by Sharon Shinn
This part of the evening, she quickly surmised, was designed to allow informal conversation between clusters of visitors who might not have had a chance to talk over dinner. More wine was available, and a half dozen lords pulled out pipes and tobacco. The women unfurled their fans to blow the smoke away. A fire burned in a great hearth even though the windows were open to admit the warm night air. The walls were lined with hunting trophies—bear heads and deer antlers—as well as crossed swords and a display of daggers. This was the sort of room where deals were made and plans were formulated and individuals hammered out the details of governing the kingdom.
For this particular interlude, no doubt, Romar had truly been invited to the dinner.
Indeed, over the next hour, Kirra was approached by vassals in ones and twos, airing quiet grievances or expressing hope for future projects. Most of them seemed prosperous and content, willing to work within the existing system as long as their own needs could be attended to. Indeed, Kirra found most of their requests quite reasonable and hoped she sounded passably intelligent as she discussed road construction and possible dam sites. These were the lesser lords and ladies as she had always believed them to be—honest, outspoken, ambitious, and sensible. The sorts of people any marlord would be pleased to have as vassals.
It was a little past midnight when Berric Fann approached her.
She had just said warm farewells to a couple from Rappengrass who were interested in expanding their fishing ventures, so she was standing alone for the first time all evening. She was wondering if she should ingratiate herself into an existing conversation or wait till someone else approached her with a question when she made a half-turn to find Berric almost upon her. He was smiling. He held a glass of wine in each hand.
“Thirsty work, talking all night,” he said in the most amiable voice he’d used so far. “Red wine or white? I brought you some of each.”
“Red, thank you,” she said, accepting the glass from his hand. All her senses had grown miraculously sharp. She felt as if someone had poured vinegar into her veins. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Storian was all I picked up out of Domenic’s introduction.”
“Mobry. Francis Mobry,” he said, saluting her with the other glass.
“You have strong views, Lord Francis,” she said.
He sipped his wine and watched her. “Do you object to them?”
“I believe a man is entitled to any opinion he chooses as long as he doesn’t force that opinion on others through violence.”
“Sometimes violence is the only way to get other men to respect your opinion.”
“And are you intending to engage in violence anytime soon?”
His smile was decidedly unpleasant. “I am hoping your support will make drastic measures unnecessary.”
He didn’t appear to have a sword or even a knife anywhere on his body. It was hard to believe he intended to cut her down here in Domenic Ayr’s house, in front of all these people. “And if I find myself unable to offer the support you crave?”
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I—and like-minded men—will have to find ways to work around you.”
“I think it would be a mistake to count me out of the game,” she said, and took a mouthful of her own wine.
He watched her. “You don’t even know what the game is.”
Only when she swallowed did she register the bitter aftertaste. Only then did she realize Berric Fann really wanted to murder Romar Brendyn, but not even a full suit of armor would have shielded her from his malice. Berric employed more subtle weapons than swords and daggers. The wine had been poisoned.
CHAPTER 37
ONE swallow. Would that be enough to kill her? Probably not, for Berric still watched her with a predatory attention. She held the goblet in her hand and altered the composition of the liquid inside it. From wine to grape juice; from toxin to harmless herbs. She drank again, more deeply this time. Surely she had to down the whole measure of poison before she would fall dead.
“Then explain the game to me, Lord Francis,” she said.
He had already finished most of his own wine. How had he known which color she would choose? Had both glasses been doctored? Had he already ingested an antidote? That was the most likely, she decided. She did not think he had enough shiftling power to modify the poison as she had done.
He relaxed a little, now that her glass was almost empty. He even smiled again. “Some of us are willing to see a weak princess on the throne. We are less eager to see a strong regent beside her,” he said. “A young girl can be more easily controlled by a determined coalition than can a man with some battle experience and years of political maneuvering behind him.”
“You don’t know Amalie if you think she is easily manipulated,” Kirra said, amused.
“Nonetheless. There is a faction who believes the regent must go. Another faction believes he is our only hope for peaceful realignment of property, and they would like to see him standing one step behind the throne when Amalie comes to power.”
“You keep assuming that Baryn will not rule much longer.”
Berric made a dismissive motion. “His time is over. He will not be king another year.”
She drained her glass and set it down. If he thought she was about to die, perhaps he would give her more details. Her stomach was starting to roil with protest and her hands were a little shaky. She might have less leeway than she’d thought. “You and your friends are contemplating assassination?”
“It is one option of many,” he conceded. “But he’s an old man. We might not need to hasten his death.”
“Where does Halchon Gisseltess fit into all your plans?”
“He has made certain pledges. He is happy to see the Twelve Houses expand—to eighteen or twenty-four—if we support him when the time is right.”
“And you plan to support him?”
