Chapter 5

   

Alyd Donal could not keep the smile from his face. It had been his companion since sixteen-year-old Ylena Thirsk had accepted his proposal of marriage. He had been patient; six years of absence from his beloved family in Felrawthy had been made less painful partly because of his fiercely loyal friendship with Wyl Thirsk but mainly because there was Ylena to love. There had never been anyone else for him since the day his red-headed companion had introduced him to his exquisite sister. The strong urge Alyd felt to protect this beautiful creature had surprised him, not that he was such a champion. Ylena had her seemingly fearless brother and the ultimate protection of a powerful King; she had no need of his sword and yet even as a bashful twelve-year-old, confirming the promise of the handsome woman she would become, Ylena had sought out his company. It seemed, even at that age, there was no one else for her either. Still, her shy nod and gentle tears prompted by his proposal had sparked such surprise and intense joy for him that he could not imagine life could ever get any happier than now. Ylena would make the prettiest of all brides. Not wanting to wait a moment longer than they had to, they had set a date that allowed barely enough time to make all the necessary formal announcements, let alone preparations for a nobles’ wedding.

General Wyl Thirsk, as head of his family, had not hesitated to give his permission; in truth, he’d wondered why they had taken so long to ask. Out of courtesy Alyd had spoken with Gueryn, who was equally delighted. Finally, Alyd’s family messenger from Felrawthy had brought the news granting immediate blessing. The Duke and Duchess were delighted to hear that their youngest son’s bride had a strong connection to the royals and came from such loyal Morgravian blood.

Now, with Wyl at his side, Alyd sought an audience with the King. It was fitting that the sovereign give his formal agreement to this marriage, as Ylena’s father had entrusted Magnus with the task of making her a good match. The Donals of Felrawthy were an old family with a proud history and loyal to the throne. There would be no question that the King would give his blessing to the union between his closest friend’s only daughter and the son of one of his most supportive Dukes.

Magnus, now feeling the weight of his years, welcomed two of his favorites, smiling indulgently at Alyd’s excitement as the young man stammered out his request, not as used to meetings with the sovereign as his red-headed friend.

Over wine and wafers the trio chatted in the King’s private garden. For an old warrior and a man who in younger years had reveled in hard, outdoor pursuits, Magnus showed a particular tenderness for his prized blooms. In these past years of peace, which allowed for his constant presence in Pearlis, the garden had flourished under his careful touch. It was to be part of his legacy. He left the rest of Stoneheart’s formidable grounds to his team of gardeners but this walled square of color was all his and the two young soldiers indulged the old King as he spoke fondly of his latest prize.

“Can you credit it!” he said with amazement. “A blue nifella, normally found only in the northern climes of the realm.”

The soldiers grinned. It meant little to them but how the King had encouraged it to grow in the milder climate of Morgravia had everyone with a green thumb baffled.

He smiled over his cup. “You youngsters make me feel envious.”

“Sire?” Alyd queried.

“Look at you both. Fine specimens of Morgravians,” he said, reserving a special glance for Wyl, knowing how his young General suffered such insecurity over his looks and stature. “I envy you your energy and youth.” he added.

Wyl grinned and as he did so Magnus saw that the boy had disappeared. All the round softness had been absorbed and hardened. Before the Kins sat a man and one who reminded him achingly of his old friend. Muscles fairly bulged on Wyl’s stocky frame and the carrot-colored hair was now his signature rather than his curse. His soldiers jested that they would never have need of a standard for their General—they would just scan the battlefield for the head of flame. His freckles had withered beneath the sun’s glare, the toughening of the skin and the stubble of manhood. He had not grown especially tall but then neither had Fergys Thirsk, Magnus silently acknowledged, yet both were formidable soldiers and leaders of men. Apart from his own son, he could not imagine a single individual at Stoneheart who could hold a candle to the fighting prowess of Wyl Thirsk.

