The Scepter's return

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Before, whenever Grus found himself near the south bank of the Stura, the north bank had always seemed much farther away than the width of the river should have suggested. It was as though he were leaving a different world, one that hated him and did not want him to escape.

He didn't get that feeling now. Maybe it had always been his imagination, but he didn't think so. He'd noted it too often for that.

He turned to Hirundo, who rode beside him. "When we get back into Avornis proper with the Scepter of Mercy, all this will truly start to seem real," he said.

"It already does to me," the general replied. "When the Menteshe didn't come after us in swarms to try to take the Scepter back, that's when I knew for sure you'd taken care of things."

"The Banished One couldn't set them in motion against us. He couldn't." Grus repeated the word with amazement in his voice. "And there are no more thralls. None, not as far as I can tell."

"Doesn't look that way," Hirundo agreed. Thralls weren't his chief worry. He cared much more about bad-tempered horsemen with double-curved bows. "The nomads raided us a few times, harried us a little — but that's all." He sounded amazed, too.

Ferries moved back and forth across the Stura. "Do you know what we're going to have to do one of these days? We're going to have to bridge the river," Grus said. Hirundo eyed him as though he'd gone mad. But there had been bridges over the Stura before the Menteshe came. Why not again?

Hirundo had no trouble putting his objections into words, asking, "Do you really want to give the Menteshe a free road into the kingdom?"

"If they're their own men, if they're not the Banished One's cat's-paws, why not?" Grus said. "I'd rather trade them than shoot arrows at them all the time."

"I'd like to do a lot of things," Hirundo said. "That doesn't mean I'm going to do them, or even that I ought to do them. The nomads are dangerous even as their own men."

Grus stared at him. Usually the king was the one with the calm, cool, gray good sense, and Hirundo the smiling optimist, always sure things would turn out for the best. Here they'd reversed roles. Hirundo had spent his whole career worrying about the Menteshe as enemies; he didn't have an easy time changing the way he'd thought for so long. Grus could do it. But then, he had an advantage — he'd held the Scepter of Mercy in his hand.

Instead of a bridge, a river galley waited to take them over the Stura to Cumanus. That seemed fitting. He'd started his rise to the crown as captain of a river galley. Now he would bring the Scepter back to Avornis in one.

He held the talisman as he boarded the galley, and savored the awe on the faces of officers and oarsmen. When he began to savor it perhaps too much, the Scepter seemed heavier, as though warning him that, while it deserved all the respect they gave it, he didn't. He laughed. Humility evidently walked hand in hand with mercy. Well, fair enough.

At the captain's order, the oarmaster called the stroke. He used the tap of a drum to help the men at the bow hear the rhythm. It was all as familiar to Grus as a pair of old shoes. He could have given the commands himself. The skipper was a young man. Did he remember the days when Grus had walked the deck on a ship like this? Had he even heard of those days?

And did this young skipper have the same kind of ambition as Grus had once known? Did he dream of wearing the crown himself one day? Whatever he dreamed of, it wouldn't be as big as bringing the Scepter of Mercy back where it belonged. From now on, Kings of Avornis and those who longed to be kings would have to have smaller goals. The big one, the one that had eluded so many for so long, was finally done.

The galley arrowed across the river. The wharves and piers of Cumanus drew ever closer. Then, very smoothly, the ship came up to a pier. A sailor tossed a line to a waiting longshoreman who made the bow fast to the pier. By the river galley's stern, another burly longshoreman was doing the same.

"We're here, Your Majesty," the captain said softly, as though Grus wouldn't have noticed without being told.

"By the gods, we are," Grus agreed. Yes, with the Scepter of Mercy in his hands, those first three words were something more than a common figure of speech. Olor and Quelea and the rest of the gods in the heavens might not care much about what went on in the material world, but they'd cared enough — or worried enough — to give mankind the Scepter.

"Let out the gangplank," the skipper said, and grunting sailors scrambled to obey. The captain bowed to the king. "Go ahead, Your Majesty."

