Sword of Jashan (Book 2) (25 page)

“Yes, but that was much better,” Froman said, stepping back into a bow. “You improve steadily, Lord Ander. Frustrating, isn’t it, to get pushed back when you’re concentrating on your sword work? I was so mad when my swordmaster did that to me that I boycotted practice for a sennight.”

“It did make me angry.” He was still angry, in spite of Froman’s sudden show of friendliness.

“Lesson learned, though,” Froman said. “A real fight is not between blades alone.”

“You outweigh me by two stone,” Ander said.

“You have not reached your full growth yet, and I think you will never be a bulky man. You must be prepared to fight a heavier opponent.”

“I will have magery to help me win any such fight.” But Ander let go of his anger. It was a favor Froman had done him, reminding him of what Islarian had tried to pound into him, lesson after lesson. “Thank you, anyway. It is not your fault, I suppose, that the King insists I spend these candlemarks learning things I will never need.”

“He values physical ability greatly. He still trains in the ring with Dionar. I have heard he still wins practice matches against the King’s Bitch.” Froman smirked, but Ander heard respect in his tone of voice.

The world seemed to go light again. Ander shook his head, trying to clear it, but that was a mistake. He braced both feet apart to steady himself as the ring spun around him.

Froman frowned. “Are you all right?” He put a hand on Ander’s shoulder, bracing him. “You could not have been hurt, could you? I know I didn’t hit your head.” His tone was so level that Ander knew he was hiding scorn at the boy’s apparent weakness.

“I’m fine.” He took a deep breath, and the world steadied. “I may be catching that chill that has been going around. Been feeling lightheaded on and off for a couple of days.”

Froman stepped back. Ander thought he looked scornful. The young lord spent most of his time riding and practicing in the ring with his cadre of muscular friends. The group of young men had a physical, earthy humor that Ander did not find funny; and he definitely did not appreciate how Froman’s friends cuffed the servants when they were displeased.

Froman was frowning. “You don’t look well. Let us go to the arms room so you can sit. Shall I call a Healer?”

“No. Thank you.”

“But you are white as Shela’s ass. I don’t want you in the dirt.” Froman propped both their practice weapons against the rail.

“I am better now. My men are here if I need them. You needn’t take care of me.”

Froman pulled him toward the arms room. “My lord father would have my head if I left you here to fall over like a teenage girl. Come!”

Ander flushed at the comparison. “That didn’t bother you when you rode off at Lake Heart and left me to be attacked by ruffians. I did not see you then!”

“You know full well I was delayed. Blocked by those rabble from the slums. I was questioned about it at length, believe me.” Froman’s voice acquired a scornful note. “My lord father said I was fortunate he had accumulated enough influence to save my hide.”

Ander’s guards were at his side. “My lord? Are you well?” asked one man.

“I’m fine,” Ander said.

The man frowned, but stepped a length away to give him space.

Two boys sat on a wooden bench in the arms room, tending someone’s armor.

“Out!” Froman said. “Leave that stuff; you may return for it in a candlemark or so.”

The boys scuttled off. They did not seem at all upset at being ordered to take an hour away from their task.

Ander looked around. The room was empty of anyone else. Through the open double doors he saw Balan ran Gesset leaning against the wall of the opposite building, arms crossed. He suspected Balan stood like that on purpose, to show off the strength in his arms, so that his very presence appeared a warning to anyone who might threaten Ander.

“Your watchdog,” Froman noted. “I deserve that, I suppose.”

Ander sat on the bench the boys had vacated. With a sigh, Froman took a seat on a stool against the opposite wall.

“I have been told I owe you an apology,” the young lord said. He seemed to grit his teeth, as if forced to speak. “You seem all right for a child, once you get past that stiffness of yours, so I’ll hope you don’t call your dog in to slay me for this. It was not the fault of the ruffians that I was nowhere near when you were attacked at Lake Heart. I left you.”

Ander controlled the bolt of rage that flew through him. “Why? Were you ordered away?”

