Will shook his head, trying to catch up with what he was hearing. He glanced around the tiny, cliff-bound harbor.
“Would that have been so bad?” he asked her, with a touch of bitterness. She smiled sadly at him.
“Think, Will. If you’d known who I was, we never would have followed the Wargals. We never would have found the bridge.”
“We never would have been captured,” Will put in, but she shook her head once more.
“Morgarath would have won,” she said simply.
He looked into her eyes then and realized she was right. There was a long moment of silence between them.
“So your name is…” He hesitated and she finished the sentence for him.
“Cassandra. Princess Cassandra.” Then she added, with a rueful smile, “And I’m sorry if I’ve been behaving like a bit of a princess over the past few days. I’ve been feeling bad because I hadn’t told you. I didn’t mean to take it out on you.”
“No, no, that’s all right,” he said vaguely. He was still overwhelmed by her news. Then a thought struck him. “When are you going to tell Erak?”
“I don’t think I should,” she replied. “This sort of thing is best handled at the highest levels. Erak and his men are little more than pirates, after all. I don’t know how they’d react. I think it’s best if I remain as Evanlyn until we reach Skandia. Then I’ll find a way to approach their ruler—what’s his name?”
“Ragnak,” Will said, his mind racing. “Oberjarl Ragnak.” Of course she was right, he thought. As Princess Cassandra of Araluen, she would be worth a small fortune to the Oberjarl. And since Skandians were essentially mercenaries, there was no doubt that she would be ransomed.
He, on the other hand, was a different matter. He realized she was talking again.
“Once I tell them who I am, I’ll arrange for both of us to be ransomed. I’m sure my father will agree.”
And that was the problem, Will knew. Perhaps if she could appeal to her father in person, he might be swayed. But the matter would be in the hands of the Skandians. They would tell King Duncan that they had his daughter, and set a price for her ransom. Nobles and princesses might be ransomed—in fact, they often were in times of war. But people like warriors and Rangers were a different matter. The Skandians could well be reluctant to release a Ranger, even an apprentice Ranger, who might cause trouble for them in the future.
There was another side to it all too. The message would take months, perhaps the best part of a year, to reach Araluen. Duncan’s reply would take an equally long time to make the return trip. Then negotiations would begin. In all that time, Evanlyn would be kept safe and comfortable. She was a valuable property, after all. But who could say what might have happened to Will? He could be dead by the time any ransom was paid. Evanlyn obviously hadn’t thought that far ahead. She was continuing with her previous thought.
“So you see, Will, there’s no point to all this running and climbing and trying to find a way to escape. You don’t need to do it. And besides, Erak is getting suspicious. He’s no fool and I’ve seen him watching you. Just relax and leave it all to me. I’ll get us home.”
He opened his mouth, about to explain what he had been thinking. Then he shut it again. Suddenly he knew that she wouldn’t accept his point of view. She was strong-willed and determined—used to having her own way, he realized now. She was convinced that she could organize their return and nothing he said would change her mind. He smiled at her and nodded. But it was a thin parody of his normal smile.
In his heart, he knew he was going to have to find his own way home.
6
CASTLE ARALUEN, THE SEAT OF KING DUNCAN’S RULE, WAS A building of majestic beauty. The tall, spire-topped towers and soaring buttresses had an almost lifelike grace to them that belied the strength and solidity of the castle. It was beautiful, surely enough, built in huge blocks of honey-colored hardstone, but it was almost impregnable as well.
The many high towers gave the castle a sense of light and air and gracefulness. But they also provided the inhabitants with a score of positions from which to pour arrows, rocks and boiling oil on any attackers who might be unwise enough to assault the walls.
The throne room was the heart of the castle, situated inside a series of walls and portcullises and drawbridges, which, in the event of a prolonged siege, provided defenders with a succession of fallback positions. Like everything else about the castle, the throne room was vast in scale, with a vaulted ceiling that towered high above, and a paved floor finished in black and dull pink marble squares.
