Fortunately, these files were neater than the desk, organized by year, and the Master had made no effort to hide the file, which had not implicated him anyway. The Arissen reports, mostly in print with a few handwritten notes, would have taken too long to peruse thoroughly, so Aloran turned to the back for the photographs.
Three innocent Venorai laborers had had their strange, sunmarked faces captured, and beside those images was the reason why: the murder weapon. He’d heard talk of the long-range crossbows that Venorai used for game-hunting out on the surface, but he had never seen one, nor seen the projectiles they launched.
Except he had.
The last photograph showed a smooth steel bolt, with a tip like a screwdriver—a precise copy of the object he’d seen in Sorn’s desk. Mai strike him, he’d actually done it!
Aloran shut the file quickly and replaced it in its drawer. Getting back to his Lady was all that mattered now. He shut the Maze door carefully behind him, hurried back to the door of Tagaret’s room, and flicked on the service speaker.
Silence.
He waited several seconds, and at last pushed the door open. The young Master still lay in his bed, sleeping. The rest of the room was empty.
His heart faltered. Sirin and Eyn—where was she?
He stripped off his treatment gloves, tossed them into the young Master’s garbage chute, and ran out. Taking the Maze corner too fast, he almost stumbled over Serjer when the First Houseman emerged from his room.
“Serjer, I’m so sorry!”
Serjer’s look changed quickly to one of alarm. “Is it the young Master?”
“No, no—it’s T—it’s the, my, Lady Tamelera—I can’t find her . . .” The words came out panicked and wrong. “The Master came, she sent me away, and when I came back—Serjer, where is she?”
Serjer’s face smoothed to a disturbing calm. “She hasn’t left the house, and she’s not in the sitting room,” he said gravely. “I would guess the master bedroom.” He gaze-gestured discomfort, looking aside and down. “But be careful.”
Aloran ran. He should never have left her. How could she have asked him to leave? Even if she’d decided to pursue the question of Grobal Dest, they could have investigated it another time. She’d known what was going to happen—she’d known it would be bad. Why would she send him away when she knew she needed help?
He dashed into his room. No way to let her know he was here, but if she was on the other side of this wall and needed him, surely she would call. He flicked on the speaker beside the door with the crescent-moon handle, praying to hear her voice, even if it were raised in anger—
Instead, out of the speaker came a bestial, rhythmic grunting.
Nausea swept over him; his entire body shook with rage.
Oh, my Lady! My Lady!
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Change Everything
In this dream, too, Mother was crying.
Not another nightmare—Tagaret shifted, trying to escape it. No more assassins, no more rockfalls, no more, no more . . . Mother was crying, and he wanted to go to her, but his body felt too heavy to move, all his energy drained out of him into the darkness. A low, passionate voice spoke.
“Please, don’t try to protect me. Let me suffer before you put yourself at risk!”
The voice was uncanny—it teased him with familiarity, yet somehow he’d never heard anything like it. Mother cried and didn’t answer.
“Let me protect you,” the voice pleaded.
Mother struggled with sobs. “Eighteen years,” she said, and drew a shuddering breath. “It will never change. You can’t protect me.”
“What am I for, if not for that? Please let me try. If they punish me, then let me be punished!”
“So what if you do protect me? He’ll only come for me later when I’m alone. You can’t be with me every second.”
Was Mother in danger? Tagaret tried to speak, and failed. The effort made his heart pound—a strange feeling, too real for a dream. The voices fell silent. Exhaustion tried to drag him down, but then the pleading voice spoke again.
“Why can’t I? I could be your shadow, if you willed it.”
After a long while, Mother whispered haltingly. “I—want you to be.”
“Ohh,” the voice sighed.
“But . . .” She hesitated. “What do you want?”
“Why must you still ask me?”
“Because I need to know. Please—please. Tell me what you want.”
The voice answered near tears. “Only what I’ve always wanted. To love you, and to give myself to you totally.”
