The Skull Throne

by Peter V. Brett

  Araine sipped her tea. “I ordered Thamos to court you the moment you returned to the Hollow. My youngest son has a talent when it comes to women, but even I didn’t expect you to tumble the first night.” She looked down her nose at Leesha. “Still wasn’t quick enough, it seems.”

  Mesmerized by the twitching foot, it took a moment for the words to register. Leesha looked up. “Ordered?”

  “Of course,” Araine said. “Thamos has his uses, but he spent more time in the practice yard than the library. He needs a countess with something between her ears, and your courting legitimized him in the eyes of the Hollowers.”

  She pointedly placed her empty teacup on the table, and Leesha moved quickly to refill it. Araine took a sip, grimacing. “You needn’t be stingy with the honey, dear. I’ve lived a long time, and earned it.” She took a delicate silver spoon, putting a generous dollop of honey into the cup.

  “It’s less bitter than learning everything Thamos and I shared was on his mother’s orders.” Leesha felt her vision cloud, and blinked furiously to drive off threatening tears.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” Araine said. “I pointed him at you, ay, but I’ve pointed that boy at many a good match. He wouldn’t have stuck if he wasn’t interested.”

  She pointed her tiny spoon at Leesha. “And you, child, hardly required me to come hold your legs open. You needed a husband, that much was clear the moment I met you. You’ve a weakness where powerful men are concerned, and it’s going to get you into trouble … if it hasn’t already.”

  “And just what is that supposed to mean?” Leesha demanded.

  “Whose is it, then?” Araine demanded. “One of the would-be Deliverers? It’s no secret you shined on Arlen Bales. He was seen coming and going from your cottage at all hours.”

  “We were just friends,” Leesha said, but it sounded defensive, even to her.

  Araine arched a brow. “And then there’s this business with the demon of the desert. The Jongleurs put you in the pillows with him, as well.”

  “There was only one Jongleur in Ahmann Jardir’s palace,” Leesha said, “and he tells no such tales.”

  Araine smiled. “I have other sources in Fort Rizon.”

  Leesha waited, but the duchess did not elaborate. “Who I take to my bed and carry in my belly is my own business, and none of yours. It’s no heir, so you can keep it out of your plans and find a better match for your son.”

  “Giving up so easily?” Araine asked. “I’m disappointed.”

  “Is there a point to fighting on?” Leesha asked wearily.

  “You think this is the first bastard to complicate a royal match?” Araine tsked. “An Herb Gatherer should know better how these things can be handled.”

  “Handled?” Leesha was at a loss.

  The duchess’ foot stopped twitching. “You and Thamos announce the child and marry immediately. When the child comes, you deliver in private, and your Gatherer announces, alas, the child is born still.”

  Leesha’s hands began to tremble, cup and saucer rattling. She set them on the table, leveling the duchess with a hard glare.

  “Are you threatening my child, Your Grace?”

  Araine rolled her eyes. “I told you before to keep up with the dance, girl, but you keep missing steps. I’ve four of my own, and know enough not to come between a mother and her child. I might as well declare war on the Hollow.”

  “Not a war you’d be likely to win,” Leesha noted.

  Now it was Araine who glared. “Don’t be so sure about that, dear. I’ve seen all the pawns you can play, but you’ve not seen all of mine.”

  She waved her hand, as if to dispel an unpleasant stench in the air. “But none of that is necessary. Easy enough to bundle a loaf of bread and bury it, and find a place to hide the child. Announce a few days later that to ease your grief you’ve decided to wet-nurse an orphan to fill the void in your heart. Creator knows the Krasians have left mudskin bastards from here to the desert flats. Make a show of inspecting a few before you choose, and none will be the wiser. Then you and my son can make a legitimate heir.” She lifted her teacup. “Preferably more than one.”

  Leesha stroked her belly thoughtfully. “So I can never truly claim the child as my own?”

  “You’ve missed your chance at that, I’m afraid,” Araine said. “You’d have enemies to the north and south, and your own people would doubt your wisdom.”

  “Perhaps they should have a wiser leader,” Leesha said. “Perhaps your son deserves a wiser wife.”

