"The plague has never been thicker about Ursal's streets," Duke Kalas admitted grimly.
"And whether we take chances or not, there remains the possibility of its finding a way into our house," Constance added. Both Kalas and Danube eyed her curiously, for her tone showed that her statement was leading to something more.
"These are dangerous times," she said, moving closer, but pointedly glancing back at her two children as she did, "more dangerous to the Throne of the kingdom, I would argue, than ever was the dactyl or its evil minions."
King Danube nodded, but wasn't so certain of that. Of course, he had never shared the little secret of Father Abbot Markwart's vengeful spirit making several threatening visits to his private bedchambers. On the surface though, and except for that one point, Constance's argument was well taken. The dactyl's war, for all its terror and trouble, never got anywhere near Ursal, but remained in the northern reaches of the kingdom.
The plague, on the other hand, loomed all about Castle Ursal's walls.
"I am not certain that this latest plague is not another manifestation oi the dactyl's evil minions," King Danube did argue.
"For all of our cautions," Constance went on, "for all the soldiers lining the walls, and for all the thickness of those walls themselves, we cannoi guarantee that the plague will not find us, any of us. And if it does, even if i is you, my King, then all the monks in all the world will likely prove useles; against its workings."
Duke Kalas snorted loudly at that statement, for he had long ago deter mined the Abellican monks to be useless against any sort of illness. Was i not a disease, after all, and one far less powerful than the rosy plague, tha had killed young Queen Vivian? And that right before the eyes of Abbo Je'howith? "I thank you for the cheerful warning," Danube said dryly. "But in all truth, Constance, this danger has been known to us since the beginning."
"Then why have you taken no steps to solidify the kingdom in its event? " the woman bluntly asked.
A puzzled King Danube stared at her.
"Merwick and Torrence," Duke Kalas said quietly, catching on, and before King Danube could pick up on that, he went on. "The line of succession is already in place. Have you forgotten Prince Midalis of Vanguard? "
"We do not even know if my brother is alive," Danube admitted before Constance could reply. "We have had no word from Vanguard in many months."
"Surely if he had fallen, then word would have been passed south," Kalas argued.
Danube nodded. "Probably," he admitted, "but we cannot be certain, nor can we be certain that my brother is not now lying feverish in a bed, heavy with plague."
Kalas sighed.
"It is the truth, if an unpleasant one," King Danube added, then he turned to Constance. "What solution do you see?" he asked, though it was obvious to him and to Kalas what she was hinting at.
Constance eyed the King directly, then turned her gaze, taking his with her, toward her-toward their-two children.
Duke Kalas gave a laugh. "How fortunate," he muttered sarcastically.
But King Danube wasn't seeing things that way at all. "How fortunate indeed," he echoed, but in a very different tone. "And our experience this day reminded me of how fragile is our existence." He rose from his chair and walked deliberately toward Constance. "You are my witness in this, Duke Kalas," he said solemnly.
"Yes, my King," came the obedient answer, for even stubborn Kalas knew when he could not push the boundaries with his friend.
"In the event of my death, the throne passes to my brother, Prince Midalis of Vanguard," Danube said formally. "In the event that Prince Midalis is unable to ascend the throne, then Merwick, son of Constance, son of King Danube Brock Ursal, shall be crowned King of Honce-the-Bear, and a regent shall be appointed from the dukes of the land to oversee the kingdom until he is old enough and trained enough to assume the responsibilities of the Throne.
"Beyond Merwick, the title and claim lie with young Torrence, again under the tutelage of a properly appointed regent. And I should like you, my friend Kalas, to serve as that regent if you are able."
Constance beamed but said nothing; nor did Duke Kalas, who wore a very different expression, somewhat of a cross between amusement and disgust. "Go and fetch the royal scribe," Danube instructed Constance, "and the abbot of St. Honce and any of the other noblemen who are about the castle. We will make this proclamation again, in full witness and with all the propriety demanded of such a solemn occasion."
Constance was gone in the blink of an eye.
"I hope she made you as happy in the moment of conceiving the children as you made her now," Duke Kalas remarked. Danube turned a dangerous stare on him, warning him that he might again be crossing the very thin line that separated the words of a friend to a friend from the words of a Duke to his King.
"I am weary of the road, my friend," Prince Midalis told Andacanavar as the two at last came into the more familiar reaches of Vanguard, nearing home. "I do not understand how you can live such a nomadic life."
"It is the way of my people," Andacanavar explained. "We move to follow the caribou herds and the elk, to escape winter's bite in the far north and summer's plague of insects in the south."
Midalis nodded and smiled, obviously unconvinced of the benefits of such a life.
"This road was more lonely than most," the ranger went on. "Few contacts, out of necessity. Trust me, my friend, you will enjoy another such journey someday, after the plague has passed, when we can dine with the farmers along the road or speak with the hardy woodsmen of the Timberlands across a tavern table."
"And perhaps we shall do just that," said Midalis. "But for now, I am glad to be home."
Soon after, the pair came in sight of St. Belfour, walking their mounts along the trail climbing to the lea that lay before the abbey.
And then they saw them, the refugees, strewn across the lawn before St. Belfour, Miserable, plague-ridden wretches, many near death.
The rosy plague had beaten Prince Midalis back to his homeland.
"Would that I was born with a womb," Duke Kalas snickered as Constance walked by him later that night in a torch-lit corridor in Castle Ursal, "and all the charms to catch a nobleman's fancy."
Constance glared at him, but he relieved the tension with a burst of laughter. "I blame you hot at all," Kalas went on.
"And I do not appreciate your sarcasm," she coldly replied. "Can you deny the responsibility of my decision? Would you have Honce-the-Bear without a proper line of succession should King Danube die? "
Kalas laughed again. "Pragmatism? Or personal gain?"
"Can they not be one and the same? "
"I am not angry with you, dear Constance," the Duke explained. "Jealous, perhaps, and filled with admiration. I believe that you became Pregnant by King Danube deliberately, both times. You conceived Merwick on the barge south from Palmaris, when you knew that another woman had caught Danube's oft-wandering eye." He noted that Constance did wince a bit at the reference to Jilseponie. "And so you struck your love coup, and brilliantly, and you have patiently awaited the time to gain the declaration that you hold so dear."
Constance stood, steel jawed, staring at him, not blinking.
"You used those tools and weapons available to you to insinuate yourself into the royal line," Duke Kalas stated bluntly, and he gave a great bow and swept his arm out wide. He staggered a bit as he did, and only then did Constance catch on that the man might have indulged himself with a few potent drinks.
She started to comment on that, but stopped herself. How could she judge Kalas at this unsettling time, after the terrifying incident in the garden? In truth, Constance, too, would have liked to spend that night curled up with a bottle!