Wizard of the Grove (2 page)

Rael held the smile until his horse carried him out of the circle of torchlight. Once he would have said something, tried to find the camaraderie his father seemed to share with every man, woman, and child in the kingdom. Once. But all the words had been said and still the people moved away. Not rejecting, not exactly, but not accepting either.

Let them move if they will,
he told himself wearily, replacing his hood.
I
have enough who stand by me.
Then he moved back into the dark and quiet.

*   *   *

At the smaller of the palace gates, he allowed the guard to get a good look at him, and passed unchallenged through the outer wall. Except for a sleepy groom waiting to take his horse, and the men on watch, it appeared the palace slept. It didn't, of course, for within its walls the palace was almost a city in itself and the work needed to keep it running smoothly continued day and night.

He walked quickly across the outer courtyard, slipped in a side door, and began to make his way silently through the maze of stone to
the tower where he had his chambers. Once, he froze in shadow and an arguing pair of courtiers passed him by.

At the cross-corridor leading to the king's rooms, Rael noticed the royal standard still posted, the six swords on a field of green hanging limp and still against the wall. His father had not retired for the night. Wide awake himself, Rael turned toward the royal bedchamber, hoping the king would not be too busy to speak with him.

The guards saluted as he approached and moved aside to give him access to the door.

“Is he alone?” asked the prince.

“Aye, sir, he is,” replied the senior of the two.

Rael nodded his thanks and pushed the door open.

“Father?”

The king sat at his desk studying a large map, one hand holding down a curling edge, the other buried in his beard.

Rael was thinner than his father, his eyes an unworldly green, but aside from that the resemblance was astounding. Both were handsome men, although neither believed it. They shared the same high forehead over black slashes of brow, the same angular cheeks and proud arch of nose, even the determined set to their jaws and slightly mocking smiles matched. Those who had known the king as a young man said to look at the prince was to look at a piece of the past. The people of Ardhan might wonder at the identity of his mother, and they did, but none could doubt that Rael was the king's son.

Raen looked up as the door opened and his face brightened when he saw who it was.

“Come in, lad,” he called. “And shut the damn door before it blows out my lamp.”

Rael did as he was bid and approached the desk, collapsing with a boneless, adolescent grace into the sturdy chair across from his father.

“The Western Border?”

The king nodded. “And you'd best get familiar with it yourself. We march as soon as the armies are assembled.”

Rael leaned forward to study the map. “You're surely not assembling
all six provinces here?” He wondered where they'd put everyone. The six dukes and their households jammed the palace to the rafters during seventh year festivals. The six dukes and their armies . . . !

“No, only Cei and Aliston will come here to Belkar. We'll join with Hale on the march.” He traced their route with a callused finger. “Lorn and Riven meet us on the battlefield.” His mouth twisted. “And it's to be hoped those two hotheads will concentrate on fighting the enemy instead of each other. I'm thankful you've no rival for your lady's hand.”

Rael felt his ears redden.

“You can keep no secrets in this rabbit warren, lad. It's a good match; her father and I both approve. You're lucky I've no need to join you to some foreign princess to tie a treaty.”

“Join?” Rael repeated weakly. He'd barely gotten beyond worshiping from a distance and his father spoke of joinings?

The older man laughed. “You're right,” he mocked, but kindly, “it's bad luck to talk of joining on the eve of war.” He turned again to the map. “And on the eve of war we are; I want the armies on the road in two weeks.”

“In two weeks? Father, it can't be done.” The Elite, the Palace Guard and the Ducal Guards that made up the standing army, yes, and, he supposed, most City Guards could adapt fast enough, but when Rael thought of the chaos involved in turning farmers and craftsmen into soldiers his head ached.

“It's going to have to be done,” the king said shortly. “We have no choice. Melac's moving very fast; he wants those iron mines in Riven badly and has had plans to invade us for years. Though he's a fool if he thinks he's in charge, not that madman he has for a counselor.” He looked down at the map and shook his head. “Still, madman or not, he's a brilliant leader. I've never heard of anyone getting an army into the field so quickly.” Teeth gleamed for an instant in the lamplight. “If I didn't know all the wizards were dead. . . .”

