The White Mists of Power (20 page)

“We haven’t been this loud before.” Seymour stretched and moved away from the coats. The retainer moved to a small group standing beneath the torches. His voice, asking them to bed down, carried across the wind.

iv

The noise in the courtyard faded. The king leaned against his headboard, the blanket warm across his feet. The fire in the hearth had faded, leaving a chill that wouldn’t go away. Constance slept beside him, the shadows under her eyes deep. He pushed the hair off her forehead and tucked the blanket around her shoulder. Ever since the death of their son, she had looked gray and old.

He probably didn’t look any better himself. He didn’t feel any better. For too many nights he hadn’t slept and too many mornings he hadn’t wanted to wake up. Constance was right. They knew why this was happening, and he had to stop it. He was fifty-five years old, fat, and ill. He would not live much longer.

The headboard dug into his back. He picked up his pillow and adjusted it. The hearth glowed orange, bathing the room in the colors of dawn. If he died without an heir, Kensington would ascend to the throne. Kensington was a good man, but a distant relation. He knew little of the rules that governed the monarchy, and perhaps even lacked the white mists–whatever good that had done the king and his family. The Cache Enos were supposed to protect his family and they had done nothing. The king sighed. He had done nothing either, and he would have to. Should he die without an heir, the council–or the Enos–might not accept Kensington. The nobles–Boton, Ewehl, a few others on the council–might want to seize power themselves. He was certain that was why all ten of his children had died. The succession was in doubt. There would be war.

He slid down in the bed and brought the covers up to his chin. If there was war, the Enos would use the power hidden in the Cache to wipe the humans from the land. Gerusha had set up that pact. Each succeeding monarch had worked to protect it. Now, with Constance drained and his own life force weak, he risked losing what had been built during the centuries.

He had to have an heir, and he had to protect that heir. Constance was not strong enough to bear another loss, and he doubted that he would live until the child reached adulthood. Constance had suggested that another woman, a young woman, become his consort and bear his children. He put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. He did not want another woman. He did not want another child.

He cuddled against her back and wrapped his arms around her waist. If only one of his children had lived, he would abdicate power now, let that child make the decisions that he had always hated to make.

“Constance,” he whispered, wishing he had no more worries, wishing he could sleep as she did, wishing that he had the option, the courage, to die in his sleep.

v

The great arched hallway leading into the kitchen was crowded. Seymour stood next to a small suit of armor that crouched expectantly near the wide double doors leading into the banquet hall. The woman next to him, a piper from another troupe, rubbed her hands over her instrument as if trying to warm it. Byron had his back to Seymour. Colin and Afeno peered into the banquet hall. The rich, greasy scent of roast pig was making Seymour nauseous. He stuck his shaking hands into his pockets and closed his eyes.

He should have left as he had planned, when he arrived, after he was sure that Byron was settled. But Byron’s moods had fluctuated so rapidly, and his usual confidence seemed to disappear so often, that Seymour didn’t want to leave. Besides, he had enjoyed the food and the rest. Now he had to pay for it.

Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes to find Colin beside him. “You haven’t looked yet, Seymour.”

That was right; he hadn’t looked. He didn’t want to know what he was facing. But he took a deep breath and peered around the corner. Rows of diners sat down two long tables. Another table faced them, and in the center of that table sat the king and his party. The king was a big man with a wide red face. A small woman sat beside him, her graying hair in a bun. The bald man sat a few seats down, next to a man who was so thin he seemed almost skeletal. No one spoke as they ate. The only noise that accompanied the scrape of plates was the music from the Kerry entertainment troupe.

It performed in the box created by the tables. Vonda moved along the head table, performing hand tricks. She had promised not to use any of the tricks that she had taught him, and as far as he could tell, she had kept her word. He wished she had been right about the mourning period. They had been at the palace another week when the king finally opened his hall to entertainers. In that time Seymour had learned one trick fairly well and several poorly. Vonda told him that all he needed to do was relax, but for Seymour, relaxation and magic did not mix.

Byron approached Seymour beside the door. Byron wore his lute over his back. His mouth was drawn thin and his thick brows nearly met over his nose. Small lines had appeared in the corners of his eyes. He did not glance into the banquet hall, and he hadn’t spoken a word since they started to wait. His nervousness made Seymour nervous. If Byron was frightened, something would go wrong.

Colin and Afeno had moved away from the door and cleared a small space to practice their juggling act. Byron had been trying to teach them in the few weeks that they had been at the palace, but the boys were unable to work together. Other performers caught stray balls, and one hit the suit of armor, creating a clang that made Seymour’s ears ring. Earlier that day, Byron had borrowed jester suits from another troupe, and Seymour was glad that he had. At least the boys’ mistakes would look planned.

Seymour moved away from the door and looked at the other troupes. Most seemed bored, although some huddled in small groups, practicing. A thin man stood on the other side of the hallway, watching Byron. Seymour frowned. He thought he had seen the man before. A long scar cut into the man’s profile, adding depth to his face.

Seymour leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and checked his luck web. It still hugged him. Servants pushed through the crowd of entertainers and into the banquet hall, removing plates. Other servants carried trays of cakes into the room. The banquet had already run six courses. Seymour had been standing for two hours. He didn’t know how much longer he could wait.

The Kerry troupe’s musicians began their closing number, a short ballad composed to honor the king. Byron snapped his fingers. “This is it,” he whispered.

