The Wayfarer King (32 page)

Nine o’clock in the morning o’the eighth o’Nevebria, in the year fourteen thirty-one.

With the date and time firmly planted in his mind, Gavin whispered the name of the rune, stepped through the vortex when it was blue, the color of his own realm, and felt his stomach somersault.

Chapter 41

Gavin braced himself against the underside of the bridge until the dizziness passed. Around him were sounds of a lively market — the clopping of horses’ hooves on the stone streets, voices of merchants crying their wares, and something Gavin didn’t hear often on the streets of Tern: laughter. The bells of the nearby Spirit of the Savior Holy Temple began to toll. He stepped into the sunlight hoping it would take the chill off, but the cold Nevebria air seeped relentlessly into his blood. He cursed himself for forgetting to bring a cloak. A light dusting of snow covered the bare tree branches and browned grass. He supposed that his first visit to the past was bound to be plagued with mistakes. Hopefully none of them would land him in gaol or worse.

On the street, he drew the eye of many, undoubtedly due to his summery white cotton tunic with sleeves cut above the elbows. A few whispered behind their hands as they watched him standing there, shivering in the cold. Only the mad or very poor would be out in this weather dressed as he was. Everyone else wore dark cloaks of thick wool or fur-lined leather with hats and gloves. Nothing to do now but get inside and warm up by a fire. He scanned the street, weighing his options. The palace was across the bridge, and he didn’t know where he’d find the nearest inn.

“You poor dear,” an elderly woman said as she hobbled toward him. “Get inside before you catch your death. Do you need a coin to buy a warm drink?”

“Your generosity is appreciated, my lady,” he said, “but I’ve only underestimated the weather today. I’ll be fine once I reach the palace.”

“Well, do hurry, dear. I’d hate to learn the news of your untimely death from the chills.” She patted his arm with a kindly smile and shuffled away.

With his shoulders hunched against the cold, he started across the bridge. As he approached the other side, two armsmen dressed in mail beneath thick, black cloaks looked at each other with raised brows before turning back to Gavin. They widened their stances and gripped their polearms as if prepared to use force to turn him away. Refusing to be so easily cowed, Gavin continued walking toward them.

“Your business here?” one asked him.

“I need to see Ronor Kinshield.” It occurred to him that his family name might get him inside. “I’m Gavin Kinshield.” By now, the cold had seeped into his bones, rattling his teeth together.

The second armsman said, “You must be Ronor’s younger brother. I see the resemblance now. Let me secure your weapon, and you can proceed.” He pulled a strip of blue cloth from a hook and motioned him to turn around. Gavin felt some light tugging on his sword as the soldier tied Aldras Gar into its scabbard.

The armsman clapped his shoulder. “Go on up. Marton will see that you get warm while you wait.”

“My thanks.” Gavin grinned as he continued up the broad walkway leading to the tall double doors of the palace. Though his father’s and grandfather’s features were strong in his face and in Rogan’s, he didn’t think he could bear any resemblance to such a distant ancestor after so many generations. His amusement faded with every footstep as he neared the palace. Its red-brick walls looked clean and new, and the glass in the windows sparkled in the sunshine. His heart began to race as he neared the doors, so tall and wide. Even at twenty paces, he could make out the beautiful detail carved into the dark cherry wood. The enormity of what he was doing hit him. Gavin paused to catch his breath. King Arek was in this building this very minute.

The right-side door opened, startling him. A young man with barely a beard to grow, well-dressed in blue and gold, bowed crisply. “Welcome to Chatworyth. Goodness! What are you doing outside without a cloak? Come in, come in.” He took Gavin by the arm and urged him inside. “You must be nearly frozen solid. Come with me to the fire and get warmed up.”

Gavin was not prepared for what he saw on entering. All his life, he’d known the palace as an ugly, old building covered in bird shit and choked by ivy and weeds. Now, its beauty stirred a memory from long ago when it was so familiar to him. It was gorgeous, from the polished marble floors to the sculpted crown moldings and brass chandelier. At the top of the four steps leading to the upper foyer were two wide doorways. Inexplicably, Gavin knew what he would find in those rooms, as if he were remembering a home from his childhood. Two armsmen stood beside the front doors and two more at the foot of the twin staircases that curved outward as they led to the upper story. Their faces looked oddly familiar, as though he’d known them many years past. Maybe he had.

The servant led Gavin through the doorway on the left and into a room the size of Rogan’s house. Shelves, filled with leather-bound books, stretched from floor to ceiling along two of the walls. At the far end, a fire blazed in the ample hearth. Plush chairs and sofas of deep red invited him to sit in luxurious comfort. The warmth of the room took the hard edge off Gavin’s chill, and he approached the fire with his hands extended, relishing its heat.

“Now,” the servant said, hands clasped before him, “how can I assist you today?”

“Are you Marton?”

The man bowed. “I am, but I don’t believe I’ve had the pleasure of making your acquaintance.”

Feeling both awkward and self-conscious, Gavin wasn’t sure whether to extend a hand or bow. He settled for a bow. “I’m Gavin Kinshield.”

Marton’s eyes widened in recognition. “But of course. You have those Kinshield eyes. I presume you’re here to see Ronor?”

Seeing his ancestor, the man who’d gotten him into his current predicament, was something he’d hoped to avoid, but he didn’t think waltzing in and asking to see the king would be proper. He was confident he could talk Ronor into getting him an audience. They were basically the same man, after all. “If he can spare a moment.”

