Godfire

by Cara Witter

  She’d never met anyone who personally knew any of the children.

  “Was he . . .” Daniella stopped and started again. “I heard many of those children never recovered, the ones that survived.”

  Nessa nodded once. “He was near death, and though he survived, his mind is mostly gone. He remains a child, though he’s long since a grown man.” Her eyes shone fiercely. “Still, my family loves him, and we know he would not be alive at all were it not for your father. We owe so much to him, and that is why . . . why I must . . .”

  “Go ahead, Nessa,” Daniella said gently, placing her hand over the woman’s. “You can tell me anything. I’ll do my best to protect you, if you’re in some kind of trouble.”

  Daniella hated how false that promise sounded in her own ears—not that she wouldn’t try to protect Nessa, but that she had any capacity to do so. Still, whatever information this woman had, Daniella was increasingly certain she needed to know it.

  Nessa took a deep breath, looking at the floor as she spoke. “I take care of the rooms of dignified guests such as yourself. But two days ago my friend Priane, who is one of Lord Tehlran’s personal chambermaids, needed to leave to tend her ill daughter. She still had work to do, and I offered to finish it for her so that she could leave early. Normally, this isn’t something we would do—Lord Tehlran is very selective about who enters his rooms—but she can’t afford to have her pay docked, even for a day. So I snuck in to clean in her stead.”

  She stopped and made eye contact with Daniella again, and for a moment, Daniella thought that this was the big confession. Her confusion must have been evident on her face, because Nessa shook her head. Her face was bone white now. “Lord Tehlran is a Drim, my lady. I’m sure of it.”

  Daniella’s hand slipped off of Nessa’s, and she took a step back. This was a bold claim indeed, one that could end in execution—for Tehlran, if it was true, and for his accuser if not.

  “This is a dangerous accusation, “ Daniella said, quite glad now that Nessa had wanted the bedroom door shut. “I hardly think he would have been able to slip that past my father. Unless there is very strong evidence to indicate—”

  “There is,” Nessa blurted. Her cheeks flushed. “There is, my lady,” she said again, in a slightly more measured tone. “I saw it. In his room.”

  Daniella waited a beat, but the woman didn’t clarify. She cut her eyes to the left.

  “I know books of Drimmish runes look frightening,” Daniella said. “And peasants have been accused for having them. But my father has a full library of the books, and it’s not uncommon for high nobles—”

  But Nessa shook her head. “It’s not that. I must show you, my lady. You have to see it, or you won’t believe me. He’s out for another meeting; perhaps I can take you there now.”

  Now it was Daniella’s turn to pause. The maid wanted to bring Daniella into Lord Governor Tehlran’s personal chambers while he was away. To go through his things, all to legitimize a chambermaid’s outlandish claim that Tehlran could be a Drim. Quite a risk to take, even for the daughter of the Lord General of the Sevairnese Empire. Tehlran might not be able to take her life for such a thing, but he could certainly make her stay here in Drepaine miserable.

  Then again, was the claim so outlandish as to be impossible? Her father had seen to the end of the main ten families years ago, but there were still those with Drim blood—perhaps just one parent, or even a grandparent—out there. Wisely hiding, for the most part, and Daniella didn’t blame them. She didn’t follow the popular opinion—her father’s opinion—that anyone with a drop of Drim blood was culpable for the Drim leaders’ atrocities.

  But if someone in such high position as Tehlran was one of them . . .

  Daniella swallowed hard around a growing lump in her throat. Perhaps the attack on her life hadn’t come from rebels alone. Perhaps her father had enemies much closer to him. Her thoughts returned to the Drim man, the one she had seen mere moments before Braisia was killed. Her chest constricted painfully, but she clenched her hands into fists. “All right, Nessa. Take me to this evidence. You enter the room first, and I’ll follow a bit behind.”

