by Carol Berg
Gildas stiffened, shock and dismay carving their very sigils on his brow. “Victor alive…captive…here?”
“You must improve your bargaining, Magnus Valentia, and learn to discipline your loose tongue,” said the man in the chair, his voice sinuous as an adder, smooth and coiled with danger. “Here I’ve given you a gift—releasing the boy to his Karish friend, rather than setting him adrift in the sea of Palinur’s destruction as your ill-considered pact would have allowed—and you express your gratitude by sharing our private business with a stranger.”
Prince Osriel’s displeasure settled on my shoulders like an iron yoke. Yet no flaming bolts flew across the room to set me afire. No muting spells were triggered in my silken mask. After the magics of the day, I expected anything. So I pushed farther. A limited future gives a man certain advantages in such a game.
I bowed toward the prince again. “My apologies, lord. Clearly you knew of my association with the monks of Gillarine when you brought these two here. As our venture to rescue their brothers from Sila Diaglou’s clutches was so nobly wrought, I assumed that the fate of the two captives, certainly to the summary of one salvaged life and one grievous…most grievous…death, would not be hidden from them.”
Jullian’s face drained of blood. Gildas, now holding his emotions close, did not seem to notice, but the chalk-faced boy would surely have dropped to his knees had the monk not maintained such a firm grip on his shoulder.
The swirling shadows darkened, and thunder rumbled just at the edge of hearing. The prince waved one hand at the door. “Brother—Gildas, you called yourself?—please take your young charge and go, bearing with you my sincerest cautions as to the dangers of the streets. Charming as it is to encounter an actual Karish monk, my sorcerer and I have important business to attend, and it seems I must school him beforetime.”
Without voiced command, the outer doors swung open. Gildas, his dark brow knotted, inclined his head to the man in the chair. As he urged the shocked Jullian ahead of him, he glanced over his shoulder, pressed the backs of two fingers to one cheek, and jerked his head at me. The two fingers were the monks’ signing speech—an admonition to use thought before speaking. The jerk of his head and the granite set of his mouth were a more universal language—a promise that he would do what he could to set me free. Such a small gesture to put steel in a man’s spine. In my deepest heart, I blessed him.
As the doors swung shut, and I was left alone with the still figure in green draperies, all warmth fled that hall. I imagined frost rime spreading on the slave statues and ice spears growing on the corbels and brackets. The shadows deepened, as if their very substance had increased, as if all those who had ever stood in this hall had been sent away empty, their darkest thoughts and fears kept here as the price of their release. By the time my master spoke, I could scarce contain my shivering, though I mustered every shred of control I possessed to stop it. I was not afraid of him. Not anymore. What could he do to me that was worse than what I had brought upon myself?
“You tread a crumbling verge, pureblood,” he said ever so softly. “Do you think that because my bloodlines are impure, and my body less than perfect, my mind is also flawed?”
I clasped my hands behind my back. “Your Highness, my awe of your talents grows by the moment. To create a cloaking spell such as Mardane Voushanti wielded this morning at Riie Doloure is the work of a skilled sorcerer. To create this aura of terror”—I waved to encompass the hall, feeling proud that my hand did not tremble and my teeth did not chatter—“is the work of a masterful perception.”
I strolled to the foot of the dais, striving to prove that fear did not paralyze me—as much to myself as to him. “As I have not observed your physical imperfection for myself, I could not possibly judge it as a source of weakness, though you are clearly not the horned giant of rumor. And as you have surely been told, I take neither pride nor pleasure in my bloodlines, so I could hardly view another man as ‘lesser’ for not sharing them. If I were ever to sire children of my own, I would as soon throw them to wolves as submit them to the Pureblood Registry. What is it you wish from me, my lord? You seem to know a great deal about me, whereas I know naught of you but tales and the single fact that you dispatched me to save two good men from the gallows.” For what? That was the question whose answer was the key to the man in green.