He had proven himself a doughty soldier and deserving owner of the title of General of the Legion. Honest, forthright, and without question courageous, Wyl Thirsk had over the last few years won his army’s respect. He was still painfully young, of course, but then so was most of the army these days. Magnus knew they followed avidly in the steps of the young Thirsk.

It was just such a pity that the acrimony between Thirsk and Celimus still stood. For all Thirsk’s polite posturing and his obvious determination to keep his promise to his sovereign, Magnus saw through the veil. There was no love lost between the two. And no one could appreciate such a sentiment more keenly than the King. But, so long as Wyl Thirsk protected the heir faithfully, that would have to be enough. Magnus understood Wyl’s feverish loyalty and would not have to question whether the younger man would put his understandable doubts about Celimus before Morgravia.

It would not be long now before they could test this theory. Magnus sensed his own time coming to an end and quietly welcomed it. He was tired. And lonely too. His wife long gone—Shar rot her; his great companion dead and his only son not much more than a stranger. Yes, it was drawing close to the time to hand Morgravia over to the new breed and give Celimus his time. Perhaps it would be the making of him. Who could know? King and General would need to work together, though, as they always had in the past.

Morgravia and Briavel could rarely rest beyond a decade without waging war on each other. Magnus nodded to himself. Old Valor would be feeling creaky on his horse too. Perhaps they should just leave it to their children now, although Briavel had only a queen-in-waiting to govern it and a faint-hearted, fragile one at that. He had seen the Princess only once, at a royal marriage many years ago in faraway Tallinor when King Gyl had wed a civilian of no noble line, the honey-haired beauty Lauryn Gynt. All neighboring realms felt obligated to attend.

Magnus hated traveling out of Morgravia, but Fergys had counseled him gently, reminding him that Gyl’s father, old King Lorys. had been an ally to Morgravia many moons ago and a once-powerful sovereign of a vast realm. To snub his line by not attending the royal wedding would be unwise. Magnus had sensibly relented and with Fergys at his side had made the interminably long journey.

He had decided to take Celimus, which came as a surprise to the child’s minders. But Magnus, again at the urging of Fergys, wanted to spend time getting to know his son better. Without a mother to love him, the boy needed the strength and affection of his father to reassure and guide him. Fergys argued with Magnus that the visit provided an ideal opportunity to forge closer lines with his son. Embarrassingly, the boy showed an early aggression towards Briavel as Magnus had paid his respects to its monarch. The two Kings had stiffly bowed to each other but their curt salutations had been interrupted as Valor’s young daughter had suddenly become near-hysterical.

Granted, Celimus had looked decidedly guilty and the Princess’s doll was in several pieces on the flagstones of the reception hall but the racket that had ensued far outweighed the supposed deed. It was only a doll, for Shar’s sake, and the child’s terrible howling had clearly embarrassed her father. Magnus recalled how the plump, dark-haired girl had been run out of the hall by her maidservant, not to be seen again. He shook his head ruefully. She was no match for Celimus then and he knew she would be no match for the vain, often cruel man he had become. He wondered what would become of Morgravia and Briavel under their respective guidance.

But in truth, what worried him most was the threat from the north. Fergys had begged with dying words for Magnus to pay keen attention to the Mountain King. The Legion knew for a fact—had reported it on countless occasions—that Cailech’s people often slipped across the border. They were clever, rarely lingering, doing lightning-fast trips into and out of the realm for trade. He remembered his General’s warning: “It might be trade now. One day, Magnus, he’ll bring an army. He’s testing us. We must never allow him to feel comfortable.”

Magnus wondered whether Cailech and his people had made the same sorts of “trips” into Briavel. No doubt. He mused that the best response would be for the two heirs to the southern thrones to marry. Bind the realms, blend the armies. Scare off Cailech.

He laughed to himself at the fanciful thought of Morgravia and Briavel being on friendly terms. It was then the King realized he had been in his thoughts too long and it was only politeness that kept the two young men before him alert.

“My apologies,” he said softly.

