"Well, then. I have answered your invitation, now you must answer mine."
"Willingly," Talaysen said, getting to his feet. Rune and the others did the same, gathering up their instruments. She cast a nervous glance at the wagon and mules; the elf followed her glance and thoughts with the lightning-quick understanding of his kind.
"Never fear for your goods and beasts," he said-he didn't quite mock. "They will be guarded. The fire will be tended. Now, to the Hill, and the feast, and the dancing!"
Certainly. And allow me to get my little dig in at you and yours, my friend. "Gladly," she said sweetly, as they followed him into the forest. "And we promise to stop when you are weary."
His teeth gleaming back at her in a vulpine smile were all the answer he gave.
The King's private study seemed full of lurking shadows tonight, not all of them born of firelight. Some of them were born of unpleasant memory.
Why did I ever take the throne?
Rolend's temple throbbed, and nothing the Healer-Priests did for him would make the pain stop. One of them had the audacity to tell him that he was doing it to himself. He slumped over his desk and buried his head in his hands.
He was doing it to himself. Whatever the hell that was supposed to mean.
The question of why he had taken the crown was rhetorical, of course; he'd usurped the throne to keep his brother from looting the country to the point where the people would rise up and slaughter anyone with a drop of noble blood in his veins. And that had been nearer than anyone but he and a few choice advisors even guessed.
Shadows danced on the wall, shadows that mimed the conflict of men and their dreams. He had hoped to capture Prince Sional; the boy had been young, young enough, he had hoped, to be trained. Young enough even to come to understand what his uncle had done, and why, and forgive him one day?
Perhaps. Perhaps not. It didn't matter. The boy's tutor had taken him and fled. For years he had forgotten the child-had hoped, when he thought of him at all, that the boy had died. But then the rumors had started-that the old man had fled to the Bardic Guild in Rayden, that he had the boy with him. There was no telling what hate-filled lies he'd brought the child up on; the Bardic Guild hated him because there were no more rich plums falling into their laps from the Crown. Doubtless the Guild in Rayden had seen to it that the boy learned only to hate and fear his uncle, and to dream of the day when he would take back the throne. Doubtless they had filled his head with idle ballads of foul usurpers and the noble heroes who threw them down.
Doubtless they had made him grateful to them for sheltering him-encouraged him to trust in their word, and the words of those who waited for his return.
Doubtless he was now a handsome young puppet for their playing; everything a King should look like, but nothing of substance. And certainly no more in his head but the insubstantial sugar-fluff of vanity and dreams.
The Bardic Guild was very, very good at creating the semblance of dreams.
Those Churchmen he trusted had warned him of this. When he heard their prophecies fulfilled, he acted. He dared be nothing less than ruthless, so he called upon the wizened, unhuman folk of the fens, the ones his people termed "goblins," and gave them Sional's hair, bidding them make him seeking-charms. And when the charms came back, wrapped in leaves, he gave them to his agents and told them to kill. His conscience had troubled him, but he had soothed it with visions of who would use the boy for their own ends, if they found him. He would not give them that focus.
He had slept better, then, except for the times when he agonized about ordering the death of a mere child-he had been sure, despite the three times that the boy had escaped, that eventually they would find him and dispose of him. He had been utterly certain of that-until tonight.
Tonight the last of his agents had sent him word. One of their number was dead, killed by magic. The boy was gone. No one knew where, or how. The entire area had been combed and recombed, and not a trace of him could be found. The Gypsies he had last been with professed to know nothing of him, and had closed ranks against King Rolend's agents. There were forty or more of them, and only three of the agents; the men had wisely deemed it time to retreat.
My hold on the throne is shaky enough. Once my enemies find out the boy lives-and they will-they'll track him down. He may even come to them. Even if he's still innocent-even if by some miracle the Guild did not fill him full of hate for me, they will when they find him. And they'll use him. A boy of eighteen has no chance against them.
He groaned aloud, and then looked up as footsteps from the royal suite warned him of someone's approach from the private rooms. He had no fear that it might be an enemy; his guards were loyal and alert, and the only way into the suite besides this door was through a window. But he hoped that it wasn't his wife; she was as dear to him as his right hand, but he did not want to be soothed at the moment.
"Father?" His son hesitated on the threshold, just within the reach of the firelight, and Rolend sighed with relief. Victor was welcome; he wouldn't try to pretend that troubles would just go away if he ignored them. And he wouldn't try to soothe his father. "Father, I heard you-ah-"
"It's my head again, Victor," he replied. "It doesn't matter; I was going to call for you anyway."
"Ah." The young man-twenty, and mature for his age-walked on cat-quiet feet into his father's study, then settled into a chair beside Rolend's desk. Looking into his son's face was like looking into a time-reversing mirror. The same frank brown eyes under heavy brows, now knitted with concern-the same long nose, the same thin lips and rounded jaw. "Bad news, I take it?"
"They've lost him." No further explanation was needed; Rolend had kept his son advised of everything from the day he'd taken the crown. That accounted for his maturity, perhaps. Sometimes Rolend felt a pang of guilt for having robbed the boy of a carefree childhood, but at least if something happened to him, Victor would have the knowledge, the wits, and the skill to keep himself and his mother alive.
"Oh." Victor's expression darkened with unhappiness. "Father-"
"Speak your piece." Victor was about to say something he thought Rolend wouldn't like, but the King had never forbidden his son to speak his mind before and he wasn't about to start now.
"Father, I can't be sorry. I think you were wrong to try and-" The young man hesitated, choosing his words with care. "To try to-get rid of him-in the first place. He has never done anything to give you a moment of lost sleep-never even tried to come home! Why should he try to conspire against you now?"
Rolend sighed, and tried once more to make the boy see the whole truth of the situation. He didn't blame Victor for the way he felt; the boy remembered his cousin quite clearly, and when Victor thought of the assassins his father had sent out to Rayden, he probably pictured himself in Sional's place. "Even if he were as innocent as a babe, son, he's still a danger to me. As long as he lives, he can be used against me. And the hard fact is, he's not the cousin who you taught to ride and the one you gave your old pony to. He's probably been fed hate and bitter words with every meal, and he's probably looking forward to spitting you like a skewered capon, right beside me."