The yak stopped dead.
Its youthful owner gave an exasperated grunt and tugged on its lead from his position in the saddle of his horse. Reluctantly the yak took a few steps, and then stopped again, snorting in disagreement with its master.
“But we’re nearly there!” the blue-robed wizard argued, gesturing east toward Varrock. They were only a half hour’s journey away, and he was eager to enjoy a soft bed for the first time in several nights. Even in the last few moments of twilight, he could see the grey walls of the city beckoning him. Torches were lit at regular intervals along the parapet. Somewhere from the west, a bell rang out. He counted the carillon’s cry.
Was that ten, or eleven? Probably ten, for the light is not yet gone.
He sighed and tugged the yak’s lead again, while urging his horse on.
Neither animal moved this time.
“Oh, come on!” he cried.
The yak stared dolefully at him.
“If you don’t move, I’ll turn you into an ass,” he threatened. “How would you like that?”
The yak didn’t move.
“Could you really do that?” a voice called from the left, under the trees.
The startled wizard dropped his right hand to the pouches that were fastened to his belt. Something chinked, sounding like a number of pebbles being jostled together.
“Who’s there?” he demanded.
A dark figure moved under the boughs, and the wizard thought he detected the faint sound of… jingling? Quickly he grabbed the wooden staff which was secured at his horse’s flank. Deftly he undid the straps and raised its knotted tip. A red glow sprang forth and illuminated the scene, basking the shadowy stranger in comfortable warmth.
Startled, the wizard arched his back.
It was a jester, dressed in a red and black, close-fitting outfit. He held a sceptre in his hand and wore a three-pointed hat upon his head, bells jingled at the end of each of his three liliripes. His age was hard to guess, he seemed neither young nor very old. He was tall and skinny and his long legs reminded the wizard of the storks that frequented the shore near the Wizards’ Tower.
The outlandish character bowed, and as he did so he tripped. Head over heels he went, landing directly before the unamused gaze of the critical yak.
The wizard laughed involuntarily. That earned him a comical frown.
“It’s not nice to laugh at someone else’s misfortune,” the jester chastised, clambering to his feet as a second figure stepped into the red light. Uttering a small cry, the wizard swung the glowing tip of the staff in the direction of the newcomer.
It was a goblin. He carried a broken-tipped spear and sported ill-fitting chain mail that was too big for his small frame. As he moved, the dented bronze helmet he wore slipped down over his eyes. The creature gave a strangled gurgle in his confusion, and righted the helmet.
“Do not fear him,” the jester said. “He lives by the roadside, and begs off strangers.”
“I do not fear him,” the wizard replied, his composure regained. “From the look of him, he’s certainly not a fighter. But he should be careful not to make a nuisance of himself, for if he does, most likely he shall be slain.”
“He knows,” the jester replied, his expression serious. “But that is neither here nor there, my friend. Travellers of your order are rare indeed these days.” He paused, and his expression lightened. “Would you perhaps join us for a late supper? I’ve roasted a chicken over a fire.”
He’s certainly a friendly fellow, the wizard mused. Then he glanced in the direction of the walls, which the darkness had reduced to little more than a black outline.
“I would like to get to the palace soon,” he admitted, “for I have spent three nights under the stars.” The wizard eyed the yak. “Thanks to him!”
“Then we shall eat first,” the jester insisted, “and then I will take you to the palace, for I am heading there as well. But tell me, what is your name, wizard of Saradomin?”
The wizard dismounted stiffly. His legs ached after hours of riding.
“My name is Castimir,” he answered. “And you?”
“Castimir? The companion to the famous Kara-Meir? Then you must be a friend of Theodore’s.”
“I am.”
“My name is Gideon Gleeman. Jester to King Roald Remanis the Third,” the fellow said, extending his hand. “I am honoured to make your acquaintance.”
“Yours is a fitting name for a man whose trade is laughter.” Castimir smiled and took the jester’s hand in his own, content to spend a few more hours under the stars-as long as it was in good company.
It was an hour before midnight when Castimir entered the city. He led his horse, while the jester led the yak, for despite the wizard’s offer he had not dared to mount the beast. The yellow-clad guards at the gate knew Gleeman well, and when they saw Castimir’s blue robes they smiled broadly. It seemed to the wizard that their expressions were somehow hopeful.
“Did the Tower send you?” asked the first. “Have you come to stop the creature?”
Creature?