  “Point me to this better woman, and the job is hers,” Araine said. “Until then, it falls on you.”

  She reached up, flicking a finger against the lacquered wooden crown she wore, set with bright jewels. “The commoners think it easy, to wear a crown. But leaders must make sacrifices. Women, most of all.”

  She sighed. “At least Thamos loves you. It’s more than I ever had. After his grandfather bought his way onto the throne, the Royals were on the brink of a coup. Euchor moved soldiers to Riverbridge, ready to crush the battered victor and name himself king. My marriage to Rhinebeck’s son was the only thing that held the city together.”

  “I never knew,” Leesha said. The Duchess Mum had never been so open with her before, and she was afraid to say anything more, lest she break the spell.

  “It seemed like the end of the world at the time,” Araine said. “Rhinebeck the First did not sit the throne long, and his son had no aptitude or interest in ruling. He visited the palace just long enough to put children in me, and spent the rest of his time in that cursed hunting fort, chasing boar and harlots.

  “I was left pregnant and alone with the reins of the city. Did I cry and bemoan my fate? Ay. But I had work to do.” Araine pointed at Leesha. “And I’ll give myself to the night before I let Euchor take the city I’ve dedicated my life to rebuilding.”

  “So this is a Northern palace,” Amanvah said. “It is not impressive.”

  The strangest thing was that Rojer could see what she meant. Rhinebeck’s palace fortress had once seemed the grandest building in the world, but after seeing how Krasian royalty lived in Everam’s Bounty, suddenly he noticed that the carpet could be softer, the drapes thicker, the ceiling higher.

  It was amazing, how quickly he had become accustomed to luxury after spending more than a decade checking for fleas before bedding down in haylofts and two-klat inns.

  “Am I the only one thinks the duke needs a slap on the face?” Kendall asked. “Eyeing our bums without so much as a How d’you do?”

  “Rhinebeck and his brothers are like that,” Rojer said. “And to be honest, the rest of the Angierian noblemen aren’t much better. Only interested in women as servants and lovers. They’ll do all the formal introductions tonight at dinner under their mother’s glare.”

  “I look forward to meeting this mysterious Duchess Mother,” Amanvah said.

  Rojer shrugged. “You’ll find her as vapid and shallow as her sons. None of them has any real responsibilities. Janson’s the one who really runs things.”

  Amanvah looked at him. “Nonsense. The man is a puppet.”

  “It’s true,” Rojer said. “He paints a dim look on his face when the duke and princes are about, but it’s as good as any Jongleur’s mask. The man underneath is cunning and ruthless.”

  Amanvah nodded. “But still not in command.”

  “Your dice told you this?” Rojer asked.

  “No,” Amanvah said. “I could see it in his eyes.”

  “I want you to stick close to Leesha while I’m gone,” Rojer said.

  Amanvah tilted her head. “Is that for our protection, or hers?”

  “Both,” Rojer said. “These people need not be enemies, but neither are they friends.”

  “Now,” Araine said, “if we’ve spoken enough of your wandering affections, it’s time for more pressing matters.”

  It wasn’t the lemon that made Leesha wrinkle her mouth as she sipped her tea. “You want to know if the duke
is seedless.”

  “We both know he is,” Araine said. “I didn’t ask you to come all this way for that. What I want to know is if you can fix it.”

  “Will he consent to be examined?” Leesha asked.

  The Duchess Mum’s mouth soured as well. “He is being … difficult in that regard.”

  “I can only guess so much without that,” Leesha said. “I can brew virility herbs …”

  “Don’t you think I’ve tried that?” Araine snapped. “Jessa’s had him on every stiffener and fertilizer under the sun for years now.”

  “Perhaps I can come up with something your … Weed Gatherer has yet to try.” Leesha kept the bitterness from her voice, but the duchess picked up on it anyway.

  “No doubt Bruna ranted at length on the evils of weed gathering,” Araine said, “but she never had more than a few hundred children to care for, and, as I recall, was never shy about dosing folk without their knowledge.”

  “Always to help,” Leesha said. “Never to hurt.”

  “Oho!” Araine said. “So she was helping when she threw blinding powder in someone’s face? Or hit them with her stick?”

  “Always for their own good,” Leesha said. “She didn’t poison.”

