Brion. Brion DeGrange, head of castle security. He’s one of us.
Jordan nodded quickly to DeGrange. He’d never been any good at recognizing people from a description. “Of course,” he said curtly. “Will you accompany us, Roderik?”
“As you wish, sire.”
“With your permission, I will leave you now, sire,” said Argent, bowing formally. “I have business matters that must be attended to.”
“And I’ve got work to do,” said Gawaine. “With your permission, Highness …”
“Yes, yes,” said Jordan testily, waving his hand at them in dismissal. He glared at DeGrange. “Well, get a move on. I’ve got better things to do than stand around all day in a drafty courtyard.”
DeGrange bowed deeply, and led the way into the castle interior. Jordan wondered if he’d imagined the glint of anger he’d seen in the man’s eyes just before he bowed. The two guards fell in on either side of Jordan as he left the courtyard. He did his best to pretend they weren’t there. He hated to admit it, but with Gawaine gone, he felt decidedly more vulnerable.
DeGrange led him through a series of wide passageways and intersecting corridors, filled with bustling people who immediately stopped what they were doing to fall back and bow deeply as Jordan approached. At first, Jordan found this rather pleasant and not a little gratifying, but it soon became boring and finally irritating. The endless bowing was getting on his nerves. It was like walking through an endless supply of headwaiters. He enjoyed the adulation he’d received as an actor because he felt he’d earned it by his art, but these people were bowing to him because they had to, not because they felt he was worthy of it. Jordan decided he didn’t care for that at all. Receiving acclaim you hadn’t earned was like drinking wine with no alcohol in it. It didn’t thrill. Finally he just ignored them all and didn’t acknowledge anybody. He kept an eye out for ghosts and monsters and other traces of the Unreal, but so far Castle Midnight seemed much like all the other castles he’d visited: dark, crowded, and drafty.
The corridors became steadily narrower as they made their way deeper into the castle, and Jordan began to find the endless black stone walls both depressing and disturbing. It never seemed light enough, despite the many lamps and torches set in every conceivable niche. Echoes lingered on that fraction too long, and shadows caught at the corner of his eye with hints of unnatural shapes. He tried to tell himself it was all in his imagination, but he couldn’t make himself believe it. He glanced surreptitiously at DeGrange, Roderik, and the guards to see if they shared his mood, but they seemed unaffected. Presumably they were used to it. And then they came to a simple stone chamber, and the oppressive atmosphere was suddenly gone.
Jordan stopped dead in his tracks, and the others stopped with him. Jordan sighed, and stood up a little straighter. He stretched, and flexed his muscles. He hadn’t realized what a weight he was carrying until it was gone. He felt calm and relaxed, and at peace with himself and the world. It was an unfamiliar feeling for him, and he stood there breathing deeply for a while, savoring it. He looked about him curiously, studying the chamber. The walls were the same black stone as everywhere else, but here the color was flat and lifeless. Two torches burned in iron wall brackets, and their light filled the chamber with a warm comfortable glow. A plain wooden crucifix hung on one wall, with a garland of fresh flowers beneath it. There was a row of simple wooden seats, but no other furniture or fittings.
“What is this place?” asked Jordan softly.
“This is a sanctuary, Your Highness,” said Roderik, in a voice that was at once polite and a subtle warning.
“Of course,” said Jordan. “A sanctuary.”
He nodded to DeGrange to carry on, and they left the chamber behind them. The moment they passed through the doorway, the feeling of peace and restfulness was gone. Jordan said nothing, but decided he’d have quite a few questions to put to Roderik once they were safely out of the public eye. He didn’t dare ask anything in front of the guards; Viktor would have known what a sanctuary was.
