I fought to control my face against the feelings that pressed in on me. Apart from anything else I was astounded: I would not have thought he had such guile. Had the Christian priest, perhaps, counseled him? Or Ann? I could not believe it of her. I wondered what Ezzard was thinking; whatever it was he would show nothing. I forced a smile to my lips and kept it there as I rose to face the two long lines of faces. In the strongest voice I could muster, I said:
“In the name of the Great Spirit, I pledge my allegiance to Peter, Prince of Winchester, and to his heirs.”
They cheered at that, though I thought the face of Blaine, who sat a little way down the table, showed puzzlement: his eyes in their folds of fat were narrowed. Harding, sitting opposite, was impassive as always.
My brother put his hand on my shoulder. I felt its weight as strong, oppressive, and would have liked to shake it off. He said:
“There will be no more talk of dispute between us. Luke stands at my right hand and will always do so. The city is well guarded. If I should die in next summer’s battles, or any summer after that, Luke will see to things until a son of mine is old enough to wear a sword.”
There was something strange; not in his words but in the manner of speaking them. It was proper for a warrior to face death with a light heart, but the exultation in his voice meant more than that. Others, too, had sensed it. I saw Blaine lean forward, watching, hand tugging at his beard.
My brother said: “So one more thing: one more toast to drink! And for this we will all stand because we toast one who is not here—not in this room and not yet in this world.”
He lifted the golden pot that stood between us.
“My Lady is with child. Drink to my son to be—your future Prince!”
THREE
THE PRINCE’S LADY
NEXT MORNING I SAT WITH Ezzard in his parlor. Not many people were received there but it was still furnished with the trappings of a Seer. Chairs, stools and table, sideboard and bookcase were of dark fumed oak, and the long curtains at the windows were black velvet. From facing walls a stuffed owl, wings lifted, stared with small glass eyes of frozen fury at a stuffed eagle. There were three skulls on the sideboard and a Book of the Spirits thickly bound in white calf. In the center of the table stood the sphere of milky crystal on an ebony base which Ezzard was thought to use in receiving messages from the Spirits, and from the High Seers in the Sanctuary.
The radio transmitter and receiver, through which the messages in fact were passed, was in a small room above this. Ezzard showed me the panel in the wall which, pressed at a certain point, opened a way to the stairs that led to it. I asked him:
“And such things are in all the Seers’ Houses? But how can you trust the workmen not to talk?”
“When a Seer’s House is built,” Ezzard said, “some things are done by the dwarfs, but not all. That which is sacred to the Spirits is left to the Seer and his Acolytes, and the dwarfs accept this. To serve this Order, Luke, requires more than an ability to read books and wear a solemn face and seem to pray: much more. Even the solemnity and the praying are probably less easy than you think, but there are also skills to learn and hard labor in applying them.”
I nodded. “I see that.”
He smiled. “You would never have made an Acolyte, but that is not your part in our business.”
“Do I still have a part? After last night surely your plans for me are finished.”
“Because a woman is with child? It will not even be born till summer.”
“Already it makes the future.”
“And may be a girl.”
“The odds are against it. My father’s family ran to sons, and my brother’s wife was a girl with four brothers, with uncles but no aunts. And even if this one should be a girl there will be others. They will have sons, and I am pledged to aid and serve them.”
“A forced oath,” Ezzard said, “is not binding. It happened once before in this city, in very ancient days, that a Prince was crowned in breach of such an oath, sworn on holy relics.”
I shook my head. “I want no precedents for treachery. I swore the oath and will keep it. My honor requires that. There would be no joy in living if I broke it.”
Ezzard stared at me a moment in silence, blue eyes cold in the craggy white face. He said:
“What joy do you think there is in my life, Luke? Do you think I delight in this blackness that surrounds me? Not just the blackness of furnishings and clothes. My whole life is a cheat, and must be. Every day must be given up to deception, to further lies. What if my honor were to make demands? The cause we serve is greater than small things like one man’s honor.”
I said stubbornly: “I am sorry, sir, but it is something I cannot accept. My mind is different from yours, perhaps. I will serve your ends as far as I can, but my honor comes first.”
“Yes.” He paused. “Yes. And you serve us best by being what you are. I know you, Luke, and know what may be asked of you. It is a great deal. But I also know what may not be asked, and will not ask it. As to present circumstances, we will not worry too much yet.”
He drew breath deeply: a sigh, if one could imagine such a thing from so austere a man.
“We must all be patient. And you and I, Luke, must not see too much of each other. It is known that the Seers protected you, but as was said last night the time for that is past. Men respect the Seers, as is necessary, but are also wary of them. The smell of this black cloth must not cling to you, now that you are back in the palace and a Captain of the Prince’s army. So do not come here again unless I summon you.”
“I shall still see Martin. He is my friend.”
“Yes. That is reasonable. But of him too you will see less. As I have said, an Acolyte has other things to do than study and pray. He will not have much time to spare for idling in that cell beneath the Ruins.”
“He told you of it?”
“No,” Ezzard said. “He did not need to. We have kept close watch on you, Luke. And must do so. You are the piece on which our hopes are pinned. Nothing has changed there.”
• • •
The peddler was a man in his early thirties, of medium build and height. Physically there was nothing unusual to him: he had black hair and beard, keen eyes, the stance of someone who spends much time trudging poor roads. But his clothes were not such as peddlers commonly wore. They were gayer in color and unfamiliar in fashion. Beneath a red cloak, unusually short but having a part, secured with pearly buttons, that could be let down, he wore baggy trousers of a brighter green than I could recall seeing in a cloth, and leather gaiters above his boots. These last were shiny black with silver buckles at the front.
He presented himself to Peter at an assembly of the Captains. He bowed deeply, putting one hand behind him into the small of his back, a gesture so comic that many smiled, and introduced himself in a barbarous accent. His name, he said, was Yews, and he came from the city of Klan Gothlen, in the land of the Wilsh. He offered the Prince a gift for his Lady.
It was a contraption in the shape of a small broken hoop, covered with bright stones. It was to be worn across the top of the head, he explained, and demonstrated this by opening it out and ludicrously pressing it in place for a moment over his own black thatch.
My brother thanked him gravely. He asked him how he had made his way so far, through such hazards. And how had he managed to cross the Burning Lands?
There had been a party of them, the peddler explained. For a long time his people had traded into the countries of the savages. There were risks—he shrugged expressively—but there were also profits. And for years it had been known that the Burning Lands were cooling: there were fewer mountains that spurted fire and the fires themselves, with their flows of molten rock, were smaller. There was a pass and others before had ventured part way in but had been forced to turn back—as his companions this time had also done. He had pushed on, gambling that he would get through before the heat from the ground overcame him. It had been a near thing but he had succeeded.