A movement of his hand and the shadows parted, exposing the bronze-inlaid marble steps in front of him. “A brash mouth you have, Magnus Valentia. More sober-minded than I expected. I was told you were an ignorant buffoon who made jest of all things serious, including your own talents. But then again, this day’s events must sober even the most slack mind. Come closer and we’ll talk a bit about your friends. And, Magnus”—I shuddered at his particular enunciation of my name, as if he had catalogued every mote of my being and tethered it to his discipline—“always remove your mask when we are alone.”
I climbed the few steps to the dais, tugging the silk from my face and tucking it in the glove loop on my belt. Whatever Osriel’s game, subtlety played a far greater role than crass brutality.
Moments passed before the prince took up the conversation again. He propped his elbow on the wide arm of his chair and rested his chin on his hand. Relaxed, it appeared. The man seemed as changeable as sunlight in the river country. “Your friend, the Chancellor of Gillarine, fares as well as could be expected of a man who came within a heart’s thump of learning the truth of his god. His injuries have prevented my use of him, but they will heal, given time enough.”
I could not disguise my astonishment. “My lord, I thank—”
“Do not thank me,” he snapped, slamming his hand to the chair arm. “You cannot feel gratitude when you suspect I have unsavory motives for snatching the monk from the Ferryman’s slip. I prefer honesty from my servants, not mimed groveling, as if I were some simpleton to be swayed with pretense. Actions that counter my wishes reap my punishment. Not thoughts.”
The colored lamps swayed as if a wind teased them. Weakness raced through my veins and sinews. “Of course, my lord. I only—”
“What would be the pleasure in having bound servants if their thoughts did not resist my own?” Though the prince had not moved, and we were alone, these soft-spoken words emanated from the region of my shoulder, as if the hooded man crouched behind me, his pale lips not a finger’s breadth from my ear. “The delight of power is not commanding an army of sycophants, but rather bending one resilient mind beyond its comfortable boundaries.”
I suppressed a shudder. Refusing to look over my shoulder, I inclined my head to acknowledge his point—and to compose my expression. I could not allow him to see when his tricks unnerved me. “I appreciate your desire for honesty, my lord. Naturally, I am concerned for Brother Victor’s safety and future in the care of a powerful lord I know only from dread rumor. Nevertheless, I am grateful to hear news of his state. Accept my thanks or not, as you please.”
“Tell me about the lighthouse,” said the prince, reversing tone again as if he were two men at once hidden in his robes. This simple request might have been an inquiry about the weather beyond his walls. Yet it startled me out of measure.
That he might have discovered the existence of a collection assembled over so many years was not so unexpected. What other circumstance would send me on a chase for members of the cabal with Jullian held hostage? I did not believe in such weighty accidents of fate. But I did not expect so direct an assault or so prompt. My promise to keep Luviar’s secrets left me scrambling for a response. “The lighthouse, Lord Prince?”
The prince’s hands hooked on the squared oak arms of his chair and pulled his body slightly forward. The air between us compressed my chest. “We are not here to dice, Cartamandua.” Each syllable pronounced precisely. “I know these monks have built a great treasure house, a cache of books and riches gathered from all the known world. I have uses for such things. Only two men have ever known how to open the way into the vault. One of those lies
dead; the other lies unspeaking in my guest chamber. Events will not wait on healing salves and poultices. Thus I remember something else I’ve heard: An initiate of Ophir’s order was allowed to visit this treasure house, an initiate with sorcerous powers of his own. A promising development, is it not? If this sorcerer cannot provide me with a monk to open the way, then perhaps he can open it himself.”
Damnation! The detail that I had visited the lighthouse was quite recent and quite specific. If he could read thoughts, he’d have no need for my answers. Thus, either he had twisted the juicy tidbit from his captives—Jullian or Brother Victor—or someone else in the cabal was telling tales.
No one had told me the full membership of the cabal. I refused to believe any of those I knew a willing betrayer. The nature and power of their beliefs colored them virtuous in my eyes—even Thalassa, now I looked at her deeds with my childish blinders removed. Then again, if the past few days had taught me anything, it was that I was no good judge of character.
