“Welcome, Elias Taggert,” said the King, as the Steward bowed formally before him. “I have need of you, my most loyal Steward, to carry a message I dare not entrust to anyone else. I need you to leave this Castle and go into the hills and carry my word to the Broken Man.”
The Steward wanted to just stand there with his eyes wide and his jaw hanging open, but he knew what was expected of him. He stood stiff-backed and solemn-faced and did his best to keep his voice steady. “Has it really come to that, Sire?”
“No,” said the King. “But it might.”
“The hills . . . are a long way off,” said the Steward. “We’re talking weeks of travel, Sire, there and back. And I do have my duties here . . .”
“It has to be you. I need someone I can trust, to do what I ask and no more, and then to keep silent about it,” said the King. “You should be honoured, Taggert.”
“Oh, I am, Sire,” said the Steward immediately.
“Of course you are,” said the King. “You never met the Broken Man, did you? No, before your time. Your father knew him, when he was Steward before you. I think perhaps the Broken Man will listen to you, because of your name, where he might not accept anyone else. Do this for me, my Steward, and there shall be rewards. Reach out to him on my behalf.”
“As your majesty wishes,” said the Steward.
And then he jumped, despite himself, as a man appeared out of nowhere, standing beside the throne. The Steward knew him immediately, and didn’t bow to him. He knew the sorcerer Van Fleet, in person and by reputation, and regarded him as a bad influence on the King. Taggert had to wonder how long the sorcerer had been standing there, hidden from view behind his own magic, watching and listening. Given that the King hadn’t reacted at all to the sorcerer’s sudden appearance, he must have known Van Fleet was there all along. Why have the sorcerer hide himself, unless King William wasn’t entirely sure what the Steward’s response would be? Taggert felt he should be insulted by such a lack of trust, but truly, nothing could be taken for granted where the King and the Broken Man were concerned.
Van Fleet was a large, heavyset man, much like his brother, Gregory Pool, Prime Minister of Redhart. Van Fleet was dressed in his usual brightly coloured robes, gaudy enough to put a peacock off its lunch, with no mystical signs or charms to mark him for what he was: the most powerful and learned High Magician in Redhart. (Not that there was much competition these days.) Van Fleet liked to present himself as a scholar, doing research in the Royal Library, or performing alchemical experiments in his private rooms. A quiet, harmless, studious sort. Only a few people knew the kinds of things Van Fleet did for his King on the quiet. Elias Taggert knew. He had to know, because he was the Steward. But he didn’t have to like it.
Taggert jumped again, just a little, as the King resumed speaking. His voice was flat, with no room in it for objections.
“We don’t have time for you to reach the hills by usual means, Steward. I need my message carried to the Broken Man today and his answer brought back to me today. So Van Fleet has agreed to provide you with a door.”
Van Fleet smiled again, and gestured lazily, and the Steward had to struggle to keep from crying out. He could feel a growing presence in the Court, of something from Outside pressing in, forcing its way into reality. Something that didn’t belong, imposing itself on the world through the sorcerer’s strength of will. A door appeared suddenly, right before him. Just an ordinary-looking wooden door, standing still and upright, and entirely unsupported. Except it wasn’t just a door. The Steward could tell it was merely something that had chosen to look like a door, to serve its purpose. He could feel it looking at him. Van Fleet gestured again, and the door swung slowly open, like a gaping mouth. Warm golden sunlight spilled through the opening and into the Court, pushing back the gloom and the shadows. Through the doorway, the Steward could see open country, a hillside, and tree lines set against a clear blue sky. Sharp, clean scents of flowers and vegetation drifted through, all the smells and savours of living things from the great outdoors. The Steward took a step forward, then hesitated and looked back at the King.
“If you could get a move on, Taggert,” said Van Fleet. “This isn’t easy, you know.”
The Steward ignored him, still looking at the King. “What is your message, Sire? What, exactly, do you want me to say to the Broken Man?”
