Meals at the Estate were still catch-as-catch-can; no one seemed up to being in company. Temmin and Jenks sat in his drawing room over a cold luncheon of cheese, fruit, ham, a loaf of good bread and a dish of pickles; the Estate's own dark amber ale foamed in mugs before them. "How is your pupil coming along?" said Temmin.
"Young Mr Wallek I believe has come far enough to spar with you, sir—if you've kept up your form at the Temple?"
"Of course I have. All of the men train with the Temple's Own regularly. We have to be in good shape, and not just for…that," he finished. Anything involving the Lovers' Temple made Jenks squirm. He didn't hate sex; he hated talking to Temmin about sex. "It comes in handy. There are times when we have to restrain petitioners," continued Temmin. "The Temple's Own are good fellows by and large. Some were once Brothers—mostly washed-out postulants."
"I shouldn't think they'd be much use in a fight if they washed out of the Brothers."
"Oh, they're plenty useful in a fight. They left the Brothers because they like women."
"Ah." Jenks took a deep, embarrassed pull on his beer.
Temmin watched him in wry amusement; love for the big man filled his broken heart. "Oh, Jenks." He stopped, compressing his lips in hopes of holding back tears. He'd cried quite a bit in the days since his mother's death, some days more, some days less, and tears often surprised him like this. Just as the gruff-voiced cavalryman's companionship helped him bear his sorrow, it also compounded it; his love for Jenks was bound up in his love for Whithorse, and both were bound up in his love for his mother.
Jenks reached across the table and laid a hand on his charge's shaking shoulder. "Eh now, Temmin, eh now," he murmured in a thick voice.
When Teacher returned, Jenks had just finished clearing the table: "Wallek will be attending to this soon—but I refuse to relinquish your wardrobe." The colonel gave the black figure a cautious nod and exited.
Teacher took up the familiar post by the mantel and took in Temmin's red eyes. "It comes and goes, does it not?"
"I look forward to the day when it just goes."
"Will your mother ever fade from your mind?"
"No," said Temmin in a shocked voice. "How could she?"
Teacher nodded. "That is why it will never leave completely. Grief will strike you down at times until the day you die. Something will remind you of her, and it will all come back, sometimes as sharply as the first day. The greatest mercy is that those times will become further and further apart."
Teacher had lived a thousand years, thought Temmin. "Do…do you still cry over your mother?"
Teacher's eyes dropped to the book on the table. "I cannot cry. Else I would never cease."
Temmin wondered if Teacher meant an unwillingness to cry or an inability. "Perhaps we should begin."
Teacher hesitated. "I chose this story some time ago. I had no indication of what would happen between then and now."
"Meaning what?"
"Meaning the story may become difficult for you to hear."
Temmin waved a hand in dismissal, and the book's pages began to fill up.
Tennoc and Hanni rode through forests, over rolling grasslands, past oak groves, ripening grain fields, neatly tended farms and grasslands dotted with sheep, cattle and horses, all sleek on the lush pasture. Tennoc wondered if it was a good year, or if the land was always this rich. His grandfather must be wealthy indeed. "Prime horse country, just as I've always heard," said Tennoc.
"Aye, sir. Once, long ago, when I served my Princess Inglatine, came I here to Whitehorse. Best horse country there is."
They followed the main track, camping at night wherever they could find cover. When he could, Tennoc practiced his magic, trying little things he'd seen Kenver do. If he concentrated, he could snatch a flame from the fire and bounce it in his hand like a ball. He could float good-sized rocks, though the larger ones made his broken rib hurt and he couldn't always make them go the direction he wanted them to. More than once, Hanni unleashed a torrent of Leutish curses at him when a rock went astray and came close to braining the man.
From time to time they passed farmers and peddlers but no one else until they were less than a day's ride from Lord Grandfather's castle. By now, Hanni had hit on using the false Tremontine banners taken from Dunnoc's guardsmen; they fluttered from the lances they'd taken as well: "For the Heir it is right."
Five riders came towards them from the east, wearing the green, white and silver of Whitehorse. None looked over-friendly. "My bow I am thinking, sir," muttered Hanni.
"Stay your hand until we see what's what," answered Tennoc. When they were within earshot he called out in Tremontine, "Greetings, gentlemen! Are we on the track for Whitehorse Freehold?"
The man at their head was ten years or so Tennoc's senior, a barrel-chested man whose face reminded Tennoc of his mother. The stranger ran an eye over the Tremontine banners. "What would you be doing with Tremontine heraldry, asking the way to Whitehorse Freehold, Kell?" growled the man.
Tennoc wished his Tremontine didn't lilt quite so much. "I wish to visit my grandfather, Gonnor of Whitehorse."
"Grandfather, is it?" snorted the man. "I know every one of his grandsons. I don't know you."
"Not by sight but perhaps by reputation. I am Tennoc ar Sial. My mother is Lassanna of Whitehorse."
A murmur somewhere between astonishment and contempt rippled through the men. "The King's bastard, eh?" said the leader. "Only one servant—I can see what high esteem the Kells hold you in. No, I peg you for a down-on-his-luck tinker or some such. Or maybe even a Traveler thrown out of his tribe."
Hanni muttered something in Leutish Tennoc knew would have brought all five Whitehorsers down on them in seconds had they understood it. He squared his shoulders and met the man's eyes steadily. "I am told King Andrin sired me, but—" He stopped himself from saying, Dunnoc of Kellen is my father. "But whatever my birth," he continued, "your king and my grandfather have bid me come into Tremont, and here I am. I have Lord Grandfather's letter here." He patted his tunic.
The big man held out an autocratic hand. Hanni tensed beside him, but Tennoc gave him a reassuring glance and pulled the parchment from his breast. He rode halfway to the cluster of men and stopped. The other man scowled, but Tennoc smiled patiently. The Whitehorser gave in, tapped his mount's sides and rode grumbling to meet Tennoc, who handed over the parchment as soon as they met.