Froman looked down at his feet. “It was a joke, Lord Ander—a trick. It was a bad one, I am sure. Also, I was in a snit. I have a temper, and sometimes it leads me to—well, that is done. I was a fool, and my lord father has berated me at length for it, and stopped my allowance as well so I must spend nights at home while my friends drink the taverns dry. But I have been thinking about this. Someone wants you out of the way, Lord Ander. Someone with power.”

Ander sighed. “This is not news to me. There were two attempts made on me at Northgard, before I ever came here. So, why tell me this now, my lord? Why the sudden change of heart? I have been here sennights now, and you have not been friendly to me.”

“I know. You are not easy to befriend, all wrapped around with watchdogs and watching me always with those eyes.” Froman held up a hand. “We are nothing like each other, but friendliness aside, you are the rightful
righ
heir to the throne. Even sort of brattish as you are.”

Ander sucked in a breath, outraged.

Froman cut off his response. “Do you know what happened to the man who survived the attack on you?”

“He has been slain.”

“Yes! Privately, in the cells, instead of before a court as such things are usually done. It is whispered that he denounced Lord Callo. He said a yellow-eyed
righ
had hired him to take you, and then Sharpeyes ordered him slain before he could spread that word to anyone else, even before Mage Oron could interrogate the man.”

“So?”

“So he did not want the Royal Bastard denounced in front of the court! Sharpeyes wants that abomination to be King after him. A product of a union between a
righ
and a ku’an they say, a bastard that should have been exposed at birth!”

Ander stared at the agitated lord. “And this has led you to tell me all this because?”

“My lord father is right, damn his eyes. I have been wrong to disregard you, and I ask your forgiveness for that. You are the rightful heir, son of the King’s brother and a
righ
noblewoman. You belong on the throne when Sharpeyes dies, not some bastard who should never have lived. It is an insult to all
righ
that he should even try to replace you! Sharpeyes has always been devious, but even my lord father says now he grows too bold.”

“He is used to always having his way,” Ander said. “I am glad you support me. But Lord Callo has always said he does not wish to take the throne.” He watched Froman intently, gauging the young lord’s reactions.

“That is just talk.” Froman paced across the room. “Of course he wants the throne. Otherwise, why did he even come here? He is smart enough to know that if he admits it, he will not last a sennight. I am not the only one who thinks he should never have lived.”

Ander said, “Sit down, my lord.”

Froman jittered in place for a moment, and then burst out: “I cannot sit down! Not until you give me some idea what you are thinking about all this. Will you call ran Gesset in to kill me for abandoning you in the woods?”

“Oh, sit down! You make me nervous.”

Froman swore and sat down, his eyes glaring into Ander’s.

“Is this punishment?” Froman said. “Because if so, I . . .”

“I am not going to have you slain for your honesty,” Ander said.

“Oh.” Froman took a deep breath and looked up into Ander’s eyes. “I half suspected you would. My lord father threatened that you would, even if Sharpeyes cares not what becomes of you. Thank you.”

“You are welcome.” Ander stood and waited for a moment to make sure the room did not start swaying again before he took a few steps away from Froman. The height advantage made him feel better. “Now look. Lord Callo says he had nothing to do with the attack on me.” Froman snorted. Ander raised a hand. “I have no thought whether to believe him this time, but did you know he saved me twice at Northgard from attempts on my life by armed men?”

“No. Perhaps he was just trying to mislead you.”

“He is a puzzle. I like him, you know. We spent time together, talking about color magery. He did not try to slay me then. He is friendly, and does not stand on ceremony. I think he has been despised all his life.”

“So? If he has tried to assassinate you, what does that matter?”

“If he has, it matters naught. I will order him killed with no remorse.” Ander shoved down the anxiety that came with that statement. He did not think he would ever be the kind of King who would order someone slain, without remorse. “But if he has not, and is merely being manipulated to set the
righ
against him, then I have no reason to turn him away.”

Froman had relaxed a little, and now stretched his legs out in front of him and leaned back on his hands. “What? Not the fact that he is a half ku’an bastard?”

“Certainly not.”

Froman’s head jerked up.

“Think about it! If he is my friend, then he can use those talents to strengthen my reign. Why would I dispose of him? He is very strong, you know.”

