by Carol A Park
Thrax snapped his fingers and tore a tiny spark from one of the lamps in the room to dance on his fingertips. “So. What’s this all leading to? What’s your grand plan?”
“I intend to take Ferehar legally,” Vaughn said. “By forcing Airell to hold the elections he never held, running against him, and winning.”
Thrax groaned and Danton’s eyebrows shot sky-high. “Pretty sure putting a Gifted in power would still be considered illegal to the Conclave, whether or not you win,” Danton said.
“I don’t care what the Conclave thinks,” Vaughn said. “Considering I’m going to declare Fereharian sovereignty, it doesn’t matter. I just want it to seem legitimate to the people. To be legitimate to the people. If that’s even possible as a Banebringer.”
Thrax wasn’t impressed. “Burning skies, all you people are so upright, it’s almost disgusting. We’re in the middle of a rebellion here! If that isn’t an excuse to get a little ‘ethically nebulous,’ I don’t know what is. Live a little!”
Vaughn sighed. “Look. I know you all think I’m crazy. But if I have to be Ri, I want to start right. Seizing power through brute force would be completely normal in Ferehar—even expected. But Setanan law dictates that the next Ri be chosen by the appointed representatives, not handed down to the closest relative. Airell’s seizure of power is illegal. If I can come in and win an election, no one can then further challenge me—legally—and I will have done something that no Fereharian Ri in recent memory has done, setting me apart from my own family’s corrupt history.” Which was something he was eager to do. He wasn’t his brother, his wasn’t his father, or his father’s cousin before him. He wanted to be different.
“I think Vaughn’s plan could work,” Aleena put in, “if we can get Airell to hold elections. But how are you going to force him to do that in the first place?”
“Send a letter,” Thrax said. “March up to the palace and demand he relinquish his title and hold elections. I’m sure that will go well.”
Vaughn was starting to get a headache. He didn’t need to hash out the entirety of his plan right now; he just needed Danton and Thrax to know what they were getting into. “I have an idea, but I’m still thinking it over.”
“Think fast, Vaughn,” Aleena said. “Last time I talked to Yaotel, he said he wants this done as quickly as possible.”
“Yes, I’m aware. Thanks, Aleena.”
He set the qixli aside and tossed a wry smile at Ivana, hoping to chip away at some of her stone. “Bet Yaotel’d love it if we could zap ourselves there like Tani and not waste the time in travel.”
Ivana tilted her head to the side. “Maybe we could.”
Vaughn blinked. “What?”
Ivana pointed to Danton. “Taniqotalin is Danton’s patron.”
Vaughn sat back. “You…think he could do the same thing?”
Ivana shrugged. “No idea. But it’s worth exploring, isn’t it?”
Danton looked back and forth between Vaughn and Ivana. “Try what? What could I do?”
“So, Taniqotalin,” Vaughn said. “Your patron. He could zap himself—and others with him—instantly from place to place.”
Danton’s eyes widened. “You met Taniqotalin? Was he…nice? I mean…”
“The nicest of the lot,” Vaughn said. “Though maybe still a bit full of himself. At any rate…what if you could do the same thing?”
Danton bit his lip. “That seems like an awfully incredible feat.”
“Well, experiment with it if you get the chance. It could come in handy, even if you can’t take us all instantly to Ferehar.”
Danton nodded.
A knock on the door made him jump.
They all looked at each other.
“You expecting someone else?” Thrax whispered.
Vaughn shook his head. He stood, wiped his hands on his trousers, squeezed through the gap between Thrax’s and Ivana’s chairs, and opened the door a crack.
It was Dal Driskell.
Vaughn opened the door. “Come in. Sorry. Had no idea who it was.”
Driskell stepped into the room and closed the door behind him. “I’m sorry. Am I interrupting something?”
“We were planning,” Vaughn said. “For my takeover of Ferehar. But we’re pretty much done.”
“Oh. Uh. Yeah.” He hesitated. “I was looking for Danton.”
“You’ve found him,” Vaughn said, gesturing at Danton.
Danton rose. “Is this private?”
“No, no. I wanted to invite you to, um, Tania’s great-grandmother’s birthday celebration tomorrow afternoon. If you’re not otherwise busy.” He looked around. “Of course, all of you are welcome. There will be plenty of food and drink to go around.”
Danton grinned far too wide for the occasion. Did he know Tania’s great-grandmother?
“I wouldn’t miss it,” he said.
“And I’m always ready for free food and drink, if you really don’t mind!” Thrax said, slapping his knee.
Driskell shook his head. “Don’t mind at all.” He flashed them all a smile and turned to go.
Danton left with Driskell, and Thrax soon after. Ivana seemed almost as if she wanted to linger, casting a glance at the still qixli, but ultimately she, too, started toward the door.
Vaughn stopped her. They hadn’t spoken since their…argument…three days ago. “You were awfully quiet. Any thoughts?”
She turned and contemplated him for a moment, then shook her head. “I understand what you’re trying to do, but you’re relying on Airell’s compliance. He’s not going to give a damn about holding an election. What’s your idea?”