The man scanned the letter, raising pale eyebrows. "This is Grandfather's handwriting. Where did you get this?"
"From a Tremontine courier sent to Gwyrfal three spokes hence."
"What did he look like?"
"A small man, dark, with a stiff leg."
The Whitehorser eyed him again. "You are like Gonnor," he admitted, "though you cut a figure more like His Majesty's, I dare say." He handed back the parchment; Tennoc tucked it into his tunic again.
A rock from the side of the road levitated and whizzed toward Hanni's head. Tennoc's magic reached out; the rock stopped within an inch of the man's skull and hovered, shaking. "I am not entirely in control of my magic yet, sir," grated Tennoc. "While I am not used to wielding such power I can guarantee as the Heir I have far more of it than you do, whoever you are. I will not let you hurt Hanni, and I cannot be responsible for where this rock might go."
The rock retreated from Hanni's temple and dropped to the ground. The big man nodded his head. "All right, we shall escort you to our grandfather. My name is Fallik. I am Lord Gonnor's heir, and your cousin, Temmin of Tremont."
"My name is Tennoc ar Sial," muttered the young man, but he and Hanni fell in among the riders and cantered toward the east.
Whitehorse Freehold reared up from a flat plain, its ancient earthen and stone fortifications undulating around it in sinuous curves. Rising above it stood a new stone fortress, spectators lining its ramparts; a lookout must have noted the unknown additions to the outriders and spread the word. Though the fortress was huge, the hill fort itself dwarfed it—an old, old place. Across the valley, another hill rolled up from the grasslands surrounding it. Turf had been carved away from the hill to form a rearing horse, white chalk against the deep green grass.
Tennoc, Hanni and the Whitehorsers rode through the first gate and up the winding causeway; the earthenworks mounded on each side hemmed a potential invading force into a single file, perfect targets for boulders and boiling oil. They passed through two more lightly defended gates, up the last curve and into the hill fort. A small city bustled within the walls, tradespeople and craftsmen coming and going; numerous wattle-and-daub thatch-roofed houses huddled between the fortress and the outer ramparts, with plenty of open space for seasonal markets. The houses and Temples looked a bit old-fashioned to Tennoc's eye, but the fortress itself was everything a modern military man might want, thick-walled and easy to defend. The earthen and stone defenses included enough room for the people of the surrounding countryside to shelter in times of war—with all their cattle if need be, so great a space it contained.
Fallik led the riders into the fortress's own courtyard, where they dismounted. Fallik began calling out orders in a loud voice, speaking so quickly in Tremontine that Tennoc had trouble following. While his mother had spoken Tremontine to him his whole life and he considered himself fluent, he'd never been around groups of people speaking it all at the same time. He caught his Tremontine name, and heard himself described as "King Andrin's bastard out of Lassanna"; he grit his teeth and reminded himself he needed these people's help. His cousin's commands ended with an order to find Lord Gonnor.
Tennoc would finally meet his hated grandfather, the man who'd tried to kill him in his mother's belly. His father the King was a coward for not protecting Mama, but Lord Grandfather was a bully, and Tennoc despised bullies. Even so, Tennoc could not afford to anger the man. He was dependent on Gonnor's shelter until he could equip himself for the journey to Tremont City.
It never occurred to him that as Andrin's Heir he outranked every man in the castle.
Grooms took their horses; Hanni made as if to follow, but Tennoc stopped him, saying, "I need you close by, Hanni. You're all I have here."
Hanni snorted and waved his hand around the courtyard. "The home of your family. The Heir to the Kingdom. A holder of powerful magic. You, perfectly safe. My horse a fifth shoe needs, more than you need me."
"I need you to keep me from killing my grandfather," muttered Tennoc.
Hanni put his hand on his master's elbow and spoke in the perfect Kellish he used only when dead serious: "You are a smart boy. Let Pagg guide you, for His justice is with you, not your grandfather." Hanni snatched his horse's reins from a surprised groom, abusing him in randomly accented Tremontine as he walked the animal to the stables.
Tennoc strode behind Fallik into the fortress itself, thinking on how to behave toward Gonnor. Haughty? Angry? Imperious? No, those smacked of fear. He would be himself. He would speak to Gonnor as he would to Lord Ulvyn—politely, but with reserve. Fallik led him not to the castle's hall, where Tennoc expected to meet Gonnor, but to Gonnor's own rooms; his new cousin ushered Tennoc through the door and shut it behind him.
Gonnor Duke of Whitehorse stood with his back to the door; his hands clenched and flexed at the small of his back in agitation. Tennoc waited. Lord Grandfather knew he stood there. Was disdain to be his greeting?
Gonnor turned to face his grandson and clasped his hands before him. He was still a well-formed man, tall, with the body of a thoroughbred forced to pasture. His eyes were blue, and Tennoc wondered if they were like his own. The expression in them was unreadable—a wariness, but not directed at him. "So you're Lassanna's boy," the old man said slowly. "Did you leave your mother well?"
"Perfectly well, sir," he replied, inclining his head. Though I'd like to know what business it is of yours, he said to himself.
"And she is happy in Kellen?"
"Happier than she was in Tremont, sir," he snapped, his rare temper getting the better of him.
Gonnor smiled, a small, weak thing that died on his mouth. "I dare say. Dunnoc is good to her?"
"Yes," he answered more slowly.
"And you? Has he been good to you?"
How to answer? His stepfather had tried to kill him—but so had Lord Grandfather. Dunnoc's betrayal hurt far more, and was of far more import in the here and now. "He…he was, sir, but of late he has turned against me. Your letter to my mother, calling for me to come to Tremont, seems to have convinced him I am a danger to Kellen."