Berric shrugged. “I am not so certain he is the man to back. I would be just as willing to see Amalie on the throne, frightened and conciliatory.”
“So Baryn is your obstacle in either case,” Kirra said. “But in the second scenario, you have only one additional impediment. And that is me.”
“You,” Berric said, drawing the syllable out with pleasure. “Yes, up till now, you have been the primary hindrance. But I don’t think you will trouble us anymore.”
It was not so hard to affect a look of fear, to let her eyes move from his face to the glass and back to his face. “The wine,” she said, her voice strangled. “Was there something in the wine?”
He nodded, cool and pleased. “Don’t worry. They say it causes very little pain. In any case, it quickly passes. You should be dead inside of fifteen minutes.”
She put her hand to her throat, as if she was choking. Indeed, she was finding it hard to breathe, and not just because of the weight of the chain mail. Mystic, traitor, and murderer—her uncle was more despicable than she ever would have guessed. “What have you done?” she whispered. “You have killed me— you have betrayed your country—you have brought shame to House Storian—”
He leaned closer, laughing a little. “I care nothing for Storian,” he said with some contempt. “It is House Danalustrous I will see fall. Malcolm may have named that bastard girl his heir, but she will never live to take control of her property. I shall be ready to take advantage of any mistake she makes—”
Now terror spiked through her, running through her blood like silver. Her hands were shaking; she was sure her face was devoid of color. Red hot hell, the poison was taking effect too soon. Not only was it hard to breathe, it was hard to think. “Not Casserah Danalustrous,” she said as fiercely as she could, clawing through the folds of Romar’s white shirt, trying to loosen its collar. “You will not harm Casserah Danalustrous.”
He laughed again, a little more loudly. “Then the gossip is true, is it? Rumor has it that you and Malcolm’s daughter have been very friendly as you traveled Gillengaria this summer. What a blow this will be to her to
lose you so suddenly. Followed by the next blow of losing her land—and possibly her life—”
She swung up her free hand to strike at him, but she was so weak. She had waited too long; she could not call for help. Her body was breaking down; her vision was splotched with dancing spots. She really was going to die here at Domenic Ayr’s little party, just as Romar had feared, just as he himself would have died—
Berric caught her arm and held her close as if to brace her. “Lord Romar,” he said, his voice loud enough to be heard by someone standing nearby. “Have you had too much wine?”
Footsteps running nearer; a shape pushing between them; someone’s hands pulling her from Berric’s arms. Farther away, too far away to matter, sounds of dismay and outrage and the clatter of dropped china. Kirra wrenched her gaze upward, wondering how she could explain the situation to Domenic Ayr or Kell Sersees or whoever had rushed to her aid.
But she found herself staring up into Senneth’s gray eyes. And she realized that the shadows clustering around Berric were the bodies of Cammon and the Riders. She saw the glint of metal—a sword at Berric’s throat.
“What did you administer to the regent?” Tayse asked in an ominous voice.
Kirra just stared up at Senneth. “Poison,” she mouthed, unable to vocalize the word. “I didn’t take all of it. Help me.”
Senneth nodded and lowered her to the floor. Around them, the sounds of conflict and argument grew louder; there were shouts and threats and the ring of blades. But no one broke through the band of defenders to disturb Senneth. The other mystic crouched over Kirra, keeping her cool eyes on Kirra’s face and running her hot hands over Romar’s infected body. Kirra could feel their warmth even through the chain mail.
“I can sense it,” Senneth said. “I don’t think there’s enough here to kill you, but I’ll burn it out anyway. Are you ready? It’s going to hurt.”
“Yes,” Kirra tried to say.
Then fire arced through her, boiling in her gut and fanning out in all directions. She nearly screamed from the pain. Her heart roasted in her chest. Her bones liquefied, and her blood evaporated. She struggled for breath, but her lungs were seared beyond the ability to function. Ashes made a powdery trail down her throat.
The fire banked down and for a moment she felt like a great felled log, hollowed out by fire, only the outer form intact. Coolness seeped slowly along her skin, restoring some of her ordinary sensation. She had not incinerated after all. Cautiously, she sat up, coughing, all her muscles lax and rubbery. But the poison was gone, consumed in a blaze of magic. She felt weak but whole. Scarred but safe. “Red and silver hell, I am never asking you to heal me again,” she gasped.
“You’re welcome,” Senneth said. “Glad I could help.”
There was a scuffle a few feet away and Kirra turned her head enough to see Tayse shoving Berric hard against the back wall, knocking his skull against the stone of the manor. Even in disguise, Berric was big, but Tayse was bigger; he completely overpowered the other man. Blood was running in trickles down Francis Mobry’s puffy face and it looked as though one of his arms had been broken.
