Daughter of Regals and Other Tales Page 3

  For a moment, I watched him grin at what he took to be my meaning. Then I had the satisfaction of seeing his brows knot as other possibilities disturbed his single-minded wits. His only retort was a growl deep in his throat.

  For the sake of good manners—and good ruler-craft— I saluted Thornden’s Mage as I had Thone’s. Brodwick of Nabal was a shaggy lump of a man, large and mis-shaped, whose fawning was exceeded only by his known prowess. He appeared oddly dependent, perhaps because he shared appetites with Count Thornden which only the lord of Nabal could satisfy. Following his master’s example, he refused my hand.

  I dismissed the slight. Whatever motivations ruled Brodwick, he was still dangerous. Deliberately, I resumed my progress around the ballroom, nodding to those people who looked at me honestly, gauging those who did not— and moving toward the encounter I could not shun with Queen Damia.

  Perhaps I had unconsciously left her to the last, hoping foolishly to avoid her altogether. In all truth, she daunted me—she and that quick ferret who served her, the Mage Scour. Perhaps I could have borne it that her loveliness and grace gave me the aspect of a scullion by comparison. Or that her finery would have made the grandest gown I might have worn appear frumpish and shabby. Or that even Ryzel was unable to speak of her without an undercurrent of longing in his voice. I envied such things, but they were not necessary to me. To those strengths, however, was added another, which made my blood run cold in my chest because I was not equal to it. I could play games of implication and inference with King Thone and not lose my way. Count Thornden was obvious; therefore he could be thwarted. But Queen Damia’s cunning ran far deeper than theirs—deeper and more dangerously. And I feared that I lacked the wit to fathom her. Certainly I lacked the experience to walk unscathed through the mazes she built for the bafflement of her antagonists.

  In such matters, she was ably aided by Mage Scour. He served her, it was said, because she put her nearly limitless wealth at his disposal, enabling him to pursue his experiments and researches wherever he willed. And it was also said that he came here this night prepared by what he had learned to alter the entire order of the realm.

  Ryzel had scoffed at that rumour, but in a way which conveyed uncertainty. The casting of images of what was Real was a known art, varying only according to the skill, dedication and inborn capacity of the Mage. But Magic itself remained a mystery, transcending that which was known, mortal, or tangible. And the rumours surrounding Scour claimed that he had gone beyond images of the Real into Magic itself.

  I felt myself more a lost girl than a lady of state as I drew near to Queen Damia and her retinue.

  Her smile was as brilliant as one of the chandeliers— so brilliant that it made me feel the fault of manners was mine rather than hers when she declined to accept my hand. But the gracious sound of her voice—as haunting as a flute—covered the social awkwardness of her refusal. “Lady,” she said sweetly, “I have seen the portraits of your line which hang in the gallery of the manor. Surely no paint which is not itself Real can hope to portray the virility of the Regals. But the painting of your grandmother well becomes her—or so I have heard from those who knew the mother of the Phoenix-Regal. You are very like her. Your dress is so simple and charming, it displays you to perfection.”

  As she spoke, I found myself watching the movement of her décolletage as if I were a man. It was an effective sight; I was so taken by it that a moment passed before I grasped that I had been insulted in several ways at once.

  “You flatter me, my lady,” I replied, schooling myself to calmness so that I would not redden before the guests of the manor. “I have seen my grandmother’s portrait often. She was altogether handsomer than I am.” Then the success of my efforts gave me enough reassurance to return her compliment. “In any case, all beauty vanishes when Queen Damia appears.”

  A small quirk twitched the corner of her soft mouth; but whether it indicated pleasure or vexation, I could not tell. Yet my response sufficed to make her change her ground. “Lady,” she said smoothly, “it ill becomes me to discuss the business of the Three Kingdoms upon such a festive occasion—but the need of my subjects compels me to speak. The next Regal simply must re-examine the pricing structure of Lodan woods against the ores and gems of Nabal and the foods of Canna. In particular, our mahogany is scarce, and growing scarcer. We must have a higher return for it, before we sink into poverty.”