"Are you?"
"It is an unfair charge, sir. Kells are my kinsmen. I would never move against them."
"Temmin—"
"Whatever name my father chooses to list as mine in the rolls of the Tremontine nobility is his concern, but in private my name, sir, is Tennoc." His mother's flight across the border, a tale she never told but one often recounted by Hanni, tumbled into his head. "Clan Sial accepted me as their own and gave me a name when no Tremontine would. I will be Tennoc ar Sial until my dying day."
Gonnor shook his head. "You must accustom yourself to a Tremontine name, Temmin."
"No," said Tennoc, "Tremont must accustom themselves to an Heir with a Kellish name. I have not forgotten why my mother fled to Brunsial, and if you think I ever will, you are greatly mistaken. Forgive me, sir, I have been on the road many days and I am tired." He turned on his heel to go.
"Grandson—!" At the anguish in the old man's voice, Tennoc turned. Tears were rolling down Gonnor's lined face into his white beard, and he'd aged twenty years since the interview's beginning. "I have spent these long years regretting what I did—what I tried to do—"
"You could have given my mother back her name at any point, and yet you did not until your King required it of you!"
"And here you see the results of my pride," said Gonnor, openly weeping. "I knew I'd wronged your mother within the year. Reports came to us over time, you know—we have eyes everywhere. I heard much of you and your valor at Maalig, and much of your mother, too. All of it good, all of it honorable. It made me secretly proud. Lassa was my darling, my favorite, and I have never stopped loving her or missing her. Driving her out was the greatest mistake of my life, and seeing you I realize your mother has not shamed our house but glorified it."
"Because I have the luck to be the only son of your King. You wouldn't hire me as a stall-mucker let alone receive me in your house otherwise."
"No, no!" choked the old man. "No—Temmin—Tennoc—you don't understand. You don't understand."
"I don't suppose I do. Nor will I. Good day, sir."
Tennoc left the room much disturbed and ran almost headlong into Fallik. "Do you have a habit of listening at doors, cousin?" said Tennoc.
The cords stood out in the bigger man's neck. "You are a rude, dishonorable cur. I've half a mind to challenge you!"
"By all means!" answered Tennoc; his new power crackled and sang within him. "Name the time and place, if you ever find the other half."
To Tennoc's astonishment Fallik faltered and dropped his gaze. A pursing of the lips, an exhalation, and he raised sullen eyes. "I have more sense than to challenge the Heir in single combat, however deserving he might be of the flat of my sword. Stay here. The seneschal will be along to show you to your room."
As his cousin walked away Tennoc's magic quieted, but his brain boiled: Fallik feared him. Perhaps Lord Grandfather did, too.
Once in his room, Tennoc unbuckled his sword belt and took off his boots for the first time in days; he wiggled his toes and gave a happy groan. He wanted to lie down on the comfortable-looking bed and fall into a deep sleep, but he was starving and a meal had been set for him on a table: a big slice of mutton pie, a small wheel of cheese, a wheaten loaf, a dish of stewed apples and a silver pitcher of wine. Beside it stood a matching cup. Tennoc sat down before it and had just reached for the wine when a face appeared on the surface of the pitcher. Its eyes were the color of the silver, its hair the shade of the iron candleholder. The face was almost delicate, clean-shaven and boyish, the mouth sensitive.
Tennoc jumped back; he knocked the chair over and drew his dagger. The surface of the pitcher distorted; a swirling mass rose from it, forming itself into a black-robed sliver of a figure that bowed as soon as it had a waist to do so. "Your Highness, sheathe your dagger. I could never harm you even if I wished to. I serve you."
"Who are you? What are you?" stammered Tennoc. "Are you my father?"
"No," smiled the newcomer. "My name is Teacher."
"Teacher what?"
"Just Teacher. I have been the counselor to the Kings of Tremont since Gethin the First."
"That was sixty years ago. You can't be more than thirty."
"Appearances, as I am sure you are aware, can be deceiving. Trust that your interests are mine, and that I am here to serve your family until…until I am no longer needed. However many years that may be."
"How do you have magic?" Tennoc persisted. "Are you a royal? A noble?"
"I am sorry. I can tell you nothing of myself until you are King."
Tennoc sheathed his dagger, still keeping his eyes on Teacher. "I've heard of you," he admitted. "They call you the Black Man."
"Many call me the Black Man, but I am no fairy tale, nor have I ever carried off a child and eaten it. In fact, I dislike being called the Black Man to my face, please."
"They say you choose the Kings, that you've chosen them all since Temmin the Great."
"I do not choose, I recognize. I sense the bloodline of Temmin the First, and the one closest to direct, preferably legitimate descent is the one I serve. Today that is Andrin. Some day, barring a true miracle from His Majesty's latest wife, it will be you."
Tennoc sat down slowly, dinner forgotten. "So if she bears a son, I am supplanted. The legitimate son comes before the illegitimate one, no matter when they are born?"
Teacher nodded. "But I have not sensed a son in Her Majesty's womb though they have been married these three years, and I doubt I will."
Tennoc leaned forward, curious in spite of himself. "You know the sex of a King's child before it's born?"
"I sense only the sons. I do not know a girl child is coming until she is here—or if one of the King's women is obviously increasing and I sense no son."
Tennoc considered. "Did you know me?"
"Your father was the Heir then, not the King, or I would have. When he ascended, you flashed like a beacon in the west."
"More's the pity. I should have preferred going unnoticed."
Teacher sat on the table's edge. "Is ruling Tremont so repugnant, then?"
"It was not what I expected from my life." Tennoc poured himself a needed cup of wine. "Oh, shall I send for another cup?" he added, offering his own.
"I do not drink, but thank you. I ask again, is ruling so repugnant?"
