Black wizards - Douglas Niles [109]
"I cannot free you." Her voice heavy with sadness. "My power is useless against the cold iron that binds you."
Tristan moaned and dropped his head in defeat.
"Do not despair, my prince! You have learned what your enemy fears most, and that is valuable knowledge."
"Learned?" he said scornfully. "I learned that I'm a fool! I don't deserve to be a footman in Corwell's army, much less the king! I was taken prisoner like a chicken walking into a noose!" His anger threatened to consume him, and the Queen flinched under the onslaught of his rage.
"I have no right – I forgot where I was for a moment. Can you forgive me for my self-pity?"
"I fear you place undue weight upon my approval," she said. "There is a lass upon Gwynneth who would be sorely touched by your plight. Perhaps it is for her that you should fight."
Tristan bit his lip with guilt. In the glory of the queen's presence, he had forgotten about the woman that he loved – that he wanted to have share his life. "But, you…"
"I am… far too old for you." She smiled coolly. "Though your affection touches me deeply. It has been a long time since a man looked at me with such… love."
"I do love you, my queen!" he gasped. He suddenly felt deep humiliation for his imprisonment. "May the goddess grant me the power to prove that someday!"
"I think that she will. Think about what you have learned. And now rest, my prince."
She slowly faded from his sight, but he could not call her back. He had already collapsed into sleep.
His awakening came as his cell door clanged loudly open. He jerked his head up to see a sudden wash of torchlight precede two figures into the dingy room.
The first was the bent and leering turnkey who had eagerly latched the chains to his wrists and ankles. And the other was the High King.
The turnkey stepped out of the way, holding the torch high. The monarch marched past the turnkey and stopped, just out of the prince's reach. He looked more self-confident than he had during their first encounter, though still not quite the picture of a High King that Tristan had always imagined.
He wore a long purple robe, trimmed with white. His wig of loose curls gave his head an unnaturally large appearance, though he was a broad hand shorter than the prince. A tiny mustache twitched below his long, pointed nose.
"You intrigue me, Prince of Corwell," said the king, staring intently at Tristan. The prince said nothing.
"You say that you come here for vengeance?"
"Yes, I do."
"You did not journey to Caer Callidyrr to claim the throne of the High Kings – my throne?"
"Of course not! I don't know where you got such an idea!"
"This is very interesting. Of course, I do not know whether or not to believe you…"
"Your Majesty?" said a figure from the doorway. The king whirled around in surprise as a dark-robed shape entered the cell through the open door.
"Cyndre! We will talk later! Leave me now." The king's voice was authoritative but a trifle shaky.
"I am afraid this cannot wait, sire. I come to you with a matter of the greatest urgency!" In the flickering torchlight, Tristan saw the wizard's hands float through a delicate series of gestures. The king shuddered slightly and then sighed in quiet resignation.
"The usurper?" asked the wizard softly.
"He… he is…" The king seemed to have trouble collecting his thoughts.
"He is a threat, you mean," finished the wizard. Tristan was horrified by the way the sorcerer manipulated the ruler. For the first time the prince truly feared for his life.
"It is time that he died," concluded Cyndre, still speaking in that musically pleasant voice.
"Very well," replied the king quietly. He did not look at Tristan as he spoke.
* * * * *
The chains that held Daryth of Calimshan were no less stout, nor were their mountings in any way inferior to those binding the Prince of Corwell. But the Calishite had one advantage that the prince did not: He wore the gloves he had recovered from the treasure vault of Caer Allisynn. The guards, even after a thorough search, had not discerned the gloves, so