  “Yes, my lady,” Nessa said, though she didn’t look particularly relieved. She set the linens on the bed and scurried from the room. Daniella waited for several long breaths, trying to compose herself before leaving. She straightened the jeweled belt that draped low over her velvet surcoat—the kind of lavish clothing she was expected to wear in Drepaine, but rarely did in Peldenar. When she felt like she might not look so guilty as to be interrogated by the first person she saw, she left her room and headed at a brisk walk along the wide marble hallway toward Lord Tehlran’s chambers.

  She had given Nessa enough time to get ahead, apparently. She didn’t see the woman as she walked, though she did pass several guards who bowed respectfully as she passed. If the Andronish palace itself, with its white marble and rich, elegant rugs and sun-lit ground floor windows, was a far cry from the austerely-decorated gray stone of Castle Peldenar, the presence of the palace guards, at least, reminded her of home. The only difference in their livery from those in Peldenar were the stripes along their shoulders in the Andronish colors of midnight blue and silver. A small conciliatory nod to the province of Andronim, barely noticeable among the Sevairnese black coats and bright golden embellishments.

  She must have kept the fear churning inside her from displaying on her face, because none of the guards seemed to notice anything amiss. Or perhaps they were simply used to seeing Daniella afraid.

  At least now that worked in her favor.

  She was just about to make the final turn down the hallway to Tehlran’s chambers when Lord Jaemeson appeared from the direction of the gardens, handsome as ever, with his blond hair just mussed enough to look unpretentious, and wearing a well-fitted doublet in the Mortichean style. Daniella froze and bit the inside of her cheek to keep from cursing.

  “Lady Daniella,” he said in surprise, then gave a well-practiced bow. “I was just looking for you; I hoped I might escort you to the next meeting. Though,” he said with a short laugh that managed to be both charming and, at the moment, especially infuriating, “it does appear that we’re both running late.”

  Daniella knew she should have probably forced a laugh in return, but her nerves were making her fingers twitch. She needed to get rid of Lord Jaemeson before he could tell something was wrong with her.

  “I appreciate the offer,” she said. “But I’m afraid I’m not going to attend this meeting. I’m not feeling well.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” Lord Jaemeson said, and she might have believed that he was, indeed, deeply concerned about her health, had his gaze not flicked toward the direction of Tehlran’s chambers. Where he had clearly seen her heading.

  Daniella spoke quickly. Perhaps too quickly. “Lord Tehlran graciously offered to lend me books from his private study.” It wasn’t entirely untrue. Tehlran had offered this when she’d first arrived, though she was fairly certain he hadn’t meant that she should break into his rooms to do so. “I thought a book or two might make the time spent resting more bearable.”

  Now she was babbling. Lord Jaemeson nodded solemnly, his expression betraying nothing in the way of suspicion.

  But his eyes, a deep brown that she’d heard Adiante opine about at length, glimmered with something she couldn’t quite place. Amusement? Judgment?

  She’d made such a fool of herself last time she’d seen him that it had to be both.

  “I’d heard you enjoy reading,” he said. “If I may ask . . .” He trailed off just long enough that her palms began to sweat, especially when his eyes flicked briefly to Tehlran’s chambers again and back. “What’s your favorite book?”

  Daniella paused. Her true favorite book was a book of legends compiled by Hedrick the Fourth, but the legends were all Mortichean, and romantic ones at that, which Jae
meson would surely take as encouragement. So instead she grasped at the most ponderous-sounding title she could think of, a book she often kept in her sitting room to deter Adiante, who would groan and leave whenever Daniella picked it up.

  “Master Wiltaen’s An Account of the Sevairnese Wheat Debates of the 960s in Detail: An Agricultural Triumph in the Making.”

  Jaemeson’s eyebrows raised. “Sounds . . . fascinating.”

  “Quite. Who doesn’t love a massive tome on the rotational farming practices of the past century?”

  That might have been too far. Jaemeson’s lips curled up into the kind of mischievous half-smile that had undoubtedly gotten him into many beds. There was no doubt now; he clearly knew she was putting him on.

  Well I did actually find that book interesting, Daniella thought sourly. So the joke’s on him.

