Brutally unfair. Clever or silly, she deserved my hatred.
“I did indeed receive just such an invitation,” Ambrose said, somewhat loftily, and I reined in my gnashing thoughts to recall what question he answered. “A roundabout sort of missive, but quite clear and sincere. I, however, had other plans.” He finished that with a sniff and a pointed glare. “And you’re grateful for it, not only because you have me to guide you, but because of this.” That same tap on the ledger.
Feeling anything but grateful—and knowing Ambrose wouldn’t relinquish this bone until I’d considered every bit of what the wizard found so significant—I made a show of bending over the page. Then sighed, squinting at the crabbed writing, the words like bricks in a wall of text. A painting in the center of the page caught my eye as much easier to contemplate.
A blossom of extraordinary loveliness—a kind I’d never seen before—and attached to what appeared to be a ring. I’d never seen such a thing, not even made of jewels, and this looked to be an actual flower. The Abiding Ring, no doubt.
The usual aspect of the ring, the bit that went around the finger, was painted as a twining vine. I couldn’t tell if it was a clever design rendered in metal or a part of the flower. Surely it couldn’t be real, no matter what Ambrose claimed. And yet the artist had captured it so that it nearly moved on the page, shaded in with fiery oranges that bled into dusky indigo, like the final splash of a sunset—or the intense sky before the sun rose. I fancied that a delicately sweet fragrance rose from the page. Amazing to smell anything but sulfurous vurgsten. And ridiculous. A painting of a flower would have no scent, even if my ravaged sinuses allowed me to smell anything at all anymore.
Still, though I knew it to be an illustration—flat, and on paper—the flower evoked a loveliness beyond our world, the petals almost moving, as if in an unseen breeze. It seemed so real and alive that I had to touch it, pulling back at the last moment at the sight of my callused finger, the nail twisted and forever growing broken from when I hit it with a pick long ago.
When I was a boy, I’d imagined Calanthe as a magical fairyland. This flower ring spoke to that part of me I’d thought crushed and lost forever.
I wiped at the moisture coming from my nose. Bright blood left a smeared streak on my hand. Great. I dug a cloth from inside my leather cloak. “Fucking nosebleed.”
Both Sondra and Ambrose gazed at me, concern on her face and avid interest on his.
“I’m fine,” I said, waving at them to ignore me.
It happened sometimes—to all of us—and though I understood that the mines had done that to me, too, along with my damaged throat and stiff lungs, it still felt like a weakness. Hard to look stern with a bloody rag clamped to my nose. This one probably came of being in the humid sea air, breathing all the vurgsten from the detonations, not to mention exhaustion and bending over the table in this dusty, stale tower room, packed with such an array of potions. Plenty of good reasons to have a nosebleed now, however inconvenient.
No reason for Ambrose to be looking so pleased. I gave him a quelling glare and stabbed a finger at the illustration. “Why am I looking at a picture of the Abiding Ring, now?”
Fascination sharpened the deep green of Ambrose’s eyes with brighter glints. “This is an excellent sign,” he commented.
“What is?” I snapped. “It’s a fucking nosebleed, not a portent.”
“Ah-ah. You’re trespassing on my expertise, Conrí. Observe.” Ambrose lifted the ledger and took it to his raven, lifting it as if for inspection. The great bird cocked his head, feathers gleaming black as the obsidian stones of Vurgmun, and focused one orange eye on the illustration of the flower. He arched his wings in interest, lowering his beak nearly to touching and making a series of soft caws.
“Magic,” Ambrose finally said, with some impatience, when Sondra and I stared at him blankly.
Sondra glanced at me, sharing my bemusement. “Or that old ledger has some nasty shit on it. I’ve seen what Merle eats.”
Ambrose sighed heavily, tossing the ledger on the desk. “Thickheaded fools,” he said, throwing up his hands at Merle, who echoed the gesture, spreading his wings as if he felt the same. “We are surrounded by ignorance.” The raven croaked, bobbing his head.
