Wings of Wrath (4 page)

Not to mention he might then have to admit it to himself.

“I will see you are given fair trial,” he said sternly. “That is the most I can do.”

“I understand,” she whispered. Not saying good-bye either. That was a good thing, he thought. Words could not always be trusted.

Silently he turned back to the door, taking a lantern from its hook as he did so. Behind him there was no rustle of parchment, no sound of an inkwell being opened, no soft scratching of quill on paper. If he had been given such a task he would have spent the whole night working on it, writing until his fingers ached, using the exercise as a chance to review what had happened to him, and perhaps derive some valuable lesson from it. She, on the other hand, would accomplish the assignment with a moment's sorcery—a whisper of stolen life—and then move on to more important things.

Nothing is more important than knowledge,
he thought.
Self-knowledge in particular
.

With a heavy sigh he headed out into the night, so that later, if asked, he might honestly say that he had not seen her leave.

H
E ARRIVED without fanfare, without servants, without guards. A dozen monks in plain woolen cassocks approached the palace gate together and he was simply one of them, dressed in the same coarse fabric, covered with dust from the same long journey.

The royal guards, on edge ever since Danton's death, gathered themselves into a tight formation at the gate as the small retinue approached. An onlooker might have been amused. It was hard to imagine any weapons such a company might carry that would be cause for concern, but the royal household was edgy without a Magister to guard it, and even though a dozen witches had pledged themselves to aiding in the transition of power—in return for enough gold that they would never have to sell their talents to any man again—it was clear the guards did not consider that good enough.

“Halt!” the captain of the watch called as the party of monks approached the gate.

All but one of them obeyed. That one, a tall man, continued for several steps more, until he stood apart from his companions.

“Halt!” the captain called again, and behind him his men tightened their grips on their lances, wondering what source of trouble might lie hidden beneath those dusty robes.

Then the lead monk raised his hands to the hood that shadowed his features, and slowly pushed it back. “Tell Her Majesty that Salvator Aurelius, son of Danton Aurelius, has returned.”

For a moment the captain just stared at him, slack-jawed. It had been almost four years since anyone had seen Danton's second-born, and he had changed much in that time. The gangly youth who had gone off years ago in search of spiritual enlightenment had come into his manhood along the way, and the steady calm that emanated from him now was so uncharacteristic of the young prince the captain remembered that for a moment he was not sure they were the same person.

Then the dark eyes fixed on him, as unnerving in their intensity as Danton's own had been, and he sputtered some words of embarrassment and apology as he knelt before his prince, motioning for his fellow guards to follow suit, while one of them ran off toward the palace to spread the news.

Salvator said nothing, simply motioned for his companions to follow him through the gate. Ten paces before the other monks had been his equals; now, falling into step behind him, they became his attendants.

By the time he reached the palace door the news of his arrival had clearly reached the building and servants who had obviously been surprised by his arrival scurried about in a desperate attempt to look as if they had been expecting him all along. It should not have pleased him, to see them so anxious to receive him properly . . . but it did.

For that sin of pride, he promised himself, he would offer atonement later.

The great oak doors swung open, seemingly of their own accord. The servants who ushered him inside clearly felt that if they bowed down low enough they might be forgiven any other shortcomings. It disturbed him a little how natural it felt to pass them by without acknowledging their existence in any way. It was as if the moment he entered this place his old persona wrapped itself around him, obscuring the man he had worked so hard to become. Was that a good thing? His father would have said it was, but he was not so sure.

He walked far enough that the monks behind him had room to enter. By the time they were all safely inside and the great doors shut behind them, a familiar footstep could be heard approaching. The servants looked away from Salvator as they waited, as if afraid that gazing upon him directly might anger the Royal Heir.

Or perhaps they were afraid of his god, he mused.

Unlike the rest of the palace staff, the castellan who arrived was calm and unruffled. Jan Cresel was some years older than Salvator remembered him, but otherwise much the same. Back in his childhood, Salvator had conspired with the other young princes in various attempts to shake the man's composure. They had never succeeded. The palace could be crumbling down about Cresel, its vast roof about to fall on his head, and he would appear every bit as calm and collected as he was today.

“Prince Salvator.” He bowed deeply, formally, at exactly the proper angle for welcoming a future king. “Her Majesty is pleased by your return.”

Salvator turned back partway toward his companions, directing Cresel's attention to them. “These good brothers chose to accompany me in order to discourage trouble upon the road. I trust they are welcome here.”

“Of course. We are honored to have the good brothers as our guests.” His nod toward them was polite but by no means deferential. “The road is long; you must be tired and thirsty.” He gestured to a nearby servant, who quickly stepped forward. “See they are assigned suitable accommodations and have food and drink brought for them.” He looked at Salvator again. “Is there anything else your companions will require?”

“That is all for now.” How easy it was to fall back into his old role. Like an old familiar garment that he had forgotten about but which, donned years later, still fit perfectly. He had not expected that.

“Then, Highness, no doubt you will wish to refresh yourself before making formal presentation. If you will permit me, I will show you to your rooms.” Normally the castellan did not take on such duties himself, but apparently this time he thought it was the proper thing to do. Or perhaps he simply wanted Salvator to know that he accepted his place in the new order of things, monk's robes and all. Perhaps not all the servants were equally accepting and he wanted to make a point of it in front of them.