Despite his confusion, Castimir nodded purposefully.
“I help wherever I am able,” he replied, trying not to sound as uncertain as he felt. “But I come at the invitation of Squire Theodore, of the Knights of Falador.”
The guard who had spoken looked angrily aside. His friend bit his lip, as if summoning his courage.
“We don’t need knights,” he spat. “Not even those who come from Falador. Only magic can help us-”
“That is enough!” came the command from the parapet above. “Let them pass.”
The two guards parted and let them through, and they walked onward, passing those few individuals who were still abroad on the city’s darkened streets. In the light of the torches, Castimir caught the looks they gave him.
They are all afraid here, he observed. Even the guards. Whatever plagues them, they think that I may be able to provide some sort of salvation. I can see it in their eyes.
It was a look that made Castimir wince every time he saw it, for to him it represented betrayal. Few knew the vital truth that lay behind the wizards, and the reasons they were so few in number.
How they would panic, if only they knew. And how our enemies would rejoice! Pushing the thought to the back of his mind, he spoke casually.
“I would have imagined Varrock to be a busier place,” he commented. “Even at this hour.” Before them, to the north of a great square, stood the palace of King Roald Remanis the Third, its large walls surrounding two immense baileys that lay to the east and west of the fortified main building, where a single tall tower rose up into the night. “Why are so few out and about this fine evening?”
“Tomorrow is the Midsummer Festival,” Gleeman explained as they approached the guardhouse. The jester turned his head aside and continued. “No doubt folk are busily making preparations, and saving their strength for the celebration.”
He’s avoiding my stare, Castimir noted.
“I myself have been preparing for some days now,” the jester added. “Far away from the hustle and bustle of the palace.”
“And what will you do?” Castimir inquired. “For the celebration, that is.”
“Tight-rope walking, acrobatics, and more,” Gleeman replied with a flourish. “And my own flavor of magic. For example…” He opened his hand to reveal several of the pebble-like runes that were so precious to the wizard.
My runes! Castimir’s hand darted to his pouch. That’s impossible.
“Where did you get those?” he cried in alarm. “Give them back!”
“I took them while we ate,” came the reply. “Your dagger, too.” The jester spoke without a hint of guilt, sounding pleased that his skill had inspired such a vehement response. Without any hesitation, he returned the objects to their rightful owner. “The baubles are very pretty, my friend, and ever so rare.”
“Rare indeed and every one precious,” Castimir snorted, frowning and checking the rest of his pouches-as well as his deep pockets. Nothing more seemed to be amiss, and his good humour began to return. “How did you accomplish such a feat?” he asked.
“Sleight-of-hand, my friend,” the jester said whimsically. “Sleight-of-hand.”
Gleeman summoned the captain of the palace guard, and within a few minutes Castimir was standing in front of a short man with a belligerent face.
This is a man who takes his duty seriously. He looks as if he has no love for strangers.
“You are expected?” the man, Captain Rovin, asked him brusquely.
“I am, sir. Here is my invitation.” He handed the captain a letter with the royal seal of King Roald clearly displayed. Theodore had sent such invitations out to all his friends, promising them rooms at the palace for the several days surrounding the Midsummer Festival. Captain Rovin looked at it quickly and nodded.
“This seems in order,” he acknowledged. “A room has been set aside for you. Your friends have already retired to their quarters. A servant will stable your beasts and a maid will show you the way.” Suddenly the captain’s face turned grimmer, and when he spoke again, he did so in a cold tone. “It is not often we get heroes staying at the palace, and we are busy enough here as it is without pandering to the needs of arrogant youths. Perhaps, just maybe, we can find a use for you in Varrock.”
With that he turned away.
Castimir bristled at the deliberate slight.
Not so fast.
“Only if I think such use is worthy of me, Captain Rovin,” he replied loudly, so all could hear. “But regardless, a wizard still needs to sleep, and to eat, and to bathe-especially those of us who are famous. So if you will be so kind, I think I will take my leave of you now.
“Goodnight!”
The young wizard nearly missed breakfast, so unwilling was he to stir from the comfort of the soft bed. It was only when Doric threatened to split his door asunder did he finally dress and join his friends.
“You are pale, Castimir,” Theodore said as soon as he saw him.
“I have spent too long indoors, Theodore, at the Wizards’ Tower.”
“And you are late, Castimir,” Ebenezer taunted. “Could you not magic yourself here, or is that beyond your meagre capabilities?”
