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.”