"I never expected to enter Tremont let alone rule it," he said into his wine cup. He took another long sip; the red wine lay thick and complex on his tongue—and strangely unwatered. Not for gulping. He set the cup down and rubbed his face with both hands. "I'm sorry, but I must eat."
"I am not hungry, please do not hesitate," said Teacher, waving a long-fingered hand over the table as Tennoc pounced on the loaf. "What did you expect of life?"
Tennoc swallowed a chunk of bread. "A quiet holding a few days' ride from Gwyrfal, marriage to the lady my stepfather chose, and service at Prince Kenver's right hand in combat. That's what I wanted." Not all, whispered a traitorous voice in his head. He wanted Gwynna, not Cariodas. Perhaps now he might have her. Dunnoc would never agree to the marriage. Tennoc would have to take her by force. The King of the Kells might save Tennoc the trouble; he looked to be headed toward war with Tremont already. "I'm not sure how I feel about being a Prince," he muttered. "I left that part to Kenver." He picked up the piece of mutton pie and took a grateful, speech-blocking bite.
Teacher met that night with the nervous Duke, his fidgeting heir and the new Prince. No one in the room seemed at ease around the pale figure in dark robes; Teacher took their fear in stride. When a servant made a furtive sign of Amma—head, heart and groin—Teacher may even have smirked. "We leave tomorrow, Your Grace," said Teacher.
"The boy should rest, counselor, do you not think?" said Gonnor. "It's been a long journey for him…and I would like for Prince Temmin—Tennoc," at his grandson's lowering look, "to know his homeland and family. He's been on the road for more than two weeks already, surely a rest before such a long journey—it's the better part of a spoke to Tremont City."
"We will go back the way I came," said Teacher.
Tennoc's skin prickled at the memory of traveling through a reflection with Kenver. He was in no hurry to take to the road again but said, "Mightn't it be better for me to see more of the country, sir?"
Teacher frowned. "Do not call me 'sir.' I dislike it intensely." Tennoc bowed his head in puzzled apology. "You will see your country in time, Your Highness, but your father required me to bring you to his Keep as soon as I found you. Today was my first sighting of you in a reflection."
"We didn't have time to polish my armor," said Tennoc with a faint smile.
"Will you at least accept my hospitality for the night, Your Highness?" said the anxious Gonnor.
Every muscle in Tennoc's body ached and he wanted nothing more than bed. Still, he consulted Teacher with a glance. The counselor lifted an eyebrow; Tennoc took it to mean he might decide for himself. "We will stay the night, Lord Gonnor, and then Hanni and I will leave with Teacher as King—er, as my father desires." Gonnor and Fallick bowed, as did Teacher. He returned it in reflex.
"Princes of Tremont do not bow to their lords," said Teacher.
"I'm not used to being a prince," answered Tennoc. He leveled a gaze at his cousin. "Yet." Fallik frowned uncertainly.
When they returned to Tennoc's room, Teacher said, "Lord Fallik has his grandfather's impetuous temper. Do not hold it against him. He is honorable and would fight at your side to the death were you to need him."
"Whitehorsers hold their honor in too high esteem."
"And you?"
Tennoc sat down to pull off his boots and grinned. "Bastards have no honor in Tremont. Or so I'm told."
In the morning, Tennoc found a polished steel plate the size of a table top set up in the Freehold's courtyard. Teacher pronounced such a large reflection unnecessary, but Gonnor insisted it made transporting livestock easier. Hanni waited with their horses, eyeing Teacher apprehensively. "It's all right, Hanni. You might get a bit sick, but it's a quick journey," said Tennoc.
"Worry not for me to get sick, it is to worry for the horses."
"Horses don't vomit."
"No, but stumble and flatten my foot they can, sir. Big enough is my foot."
"Must you bring the horses?" frowned Teacher.
"Better horses you will not find, not even here! I, Hanni, from Whitehorse stock did breed them—from horse you gave Prince Andrin I stole for Mistress long ago, begging pardon," he added, bowing to Gonnor. "Was fine horse!"
Teacher waved a resigned hand at the steel plate. "Show me Mirror Clearing." The reflection resolved into murk, a round, irregular window at its center revealing trees and greenery as if he were looking through a knothole.
Tennoc and his grandfather eyed each other awkwardly. The old man had aged even since the day before; in spite of himself, Tennoc pitied more than hated him, though he could never love him. He offered his arm. Gonnor took it and they clasped one another at the elbow. "Thank you for your hospitality, Lord Grandfather."
"My door is ever open to you, Tennoc," said Gonnor.
Tennoc's heart twisted. "Thank you, sir. Lord Fallik," he said, turning to his cousin, "in time perhaps we may come to enjoy our kinship more than we have so far. I am not too proud to try." He extended his hand.
Fallik hesitated, but in the end they clasped arms. "Safe journey, Your Highness," he grudgingly answered.
"Can you handle both horses, Hanni der Geelt?" said Teacher.
"In my care always are the horses," bristled Hanni.
"You are in my care," said Teacher. "I must hold your hand and pull you through the mirror. Hold their bridles firmly."
"And my master?"
Teacher's silver eyes filled with mischief. "Your master can take himself through now." Teacher grabbed Hanni and pulled the man and both horses through the mirror, their bodies flowing like swirling water to appear in the round, framed reflection on the other side. Teacher waved, and the image vanished.
Tennoc stood agape before the mirror. He'd been left behind! But Teacher said he could travel the Highway of the Kings now, like Kenver and Dunnoc. Was it so? He flushed. How had Kenver done it? "Show me…" he faltered. Where had Teacher taken Hanni and the horses? He couldn't remember. No, he didn't need to know the place, just— "Show me Hanni!"
The mirror resolved into the irregular round of light in a plane of darkness, though Hanni's giant eye filled almost all of the round. What held the reflection on the other side? The times Kenver had taken him through a reflection he'd been violently ill, and he worried it might happen again. He glanced at Fallik and Gonnor. Well, if I am sick, they won't see it. He swallowed his nausea and put his hand on the mirror. It sank into the surface, and the magic began.
