From the back cover:
When a poisoner attempts to murder Surchatain Ares—again—Ares decides the time has come to step down from the throne and go underground to find out who is trying to take over the province. In his clandestine searches, he discovers a hidden room containing a vast cache of gold.

While Ares is preoccupied with establishing a link between the gold and his would-be assassin, Henry is experiencing his own torments in getting his betrothed, Ares’ daughter Sophie, to agree to a wedding date. However, prompting her to act turns out to be a trivial matter compared to his discovery that the task of arranging his nuptials has been assigned to Westford’s chief tormenter: his sister Renée.


CHAPTER ONE

Twenty-four-year-old Henry sat staring at the bare stone walls in front of him. His heart pounded; his throat was dry; his eyes burned. He looked down at his trembling knees and gripped them to still them by force. He swallowed with effort, glancing around the cell-like room. The wooden table, planed smooth for writing, stood in front of him, but since Ares—Henry’s surrogate father and Surchatain—had moved all his documents, writing utensils, and maps to the upstairs receiving room years ago, there was nothing but ink stains left on the table now.

They were an inadequate distraction. He concentrated momentary efforts on scraping off a bit of sealing wax with his thumbnail, then wiped his moist hand on his uniform pants and looked around again. After Ares had relocated upstairs, this room reverted to its original use as a discreet place to wait off the great hall—a holding room for persons who would be objects of interest at open audiences, like the one that had just commenced.

The door leading into the great hall was barely cracked to allow for ventilation, as the late summer day was stiflingly hot for Westford. No other summer in Henry’s memory matched this year’s for its oppressive heat. The sweat made his woolen dress uniform so heavy on his back that he tossed off the decorative cloak in defiance of protocol. The only other adornment he wore was the Blue insigne on his collar. Since Ares had appointed Henry his Chatain—his heir—two years ago, none of the officers of the Lystran army felt compelled to give him any additional rank. There were too many other good men vying for promotion. Henry tugged at his damp collar to loosen it. He had forgotten that, for today’s ceremony, the hollow of his throat must be exposed.

The cracked door allowed little cool air to find its way into the room, even with the other door to the stairs standing open. But it did enable him to hear the proceedings in the great hall beyond. He caught glimpses of Ryal, Commander Thom’s son, standing at his post outside the door. Ryal, now 12 years old, was Henry’s page, and attended him with the same tick-like obstinacy with which Henry had once attached himself to Ares.

Henry chuckled nervously to himself as he discerned a crowd of hundreds gathering in the hall. Crammed together like penned fowl on their way to market, those who unwisely chose to dress in their finest scarlets and woolens would be miserable right now. Henry comforted himself by picturing Lord Roschlau on the verge of a dead faint. Then again, the lord had dropped so much gold attempting to mine worthless greenstone, Henry didn’t know how grand a wardrobe he had left.

Henry sat up, hearing the Commander call the crowd to order. The unusually large crowd was due partly to the masses that were already at the palace before the audience had even been announced. All these people! Where did all these people come from? Didn’t they have jobs, have homes? The hotter it got outside, the more they seemed to throng to the palace’s shade. But it wasn’t any cooler here.

At the sound of the Commander’s voice, Henry closed his eyes, briefly whelmed by gratitude. Having received his entire training in command under Ares, Thom now replicated the strength and courage of his master—which was the main reason he was participating in this event today. “Order! Silence! . . . This audience is called for you to hear the Surchataine Nicole speak, and you will listen.”

Of course they would listen; that was why they had convened. But today required an authoritative voice to command them to listen: to know that what was to be shortly announced would be a declaration—not a suggestion, nor a call for consensus. Normally, the Counselor would announce an open audience, but Vogelsong just didn’t have the wind power that today’s opening required. Georges, the venerated dinner master, did, but—he was too old to project the power also required.

