Darkover: First Contact (75 page)

 

Meanwhile, Bard di Asturien walked along the halls of the castle toward the rooms he had occupied since Alaric was crowned and had appointed him Lord General. There was a guardsman before the door, telling him that the Lord General—supposedly—was within.

Bard thought for a moment. He could, of course, walk up to the door and demand, as Lord General, to be admitted. Most of the men in the army knew the Kilghard Wolf by sight. But he was not quite ready for that confrontation yet. So after a moment’s thought he went around through a hallway to a back entrance whose very existence was known only to his most trusted men.

He walked through the rooms as if he had never seen them before. He hadn’t; the man who had slept here only a few nights ago was a different man. In the great bedchamber they lay sleeping; Paul, on his back, and Bard looked on his own face with strange, dispassionate interest. Melisendra lay curled against him, her head on his shoulder, and even in sleep Bard could see the protective way his arm curled around the woman. Her red curls were scattered, covering Paul’s face.

Bard reflected, distantly, that had he found them like this, in his own rooms,
before,
he would have lost no time in whipping out his dagger and cutting their throats. Even now he reflected on it for a moment, Paul had tried to unsurp his throne; had been crowned in his name, and by marrying Melisendra in the sight of half the kingdom, had provided the Throne of Asturias with a queen who would, somehow, have to be publicly repudiated. Even if Paul were willing to yield up the identity of Lord General, that still left Bard married to Melisendra. What a tangle! And by what he had done, he had made Carlina lawfully his wife, and he could not publicly repudiate her, either! How in the name of all the gods was he to solve this? For a moment, Bard contemplated slipping out of the room as quietly as he had entered it, taking his horse, and riding away into the hills again. He did not want the Kingdom of Asturias. He had been sure they would find someone else, even when he had the shocking knowledge of his father’s death and Alaric’s. Beyond the Kadarin there were dozens of little kingdoms, and he had earned his way as a mercenary before. . . .

But what of his men, if he did that? Paul had not the knowledge or the interest to care for them. What of Carlina, of the pledge he had made to the Sisterhood of the Sword, of Melisendra, of Melora? No, he still had responsibilities here. And after all, he had left Paul, knowingly, to fill the place of the Lord General. Perhaps Paul had simply been protecting his good name and reputation—how would it look, after all, if it had been known that at the time of the sneak attack on Castle Asturias, the Lord General had run to weep on a woman’s shoulder for his crimes? Paul must have his chance to explain; he would not kill him sleeping.

He leaned across Melisendra, looking down with a tenderness that surprised him, at her sandy eyelashes resting on her cheek, at the fullness of her breast where the thin nightgown, so thin that the skin showed pink through it, was gathered in flimsy folds. She had given him Erlend, and for that, at least, he must always show her love and gratitude.

Then he shook Paul’s shoulder lightly.

“Wake up,” he said.

Paul sat up in bed, with a start. Instantly alert, he saw Bard’s drawn face, and knew at once that he was in immediate danger of death. His first thought was to protect Melisendra. He leaped upright, putting himself between Bard and the woman.

“None of this is her fault!”

Bard’s smile surprised him. He looked, simply, amused. “I know that,” he said. “Whatever happens, I’m not going to hurt Melisendra.”

Paul relaxed a little, but he was still wary. “What are you doing here, like this?”

“I had intended to ask
you
that,” Bard said. “It’s my room, after all. I hear they crowned you last night. And—married you. To Melisendra. Can you blame me for wondering if you’ve got it into your head to claim the throne to Asturias? They almost didn’t let me into the castle last night because they had a firm notion I was some kind of imposter.”

For some reason, Bard noted, they were both speaking in whispers. But even so, their voices woke Melisendra, and she sat up in bed, her hair spilling down over the breast of her gown. She stared, wide-eyed, at Bard. Then, in a rush, she said, “Bard! No! Don’t hurt him! He didn’t intend—”

“Let him answer for himself as to what he intended!” Bard snarled, and his voice was like steel.

