The Royals

Chapter 48

Harmon shook Maarcus awake. 'Sir, sir, are you all right? Are you hurt?'

'An old wound, Harmon, very old." 'Can I get you something?"

Maarcus shooed him away. 'I'm fine.' He did not tell the elf of the vision that always hung in his mind upon waking from that dream. He couldn't bear to speak aloud of his son curled tight in convulsions, dead of a poison meant for himself because he could not let well enough alone.

As proud as he was of his grandson, to this day Maarcus could not decide if he would choose the same had he the chance. To lose one's only child is a hard thing for a man, a very hard thing.

Henry barely rid himself of Abadan when Maarcus came limping through his door. 'I'm very busy,' he told the man, hoping to put off another frustrating and meaningless exchange.

The physician looked determined as he raised his hand 'I know what you are.' The prince gripped the still-warm coin. 'And what is

that?" he asked, against his better judgment.

Maarcus stumbled forward as if he were making his last steps. You are perfection, but you are only half of a whole. Without your sister, you are not human. Please,' he begged, 'please rescue your sister.'

'What of your grandson?' Maarcus sank into a chair. 'I have thought of him

constantly since he left. I have dreamed of his father's death. I fear the Sisters are trying to prepare me for my grandson's demise.' He smiled in a ghost of his former grin. 'I wouldn't know. It's common knowledge that I have no talent for magic and I've no desire to acquire it now.'

Henry worried about the old man in spite of himself. While Henry had spent carefree years, the physician had put all his energy into rescuing a faltering country. He knelt down beside his chair. 'Can I get you anything?'

Maarcus shook his head. His chest heaved in labored breaths. Maybe it's my own death the Sisters were warning me of.' He raised a hand and let it drop. 'Promise me,' he whispered urgently, 'promise me on your father's grave that you won't let everything he did be for nothing.'

'I won't,' the prince said. By the Sisters and by the Great King, I won't let you down.'

"Thank you,' Maarcus said. "Thank you.' He took in a deep breath and closed his eyes.

"Sir Maarcus?"

The physician didn't stir.

The prince shook his arm. Sir Maarcus!' The man was as motionless as a corpse. 'Guard! Guard!' Henry shouted. Someone get the magician."

The hallway was quiet. No one came. 'Of course,' the prince muttered under his breath. 'They've all deserted me.'

He took the man's wrist to check for a pulse and felt

nothing. Suddenly, the door slammed open and Harmon ran in. 'I've been looking everywhere for him," the elf explained. 'He left his chambers when I went to the privy.' He approached Maarcus. 'He's as white as the snow. Is he

all right?" 'No, he's not. Go fetch Abadan quickly.'

Each time they dragged Maarcus out of the cell, Kate made her own escape by turning inward. She heard the water dripping and the rats scurrying, but they were no longer part of her world.

The princess sensed someone seeking her talent. Ten drils pulled at her, trying to touch her. She recognized the feel from her earliest years. Sometimes they'd entered her nightmares or found her in desperate moments such as this.

Instinctively she had always pushed them away. No

good could come of a magician clawing at her dreams.

It was an easy thing to do it now, but she half-wished she had the courage to invite the intruder in. Perhaps it was Master Abadan or Walther.

Perhaps it was another of her half-brother's tricks.

Perhaps it was her true mother, the elfwitch. Kate's entire body spasmed in revulsion. No, there

was no choice. Better to turn away her allies than risk welcoming the enemy.

Once Hadrian's elixir got Kate thinking morose thoughts, she couldn't stop. She twisted away from the probe only to find herself caught in another subconscious quagmire, Celia Sailclan. She missed the dwarf's chubby hand in hers and her bouncing, boundless energy.

She would never wish for Ceeley to share her own current predicament. It was just that she wanted to do right by the child. She'd all but adopted Ceeley, then left her to fend for herself when she had other obligations. She had failed Ceeley.

Ceeley, Henry, Maarcus, her parents.. . Everyone... The bars clanged open. Lyam dumped Maarcus into the puddle left from the overflowing chamberpot. 'Filthy troll-bait,' he said, when he saw what he'd stepped in, and

kicked him once for good measure. Maarcus grunted once and lay still.

Lyam slammed the iron door. 'Won't be much longer now, Princess Kate. Just long enough for Ivan to have a quick twist and roll.'

Kate ignored the guard. Already on the floor beside Maarcus, she lifted his head off the dank stone. His face was the pasty white of a dead man. His breathing was fast and shallow. She had to get him out of here before they came back for a final session. Her only option seemed to be facing that which she feared most.

No time for cowardice, she told herself. She took a deep breath and called out to the unknown. Whoever had been looking for her couldn't be that far away. Please, please, by the Seven Sisters, let it be Abadan.'

A light pulsed on the wall just above where she'd been shackled. Kate stared at it, knowing the cold touch of Alvaria.

She shook Maarcus to wake him. 'Maarcus, help me. What do we do?' she whispered. 'Maarcus.' He was too sick. His head rolled on his shoulders and

flopped back. His eyes fluttered open and closed. She hugged him tightly. If she took him to the elfwitch, he would probably die. If they stayed here, he would definitely die and likely very soon.

She had survived Alvaria before. Maarcus could too. All right, Mother, she thought, have it your way. She didn't need to speak the words aloud for Alvaria to hear her,

A hole appeared in the wall. Kate knew the tunnel would lead to wherever Alvaria chose. Yet it was away from here.

The tunnel light called to her medallion and made her

wonder how she'd kept it away from Hadrian all this time,

even considering its bespelled nature. Clearly her mother

knew she carried it. Kate hesitated, weighing their odds.

Suddenly Maarcus gasped and began to spit up blood. Whether or not Alvaria had engineered his current con dition, there was still no choice. The princess might well be carrying him from the cooking pit into the flames, but there remained a slight chance she could leap past the fire to freedom.

