Grimwar forcibly suppressed the roar of irritation swelling within him. He wanted to demand, Why now? At last he had an opportunity to visit Thraid! His wife was engaged in the royal smithy, discussing with the metalsmith questions of the designs for her revolutionary weapon. Now, to have this rare opportunity thwarted by common illness!
Or, indeed, was it illness?
Another, darker possibility loomed in the shadows of the king’s mind. He scratched his chin while Wandcort watched nervously.
“Stomach befoulment? Tell me, what has the Lady Thraid had to eat and drink, within the last day?” Grimwar demanded.
“Er, let me think, Sire. There was bread and lutefish in the morning, and for the day meal, of course. I believe for dinner she had a beeve from the royal kitchen, with shellfish.”
The slave’s eyes narrowed shrewdly as he followed the king’s train of thought. Grimwar noticed real anger in the man’s expression and was pleased-this one was indeed loyal to his mistress.
“Yes, and warqat and wine, both from her own casks. Water I drew myself from the royal well.”
Now the ogre king was remembering his wife’s words, all but accusing him of a dalliance. Too, just an hour ago there had been a look, cool and appraising and slightly vengeful, that Stariz had given him before she departed for the smithy. At the time he had wondered what she was thinking. Now he guessed. She was coldly content that he would find no comfort with his mistress this day!
He thought about the risks of going to Thraid’s quarters, but he needed to see her, speak to her personally. If she had been harmed by that jealous cow, his wife and queen…
“Take me to the lady Thraid,” Grimwar declared.
Wandcort, who knew the value of discretion, looked briefly surprised, then bowed his head. “Of course, Sire. We can take the Servant’s Way-it should be empty at this hour.”
The king nodded and followed the slave out the secret door through which they’d both entered the room. In the passageway beyond, Wandcort turned left, away from the king’s own quarters and into the vast network of streets and alleys comprising Winterheim’s Noble Quarter. They passed under a stone arch and turned down a narrow passageway, a route marked with infrequent doors on either side. Some of these portals were wood, others iron, all of them closed. The oil lamps posted at each intersection cast long shadows down the corridors that, as Wandcort had suggested, seemed to be empty of other pedestrians.
Soon they emerged into a roofed alley, a tunnel that led outward to the Promenade, the great ringed street and atrium at the center of every one of Winterheim’s numerous levels. There, Grimwar saw ogres ambling past, while slaves bustled up and down the street on urgent missions for their masters. Turning away from the Promenade, Wandcort led the king deeper into the alley, and soon they turned onto a quiet street. Lights here were few-whale oil was a precious commodity-and the street was narrow, with numerous doors and vents branching to either side. These were the corridors used by the slaves who came and went from the noble manors, Grimwar knew. It was a part of his city that he rarely saw.
They met no one as they hurried along, crossed another alley, then stopped at an arched wooden door. The slave produced a key, and in another instant the king was inside Thraid’s apartment. Quickly he made his way through the kitchen and into the great room.
He had been here once before and cherished the memory. The great white bear’s head mounted above the fireplace was a gift from Grimwar, killed by the king’s own spear. The bestial face was locked into a snarl, and the ogre monarch fancied it as Thraid’s protector, a guardian assigned by royal decree. The rest of the room was tastefully luxurious: great couches of walrus hide, several graceful statuettes of carved ivory, lamps with cut crystal globes that scattered the light in myriad facets. One of these was lit now, the wick set low, but Thraid was not here.
A brighter light came from the arched entry to the sleeping chamber, and here the king made his way, up several steps that had been cut into the bedrock of the mountain, pushing through a curtain of soft sealskin strips. His eyes went immediately to Thraid lying upon her huge bed, with her maidservant-Wandcort’s wife, though Grimwar couldn’t remember her name-seated beside her. A lamp burned on the bedstand, and Thraid pushed herself up to a sitting position as the king entered the chamber.
“Oh, my lord, you have come to me!” she said, then pressed her hand to her mouth to stifle a sob.
Thraid Dimmarkull looked a mess. Her hair, normally a lush train of silken chocolate, the same color as her large eyes, now lay in a tangle of sweaty strands. Her face, the plump cheeks and lush lips once rosy with health and vitality, was pale and drawn, clammy with perspiration.
Grimwar felt a rush of fury-in his mind there was no doubt that Stariz had done this, had worked some sorcerous scheme or toxic herbal to thus afflict the king’s mistress. He controlled his emotions with great effort and sat gently on the very edge of the bed. Reaching out, he took Thraid’s hand, her skin cool and damp to the touch. The slave woman rose, bowed, and quietly withdrew to pass through the sealskin curtain.
