“You look something like I feel,” came a voice, startling him. Shianan blinked and jerked upright, embarrassed that he’d missed the prince’s entry. He was halfway to his feet when Soren waved for him to remain where he was. “Keep your seat, Becknam. I won’t tell.”
Shianan hesitated and then straightened. “It’s not about appearances, Your Highness.”
Soren smiled tiredly as he dropped into the scuffed chair. “You have nothing to prove to me. But I appreciate your conscience.” He waved Shianan into his seat again. “I’m sorry I’m late, and for my own invitation, too.”
Shianan lowered himself, eying the fatigued prince. “Your meeting did not go as smoothly as expected?”
“You could say that.” Soren glanced over his shoulder as Ethan brought a tray with drinks. “I wanted to finish that trade agreement, but as soon as the duke recognized I was anxious, he became more demanding.” He sighed, taking a cup. “We had to work out new percentages and shares, new rates of exchange... I have no skill for that sort of tight accounting.”
Shianan accepted a cup, wine cut with unfermented juice. “Nor I. My earnest sympathies.”
Soren gave him a skeptical glance. “This from the man who single-handedly uncovered years of bookkeeping fraud?”
Shianan silently cursed his slip. “Not single-handedly,” he allowed.
Soren smiled. “I’m pleased. I’d thought I had one more thing to resent about you.” He grinned. “Your secret is safe with me.”
“Resent?”
“If you excelled at accounting as well? You’re already the demon commander, admired leader, esteemed fighter, and the hero who found the missing Shard.” Soren ticked items on his fingers. “Do you know how they speak of you, the man who gave himself to the Court of the High Star to flush the real thieves?”
“But—but...” Shianan did not know how to protest.
“What I would give for your charisma,” Soren said mildly.
“You have it, whatever there is of it,” Shianan answered, hiding his self-consciousness with a half-grin. “I have sworn all of me to your service.”
Soren gave him a serious look. “And that is something I cherish. I think of that, sometimes, when I cannot guess how I’ll manage. At least someone believes I have a good chance of muddling in the right direction.” He sighed. “Still, I wish I had your gift.”
“My gift,” Shianan repeated.
“’Soats, man, your men would follow you nearly anywhere, would fight for you against insane odds. That’s what I need, if I am to be king. That’s what I want.”
Shianan stared down at his wine. “You have it, my lord.”
Soren gave him a quick, startled look. “Becknam...”
“Why else would I swear myself to you, after my king demanded a pledge to your brother?”
Soren blinked and smiled. “I suppose you’re right.” He sighed, relaxing marginally. “Then perhaps I’ll soon see His Grace pledging his trade to my purposes, right?” He chuckled.
“We can hope.” Shianan lifted his cup. “To your trade agreement.”
“Thank you.” They drank, and then Soren held up a finger. “Ah, but we cannot drink to my project without drinking to yours. How have you fared?” He raised an eyebrow. “Did the flowers help?”
Heat flooded Shianan and he glanced away. “Er...”
“Come, man, confess. You did give them to her, yes?”
“I did. I did, thank you.” Shianan bit at his lip, remembering the awkward scene and his gut-wrenching discovery of the Ryuven. “She did like them...”
“You sound uncertain. She liked the flowers but she hated you?”
He shook his head. “No, not quite... No, we haven’t seen quite eye to eye again, but she doesn’t... Her father seems to think that she’s even fond of me, but—”
“Ho!” Soren waved his drink. “Her father, you say? And did he mention this while warning you away or urging you to press your courtship?”
Shianan had not thought of it so simply. “He invited me to dine with them. But do—”
“Did he?” Soren grinned broadly. “Then, my friend, you are faring well thus far.” He laughed and lifted his cup. “To Shianan Becknam and his pursuit of a mage!” He drank.
Shianan smiled obligingly. “Yes, Mage Hazelrig is—we have spoken occasionally, and he is a good man to know. And perhaps he is friendly toward me. Be that as it may, my interest in his daughter will be fruitless.”