  To follow her cost me an effort of will—and of haste. With the same words, she prepared for any outcome to my test. If my Ascension to the Seat succeeded, she would turn to me sweetly and say, “May we now discuss the price of Lodan mahogany, my lady?” And at the same time she contrived to suggest to all who heard us that the next Regal would be none other than Queen Damia herself.

  I could not match her in such conversation. To escape her—and also to show her that I was not swayed—I attempted a laugh. To my ears, it sounded somewhat brittle. But perhaps it did not entirely fail.

  “Surely you jest, my lady of Lodan. Your people will never know want while you have jewels to sell for their succour.”

  From the gathering, I heard a muffled exclamation, a low titter, whisperings of surprise or approbation. With that for victory, I turned away.

  But I felt little victory. As I turned, I saw clearly Mage Scour’s sharp face. He was grinning as if he had the taste of my downfall in his mouth.

  To his credit, Ryzel allowed the monarch of Lodan no opportunity for riposte. He made an obscure, small gesture which the servants of the manor knew how to read; and at once a clear chime rang across the hush of the ballroom.

  “My lords and ladies,” he said casually, as though he were unaware of the conflicting currents around him, “friends and comrades, the feast is prepared. Will you accept the hospitality of the Phoenix-Regal’s daughter at table?”

  With an unruffled demeanour, he offered me his arm to lead me to the banquet hall. I gripped it harder than I intended while I continued to smile somewhat fixedly at the people who parted before us. Entering the passage which connected the ballroom and the banquet hall, he whispered softly to me, “Thus far, it is well enough. I will wager that even that proud Queen has been somewhat unsettled in her mind. Do not falter now.”

  Perhaps I could not trust him. But he was still my friend; and while his friendship lasted, I clung to it. In reply, I breathed, “Ryzel, do not leave me to dine alone with these predators.”

  “It is the custom,” he said without turning his head. “I will regale the Mages while their masters feast. Do not fail of appetite. You must show no fear.” A moment later, he added, “Perchance I will glean some hint of what has wedded Cashon to King Thone’s side.”

  With that I had to be content.

  At the doors of the hall, he dropped his arm. I walked without him ahead of the guests into the feasting-place of the Regals.

  It was resplendent with light and warmth and music and savoury aromas. In the great hearths fires blazed, not because they were needed, but because they were lovely and comforting. Long ranks of candelabra made the damask tablecloths and the rich plate gleam. Playing quietly in one corner, musicians embellished a sprightly air. The scent of the incensed candles gave each breath a tang. But this night such things provided me neither pleasure nor solace. As it was custom that Mage Ryzel would not attend me here, so also was it custom that I must take my feast uncompanioned—at a table set only for me and placed in full view of all the guests. The long tables had been arranged in a rough semicircle; but my seat rested on a low platform within the arms of the formation, solitary and exposed, so that all in the hall might study me as we ate.

  A barbarous custom I thought sourly. Yet I understood it. Always better—so my father had often told me— to rule by confidence of personality than by display of strength. And how better to show my enemies that I did not fear them, than by taking a calm meal alone in front of them?

  Gripping what courage I had, I moved to my place and stood there while the three kings
and their followers,the chief families and minor nobility of the realm all my principal friends and foes found their proper seals. For a moment as I watched them, I fervidly wished myself a Gorgon as my great-grandfather had been, capable of turning to stone those who sought my ill. But then I shook the thought away; it did not become one who aspired to Ascension. The Gorgon-Regal had been a grim and fatal monarch—and yet there was no record that he had ever used his Magic to harm any of his subjects.

  When all the guests were in their places, I made the short, formal speech expected of me, inviting the company to feast and happiness in the manor of the Regals. I was steadier now, and my voice betrayed no tremor. According to custom, I stood until the people around me had seated themselves. Then the steward clapped his hands for the servants, and I lowered myself gratefully to my chair.