“Are you in pain, my lady?” Grimwar asked gruffly.
“Not for the moment, my king,” she said, making a weak effort to squeeze her fingers. “It seems as though pain, as well as all else, has been wrung from me.”
“When did this strike?”
“Not long after the supper. I fear there may be some bad shellfish in the royal larder. I had Brinda send word to the cooks as soon as I was taken ill.”
Such an innocent! It warmed the king’s heart to see that she did not even suspect the wrong that had been done to her. Na?vet? was one of qualities he found so appealing about Thraid, and so different from his wife. His throat tightened as he raised her hand and kissed her fingers.
“You rest well, my dear. Has the royal surgeon been to see you?”
“Indeed, sire. He purged me, and bade me drink much water. Brinda has been faithful with the pitcher.”
“Very well. You must rest. If there is anything you want or need, you will have it. Slave!” Grimwar turned to the curtain, which was parted by Wandcort. “I shall desire word, steady reports, of the state of Lady Thraid’s health.”
The slave bowed. “It shall be done, Sire.”
Grimwar rose to his feet and gazed one more time at Thraid. His anger still burned, but the fire had been banked by his willpower. He started toward the door, and Wandcort hurried ahead to lead him through the kitchen. The slave turned, startled, as the king stalked past.
“I am leaving by the front door,” declared Grimwar Bane, his voice a deep and very royal growl.
* * * * *
“I would speak to you, my queen,” declared the king of Suderhold, stalking unannounced into his wife’s parlor.
She was making a diagram of something that looked like a hollowed sphere, an array of colorful inks spread upon her table and a quill in her hand. She looked up at him crossly, her eyes, so tiny in that block of a face, glittering with guarded thoughts.
“You take a cold tone with me, my lord,” she said, her own voice layered in ice. “I sense your displeasure, yet I do not know its cause.”
“You have said that you wish me to attack Bracken-rock this summer,” he declared bluntly.
“To destroy Brackenrock, yes,” she corrected, “and to retrieve the Axe of Gonnas.
“Bah-we can retrieve that ancient trinket next year,” the king snorted. “If it bears such significance, you should never have let the elf wrest it out of your hands in the first place!”
Stariz, still seated, straightened and glared ice. “Do not forget that the elf still lives with the humans. Have you not seen his boat, fruitlessly chased by your galley on several occasions? I should think his survival would be an affront not just to you but to our entire kingdom. It is a pity that you have so little regard for the Axe of Gonnas. Remember, it was the weapon that King Barkon used to hew the ice from Mount Winterheim, thus giving his clan-”
“Yes, yes, I know all this,” Grimwar said impatiently, although he did have a little trouble remembering the details. “Do you think I forget our heritage?”
Stariz pressed ahead. “Now that we have the powder from the Alchemist, the royal smithy will be able to prepare a weapon in a matter of a few days. This is the design-it will be a sphere of pure gold, filled with the powder prepared by the Alchemist.” Her pig eyes narrowed. “Have you started to organize the troops for the raiding party? And prepared the galleys for the voyage?”
Grimwar shrugged. “The troops, the ships, will be ready when I tell them to be. If I tell them to prepare. And I tell you now, Queen… I have decided. I do not choose to make this campaign this summer.”
Stariz snorted in exasperation. “You know that you have been granted an opportunity that has come to no other king in the many centuries of your line? You understand that, do you not?”
“Opportunity is in your eye, or mine,” the king said with a shrug. “I have no doubt but that the humans will be available to fight, whenever I deem myself ready. They are a fact of life but not a threat to our existence. And I did not lose the Axe of Gonnas.”
“The axe is a treasure of our people, an artifact dating back to the Barkon migration!” she retorted, shocked and outraged at his statement.
“I am the king of Suderhold,” he reminded her. “You have achieved exalted status of your own-because you are my wife! If you choose to retain that status, you will do as I tell you. This is a fact you should, you will, remember.”
“It is a fact that is never far from my mind, Sire,” she replied, her tone neutral.
He drew a breath. “Now I wish to talk about Thraid Dimmarkull.”
Stariz waited, eyes narrowed now, upper lip curled in disapproval, showing her short, Hunt tusks.
“I give you a warning,” Grimwar declared bluntly. Stariz’s eyes widened. “Should any harm come to the Lady Thraid, I will be displeased. Exceptionally displeased. My displeasure shall be such that your station, your rank-indeed, Queen, your very life-will be in some jeopardy. Do I make myself clear?”