Mac’s body quivered with the effort to hold his bow, waiting for his friend, the Prince Consort, to say something. Silence filled Mythnar’s great hall, not even a rustle or murmur from the surrounding soldiers or courtiers broke it.
“Making your usual entrance, I see,” Gregor said dryly, only the brightness of his eyes betraying his mask of displeasure.
“Some habits are hard to break,” said Mac with a shrug, taking the chance to flex his aching shoulders.
“Well, get it out. I’m sure everyone is dying to know.”
“Your Majesty,” said Mac, pitching his voice to carry. “I, Mac Theselon of Quinlay–”
A sea of whispers washed over the crowd.
“I do humbly offer my sword in service, now and as long as I live.”
It was the formality every knight of the realm performed when first knighted and upon returning to court after an extended absence. By the sudden outburst from those in the hall, Mac guessed the rumors of his death were believed true.
And it was a cruel fate that threw him back into court. He was too old to play this game again.
Gregor waited for the crowd to settle. “Arise, knight of the realm.” He turned to one of his aids. “We’ll adjourn to my private chambers. Arrange for refreshments.” He looked back at Mac. “Where, in the God’s name, have you been?”
“It’s a long story. Have you met the talented minstrel, Talar?”
Talar stepped forward, giving Mac a dark, questioning look.
“Not formally. I believe the Duchess of Dynar wishes to have words with you.”
“I bet she does,” said Talar under his breath. “Your Majesty.” Talar bowed.
“If you keep bowing like that it will take us forever to get out of here.”
Gregor didn’t wait for a response. He motioned to a blond man at his side and headed to the back door. Mac grabbed Talar by the arm, hauled him up, and they hurried after him.
“Do you know the risk of lying to the Prince Consort about being Theselon?” said Talar, just loud enough for Mac to hear.
“What makes you think I lied?”
Talar stumbled, caught his balance, and rushed to catch up.
“You’re Mac Theselon?”
“Last time I checked.” Although at the moment he really didn’t want to be. But if Kaelyn was in trouble, he had to try everything he could to find her.
“You’re Mac–”
“Yes,” said Mac, unable to keep the frustration from his tone.
“You’re going to get a lot of that,” said Gregor over his shoulder.
“No doubt.” Mac sighed and thankfully Talar remained silent.
Mythnar, the keep, hadn’t changed much since Mac was there last, since before the Great Clan War. Then, it was a fortification intended to protect Meriduin from the northern barbarian clansmen. A single tall tower with surrounding wall. It was thick and grey and plain, and home to a legion just as thick and grey and plain as their fortification. Life had been primal for a legionnaire. Fight for food, fight for warmth, fight for life. Against the clansmen and nature herself it seemed.
After surviving his first year with “The Grunts”, Mac found a new respect for his northern foe. The winters had been cold and dark, seemingly unending, and the clansmen made constant forays against the keep, day and night, as if oblivious to the weather. Summers were unbearably hot, with monstrous black insects that could bite a man even under heavy armor, and still the clansmen attacked. It took a different kind of man than Meriduin had to survive at the foot of the Halyn mountains, and, out of necessity, the Northern Legionaries became those men, or died.
It surprised Mac that a thriving community had grown up around the northern outpost. Obviously someone didn’t find the climate as harsh as he remembered it.
Gregor opened a door to what once were the knight captain’s chambers. Inside, a fire warmed a room with overstuffed chairs upholstered in dark green and purple velvet. The walls were covered in so many tapestries that not one slab of stone could be seen and the floor was piled with multi-hued rugs, giving the room a tent-like feeling. Small, dark wood tables sat at each chair’s right arm. Along the right wall sat a large, matching table piled high with a small feast of cold meats, bread, fruits, cheeses, and sweets.
Things hadn’t stayed the same.
Gregor slumped into a chair and turned a hard stare on Mac. It was his commander’s stare and had probably served him well all these years a Prince Consort.
A twinge crept through Mac at Gregor being Prince Consort and what that meant–that he had Adecilica–but Mac shove it back. Now was not the time. And there never really would be a time for that anymore.
“Where have you been and why your sudden reintroduction into court?”
Mac eased himself into the chair opposite, noticing the sword in his hand. He shrugged and dumped it in the corner behind him. “Guess some habits really do die hard.”
“Your friend here just managed to prove mother’s point,” said the tall man.
“Is Adelicia still trying to convince you that you need better guardsmen? Or just more of them?” asked Mac.
“Something like that,” said Gregor. “You remember King Harcourt’s youngest, Wyndham?”
Mac studied the young prince who slouched in his overstuffed chair. So this was the man Kaelyn was supposed to be in love with–if, in fact, she was Wintherford’s daughter. He was tall, like his father, and that was where the royal resemblance ended. Harcourt the Fourth had been a bulky man, able to contend with Mac himself in height, weight, and strength. Wyndham was an artistic study on long, lean lines. And, while the late king had dark brown, almost black, hair and eyes, a square jaw and a sharp nose, Wyndham was the polar opposite, like his mother. Golden locks framed an oval face, with a long nose and deep blue eyes. Eyes the same shade that had broken his heart.
“Are you really Mac Theselon of Quinlay?” asked the owner of those eyes.
Mac nodded, while Gregor sniggered.
“I grew up with all your stories. I know every tale, poem, and ballad ever written.”
“You and Kaelyn, both,” muttered Mac.
Wyndham shifted but made no other indication he’d heard the comment.
