The Book of the Blessed

Havenhall rose up out of the towers of the Kingsboro, the work of Corboghast the Builder. In those days when the Ayl still crossed between here and the Grey Sea, he had come, the son of a great chieftain, schooled in the south, to build the great hall for King Duncan upon his marriage to Ginevra, the proud Royan princess. It was said that Queen Ginevra came with a dowry of one hundred fifty horses and a great table. So great was that table, a new hall was required to accomodate it. The mage Elwin built the hall by his western magic and still it sparkled high above the city. The great Sun Wheel, Calligryan winked from the top ot it, its rays flowing over the city.

At the center of so great a hall, raised on a mighty dais of grey stone, was the Low Throne of the Kings of Westrial. Once it back had been higher, but it was said after Avred Oss, his descendants had taken the higher part of that throne into Rheged and vowed to never restore it until there was, again, a true High King over all Ankar. The stone arms the Royan had also taken, and so the Westrian kings had replaced them with expansive brass wings, tipped with bronze claws which had come from the Greyhammer, the ship Baeldeag and Eoga, the fathers of all Ayl kings, had sailed on when they came here a thousand years ago.

Of late there were men who believed the one who sat the Drakeseige was unworthy of it. They believed even that his weakness had brought the plague which had nearly destroyed the royal family and wiped out a third of the nation thirty years ago. But who could say? And so no one did. Not outloud.

Because the hall was loud, and because the King wanted to be quiet, to speak privately with the Prince, they exited through Sunnelong, the long terrace that ran to the left of the throne room where early morning sun streamed.

“When our guest comes tonight,” King Anthal said, “I want Anson with us.”

When Cedd opened his mouth, his father said, “That is my word. I insist on it.”

“He is a bastard,” Cedd said simply.

Cedd was pale with high colored cheeks and coal black hair, and he would have been a handsome man if he wasn’t an unpleasant one and, as his sister noted, dishonest.

“He is no bastard,” the Princess Imogen said, “simply because you treat him like one.”

She turned to her father.

“He prefers to live the way he has.”

“But he is no bastard,” Imogen said, “and I wonder what you call me when I am not around.”

“Sister, you are the daughter of my father’s second wife.”

“I am the daughter of his third wife,” she said, looking at her brother and her father, “his second queen and Anson’s mother. seems to have known that being queen is a sort of death warrant, for she left, but neither of our mothers.”

King Anthal was old, and today did not feel like arguing. He simply listened to his children wrangle. He was weaker than he should have been, he knew this. His first wife had been a princess of the people of Hale, the black haired cousins of the Ayl. Tourmaline was sweet and kind, and what would have become of her son had she lived, Anthal could not say. Queen Tourmaline had brought a daughter into the world and then a little son, Timon, and this had been his joyous little family until the year of the White Plague. There seemed no way of keeping it out, and no one was safe from it. Tourmaline had died after Timon and Orethea, pregnant, leaving only young Cedd, and when the plague had blown through the south and moved into the North, Anthal set to the task of putting his people back on their feet.

There had been a ban on magic, placed in the days of his brother, and now Anthal saw this may have been the reason the plague could not be helped, for in the West Country there was no plague, and he had appealed to the Rootless Isle, south, in the Strait of Havren. And so the Lady Nimerly came with several of her women, and one night her sister, Essily, had come to him, and she had said, “If you perform the pledge with me and honor whatever child is born from us, then I will give you a son.”

His two children were dead, and Tourmaline was gone. Death was all around him, and as much from sorrow and the desire to feel as the desire for a child, he had agreed. This woman was golden skinned, the color of walnuts, blue eyed with lustrous golden hair, lion colored as opposed to the usual wheat coloring of the Ayl people. Warm and inviting she was, and for several nights he found comfort in her arms. When Nimerly and the other women of the Isle left, Essily remained. She stayed to grow big with child.

“You will love him,” Anthal said.

“I hate him already,” Cedd said frankly. He was five. Years later, he would add, “and the people will not accept him. He is nothing but a bastard, and this is how he will be looked upon.”

