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.
Hell, in the long run, I got the stasis box because I couldn’t keep my hands off the wrong women. Who am I to be slanging at him? And yet, if I admit that he is the king, and the Lord General, then I am in bed with the queen, and from all I know about this country that’s going to be a fairly serious crime too—not to mention Bard’s pride! If I have him killed, Melisendra will probably tell them the truth. If I don’t, I’d be a hell of a lot better off in the stasis box! Because I have no doubt they have the death penalty here—and probably some clever ways of enforcing it!
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 Paolo, 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 Lake 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.
No. I wouldn’t have had him killed. I have destroyed too many people already. I might have struck him down myself, in anger, but I could not have stood there in cold blood and ordered him killed. He is too much a part of myself now. And it has turned out well, for I am free of Melisendra.
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! I 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.
He said, and knew that his voice was shaking with the emotion he could no longer pretend not to feel, “Welcome to Asturias, cousin. It is a sad welcome indeed, and based on a bereavement—my father and brother are not yet at rest, but lie unburied until there is some order in this kingdom. We are under attack from Aldaran, and I find myself, undesired, on a throne I do not know how to fill. But although it is a poor welcome, I am glad to have you here—” and his voice broke. He stopped, knowing he would break down and weep in the sight of them all if he did not. He felt Geremy’s hand, hard, over his.
“Would that I could bring you some comfort—foster brother,” Geremy said, and Bard swallowed hard. “I grieve deeply for your bereavement. I did not know Dom Rafael well, but I knew Alaric and loved him, and he was overyoung to be torn so swiftly out of life. But even in this hour of sorrow we must care for the living. Varzil has told me news which I believe you have not yet heard. Varzil, kinsman, tell Bard what your sentry birds have seen.”
“Aldaran has joined this war,” Varzil said. “We knew from Master Gareth, last night, and his leroni, that they had sent the sorcery which broke the castle walls. Now there is an army on the march from the Darriell forest, and he is allied with Scathfell and other little kingdoms to the north. They are still many days north of the Kadarin, but I believe they think they will take you in chaos and bereavement. But I have later news still. Tramontana has sworn neutrality; they will make no more laran weapons. And they are the last of the Towers to swear, for Arilinn has so sworn to the Hasturs.”
“So,” Geremy said, “the martyrs at Hali died to some purpose, then. For now there is no single Tower in this land which will manufacture clingfire. or bonewater dust, or the blight which has attacked the Venza hills. I came to ask Dom Rafael, not knowing of his death—I came to ask him, for a second time, to swear Compact, and join with me and my leroni, if only to disable the stocks of laran weapons which remain. We have sworn not to use them, but we can defend ourselves against them.”
Bard considered this, silently, staring at the fallen wing of the castle. Aldaran had come against him with laran, and how did they know what he had left in his arsenal? At last he said, “I would gladly do so, Geremy. When there is peace again in this land, I will swear to Compact, and woe to any man who breaks it, and the leroni may go back to telling fortunes for lovesick maidens and telling breeding women whether they will bear sons or daughters, or to healing the sick and sending relay messages faster than an express rider. But while the land is at war, I dare not. I must put my army on the road within three days if I am to stop Aldaran and hold him on his own side of the Kadarin!”
“For that, I offer you an alliance,” Geremy said. “I am empowered by Carolin to send his men beside you against Aldaran. He is welcome to reign across the Kadarin, but we do not want him in the Hundred Kingdoms.”
“I will accept Carolin’s help gratefully,” Bard said. “But I cannot swear to Compact until I have put my kingdom in order. And I will swear an alliance with the Hasturs.” He knew, as he spoke, that he was tearing down, in a few words, all that his father had fought to do. But it had been his father’s ambition, not his own. He would rule, but he had no further desire to conquer. Let those who owned and ruled over the land possess it in peace. He had enough trouble with a kingdom; he shuddered at the thought of ruling over an empire. He was only one man; he had set his dark twin free.
Geremy sighed. “I had hoped you were ready for Compact, Bard, now you have seen what the lack of it has done to this land. And it is worse in Hastur country. Have you seen the children being born in the Venza hills and near Carcosa?”
Bard shook his head. “I said, Geremy, we will talk of it again when Aldaran is resigned to staying on his own side of the Kadarin. And now, if you please, I have to set my army ready for the march.” Who would rule while he was with the army? Could he trust Carlina to reign as his regent? Could he induce Varzil to stay at his court and see all things done well? How could he decide? He smiled grimly, thinking that once again he needed to be in two places at once, on his throne here, and with his army on the march! Would the army follow Paul? Should he put it into his hands of one of his father’s experienced veteran commanders?
He summoned four or five of his father’s men, veteran commanders, and talked with them for a considerable time about the deployment
of the army. He stepped briefly into the Great Hall to move for a few minutes among the wounded men there. The army had organized plenty of orderlies, and the women were being tended by every woman in the castle who was not busy elsewhere. He recognized Lady Jerana’s own personal maid, and realized even she must be dressing herself this morning.
He had had no glimpse of Melora; where had she gone? He hungered to have a sight of her, although till this tangle with Carlina should be settled, he knew he could not say a word to her about what was in his heart. Master Gareth came toward him, and he asked, “What is doing, my old friend? Are there enough leroni to maintain the shield of the castle?”
“We’re trying, sir,” Master Gareth said, “although I don’t know how long we can keep it up, and I’d take it kindly if you’d ask Lord Geremy Hastur to lend you his sorcerers too.”
“I’ll do that, or you may ask him yourself.”
“Ah, but the request would mean more from you, sir.”
“And what of Mistress Melora? The Lord Varzil lent her to you last night to care for the sick—”
“She’s leaving that to the Mother Liriel, the priestess, you know, this morning,” said Master Gareth. Bard, in a split-second flash of insight, realized that Carlina, Mother Liriel as she was now calling herself, had no more wish to recognize that lapsed marriage contract and handfasting than he did. Was he truly free? He and Carlina must talk together, have it clear and understood, but his spirits lifted, even as Master Gareth said, “I sent Melora to fly her sentry birds; she’s the best at handling them that I ever knew. She sent me to tell you there’s a great column of priestesses on the road from the Lake of Silence, and they’re being escorted by riders in red.”
“So the Sisterhood of the Sword has done as they said—” Bard began, but at that very moment Melora appeared at the back of the lawn, waving her arms and calling frantically, distraught.
Bard ran toward her, Master Gareth puffing behind on his elderly legs.