“Ask him if he will return if I call for him,” said the King. “If there is a war, will he come back, to lead my armies and fight for his country?”
“When you’ve finished your little chat with the Broken Man, just call for the door and it will come for you,” said Van Fleet. “Now hurry up. It’s getting hungry.”
“Go,” said the King.
The Steward nodded quickly, took a deep breath that didn’t help as much as he’d hoped, and walked through the open door. And just like that, he was somewhere else.
• • •
Elias Taggert stood very still, looking about him. There was no trace of the Court anywhere, or the door he’d just stepped through. He was out in the open, under a cloudless sky, with uncomfortably hot sunlight beating down on him. He was standing halfway up a fairly steep hillside, with rough bare stone under his feet, and a gusting wind that did its best to push him this way and that. He looked up and saw a ragged tree line at the top of the hill, most leaves already gone, leaving dark, jagged branches thrusting out against the sky. Birds circled overhead, crying out to one another in harsh, raucous voices. The Steward looked down, and immediately wished he hadn’t. The long hill stretched away below him, enough of it that it would have taken him half the day to climb up this far. A waterfall tumbled down a rock face opposite him, throwing spume and spray into the air, crashing down and down into a swift-flowing river at the bottom of the valley far below. There were flowers and plants and all kinds of vegetation all around him, and the Steward, not being in any way a country person, couldn’t identify any of it. All he could think of was wildlife, with the emphasis on the word wild. The Steward was convinced he could hear animal sounds, from somewhere far too close for his comfort.
It was all very pretty and bucolic, and the Steward hated it. He was a city mouse, or at least a Castle mouse, and he liked it that way. He thought plants and animals should know their place and not have designs of their own on people. He rarely left Castle Midnight, and when he did he couldn’t wait to get back. He looked quickly about him for wolves or bears or poisonous snakes, or even poisonous vegetation, while thinking rather plaintively, I don’t want to be here. Was he safe from animal and plant attack, halfway up a hillside? The Steward didn’t know and had no intention of hanging around long enough to find out.
He wished fleetingly that he possessed the magical powers of previous Stewards, to command the forces of the Unreal. Like his great-grandmother Catriona Taggert, who married Good King Viktor. But those powers had vanished along with the Unreal, generations before. He was just the King’s servant, on the King’s mission, and it was time he was about it.
The cave entrance was right in front of him. He’d never been here before, didn’t know anyone who had, but he had only to look at the dark, ragged opening to know Van Fleet and his damned door had got it right. This was the place. He could feel it, in his bones and in his water. This was the Broken Man’s cave, home to the man who only wished to be left alone. Most people had the good sense not to bother him; he was, after all, one of the most dangerous men in Redhart. Soldier, warrior, general, the Broken Man. The Steward shuffled forward, peering cautiously into the gloom inside the cave entrance. It was just a great hole, with rather unsafe-looking edges, set into the side of the hill. The Steward raised his voice.
“Hello? Hello, inside the cave? Sorry to bother you, but . . . I am the Steward of Castle Midnight and I bear an urgent message from his majesty, King William!”
“Go away,” said a voice from deep inside the cave. It sounded . . . human enough. “I don’t care what message you bring. The King and I have nothing
to say to each other anymore.”
“He knows that,” said the Steward, just a bit desperately. “Do you really think he’d send me all this way unless it was important and urgent and necessary?”
There was a pause, and then a long sigh. “Very well. Come in, Steward. And wipe your feet; there’s enough mess in here as it is.”
The Steward braced himself, and made his way carefully into the dark cave entrance. It soon revealed itself to be a tunnel, heading deep into the hill, with a light shining up ahead. The Steward moved forward very cautiously, a few steps at a time, one hand braced against the left-hand wall, while his feet kicked small stones out of his way, across the largely unseen tunnel floor. The light grew steadily brighter as he drew nearer, until he rounded a sudden corner and found himself looking into a large, well-lit cavern. It looked . . . surprisingly comfortable. Almost civilised.