"Thanks," Grus said, and he did. The gangplank echoed under his boots. It shook a little from the motion of the river on the boat. The thudding continued when Grus stepped off the gangplank, but the motion ceased. He walked toward the open gate in the wall alongside the river. He wanted to be on true Avornan soil at last.

There. Now his boots thumped on hard-packed, sandy dirt. I've done it, he thought. I've brought the Scepter of Mercy home.

Soldiers trotted toward him. For an anxious moment, he wondered if he ought to have a sword in his hand, not the Scepter. If the Banished One had somehow suborned those men… Enormous grins on their faces, they crowded around him, shouting congratulations.

From behind him, Pterocles said, "Everyone rejoices to see the Scepter of Mercy return to its homeland."

"So it seems." Grus would have guessed the Scepter legendary at best to most people, or more likely all but forgotten.

He seemed to be wrong. Memory of the talisman and its power survived in more places than the palace in the city of Avornis.

Shadow swallowed him as he went through the gate. Then he was in the sunshine again, and inside the walls of Cumanus. That was another milestone. He saw more ahead — bringing die Scepter of Mercy into the capital, and then bringing it into the palace. Avornis had waited four hundred years to see that day.

"Your Majesty!" That wasn't a shout of congratulations. It was a woman's voice, high and shrill and urgent. She struggled to force her way past soldiers and plump officials, and wasn't having much luck.

"What is it?" Grus called to her. He gestured with his free hand to let her pass. No one seemed to notice. Then he gestured with the Scepter, and people scrambled to get out of the woman's way. He didn't know how it did what it did, but he couldn't doubt that it did it.

She fell to her knees before him. When he helped her up, mud stained her shabby wool skirt. She said, "Help me, Your Majesty! My little daughter has a terrible fever. She'll die if she doesn't get better soon. Can you… Can you use the Scepter to save her?"

"I don't know," Grus answered. The only thing he'd used the Scepter of Mercy for was putting the Banished One in his place and making him stay there. This… This struck him as more merciful. "Take me to her," he told the woman. "I'll do what I can."

"Quelea's blessing upon you," the woman said. "Come with me, then, and hurry. I only hope she'll last until we get back there."

Grus did go with her, soldiers and Pterocles and Hirundo and abandoned officials crowding along behind them. The woman led him through a maze of alleys to what was nearer a hovel than a proper house. That didn't surprise him; neither her clothes nor the way she talked suggested any great wealth. She threw open the door and pointed ahead.

Inside, the place was cleaner than Grus would have expected. The little girl lay on what was plainly the only bed. She writhed and muttered as fever dreams roiled her. The mother was right — she wouldn't last long, not like that.

"Please," the woman said.

Not certain what he was going to do or how he was going to do it, Grus pointed the Scepter's blue jewel — no, it was not a sapphire; it was ever so much brighter and more sparkling than the finest sapphire anyone had ever seen — at the sick girl. "Queen Quelea, please make her well," he said — and nothing happened.

When he confronted the Banished One, he'd felt power thrum through him. He didn't feel that now. He didn't feel anything special at all. Very plainly, neither did the dying little girl.

When he confronted the Banished One, he hadn't called on the gods in the heavens at all. He'd used the Scepter of Mercy to focus and strengthen his own will, his own determination. He tried that now, willing the sickness to leave the girl. Something thrummed along his arm. The hair on it stood, again as it might have with thunder and lightning in the air.

The little girl sat up in bed. By the way her mother gasped, that was a separate miracle all by itself. "Mama," the girl said. "I'm thirsty, Mama." She pointed at Grus. "Who's this old man in the funny clothes?"

With another gasp, the woman said, "She doesn't mean anything bad by it, Your Majesty. She's only six."

"It's all right." Grus stroked his beard. "This will never be dark again. And I am wearing funny-looking clothes."