She had to try.

Abadan's chamber did not protect Walther from the truth. Stone and mortar, brick and board didn't keep him from knowing when the riot began.

Most of the servants spent the hours beforehand desert ing the castle. Walther wasn't one to expect exalted treatment, but he found the empty hallways eerie. He tried to stop a man now and again to determine precisely.

why the servants were fleeing. They looked at him-some with pity in their eyes, others with contempt - but none heeded his requests for details.

After checking the other common rooms, he stationed himself in the main hall. He planned to snatch the next per son who ran by and refuse to let go until he got answers. The first to race past was a young boy. Walther let him

go. The second was a man big enough to shrug away the

dwarf as if he hadn't been touched.

Walther waited and was finally rewarded by two washerwomen walking as quickly as the old women could go. Rather than ask directly, he impulsively backed into the shadows and listened.

"They say he eats a special diet while the rest of us starve,' said one. The other shook her head. 'Plain out sad, I tell you. 'e

seemed like such a nice young man.'

'Not like the rest of the Great King's other brood, true,"

agreed the other. You can't deny it, though. Not a single

soldier came back but 'im.'

"'ow could he sacrifice 'em to the trolls like that? Can you imagine?'

"They say there's nothin' more terrifyin'. Still, if you ask me, who needs a prince that'll lie down and let 'em take The Cliffs, the very heart of the Ash Kingdom?'

Shouting began outside. The crashing of pottery and

glass followed.

'We've got to hurry or they'll leave without us.' The women pushed on out of earshot, carrying bundles the dwarf belatedly realized were not another's clothing but their own.

Walther sighed. The refugees had all sought sanctuary here. Where could they go now?

Locked in her mind, Ginni bounced and bounded from toddler to adult to child. Her mother scolded her for stealing the morning's breakfast, but made no effort to see the girl fed the rest of the day. By late afternoon she knew she would need to 'borrow' - as she thought of it again. She planned to pay them back when she was bigger.

Her father was more soft-hearted but no use at all in explaining the ways of women. He blushed uncharacte ristically when he tried to mumble out a few words of comfort. At least he didn't banish her from the cave or swear at her pathetic moans of female weakness.

Ginni ultimately returned to her mother's care, to take up the chores of Roslin's choosing. In preparation for reconnaissance, she tightened the strings of a snug, low cut bodice she had been instructed must be worn above a man's leather pants. No, that wasn't it; something was out of sorts. She couldn't remember how to knot .he laces.

She didn't belong as she was. She didn't belong as she

would be.

In her room within the labyrinth of the Forty-nine Witches, Ginni of the Ash Kingdom began to dream again. She dreamt of a silly child flirting with men, of a girl disguised as a boy, of a child who flew with dragons. She tried to dismiss them and could not. Her mind repeated the litany again and again, prodding her to realize who she was.

All the while, a woman whispered in her ear and in her dreams to guard well what she knew. Others would steal that which she possessed, the more fleeting the more attractive to such thieves.

Ginni woke, holding her head carefully to balance the many chattering voices. Tears slid down her cheeks. She

embraced the voices, for they were all Ginni of the Ash Kingdom, daughter of Roslin the mage and Wanton Tom the mercenary.

Convinced the hags would d**g him to get his co operation, Tom refused to eat or drink anything after the so-called Revered Sister's visit. His precautions were too late. He felt the tonic taking effect long before he was thirsty enough to be tempted to drink the water brought with his dinner.

ey'd robably dosed him hours ago. 'Well, no one ever said a man is worth anything without his fool dragon,' he muttered, not quite know ing where that had come from or what he meant by it.

Still he dug in his bare-footed heels. What had they

done with his boots anyway? As sleep overtook him, he

stubbornly remained upright in his chair. Perhaps he'd get

nothing but a sore neck for his trouble, but it was better

than being stiff somewhere else.

Tom woke with the closing of the door. He had not heard her knock. She crossed the room. Everything about her was as lovely as he'd ever seen it. Her smile and movement were tentative, unsure, so very different from her day-to-day bearing as a witch of great repute.

A softness she hid from her sisters, from everyone but him, penetrated every motion.

Tom the Mercenary held open his arms to his beloved and Roslin the Mage grinned wickedly as she came into them.

Willam was lost without the river of warmth. Over and over, he recalled how he'd let down Lyda. The Sisters found him lacking and so punished them both. Now body

and soul were exposed to the elements. He stood in the snow and laughed without cause or control.

He ate if someone fed him; went hungry without com plaint if they didn't. The food when it came was a greyish gruel that did little to sustain him but quieted his stomach for a while. Whenever he ate, he joined the others seated on tree-stumps and boulders, eating as noisily as they.

Trolls watched over them, eager with a whip to dis

courage any who might escape. Willam couldn't imagine

anyone with the strength or wit to try. He went where they bid him; he paid no attention to his task except to finish it. Willam wasn't much good working with his hands, but chopping wood and digging pits were simple labors a boy could do.

His sporadic laughter touched no one on the wide,

wide plain. No one at all.

Of the few who survived travel down the elven river some times known as Blood River, Lyda held herself together best and so Alvaria saw that she suffered the most. Lyda remembered who she had been; she remembered rubbing her fingers across her sister's grave-marker; she remembered leading the humbled refugees to a safer place; she remembered Willam.

She recalled her shame.

The elfwitch chose a special punishment for Lyda. They dressed Lyda in a cruel mockery of her coming-out clothes. Like all the rest, she knew it was meant to humiliate her, yet knowing didn't make it more tolerable. If anything it increased the effect, for she knew it was working and blamed herself for succumbing to it.

Blame was the smallest part of the misery. The first violation was a shock. They couldn't possibly