Castimir’s face burned and his head ached.
He wore the ceremonial robes of his order, heavier than his normal garments, with wide cuffs and uncomfortable shoulder pads. Gone were the unsightly pouches on his belt, although he still kept a few runes in his pocket. He had learned painfully never to be without them.
Though they are not easy to get at, he mused irritably. It’s not at all practical, nor comfortable.
He stood with several of the off-duty palace guards and soldiers of Misthalin who had insisted that he join them in a drink of fellowship. They had been joined by Gideon Gleeman, the jester Castimir had met on the road to Varrock. All around them clusters of revellers drank and chattered and laughed.
As the church bell to the east chimed four times, he shaded his eyes with the flat of his hand and looked up to the palace’s easternmost outer wall. Upon the parapet, built up from the stone and protruding forward on wooden scaffolding in order to extend its width, was a purple-coloured canopied box, overlooking the bailey. In its foremost rank was a high yellow chair which Castimir knew was meant for King Roald. Already many nobles had gathered, and he noted Lord Despaard seated next to the man Lady Anne had named as Lord Ruthven.
I have only had two drinks, yet in this heat it is enough to make me feel drunk. I must sit down, get in the shade, and have some water.
He strode forward, making for the score of guards who stood in a line below the royal box. As an honoured guest of King Roald, he-like his friends-had been offered prominent seats from which to better experience the festivities.
“Come come, Castimir!” The jester’s voice pierced the hubbub of the crowds. “You’re not getting away quite so soon. Here, have another…”
Gleeman’s words provoked a cheer from the nearby listeners.
“You drink it for me, Gideon,” the wizard said as cheerfully as he could manage. “I need to be on my best behaviour today. As you can see, I am even dressed up in my ceremonial attire.”
“But I cannot. I dare not,” the jester said in mock seriousness. “I am to dance upon a high rope this afternoon. Would you have me fall and break my neck? Now, mighty wizard, you would be doing your new friends a dishonour by refusing them another toast.”
Castimir’s new friends groaned loudly to emphasise the jester’s point.
Yet beneath their drunken ramblings, they are afraid, Castimir knew. These slayings and kidnappings have them worried, and already today I have heard more mention of this prophecy that has everyone whipped into a frenzy.
Suddenly another player entered the fray.
“He cannot participate, Gideon,” William de Adlard said as he strode forward. “His presence is required by royal decree. Come, Castimir, before these wicked men lead you astray.”
The wizard bowed quickly-to the cheers of the party-and followed William through the boisterous throng. They passed a myriad of entertainments and once, when a fire-breather risked charring them, Castimir lifted his staff threateningly. From its knotted tip a red glow reached outward in all directions, warming those in its glare. Humbled, the fire-breather bowed and backed away, to the laughter of his spectators.
The guards parted for them at the bottom of the scaffold, and they ascended the stairs to the parapet. Castimir’s stomach rumbled.
“I am hungry, William,” he said over the din. “Do I have time to eat?”
But his question went unheard as the crash of metal and the neigh of a horse signalled the end of another joust. Men and women cheered as Castimir followed William’s gaze to the lists.
“That is the last for now, until the King comes,” William commented. Suddenly he paled. Looking down from their elevation, they could clearly see the fallen knight over the heads of the crowd below. Blood ran from the armoured man’s throat, for his enemy’s lance point had splintered and penetrated his leather gorget. Still he held his shield, its crest a silver sword on a dark background. From all sides men rushed to help him as the ladies of court looked on with blanched faces.
Castimir caught sight of Lady Anne. She alone looked unmoved by the man’s injury. Suddenly she laughed and Castimir saw her speak, her circle of friends craning their heads to listen. One of them, a pretty, dark-eyed girl with a gap between her two front teeth, gasped and covered her mouth with her hand, while others stifled inappropriate giggles.
It made Castimir feel slightly unwell.
When he turned back, he saw how William’s gloved hands gripped the wooden rail, and he noted the nobleman’s sickly face.
“Are you all right, Lord William?” the wizard asked.
“It’s these jousts, Castimir. Theodore participated in them when he first came to Varrock, much to his credit. Today, however, he has decided to play at melee with the most dangerous men in the realm.”
“You do not care for such sport?”
William’s eyes focused grimly on the injured man.
“That man will likely die today, Castimir,” he said. “Such a wound I doubt will heal, and Sir Prysin will have lost his first born for no reason other than pride. It is no sport. It is the play of madmen.” Then he gathered himself. “But come, the King will arrive shortly and we must be in our places for him.”
From the purple-draped box the view was very different. Smells and sounds rose up to tease Castimir’s aching stomach. Smoke and cooking, musicians and singing, all the happy mayhem of a grand revel. But not all was festive, for along the ramparts and on the turrets of the palace towers the wizard could see dozens of archers.
It must make the nobles feel rather safe up here, he supposed. If the crowd began to riot, they could flee along the walkways to the safety of the palace as King Roald’s archers turned each reveller into a hedgehog. They could even close the gates to prevent them from escaping back out into the city.
Shaking off such thoughts, Castimir looked for Theodore. His eyes crept to the far side of the bailey, where a stage had been built against the inner wall of the palace, on which the popular play The Betrothal of Glarial was being performed. Not far from the stage he recognised Theodore by his squire’s armor. A group of his men-all in white-were preparing themselves to fight against an equal number of Varrock’s finest knights, their weapons blunted to avoid fatalities.
Good luck my friend. Make us all proud.
He gazed up from the bailey to the southern parapet, where a small group of women stood, fussed over by Father Lawrence. Castimir had been introduced to him that afternoon.
He behaves like an anxious hen.