Sirin and Eyn—was someone real saying such things to Mother? Tagaret opened his eyes and said, “Who—?”
“Tagaret!” Mother cried. She leaned over him, her beautiful face streaked with tears. Lights were on in the vaults of the ceiling, and a wysp drifted behind her head.
Was he in bed? When had he gotten into bed? “Mother?” he said, tried to sit, and fell back exhausted. The nightmare lassitude was real, too . . .
“Tagaret, love, speak to me. Are you all right?”
“What happened?” But then it started coming back: the gathering before the Round of Twelve, the dizziness, the sense of choking—Mother’s Aloran stabbing him in the leg . . . His heart started pounding again, and he stammered, “M-mercy—Kinders fever?”
“Oh, my love, my darling . . .” Mother stroked his hair; her hand wore a medical glove. “You’re all right now. How do you feel?”
Like his bones were made of water . . . “Bad.”
“Aloran, may I touch him yet?”
“Not yet, if you will forgive me, Lady,” said Aloran, in that perfectly calm tone that only Imbati seemed to achieve. “Permit me, young Master?”
“Yes.”
Aloran sat beside him, wrapped a strong arm around his back and lifted. Hard to believe he couldn’t even sit up—the weakness was awful, but at least breathing came easily, and the dizziness was gone. When Aloran brought a cup close to his lips, he sipped. Water, with something medicinal in it. It ran cold down his throat and woke such a thirst that he gulped the entire thing. His stomach felt cavernously empty.
“Gods, I’m hungry,” he said.
“Wonderful,” said Mother. “I’ll ring for Serjer.”
Serjer and Premel came together, with such ceremony that they might have been presenting a feast, instead of just broth. The broth was perfect—just slightly hot in his throat, so delicious it woke even the tips of his toes.
“Thank you,” Tagaret sighed.
“Oh, young Master, sir,” said Premel, “please tell us now you’ve not gone deaf or blind, and ease us all our worry?”
Tagaret raised his eyebrows. “I don’t think so.” Glancing past Aloran’s shoulder, he discovered disturbing things on the bedside table—bottles of medicine, cloths, and needles. He gulped.
“Blessing of Heile!” Premel exclaimed.
“We couldn’t be more pleased, young Master,” said Serjer, and smiled at him. He and Premel left through the Maze door.
Tagaret stared at his hands in his lap, grateful for the solidity of Aloran’s arm. He wiggled his fingers experimentally. They felt better and better, but they looked different—maybe thinner? This wasn’t right. Why was he alone with Mother and the Household? Why was nobody asking him to hurry?
“Mother,” he said. “How bad was it?”
“Oh, Tagaret, love.” Her blue eyes searched his face; they were tired and red, and she looked about to cry again. “Without Aloran, you would have died. He’s hardly left your side for two whole days.”
“Two days?” Tagaret turned his head. Aloran looked away, but the support of his arm never wavered.
“The epidemic was transmitted at the Accession Ball,” Mother said. “It has affected everyone. Twenty people are now dead across the Pelism
ara Society.”
Horror stabbed through him. “Twenty?” He didn’t want to think it, but the awful possibilities multiplied. His cousins? His friends? Della? Oh, sweet Heile!
Mother scooted her chair closer and laid her hand in its medical glove gently over his. “We’ve lost your cousin Inkala,” she said. “And we’ve had sad news from the Eleventh Family . . . your friend, Fernar—”
Tagaret couldn’t speak. His mind wouldn’t grasp it. Inkala had just been betrothed. And he could still see Fernar’s confident eyes, his dark hair swept back for the Ball, the portrait of an Heir candidate. Fernar was strong and fast; he couldn’t be dead, he couldn’t be . . .
“My Lady,” said Aloran. “Perhaps we shouldn’t—”
“No!” Tagaret cried. “I have to know all of it. Who else? Pyaras? Reyn? Gowan? Della?”
“Pyaras had a miraculous recovery, and has been coming by every day worried about you,” said Mother. “Reyn is—very ill. We have no news of him since he took the fever.”
