Blue Moon Rising (Darkwood) (23 page)

“Right,” said the King wearily. “I swear this damn throne gets more uncomfortable every day.”

“At least you get to sit down,” said the Astrologer wryly. “I’ve been on my feet for the past ten hours. My back’s killing me.”

The King chuckled sympathetically. “We’re getting too old for this, Thomas.”

“Speak for yourself,” said the Astrologer, and the King laughed.

They sat for a while in companiable silence, watching shadows gather in the silent Court. Light spilled through the gorgeous stained-glass windows, and dust motes swirled lazily in the golden haze. The King tugged thoughtfully at his shaggy gray beard, and glanced at the Astrologer.

“Nice act you put on for the Landsgraves, Thomas.”

“Thank you, John. I thought it went rather well.”

“Did you have to make Bedivere crawl like that?”

Thomas Grey frowned. “Come on, John; the man’s a killer. The barons knew that when they sent him. He would have killed you.”

“I know,” said the King shortly. “But no man should have to crawl as he did. It made me feel … dirty.”

“Look, John, we spent most of last night working on this. The only way to keep the Barons in line is to make them more frightened of us than they are of the dark. Now how am I supposed to scare them if I don’t use my powers? It’s not as if I hurt the man, John; I just forced him to do what he should have done, anyway.”

“And the lightning bolt?”

“Mostly illusion. There was enough power there to knock him cold, but that’s all.”

“You’re missing the point, Thomas. The whole reason for drawing the Curtana was to prove to the Barons and the Court that we’re not helpless against the dark; that we do have more powerful weapons we can use against the demons. After what you did to Sir Bedivere, no one’s going to give a damn about the demons; they’ll be to busy worrying about whether the sword’s going to be used on them.”

“Damn,” said Grey. “I’m sorry, John, I didn’t think …”

“As it is, it’s touch and go whether we dare draw the Curtana now, never mind the Infernal Devices. If the Barons even suspect we intend drawing those swords as well …”

“We’ll have open rebellion on our hands. I do take your point, John, but we’ve got to have those swords. The darkness will be here soon, and we can’t afford to rely on the High Warlock. We can’t even be sure he’ll come.”

“He’ll come,” said the King. “You know he’ll come.”

There was an awkward silence. Grey cleared his throat uncertainly. “I know how you feel about him, John. But we need him.”

“I know.”

“Maybe he’s changed. He’s been away a long time.”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“John …”

“I don’t want to talk about it!”

Thomas Grey looked into his old friend’s eyes and then turned his head away, unable to face the ancient rage and bitterness and sorrow he had found there.

“Tell me about the Infernal Devices,” said King John. “It’s been years since I had to read up on the bloody things.”

“Apparently there were once six of these swords,” said the Astrologer quietly. “But only three remain to us; Flarebright, Wolfsbane and Rockbreaker. No one’s dared draw them for centuries.”

“Are they as powerful as the legends say?”

Grey shrugged. “Probably more so. Every source I can find was scared spitless by them.”

“That’s as may be,” growled the King. “But both they and the Curtana are still sheathed in their scabbards in the Old Armory. And the Old Armory is in the South Wing. And we haven’t been able to find that since we lost it thirty-two years ago!”

“The Seneschal says he can find it,” said Grey calmly, “And that’s good enough for me. He’s the best tracker this Castle’s ever had.”

“Yeah, maybe,” said the King. He scratched half-heartedly at his ragged mop of hair, and sighed wearily. “There are times, Thomas, when I wish your title wasn’t just honorary. Right now it would be very useful to have someone who actually could foresee the future.”

Grey laughed. “Sorry, John, but my title’s nothing more than a legacy from our superstitious ancestors. When all’s said and done, I’m just an astronomer. Show me a sheep’s entrails and all I could tell you is what kind of soup they’d make.”

The King smiled, and nodded slowly. “Just a thought, Thomas, just a thought.” He rose stiffly to his feet, and glanced round the empty Court. “I think I’ll turn in now. I get so damn tired, these days.”

“You’ve been working too hard. We both have. You ought to give Harald more responsibility; let him handle some of the routine matters. He’s of an age where he could easily take some of the burden off our backs.”

“No,” said the King shortly. “He’s not ready yet.”

“You can’t go on putting it off, John. We won’t always be here to guide him; age is creeping up on us.”

