The Fall of the Dagger (The Forsaken Lands) (31 page)

In desperation, Saker shot a glance at Juster, but he appeared to be studying his newly manicured nails and would not meet his eye.

Nor had the prince finished. “You will stay here tonight. Neither
you nor Lord Juster will accompany us to the palace tomorrow. You are both too well known as traitors.”

He had to put his hands behind his back, else he might have been tempted to swipe a fist at the prince’s jaw. “Who will take care of Piper?”

Juster spoke then. “Surgeon Barklee. He’s not known at the palace, and Piper adores him.”

Ryce gave a curt nod of acquiescence. “I am sure Piper will be quite safe, Saker. None of us will put her in any unnecessary danger. As soon as we are inside the walls, Barklee can take her somewhere safe. For all the king’s madness, his guards are sane enough, and not in the habit of harming tots any more than I am of not caring for the welfare of my blood relatives.”

Not trusting himself to speak, Saker inclined his head.

“As early as possible,” the prince continued, “you and your eagle will tell me all you can about the positioning and number of guards within and outside the palace walls. The more we know beforehand, the safer everyone will be.”

“Yes, Your Highness.”

“Perhaps I could send Grig Cranald with Barklee,” Juster suggested. “To keep an eye on Piper’s safety. He’s not known to any of the palace guard any more than Barklee is, and he’s a good man in a tight spot.”

“Very well, if it makes you happier.” With that, Ryce drained the last of his brandy, and left the room.

Juster eyed Saker warily.

He said, keeping a fragile hold on his rage, “Leak on you, Juster, what did you have to tell him for? It was Regala Mathilda’s secret, for her to divulge if she wanted, not our prerogative to do so.”

“I thought it would
stop
him from wanting to use Piper! He was going to do it anyway. I felt sure if I told him she was his niece, he’d think twice about it.” He held his arms up, palms outwards, in a gesture of surrender. “I was wrong. I am sorry.” He looked towards the door, and the expression on his face was one of reluctant admiration. “Va knows whatever happened to the Ryce we used to know, because fiddle-me-witless, the man has become a king while we’ve been away!”

“If that’s how kings behave, then damn them all to beggary!”

“Whoa, my friend! Be careful who you say that to, or your head will be on the chopping block.” He clasped Saker’s shoulder with a firm hand. “You aren’t a lackwit. You know that in order to rule, a monarch has to have a heart as cold as steel. Ryce would have been a terrible king when he was eighteen. Now maybe he’s a monarch strong enough to make good decisions, even when it means someone gets hurt.”

“The theory sounds fine. But when it involves his own niece, who’s not quite three—!”

Juster released his hold and turned to the side table in order to splash a measure of brandy into a glass. “Here, drink this and pray that Ryce succeeds tomorrow, because if he doesn’t, we’ll all be running for the border.”

A
flick of flight feathers, a tilt of the tail to change direction to pass over the Throssel Palace walls, a counting of guards, an assessment of how relaxed they were… The sensual feel of wind through feathers, the joy of flight, the shimmering vibrance of colours and their subtle gradation, the wide panorama of his field of vision.

That glorious world of flight, where he was always in danger of losing himself and his humanity.

Saker concentrated on the scene below. That rabble supposedly guarding the southern wall were playing dice behind the grapevines and there was even one fellow pursuing a housemaid across the pump yard, the lout. Horntail would have made short work of those layabouts.

Juster was right. If a king was weak and ill and almost blind, then good government crumbled. Ryce would have a tough task bringing Ardrone back to its former glory.

Idly Saker wondered whom the prince would rely on. He’d need a chancellor who could knock the civil servants into shape, a treasurer with a sharp eye for theft and waste and corruption, a Prime who could take on the mess Fox had left behind, a guard captain to bring the armed men up to a decent standard with a military command thinking in terms of guns and cannon rather than swords and crossbows. It was ridiculous that ships used gunpowder and yet most armsmen on land did not.

He was grateful that Ryce’s talk of Saker being his Prime was only a joke. The idea of having to deal with the horror of Fox’s chapel clerics and their hatred of Shenat… If he hadn’t been flying with the bird, he would have shuddered at the thought.

One last look to make sure he had all the information Ryce wanted
and he closed his twinning connection to the sea eagle. When he opened his eyes, he was back in his body, lying on the divan in the library, where Barklee was keeping an eye on both him and Piper.

When the three of them rejoined Ryce, it was to find a crowded room. All the men who were to lead the foray into the palace were there: Juster and Grig, Sir Beargold and Lord Seaforth and members of their extended families, most of whom Saker knew at least by sight. He also spotted the king’s chief physician, Emerling. For a moment he puzzled over that, until he realised that if Ryce could persuade Emerling to say Edwayn was incompetent to rule, he would have a way of legitimately deposing his father.

Edwayn’s hatred of witchery healers, stemming from the death of his queen, meant that he never allowed them into the palace. Emerling was just a physician. Sadly, there had been no witchery healer to give a warning of, let alone treat, the king’s madness. Saker suspected that the hope of any cure was long gone.