Essily bore the child and Anthal named him Anson. However hateful Cedd had been, it seemed he was right, for the people demanded Anson find a new queen and quick. A Royan princess would have been rare and odd, but perfectly acceptable. After all the royal line already had Royan blood. The Kings of Westrial gained their right to rule through marrying into the old House of Ankar. But a lady from the strange Island could never be a true queen or create a proper alliance. Essily returned to the island with Anson, perhaps to hide him away, and sent him back to Anthal when he was five years old.

By then, Anthal already had a new wife, Emmaline, a cousin of Tourmaline and as black haired as she. Nimerly brought Anson to his father saying the Holy Isle was no place for a growing boy who would be a warrior, and Emmaline was kind to her stepson, for none of her children would ever reign, and as the years passed, and Anthal grew more and more distant and ineffective, Emmaline and her children came to understand that with Anson, they had a mutual enemy in Cedd. Emmaline had a habit of bearing daughters. Her two sons before had died, and while she lay giving birth to the one that would have been called Edward, at last, she died too.

Anson did not end up in the barracks, living a soldier’s life over night. He was never present at great events, nor were his half sisters. Hilda had been packed off to a convent and Morgellyn sent east as soon as possible to marry the king of Essail. Only Imogen remained with Anson to resist their brother, to fight the good fight, and tonight, the old king promised Princess Imogen, “Anson will stand with us, as the royal prince he is.”

As the sun set into night, the high hall gleamed like a diamond above the rose walls and towers of the Everkeep. Downbelow guests, the honored of the land, had been streaming in for some time, and in the hall, the musicians from Senach were playing. The expensive Solahni wine was out, and it seemed to Anson, not used to this finery, wishing for his old guard’s outfit and scratching at his collar, that no one took seriously an envoy from the West.

“They all want to gawk and see,” Jon said, and when Anson nodded, and Jon perceived that he was trying not to go back to his father’s side, the captain of the guard said, “Off with you. You have to be prince tonight.”

He had scarcely spoken when the trumpets blared and, before the throne, beside Cedd, Imogen cleared her throat and motioned frantically for Anson to come. He started to run, but stopped himself, and in a quick, measured and regal step, approached his family.

“You look fair, my son,” King Anthal said.

Cedd raised an eyebrow and wrinkled his nose as if he were smelling something foul.

“Presenting his Royal Highness King Idris of Rheged, and his companion, the Lord Ohean Penannyn.”

“Ohean?” Imogen whispered.

Ohean was a name they knew, the sorcerer who in his tongue was called Penannyn, the Great Ash Tree. Exactly what he was they were not entirely sure. He was not the chief Enchanter, this was Cormach of the Hidden Tower. Ohean was no king’s magician as many of the wizards were. It was said he came from the Rootless Isle. But when he came, he came into the Young Kingdoms, he came in the name of the Royan nations, and when he spoke all Royan listened. Anson had never seen him. He had not come into the city, it was said, for some time, and only in secret.

King Idris of Rheged, flanked by two of his guards, entered unarmed. He was good to look at, medium in height, dark of skin with full lips that reminded Anson of Ash, the lover he’d left in the inn. A pearl earring glinted in his ear and his dark curly hair was soft like a lamb’s.

He moved to kiss King Anthal’s cheeks and be kissed in return, and now approached Ohean. He was not tall, the same height as Idris, and he wore over a white robe, a dark red mantle, nearly maroon. In this hall, where none wore hats or helmets, a great hood was over his red head and now he removed it and gave a courteous nod to the king, as one would to an equal.

“My Lord Ohean,” King Anthal said.

“My Lord, King Anthal,” Ohean returned, his eyes strangely wolf like, “Prince Cedd, and my dear Princess Imogen, greetings and, greetings.”

Ohean’s eyes met his, “My lord, Prince Anson.”

“Hail,” Anson’s throat was dry, “Lord Ohean.”

He could not believe it. Anson realized that Ohean had called him my lord, but not his brother. He also realized, as he looked at the magician, that this man, Ohean, was Ash.