Castimir smiled, for he, like the alchemist, enjoyed their banter over which discipline was more important, that of science or magic.
“My tardiness is entirely the fault of my yak,” the wizard protested. “Arisha sent him to me after the war, but the summer weather is too hot for him. You know how stubborn he is.”
His greeting was curtailed when he spied the food on offer before him. Many of the palace’s inhabitants had already eaten, for it was the day of the festival and preparations were still to be finalised, which necessitated an early start for most. Nevertheless, there was still a feast to be consumed, and he dug in with great enthusiasm.
In between mouthfuls, Castimir told of what he had been doing since their separation in Falador, six months before. His reputation as one of Kara’s companions had made his position in the Wizards’ Tower uneasy. Older and more powerful sorcerers were jealous of his fame, and yet they knew how important it was that their order maintained a visible presence amongst the common folk of the human kingdoms. Castimir’s renown had given them exactly the excuse they needed to remove him from their presence, and he found himself being pushed toward a diplomatic role.
“But is that not what you always wanted?” Ebenezer asked. “To travel and see the world?”
“Yes, but it means I will not be kept aware of the goings on in the Tower,” he replied. “And it will cause me to forego any additional training I might have received, and that does not bode well for my future.”
“What of the spell books of Master Segainus?” Doric said, his voice lowered. “Have they yielded anything of interest?” Segainus was a master wizard who had died on the ramparts of Falador, and his diaries had fallen into Castimir’s possession. Such knowledge, he knew, could be very dangerous in the hands of one as inexperienced as he, yet he guarded it jealously.
“I have spent many hours poring over Master Segainus’s books,” Castimir admitted. “So many hours that I think I now know them by heart. I even used some of his theories in my thesis, though carefully, so they could not be identified as such. In truth, however, I fear I may have been too ambitious-some of his diaries contain text written in an ancient language that is unknown to me. Even the libraries of the Tower have provided no clues.”
He fell silent in order to focus on his meal, but his mind wandered over the books that had become his prized possessions. One phrase, scrawled in a margin, plagued him day and night, and refused to make sense.
Will the Dark Lady and her order be able to help?
Nothing in his studies had shed any light on the identity of Segainus’s “Dark Lady,” and more than one of his fellow wizards had dismissed the phrase as the ramblings of an old man past his prime. Yet Castimir had refused to do so.
Suddenly aware that his friends were waiting for him to continue, he looked up from his rapidly diminishing breakfast and grimaced.
“Indeed, I fear I might have failed my thesis,” he confessed. “If that is so, I will be required to submit another next year, and for now must remain an apprentice. While I am here, I am to meet a representative of the Tower in Varrock. Aubury is his name. He has been tasked to judge my work, and will tell me if I have passed… or not.”
The group looked up as William entered the chamber, and Theodore introduced Castimir.
“I have been asked to act as host to your friends, Theodore,” the young noble said, and he turned to face them all. “Will you accompany us to see Kara-Meir this morning?”
“So she is here?” Castimir said. “Is Arisha with her?”
“Neither Arisha nor Gar’rth are in Varrock.” Theodore lowered his gaze. “And Kara refused to see me last night.”
Castimir froze, his appetite souring instantly.
“Not here? But they went with Kara to The Wilderness.” He paused to remember. “Arisha sent me letters, and there was no word of them parting. Both of them went…”
“We don’t know anything definite yet, Castimir,” Doric said slowly, reaching out so his hand was resting on the wizard’s shoulder. “No one has spoken to Kara.”
Theodore nodded.
“In fact, I am far from convinced that it is her.” The squire described the behaviour that had caused him to doubt the identity of the woman in the inn. “It seems so unlike her.”
“But today we shall go and confront her,” Ebenezer declared. “If it is Kara-Meir, we must see how she fared in The Wilderness, and determine whether she needs our help.”
Theodore stood.
“I cannot come with you,” he said bitterly. “I have to ensure that my candidates are prepared for the festival. But I hope you have better success than I.” The squire gave a curt nod and left to attend his duties, while William offered to guide them to the Flying Donkey Inn, there to answer the riddle that was Kara-Meir.
A crowd stood outside the Inn, although the promised appearance by Kara-Meir was still some hours away. The sun had risen and the heat, made all the more stifling by anticipation, was causing visible discomfort, Castimir noted.