Foxfire moss had been made into crude lamps that were set in niches in the walls, lighting the wide cavern with a gentle silver glow. Vegetation had been strewn across the floor and stamped flat, to take the edge off the hard stone. Roughly prepared animal skins served as rugs, and lay piled up at the far end to serve as a bed. A small fire burned in one corner, set under a hole in the cavern roof that apparently served as a natural chimney. It seemed to the Steward that the fire gave off more light than heat. But . . . there were books piled up everywhere, all across the cavern, and a proper writing desk, with paper and pen and ink.
And there, sitting on a comfortable chair at the back of the cavern, the Broken Man himself.
“I know you were exiled, banished,” the Steward said carefully, “but . . . is this all they let you take with you?”
“It’s all I wanted,” said the Broken Man. “I was allowed these luxuries, because I agreed to go, and not fight it. And I could have fought, could have defied the King; I did have supporters in those days. Whether I wanted them or not. But it never even occurred to me not to go, because there was nothing in the Court to make me want to stay. I have all I need here: my books, and my writing desk, and time to think. Peace and quiet at last. Everything I need, for a hermit’s life. So what are you doing here, Steward, disturbing me?”
The Broken Man was a more than usually large, broad-shouldered man, wrapped in furs from a dozen large and very dangerous animals, with a great mane of long black hair and a rough, untrimmed black beard. The Steward knew the Broken Man had to be in his late thirties, but he looked older. In fact, he looked like some barbarian warrior, some renegade chief of throat-slitters, banished from civilisation, hiding from his enemies. A massive longsword, in a gleaming metal scabbard, stood propped casually against the wall, beside his chair. Within easy reach. And yet, the Broken Man had an intelligent, thoughtful face, with sharp, piercing eyes. And his voice was even and cultured and unconcerned.
But . . . just sitting there in his chair, entirely at ease and at peace with himself, this exiled man, this hermit . . . was still the most dangerous-looking man the Steward had ever encountered.
“Well?” said the Broken Man. “Spit it out, Steward. What does my father want with his banished son?”
“Your father fears that the peace he has worked so hard to bring about will not last,” said the Steward, working hard to keep his words from stumbling over one another. “He has reason to fear that there will be war with the Forest Land—and sooner, rather than later.”
“Can’t he stop it?” said the Broken Man.
“Not when so many people want it,” said the Steward. “In defiance of all reason and common sense.”
“Why do these people want a war?”
“The usual reasons: power, profit . . . perhaps even honest patriotism.”
The Broken Man nodded slowly. “So, you’re Steward now. From after my time. How many years has it been since I walked away from the Court?”
“Eight years, your highness,” said the Steward.
The Broken Man winced. “Don’t call me that. I have no right to titles. I counted eight hard winters as they passed, but it seems longer . . . You are a Taggert?”
“Of course,” said the Steward. “The tradition still stands. I am Elias . . . I believe you knew my father, the previous Steward. He died two years ago, and I took on his duties. Were the two of you . . . close, Prince Cameron?”
The Broken Man made a sharp, dismissive gesture with one hand. “No. Don’t call me that. I gave up that name, and everything it represented, when I left. I prefer the name the courtiers gave me, to hurt me: the Broken Man. I embrace it, because it is accurate.” He looked sharply at the Steward. “Do you know why I was banished from my father’s Court and Castle Midnight?”
“I don’t think anyone knows for sure,” the Steward said carefully. “Your father never talks of it, and anyone who might have known is forbidden to discuss it. Of course, there are rumours . . .”