The wizards had destroyed themselves before there was an Ardhan or a king to rule it. Their dying convulsions had reshaped the face of the world.

“Father! You don't think . . . ?”

“Don't be ridiculous, boy. I was joking.” Raen leaned back in his chair and looked fondly at his son. His expression hardened. “You're not wearing your sword.”

Rael's hand jerked to his belt and he flushed.

“I saw Mother today, to tell her I wouldn't be back to the Grove for some time. You know how steel upsets her.”

“Well, your guards were armed, I hope?”

Rael looked at the cold hearth, the hunting tapestry on the wall, the great canopied bed, everywhere but at his father.

“You took no guards.” The king's voice was sharper than Rael's missing sword.

“The guards won't go into the Grove.”

“The guards will go where I tell them.” And then he thought of Milthra's reaction to heavily armed men tearing up her peace and reconsidered. Gods, he missed her. “Well, they can wait with your horse at the edge of the forest, then. They needn't go into the Grove.”

An uncomfortable silence fell as both considered another who would not go into the Grove.

“You'll take them with you next time,” Raen said finally. “I don't want a dead son.”

Rael turned the brilliant green of his eyes on the king. “Who would want to kill me, Father?”

“Balls of Chaos, boy, how should I know?” Raen looked away from the Lady's eyes. “Melac's men. Madmen. You're prince and heir, my only son. When you ride from now on, you ride with guards.” King's command, not father's. “I don't care where you're going. I will not lose you.”

“Yes, sir.” Suddenly, Rael made a decision. He was tired, he decided, of bouncing from the pain of one parent to the pain of the other and tired too of pretending he didn't see that pain because they both so obviously tried to keep it from him. He took his courage in both hands and asked what he'd never dared ask before. “Father? Why don't you go to the Grove?”

Raen stared at the map without seeing it. He remembered ivory and
silver and green, green eyes and strong smooth limbs wrapped around him. He remembered a love so deep he could drown in it.

“How did your mother look when you left her this afternoon?” he asked hoarsely.

Rael thought about his last sight of the hamadryad as she merged back into her tree.

“As always, beautiful; but worried and sad.”

“And her age?”

“Her age?” He remembered how he'd wanted to protect her. “She seemed very young.”

“Now look at me.”

“Sir?”

“LOOK AT ME!” Raen stood so suddenly that his chair overturned. His hands clenched to fists and his voice rose to a roar. “Once my hair was as thick and black as yours. You'll notice that what I have left, and there isn't much, is gray. There was a day I could defeat any man in Ardhan with my bare hands, but no longer. I used to be able to follow the flight of a hawk in the sun. Now I'm lucky if I can see the damned bird at all! I grew this beard to hide the lines of age!” He paused, drew a shuddering breath and his voice fell until it was almost a whisper. “Your mother hasn't changed, but I am growing old. She must not see me like this.”

Rael was on his feet as well, staring at his father in astonishment. “You're not old!”

The king's smile was not reflected in his eyes. “Fifty-two years weigh heavily on a man, and your mother is ageless.” He raised a hand to stop the next protest. “I appreciate your denials, lad, but I know what I see.”

Unfortunately, there was nothing to deny. His father was a mortal man and his mother stood outside of time.

“Mother loves you. It wouldn't matter to her.”

“It would matter to me. Let her love me as I was.”

Rael ached with the pain in his father's voice that was a twin to the pain in his mother's.

“Father . . .”

“No, Rael.” Raen put his hands on his son's shoulders but avoided the leaf-green glow of his eyes. “There is nothing you can do. Go to bed. We have a busy time ahead of us.”

“Yes, sir.”

Is he too old for me to hold?
Raen wondered, looking for his child and seeing only a young man.

Am I too old to be held?
Rael asked the dignity of his seventeen years.

