Dead But Once

by Auston Habershaw

  Myreon frowned, but her indignation morphed into mute defensiveness. “They’re none of your business.”

  “Oh, really? How am I to know that? You could be having an affair!”

  Myreon raised an eyebrow. “In the sewer?”

  “Now who’s being evasive?” Tyvian asked. “And that’s beside the point! I don’t ask you, Myreon, because I trust you! Why can’t you offer me the same courtesy?”

  Myreon’s eyes flashed. “Experience, Tyvian. Experience.”

  Tyvian sighed. He let his head drop back on his pillow. He let the fight drop as well. There was no way it could be won and little point in continuing it. She was angry, and nothing was going to change for the better until she was no longer angry. His task, as always, would lie in finding a way to make that happen. He started to catalogue the kinds of rare flowers he had yet to give her.

  It was a rather short list.

  Myreon sat on the edge of the bed. She also looked tired. “From what Brana told me, you were very lucky. He’s convinced you came back to life.”

  Tyvian grunted. “I more or less did. Side effect of the ring, apparently.”

  Myreon frowned. “How? How do you know?”

  Tyvian closed his eyes. “I am not, just now, in the mood to discuss it.”

  Myreon scowled and looked away. When she spoke again, her tone made clear her intent to change the subject again. “Who hired her? The Sorcerous League? Sahand? The Kalsaaris?”

  Tyvian considered the list of his enemies, all of them earned in the years since the Iron Ring had been permanently affixed to his hand, forcing him into a life of relative morality. “This wasn’t the League’s style nor Sahand’s—not enough sorcery for the former and not enough physical brutality for the latter to be satisfied. As for the Kalsaaris, we haven’t had a sniff of them in over two years.”

  “Your brother, then?”

  Tyvian snorted. “If Xahlven wanted me dead, I would be dead. As I am alive, I assume he has other plans for me.”

  Myreon’s face darkened, as it did anytime Xahlven Reldamar came up in conversation. As she was already angry, her face became dark indeed. She looked ready to spit lightning. “One day. One day we’ll get even with him. We only need to find him.”

  “Find him? He’s probably within arm’s reach, shrouded to look like someone we know.” Tyvian chuckled. “Hell, he’s probably Sir Damon.”

  Myreon rolled her eyes. “That isn’t funny.”

  Tyvian tried a smile, just to see where it got him. “But it did make you laugh, correct?”

  Myeon glared at him. “Very well. I’ll take my leave. From what I can see, you’re making a full recovery.”

  “You make that sound like a bad thing.” Tyvian offered her another smile.

  Myreon answered with another glare—this one sharp enough that it might have killed Tyvian all over again. She opened her mouth and Tyvian readied for the fight to begin anew, but there was a knock on the door and Artus poked his head in. The boy had grown up a lot in the past year—something Tyvian sometimes forgot. He was getting broad in the shoulders and sporting a moustache and patchy goatee.

  Tyvian welcomed the diversion. “Artus, do you think perhaps choosing a public place in which to fret over my impending demise was a bad idea? Do you have any idea the mess you caused?”

  Artus shrugged. “Well maybe next time you shouldn’t jump off a damned balcony into the middle of the room.”

  Tyvian scowled—the young man had him there. Though in truth he did not remember jumping off any balcony.

  Artus held out a towel to Myreon. “Just drawn you a bath—Hool’s orders.”

  A thin smile crept onto Myreon’s face. “She probably smelled me coming a mile off. Thank you, Artus.”

  “Just remember it weren’t me that said you stank, milady.” Artus bowed slightly—good form, too. The boy was finally learning. Well, apart from implying that a woman smelled bad.

  Myreon gave Tyvian one last glare and left for her chambers. When she’d gone, Artus softly closed the door. “Boy, you’re in it now, Reldamar.”

  Tyvian snorted. “You, too? Dammit, boy, you saw Voth—you want to tell me you wouldn’t let her kiss you?”

  Artus laughed. “Well yeah, but I ain’t courting no bloody mage, now am I?”

  “We aren’t courting.”

  An eyebrow shot up. “Then what the hell are you doing with her?”

  “I . . . we’re . . .” Tyvian sighed. “Damned if I know.” He took a deep breath. “Do you know what Myreon’s been up to lately? Where she goes, what she does—does she tell you?”

  Artus held up his hands. “Hey now, don’t put me in the middle here.”

  Tyvian pressed his lips together. “I don’t need you to pry. But . . . but if you should happen to see her out sometime . . .”

  “Well . . .” Artus rubbed his hands on his doublet, which made Tyvian wince. “All right. Been curious myself.” He stood in the doorway for a few moments more, evidently searching for the proper words.

  “Out with it,” Tyvian snapped.

  “Hool got a bunch of letters this morning, from all over. All five houses.”

  Tyvian frowned. Letters weren’t, in and of themselves, unusual. “By ‘a bunch,’ how many do you mean?”

  “Twelve. And courier djinns have started showing up outside—three so far.”

  Tyvian felt his stomach sink. “And?”

  “They’re addressed to Waymar of Eddon—you.”

  “Kroth.” Tyvian closed his eyes. “This can’t be good.”

  “That’s what I thought.”

  “Well, you might as well bring me to them.”