Paul set his teeth. He said, “What did you expect me to do? They came to me, they said I was the king, they demanded that I marry Melisendra! Did you expect me to say, Oh no, I’m not the Lord General, the Lord General was last seen heading for Neskaya? They didn’t ask me what to do; they
told
me! If you’d come back in time—but no, you were off on some business of your own and left me to see to things—you haven’t even asked about your son! You’re about as fit to command this kingdom as—as
he
is, and that’s not much of a compliment, because I imagine anything in pants could handle it better than you will! If you could get your mind off your women for ten minutes, and pay attention to what you’re supposed to be doing—”

Bard whipped his dagger out of his sheath. Melisendra screamed, and three guardsmen burst into the room. Seeing Bard in a common soldier’s dress, and Paul in his nightshirt, they leaped at once to the obvious conclusion, and went for Bard with drawn swords.

“Draw steel in the presence of the king, will you?” one of them yelled, and moments later, Bard stood disarmed, held between two of the guardsmen.

“What shall we do with him, Lord General—beg pardon—your Majesty?”

Paul stood staring from the guardsmen to Bard, realizing that he had jumped from the frying pan full tilt into the fire. He did not want to have the father of Melisendra’s son killed before his eyes. He realized, painfully and just a second too late, that he was not angry with Bard at all.

The senior guardsman looked at Paul and demanded, “My lord—”

Bard said, “There’s some mistake here, I should think—”

“Somebody’s making one all right,” said one of the guardsmen grimly. “This man tried to get into the palace last night claiming that he was the Lord General; he’d even managed to fool the lord Varzil of Neskaya! I think he’s a Hastur spy. Shall we take him out and hang him, sire?”

Melisendra jumped out of bed, in her thin nightgown, careless of the stare of the guardsmen. She opened her mouth to speak. And at that moment there was an outcry in the halls, and a messenger entered.

“My lord King! An envoy from the Hasturs, under truce flag! Varzil of Neskaya sends word that you should see them at once in the throne room!”

The guardsmen whipped round. Bard said, “Impossible. The throne room’s full of the sick and wounded; we’ll have to see the envoys on the lawn. Ruyvil—” he said to the youngest of the guardsmen, “you know me, don’t you? Remember the campaign to Hammerfell, when I argued with King Ardrin and got you to ride with us, and how Beltran’s banner got tangled around your pike?”

“Wolf!” the guardsmen said, then turned, menacing, to Paul.

“Who is
this
man?”

Bard said quickly, “My paxman, and my proxy. I had to go on urgent business to Neskaya, and left him here; and he was crowned by proxy—”

The oldest of the guardsmen—who had demanded to take Bard and hang him—said suspiciously, “And married by proxy too?”

Young Ruyvil said, “Don’t talk that way to the king, nit-head, or you’ll find your own head’s loose on your shoulders! Do you think I don’t know the Kilghard Wolf? I could have been booted right out of the army for that! Do you think an imposter would know about it?”

Paul said smoothly, picking up the loophole Bard had left for both of them, “I am not daring enough to meddle in my king’s marriage. He had promised me Melisendra; and I married
her
. His Majesty—” he looked at Bard swiftly, and the message was clear,
get yourself out of this one any way you want to, now,
“could not have married the Lady Melisendra even if he wished; he is lawfully married to someone else.”

Bard gave Paul an undeniably grateful look. He said, “Go and tell the envoy that I will meet with them as soon as I have shaved and dressed. And send word to Lord Varzil of Neskaya, as well.” When the guardsmen and the messenger had gone, he turned to Melisendra and said, “Believe it or not, I had intended to marry you to Paul; but you have forstalled me. I’ll have to have Erlend; he is all the heir I have.”

