by A. H. Lee
A number of people were chatting at the far end. Sairis tried to identify them as he helped himself to a more interesting breakfast than he thought he was ever likely to taste again. The king had had three brothers, all of whom held lands and influence. The eldest, Winthrop, was known to be the most political and also the most conservative, with a following among the barons. Sairis recognized him from busts and paintings—a big man with a booming voice, holding court in front of the mirror. He was around fifty, his dark beard just beginning to gray.
The middle brother, Jessup, was lord commander at the border and would not be present. The youngest, Maniford, claimed to prefer horses and hunting dogs to politics, but everyone said he had the queen’s ear. Sairis recognized him by virtue of his similarities to Winthrop, though he was a bit slimmer, shaven, and his voice didn’t carry across the room.
Many of the queen’s other advisors were of the same age—people who had advised her father—although she also favored a few of her cousins. In addition, there would be emissaries from Falcosta and Lamont, although Sairis didn’t think they’d arrived yet.
The men in the room wore the elaborate wigs currently in fashion—curls to their shoulders, with a few locks banded in silver and gold and occasional flashes of gemstones. Sairis was the only man present not so adorned. He was feeling a bit intimidated in spite of his best efforts. Steady, he told himself. They’re idiots who live in a house full of mirrors.
People were shooting him curious glances. Sairis felt certain that they did not know who he was. He took a cup of coffee and busied himself with examining maps. The intricately-drawn leather pages made a fascinating progression along one wall. They showed first the changing borders of querulous nations. Then, twenty-six years ago, someone had painted a red line down the wall between the maps. This was the Sundering—the great quake that had turned the Shadowed Sea into the Shattered Sea and unleashed new magic on the world. Sairis had been born four years later—part of the first generation of new magicians.
The geography after that was less detailed, less certain. Kingdoms had been split apart, with their various populations pushed hundreds of miles from each other. Peoples never before adjacent had been sent into each other’s backyards. For Mistala, the Sundering had pushed up mountains in the west, between the bulk of the country and its precious coast. The ports and trade that had created this fine palace were now shut off behind a mountain pass in terrain that was still being mapped. Mistala’s rapacious southern neighbor, Zolsestron, had taken this opportunity to march up the coastline and seize the ports. Now, they were pushing through the mountains towards the interior with its rich farms and forests. Or what used to be rich farms and forests.
Zolsestron had always been warlike. The southern kingdoms were a maze of rugged terrain that bred tough men and tougher horses. Mistala, by contrast, had previously been flat. She’d had a navy and allies over the sea. Now, her allies were fighting their own wars, and her navy was no more. Even so, thought Sairis, she might have protected herself if she hadn’t killed her magicians.
In his panic, Daphne’s grandfather had outlawed magic immediately after the Sundering. He’d had reasons, of course, Karkaroth chief among them. The king had listened to the most fearful and conservative of his advisors, who told him they must purge their realm of anything unnatural. So magicians died, along with foreigners and homosexuals and women who misbehaved.
And still the new magic grew and the dead walked and their neighbors saw an opportunity. Unlike Mistala, Zolsestron had embraced the new magic. Or perhaps they’d fallen to it. Their monarchy had been overthrown within five years of the Sundering. The warlord now in power was a sorcerer known simply as Lord Hastafel. He kept a demon in the form of a great black wolf, and he was not the least bit shy about using magic.
As if this weren’t bad enough, it was becoming apparent that the mountains had created a rain shadow that was permanently changing the land east of the Shattered Sea. Some said it would become a desert. Crops were failing.
New rivers had emerged from the mountains, and new irrigation techniques were being tried. Nevertheless, the drought deepened.
No wonder they’re ready to talk to a wolf.
A moment later, a servant entered to announce, “His Highness, Prince Anton of Lamont.” This was followed by several earls and, at last, “His Grace, King Norres of Falcosta.” Norres had brought his youngest daughter, who was surely no more than a teenager, but wearing a dress designed for a more full-figured woman. She looked awkward in the grown-up clothes.