“Gods—oh, gods . . .” His body started shaking.
“To my knowledge young Lady Della has been untouched, as has Gowan, who now represents the Ninth Family in the Selection.”
So they weren’t gone. There was some mercy left. But Fernar! And Reyn, oh, don’t let Elinda take Reyn! When do we get to be together again? Never, never . . .
His eyes burned, but he had no strength to cry. The grief merged into the awful weakness that held him down. He took Mother’s hand tightly in both of his, and closed his eyes.
* * *
—
The sound of the Maze door awakened him. Serjer and Premel carried in a small table, then lifted him to sit, propping him into the corner with pillows. At least sitting didn’t make his heart race this time.
“Where’s Aloran?” Tagaret asked. “Is this breakfast?”
“Dinner, young Master,” said Serjer. “Aloran is serving your mother in her bath.”
“As should’ve been long since,” Keeper Premel agreed, his broad mouth quirking in a smile. “We’re setting up until they’ve finished, young Master, such time when they’ll join you to eat.”
“Oh.”
Mother did look clean and a bit less upset when she came in. What a sorry pair they made, with him in bed and her sitting sad and tired at the table. The Keeper had made him some kind of special concoction: a fruit-and-grain porridge that tasted like it contained meat broth. When his arms tired of using the spoon, Tagaret nearly cried in frustration. Without a word, Aloran sat beside him and fed him like a baby.
“Tagaret,” said Mother. “I’m sorry to mention this after everything you’ve had to take tonight, but it’s very important that I tell you what’s happened in the Selection.”
He nodded. “They didn’t delay it, did they.”
“No. The Families simply scrambled for substitutes—First Family included.” She pressed her lips together for a moment. “Nekantor has taken your place.”
“Nekantor?” He stared in disbelief—but clearly his ears were working fine. His heart started banging against the inside of his chest. “He can’t have—Mother, he can’t!”
She shook her head. “I’d have thought Erex had better judgment, but it’s done. Garr seems to have put aside their disputes enough to support him all the way. He’s already passed through into the Round of Eight.”
“But it’s not possible. Mother, Nekantor can’t be Heir—he’s insane.”
Mother looked startled. “Tagaret, what a thing to say about your brother. Nekantor might be—”
“I know. He’s headstrong, particular, and vindictive, just like Father. But it’s more than that. You haven’t been here for the last five years. I swear to you, there’s something wrong with him.”
“No.” Her eyes went wide and filled with tears. “It can’t be.”
Tagaret frowned. Why wouldn’t Mother believe him?
“Forgive me, young Master,” Aloran said. “Your brother walks only on the black tiles in your bathroom. Isn’t that what you told me?”
Tagaret looked at him. “When?”
“I’m sorry, sir—it was during your delirium. Might I presume to request you tell me more, now that you are well?”
“Yes.” Tagaret took a deep breath. “He walks on the black tiles and gets angry if I stop him. He touches his clothes, and counts things, over and over. He doesn’t want me to lock my door—he’s systematically broken fourteen locks before this one. Once he went around muttering for several hours that his window shade was crooked, and then Serjer discovered he’d taken a knife to it. But the real danger is that he’ll hurt people. He bullies and manipulates, is never sorry, and never seems to get caught. He tortures Imbati. I had to warn our caretakers never to enter his room because he would scream and hit them if they changed anything.”
Mother wasn’t looking at him anymore. She pressed one hand hard against her mouth. Aloran looked grave.
“You know what it is, don’t you, Aloran.”
“Young Master,” said Aloran, “The cruelties you describe are worrisome, but I can’t speak to them with any medical certainty. The rest, however: repetitive behaviors, a craving for sameness—these are symptoms of compulsive obsession, which can be treated. Perhaps, if we could get him evaluated—”
“Don’t tell your father!” Mother cried out.
Tagaret jerked in shock, and his heart started racing again.