“I was the greatest warrior and general Redhart has ever known,” said the Broken Man. His voice was entirely calm, with not even a hint of boasting or pride in it. “Never defeated in battle. Victor of a hundred border skirmishes. But I was never . . . popular. I never appealed to the people, for all my triumphs. They only had to meet me to know something was wrong. Wrong with me. They were ready enough to cheer my victories, my battles won, but only from a distance. It seems I lacked . . . certain human qualities. And because of that, I could never be King. So my father sent me away, and settled on Christof as his de facto heir, and everyone had to pretend I never existed. That King William only had two children.” He smiled briefly. “I can’t say I miss much from my old life. I was good at being a soldier; it came easily to me, but I never took much satisfaction from it. I like being a hermit. Alone with my books, and my thoughts.”
“Are you . . . happy here?” said the Steward.
“You mean, do I get lonely? No. I prefer my own company. People do come here, from time to time. Not because they know who I was, or what I used to be, but because there is a tradition in these hills of venerating hermits. We’re supposed to be closer to God, you see; and therefore we might know useful things. So they come here, quietly and surreptitiously, and leave things outside my cave. Food, and gifts. Just because they believe it’s the right thing to do. And sometimes they leave little messages, badly written on scraps of hoarded paper. Usually concerning philosophical, or medical problems. And I look in my books, and give them what answers I have. None of them ever tries to come inside my cave. I think they can tell that would be a bad idea.”
“King William has sent me with a question for you,” said the Steward. “He wishes to know if there is a war, will you return to lead his army? If he calls for you?”
“If he calls . . . then I’ll come,” said the Broken Man tiredly. “But I won’t stay. I will do my duty, because part of me is still Prince Cameron, eldest son to the King. But there’s nothing he can say or do that will make me stay. Now go, Steward. Before I kill you for disturbing my precious solitude . . . making me remember things I have fought so very hard to forget.”
The Steward turned and bolted, running wildly back down the dark tunnel, out of the cave, and into the light. The door was already there, waiting for him. It opened, and the Steward ran through it as though a pack of wolves was panting at his heels; he ran back to the safety of Castle Midnight, and things he understood. The door closed quietly behind him and disappeared.
• • •
Prince Christof, youngest child of King William, had his own very private rooms, well away from the traditional Royal family quarters. The farther away he was from his father, the easier and more comfortable he felt, and he had no doubt that his Royal father felt much the same way. Christof had his own personally chosen guards, who stood at the door to his very private rooms, and no one ever got in without a written invitation, well in advance. So the courtier Reginald Salazar approached Christof’s door with more than usual trepidation. He’d been inside Christof’s private rooms many times before, enjoyed Christof’s company on many occasions
. Eaten and drunk and partied with him, along with certain similarly minded friends. But this was the first time he’d come to Christof’s door without an invitation, or at least an understanding. He had no choice, however. He had to talk to Christof.
He did his best to put on a good show as he approached the armed and armoured guards, trying hard to look calm and confident, as though he had a right to be there, but it didn’t come easily. Reginald was a lover, not a fighter. He might intrigue, and even conspire, but always from a safe distance. He stopped before the guards, stuck his nose in the air, and addressed them in his most aristocratic tones.
“You know who I am. You know the Prince knows me. He needs to see me now. I have urgent information that he needs to hear. If he finds out you kept this news from him, he will not be happy.”
The more experienced of the two guards looked at him pityingly. “Yes, I know you, Salazar. But you know the Prince. You know what he’ll say, what he’ll do, if we disturb him and he decides that what you have to say isn’t important, or urgent. You really want to risk that?”
Reginald nodded, struck dumb for the moment. He knew what Christof had done in the past. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, back down. The guards moved away from the door, and Reginald stepped forward. He swallowed hard and said his name, very loudly. There was a pause, and then the door swung open by itself. Reginald strode in, and didn’t look back as the door shut and locked itself behind him.
Reginald stayed where he was, shifting nervously from foot to foot despite himself. He could feel cold sweat on his face. Christof was his friend, had been more than a friend, but you didn’t bother him. Not if you knew what was good for you. Reginald could still remember his good friend Prince Christof sticking a knife in his ribs, deep enough to draw blood, just for saying the right thing at the wrong moment.