Free The Still by David Feintuch Page A

what?”
    I was wondering the same myself. I studied the guards, and the anteroom. The vault could be reached only through the corridor we’d just traversed. The doors behind us at the far end of the corridor were left open for convenience, but in an emergency they could be sealed from within.
    Within that vault lay my crown, and my Power. The crown was little good without the ceremony of coronation; Mother had made sure I understood at least that much. One couldn’t gain the Still of Caledon, even in a state of sexual innocence, merely by propping a gold diadem on one’s head. The Rites must be followed, but if they were, and the crown was possessed, even a usurper might wield the Power.
    A strong force could seize the anteroom. Swords or spears would quell the outside guards; arrows would slaughter those behind the gate.
    But there’d still be the great bronze door, and it wanted two keys. Softly, we crept away.
    At the safety of the winery, Rustin said only, “We can’t storm the vault, Roddy.”
    I nodded and, despite myself, yawned.
    “Yes, it’s late.” He clapped my arm. “I’d best be home.”
    “Stay, Rust!” It was a plea, without thought.
    “I’ll be back on the morrow.” Despite my entreaties, he left for the stable.
    When I woke, I found Elryc had crawled into my bed during the night. I left him asleep, and descended bleary and tousled to the kitchen. Cook broke three eggs into a butter-rinsed skillet, and served them with a slab of goat cheese and a hunk of steaming bread torn from a loaf just out of the oven. I sat next to Kerwyn, the stablehand, and took a huge bite.
    Mother was wise, but in some things she plainly erred. My brothers and I were royalty, not mere nobility, and a certain distance from the house servants was suitable. How could commoners respect me if we rubbed shoulders at a kitchen table amid the droning flies? But ever since I’d been freed from Hester’s care I’d been consigned to this kitchen, except for dinner.
    I loped up the narrow steps to the third floor, wherein lay the nursery. Out of courtesy, I knocked, waited for Hester’s grunt of admission.
    “Hello, Pytor.” I felt a pang of remorse. My towheaded brother’s eyes were red from weeping, his voice muffled.
    “Roddy.” He abandoned Hester, threw his puny arms around my neck. I picked him up, rocked him gently.
    “He lay awake until the moon was high,” said the old Nurse. “Neither song nor sweets could bring him peace.”
    Pytor was but eight, and now had none but an ill-tempered crone to look after him. I resolved to be kinder than in the past. “Will you walk with me today, to the burial?”
    “May I?” For once, the whine was gone from my brother’s voice.
    “You on one side, Elryc on the other.”
    “I get your hand.”
    I tousled Pytor’s locks. “Whichever you want.” Hester grunted her approval. “He needs that.” She glanced at my apparel. “You won’t wear those rags to your mother’s rest.”
    I looked down at my jerkin and breeks. “And why not?”
    “They’re torn, they’re stained with raspberry jam, they’re a size too small.”
    “I can look after—”
    She snorted. “When pigs fly. I’ll find something suitable.”
    I let it be, secretly relieved. Let her act the servant that she was; how else was a king’s mind to be on affairs of state?
    The gentry, the nobility, and the royalty of the surrounding boroughs of Stryx had gathered for the procession and burial. Uncle Mar had sent couriers with Mother’s last breath. It was fitting, else many could not have arrived in time. Especially in summer, funerals must be held quickly, and one grew used to dropping the day’s tasks to answer a distant summons.
    I walked in the front row, Pytor’s hand in mine, alongside to Uncle Mar. To my disgust, Elryc was nowhere to be seen. No matter how upset he was, missing the burial was a vile act he’d regret the rest of his life. One I’d make him regret.
    “Ow, you’re