“I see you have spied the debutantes,” William said, nodding in their direction. “They are mostly women of high birth who have come of age and are to be introduced to society, though a few are of merchant families and lesser gentry. I am told it is a very nervous occasion for them all.”
Castimir peered at them. One, a dark-haired woman with high cheekbones, clearly seemed fraught. She wore a red toque and an olive-green dress, her headpiece making her stand out from the others. William saw her, as well.
“Poor girl is probably embarrassed,” he said. “She will earn the contempt of her peers if they think she is trying to upstage them.” He smiled before looking back toward where Lady Anne was seated. Castimir saw how she gave him a subtle nod.
“So you led Theodore into her clutches, Lord William,” Castimir said with a smile.
Theodore, you are too noble to know how lucky you are.
“I am ashamed to say that I did betray our friend, Castimir.” William smiled wickedly. “Lady Caroline is there, standing behind Lady Anne, as always. She has dark hair and a gap between her teeth. Do you see her?”
“I do.”
“Is she not worth a little treachery?”
Castimir laughed. “I think so, Lord William.”
“Then I shall go to see if Lady Anne has really made good her promise,” he said, his voice betraying a hint of nervousness. “Good day, my friend, I shall see you shortly.”
As William left, Castimir became aware of a man sitting down on the chair next to him.
“Interminable robes, these,” the newcomer said in good humour as the wizard turned to greet him. Then, his voice lowered. “I think they are deliberately designed so we wizards can’t use our runes while wearing them, you know. Don’t you agree?”
Castimir’s attention sharpened. He saw the narrow grey beard, the thinning hair, and a green-tinted monocle that the man held to his right eye-and he noted, too, the man’s robes, similar to his own in design but differing in colour. Where his were blue, the newcomer’s were grey, emblazoned with yellow sigils.
“Are you Layte Aubury, sir?” Castimir asked hesitatingly.
“Indeed I am. And you are Castimir.” The man held out his hand, which Castimir took firmly. “Pleased to make your acquaintance. I have heard many things about you from our master, Sedridor, just this morning in fact. Most of them good.” His eyes narrowed and he looked Castimir full in the face. “But not all.”
Not all?
“Forgive me, sir, but I don’t understand,” Castimir said. “As far as I am aware, I have conducted myself appropriately. If I have erred, please tell me.”
Can he know? Can the Tower know about Master Segainus’s diaries and spell books and of how I kept them to myself?
He felt his face go red.
“I saw you drinking earlier, Castimir, with the clown.”
“Gideon Gleeman? We shared a drink, yes…”
“That is not quite appropriate. Gideon himself is not a problem- he is in fact a respected man at court. But not the other fellows he was with. To them, you are a wizard, young man. That means you must be more than they.”
Castimir said nothing. He felt suddenly embarrassed.
“I have lived in Varrock for many years. More than I would like to admit, anyhow,” Aubury continued. “I am a Master of the Tower, and my role here is to ensure that our order is properly represented in Misthalin and in the court of King Roald. It is absolutely vital that we have the crown’s support. We cannot allow that to be jeopardised by any unnecessary or uncouth fraternisation. Wizards must be held in awe by the common folk. We cannot be seen drunk or boisterous or prideful. You know this.” Aubury’s eyes narrowed. “And you know why.”
Because our power is an illusion, Castimir answered silently. Because we don’t know how to replenish our runes, and they are fast running out.
“I do know why, of course,” Castimir replied instead, biting his tongue.
“Good. That’s good.” Aubury spoke in the manner of a teacher encouraging a wayward pupil. “And I have news for you, Castimir. News I think you are expecting?”
Castimir felt his stomach curdle in nervousness.
“My thesis? Did I pass?”
His fingers pressed themselves into the wood of his staff. His heart thundered in his ears and head.
“You have passed. Congratulations. You are no longer an apprentice.”
Castimir sighed volubly.
Thank the gods!
“But you didn’t pass well,” Aubury continued. “It was a very close affair, indeed. In fact, you were the last in your class of five. The tutors thought the subject matter too complex for one of your years. Your inexperience showed.”
Castimir’s relief turned to sudden anger.
“Inexperience?” he said. Realizing he had spoken loudly, he lowered his voice. “But I’ve done more than most do in their entire lives!”
“I know,” Aubury conceded. “But some fear it has made you arrogant. You have time enough not to rush things, Castimir. And nonetheless, you passed, and I have here the token of your new office.”
He produced a long thin box, which Castimir recognised immediately.
“My new wand,” he remarked drily. “I lost my apprentice wand when I was in Kandarin.”
“And this is a teacher’s wand,” Aubury told him. “Sent to us from our desert-dwelling colleagues in Al-Kharid. Please try not to lose it.”
Castimir took the box with care. He had never really liked wands, for they were limited in their use, but they did help a wizard concentrate his spells. Even so, he favoured his staff over a wand, for at least the staff could be used as a weapon, should his magic fail or his runes run out.
Then the thought of his thesis brought the riddle back into his mind.
“Master Aubury, have you ever heard of the Dark Lady?”
The older man thought for a moment.
“It could be a name for the daughter of Lord Drakan of Morytania, though her existence is only legend. Other than that I do not know. Why do you ask?” Suddenly Castimir realised that he might have spoken too quickly, and revealed more than he had intended. But as he struggled to come up with a plausible reply, Aubury spoke again. “Ah! Your friend Theodore is about to begin his melee.”
They looked across the bailey to the enclosure, a raised wooden structure a man’s height with heavy ropes strung along each side. The eleven men under Theodore’s command climbed the steps to the space within. It was not entirely free of obstacles, for two wooden spokes sat in the centre, with enough room for several men to fight between. They helped to keep the contest more interesting for the onlookers.