“My lord regent! Your man! Stop him! He’s going to—stop him!” This from Domenic Ayr, who sounded genuinely agitated. Similar cries were coming from many of the other lords. Kirra peered around Senneth to see why none of them was rushing to Mobry’s defense and saw Justin and Cammon with swords upraised, making a threatening barrier against the crowd.
“You might be interested to know that you’ve changed back to your true self,” Senneth murmured. “Sometime during the whole—cauterizing—process.”
“My lord!” Domenic shouted. Other unfamiliar voices called out orders.
“Summon the servants! Fetch the house guards!”
“Put up your sword! Let me through! He will murder that man—”
“Help me stand,” Kirra muttered, and staggered to her feet with Senneth’s aid. Then, loudly as she could through her singed throat, she announced, “My guards are protecting me, as they should. Lord Francis tried to kill me.”
There was a sudden wash of silence as the gathered crowd all gaped at the golden-haired daughter of Danalustrous where the regent of Gillengaria should have been standing. She could see shock, disbelief, and anger working across the staring faces as the others realized how they had been duped.
“I came in Lord Romar’s stead because I was expecting an attempt on the regent’s life,” she continued, and now some of the expressions were horrified and some were calculating. “Lord Francis poisoned my wine. I very nearly succumbed. Did any of you join him in wishing the regent dead?”
A number of them did not know her; she caught whispers from the crowd as some asked and others answered questions about her identity.
“Serra,” Domenic Ayr said blankly. “None of us—all of us—These nobles are all faithful to the crown and to you. Yes, there are grievances but—no one—even Lord Francis—”
“This is not Francis Mobry,” Kirra said, making a quarter turn to see that Tayse had finally stopped battering Berric against the wall and was now lashing the man’s hands behind his back with a leather cord. Unlike Kirra, Berric hadn’t allowed his violent ordeals to undermine his magic. He was still shaped like the lord from Storian.
But he was staring at her with an expression that was sheer Berric. Just this minute, it was clear, he had seen her for the first time, realized that he was not the only individual who had traveled here tonight in disguise. Only now did he see how close he had come to killing his sister’s daughter.
“Kirra?” he exclaimed, his voice rich with all varieties of anguish.
She nodded ironically. “Uncle.”
SO that was as bad as it could possibly have been, Kirra thought later as they made their way home. After all, she did not ride back in the carriage alone. Senneth sat beside her to make sure she didn’t fall into a faint, while the bound Berric rode on Senneth’s horse. “He must go to Danalustrous,” Kirra had said, but Tayse had shaken his head.
“He must go to the king. We will take him with us when we depart in the morning.”
In the morning, when everyone in the world would leave her behind.
She did not know how she would have the strength to go to Romar’s room, even to tell him what had happened. She was so tired. She had been betrayed by love, churned by poison, and rent by magic in one short hour. She was not even positive she would find the strength to climb the stairs to her own room, let alone go sneaking through the manor on unauthorized business.
But she need not have worried on any count. Justin carried her in from the carriage, and Romar was waiting for them outside Amalie’s room. So she had the supreme pleasure of greeting her lover from the arms of another man, unable to summon the energy either to protest or explain. Romar stared at all of them, and Kirra merely closed her eyes and rested her forehead against Justin’s checkerboard sash.
“A bad night, but not as bad as it could have been,” Senneth said, pausing at Kirra’s doorway before following Justin in. “Let me settle her and then I’ll come tell you the tale.”
“But she’s—is she—”
“She’ll be fine.”
Melly was already at the bed when Justin laid Kirra down with unwonted care. “Serra! Are you—what happened? Did she—”
“All she needs is sleep,” Senneth said. She gazed down for a moment, her face stern. “Sleep,” she repeated, this time speaking to Kirra. “Don’t go creeping off in the middle of the night.”
“I won’t,” Kirra whispered. “If you won’t leave tomorrow before I wake up.”
Senneth smiled. “Deal.” She turned to go, then turned back. “I’m sorry,” she said. “About your uncle.”
Kirra nodded and closed her eyes. “My father won’t even be surprised.”
“If you’re the only one to mourn him, that only makes it hurt more,” Senneth said quietly.
Kirra nodded again, her eyes still shut. “I can’t imagine any way the pai
n could be worse.”
“Try to sleep. We’ll see you in the morning.”
A few footsteps and Senneth was gone, the door closing behind her. Melly quickly and competently pulled Romar’s clothes off of Kirra’s body and wiped her face with a wet cloth. Or maybe Kirra only dreamed she did. She was already asleep.
THERE was no time to say good-bye, really, in the morning. The carriages were drawn up in the front courtyard and most of the luggage was loaded when first Amalie and then Valri had to hurry back to their rooms to see if they had left any items behind. Gathered to make the journey was virtually everyone who had traveled together this summer—all of the princess’s men, all of Romar’s, the regent, the Riders, and one mystic.
