A fourth acolyte gave him a shy smile as he passed, carrying a gold-trimmed tray upon which reposed the tokens of the elements: a crystal bowl of water rimmed with gold and silver; a crystal box containing nothing at all, which was meant to represent air; and a very beautiful porcelain bowl that held a miniature garden, the semblance of earth; a sand painting on the top a special effort for the bride and groom. He caught a glimpse of the design as it went by, and approved of it. The image of tiger lilies was quite beautiful. No expense had been spared for the service or the celebration that would follow. The flask that represented spirit was of precious blue glass. The urn that produced fire—he had no idea how it worked. He assumed there was a trick to it. It was entirely possible that it did work by magic, though the priests surely called it something else. He had never managed to get one of the priests to tell him. He assumed that it was a secret protected by oath.
The priests arrived and began to set the objects on the altar to suit themselves. The female priest was an amply built woman of about forty with long, dark hair worn unbound under a wreath of holly. She had several children, two of whom were acolytes. Magpie wasn’t sure which of the large cadre they were. The old priest gave him a look with one raised eyebrow that was half-reproof. He and the priestess were clad in simple white robes, belted with braided sashes of white, black, and green silk. They also wore necklaces, his of gold, the imperishable symbol of the Father, and hers of silver, to show the evolving nature of the Mother.
Magpie’s foot went to sleep. He shifted to the other for a while.
If only the things that Olen had said about the book were true, and that centaurs were the product of humans meddling with horses, and that smallfolk were the product of humans and he could not guess what—shrubs, or rabbits, some other species that would make them as little as Tildi, and with those ears. Werewolves were obvious, as were mermaids and Tritons. And dwarves might be the product of human beings and stone, he assumed. Then were the beasts of legend something to do with those Makers? Did they use the great powers at their disposal to make them?
He knew there were symbols that were represented on the banners and badges of kingdoms and noble households that showed such things as griffins, gryphons who were half lion, half eagle; Pegasi; hippocampi; and all other manner of combined beasts that did not exist as far as he
knew. He had never seen one, in all his many travels, and he knew no one else who had seen one, either, yet all the human combinations still existed. All he could assume was that the beasts who had been mutated and perverted either warred with themselves, unable to reconcile their dual identities, fought with other creatures and destroyed themselves, or merely realized that they were abominations and destroyed themselves or let themselves die out. They had more sense than the human combinations. He could tell from what Rin said that the centaurs considered the alteration to have been an abomination.
Right here, now, in front of the altar of Nature, he apologized on behalf of his species. Humans had a great sense of self-preservation. No matter what shape they took, they didn’t want to sacrifice their own existence. That tendency must have rubbed off on the animals with whom the Creators blended their own kind. He wondered if it was an improvement or not.
Were there other human combinations that unaltered humans never saw, such as a half-human, half-mole, who lived deep underground, even below the mountain fortresses of the dwarves? Did they have sleepy, light-sensitive eyes and huge digging hands? Smallfolk were curious enough. He wiggled his numb foot inside his shoe and wondered what it would be like to be without toes. The smallfolk delegation arrived and came up to bow to him. He bowed back, pleased. They all looked like Tildi’s kin, with curly hair and big brown eyes, as if they were solemn children. He thought of asking them technical questions about how they walked, then decided not to. They might take offense, and of all days he wished to please his father, not annoy him. He smiled, and got more grave bows. Were all smallfolk so humorless except for Tildi? He guessed that she was the exception to many rules. He had to think about it for a moment. He’d been in the Quarters several times over the last few years. Perhaps they were, perhaps they were not. They had a great sense of occasion, much more than he did, and were sober when they were supposed to be.
The acolytes were taking a long time to get everything ready. Two of the youngest, charged with filling the lamps that stood at the end of each aisle, seemed to be having trouble with the jar of oil. A trifle bored, Magpie fixed his eyes upon the mountains in the distance. The day was beautiful, a tribute to Inbecca’s beauty. He started to compose a poem on the subject that he might set to music.
“Mmm, nipped out for a minute, did he?” a voice inquired. Magpie
slid his eyes sideways. King Halcot, dressed in a velvet tunic of red and white, sidled up to stand beside Magpie.
Magpie turned to him, and was rewarded with an indulgent smile. Halcot had taken Hawarti’s news very well. He didn’t seem to be angry or disappointed in Magpie. What a relief! He offered the visitor a comradely grin. “Welcome, my lord. Who nipped out?”
“Well, the prince, of course,” Halcot said. “Don’t be a mountebank here in the temple. Show some respect for the forces of Creation.”
“Of course, my lord,” Magpie said, and straightened his back.
“I mean, you must be keeping his spot warm while he went off for a glass of resolve-stiffener, eh?” Halcot pantomimed taking a drink. “Or are you dressed up like that as a joke to surprise him?” He turned to glance around the vast chamber. “What’s he look like? I’ll tell you if he’s coming.”
Magpie’s heart slid out of his chest and down into his ornate shoes. Hawarti must have missed speaking with Halcot. He
didn’t
know. There was no avoiding the subject now. Magpie had to handle the matter by himself, without fuss. He hoped that he could. From the depths of his soul he drew a calm demeanor.
“Did you … did you stop at the castle this morning, my lord?”
“No, curse it,” Halcot said, brushing at his sleeves. “We had trouble above the ford. The track was muddy—too much rain. The wettest summer I can recall in all my years. We were going to be late, so I directed the train to come directly here to the temple. My grooms are delivering our luggage to the steward at the palace. What business is it of yours?”
“My business is as your host, my lord,” Magpie said very carefully. “I’m dressed up this way, as you noted, for the very good reason that I am the affianced awaiting my bride. I’m not holding anyone’s place but my own.”
Halcot frowned, engaged in mental calculus. “But your name is Magpie.”