“Ah,” the prince said on catching sight of Saker, “you have information for us?”

“Indeed, sire,” he said and told them all he’d seen through the eagle’s eyes.

With a grim smile, Ryce turned to the listeners, saying, “Are you ready?”

A rousing acclamation of assent rose from those in the room, with a number of the younger nobles drawing their swords and waving them in the air.

“Then let us go and reclaim a throne!”

Under cover of the enthusiasm, Saker murmured in Barklee’s ear that he hoped Prince Ryce was not overconfident.

“Whatever happens, I’ll make sure Piper’s safe,” Barklee promised.

“Let’s go,” the prince said, but as he turned towards the door of the room, one of the liveried servants entered, carrying a sealed letter and a letter opener on a salver.

“Is that for me?” Lord Seaforth asked.

“For the prince, my lord,” the servant replied, and approached Ryce.

Frowning, Ryce took the letter and slit it open. It was a single sheet, and whatever news it contained, it was sufficient to turn his
face a sickly colour. He read the contents twice. The room fell silent, everyone staring, rooted to the spot. For Saker, it was an age before Ryce crumpled the paper in his hand and looked up – at him.

“Your wretched friends! They’ve killed my Bealina with their fucking boneheaded incompetence!”

The letter dropped from his shaking hand. He looked around the room. “My queen is dead, killed in a dastardly attack by Valerian Fox’s men. Prince Garred is unharmed and on his way back to Throssel.” His voice had wavered, but he threw back his shoulders as he added, “Today we fight for this land so that never again will it fall into the hands of sorcerers! Today we start the battle by wresting rule from the hands of a mad king who does a sorcerer’s bidding. My father has long been as good as dead, and today we avenge him and release him from the Va-less hell of sorcery. Are you with me?”

This time, the foot-stamping ovation clinked the porcelain on the glass shelves of the display cabinets.

As Prince Ryce’s party left the house a little later, Piper, dressed as a boy, cheerfully told everybody she was a prince and she was going to sit on a throne and have lots of pet dogs. She hugged Saker and waved to him as Barklee carried her away. In his own farewell, Juster threw an arm around Grig Cranald’s shoulders and said something in his ear, which prompted Grig to smile at him with an eloquent look of tenderness.

When they’d all left, the crumpled letter still lay on the floor where Ryce had dropped it. Saker picked it up, recognised Fritillary’s hand and shamelessly skimmed the contents. The account of Bealina’s death was stark. Heartbreaking. But all he felt was relief that Fritillary made it clear that it was Ardhi and Sorrel who had brought Prince Garred to safety.

They were still alive.

“Pickle all princes,” he said to Juster. “If anything happens to Piper—”

“Grig’s there to take care of her. But who will take care of him when I’m not there?” Juster sighed and poured them both a generous glass of the Seaforth brandy. “Drink up,” he said. “We both need something to allay our fears.”

“I thought you preferred to remain heart-whole,” he remarked and sipped the brandy.

Juster sighed. “That was my intention. Never thought someone would come along to upend my profligate life. Dammit, Saker, loving someone is worse than sailing a ship with a hull covered in barnacles. You can’t scrape love off and sail away. It’s a joy, yet it ties you in knots of fear. Poor Ryce.” He drank more of the brandy, then swirled the glass, watching the liquid spin. “And you know what? There is nothing I hate more than sitting around, worrying about other people. The…
waiting
.”

“I know. It gets you every time.”

“You’ve lost Sorrel, haven’t you?”

“She was never mine to lose.”

“More fool you.”

He shrugged. “There was a moment when we could have gone down a different pathway, but it never happened. Not sure why. Maybe because she once watched me make a fool of myself over the Lady Mathilda?”

“That was exceedingly stupid. Was
that
what was behind your nullification?”

“It was the excuse. Anyway, Sorrel has become the sister I never had, and I can’t imagine it any other way now.”

Juster drained his glass and reached for the brandy. “Come, have a drink with me.”

I’ll always have the ternion. Always.
What he wasn’t sure about was whether he’d always have Piper. “No, thank you. I’ll twin with the eagle to see what’s going on in a minute, and I need to be sober for that.”

“A drunken eagle would certainly be something to behold…”

“And I’d rather you kept sober enough to watch over my body, if you don’t mind.”

Juster sighed again and put down his glass.

Ryce approached the main gate at the head of his men. He attempted to look like a broken man, but he wasn’t sure he succeeded. Inside he was churning with a passion he could hardly contain.

This is for you, Bealina. You and Garred.

Bealina. Before she left Gromwell, she’d become so thin, so pale,
and yet she’d always been cheerful, so certain they would win. It had broken his heart to see her struggling with the lack of amenities, never complaining, always greeting him with a smile, always loving and passionate, even when she was hungry and tired and frightened, and anxious about Garred.

You did that to her, Father. You did that to your grandson. You could have had the siege lifted any time.
Oh, Fritillary could blame Fox, if she liked, but it was Edwayn’s distrust of Shenat that made the kingdom vulnerable in the first place. The king had deliberately sought out a Prime who wanted to rid the nation of Shenat clerics. He’d chosen Fox before he’d even met him.