Her chin quivered, but she said, “I won’t stand in his way.” And Bard thought of the unknown mother who had given him to Dom Rafael to be reared as a nobleman. Were all women this selfless? He said gruffly, “I’ll see that he remembers he’s
your
son, as well. Now, damn it, no bawling before breakfast! Send my body servant to me, with some proper clothes for an audience! And Paulo, cut your hair—we want to play
down
the resemblance—you’re not out of the woods yet!”

As Paul went into the inner room, Melisendra laid on a hand on his arm.

“I am glad—” she said, and smiled. He put his arm around her.

“What else could I have done?” he demanded. “If I’d done anything else. I’d have been stuck with the kingdom!”

And he realized, with complete astonishment, that he had spoken the truth. He did not envy Bard. Not even a little. And perhaps—just perhaps—things had been settled so that he need not kill Bard in order to keep from being killed by him. With the Bard he had known before—that would never have been possible. But something had happened to Bard, in the short space since he brought Carlina from the Island of Silence. He did not know what it was; but somehow, subtly, this was a different man. Melisendra, he thought, knew what the change was, and perhaps, some day, she would tell him.

Or maybe Bard would. Nothing would surprise him, now.

 

Shaved, dressed, his blond braid bound with the red cord of a warrior, Bard glanced at himself in the mirror. He looked the same man, but he was still a stranger in his own skin, not knowing what he would do next. Paul had done the right thing, unwittingly—though he had not expected it; he had been afraid Paul would try to bluff it through, and he’d have had no choice except to have him killed.

But he was still bound by law to Carlina, and if she needed the protection of this marriage—if, for instance, all merciful gods forbid, he had made her pregnant—he could not, now, honorably deny her the position of his queen. His whole heart cried out for Melora; but although he knew he would love her as long as he lived, he could not come to her by trampling Carlina into the dust or ignoring her claim on him.

Take care how you beseech the gods for a gift; for they will give it to you.
And he remembered Melora, on that fated and faraway Festival night, saying that she would not step on the hem of Carlina’s robe.

If I had only had sense enough to go to Carlina, then, and offer her freedom from a marriage neither of us wanted
. . . but not even a god can bring back the leaves that have fallen. He had woven this tangle with Carlina, and unless it could be honorably untied, he would live in its coils.

It seemed to him, though he stood as straight as he could, that the man in the mirror bent under a heavy burden. Yes, this land of Asturias, where he had no will to reign, lay now on his shoulders,
Oh, my brother! 1 would so willingly have been your general, not worn your crown!
But the wine had been poured and must be drunk. He turned away from the mirror, setting his teeth and squaring his shoulders. His armies had chosen the Kilghard Wolf to rule over them, and rule he must.

A canopy and a chair in lieu of throne had been set up for him on the lawn. He looked, with grim incredulity, at the lines of bowing courtiers, the soldiers and guards coming to swift attention as he passed. He had never seen this formality when it surrounded his father, or King Ardrin. He had simply taken it for granted. He thought briefly that it was just as well that for this first ascent to his throne it was a canopy and a chair. He remembered stumbling at the foot of Ardrin’s throne when he had been granted the red cord.

“Sir, the envoy from the Hasturs.”

It was Varzil who had spoken, and Bard remembered, with what little he knew of protocol, that the Keeper of a major Tower ranked with any king. He beckoned Varzil to approach the chair where he sat.

“Cousin, must this be a formal assembly?”

“Only if you wish.”

“Then send away all these people and let me speak to the envoys in peace,” Bard said, and as Varzil dismissed the courtiers and all but the skeleton of a personal guard, Bard looked at the envoy. As he had known it would be, there was the truce flag of King Carolin, and in blue and silver of the Hasturs, Geremy Hastur.

He stepped toward Geremy to take him into a formal kinsman’s embrace, and at the touch, all the old affection flooded back. Could he some day rediscover Geremy, too?

Geremy has
laran,
too, he thought, he knows. And as he raised his eyes to Geremy’s face, he saw in that look, though Geremy looked drawn and careworn, the same acceptance, the same understanding he had seen in Melora’s.