The room was growing loud with the rumble of voices and it was harder to avoid actually speaking to anyone. Sairis deflected a couple of polite conversational feints. Prince Anton attempted to hand him an empty teacup, clearly thinking he was a servant.
Sairis entertained a brief, but vivid, fantasy of setting him on fire.
At last, a footman came to the door and said, “Her Grace, Queen Daphne of Mistala and His Highness, Prince Roland.”
Daphne was the female image of her father—a point that did not put Sairis at ease, but he supposed she couldn’t help it. She stood in the door for a moment, backed by the formidable shape of her war-hero brother. Her gray eyes moved over the room. They paused on Sairis with a hint of acknowledgement.
Then Daphne addressed the gathering in a calm, clear voice. “Family, friends, neighbors, thank you for coming. As you all know, we are in a critical moment with Lord Hastafel at our doorstep. If we wish to remain independent kingdoms in control of our own destinies, we must act decisively. If there has ever been a time for us to put aside our differences, that time is now.”
A murmur of agreement went up from some people in the group, though not all. Daphne moved towards the table, and everyone else turned to find their chairs. The seats had been assigned, and Sairis had located his earlier. The queen had elected to seat him directly across from her brother. Sairis supposed this was appropriate. Roland would have more knowledge than anyone else present about the magic being deployed against them on the border. Still, Sairis wasn’t looking forward to a conversation with the man. Knights made him uneasy.
Naturally, Prince Roland had the grandest wig present—a mane of dark curls laced with sapphires and banded in gold. Every waistcoat and jacket within Sairis’s line of vision was perfectly cut and elaborately embroidered. There was enough gold and silver brocade in the room to buy a coach and four.
Steady.
To his annoyance, Sairis could feel Roland staring at him. The prince had sat down and then just...frozen. Never seen a necromancer before, my lord? Did you suppose we looked like corpses? Or are you simply in awe of my fashion sense?
In a flash of irritation, Sairis dared to look Roland directly in the face. The man’s square jaw was practically slack. His blond beard did not match his wig. Stupid aristocratic fashions.
Sairis gave up on subtlety and stared back with calculated insolence. What?
Then his stomach turned over.
Dimly, he heard the queen say, “I’ve not introduced one member of this gathering. Magus Sairis, apprentice to the magician Karkaroth, has agreed to hear our situation. He and his master may be willing to help. I would particularly like his opinion on the behavior of Hastafel’s troops, which, everyone agrees, appear to be driven by inhuman forces. To that end...” She waved a hand between her brother and the necromancer she’d invited to court. “Roland, Sairis. Sairis, Roland.”
Chapter 5. Soul-Eater
Roland felt like he had water in his ears—a roaring that blunted all other sounds. Daphne was going on and on about cooperation and the need for a united front in these troubled times and the sacrifices everyone was making.
I kissed a necromancer.
King Norres went straight for the throat with a long list of demands. He wanted all the towns Mistala had taken in the war three years ago. And in the war five years before that. He wanted his soldiers paid with Mistalan gold. He wanted all import taxes abolished. He wanted border
garrisons dismantled. He wanted assurances of future aid. He wanted, he wanted, he wanted...
I put my tongue in his mouth.
Sairis’s face had gone completely blank—that empty stare that had unnerved Roland for a moment in the Tipsy Knave. And now he knew why. Death magic...witch...ghost mage... Everything he’d ever heard about necromancers ran screaming through his head. Not really alive. Not really human.
Anton was speaking smoothly to Norres, explaining why his demands were excessive and why he should be giving Mistala every man who could wield a sword.
Norres harrumphed. “Easy for you to say, Your Grace, seeing as you’re about to own the lot. Maybe I should just negotiate directly with you.”
A storm of snarling erupted from Mistala’s barons. If Queen Daphne deigned to unite herself in marriage to Lamont, she would certainly not be ceding her throne! If all went well, Anton’s child might inherit a united kingdom, but Anton would certainly never rule Mistala! Anyone who said otherwise should draw steel and say it again in the courtyard at ten paces.