“Not necessary, Master Cresel. I found the journey quite invigorating. Where is my mother?”

The expression on the castellan's face made it clear that he was fully prepared for this turn of events—and any other surprises the young prince might come up with. “Awaiting you, Highness. Of course.” He turned slightly, inviting Salvator to follow him. “I will take you to her.”

Danton's palace was much as Salvator remembered it . . . and much changed. The halls were the same gray stone, outer walls as thick and windowless as a fortified castle—indeed, the central keep had once served as a fortress, in the days when this region had guarded the vulnerable flank of a newborn kingdom—but there was no longer a sense of gloom about the corners and the dull, aging tapestries that had adorned the walls for as long as Salvator could remember had been either replaced or cleaned. He liked it better this way, he thought, surprised by the brief pang of guilt that followed the thought. As if approving of change was somehow an act of disloyalty.

Any king with a Magister can have his possessions polished and perfect,
Danton had once told his son,
or even conjured out of pure gold if he desires. But history, tradition . . . these are things that sorcery cannot counterfeit. These are the true measures of a man's wealth.
The High Queen had gone along with that during Danton's lifetime, of course. But Salvator did not doubt that her first act of mourning had been to assign of veritable army of house-keepers to scrub the place clean and to consign to storage the most faded decorations, or else to have witches restore them to pristine condition. The transformation of his childhood home from gloomy keep to gleaming citadel was both refreshing and—inexplicably—disturbing.

High Queen Gwynofar was waiting for him in the audience chamber. Like the palace itself she was much as he remembered her from his childhood, yet also much changed. The sorrows of the last few months had stolen the blush from her cheeks and though her expression was warm and welcoming at the moment, he could sense the sadness that lay behind it. She was dressed in black, of course. Layers of black, as if each loss required its own separate mourning, with the edges deliberately tattered. The color made her pale skin seem strangely fragile, like that of a porcelain doll. Even in less sorrowful times he had always been amazed by the aspect of delicacy about her, for he had seen her rule by his father's side—weathering Danton's most murderous rages, reining in his worst excesses—and he knew what sort of strong stuff she was made of. Few outside of the family understood her strength. And Danton had played such ignorance to his advantage. Foreign dignitaries, mesmerized by Gwynofar's delicate beauty, would whisper secrets to her that they would never reveal to Danton himself. In their foolishness, they convinced themselves that she would not pass them on to her husband as soon as they were gone. It had always seemed foolish to Salvator, but Danton had assured him that it was a common weakness among men, to let down their guard in the presence of a beautiful woman.

And beautiful she was, there was no denying that. Even in her middle years, shrouded in the black of mourning, she appeared regal and elegant. Those seeing her for the first time would make note of the cascade of golden hair that fell to the small of her back, the clear blue Kierdwyn eyes, and a face that was enhanced rather than despoiled by the first few lines of age now fanning out from the corners of her eyes, drawing attention to their depths. Men would die for such eyes, he thought. Some probably had.

As soon as she saw him, she reached out instinctively toward him: a mother's welcome. “Salvator!” Then she stopped suddenly, remembering what he was; her hands fell down awkwardly by her sides, even though she clearly ached to touch him. “Forgive me. Your vows—”

“The apology is mine to make, Mother.” How strange the title sounded on his lips! He had the sudden dizzying sensation of being caught between worlds, unable to manage stable footing in either. “But until my vows are set aside I must hold to them, and yes, that requires I have no physical contact with women.” He smiled slightly. “Even my mother.”

What did she really think of his faith? The Penitents' view of the Protectors and their mission was far from flattering. Had she taken that into consideration when she'd asked him to return, or had she hoped that such things would cease to matter once he set aside his priestly robes? There was no need to ask the question aloud; he knew what the answer would be. High Queen Gwynofar would have weighed every option before asking her second child to come home. She knew what his religion was about. She understood the risks of such a course. And she had judged it the best of all her options, even so.

So here he was, in this strange place that was no longer home to him, where the very stones under his feet seemed to echo his father's presence.
You served a great dream,
he thought to Danton,
and brought peace to this continent, albeit at the point of a sword. I would have preferred that Rurick inherit such responsibility, but in his absence I will do my best.

With a smile Gwynofar indicated a nearby table, where a large brass platter of breads and cheeses and another of roasted lamb were flanked by several heavy pewter pitchers and a matching goblet. It was quite an impressive array, given how little warning she'd had of his arrival. Clearly she had been prepared for his return and had even taken into account that he might circumvent the usual protocols in his arrival. Thus had she been with Danton, he remembered, always anticipating his needs. It was yet another quality in her that strangers tended to underestimate.

“I didn't know how hungry you would be when you arrived,” she told him, “so I prepared a bit of everything.”

He was indeed hungry and felt his stomach tighten at the sight of such a banquet. He quelled the sensation with effort, giving thanks to his god for testing him thus. Sacrifice had little value if it came too easily.

His hesitation was clearly not what she had expected. “You are allowed to eat, yes?”

A brief smile flickered across his lips. “It would be a short-lived faith if we were not.” He stepped forward to the table, and after a moment's contemplation took up a small piece of bread and a cup of plain water. “However, as a personal offering, I have sworn off all but the simplest fare until my coronation. Doubtless the royal cooks will be relieved.”