“Don’t be so bleak. You’re not an heir, bound to marry by the will of the kingdom. You can choose your own way, your own...” Soren’s voice trailed off.
Shianan stared at him, incredulous. “Your Highness, I was sent to a distant outpost for military training when I was four years old. I did not choose my career. I did not choose to come to Alham and be named a count.” He shook his head. “I can bring no complaint; I am skilled, as anyone started so young should be, and I don’t know that I should have made a better tanner or chandler or baker. But I have chosen precious little.”
Only Luca. He chose to take Luca from the prison. And he chose to risk himself for Ariana. He chose to trust Ariana and Ewan Hazelrig, staying his hand from killing the injured Ryuven when Tam had been first revealed. He chose to trust Soren, after their rainy meeting and bitter exchange. And he had chosen to surrender Luca to his brother.
“No,” he corrected quietly. “I have chosen for myself. As have you, my lord.”
Soren looked at him warily. “We are both bound by our positions.”
“You chose to speak to the bastard. That night, in the rain—you could have sent me away. You could have allowed me to leave, as I would have done. But you chose to call me back and speak with me. You chose to defend me before the king. Your birth called you to spurn me, but you chose your own path.”
Soren shrugged, embarrassed. “No one should be so heartless.”
“Some are, but you chose to be different.” Shianan nodded toward the office beyond the door. “You chose to pursue this trade agreement. You choose to win his favor.”
“I must do that, if—”
“Must you? Would you not still be prince if you were to recline on your couch and let nubile slave girls dangle fruit into your open lips?”
Soren chuckled. “What an image. Yes, I would be prince, but I might not be king—and I would not be prepared to be a good king.”
“Why does that matter?”
“What kind of question is that? It matters! We need a good king. Slave girls dangling fruit would not help this kingdom or its people.”
“Then you have chosen to pursue what is important. Instead of sacrificing the throne for leisure, you have sacrificed your leisure for the throne.”
Soren tipped his head and considered. “I see.” His eyes fixed on Shianan. “And what have you chosen to pursue?”
“What do you mean?”
“I’m asking you, Shianan Becknam, what you are willing to sacrifice. Is your pretty mage worth your trouble? Or will you sacrifice her in the name of being quiet and obedient and forgotten?”
Shianan tensed. “That’s different. I am only remembering my place.”
“Your place, Bailaha, is that of a count. And you are a highly regarded commander, which is no small station of its own. So how then can you say your place keeps you from a woman who is, though a lady by family skill, not even nobility?”
Shianan clenched his jaw. “She has been a lady much longer than I have been a lord.”
“What does that matter?” Soren frowned. “I do not believe you consider her birth to be an obstacle.”
Shianan looked away, conscious he was growing angry. “Her birth has nothing to do with it.”
“Yours, then?”
Shianan clenched his fists, biting down his reaction. This was still his prince. “Yes, mine.”
Soren gestured in curt frustration. “Speak to your mage. Then go to the king and—”
“Go to him?” Shianan tried to cover his shock
with a failed laugh. “Just like—I have never gone to him, never. He sends for me when he wishes.”
“You can request an audience, can’t you?”
The idea had never occurred to Shianan. His gut clenched even at the thought of it.
Soren eyed him. “’Soats, does he scare you that badly?”
Shianan jerked out of his chair and moved away. He stared hard at the wall, seeing nothing at all.
Soren’s chair creaked behind him. “I’m sorry.” A hand settled on Shianan’s shoulder. “I did not mean—I should not have said such a thing.”
Shianan swallowed, flexing his fingers, still staring ahead. “My lord, I apologize.”
The hand tightened. “Don’t. It was my mistake.” He paused. “He really is not such a formidable person. If you had seen him elsewhere, going to hunt or reading a story...”