  At once, the feast appeared. Again according to custom, the steaming trays and chafing dishes, platters of meats and flagons of mulled wine and tureens of rich soup were brought first to me. And with them came a servant to act as my tester. He would taste for me; and I would taste for the guests; and so both caution and courtesy were satisfied.

  But there I was somewhat surprised. The man who came to serve me was not my accustomed tester, an old retainer of the manor whom I had known and loved from girlhood. Rather he was a tall and excellently made fellow perhaps ten years older than I. I knew him little; but I had noticed him about the manor since the death of my father—indeed, I could not have failed to notice him, for his handsomeness was extreme, and it plucked at my heart in a way no man had ever done. His name was Wallin. Now, in the light of the candles and the aura of the music, he appeared more than handsome: he seemed to glow with perfection.

  Looking at him, I thought that girls dreamed of such men. Women would be well advised to distrust them.

  The blessing of my isolated seat and the music was that I could speak without being overheard. Softly, I said, “This is not your accustomed duty, Wallin.”

  “Your pardon, my lady.” His composure was a match for his appearance. “Do not be displeased. Your taster was taken ill this evening—a slight indisposition, but enough to keep him from his feet.” He smiled self-deprecatingly. “I begged for his place until the steward granted it to me so that I would desist,”

  “You have curious desires, Wallin,” I said, studying him narrowly. In all truth, I distrusted him less than my attraction to him. “Why are you avid for such perilous duty? The task of taster is not altogether ceremonial here. There is a tradition of poison in the Three Kingdoms.”

  Speaking as quietly as I did, he replied, “My lady, your guests await their feast.”

  A glance showed me that he was right. Many of the men and women at their tables were watching me curiously. Others appeared restive. But I made a dismissive gesture. “Let them wait.” It would serve to heighten their uncertainty. “You interest me.”

  “Then I must answer you frankly, my lady.” His manner suggested diffidence, yet he was entirely unruffled. “It is said of the Regals that they take their mates from the common people rather than from the high families— or from the adherents of the three rulers. This is unquestionably wise, for it avoids any implication of favouritism or preference which might unsettle the realm” He glanced around us, assuring himself that there was no one within earshot. Then he concluded, “My lady, when you come to the choice of a mate, I wish to be considered. I serve you to gain your notice.”

  He astonished me. I was not the sort of woman whom handsome men found desirable—or any men at all, handsome or otherwise, in my experience. Somewhat bitterly, I responded, “Are you hungry for power, Wallin?”

  “My lady”—his composure was extraordinary—”I am hungry for your person.”

  For an instant, I nearly laughed. But if I had laughed, I might also have wept. Without my will, he inspired a yearning in me to be loved rather than feared or hated; and the pain that I was not loved welled against my self-command. Mustering all the severity I possessed, I said, “You are bold. Perhaps you are too bold. Or your grasp of the risk you run is unclear. I have not yet proven myself Regal. If I fail, any man who dares ally himself with me will share my doom. In permitting such hazard to your life, I would demonstrate myself unworthy of the rule I seek.” Then I relented a degree. Some weaknesses require utterance, or else they will seek admission in other ways. “You may be assured that you have gained my notice.”

  “With that I am content,” he replied. But his eyes said candidly that he would not be content long.

  He nonplussed me to such an extent that I felt gratitude when he went about his duties, enabling me to occupy myself with the first of my food—and to avoid meeting his gaze again. His attitude defied reason. Therefore I could not trust it—or him. And therefore the strength of my wish to defy reason appalled me.

  Thus it was fortunate that I had no appetite for any of the food placed before me. It required a great concentration of will to sample each dish as if I were pleased by it; and that discipline schooled me to master myself in other ways. As the servants fanned away from me to the long tables, bearing rich fare and rare delicacies to the guests of the manor—not my guests, though Wallin had termed them so—I became better able to play my part with proper grace. Let those who studied me for signs of apprehension see what they willed.

  Yet whenever I felt Queen Damia’s gaze come toward me, I did not meet it. I was prepared to outface all the rest of the gathering if need be; alone or together. But I was not a match for Lodan’s queen.

