Dan-Tor idly fingered the medallion of office hanging from a slender gold chain around his neck. Then abruptly he released it with a grimace; these lingering traits of his fretful humanity irked him profoundly.
Uncharacteristically he found himself longing bit-terly for the day when all pretence could be discarded, when the Old Power could be used, when battle lines could be drawn and he could join with his companions and lead His hordes out of Narsindal to sweep all before them and raise Him, and themselves, to the height that destiny had ordained.
But the road to such a day was hazardous. The past had shown the folly of too lightly dismissing the forces that could be ranged against them. Humans could be endlessly troublesome for all their weakness and inconsistency.
Now, ensconced in his eyrie, in the highest tower of the King’s Palace far above Vakloss, unfamiliar doubts pervaded his thoughts.
His encounter with Hawklan-Ethriss?-had made him terminate his journey and go scuttling back to Narsindal with the news. No other could be trusted with that. But He had shown only His cold silent anger at the risks that had been taken in provoking Hawklan. Then, looking into Dan-Tor for a trembling eternity, He had delivered a further blow, a stunning, unexpected blow. ‘You have erred twofold. Your King runs amok. Abandon the south, I have others better suited.’
No counsel had been offered, nor aid. Only a brood-ing silence. Only the weight of that endless dark patience. From this Dan-Tor knew that the conse-quences of his actions must run their course, however erratic and unforeseeable, and he must bear them.
He closed his eyes and heard again the words of his Master when He had finally wakened. ‘You are my faithful servant and will again be rewarded as my power grows-as grow it will-beyond even its ancient greatness.’ Then, the re-affirmation:
‘But recall. You are bound to me and by me. You can be expunged at my whim and others made in your image. Serve me well.’ It was a statement cold beyond measure and a verdict beyond appeal.
‘Expunged at my whim,’ Dan-Tor mouthed to him-self into the silence of his room.
With an effort, he dismissed from his mind the questions that his Master’s knowledge about the King had prompted. Who could know what sight He had? What dark envoys?
Then, standing up, he moved to the window and stared out over the great avenues and parks and proud old buildings that were Vakloss, out over its bustling heart nestling around the Palace walls in a maze of twisting, narrow streets thronged with people. But he saw only the distant mountains to the north, red-tipped and strangely shadowed in the setting sun. Frustration hissed through his clenched teeth and he turned to more immediate problems.
Who could have rescued Hawklan from the Gret-mearc and avoided his agents? And what had happened to the birds? A long-forgotten name came into his mind. The Cadwanol. Could they still exist? After such a time? The Cadwanol: Ethriss’s ancient allies and repository of most of the knowledge of the First Coming. A constant thorn in His side, but elusive and cunning, hiding in deep and strange places, deep beyond even Oklar’s power.
It was a disturbing thought, and it persisted. And yet Ethriss was not awake. The Cadwanol must surely know how to waken their old master? Had not he and his companions learned how to waken theirs after countless aeons bound in darkness? But Hawklan had fled from the Gretmearc; he could not be Ethriss. And yet…
Beyond doubt, he must be captured, Dan-Tor re-solved again. But captured with great cunning.
A discreet scratching at the door interrupted his reverie. Face twitching irritably, he paused until he could smell the servant’s fear leaking through to him.
Was the Lord there? Had he scratched loudly enough? Should he scratch again and risk the Lord’s wrath at his impatience?
Dan-Tor could charm the most obdurate of Lords when needed, but the lesser fry of Fyorlund who dealt with him, being both less burdened with office and more perceptive, knew him more truly. He sensed a hand rising hesitantly and on an impulse spared his victim.
‘Enter,’ he said calmly. The wave of relief sickened him. These humans were contemptible-a small distant voice within him reminded him that he, too, had once been thus.
‘His Majesty has asked me to request that you attend him in his rooms, Lord.’
You mean he’s told you to tell me, you worm, thought Dan-Tor viciously.
‘Please inform His Majesty that I’ll attend him im-mediately,’ he said courteously. Another repellent wave of relief, and the servant walked out backwards before fleeing down the Palace’s twisting stairs and corridors to safer quarters.
With the King in his present unstable condition, Dan-Tor knew he must not be left alone for long. The damage the King had accomplished in so short a time verged on being a considerable achievement and nothing could be taken for granted until he was completely under control again. This, however, might prove none too easy. In Dan-Tor’s absence, the King had unconsciously turned to his wife, Sylvriss, and her influence, though weak, lay deep. Deeper than Dan-Tor dared risk threatening.