“No need, sire.” Wyl replied, relaxing into the cushions at his back. “Your garden is so tranquil, I too feel myself drifting.” He smiled.

Magnus returned it. glad in his heart to see Wyl Thirsk at such ease. There was a time when he had worried for the boy. All that business with the witch several years ago was a distant memory, now, but he still regretted the death of that girl. He had hated witnessing the sight of her battered naked body tied to the witch post. Bah! Sorcery, he thought to himself, a lot of stuff and nonsense. He was glad he had finally rid Morgravia of the office of Confessor. He had personally dismissed Lymbert the day after Myrren’s burning, and with the Confessor’s demise the only remaining channel for the Zerques’ religious zeal had closed. It had been six years since the last witch-burning and, in another few, most of the older folk—the believers—would be dead and with them their fanatical pursuits. The battle would be fully won and the Zerque Order would no longer hold any influence in Morgravia. The prospect was a relief, for Magnus no longer had the strength to fight that battle in the little time left to him. He was sorry that a young woman had to die to remind him of his promise to rid the realm of the Zerques, and that others—including his General—had also suffered.

Gueryn had still been in shock when he met with Magnus and had described the strangeness that had overcome Wyl during the witch’s execution. He had also mentioned the lad’s eyes changing color. Magnus stole a glance at them now, relieved to see how ordinary they looked, a murky blue that Fergys had also possessed. The King had not believed Gueryn then and still maintained it was an aberration. When Wyl had regained consciousness properly and with the King’s own physics in full attendance, the lad had appeared perfectly normal. Self-conscious but no worse for the curious event.

Those same unremarkable eyes now regarded him with a faint trace of amusement sparkling in them. “A mynk for your thoughts, sire.”

The King was pulled from his ponderings, winked at Wyl. and turned his attention to his other guest. “Ah, Alyd. How remiss of me. You see what age does to you, lad? So waste no time, marry this bright young sister of Wyl Thirsk’s and my blessing upon you both. May love and laughter follow you in your lives,” Magnus said, adding, “…and in your bedchamber.” Alyd grinned at the King’s final comment. “Are we looking forward to seeing the pretty Ylena as a Newleaf bride?”

Alyd cleared his throat and a blush stole across his open, handsome face, which like Wyl’s had taken on a more angular look. His golden bright hair would probably still flop in his face if not for the short manner in which he styled it now. It suited him, together with the short beard and clipped moustache he now favored. Many a lass at Stoneheart would feel her heart break at the marriage announcement, the King realized.

“Your majesty, I can’t wait a moment longer. As soon as the royal tournament is done, we wish to make our union formal.”

“That soon?” Magnus replied, clearly surprised.

“I’ve tried, sire, to talk them out of it but there’s no stopping this pair, I’m afraid,” Wyl admitted. “Ylena’s determined to wed Alyd within the month.”

“Then so be it. Fare well at the tourney.” The King stood, towering over Wyl despite his stoop. He clapped a hand on Alyd’s shoulder. “And. Alyd, watch that handsome face of yours if you’re to stand in front of an altar a few days later.”

“Thank you, your majesty; nothing will happen to me, sire. Ylena and I will grow old and fat together.”

Their laughter was disturbed by the arrival of Celimus.

“Ah, father. I was sure I would find you here.”

Wyl and Alyd made stiff but courteous bows before the Prince.

“Forgive me, am I interrupting a private gathering?” he asked, the dazzling smile masking his contempt.

“No, son. Alyd here has just won my permission to wed his lovely Ylena. We were discussing the timing of the ceremony.”

“Congratulations, Alyd,” Celimus said, his smile not faltering. “I had always hoped to taste those rosy lips of Ylena Thirsk myself.”

Alyd felt Wyl’s stance stiffen yet more beside him. He always grabbed hungrily at the baits thrown him by the Prince. When would he learn to ignore him?

He replied in his usual deprecating manner. “Well, there’s such a long list of eligible beauties awaiting your attention, my Prince. I can’t imagine crossing Ylena off would matter to you much.”