“In my case, it seems to be positively sprinting.” The King gave a short bark of laughter and started down the dais steps, waving aside the astrologer’s offered arm. “I’m tired, Thomas. We’ll talk about this tomorrow.”

“John …”

“Tomorrow, Thomas.”

The Astrologer watched the King walk slowly across his empty Court. “Tomorrow may be too late, John,” he said quietly, but if the king heard him, he gave no sign to show it.

“You could be King, Harald,” said Lord Darius.

“I will be King,” said Harald. “I’m the eldest son. One day, all the Forest Land will be mine.”

“You’ll be King of nothing if you wait to inherit the throne.”

“That’s treason.”

“Yes,” said Lord Darius pleasantly. “It is.”

The two men smiled, and toasted each other with their goblets. Harald nodded his acceptance of the vintage, and the Lady Cecelia leant gracefully forward and filled his glass to the brim. The Prince smiled his thanks, settled himself more comfortably in his chair, and glanced round Darius’s chambers. From the tales he’d heard of Darius’s lifestyle, Harald had expected lush and sumptuous quarters, buried under thick carpets and rich tapestries. Instead, he found a quiet, somber, almost austere room whose floor and walls were bare polished wood, warmed only by a single fire. One wall lay hidden behind a massive bookcase, whose shelves were tightly packed with works on politics, history and magic. Harald raised a mental eyebrow. It seemed there was more to the Minister for War than met the casual eye. The Prince sipped at his wine and studied Lord Darius over the goblet’s rim. There was a basic squat ugliness to the man’s face that all the careful makeup, plucked eyebrows, and oiled hair couldn’t disguise, and when he dropped his public mask his face set into uncompromising lines of cold determination.

This man is dangerous
, thought Harald calmly.
He’s ambitious and ruthless; a useful combination in any field, but especially so in politics. Probably sees himself as a Kingmaker.

He turned his attention to Lord Darius’s wife, the Lady Cecelia. She smiled slowly, and met his gaze with a stare of open appraisal. Hair dark as the night tumbled down over her bared alabaster shoulders, outlining and emphasizing her delicately pretty face. Sensuality smoldered in her dark eyes and pouting lips. She had changed from her intricately ornate Court gown into a simple silk wrap that revealed tantalizingly brief glimpses of upper thigh every time she moved.
Tasty
, thought Harald.
And not exactly backward in coming forward, even with her husband present.
Not for the first time, Harald wondered what Darius and Cecelia saw in each other. There was no doubt they made a formidable political team, but her affairs with the younger guardsmen were common gossip. Darius must have known, but he never said anything.
Takes all sorts to make a world
, thought Harald sardonically.

“Well, my Lord Minister for War,” he said politely, “This is all very pleasant, I’m sure, but what exactly do you want from me?”

Darius smiled at the Prince’s bluntness, and sipped unhurriedly at his wine. “As yet, very little, Sire. But rest assured that my friends have your best interests at heart.”

“Really?” said Harald amusedly. “How very interesting. I was under the impression your
friends
had the interests of the Forest Land at heart. That is, after all, why I’m here.”

“By helping you, we help the Land,” said Darius earnestly. “Your father is no longer fit to be King. He has abandoned the Barons to the darkness, insulted and attacked the Landsgraves in open Court, and now he threatens to draw the Curtana! He must know the Barons won’t stand for that. He’s all but inviting a rebellion.”

“The Barons need a King,” said Harald calmly. “They haven’t enough men to make their separate stands against the Darkwood, and they know it. Their only hope is an army; a single armed force strong enough to throw the darkness back. They tried bullying the King into giving them more men, only to find he doesn’t need their support any more. Assuming, of course, that the Curtana will work on nonhuman minds. If it doesn’t, it’ll be too late to try and raise an army. Small wonder the Barons are desperate. If the sword doesn’t work, we all go down into the darkness. If it does work, King John could become the greatest tyrant this Land has ever known. With the sword of Compulsion in his hand, his merest whim would become law. However, with King John overthrown, who would control the army? The Barons don’t trust each other, as any one of them could use the army to make himself King.

“So; the Barons need a King, but they don’t want King John. And that, my Lord Darius, is why you requested my presence here tonight. Isn’t it.”

Darius studied the Prince narrowly. “You show a keen grasp of the situation, Sire. I didn’t realize you had such an interest in politics; in the past you’ve always seemed more concerned with other … pursuits.”