  “I really shouldn’t keep you from the meeting, my lord,” she said in the same dismissive tone noblewomen in Peldenar often used on her. “Please give my apologies to the delegates.”

  He blinked, and a flash of something like disappointment crossed his face. “Of course, my lady,” was all he said, and with a final bow and one last heartbeat of meeting her gaze, he strode off down the hallway.

  She waited until he had turned out of sight before letting out the breath she hadn’t been aware she’d been holding. Then she really did curse under her breath. The last thing she needed was the attentions of some self-involved lordling.

  Especially at this moment.

  She hurried down the hallway to the intricately carved white door to Tehlran’s private chambers. She knocked twice quickly, though she hadn’t thought to set up some sort of knock code with Nessa beforehand, and pulled down the gold handle. The door swung open easily, into the study. Nessa must already be inside.

  Perhaps this was a trap. Maybe Nessa was leading her into a room where dozens of armed assailants lay in wait for her. But she saw only the maid standing beside a large oak table which looked to be employed as a writing desk. Nessa looking equally terrified, and then, as she recognized Daniella, relieved.

  Daniella closed the door behind her and locked the bolt. A trap was ridiculous. There were many places in the palaces that would be easier to stage a murder or kidnapping than Tehlran’s private rooms.

  Daniella’s own rooms, for example.

  “In here, my lady,” Nessa gestured towards the bedroom. Daniella only spared a slight glance for the elaborate furnishings of Lord Tehlran’s study, including an alcove which contained a wealth of books on multiple shelves. Drepaine was famous for its large number of booksmiths, which Daniella, sadly, would never be able to leave the palace to visit, not with the state of the city.

  In the bedroom, Nessa rubbed her palms together nervously, looking back and forth between Daniella and a large cherrywood wardrobe. Whatever she wanted Daniella to see was in there.

  “Go on, then,” Daniella said. “Open it and show me this evidence.” It came out more impatient than she’d have liked, but they both needed to be out of here. Quickly.

  Nessa shifted from one foot to another. “It’s, um, locked, my lady. Priane, she . . . she told me it’s always locked, and Tehlran keeps the key on his person. No one is to open it but him. Ever.”

  “But you did.” She wanted to trust this woman, but Nessa was making it increasingly difficult.

  The flush on Nessa’s cheeks spread all the way to under her collar. “Yes. I was cleaning the room, like I said, and wanted to do a thorough job. For Priane. I saw something had fallen back there, and I tried to reach it, and shifted the wardrobe just enough—it’s heavy, mind, but I could move it a scant bit—and I heard a thump from inside.”

  “A thump.”

  “I knew I must have tipped something over, something heavy. And I panicked, my lady. If Tehlran saw that something had been disturbed or broken in his wardrobe, I knew that Priane and I would lose our jobs. Or worse.”

  “But you didn’t have the key.” It was one thing for a servant to stumble upon incriminating evidence out in the open and bring it to her attention, but to open a locked, forbidden wardrobe . . .

  “No, my lady. I, um . . . I picked the lock. And if you want to see what is inside, I must do so again, by your leave.” Nessa mumbled these last words, staring down at her feet.

  “By my leave?” Daniella gaped, then forced herself to breathe, to speak calmly. Slowly. “Nessa, this could mean your life, you understand? Breaking into Lord Tehlran’s locked wardrobe, let alone this accusation, if it’s unfounded . . .” Daniella gripped the woman’s elbow tight enough that Nessa flinched. “My leave won’t make a difference. If we are caught at this, you will die and I won’t be able to protect you.”

  “It’s not unfounded, my lady,” Nessa said, her eyes burning intensely into Daniella’s. “Lord Tehlran is a Drim. And your father must find out. Before it’s too late.”

  Daniella let go of Nessa’s elbow and took a step back. Whatever secret was in there, this woman was willing to risk her life to expose it. “All right, then. Do it quickly.”

