[ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
known them.
He knew about King Malcolm. Most people did. The King had fancied himself a general, and had sent
his troops into battle after battle to test his own theories of warfare. At first he took on the bandits and
outlaws in his own land, and then, as his confidence grew, he moved against his neighbouring countries in
a series of border campaigns intended to spread the boundaries of Redhart. With his elemental magic to
aid him, he won more battles than he lost, but still the campaigns cost him more in revenue and men than
his newly conquered lands could replace. And so it went. King Malcolm had not been a cruel man, as
Kings went, but it could not be said he was greatly loved by his people, for all his victories. His sons
appeared to be cast from the same mould, only worse. Dominic is mad, and Lewis is vile . . . and now it
seemed Viktor was no better. It came as no real surprise. Jordan had seen a dangerous weakness in the
Prince's face, for all his brave words, added to a petulance that changed all too easily into arrogance and
viciousness.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
I will sit upon the throne of Redhart if I have to see all the corridors of this Castle awash in blood to do
it. . .
Jordan sighed inwardly. His dreams and illusions had never really been any more than that. His
audiences might have believed in the heroic nobles he had portrayed for them, but he never had. Not
deep down, where it counted. The aristocracy held its power and position by force of arms and magic,
nothing more. Anything else was just a dream . . .
Jordan drank the last of the wine Gawaine had brought him. It was too sweet for his taste, but he was
thirsty and it was something to do. He felt restive without any planned moves or actions to fall back on.
He strolled casually forward, headed nowhere in particular, and the courtiers fell unobtrusively back
before him. Gawaine moved silently at his side. It didn't have to be just a dream, Jordan suddenly
realised. He was a Prince now, and could act as a Prince should. But if he did, he'd be acting out of
character, and could be revealed as an imposter. Besides, there was Count Roderik to consider. Viktor
might think he was in charge, but it was clear to Jordan that Roderik was the real brains and power in this
conspiracy. It wouldn't surprise Jordan to discover that Roderik was using Viktor, rather than the other
way round.
Jordan looked around for another drink. He was damned if he was going to get through this sober.
Brion DeGrange sat in his study, nursing a glass of wine and staring at it bitterly. There was a time he'd
been a real drinking man, but not any more. The geas wouldn't let him do anything to himself that might
interfere with his duties as Head of Security. The bastard spell wouldn't let him get drunk, no matter how
much he needed to. One glass of wine an evening, sometimes two. A mug of beer with his dinner. And
that was it. He couldn't get drunk, he couldn't run away, and he couldn't even kill himself, let alone the
men who'd done this to him. DeGrange scowled at his half-empty glass. He might have been an outlaw,
but at least he usually granted his enemies the kindness of a quick death. And he'd never kept slaves.
One day, he would have his revenge. One day.
Until then, he worked hard as Head of Castle Security. Partly because the geas demanded it, but mainly
because it wasn't in his nature to do sloppy work. If he did something, his pride demanded that he do it
well. He'd never been able to settle for being second best. Even if that meant killing the man in front of
him. DeGrange grinned wolfishly. That was what had got him outlawed, all those years ago, and he'd
never regretted it. The bastard shouldn't have got in his way. He winced as a familiar headache began,
pounding dully in his temples. The geas was warning him. If he persisted in dwelling on his past as an
outlaw, and the things he'd done, the headache would grow worse, until the pain drove him screaming
into unconsciousness. He'd learned the hard way that there was no profit in trying to fight the geas.
He concentrated on calm, neutral thoughts, with the bitter case of long practice. When all was said and
done, Security at Castle Midnight was never less than interesting. On a good day he could lose himself in
his work and go for hours on end without remembering he was a slave. The pain in his temples slowly
began to subside, and DeGrange sighed heavily. He drank his wine, hardly noticing the taste. He was
getting maudlin again. It was the approaching autumn that did it. He'd always loved riding through the
forests in the fall, the changing leaves hanging round the trees like bronzed tatters ... he missed the
forests. He hadn't been able to set foot outside Castle Midnight in seven years.
He looked about him, taking in the bare walls of his study. It wasn't a large room, but it was warm and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]
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known them.