“No. You’re right, it’s not such a loss really, is it?” the Prince said, enjoying watching Wyl bristle. “And you, General. What say you to this union? It must make you happy to see your sister off your hands and tumbling into the bed of a very rich Duke’s son.”

“Indeed, my Prince” was the only thing Wyl could think to say that sounded remotely polite.

“And when does this happy union take place?” Celimus persisted, pouring himself a cup of the wine.

Alyd answered, more than used to the chill that settled around this pair whenever they were near each other. “Soon after the royal tournament. Your father has given his blessing. Your invitation will arrive shortly, my Prince.” He gave the heir his very best smile.

Wyl sighed within. Even Alyd’s disarming looks were nothing compared to those of Celimus. The Prince of Morgravia had grown into a glorious-looking man, easily overshadowing the handsome youth he had been a few years previous. Taller now than his father, broad and slim-hipped, he could still the tongues of a room full of chatting people simply by his arrival, such was his impact.

“Then I shall have to dream up an appropriate wedding gift for the sister of our esteemed General here,” Celimus replied after draining his cup.

Magnus decided to bring the barbed conversation to a close. “Son. you came here to talk with me? Let me just bid farewell to my guests and we can sit together awhile.”

“No need, sire.” Celimus replied. “It involves these two fine soldiers—in fact their good opinions would be valuable.”

“Oh?” said the King, wondering what mischief might be afoot now.

“Yes, it’s about the tournament, Father. I wish to make arrangements for us to use real weapons.”

The King shook his head and made to move away. “You know my feelings on this, Celimus. I will not risk the heir.”

“My lord.” For one rare moment, Celimus lost his smirk and the tone which usually accompanied it. There was a plea in his voice now. “It is because I’m to be King of Morgravia one day that I beg this of you. We are not boys practicing in the bailey any more, father. We are trained soldiers. Thirsk here could cut down any man I know blindfolded…except me, of course.” His regular demeanor made its return. “This is no longer a time for play swords, father. Let us fight like men because we are men. You may need us on that battlefield sooner than you think and then we’ll have to die like men at the end of an ugly blade.”

Wyl leapt onto the Prince’s words. It would be one of the rare times in his role as General that he would agree with Celimus. “Your majesty, my Prince is right. This is an exhibition but let’s give everyone a genuine insight into hand-to-hand fighting.”

Magnus was cornered. In truth he did not know why he had fought so hard against the use of real swords; a small voice told him that it was because he had been afraid that Celimus and Wyl—even as youths—might have well fought to an ugly end. But here they stood, strong and bold; men bristling with barely repressed energy and passion.

He was making a fool of Celimus to make him fight with wooden weapons.

He nodded, resigned to their plea, and the three in front of him could hardly contain their pleasure at his concession.

The annual royal tourney was a major festival for Morgravia and the folk traveled from far and wide to partake of the festivities. Around the tournament fields grew a veritable village of traveling sideshows and marketers of exotic wares. A seemingly endless queue of gypsy wagons, tinkers’ carts, and country people lined up patiently at the city gates to gain entrance into Pearlis. Troupes of tumblers, singers, musicians, and even a small circus formed part of this line too.

The population on the outskirts of the northern end of the city where they held the tournament had doubled in two days, then quadrupled in four. Excitement was building and the local inns were enjoying their traditional busy season.

Magnus, having learned from past experience, was keen to ensure the city dwellers did not take advantage of the poorer visitors enjoying a day’s holiday from their backbreaking toil on the land. He sent out edicts that special fees were to be offered on accommodation, stables, eating houses, and watering holes. Through Wyl he set up a special crew of soldiers to make random checks on the various taverns to see that their ale was not too watered and that their food remained honest. Wyl chose Alyd to supervise this crew, knowing his friendly and open manner would ease the pain for disgruntled tavern proprietors out to double their fees.