The possibility of an informant gave me little hope of deception; thus I was left with no choice but to test my master’s dictum here at the beginning. “Clearly I cannot maintain pretense with you, Lord Prince. I am sworn to silence about the lighthouse and must hope that my promises to you gain credibility from my refusal to break my vow.” I rushed onward, hoping to forestall his explosion. “And before you pass judgment, let me also state that neither honor nor intent makes one flyspeck of difference in this case.”
His attention threatened to crush both mind and soul. “How so, pureblood? If your intent is disobedience, then it makes a great deal of difference. You’ll not enjoy discovering how much so.”
I worked to maintain a measured tone, as if on any day I might be found denying the wishes of Magrog’s henchman. “Your diligent informants have reported that my undisciplined childhood left me untrained in sorcery. They must also have reported that I lack the basic skills of an educated man. But perhaps the implications were not made clear. I cannot interpret the spells of others. I have no background even to guess what any complex working might be and no trained intuition to know how to go about discovering the answer. I cannot read books of magic, even if any pureblood family would allow a recondeur to touch their most prized possessions. So I cannot possibly unravel this spell that opens the brothers’ store-house for you, even if”—I hesitated only briefly before throwing down the gauntlet—“I chose to do so.”
Footsteps and voices beyond the doors distracted the prince before his gathering wrath could break upon my head. When the door opened to Voushanti, I found myself able to breathe again.
The mardane hurried across the room, not bothering to bow. His heavy cloak was dusted with snow. “Skay has confirmed that Prince Bayard’s men control the city gates this hour. The guards are stretched thin and shitting their trews for fear of the Harrowers. I’ve transport ready.”
“Excellent. Have Saverian see to the monk while I ensure my pureblood’s good behavior.”
“We’d best be quick, my lord. We caught three Harrowers trying to climb over the wall. Our…inquiries…revealed they were hunting the little monk.” Voushanti bowed and left.
“Alas, we shall have to continue our discussion another time.” The prince rose from his chair. Not short, not tall. His voluminous velvets prevented me deducing more of his size or shape. He pointed a finger at one of the blazing bowls atop the slave statues. The fire bloomed scarlet, then vanished, dropping an inky mantle over his left shoulder.
“I believe the time has come to bring my fractious brothers to heel,” he said. “Thus I’ve decided to remove my valuables—including my very expensive pureblood—south to Evanore, far from this precarious city. Until we meet again, you will remain in Mardane Voushanti’s sight at all times and obey his commands as if they were my own. You will strictly maintain your pureblood discipline. And you will not discuss this day’s business—my business—with anyone. Now tell me whether or not you choose to obey these orders. If you think not, we can just get on with the necessary unpleasantness.”
His mild-spoken menace did naught but inflame my curiosity. He had some use for me. To make the best use of my position, to protect my friends and aid their mission, I needed to learn of my new master or, at the least, prevent him interfering with the cabal. “Does not my duty require me to be at your side, lord? I should protect—”
“Honesty, Magnus.” The second bowl of fire bled and died. My skin felt the flash of heat.
I bowed and touched my forehead. “As you command, Your Grace…” Though, honestly, I would prefer the freedom to choose my own course.
Chapter 30
We rode out within the hour. In the kitchen courtyard, where Voushanti had first brought me to Osriel that morning, three of Osriel’s warriors waited beside a mule-drawn wagon draped in mourning garlands of dried laurel and black ribbon. A stone coffin occupied the wagon bed. Brother Victor—
“The little monk sleeps, pureblood,” said Voushanti at my mumbled curse. “But not his final sleep.”
I gaped at him, unable to contain my horror. “You hid him in a coffin?”
“The Moriangi will not inspect Lord Osriel’s dead. Now, mount up.” He pointed at a beast waiting patiently behind the wagon. “We’ve found a docile steed for you tonight.”
Prince Osriel did not see us off.
