Journey into the Void (17 page)

“He is interested in battle, you say,” said Tasgall. “Not frightened?”

“He is not in the least frightened,” said the Regent, with almost maternal pride. “His Majesty is not a coward.”

The head of the Order of the Arts spoke up. A serious, taciturn man, he was noted for his extreme deliberation of thought.

“I do not think we have much choice in the matter, Regent. I think we must hear from this man, though there is no doubt that we must refuse any terms for surrender.”

“I agree,” said the Inquisitor. “I am curious to see this Lord Dagnarus. Strange rumors circulate about him.”

“I suppose we must meet with him,” said the Regent in ill-humored tones. “Are we all agreed?”

The nine assembled murmured their assent.

“I will make the arrangements.” Clovis paused, then said in a soft voice, “I suppose, Tasgall, that His Majesty must be present at this meeting?”

“I fear so, Regent. The barons would be angered otherwise. But I suggest that you speak to His Majesty first. Remind him that he is supposed to follow your guidance and that he is not to make any decisions without consulting with you first. And I would bring him to the meeting late, so that his appearance is merely a matter of formality.”

“Yes, a good suggestion,” said Clovis. “And you may be assured that I will have a long talk with His Majesty.”

The Regent stalked off, her ceremonial robes rustling around her thick ankles.

“Truly,” Rigiswald muttered, shaking his head as he returned to the Hall of Past Glories, “Tasgall is right. The Void is at work here.”

N
O FANFARE, NO TRUMPET FLOURISHES, NO GRAND CEREMONY
introduced Dagnarus into the city he hoped to make his own. He was hustled in secret through a wicket located in a side gate near the dockyard, then blindfolded and taken to the palace in a closed carriage. It was remarked, by those battle magi who guarded him, that he was not in the least offended by these proceedings, but seemed to accept them with good-natured amusement.

Dagnarus was not what they expected. Leader of an army of monsters, he had been viewed as a monster himself. Instead, he was a charming, handsome man, self-assured and confident. He was well dressed but not ostentatious in a woolen cape and high boots, embroidered doublet and snowy white shirt. He wore his clothes with an air of elegance. He brought with him a fine sword, which he gave into the hands of the battle magi with orders to take care of it, for the blade had once been his father's. He was like a fine blade himself—ornately decorated, polished to a high gloss, and possessed of a sharp edge.

Men of war could tell at a glance he was one of them. During the carriage ride, he spoke to his guards of certain recent battles fought by the Vinnengaeleans against dwarven raiders, during which he made it clear that he had studied the battles, speaking knowledgeably about the strategies and tactics used by both sides. The hardened battle magi found themselves drawn into the conversation against their will and, by the end of the carriage ride, were prepared to give Dagnarus their grudging respect. He knew what he was about, when it came to war, that was certain.

Who he was, where he had come from, how he came by this monstrous army, and why was he attacking Vinnengael—these were questions the battle magi sought to answer. He was human, and appeared to be about thirty-five years of age, with auburn hair and intense green eyes. He was clean-shaven, with an ingratiating smile and a hail-fellow-well-met aspect. He spoke fluent and idiomatic Elderspeak, which seemed to indicate that he was Vinnengaelean, but there was something rather old-fashioned about his speech. He called a “halberd” a “haubert,” a term that, as one man put it, “had gray hair and a beard on it when my grandfather was a lad.” The battle magi could not penetrate Dagnarus's defenses, for he would either counter their verbal thrusts or use his wit to turn them aside.

The battle magi kept Dagnarus blindfolded as they led him through the corridors of the palace to the Hall of Past Glories. He bore this indignity with good humor, grinning beneath his mask and complaining that he could see none of the beautiful women for which he had heard the city was famous. Upon detecting an odor of perfume as he walked past one of the startled ladies of the court, he paused to bow to the unseen woman in a courtly manner.

He was taken into the Hall of Past Glories, where his blindfold was removed. He blinked at the light a few moments until he could see, then, smiling, looked at the crowd gathered around him. He was met with hostile stares, curled lips, growlings, and mutterings. Their obvious enmity did not appear to bother him one whit. He remained calm, relaxed, and confident.

The Regent stood on the dais, her hands clasped, her head thrown back, magnificently offended. If by this attitude, the Regent hoped to intimidate Dagnarus or inflict upon him a sense of his wrongdoing, she failed utterly. Paying absolutely no attention to her, he stared intently at one of the murals depicting Old Vinnengael. He turned to Tasgall, who stood, armed and ready for trouble, at his side.

“Is that supposed to be the Royal Palace, Magus?” Dagnarus asked.

