Brotherhood of the Wolf (49 page)

But after several long minutes, he woke. His eyes were glazed with pain, and sweat soaked his brow. “The Earth King has lost his endowments,” he said. “I heard someone say it. Is it true?”

“Sure,” Erin answered. “He's a common one now—if an Earth King can be called ‘common.'”

“Then you can look upon him without his glamour. Have you seen him?”

She'd seen him on the ride toward Castle Groverman this evening, dead asleep. Even with his endowment of glamour, the young man had not been handsome. Now he looked downright plain.

“I saw him with my own eyes,” she said, thinking Celinor's comment was merely a subject chosen by delirium.

She patted his cheek, noticed that he wore a silver chain around his neck with a silver oval locket.

As he fell back, wincing in pain, the silver locket fell out from his tunic, up by his throat. She knew immediately what it was—a promise locket. Many lords, when they had sons or daughters whom they sought to wed, would commission an artist to paint a miniature portrait of the young lord or lady who sought a match, and would then insert the portrait into a locket. Such a locket would then be sent to distant lands, to be shown to the parents of a prospective spouse, so that lords and ladies might choose a match for their son or daughter without ever having seen the person in question.

Such lockets were never trustworthy. The artists who painted them tended to ignore a child's flaws and accentuate his or her beauty to the point that sometimes the image on a locket bore only a slight resemblance to the young lord or lady pictured therein.

Still, such lockets often inspired romance. Erin recalled that when she was twelve, her mother had shown her the image of a young lord from Internook. Erin had carried the locket about for months, dreaming of the fierce-looking blond-haired lad, until it became clear that boy had seen Erin's own image on her promise locket and not been impressed.

Celinor seemed too old to be swooning after some child on a locket. He had to be twenty-five, and should have
married years ago. But then Erin realized that no right-thinking lady would have had him.

“What, Father?” she imagined some twelve-year-old girl asking. “You want me to wed the ‘Sot of South Crowthen.'”

“Not the boy,” the father would say, “just the kingdom. And while he drinks himself into an early grave, he'll run about begetting bastards on every tavern slattern within three kingdoms. And after you've slaughtered all his wee bastards, Crowthen will be yours.”

She couldn't imagine any girl welcoming the match.

Yet Celinor wore a promise locket, like some lovesick boy.

Erin wondered what twelve-year-old girl had caught his fancy. She glanced at Celinor, who lay breathing heavily, apparently asleep.

She surreptitiously flipped the tiny latch on the locket and caught her breath, The image of the twelve-year-old girl on it had blue eyes and long dark hair. She knew the painting instantly, even in the wan firelight reflecting from the far wall, for it was Erin's portrait, painted ten years ago, back when she'd dreamt that such portraits meant something.

Erin snapped the locket closed. No suitor had ever come begging for the hand of a girl from the horse clans of Fleeds. She wasn't sure what she'd have done if a suitor had come. She was a warrior, after all, not some fine lady raised with no more purpose than to bear a man sons. And it was only in kingdoms like Internook that a warlord sometimes wanted a wife who was strong enough to fight beside him.

Yet now Celinor wore her promise locket. Had he carried it for the past ten years?

Her mother might have sent it to South Crowthen, but Erin's mother had never mentioned a possible match with Celinor. No, Erin knew her mother well enough to be sure that even if King Anders had proposed such a match, her mother would have turned him down.

Yet Celinor had her locket, had kept it for ten years.

Had Celinor dreamt of such a match? It made sense, in a small way. South Crowthen shared a border with Fleeds. Celinor and Erin could have married, enlarged their kingdoms, despite the differences in their cultures.

But King Anders would have seen it as a bad match. Fleeds was a poor country, after all, with nothing to offer. If their parents exchanged lockets, it was only as a matter of courtesy. Neither lord would have wanted the match.

Yet Celinor had kept the locket for ten years, had perhaps even worn it for ten years.

Celinor the sot.

She looked into his face. He'd come awake. He stared at her with narrow, pain-filled eyes.

Erin's heart hammered.

“Tell me,” Celinor asked with surprising ferocity. “Young King Orden, does he look like you?”

