And Maru... Tamaryl could sense little change in him as the days passed. It had been an awful, gut-wrenching shock to see his friend, broken and feeble.
He reached out to the fragment of crystal and spun it on the tabletop so that it threw back candlelight. Light gleamed off it in all directions and then winked out. A heartbeat later the crystal gleamed again, still spinning to a slow stop.
For a moment Tamaryl could not breathe, but he forced his hand to take up the fragment and turned it nearer the light. Yes, there, difficult to make out in the dimness but plain now that he was looking for it, a radial network of cracks in one plane of the piece. The light reflected off the other sides and refracted here, where the crystallized ether had been dropped or struck.
Light was energy, like magic. The cracks disrupted light; they would disrupt magic. The fragment of shard might not be enough to carry them through the shield.
For a long moment Tamaryl stared at the palm-sized betrayal, unable to think, unable to feel, numb with fear that he had stolen it for nothing, that there would be no fresh food for the Ai storehouses, no return home for Maru, nothing but his failure.
Someone tapped at the door. Tamaryl swept the crystal fragment from the table into his lap. “Who’s there?”
“It’s only Ariana.”
He exhaled. “Please come, my lady mage.”
She opened the door, pale in the weak light. “I saw the light beneath the door.”
“I could not sleep.” He looked at her. “Neither, it seems, could you.”
She shook her head. “No, I was thinking. And then I wanted something to drink, I decided.”
Tamaryl gave her a wan smile. “Then allow your servant to bring it, my lady.”
She gave him a reproving look. “You are no servant now. You’re the Pairvyn ni’Ai, as—”
“I am a mere shell of a Ryuven, without the strength of my kind or yours,” he snapped. Then he looked away from Ariana’s startled face, guilty. “I’m sorry. At least, when I was your servant, my power was comfortably sealed, rather than a raw, gaping wound, bleeding helplessness.”
She moved toward him. “Does it hurt?”
He shook his head, upset with himself. “No. Well, yes, it hurts, I’m still healing physically. But my power—it’s just not there. Dead. It does not hurt, it just does not exist.” He swallowed. “Like waking to find that one’s arm is missing.”
She stood by his shoulder and laid a hand across the back of his neck, as she had done long ago when he was the human boy Tam. “I’m sorry.” Her fingers were cool against his hot skin. “I... When I was in your world, at first, I woke to see Maru standing over me. I was afraid, I didn’t know him, and I tried to repel him with magic—but nothing happened. The magic just didn’t respond. And I was so afraid and so helpless—”
“And then, my lady mage, you found a way to use our own magical atmosphere, and you became powerful in both worlds.” Tamaryl could hear the bitterness in his voice. “And you returned home, to acclaim and rejoicing.”
Ariana’s mouth firmed. “I returned home, where I discovered I had lost my magic here as well, and I have had to rebuild it from a child’s skill.”
“How diligent of you. But my power is not improving, and I am not healing, and I am trapped in his wretched place.”
Ariana did not speak, but he could see the hurt in her eyes. He swallowed. “I’m sorry. I’ll bring your drink.”
Ariana stepped back, shaking her head. “I’ll get it myself. Good night.”
She closed the door behind her, and Tamaryl stared at it, feeling foolish and ashamed.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SIX
SOREN WAS NOT GLAD to face the new day’s issues of taxes and trade agreements and tariffs and border aggression. The last was his newest chore, since word had come of an upstart in the far west, some wastrel who’d somehow slain his warlord master and claimed power for himself. It was probably nothing serious—these wilderness bands mostly scuffled amongst themselves—but King Jerome had sent the reports on to Soren, so he was expected to formulate a response for his father’s consideration.
He was grateful when Ethan rapped at the open door. “Ethan! Please, tell me something diverting.”
“Not exactly, master. I’ve just had word that the Count of Bailaha requested an audience with His Majesty.”
“What?”
“I’m told he will be admitted sometime late this afternoon.”