Aloran slid off the bed and folded facedown on the floor.
“Aloran?” Tagaret asked, baffled. “Mother, what’s going on?”
“Aloran, please get up,” said Mother softly. “It’s not your fault—you would see the truth if anyone would.” Her eyes turned up to Tagaret. “You have to understand, love. It’s far too late to hide him. If that became public, imagine the blow to the First Family’s reputation.” She sighed. “It would ruin me completely.”
Aloran got up on his knees, but kept his face lowered.
“Mother,” Tagaret said, “we can’t just do nothing and let him win the Selection. With that kind of power I don’t know what he might do.”
She frowned. “If he’s as bad as you say, he won’t win anyway.”
Tagaret shook his head, with a sick feeling in his stomach. “I wish you were right. Nek might be crazy, but he’s not stupid. He schemes. You said Erex is supporting him? Well, there’s only one possible explanation for that: Nekantor must have forced him, by some kind of threat.”
Mother grimaced. “He is just like your father.”
“I have to tell Father. Nobody else could possibly withdraw Nek from the Selection. Father would never tell anyone outside the family, but we can’t let Nek do this.”
“Finish your food,” Mother said.
He couldn’t argue with that. The food was having a marvelous effect in his stomach, and he picked up his spoon with new energy. No way was he talking to Father while still hungry and unable to move.
But it had to be done.
Mother refused to stay, and took Aloran with her. Tagaret took several deep breaths, and swung his feet down so he sat on the edge of his bed. Stupid, how wobbly he was, but it made him feel better prepared for Father—so long as Father came soon.
He didn’t have to wait. Father stumped in the door without knocking, wearing a smile and a pair of new gray gloves; the bed rocked when he sat down, and Tagaret hung on with both hands.
“Tagaret! Son, I’m so glad to see you up and awake. We have business to discuss.”
“Yes, we do,” Tagaret said firmly. “You have to take Nekantor out of the Selection.”
Father burst out laughing. “Jealous, eh? Well, I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. Kinders fever made that decision for us. You’ll be happy to know that your brother is doing a fine job.”
Varin gnash Father! Anger surged through him; when it ebbe
d, it left weakness in its wake. He should have remembered that dealing with Father was like trying to shovel through rock. Tagaret gripped his knees with both hands. “Father,” he said. “You have to withdraw Nekantor from Selection. He can’t be Heir, he’s merciless.”
“Well, so much the better.”
“Father, no. I mean, what the Kartunnen call it—he’s a, a psychopath.”
“Tagaret!” Father snapped. “I couldn’t reinstate you if I wanted to. I can understand you’re disappointed, but that’s taking it too far. Mind your manners.”
“You’re not listening,” Tagaret insisted. “Nekantor has mental defects. That’s not the only one. You can’t tell me you haven’t noticed the way he fiddles with his clothes, or the way he’s obsessed with breaking down my door.”
For a split second, it looked like he’d reached him—fear came into Father’s eyes. Then Father lurched up from the bed and roared.
“Gnash you, Tagaret, you will never ever speak to me like that again!”
“But, Father—”
Father swung his arm back. Tagaret panicked, lost his grip on his knees, and tumbled off the edge of the bed onto the carpet. He flung both arms up over his head.
The blow never came.
“Sorn!” Father barked. “Get him back in bed. The fever hasn’t fully left him; that’s clear.”
Tagaret tried to get up by himself—Sorn’s help was the last thing he wanted—but Sorn was too fast. With the servant’s iron hands under his arms, he made it back into bed and collapsed against his pillows. His heart refused to calm.
“Now, you listen to me,” Father said. “If the First Family is going to win, we’re going to need your help.”
He should say no. Would Father hit him if he said no?
“The Sixth Family has already come to us looking for an alliance, and we weren’t able to offer it to them. If we send a message tonight, maybe they’d reinstate the deal.”
Tagaret’s stomach flipped. “Sixth Family?”
Mazes of Power Page 27
