RuneScape: Return to Canifis (8 page)

“We don’t know anything definite yet, Castimir,” Doric said slowly, reaching out so his hand was resting on the wizard’s shoulder. “No one has spoken to Kara.”

Theodore nodded.

“In fact, I am far from convinced that it is her.” The squire described the behaviour that had caused him to doubt the identity of the woman in the inn. “It seems so unlike her.”

“But today we shall go and confront her,” Ebenezer declared. “If
it
is
Kara-Meir, we must see how she fared in The Wilderness, and determine whether she needs our help.”

Theodore stood.

“I cannot come with you,” he said bitterly. “I have to ensure that my candidates are prepared for the festival. But I hope you have better success than I.” The squire gave a curt nod and left to attend his duties, while William offered to guide them to the Flying Donkey Inn, there to answer the riddle that was Kara-Meir.

A crowd stood outside the Inn, although the promised appearance by Kara-Meir was still some hours away. The sun had risen and the heat, made all the more stifling by anticipation, was causing visible discomfort, Castimir noted.

“I had no idea she was so famous,” he said, still seated on his horse to better peer over the heads of the masses.

“She has been the most discussed subject at court since the day of Theodore’s arrival,” William informed him. “Stories of her—and of
you,
her companions—are told daily.”

“And exaggerated no doubt,” Doric said with a grunt of laughter. “The way these things are told no doubt I am a giant by now!”

“What do they say of Gar’rth?” Ebenezer asked cautiously.

I hadn’t considered that, alchemist
, the wizard mused.
Exactly what
do
the minstrels say of our friend?

“He is the least known of your group,” William admitted, “and I was hoping you might tell me something that would give me an advantage over the other nobles. The tales generally agree that he is immensely strong, and never speaks. He is a mysterious warrior whom Kara rescued from certain death.”

Ebenezer mumbled something under his breath. When the alchemist went silent, William continued.

“With all of your group, it is impossible to separate what is real
from what is not,” he said. “The things I know about you come from Theodore, and they are precious few. All he would say about Gar’rth was that he is from a foreign land, and speaks none of the common tongue.” He paused for a moment, as if carefully considering his next words. “Tell me, is there any bad blood between them?”

“Bad blood between Gar’rth and Theodore?” Castimir said as Doric and Ebenezer exchanged looks. “No, nothing nearly so strong as that. But there is a rivalry, of sorts.”

And her name is Kara.

William looked to each of the friends in turn. They all gave a brief nod, as if satisfied by the answer.

William knows Theodore well
, Castimir surmised.
No doubt he has guessed the truth.

“And as to the question of where Gar’rth is from, we are all unsure, since we do not speak his language, and cannot ask him.” Castimir inclined his head thoughtfully. “I believe he may be from the southern isles, brought here by a merchant vessel.”

That will suffice much better than the truth
, he thought to himself.
Especially here in Varrock, so close to Morytania.

A murmur sprang up from the front of the crowd, and Castimir craned his neck to locate the cause.

“Aha! Here we go,” William said, pointing. “A royal messenger is approaching the door.”

The messenger was accompanied by yellow-clad guards on either side, and together they forced a path through the packed throng. As they went, an expectant hush fell over the crowd. Castimir watched as the man was met at the door by the innkeeper.

The two figures conversed for a moment before the messenger forced his way inside, pushing past the innkeeper, whose face displayed signs of distress.

Something is wrong here,
the wizard realised.

And he wasn’t alone. Those nearest the messenger began to speak rapidly. Each turned to pass on what had been heard, and what started as an excited whisper spread contagiously from one person to the next, leaving in its wake a growing crescendo of angry shouts.

“What’s going on?” William called down to a guard. The nobleman goaded his horse aside, away from the increasing agitation of the crowd.

The answer came from a torrent of voices that grew so loud that the guard’s answer was lost. The sound of breaking glass told the wizard that the riot had begun.

“She’s vanished!” came the shout, and it quickly became a chorus. “She and the boy she took as her servant. And they’ve taken the money with them!”