The tall windows were glazed with stained glass that glowed brilliantly in the low angle sunshine of winter. The columns that added immense strength to the walls were grouped and fluted to heighten the illusion of lightness and space in the room. Duncan’s throne, a simple affair carved from oak, surmounted with a carving of an oak leaf, dominated the northern wall. At the opposite end, wooden benches and tables were provided for the members of Duncan’s cabinet. In between, the room was bare, with space for several hundred courtiers to stand. On ceremonial occasions, they would throng the area, their brightly colored clothes and coats of arms catching the red, blue, gold and orange light that spilled through the stained-glass windows, sending highlights sparkling from their polished armor and helmets.
Today, by Duncan’s command, there were barely a dozen people present—the minimum number required by law to see justice dispensed. The King faced the task before him with little pleasure. And he wanted as few witnesses as possible present to see what he knew he would have to do.
He sat, frowning heavily, on the throne, facing straight ahead, his eyes locked on the towering double doors at the other end of the room. His massive broadsword, its pommel carved with the leopard’s head that was Duncan’s personal insignia, rested in its scabbard, leaning against the right-hand arm of the throne.
Lord Anthony of Spa, Duncan’s chamberlain for the past fifteen years, stood to one side of the throne and several steps below it. He looked meaningfully at the King now and cleared his throat apologetically to attract the monarch’s attention.
Duncan’s blue eyes swiveled to him, the eyebrows raised in an unspoken question, and the Chamberlain nodded.
“It’s time, Your Majesty,” he said quietly.
Short and overweight, Lord Anthony was no warrior. He had no skill at arms at all, and as a consequence, his muscles were soft and untrained. His value was as an administrator. Largely due to his help, the Kingdom of Araluen had long been a prosperous and contented realm.
Duncan was a popular king, and a just one. Which wasn’t to say that he wasn’t a strong ruler, willing and committed to enforcing the laws of the realm—laws that had been laid down and maintained by his predecessors, going back six hundred years.
And there lay the reason for Duncan’s frown and his heavy heart. Because today he would have to enforce one of those laws on a man who had been his friend and loyal servant. A man, in fact, to whom Duncan owed everything—a man who twice in the past two decades had been instrumental in saving Araluen from the dark threat of defeat and enslavement at the hands of a madman.
Lord Anthony shifted restlessly. Duncan saw the movement and waved one hand in a defeated gesture.
“Very well,” he said. “Let’s have done with this business.”
Anthony turned to face the throne room. The few people gathered there stirred at the movement, looking expectantly toward the doors. The Chamberlain’s symbol of office was a long ebony staff, shod in steel. He raised it now and brought it down twice on the flagstone floors. The ringing crack of steel on stone echoed through the room, carrying clearly to the men who waited beyond the closed doors.
There was a slight pause, then the doors swung open, almost soundless on their well-oiled, perfectly balanced hinges. As they came to a stop, a small party of men entered, proceeding at ceremonial slow-march pace to stand at the base of the wide steps leading up to the throne.
There w
ere four men all told. Three of them wore the surcoats, mail and helmets of the King’s Watch. The fourth was a small figure, clad in nondescript green and dull gray clothes. He was bare-headed and his hair was a pepper-and-salt gray, shaggy and badly cut. He marched between the two leading men of his guard, the third bringing up the rear directly behind him. The small man’s face was matted with dried blood, Duncan saw, and there was an ugly bruise on his upper left cheek that all but closed the eye above it.
“Halt?” he said, before he could stop himself. “Are you all right?”
Halt’s gaze rose now to meet his. For a brief moment, Duncan thought he saw an unfathomable depth of sadness there. Then the moment was gone and there was nothing in those dark eyes but fierce resolve and a hint of mockery.
“I’m as well as can be expected, Your Majesty,” he said dryly. Lord Anthony reacted as if stung by a wasp.
“Hold your tongue, prisoner!” he snapped. At his words, the corporal standing beside Halt raised one hand to strike the prisoner. But before the blow could be launched, Duncan half rose from his throne.