Helmets and breastplates, the only armor Morgravian soldiers wore, were polished until they sparkled. Horses were groomed until their coats shone and weapons were oiled and sharpened so that sparks would ignite when they struck each other. The thrill of using real weapons had touched off a fire of excitement. Training in the lead-up to the day had never had a more fierce intensity.

Wyl had to constantly remind his men on the use of these weapons.

“Exhibition only. Don’t forget it. There will be ladies of the court present and a wealth of guests from all over the realm. We do not want the women passing out at the sight of flesh being opened by overzealous combatants.”

He had more advice on the other skills that would be on display.

“Yes, you heard me right.” he said above the indignant mutterings. “Wrestlers, oil up out front this year—I’m assured the women like to watch, and apparently so does Captain Donal,” he added, winning a roar of delight from his men, who clapped a furious yet helplessly amused Alyd on the back.

Wyl dismissed the men and caught up with Alyd. “I’d like to take you up on that sparring idea but I’m afraid I’m being reserved for a special piece.” he admitted grimly.

“Oh?” Alyd inquired, his mind racing as to what this might be. “Let me guess. The Prince?”

“Correct.”

“My guess then is that he plans to hurt you, and what better opportunity than in the name of entertainment at our most public festival?”

“He has to be able to get through my guard first.”

“I’ve watched him too, Wyl. He’s good.”

Wyl shrugged. “But perhaps not good enough. We’ll see in a few days.”

Alyd laughed. “And then we’ll celebrate at the Alley,” he said, a wicked glint in his eye.

But Wyl did not grin. “I need to share something. Celimus is planning more than just a humiliation for me. He aims to hurt me in more ways than physically. He wants to fight for the Virgin Kiss.”

“So?” Alyd looked perplexed. “I think I would too.”

“Mmm. But which virgin is he most likely to choose, do you think?”

Understanding struck Alyd like lightning. “Ylena,” he said flatly and stopped walking.

“Correct again.”

“I won’t permit it.” Alyd said, shaking his head wildly. “I will not allow that man’s lips to touch those of my betrothed.”

Wyl looked pained. He cast a glance around to see no one could overhear them. “It’s worse. He’s reintroducing the ancient form of this rite. It’s called Virgin Blood. It’s far more sinister than the Kiss, Alyd.” Wyl had only just been informed about this dark turn of events himself and he was now on his way to the King to seek an audience. “He means to bed Ylena before you.”

“Then he’ll have to kill me first,” Alyd replied, his voice cold and hard. “No, he’ll have to kill me,” Wyl answered.

When Wyl arrived to petition the King, Orto informed him that the sovereign was ailing—it seemed Magnus was far more fragile than Wyl had been previously led to understand. He was permitted to see his King, but only briefly, a hollow-eyed physic cautioned before leaving them alone.

“Hello, dear Wyl. I knew I would see you here before long,” the old man said.

Wyl was too diverted by the sickly appearance of his sovereign to hear the underlying message in those words.

“Sire, what ails you?” he asked, taken aback.

Magnus was propped up on a mound of cushions and, although his manservant had seen to it that he was perfectly groomed, nothing could disguise his newly sunken, pale visage.

“Can you not guess?”

Wyl was unprepared for this. Suddenly all notion of aggressive petitioning fled. It was clear the old man would not make it to the royal tournament, even less likely to Ylena’s wedding.

Magnus allowed his guest’s silence for a few difficult moments and then said what needed to be shared. “I am dying, Wyl.” The King held his hand up as his young visitor made to protest. “Please…sit with me a while. I have some things to say to you.” Magnus motioned for Wyl to take the seat next to his bed. Wyl obeyed, his mind running the King’s words over in his head. Dying.

“Ask me an intelligent question…the sort your father would want to know.”

Wyl did not feel like playing games but knew he must go along with his King’s request. He took a moment to consider before he spoke.

“I believe my father would want to know how long you might reckon we have.”

Magnus clapped his hands once. “Good, Wyl. Excellent. That is precisely what Fergys would have asked. No shallow sympathies, no dwelling on what cannot be changed. He would set aside any personal emotion and get on with the business at hand, which is what must be set in place before I depart.”

