The Still (4 page)

“I beg you, Rustin—”

“Speak of it! Before it destroys you!”

Frightened, I drew back. Rustin hunched forward in his oaken chair, eyes locked to mine. The silence lengthened. I waited for him to urge me further, but he did not.

An eon passed.

Abruptly my words gushed forth in a torrent, as if spring floods had broken a decrepit dam. “I’m more than a boy, though everyone treats me as one. Mother threatens a strapping, and even old Griswold considers me a child. But I have a man’s feelings, and a man’s”—my voice quavered—“needs. Even horses do it in the pasture. Why should I, of all the kingdom, be the only one denied?”

“For the—”

“I know. The Still. The precious force of Caledon. Someday I’ll wield our Power, if I haven’t sullied myself first.” I hesitated; this was as much as ever we’d spoken of things sacred and arcane. “And from all I hear, I’ll need the Power. Our line is not so secure after two generations that rivals won’t rise.”

“You have many. Some closer than you think.”

“Uncle Mar? He’s loyal.” Rust, friend or no, was not family, and I couldn’t speak to him of betrayal from within. “Someday, I’ll mount the throne. The longer Mother lives the greater my chance. But—” My voice cut short.

He waited. Then, “Yes, Rodrigo?”

I hadn’t known I would say it. I hadn’t ever been aware I’d had the thought. “The longer Mother lives, the heavier my burden. Can you imagine how that makes me feel? I love Mother, and ought to, but she’s been ill for years, everyone knows even if no one admits so. When she’s gone, I’ll have the kingdom, and for a while I’ll be able to wield the Power, until I judge it safe to put it aside for my heirs.”

Rustin was silent, his gaze like a confessional urn into which I poured the libation of my soul.

“But while she lives, I can’t bear the lust! I wait, loving her truly, unable to stand the nights, resenting her life that locks me ever longer into chastity.” I could not meet his eye.

“Roddy.” The words came soft. “My friend.”

He unmanned me, but the cup of my despair was not yet emptied. I said, “Chastity, Rustin. But not abstinence.” I spun my chair to face the empty hearth, my face scarlet. “I make love with myself, as a child.”

Blessedly, Rustin left me time to compose myself, to make my breath again steady, to dry my face. Then he approached. His hand fell gently on my shoulder. “Tell me of the Power.”

Gratefully, I turned my chair to face the setting sun, cleared my throat. “The Still of Caledon. The Receptor’s a sort of bowl, made of white gold, set with emeralds. There’s a Chalice, with a stopper, kept full of stillsilver. One pours the liquid into the Receptor. Almost instantly, it becomes Still.”

For a moment I debated whether to reveal the rest, but Rustin already held my soul; all he could steal was the crown. “You put your hands over the Still, say the words of encant. Mother says it’s as if a great peace comes over you, and the world slides away. Then you know the Power.” I shivered.

“Who may use it?”

“The King. He who has been crowned. No one else. And perhaps, not even he.” I tried to make light of the oppression. “I have to be True, you see. Sometimes that’s even harder than the other.”

Rust crouched on his bed. “No one can live free of lies, Roddy. It doesn’t seem possible. Can you never tell an untruth to anyone, about anything?”

“I hope not, or it’s too late.” My smile was unsteady. “I’m not sure it has to do with lies. It may be about keeping my word. Mother simply says the wielder must be True, and she’ll speak no more of it. The other, she reminds me of incessantly. It’s a miracle she doesn’t have me put in—” On my lips was a jest about a chastity belt, but my dread of it was too real to mention.

Rustin nodded, his eyes sorrowful. “The wielder must be virgin.”

“As was Mother when she was crowned. Only when she vanquished our enemies and held Stryx secure in her hand did she send for Father. The marriage was prearranged.” I’d loved him with all my soul, until one night he lay down to sleep and did not wake. I was nine.

Rust stirred awkwardly. “Roddy, are there ways you can—I mean, you can do things with a girl aside from ...”

“Not even those.” My tone was firm.

“But if it’s all right by yourself ... that seems unfair.”

I snorted. “It’s not a constraint I’d have asked.”

“What about ...” He blushed. “Other than girls?”

“You’d have me take a lover? Perhaps a cook’s boy, wriggling in my sheets until I satisfied myself, sniggering afterward to his kitchenmates? Or a stablehand? Leave me
some
pride.”

“So you’re alone.”

“Always.” It came as a whisper.

A silence, in which I heard the cry of gulls from the harbor.