So, significantly, Thom had been chosen for the task. Years of yelling at his troops had imparted the necessary roughness to his voice; with lines underscoring his cool blue eyes, he stood in his prime as Commander, his face masked by a short, bristly beard streaked with premature grey. The sum total of his appearance gave the proper weight to the forthcoming announcement—in addition to the soldiers that stood guard all around the hall.

The crowd quieted; although Henry could not see Nicole, he pictured her rising from the scrolled wooden throne to speak. Ten years his senior, mother of 16-year-old twins, she was still, somehow, the girl of the marshes who had won disinterested Ares’ heart 17 years ago by almost knocking him down in the palace foyer. Although she had traded her rough cotton and linsey-woolsey for silks and satins, she retained the slender figure and long, chestnut hair of the village girl who clambered over rocks at low tide. And though her trips to the coast were infrequent due to the demands on her as Surchataine, she had never lost her love of the Sea.

Today, she spoke in a clear, full voice that those toward the front of the hall, including Henry, could hear easily. (Those relegated to standing in the back would have to glean by pantomime what was going on.) “Thank you, good nobles and citizens, for attending this audience at a turning moment of Westford’s history. You have all heard, I am sure, that Surchatain Ares collapsed two mornings ago, and has been abed since. [There was no way to hide it: Ares had fallen unconscious at a council meeting in front of a score of witnesses.] We feel—that the time of his departure from this life is at hand. Therefore, according to his stated will and instruction, and with the consent of Westford’s council and highest administrators, I come before you today to appoint his Chatain and heir, Henry, as lawful Surchatain of Lystra. Henry, stand forth.”

While sandy-haired Ryal threw open the door, beckoning urgently, Henry sprang up from the chair and promptly knocked over the small table. He paused to right it, then move it out of his path to the door. Emerging to directly face the audience, he turned to the side steps leading up to the dais, thereby catching the steadfast gazes of the Commander, the Counselor, and the Surchataine. Apparently, they’d heard the banging. Henry managed to make it up the steps on unreliable knees to stand before the woman who had embraced him as her son even before she knew she would never have one of her own. She was wearing a jeweled tiara that Henry thought he’d not seen before. He did not remember his real mother wearing it. He did not remember her at all—that place in his memory was occupied solely by Nicole. Commander Thom and Counselor Vogelsong stood behind them on the dais; Ryal elbowed his way to stand at the front of the crowd, right at Henry’s feet.

Nicole looked up at Henry, wondering how the frail seven-year-old she had first met had somehow grown into this sturdy, handsome young man with tousled blond hair and pale grey eyes. His wilderness exile of two years (that commenced when he was 20) was still stamped upon him, not only in the brownness of his face and the habitual squint of his eyes, but in the meaningless leper’s brand on the back of his right hand, now crossed with the scar of a blade. “Kneel, Henry,” she whispered.

“Oh, yes. I forgot,” he breathed, dropping to his knees and lifting his chin.

Thom held out to Nicole the gold, jewel-encrusted hilt of an ancient ceremonial falchion, forged during a forgotten Surchatain’s reign predating that of Ares’ great-great-grandfather, Roman. For this audience today, Vogelsong had also found (and circulated in Westford) the text of equally old Rites of Assumption. These were alluded to, but not commanded, in Roman’s Law, but the Counselor wished to bring every validating force to bear on this ceremony.

Taking the heavy sword, Nicole turned to Henry and laid the sharp, curved tip at the base of his throat, in the hollow where his collarbones met. This action, supposedly, served two purposes: to remind Henry of his human frailty, and to warn him that should his life or reign prove unsatisfactory to the highest Judge, he would be skewered in a special hell (according to a stern old divine). Vogelsong had found dark references to the fact that some long-ago Counselor, dissatisfied with the choice of Surchatain or his oath, hastened the candidate’s judgment by skewering him on the spot, in the flesh. But that was not one of Henry’s concerns today.