“Perhaps,” said Talar, “we should attend to the matter at hand.” He seemed even more uncomfortable than Mac felt.
He was right. They needed to get back to business.
“Is this becoming a tale, bard?” asked Gregor.
“I’m a minstrel, not a bard. We don’t compose new works.” He squirmed in his chair. “It’s just . . . shouldn’t we get to the point?”
But now that Mac was here, now that he’d thrown himself out of obscurity, he didn’t want to confess his blunder. And that’s how Gregor would see it. Mac could practically hear his laughter already.
“Well, it’s . . . embarrassing.”
Gregor sat forward. The man had always known when a good joke was coming.
“We’ve lost someone,” said Talar.
“A little blunt, my boy,” said Gregor with a chuckle. “That normally doesn’t go over so well at court.”
“All joking aside, Greg,” said Mac. “We’ve lost someone rather important. Kaelyn Wintherford.”
Wyndham shot from his chair. “You’ve what?”
“We were–”
“We were escorting her to Mythnar,” said Mac, interrupting Talar. If anyone was going to do the lying it was going to be him.
“But she isn’t here.” Wyndham sank back into his chair, all expression locked behind a neutral mask.
Gregor nodded and Mac could tell he was putting pieces together, coming up with an assumption that Mac would likely encourage. “When you ‘say lost’ her, what you really mean is you think someone’s taken her.”
“We’ve been harassed by well-armed bandits since leaving Demika. I suspect deserters who recognized her and want a ransom.”
“Then a note will be sent to her family. Which means we’ll hear of it soon.” Wyndham’s voice was flat, whatever he felt after the initial mention of her name seemed well hidden. Already a consummate courtier. Mac could only sympathize. He knew all-too-well what it was like to have to hide his feelings.
“I would rather not wait for one,” said Mac. “We were within sight of Mythnar when she disappeared. I suspect she’s in town.”
A tentative knock interrupted their conversation and a young page was ushered into the room by the guards at the door.
“Majesty,” stammered the boy as he bowed.
Gregor turned his most endearing smile on the child. “Henry, how’s your father?”
The boy looked up. “Better.”
“Good, good. Come over here and tell me your message.”
“Sire, the first of the clansmen caravans left last night and the other one plans to break camp and head north at dawn tomorrow.”
Gregor’s jaw tighten but he continued to force a smile for the page.
“Thank you. See that those platters over there are removed and take something for yourself.”
The boy crossed the room and gazed uncertainly at the sweets.
Wyndham leaned over the arm of his chair. “I hear those chocolate things in the center are good. They have a nut in the middle.”
The boy picked one up.
“You can take more than one,” said Wyndham.
Henry popped the first sweet into his mouth, grabbed another one, and hurried to the door.
“What was that about?” As much as Mac hated being back at court, he couldn’t help but be curious, particularly when it came to the clansmen and the long awaited treaty.
“For some reason I didn’t anticipate the number of crazy courtiers who’d want to be around for these closed peace talks. We’re short staffed, so my chancellors have conscripted some of the townspeople and their children into service,” said Gregor.
“Cute, but not what I meant.”
“The clansmen want to return north for the winter, before the first big snowfall traps them on this side of the mountains,” said Wyndham.
Talar nodded. “Winter is a difficult time for the clans. Any and every able-bodied man is needed for the hunts to ensure the clan has enough food.”
“What does this mean for the peace talks?” asked Mac.
“Exactly,” said Gregor. “With most of the clansmen gone, negotiations are stopped until the spring thaw.”
Mac drummed his fingers on the arm of his chair. “And you’re not close enough to an acceptable treaty?”
“We are, actually,” said Wyndham, getting up to better see what was on the far side of the food table. “My proposed marriage with their chosen, an orphan from the most powerful clan–”
“A child of the Goddess,” said Gregor.
“Well, that helped convince the clans of our sincerity,” said Wyndham.
“That certainly would.” Mac had only ever met one Child of the Goddess. They were conceived on a single night during the winter solstice when a woman was chosen to represent the Goddess and a man to be the divine seed. Any child from that union was raised by the chief of the First Clan and held a revered role among their people.
Gregor leaned back. “When the talks became serious the spring before last, the merchant barons began stalling the negotiations.”
“And I still don’t believe it has anything to do with Kaelyn,” said Wyndham, just a hint of his previous emotions cutting through.
“What else could it be?” asked Gregor. “Every merchant baron was counting on a marriage to solidify their power in this kingdom.”
“But if that were so, why was she sent away this spring?” Wyndham popped a chocolate into his mouth.
“Because your mother didn’t want to give the merchants that kind of power and they were angry.”
“It seems Kaelyn is tangled in a rather complicated web,” said Talar, giving Mac a dark looked that screamed ‘what have you gotten us into’?
The door swung open and a different youth, dressed in page livery, burst in. “The negotiations council requests a meeting to discuss recent developments.”
“Tell them I’m on my way.”
The page gave a quick bow and left.
Gregor stood and headed to the door. “Who’d have thought the Prince Consort would have to answer to councilors. Wyndham, kindly see to Mac and Talar’s lodgings and make quiet arrangements to begin a search for Kaelyn Wintherford. I don’t want the merchant barons to get all excited.”
The burden of politics suited Gregor well and Mac couldn’t help but wonder if the job would have suited him as well. Would he have risen from a mere soldier to a noble prince? Would Adelicia have guided him and would his love her have been enough? Or would he have lost his temper years ago? He would never know.