“Fools you sought out,” I remarked and Sondra snickered. I checked the cloth. Still bright red, so no stopping yet. I reapplied the cloth, clamping down on the bridge of my nose.
With another dramatic sigh, Ambrose placed palms on the desk and leaned straight-armed on it. “Listen to me, then, King of Fools. The presence of magic evokes a physiological reaction in sensitive beings. Merle knows it when he smells it. You inhaled the residual magic of the Abiding Ring and reacted by oozing blood. You’re sensitive to it. That’s a very important sign.”
I didn’t know about that. I could make anyone ooze blood with my rock hammer. No magic required. But I didn’t say so. The wizard could debate anyone into the ground, ending with all of us agreeing that the sky wasn’t actually blue. I could use up a lot of my voice arguing about whether I could sense magic—and how a king isn’t like a raven—and I’d only lose. Better to keep it simple. “I don’t understand.”
“The prophecy says you need to claim the hand that wears the Abiding Ring,” Ambrose explained in a tone of exaggerated patience, “mention of which comes directly after the information about taking the Tower of the Sun.”
I nodded, curtly. I knew that.
“Here is a picture of an orchid ring, worn by the monarchs of Calanthe, which I found here in what has to be the Tower of the Sun—even you thought so, Conrí—and the ring in the illustration possesses so much magic that even an image of it gives you a nosebleed.”
“Everything gives us nosebleeds,” Sondra objected in staunch solidarity. “It’s a painting. In a book.” She gave me a cagey glance, assessing how much more of this I could take, no doubt. “Even if the flower ring is magic, an image of it wouldn’t have magic.”
Ambrose gave Sondra a look of disgusted impatience. “And you’re supposed to be the smart one. Obviously an image—properly rendered, of course—of a magical object will mirror the powers of the original.” He nodded at Merle, who croaked what sounded like agreement. “This one was correctly done. My predecessor in this tower collected only the best.”
“Why aren’t you bleeding then?” Sondra shot back, raising her brows in anticipation of scoring the point.
But Ambrose shook his head in sorrow for her ignorance. “I’m an experienced and powerful mage, my lovely lady. Some of us possess weapons and defenses other than big hammers and bags of rocks.”
I glared at him, which slid right off, as he beamed at me impishly. “Is there a point?” I asked.
“Yes!” Ambrose jabbed a triumphant finger in the air. “This must be the Abiding Ring spoken of in the prophecy. Whoever holds the throne of Calanthe wears it as part of the badge of office. It’s passed from one ruler to the next on their deathbed.”
“Or it’s just a flower,” Sondra argued. “The Isle of Flowers would obviously have no shortage of blossoms. Every kingdom and ruler has a bit of mythology to shore up the royal right to the throne.”
“Not every one, surely,” Ambrose returned cheerfully. “This nosebleed confirms what I’ve seen in the tides of the future all this time. Conrí will marry Queen Euthalia.”
I choked. “Marry her?”
“With her at your side, Conrí, and the magic of Calanthe to aid you, you will triumph.” He finished that absurd statement with a grand flourish that had Merle flapping wings and dancing from foot to foot.
I stared at him, contemplating the many possible replies to that outrageous series of statements. When I’d been a young prince I’d been aware I’d one day make a marriage of state. You’d think no longer having an actual kingdom should free me of that particular onus. Never mind that I could hardly be allowed to touch a woman, much less consummate a marriage.
“Why must I marry her?” I ground out.
Ambrose rolled his eyes. “Were you not listening to the part about it never coming off her finger while she lives? You can’t take it from her.”
“Then I’ll take her prisoner and make her wield it for me.”
Ambrose actually laughed in my face. “Magic doesn’t work that way, Conrí.”
“All right, then I’ll kill her and take it once she’s dead.”
Ambrose gave me a look of the long-suffering. “You can’t smash everything with your hammer or blow it up with your stinking rock. You must seduce, not coerce. Marry the queen, marry the ring, work in concert to bring down Anure.”
“To kill her fiancé. She won’t be happy about that.”