Nicole said, “Henry, do you swear to rule Lystra in justice and mercy, according to the Law of Roman, with all wisdom and strength God has given you, in concert with the wishes of your father Ares?” Tears sprang to Henry’s eyes, and he was momentarily struck dumb. He did not know that the oath would entail that particular wording—your father Ares. Henry felt that he had been protesting all his life that Ares was his father, rather than Cedric the Idiot. To have Nicole assert that now, before hundreds of people, almost rendered him speechless when a reply was mandatory. “I swear it,” he choked out.

“Then as Surchataine of Lystra, with the consent of the Council, by the authority of the Law of Roman, I proclaim you Surchatain. Arise, Henry, and be recognized.” She removed the point from his throat so that Henry could stand, then she grasped the blade to extend the hilt to him. Receiving it signified his acceptance of the burdens of rulership; a crown would come later.

Taking the falchion, Henry turned to the crowd to extend the sword heavenward, as he had been coached. There was a polite, subdued smattering of applause in return. Seeing the deficiency of response, Ryal raised his hands to supplement it, but the quick, reproving eye of his father stilled him, because the approval of a page meant nothing. The Steward Giles, standing in front, missed his cue to lead the audience in cheers and hearty applause. But he could be excused: being so heavily swathed in brocade, he was fortunate to still be on his feet.

It had been a gamble to exclude from these proceedings so many supporters who were favorable to Henry’s ascension, but the consensus was reached among the palace administrators that space in the hall must be reserved for the powerful nobles and merchants of Westford who were ambivalent or hostile to Ares’ choice. Giles, having so many friends among these nobles, was planted in the audience to encourage a show of acceptance of Henry’s ascension. The possibility of holding the rites outdoors was also entertained, until the Second Rhode pointed out that it would also draw rabble that incited riots for fun.

Renée, Henry’s half-sister and his elder by twelve years, was also directly in front of the dais, as her status dictated. She patted her hands together with elegant restraint and little noise, watching with a half-smile as he awkwardly lowered his sword at the cool reception. Incidentally, no one crowded Renée. Her full, stiff dress, wonderful for dancing which was done all too infrequently these days, was enough to keep most errant bodies firmly away. Those few who had the audacity to press closer received her icy stare and the mute assurance of banishment from the Surchatain’s dinner table.

The former Chataine Renée was still beautiful, not as plump as a year ago, having been rudely convinced of the necessity of curtailing food and wine after being mistaken from behind for her mother at Lord Preus’ shop. The passing of youth had not devastated her, nor had the disappointments of three failed marriages (two divorces and one death. However, since Renée considered herself a political pawn of the first marriage and a widow of the second, she managed to erase the stigma of divorce altogether—from her mind.)

Despite the fact that she was proud of her little brother and determined to milk his position to the greatest possible extent, it still amused her to see anyone (other than herself) sweat in front of a crowd. There was, perhaps, the tiniest impulse of her sadistic grandfather lurking inside of her.

Glancing over the unenthusiastic crowd, Nicole murmured, “Perhaps now would be a good time for the words you’ve prepared, Henry.”

He cleared his throat, looking at scores of curious, reserved faces. Wetting his lips, he called loudly, “You know who I am. You know that I was reared by Ares himself from my infancy. I have the Surchataine Nicole, and Counselor Vogelsong, and Commander Thom to guide me—”

“Is the Surchatain dead, then?” a voice called back.

Henry’s eyes glazed slightly, though he must have known that the question would arise. Nicole was not wearing the black of mourning, but a luxurious embroidered gown of dusty rose silk, modest, as befitting a Surchataine presiding over the Rites of Assumption. This selection was also reached by consensus: for her to appear in mourning, even in the moments before Henry’s ascension, could spark violence for the throne. As it was her choice of clothing that appeared to confuse the issue, she chose to respond: “It is as I said. Doctor Savary is attending him. Ares’ last stated wish was for a peaceful transition of the rulership to the heir of the Council’s choosing, and that is Henry.” She looked not quite angry, but there was no mistaking her firmness: she was not to be cowed.