“I had no idea she was so famous,” he said, still seated on his horse to better peer over the heads of the masses.
“She has been the most discussed subject at court since the day of Theodore’s arrival,” William informed him. “Stories of her-and of you, her companions-are told daily.”
“And exaggerated no doubt,” Doric said with a grunt of laughter. “The way these things are told no doubt I am a giant by now!”
“What do they say of Gar’rth?” Ebenezer asked cautiously.
I hadn’t considered that, alchemist, the wizard mused. Exactly what do the minstrels say of our friend?
“He is the least known of your group,” William admitted, “and I was hoping you might tell me something that would give me an advantage over the other nobles. The tales generally agree that he is immensely strong, and never speaks. He is a mysterious warrior whom Kara rescued from certain death.”
Ebenezer mumbled something under his breath. When the alchemist went silent, William continued.
“With all of your group, it is impossible to separate what is real from what is not,” he said. “The things I know about you come from Theodore, and they are precious few. All he would say about Gar’rth was that he is from a foreign land, and speaks none of the common tongue.” He paused for a moment, as if carefully considering his next words. “Tell me, is there any bad blood between them?”
“Bad blood between Gar’rth and Theodore?” Castimir said as Doric and Ebenezer exchanged looks. “No, nothing nearly so strong as that. But there is a rivalry, of sorts.”
And her name is Kara.
William looked to each of the friends in turn. They all gave a brief nod, as if satisfied by the answer.
William knows Theodore well, Castimir surmised. No doubt he has guessed the truth.
“And as to the question of where Gar’rth is from, we are all unsure, since we do not speak his language, and cannot ask him.” Castimir inclined his head thoughtfully. “I believe he may be from the southern isles, brought here by a merchant vessel.”
That will suffice much better than the truth, he thought to himself. Especially here in Varrock, so close to Morytania.
A murmur sprang up from the front of the crowd, and Castimir craned his neck to locate the cause.
“Aha! Here we go,” William said, pointing. “A royal messenger is approaching the door.”
The messenger was accompanied by yellow-clad guards on either side, and together they forced a path through the packed throng. As they went, an expectant hush fell over the crowd. Castimir watched as the man was met at the door by the innkeeper.
The two figures conversed for a moment before the messenger forced his way inside, pushing past the innkeeper, whose face displayed signs of distress.
Something is wrong here, the wizard realised.
And he wasn’t alone. Those nearest the messenger began to speak rapidly. Each turned to pass on what had been heard, and what started as an excited whisper spread contagiously from one person to the next, leaving in its wake a growing crescendo of angry shouts.
“What’s going on?” William called down to a guard. The nobleman goaded his horse aside, away from the increasing agitation of the crowd.
The answer came from a torrent of voices that grew so loud that the guard’s answer was lost. The sound of breaking glass told the wizard that the riot had begun.
“She’s vanished!” came the shout, and it quickly became a chorus. “She and the boy she took as her servant. And they’ve taken the money with them!”
The nobleman turned his horse and cantered away to escape the angry crowds. Castimir and his friends followed his lead. As they rode north to safety, two dozen of the city guard, tightly grouped and armed with wooden clubs, pressed into the crowd.
When they had reached a safe distance, William reined in his horse and peered back at the slowly dissipating chaos.
“Well,” he said as the others joined him. “What an auspicious start to the day. This will no doubt be a Midsummer Festival to remember. But we must return to the palace, for the King will want news of this, and to know the reason why it has happened.”
As will Theodore, Castimir added silently.
The great square was teeming with people by the time Castimir and his friends returned to the palace. But unlike the angry mob they had just left, this was the beginning of a celebration. They made their way slowly through the sweating throngs of jugglers, fire-eaters and a hundred other entertainers, with a palace guardsman pushing the people aside to make them a path.
Like many of the buildings in Varrock, the palace was built of the grey stone that was quarried from the pits to the south and west of the city. It was immense, and Castimir-approaching it for the first time in daylight-was impressed by its sheer presence.
First they passed through the outer wall, a barrier which rose three times the height of a tall man and was wide enough for three men to stand abreast. The gates were wide open this day and inside the wall, on a road which was flanked by trees on either side, hundreds of citizens enjoyed the revels. Numerous colourful tents had been erected in the wide baileys that stood to the east and west of the castle, also enclosed by the outer wall, and the air was filled with the sound of a dozen different instruments-from hornpipes to lyres-and a hundred different smells-from sausages spitting in fat to the pungent scent of beer warmed in the sun.
