Wizard of the Grove (6 page)

“Well, Lord Death believes in him,” replied the surgeon and left Rael alone with his thoughts and his dying father.

But Lord Death, never predictable, stayed his hand and the king did not die; although he didn't exactly live. Affairs of state were left in the hands of the council and royal decisions increasingly fell to the prince, for the king tired easily and Glinna demanded he rest.

“Why have a council,” she snapped, prying dispatches from his hand and shoving them at an embarrassed Belkar, “if you don't use it?”

Raen raged against the weakness that held him to his bed, and the raging left him weaker still, until he was only a shadow of the man he had been.

“I am no longer a man.”

“You're more of a man than anyone in the kingdom,” Rael told him, his eyes filling with tears he refused to shed.

The king laughed humorlessly and stared down at his wasted body. “That doesn't say much for the other men in the kingdom.”

The king was dying and everyone knew it. Already a funereal hush hung over the land. The dukes, down to crippled Lorn and ten-year-old Hale, gathered in the King's City, waiting. Rael went numbly about
the task of learning to rule. He knew he should go to the Grove and tell his mother that the mortal man she loved lay dying, but he couldn't. He just couldn't. He told himself that Milthra, being who and what she was, probably already knew. That didn't help very much.

One morning, in the quiet hours just past dawn, some five weeks after the war had ended, the Duke of Belkar came to the king. The two men shared an age, but the man on the bed made the other seem obscenely healthy.

Belkar looked down at his liege and his friend and wondered where to begin. Raen spoke before he got the chance, anger turning the words to edged steel.

“It would have been so much easier had Lord Death collected me on the battlefield. Then those I love would not have had to watch me die by inches. And I would not have had to watch their pain as they watched me.”

“Raen, I'm sorry, I . . .”

“No.” The word was faint but still very much a king's command. “It is I who should be sorry. You didn't need that on top of everything else. I was feeling sorry for myself and you bore the brunt of it.” His face twisted in a skeletal caricature of a smile. “Forgive me?”

Belkar nodded, not trusting his voice, although what he thought to hide when tears ran unheeded down his face, he had no idea.

“So,” Raen's voice became as light as he was still capable of making it. “To what do I owe your presence so early in the day?”

More than anything in his life, the duke wanted to follow Raen's lead, to try to banish the darkness for just a little while, but he was desperately afraid there was no time for even that small amount of comfort. “The people talk.”

“They always have. Death, taxes, and the people talking, the three things you can count on.” Raen shifted into a different but no more comfortable position. “Sit down, Belkar, and tell me what they say.”

Belkar sat, spread his hands, and stared at their backs. It was easier than meeting the king's eyes. “They're speaking against the prince, saying he isn't human.”

“They always knew that; I told them who his mother was when I declared him my heir.”

“To most of them, the Lady is something to fear. The Elder Races have never been friendly to man. People fear and distrust her power and they fear and distrust her power in him.”

“He proved himself in the war.”

“Yes, but the war is over. And . . .” Belkar sighed. “. . . he proved himself different.”

“He won the war!”

“He used his mother's power to do it. Half of the talkers see the danger in that alone. The other half wonder why he waited so long to use it and ask what game he played.”

Tendons in Raen's neck stood out as he ground his teeth. “And those titled vultures who circle about my deathbed?”

“The dukes,” Belkar reminded him gently, “have the right to see the crown passed.” Raen dipped his head a barely perceivable amount, as much of an apology as he was willing to make. Belkar continued: “They worry about his mother as well, and the effect her blood will have on the way he rules.”

“They've never worried before.”

“He's never been so close to being king before.”

Raen squinted up at his oldest friend. “They remember that soldier? The one my son killed?”

Belkar nodded.

“And what do they say about me?” The king's eyes held a dangerous glint.

“They say you don't heal because he bewitched you as his mother did.”

“And what do you believe?”

