Sword of Jashan (Book 2) (14 page)

* * * * *

The Lord Mage had rooms near the royal wing of the castle. No guardsmen flanked his door; no one would dare attack someone with Oron’s capabilities and expect to live through the attempt. The outer room was full of light, one of the tools of color magery. Big, unshuttered windows let in a half-hearted breeze. An amulet of some sort, made of squares of deeply colored glass, hung in one window, reflecting colored stains on the whitewashed walls. A big framed mirror stood in one corner of the room, covered with silk.

Ander sat on a low bench, trying to concentrate on what Oron was telling him.

“My lord, you are not listening,” Oron said eventually.

Ander sighed. “I am sorry, my lord. Much has happened in the last days. I’m distracted.”

“So I see.” Oron sat next to him. His mage cloak settled in crumpled waves, pooling on the bench between them. Sinuous green and blue waves rose and sank in its depths. “You have been hearing rumors.”

“And warnings.” Ander fidgeted on the bench, then rose and began wandering around the room as he talked. “Warnings about Lord Callo, and about the King.”

“I, too, have heard rumors that the King would be happy to have Lord Callo succeed him.” Oron sighed. “The King rules his
righ
with force of will and color magery. He is strong. But you need not worry, for every
righ
in the land would rise up against him should he slay his own legal heir to advance the cause of a bastard half-
righ
like Lord Callo. Their bindings would shatter like thin glass. It would be a crime against the order of things, and the
righ
would not brook this.”

“I thought the
righ
could not rise up against the King, no matter what he did. Their bindings forbid it.”

Oron put out a gnarled hand and placed it over his heart. He made a strange grasping motion and pulled. When his hand came away, it drew with it a pale, luminous cord, like a cable to Oron’s heart.

Ander’s eyes widened. “The bond,” he said.

Oron nodded. “It is not visible to most. You have great power, Lord Ander, and you have been trained in how to see these things since you were a child.”

“But I haven’t seen the bond before, not even at my own ceremony,” Ander said. “Also, I can’t feel it at all.”

“You remember it is a rite the King performs, to make sure his mages cannot physically rise up against him. It is a chain of sorts—it does not keep a disgruntled mage from plotting, or disputing with the King. What it does is enjoin them, on Jashan’s own heart, not to raise a hand against the King.”

“And only the legitimate King can place the bond,” Ander said.

Oron nodded. “It is so. Though the chief mages of the realm work with bonds of many kinds, these we cannot place. This is Jashan’s bond. Legend says it was first enjoined upon Valotnor himself, the first
righ
King.”

“What do you mean when you say the bindings would shatter like glass?”

Oron put his hand back over his heart. The pearly light glowed about his hand for a moment, then seemed to sink into the flesh and vanish. Ander felt a chill run through him. He knew he had a bond just like the one he had just seen, placed when his color magery first began to manifest. As far as he knew, the bond had never kept him from having an unkind thought about the King, or disobeying the man’s commands.

“The bonds would be destroyed. Why would they not? Jashan would not brook an evil such as a King slaying his own legitimate heir. I am sure he would dissolve the power of the King’s bindings.”

Ander looked away. This was religion, and he had never seen anything to convince him that Jashan took an interest in what happened in the world. He had hoped Oron spoke from his wisdom in color magery, but instead it was all mystical faith in the legend of Jashan. In truth, he thought King Martan could do whatever he wished about the succession, and no god would intervene.

“Enough of this,” Oron said. “We will go back to today’s practice.”

“I have done this thing many times,” Ander said. “I could do it when I was a boy untrained. It is but a ball of energy, Mage Oron.”

“Ah, but today we do something else with the ball of energy.”

Ander sighed and put out his hand. It took very little effort to generate the ball of light at his fingertips.

“Now,” Oron said. “Make of it a shield.”

That was simple, too. Ander pressed upon his ball of energy until it glowed thin and hot like a huge disk, a shield as high as his head, red-hot in the whitewashed room. Mage Oron tapped on it, and it rang like metal.

The old man smiled. Then he reached out a hand and aimed a thin arrow of light at the shield. The magery bent as it approached Ander, curved around the shield he had created, and struck Ander on the arm.