Soren drummed his fingers on the desk between stacked papers. Shianan was trying, then. Given what he’d said before, he would venture an audience for no other reason. Despite the awkward display during the matches, he would risk it.
In a way, Soren was glad Shianan had swallowed his apprehension. But his timing, despite being Soren’s suggestion, was poor; the king had been disgruntled at the unexpected and interrupted fight and had seemed in a foul mood since. If his irritation had its source in Shianan’s unusual demonstration, it could not bode well for the commander’s precious petition.
A vague unease filled Soren. He did not understand what passed between King Jerome and Shianan Becknam, but it did no one good. If the king were displeased with Shianan, Soren could not let him set himself for ill use—not the earnest, sober commander who’d sworn himself to Soren’s service. Not his younger brother.
He pushed himself back from the desk decisively. “Lock up, Ethan. I’m going.”
He wondered as he strode down the long corridors what he would tell Shianan. Leave off, today; the king is not in a receptive mood. Yes, that was probably best. Shianan did not need the burden of knowing the king had been displeased by his aborted demonstration, not when it seemed no one knew what exactly had happened.
THE SECRETARY FROWNED when Shianan appeared before his desk. “I’m sorry, my lord, but no one has sent for—”
“I know that,” Shianan snapped, nerves making his voice curt. “I am the one requesting audience.”
There was an awkward moment while the secretary tried to reconcile Shianan’s request with the king’s agenda, probably debating whether he should refuse outright or let the king himself deny it. Finally he rose with a sheaf of papers and went into the king’s room, closing the door firmly behind him.
Shianan paced.
After what seemed an age, the secretary returned. He waved for a page and gave him quiet instructions before sending him off. Shianan chafed.
At last the secretary turned to him. “His Majesty will see you, but he must finish this present business first.”
Shianan nodded, simultaneous relief and apprehension filling him. Now he would have his chance, and now there was no return. There would be no second chance.
“Thank you,” he said gruffly. “I’ll wait.”
He paced, embarrassed by his nervous display but incapable of stopping. He tried to examine the painted portraits on the wall or the embroidered banners of antiquity. He saw nothing of them.
“His Majesty will see you.”
Shianan jumped at the words and then silently rebuked himself. He nodded stiffly. “Thank you.”
A servant held the door for several exiting ministers and then glanced expectantly at Shianan. He inhaled and walked through the door, keeping his eyes forward as it closed behind him.
King Jerome was seated at the narrow end of the heavy table, writing something. Shianan knelt beside him, awaiting acknowledgment. The king shoved away his paper. “I wasn’t quite ready for you yet.”
Shianan did not know whether this was apology or reproof. He kept silent.
“Rise, Bailaha. I’m told you want a few minutes. What is it?”
Shianan straightened, trying to form the words which had been tumbling in his head since his sleepless night. “Your Majesty, I come with a request.”
“A request?” The king’s mouth twitched in an unreadable expression. He tipped his head to eye Shianan. “What is it you want?”
Shianan’s pulse shook him. “I’ve come to ask permission to marry.”
There was a long moment of silence. Shianan held his breath. The king sat immobile, looking at him.
“Bailaha,” said Jerome at last, his words coming slowly, “why did you come to ask this?”
Shianan’s heart leapt. Was this a promising sign? “Your Majesty, I—”
The door opened abruptly, and they turned together to see Soren brushing aside the flapping secretary. He shoved the door behind him and strode forward, bowing to his father. “Excuse me,” he said, ignoring Shianan’s startled expression. “I have some questions about the warlord—”
“Wait a bit, Soren,” the king said shortly. “Bailaha has come with a petition.”
Soren threw a hasty glance which Shianan could not interpret. “Perhaps, as he is already here, he would care to comment on the military situation—”
“Be quiet, Soren,” snapped King Jerome.