“What?” she begged in surprise. “I'd be a sorry sight if he did.”

“Does he look like you?” Celinor asked. “Like brother to sister, as my father says? No flame-headed man of Fleeds gave you that dark hair.”

Erin felt her face flush with embarrassment. She'd been imagining that he loved her. Now she saw the truth of it: Gaborn's father, King Orden, had made an annual pilgrimage to Heredon for the autumn hunt with King Sylvarresta. On those pilgrimages, he'd passed through Fleeds, and had become a friend to Erin's mother.

If her mother had thought Orden to be a suitable match, it was only reasonable that she'd have wanted to breed with him. It could have happened. But it hadn't.

Still, both Erin and Gaborn had black hair and blue eyes, though Erin had her mother's build, not King Orden's broad shoulders.

So King Anders imagined that King Mendellas Draken Orden was her father, making Gaborn her half brother—her younger brother.

Erin dared not name her true father.

On the day that Erin had first begun her monthly bleed, her mother had taken Erin to the study, shown her a book that named her sires, told of each man's and woman's times and deeds. They were great men and women, heroes of old, and her mother had made Erin swear to keep the tradition, to breed with only the finest of men.

Erin knew the name of her father, but under the circumstances, she thought it better not to reveal her patronage.

“Is that the only reason you wear my promise locket?” Erin asked. “You wanted to measure my face to his?”

Celinor licked his lips, nodded barely. “My father… seeks to expose Gaborn's deceit, label him a criminal.”

Erin wondered. If she were Gaborn's brother, what would be the repercussions?

By the laws of Fleeds, having a royal father from another realm meant nothing. Erin's title as a royal was handed down from her mother, but even that title would not allow Erin to become the High Queen. That post would have to be earned, bestowed by the wise women of the clans.

But if Erin were Orden's daughter, it might have tremendous repercussions in Mystarria. Some might claim that she, as the eldest, was the rightful heir to Mystarria's throne.

King Anders wanted to use her as a pawn.

“I—I'm not following you,” she said. “What could your father hope to gain? I'd never want the throne of Mystarria!”

“Then he would thrust it upon you,” Celinor whispered.

“Fagh! That would be a lot of trouble for nothing. I'd have no part of it.”

“You know the laws of succession: No man can be crowned a king who has won the throne by murder,” Celinor answered.

She wondered. Yesterday, before he'd met Gaborn, the High Marshal Skalbairn had warned that King Anders was spreading rumors that Gaborn had fled Longmot, leaving his father to die. Such a deed might not technically be counted as murder, but it was akin to murder.

And after the death of King Orden, was it not Gaborn's own bodyguard who had slaughtered the witless King Sylvarresta? Borenson swore that in doing so, he only fulfilled the last command spoken to him by old King Orden, to slaughter those who had given themselves as Dedicates to Raj Ahten.

But one could easily argue that Borenson told such a tale to cover the truth—that he'd murdered Sylvarresta in order for his master to gain Heredon's throne.

Gaborn now wore a double crown of kingship—that of Heredon and that of Mystarria. But Anders would argue that both crowns had been won through murder.

Thus Gaborn was not a king at all. And if he was not rightfully the king of any nation, then how could he be the Earth King?

And if Gaborn was not a king, he could justifiably be dispatched, dealt with as a murderer.

She saw it all in a flash, realized that Anders would start his war. He was probably already sending out minor lords to gather support. He had blocked his borders and forbade his people to come to Heredon to see the Earth King.

After all, if they saw Gaborn, they might be persuaded that he was indeed the Earth King. And King Anders did not want them to learn the truth.

Yet Erin knew the truth. She'd heard Gaborn's Voice in her head, leading her to safety. She knew him to be the Earth King.

“What foul notions your father has, to make up such things!”

Celinor laughed painfully, as much from his burns as from the sentiment that followed. “Some think me to be much like him.”

“You didn't need to whip your horse to a froth to check out your father's story,” Erin said. “So why are you here?”

“My father sent me to gain any information that might help expose Gaborn. But
I
came to learn the truth.”