Palinur lay eerily quiet as we plodded toward the city gates. Winter held the world fast in its grip. Ice sheathed toppled statues and charred wreckage, and hung in great spikes from gutters and balconies. Churned, filthy snow lay deep in the byways. Hunched figures scuttled into alleyways as we approached and darted out again only after we passed.
No Moriangi gate guard dared so much as glance at Prince Osriel’s pureblood or his “fallen knight” in the coffin, not when a warrior of Voushanti’s complexion growled hints of the Bastard’s retribution should they do so. But neither did anyone want the responsibility of violating Prince Bayard’s order that no one breathing was to leave Palinur that night. We were passed from one guard captain to the next—the events a blur of torchlight, waiting, repeated stories, and anxious, stuttering progress. I rejoiced that I was not expected to speak. Exhaustion weighed on my limbs like the burdening ice.
Eventually Voushanti convinced Tiglas Volti, a seedy-eyed senior guard captain, of the mortal risks in insulting Prince Bayard’s neutral brother—a brother whose vaults of gold, once opened, would likely dispense their contents as far spread as the Bastard’s goodwill…even so far as senior guard captains. Eventually, the portcullis slammed shut behind us, and we rolled into the night.
“Get out of the tent or you’ll be folded up in it.” Voushanti’s ugly face poked through the slit in the canvas for the third time since he’d called me out of a dead sleep. The patch of sky behind him was a sunlit blue.
I slipped on my mask and crawled toward him, every bone and sinew complaining, breathing through my mouth to avoid the persistent stench of old sweat, old ale, and old vomit woven into the shelter’s fabric. I’d never known a tent that was aught but cramped and stinking. “If you don’t give me time to stretch and take a piss before I climb onto that devil horse again, I’ll make both sides of your face look equally ugly,” I mumbled, as he backed away from the entrance.
I had no idea how far we’d ridden after leaving Palinur behind. I had fallen asleep in the saddle, waked only long enough to break a drover’s nose when they threw me into the wagon bed. I’d thought they were going to put me in the coffin. I didn’t remember being stuffed into the tent.
Voushanti awaited me in an alder thicket frosted with new snow. Pale sunlight glittered through the crusted branches. “Just beyond these trees lies a party of His Grace’s retainers,” he said as I unfolded my stiff limbs like some great chick from too small an egg. “We’ll be traveling with them. Remember your orders. Keep to your pureblood practices. Once you’ve relieved yourself, follow me.”
“Voushanti!” I called after his departing back. �
��What of Brother Victor?”
He paused. “My lord yet has hope to extract some return for all our trouble to get him.”
I took that as good news. “Where are we going? What does the prince—?”
“South.” He vanished into the trees. A flurry of black-birds scattered and circled above the thicket.
I saw no sign of horses, wagon, monk, or coffin in the vicinity of the brown and white tent. But scents of woodsmoke, burnt porridge, and horses wafted through the leafless trees, along with the muted clatter and bustle of an encampment. My most urgent needs met, I followed Voushanti down the well-trod path into the brake.
The busy camp sprawled across a broad clearing. Soldiers moved among the horses, leading them to water, cinching saddle girths, and picking ice and stones from hooves, while servants collapsed tents, rolled blankets, and stuffed packs. One very large tent yet stood in the center of the trampled snow. The green and white colors of Evanore hung limp from its center pole, along with several other pennants of various colors.
Beside the large tent, a group of well-armed men and women encircled Voushanti, their craggy faces contrasting sharply with their jeweled rings and brooches, gold-etched sword hilts, and fur-lined cloaks. Evanori warlords—at least five of them among the small group—each a petty sovereign in his or her own right with bloodlines far older than purebloods, bound by oath to Caedmon’s line since the kingdom’s founding.
“…while he attends to his business,” the mardane was saying. He might have been a toad addressing a gathering of eagles. “Prince Bayard is not yet seated in Palinur. Our spies report he is paying calls on several noble Ardran houses before announcing his victory, while Harrower raiding parties spring from the brush like grouse before beaters…”