At Roland’s elbow, Daphne gave a tiny sigh intended for his ears only. “Well, those wheels came off fast.”
Roland tried to focus. They were making history in this room. His sister needed his support. He tore his eyes away from Sairis, who was watching Norres and did not seem remotely distracted by Roland.
Could he have known who I was in the tavern? Did he do something to me? Poison me? Put a spell on me? Did he take any of my hair, clothes... Does spit count? When it was in his mouth? Oh, gods.
Roland had a vivid memory of a hunt when he was eight years old. They’d been attacked by three walking corpses. His favorite dog, Cupie, had been torn to pieces. He’d dreamed about the awful sight for years—the noises she’d made, the anguished way she had looked at him, crying for help. And he could do nothing.
“You must not go near them, my lord,” his tutor had muttered. “There is power in blood and hair and nails. If they touch you, the necromancer may be able to harm you. Never let a necromancer or his creatures touch you.” Cupie’s body had burned along with the monsters—an ignoble death for a beast who died protecting him. Two years later, when his father took Karkaroth’s tower and burned it, Roland had watched the distant smoke from the city parapet and prayed that Cupie’s ghost would see it, too, and be at peace.
“Never let a necromancer touch you.”
“The fact remains,” rumbled Norres at the far end of the table, “that we have not always gotten along, gentlemen...” he cut his eyes to Daphne, “and lady. If Lamont and Mistala unite, Falcosta will be at a disadvantage. I will insist upon protections for my people.” He stabbed a finger at Roland, his eyes still on Daphne. “And I will insist upon a blood union! Your brother will marry my daughter, Your Grace, or there will be no alliance. Then he will return to Falcosta and remain there at my pleasure. Any resulting offspring will remain there as well.”
Roland forgot suddenly about Sairis’s tongue. The arrogant shit!
Daphne spoke with dangerous calm, “Are you suggesting, my lord, that my brother and his children would become your hostages?”
“I do not intend to bandy words with you, my lady,” said Norres coldly. “Call my terms whatever you like. You will meet them, or you will get no troops from me.”
Roland pulled himself together. He had an enemy in this room, and it wasn’t the man across from him. At least not yet. He looked at Norres with the kind of bright, ferocious smile usually reserved for the joust and said, “My lord, we seem to be getting ahead of ourselves. Let me first make plain to you the situation.”
He snatched up the push-and-point stick that lay at the head of the table and nudged several tiny soldiers into place. “This is our army in the pass. Down to less than five hundred men.”
There were faint gasps around the table. Few people knew the true state of Mistala’s forces. Admitting such a thing to neighboring kings was all but asking for invasion. Roland wasn’t worried about that. Not after what he had to say next.
“They’re easier to feed, at least,” he continued with brittle cheer. “Our current supplies wouldn’t have lasted a fortnight two years ago, but now, they’ll hold us for three months. Still, we’ll be getting hungry by mid-winter. You all know the state of the crops this year.”
No one said a word.
“How have we held our ground, you ask? Well, it’s a narrow pass and we’ve come to know its little ways. Unfortunately, Hastafel has gotten to know our ways almost as well. He is frequently reinforced by sea, and his tactics are ever-changing. He likes to try out new spells on his troops, and he inspires them to behave like madmen—suicide missions, charging into hails of arrows, setting themselves on fire and running at our walls. Worse, he has a sword he calls Soul-Eater, and the men who die on it sometimes come back...though not as men.”
Anton Lamont looked horrified. “Are you saying that he is raising the dead, sir?”
Most of the people in the room looked at Sairis. Roland forced himself not to. “No, my lord. The bodies do not rise. But there was a creature made of mud. It climbed over the wall one night at a weak point that only our people knew existed. It cried and screamed with the voice of a knight who’d died fighting Hastafel two days before. It seemed somehow possessed with his intelligence, though that did not stop it from killing five men. There have been scarecrows with scythes, a creature made of sticks, once a dead bear. They’re not human corpses, but—”
“Golems?” said Sairis abruptly. Out of the corner of his eye, Roland saw the little man push his glasses up his nose. “He’s mixing golems with death magic?”