Finally, long after Jordan had lost all track of where he was in the castle, they came to a large, ornately carved and decorated door. DeGrange opened it, and then stepped back and gestured for Jordan to enter first. He did so, trying to put across with his upraised nose that he’d never expected anything else. The room before him was wonderfully spacious and luxuriously appointed. Thick carpets covered the floor, and brightly colored tapestries livened up the gleaming white walls. More than a dozen doors led off into adjoining rooms. Elegant and expensive furniture stood casually about, drawing attention to itself, though it seemed to have been assembled with little feeling or taste. Some of the pieces clashed so ostentatiously in style and period that Jordan felt like wincing. Having briefly been a nouveau riche during his more successful days, Jordan was a terrible snob where taste was concerned. He waited impatiently while the two guards busied themselves lighting candles under DeGrange’s direction, and the moment they were finished, he gestured for them to leave with a quick jerk of his head. They did so, after bowing politely, and Jordan was finally left alone with Count Roderik and Brion DeGrange.
The moment the door had shut behind the two guards, Roderik sank limply into the nearest chair and fanned himself with his hand.
“So far, so good. What do you think of your quarters, Your Highness?”
“Very nice,” said Jordan. “Very … opulent.”
“Yes,” said Roderik, smiling, “Viktor’s never been known for his taste. And if you think this is bad, wait till you see the bedroom. Brion, dear fellow, allow me to introduce you to the Great Jordan.”
Jordan grinned at DeGrange, and stuck out his hand. Degrange put his hands on his hips and studied Jordan coolly. “You made a good choice, Roderik. The likeness is exact, even down to his voice and the way he walks. He’ll have to work on the arrogance, of course, but that should come easily enough to an actor. Does he understand what his job here entails?”
“Yes. He’s been thoroughly briefed.”
“I’ve no doubt he’s word perfect on Viktor’s background, but does he understand what we all stand to lose if he fouls up?”
“I’m sure he does, Brion.”
“I wouldn’t bet on it. I know his sort. He may style himself the Great Jordan, but deep down he’s just like any other actor; idle, shiftless, and unreliable.”
“If you don’t stop talking about him as if he wasn’t here,” said Jordan calmly, “he is going to punch you right in the throat.”
DeGrange looked at him. “You forget your place, actor,” he said softly. “You’re a hired man, nothing more. We own you, body and soul. Out there in public I may have to bow and scrape to you, but here in private you’ll call me sir, and like it. Because if you don’t, I’m going to hurt you. I know a lot about hurting people. I’m very good at it. Now get down on your knees where you belong, actor, and call me sir.”
“Blow it out your ear,” said Jordan.
DeGrange’s hand dropped to the sword at his side. Jordan stepped forward and kicked him smartly, just below the knee. DeGrange grunted in surprise at the sudden blinding pain, and fell awkwardly to the floor as his leg collapsed under him. Jordan palmed one of his flare pellets and crushed it in his hand. Blue-white flames leapt up around his clenched fist without consuming it. Jordan leaned forward and stretched out his blazing hand toward DeGrange. The security man froze where he was. Beads of sweat formed on his face as Jordan stopped his hand only inches away from DeGrange’s face.
“You will treat me with respect at all times,” said Jordan quietly, “both in public and in private. I can’t afford to have you give the game away by reacting wrongly to me at any point. You’re not a good enough actor to cover it up. Now get up, and address me properly.”
He didn’t threaten the man; he didn’t have to. He stepped back a few paces, and blew out the flames on his hand. His skin was tingling faintly, but as always he’d taken no harm from the heat. The protection spell he’d bought all those years
ago was still good. It ought to be; it had cost enough. DeGrange got slowly to his feet, still favoring his bruised leg, and Jordan watched him carefully. He’d been bluffing, but he was fairly sure DeGrange didn’t know that. He’d believe Jordan’s implied threat because his own threat had been real. Jordan preferred to avoid violence whenever possible, but if he was to get any respect here, he was going to have to act the hard man or they’d walk right over him.
DeGrange nodded briefly to Jordan, and then looked at Roderik. “He’ll do. When his hand burst into flames like that, I thought for one horrible moment that I’d got it wrong, and he really was Prince Viktor.”
“As far as you’re concerned, he is,” said Roderik coldly. “He’s quite right; we have to be consistent in our attitudes toward him, or we’re bound to make a mistake at some crucial moment. Now apologize to him.”
“Apologize to him? That jumped-up actor?”
“He is your prince,” said Roderik. He locked eyes with DeGrange, and the security man’s face went pale. “Do as you’re told, Brion. Apologize to him.”
