The Still (17 page)

He sheathed his sword. “I see what you came—”

As one, Rust and I tackled him. Uncle’s henchman went down, cursing and struggling. Rust’s eyes were wild. “Roddy, the sword!”

I let go Stire’s legs, dived for the hilt of the half-sword, pulled it loose. Rust’s hand shot out, beckoning.

I dropped the sword into his fingers. “Run him through!”

Stire’s knee came up; Rust grimaced. His arm shot out. Using the jeweled hilt like a club, he smashed the sword into Stire’s temple. The man went limp.

“Oww.” Rustin rolled off, crouched with knees pressed together, his face red. A deep breath, then another. “Why are you gawking? There’s your cloth for burning.”

“Huh?”

“His clothes!”

Unconscious, Stire was almost too heavy to move. But, grunting and panting, I rolled him over and about until I’d stripped off his garments. “Loincloth too?”

Rustin leaned against the wall, recovering. “As you wish.”

“He mocked me.” With a flick of the sword I parted his loincloth, dropped it in the barrel. Rustin emptied the water jug into it. I poured in a measure of oil. “Now for a spear.”

“Stire leaned his against the doorsill.” He gestured. “Roddy, if this doesn’t work, they’ll hang us.”

“I suppose.” No time for that now. I rolled the barrel into the corridor. It made a ghastly clattering.

We stopped short of the armory gate. I tiptoed along the corridor, peered in. The armorer, his apprentice, and two soldiers were gathered, tying sheaves of arrows.

There was no way to roll the cask past them without discovery.

Rustin’s hand fell on my shoulder; I stifled a shriek. He tugged me back to the winery passage. “Wait here a moment.” He handed me Stire’s sword. “Use it, if needs be.” He loped along the corridor toward the safety of the kitchen.

I fumed, my valor ebbing with each breath. Ours was the most harebrained, unthought, foolhardy scheme ever to—

“Come.” Rustin dragged me from the dank barrel on which I sat. We made our way back to the armory and peeked in. None watched us. Rust flitted across the entryway to the safety of the other side. After a moment, I followed.

“What good does this do?”

“Shh.” He waited. Of necessity, I waited too, every nerve strained.

A clatter. Banging, a scrape. A flickering torch, beyond the bend.

“We’re found!” I hefted my sword.

A barrel advanced down the corridor, on its side. Behind it, a castle workboy, torch raised against the gloom, head bent to his onerous task.

I peered toward the armory. A soldier glanced up, went back to his selections.

The boy rolled his barrel past the armory, found the alcove in which we huddled. “Now what, m’lord?”

“Garrond!” I saw the curl of his lip, corrected hastily. “Genard. You’d better run along.”

“Is this about Lord Elryc?” He searched my face. “You’d best tell me.”

I cast prudence to the winds. “Yes.”

“I’ll help.”

I nodded. “From here, we’ll have to carry it”

Thank Lord of Nature, the iron gates in the strongroom corridor were open. We lugged the barrel as close to the far end as we dared, set it down. I glanced at the torch. The flame wavered, as if pulled both directions.

It would have to do. I poked the torch into the barrel, waved it about until the contents caught. An acrid aroma. Sputtering. I prodded the soggy clothing, until at last I was rewarded with a few wisps of smoke.

Genard frowned at our efforts. “You need straw, and lots of water.” He scampered off, before I could grasp his arm.

“Rustin, this is madness.”

His voice was calm. “A trifle disorganized, I’ll admit.” He leaned against the wall, arms folded. “Wait upstairs, if you’d rather. The boy and I will—”

“Arghh.” I fanned the barrel.

In a surprisingly short time Genard trotted back, staggering under a load of straw. I thrust a handful into the barrel; he slapped my hand away. “Not yet! Would you have smoke, or the castle in flames?”

“Sorry.”

He ran off. Rustin shook his head.

A few agonizing moments, and Genard was back with two buckets of water. “Cook is boiling mad,” he advised us. “We’d better get on our way.”

He poured half a bucket onto the mound of straw, felt it, considering. “All right.” He gathered armfuls and tossed them into the barrel. “Just wait. There. Now,
that’s
smoke.”

Billows of black smoke rose from the barrel. Obligingly, Genard added another armful of wet straw.

The ceiling was barely above our heads; the smoke had to dissipate outward. More went toward the kitchen than inward.

“Well?” Genard glanced between us.

