The Fatal Child (55 page)

They did not seem to be soldiers. They wore no armour, nor were they liveried servants of some lord. They wore robes and hoods and some of them moved strangely. And it began to puzzle him, as he approached, that they were so few. When first he had seen them he had been sure there had been half a dozen, certainly. But now he could see he was mistaken. They were only four … no, three …

Surely …

He stopped. The leader was a tall man, very tall and lean. He knew that shape. And now there was only one beside him, a small fellow who stooped. But he did not stoop as much as he had when Padry had first seen him, in the King’s chamber more than two years ago.

He bowed. ‘Your Highnesses,’ he said.

Talifer, son of Wulfram, and Marc his brother bowed briefly in return. The others must have faded as Padry had approached, hiding their half-human forms in the shattered netherland of brown rocks. They would be watching him now. But he could not see them.

‘I await the mother of the King,’ said Padry.

‘She comes,’ said Talifer.

‘Let us pray that she journeys well,’ said Padry.

The princes were silent.

‘I remember praying,’ said Marc at length. ‘I do not remember that I ever meant it for truth.’

People and horses were coming down through the olive groves to the lakeshore. There were armoured knights among them, leading their mounts. There were banners. Padry glimpsed the blue and white
of Lackmere and the red-and-white chequers of Develin. He saw Phaedra and the Lady Sophia, too. And behind them were Melissa and a young hillman he did not know. A lucky young hillman, Padry thought. Lucky for all of us.
Vast things, things we cannot understand, may turn because a man helps an old widow with her load
. Who had said that? Lex? Because a man helps a widow with her load. Or because a king spares a foot soldier with his last command. Yes.

He bowed as the party halted at the lakeside.

‘Now Michael guard you, my lady,’ said Sophia of Develin.

‘And you also,’ Phaedra answered. ‘And Raphael guide our ways.’

Heels splashed in the shallows. Wood scraped on stone as the crew pushed the boat out until it floated. Phaedra waded into the water and climbed, robe dripping, into the boat. Melissa and the hill boy followed her. A sailor held the stern, waiting. Another had his hand on the rope that would lift the sail. The passengers settled in the waist. Now the last crewman was aboard and the boat was free on the water. The sail rose up the mast. The craft heeled under the gentle pressure of the wind. It moved away, trailing ripples from its stern. Already it was beyond the reach of the mailed hands on the shore. In just a few moments more it would be beyond bowshot, beyond hail, gone altogether to a future unknown.

Padry watched it go.

‘Now, Lord Lackmere,’ he heard the Lady of
Develin say. ‘Let us call council. And may we make a new beginning.’

He heard the armoured man bow. He heard Lackmere and the knights mounting their horses, the clash and the clatter as they started up through the olives to forge a new reign. He heard the lady’s escort gather round her, murmuring in low voices, before they, too, mounted and followed.

They were going to council. They were going to discuss what must be done and to choose a new king. A Thomas Padry as young as yesterday’s would have elbowed his way in among them. Whispered conversations by the tent-flaps, hurried deals in the horse-lines, a wink and a nod at the great table – yes, he would have thrown himself into that, shaping the outcome with the quickness of his tongue and mind. He would have urged a union of south and north, a marriage between Sophia of Develin and a northern lord – even Lord Herryce – and crowns for each, to bring the Kingdom together. It would not have been bad counsel. But it would not happen. For one thing, he would not be there to make it happen. For another, he knew already what they would choose to do.

They would set up the young Lackmere to be the new King. Lackmere was the maker of the victory and the man who had turned the council last night. He would show a strong face to Outland. That was what was needed. That was the kind of king men wanted – a king who could wield iron, and from it forge peace.

And as for wisdom, and compassion? Well, maybe
the man had them, more than Padry had allowed. Maybe he had learned something from his own young King, who had taken his terrible deeds from him. Maybe he would learn, too, from Sophia. Perhaps she would even give her hand to him? Would she? No, more likely she would not. He was already bound to her by bonds of blood and guilt as strong as any between men. And Lex, Bishop of Tuscolo, would set the crown upon his head in the high chapel where the eyes of the Angels blazed from the walls.

My pupils, thought Padry. Half their fates would still be before them. The dragon holds, the goddess departs, and the world is renewed.

The princes had vanished silently. They would be dispersing through the land, faithful still to the tasks the dead King had appointed for them. To the north the shoreline stretched before Padry like a long and desolate road. He, too, had a task ahead of him. He would return to Pemini, this time for good. He would take his limping band of townsmen home with such pay and promises as the treasury could afford them. And once back in those muddy alleys, he, too, would find a way to serve. Perhaps the almshouse was still looking for a porter to replace the man he had left lying in the pool. If not – well, there would be widows and orphans and cripples in plenty. There would be a thousand calls for help. He would answer those he could. Let only the Angels see.

He began to move, walking slowly northwards by the side of the lake. The shoreline unrolled ahead of him, a narrow, twisting path between the world and
the deep water. To his right was the brown hulk of the castle where his King lay within the chapel walls. To his left were the glittering wavelets on which the boat rose and fell as it, too, pushed northwards, seeming with the distance to travel no faster than his own slow trudge along the shore. The little pebbles crunched beneath his toes. His eyes were hot and brimming. He could feel the tears on his cheeks. The boat was a blurry speck in his vision. And still he walked, and still he watched, as it passed from shadow to sun and its sail was filled with light.