Behind Theodore’s group came twelve more men, their armour blackened to distinguish them from their opponents. At their head was a huge fellow in black-dented armour with tusks protruding from his helm. Castimir feared him instinctively.
He’s bigger than Sulla! Theodore, be careful.
“That’s Lord Hyett, the Black Boar,” Aubury said seriously. “The strongest knight in Varrock, if not all of Misthalin. Let us hope Theodore knows how to hunt boar-for his own sake.”
The marshal sounded the gong, and Theodore leapt forward. The smell of leather, already wet with his sweat, dominated his senses inside the claustrophobic helm.
Through his visor’s two eye-slits, he saw the nearest of his enemies. But his thoughts were of his charges.
Don’t panic, men, he willed. Remember what I told you. They may be the best knights in Varrock but they fight as individuals, not as a group. But we will fight as one. And we will win.
He was conscious of the pounding of armoured feet behind him, following his lead. A vicious knock caught his shield, but it was a tourney, and in such events only blunted weapons were used. Still, he knew that there were often fatalities in such a contest.
In he crashed, the sword wielded in his right hand landing squarely upon the head of his opponent. At his side a whitearmoured gauntlet drove a shield into his enemy’s side, forcing the man off balance and causing him to fall onto his back.
A cry erupted from the crowd.
That’s it! Together we target them, one at a time.
But the man on the enclosure floor still hadn’t yielded-to be the first to do so would be a sign of weakness. So Theodore knew he had to be ruthless. Once the first had given in, others would find it easier to do so.
He swung his blunted tourney sword down, intending to smash the man’s sword hand.
It never made it.
With a roar a hulking shadow filled Theodore’s visor. He caught sight of a black boar on a red shield as it smashed his weapon aside and bludgeoned into him.
Such strength, he thought, his mind reeling. The man is a giant.
Now it was his turn to stagger as his new foe bellowed.
“No knight of Varrock will fall before those of Falador!”
The crowd cheered as the Boar closed the gap. Theodore saw the sweep of his sword as it came in. Lord Hyett wielded a broadsword in just his right hand, though most men would have been forced to use both.
Instinctively Theodore swung his wooden shield up. But the broadsword cut through the lower half, and as it was withdrawn the crowd gasped and cheered, and Theodore saw how the blade glinted.
That is no tourney blade, he realised grimly. It still has an edge. And the Boar means to use it!
He stepped back as the Boar came on. Once more, however, his men heeded his instructions. Three went forward as one. The man on Theodore’s left parried the Boar’s blade and pushed his arm wide, while the man on his right hacked at the red shield.
Leaving Theodore to deliver as hard a blow as he could muster. He brought his sword over his shoulder and cleaved down. Metal rang out against metal as the blade smashed against the Boar’s helm and slid off to impact upon his shoulder.
The crowd drew breath as the Boar staggered, his knees giving slightly and Theodore remembered Lady Anne’s advice.
Attack him from his left. His eye is blurred and his ankle is weak.
Theodore ducked low and lunged with his blade at Lord Hyett’s kneecap. A blow connected with his shoulder and he fell forward, gasping in sudden pain, his lunge only managing a passing hit on the Boar’s leg greave.
But then the fighting opened up, and it was each man against another. Through his eye-slits, Theodore saw that still no one had yielded. He parried a thrust with his damaged shield, feeling it splinter under the impact. A second hack carried its remnants from his wrist entirely.
As he stood, his teeth gritted, the red shield of the Boar swallowed his view. He ducked as Lord Hyett’s sword flashed an inch from his gorget.
That could have killed me if it had struck.
Theodore went cold.
Maybe that is his intention. Here it will look like an accident. I humiliated him when I unhorsed him in the lists, and he is probably aware that Lady Anne and I…
A man in white armour came to Theodore’s rescue, his blow careening off the Boar’s chest plate.
Theodore stumbled backwards, painfully aware of the jeering crowds.
Castimir held his hand to his face. It was terrible to watch. He turned his head and winced when Theodore lost his shield, and he prayed when the giant advanced, hoping that Theodore might save himself. He sighed in relief when one of the squire’s men came to his rescue and gave him time to regain his balance.
The wizard saw William’s eyes upon him. The young noble pursed his lips and shook his head grimly.
Theodore isn’t finished yet, Lord William, he responded silently. He’s been through worse. Give him a chance.
Castimir remembered Lady Anne, and the dismissive laugh she had given after Sir Prysin’s eldest had been so gravely injured. He looked for her now.
To his surprise, the expression she wore was very different.
She looks afraid, he realised. Could she really be so attached to Theodore?
“The first man has yielded!” someone yelled from nearby, under the canopy. Castimir turned back to see that it was in fact two men who had left the enclosure, one wearing the white armour of Falador and the other the black of Varrock.
His eyes fell on Theodore. He gasped as he saw his friend rush in again to confront the strongest knight in Varrock.
Theodore’s saviour broke under the Boar’s relentless blows. The white-armoured man collapsed as his legs buckled, his weaponless hands palm up to show that he had yielded. Blood dripped from under his visor as the Boar gave three heavy blows with his edged sword, ignoring the surrender.
Theodore’s world went red.
Leading with his shoulder, he cannoned into the Boar’s legs from his enemy’s left. He felt the man stagger and then with a heave the squire sent him flying face down.
A sword smashed against his head as he crouched, but he ignored the blow, instead leaping forward to where he thought the Boar must be. He felt a man’s armoured body beneath him, face down, and with a shout he thrust his sword under his helm, pulling it back as he held the edge to the man’s throat.