Tasgall answered warily, not trusting even this seemingly innocuous question. “Why do you want to know, sir?”

“Because if that's the case, you've got it all wrong,” Dagnarus returned, laughing.

Before anyone could stop him, he strode across the room, scattering the barons and the courtiers and the heads of the Orders, who scrambled
to get out of his way. The battle magi leapt after him, weapons drawn and spells ready. He paid them no heed, but continued on his way and came to stand in front of the mural, not far from the chair in which Rigiswald happened to be sitting, ostensibly reading a book.

The Regent glowered after Dagnarus and glared at Tasgall, who shrugged his shoulders to indicate that he had no idea what was going on, nor, so long as this man was not posing a threat, was there anything he could do about it.

Dagnarus studied the mural. “The artist has the waterfalls right. But he's mangled the palace.” He placed a finger on the painting. “This wing extended out this way. The entrance was over here, not where he has put it. He's added an extra tower and, because of that, this balcony, where my father used to walk, faces too far to the west. Before I leave, I'll draw you a picture, to make certain you get it right.”

Hearing nothing behind him—the silence was such that everyone in the room might have been struck down dead—Dagnarus turned around to face them. A smile played on his lips.

“Well, well,” he remarked. “Perhaps now is not the time for fond remembrances.”

He glanced back at the painting, and Rigiswald noted a shadow darken the handsome features. “Still, I would like for it to be right.”

The shadow was soon gone, replaced by charming
bonhomie.
Rigiswald was one of the few to have noticed the look or heard the murmured words that chilled him to the marrow.

The Regent stiffened and exchanged grim glances with Tasgall and the Inquisitor. They were both thinking the same thoughts as Rigiswald except, unlike him, they didn't believe Dagnarus. They didn't believe he was the person he claimed to be.

You will come to, said Rigiswald silently. He will see to that. The gods help us!

The Regent drew in breath to launch into her speech, her bosom swelling like the sails of a ship in a high wind.

Dagnarus forestalled her.

“Where is my young cousin, Havis?” he asked, glancing around.

The Regent said coldly, “I do not know of whom you speak, sir. I was not aware that you claim relation to any in this room. Or that any would claim relationship with you.”

“His Majesty the King,” said Dagnarus, smiling and choosing to ignore the insult. “Havis III. My little cousin. I say ‘cousin,' although I'm sure that the relationship is probably much more complex—second cousins by marriage twice removed or some such nonsense. I have traveled a long distance to see him, and I would not be denied the pleasure.”

“Pleasure!” The Regent gave forth one of her snorts. “You hold a dagger to our throats, and you speak of pleasure!”

“You refer to my army. I was not certain of my welcome in this city,” Dagnarus replied, his smile engaging. “I deemed it best to come prepared.”

“Prepared for what, sir? War?” Clovis's voice shook with rage.

“No, Regent,” said Dagnarus. His tone was earnest, serious. “I am here to establish my rightful claim to the throne of the Vinnengaelean Empire.”

“Silence!” the Regent thundered, to quiet the assembly.

The guards slammed the butts of their spears on the stone floor. The confused hubbub came to an abrupt end, but not through any action of the Regent. At that point, either by accident or design, the young king made his entrance. Accompanied by his guards and his chamberlain, he strode into the room. As he paused to acknowledge the bows of the assembly, his eyes went immediately to Dagnarus. Rigiswald watched closely, to see if any sort of sign passed between them. The child's eyes were wide with a very natural curiosity. Dagnarus regarded the king with a kind of patronizing benevolence.

The Regent clucked the king onto his throne, gave a look meant to remind him of his manners, then turned away in response to the Inquisitor, who had stepped to the dais and was speaking to her with obvious urgency. Rigiswald could have cast his eavesdropping spell, but he didn't need to expend the energy. He could easily guess what the two were discussing. The Inquisitor had recognized the danger, and he was undoubtedly warning Clovis not to proceed further, urging her to stall for time, meet with this man in private. Perhaps he was telling her more “rumors” he'd heard.

“You do not want to hear his explanation about his right to the throne,” the Inquisitor was undoubtedly saying to her emphatically. “Above all, you do not want to give him a public forum.”

Tasgall hastened over to join them, to add the weight of his argument.

The Regent was skeptical. Rigiswald could read her lips form the word, “Flummery!” The Inquisitor pressed his point, and Tasgall apparently sided with him, for he nodded whenever the Inquisitor opened his mouth. Outnumbered and outargued, the Regent was forced to back down. She had to figure out how to extract herself from this situation and remove Dagnarus from the room without affronting the barons. She might have saved herself the trouble, for by then it was too late.