Their journey delayed by the celebrating masses, it took them some time to reach the inner wall, as sturdy and as tall as the first. Here, the palace guards were arrayed in a line to make sure that no one could enter the castle without their leave. They parted when they saw William riding at the head of the small group, and with some amusement Castimir noted the sour face of Captain Rovin glaring down at them from above.
King Roald’s watchdog.
His levity waned however, when he noticed-standing back from the merlons in the wall-at least two dozen bowmen.
A watchdog with teeth, it seems.
Within the inner wall there lay a paved courtyard where the party dismounted, and eight broad stone steps spanning the entire front of the castle led them to a squat double door set back under an overhanging roof, supported by two rows of three pillars each to its right and left. Hanging at either side of the entrance was a yellow-faced shield with two embossed grey swords, crossed at the centre, reflecting the sunlight that came from the south.
No doubt polished daily by some lowly minion in military service. Probably by one of Theodore’s new recruits for the knights.
The thought caused Castimir to smile again as William led them through the double doors and down a hallway toward the throne room, off to the right of the main staircase. The nobleman paused once to commandeer a servant.
“Have Squire Theodore meet us in King Roald’s throne room at once,” he instructed. “No delay. He will be found with his men, probably butchering another legion of straw dummies in the gymnasium. Tell him we have news of Kara. Tell him she has fled-with the money-and caused a riot.” As the man ran to carry out William’s instruction, they continued on their way.
How strange that he still thinks it could have been Kara-Meir at the tavern, the young wizard thought, but he kept his tongue. If he knew her as we do, he would harbour no such misapprehensions.
They continued on their way, and negotiated several illogical twists and turns that wound through the immense interior, no doubt designed to confuse any attacker, and moments later the party found themselves in the throne room of King Roald Remanis the Third. It was a narrow room, constructed of a lighter grey stone than was used elsewhere. Yellow banners hung above the heads of the audience who stood along the room’s edges, clear off the yellow carpet that by royal decree was only ever occupied by the subject the King was addressing. The banners’ white fronds tempted Castimir, who in a moment of madness had to stop himself from leaping up to seize one.
At the southern end of the room, on a square marble dais, sat the monarch himself upon his yellow-cushioned throne. From the entrance the figure of the King seemed small, surrounded by a nimbus of pale light that streamed in from the high windows behind and above his throne.
To Castimir, it all seemed very divine-too much so, in fact.
Charlatan! he thought bemusedly. You’ve placed the throne so the sun is behind you. There is no magic here.
As they watched, and waited, the wizard’s eyes crept over the audience. He felt their stares upon him, for he was dressed in little more than his blue robe, the very same one he had travelled in. With a conscious glance at his friends, he suddenly realised that both Ebenezer and Doric were more formally dressed, both attired as wealthy merchants. Such clothes befit men who occupied but a single rung beneath the nobility on the social ladder.
I slept late. He shrugged. And I didn’t expect to be presented to a king.
Nonetheless, he felt uncomfortable-ever more so as the crowd in front diminished and the party moved forward. Before him nobles pledged allegiance to their King, as they did every Midsummer, upon the longest day of the year, repeating the words given them by an austere priest who wore Saradomin’s four-pointed star embroidered on his black frock.
Fitting for a realm whose enemy lives in a land of darkness.
One person in particular caught his attention as they approached the front. A tall, lean man, with streaks of white in his dark hair stood a slight distance behind the throne. He was dressed in black cloth decorated with intricate silver stitching, and when he moved slightly, the wizard noted that the stitching was in the odd shape of an owl, with its head turned behind it.
He is a man who is used to the shadowy work of government, Castimir guessed. Every monarch needs a knife in the dark, or a little something extra in the wine. He felt the man’s eyes upon him. It was an unnerving experience.
“Lord Despaard, again,” he heard Doric whisper.
And then it was William’s turn to step onto the yellow carpet and kneel before the monarch.
“My Lord William de Adlard, you were not expected to offer homage to me this morning,” King Roald said. “For you have duties in guiding our famous guests in the day’s event.” The King’s voice echoed from the narrow walls, strong, clear. Castimir was close enough now to view him properly. His frame was hidden under a ceremonial vermilion robe boasting soft ermine edges, but the wizard guessed he was of lean build. His narrow face displayed a short brown beard and moustache, and upon his head he wore his golden crown, with a bright red gem set in its centre, as big as Castimir had ever seen.