"I'm thirsty," the girl repeated. "And I'm hungry, too. Can I have some bread and oil and some figs?"

"I'll get them for you, dear, and some watered wine with them." Her mother dashed away and returned with the food and drink. When she saw how the girl ate and drank, she burst into tears. "I don't have much, Your Majesty. Whatever you want of me, though — anything at all — it's yours." She dropped to her knees in front of him once more.

He raised her up. "If I take anything for helping a little girl, I don't deserve to wear these funny clothes, do I?" he said gently. I don't deserve to carry the Scepter of Mercy was what went through his mind at the same time.

"Queen Quelea bless you! King Olor bless you!" she choked out between sniffles.

"It's all right. I'm glad I was able to do something, that's all."

When Grus tried to call on Quelea, the queen of the gods gave him nothing. She might as well not have been there up in the heavens. So Grus thought, but only for a moment. Yes, he'd succeeded by exercising his own will, not through her. But how had the Scepter of Mercy come to the material world, if not through the gods in the heavens? It wasn't the product of some human wizard of bygone days, and no one had ever been mad or arrogant enough to claim it was.

"More!" the little girl said, as imperiously as though she and not Estrilda or Sosia were Queen of Avornis.

As the woman turned toward the kitchen again, Grus said, "I don't think you need me here anymore. Take good care of her, and I hope she stays well from now on."

"Thank you, Your Majesty," the woman said. "I'm sure she will. How can she help it, once the Scepter has blessed her?"

"To be honest, I have no idea. There are a lot of things I don't know about the Scepter of Mercy — a lot more than I do know, as a matter of fact," Grus told her.

She looked at him as though she couldn't believe her ears. "How modest you are, Your Majesty!" she exclaimed, and then, "Who ever thought a king could be modest?"

That made him proud. His pride made the Scepter of Mercy perceptibly heavier. It didn't want him thinking what a wonderful fellow he was, at least not for reasons that had anything to do with it. He'd never been particularly modest, no matter what this grateful woman thought. He never had been, no, but now maybe he would have to be.

"Is everything all right, Your Majesty?" a guardsman called from outside the sad, shabby little house.

What would make everything all right here? About five times as much money as the woman had now. Grus couldn't just come out and say yes without making that woman liable to mock him — and without making himself deserve it. "Everything is — well enough," he said.

"Everything is wonderful!" the woman said. "Wonderful!" She kissed Grus on the cheek. Then she went over and kissed her little girl, who seemed as well and happy and bouncy as though she'd never been sick a day in her life.

Out in the street, the guardsmen and Pterocles were laughing. Grus hoped the little girl's mother never figured out why. The king's men knew his reputation, and at least wondered if the woman had given her all to pay him back. She'd offered it, all right, and he'd turned her down. Maybe I'm growing up at last, he thought. Some things you do because they need doing, not because of that.

Pterocles and the soldiers grinned at Grus when he came out. "Did you make the little girl feel better, Your Majesty?" a guardsman asked. "Did you make her mother feel better, too?" More laughter.

Grus also grinned. "The Scepter of Mercy cured the girl," he answered. "Seeing her better made the mother happy. And," he added hastily, "that's the only thing that made her mother happy."

The guards leered. They went right on teasing him as he walked back toward the riverside. Pterocles asked, "The Scepter of Mercy cured the little girl?"

"Yes, once I figured out what to do," Grus replied.

"I would have thought calling on Queen Quelea would do the trick," the wizard said.

"I thought the same thing, but that turned out to be wrong," Grus said. "The gods in the heavens really don't do much, or seem to want to do much, in the material world. When I used my own will instead of calling on Quelea, the girl got better."

"Interesting. Worth remembering," Pterocles said. "Of course, if it weren't for the gods in the heavens, the Scepter of Mercy wouldn't be here in the material world for us to use."

"That also occurred to me," Grus said. "I'm not going to try to get above my station. If I do, the Scepter probably won't let me use it at all." He eyed the talisman, as though wondering if it would agree with him.

