That set Grus to muttering again. Beloyuz was right—he didn’t like Vsevolod. By all appearances, next to nobody could stand Vsevolod. The three Chernagors who’d gotten out of Nishevatz had had no use for him. From what they’d said, the rest of the people on the walls and behind them felt the same way. It was just Grus’ luck to want to replace the unpleasant exiled Prince of Nishevatz with one of the few men who actually thought well of him.
With a sigh, the king said, “Well, Your Excellency, I won’t ask you to do anything that goes against your conscience. Still, you ought to think about what’s best for you and what’s best for Nishevatz.”
“What is best for Nishevatz is Prince Vsevolod. What is best for me is Prince Vsevolod.” Beloyuz bowed and strode off.
What Grus muttered this time made two or three of his guardsmen gape. He’d said worse while a river-galley captain, but not since taking the crown. He knew what would happen next, too. Beloyuz would tell Vsevolod about the usurpation he’d tried to arrange, and Vsevolod would throw a fit. Grus’ head started to ache just thinking about that.
But Vsevolod didn’t come to bother him. Day followed day, and the King of Avornis didn’t meet the Prince of Nishevatz. He didn’t ask where Vsevolod was or what he was doing, either. He didn’t care.
Then one of the Avornans who guarded Vsevolod and his followers came to Grus and said, “Your Majesty, I think you’d better go see the prince.”
“Why?” Even to himself, Grus sounded like a boy told to take a bath he didn’t want.
“He’s… not well,” the guard answered.
“Oh.” Grus made a sour face. “All right, in that case.”
When he went to Vsevolod’s tent, he went with two squads of his own guardsmen. He assumed Beloyuz would have told the other Chernagors who’d left Nishevatz with Vsevolod about his proposal. He also assumed they wouldn’t like the idea, and wouldn’t like him on account of it.
Beloyuz saw him coming, and walked up to greet him with three or four other refugee Chernagor noblemen. “So you have heard, then,” Beloyuz said.
“Yes, Your Excellency, I’ve heard,” Grus said, though he hadn’t heard very much. He asked, “How is His Highness this morning?” With a little luck, that would tell him more than he already knew.
But Beloyuz only shrugged and answered, “About the same. He has been about the same since it happened.” Grus nodded as though he understood what the Chernagor meant. Beloyuz went on, “I suppose you want to see him.”
“That is why I’m here, yes.” The king nodded.
Beloyuz didn’t argue. He and the other exiles simply stood aside. Surrounded by his bodyguards, Grus went on to Vsevolod’s tent. He felt like scratching his head. The Chernagors seemed more resigned than furious. Were they finally fed up with Vsevolod, too? If they were, why had Beloyuz refused to supplant the prince? Things didn’t add up.
And then, as soon as Grus got a glimpse of Vsevolod, they did. The Prince of Nishevatz lay on a cot much like the one in which Grus slept. He recognized Grus. The king could see it in his eyes—or rather, in his right eye. His left eye was half closed. The whole left side of his face was slack. The left corner of his mouth hung down in an altogether involuntary frown. He raised his right hand to wag a finger at Grus. The left side of his body seemed not to be under the control of his will anymore.
He tried to speak. Only gibberish came out of his mouth. Grus couldn’t even tell if it was meant for the Chernagor language or Avornan. One of his guardsmen muttered, “Gods spare me from such a fate.”
The guard was young and vigorous. Grus remained vigorous, but he was no longer young. Every now and then, his body reminded him it wouldn’t last forever. But this… He shivered. This was like looking at living death. He completely agreed with the guard. Next to this, simply falling over dead was a mercy. “Gods spare me indeed,” he said, and left the tent in a hurry.
“You see,” Beloyuz said when Grus came out into the sunshine again.
“I see,” Grus said heavily. “When did it happen?”
“After I told him what you wanted from me,” Beloyuz replied. “He was angry, as you would guess. He was furious, in fact. But then, in the middle of his cursing, he said his head ached fit to burst. And he fell down, and he has been like—that—ever since.”
“Has a healer seen him?” Grus asked.
“Yes.” Beloyuz nodded. “He said he could do nothing. He also said the prince was not a young man, and it could have happened at any time. It could have.”
He did not sound as though he believed it. But he also did not come right out and blame Grus to his face, as he easily might have. The king was grateful for his forbearance; he hadn’t expected even that much. “I will send for my chief wizard,” Grus said. “I don’t know how much help he can give, but we ought to find out, eh?”
“Thank you.” Now Beloyuz was the one who sounded surprised. “If I had thought you would do this, I would have come to you sooner. I thought you would say, ‘Let him suffer. Let him die.’ ”
“That’s what the Banished One does,” Grus replied. “By the gods in the heavens, Beloyuz, I would not wish this on Vsevolod. I would not wish this on anyone. It’s the people of Nishevatz who don’t want him as their prince, but that’s a different story. You should not be angry with me for trying to get around it.”
The Chernagor noble didn’t answer. Grus sent one of his guardsmen to find Pterocles. The wizard came to Prince Vsevolod’s tent a few minutes later. Grus told him what had happened to the prince. “You want me to cure him?” Pterocles asked. “I don’t know if I can do anything like that.”
“Do your best, whatever it turns out to be,” Grus said. “Whatever it is, I don’t think you’ll hurt Vsevolod.” He turned to Beloyuz. “If you want to say anything different, go ahead.”
“No, not I,” Beloyuz answered. “I say, thank you. I say, gods be with you.”
Pterocles ducked his way into Vsevolod’s tent. Grus heard the stricken prince yammering wordlessly. He also heard Pterocles begin a soft, low-voiced incantation. Vsevolod fell silent. After a little while, the rhythm of Pterocles’ spell changed. When the wizard came out of the tent, his face was grave.
“What did you do?” Grus asked.
“Not as much as I would have liked,” Pterocles answered. “Something is… broken inside his head. I don’t know how to put it any better than that. I can’t fix it any more than the healer could. The spell I used will make him more comfortable, but that’s all. I’m sorry.”
“Even this is better than nothing,” Beloyuz said, and bowed to the wizard. “Thank you.”
“I didn’t do enough to make it worth your while to thank me,” Pterocles said. “I only wish I could have.” He bowed, too, and walked away kicking at the dirt.
Grus and Beloyuz looked at each other. After a moment, the king said, “You know what I’m going to ask, don’t you?”
“Yes.” Beloyuz looked even less happy than Pterocles had. “It makes me feel like a carrion crow, like a vulture.”
“I understand that,” Grus said. “But can you tell me it isn’t needful? Nishevatz will need a prince who isn’t Vasilko. Who better than you?”
“Vsevolod,” the nobleman said at once.
“I told you no to that before,” Grus answered. “You thought I was wrong then. You can’t very well say I’m wrong now.”
Beloyuz’s face twisted. “I need to think this over,” he said.
“Don’t take too long,” Grus warned.
Three days later, Vsevolod died. After that, Beloyuz had no excuses left.
Most of the time, Lanius was content being who and what he was. He had seen a battlefield when he was still a boy, and he never wanted to see another one. He never wanted to hear another one, either, nor to smell one. Every so often, that particular stink showed up in his nightmares.