The nobleman turned his horse and cantered away to escape the angry crowds. Castimir and his friends followed his lead. As they rode north to safety, two dozen of the city guard, tightly grouped and armed with wooden clubs, pressed into the crowd.

When they had reached a safe distance, William reined in his horse and peered back at the slowly dissipating chaos.

“Well,” he said as the others joined him. “What an auspicious start to the day. This will no doubt be a Midsummer Festival to remember. But we must return to the palace, for the King will want news of this, and to know the reason why it has happened.”

As will Theodore
, Castimir added silently.

The great square was teeming with people by the time Castimir and his friends returned to the palace. But unlike the angry mob they had just left, this was the beginning of a celebration. They made their way slowly through the sweating throngs of jugglers, fire-eaters and a hundred other entertainers, with a palace guardsman
pushing the people aside to make them a path.

Like many of the buildings in Varrock, the palace was built of the grey stone that was quarried from the pits to the south and west of the city. It was immense, and Castimir—approaching it for the first time in daylight—was impressed by its sheer presence.

First they passed through the outer wall, a barrier which rose three times the height of a tall man and was wide enough for three men to stand abreast. The gates were wide open this day and inside the wall, on a road which was flanked by trees on either side, hundreds of citizens enjoyed the revels. Numerous colourful tents had been erected in the wide baileys that stood to the east and west of the castle, also enclosed by the outer wall, and the air was filled with the sound of a dozen different instruments—from hornpipes to lyres—and a hundred different smells—from sausages spitting in fat to the pungent scent of beer warmed in the sun.

Their journey delayed by the celebrating masses, it took them some time to reach the inner wall, as sturdy and as tall as the first. Here, the palace guards were arrayed in a line to make sure that no one could enter the castle without their leave. They parted when they saw William riding at the head of the small group, and with some amusement Castimir noted the sour face of Captain Rovin glaring down at them from above.

King Roald’s watchdog
.

His levity waned however, when he noticed—standing back from the merlons in the wall—at least two dozen bowmen.

A watchdog with teeth, it seems.

Within the inner wall there lay a paved courtyard where the party dismounted, and eight broad stone steps spanning the entire front of the castle led them to a squat double door set back under an overhanging roof, supported by two rows of three pillars each
to its right and left. Hanging at either side of the entrance was a yellow-faced shield with two embossed grey swords, crossed at the centre, reflecting the sunlight that came from the south.

No doubt polished daily by some lowly minion in military service. Probably by one of Theodore’s new recruits for the knights.

The thought caused Castimir to smile again as William led them through the double doors and down a hallway toward the throne room, off to the right of the main staircase. The nobleman paused once to commandeer a servant.

“Have Squire Theodore meet us in King Roald’s throne room at once,” he instructed. “No delay. He will be found with his men, probably butchering another legion of straw dummies in the gymnasium. Tell him we have news of Kara. Tell him she has fled—with the money—and caused a riot.” As the man ran to carry out William’s instruction, they continued on their way.

How strange that he still thinks it could have been Kara-Meir at the tavern
, the young wizard thought, but he kept his tongue.
If he knew her as we do, he would harbour no such misapprehensions.

They continued on their way, and negotiated several illogical twists and turns that wound through the immense interior, no doubt designed to confuse any attacker, and moments later the party found themselves in the throne room of King Roald Remanis the Third. It was a narrow room, constructed of a lighter grey stone than was used elsewhere. Yellow banners hung above the heads of the audience who stood along the room’s edges, clear off the yellow carpet that by royal decree was only ever occupied by the subject the King was addressing. The banners’ white fronds tempted Castimir, who in a moment of madness had to stop himself from leaping up to seize one.

At the southern end of the room, on a square marble dais, sat the monarch himself upon his yellow-cushioned throne. From
the entrance the figure of the King seemed small, surrounded by a nimbus of pale light that streamed in from the high windows behind and above his throne.

To Castimir, it all seemed very divine—too much so, in fact.