“That’s enough!” His voice cracked out in the near empty room. The corporal lowered his hand, a little shamefaced. It occurred to Duncan that nobody present was enjoying this scene. Halt was too well known and too well respected a figure in the kingdom. Duncan hesitated, knowing what he must do next but hating to do it.
“Shall I read the charges, Your Majesty?” Lord Anthony asked. It was actually up to Duncan to tell him to do that. Instead, the King waved one hand in reluctant acquiescence.
“Yes, yes. Go ahead, if you must,” he muttered, then regretted it as Anthony looked at him, a wounded expression on his face. After all, Duncan realized, Anthony didn’t want to do this either. Duncan shrugged apologetically.
“I’m sorry, Lord Anthony. Please read the charges.”
Anthony cleared his throat uncomfortably at that. It was bad enough that the King had abandoned the formal procedure. But infinitely more embarrassing to the Chamberlain was the fact that the King now saw fit to apologize to him.
“The prisoner Halt, a Ranger in Your Majesty’s forces, carrying the King’s commission and a bearer of the Silver Oakleaf, was heard to scandalize the King’s personage, his birthright and his parentage, Your Majesty,” he said.
From the small knot of official witnesses, an almost inaudible sigh carried clearly to the two men on the throne platform. Duncan glanced up, looking for the source. It could have been Baron Arald, lord of Castle Redmont, and ruler of the fief Halt was commissioned to serve. Or possibly Crowley, Commandant of the Ranger Corps. The two men were Halt’s oldest friends.
“Your Majesty,” Anthony continued tentatively, “I remind you that, as a serving officer of the King, such comments are in direct contravention of the prisoner’s oath of loyalty and so constitute a charge of treasonous behavior.”
Duncan looked to the Chamberlain with a pained expression. The law was very clear on the matter of treasonous behavior. There were only two possible punishments.
“Oh, surely, Lord Anthony,” he said. “A few angry words?”
Anthony’s gaze was troubled now. He had hoped that the King wouldn’t try to influence him in this matter.
“Your Majesty, it’s a contravention of the oath. It’s not the words themselves that are the issue, but the fact that the prisoner broke his oath by saying them in public. The law is clear on the matter.” He looked at Halt and spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
A slight smile touched the Ranger’s battered features. “And you’d be breaking yours, Lord Anthony, by not informing the King so,” Halt said. This time, Anthony didn’t order him to remain silent. Unhappily, he nodded his agreement. Halt was right. He had created an intolerable situation for everyone with his ridiculous drunken behavior.
Duncan went to speak, hesitated, then started again.
“Halt, surely there must be some misunderstanding here?” he suggested, hoping that the Ranger could somehow find a way out of the charge. Halt shrugged.
“I can’t deny the charges, Your Majesty,” he said evenly. “I was heard to say some…unpleasant things about you.”
And there was the other horn of the dilemma: Halt had made his appalling comments in public, in front of at least half a dozen witnesses. As a man and a friend, Duncan could—and certainly would—be willing to forgive him. But as king, he must uphold the dignity of his office.
“But…why, Halt? Why do this to us all?”
It was the Ranger’s turn to shrug now. His eyes dropped from the King’s. He muttered something in a low voice that Duncan couldn’t quite make out.
“What did you say?” he asked, wishing for some way out of the corner he found himself in. Halt’s eyes came up to meet his again.
“Too much brandy-spirit, Your Majesty,” he said in a louder tone. Then, forcing a humorless grin, he added, “I never had much of a head for liquor. Perhaps you could add a charge of drunkenness as well, Lord Anthony?”
For once, Anthony’s composure and sense of protocol was rattled.
“Please, Halt…,” he began, about to plead with the Ranger not to make light of the proceedings. Then he recovered himself and turned to the King.
“Those are the charges, Your Majesty. Admitted to by the prisoner.”
For a long moment, Duncan sat, unspeaking. He stared at the small figure in front of him, trying to see through the defiant expression in those eyes to find the reason behind Halt’s actions. He knew the Ranger was angry because he had been refused permission to try to rescue his apprentice. But Duncan truly believed that it was vital that Halt remain in Araluen until the situation with Foldar was resolved. With each day that passed, Morgarath’s former lieutenant was becoming a greater danger, and Duncan wanted his best advisers around him to deal with the matter.
