King's Blood by Judith Tarr

king.
    With that thought, Henry half-rose. Britain was close, straight across this stretch of sea. He rode in the ship that had borne his father to the conquest. If he raised his powers, called on allies both old and new, bade them serve the blood of the last king—
    â€œNo.”
    Turold was standing beside him, balancing easily as the ship rocked and swayed. Henry had not noticed that the seas had grown so heavy. The sky was still clear, but the wind was wuthering, tugging sharply at the sail.
    â€œIt’s not for you,” the boggart said. “No matter how tempting it is—let it go. Or no good will ever come of it.”
    â€œWill any good come of William’s taking the throne?” Henry demanded.
    â€œThat will be as it will be,” said Turold. “It’s his time. His fate.”
    â€œTo destroy everything our father made?”
    â€œWhat will be will be,” Turold said. “Let it go.”
    The hot temper rose in Henry. Who did this creature think he was, to command the king’s son?
    But cold reason rose soon enough to stop the words before he spoke them. He was not in mortal realms now.
    Turold nodded. “Good,” he said. “You can be taught.”
    â€œWhat—” Henry began. But the boggart’s glance stilled his tongue.
    His father had bequeathed him patience. He was expending a great deal of it already. There would be far more, he knew in his bones, before this dance had ended.
    Â 
They sailed by the straight way and the warded way, down to the river Orne and then, with the wind steady at their backs, upriver to Caen. Within the bounds of Normandy the sense of powers rising was less; this was a quieter land, less fraught with magic.
    Yet there was magic here, deep beneath, and in Caen that both the king and his queen had loved, it bubbled up like a spring. The ship came to harbor in a windy morning, with a scud of clouds fitfully veiling the sun.
    The crowd that waited was large enough: the whole city had come out, it seemed, with a company of monks and prelates in the lead. And yet there were startling gaps and absences. No lords of the realm were there. No workers of magic either greater or lesser, no embassies of kings either mortal or otherwise, had come to see the king to his rest.
    Henry turned on Turold, to ask he hardly knew what—if this was a jest or a curse, or a simple oversight—but the boggart had vanished. Only the mortal crew were left, heaving the bier over the side and into the monks’ waiting hands. Those were sturdy men, evidently chosen for their strength, but even they struggled to bear up that massive weight.
    It seemed that no one recognized Henry. He disembarked unnoticed behind the bier.
    As he set foot on land, once again he staggered—but this time not with the shock of power gathered in that place. Rather, it was the opposite: a sucking void, a perfect absence.
    He stood at the heart of a maelstrom, in a zone of empty air. He gasped for breath, whirling in panic, tensed to leap back to the safety of the ship.
    But Mora had already drawn away from the shore, receding far too swiftly for the natural force of wind or current. Even as he reached for her with hand and power, he knew that she was slipping out of the world. He could see her still, but her magic was closed against him.
    He was all alone in the empty land, surrounded by people whose souls he could not sense at all. He was in hell, with no hope of earthly salvation.
    He lashed out, still in a fit of panic—even knowing it was folly; knowing he hovered in delusion. Fire surged up out of the earth and poured down from the sky.
    In the last instant he flung it away from the crowd, but he had neither the strength nor the speed to unmake it. It plummeted into the midst of the city. Blood-red flames roared to heaven, then sank down into mortal gold and blue and the black of smoke.
    The crowd fled in a chorus of screams. The few with their wits