“Yield!” he commanded as a roar arose from the spectators. “Yield or I swear I will cut your throat.”
The Boar swore in reply, his hand snaking toward his own sword, which had fallen from his grasp when the squire had barrelled into him.
Theodore increased the pressure on the blade, but too late he saw a Varrock knight appear beside him. This one wielded a heavy wooden mace, and Theodore knew he had to avoid it at all costs. With a cry, he rolled free as the mace sailed by.
But it was not a disaster. For his roll had taken him to within range of the Boar’s own weapon. He dropped his own tourney blade in exchange for his enemy’s, gripping the broadsword in both hands. At the same time he lashed out with his foot, his heel connecting with Lord Hyett’s helm with a satisfying crash that snapped one of the Boar’s tusks.
Now I have the edge, he thought. Your edge-and we will see what you think of that.
“He nearly had him!” Castimir shouted to anyone who cared to listen. “Come on, Theodore. Finish the brute off.”
And in fact, I thought you were about to kill him.
From his viewpoint the wizard could easily see the whole enclosure. At least five of the knights were down. From one- the man who had saved Theodore-the ground was soaked with blood. Six more yielded and left the enclosure to join the two who had already retired.
Which gave Castimir cause to smile, for now Theodore’s men had the advantage. Now, it was six against five.
“Come on Theodore,” he muttered. “You don’t need to be a hero today. Your men are doing you proud.”
Theodore fell as a man’s black gauntlet wrapped around his neck and pulled him backward. The Varrock knight fell beneath him, and as he landed Theodore thrust backwards with his elbow with as much force as he could muster.
He heard the man gasp through his visor.
Up! Up! Seize the advantage and force him to yield!
The squire made it to his knees and with both hands swung Lord Hyett’s sword, not bothering to stand, not daring to waste a single second that might endanger his advantage. The edged blade severed the top of the man’s finger and sent his weapon flying from the enclosure to the excited whoops of the crowds.
“I yield! Gods I yield!” the man roared as he crawled to the ropes to be dragged from the enclosure by the waiting stewards.
Theodore stood wearily, his body lurching from one side to the other. The weight of the weapon further threatened his balance.
I am exhausted. Can’t keep going for much longer.
But he knew that his enemies must be in a similar state, and in a rare moment of calm he had a chance to survey the enclosure.
We are winning! he realised then. We are two men up, six against four. But I need air, I need to breathe.
He opened his visor, thanking Saradomin for the wind that blew against his sweat-drenched face. He watched as Lord Hyett batted a man aside, still with his dented red shield. As the man fell, Theodore staggered forward to his aid while about him the four Varrock knights confronted five opponents.
The Boar had his back to him, yet somehow the knight turned in time to avoid a wild slash that would have smashed against the back of his head. Unbalanced again, Theodore staggered from exhaustion, drinking in great gulps of air, his visor still wide open. He stumbled to one side, crashing against one of the great wooden wheels used to divide the ground in the enclosure.
On the man came. Even now, the giant still possessed the strength to run and thrust. He was wielding the wooden mace which Theodore had only just avoided a moment before.
I am not sure if I can do it again! Too tired.
“You are mine, Falador,” Lord Hyett gritted. “You are mine.”
He swung the mace as Theodore collapsed, sliding backward alongside the wheel. His back throbbed with pain. He desperately attempted to parry, but the tip of the heavy sword went agonisingly wide.
Still, he kept himself out of the Boar’s reach.
“Open your visor, Lord Hyett,” he challenged, not entirely knowing why he did so. “Let me look you in the face.” Perhaps he could goad the man into making a mistake.
There was no reply, and Theodore had suspected he would be too canny to give in to such an obvious tactic. Behind him, on the opposite side of the wheel, a man screamed as the sound of armour crashing to the floor was drowned out by cheering shouts.
I don’t care if we win this match or not, he admitted to himself. Saradomin, just give me the chance to avenge myself against this murderous creature.
The Boar roared as he charged in, his red shield held before him in his left hand, the mace raised overhead in his right.
He is weak on his left.
His eye and ankle.
The squire leapt forward, hoping to catch his foe by surprise. His foot lashed out, connecting perfectly with Lord Hyett’s left ankle. Something crunched as Theodore’s foot came away.
The Boar screamed.
He tottered forward, the mace wavering as he fell.
And at the same time, Theodore thrust his sharpened blade upward, both hands driving the sword tip into the breastplate of his enemy.
The blade pierced the metal and sheered through the flesh beneath. Theodore felt the familiar sensations of horror and fascination as his blade struck home-the soft flesh, the sinewy muscle, and the hard but brittle bone beneath. The sword glanced upward as it ricocheted off the Boar’s breastbone and deeper into his body.
Red blood pumped from his wound as the immense man fell atop Theodore, yelling in pain.
The squire took a delicious elation in the man’s screams. He knew it was wrong to do so-that Saradomin as the god of peace would condemn him-but today he didn’t care. He had beaten an enemy who had come to kill by treachery. Lord Hyett was nothing but a murderer.
Theodore stood, breathing heavily, aware that the Boar was gravely injured.
The crowd was silent. No one had beaten this man in a melee for at least a decade. Looking behind him, over the wheel, he saw that two of his own men still stood, a single Varrock knight between them who sensibly yielded rather than face them both.
Labouring with the effort, Theodore pulled the blade out in a single movement, trying hard to block out Lord Hyett’s groans. Then he held the red sword up, and as he did so the crowd roared. He swayed uncertainly as his name echoed around the bailey, his vision blurred, his mouth parched and his heart thundering.
