His Majesty's Elephant by Judith Tarr Read Free Book Online

him, and haul him back by the scruff of his craven neck, and throw him down. But he was clever, that snake of a man. He got a grip on my father’s foot, and when he went down, my father went with him. The snake got up. My father never did. He had a Frankish dagger in his back. Because, the snake said, my father was running away, and he fought the snake, who tried to call him back, and there was no help for it. And they believed the snake, because my father was dead, and couldn’t speak for himself.”
    â€œPeople must have seen,” Rowan said. “His men—”
    â€œHis men all died. The snake saw to that, too. There was no one left to tell the truth. Who was to doubt the liar? The one he told lies of was a marcher lordling mated to a witch of the old people, and the liar was noble Frank clear back to Merovech, with a wife as nobly Frank as he was, and an army of kin to stand behind him. For us there was only Roland, dead a dozen years, and a few weak cousins who were ashamed to be seen with us.”
    â€œAnd you,” said Rowan.
    â€œI was hardly weaned,” Kerrec said. His anger was gone, or gone cold.
    â€œWho was it?” Rowan asked. “Who did that terrible thing?”
    â€œDoes it matter?”
    She planted her fists on her hips. “You’ve been waking the dead with your outrage, and now you say it doesn’t matter?”
    His lips stretched back from his teeth. It was not a smile. “That’s exactly it, princess. My father’s murderer is dead.”
    â€œDead? But—”
    â€œYes, I came too late. By all accounts he died peacefully in his bed, with his soul duly shriven and his place in heaven assured.” Kerrec did not even sound angry, only bitter, and tired.
    â€œThat’s not fair,” said Rowan.
    â€œShould it be?”
    â€œYes,” said Rowan. “Did you come to kill him?”
    â€œNo,” said Kerrec. “Yes. It doesn’t matter, does it? My enemy is dead. My father is dead. My mother is dead. My family’s honor is dead. And here where there might be mending for all of that, what am I but an elephant’s keeper?”
    â€œThat’s not so little a thing,” Rowan said. “You can talk to my father. He’ll make it right.”
    â€œAs easy as that?” Kerrec sat on his heels and sighed. “Let it be. Maybe it’s best that I be no one here. I can prove myself as myself, and not as my father’s son.”
    She did not say anything to that.
    â€œYou don’t understand, do you?” he said. “But you do believe me.”
    She did understand: better maybe than he could imagine. And she did believe him. “Liars are smoother,” she said, “and don’t bother with me. They go to Bertha, who’s the oldest, or Gisela, who’s the favorite. And they don’t... feel the way you do.”
    Either he understood, or he was too tired to wonder what she meant. He looked terrible. She wondered if he ever slept, or if he lay awake all night long, brooding on his troubles.
    His eyes blurred in the lamp’s light. They really were black, not brown, not simply all iris in the dimness. She had never seen eyes quite like that before. But then she had never seen a witch, either, or at least anyone who admitted to it.
    She should be more afraid than she was. When he scuttled on hands and knees to the pool’s edge, she followed, keeping a careful distance, but not too much of one.
    He bent over the water. The moon came right down into it. He reached as if to touch, but stopped short of it. He breathed on the water, and his breath, instead of ruffling it, stroked it hollow and smooth. The moon spilled into the bowl that he had made, filling it full.
    Rowan was on her knees beside him. She did not remember kneeling. She certainly did not remember taking his hand. His dark thin fingers wound with her plumper, paler ones.
    â€œLook,” he said.
    The moon