“You see ...” I peered out the narrow window, past the iron arrowguard. “One by one you drop away, to take the life of a man. It’s hard to bear, when those we grew up with are already giggling behind my back. When—”

“No one giggles beh—”

“Castor did, to Michel, when he thought I couldn’t hear. We were playing roundfield ball, in the pasture. ‘Think he’d even know where to put it?’ Aurrgh!” I sat, astonished that I’d spoken aloud the words with which Castor had mortified me, a year past.

“So that was why.” He sighed.

“May I be struck dead if I ever consort with either of them again!” I stared at the stone tiles. “Each day it’s worse. Bayard is married, and Kronin. They’ve made babies, and they’re no older man I. What when I’m seventeen, or twenty? My whole court will have the laugh of me! ‘Virgin King Roddy, who’s never known a woman’s embrace.’ Jeers like Castor’s, only twentyfold.”

Rustin sighed, rose from the bed. “Come, let’s find dinner. You’ll stay the night, and tomorrow I’ll ride home with you.”

“Better I go now.”

“Please. For my sake.” Without waiting for answer, he crossed to the door. “We’ll send word to the castle. By morning your clothes will be dry, and the Queen need never learn you attacked me like a common ruffian.”

I’d have thrown a boot, but he was already gone. Meekly, I followed.

Downstairs, Rustin poked his head into the kitchen, bussed the fat perspiring cook, wheedled her out of some meat still warm from the gatekeepers’ dinner. The woman bade Chela throw a few ears of corn into a pot, and a few minutes later Rustin and I bore our bronze trays into the garden for a secluded supper.

Our chat came more easily, away from the bedchamber. We talked of Tantroth, of the crown, then of boyish things. Afterward, we paid our respects to Rustin’s parents Joenne and Llewelyn, went outside to kick his sewn leather ball back and forth until the light was gone. Then we made ourselves ready for bed.

Rustin’s room was big enough for us both. The servants had made up a divan, the same one on which I’d slept often enough over the years, while we’d grown from childhood to youth.

I lay quietly, in the light of the guttering candle. In this chamber where my shame had been revealed, my earlier vexation was rekindled. I tossed and turned, until at last I raised myself on my elbow.

I saw Rustin was awake.

“Those matters I spoke of, when I was upset.” My voice was low and cold. “If you repeat them to a living soul, I’ll kill you. This I so swear.” I blew out the candle, turned away onto my side.

Silence, then a long sigh. “Rodrigo, at times you’re an ass.”

An hour passed, minute by excruciating minute, while I pretended to sleep. The effort to hold myself still was nearly intolerable.

At last, the sound of a striking flint. The candle flickered. “Stand.” His voice was a command.

I lay still, but my covers were snatched away. For a moment I lay curled in nothing but my breechcloth.

“Out of bed.” Rustin’s tone bore no refusal. I complied, wondering if he’d strike me. At the very least I’d let myself in for one of his prolonged sulks.

But I saw no anger in his gaze. He glided closer until we were face-to-face.

Rust was inches taller. His fair unclothed skin shone in the candlelight. For a moment I was near panic, thinking he intended an amorous advance, out of charity. Then, truly, I’d have to kill him. Not for the advance, but for the pity.

“My prince.”

I met his eyes, startled.

“I am Rustin, son of Llewelyn, Householder of Stryx. Our rank is by ancient right and from time immemorial, and I am vassal to no man.”

I nodded, my lips dry. I knew this, as who did not?

“Rodrigo, I acknowledge you as lawful and rightful heir of the House of Caledon. I shall accept no other while you live, save that your mother the Queen renounce you.”

I gaped, incapable of a word.

He dropped to a knee. “I pledge myself to thee as vassal, from this moment unto our deaths or my release. I shall serve and protect thee with honor. I do swear my loyalty, and vow I shall take no other as my liege save thee.” In the age-old gesture, he touched his palm to my chest, and bowed his head.

For a moment I stood transfixed, almost in dread. He’d proffered me his life, his independence. Then, slowly, my hand dropped to his forehead. “Rustin, son of Llewelyn, I accept thee as vassal, and pledge by my honor that I shall do thee and our House no shame.”

I released him. Dazed, I fell back on my bed. He sat alongside me, fluffed my quilt as tenderly as a nursemaid, covered me.

I caught his arm. “Rust, I know I’m not—that is ...” I forced myself to meet his eyes. “Am I worth so much?”