“Do you hear that, Lord Hyett? It is my name they cry now. Mine. Your subterfuge and trickery have failed.” He lowered the sword, and stared at it. “Normally, it is not the way of my order to take a fallen foe’s property, and had you fought with honour I would not do so. But today I shall.”
Theodore raised his voice as he staggered backward from the fallen knight. Already marshals and stewards were entering the enclosure to attend to those who had been injured and to offer what aid they could-a certain sign the contest was ended.
“By the right of victor, in all the traditions of Varrock and her long history,” the squire announced loudly, “I claim my right to disarm you. Your armour is mine. As is your blade!” He raised the sword into the air again and the crowd responded, shouting even louder.
Theodore allowed himself to be helped from the enclosure by the stewards. He insisted that they first aided those who had fallen, and made sure he was the last of his men to leave the arena. Then he found his way to Philip, the man who had fallen under the repeated blows of the Boar.
When the man’s visor was pulled back, Theodore saw that his face was caked in blood.
“Philip?” he said. “Can you hear me?”
Incredibly the man smiled and nodded.
“It looks far worse that it is,” he said weakly.
“We won, Philip. And without you I would have fallen. Thank you.”
“But the Boar? What happened to him?”
One of the stewards shook his head.
“His is the worst wound here today,” the fellow said, a hint of awe tingeing his words. “Squire Theodore may have killed him.”
“Oh,” Philip said. “Good.” His eyes found Theodore’s. “His was no tourney blade, sir. He came out here to kill.”
“I know, Philip. I took it from him, and made sure he knew it.”
Afterwards, with the cheers of the crowd ringing in his ears, he found his way to a small tent set aside for the fighting knights, where Hamel poured cool water over his head and helped him remove his armour. Somewhere outside, members of the crowd laughed, and he heard the spectators daring the jester Gideon to run along a rope.
Then Theodore slumped in his seat, exhausted, and without intending to do so, he fell asleep.
When he awoke Hamel was still there. Outside the sound of trumpets was blaring and the crowd had fallen silent.
“The King has entered the box, sir,” Hamel explained as he finished bandaging Theodore’s wounds and applying salve to his bruised flesh. “How is your back, sir?”
“It is numb,” Theodore muttered. All of him was numb, and suddenly cold. The signs of fatigue. He wrapped his arms around his body and shivered.
“Drink this, sir,” the boy said, holding out a cup. “It is a beef soup. It should help you recover your strength.”
Theodore did as he was asked. He was too tired to even think.
But after what seemed like hours he stood and dressed himself in his white tunic with the four-pointed star of Saradomin stitched into its chest in silver thread. Hamel guided him from the tent, escorting him to the King’s box. As he made his way up the wooden steps, the crowd erupted in cheers, and he caught sight of Lady Anne.
She gave him a long look and smiled-not the sarcastic smile she so often teased him with, but something that Theodore thought was more akin to admiration, supplication almost. Very deliberately she dropped her handkerchief in a gesture of surrender.
Then the spectators closed in on him, and this time it was Castimir who rescued him. There were too many hands to shake and questions to be answered, and Theodore was too tired to do so. The wizard forced his way through the press and led him to a seat a healthy distance from the admiring courtiers.
“Thank you, Castimir,” he said. “If I fall asleep, nudge me.”
The wizard smiled as Theodore closed his eyes, content to listen to the world around him rather than participate in it. Even Kara and the mystery of her whereabouts did not agitate him for now, for he was simply too tired to care.
“…but we gnomes have our own science, master alchemist. Albertus’s vacuum chamber is a handsome gimmick, I don’t doubt, but are you aware of the demonstration made last year at this grand occasion by an esteemed cousin of mine, the able Master Peregrim?”
“Albertus was kind enough to write of it in his letters to me.” Ebenezer’s voice cut through to Theodore’s addled mind. “Tell me, Ambassador Fernook, has there been any news of his whereabouts since that time?”
Castimir laughed suddenly and Theodore opened his eyes to look curiously at the gnome ambassador. He knew Fernook, for the gnome was popular in King Roald’s court. He wore the traditional deep-green clothing of his people. The diminutive being was less than waist-high to Theodore, yet he made up for it with his personality.
“This is no laughing matter, master wizard,” the gnome said angrily. “Master Peregrim was demonstrating a hybrid hot air balloon, kept aloft by heat and phlogisticated air. It is a technology of which you humans have no conception. Many of Varrock’s nobles took an interest, amongst them Lord Despaard who wished to examine its potential for reconnaissance over The Wilderness… and elsewhere.”
“Tell me in detail of it,” Ebenezer begged. “Albertus only gave the barest description of it in his letter.”
The ambassador gave a broad smile, happy to share the achievements of his people. “It was a huge balloon with a gondola that hung beneath it, large enough to carry twenty people, I should say. Each day for a week Master Peregrim would ascend from the bailey with bold men and women eager to view the city from above.” The gnome’s face grew dark. “It was always tethered to the ground, of course, for only a fool or a lunatic would dare make a flight without a safety winch to bring it back down.”
“And which was he ambassador?” Ebenezer asked tentatively.
“Neither. He was just unlucky. Very, very unlucky.” The gnome shook his head. “He took off from here a year ago today, as he had done for the preceding days, to test his contraption before risking others in it. But the line broke from its knot on the balloon and very quickly he was carried away. Carried away to the east where he vanished across the Salve into… that place. I do not expect we shall ever hear anything of our intrepid balloonist again.”
“I am sorry ambassador,” Castimir said. “Truly I am. I had no idea of his fate.” His words were sincere, and Theodore saw the suddenly shamed look in his friend’s eyes.