His bones melted into water. The space inside the reflection had no north or south, no means of knowing which way was down, and slivers of light whirled around him. He fought to keep his breakfast—and then he was stumbling into a clearing among young trees. He put his hands on his knees until his head cleared.
"Hello," smiled Teacher.
The Keep was a short ride down a wide, well-tended way called the War Road. "Our armies ride to battle from here, six abreast," said Teacher from a perch behind Tennoc. "These are the King's Woods. Only the King hunts here—and now you, if you please."
"I wish for nothing but a roof over my head at this point."
The trees thinned, giving Tennoc his first view of Tremont Keep, a stone fortress that was new in his great-grandfathers' day built into the living rock that sheered above the confluence of two rivers. Four rounded towers stood at each corner; the side closest to them bowed out toward the forest. A fifth tower rose just behind the bowed wall, higher than the other four. It looked out over the King's Woods and the foothills, and in the other direction, the Capital. Tennoc wondered how it stayed up; he'd never seen anything so tall.
"Never did I think to see this place again," murmured Hanni. "Remembering I am my good Lady Inglatine."
"Your good lady is healthy and happy at Marsury—with your two youngest half-sisters, sir," added Teacher to Tennoc. "When the Princesses are married, Lady Inglatine is considering returning to Leute."
"Will you go back with her, Hanni?" said Tennoc.
Hanni sucked on a tooth. "My Lady to Queen Lassanna gave me, Queen Lassanna to you gave me. If give you me back to my Lady, I end up at beginnings, I go. Else, no."
Tennoc faced his father not long after in the Keep's Great Hall. Though his mother had never said, he'd always imagined his father as tall, dark-haired and blue-eyed, elegant and somewhat languid. This man's eyes were hollow and dark; his crown rested on graying hair that hung lank and greasy, and if he had once been tall and elegant, now he seemed diminished, almost shrunken. How old was his father? He knew Andrin was older than his mother, but the King couldn't be more than fifty, and yet he looked older than Lord Grandfather. A man supported him to his throne; he sat down panting, in obvious pain. He beckoned.
"Your Majesty," said Teacher, "may I present to you your son, Prince Temmin of Tremont." Tennoc made a hesitant, respectful bow.
"The Kells do not call you Temmin, though, do they?" said King Andrin in a tired wheeze.
"My Kellish name is Tennoc ar Sial, and I prefer to be called Tennoc, sir."
"Tennoc it is," nodded his father. "In the family they call me An, after all." He examined his son with fierce and hungry eyes, as if he had a brief moment to learn the young man's features before he vanished. "You are very like her. You are very like me in some ways—don't you think, Teacher?"
"He has the shape of your eyes, sire, and your form. Tall and well-made."
"Once I was tall and well-made at any rate," said Andrin. He looked around the hall. "Leave us. Yes, even you, Teacher. You will have time to speak with the boy after. Much time." Andrin's lords and servants bowed low and left the room, Teacher trailing behind. "Come closer. You dislike my looks, hey? Didn't expect a father who looked like this? What did your mother say of me?"
"As little as possible, sir. May we not speak of my mother, please? Doing so can only lead to pain for us both."
Andrin smirked. "Do you believe her memory pains me?"
"Not in the least, sir, for you made your contempt for us quite clear."
"Contempt?" said Andrin in surprise. "Look at you, you're a fine young man. Strong, a warrior. The troubadours sing songs of Maalig even here. Any man would be proud to have you as a son, and I would have welcomed you and your mother at my court at any time."
"You never sent for her. You never even sent word to her. You did nothing to protect her from her father." Andrin kept silent. "In fact, sir," Tennoc pressed on, "you thought nothing about either of us until I became necessary to you."
"Why would I?" said Andrin on a long exhalation of air. "Since you insist on being plain-spoken: You have turned out to be a fine young man, but you are also a bastard. If I had been here I would have stayed Gonnor's hand against your mother, but I wasn't and it was too much trouble to send to Kellen for her. Had she stayed, I would have kept her until I tired of her and then set her up handsomely with some lordling—and I would have consigned you to the Mother's House. I would have done exactly as I have done: tried to sire more sons. But there will be no other sons. I'm dying." His feverish eyes fastened hard on Tennoc's own. "You are necessary to me, but not as Tennoc ar Sial. I need Temmin Heir of Tremont. I cannot leave this kingdom to be picked apart by the Sairs, the Kells, the Leutans—or worse, the barbarians to the north. I will not. So I recognize you as my Heir and give you my name, bastard though you may be."
Such speaking was too plain for Tennoc. "Sial is a better name in my books. Why should I care if your kingdom is picked apart? Perhaps I don't want your name or your throne. Perhaps I might encourage the Kells to nibble at your western border."
"You left the Kells and came to me. You're no foolish boy who'd reject a kingdom, let alone one as magnificent as Tremont, no matter how much you hated me—and you do hate me, don't you?" Tennoc said nothing, and his father continued, "You are an Antremont. You bear the direct blood of Temmin the Great, on your mother's side as well as mine. The land recognizes you, does it not? Show me."
Tennoc flushed. "I am unused to holding magic."
"Do your best. I do not sit in judgment."
Tennoc cast about the room. He'd been practicing picking things up and putting them back down; sometimes they even stayed in one piece. He settled on a massive bench. His mind reached out and tugged it bit by bit into the air; it rose as if he were pumping up a bladder beneath each leg. Frustrated, he pushed harder. The bench flew into the rafters. Gasping, he stopped it within an inch of smashing into splinters; he brought it down in several lumbering jerks before it hit the floor. Still in one piece: better than usual.