“I,” Belkar pointed out, “have met his mother.” Once, many years before, the duke had gone with Raen to the Grove. He still held the memory of the hamadryad like a jewel in his heart. Occasionally, he held it up to the light to rejoice in its beauty.

“Then,” said the king, “you shall stand with me when I speak to the people.”

Belkar shot a startled glance at the surgeon, sure she would not allow such a thing.

Glinna shrugged.

“He is dying. Let it at least be where and how he chooses.”

Raen smiled, his first real smile in weeks. “An honest woman, Belkar. Every dying man should have one.” And then the smile slipped and his eyes looked into the future. “At least the Elite will stand by him. We've seen to that, he and I.”

“They'd follow him into the bedchamber of Lord Death,” Belkar agreed. “But would you throw your country into civil war if people decide he is not to have the crown?”

“He is my son and my heir. Five generations ago my house was chosen to rule. We gave our name to the land. He was trained to rule and there is no one else.”

“If you'd only had more children . . .”

“He would still be eldest and my heir.”

The two men locked eyes. Belkar's gaze dropped first.

“I know. I will support him and do what I can, but the people will make up their own minds.”

“Then I'll just have to convince them. Now,” he waved the duke over to his desk, “write me a proclamation and see that the criers get it immediately. I want everyone, from the lowest beggar to all six dukes, in the People's Square by noon.” His voice grew quieter and he sank back on his pillows, exhausted. “I must ensure the succession for my son.”

And how can you do that when such little speech as you've had with me nearly kills you,
Belkar wondered. But all he said aloud was: “Shall I have the prince sent to you?”

“Not now. Let him have this morning to himself. Send him at noon.”

Noon.

The people gathered in the Square.

Rael entered his father's chamber slowly, his heart so heavy it sat like a lump of coal in his chest. This would be good-bye, he knew it. It
took a moment to penetrate his grief, but instead of his father lying wasted on the bed he saw the king being dressed in royal purple. Even the crown, massive and ugly, stood close at hand.

He grabbed Glinna's arm and dragged her out of the milling crowd of servants.

“What's going on? Is he better?”

“No. If anything, he's worse.” The surgeon's tone made it quite clear that she took the king's condition as a personal affront. “But he insists on speaking to the people.”

“Why?”

“The people say they won't have you as king.”

“I don't care what the people say.”

“He does.”

Rael studied his father standing supported between two burly footmen as a valet pushed his feet into boots. Raen's skin was gray and his eyes had sunk deep in indigo shadows. The column of his throat stood out in a bas-relief of ridges and hollows. “Will he survive it?”

“No.”

“And you're just letting him die?!”

“Yes.” She held up a hand and stopped Rael's next words. “Before you say anything, consider this: he is still the man he was. Would you have that man die in bed?”

Rael released her arm and shook his head. His father might have no fear of Lord Death, but he would refuse to meet the Mother-creator's true son lying helpless in bed.

“I thought not. Now, go to him. He needs you.”

Dressed, the king reached for the crown, but his hands shook so they couldn't grasp it. Rael's hands covered his. Together they lifted it from the table.

“A crown,” said Raen as it settled on his brow, “is a heavy burden.” He grinned a death's head grin as he struggled to straighten his neck under the weight. “There's more than a little truth in these old cliches.”

“Yes, Father.”

“I'm going to see that this burden goes to you. Perhaps I'm doing you no favor.” He sighed. “A king has no conscience, my son, he gives it to the people.”

“I will remember, Father.”

Raen snorted. “They're not likely to let you forget.”

Attendants moved the king to a litter and carried him through the halls of the palace, Rael keeping pace alongside. Although they tried, it was not always possible to keep the litter even and once, when it jerked on a stair, Raen bit back a pained cry. Choking back a cry of his own, Rael reached out a hand and his father's wasted fingers closed gratefully around it.

Belkar, in the formal, ornate robes of a Duke of Ardhan, stood by the Great Door.

“My liege.” He knelt and kissed the shadow of a hand stretched out to him.