“It’s not ... they need more—”

“Nobles.” He spat his contempt. In one quick motion he stripped off his shirt, began fanning the smoke toward the vault. “All they need is a sniff, m’lord.”

“He’s right.” Rustin. “I’ll go first, shouting. Duck into that alcove, out of sight. Hopefully they’ll flee.”

Genard stared in dismay. “You? An outsider, and a friend of Prince Roddy?” He panted from the exertion of fanning. “Here, do this.” He handed me the grimy shirt, darted bare-chested toward the strongroom.

“Fire! Save us!” His child’s voice came shrill. “The castle’s ablaze! Fire! Help, before we burn! We need buckets!”

Beyond the black curtain of smoke, the boy capered. A moment, then the thud of footsteps.

Eyes tearing, I cowered back in the alcove, stifling coughs. The steps receded.

Silence.

“Hurry, Lord Rust!” The voice came near the ground. “They’ll figure out something’s not right.”

A hand tugged at my ankle. “Stay low, m’lord.”

Anything, for relief. I got to my knees, found the air more bearable. I sucked in a breath. “To the vault.”

“Shouldn’t we put out—”

“Let it burn; we need more time.” I scuttled along the floor, until the smoke lessened, and we found ourselves outside the great bronze doors.

“Mother’s key!”

Rust peeled it from his neck, thrust it into my hands. “But which lock?” I stared at the deep entry holes.

I swallowed. A false key, and the offending hand would be severed. Or so the whispers had said.

“Genard, open it” I handed him the key.

“Hah.” He tossed it back. “Your Powers, your fingers.”

I lifted the point of my sword to his throat. “Open!”

He swiveled to Rustin. “Is he that wicked, my lord? Would he?”

“He thinks he would.” Rust took the key from him, placed it in my hand. “Roddy, you’d best hurry.”

I kept my arm rock-steady as I extended it toward the lock, into the gaping hole. They would have been persuaded I was fearless, had I not moaned and kept my eyes glued shut.

I felt for the keyhole. Nothing. I probed farther, yelped as something sharp pricked my fingertip. I yanked out my arm, sucked my fingers. “Give me the torch!” Trying not to singe my ear, I peered in the hole. “Demons of the lake!”

“What, Roddy?”

“It’s been forced!” The iron of the lock was bent and broken. I pressed on the door; it didn’t budge.

In the distance, shouts.

I ran to the second lock, squinted. It was whole. I thrust in my key.

It didn’t turn. With all my strength I twisted. It moved not an iota. I withdrew the key, stared. “What means this?”

Rustin waved away a puff of smoke. “That your key fit the forced lock.”

“But if they didn’t force both ...”

“We’ll know when we get in.” He took Stire’s spear, thrust it into the hole, twisted. Outside, the cries grew nearer.

Rustin strained, to no avail. In fury, he withdrew the spear, rammed it into the lock, over and again.

“Here, let me.” I slammed the spear into the long keyhole, smashed it against the lock. Something caught. I twisted hard. Rust seized the shaft, added his own weight.

A snap.

I pulled out the spear, pressed tentatively on the door.

The top of the door glided away from us, as the bottom rose and whacked my shins. I cursed, stepped aside, raised it the rest of the way.

A few chests were overturned in the corner; I ran to one, flung it open. Moldering scrolls of state. In the others, trinkets and gifts. I stood, perused the shelves.

A cushion. My breath hissed. I remembered that bolster. I hurried to it.

Still impressed in it were the hollows where long the Chalice had lain, and near it the Receptor.

They were gone, and with them, my Power.

A groan escaped my lips.

“Look, m’lord!” Genard’s eyes were wide. He pointed.

The crown of Caledon, Mother’s formal diadem. It lay carelessly on a cedar stand, as if discarded, and without value.

After all I’d risked, the agonies I’d endured, my nights of shame, the Still was gone.

“Take it!” Rustin.

I stood as if made of stone.

Genard snatched up the crown, wrapped it in his grimy jerkin.

Rust poked among the chests. “Roddy, there’s no coin here.”

“I know. Mother had Willem keep most ...” My voice trailed off. Not only had I lost the Receptor and Chalice, the most valued objects in Caledon, but now they could be wielded against me. If, in all the realm, another virgin could be found to mount the throne.

“Hurry.” Rustin tugged. When I resisted, he wrapped his arm around me, guided me down the hall toward the smoke. “Genard, guard the crown and meet us outside.”

“Aye, sir.” The stableboy took a handful of deep breaths, plunged into the swirl.

“He’ll steal it!”