Shianan looked from one to the other. Soren’s sudden interruption seemed contrary to the prince’s earlier urging. On the other hand, the king had silenced Soren to hear Shianan—something which had never happened before. A heady rush filled Shianan.
“Answer my question, Bailaha. Why did you come for permission to marry?”
Shianan glanced toward Soren, uncomfortable with his answer and doubly so before the prince. But this once, the king had set aside Soren for Shianan. “All my life has been yours to command, Your Majesty. My path has been chosen for me, and now I—”
“You understand you are not free to marry, or you would not have sought permission.”
Shianan caught his breath. “I do.”
“Then you already understand there are reasons why you cannot marry. Knowing these, you ask that I overlook them to accommodate your infatuation with some barmaid or merchant girl?” He shook his head. “You were right to ask, but I cannot grant the permission you seek.” With an air of dismissal, he turned toward Soren. “Now, as you’ve come—”
“Wait!” The word burst from Shianan without thought, shocking him nearly as much as the king. “Wait. I’ve served you faithfully all my life. I’ve never questioned. This is the first time I’ve come with any kind of request at all.”
The king raised an eyebrow. “That does not make it reasonable, nor obligate my favor.”
“And what is unreasonable about wanting to marry?”
The king rose from his chair in disbelief to face Shianan’s first defiance. “There is every reason you should not be allowed to marry! ’Soats, you’re lucky you’re weren’t gelded—do you realize that? I stopped that—though if it had been done, I wouldn’t have this trouble with you now.”
It was the first time he had alluded to Shianan’s birth, even obliquely. Hot terror and angry resentment ran mingled through Shianan.
Soren cut in hastily. “I think we can see a way through this—”
“Be quiet, Soren.”
“Please, just listen a moment. What could be the harm in hearing him?”
“There is nothing else to be said. Bailaha, we’ve finished.”
Shianan clenched his fists and bowed his head. “You are my father and you owe me—”
The slap caught him across the ear and jaw, knocking him staggering to one side. “I have never given you leave to call me that,” snarled the king.
“Father!” Soren started forward and halted, uncertain and shocked. “What are you doing?”
“Keep out of this.” King Jerome turned on Shianan, straightening with his ear ringing. “You presume too much. I see success and favor has clouded your judgment.”
“Favor?”
The king’s face twisted. “Insolent wretch of a—”
“Stop,” urged Soren, extending his hands to soothe both of them. “Just wait—”
“Silence!” roared King Jerome. To Shianan he continued, “You ungrateful, arrogant whelp, don’t think you are above punishment. I could have you in stocks or worse as a soldier, or imprisoned as a courtier. Reprobate!”
Shianan dug his nails fiercely into his palms and summoned the last of his fading courage. “I have been your most loyal servant. I have served you since I was but a boy. I had no mother, I had no father. I had no childhood. Now you tell me I may have no wife?”
“Not another word,” Jerome snarled. “Open your mouth again, and I will have you strapped before your own troops. Get out of my sight, and put this ridiculous idea from your head. Get out.”
Shianan swallowed hard, wanting to say more and yet aghast at his own rebellion. Words whirled through his mind with the gasping fear that he had ruined his only chance and was near to losing everything else. He bowed low and backed away silently, fumbling for a door.
The secretary and his pages were at the far side of the room, thumbing busily through sheaves or polishing the desk or studying the scrollwork at the side of the cabinet. None gave Shianan more than a glance. He blinked hard and left the room, fighting a swelling wave of frustration, humiliation, and fury.
SOREN STARED AT THE king. “Father, how—how could you—you hit him?”
Jerome looked away. “You saw how he was.”
“That’s no call to strike him! He was upset. You denied him the only thing he ever asked of you.”
“He cannot be permitted to marry. And he cannot be permitted to rely on special favor, only because he is...”
“Because he is a royal bastard.” Soren faced his father.
His father stared hard at him, as if trying to decide whether to protest his son’s plain speech. Finally he exhaled. “Yes, of course that’s what I mean. He cannot claim his birth for special favor.”