“But since you are here,” the King continued, “I will take what is given to me by God. I will accept your pledge to me in Saradomin’s name.”
Castimir saw the priest step onto the yellow rug, standing deliberately between the King and the kneeling William in what was supposed to form a spiritual bridge between the men. As the man spoke the words that scores of others had echoed that very morning, William repeated them.
“I pledge my blood and my life. I pledge my sons and daughters. I pledge all my worldly possessions and passions to keep King Roald Remanis the Third in good health upon the throne. I make this pledge under the eyes of Saradomin-”
William coughed suddenly. Then he hesitated.
A woman in the audience giggled behind Castimir.
“This is not the time for levity, Lady Anne,” King Roald chastised the woman who Castimir turned to see for the first time. She appeared to have only just come in. He could not avert his eyes.
She was beautiful. In fact, she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen.
She can’t be real. Try as he might, he could not stop himself from staring. Women like her only exist in fairy tales, and live in towers assailed by knights and guarded by dragons. Or is it the other way round?
The blonde-haired woman caught his gaze and smiled. It was anything but demure. Her tongue curled between her white teeth as her blue eyes sparkled.
Castimir gurgled. To his relief, William continued.
“…My true god. The infinite and everlasting to whom all deceits are known.” His voice ceased, and the young wizard turned toward the front of the room again, feeling a red flush come to his face.
“I accept your allegiance Lord William de Adlard,” the King said. “Now you may rise, and tell me why you have come here when your duties did not necessitate it. Although I am glad my subjects are so loyal.”
“Even one who is remiss in his duty to Saradomin,” the priest muttered caustically, stepping back from the yellow rug.
William stood and bowed his head, to the laughter of the court.
“Please Master Raispher,” King Roald said. “Today is a day of celebration for all my realm. It is the longest day of the year, when the powers of our enemy across the river are at their weakest.” He turned his gaze again. “Now William de Adlard, explain yourself.”
The nobleman laid out the circumstances of Kara-Meir’s appearance the previous night, of how she had persuaded others to hand her money, and of how she had disappeared. The jovial atmosphere of the court grew frosty as his tale progressed, and finally, when it ended with an account of the dispersal of the rioters, silence fell while they awaited the King’s response.
In the silence, booted feet could be heard approaching.
It was Theodore, still wearing the practice armour he had donned for putting his recruits through their paces. His fair hair was in disarray, his face flushed and his breathing fast.
“My noble friend Theodore. Approach,” King Roald ordered. William bowed quickly and stepped away from the yellow carpet as Theodore stepped on. The squire’s heavy footfall became muted as he advanced down the centre of the narrow room. He bowed in front of the throne, and the King gestured for him to stand upright.
I don’t like the look on the King’s face, Castimir mused.
“Now then, young squire, how do you explain Kara-Meir’s presence, and the larceny she has perpetrated?” King Roald asked.
“I don’t think it is her at all,” Theodore answered, his expression resolute. “My King, Kara is not interested in wealth. She has rich friends who owe her their lives. She could simply ask any of them for money, rather than commit this subterfuge. There are others here today who will tell you the same.” Theodore gestured toward Castimir, with Ebenezer and Doric standing behind.
A voice sounded from the crowd.
“Kara should hang.” It was Lady Anne, speaking quietly to one of her coterie. “Such a crime is punishable by death.” The whisper fell in a moment of silence, and in the narrow room it was clearly heard by all.
Or maybe it was meant to be heard, Castimir thought as all eyes turned toward the young woman. She lowered her head, seemingly ashamed, and yet even that action was so artfully exaggerated it seemed to pour scorn on any apology.
“So you seek to usurp the position of my judges, Lady Anne?” King Roald asked. “It is a role that hardly befits a lady.” He gave an amused sigh. “Although perhaps you are thus eminently qualified.”
The court rippled with polite laughter, and if Castimir expected her to be angered by the King’s riposte, he saw at once it wasn’t so, for she even gave a curtsey to the throne.
Shameless, he thought with a mixture of amazement and admiration. She’s absolutely shameless. And quite clearly a favourite of the King.
Theodore however shot her an impatient stare as the King spoke once more.
“Nevertheless, Kara-Meir gave her word to be here for the Midsummer Festival, and that is today,” he said. “Yet still we wait. Tell me Theodore, have you heard from her? Has she made clear her intentions?”
