Roger Taylor - The call of the sword

Eldric nodded.

Darek spoke unexpectedly. ‘Regrettably our busi-ness can’t wait. We must see the King now. Take us to him.’

His voice was cold and severe and caused a cascade of twitchings to envelop Dilrap. Eldric turned and looked at Darek sternly. He did not speak, but his expression made it clear that Darek should rein in his anger more tightly. Darek’s face did not change. Eldric turned again to the Secretary.

‘If you please, Honoured Secretary. Our business is indeed urgent, as I’m sure you’re aware. Will you conduct us to the King?’

As Dilrap bustled back through the winding corri-dors of the Palace, he was acutely aware of the four grim men restraining their strides to keep just behind him. The click of their hard-shod heels on the marbled floor and the creak and clatter of their leather clothing and weapons punctuated the continuous hissing of his own robes and his anxious and noisy breathing.

They paused only once on their relentless march, when a familiar figure emerged from a small ante-chamber. Tall and straight, with black hair and searching brown eyes, Rgoric’s queen was a beautiful woman, for all the strain of her husband’s long illness would haunt her face on occasions. A rider in the Muster, daughter of Urthryn, the Ffyrst of Riddin, Sylvriss exuded a presence that drew all eyes to her, and she was loved and respected universally by the Fyordyn.

Clad in a long simple robe, she dominated the group more than any man could have, but other than to acknowledge their formal greetings, she did not speak. It was obvious why the Lords were there, and facile small-talk between them at that moment was as inappropriate as serious discussion was impossible. But she held Eldric’s gaze for a long moment, in a silent reaffirmation of her loyalty both to what he represented and to her husband, and an acknowledgement of all the complex realities that that implied.

Be true , the gaze said.

Then with a brief bow, she was gone, and the group continued its way, though a little more slowly, their stern resolve tempered now by sadness.

‘Honoured Secretary, where are you taking us? This isn’t the way to the Audience Room,’ said Eldric as Dilrap turned unexpectedly into a wide, lavishly decorated passage. Hitching his robe back onto his left shoulder he looked awkwardly at Eldric out of the corner of his eye.

‘Lord, the King holds council in the Throne Room these days,’ he replied, then he bustled ahead quickly as if to avoid questions. A hiss of anger reached him which he clearly identified as Darek’s and, without turning round, he knew that Eldric would be once again admonishing his friend.

With an almost audible sigh of relief he reached the doors to the Throne Room. They were guarded by two black-liveried men. The Lords exchanged glances. They had continually encountered Guards wearing this livery since arriving at the palace. It was the livery they had seen the previous night being worn by the marching troop that the servant had identified as the King’s High Guard. Hitherto they had not spoken to any of them, but as one of them turned an icy and insolent gaze towards them, Eldric could not forbear.

‘Which Lord do you serve, Guard?’ he asked. ‘I don’t recognize your livery.’

The man did not answer, but turned away and put his hands on the ornate handles of the double door. Eldric’s eyes widened and his face became livid. Dilrap intervened swiftly.

‘They’re only allowed to speak to their superior officers, Lord. The man means no disrespect. Doubtless His Majesty will explain when you speak to him.’

Eldric seemed disposed to pursue the matter, but the guard had opened the two doors wide, and was standing in his original position, staring straight ahead, eyes apparently unfocussed. Eldric looked at him and then along the stretch of carpet leading into the centre of the Throne Room. Dilrap was already wobbling along it into the distance, to announce their arrival to the King, and no time could be spared to deal with this upstart and his silent impertinence. Clenching his fists, he gave the guard a murderous scowl and then strode forward to meet the King.

The Throne Room was the largest hall in the Palace and was normally used only for ceremonial occasions and large banquets. It had two wide balconies running along each side, the upper one being the larger, and the lower one being supported by a wall perforated by a line of arches, forming a gloomy corridor which gave the appearance of a series of alcoves.

Spring sunshine flooded in through a single large window at the end of the hall, but it mingled unpleas-antly with the unnecessary glare of Dan-Tor’s globes. Rows of arms and armour lined the hall and glinted coldly in the unhealthy light.

The four Lords marched the length of the hall in that purposeful and measured tread that could carry the Fyordyn High Guards tirelessly over miles of the harsh Fyorlund countryside. None gave any sign that they had seen the lines of black liveried guards standing mo-tionless around the hall, their full numbers being hidden in the gloom of the arches.

The Throne itself was set on a stepped dais so that its foot stood at about the height of a tall man. It was a great stone creation, undecorated, but highly polished, and it glistened with a myriad coloured minerals. Once, under the subtle touch of the traditional torchlight, it had radiated colours as from an inner glow. Now it glared garishly.

One of the many reasons the Throne Room was not used for small audiences was the fact that the Throne itself was monumentally uncomfortable. This gave rise to two theories concerning its manufacture, namely, on the one hand and somewhat mundanely, that it was indeed intended only for occasional ceremonial use, while on the other, more irreverently, that it was made for a King who had spent much of his life in the saddle.

This lack of comfort was immediately apparent in the posture of its present occupant. Eldric always felt a twinge of distress whenever he saw the King, the memory of what he had been always being close to the forefront of his mind. The tall, proud bearing hunched into permanently rounded shoulders, the lean hand-some face turned cadaverous, the keen eyes now shifty and the strong mouth peevish and pinched. Oddly however, what distressed him most were not these visible features, which at least carried an echo of the former man, but the touch of the King’s hand. Once warm and firm, it had become cold and flaccid, like a dead thing.

As the four Lords approached, the King wearily shifted his position, and resting his elbow on the stone arm of the throne, cradled his head in his hand. He acknowledged their slight formal bow with a cursory nod of his head and gestured towards Dilrap, now quivering by the side of the dais and trying to appear inconspicuous.

‘Lords,’ he began, his voice weary, ‘my Honoured Secretary tells me you have urgent business to discuss with me. Business so urgent that you must disturb me when my health is again far from perfect.’ Briefly, his face became petulant. ‘A King should look for more concern from his Lords.’

‘Majesty,’ said Eldric, ‘you know of our concern for your well-being, and that we would not lightly seek to disturb you. But as members of your Geadrol we… ’

The King leaned forward and looked straight into Eldric’s upturned face.

‘The Geadrol is suspended, Lord Eldric. You’ve seen my edict have you not?’

Eldric returned the gaze steadily. There was a long silence.

‘Majesty, we have indeed seen your edict. It’s one of the reasons why we’ve asked to see you,’ he replied quietly.

‘One of the reasons,’ burst out the King. ‘Do you then have a catalogue of complaints, Lords?’

Darek took half a pace forward as if to speak, but Hreldar laid a restraining hand on his arm. Eldric looked again directly into the King’s face, searching for the truth behind what was happening, searching for a way to reach the real man who lay behind the petulant, almost crazed eyes. He continued in the same quiet tone.