Gavlok and I left Cala Blenholme city about the sixth hour on Solstice Eve, heading north toward the Swan Lake region. My armigers Val and Wil, and my windvoice Vra-Mattis, newly come to the palace from Vanguard and Blackhorse duchies and Zeth Abbey respectively, were still unfamiliar to me. But they all seemed to be biddable lads and I looked forward to getting to know them better.
I was in a fine humor, anticipating exploration of my manor in the company of congenial men. For a short time at least, I would answer to no master but myself.
The great outdoor feast in the Cala Palace gardens had come to its conclusion by the tenth hour of Solstice Eve. While servitors dismantled the banquet boards, re-arranged the chairs and benches, and laid out the hardwood dancing floor with its flower-decked standards and strings of twinkling lanterns, the throng of high-born guests slipped away to chambers of ease inside Cala Palace to refresh themselves before the music began.
In the royal retirement room adjacent to the great hall, High Queen Risalla sat at a dressing table enduring the attentions of her personal maid, who was rearranging her hair. The Sovereign himself rested on a padded long chair, seeming to be lost in deep thought. He had hardly exchanged a dozen words with the queen since they had left the gardens. The room was warm and he wore only his black undertunic, hose, and soft ankle-boots, having shed his ornate overrobe of black tissue velvet with white gold ornamentation. His valet was busy daubing spirits of wine on a grease spot on one of the sleeves.
‘Sire,’ the queen said, ‘I have a special request to make of you.’
Conrig frowned absently. ‘What is it, madam?’ He had significant concerns of his own this evening, following a brief confidential talk with Earl Marshal Parlian Beorbrook towards the end of the feast. And there was also Ullanoth’s impending visitation…
‘I’m concerned about our children. With so many special events going on today, I had no time to look in on them. Your Reverend Brother dosed the boys with a physick he declared would surely cure them of their catarrh, and it’s true that Bramlow and Corodon seemed well on the road to recovery yesterday. But I’m worried about little Orry. He’s so much more delicate than the others.’
‘Send a page to inquire how the lad does,’ the preoccupied king said, only half listening.
Risalla waved the maid away, rose from her stool, and came to stand beside her husband. She was a woman of five-and-twenty whose face often seemed bland and plain in repose; but when she was animated, as now, her cornflower-blue eyes glowed with a disconcerting vigor. For the festivities she was attired in a high-waisted gown that revealed nothing of her six-month pregnancy. It was made of violet silk, embroidered about the low neckline with a pattern of vine leaves picked out in gold thread. A chain supporting a single large diamond pendant hung at her throat. Her honey-colored hair was dressed in a high coil of braids adorned with tiny twinkling sprays of gold wire and amethyst brilliants. A delicate golden diadem, yet to be pinned into place, waited on the dressing table.
‘No, husband,’ she said firmly. ‘Sending a page won’t do. I insist on going to the nursery myself, before Orrion and the others are put to bed. Do come with me! You haven’t visited the children all week.’
‘It won’t be long before the dancing begins,’ Conrig objected. ‘We have to step out first, as well you know. And after that we must prepare for the special visitation of the Queen of Moss.’
Risalla’s lips tightened in determination. ‘The housemen are only beginning to put up the lanterns around the dance ground. There’s ample time.’ She took his hand, drawing him to his feet. ‘Surely the Prince Heritor of Cathra is deserving of your sovereign attention.’
Something flickered in Conrig’s dark eyes. But then he let a slow, wintry smile soften his face. He was a tall man and well built, still youthful in appearance at thirty years of age, fine-featured with a short beard and hair the color of ripe wheat. The famous iron crown, originally the rusty top hoop on a small cask of tarnblaze but now polished and given a handsome blue-heat finish, lay unobtrusively on his brow.
‘Dear madam, you defeat me once again. We’ll surprise the little rascals at their supper, and I don’t doubt that we’ll find all of them in good fettle, save for their disappointment at having to miss the Solstice celebration.’ He said to the valet, ‘Trey, summon my escort. And carry on scraping off that splash of gravy while I’m gone.’
‘Thank you, sire – dearest husband.’ Risalla spoke with every evidence of humble diffidence before adding in a drier tone, ‘After all, it’s not as though the dancing could begin without us. And Conjure-Queen Ullanoth is a very patient woman…or so I’ve heard.’
Conrig Wincantor, Sovereign of High Blenholme, stood with his wife outside the closed door to the royal nursery. A look of contained chagrin stiffened his features. Shrieks of childish laughter, furious shouts from an adult female, and the sounds of smashing crockery were audible through the thick oaken planking. The household knights of the royal escort kept straight faces with difficulty, while the two palace guards on duty in the corridor came to attention and smote their polished cuirasses in salute.
Inside the nursery, there was a jarring thud and someone began to scream hysterically. A shrill voice cried, ‘I’ll catch him!’
‘Oh, my,’ Queen Risalla murmured, with a sidelong glance at the king.
Conrig scowled and addressed the senior door guard. ‘What the devil is going on in there, Sergeant Mendos?’
‘I ‘spect it’s the monkey, Your Grace,’ said the guardsman, his countenance wooden. ‘Little Prince Bramlow commanded that it join them for supper. Viscountess Taria’s abed today with a megrim and the younger ladies and the nursemaids haven’t a lick o’ sense among the lot of ‘em, so they agreed. Silly wenches thought it’d be fun to see the wee beast sit down at table with the royal lads. Cheer ‘em up, like, since they couldn’t attend the festival. I said it was a bad idea –’
‘Bazekoy’s Bones!’ growled the king. ‘Where’s the creature’s keeper?’
‘Gone away, sire. The young ladies made him leave. He didn’t want to let the monkey off its chain, y’see, and Their Graces insisted.’
‘Fetch the stupid cullion,’ Conrig snapped. ‘I’ll teach him to tend to his duty!’ He hauled the door open and entered the nursery, followed by the queen. The knights of the royal escort tactfully remained in the corridor.
The large suite of rooms housing the royal children was illuminated by mellow twilight entering through open casement windows. On a food-splattered but otherwise empty table in the center of the supper area stood a sturdy boy some four years of age: Prince Bramlow, the oldest son of Conrig and Risalla. He was barefoot, wearing a red nightrobe as befitted an acolyte of Zeth, and held a bunched tablecloth in his hands as he stared keenly up at the unlit iron chandelier overhead.
A monkey the size of a large housecat sat on one of the candle-arms. It clutched a bowl of strawberries and chittered with evil glee as it pelted the human inhabitants of the room with well-aimed pieces of fruit. The floor around the table was littered with capsized furniture, broken plates, cups, spoons, and scattered cushions – all commingled in a soggy mass of spilt porridge, slices of bread, mashed berries, and a pool of milk spreading from a cracked pitcher.
Two very young ladies-in-waiting huddled together behind a wooden settle, weeping, their fine clothes rumpled and splashed with berry juice. A third noblewoman, somewhat older, stood with her back to the far wall. The giggling two-year-old boy struggling in her arms was Prince Heritor Orrion, who seemed to be in good health. His twin brother Corodon jumped up and down and squealed with laughter. A pair of nursemaids approached the table, glaring up at the monkey. One maid brandished a broom and the other held a clothes basket at the ready.
‘Here goes!’ Bramlow cried out to them, shaking the tablecloth