Roland turned unwillingly to meet Sairis’s eyes. Sairis looked dispassionately curious, for all the world as though these were their first words to one another.
“I don’t know anything about golems or death magic,” said Roland stiffly.
“But the monsters speak with the voices of those Hastafel has killed with this sword?” persisted Sairis. “The one he calls Soul-Eater?”
“Yes.” Roland swallowed. “They cry and scream sometimes in the night, as though they’re suffering.” Don’t think too hard about that. Don’t.
His traitorous mind promptly delivered an image of Cupie, struggling towards him as dead hands pulled her apart. “Never let a necromancer touch you.”
“Remarkable,” muttered Sairis.
The rest of the table had gone utterly silent. Roland could tell that he had at least painted a picture of something more awful than they had imagined coming out of the mountains.
“So,” he said, returning his gaze to Norres and forcing the bright anger back into his tone, “you know what is coming through the pass when we fall. Now, let’s talk about the likely path of invasion.” Roland pushed some more pieces around the map. “Our garrisons will empty to protect the capital, of course. They’ll all pull back to Chireese, and the entire border will be left undefended. Whether Hastafel will actually pause to take the city is anyone’s guess. We believe he has about twenty thousand men at this moment.”
Roland began pushing enemy pieces along the roads into Falcosta and Lamont. “Here is where you can expect to meet them.”
Chapter 6. Staring Contest
“I have a meeting tomorrow, as well. I’d tell you where my thoughts will wander during the boring parts, but I don’t want to embarrass you.”
Sairis wanted to laugh. Somehow, I don’t think his fantasies are going quite where he imagined.
Indeed, Roland looked like he would sincerely like to kill Sairis. You kissed me, asshole. And now you’re regretting it. A lot. So much for that date.
No one else in the room seemed anxious to kiss Sairis, either. He could feel more eyes than Roland’s on him following Daphne’s introduction. His neighbors on either side scooted minutely away. Guests with ceremonial swords touched their pommels reflexively. A few darted glances at the door, where armed guards from all three kingdoms stood watch.
And then the group started t
alking again.
All things considered, this was a mild response. These people had lived in fear of Karkaroth for a generation. Sairis should feel pleased that no one was insisting that he be thrown from the room. Or from the parapet, for that matter.
He should feel relieved.
Instead, he had a leaden sensation in the pit of his stomach. Roland’s disgusted expression felt like a slap. The world seemed less colorful, less interesting. This is what you get for kissing people. Remember this feeling next time you are tempted to let someone put his tongue in your mouth.
Sairis kept his face absolutely still. When Roland looked at him, he looked right back. You want to have a staring contest, master palm reader? I’ll win that.
King Norres was really getting into his stride. Sairis was shocked that Roland was apparently expected to wed the child at Norres’s elbow. No wonder she looks as though she’d rather be anywhere else.
Roland didn’t seem pleased about this, either, because he finally stopped glaring at Sairis. He turned to give Norres the kind of smile that would have made any sane man reconsider his words and perhaps his life choices. The prince launched into a diatribe on why Norres should not be so precious with his troops. Roland was defending his sister, defending his kingdom...and, gods, those stupid sapphires in that stupid wig did make his stupid eyes look so blue.
Sairis told himself that admiring Roland’s face was no different from admiring a statue in the garden. Real people don’t look like that.
Sairis snapped back to full attention as Roland described the creatures Hastafel was using. Golems powered by death magic? That is something new. He wished he could talk to Karkaroth about it.
As the room erupted in comments regarding Roland’s doomsday scenario, Sairis caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. He had an impression that a servant had walked past on the far end of the room where he hadn’t expected anyone. Sairis turned, but saw only the mirror. He must have caught a reflection from the opposite end.