“But I have never seen him there,” Shianan bit out fiercely. “I have never walked with him, hunted with him, sat beside him to listen. I am nothing more than a tool to him—a tool mistakenly produced, an error in the smithy, but serviceable for the moment, anyway.”
“Do you think that is how he sees you?”
“Isn’t it?”
“I told you, he brags of your achievements.”
“A tool must be useful. And he is ready enough to punish failure.”
Soren squeezed his shoulder again. “I know. I should have guarded my words.” He released Shianan and crossed the room. “But I believe you have nothing to lose by seeking your mage, if that is what you want and if she will have you. If denied, you’ll be just where you’ve placed yourself now.”
Shianan said nothing, rooted in place with his thoughts whirling within him.
“Ask to meet him. He’ll speak to you privately, won’t he?”
Shianan’s shoulders rose another quarter inch. “At times.”
There was a pause, and then Soren continued, “Perhaps after the review. He’ll be wanting to congratulate you on that, won’t he? It might be an opportune moment.”
Shianan drew a slow breath. It was true that the king had been pleased in previous years, offering precious praise for the troops’ good show. Would he be gratified enough to consider Shianan’s request?
Was it even worth asking? What would Ariana think?
Soren returned deliberately to his chair. “Think on it, anyway. You’re too worthy a man to deny himself everything without a hope.”
Shianan forced himself to breathe. Could he risk the king’s denial? Dare he?
Would he?
Perhaps he might test his footing with Ariana. If she favored him, then he would have to decide whether to venture a petition. But if she did not want him, there was no reason to torture himself with wondering at the king’s mind.
He turned and looked at the wine he’d left beside his chair. What kind of drink would he need to whip his courage to speaking so frankly with Ariana?
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
THE SILVER MAGE NODDED a hello as Ariana passed her in the Wheel’s outer corridor, and Ariana hesitated. She crossed her arms, hugging herself. “Do you have a minute? Can I speak with you?”
“Absolutely.” Mage Parma went ahead and held open her silver door. “Come in. How is your practice coming along?”
“Pretty well.” Ariana picked up a paper packet on the floor and went to the nearest open chair. “It’s as hard as learning it all the first time, but at least it’s going more quickly.”
“That’s good to hear.” Mage Parma locked her office door and then came to sit across from her. “What’s wrong?”
Ariana handed her the packet. “This had been slipped under the door. It’s from Flamen Mennti, so one of the Gehrn, I suppose?”
Mage Parma took the sealed paper and, without looking, spun it with lazy precision into the little fire burning in the hearth. “Now, what’s wrong?”
Ariana looked after the burning letter in surprise.
“Ariana?”
She bit her lip. “This may sound ridiculous.”
“The door is locked, and I’ll try not to laugh.”
Ariana couldn’t summon a smile for the jest. “Do you... do you believe in dreams?”
Mage Parma raised an eyebrow. “In what way? I’ve had dreams myself, if that’s what you mean, so I think they exist. Or do you mean hopes and dreams?”
“Mantic dreams,” Ariana blurted. “Do you think dreams can tell the future?”
Elysia Parma did not laugh. She pursed her lips and frowned thoughtfully. “What’s this about?”
Ariana took a breath. “I had a dream, and—it was terrifying. Horrifying. I woke—I was ill, I was so afraid. And I want to know... I want to know if it could be real.”
“Do you want to tell me about it?”
“No.” Ariana regretted the blunt answer. “That is...”
Mage Parma shook her head. “We don’t have to discuss it yet, if you’re uncomfortable. Let’s speak generally, first.”
There was a knock at the door, and with an apologetic glance she rose to answer it. “Hello,” she said, opening the door only a few inches so that Ariana and the visitor could not see one another. “I’m terribly sorry, but something urgent has come up, and now isn’t a good time. Could we meet later tonight? Over supper, perhaps? Yes, the Hawking Babe will do. Bring your notes. Thank you.”