“Ow!” Ander said. He shook his singed arm.

“You will learn today something only mages of great skill have learned. That is how mage energy can bypass a physical shield,” Oron said. “You can use this in battle, and even to avoid being seen by others. Past time for worrying, my lord. Give me your shield, and I will show you how to defeat it.”

* * * * *

After two more visits to the practice ring, Ander was becoming accustomed to being vanquished by Froman. He did not understand why King Martan put so much emphasis on competence with the sword; after all, Ander would rule with color magery, and he would command other men who would fight for him. The Lord Mage, Oron, said Ander’s strength and skill with the color magery was unparalleled, but Sharpeyes never mentioned Ander’s mage skill.

His tutor shrugged when he asked about it. “No one understands what goes on in the King’s head. He is known as Sharpeyes for a reason, and he takes the long view. I do know that he himself still trains in the ring.”

The interminable training, as well as lessons with Oron and Theodin, made Ander too exhausted every evening to put brush to canvas. All around him were things he longed to paint, from his royal uncle’s hard, lean face to the sculptures in the courtyard gardens, but he had no time. The few moments he did have were devoted to attempting to transfer the miniature of his betrothed to a larger canvas, but he had barely begun.

The King insisted Ander train in the ceremonial ring, which was in a courtyard so that the nobility could observe formal contests in comfort. Arched windows looked out on the ring from ground level and two higher floors, the highest level opening onto a balcony near the King’s rooms. The stone walls of the castle echoed back the shouts of men exercising in the ring, and rang with the hollow crack of practice weapons meeting each other during the hours when access to this ring was allowed.

The common guardsmen did not practice here, but in ordinary rings near the stables. This was a public and uncomfortable place, where Ander felt on display. Sometimes the King sponsored an exhibition here. The
righ
tended to contest here, where their friends could place wagers on the outcome. Ander had seen men leaning over the second-level balcony rail, mocking one of their acquaintances who had performed poorly that day. Even servants sometimes clustered in the shade on the lowest level, chatting and watching the
righ
sweat in the sun.

Every time Ander worked in the ceremonial ring, there were onlookers. This almost quelled his anxiety that the King would try to dispose of him under the guise of a training mishap of some kind.

“The King does not like me,” Ander said. “Nor does the Council.”

“I think they do not like boys of your age in general,” Shan-il said. “However, they need not like you to see you are the legitimate heir. You are young; King Martan himself is not so old, and should reign for many more years. It will take time for the Council to know you; you will have that time, my lord.”

“He favors Lord Callo. I don’t know why; perhaps he craves Callo’s ku’an ability for the royal bloodline.”

Shan-il put his hand on Ander’s shoulder so he would capture the boy’s attention. This was an uncharacteristically intimate move from the tutor, who had always been carefully deferential to his student in spite of the authority vested in his position. Ander stilled, and listened.

“Lord Ander, look at me. Your ears are being filled with many rumors. That is what courts are like; you know this from your history. You must develop a sense of judgment to help you weed out the drivel. For example—I am not so sure the King is your enemy.”

Ander looked down at his feet, remembering the King’s malicious smile. “I think there is no doubt.”

“You know someone has attempted to capture you. You have only Lord Callo’s word—and the face of one familiar man at Northgard, who came there who knows how?—that the King is behind it. I am inclined to agree with Lady Dria Mar, who says Lord Callo is your enemy. You must be on your guard, my lord. You are not his match with a sword, you know.”

“But I am a color mage,” Ander said, letting the snap and curl of controlled energy escape its customary bonds to lick into the air around him.

Shan-il stepped back, bowing. “You are indeed, my lord. Remember that when you need it.”

Today they were only a few minutes into the practice when Ander sensed something wrong. His heart started to pound as soon as he saw King Martan watching from the open arch on the third floor. He hesitated for an instant, and Froman pulled his strike before it could slam Ander’s shield into his arm and break a bone.

“What was that?” Froman yelled, dropping his stance and wiping the sweat from his forehead with his forearm. “Do you want me to break your arm?”

