"So you see, Will, there's no point to all this running and climbing and trying to find a way to escape. You don't need to do it.
And besides, Erak is getting suspicious. He's no fool and I've seen him watching you. Just relax and leave it all to me. I'll get us home."
He opened his mouth, about to explain what he had been thinking.
Then he shut it again. Suddenly he knew that she wouldn't accept his point of view. She was strong-willed and determined-used to having her own way, he realized now. She was convinced that she could organize their return and nothing he said would change her mind. He smiled at her and nodded. But it was a thin parody of his normal smile.
In his heart, he knew he was going to have to find his own way home.
6
C ASTLE A RALUEN, THE SEAT OF K ING D UNCAN'S RULE, WAS A building of majestic beauty. The tall, spire-topped towers and soaring buttresses had an almost lifelike grace to them that belied the strength and solidity of the castle. It was beautiful, surely enough, built in huge blocks of honey-colored hardstone, but it was almost impregnable as well.
The many high towers gave the castle a sense of light and air and gracefulness. But they also provided the inhabitants with a score of positions from which to pour arrows, rocks and boiling oil on any attackers who might be unwise enough to assault the walls.
The throne room was the heart of the castle, situated inside a series of walls and portcullises and drawbridges, which, in the event of a prolonged siege, provided defenders with a succession of fallback positions. Like everything else about the castle, the throne room was vast in scale, with a vaulted ceiling that towered high above, and a paved floor finished in black and dull pink marble squares.
The tall windows were glazed with stained glass that glowed brilliantly in the low angle sunshine of winter. The columns that added immense strength to the walls were grouped and fluted to heighten the illusion of lightness and space in the room. Duncan's throne, a simple affair carved from oak, surmounted with a carving of an oak leaf, dominated the northern wall. At the opposite end, wooden benches and tables were provided for the members of Duncan's cabinet.
In between, the room was bare, with space for several hundred courtiers to stand. On ceremonial occasions, they would throng the area, their brightly colored clothes and coats of arms catching the red, blue, gold and orange light that spilled through the stained-glass windows, sending highlights sparkling from their polished armor and helmets.
Today, by Duncan's command, there were barely a dozen people present-the minimum number required by law to see justice dispensed.
The King faced the task before him with little pleasure. And he wanted as few witnesses as possible present to see what he knew he would have to do.
He sat, frowning heavily, on the throne, facing straight ahead, his eyes locked on the towering double doors at the other end of the room. His massive broadsword, its pommel carved with the leopard's head that was Duncan's personal insignia, rested in its scabbard, leaning against the right-hand arm of the throne.
Lord Anthony of Spa, Duncan's chamberlain for the past fifteen years, stood to one side of the throne and several steps below it. He looked meaningfully at the King now and cleared his throat apologetically to attract the monarch's attention.
Duncan's blue eyes swiveled to him, the eyebrows raised in an unspoken question, and the Chamberlain nodded.
"It's time, Your Majesty," he said quietly.
Short and overweight, Lord Anthony was no warrior. He had no skill at arms at all, and as a consequence, his muscles were soft and untrained. His value was as an administrator. Largely due to his help, the Kingdom of Araluen had long been a prosperous and contented realm.
Duncan was a popular king, and a just one. Which wasn't to say that he wasn't a strong ruler, willing and committed to enforcing the laws of the realm-laws that had been laid down and maintained by his predecessors, going back six hundred years.
And there lay the reason for Duncan's frown and his heavy heart.
Because today he would have to enforce one of those laws on a man who had been his friend and loyal servant. A man, in fact, to whom Duncan owed everything-a man who twice in the past two decades had been instrumental in saving Araluen from the dark threat of defeat and enslavement at the hands of a madman.
Lord Anthony shifted restlessly. Duncan saw the movement and waved one hand in a defeated gesture.
"Very well," he said. "Let's have done with this business."
Anthony turned to face the throne room. The few people gathered there stirred at the movement, looking expectantly toward the doors.
The Chamberlain's symbol of office was a long ebony staff, shod in steel. He raised it now and brought it down twice on the flagstone floors. The ringing crack of steel on stone echoed through the room, carrying clearly to the men who waited beyond the closed doors.
There was a slight pause, then the doors swung open, almost soundless on their well-oiled, perfectly balanced hinges. As they came to a stop, a small party of men entered, proceeding at ceremonial slow-march pace to stand at the base of the wide steps leading up to the throne.
There were four men all told. Three of them wore the surcoats, mail and helmets of the King's Watch. The fourth was a small figure, clad in nondescript green and dull gray clothes. He was bare-headed and his hair was a pepper-and-salt gray, shaggy and badly cut. He marched between the two leading men of his guard, the third bringing up the rear directly behind him. The small man's face was matted with dried blood, Duncan saw, and there was an ugly bruise on his upper left cheek that all but closed the eye above it.
"Halt?" he said, before he could stop himself. "Are you all right?"
Halt's gaze rose now to meet his. For a brief moment, Duncan thought he saw an unfathomable depth of sadness there. Then the moment was gone and there was nothing in those dark eyes but fierce resolve and a hint of mockery.
"I'm as well as can be expected, Your Majesty," he said dryly.
Lord Anthony reacted as if stung by a wasp.
"Hold your tongue, prisoner!" he snapped. At his words, the corporal standing beside Halt raised one hand to strike the prisoner.
But before the blow could be launched, Duncan half rose from his throne.
"That's enough!" His voice cracked out in the near empty room. The corporal lowered his hand, a little shamefaced. It occurred to Duncan that nobody present was enjoying this scene. Halt was too well known and too well respected a figure in the kingdom. Duncan hesitated, knowing what he must do next but hating to do it.
"Shall I read the charges, Your Majesty?" Lord Anthony asked. It was actually up to Duncan to tell him to do that. Instead, the King waved one hand in reluctant acquiescence.
"Yes, yes. Go ahead, if you must," he muttered, then regretted it as Anthony looked at him, a wounded expression on his face. After all, Duncan realized, Anthony didn't want to do this either. Duncan shrugged apologetically.
"I'm sorry, Lord Anthony. Please read the charges."
Anthony cleared his throat uncomfortably at that. It was bad enough that the King had abandoned the formal procedure. But infinitely more embarrassing to the Chamberlain was the fact that the King now saw fit to apologize to him.
"The prisoner Halt, a Ranger in Your Majesty's forces, carrying the King's commission and a bearer of the Silver Oakleaf, was heard to scandalize the King's personage, his birthright and his parentage, Your Majesty," he said.