Andrin's mouth twisted into a smile. "You'll improve. Now that you have magic you won't want to be without it ever again. You'll want more of it. Powerful is better than powerless, son." Andrin sat back; sweat beaded on his sickly yellow forehead, his eyes so sunken their sockets stood out in clear relief all round each one. "I am tired now. Call for the servants. The seneschal will take care of you and your manservant. He's familiar. Do I know him?"
"His name is Hanni der Geelt."
Andrin chuckled faintly. "I remember Yellow Hanni." Andrin closed his eyes and said no more. For a moment, Tennoc wondered if he still breathed, but then his chest rose and fell. Tennoc called in the servants, and they tenderly bore his father away.
"The Sisters say he will not last the turn of the wheel," came Teacher's cool voice at his elbow. "Myself, I do not think he will live to see the end of next spoke. We do not have much time, Your Highness. You must master the magic you have before you inherit his as well."
"I have not decided I will take the throne."
Teacher's cold silver gaze flicked over him. "You decided when you crossed the River Cobb and claimed your magic."
"The magic claimed me," said Tennoc. "It hadn't even occurred to me what might happen, and I'm not at all comfortable with it." He sighed. "Quite honestly, I wish nothing more than to return to Gwyrfal and have everything be peaceful again."
"You will never be at peace outside Tremont again. Should your feet leave Tremontine soil, your magic will leave you—and when that happens, you will find yourself far less comfortable without it than you are with it. The thirst for magic has guided every action of every king in the world. Every battle between nations is fought to gain land and the magic it contains. There is no crossing back into Kellen for you—except at an army's head." Teacher reached up and took Tennoc gently by the arms. "You are not solely here at your father's summoning."
Tennoc hung his head. "In truth, I have nowhere else to go. Dunnoc has betrayed me."
"I know a good deal about betrayal," murmured Teacher. "Never worry. You are safe here."
Tennoc thought of his mother, and hoped she was safer than he was.
The discovery of the guards' bodies put Gwyrfal in an uproar. "How could Tennoc have defeated three of my best men?" fretted Dunnoc. "Three men he trusted!"
"He had to have been warned, sire," said Daevys ar Ulvyn. "There's no other explanation, though perhaps it was his plan all along. He took them by surprise like a coward." He helped Dunnoc drink from his cup. The King shook now more than ever. His legs were growing stiff; he never left his rooms but for meals at which he presided but did not eat for fear of spilling food and drink down his front in public.
"Who could have done it? Who betrayed me?"
"We shall discover the man, sire. Or woman."
Dunnoc looked at him in alarm. "Woman? What do you mean, woman?"
"Rest easy, sire," soothed Ulvyn. "I will root out those who work against you. In the meantime, let me help you. Is this partridge to your liking, or shall I cut you a morsel of beef?"
Dunnoc huffed in exasperation. "As you please. Food is a necessary evil to me now, no more. Why is the Queen not here to wait on me?"
"Do you not recall? She said she no longer wished to attend to you." What Queen Lassanna had said was that she did not wish to attend to Dunnoc with Ulvyn hanging over her shoulder; Dunnoc would not dismiss his favorite lord, the only one who told him what really went on in his court. Hadn't Ulvyn been right about Tennoc? He must be right about Lassanna. She was the ungrateful cur's mother, after all.
"What does my Queen do with her days, since she does not deign to wait on me?"
Ulvyn held a bite of meat until the shaking stopped enough for Dunnoc to eat it. "She spends much time with your children, sire. She seems quite close to Kenver. Quite. They spend many hours together. At all hours."
Dunnoc choked. "What are you saying?"
"Nothing, sire. They have many interests in common, among them, Tennoc. It's only natural," he said, wiping Dunnoc's mouth. "Your lady, though not a girl, is still lively, and your son is handsome. It may be she enjoys the sight of him so often in her bower. She is still a beauty. It could not be counted as unusual that in the absence of one they loved so much as Tennoc they might, er, find comfort one with the other."
"Enough." Tiny flames flickered on the King's fingertips; now used to Dunnoc's diminishing control, Ulvyn sidled away. "What do you believe?" demanded Dunnoc. "What is it you believe? You must tell me!"
The little flames reflected in Ulvyn's eyes. "I believe, sire, you know already."
"My son and my wife—! They must have betrayed me to Tennoc! But how could Kenver and the Queen have discovered what we meant to do!"
Ulvyn smiled. "I shall not rest until I find the traitor. In the meantime, sire, the Princess Gwynna should no longer be exposed to such as the Queen, do you not think?"
"I must find her a husband," whispered Dunnoc. "I must find her someone to keep her away from Tennoc, someone I can trust." He looked up through rheumy eyes. "Perhaps I shall give her to you."
"I wish nothing more than Gwynna's safety and happiness, sire, and would happily marry the lady now that my own wife is dead. But hush now, we shall not speak of it."
Teacher and Tennoc worked to increase the Heir's control over his share of Tremontine magic. "You are trying too hard," Teacher said time and again. "Let it float lightly on your thoughts, like telling your eye to blink or your leg to bend. You do not ask, you command, and with little thought. You must be sure in your mind. If you are unsure, do not use magic—choose some other method. Indecision will be your undoing in all things magical."
Day by day, Tennoc grew stronger and more confident, and King Andrin grew weaker. He did not leave his bed now, and Tennoc came to him every evening to display his progress. "I would accuse you of sucking the life from me," chuckled Andrin through dry and cracked lips this night, "but in truth I believe seeing you has kept me living a little longer than otherwise." He reached for Tennoc's hand and took it in a hot, papery grasp. "Do not think too badly of me, son. I must seem heartless to one raised as a Kell, but in Tremont, these things are different. In truth it is a good thing I left your mother in Kellen so that you might be raised with honor and a name, even if neither were mine." His grasp faltered. "It is too late, I think, for us to love one another, but not too late for me to be proud of you, both as Tennoc ar Sial and Temmin of Tremont."
