He is very protective of the prince, however. He won’t be parted from him.”

  “Poor fellow. All he ever cared for was Rhius. I suppose he’ll end his days hovering around the boy, nursing old memories.”

  “And is Solari as loyal to the prince?”

  The hard smile re
turned. “He’s loyal to me. He’ll protect the prince as long as it preserves my favor. Should that favor change for some reason, I daresay we’ll find him a man ready to serve his king. Now, what’s all this about Korin knocking up some chambermaid? Do you know anything of it?”

  “Why—yes, Majesty, it’s true, but I hadn’t thought to trouble you with it until you returned.” For once, Niryn was caught completely off guard. He’d only learned of it a few weeks before, thanks to one of his more observant spies among the Old Palace servants. Korin didn’t know; the girl had been too wise to brag of the child’s paternity. “She’s of low birth, as you say. Kalar, I think the name is.”

  Erius was still watching him closely, no doubt wondering why his chief wizard had sent no word.

  “May I speak candidly, Majesty?” Niryn’s mind raced, already turning the situation to his advantage.

  “You know I depend on your counsel.”

  “I’m neither a father nor a warrior, so forgive me if I misspeak out of ignorance, but I’m increasingly concerned for Prince Korin. You’ve been gone for so long, you hardly know the young man he’s become. These girls he beds, and the drinking—”

  He paused, watching for warning signs, but Erius merely nodded for him to continue.

  “For he is a man now, strong and well trained. I’ve heard Master Porion say more than once that young warriors are like fine coursing hounds; if you keep them from the field, they either grow fat and lose their spirit, or turn vicious. Let him be the warrior you’ve made him to be, and all the rest will fall by the wayside. He lives to please you.

  “But more than that, my king, the people must see him as a worthy successor. His excesses are already common gossip around the city and without the strength of deeds to balance them?” He paused meaningfully. “And now he’s throwing bastards. Surely you see where this could lead? With no legitimate heir, even a by-blow might gather supporters. Especially if the child should be a girl.”

  Erius’ knuckles went white, but Niryn knew how to play this tune. “The thought of your ancient line tainted with such common blood—”

  “You’re quite right, of course. Kill the bitch before she whelps.”

  “I will see to it personally.” He would have in any event; his Nalia needed no competitors, even a servant’s brat with royal blood in her veins.

  “Ah, Korin, Korin, what am I to do with you?” Erius shook his head. “He’s all I have, Niryn. I’ve lived in fear of losing him since his poor mother and the other children died. I haven’t been able to get another child on any woman since. Every one has been stillborn, or a monstrous thing that couldn’t live. This bastard, now—”

  Niryn did not have to touch the king’s mind to know his heart, and the words he could not bring himself to say. What if my son’s children are monsters, too? That would be the final proof of Illior’s curse on his line.

  “He’ll soon be old enough to marry, Majesty. Pair him with a healthy wife of good family and he’ll give you fine, strong grandchildren.”

  “You’re right, as always.” The king let out a long sigh. “What would I do without you, eh? I thank the Four that wizards live so long. You’re a young man now, Niryn. The knowledge that you’ll still be standing by the throne of Skala generations from now is a great comfort to me.”

  Niryn bowed deeply. “I live for nothing else, Majesty.”

  Chapter 17

  The country north of Ero was a rolling mix of forest and open farmland that stretched from the sea’s edge to the mountains just visible in the west. The trees were just beginning to bud, Ki noted, but crocus and blue cockscomb brightened the muddy fields and ditches. In the villages they passed, the temples and roadside shrines were decorated with garlands of them for the Dalna feasts.

  The ride to Atyion was a long one and the Companions and their guard entertained each other with songs and stories to pass the time. It was all new country to Tobin, but Ki had traveled this road with his father and later with Iya when she brought him south to the keep.

  Early on the second day a great island chain came into view ahead of them, rising like huge breaching whales to the horizon. When they slowed to rest the horses, Porion, Tharin, and Korin’s captain, a dark, weathered lord named Melnoth, helped pass the time trading stories of fighting pirates and Plenimarans in those waters, and of the sacred island of Kouros where the first hierophant and his people had made landfall and established their court.

  “You can feel the magic in the very stones, there, boys,” Porion told them. “And it’s no magic known to the Four.”

  “That’s because the Old Ones scratched their spells all over the rocks and painted them in the caves above the surf,” said Melnoth. “The hierophant brought the worship of the Four across the water with him, but couldn’t displace the old powers that still lurk there. They say that’s why his son moved the court to Benshâl.”

  “I always had strange dreams there,” Tharin mused.