They had forgotten the king.

Havis III leaned forward, and said loudly, “I heard you state, sir, that you have a rightful claim to the throne. I would be interested to hear the nature of your claim.”

The Regent tried to hush him. “Your Majesty, this is not for you to worry about—”

“I want to hear him,” said the king, with a look. “Please, sir, go ahead.”

“Certainly, Your Majesty,” said Dagnarus, responding to the child with becoming gravity. “I am Prince Dagnarus, second son to Tamaros, late king of Vinnengael. My elder brother, Helmos, being dead, I am Tamaros's only living heir and the true and rightful King.”

 

During the ensuing tumult, the Regent shouted at the guards to remove His Majesty to a place of safety—an excuse to get rid of him, of course. The king was in no danger. The raised voices and fierce words were not aimed at him, although the Regent came in for her share of outrage. Some called for the imposter's head, while others called for the Regent's. Some shouted that Dagnarus be allowed to tell his tale, others that he be thrown into the Arven. The king, with the obstinate stubbornness of a child, refused to leave the hall, and the Regent, under the glaring eyes of the barons, could not very well order His Majesty carried out bodily.

The guards took up position around the throne, stood with weapons drawn. Young Havis looked solemn and subdued, but certainly not afraid. His gaze was fixed on Dagnarus, which was perfectly natural. Dagnarus looked once at the child, as if to assure himself that Havis was safe, then, with calm nonchalance, turned his attention to the assembly and stood at ease, a very slight smile on his lips.

The disruption in the hall gave Rigiswald a chance to observe closely
the Lord of the Void. Rigiswald tried very hard to see some outward signs of the Void at work, some physical indication that this man's life had been extended by means of the foul magic that never gives freely but demands a price.

Dagnarus's skin was fair and unblemished, his hands callused and scarred, as would be the hands of any warrior, for the calluses were made by the pommel of a sword and the scars were battle scars, not the scars of lesions and pustules. His body was firm, well muscled. He stood straight and tall. He was comely in appearance. Certainly he did not look two hundred years old.

Rigiswald's view of Dagnarus was from the side, and he was thinking that he would like very much to get a close look into his eyes when Dagnarus turned his head to look at Rigiswald.

“Would you take my likeness, old gentleman?” Dagnarus asked with a teasing grin, raising his voice to be heard over the uproar.

“I would,” said Rigiswald, “and add it to the painting.”

He gave a nod toward another part of the mural that depicted Helmos following his Transfiguration. King Tamaros stood together with Helmos, who wore the shining armor of a Dominion Lord. The faces of both were exalted, happy—artistic license, for history recorded that Helmos was made Lord of Sorrows, the only time such a woeful title had been bestowed by the gods on a Dominion Lord. Dagnarus, the second son, was nowhere to be seen.

Dagnarus flicked a glance in the direction of the mural. He gazed long at the two figures, father and son, forever bound in a moment of shared pride and exultation that forever excluded the younger son, the wild son, the son who had not measured up. Dagnarus looked back, and Rigiswald had his chance. He looked into the eyes.

He expected to see the nothingness of the Void. Instead he saw the shadow of pain that two hundred years could not ease and the fire of a blazing ambition that two hundred years could not quench. Rigiswald saw in those eyes humanity, and he was sorry, deeply sorry. To see the hollow emptiness of death would have been awful, but far preferable to seeing emotion, intelligence, longing—the fullness and warmth of life.

“You believe me, then, old gentleman?” Dagnarus asked, with a playful air that was feigned, according to the eyes.

“I believe you,” said Rigiswald, adding bluntly, “to my sorrow.”

Dagnarus did not take offense. He appeared to find the conversation an interesting one and seemed ready to continue, but by then order had been restored in the hall. The Regent was speaking, and Dagnarus turned to give her his full attention.

“Your claim is ridiculous,” stated the Regent. “I should not even dignify it with attempts to refute it, but I will state some of them for the record: The real Dagnarus would be over two hundred years old, the real Dagnarus was most certainly killed in the destruction of the city brought about by himself, the real Dagnarus—”

“Pardon me, Most Revered High Magus,” Dagnarus interrupted. “If I could offer proof of my claim—irrefutable proof—would that be sufficient?”

Rigiswald looked from Dagnarus to young Havis, and suddenly he knew their plot, knew it as surely as if they had revealed it to him. He knew it, and he could do nothing to stop it, for no one would believe him.

The Regent opened her mouth.

Don't do it, Clovis, Rigiswald mentally warned her. Don't play his game. Ask him for his terms, then refuse him and throw him out on his ear. Better we all die and this city be leveled than that you hand us over to the Void.