“What special favor?” Soren demanded. “Any other courtier would have presented his marriage plans out of mere ritual courtesy, and you would have given approval without a thought. He truly wants your permission, because he doesn’t have the rights of any other courtier.” He grasped at logical argument, lacking time to make it cohesive but trying anyway. “If your bastard cannot marry, then it cannot be trading on bastard blood to ask to marry. But you’ve never acknowledged him, so he is a courtier and should be granted permission.”
“Don’t play lawyer’s tricks with me. He carries royal blood, Soren. He—”
“And how often has he traded on that?” Soren gestured to where Shianan had stood. “How many times has he reminded you of that fact?”
“You don’t see that—”
“How many times?”
King Jerome pressed his lips together. “This day only,” he admitted at last. “This is the first time either of us have mentioned it.” He sighed. “I’d never yet had to directly remind him to keep his place.”
“Keep his place?” Soren gave him an incredulous look. “Shianan Becknam is the least ambitious man in Alham. He has no political aspirations whatsoever, and no one can accuse him of putting on airs. He practically grovels whenever he attends court—it’s embarrassing. And why? Because he’s reminded each time that he has no place here.”
Jerome bristled. “I have given him lands and a title. He is a full member of my court, beside his military position.”
“And do you make a habit of striking your nobles?”
Jerome’s face reddened. “That’s enough, Soren.”
“He didn’t demand the rights of a royal offspring. He only meant that a son should have his father’s sanction—”
“Enough!” shouted Jerome, and Soren realized he had trespassed too far. The king looked hard at him, making it difficult for Soren to meet his eyes. “You came here knowing he’d ask, didn’t you? You came to interrupt us?”
Soren nodded. “I knew he had requested an audience, yes.”
“And you thought I would manage him badly.”
Soren had no ready answer.
Jerome sighed. “What you fail to see, Soren, is that I am protecting you. A royal bastard is a dangerous thing, dangerous of himself and dangerous as a tool.”
“Shianan Becknam has no political ambitions, Father. I’ve a
lready said that, and you must know it yourself.”
“I think you fail to understand the potential for trouble.”
“I think you hold him to an impossible standard. What happens when he realizes at last that he cannot succeed? When he gives up entirely? When he no longer cares what you think of him?”
“I think you’ve said enough.”
Soren bit his lip. He’d rarely argued with his father, and even more rarely with such indignant emotion. But he’d gone too far, perhaps. His father couldn’t hear reason for the angry words which clouded it. He bowed. “Then I will go back to my own work.”
He was nearly at the door when the king spoke again. “You tread a precarious path, Soren. You can be deceived. He may be using you to gain influence for the future. Shianan Becknam is dangerous.”
Soren faced him again. “Which is more dangerous, Father—the man who resents and fears you, or the man who considers you an ally and a friend?”
“He will take advantage of your weakness.”
“It isn’t weakness, Father.” Soren gave him a quick, sad look and bowed before exiting.
CHAPTER FIFTY-SEVEN
ARIANA BROKE YET ANOTHER of the fragile glass vials in which she was trying to capture a vapor, and with an exasperated syllable she flung her instruments down and took a few percussive steps from the workbench. Clearly, this was not a day for careful work, and she would have to find another, less painstaking task.
She had been growing aware of Shianan’s feelings, and they pleased her, but she had been trying to keep a check on her own. Shianan did not have many friends; it was possible he was confusing friendship with romance. And she did not know if the bastard was even free to marry.
But when he had promised to speak to the king and return to her—that suggested he thought he could. And he had said he would come to her this afternoon or evening, with a tone quite unlike a friend’s casual promise to meet again.
A hint of guilt corroded the edges of her flattered excitement. She wasn’t certain yet of her own feelings. That is, she was fond of him and she admired him, but did she love him? Enough to marry him? Enough to face all that would come with marriage to the bastard?
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