Charlatan!
he thought bemusedly.
You’ve placed the throne so the sun is behind you. There is no magic here.

As they watched, and waited, the wizard’s eyes crept over the audience. He felt their stares upon him, for he was dressed in little more than his blue robe, the very same one he had travelled in. With a conscious glance at his friends, he suddenly realised that both Ebenezer and Doric were more formally dressed, both attired as wealthy merchants. Such clothes befit men who occupied but a single rung beneath the nobility on the social ladder.

I slept late.
He shrugged.
And I didn’t expect to be presented to a king.

Nonetheless, he felt uncomfortable—ever more so as the crowd in front diminished and the party moved forward. Before him nobles pledged allegiance to their King, as they did every Midsummer, upon the longest day of the year, repeating the words given them by an austere priest who wore Saradomin’s four-pointed star embroidered on his black frock.

Fitting for a realm whose enemy lives in a land of darkness.

One person in particular caught his attention as they approached the front. A tall, lean man, with streaks of white in his dark hair stood a slight distance behind the throne. He was dressed in black cloth decorated with intricate silver stitching, and when he moved slightly, the wizard noted that the stitching was in the odd shape of an owl, with its head turned behind it.

He is a man who is used to the shadowy work of government,
Castimir guessed.
Every monarch needs a knife in the dark, or a little something extra in the wine.
He felt the man’s eyes upon him.
It was an unnerving experience.

“Lord Despaard, again,” he heard Doric whisper.

And then it was William’s turn to step onto the yellow carpet and kneel before the monarch.

“My Lord William de Adlard, you were not expected to offer homage to me this morning,” King Roald said. “For you have duties in guiding our famous guests in the day’s event.” The King’s voice echoed from the narrow walls, strong, clear. Castimir was close enough now to view him properly. His frame was hidden under a ceremonial vermilion robe boasting soft ermine edges, but the wizard guessed he was of lean build. His narrow face displayed a short brown beard and moustache, and upon his head he wore his golden crown, with a bright red gem set in its centre, as big as Castimir had ever seen.

“But since you are here,” the King continued, “I will take what is given to me by God. I will accept your pledge to me in Saradomin’s name.”

Castimir saw the priest step onto the yellow rug, standing deliberately between the King and the kneeling William in what was supposed to form a spiritual bridge between the men. As the man spoke the words that scores of others had echoed that very morning, William repeated them.

“I pledge my blood and my life. I pledge my sons and daughters. I pledge all my worldly possessions and passions to keep King Roald Remanis the Third in good health upon the throne. I make this pledge under the eyes of Saradomin—”

William coughed suddenly. Then he hesitated.

A woman in the audience giggled behind Castimir.

“This is not the time for levity, Lady Anne,” King Roald chastised the woman who Castimir turned to see for the first time. She appeared to have only just come in. He could not avert his eyes.

She was beautiful. In fact, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.

She can’t be real.
Try as he might, he could not stop himself from staring.
Women like her only exist in fairy tales, and live in towers assailed by knights and guarded by dragons. Or is it the other way round?

The blonde-haired woman caught his gaze and smiled. It was anything but demure. Her tongue curled between her white teeth as her blue eyes sparkled.

Castimir gurgled. To his relief, William continued.

“...My true god. The infinite and everlasting to whom all deceits are known.” His voice ceased, and the young wizard turned toward the front of the room again, feeling a red flush come to his face.

“I accept your allegiance Lord William de Adlard,” the King said. “Now you may rise, and tell me why you have come here when your duties did not necessitate it. Although I am glad my subjects are so loyal.”

“Even one who is remiss in his duty to Saradomin,” the priest muttered caustically, stepping back from the yellow rug.

William stood and bowed his head, to the laughter of the court.

“Please Master Raispher,” King Roald said. “Today is a day of celebration for all my realm. It is the longest day of the year, when the powers of our enemy across the river are at their weakest.” He turned his gaze again. “Now William de Adlard, explain yourself.”