"Thank you, sir," said Tennoc. His voice shook, and his stomach roiled. It was too late to love his father—perhaps too late even to forgive him—but knowing the King was proud of him hit him in a way he did not expect.
The next morning, Andrin breathed but did not wake. He lingered for three nights. On the fourth, Tennoc awoke from a dead sleep, screaming. A white, roaring ocean broke over him. The white faded, leaving coal-red traces in the air and sparks around the edges of his vision. Hanni ran in from the next room, yellow hair wild about his head. "What ails you?"
"He's dead," Tennoc rasped. "I'm too young to be King. I don't know the people, I don't know the country. I'm not ready. Pagg help me, Hanni."
The day after he committed his father's body to the Hill, Tennoc rode down from the Keep to Tremont City for his hasty, simplified coronation, his father's reluctant lords at his back. Hanni followed behind, holding the reins of a white bull calf. They climbed the long winding switchbacks on foot up Pagg's Hill to the Temple at its top. He could have lifted himself to the top had he wished—Teacher had taught him to raise himself on a column of solid air—but he did not wish to leave his lords behind. He had lords now. What a strange thought. Would that he could depend on them.
They stopped at Father's Rock, the great flat stone that had served as Pagg's holy place in the City before Temmin the Great built the white marble Temple beside it. Tremontine banners fluttered from atop the Temple among Pagg's purple and gold streamers. A flock of burly young priests in rough white robes stood by, as did the Little Father and Pagg's Embodiment dressed in resplendent purple with gold trimmings. Teacher stood off to one side, already come by reflection. Hanni handed the reins of the bull calf to the Little Father. The young priests wrestled the animal to the ground and bound it before and behind; the entire company turned to Tennoc in expectation.
Teacher had coached him on the ceremony. Tennoc's magic lifted the bawling calf into the air; he dropped it hard atop the rock, stunning it. The Embodiment took a gold-hilted knife and slit its throat, expertly dodging the artery's spurt; the blood ran down the Rock's already-stained sides. The Little Father examined the pathways the blood took down the Father's Rock, pronounced them auspicious, and led them all into the Temple where he read the prayers and placed the crown atop Tennoc's head, proclaiming him "The Third Temmin, great-great-grandson of the Great Temmin and our true King." The company cheered, though not as lustily as they might have. It didn't matter. Andrin's magic had passed to him, and Teacher recognized him as King; they mightn't have been happy about it, but to his surprise no one questioned it.
Tennoc had no sooner led the procession back down the Hill to the gathered horses when a messenger galloped up. He jumped down from the saddle and dropped to one knee. "Sire, two travelers have come from Kellen—they appear to be noble. They've taken refuge at the Healer's House, for the man is badly hurt and not faring well. The girl is overset, and they bore something that…well, none have seen inside it but we all can smell it. Oh, please come, Your Majesty, they are begging for you!"
"When you need me, sire, look for me in a reflection," said Teacher. "I will stand ready."
Tennoc swung himself into the saddle, and the Brothers who'd accompanied him mounted as well."I want only Hanni," he said.
"You will take us too, Your Majesty," said their stubborn leader.
"Oh, very well!" he exclaimed, and spurred his horse toward the Sister's Hill and the Healer's House at its foot.
Tennoc found the travelers from Kellen in a small, bright room. On its low bed lay a naked man covered in yellowing bruises, sores and lash marks; broken teeth showed in his open mouth, one eye must have been swollen shut not long ago, and stertorous breathing spasmed his chest. His crooked left leg had turned an ugly purple, green and black. Beside him knelt a young woman, grass and bracken tangled in her messy, dark braids. Dried blood stained her tattered dress.
The man was Sian ar Lifris; the young woman beside him was his daughter, Cariodas. As she helped the Sisters tend her father's wounds, she murmured in a steady voice that they were safe, he would be looked after now, but when she saw Tennoc she lost her composure; her great brown eyes brimmed over, and she began to shake.
"What's happened!" cried Tennoc in Kellish. "How came you to be here? Cariodas, what's happened?" He lifted her to her feet, and she stumbled into his arms.
"Your Majesty," said the elder of the Sisters, "if you know this lady, please convince her to let us care for her. She is exhausted. Make her lie herself down."
Tennoc smoothed her hair. "Cariodas," he translated, "the Sisters say you must lie down and let them take care of you."
"I'm not hurt," said Cariodas. She propped herself up on Tennoc's chest and trembled in shock and weariness. "Papa is hurt, I have to stay with him. They beat him, they've nearly killed him—oh, Tennoc!" She collapsed against him in a near-swoon. He scooped her up, carried her to the darkened room next door and laid her down on the bed.
A rangy Sister bustled after him and took over, washing Cariodas's face and hands and checking her pulses. "She is not injured, sire, but driven to the ends of endurance," said the Sister. "I doubt she's slept more than a few hours in days, or eaten at all. She is a brave, brave girl. The man with her—"
"Her father, a noble lord of Kellen."
The Sister shook her head. "Kellish ladies must be made of strong stuff. She dragged him behind her horse on a branch sled all the way from Kellen along with that wretched chest. He will lose his leg at best, sire—I don't know how she got him here alive."
"Do what you can for him. Where is this chest?"
The tall Sister's nose wrinkled. "Sire, I'm sorry, but we could not keep it here. It is on its way as we speak to Harla's Hill, for while this lady insisted only you might open it, we could smell what it contained."
Tennoc's hair prickled. "This lady's name is Cariodas ar Lifris. Her father's name is Sian ar Lifris. They are dear to me. Watch over them, Sister."
He sprinted from the Healer's House back to his horse. "It's Cariodas, Hanni," he said as he mounted. "And her father—Lifris has been beaten near to death."