“You’re foolish at times.” His smile was gentle. “More often than I’d wish. And selfish. Thoughtless. Yet you’re more. That day the drunken guard came at me in the tavern, and you leaped to defend me, with nothing but a tankard. And the day I gave you Ebon ...”

“Yes?” I recalled the foolish tears I’d shed.

“I saw a boy who could be King.” His hand flicked out, stroked my brow.

“But by swearing fealty ... you gave me everything.”

“I saw you need it.”

My scorn dripped. “This afternoon, by my shame?”

“No, my lord. Tonight, by your fear.” He sighed. “Now, perhaps, you can allow yourself a friend.”

He settled in his bed.

Much later, I said into the night, “Rustin, I’m so sorry.” There was no reply. I snuggled into my pillow and, swallowing a sob mixed with joy, slept like a child.

At daybreak Rustin made clear by his silence that he preferred to be left alone. Dressed and combed, I trotted downstairs to the airy hall, chatted with his mother Joenne while a servant brought breakfast. I downed eggs and soft cheese, and the weak wine mixed with water that made a common day-drink among the nobility.

“Hallo, Mother.” Rustin crossed the flagstoned hall, his sandals clicking against the tiles.

She beckoned him for a quick kiss, held his face for swift scrutiny. “You kept each other up again?”

“I slept well.” His tone was cool. He poured apple-wine, downed the draught in one swallow. “I’m going with Roddy to the smithy.”

I said, “No, I’ll ride home.” He seemed to take me for granted, and I couldn’t allow that.

He turned on me. “Your clothes haven’t dried yet, you lout. Would you ride in rags, like a nomad?”

Even his mother was taken aback.

He sighed, his brow clearing in an instant. “Oh, come along, Roddy. We’ll see about my new sword, and if the sun lasts you’ll have your clothes dry.”

Still irritated, I plucked at my tunic. “In these rags?”

He crossed the hall, tugged gently at my forearm. “Sorry for my temper. Please come. I want your advice.”

It was why I could seldom refuse him. I nodded to Lady Joenne, followed him meekly to the gate. At times, I understood why my young brother Elryc followed me about.

The keep that Llewelyn guarded lay athwart the harbor, a forbidding stone stronghold that served as the first barrier to invasion by sea. A stone seawall jutted into the bay, cleaving the harbor in twain. This was to make more difficult the task of an invading army intent on siege. They’d have to struggle neck deep or worse, to encamp north of the keep’s walls.

Because Llewelyn’s keep occupied the northern end of the harbor, the town of Stryx had no choice but to spread southward. We ambled along the sunny road that ran along the lapping sea.

Along much of the coast, waves met only unyielding cliffs, but at Stryx the cliffs fell back a thousand paces to where our castle sat high over the town. From my room, I had view of a rocky shoreline that wound along a wide inviting bay.

We ambled along the shore road. Rust squinted in the bright morning light. “Until you’re eighteen, you need your uncle Mar’s favor to be crowned. If you go about like an unwashed ragamuffin—”

“You’re not my father!”

“No, my prince. Your vassal, and sworn to protect you. Even from yourself.”

“Such service I don’t need.” But I said it lightly. I really ought to take more time choosing an unstained cloak, and make sure my breeches matched my blouse.

Even were we blind, we’d have located the smithy from the clanking within, or the sooty breath of coal in the air.

The swordsmith was a runty fellow, not at all the giant one might expect. Beside him, working the bellows with a grin, stood a huge muscled boy who served as prentice.

“Ah, Rustin of the keep. Your sword’s on the rack. Not done yet. Two more dippings, I imagine, perhaps three.”

“That long?” Rustin sounded forlorn. He plucked the weapon from its rack, hefted it, handed it to me with eyebrow raised. I made a few passes, as if testing.

“Take it now, if you want dross. A work of beauty wants time.”

“You’ve had weeks.”

“And I have other orders. Margenthar refitted half his cavalry this year. Those dangling iron stirrups your guards catch their foot in when they ride.” He snorted. “As if mounted spearmen decide a battle. Newfangled nonsense, like all the Norberk fashions, but who am I to argue? I’m just a poor, simple—”

The bellows boy winked. Haughtily, I put him in his place by ignoring his effrontery.

Rust growled, “You’re the best swordsmith in Stryx, but you charge as if you’re the finest in the Estreach.” Rustin’s tone was polite, but had an edge. “I’ve already laid out the expense. When may I have my sword?”

“Um ... three days hence?” The smith took up a hammer, donned his glove to pull a bar from the fire.