You laugh too quickly for a diplomat, Castimir, he mused. If you are to take on the role the Wizards’ Tower has asked of you then you will have to learn patience and to treat every word as if it was a trap.
The conversation ended as whispers of excitement rippled through the occupants of the royal box. Theodore saw a King’s messenger kneeling before the monarch, who was standing, reading a letter in absolute concentration. Captain Rovin appeared at his side, grim-faced as ever.
A silent moment passed during which the tension was so great that Theodore wondered if a foreign nation had announced its intention to declare war on Misthalin. Then the King’s expression changed to one of excitement.
“Bring her to me!” he shouted. “Immediately.”
Can it be?
The King’s messenger stood and waved. The signal was repeated and passed on, out of the sight of the onlookers. After a few moments, as murmuring grew, an escort of yellow-clad soldiers of the city guard marched forward with a small group clustered in their middle.
“She’s here,” someone whispered amongst the crowd.
“Can it be true?” another asked. “Has she really come?”
“That’s what the messenger said.”
“It is her. It’s Kara-Meir!”
Theodore’s blood froze. His vision blurred slightly, whether from a thankful tear or from his earlier combat he could not tell.
“Is it her Castimir?” Ebenezer asked. “My eyes are not so young as yours.” Doric walked to the box’s edge to see for himself.
Theodore wiped the moisture from his eyes and looked again. At the centre of the yellow escort were six figures. The first was a man whose hands were bound before him. Behind him came a boy and a blonde-haired girl, ushered forward by three cloaked figures who came last.
“That could be Kara’s younger sister, if she had one,” Castimir observed.
As they neared, Theodore saw that the man at the front was missing his nose.
“Well, Kara-Meir, you have come,” King Roald called. “As you promised you would.”
Two of the three cloaked figures pulled their hoods back.
And Theodore grinned.
“It’s her!” Doric said. “She seems unhurt!”
“And Arisha, as well. Thank the gods.” Castimir gasped.
Behind him, Theodore sensed a movement.
“So that is Kara-Meir?” Lady Anne whispered in his ear. “She is pretty, in a certain peasant sense no doubt, but she does remind me of a wild cat. I suppose some men’s tendencies lean that way, however. If they are low-born.”
Theodore didn’t answer, for Kara began speaking.
“I have come, and I know that I am later than I promised,” she shouted up. “But I bring you the impostor, Pia, and her accomplice who tricked many good people out of their money by using my name. And I bring you also a wanted felon from The Wilderness who had taken shelter in a barn to the east of Varrock. I have provided your messenger with a list of his associates, who now lie slain and untended. Fourteen of them.”
The crowd gasped, and then clapped wildly.
It is your gift Kara, Theodore thought. You have always been able to win people’s hearts.
Eventually, the King held up his hand for silence, which the crowd granted with some reluctance.
“Captain Rovin tells me that these fourteen outlaws are wanted for serious crimes, each with a considerable bounty on their heads. You claim that you and your companions dispatched all of them? Three against fifteen, including your prisoner?”
Kara-Meir smiled now, her own urchin expression filled with mischief.
“No, Sire… and captain,” she said. “I accounted for them alone while my friends prevented any from escape.”
A murmur ran through the crowd, and someone clapped at the reply that left Captain Rovin speechless. King Roald laughed.
“Even my best knight would have been hard-pressed to accomplish such a feat.” Theodore felt the monarch’s eyes turn on him for a second. “But you must come up here-you and your friends-and tell us of your adventures. Come, we will have music, we will have celebration! Take the prisoners to the dungeons, for they will be dealt with later.”
The crowd responded to his commands with yet more cheering as Kara ascended the wooden steps, followed by Arisha and now, as they neared, Theodore saw for certain that the tall hooded man was indeed Gar’rth.
My friends. All safe and well. Thank Saradomin.
A guard seized the girl Pia, and she cried out.
“Please Kara. You know we are not bad people!”
The crowd laughed gleefully.
“You promised.” At that, Kara turned to the monarch.
“Sire, may I ask that you not separate the girl and her brother?” Kara spoke loudly, so all could hear. “They should remain together, and I would appreciate it if they were kept away from this fugitive. I also wish to speak to you about their fate, for they are little more than children, and I think I can offer the crown a suitable bargain for their disposition.”
“She does not lack for boldness, this wildcat of yours,” Lady Anne said softly, a touch of irritation in her voice. “Coming here and presuming to bargain with a King whose lineage goes back over a millennia. Very bold indeed.”
“Kara knows what she is doing, Lady Anne,” he replied without anger.
“The justice of Varrock is not usually open to negotiation,” King Roald said, though his mood still seemed light. “However, in consideration of your reputation and the honesty of your friend, Squire Theodore, and of the gift of justice that you have delivered here today, we shall hear what you offer, and consider it with a generous heart.”
He saw Kara look toward him and nod in greeting, and suddenly he felt Lady Anne move close behind him. Very close indeed.
Too close. An obvious ploy to state her intention to Kara.
If Kara noticed, she gave no sign, and turned aside to sit on an empty chair at King Roald’s side. Quickly, both Arisha and then Gar’rth were presented to him and dismissed, for the monarch’s attention was entirely held captive by Kara.
As Arisha approached, Castimir advanced to meet her. Theodore caught her smile as they drew together in a long embrace.
“Well, Gar’rth, you are looking well.” Ebenezer’s first words to their friend were hesitant.
Can he now speak the common tongue? Theodore wondered. If he can, there is much I would ask him. When Gar’rth responded, it was plain how far he had come.