“She’ll change her mind once you win her heart.”
I snorted out a laugh at the impossibility of the likes of me winning any woman’s heart, much less a beautiful one, a queen of a land known for its sensual excesses and erudition.
Sondra studied Ambrose a moment longer, then seemed to come to a decision, because she shrugged and turned to me with a sardonic grin. “Well, we always knew you would have to marry for the sake of duty someday. Looks like we know who it is now. At least you’ll finally get laid.”
I nearly snarled at her, which only made her grin spread. At least someone was amused by this turn of events. Laying hands on the opposite side of the desk, I leaned in nearly nose-to-nose with Ambrose, who—to his credit—didn’t flinch.
“How am I supposed to do this?” I attempted to keep the tone mild, but loaded the question with all my doubt at this patently ridiculous idea.
Ambrose only beamed. “I have faith in you, Conrí. You’ll find a way. It’s what you do.”
I didn’t bother to point out that I’d never done anything like this.
11
“Thank you, all, for attending Me upon such short notice.” The men and women ringed around my private walled garden nodded back, expressions ranging from wary interest to avid curiosity. I’d planted the seeds to evoke their excitement via invitations hand-delivered by my ladies. The notes had been prettily done, discreetly worded—and the folded shapes of the missives conveyed much more to the discerning eye. A little intrigue never hurt to stimulate intellect in types like these, and I preferred to keep as much of my plans secret as possible, including that this meeting occurred at all.
Leuthar should be thoroughly occupied. Lady Delilah had been more than pleased at the extra infusion of royal coin to make her already elaborate party—with the emissary her guest of honor—a carnival of sensual entertainment. With Delilah’s devotion to monopolizing Leuthar’s attention, he shouldn’t happen upon this gathering.
Even if he did, it would look like another of my chaste, and therefore boring, salons. Delilah’s wasn’t the only party going on in the palace, but naturally I attended none of them, not even the tamer ones. Even if I had the inclination, I wouldn’t go. It wouldn’t do to show favor to any single hostess or host, and besides, I had my everlasting virginal reputation to maintain. The habit allowed me the occasional quiet gathering of my own choosing with a select few.
If Leuthar or one of his spies were to stumble in, he’d see only a party of artists and other similarly worthless refugees enjoying my garden. The emperor indulged me in my affection for “strays,” as he put it, to keep me entertained while I endured abstinence, denying myself of worldly pleasures to preserve my innocence for the day we could be together. It was a measure of Anure’s arrogance that he didn’t understand the might of those I’d gathered under my protection.
“Hopefully none of you are missing another much-desired gathering to attend Me,” I added with a serene smile as Tertulyn and my other ladies distributed flower tea and small cakes. No servants for us this evening. I watched the faces of my guests for signs of disgruntlement. Anyone who did wish to be elsewhere would not be suited to this conversation.
Brenda cracked a smile, an odd downward-turning twist of her mouth in a square-jawed face, made more severe by her short-cut silver hair. “I ’spect the conversation here will be far more interesting,” she commented.
“If only because we have conversation at all,” quipped Percy, an extravagant young man who’d arrived in Calanthe bearing gifts, but emaciated, and whose still-slender frame served to display the most fanciful outfits of the court designers. Many hostesses vied for his witty presence at their gatherings, and I found it salient he chose to be here instead. I hadn’t been sure of him at all.
When everyone had been served, I dismissed all the ladies-in-waiting but Tertulyn, whom I trusted as I trusted my own heart. Once the door sealed closed, I seated myself. The others watched the increased privacy with some bemusement.
“Your Highness has a knack for the enticing invitation,” Castor noted with a snort. “Judging by the array of talent in this room, I assume You plan to pick our minds.”
I could always count on my old tutor to bypass intrigue and lay out the bare essentials. Ah well—I couldn’t ask what I needed to know by dancing around it. Indeed, the dozen or so people gathered in this courtyard were the smartest and most talented, perhaps, in all the empire.
