The Still by David Feintuch Page B

and lean-tos outlying any castle fort, but secure within its thick walls. Most folk let me pass unmolested, but a few were bold enough to offer kind words to a disconsolate heir wandering the grounds to no apparent purpose.
    Hours passed, and I grew weary. My ribs ached from my tumble, and repeated tours up three flights of stairs to see if Hester had found my brother didn’t help. Impatient, but glad of the rest, I sat on a ledge overlooking the courtyard to await Rustin. Even if he’d been at some chore when my message arrived, he’d have had time to be done and answer my call.
    Shadows lengthened. Where in the demons’ vale was Rust? I knew I ought to confront Uncle Mar, but first Rustin and I should—
    I leaped to my feet cursing. The Council meet.
    I dashed up the front steps into the frescoed hall, made for the vaulted meeting room to the rear, where armed sentinels stood post.
    A graying guard thrust himself between me and the door, halberd poised across his chest.
    “Out of my way. Are the Seven still within?” I squinted. “Who are you?”
    “Fostrow, my lord. No one may pass. Council is at session.”
    “That’s why I’ve come. Let me through.”
    A second guardsman stepped forth. “It’s forbidden, Prince Rodrigo.”
    I felt myself grow red. “It’s my Council now! Stand aside!”
    “No one may enter.” His mates took stations on each side of me, uncomfortably close.
    I stamped my foot. “Whose men are you? You’re not of the household.”
    One said proudly, “I’m Baron Stire, of the Duke’s troop, from Castle Verein.”
    My jaw dropped. “What? Soldiers of Verein are forbidden the city, by long-standing treaty.”
    He shrugged. “We go where my lord the Duke sends us.”
    Infuriated, I pushed past. “Take your hands off—let me go!”
    I found myself pinned to the opposite wall by half a dozen strong arms. One hand gripped a dagger.
    I snarled, “Pierce me, would you? They’d hang the lot of you! Faugh!”
    “Easy, lads.” The guard Fostrow. To me, “No one spoke of killing—”
    “Why the knife, churl? To mince your dinner?” My voice grew even louder. “I won’t have it! Send for the Duke! Let me loose!”
    The blade slipped into its scabbard, but despite my struggles I was firmly held. In a moment I would begin to cry, and in their sight that was intolerable. I shouted, “Margenthar! Duke of Stryx!”
    Hands reached for my mouth, but I evaded them. “Treason! False Council! Disloyal villains, come forth from your nest and face your King! Margenthar!”
    The doors were hurled open. Uncle Mar stood framed in the entry. “What lunacy is this?”
    I struggled, nearly maddened with frustration. “ I WON’T BE HELD!”
    He snapped his fingers. “Let him loose.” The hands fell away. “Whatever is the matter with you, lad?”
    “Nothing.” I wiped my face, brushing aside a perfidious tear. “These treacherous louts stopped me from joining you.” I crossed to the entry, but Uncle Mar himself barred my way. Peering past, I saw old Earl Cumber, his rheumy eyes blinking, seated among the other councilors.
    “Council meets unobserved. Such is the law.”
    “The Queen attended.”
    “Of course.”
    “Then shall I.”
    “No.” Mar turned away.
    “I’m heir!”
    “I’m appointed regent and attend in your place.” I tried to shoulder past; he thrust me back.
    “When will I be crowned?”
    “If you’d leave us to our meet I could tell you. Roddy, what’s come over you? Look at yourself: sweaty, your hair awry, hollering like a field hand’s whore! And you would instruct Council to make you King? Brush the dust from your clothes, and go to your chamber!”
    Had I my blade I’d have slashed his throat. I said, “What mischief do you work? Why are your troops—”
    “Business you’re not man enough to attempt.” His contempt was unsheathed.
    Not man enough? My voice betrayed my rage. “Where’s Pytor?”
    “Unharmed. Where is Elryc?”
    “How should I know?