“Then he is as good as dead,” someone else said.

“Let us honor him with burial, then think on this young man’s claims,” another added.

“Where are the Chataines?” someone else called. “Why isn’t Chataine Sophie here as witness? She’s his betrothed.”

Nicole hesitated; this was also a major sticking point in the proceedings. Her beautiful daughters, identical twins, were highly in demand for public appearances. And yes—Sophie should by all means be present. But she and Bonnie were both so devastated by news of their father’s condition that they could not bear the scrutiny at present. The question of whether to proceed with the Rites of Assumption or to wait had produced a wracking debate among the administrators. Nicole finally threw her weight behind making the immediate announcement—so it was decided.

“Why doesn’t the Surchataine take the throne as she ought, and let the young man mature?” another questioner posed.

Nicole’s eyes lit on the speaker near the front: Roschlau, wearing a bitter smile. When other voices seconded this suggestion, she discerned that he made it because he thought that if someone as weak as he assumed her to be held the throne, then it would be easy pickings for someone else more to his liking.

She exploded. “Henry has already been vested! Accept him or not! But know that we will deal with any treachery exactly as the Law allows. This audience is ended. You are dismissed!”

At this command, accompanied by a curt wave of her hand, soldiers began ushering out members of the audience. Only those who exited swiftly on their own were not given a physical assist—except, of course, the palace residents.



While the audience hall was emptying, Nicole turned to Thom to murmur, “Clear the palace as well, please, Commander.” That meant all merchants or envoys who were lounging around, hoping for an administrator’s ear, would have to cool their heels in one of Westford’s fine inns, taverns or public rooms for a time. And the rest of the hangers-on who had no business at all in the palace would be the first to go. “Yes, Surchataine.” Thom nodded to a lieutenant nearby.

It required little time for the soldiers to clear the hall, then the lower floor, of everyone who did not belong in the palace. Meanwhile, those remaining in the hall waited, watching bodies being hustled through the foyer to the great palace doors. Henry descended the dais in despondence, feeling that had he performed as he ought, they would have been more accepting. Then again, who could take Ares’ place? Ryal grasped his hand in solidarity, gazing up at him. Henry squeezed his hand before dropping it.

Giles, his face shiny with sweat, hurried up to Henry and Nicole to affirm, “They will come to their senses, Surchataine. With a little time, and seeing that Henry—Surchatain Henry—” His voice died at the title, and he stared at the young man in sudden disbelief. Little Henry, whom he’d watched grow up? The grandson of Talus the Usurper? What could have possessed Ares to name him his heir?

With faint humor, Henry eyed the silver fringe of kinky hair spreading beneath Giles’ brocade hat. “You’re getting unnecessarily worked up, Giles. Just remember that Nicole will be telling me what to do.” Giles directed his stare at Nicole, whom he still saw as the peasant girl from Prie Mer, and his gape did not change.

Renée brought her regal presence toward the Surchataine, whom she ever regarded as her inferior, despite inconvenient flip-flops in rank. “May I see Ares now, dearest?” Renée murmured silkily. Thom interrupted, having received a report at the door.

“The palace is cleared, Surchataine.”

“Thank you, Commander. I’m sorry, dear Renée; the viewing must wait. Come, Henry,” Nicole said, lifting her skirts to move away.

As she started for the door with Henry on her heels, Renée, behind them, said, “He was the only man I ever loved, you know.”

Several heads swiveled between the two women. Nicole merely murmured over her shoulder, “I know.” Henry motioned his page to wait; then they two hurried out while Thom eyed Renée stonily.

Renée looked back at him with a corner of her painted lip curled. She wore heavy makeup—chalk on her face to presumably hide wrinkles while, in fact, accentuating them, and thin lines of charcoal around her eyes. Smoothing her elaborate blond coif, she purred, “Dear Nicole is so strong. It’s just amazing. One would think that as much as they loved each other, she’d be a bucket of tears right now.”