“I’ve asked little of you, I believe, beyond the invitations I originally extended for you to grace the court of Calanthe with your talents. Tonight that will change. I am first asking for a vow that you will not reveal what we discuss here, made upon whatever you hold most sacred. If you cannot do this, or cannot cling to your vow, you must leave.”
Though several exchanged bemused glances, and Percy seemed to be restraining a smart remark, no one stirred.
“Your Highness,” Brenda said, the delicate porcelain teacup small in her rough hands, “I think I’m safe speaking for all of us here. We’ve accepted Your patronage with tremendous gratitude. For many of us, it likely saved our lives. None of us are stupid, so we’ve all ’spected that we would be asked someday to give back more than composing poems or wearing fancy outfits.”
“Jealous hag,” Percy replied, reaching over to pat Brenda’s hand, then gave me a seated bow. “And of course, she’s absolutely correct.”
“Although I’m not sure what I, personally, have to offer,” Agatha said. A fine-boned and delicate young woman with dark hair and a striking talent for weaving, she’d come from some distant kingdom she’d never named. Not that I asked questions of them, these people who caught word of my hospitality and made their way to Calanthe. My spies discovered all they could about my émigrés. As long as their secrets did not mark them agents of the emperor, I didn’t care to know what they were. Some horrors, once known, couldn’t be erased from the mind.
And after all, I had no intention of disclosing my own secrets.
“As I hinted in My invitations, I have a riddle for you all.”
“The answer is ‘a green mammal,’” Percy declared, and Brenda elbowed him hard. “Your Highness,” he added, as if that excused his impertinence.
I didn’t mind a bit, and laughed with the rest of them, equally as glad for the relief from the day’s tension. It couldn’t hurt for frivolous laughter to waft over the walls. And Dearsley wasn’t there to frown at overfamiliarity from those of lower rank. His presence would be too difficult to explain. Besides which, he had other important responsibilities to tend to. Or he might be attending a party. I didn’t expect anyone to deprive themselves of the pleasures of the Flower Court for my sake.
“I’d love for the answers to My puzzle to be so easy,” I said when they quieted. “If your wit can solve the riddle I will pose, Percy, I’ll reward you by granting a wish. I promise this to any of you—as long as it’s within My power to give—if you can help solve My problem.”
They sobered, perhaps wondering at the extent of my power. Something I wondered at times, too, much as I wished I had more of it. I’d been wary of doing more than listening to Calanthe’s murmurs, as I had very little idea of how to wield the immense power there. Without a wizard to guide me, the risks outweighed the benefits. One day, no doubt—perh
aps far sooner than I wished—the dangers we faced would make those risks seem laughable.
“Here is My riddle,” I said, then waited for their complete attention. I didn’t need to be careful of my words, as I’d practiced this, to pose them the best possible question. “If I tell you that blood shed in violence must not touch the soil or waters of Calanthe, and if this Slave King and his aggressive minions escape the emperor’s net and reach My waters, how am I to obey the emperor’s command and stop them here?”
They absorbed the question in silence—and likely all its implications. Except for Percy, who asked for more wine.
“Let’s take this in pieces. Do we even know who this Slave King is?” asked Agatha, finally, surprising me. I’d expected the first questions to challenge my restrictions on violence and bloodshed. Not yet. An interesting insight. And a relief.
Even I didn’t know exactly what would happen if blood shed in violence touched Calanthe’s awareness. It happened at times, of course, in small ways. Small incidents could be handled. Every village had its elders who heard when Calanthe flinched, and they addressed the situation, cleansed the taint, and restored the peace. The worst offenses came to me, and I dealt with them decisively—partly where I gained my reputation for coldhearted ruthlessness.
If they only knew how ruthless I’d be to protect Calanthe—and keep Her peacefully sleeping. Blood shed in violence at the level of a battle could wake powers far beyond my ability to control.
While I waited, they’d been discussing the question of the Slave King’s identity with great interest. Even the wisest and most-learned gossip—just about different topics, and in greater detail.
The Orchid Throne Page 10