Pterocles bowed to him. "Your Majesty, I don't think anyone will quarrel with you over how you've used the Scepter and how you will use it. I don't see how the Scepter itself could judge that you've done anything wrong, either."

"I hope not," was all Grus said. He didn't think the Scepter of Mercy would find he'd done anything wrong. About the rest of what the wizard had said… He wasn't so sure of that. Lanius would probably have ideas of his own about the Scepter and what to do with it. Lanius always had ideas; that was what he was best at. Here, the other king might well be entitled to see how those ideas went, too. If not for Lanius, the Scepter would still be inside Yozgat and the Avornans still besieging the place with no guarantee of success.

Grus wondered whether bringing home the Scepter of Mercy would impress Ortalis. He sighed. If the Scepter didn't impress his legitimate son, nothing ever would. Of course, on the evidence, it was entirely possible that nothing would.

Lanius climbed aboard one of the royal steeds — a sturdy gelding, not a stallion — to ride out of the city of Avornis and greet King Grus and the Scepter of Mercy. A few stalls down in the royal stables, Prince Ortalis was mounting a much livelier steed.

The great cathedral had its own stables. Its horses, no doubt, were greatly improved since Arch-Hallow Anser donned the red robes. Lanius couldn't help thinking someone holier should have worn those robes, so as to give the Scepter a proper blessing. But the Scepter seemed to have done just fine for itself regardless of who put on the arch-hallow's regalia.

Not far away, Prince Crex whooped with excitement. He would ride his own pony out to greet his grandfather, and couldn't have been prouder if he'd gone campaigning against the Menteshe himself.

Better still — as far as Crex was concerned, anyhow — Princess Pitta, being younger than he was and a girl besides, would ride out with Queen Sosia in a litter. That Crex had done that himself more than once did nothing to convince him it wasn't a babyish way to go.

"I think you're ready, Your Majesty," Lanius' groom said after checking the horse's trappings one last time.

"Let's go, then," Lanius said. He and Crex and Ortalis all emerged from their stalls at about the same time. Crex waved to his father. Lanius waved back. He also nodded to Ortalis.

However little he loved his brother-in-law — which was putting it mildly — he did try to be civil.

Ortalis nodded back. "So the Scepter of Mercy really is coming here, is it?" he said.

"Unless your father's been telling a lot of lies in his letters, it is," Lanius answered. "After more than four hundred years, it's finally coming home."

He thought the number would impress Ortalis. It certainly impressed him. But his brother-in-law only shrugged. "If we've done all right without it for all this time, I don't see why everybody's making such a fuss about getting it back now."

"We finally have a real weapon against the Banished One," Lanius said. "Why do you think the Menteshe stole it in the first place?"

"The Menteshe are way off… wherever they are," Ortalis said vaguely. Lanius was shocked and astonished to realize he didn't know, or care, whether the nomads lived to the south, the north, the west, or even the east, where Avornis had no neighbors save the sea. Ortalis went on, "Wherever they are, they aren't about to bother us here."

Against such invincible ignorance — and, worse, indifference — where could Lanius begin? Nowhere. Nowhere that he saw, anyway. He decided not to try, saying only, "Well, everyone else is pleased about it. You'll want to go along, won't you?"

"I'm here, aren't I?" Ortalis said irritably. "I'm not going to let my old man say I was off hiding somewhere when he came back. He'd score points off me for years if I did that." His chuckle was less than pleasant. "Unless I score 'em first, anyway."

"What's that supposed to mean?" Lanius asked.

"Never you mind," his brother-in-law answered. "We're going to ride out and celebrate the day, right? Yahoo! Huzzah!"

Lanius didn't think he'd ever heard less sincere celebration. But, again, it was much too late to repair the long-mined bonds between father and son. He just said, "Come on, then," and rode out of the royal stables.

"I think Uncle Ortalis would rather be doing something else," Crex said.