  Nessa nodded sharply and pulled out a couple of hair pins that had been holding her hair into place under her kerchief. With the pins removed, her graying hair fell down around her shoulders. She knelt in front of the wardrobe and inserted the pins into the lock, jiggling them around.

  “You’re sure it isn’t alarmed?” Daniella asked. If Tehlran was hiding evidence he was a Drim, he could at least afford a Vorgalian charm to guard the thing.

  “No, lady,” Nessa said. “There’s a charm that locks the cupboard on closing, but nothing more.”

  “Dare I ask how you became so skilled at this kind of thing?” She meant it to come out archly, but she really was curious. There had been more than a few times growing up that lock-picking would have been an extremely useful skill. Between that and the secret passageways, she would have had run of the entire castle.

  Not that she wanted to go back to those passageways. Ever.

  “I wasn’t always blessed with such a good job, my lady,” Nessa said. “And my family had very little money.”

  She didn’t elaborate further, and Daniella didn’t choose to press the issue. With every click of the pins, she was closer to seeing this damning evidence.

  She hoped it was merely a Drim artifact. There were many of those still around. The Drim had ruled Sevairn for many years and had been its priest class ever since the Banishment. The other Four Lands each had their patron god, now trapped in a jewel and long since hidden away, but Sevairn had been given the Drim. Ironically, the Drim had hunted and killed alleged blood mages for most of their reign, and had then been overthrown and killed for the very same crime.

  Still, it wasn’t fair that everyone with Drim blood should be killed just as readily and with as little proof as the Drim killed those before them. Not that she would ever risk openly disagreeing with her father.

  The lock clicked, and Daniella’s heart froze.

  Nessa stood, a bead of sweat dripping down over her temple. She reached for the gold knob, then drew her hand back, as if afraid it would burn her.

  Daniella had no patience anymore for waiting, for fearing. She grabbed the knob herself and pulled the door open.

  And then she bit back a scream.

  A boy lay inside, propped into a sitting position against the side of the wardrobe. His clothing, peasant’s rags, were ripped and torn. His skin was ashen gray except where there were markings in various shades of red and black. Blood, some fresh and some much less so. His eyes open but empty, a white film over them.

  Daniella’s stomach churned, and she tasted bile, stepping back, stepping away from the smell . . .

  Except there was no smell. He was dead, clearly, and had been for some time, but there was no rot, no decay.

  And the markings. She knew now why Nessa had thought they were Drim, but Dani
ella knew Drim runes and these were not.Tehlran might not be a Drim, but these were the markings of blood magic. Her father had to know, but this wasn’t the kind of thing she could disclose in a letter, not with the chance that someone else might read it.

  Daniella had to return to Peldenar immediately.

  Ten

  Perchaya sat at the pine wood table in her attic bedroom, the surface dotted with little pots of various pigments, acacia sap for mixing, and a scattered assortment of charcoals. Even just looking at them brought her comfort, though perhaps not as much as she would have liked, given the anxiety of the last several days.

  Perchaya picked up a piece she’d been working on since Kenton had put that ring on her finger—a portrait of the godbearers holding their stones. She didn’t know what their faces would look like, so she’d modeled them after her family. Reisa as the bearer of Arkista, a moon lighting her chestnut hair from behind. Iadan as the bearer of Kotali, kneeling in prayer. Her youngest sister Camilla giving her face to the bearer of Mirilina, hair flowing out like sea foam. Her father, Vendan, as the bearer of Nerendal, form wreathed in flame, skin darkened to make him look Tirostaari, in the absence of a Tirostaari model.

  If Kenton was right, the real bearers would be feeling the call to assemble, even now. Perchaya had studied the passages that described their strange powers—neither Vorgalian magic, nor blood magic, nor Drim. She’d done their illuminations several times, inking their portraits in the headings and margins of books.

  But she’d never drawn the Drim. It wasn’t strictly illegal, and Perchaya knew there were copies of the Banishment Chronicle that depicted them. But it had always seemed frightening to her, as if by looking at her drawings anyone might see she was one of them.