No.

It comforted them both greatly.

If I
can only get him to the Grove,
Rael thought as he left his father's room.
If I
can only get him to the Grove, everything will be all right.

“O
ut of bed, milord. The Duke of Belkar and some of his men rode in last night and your father wants to see you in the small petition room.”

Rael buried his head under the pillow as the middle-aged man, who had been his servant/companion since before he could remember, pulled back the heavy curtains and let in the weak early morning light. “Oh, go away, Ivan, it's barely dawn.”

“It's an hour past.” Strong hands dragged the blankets away with the familiarity of long service. “Get up or you won't have time for a wash and bite before you see the king.”

There was time for the wash but not the bite and Rael's stomach complained bitterly as he slipped into the room where the daily business of the kingdom was most often conducted. Raen looked up at the sound, pushed the remnants of his own breakfast across the table, and turned his attention back to the document he studied. More than a little embarrassed, Rael took a chunk of bread and slid into the only vacant chair. The Duke of Belkar smiled at him and the other man, who by his armor could only be one of Belkar's two captains, raised an edge of his lip in what have been either a greeting or a grimace.

Finally the king scrawled his signature at the bottom of the document, set his seal in wax, and gave the paper to the Messenger standing patiently at his elbow. Then he looked up at his son.

“Belkar and I have talked it over and it's been decided that you'll command the Elite.”

Rael choked on the bread. The men of the Elite were the best fighters in Ardhan. Every young man who could use a sword dreamed of joining their company. And he was to command them. He suddenly thought of something. “But, sir, the king commands the Elite.”

“The king also makes the rules, and I've changed this one. As prince and heir, you must have a command. I thought of creating a company for you out of the Palace Guard. You've trained with them and most of them know you, but the Elite is already a self-contained unit, used to serving under a royal commander.” Black brows rose. “Or don't you want to command the Elite?”

“Yes, sir!”
The Elite,
Rael thought.

“As prince and heir,” the king continued, a smile twitching at the corners of his mouth, “you'll be obeyed, but I hasten to point out that, training aside, you know little of actual warfare, so defer to the captain.”

“Yes, sir.” Rael had every intention of deferring to the captain. He'd been terrified of the thickset little man for as long as he could remember.

“Before you head down to the barracks, stop off at the armorers and get fitted for a new helmet, breastplate, and greaves. Your sword's fine.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, get going.”

“Yes, sir!”

“He'll be in the thick of the fighting with the Elite,” Belkar pointed out as the prince dashed out of the room.

“Aye,” agreed the king grimly. “But they'll have to go through the Elite to get to him. It's the safest place I can think of.”

“You could order him to remain here,” suggested the duke, not at all pleased to have both the king and his only heir in such danger.

“I could, but I'll be damned if I'll chain my son to the walls.” Raen smiled ruefully. “And that's what I'd have to do to keep him here.”

*   *   *

By the time Rael arrived at the Elite's training yard, the euphoria was beginning to fade. Though the news of his appointment had obviously preceded him, the Elite weren't yet ready to change their allegiance from captain and king/commander to captain, king, and prince/commander. Every one of them, soldier and servant, politely ignored him as he made his way to the practice ring.

Doan, the captain, perched on the top rail of the fence surrounding the ring, looking like a well-armed gargoyle. He welcomed the prince with a grunt and slapped the rail in invitation, never once taking his eyes off the men training.

Rael climbed up and sat down, a little farther from Doan than was strictly polite. He couldn't help himself; something about the captain put him on edge. It wasn't the man's appearance—although the barrel chest, bandy legs, and habitual scowl made him far from appealing—it was more the feeling of tremendous power just barely under control that he seemed to project. Palace rumor whispered Doan had dwarf blood and Rael believed it. When he looked at the captain through his mother's eyes, he felt the same strong belonging to the land that he felt in the Grove but none of the peace or serenity.

Wood cracked on wood and then wood on bone and then one of the men in the ring was down, blood streaming from a cut on his forehead, his quarterstaff lying useless on the sand beside him.