"I think you're right, son," Lanius agreed. "Sometimes, though, even grown-ups have to do what they have to do, not what they want to do." Crex looked as though he wanted nothing to do with such an unpleasant notion.

Mounted guards riding in front of the royal party bellowed, "Clear the road!" The people of the capital obeyed slowly when they obeyed at all. Lanius didn't think he would have wanted anybody bellowing at him, either. He doubted the cavalrymen's officers would be interested in hearing anything like that.

Eventually, and despite more bad-tempered shouting, he and Crex and Ortalis took their places outside the city of Avornis. Arch-Hallow Anser joined them a few minutes later, followed by the women of the royal family.

Off in the distance waited a pair of horsemen. When the royal family was assembled, one of the men rode toward Lanius and his kin. The other sent his horse trotting back around a stand of apple trees and out of sight.

"Your Majesty!" called the rider who approached the king. "Your Majesty, King Grus and the rest will be along directly."

"Good," Lanius said.

The brief stretch while he waited was enlivened when Tinamus the builder hurried out to join them. "So sorry, Your Majesty," Tinamus mumbled, and stammered out a tale of woe about oversleeping, getting sidetracked on his way to the gate, and a dozen other small catastrophes.

"Never mind." Lanius waved aside all the apologies. "You're here now, and that's all that really matters."

No sooner were the words out of his mouth than a detachment from the army that had besieged Yozgat came into view. After the standard-bearers rode Grus and his companions. Hirundo was easy to spot. So was Pterocles, because he bounced along on a mule instead of a horse (no great horseman himself, Lanius had more than a little sympathy for the wizard). When the party came a little nearer, Lanius recognized Oms and Fulca, who rode behind the other king.

And there were Collurio and his son. Between them rolled a wagon that carried a cage. Lanius smiled. There was Pouncer, up near the front of things. The only trouble was, the moncat probably didn't want the honor.

A flash of blue light drew Lanius' gaze back to Grus. The other king carried the Scepter of Mercy in his left hand. Awe trickled through Lanius. I had a hand in bringing that back here. I really did.

"Is that the Scepter?" Sosia asked.

"That's the Scepter," Lanius answered.

"And that silly moncat stole it out of Yozgat?" his wife persisted.

"Pouncer did it, yes," Lanius said. "I don't suppose the Banished One thought the moncat was silly, though."

Sosia thought about that before nodding. "I suppose not," she said. "And having him do that was your idea?" Proudly, Lanius nodded. Sosia looked from the Scepter to the wagon carrying the moncat to Lanius again. "Nobody else would have come up with it — I'm sure of that."

Was she praising him, or was that something less? Lanius wasn't sure and didn't feel like asking. Nor did he have to. Grus broke out of the lead group and rode up to him. The Scepter of Mercy looked more magnificent the closer it got. "Your Majesty," Grus called.

"Congratulations, Your Majesty," Lanius answered. That was as much praise for Grus as it was for the Scepter. The other king had to know as much.

Then Grus did something Lanius didn't expect. He held out the Scepter of Mercy, saying, "Here. You take it for a bit. You did as much to bring it back to Avornis as I did."

"Me?" Lanius' voice rose to a startled squeak. No, he hadn't thought the other king would let him set a hand on it.

Understanding him perfectly, Grus gave him a wry smile. "One of the things you find out, once you've got the Scepter, is that you have to live up to having it. Do you know what I mean?"

"No, not altogether," Lanius admitted, "But I think I'm about to find out." He accepted the talisman from Grus.

It was lighter than it looked. He'd thought it would be from what he'd read about it, but holding it still came as a surprise. It didn't make him feel suddenly stronger or smarter than he had been a moment before. But it did make him feel larger, as though he and his kingdom were mysteriously merged. He could also sense the Banished One, off in the distance — not that it seemed so far from here to the Argolid Mountains, not with the Scepter in his hand. He didn't try to say anything to the exiled god; from all he knew, Grus had done everything that needed doing there. Slowly, he said, "Thank you. I begin to understand."