Thom looked down at his son. “Fetch the Seconds and the captains to my rooms.”

“Yes, sir.” With the look of a knowing child, Ryal sprang away.

Henry and Nicole hastened up the wide stone stairway. On the second floor, they turned down the Surchatain’s wing. A sentry sprang from the door of the twins’ receiving room to intercept them, saluting.

“Surchataine, the Chataines request your presence.”

Nicole hesitated, then nodded to Henry, “You go to him. I will come shortly.” Assenting, Henry entered the door to his left as Nicole went into the girls’ room a little farther down and across the corridor. Both young ladies quickly looked up at her entrance. Bonnie rose from the brocade settee, and Sophie turned from the window across the room. Although the window stood wide open, the room was uncomfortably warm, especially for the heavy black silk mourning dresses the girls wore and the white veils that covered their long hair—chestnut, like their mother’s. While Nicole, being Surchataine, was free to wear whatever she chose to open audience, court protocol required mourning for the children of a Surchatain on his deathbed.

“Oh, Mama!” Bonnie cried, throwing herself with such force onto her that Nicole was forced down to the settee. Sophie came over to sit weakly on her other side. Both girls were pale and red-eyed.

“I’m sorry, Mama,” Sophie whispered, tears standing in her eyes. “I know I should have been there for Henry. I just. . . could not. . . . Did it go well?”

“Oh, Mama, what shall we do? We must get married at once!” Bonnie said breathlessly. Her betrothed, Ben, was a lieutenant in the Red Regiment, and a favorite of Ares’.

“Yes, that is probably wise,” Nicole said, stroking the veil on Bonnie’s head.

Sophie whispered, “Mama, you must let us see him. I promise to be strong. Please . . . please let me see Papa one last time.”

Nicole regarded her, then dropped her eyes. “Yes, you probably should,” she said quietly. “Henry is with him now.”

With a renewed look of guilt tingeing her sorrow, Sophie twisted a little lace handkerchief into a tight rope. “Did it go well, Mama? Was he proclaimed Surchatain?”

Nicole raised a brow. “Yes, he repeated his vows nicely, but, the nobles are dubious—of his abilities. Your father had been Surchatain for seventeen years, so they hardly remember when Lystra was half the size and one-tenth as rich as it is now. Those who do remember are anxious that we not lose what was gained. Then . . . others have been waiting in the shadows for just this day. There will be challenges.”

“Will Henry have to fight for the throne?” Sophie asked faintly.

Nicole gave her a little smile, caressing her clenched hands. “Not if Thom has his way. He and the Counselor say that your father entertained far too many challenges in establishing his right to rule. Henry’s right has already been established through all the proper channels. Anyone who challenges him at this point is clearly acting outside the Law.”

“Mama,” Sophie pleaded, “please let me see Papa now.”

Nicole inhaled, perturbed. “Let me . . . go ask the doctor.” As she rose and departed the room, the twins embraced each other in a fresh outpouring of sorrow.

Nicole went across the corridor to the receiving room of the spacious quarters she shared with her husband. Doctor Savary, looking tired but tranquil, was standing at the open window with a cup of cider in his hand. He made a short bow at her entrance, and she glanced inquiringly at the wide-open door of the bedchamber. Gesturing with the cup, the doctor said, “Henry is with him.”

“Thank you, Doctor.” She crossed the room to stand in the doorway, letting her eyes adjust to the dimness. With the cool water from the rooftop cistern circulating through the conduits that supplied the waterfall and bathing pool in this room, it was neither hot nor terribly stuffy. But Nicole did not regard the gurgling pool in the corner of the room—her eyes went straight to the bed.

Henry, sitting beside it, turned, but she saw only the shirtless figure of her husband, sitting up, forearms resting across his raised knees. As he looked up, she said, “Ares, we must tell the girls.”



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© 2010 Robin Hardy

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