Ryce glanced behind to see Barklee, dressed in borrowed clothes so as to resemble a nobleman rather than a ship’s surgeon, carrying Piper. She was wearing a velvet suit with lace trimming which delighted her, and she waved at him happily.

There were two men on duty outside the closed gates of the palace, both armed with pikes. They stepped forward and called the group to a halt.

Keeping his shoulders slumped, his gaze indirect and his expression abashed even as he seethed inside, he approached the foremost guard.

“Your Highness,” the man said, at a loss.

“Open the gate, guardsman. I bring my son, Prince Garred, to the king, as requested. Gromwell has fallen.”

The two men exchanged glances. “I’ll speak to the captain of the guard,” one of them said.

“By all means,” Ryce said. “I’ll come with you.”

The guard hesitated.

“Come now, man. You can hardly expect me to wait out in the street like a tradesman!”

The guard banged at the wicket set into the main gate, and it opened from the inside.

“Wait here,” Ryce said to Seaforth, the words only for show, as Seaforth had been instructed to do no such thing. Ryce waved the guard inside and the man, flustered, preceded him. As they had planned, Sir Beargold entered on his heels then halted in the doorway, so that the wicket could not be closed behind him.

The guard dithered, not knowing what to do.

“Well, go on, man,” Ryce said, “get the captain, quickly now. Is that still Captain Rollin?”

The man gave a nod, remembered whom he was addressing, and stuttered, “Yes, Your Highness.” He scurried away across the forecourt between the gateway and the palace buildings, heading towards the main guardhouse. The four guards on duty inside the gatehouse looked from Ryce to one another in consternation as one by one his men began to file in through the wicket.

“Your Highness,” said the one in charge, “we have no instructions from the king—”

“Of course you have! The king has ordered my return and I am here. These men are Prince Garred’s bodyguard. As you know, the heir apparent is entitled to a company of forty men…”

While he was speaking, the men who had entered behind him flung open the main gate, to allow a flood of soldiers inside. Some of them greeted the guards by name and clapped them on the back as old friends. As more and more men entered, they milled around, blocking the view of the guards. Ten of his men stole away, one at a time, their destination the postern gate. If all went well, they would soon be opening that gate to the bulk of his men already gathering in the street outside.

Captain Rollin came running up, still shrugging himself into his coat. Ryce greeted him effusively, spilling the same nonsense about why he was there. He rested a friendly hand on the man’s shoulder. “Don’t worry, Rollin, the matter between my father and me will be settled today, without further argument. And right now I will take my son up to see his grandfather. Come, Beargold, let us leave the good captain and Lord Seaforth to sort things out here.”

With that he simply turned his back on the guards and started walking towards the main building with Beargold, chatting as if they were perfectly at ease. Barklee walked a pace or two behind, beside Grig Cranald. Piper was sulking because Barklee wouldn’t let her walk by herself. Inside, Ryce was a mixture of nervous tension and sheer, blinding rage. How dare his father put him in this position in the first place! With a little luck, Rollin was already confronted by an irreversible situation: forty men inside the palace
grounds, without anyone offering any physical resistance to their presence.

As they walked, every nerve was screaming at him either to hurry or to look around to see what was happening behind. He did neither. Just before he stepped into the palace building he looked up. There was an eagle circling above.

Saker, watching over Piper.

The king’s solar was always guarded, but after explaining to the two men on duty that they were there to deliver Prince Garred, they were ushered into the reception room.

While one of the sentries fetched the king’s chamberlain, Conrid Masterton, Ryce murmured in explanation to Grig, “That’s Prelate Masterton. Can’t make up his mind whether he’s a cleric or a king’s man. I wouldn’t mind at all if he wasn’t alive at the end of this day.” He turned to the remaining guard, asking, “Where’s the king?”

“I don’t know, Your Highness.”

Ryce looked at Grig and Barklee. “Let’s find out, shall we?”

He opened the door to the audience room and marched inside. The others followed, with the guard attempting – respectfully – to insist they wait for the chamberlain, but quite unable to decide just how to achieve that when they all ignored him. Ryce almost laughed at the man’s predicament.

The room was empty so he just continued on into the king’s private apartments through the door on the other side. In the king’s sitting room, a footman was winding up the ornate clock on the glassware cabinet. His eyes widened when he recognised the prince.

“Where’s the king?” Ryce rapped out the question in a tone that brooked no evasions.

“Y-your Highness. Ah – dining room?”

Ryce strode on and flung open the dining room door. King Edwayn was seated at the table with a spread of dishes in front of him. He did not appear to have eaten much. He was huddled into his chair, more frail and ill than when Ryce had seen him last. He could almost feel a twinge of pity. Almost.

The guard who had gone looking for Masterton was just inside the door. Masterton was standing at the king’s side, speaking urgently
into his ear. He straightened and fixed a smile on his face when he saw Ryce and his party.