  “But aren’t there the same sort of marks on the rocks all along the coast?” asked Korin. “The Old Ones lived all around the Inner Sea.”

  “Old Ones?” asked Tobin.

  “The hill tribes they’re called now,” Porion explained. “Little dark folk who practice the old ways of necromancy.”

  “They’re great thieves, as well,” one of Korin’s guardsmen added. “Proper folk used to hunt them like vermin.”

  “Yes we did,” old Laris muttered, but he looked sad as he said it.

  “So long as what’s left of them keep to the mountains, they’re safe enough,” Korin said, cocksure as if he’d driven them there himself.

  Others added tales of their own. The hill folk sacrificed young men and children to their evil goddess. They rutted like animals in the fields under certain moons and always ate their meat raw. Their witches could change into beasts and demons at will, kill by blowing through a hollow branch, and summon the dead.

  Tobin knew that these were Lhel’s people they spoke of. He had to press his lips together to keep from arguing when some of the older soldiers spoke of bewitchments and withering curses, and could tell that Ki was no happier hearing such stories. He loved the witch who’d twice saved his life. Lhel was just a healer, an herb witch, and she’d been a wise friend to them both.

  All the same, Tobin couldn’t deny that she’d used blood and bits of Brother’s bones in her magic. That did seem like necromancy, now that he thought of it. A fleeting image flashed to mind: a needle flashing in firelight, and Brother’s bloody tears falling through the air. The binding scar began to itch and Tobin had to rub at it to make it stop.

  “There are plenty of good Skalan families who’d find a bit of that blood in their own veins, if they thought to ask their grandmothers,” Tharin was saying. “As for their magic, I guess I’d have used whatever I had at hand, too, if a pack of strangers decided to take my lands from me. And so would the rest of you.”

  This got only a few grudging nods, but Tobin was grateful. Lhel always spoke well of Tharin. Tobin wondered what he’d make of her.

  The road gradually turned inland, taking them through dense woodland far from the sound of the sea. At midafternoon Tharin called a halt and pointed to a pair of granite pillars flanking the road. They were weathered and mossy, but Tobin could still make out the faint outline of a spreading oak carved on them.

  “Do you know what those are?” Tharin asked.

  Tobin pulled out his father’s oak tree signet; the design was the same. “This is the boundary, isn’t it?”

  “Ride forward and enter your lands, coz,” said Korin, grinning at him. “All hail Tobin, son of Rhius, Prince of Ero, and rightful scion of Atyion!”

  The rest of the company cheered and beat their shields as Tobin nudged Gosi forward. He felt silly with all the fuss; it was the same thick forest on both sides of the markers.

  A few miles farther on, however, the woods ended and the road wound on through an open plain toward the distant sea. Topping a crest in the road
, Korin reined in and pointed. “There it is, the finest holding outside Ero.”

  Tobin gaped. “That’s all—mine?”

  “It is! Or will be, anyway, when you come of age.”

  In the distance, a large town lay in the bend of a meandering river that snaked its way to the sea. The farmlands were dotted with tidy steadings and laced with low stone walls. Sheep and large herds of horses grazed in some, while others enclosed fields and budding vineyards.

  But Tobin had eyes only for the town and massive castle that dominated the plain by the river. High stone curtain walls studded with round bastions and corbels and overhung by extensive hoardings of stone and wood enclosed the landward sides of both. The castle itself was square, and dominated by two large towers of reddish brown stone. Almost as large as the New Palace and more heavily fortified, it dwarfed the town below.

  “That’s Atyion?” Tobin whispered in disbelief. He’d heard of its great wealth and grandeur, but with nothing to compare it to, he’d imagined it simply a larger sort of keep.

  “I told you it was big,” said Ki.

  Tharin shaded his eyes and squinted at the long banners flying from the towers and the peaked roofs of the corbels. “Those aren’t your colors.”

  “I don’t see Father’s, either,” said Korin. “Looks like we’re in time to give him welcome, after all. Tobin, you take the lead and let the lazy fools know you’re coming!”

  The standard-bearers galloped ahead down the muddy, rutted road to announce them. The Companions followed at a fast trot. The farmers and drovers they met cheered their approach. By the time they reached the gates a crowd had gathered to greet them. Tobin’s standard was mounted on the tall pole over the gate, but just below it hung another, one he and Tharin recognized—Solari’s golden sun on a green field. It wasn’t quite the same, though. The device at the top of the standard pole was not the bronze ring of a lord, but the silver crescent of a duke.

  “Looks like Father has chosen Atyion’s new Lord Protector already,” said Korin.

  “And promoted him, too,” Tharin noted.