  “Perhaps.” Araine smiled over the rim of her delicate cup. “But you have, haven’t you? All the Sharum in your caravan this summer, as I hear it.”

  Leesha felt her face grow cold. How had the duchess heard of that? “That was a mistake. One I won’t repeat.”

  “A promise like that makes you a fool or a liar,” Araine said. “Time will tell. You have power, and a day will come when you have to use it, or be destroyed.”

  She set down her tea, picking up an embroidery hoop. Her nimble fingers belied her advanced years as she worked. “Regardless, Mistress Jessa was trained by Bruna herself, and has the royal libraries at her disposal. I’ll wager she’s forgotten more about herbs than you know. If she says she’s tried everything, then she has.”

  “Then what do you need me for?” Leesha asked.

  “Because you have tools she doesn’t,” Araine said. “Jessa knows her herbs, but she’s less skilled with the knife.”

  “And if Rhinebeck needs a cut between the legs to let his seed flow?” Leesha asked. “How are we to arrange that, if he won’t even let me examine him?”

  “If it comes to that,” Araine said, “we’ll put tampweed and skyflower in his ale and keep him out till it’s done. Tell him he drank himself stupid boar hunting and took a tusk between the legs.

  “But now there’s a third option.” Araine kept her eyes on her hoop. “Magic.”

  “It doesn’t work quite like that,” Leesha said. “The body heals itself, magic just speeds the process. If Rhinebeck was born with a … defect, there isn’t much I can do.”

  “What about the white witch you brought with you?” Araine demanded.

  “You want to involve her in this?” Leesha asked.

  “Don’t be stupid,” Araine said. “We tell her it’s some other nobleman, and have her teach you what you need.”

  “If such a thing exists,” Leesha said.

  “You’d best hope it does,” Araine said. “Time’s running out. If Melny isn’t pregnant by midwinter, we go to the backup plan.”

  “And that is?” Leesha asked.

  Araine smiled. “Get Thamos to seed the young duchess.”

  “What?” Leesha felt like she had swallowed a heavy stone. For a moment it was hard to breathe, and then it sat aching in her stomach.

  “Melny may not be the sharpest spear, but she’s got paps to turn the head of any man,” Araine said. “Not that it will take much to convince Thamos he can save the entire duchy by cuckolding you and Rhiney.”

  “And Melny?” Leesha asked. “Is she just a womb with no say in the matter?”

  Araine snorted. “She’ll put her legs in the air and thank the prince when it’s done. Girl isn’t the sharpest axe in the shed, but she’s not entirely dull. What do you think will happen to her if she can’t get pregnant before the Krasians turn north and Euchor forces our hand? Princess Lorain of Miln is already in the city with five hundred Mountain Spears, bribing Royals and eyeing poor Melny like an owl eyes a mouse. Her very presence is a slap in the face of the ivy throne.”

  She tied off a thread, snipping it with a tiny pair of silver scissors. “Thamos looks just like his grandfather. None will doubt the child is Rhiney’s.”

  “Why Thamos?” Leesha demanded.

  “I could argue that Mickael is already wed,” Araine said as she started a new stitch, “and Pether a Shepherd vowed to chastity. But truer is, neither would be able to keep from crowing about it. Rhiney would find out, and do something stupid.”

  She looked at Leesha. “As justices go, it’s not without poetry. If you want to keep Thamos’ spear dry, then you fix his brother’s. If not, you can both have a bastard to hide as you start your life together.”

  “Princess Amanvah of Krasia,” Jasin called loudly, his voice bouncing off the vaulted ceiling for all to hear. “Firstborn daughter to Ahmann Jardir, Duke of Fort Krasia.”

  Amanvah bristled at that. “Duke? Fort? My father is as far above one of your pathetic dukes as they are a peasant’s dog, and his empire stretches …”

  Rojer tightened his hold on her arm. “He’s just doing it to get a rise from us. Everyone knows precisely who your father is.”

  Amanvah gave a slight nod, her dama’ting serenity returning.

  Jasin cast a dim eye at Rojer as they stood in the doorway. “And her husband, Jongleur Rojer Inn, of Riverbridge.”