Wyl nodded. “Which in your estimation might be when, sire?”

“Ah well, my physic tells me with luck I may see the next full moon.”

Wyl felt as though a knife were turning in his gut. and sensed the person holding that knife was Celimus. It was too soon for the old man to die.

“Does your son know?”

“Another good question. No. I have not seen Celimus since that time in the garden with you and Alyd—and yet I have seen plenty of you since then. Odd, wouldn’t you say?” the old man asked genially. It belied how he truly felt.

Wyl did not know how to respond. He blinked. “I cannot imagine our lives without you ruling, sire.”

The King’s voice became earnest and his sunken eyes seemed to spark. “You must! You alone must have a vision for the protection of Morgravia because Celimus, though skilled enough in the tools and strategy of war, will not. His mind, sadly, is filled with debauchery just now.”

“My King, with deepest respect, I fear you may underestimate the Prince. He is ambitious.”

Magnus agreed. “I sense that is not a compliment to him, although you dissemble cleverly, General.” Wyl sensibly said nothing. “If he is ambitious, then he hides it well from me. However, I think you are right, Wyl. I too believe Celimus is not as shallow in his thoughts as he would have us all think.”

“No, sire. He has a razor-sharp mind, and if I might talk freely?” Magnus nodded.

“Then I would foresee that upon your death he will rule with a fierce hand.”

“This much is true. He may be subtle but he lacks the finesse and indeed the largesse I hoped he would have acquired by now. He is. however, true to Morgravia, I believe, and in this I commend him. He will not permit it to lag behind its neighbors…and neither must you, Wyl Thirsk. Briavel may make a move toward war again in the next few years, when it feels strong again.”

“It is the Mountain Dwellers who concern me more, sire.”

“Just like your father.” The old man sighed.

“He was right, your majesty.”

“Yes, he was. You must continue to strengthen our northern forces. Cailech grows more bold.”

“The retaliative skirmishes occur more often, sire. In days gone the Mountain Dwellers would flee if they encountered any of our patrols.”

Magnus sighed. “And now they stand and fight. Bold indeed. Your father warned as much with his last breath. You must pay attention to the north, son. It may be that Cailech takes on Briavel first, but it’s Morgravia that presents the greater challenge. If he can take Morgravia, then Briavel—when Valentyna ascends the throne—will be an easy victory.”

Wyl frowned in thought, recalling the most recent reports. “I don’t like us taking the Mountain People’s lives. It only inflames a potentially lethal situation and I have given an edict that they are to be spared on all counts. Taken prisoner if necessary.”

“Thank you. Fergys,” the King said, finding an ironic grin. “Oh, but you do remind me so hauntingly of him, Wyl. That’s exactly the sort of thing he would say.”

Wyl shrugged. “I don’t want us at war on two fronts. Cailech right now is controllable if we don’t incite problems. Perhaps, if we can calm the escalation, we might even be able to hold talks with him.”

Magnus flicked a glance at his General. “A parley with the King of the Mountains. I wish I could be there for that,” he mused.

Wyl could hardly believe they were having this conversation. He switched topic. “How do you feel, sire? Is there pain?”

“Of no consequence. It is manageable with the poppy-seed liquor.”

Wyl suspected Magnus of withholding the truth but he allowed it to pass. “Your majesty…Ylena’s wedding. Would you care to hand on the duty of giving her away? Perhaps to your next of kin?”

Magnus’s eyes became wide with mirth. “Celimus?”

Wyl swallowed hard. It was pride alone that prevented him from betraying how he really felt about such a situation.

“You are priceless, my boy.” The King enjoyed a feeble burst of laughter. Wyl already missed the bellow Magnus was known for. “You would do that…allow Celimus, the person I suspect you dislike more than any other, to have that honor?”

Wyl did not hesitate. “I would, sire…if it be your wish.”