She returned to Ariana and folded her hands on the table. “It’s my belief that most of our dreams are just that, dreams. But that doesn’t mean they don’t hold meaning, or that we cannot learn from them. What I am about to say may sound patronizing, but I mean it sincerely: you have been through a great deal of late, Ariana, and there is much on your mind. What worries you will influence your dream, and the weight of your waking concern will make the dream more substantial. Then when you recall the dream, the terror of it will lend your concern additional import. Each experience fuels the other in a kind of perpetual impetus.” She held up a hand. “Now, understand I absolutely do not mean to belittle either dream or emotion, but let us work through it as a dream, first.”
Ariana hesitated and then nodded. “Every time I think of it, I feel ill again.”
“Did you dream of the Ryuven?”
Ariana nodded.
Mage Parma’s expression softened. “Did you go back?”
Ariana shook her head. “No, it wasn’t about that. It was... about the war.”
“Which has of course been on your mind,” Parma granted gently. “And did you dream of an unfavorable outcome? Or something happening in connection to the battle?”
Ariana nodded mutely.
“There’s no surprise you would dream of something so serious. All our thoughts are bent on this issue.” Parma folded her hands. “So the question of your dream was likely this: what can you do to influence the conflict with the Ryuven?”
Ariana felt foolish. “Well, of course. That’s all we’ve been working on.”
“And your dream seemed greater than that? But is it possible you were just thinking of this worry in a different way?”
Ariana rested her chin in her hands. “I want to see this war ended. And I feel there has to be something other than the fighting we’ve tried for so long. There’s something we’re missing...”
“So like your father.” Mage Parma sighed, but without exasperation. “My duty is to defend against the Ryuven. I have not put the effort into exploring other solutions because my efforts are bent on defense.’
“Like the shield.”
“Like the shield, and others. But if you wish to explore other avenues than fighting, then don’t think of it as a war. Look from a different angle entirely, like your dream.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well, let’s work through this systematically. A loose map of sorts can be useful for choosing an oblique approach. What is the first of the five material sciences?”
“Botany, zoology, chemistry, physical philosophy—”
“One at a time will do. Let’s
start with botany. What do you know of things botanical in this concern? Anything at all.”
Ariana considered. Failing crops had started the raids and had prompted Tamaryl to abandon his conviction to the shield. “The Ryuven are starving. Better harvests might reduce or end the raids. But I have no way of guessing what plagues their crops, nor even what plants they grow.”
“Still, it’s something less often discussed than open battle. Let’s continue with this line of thought.”
Ariana was accustomed to this style of guided discussion from her apprenticeship with her father. “The Ryuven cannot buy from human growers without some sort of common currency.” But she had already wracked her brain for a potential trading commodity. If only she knew what plants the Ryuven used...
She thought of the bag of medicine Maru had sent with her. “I have a tiny sampling of Ryuven flora. What could that tell us?”
Parma’s eyebrows rose. “I think that’s more than we’ve had to study in the last hundred years,” she answered readily. “It cannot hurt to examine it, and ask for help if you need it.”
Perhaps Mage Parma was only giving her makework to distract her. “You think looking at their medicinal herbs will help me understand what’s blighting their food crops?”
“Only if the herbs also suffer blight. It’s hard to say what you might find. But it would be foolish not to examine what you have. And if it reveals nothing, there’s zoology and chemistry to consider next.” Parma rose and went to the array of crystals near the door, reaching to the one labeled White Mage. Instead of tapping it, however, she held her fingertips against it. “Ewan, are you there?”
Ariana stared. A moment later her father’s voice returned, flattened but recognizable. “Yes?”
“Who is the best arcane botanist you know?”
“Callahan, of course.”
“I thought so, too. Thanks.” Parma released the crystal and met Ariana’s eyes. “There you go.”
Ariana ignored her words and pointed to the crystals. “I didn’t know that was possible!”
The Silver Mage glanced back at the plaque. “No? To be fair, it’s a scant handful who can do it. It’s hardly a practical communication tool, limited to so few. But it’s useful among ourselves.”
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