“It’s not my real name, sir. I’m Eremilandur, third son of Soliandur. I welcome you here in the name of my father.”
The equation resolved itself in a lightning flash of enlightenment. Halcot’s eyes blazed with anger.
“What? This is an outrage!”
Magpie sighed and bowed his head. “It was not meant to be, sir. My father’s minister was meant to speak to you about me when you arrived today.”
“To let me get all the way here to Orontae, then discover that the minstrel that I allowed into my confidence for the last five years was the son of my enemy? Surely I was owed an explanation long ago!”
“Indeed you were, my lord, but was there ever a good time to bring up such a matter?” Magpie asked. “If I had come to you to make such a confession, you might not have believed me—or I might have ended up in your dungeons for what remained of my life.”
“It would have been short and painful,” Halcot said through his teeth. “
Why
was this secret kept so long?”
Magpie glanced at the other guests milling about the echoing chamber, and kept his voice low. “My lord, my involvement in the war effort was known to only three others, my father, the prime minister, and the royal wizard. My father wanted to forget about all the matters concerning the war as quickly as possible once it was over, and the matter was pushed aside, but it can be ignored no longer. This event is an affair of state. You must, of course, be invited to the betrothal of a royal prince, and you must, of course, attend. I knew it would be too grave a shock for you to arrive here without being given the full particulars. Lord Hawarti was supposed to inform you before you saw me here, and answer any questions you had. As you might recall, I did not attend the signing of the documents of surrender two years ago. My presence, and the ensuing explanations, might have opened the hostilities all over again.”
“I doubt it,” Halcot spat out. “It was all over, and we were the victors.”
“Funny,” Magpie said, raising his eyebrows. “I was under the apprehension that we were. After all, you are the one paying my father tribute.”
“Hah! I’m paying less in tribute a year than I would pay for a month’s worth of keeping my men under arms. But you,” Halcot said, studying him intently. “You’re a puzzle. Perhaps I should demand your head as a condition of continuing to send your father his tribute.”
Magpie contrived to look bored. “As you will. My father would probably be glad to send it to you.”
Halcot’s whisper was harsh with hatred. “You traitor! You pretended to be friendly. All those songs you sang for me, the counsel you gave. All a charade while you spied upon me!”
“No. The songs were a genuine tribute to a king I felt was doing his best for his country and his people, and I never gave you bad advice,” Magpie said. He felt a pain in his ribs. He looked down. Halcot had drawn his dagger and held it among the folds of Magpie’s elaborate clothes. Halcot leaned a trifle closer, and a hot drop of blood ran down
Magpie’s belly. The king was going to kill him. He was surely justified. But the war was over. He met the glaring blue eyes straightforwardly. “You may not believe me, sir, but it’s true. I had respect for you, and I still do. To disrupt your effort was not my job. I was there to gather information, and I did. I served my father, my king, and my country. I will never be sorry for that. I am not a traitor to you. I gave you comfort when I thought you needed it. I hope it helped.”
Halcot’s face turned red. “You abused my hospitality, whelp. Why should I not push this blade into your heart and leave you for your bride-to-be to find?”
“I did, but consider: you won. We both know it. You won the war in all but name. Everything that I did was to no moment. I apologize for eating your bread and salt under false pretenses, but it
was
war.”
“I should kill you.”
Magpie felt the point dig deeper, and tried not to wince. “Go ahead. My father would thank you if you went ahead. Inbecca will get over me. She is worthy of better.”
Halcot looked down at the concealed knife as if surprised it was there, and the pressure eased. “I do believe that you’re telling me the truth. Soliandur would rather see you die?”
The truth hurt him more than the blade. “Oh, I am, my lord. Punish me if you will, in the name of your dignity. I do not care, but spare my father the reason, will you? Tell him you did it because I annoyed you. That’s true, isn’t it? He’s suffered enough.”
“Damn it, I know that!” Halcot snarled. “What I wouldn’t give to go back … but it cannot be done.”
The king walked a pace away, spun on his heel, and looked at him. “You don’t lack courage, I’ll give you that. No one who walked where you did could be a coward. By Death himself, I believe you would have let the knife slip in and died without uttering a sound, wouldn’t you?”
It was then he noticed Magpie’s pained expression, and glanced down at the silk robe, which was matted and stained. The king was immediately contrite.
“Have I injured you?”
“Far less than I’ve deserved at your hand, my lord,” Magpie said flippantly. “Luckily it is in the black section of the robe. No one will see.”
Halcot let out a short bark of laughter. “You young ass!” He paused to study Magpie. “I always liked you, you know. Your witty tongue brought some merriment into my household during some dark days.”
Magpie gave him a slight bow. “I did know. You honored me by your regard, sir.”
“Stop talking like a courtier. You are a prince, and for your father’s sake, you ought to act like one, today of all days.” Halcot’s creased brow drew down thoughtfully. “I hardly remember you, though I am sure I met you as a child. I know the whole brood used to come in Soliandur’s train when he visited me. Which one were you?”
Where he was willing to accept death in service to his country in war, Magpie was abashed to admit childhood sins. “I … er, I’m the one who broke the glass Tillerton chandelier in the great hall trying to get your son Stalcot to swing from it.”
Halcot’s eyebrows flew up, compressing the lines into a single crease. “You puppy! He said
he
broke it.”
Magpie smiled at the thought of his long-ago friend. “Call it a conspiracy of silence between princes. We nobly took the blame for each another’s sins, but that time it
was
my fault.”
“Did he know you were spying on me?”
“I think he saw me once in my minstrel guise, with these streaks in my hair, but for old time’s sake he passed me by, and did not ask for an explanation of my presence. I never involved him, and I tried to stay out of his way thereafter. Don’t blame him.”