“Just help me off this thing,” Raen snapped. Friendship could weaken him now as easily as pain and he still had much to do. “I'm not dead yet!”

The king had not stood unassisted since he had been carried off the battlefield for the second time, but when he was on his feet he shook off the supporting hands of his son and his friend.

“This I must do alone,” he said through gritted teeth. “Let it begin, Belkar.”

Belkar shook his head at the prince's pleading look, a look that said as loudly as if Rael had spoken,
You can't let him do it alone!,
and gave the signal. Trumpets called and the great doors swung open.

The People's Square was full and overflowing with the entire population of King's City and, as commanded, all six dukes. They represented only a small percentage of the population of Ardhan, but they would spread the news and by the end of the week, the whole country would know. And then the people would judge.

Raen did not call up deep reserves of hidden strength so that he walked proudly, shoulders back and head erect to the edge of the dais—he had no reserves to call. He tottered that twenty feet, sweat
running and lips snarling against the pain. One foot went in front of the other by strength of will alone.

The people saw what it cost him and began to cheer. First those near the dais and then the noise moved back through the crowd until the walls shook with it and Raen felt it through the stones under his feet. He stopped and raised his hands for silence, but the crowd refused to quiet until he swayed and collapsed.

“Father!”

Rael, Belkar, and the king's attendants rushed forward, all expecting the worst, but the king still clutched at life.

“Get me on the litter,” he rasped, “and raise it so I can see and be seen. I must say what I have come to say.”

“Father, it isn't important, I . . .”

“This isn't just for you. I will not have my country torn by civil war!”

With gentle hands, Rael lifted his father and laid him carefully on the litter. Some of the crowd hissed at this show of his strength—wasted or not, the king was a large man still—but Rael didn't care. His only thought was for the man he loved who lay dying.

Two of the attendants hoisted one end of the litter to their shoulders. Raen stared out at the Square from the dark hollows his eyes had become.

“I am still your king!” he cried in a voice surprisingly strong.

The people cheered.

“This,” he continued, taking Rael's hand, “is my son.”

Only a few cheered. Most muttered sullenly and one, a weaver, apparently the chosen spokesman, twisted his cap in his hands and called out: “We don't doubt you are his father, Sire, but we have concerns about his mother.”

“You know who his mother is.”

The weaver squirmed and reddened but he persisted. “And that's the problem, Sire. He isn't human and who's to say with you gone that he won't turn on us. You can't trust the Elder Races, they've never had what you'd call good will toward man. If he should take after his mother . . .”

“If you knew his mother,” Belkar's voice rang out over the muttering that signified agreement with the weaver's words, “you wouldn't . . .”

His last words vanished under the noise that rose from the far side of the Square. There was no need to strain to see the cause of the commotion, for Milthra's silver head shone like a star amongst suddenly drab browns and reds and yellows.

“The Lady,” ran the awed whisper as the crowd parted before her. “The Lady of the Grove.” Those who had lost their ability to believe in the wondrous found it again. Those who had doubted, couldn't remember why. A young woman reached out and let a lock of the Lady's shining hair caress her fingers and then stood gazing at her hand in amazement as if it belonged to another. Peace walked with the Lady and the smell of a sun-warmed forest grove filled the air.

She looked neither to the left nor the right as she approached the palace, her eyes never moved from the man on the litter or the youth standing beside him. At the steps of the dais she paused, as if gathering strength—the fragrance of the forest became stronger and a breeze danced through her hair—then she lifted her skirts in her hand and climbed the steps.

With a strangled cry, Rael threw himself into her arms. She held him to her heart for a moment, stroking his hair, and then gently pushed him away. Green eyes gazed into green.

Rael wondered how he could ever have thought of his mother as young. He saw wisdom, understanding, compassion to a degree most mortal minds could not accept, let alone achieve, resting in the depths of her eyes. She had walked with the Mother-creator at the beginning of the world. She had seen the creation of man. And she loved him. Rael felt her love wrap around him, a warmth, a protection he would always wear.