The King lay alone in his chamber, stretched along a wide couch and gazing vacantly up at the ornate painted ceiling. That he was in this room indicated the influence of Sylvriss. It had been their bridal chamber and still carried resonances of happier times.
It made Dan-Tor’s flesh crawl.
Large clear crystal doors at the far end of the room looked across a beautifully tended garden of lawns, shrubs and fountains, but, as they faced east, to bring the morning sun into the chamber, they showed now only the mounting evening darkness, as purple mountains merged into the purple sky.
Dan-Tor noted with malicious satisfaction the harsh shadows cast by the light of the globes which had replaced the older, gentler torches. He entered with a discreet amount of noise, and bowed low.
‘Majesty,’ he said gently and with concern. ‘The pain has returned?’
Rgoric made no reply. Dan-Tor did not move, but tried to sense the man’s mood. Little ripples of anger still crossed Dan-Tor’s mind at what the King had done and at having such inadequate material for the weaving of his Master’s design, but he swept them away ruth-lessly. Such self-indulgence offered nothing but hindrance and, he thought bitterly, reminded him too much of the King himself.
He moved forward into the King’s line of sight, but kept his face slightly in the shade. He was uncertain what might be showing in his eyes and how sensitive the King might be to what he saw there.
‘Majesty?’
The King’s eyes unfixed themselves from the ceiling and turned to Dan-Tor.
Ali, martyred and misunderstood, read Dan-Tor. Now we know where we are. He moved forward again, the light of a nearby globe falling on his face. And reproachful, too.
‘Dan-Tor, you shouldn’t go away for so long. In spite of your ministrations, my health is so uncertain. I’ve burdened myself with too much too soon. My subjects do not-will not-understand. I work ceaselessly for their benefit, for their protection against treachery at home and abroad, but they harry me.’ His hands twitched pettishly. ‘Where were you?’ he said plaintively. Dan-Tor opened his mouth to speak but the King continued. ‘I felt so strong, so well, when you left. Like the old days. I’ll pick up my duties again, I thought. Take the country in a strong grip. Throw out these bleating Lords as we arranged. Lead my country into a new future, make it strong again. Then… ’ He put his hand to his head. ‘Then my strength left me-just drained away-and the Lords wouldn’t accept my judgement. They defied me. You were away too long.’
Dan-Tor was weary of this monologue, this self-justification. The King had repeated it to him inces-santly since his return from Narsindal. Deftly adjusting his long brown robe of office, he knelt down by the couch in an attitude of both subservience and personal concern for his suffering friend. He too must repeat himself.
‘Majesty, I accept your rebuke. But you know that I was away so long only because the strength of our enemies grows. A monstrous leader has arisen in Orthlund who rouses the people there to ambition and lust for your land and power. I tried to seize him but, with great cunning, he escaped and I had to leave his capture to my escort and return to you.’
A silence fell and the names of Eldric and Jaldaric floated unspoken between them. The King knew now that his impetuous action against Jaldaric had in some way probably jeopardized Dan-Tor’s second plan for the capture of this sinister Orthlundyn leader. Dan-Tor, however, knew that greater benefit would come from his not repeating this complaint, so he let the words remain unspoken, like a sick miasma hanging in the air.
‘This coming and going of your strength is the na-ture of the illness as we know too well, Majesty. You must be patient. You did indeed undertake too much too soon. It’ll be many days before you feel well again.’ Dan-Tor’s voice was forgiving.
The King screwed up his face peevishly. ‘Why didn’t you kill this… this leader, when you had the chance?’ he asked suddenly, almost as if he were anxious to receive Dan-Tor’s rebuke.
‘That wouldn’t have been expedient, Majesty. Such an open act would have brought the Orthlundyn down on us like rocks down a mountainside, and… ’ Dan-Tor paused. Sow a little more doubt and uncertainty, he thought, it’ll always come in useful. He assumed a worried expression. ‘To be honest, Majesty, I didn’t value him at his full worth immediately. He’s subtle and crafty, and has woven himself deep into the hearts of the people over many years. When I realized who he was, and what he was doing, he was almost beyond my reach. It’s some measure of his cunning that he avoided my first trap.’
The King scowled at him and gestured dismissively. Then he drew a startled breath and his face contorted with pain. He held out a begging hand to his tall tormentor. Dan-Tor laid his own hand gently on the King’s forehead and then looked into his eyes. His manner was soft and reassuring: don’t be afraid; I’m here now, it said; all will be well.
He took out a small jewelled box from his robe and, without any apparent movement of his hand, it opened. The King clutched at his wrist feverishly. Dan-Tor delicately picked out a small tablet with his long fingers and, pausing for a cruel moment, placed it in the King’s mouth, now opened wide in anticipation like a newly hatched chick.
