Read Online The Fortress of Glass by Drake David - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Drake David
Tags: Speculative Fiction
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years...
But before he claimed the symbol, Garric had to create the reality. He grinned. Kingship was much more complicated that it'd seemed when he read Rigal's epic Cariad. The hero Car had fought many enemies, both human and supernatural, in founding his kingdom, but he'd never had to settle a wrangle between the Duke of Blaise and the Earl of Sandrakkan as to the order of precedence of their regiments when the royal army was in full array.
"I could handle that for you, lad," said image of King Carus, shaking his head in rueful memory. "Nobody argued with me about anything to do with the battle line because they knew I'd take their head off if they did. Unfortunately I dealt with tax commissioners pretty much the same way, and I can't tell you how much trouble that caused."
Today Liane was in charge of the royal involvement in the funeral and apotheosis rites. She had an instinctive feel for protocol and precedence, what should or shouldn't be done in a formal setting. That was a better use of her talents than sitting beside Garric and calming him by her presence; but he half wished now that he'd left the arrangements to one of Lord Tadai's stewards.
The shrieking of horns and trumpets halted. Choruses of boys and girls came forward from behind the bleachers. The youngest singers were only six or so, and the choir masters and assistants trying to keep the lines in order looked more harassed than the children did. It was almost time to light the pyre.
Lord Protas was to Garric's right; Lord Martous was whispering to him. The boy looked stiff and uncomfortable, but that's how he'd looked ever since Garric met him on the Shepherd. Garric realized with a touch of sadness that a 12-year-old boy whose father had just died was an obvious subject for sympathy, but he-Prince Garric of Haft-had none to spare.
Protas seemed biddable. He could take over the government of First Atara with the 'advice' of a commissioner from Valles, leaving one fewer problem for Prince Garric to concern himself with.
"There's nothing wrong with sympathy," said King Carus, standing on the balcony of a tower that might never have existed. "And don't pretend that you lack it. The trouble comes from letting sympathy keep you from doing what has to be done. Anger does less harm than false kindness; and I've got plenty of experience of how much harm anger does."
Martous handed Protas a glass bowl in a filigreed framework; it held a pine torch lying on a bed of sand which'd been soaked with oil. Sluggish flames wobbled from the sand as well as the pine.
"Go, your highness!" the chamberlain snapped. "Don't delay the ceremonies!"
Garric put his right hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed it, smiling at him. He didn't speak. Protas nodded appreciatively, then got up and started across the broad cleared space toward the pyre. His back was straight and his stride firm except for one little stumble.
"No sympathy!" repeated King Carus with a gust of laughter.
Tenoctris sat cross-legged on the ground beside the bleachers where she'd asked to be. A lifetime of studies with no servants and little money had made her adept at making do with what was available. There was almost always a floor, but chairs and stools were harder to come by; she'd gotten into the habit of drawing her words and symbols of art on the surface she sat on.
Garric glanced at the old wizard. She was muttering an incantation over a figure drawn on ground packed hard by the feet of generations of buyers, sellers, and spectators. The bundle of yarrow stalks lay by her left knee and a vellum scroll was partly unrolled to her right, but she didn't appear to be using either one.
The four Blood Eagles detailed to guard Tenoctris formed an armored U-shape on all sides of her but in front. They kept their eyes on the crowd and possible threats rather than looking at what Tenoctris was doing, but her wizardry didn't seem to worry them the way it would most laymen. Lord Attaper had learned to
But before he claimed the symbol, Garric had to create the reality. He grinned. Kingship was much more complicated that it'd seemed when he read Rigal's epic Cariad. The hero Car had fought many enemies, both human and supernatural, in founding his kingdom, but he'd never had to settle a wrangle between the Duke of Blaise and the Earl of Sandrakkan as to the order of precedence of their regiments when the royal army was in full array.
"I could handle that for you, lad," said image of King Carus, shaking his head in rueful memory. "Nobody argued with me about anything to do with the battle line because they knew I'd take their head off if they did. Unfortunately I dealt with tax commissioners pretty much the same way, and I can't tell you how much trouble that caused."
Today Liane was in charge of the royal involvement in the funeral and apotheosis rites. She had an instinctive feel for protocol and precedence, what should or shouldn't be done in a formal setting. That was a better use of her talents than sitting beside Garric and calming him by her presence; but he half wished now that he'd left the arrangements to one of Lord Tadai's stewards.
The shrieking of horns and trumpets halted. Choruses of boys and girls came forward from behind the bleachers. The youngest singers were only six or so, and the choir masters and assistants trying to keep the lines in order looked more harassed than the children did. It was almost time to light the pyre.
Lord Protas was to Garric's right; Lord Martous was whispering to him. The boy looked stiff and uncomfortable, but that's how he'd looked ever since Garric met him on the Shepherd. Garric realized with a touch of sadness that a 12-year-old boy whose father had just died was an obvious subject for sympathy, but he-Prince Garric of Haft-had none to spare.
Protas seemed biddable. He could take over the government of First Atara with the 'advice' of a commissioner from Valles, leaving one fewer problem for Prince Garric to concern himself with.
"There's nothing wrong with sympathy," said King Carus, standing on the balcony of a tower that might never have existed. "And don't pretend that you lack it. The trouble comes from letting sympathy keep you from doing what has to be done. Anger does less harm than false kindness; and I've got plenty of experience of how much harm anger does."
Martous handed Protas a glass bowl in a filigreed framework; it held a pine torch lying on a bed of sand which'd been soaked with oil. Sluggish flames wobbled from the sand as well as the pine.
"Go, your highness!" the chamberlain snapped. "Don't delay the ceremonies!"
Garric put his right hand on the boy's shoulder and squeezed it, smiling at him. He didn't speak. Protas nodded appreciatively, then got up and started across the broad cleared space toward the pyre. His back was straight and his stride firm except for one little stumble.
"No sympathy!" repeated King Carus with a gust of laughter.
Tenoctris sat cross-legged on the ground beside the bleachers where she'd asked to be. A lifetime of studies with no servants and little money had made her adept at making do with what was available. There was almost always a floor, but chairs and stools were harder to come by; she'd gotten into the habit of drawing her words and symbols of art on the surface she sat on.
Garric glanced at the old wizard. She was muttering an incantation over a figure drawn on ground packed hard by the feet of generations of buyers, sellers, and spectators. The bundle of yarrow stalks lay by her left knee and a vellum scroll was partly unrolled to her right, but she didn't appear to be using either one.
The four Blood Eagles detailed to guard Tenoctris formed an armored U-shape on all sides of her but in front. They kept their eyes on the crowd and possible threats rather than looking at what Tenoctris was doing, but her wizardry didn't seem to worry them the way it would most laymen. Lord Attaper had learned to
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