“Ebenezer, I am happy to see you. I have learned your language since Falador, thanks to the monks of the monastery. And with Arisha’s help.”
“Then we must sit and speak, Gar’rth,” Doric said. “For I have much to ask you, as I know we all have.”
“Some of your questions must wait,” Gar’rth replied. “I will answer those in private. Alone. But Arisha will tell you of The Wilderness.”
Gar’rth gave Theodore a long look, his dark eyes settling on Lady Anne next to him. He frowned slightly. Lady Anne laughed.
“Your friend is not from these parts, is he?” she said. “We must welcome him to Varrock, Theodore. Tell me, where do you hail from?”
For a cold second no one spoke.
“He comes from the southern islands, Lady Anne,” Castimir answered quickly. “You have heard of Gar’rth, have you not?”
“As I have heard of you all, save this young woman.” Her blue eyes focused on Arisha, who spoke without hesitation.
“My name is Arisha,” she said. “I am a priestess of the tribes to the west of here, across the River Lum.” She bowed gracefully, and Castimir beamed.
“A barbarian? I have known people from your tribes before, yet I cannot recall one ever as civil as yourself-nor so beautiful.” Before Arisha could reply, Lady Anne nodded in the direction of King Roald. “Ah, it appears that I am needed by His Majesty. I suspect I will be asked to find Kara and yourself something appropriate to wear for tonight.” She took two steps before turning back again. “I am so looking forward to our dance, Theodore.”
Suddenly it felt as if the eyes of all of his friends were upon him.
The occupants of the royal box thankfully left them alone, and very quickly news was shared and questions posed.
“It was at the monastery of Saradomin when we first heard word of Sulla and Jerrod,” Arisha explained. “An injured man was brought to us from The Wilderness, and he identified them. We set out some weeks ago, travelling northward in pursuit.” She shivered. “Everyone hears tales of The Wilderness, but it is a land of desolation beyond anything I would have imagined. Often, for miles and miles, day after day, there is nothing that grows there. Nothing thrives. It seems as if nature herself has given up in that land.
“On at least two occasions we missed them by misfortune alone.” Arisha and Gar’rth shared a look. “Or at least we thought it was misfortune. But we now believe that Jerrod is receiving help. It may be from his master.” She smiled grimly. “We do not know why he is doing so now, and didn’t before. We may never know. But Jerrod and Sulla are now in Varrock.”
What? Why? Theodore opened his mouth to give voice to his questions but Doric and Castimir both spoke first. Arisha put her hands up for calm.
“We don’t know why, though Pia told Kara that Sulla plans to blackmail wealthy individuals with some coded documents he has in his possession. It is dangerous of them to come here, yet they have taken that risk. We informed the city guard this afternoon, although we didn’t tell them the truth about Jerrod. That is a decision that should be made by the King and his councillors.”
“But I don’t understand,” Ebenezer said thoughtfully. “How is this Pia girl linked to Sulla?”
Arisha shook her head.
“She isn’t. The fraud she committed was of her own initiative, but she grew greedy and attempted to run without paying the gangs their dues. They sent her to Sulla as an amusing gift, aware she resembled Kara. When we first entered Varrock, this morning, we heard stories that ‘Kara-Meir’ was already here, and then later of the fraud she had committed. Kara insisted that we hunt the imposter down. Gar’rth tracked them from the Flying Donkey Inn, and this led us to Jack, who had followed his sister’s abductors.
“By the time we arrived at the barn they were using as a hideout, Sulla and Jerrod had left.”
“Can you track Sulla, Gar’rth?” Doric asked.
Gar’rth shook his head.
“No. Not in a crowded city, without a trail to follow. Not with Jerrod, who knows how to mask himself.”
Suddenly Theodore stifled a yawn. The relief at seeing his friends in good health had given him a momentary burst of energy, but it was not enough to keep him going for much longer. As he did so, William approached, and was introduced to Arisha and Gar’rth.
“Ah, Theodore,” the young noble said, “I am sorry to interrupt your well-earned reunion, but I am afraid your presence is required by King Roald.”
Theodore yawned again as he stood. His body ached in protest and, as ever, his back burned from his old wound.
“He’s been boar-hunting,” William explained to Arisha, who noted his fatigue. Before she could ask for an explanation, he turned to the squire. “Now, come along.”
William led Theodore quickly forward as the trumpets sounded. The squire saw King Roald stand, and he saw Kara’s smiling face.
“Come on, Sir Theodore. It’s time.” William muttered so quickly that Theodore thought he had imagined the words.
“What did you call-?”
But William pushed him before the King and stepped back as the trumpets ended their cry. Then the King spoke.
“Squire Theodore, of the Knights of Falador, kneel,” came the command
He did so, his legs stiff and heavy.
What is happening here?
He cast his eyes sideways to where he could just see Kara’s beaming face. Her dark eyes were filled with pride.
Is that all there is? he wondered. Pride and honest friendship? No chance of anything more?
Then he saw the vermilion cloak of King Roald swish gently as the monarch moved above him. Suddenly he felt the light tap of a thin blade upon his right shoulder, and then again upon his left.
What is he doing?
He looked to Kara again, and suddenly the look on her face made sense. Elation mixed with fear and, inexplicably, a sense of loss.
This is where I forsake all worldly passions.
King Roald’s voice sounded above him. He was a messenger ordained by god.
“Rise, Sir Theodore Kassel, Knight of Falador. And let all who stand here this day bear witness to his ascension.”
Knighted by a King of Misthalin! Few of my order have ever had such an honour! But where is the oath?
Sir Theodore stood as the crowd exploded with cheers. Trumpets sounded, and Kara jumped up to wrap her arms around him, her lithe body crushed against his in the press.