“Sorry,” Ander said. He gritted his teeth. “I was distracted.” He bowed in the King’s direction. Froman turned and bowed, as well.

Sharpeyes waved at them. “Lord Ander, join me.”

Froman smirked at him. “Good luck. Wonder what you did?”

Ander gave his weapons over to a servant and hurried upstairs to attend the King. Behind him, the presence of Balan ran Gesset and his assigned guardsman gave him some comfort.

By the time he reached the King’s solar on the third floor, the courtiers had been dismissed. Balan and the guardsman waited outside as Ander entered the room. The King was accompanied by Lord Dionar, his Lord Commander, and by Lady Dria Mar, who fussed with the corner of her hem as she awaited her son. A stout man Ander did not know stood before the small group, dressed in a blue tunic over one of marigold yellow. Two earrings glowed in each ear, in the Leyish fashion.

“Commendably fast,” the King said as Ander arrived.

“Your Majesty,” puffed Ander.

“The next time you drop your guard like that when you are surprised, you will deserve what you get.” There was no humor in the King’s voice or in his piercing stare.

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“I called you here to meet the emissary from Leyland, who has a message for you.”

Ander’s spirits lifted. “Is my betrothed here?”

The stout man bowed. “My Lord Ander, I have been ordered to tell you that your Princess betrothed sends you her regards and wishes for health and success.”

Ander felt uncertain; he looked around for guidance from the King, but Sharpeyes said nothing. “My thanks, Hon Emissary,” Ander said. “I thought—I understood she was to come with you on this journey? So I could meet her in person?”

“I am afraid there has been a delay,” the man said. “Circumstances being what they are, King Therey thought we should wait for certain questions to be resolved before the lady joins you here for the betrothal ceremony.”

“What circumstances?” Ander asked, too bluntly for this diplomacy.

The emissary stuttered. “Ah, until things are more settled here, my lord.”

Dria Mar frowned and leaned forward. “Things are quite settled, Hon Emissary. Is there some question about the contract? Or the position your princess will hold here?”

“Exactly, Lady Dria Mar. I am sure you understand the Princess’ future must be protected. With all due respect, of course.” The man’s face was red. He cast nervous glances at the King, as though he expected some rejoinder, or some assistance. Sharpeyes sat back, holding a wine glass between two fingers, and watched.

Lady Dria Mar glared at the emissary. She turned her upper body and looked meaningfully at the King.

“See here the result of the confusion about the succession,” she snapped. “Your Majesty, you must make known to the world in all haste that my son is your rightful heir. The gossip grows increasingly wild. And see what it has wrought! The alliance you have fought for with Leyland is in danger.”

“I believe you fought for it, Dria,” Sharpeyes said.

The emissary’s dark gaze went from person to person, missing nothing.

“Though of course I welcome this connection with our neighbors to the east,” the King said with a nod at the emissary.

Dria Mar scowled. It turned her round face into a caricature of displeasure. “We will speak of this in Council,” she said.

“Your threats mean nothing, Dria. Feel free to speak with that Council of muddled sheep,” Sharpeyes said.

The Leyish emissary’s eyes were avid. Ander wondered if affairs of the throne were discussed in such directness at the Leyish King’s table.

“And enough of that,” Sharpeyes said. “One would think I was a hundred years old, ready to expire tomorrow. I have the issue of the succession well in hand. I warn you, sister, that further discussion of this matter will displease me greatly.”

“Your Majesty,” Lord Dionar murmured.

“Yes, I have not forgotten.”

The King looked around the little room, his eyes resting on each person there. Ander felt the sun on his back through the open arch, and a shout of laughter from the far side of the courtyard that seemed leagues away.

“There is news from Ha’las,” the King continued. “Lord Dionar has consented to review it here, in front of—” his mouth twisted—“my heir. Our beloved emissary from Leyland will want to hear this news as well, I believe, since Leyish ships travel often—and illegally—to Ha’las.”

The emissary’s face paled. “Your Majesty, I—”

The King waved a hand. “I am well aware of the activities of certain of your captains, especially one Ghosian who makes port in Two Merkhan twice a year. This is a matter for our representatives to discuss separately, Hon Emissary.”