He knew about King Malcolm. Most people did. The King had fancied himself a general, and had sent
his troops into battle after battle to test his own theories of warfare. At first he took on the bandits and
outlaws in his own land, and then, as his confidence grew, he moved against his neighbouring countries in
a series of border campaigns intended to spread the boundaries of Redhart. With his elemental magic to
aid him, he won more battles than he lost, but still the campaigns cost him more in revenue and men than
his newly conquered lands could replace. And so it went. King Malcolm had not been a cruel man, as
Kings went, but it could not be said he was greatly loved by his people, for all his victories. His sons
appeared to be cast from the same mould, only worse. Dominic is mad, and Lewis is vile . . . and now it
seemed Viktor was no better. It came as no real surprise. Jordan had seen a dangerous weakness in the
Prince's face, for all his brave words, added to a petulance that changed all too easily into arrogance and
viciousness.
Generated by ABC Amber LIT Converter, http://www.processtext.com/abclit.html
I will sit upon the throne of Redhart if I have to see all the corridors of this Castle awash in blood to do
it. . .
Jordan sighed inwardly. His dreams and illusions had never really been any more than that. His
audiences might have believed in the heroic nobles he had portrayed for them, but he never had. Not
deep down, where it counted. The aristocracy held its power and position by force of arms and magic,
nothing more. Anything else was just a dream . . .
Jordan drank the last of the wine Gawaine had brought him. It was too sweet for his taste, but he was
thirsty and it was something to do. He felt restive without any planned moves or actions to fall back on.
He strolled casually forward, headed nowhere in particular, and the courtiers fell unobtrusively back
before him. Gawaine moved silently at his side. It didn't have to be just a dream, Jordan suddenly
realised. He was a Prince now, and could act as a Prince should. But if he did, he'd be acting out of
character, and could be revealed as an imposter. Besides, there was Count Roderik to consider. Viktor
might think he was in charge, but it was clear to Jordan that Roderik was the real brains and power in this
conspiracy. It wouldn't surprise Jordan to discover that Roderik was using Viktor, rather than the other
way round.
Jordan looked around for another drink. He was damned if he was going to get through this sober.
Brion DeGrange sat in his study, nursing a glass of wine and staring at it bitterly. There was a time he'd
been a real drinking man, but not any more. The geas wouldn't let him do anything to himself that might
interfere with his duties as Head of Security. The bastard spell wouldn't let him get drunk, no matter how
much he needed to. One glass of wine an evening, sometimes two. A mug of beer with his dinner. And
that was it. He couldn't get drunk, he couldn't run away, and he couldn't even kill himself, let alone the
men who'd done this to him. DeGrange scowled at his half-empty glass. He might have been an outlaw,
but at least he usually granted his enemies the kindness of a quick death. And he'd never kept slaves.
One day, he would have his revenge. One day.
Until then, he worked hard as Head of Castle Security. Partly because the geas demanded it, but mainly
because it wasn't in his nature to do sloppy work. If he did something, his pride demanded that he do it
well. He'd never been able to settle for being second best. Even if that meant killing the man in front of
him. DeGrange grinned wolfishly. That was what had got him outlawed, all those years ago, and he'd
never regretted it. The bastard shouldn't have got in his way. He winced as a familiar headache began,
pounding dully in his temples. The geas was warning him. If he persisted in dwelling on his past as an
outlaw, and the things he'd done, the headache would grow worse, until the pain drove him screaming
into unconsciousness. He'd learned the hard way that there was no profit in trying to fight the geas.
He concentrated on calm, neutral thoughts, with the bitter case of long practice. When all was said and
done, Security at Castle Midnight was never less than interesting. On a good day he could lose himself in
his work and go for hours on end without remembering he was a slave. The pain in his temples slowly
began to subside, and DeGrange sighed heavily. He drank his wine, hardly noticing the taste. He was
getting maudlin again. It was the approaching autumn that did it. He'd always loved riding through the
forests in the fall, the changing leaves hanging round the trees like bronzed tatters ... he missed the
forests. He hadn't been able to set foot outside Castle Midnight in seven years.
He looked about him, taking in the bare walls of his study. It wasn't a large room, but it was warm and [ Pobierz całość w formacie PDF ]