Then, even more slowly, but with firm determination, he handed the Scepter of Mercy back to Grus. "Thank you," the other king said. "I wondered if you would keep it for yourself."

Lanius shook his head. "No. I won't tell you it didn't cross my mind, because it did. But you have to be able to give the Scepter of Mercy away to deserve to hold it, don't you?"

"I thought so. That's why I handed it to you," Grus answered. "I hadn't put it quite that neatly, though, even to myself. You think straight." He suddenly grinned. "And you think crooked, too. If you didn't, the Scepter would still be sitting down in Yozgat."

"It took both of us," Lanius said.

Grus nodded. "Ride with me, Your Majesty, and we'll show the Scepter to the people of the city together."

"I'll do that." Lanius had wondered whether Grus would try to shove him into the background while celebrating the Scepter's return to Avornis. Now he realized the other king couldn't very well do that. To deserve the Scepter of Mercy, you had to live up to the ideals it stood for. That would take some getting used to, to put it mildly.

Trumpeters blared out fanfares as the two Kings of Avornis rode into the city of Avornis side by side. Grus held up the Scepter of Mercy with his right hand, Lanius with his left. People lined the streets and cheered. "Hurrah for the Scepter!" they shouted, and, "Hurrah for beating the Menteshe!" and, "Hurrah for beating the Banished One!" and, "The gods in the heavens love us!"

Did the gods in the heavens love the Avornans? Or did they just fear the exiled Milvago? Lanius had no idea. If he were to guess, he would have guessed the latter, but he knew he would only have been guessing. Nobody in the material world — except perhaps the Banished One — really understood the gods in the heavens, and the Banished One was not inclined to be objective about them.

Behind Grus and Lanius, Arch-Hallow Anser sang a hymn of thanksgiving. The two kings smiled at each other. No, Anser wasn't particularly pious; anyone who knew him knew that. But his heart was in the right place. Just now, that seemed to count for more.

Lanius wanted to look back over his shoulder to see what Ortalis was doing. Having Ortalis behind him made him nervous. He told himself he was worrying over nothing. He told himself, yes, but he couldn't make himself believe it.

Then he told himself Ortalis wouldn't try anything outrageous with the whole city of Avornis looking on. That felt more reassuring.

Instead of going on to the palace, Grus led the procession to the great cathedral. "We ought to give the gods in the heavens a prayer of gratitude," he said. "It's the least we can do." With a wry grin, he added, "And it's probably the most we can do, too."

"Yes, it probably is," Lanius agreed. "You're right, though — we ought to do it. If they don't care, well, we can't help that."

Most people in the Kingdom of Avornis — including Arch-Hallow Anser — knew less about the gods in the heavens than did the two kings. Knowing less, most people took the gods more seriously than Lanius and Grus did. No throb of reproof stung Lanius after that thought crossed his mind, even though he still had a hand on the Scepter of Mercy.

He glanced over to the Scepter. It was beautiful — perhaps even supernaturally beautiful — but its beauty wasn't what caught his eye. There it was, in his hand and Grus', but he could still believe he didn't take King Olor and Queen Quelea and the rest of the gods seriously.

He nodded to himself. Yes, he could believe that. The gods had given mortals one marvelous talisman and then, by all appearances, forgotten about it and forgotten about mankind. It had been up to the two kings to figure out how to reclaim it after it was lost for so long… hadn't it? If the gods had intervened in that, they'd done it far too subtly for anyone to notice.

"The moncat! The moncat! The gods love the moncat!" some people in front of a saddlery shouted as first the two kings and then Pouncer's cage went by.

Olor and Quelea and the rest had reason to love Pouncer, considering what the beast had done. But had they loved it before? Had they made it love going into the kitchens and stealing spoons? Had they given Lanius the idea that an animal which stole spoons might also steal a Scepter? He didn't think so, but how could he prove he was right to doubt it?