His mind went numb. He was aware of a thousand clapping spectators, of the trumpets that drowned them out, of Castimir, standing nearby under the canopy, shouting wildly.
He felt the tears tug at the corner of his eyes.
King Roald raised his hand, and the crowd fell quiet. Then he turned to the object of their celebration.
“I received a diplomatic missive from Sir Amik Varze, just yesterday,” he revealed, “asking me to elevate you as is my right as a close ally of your order. He offers you his congratulations, and bade me tell you that thanks in part to you, the Knights of Falador have renewed their numbers. Of course, you have yet to take the oath to Saradomin, but even I cannot ask that on behalf of your order. That is for Sir Amik himself to do when you next return home.”
The cheering resumed as the King sat. Kara let him go and he found himself thrust forward, hands landing on his shoulders, arms, and back in a happy torture for his bruised flesh. He saw Lady Anne appear before him, he felt her lips brush against his face in a brief kiss to which the crowd cheered, and then he was free once more, exhausted and elated.
“Well done, indeed, Sir Theodore,” William congratulated, having waited for the crowd to disperse before offering his compliments.
“Thank you very much, Lord William.” Theodore smiled to Father Lawrence as the priest made his way past, leading the young and nervous debutantes to be introduced to the King. The newly minted knight’s vision was still blurred from his emotion, and as he wiped the tears away he saw a woman with a red toque and high cheekbones walk quickly by, an unusual look upon her face. She wore a green gown.
Was that a look of fear? he wondered. Was she afraid of me?
Then Theodore’s world went cold.
Gods! I know her. She is the woman who insulted me on the square, who saw me last night when we found the body hanging from the roof. What is she doing here?
He stood, his heart racing.
King Roald. He might be in danger.
Theodore stumbled forward, pushing William out of his path. His action drew the attention of the guards and public alike.
“What are you doing?” William asked, the shove placing an expression of betrayal on his face. But Theodore ignored him and called out.
“Wait! My King, wait!”
The court went silent. No one moved.
“Speak, Sir Theodore,” King Roald ordered, an edge of anger in his voice.
At his side, Theodore saw how Kara’s hand tightened on her sword hilt.
“It is this woman, Sire.” He approached the woman in the green dress, and pointed. “You.” As he drew near he saw that she was panting heavily, as if panic was not far away.
“Ellamaria?” Father Lawrence queried. “What of her?”
“Why does she go alone around the city? For I have seen her there the last two evenings, under suspicious circumstances.”
His words caused a murmur to spread through the crowd. Two of Captain Rovin’s men appeared before the King, and two more, Theodore noted, appeared behind him.
“Is that a crime?” Ellamaria demanded, but her voice betrayed fear, and her lip was shaking. “No, the crime is that people are vanishing and being murdered. But is it a crime to ask why? Is it a crime to confront a conspiracy of silence, orchestrated by the very highest in the realm?” Her voice grew louder, and she wiped away tears. Suddenly she turned on Lord Despaard and pointed at him with a look of hatred. “You! You are the one! You are the one who takes people and paints the mark of the plague over their doors. I have seen you do it!”
“This woman is drunk, or mad,” Despaard shouted angrily. “Remove her!”
No one moved.
Someone in the crowd shouted in anger.
“She’s right,” they said. “It happened just last night!”
“And last week,” another cried. “An entire family, gone!”
In an instant the cries that had celebrated Theodore’s knighthood had turned to anger and fear. An apple disappeared into the royal box behind the King’s head, hurled from the bailey and striking the makeshift wooden structure with a loud thump.
Emboldened, Ellamaria shouted over the din, and those nearby stopped to listen.
“They are held at Draul Leptoc’s estate,” she said. “I have been there. I have seen it!”
“Saradomin forgive me,” Father Lawrence muttered, his head in his hands.
The crowd booed and yelled as other things were thrown. A tomato struck Theodore on his chest, leaving a red stain upon his white tunic, and a rock narrowly missed his head.
“The woman is right!” someone in the crowd yelled. “There is a plague upon this city!”
“The curse of Morytania is upon us. Our sins have doomed us all.”
“The true king is coming.”
Captain Rovin leaned down toward the King and spoke into his ear.
“Never!” the King replied angrily. “I will not order my archers to shoot on my own people.”
“Then confront them, my King” Kara said calmly. “Confront them and promise to hear their concerns. You must buy time.”
King Roald pursed his lips as he stood. He advanced to the wall’s edge and held his hand up. An apple core struck his golden crown.
But still he remained until no more missiles were thrown. Finally the crowd fell silent, and all eyes were upon him.
“I will hold a council,” he announced. “A parliament, as is the right of the covenant between the lords of Varrock and her peoples. Tomorrow morning we shall debate and decide what to do. Until then, this Midsummer Festival is ended.”
The crowd remained silent as the King spun and stalked along the northern wall back to the palace, many of the courtiers following in his wake.
They have tasted the barest power of the mob, Theodore realised. And they are afraid.
Lord Despaard remained behind, and he turned toward the source of the confrontation.
“Arrest her,” he instructed the guards nearest Ellamaria.
“On what charge?” she countered, but much of her confidence had fled.
“Treason,” he gritted. “Disrupting the public peace. Witchcraft. Any charge will do.” Two of the guards stepped up beside her and grasped her arms roughly. A little too roughly, Theodore thought.
As she was led away she cast a look back at him.
“I go to my prison knowing I have done right,” she said. “I will sleep well this night, Sir Theodore. But I wonder if you will do the same?”
And suddenly, his knighthood tasted slightly bitter.