Castimir saw Theodore hesitate. He knew the squire had heard nothing from Kara, for it had been Arisha who had forwarded word of her plans. He looked quickly behind him to Doric and Ebenezer, to ask their advice, and as he did so the motion caused him to step forward.
A sharp intake of breath caught his attention, followed by several more.
He turned and saw angry gazes from the members of court who were aligned along the opposite wall, facing him.
He felt the blood drain from his face.
“Do you approach me without my leave?” the King declared.
Castimir glanced down.
His foot was upon the yellow rug.
“Well?” the King continued. “Speak, wizard.”
Theodore gave him a resigned glare and stepped back, clearing his way. Casitimir moved forward.
“My name is Castimir, my King,” he mumbled.
Speak louder. You are a wizard, he thought furiously. A famous one, at that. Not a mouse in a room of cats. Marshalling his wits, he raised his head and spoke again.
“I am a wizard of Saradomin who fought at Kara’s side in the unrest in Asgarnia last year,” he said. “She and two others have undertaken an expedition into The Wilderness in pursuit of an evil that remained at large after the siege of Falador.”
A murmur ran around the chamber.
“Two others?” someone said.
“Just the three of them?” another voice added.
“Into The Wilderness, you say?” the King asked, standing in surprise. “Such recklessness borders on madness. For how long have they been gone?”
Castimir looked back to Theodore, and when he spoke, though still clear, his voice was lower than before.
“They have been gone too long, my King. My last communication from them clearly stated that they intended to be here in time for today’s celebrations. Truth be told Sire, their absence makes me fear for them.”
“A fear I share, Castimir. As do we all,” King Roald said. “Yet I suppose we must trust that Kara-Meir is indeed as skilled as the tales say she is.” He turned to address the crowd. “In the meantime, anyone claiming to be her must be brought to the palace immediately, by force if necessary, and presented to Theodore or his companions for identification. Now I will take my private council.”
With that he stepped down from the marble dais and exited through a door to his left, followed by Lord Despaard and two others. The first, an ancient man, was hidden under a black fur coat, the other was an elderly nobleman with sharp features that reminded Castimir of a hawk. Only when they had gone did the audience break up, to swarm throughout the narrow chamber in a buzz of voices, a hundred feet crumpling the yellow rug-for now the King had left its power had gone.
Castimir’s heart beat quicker as Lady Anne approached Theodore.
“So the King takes guidance from the librarian Papelford and the Lords Despaard and Ruthven,” she said. “Perhaps I should be included amongst such august company? Don’t you think so, Theodore?”
As she teased the squire, Castimir sensed Theodore’s anger build. He knew his friend as few others did. But the squire mastered his irritation.
“Good day, Lady Anne,” he said brusquely. “I have work to do, and time is running short.” He turned and gave a nod to his friends as he left the throne room.
From the look on Lady Anne’s face, if the insult had meant to wound, it had failed.
“He can be a bore, can’t he?” she said to no one in particular. “But I suppose that’s what makes him such a challenge.” Moving in their direction, she skipped by Castimir, ignoring him entirely as she put her arm through William’s. “Now William de Adlard, I want you to do something for me. When Theodore finishes his morning drill with his young men, I want you to lead him by the galleries. I will be waiting.”
“And why should I do this thing?” William asked, making no attempt to hide his own irritation.
“Because if you do as I say, I will put a good word in for you to Lady Caroline.”
Castimir saw Lady Anne’s spell work its magic.
“Would you?” the young noble said. “That’s very thoughtful of you.” Then, as he realised what he had said, his face wrinkled in a frown. “But what do I tell Theodore?”
Lady Anne gave that smile again. Castimir wasn’t sure, but he thought a part of it was aimed in his direction. He heard Doric huff behind him.
“You are both men,” she said blithely. “Men talk about things. I am sure you will think of something. I shall wait at the Salve gallery from midday until one o’clock. Don’t fail me, or Lady Caroline will be so disappointed that she may never talk to you again. I am very good at making things up William, a fact that could work to your advantage. Or not!”
With that she swept herself from the room.
“Come along, Castimir,” Ebenezer said with a cunning grin. “I think you need some air, and I know just where we can get it.” The alchemist turned to the noble who had been their guide. “Don’t worry William, I think we can find our own way. And I appreciate that you have greater priorities now.”