"What did they carry, sire?"
"Nothing good. We're off to Harla's Hill." Hanni blanched, but followed his master at a gallop.
They overtook the cart not far from the Temple's entrance. At first, no scent assaulted Tennoc's nose, but when they stopped the cart, it came to him—no more than a whiff, but he knew it instantly. "We will take this into the Hill, for whatever is in it belongs there."
Once at the Temple's door, the Friends of Harla emerged and helped carry the chest inside. The high priestess introduced herself as Friend Dian. "You were right to come here, Your Majesty," she said. "We will open it in a grieving room. Whoever it was must be cleansed." Tennoc knew the chest contained something quite dead, but hearing it referred to as "who" and not "what" made his skin crawl. Dian made a sign; the Friends bowed and disappeared through various passages. Tennoc and Hanni followed the chest into the small grieving room, where its bearers placed it beside the stone table and water-filled basin at the room's center. Dian gestured to the chest.
Tennoc crept up to it, more afraid than he'd ever been in his life. His hands and feet turned to ice, and sweat formed on his palms. He unfastened the clasp and with a determination he did not feel, he opened the lid.
It contained two heads, one male, one female. The man's hair was dark. The woman's hair was ash blonde, a scant few wiry strands of gray marring it. "Judging by the smell and the state of the flesh, sire, these people have been dead about three weeks," murmured Friend Dian. "Do you know them?"
Tennoc couldn't breathe; his throat closed and his chest clenched at every attempt until he got in a great gulp of air. A discreet Friend appeared from nowhere carrying a large basin, and Tennoc vomited into it. Somewhere nearby Hanni screamed in Leutish as if his eyes were being plucked from his head. Tennoc retched and retched; when he finished he slumped back on the floor, spent.
Dian handed Tennoc a wet towel and a cup of water to rinse his mouth. Beside him, Hanni lay in a wretched lump on the cold stone floor, great sobs shaking his wiry frame. "Who were they, Your Majesty?" said Dian.
"Prince Kenver and Queen Lassanna of Kellen. My brother—my best friend—and…and my mother…" Hanni crawled across the floor, and Tennoc held the man as he howled in grief. Dian put an unnoticed hand on Tennoc's head in blessing; Tennoc kept his arms tight around his old friend, and ashes filled his heart.
Temmin scrambled back from the book, knocking his chair over in his drive to get away. He knotted his fingers in his hair and pulled to keep himself from screaming, but a choking sob broke through. "How—how dare you—!"
"I told you, when I chose this story I did not know what would happen to your mother," said Teacher, arms folded behind.
"Uncaring, unfeeling whoreson!" Temmin shouted. "Pagg damn you, you bastard, you block of stone! You don't even remember your own mother! Get out of my sight!" Teacher didn't move. Temmin charged, and hit the wall of air he'd unconsciously expected. He staggered back. "Coward! Drop your shield! Fight me like a man, damn you!"
"You have hurt yourself, sir," said Teacher, unruffled.
Temmin blinked away blood; he must have opened up the wound at his temple. His pain mingled with Tennoc's still-lingering horror into a mounting hysteria. "Do you think I care? What of it! What do I care? My mother's in the Hill—he killed her! No, she—Ibbit—" He threw back his head and screamed.
Jenks threw the door open, knife drawn and two Guards at his heels. "What in Amma's name—" he said at Teacher's quelling gesture. "What have you done to him? Your Highness—Temmin, you're bleeding!" Jenks waved the Guards away and shut the door after them. Temmin dropped to his knees, still screaming through tears. Jenks kneeled down next to him, folded a handkerchief and held the improvised compress to his unresisting charge's forehead; Temmin's sobs diminished into disconsolate, ragged breaths as the big man stayed near, the only contact between them the handkerchief and a steadying hand on one shoulder. "What did you do to him?" said Jenks again.
"A difficult part of our current lesson. I want us to finish this story, Your Highness," Teacher added to Temmin. "It is hard for you to hear, but I strongly believe that hearing Tennoc's story may help you grieve. You are not alone in this trouble. I must return to the Keep now. Your father needs me. Amma's Day is tomorrow. I will return the day after, on Paggday."
"You'll do nothing of the kind," growled Jenks.
"I will return on Paggday," Teacher repeated and walked to the mirror in the bedchamber, leaving Temmin and his old friend crouching on the rug.
"Come now, come, sir," said Jenks, leading him to the sofa. "Hold this handkerchief while I get you a sticking plaster or two. It's just a cut above the eye, they bleed like anything, but they're not serious."
"I'm not such an idiot I don't know that," sniffed Temmin.
Jenks returned from the bathroom with the plasters. "As you say, sir. Ah, Temmin, you've opened your stitches, too, and damn it, you've ruined your shirtfront!"
"Cold water."
Jenks laughed. "You're learning."
"I pay attention," Temmin sniffed again, this time with a faint smile.
"Now tell me, what did the old crow say to upset you so?"
Temmin hesitated, but Jenks had seen Teacher do impossible things; in the end, Temmin told all. "When you feel everything the person in the story feels…" Tears filled his eyes again, but he kept his composure even as they fell. "His mother was murdered, and so was mine. When he opened the chest, it was like finding Mama's head—and yours, or maybe Alvo's."
"Nothing prepares you for the death of someone you love, sir, not even war. Some of our friends fell when your uncle and I were in Inchar, and it hurt when they died, I don't deny it. And when Pat died…" The big man trailed off and cleared his throat. "They say when someone you love dies, a piece of you goes to the Hill with them. There is a great bleeding chunk of me in the Hill with your Uncle Pat, and another with your mother."
"Teacher said you never get over it, you just get used to it."
Jenks grimaced. "I will give the old crow his due: He's right. He's often right. I don't like it, but it's so."