DeGrange’s jaw clenched, and the muscles in his face jumped spasmodically. His hands curled into shaking fists at his sides. And slowly, remorselessly, he turned and bowed stiffly to Jordan. “I apologize for my disrespectful words and actions, Your Highness.”
“Then we’ll say no more of it,” said Jordan graciously. He cocked an eyebrow at Roderik. “Something happened there. You forced him to do that somehow.”
“Oh yes,” said Roderik easily. “It wasn’t difficult. DeGrange was once a widely respected and even more widely feared outlaw. He commanded one of the largest bands of cutthroats and bandits Redhart has ever known. They were finally hunted down and tracked to their lair some five years ago. Most of them were slain, but Brion was taken alive. Rather than waste the man’s obvious abilities, King Malcolm had Brion put under a geas: a controlling spell. Brion is compelled to function as head of castle security, and to do a good job of it. Originally he was answerable only to Malcolm, but with his death that control has passed to me.”
“That was convenient” said Jordan.
“I arranged it that way,” said Roderik. “A simple rider, attached to the original spell. So small and insignificant, you’d never know it was there, unless you were looking for it. Malcolm never knew, of course, and Brion was prevented from volunteering the information. And you needn’t worry about someone else taking control away from me; I changed the spell so that no more riders are possible. Malcolm never did know much about High Magic, and how it worked. You can trust Brion implicitly, Jordan. He can no more betray us than he can grow wings and fly. Every now and again he tries to assert his independence, but all it takes is a few words from me to bring him back to heel. Isn’t that right, Brion?”
“Yes, my lord,” said DeGrange.
Jordan scowled at them both. He’d heard about the geas spell, but he’d never seen one in use before. Now that he had, he didn’t like it at all. The geas seemed like nothing more than a particularly nasty form of slavery. A man in chains can at least dream of escaping someday, but what hope has a man got when his mind and soul are in chains? Roderik, you’d better hope and pray your spell never breaks down, Jordan thought coldly, because if DeGrange ever gets loose, he’ll make your death last a hell of a long time.
“Now then, Brion,” said Roderik pleasantly, “tell us what’s been happening in our absence. How is Prince Viktor?”
“There’s been no real change in his condition,” said DeGrange. “He’s still weak and feverish, though he remains lucid—for the most part. Neither the surgeons nor the magicians can figure out what’s wrong with him.”
“When do I get to see Prince Viktor?” said Jordan suddenly. “I’m going to have to meet him, and soon, if this impersonation is to work. So far, all I’ve had are your descriptions of what you think he’s like. I need to see the real thing for myself.”
“He’ll be here any minute,” said Roderik. “Sir Gawaine has gone to fetch him. Brion, what have Lewis and Dominic been up to?”
“Our spies have been keeping a close watch on them in public,” said DeGrange, “but in private they’re both protected by strong magical shields, just as we are. Their people are still tearing the castle apart searching for the missing crown and seal, but so far they’ve had no more luck than our agents. Lewis has been spending a lot of time with the Monk and Ironheart. Dominic and the Lady Elizabeth have been campaigning openly at Court, trying to drum up support among the nobles.”
“Have they had much success?” asked Roderik, frowning.
“Quite a bit,” said DeGrange. “The Court’s never cared much for Lewis. Princes are supposed to have a taste for dueling, but he takes it too far. And he’s always been too devious for his own good. These days, nobody trusts Lewis further than they can throw him, particularly since he became allied with the Monk.”
“I keep hearing that name,” said Jordan. “He’s a sorcerer, right?”
“We think so,” said Roderik. “It’s probably best if you meet him for yourself and make up your own mind. The Monk is a rather … disturbing person. Carry on, Brion. How does the Court feel about Viktor?”
“Prince Viktor lost most of his support when he was sent into internal exile,” said DeGrange. “And since his illness, he’s been unable to get about and rebuild his influence. There’s been a lot of gossip about his absence from Court of late, but nothing we can’t handle. However, all this leaves Dominic in a very strong position. With the Lady Elizabeth’s help, he’s been building his power base practically unopposed.”
“Wait just a minute,” said Jordan. “According to Sir Gawaine, Dominic is insane.”