  It was Rojer’s turn to bristle. Normally as husband, he would have been announced first, but the chasm between his and Amanvah’s ranks made it impossible. That, he could accept.

  But Rojer was a Jongleur master now, and his stage name, Halfgrip, known throughout land. He had written The Battle of Cutter’s Hollow and the Song of Waning. Jasin made him sound like a juggler brought to entertain the guests between courses.

  Amanvah squeezed his arm in return. “Breathe, husband, and add it to the tally to be avenged.”

  Rojer nodded as they paced into the room, allowing time for them to see and be seen. Their lackluster introduction did little to quell interest, as they were approached by a seemingly endless stream of nobles eager for introduction to the Krasian princess and fiddle wizard who could charm demons.

  “Princess Sikvah of Krasia,” Jasin called, “niece of Ahmann Jardir, Duke of Fort Krasia. Jongleur Kendall Inn, of the famed fiddle wizards of Hollow County.”

  Rojer grit his teeth.

  Sikvah steered Kendall in another direction after their introduction. Her rank demanded she be invited, but Amanvah had forbidden her and Kendall from sitting with them. Apparently it did not do for a man to attend a formal dinner with his Jiwah Sen.

  A small group approached them, led by a man with bright red hair, dressed in subdued heraldic motley in the colors of Duke Euchor. He made a smooth leg before Amanvah, sweeping his cloak over one shoulder in a flash of color. “Your Highness,” he looked to Rojer, “Master Halfgrip. I am Keerin, royal herald to Duke Euchor, Light of the Mountains and Guardian of the Northland, Lord of Miln.”

  He waited for Amanvah to offer a hand to kiss, but men and women did not touch in Krasia, especially married women, and dama’ting most of all. Amanvah gave only the slightest nod of her head, as if to a servant who had brought her refreshment.

  Keerin cleared his throat. “Please allow me to introduce Her Highness, Princess Lorain of Miln, youngest daughter to Duke Euchor.”

  The woman stepped forward, and Rojer saw immediately the rumors were true. Euchor’s daughters were all said to take after him in appearance, and Lorain’s square face had much in common with the one stamped on Milnese coin.

  Her frame, tall and wide-shouldered, had much in common with a man’s as well. She looked fit enough to wrestle Wonda. Her hair was still gold with no signs of gray, but her face had none of the
softness of youth. She was the shady side of thirty-five, at the least. Old for a political bride.

  Amanvah bowed, but it was shallow—an act of respect, but not equality. “It is an honor to meet you, Lorain vah Euchor. I am pleased to see I am not the only princess in a strange city.”

  It was unclear if Lorain registered the slight. The politics of Krasian bowing were a language all their own. But her return bow mirrored Amanvah’s in depth and duration—a statement of equality, and a challenge to Amanvah.

  But then she did something that put them all off guard.

  “The honor is mine, Amanvah daughter of Ahmann,” Lorain said in Krasian.

  Amanvah blinked, switching immediately to her native tongue. “You speak my language?”

  Lorain smiled. “Of course. A properly educated lady can make dinner conversation in all the dead languages, though none of us has ever had the chance to speak with a native. I’m sure you will be flooded with invitations to tea from those of blood eager to practice.”

  “Dead languages?” Amanvah asked.

  “Ruskan, Limnese, Albeen, and Krasian,” Lorain said.

  “My language is hardly dead,” Amanvah said.

  Lorain gave a slight bow. “Of course. But it’s been centuries since we’ve entertained one of your people at court. From the Northern perspective, the language is no longer spoken.”

  “Your education will serve you well,” Amanvah said. “The dice foretell a great resurgence of Krasian speakers in the North.”

  Lorain’s smile was dangerous. “I wouldn’t be so sure of that.”

  A man cleared his throat, breaking the tension between the women.

  “Allow me to present my escort, Lord Sament,” Lorain said, switching to Thesan as she indicated the last member of her party. The man wore his rich clothing comfortably, but he looked more bodyguard than escort, his eyes hard. He bowed.

  “We’ll leave you to mingle,” Lorain told Amanvah. “I just wanted to make your acquaintance. No doubt we will have time to get to know each other after dinner in the women’s wing.”