  So the banquet passed. No toasts were proposed to me—a breach of good etiquette, but one easily forgiven, considering the vulnerability of those here who wished me well—and I offered none in return. Hostility and tension were covered by the gracious music, the plenty of the feast, the flow of superficial conversation and jests. And then the musicians set aside their instruments to make way for the minstrels.

  The minstrels were perhaps the only people in the hall with nothing at hazard except their reputations. War provided them with material for songs; peace gave them opportunity to sing. As did this night, whatever the outcome of my Ascension. So they had come to the manor from around the Three Kingdoms, that they might establish or augment their fame, their standing in the guild. In consequence, their singing was exceptional.

  Custom declared that the minstrel of the manor must perform first; and she regaled the guests with an eloquent and plainly spurious account of how the Basilisk-Regal had wooed and won the daughter of one of Canna’s farmers, in defiance of the man’s deathly opposition to all things Magic. Then came the turn of the minstrels of the three rulers. However, only two men stood forward— Count Thornden had no minstrel with him, either because he had none at all, or because he had not troubled to bring his singer here. King Thone’s representative took precedence by virtue of his ranking in the minstrel’s guild, and he delivered himself of an elaborate, courtly ballad, highly sophisticated in its manner but rather crude in its intent, which was to flatter the monarch of Canna. I felt no offence, however. I was willing to listen to him as long as possible. Even crude minstrelsy beguiled me as though it had power to hold back the future.

  But Queen Damia’s singer gave the banquet a song, which caught in my throat. It was one I had not heard before, and it was at once passionate and poignant, fiery and grieving, as only the best songs can be. In brief, it described the slaying of the last Dragon by the Basilisk-Regal, my grandmother’s grandfather.

  That thought was frightening: Creature at war against Creature, kind-murder which bereft the world of something Real and therefore precious. In the known history of the realm, only the Mage made images of the ancient Creatures fought and slew. The Magic beings themselves lived lives of their own, apart and untouched, ruled by interests and needs and commitments, which took no account of that which was not Real. But Queen Damia’s minstrel sang that the Basilisk-Regal went out to rid the realm of the last Dragon because that great, grim Creature had conceived a corrup
t taste for unReal flesh and had begun to feed upon the folk of the Three Kingdoms. Thus for the sake of his chosen people the Basilisk-Regal was forced to take the blood of one of his own kind, and the stain of that death had marked his hands until his own passing. It had soaked into his flesh until at the last he was compelled to keep his hands covered because they had become too hideous to be looked upon by ordinary human eyes.

  When the song faded from the hall, I found myself with tears on my face and a hot ache in my heart. It is only a song, I protested against myself. It has no power over you. Do not act the girl in front of your enemies. But to myself I responded, The last Dragon! Oh, father of Regals! The last! How did you bear it?

  I paid no heed to the banqueters who watched me in my weakness, and I heard nothing of the songs sung by the remaining minstrels. I thought only of the fine Creatures which had filled my dreams from my earliest girlhood—the fierce Wyvern and wild Banshee, the terrible Gorgon and subtle Cockatrice, the mystic Phoenix—of my dream that one day I would stand among them, a Creature myself. And of what the world had lost in the slaying of the last Dragon.

  If the song were true.

  At last I recollected myself enough to be firm: if the song were true. Mage Ryzel had told me all he knew of the history of Magic in the realm—and he had not spoken of any bloodshed among Creatures. And who had sung the song, which had struck so deeply into my lone heart? Who, indeed, but the minstrel of Queen Damia?

  Was this song some ploy of hers?

  If it were, I could not fathom it. As in everything she did, her true intent lay hidden beneath a surface of immaculate innocence. Perhaps she mocked me—or perhaps warned. Whatever her purpose, I feared I had already fallen to the snare. But now I no longer sought to avoid her gaze; when she looked toward me, I let her see that there was a darkness in my eyes, which she would be wise to interpret as cold rage.