“I wouldn’t argue with that,” said DeGrange, “but the current attitude at Court seems to be that the Lady Elizabeth is sane and tough enough for both of them. And while Dominic is a little … strange on some subjects, his mind appears to be perfectly clear and lucid when it comes to political matters.”
The main door swung suddenly open, and the three of them looked around sharply. Roderik took one look at the hooded figure in the doorway, and got to his feet and bowed. DeGrange bowed, too, and Jordan suddenly realized who the figure must be. The newcomer moved slowly forward into the room, supported on the one side by Sir Gawaine and on the other by a beautiful young woman. One of the guards outside pulled the door shut behind them. The hooded man raised a shaking hand and pushed back his robe’s cowl to reveal Prince Viktor’s face. Jordan stared at him. It was the same face he’d first seen in Roderik’s mirror, back in Bannerwick. It had the same sardonic features, the same crooked nose, and the same jet black hair. But this man wore the face differently. There was a weak petulance in the mouth and eyes, and deep frown lines clustered together between the scowling eyebrows. His skin was very pale, and slick with a sheen of fresh sweat. The woman at his side helped him into the nearest chair, and Jordan seized the chance to study her.
She was tall for a woman, about five foot nine or ten, with a tight boyish figure that was still openly sensual. She couldn’t have been more than nineteen or twenty, and was brimming over with life and energy. She had a long mane of light brown hair that fell almost to her belt, pulled back from a sharply etched, intelligent face. She was beautiful and graceful, but Jordan felt a sudden chill when she looked up suddenly and their eyes met. He saw ambition written clearly in her face, together with a ruthless determination. In that moment, Jordan knew her mind as though he’d known her for years, and in a way he had. She had the look of every hard-edged leading lady he’d ever worked with: the kind of woman who always made sure no one else in the cast sang better than she did. When she broke the gaze and looked away, he felt almost relieved. There was an unwavering strength that burned in her like a bright flame, implicit in every move she made—even in the soft, soothing murmurs she was bestowing on Prince Viktor. Jordan didn’t need to be told who she was. She had to be the Lady Heather Tawney, the latest love in Viktor’s life. Prince Vikto
r finally got himself settled comfortably, and looked hard at Jordan.
“Come closer,” he said finally. His voice was surprisingly strong and resonant, despite his illness. “Let me look at you. It’s a strange thing to see your own face on another man’s body.”
Jordan moved forward obediently and stood before the prince’s chair, letting Viktor and Heather look him over. Their eyes weighed and measured him as impersonally as a butcher judging a side of beef.
“Say something,” said the prince.
“I am happy to meet Your Highness,” said Jordan smoothly. “I hope I meet with your approval.”
Viktor frowned. “He looks all right, but his voice is too high. I don’t sound like that.”
“Hush, Viktor dear, his voice is perfect,” said the Lady Heather. “He sounds just like you, honestly.”
Viktor shrugged, but said nothing more. Jordan looked to Roderick for a cue, but the count avoided his eyes. Jordan looked back at the prince. There was no doubt that the man’s illness was eating away at him inside. He didn’t look to have lost much weight, but his feebleness was apparent in every shaky movement.
The Lady Heather patted Viktor comfortingly on the arm, and glared at Roderik and DeGrange. “It’s been weeks since Viktor first fell ill, and you still haven’t found out what’s causing it! How much longer is it going to take?”
“We’re doing everything we can,” said DeGrange calmly. “Our magicians are adamant there’s no trace of any sorcerous attack; not even anything as vague as a curse. The new quarters we’ve moved him to are a closely guarded secret, and are warded against every kind of magic. He couldn’t be any safer if he was in a sanctuary. In fact, right now Prince Viktor is probably the most securely guarded person in Castle Midnight—and that includes the Regent. His food is prepared freshly every day, under Robert Argent’s supervision. Up until he left with Count Roderik, Argent even went so far as to taste the prince’s food first, in his presence. Since Argent is still well and hale, I think we can rule out poison. I don’t see what else security can do, my Lady Heather. As far as any of us can tell, Prince Viktor has simply contracted a rather nasty illness, and that is the province of the castle surgeons, not security.”