“No.” Rust pressed me into a kneel. “Keep your head low, for the air.”

“Fire! Save us! Hakkk!” Genard coughed and wheezed. “The castle burns!” His voice faded.

Rust pushed and prodded, forcing me through the smoke. Rivulets of water, in the passage. Voices shouting, near.

I’d lost the Still.

Amid bellows and frenzy, we thrust through a milling crowd, fought our way clear to beyond the scullery.

Rust seemed a madman, his hair awry, blue eyes shining from a filthy mask. “Do I look as awful as you?” He led me to a well. “Rinse—no, perhaps not.” He stayed my hand.

“They have my Power.” I couldn’t focus my thoughts.

With what might have been compassion, Rust took my hand, steered me along the foundation wall. Moments later we were in the cool of the stables. A flickering taper was wedged in its sconce.

He swung shut the doors. “Sit. No, there by the water pail, out of sight.” He disappeared.

Outside, in the dusk, excited shouts faded to unheard whispers.

Tantroth sought Caledon, and might yet have it, but the Still was beyond him. And so was the crown. The demon’s imp who served as stableboy would sell it for a song, if he wasn’t gutted and tossed in the offal by a thief larger than he.

Something rough jabbed at my lap. I pushed it aside, my eyes on the beams above, my thoughts awhirl. A fly buzzed at the bucket of water, rippling it.

My fingers toyed with the tight-bound hay on which I sat. What now, Mother? I’ve lost the Vessels, a guttersnipe has your crown, Elryc and Hester are gone, Pytor’s imprisoned, and we’re under Tantroth’s siege. Uncle Mar has me at his mercy.

All is lost.

A figure crossed the anteroom. Rustin.

I asked, “Did you find the brat?”

“He sits at your feet, my prince.”

I looked down. “Where’s my crown, thief?”

Genard flushed at my epithet. “Where you dropped it.”

I stared past him, at the gold bauble in the dust.

“Genard, we need horses.” Rustin seemed strangely impatient. I no longer cared.

“Aye, m’lord. How many?”

“Can you ride? Of course, you work the stables. Where can we find soldiers’ garb?”

Genard bit his lip. “Each day the washerwomen take garments to boil, and dry them on the rocks by the well.”

“Do the soldiers haul back their own clothes?”

“No, m’lord. The women bring them the next—”

“Come along, I’ll need help. Roddy, stay here.” They went.

Perched on my hay, I dangled the crown, from time to time twirling it on my finger. No coronation. No Power.

If Tantroth my cousin, Duke of Eiber, had his way, no realm either. Time would soon tell; by now he’d have landed at least his first force, and would be racing to secure the Castle Way.

I stared at the bucket. No need any longer to hide my face; I could wash off the grime, meet my fate like a king. Placing the crown on my head, I reached toward the still water, half-mesmerized.

“Who goes?” A familiar voice, which I couldn’t place.

My voice came from far away. “Rodrigo of Caledon, Prince and heir.” Again the fly buzzed at the bucket, and I shivered. I thrust out my hands, palms down, to guard the water.

“What do you in my stable?” The old man. Griswold.

“I hide, from the Duke.”

“Why?”

“He is my enemy.”

“What makes him so?”

“He would have my birthright, and my realm.”

The old man’s voice wavered in and out of earshot. “Where go you, now?”

“I flee.”

“Whence?”

“To my brother, and the witch who raised me.”

“For what purpose?”

My arms ached from the effort of keeping them still, but the fly must not have at my pail, before I washed. “To gain their alliance, and my strength.” The words might be mine, or might not.

“And then?”

I came slowly to my feet and spoke in a tone of resolve. “I shall claim my kingdom, and seek my Power.”

The door swung open. “Roddy, we found—Oh!”

Griswold scowled. “He’s in a muddle. Where do you take him?”

“To safety.” Rustin dumped his pile of clothing; the stableboy added an armful of helmets. Rust snapped, “Genard, saddle our horses.”

“Who rides?”

“You, me, Rodrigo.” Seeing the crown on my head, Rust frowned, removed it. He plunged his hands into the bucket, splashed my face, wiped it on his sleeve. “We need more riders. Who?”

I stirred.

Griswold snapped, “Fetch Kerwyn.”

“Aye, sir.” The boy ran.

Rustin helped me dress in soldiers’ garb still damp from scrubbing. When he had my clothes arranged he wrapped the crown in my old shirt.

“How will we get out?” My mind began to work, as if awakening from long disuse.