Just then, a healer woman brought the poppy resin, along with a small ivory pipe that she would use to blow the
opium into Celinor's face. She set the pipe down, rolled the opium into a dark ball, then set it in the bowl of the pipe and added a hot coal from an ornate clay brazier.

Erin began to back away, to give the healer room to work, but Celinor clutched at her cloak.

“Please,” Celinor said. “I don't know if I can go on with you to Fleeds tomorrow. You must stop my father. Have your mother issue a statement about your patronage—even if she must lie to do so.”

Erin patted Celinor's chest reassuringly. “I'll be back in a wee bit, to check on you.”

Erin covered him with a blanket while the healer blew opium smoke into Celinor's face. Then Erin walked down through the portcullis and stared up at the night sky. The sun had set an hour past, and all of the day's clouds had drifted off. Only a few high cirrus clouds still hung in the night sky, a veil for the stars. It would be a warm night, and it was too late in the year for mosquitoes. Celinor would be comfortable if she left him alone for a bit.

Knights were still surging into the castle by the hundreds. Erin stepped aside to let some men pass, and the crier at the gate behind her shouted again, “Eat your fill, gentlemen!”

She looked down over the castle walls to the city below, Groverman's domain.

Damn King Anders, Erin thought. But she had to wonder. Why does he need me?

After all, if Anders wanted to argue that Gaborn was no king at all, had earned his crown only by murder and deceit, he only needed to allege murder. He didn't need to provide Erin as an alternate heir to Mystarria's throne.

Perhaps, she thought, Anders is afraid that if he kills Gaborn, the people of Mystarria will rise in war against him. By providing an alternate heir, King Anders might well hope to assuage such a war.

But that didn't seem right. If Gaborn died, and if indeed he had won his crown through murder, then the kingship would rightly fall to Duke Paldane.

Paldane the Huntsman, Paldane the schemer and tactician. Paldane, her true father.

Of course, Anders would fear him. Paldane would easily pierce any subterfuge that Anders might devise. And he would demand satisfaction. Paldane's reputation was such that no king in all of Rofehavan would want to match wits with him.

No, Anders wouldn't want the kingship to fall to Paldane after Gaborn's death, so perhaps he hoped to offer Erin as a suitable heir to old King Orden. But what would happen then?

Anders might hope that Erin Connal and Duke Paldane would squabble over the kingship of Mystarria, possibly starting a civil war.

Or perhaps Anders hoped that Paldane would strike at Fleeds itself, crushing her poor nation.

That seemed possible. In fact, after Gaborn was dead and Fleeds lay in ruins, Anders might even imagine that he could wash his hands of the mess by claiming that Erin had deceived him.

Whatever his plot, Anders was bound to be surprised when the truth came out.

Or maybe not. What if King Anders had guessed whom her father really was? What if he planned to kill Paldane so that she really would inherit Mystarria's throne?

Would Erin dare take it?

Damn my mother for choosing Paldane, Erin thought. She should have known better. At the time, it had seemed improbable that Paldane would himself ever be in line for the throne, and her mother had thought Paldane the best man in Mystarria—the best lord in all of Rofehavan. But a dozen assassinations later, now Erin stood in direct line for Mystarria's crown.

Of course, the political situation in Rofehavan had been thrown into upheaval today, now that the Blue Tower was destroyed. Mystarria's strength had easily been halved.

But
that
was something Anders couldn't have foreseen.
He couldn't have known that Raj Ahten would destroy the Blue Tower.

Unless Anders was in Raj Ahten's hire.

No, Erin decided, now I'm thinking nonsense.

Erin knew she was missing something. Perhaps Anders didn't have a fully developed scheme for disposing of Gaborn—or perhaps she could not see all of it.

When Erin was a child, her mother sometimes made her perform an odd exercise. Mother and daughter played chess together with a curtain placed across the board, so that each one saw only her own half of the board. Thus she always had to be protected from players that might strike out of the darkness, and Erin had to learn to pin down opponents she couldn't see. It was an exercise in futility.

She suddenly wished that she'd played chess with King Anders. How many moves ahead could he plot? Four, eight, twelve?