David Feintuch: The Still

I asked, “Do the herbs help?”

“I’m long beyond that.” Mother’s tone was cross. “As well you know.”

“Lord Tannel said-”

“Elwyn Tannel is a fool, like all surgeons and physickers. If I didn’t chew his dreadful lozenges he’d nag me to my grave faster than this disease of wasting.” She grimaced. “Lord knows of what the tablets are made. Stable droppings and frog’s bowels, or whatever Estland vogue holds sway this season.”

I kneaded my knuckles, waiting.

She asked, “You rode with Rustin?”

“He was attending Llewelyn. Ebon and I raced almost to Whiecliff before the clouds gathered.”

“With Elryc and Pytor?”

“No!” I grimaced. “I see enough of my brothers.” If I let them, they’d follow me everywhere. Elryc, eleven, sniffed constantly, and Pytor whined more man any boy of eight should be allowed. They trailed me about the castle grounds, sometimes urging me to join their games, but often merely to see what I was about. Perhaps they even reported to some inquisitive noble of Stryx. We were none of us free from schemes, liaisons, intrigues of state.

Trust was for commoners, who had naught to forfeit.

“I met our outguard patrol, Mother. Tantroth remains in his hills; no sign that his folk approach.” Not that we really expected him to lunge, yet.

Her voice gentled. “I’ll try to give you time, Roddy.”

She had so little time to give. I kept my expression hard, lest she and Hester think me a weak mewling youngsire.

Mother said, “Tantroth will wait, at least ’til I fall into unwakeable sleep and the family gathers to glean my last breath. The Norduke may covet our crown, but he’s not fool enough to risk his head.”

Our crown. I thrilled. As eldest son of Elena Queen, mine would be the inheritance, but I must ever be cautious. Until her death Mother had power to renounce me, and in that case, I were nothing. Despite our frequent harsh words, I’d never truly had reason to think she’d cast me down, but one treads lightly in the halls of kings.

Mother’s voice dropped. I strained to hear over the steady drumbeat of rain on the ledge. “Roddy, concern yourself with more than Tantroth. On my death he’ll strike for city and crown, but other hands crave the realm. With luck they’ll thrust him back before turning on each other. Then, you-”

“Which lords would seize the throne?”

“Margenthar, Groenfil, half the earls of the realm. They-”

My tone dripped disdain. “What petty Powers have they to threaten Stryx? The bark of dogs?”

“Scorn not what you don’t ken. Groenfil’s gales topple oaks on his peasants’ cribs, and Cumber could set our keep ablaze if the mood came upon him. Any of them would seize the kingdom, given-”

“But Uncle Mar is my godfather.”

“Interrupt again, boy, and I’ll send you to Willem!”

On the bedcover, out of Mother’s view, my fist tightened. She kept me a child, or tried to, when I’d become a man.

Mother seized my wrist. Off balance, I nearly fell across her bosom. “Mar is your uncle by birth, and your godfather by maneuver.” Her voice grated in wrath, whether at me or Uncle Mar, I knew not. “Yet first and always, he’s Duke of Stryx, with sons of his own and ambition that burns. That’s why his pledged troops are barred from Stryx. If you think his pledge of loyalty weighs against his aspiration, you’re a fool!” She panted for breath.

Time to regain her respect. I raised an eyebrow. “Madam, do you mistake my inexperience for idiocy?”

It brought a pleased smile, as I knew my calm assurance would. Her voice softened. “No, else I wouldn’t waste my dying hours plotting with you.” She patted my hand.

“Are you …” My voice shot into the upper register; I fought it down to a tenor. “Is it near that time?” It was all I could manage to hold her gaze.

“Not quite yet.” She attempted a smile, but pain stabbed and turned it to a frown. “Perhaps I’ll rally again. When you’re eighteen, you’ll be safe. Well, no one is ever truly safe, but with the Still …”

“I’m sixteen. What if-”

“Fifteen.”

Two months weren’t enough to matter. “What if I’m not yet eighteen when you …” I couldn’t say it to her face.

“Rodrigo, we die. Your father Josip did, I’m working at it. You will too, in your own time. It’s no disgrace. Say it!”

I sighed. “If I’m not eighteen when you die.” Mother had her ways. I had to submit; else I might find myself slung across Chamberlain Willem’s table, gasping from the blows of his strap.

She nodded her satisfaction. “Was that so hard? Now, once you gain the crown you’ll have your wits to protect you. And hopefully, the Still.” Her eyes darted to me. “Have you-?”

I shook my head, unwilling to trust my voice.

“Control yourself, at any cost”

“Mother!” I sought another topic, but not before my ears flamed and my humiliation was complete.

“Did you hear?”

I snarled, “How could I not?”

“To wield the Power, you must-”

“I know!” Could I for a moment forget, with her constant harping? I bounded to my feet. “Mother, I’ve appointments to keep. Good day. I hope you feel better.”

Her voice snapped like a whip. “You have no leave!”

Fuming, I sat again.

“Immature child! Insolent whelp! Is it any wonder I fret?”

I swallowed. “I’m sorry, Mother.” She could be pushed just so far, and without intent, I’d overstepped the line.

She regathered her breath. Then, “If I don’t recover, even with the Still, the risk is great.”

“Will they go for my life?”

“Yes.”

My stomach churned, but I let nothing show in my face.

She added, “Not at first, I judge. A regency, so they’ll have time to set their men in place. Later, a sudden accident, a flux of the intestines. Perhaps a stray arrow. The kingdom will pass into their hands.”

“What should we do?”

A sigh. She lay back, her face gray and pained.

Old Hester, disregarding rank and propriety, tottered across the bedchamber, hauled me from the bed. “Say your farewells and begone to your stables. She needs rest.”

I shook off the old crone’s arm, but even I could see Mother was played out. “Good-bye, Mother.” My tone was stiff, as befit a prince to his Queen.

Weary, drifting, she nodded, murmured something I could not hear. I made my bow, turned to leave. As the door creaked open her words came more clearly. “The Power. It is key to all. Be True and it will not fail.”

Before I could respond, Hester shooed me from the room like an irate hen.

I strode past the rooms of Mother’s maids in waiting to the iron-studded door that segregated the Queen’s quarters from the body of the donjon. Slamming it behind me, I stalked to the great stone central stairs of Castle Stryx. No one was about. I perched sidesaddle on the wide walnut banister, slid down to the ground level of the keep.

In the lower hall a servant on a stool dug wax from a sconce; as I hurtled past he gave a startled yelp. Nonchalantly, I hopped off the rail, paused to look about as if to survey our citadel for the first time.

Here at the foot of the stairwell, one passed into a wide vaulted chamber that served as Castle Stryx’s banquet hall and assembly place.

To the right of the massive stair, an entryway led to the vaulted offices where Mother’s chamberlain, Willem of Alcazar, managed the business of the household and oversaw Griswold’s stables, the cooks, and the various servants. In the opposite wing, Margenthar, Duke of Stryx, maintained his sumptuous quarters.

Uncle Mar. Mother’s only brother. He had his own castle at Verein, but lived much of the year with us. From his apartments in Castle Stryx he conducted affairs of state, as Mother’s surrogate.