He couldn't, and knew as much. Once the notion occurred to him, he also knew he would spend the rest of his life wondering.

People cheered as Prince Ortalis rode through the streets of the city of Avornis. The only trouble was, they weren't cheering him. All the cheers were for his father, whom he hated and feared, and for his brother-in-law, for whom he'd always felt an amused contempt.

He wasn't amused, not anymore.

As for the Scepter of Mercy, what was the point of making such a fuss over a bauble Avornis plainly didn't need? How many years had it been gone? Lanius had told him, but he'd forgotten. Lots, though — he knew that. Had the kingdom fallen apart because it wasn't there? Of course not.

He'd tried explaining to Lanius what was only plain sense. The king hadn't wanted to listen. He'd babbled all sorts of mystical nonsense instead. Ortalis knew it was nonsense, but he hadn't felt like arguing. Life was too short.

He wondered just how he was so sure Lanius was spouting nonsense. It seemed obvious, but why? Maybe it had something to do with the dreams he'd had lately. Lanius had dreams, too, but he didn't seem to enjoy his. Ortalis wondered what was wrong with Lanius, anyhow.

How could anybody not enjoy dreams that showed him as the most powerful man in the kingdom, able to do whatever he wanted to whomever he wanted? They seemed so real, too, as though they were actually happening. And the voice — the Voice — that guided him through them didn't detract from that realism. Oh, no — just the opposite. It made everything seem sharper, more intense.

He could almost hear the Voice now, even though he was awake. He knew exactly what it would be telling him. There were his father and Lanius, riding out in front of him. They were both hanging on to the Scepter of Mercy. They thought it was important, even if he didn't. Since they did, shouldn't they have let him share it with them?

The question answered itself, at least in his mind. Of course they should have. But would they? No. They weren't even letting him get anywhere near it. Was that fair? Was that just? Not likely!

"Moncat! Moncat! Hurrah for the moncat!" people shouted. Ortalis didn't think that was fair, either. A stupid animal got the applause, but what did he get? Nothing.

His father probably thought he would be happy riding along here. Hadn't his father kept him from doing anything when it came to running the kingdom? Hadn't his father even tried to keep him from getting married? That was the truth, all right — no use trying to pretend anything different.

And hadn't his father sucked up to Lanius for all he was worth? That was the truth, too — the truth from Ortalis' eyes, anyhow. His father treated Lanius more like a son than he did his own legitimate offspring.

I've got a son of my own now, Ortalis thought. Anybody who thinks he won't wear the crown — wear it after me, by the gods! — had better think again.

The blue jewel that crowned the Scepter of Mercy sparkled in the sun. It drew all eyes to it, including Ortalis'. I don't care if it's important or not, he said to himself. If they think it is, they should give me a share of it. They should, but they won't, because they want to keep it all to themselves.

Was that really his own voice inside his head, or was it the Voice? He wasn't sure one way or the other. It didn't really matter. His voice and the Voice were saying the same thing.

After what felt like forever and a stop at the cathedral for what seemed no good reason, the procession finally got back to the palace. Ortalis slid down off his horse with a sigh of relief. He was glad to let a groom lead the animal away.

People went right on making much of his father and Lanius. Nobody paid any attention to him. He might as well not have existed. His father probably would have been happier if he didn't.

Well, he still had some friends, anyhow. Times like this showed him who they were. A guard captain named Serinus came up to him and said, "Pretty fancy show — if you like that kind of thing, anyway."

Ortalis made a face. "Just between you and me, I could live without it."

"I'll bet you could, Your Highness," Serinus said sympathetically. "Did they ever give you the attention you deserve? Doesn't look that way, not to me. Hardly seems right."

"Sure doesn't." Another friend of Ortalis', a lieutenant named Gygis, came up in time to hear Serinus finish.

"Question is, what can we do about it?" Ortalis said. The three of them put their heads together.