“Get him out of there,” grunted Doan. He turned to the prince and pointed at his sword with a gnarled finger. “The swordmaster says you know how to use that thing.”

Rael's back stiffened. He'd never trained with the Elite, for theirs was a very close fraternity, but Doan had seen him work with the Palace Guard often enough to know he could use his sword. And his strength and speed were common knowledge.

“Show me.”

As regally as he was able, Rael shrugged and slid off the fence. He drew his sword and tossed his scabbard to one side.

Suddenly, every Elite not on duty surrounded the ring.

Rael looked around at the grinning faces, swallowed nervously, and
met the eyes of the captain. They reflected the early morning light in such a way they appeared to glow deeply red. Rael swallowed again and his chin went up. So the new commander had to prove he was worthy, did he? Well, he'd show them.

“Who do I fight?”

A slow smile spread over the guard captain's face. “Me,” he said. “Your Highness.” And he dropped into the ring.

Doan's attack came so quickly, the fight almost ended before it truly began. To Rael's astonishment, his strength and speed alone were not enough and he was forced to use every bit of skill the swordmaster had drilled into him over the years. The prince was a slender flame tipped with steel. Doan stood solid, each movement deliberate and so slow next to the Lady's son that it seemed he must be cut to shreds. But Rael could not get past his guard, and when their swords met he had to use all of his unworldly strength to block the blow.

Less than three minutes later it was finished.

Doan bent and retrieved Rael's sword. “You'll do,” he said as he handed it over. “Commander.”

A cheer went up from the surrounding Elite and Rael became aware that a great deal of coin was changing hands. Snatches of conversation drifted back from the dispersing men.

“. . . told you he'd get his own in . . .”

“. . . expected the captain to beat him to his knees . . .”

“. . . four coppers, you jackass, but then I've seen him fight before . . .”

And echoed from more than one direction: “He'll do.”

“They'd follow the prince because they had to,” Doan grunted as Rael sheathed his sword. “Better you make them want to.”

Rael straightened his shoulders. “And how do I make them want to?”

“You've started already.” Doan hacked and spit in the sand. “You've proven you can fight.”

“But you beat me.”

“I know. I beat them, too. But you showed them you could've made the company on your own.”

Rael flushed with pleasure. “I could've?”

“Just said so, didn't I?” Doan hooked his thumbs behind his broad leather belt and headed out of the practice ring. “Now if you'll come with me . . .” The pause was barely audible. “. . . Commander, I'll fill you in on your command.”

*   *   *

“. . . but the strength of the Elite lies in flexibility. We fight on any terrain, on any terms. It all depends on the lay of the land, the enemy, and the Duke of Hale, who runs mostly cavalry. We've fought beside his horsemen before though, and it . . . am I going too fast for you, Commander?”

“Huh?” Rael flushed and dragged himself out of a pleasant daydream where the enemy had been falling back in terrified disorder before his charge. “I'm sorry, Captain. I, I didn't hear.”

“Obviously.” Doan smiled, an expression that lessened neither his ugliness nor his ferocity. “Drink your ale.”

The mug was at his lips before Rael realized he'd followed the order without thinking. As it was there, he drank.
The chain of command definitely needs work,
he thought, putting the empty mug down amid the ruins of lunch. When he looked up, he saw by Doan's expression that the thought had clearly shown on his face. He reddened, then raised his chin and met the captain's eyes squarely. To his surprise, Doan merely nodded in what seemed to be satisfaction.

“Excuse me, Captain, Commander.” The Elite First sketched a salute intended to take in both his superior officers. Rael had observed his father with the Elite often enough to realize that the First's apparent disregard for royal rank was, in fact, a form of acceptance and his heart swelled with pride. “The lad's been found. He's waiting in the guardroom.”

“Send him in.”

“Did you lose someone?” Rael asked as the First left the room.