Magnus fixed him with a more somber stare now. All mirth was gone. “Why couldn’t you have been my son. Wyl?” He clasped Wyl’s hand. “You are the one who should rule Morgravia.” The King’s eyes had gone misty.

Wyl cleared his throat. “It cannot be. your majesty.” he all but whispered. “You must not speak of this again.”

“Yes. but I think it all the time. You are fit to rule. The man who would be King has no compassion. I fear for our people. I fear for you.”

“Fret not about me. sire. I have his measure and he has my loyalty.”

“Does he, Wyl? Does he have your loyalty?”

Wyl wondered why the King would ask this of him a second time. He paused and searched himself. He came out of his thoughts wanting. “Sire, may I say this? If Celimus rules poorly he cannot expect my respect but I will pledge you this from the bottom of my heart: Morgravia has my loyalty. I will protect her to my dying breath.”

The King closed his eyes momentarily. When he opened them he nodded, squeezing Wyl’s hand in his own large fist. “It is enough for me. Wyl Thirsk.” He smiled. “As for Ylena, I would ask that Gueryn step in for me. He is as good as family to you, and your father would be pleased with such a choice.”

Wyl visibly relaxed. “Thank you. sire. I know that Gueryn would consider this an honor.”

“Keep him close to you. Wyl. He can watch your back like no other. And now to the real business at hand.” Magnus said, looking drained of all energy.

“Sire?”

“Why you came to see me today. I imagine this is to do with the tournament.”

“You know then?”

“About Celimus ensuring you and he are the main exhibition piece for swords? Yes. I believe though that you wish to talk to me about the Virgin Kiss and your suspicions that it is Ylena he will choose.”

This was a surprise. Wyl had underestimated his King and was reminded once again of what a wily pair Magnus and his father must have made in their prime. “Yes, your majesty. Except it has taken a darker turn. Celimus has announced he is upping the stakes.”

“Oh?”

“His plan is to claim Virgin Blood.” Wyl said, standing suddenly as his anger surfaced. “It is my suspicion that Celimus wants to bed Ylena before Alyd.”

Magnus said nothing, although a deep frown creased his brow. Wyl, unable to be still, paced.

Finally Magnus spoke. “This is very serious.”

Wyl spun around. “Can you not overturn it. my King?” he implored.

“You know I cannot. It would gravely undermine Celimus and reinforce his fear that I love and favor you.”

“He fears this?” Wyl spluttered.

“How could he not? He and I share nothing but our bloodline,” Magnus said firmly.

Wyl could see the King was tiring. He needed an answer and pushed a little harder. “He means to win, sire.”

“I realize this. In fact I think you’ll find that Celimus will never play his hand unless he is confident of winning.”

“So you cannot overturn this decree?”

“And I will not. Celimus is beginning to flex his muscles as the heir. You will have to play to his rules soon enough. This is your first test,” Magnus said with regret.

“What can I do? I cannot permit this.”

“Then don’t play into his hands. Can you best him on the field?”

“Yes.” Wyl replied confidently.

“Then you have nothing to worry about.”

“And still I do, sire.”

“Well, then you have to be even more cunning than he is. Use that wise head on your shoulders. There is a solution to every problem, my boy—those are your father’s words, by the way—and by Shar we always found those solutions in the nick of time. How long have you got?”

“Two more days after this, sire.”

“One more day than you need, then,” the old man said, his eyes glittering now. Wyl could not tell whether it was from the fever or because the King already had the answer. “And when is the wedding again, my boy?” he asked, his voice croaking.

“Month’s end, sire.”

“Ah, yes, you did say. Perhaps you should go about those arrangements then,” he said, again as though passing on some sort of underlying thought. “I am feeling rather fatigued. We shall speak again soon.”

And to all intents and purposes it appeared as Magnus closed his eyes that he was already drifting into a drugged slumber.

As if he could see through walls, the physic knocked and made his entrance. “With respect, sir, I would ask that the King be left to sleep now.”

“Of course.” Wyl said, pondering the cryptic nature of his sovereign’s words.