“Please,” Marton said, gesturing to a chair, “make yourself comfortable. I’ll have hot cider brought in.” He bowed and left.

Gavin brushed off the seat of his trousers before sitting. When his arse sank into the pillowy depths of the cushion, he flinched and wondered whether he would ever get used to furniture like this. Staring into the fire, he considered what he would say to Ronor Kinshield. He imagined twisting his fist into Ronor’s shirt collar, screaming, “You took an oath, you bloody bastard!” Except that Ronor knew it. He’d always known it. He just hadn’t had the courage to fulfill his promise, and that was why he was here now, contemplating facing himself two hundred years in the past.

He’s me,
Gavin reminded himself. It was his own damned fault. He had no one to blame but himself. It was no different than chastising himself as a youth for disobeying his father in the woods that fateful day. As a boy, Gavin hadn’t known his father would die because of it. How could he?

When he heard footsteps approaching, he stood. Marton came into the room and bowed. Another servant, a woman in a blue and gold dress covered by a white apron, followed him in. On a table beside his chair, she set a tray with a cup of steaming cider and plate of four tarts. “Ronor is in a council meeting,” Marton said. “I’ve let him know you’re here, though it might be a while before he’s free. Please relax and enjoy some refreshments while you wait.”

He waited until Marton and the serving woman left before picking up one of the tarts. The scent of it made his stomach rumble. It was so warm and delicious, he devoured the first one in two mouthfuls before remembering Daia’s complaints about his table manners. He chewed quickly and swallowed, then made an effort to take smaller bites of the second tart and chew with his mouth closed.

Now warm and sated, he relaxed in the chair and took in the stone hearth. On the wall above the fire was a painting of some buck with dark hair and brilliant blue eyes. His old-style dress consisted of a high frilly collar and sleeves, not the kind of thing a battler would be caught dead in, though the man wore a decorative sword on his hip. He couldn’t quite remember which former king it was, but the color of the man’s hair and eyes reminded him of Brodas Ravenkind. That was when he realized that King Arek and Brodas Ravenkind shared their distinctive coloring.

Beneath the painting was a clock. Gavin stood to inspect its old-fashioned mechanics. One vessel of sand hovered over another, which tipped a bar as the lower vessel became heavier. The internal workings of the clock weren’t visible, but the faint glow emanating from behind the clock’s face suggested it was also powered by magic. The time read seventeen minutes past nine.

“Ah, Ronor, there you are,” said a voice behind him. Gavin turned to see who was addressing him. “I want to talk about the plan for— Oh. You’re not Ronor.”

Gavin’s heart stopped beating, sputtered, then began to race. It was King Arek, the man whose death he bore responsibility for.

Chapter 42

“No, my liege.” Gavin sank to one knee. He bowed his head in reverence and to hide the tears welling in his eyes. King Arek had been his idol, his hero, his best friend lost to him across more than two centuries, all because of Ronor’s failure. “My name’s Gavin Kinshield.”

“Rise, son.” He took Gavin by the arm and urged him to stand. Gavin wasn’t sure he’d have been able without the king’s help. At his full height, he towered over King Arek by a good eight inches. “Sit with me and explain what I don’t understand,” King Arek said, sitting. He waved away the two guards who’d entered behind him. They bowed and stepped out, shutting the wide oak door behind them. “I see by your haze that you’re Ronor Kinshield, yet I see with my eyes that you’re not. How can this be?”

Gavin sat obediently, thankful for the invitation. He hesitated to meet King Arek’s eyes, knowing what he’d done so many years ago, knowing he’d failed to protect and obey as he’d sworn to do. To avoid the eye contact would be rude and disrespectful, so he slowly lifted his gaze to meet the king’s. King Arek’s azure eyes, as brilliant as he’d remembered, bore into him. His hair, blackest black and still untouched by gray, was a stylish collar-length, as it had been in Gavin’s most distant memories. Rather than the stiff, regal suit he’d been wearing for the portrait that now hung in the museum, the king looked comfortable in a black long-sleeved overshirt and black trousers with a golden braided belt.

Gavin took a deep breath to calm his pounding heart. “I was Ronor Kinshield, my liege. I’ve been several men in the last two centuries — two centuries that lie ahead o’you. It also happens that Ronor was my great- great-grandfather’s great- great-grandfather.”

King Arek was silent for a moment, though judging by the way his eyes held Gavin’s own, the king was trying to make sense of it all. “How did you come to know you’re Ronor reborn?” he asked.

“I have old memories o’things he did, my liege, buried deep in my mind. Memories of my time with you, o’things to come in the days that follow.”

“Curious. These memories come to you how? In dreams?”

“I get help from a mystical conduit. When I ask—”

King Arek’s eyes widened. “You know a
vusar
?”

Gavin was fairly certain the Farthan mage Jennalia had used that word to describe Daia. “Yes, my liege. She’s a good friend and valuable ally.”

“I can imagine.” King Arek smiled. One of his eyebrows hunched in such a way as to stir another of Gavin’s lost memories. “If only I could borrow her for a few days, she would make the task ahead...” His voice trailed off, and a serious, pensive expression changed his face. After a moment, he seemed to return to the present. “I presume by your presence here that you’re now Wayfarer, and you’ve back-traveled for information. I wish I could ask you questions about the future.”

“Ask me anything, my liege.”

King Arek chuckled, shaking his head. “Ah, if only I could. I’d love to know whether Calewen carries a son or a daughter, or how a Kinshield came into the throne, but the future isn’t for me to know. Is this, perchance, your first time back-traveling?”