Seymour’s shaking grew. He remembered the explosion, his father’s voice calling him a failure, his mother telling him to iceheal, iceheal. The ballad ended and the Kerry troupe hurried in. Vonda followed the last musician into the hall. She touched Seymour’s arm and smiled at him. He looked away.

Byron slung his lute into position and walked slowly into the center of the banquet hall. His black clothes added to his slenderness and made him look taller. He stopped before the king’s table and hesitated, staring at the monarch. For a moment Seymour thought Byron would forget to bow, but then he did. When he stood, he extended a hand toward the troupe.

Seymour couldn’t hear from the doorway, but he could tell from the hand signals when to enter. Colin ran in, purposely tripped, and slid into position next to Byron. The boy stood and bowed before the king. Then Afeno ran toward the head table, his body unusually close to the tables lining the left wall. When he reached the head table, he bowed and slowly rose, extending two bouquets of spoons to the monarch. The king gaped and the diners laughed. Afeno tossed the spoons to Colin, who returned them to their places.

The toss was Seymour’s cue. He took a deep breath, feeling a tremble at the base of his stomach. Then he clenched his fists and murmured the words to his fireball spell. A tiny flame appeared in his hand. He tried to ignore it, tried not to see it get big, explode, and eat the night sky, as it had so often in his dreams. The flame grew as he approached the king, the red and orange hues mixing with the air currents like paint on an artist’s pallet. When Seymour reached Byron, he whispered another incantation and the flame became a rose.

A gasp echoed through the banquet hall and destroyed his detachment. He felt the heat against his palm, and the rose shattered into a thousand tiny flames that fell to the floor like rain. He was losing control. He tried to stamp out the flames before they reached a table, but some skittered away from him. The diners laughed, thinking it part of the routine, and then they started to applaud.

“Bow,” Byron whispered, and Seymour obeyed automatically. One small flame licked the tablecloth near the king’s feet. Seymour rubbed his fingers against his palm, calling the stray flames to himself. They flew to his hands, leaving a piece of charred cloth smoking across from him. Then he felt heat sear his hand. He tried to shake the flames off, and when that didn’t work, he called the iceheal spell his mother had taught him so long ago. The flame danced upward, away from the ice that now encased his hand. The crowd watched the flame soar. Seymour whistled for it, knowing that a flame wouldn’t come twice in a row, but it did, slowly returning to the ground.

The flame did not settle on Seymour, though; it landed on the main table. Colin turned to the table beside him, grabbed a water pitcher, and tossed water at the flame. The flame hissed as it disappeared, but the water kept flying, finally hitting the thin lord in the face. He sputtered, slid back, and stood as a roar of laughter echoed in the hall. The lord turned, face dripping, to the king, and for the first time the monarch laughed too.

The king gasped for air, then let his laughter die. He clapped his hands. Two servants appeared beside him. “See to Lord Ewehl.” The servants took linen napkins and started to wipe the lord’s face. The lord grabbed the napkins and waved the servants away.

“Young man,” the king said to Byron, “sing for us. I don’t want to laugh anymore.”

Byron nodded to Seymour and the boys. Afeno brought Byron a stool, then the three of them went to the edge of the hall. Byron sat on the stool, his face composed, his body rigid. He placed one foot on the floor and the other on a rung just above. His face was white. Seymour clasped his hands together, wincing as he touched ice. It wasn’t over yet. He couldn’t relax until Byron was done.

Byron positioned the lute, placing his left hand around the neck and holding his right fingers above the strings. He bowed his head slightly and said, “I will play whatever your highness desires.”

“A battle song.” The king’s smile seemed small and impish on his wide face. “In keeping with your performance.”

“And what is your favorite battle song, Highness?”

The room grew quiet and so did the hallway. If the bard did not play the song requested, he could be imprisoned for mocking the king. Colin put his hand on Seymour’s arm, and Seymour could feel the boy trembling.

The king appraised Byron for a moment, all laughter gone. Then, seemingly assured that Byron was serious, the king nodded. “I don’t know the name of the ballad because I haven’t heard it for a long time. The tale it tells is of King Gerusha’s victory over the six island kingdoms.”

“A favorite of mine as well, my liege. It had many titles. For this evening we shall call it ‘The King’s Battle Song.’” Byron’s long fingers found several chords. His expression softened as he played the melody once through and then he began to sing. His voice was warm and deep and fluid, carrying the words as if to a lover. The song told the history of Gerusha’s campaigns and concentrated on the ancient king’s heroism. And then Byron sang a verse that Seymour had never heard before:

The king stood suddenly, his chair falling behind him. “Stop, bard,” he said hollowly.

Byron stopped singing, his fingers still poised over the lute strings. He appeared calm as he faced the king, but Seymour could see his left hand trembling.

“An old bard told me them, sire, after I sang the ballad in Lord Dakin’s lands. He chastised me for singing the ballad before a mere lord, saying the ballad was written for the royal family, those who would follow in Gerusha’s path. And then he told me that I had forgotten a verse and gave me that one.”

A servant picked up the king’s chair, but the king did not sit in it. “That was Adric’s favorite verse,” he said softly. “My oldest son.”

A slight flush rose in Byron’s cheeks. “Sire, I–”

“Don’t apologize. You couldn’t know. No one remembers him now.” The king ran a thick hand over his face. The woman beside him touched his arm. He put his hand on her shoulder. “You are very talented, young man. What is your name?”