Almost immediately the King closed his eyes and leaned back with a relieved sigh, the worried lines disappearing from his face. Briefly Dan-Tor was reminded of the young man Rgoric had once been.
‘Sleep well, Majesty. When you awake, your pain will have gone and your strength will have returned.’
Dan-Tor sat by the sleeping King for a long time staring enigmatically at the now relaxed face. The fleeting vision of the young King had stirred old memories. It’s salutary, he thought, to be reminded from time to time who it is I’m dealing with. Curse this King as he may for being a weak and inconsistent tool in his hands, it would be unwise to forget that he was heir to generations of great leaders. A man to whom others of this independently-minded and formidable race had given loyalty without demur. A man who had led a great army to victory. A man of proven courage and skill in personal combat. A powerful man. And a powerful people. Their complete corruption was essential to His schemes, and could only be achieved slowly. Very slowly.
Dan-Tor longed for His deep, dark patience.
He knew that even now, after so long, his hold an Rgoric, though strong, was deceptive. It was deep, but it did not reach down into the essence of the man; at a level beyond the King’s awareness and beyond Dan-Tor’s reaching, he knew that the King’s old spirit still battled to throw off his domination.
One day, Majesty, he thought. It’ll probably kill you before it’ll submit any further.
Ironically, the contemplation of the long road ahead eased away the last of Dan-Tor’s anger at the King’s actions: there is time for many things on a long journey. He knew it would be fruitless to try to find out why the King had done what he had done. Was it some desire to please him? Some desire to be independent of him? Some vainglorious whim? All irrelevant though. The King himself had probably forgotten even the ostensible reason by now, burying it under a great mound of self-pity and recrimination. The play had been made, and no sleight of hand on his part could change it. The game had to be continued from Rgoric’s unexpected gambit. Now he must watch daily, hourly even, to see that no irreparable harm came of it.
The suspension of the Geadrol with the inevitable reaction of the Lords and the consequent arrest of four of the most senior; the displacement of the Lords’ High Guards by the Mathidrin-both were deeds far too premature and both had the potential to tilt the country into civil war. As for calling the Mathidrin his own High Guard… Dan-Tor closed his eyes briefly. But, equally, these acts would enable him to gather more power to himself, to claim sedition and treason as excuse for a surreptitiously increased repression of the people. The numbers of the Mathidrin could be covertly increased and those of the Lords’ High Guards reduced, and the same reason offered should comment arise.
A faint smile came to his long face. Perhaps a trial of Eldric and the others. That might prove an excellent opportunity for swaying the minds of the people. It would bear careful thought. Much could be salvaged if this were handled correctly. Possibly even progress made.
‘And Hawklan-Ethriss?’, came the thought.
The smile faded and his white teeth ground to-gether. The King’s use of the Mandroc patrol to vent his spleen against Eldric’s family had been folly indeed. Who could tell what effect the Harmony of Orthlund would have on those creatures? The King knew the patrol only as an elite group of the Mathidrin and, while he and the Fyordyn could be persuaded to accept many things, armed and trained Mandrocs in his service would not be one for a long time.
Fortunately, he consoled himself, Aelang, though unable to defy the King, had had the wit to lead them secretly out of Fyorlund, so few, if any, should have seen them; and those few could be dealt with if necessary. But how would Jaldaric and his men have responded? And what of Hawklan?
Jaldaric would fight, surely? He would not yield to Mandrocs and strange liveried Guards. Shock alone would probably make him draw his sword. But Hawk-lan? If Jaldaric had obeyed his orders, then Hawklan would have been some way behind, being drawn by the threads that bound him to the girl. In which case he would have come upon the battle itself, or the remnants of it. And if Hawklan were Ethriss, what in His name would be his reaction to the sight of the Mandrocs or their handiwork? And the girl. She must surely be dead now. That alone might awaken him.
But I’m here yet, thought Dan-Tor. Ethriss isn’t awake. The thought offered him little consolation as he remembered the terrible defeat he had suffered so long ago. He shuddered.
The King stirred. Dan-Tor laid his hand against the King’s forehead. ‘Rest, Rgoric,’ he said softly, hypnoti-cally. ‘All’s well. I’ll shoulder your burdens again.’
But forbid it as he might, his mind wandered back out along the Pedhavin Road, teasing through the awesome possibilities that might have been set in train there. So preoccupied was he with this ancient highway that he did not hear the chamber door open and close.
He started abruptly as a hand touched his shoulder.