And Halt was one of the very best.
Duncan drummed his fingers on the wooden arm of the throne in frustration. It was unlike Halt not to be able to see the bigger picture. In all the years they had known each other, Halt had never put his own interests before those of the kingdom. Now, seemingly out of spite and anger, he had allowed alcohol to cloud his thinking and his judgment. He had publicly insulted the King, in front of witnesses—an action that could not be ignored, or passed off as a few angry words between friends. Duncan looked at his old friend and adviser. Halt’s eyes were cast down now. Perhaps if he would plead for mercy, claim some leniency for his past services to the crown…anything.
“Halt?” Duncan began before he realized it. The Ranger’s eyes came up to meet his and Duncan made a helpless little interrogatory gesture with his hands. But Halt’s eyes hardened even as they met the King’s and Duncan could tell that there would be no plea for mercy there. The graying head shook slightly in refusal and Duncan’s heart sank even further. He tried one more time to bridge the gap that had grown between him and Halt. He forced a small, conciliatory smile to his face.
“After all, Halt,” he added in a reasonable tone, “it’s not as if I don’t understand exactly how you feel. My own daughter is with your apprentice. Do you think I wouldn’t like to simply leave the kingdom to its own devices to go and rescue her?”
“There is a fairly major difference, Your Majesty. A king’s daughter can expect to be treated a little better than a mere apprentice Ranger. She’s a valuable hostage, after all.”
Duncan sat back a little in his chair. The bitterness in Halt’s tone was like a slap in the face. Worse, the King realized, Halt was right. Once the Skandians knew Cassandra’s identity, she would be well treated while she waited to be ransomed. Sadly, he realized that his attempt at reconciliation had only widened the rift between them.
Anthony broke the growing silence in the room.
“Unless the prisoner has anything to say in his own defense, he is adjudged guilty,” he warned Halt.
Halt’s eyes remained on the King’s, however, and once again there came that tiny negative movement of the hea
d. Anthony hesitated, looking around the room at the other noblemen and officers gathered there, hoping that someone, anyone, might find something to say in Halt’s defense. But of course, there was nothing. The Chamberlain saw Baron Arald’s heavyset shoulders slump in despair, saw the pain on Crowley’s face as the Ranger Commandant looked away from the scene unfolding before them all.
“The prisoner is guilty, Your Majesty,” said Anthony. “It remains for you to pass sentence.”
And this, Duncan knew, was the part of being king that they never prepared you for. There was the loyalty, the adulation, the power and the ceremony. There was luxury and fine foods and wines and the best clothes and horses and weapons.
And then there were the moments when one paid for all of those things. Moments like this, when the law must be upheld. When tradition must be preserved. When the dignity and power of the office must be protected even if, by so doing, he would destroy one of his most valued friends.
“The law sets down only two possible punishments for treason, Your Majesty,” Anthony was prompting again, knowing how Duncan was hating every minute of this.
“Yes. Yes. I know,” Duncan muttered angrily, but not soon enough to stop Anthony in his next statement.
“Death or banishment. Nothing less,” the Chamberlain intoned solemnly. And, as he said the words, Duncan felt a small thrill of hope in his chest.
“Those are the choices, Lord Anthony?” he asked mildly, wishing to be sure. Anthony nodded gravely.
“There are no others. Death or banishment only, Your Majesty.”
Slowly, Duncan stood, taking the sword in his right hand. He held it out in front of him, grasping the scabbard in his right hand below the intricately carved and inlaid crosspiece. He felt a warm glow of satisfaction. He had asked Anthony twice, to make sure. To make sure that the Chamberlain’s exact words were heard by the witnesses in the throne room.
“Halt.” He spoke firmly, feeling every eye in the room upon him. “Former King’s Ranger to the Redmont Fief, I hereby, as lord of this realm of Araluen, declare you to be banished from all my lands and holdings.”