“Did I lose someone?” Doan's brow furrowed as he turned to stare at the prince. “Did I lose someone?” And then he chuckled, a friendly sound so at odds with his appearance that it was Rael's turn to stare. He was still chuckling when the lad in question entered the room.

The young man, in the full uniform of the Palace Guard, was the
prince's age or possibly a year or two older. He carried his helmet on his hip but, as his pale hair was damp, he'd probably just removed it. He had a strong face with high cheekbones, a thin-lipped mouth, and deep-set, light blue eyes. The glint on his upper lip may or may not have been the beginning of a mustache. He stood self-consciously at parade rest, his eyes regulation front and center, his gaze locked on a spot some three feet above Doan's head. Every achingly correct inch of him fairly trembled to know why he'd been called into such exalted presence—the exalted presence obviously being the captain of the Elite and not the prince and heir.

Rael wondered what the guardsman had done to bring him to the notice of the Elite Captain. There were no openings in the company. And besides, he was too young.

“Rutgar, Hovan's son, from Cei.” Doan had stopped chuckling.

“Yes, sir.” It wasn't a question but it seemed to need a response.

“Joined your Duke's Guard at fifteen and moved to the Palace Guard last year.”

“Yes, sir.”

“You're moving again.” He pointed with his chin across the table. “The commander needs an armsman. You're it.”

“Sir?” This from both young men. It was enough to drag the young guard's eyes off the wall. They studied one another for a heartbeat and then Rutgar went back to looking at nothing and the prince turned to Doan.

“But I've already got a servant.”

“I didn't say he was to be your servant. He's your armsman. The men fight in pairs, live in pairs, the officers can't. He'll take care of your armor and your horse—trust me, you won't have time—and guard your back if it needs guarding.” Red-brown eyes raked over the newly appointed armsman. “He's young but,” he added pointedly, “so are you. You can learn together. Anyway, he'd have made the company himself before this war's over.”

A small explosion of air escaped from the pressed line of Rutgar's mouth.

“Did you say something, Armsman?”

“No, Captain.”

“Good. Get outfitted. Meet us on the reviewing square in half an hour.”

“Yes, sir.” Only the gleam in his eye showed the young man's emotion as he wheeled and exited the room.

Rael shook his head and his brow furrowed.

“Problems, Commander?”

“It just happened so fast . . .” Rael squared his shoulders. “What if I wanted someone else as my armsman?”

Earth-colored eyebrows rose. “Do you?”

“Well, no, it's just . . .”

“A good commander should have faith in his officers.” The tone was not quite sarcastic. “Now, if you're ready, Commander, we'll review the troops.”

*   *   *

The men of Belkar, farmers and herdsmen for the most part, began to gather outside the city. Soon they were joined by the fishermen of Cei and the shepherds of Aliston. Most of these men were skilled with a quarterstaff or spear and some were fine archers, but very few of them could use a sword. In less than two weeks, they had to be an army. It would have been impossible had they not wanted to be an army so badly. Raen was a good king, more importantly he was a popular king, but they wouldn't be fighting for him. They'd be fighting for their land.

“Riven and Lorn know the mountains and they take care of border raids every winter,” Raen said, jabbing at the map with a dagger. “They'll do. We can count on Hale to supply cavalry out of those crazy horsemen of his.” He sucked his teeth and looked grim. “They say Melac can field tens of thousands of trained soldiers.”

“Impossible,” scoffed Cei. “Mere rumor.”

But none of the men in the room looked very happy.

The palace bulged with the three dukes and their retinues, officers
and couriers, clerks and servants, until it resembled an anthill more than a royal residence.

Rael was up at dawn and in bed long past dark but still there weren't enough hours in the day.

He had training.

“You just removed the ears from your horse, Commander. Try it again and swing wider.”

He had fittings for new armor in the plain, cold steel of the Elite.

“Stop squirming, Highness.”

“You're tickling.”

“I assure you, Highness, it's unintentional.”

He had Royal Obligations.

“But I don't want to have dinner with the dukes, Ivan. Why can't I eat with my men?”