Harald laughed. “But then none of us are always what we seem, are we, dear fellow?” The habitual blandness fell suddenly from his face, revealing hard, determined features dominated by piercing dark eyes. “I may act the fool, Darius, but don’t ever take me for one.”

“Why pretend at all?” asked the Lady Cecelia, frowning prettily.

“It disarms people,” said Harald. “They don’t see me as a threat until it’s too late. Besides; it amuses me.”

His face relaxed into its usual lines of vague amiability, but his eyes remained cold and sardonic. Darius smiled uncertainly, his mind racing as he struggled for the right approach to use with this new, unexpected, Prince Harald.

“Your father undoubtedly means well, Sire, but he is an old man and his mind is not what it was. He listens too much to his pet Astrologer, and not enough to those courtiers whose privilege and responsibility it has always been to advise him. With the darkness already gathering outside our walls, we can’t afford a King who’d gamble all our lives on a single magic sword that might not even work. If the King won’t listen to reason, he must be made to listen.”

“You’re talking about my father,” said Harald softly. “If I thought you were threatening him …”

“We’re not,” said Darius quickly. “There’s no question of the King coming to any harm.”

“You’re forgetting Sir Bedivere.”

“A mistake, I promise you. I don’t think any of us had realized just how unstable the man had become.”

Harald looked at him coldly.

“Please believe me, Sire,” said Darius slowly, “The King will not be harmed. My associates and I have a great deal of respect for what he achieved in the past. We merely feel that the pressures of his position have grown too great for him, in his old age. The Forest Land needs a younger, more capable ruler. Such as yourself, Prince Harald.”

The Prince just smiled at him. A silence grew between them.

“Do we have your support?” asked Darius. He could feel a cold sweat forming on his face, though the room was comfortably warm. The Prince sitting opposite him wasn’t the man he’d thought he knew, and Darius began to wonder if perhaps he and his friends had made a horrible mistake. One word from this cold-eyed stranger to the Royal Guard, and a great many heads would roll from the bloodstained block before morning. Darius shifted his weight in his chair, casually dropping one pudgy hand onto the hilt of the poisoned dagger he carried sheathed beneath his sleeve.

Harald lifted his empty glass. The Lady Cecelia leant forward and poured him more wine. Her silk wrap parted slightly, allowing Harald a brief glimpse of her impressive cleavage. Harald sipped at his wine, and smiled sardonically.

“You have my support,” he said finally, “but for my reasons, not yours.”

“Your reasons,” said Darius uncertainly.

“I want to be King,” said Harald. “And I’m tired of waiting.”

Darius smiled, and moved his hand away from the dagger. “I don’t think you need wait much longer, Sire.”

“Good,” said Harald. He sipped at his wine thoughtfully. “Why did you come to me, Darius? Surely Rupert would have been a better choice; he has so much more to gain then I do.”

“Rupert has become an unknown factor,” said Darius. “His time in the Darkwood changed him. He’s become stronger, more forceful, more … independent. He’s always been loyal to the Land, but he’s made no secret of the fact that he puts ethics before politics. A rather naive attitude in a Prince, and altogether untenable in a King. Besides; I don’t think he and I could ever work amicably together.”

“He doesn’t like me, either,” said the Lady Cecelia, pouting elegantly.

Harald put down his glass and rose to his feet. “I support you in principle, Darius, but for the moment that’s as far as I go. Arrange a meeting for me with your … friends, and I’ll talk with them. If I’m to commit treason, I want to know who my fellow conspirators are. All of them.”

“Very well,” said Darius. “I’ll have word brought to you when we’re ready.”

“Soon,” said Harald. “Make it soon.”

“Of course, Sire,” said Darius, and Harald left. Darius poured himself more wine, and was surprised to find that his hands were shaking.

“Insolent puppy,” he growled. “He should be grateful for the chance we’re giving him.”

“Kings aren’t noted for their gratitude,” pointed out the Lady Cecelia tartly. “He’ll come around. He’s young and greedy, and not nearly as bright as he’d like us to think.”

“Don’t underestimate him,” said Sir Blays, stepping out from behind the bookcase as it swung slowly open on its concealed hinges. Sir Guillam and Sir Bedivere followed him into the room, and the bookcase swung shut behind them.