“My lord father says he will die before long anyway. He says an untrained color mage cannot live, and with this additional ability from his Ha’lasi sire, the energies will eat him alive.” Froman sounded as if he would like to watch that happen.

“Or he may succeed at winning over the mage energies. He has gone with Yhallin to do whatever unholy treatment she deems needful.” Ander shivered. He did not like what he had heard of Yhallin Magegard.

“No, he was sent off with her to get him out of the way of the pissed-off nobles around here who would otherwise have his head for the attack on you.”

Ander said, “I do not abandon my friends. I do not care if he is a half-
righ
. I will not abandon him unless he has chosen to be my enemy. The same goes for you, Lord Froman. You say you have thought about this. Do you wish to swear loyalty to me?”

Until just recently Ander had no house, and no allies. Now he had Balan ran Gesset, Commander Eran who had bent the knee to him after the attack at Lake Heart, Mage Oron, Hon Jesel and possibly this strong young lord at his side. If he could ever resolve this suspicion against Lord Callo, then he thought he could count Callo and Hon Kirian, and Chiss among those who would swear him personal loyalty.

“It’s why I came to talk to you. It is wrong, what they are doing—whoever is behind it. You are a
righ
, a color mage, and rightful heir by birth. The King cannot just set you aside when someone he fancies more steps up. Not to mention a bastard who shouldn’t be permitted here at all! The
righ
will not like it, my father says.”

Ander grinned. “I will accept. You are not a flatterer, Lord Froman, but you are honest, and I can use an honest man.”

Froman stood, and bowed. “My lord! I will stand with you in every fight. Even this damned political fight you face. I have friends I can convince to join me, if you don’t mind a lot of asses with more money than sense. But do not put me next to the Royal Bastard.”

“I will remember that. But I do not want to hear you maligning him any more.” Ander felt the world go pale again, and then Froman was gripping his arm, guiding him to the bench.

“Something is wrong after all,” Froman said. “I’m getting a Healer. I do not need people saying I have hurt you again.”

Ander did not protest this time. He sat bowed over his lap and held onto the bench as the world swung wildly about him. After a moment, he lay down. His hands slipped on the dry wood of the bench.

Froman had left, but Balan loomed over him. “Lord Ander? What is going on?”

“Dizzy. Several times now. Froman has gone to get a Healer.”

“Your face is bloodless. Is there anything I can do?”

Ander shook his head. He closed his eyes and the dizziness receded. Weariness dragged him down, and he remained on the bench. After a few moments he heard Lord Froman speaking to someone else. The new man had a soft, deep voice.

He recognized that voice. “Hon Jesel.”

“Indeed. I was close by,” Jesel said. “What is wrong, Lord Ander?”

Ander explained. He did it in short sentences, too tired to go into long explanations. Jesel’s cool hands felt his forehead, held his wrist briefly, and touched the side of his neck.

“Can you open your eyes?” Jesel asked.

Ander did so. The room no longer spun around him. Jesel peered into his eyes, then extended a hand and helped Ander to sit up on the bench.

Ander looked around, wary. The room did not spin.

“Has this ever happened before, my lord?” Jesel asked.

“A few times, in the last sennight or so. Not this severe.”

“What’s wrong with him?” Froman demanded.

“At first glance, I can tell you nothing,” Jesel said. “You have no fever, my lord, and you do not appear to have lost weight.”

“He just finished a match in the ring,” Balan said.

“Were you hurt?” Jesel’s eyes turned to Froman, who stood glowering, legs slightly braced as if he was expecting an accusation.

“I did not hurt him!” Froman said. “He was fine, except when he got sick as we finished. Is he a mite frail, for a boy of fifteen, do you think?”

“He did not hurt me,” Ander agreed. “I am better now, Hon Jesel. Hungry, though. If you see nothing amiss, I want to go and eat.”

“Perhaps that is all.” Jesel looked uncertain.

“I will order a servant to bring you meat, right away,” Froman said. “There are two of them wasting time outside.” He strode to the door.

“Something with sugar, too, my lord!” Jesel called after him. He returned to his examination of Ander. “My lord, I think something is wrong. You must let me examine you under better circumstances.”

“I feel better. There is no need.”