Vaughn paced back and forth in the only available space in his room, right in front of the door. “I’m not relying on Airell’s compliance. Everyone hates Airell. Exceptionally so. Even his own household staff, according to Aleena. There’s no loyalty there; I can use that.”
“All right…how?”
“When a Ri is absent, his steward or closest living relative, if no steward was appointed, governs in his stead. Airell discharged my father’s old steward, as you recall. That makes my mother Gildas’ closest living relative. She is the one who should be acting as regent before a lawfully elected Ri is installed, not Airell. Therefore, she could unseat Airell temporarily and call for elections.
Ivana gave him a dubious look. “Why has she not already done so, then?”
“I doubt it’s even crossed her mind. No one holds elections in Ferehar. What my brother did is in keeping with generations of practice; her asserting herself would do nothing…unless, of course, there’s someone else to challenge Airell.”
“And you think she’ll help you?”
“She helped me once before.”
“Helping you escape torture is a little different than helping you overthrow Ferehar—especially when one of her other sons is at the helm,” Ivana said.
True. And yet… “I have no way of knowing for sure until we ask her.”
“That’s a bit shaky.”
“I know.” A heavy ball settled in Vaughn’s stomach. The fate of hundreds of thousands of people not only rested on him coming up with a viable plan but succeeding.
But he was resolute. This would be Plan A. “But I’m committed to trying this.”
She said nothing.
He hesitated. “You’re really with us on this?”
She shrugged. “Did you tell Yaotel about me?”
“Yes. I gave him a full report.” He eyed her. “Well. A full report of anything relevant, anyway.”
“Not that I personally care, but he’s given his blessing to me—Zily’s only Banebringer—going with you?”
Vaughn rubbed the back of his neck. “I haven’t asked. He told me he was giving this over to me to plan and execute, and I think he means it.”
It was a valid question—whether Yaotel would want someone who could become important to their long-term plans out from under his purview. But it didn’t really matter; Ivana wasn’t someone
Yaotel could control. If she wanted to help, she would, and if she didn’t, she wouldn’t.
“All right, so tell me, what else am I going to do? Sit around and wait for your researchers to track me down and demand I provide them with pints of blood to experiment on? For Huiel to track me down and demand I start training my new powers?” She snorted. “For Yaotel to try to tell me what to do?”
He exhaled. “This means going back to Ferehar again.”
“Thank you. I’m aware.”
“It almost certainly means running into Airell.”
“You think I can’t handle it,” she stated flatly.
“Well, I mean, the last time we were in Ferehar, you did sneak off to murder an old enemy, getting me captured and endangering our timetable.”
She grunted. “And I also rescued you, didn’t I? From Airell’s own estate house. And did I stop to murder him, too?”
“You know, I was never certain what you might do.” In this case, she had controlled herself, thank the gods—no, strike that—thank…
Not having actual gods to swear by was sort of inconvenient.
“I’ll be fine,” she said. “And if it turns out you need me to off him, all the better.”
Vaughn studied her face. Any trace of a lost, confused, hurting, or even angry woman was gone. She was now calm, collected, confident. “You really want to do that?”
She gave him a mirthless smile. “Kill Airell? Are you seriously asking me that?”
He shifted. He liked her not being confused. He wasn’t sure he liked the return of the cold killer. “I thought Sweetblade was dead. I thought you wanted her to stay that way.”
“Are you paying me?”
“Uh…no…?”
“Well, then. There we go. Sweetblade only took money.”
“Right. I forgot. Ivana murders people for the fun of it.”
Her eyes flashed, and he regretted the words as soon as he said them, remembering her reaction a few days ago—but she merely flicked her hand at him. “You exaggerate. It was only one person, and it was revenge, not fun.”
“You do realize that normal people don’t sit around congratulating themselves on how they only murdered one person last month, right?”
She blinked, opened her mouth, and then fell into silence. Then she stood up. Her face was hard.
Wrong thing to say—again. “Ivana… Look, about the other day. I’m sorry for what I said. You know I didn’t mean—”
“It’s fine.”
“But—”
“An apology assumes I felt offended. Since I don’t care in the slightest what you think of me or my decisions, I wasn’t.”
“Oh, come on. You were obviously angry.”
“I was tired. Are we done here?” She moved toward the door.
He caught her arm. “Are we really doing this again, after everything we’ve been through? Are you ever going to let me in and let me stay there?”
She shook her arm out of his grasp. “Awfully serious for you, Vaughn.”
“I-I’m concerned about you. You seem—”
“Then you’re wasting your mental energy.” She gave him one last indecipherable look, then left.
Chapter Forty-Two
Normal People
Ivana’s throat was tight as she made her way back to her room at the inn.
“Normal people don’t sit around congratulating themselves on how they only murdered one person last month…”
He was right, of course.
Which meant she wasn’t normal.
Despite the gorgeous day, the world seemed to darken around her. The dagger, now at her thigh again and hidden under the wrap at her hips, suddenly seemed heavy. She had chosen to wear the traditional warm-weather garb of Donian women—a calf-length wrap and loose-fitting blouse that ended below her bust—when out and about because it made it easier to hide her dagger, and it was less conspicuous than wearing trousers and a cloak in the middle of summer. Was that a normal reason?
She passed the inn and kept walking, leaving the government tier behind. She soon came to the sixth tier, which boasted mostly the larger homes of the city’s wealthiest residents. The streets were sparsely populated until she reached the end closest to the gate down to the fifth tier. There was a bustling commercial district, where high class establishments catering to those same wealthy individuals had sprung up.
She paused to run her hands over a bolt of silk hanging on a display outside a clothier. A rather normal thing to do. The callouses on her hands weren’t—at least callouses in her particular arrangement.
The door to the shop was open to let through the breeze, and the shopkeeper moved quickly out to greet her. Ivana didn’t look at her, but she could feel the woman appraising her—her class, how much she was likely to spend, where she should direct her attentions for the best sale.
Something about her must have convinced the woman she didn’t have the money for silk; probably the bronze of Ivana’s clearly Fereharian skin. Fereharians weren’t known for being wealthy. “Lovely, isn’t it?” the woman asked politely. “That’s just in from Venetia, and from there, Yunqi. I’m not sure the color is right for you, however. May I direct your attention to this lovely laquen? It comes from the southern nomads, so it’s just as exotic, without the exotic price tag.”
It was ironic that, despite her appearance, Ivana could likely buy not only a length of that silk, but the entire bolt without dipping too deeply into her coffers—savings built up and invested from a decade of a lucrative business.
And 50,000 setans from her father.
That was hardly normal, either.
The woman held out a length of the laquen. “Touch it,” she urged. “It’s incredibly soft.”
Ivana obliged her, running her fingers over the fabric. “It is soft,” she said honestly. “How much would it be to have a simple ciuhan made from this?” she asked, naming a popular Fereharian garment for women. If she was going back to Ferehar for what was essentially a covert operation, she might as well look the part.
The woman looked her over with a critical eye. Ivana could almost hear her calculating the best price she thought she could get out of someone like Ivana—an unknown Fereharian woman walking the wealthiest tier in Marakyn, in the guise of calculating measurements. “I’d say about ten setans,” she said. “Eight for the cloth, and two for the labor.”
Ivana produced a carefully calculated wince. “Eight seems inflated. I think I may have seen this same cloth down on the fourth tier for two setans less.” She gave the woman a dubious look, as if to ask her if she were cheating her.
The woman seemed horrified at the very thought of her going to the fourth tier for this cloth. “Seven for the cloth,” she said quickly. “And if you need additional alterations, I’ll throw them in for free.”
“I’d also like a second one made in this one,” she said, fingering a cheaper muslin bolt for everyday wear. “I’ll pay you nine for both—plus the two for labor—if you can have both done by this time tomorrow.”
“Done,” the woman said.
Ivana nodded, satisfied. “Excellent.”
The woman whipped out her measuring tape from her apron on the spot, and while she took down Ivana’s measurements, Ivana considered that it was also not normal to file every bit of detail about someone during a mundane purchase of cloth for a dress.
Ivana slipped her pick-up slip into her pocket, thanked the shopkeeper, and continued on.
No, there was no doubt about it. Nothing about her was normal. Discarding a name hadn’t changed the essence of who she was inside.
Someone who still wore a dagger hidden at her thigh, and who could take life with hardly a second thought.
A decade of training and practice had deadened her to such things, and yet the pain of her youth, the pain that had led her to mold herself in that way, still existed, was still trying to claw its way to the surface of her psyche at every opportunity.
She had gained one without losing th
e other.
In other words, now that she no longer had Sweetblade, everything she had done, everything she had become, was meaningless.
It was easy to look at herself with an objective eye right now when the sun was shining, when confronting Airell was theoretical, when she wasn’t so frightened of who or what she might be that she was ready to drown herself in the oblivion of a few moments of pleasure she might regret, when she felt nothing more than restless and suffocated. It was easy to think that she had everything under control.
But deep inside, she was frightened of herself. Of what she might do, of how the unholy marriage of apathy and agony might lead her to act when she was stretched to her limit—when she lost control.
Vaughn was right to be nervous.
She was anything but normal.
And she hated this new version of herself as much as any other.
Chapter Forty-Three
An Odd Pastime
The sun was shining. The grass was green. The sky overhead was blue. It was a bit on the warm side, but that only meant that, under the shawl draped over her shoulders, Tania had donned a blouse that ended below the bust, baring her midriff at the sides. Food and drink were set out in the clearing for the celebration that would start in about an hour, but guests hadn’t arrived yet. Tania had asked Driskell if he wanted to take a turn around the garden, and so there they were.
Driskell should have been deliriously happy on a day like today, hand-in-hand with the woman he loved, the woman he had hoped to marry before the year was out. He had been planning for months to ask her today. Now. Everything had fallen into place exactly as he had hoped. Even the weather had cooperated. It was perfect.
Except that he felt sick to his stomach.
They walked in the garden on the fourth tier. They weren’t alone, but the garden was large and sprawling and designed to afford some privacy to wanderers.