  Chapter 6

  Invitations

  By midday, Tyvian had received twelve additional letters and nine actual gifts, all of these via courier djinn. That made twenty-four letters overall, all of which were addressed to Waymar of Eddon and not Lady Hool nor to the House of Eddon in general. Tyvian took some solace in the fact that his alias seemed to be holding—the Defenders wouldn’t come beating down his door, at a minimum—but he had gone overnight from a figure of idle curiosity to one of absolute focused obsession. Whereas before the peerage might have asked themselves, in their idle moments, who the mysterious brother-in-law of famed gaming house mistress Lady Hool was, now they all thought they knew—he was the supposed heir to the Falcon Throne.

  Or, put another way, he was a threat to their very way of life.

  The letters and gifts had all been moved to the study—a room on the first floor that really only Myreon and Tyvian ever used and, as such, was probably the neatest room in the house. Artus sorted the letters into little piles on the writing desk. The packages were set on the floor. Everything was still sealed within its envelope or wrapping, each of them marked with an enchanted wax seal that prevented anyone but the addressee from opening them. Given Tyvian’s mostly paralyzed state, this meant that Artus and Brana had to carry Tyvian downstairs like a besotted drunk and help him wave his hands roughly over all the seals. Then Brana nestled Tyvian into a wingback chair and propped him up with cushions.

  Though greatly improved since breakfast, Tyvian’s hands still barely functioned, and so he asked Artus to read aloud for him. It was slow going, as Artus’s grasp of the written word was still tenuous. Over the next three hours, Tyvian listened as Artus hacked his way, syllable by syllable, through the flowery prose of the Eretherian noble class. A finer form of torture Tyvian could never have devised for himself.

  When all was said and done, there were ten letters of condolence and solidarity—all sent on the assumption he had survived the attack last night, which, given his access to sorcery, was entirely possible. Besides these, there were another fourteen invitations to various costume balls, parties, salons, and one wedding. All the letters were addressed to him from an even distribution of vassals of the five Great Houses—Davram, Camis, Ayventry, Vora, and Hadda—though the ranks of the authors varied widely, ranging from a couple of lowl
y peers who owed Hool money to a letter from the Countess of Davram herself. At least one letter was from a member of each Count’s immediate household, with the lone exception of House Hadda, as Countess Ousienne did not have any living immediate family and the old spider wasn’t terribly likely to go writing love letters to some nobody who got himself poisoned, not when she was sitting on a pile of gold bigger than all the other houses combined.

  As for the gifts, they were mostly jewels, objets d’art, or rare books—some poetry by the immortal Casca of Rhond, a small bust of Perwynnon carved from alabaster, a variety of women’s jewelry (evidently for Hool), and a small silver chest stuffed with gemstones.

  The implications of all this were, frankly, shocking. Tyvian had Artus pour him a glass of Vingili ’28 to steady himself. Brana had to help him drink it. Artus stood by and poured himself a glass, too. “So, what’s it all about?”

  Tyvian motioned with his chin to the letters stacked neatly on the desk. “This, Artus, represents a declaration of war upon our household.”

  Artus frowned. “Do you mean, like, real war with armies and knights and such, or some kinda stupid war of manners or something?”

  “When you put it that way, it underscores the danger we’re all in, and I’d rather we didn’t do that.” He sighed. “But yes, this is a ‘stupid’ war, Artus. Yet stupid wars can kill you just as horribly as the real kind. All of Eretheria seems to think—or suspect—I’m the heir to the Falcon Throne.”

  Artus frowned, “How do they know you’re alive? Last most folks saw was you . . . well . . . was you being dead.”

  “They’re hedging their bets,” Tyvian said, licking some stray wine off his lips. “If I’m dead, then my heir might be favorably inclined toward their show of sympathy.”

  Artus snorted. “Your heir? Who’s that? You got a kid you ain’t told us about?”

  Brana laughed. “Secret kids! Ha!”

  Tyvian gave Artus a hard look. “My heir is you, Artus.”

  The laughter died. Artus took a moment to process this and then shook his head. “But . . . but why do they even believe all of this? It’s just a rumor! I’m not a prince!”

  Tyvian motioned to his scratched face, registering the not inconsequential fact that he could more or less move his arms. “In their world, Artus, the only reason I might be the target of assassination is if I were politically important somehow. Suddenly, all those rumors look true. They think I’m the heir, which either means they need us as an ally or need us dead as soon as possible.”

  Artus pointed at Brana, who was holding Tyvian’s wineglass to the smuggler’s lips so he could get a drink. “What about Brana? Or Hool? Are they on the hook?”

  Tyvian swallowed and licked his lips again. “Hool is supposedly my half sister by marriage—we aren’t blood relations. Brana is the supposed product of another marriage between her and some unnamed father we haven’t bothered to delineate, and so isn’t either. As you are, again supposedly, the progeny of Hool and my fictionally deceased brother, only you have the supposed Perwynnon blood.”

  Artus squinted, trying to keep track of the lines of genealogy in his head. “That’s . . . complicated.”

  Tyvian sighed. “To the Eretherian peerage, it is as simple as breathing. Every damned one of them has already figured this out, so you better get your head wrapped around it, too, or we’ll never survive this.”

  “But they’re just inviting you to parties, not challenging you to duels or nothing.”

  Tyvian smiled. “Yes, Artus, but where is it, do you suppose, that a fellow gets challenged to a duel, eh? It isn’t done by djinn, you know.”

  “Well . . .” Artus frowned, thinking. “What are we gonna do?”

  “Burn the letters!” Brana said, starting to gather them off the desk.

  “No!” Tyvian moved to intercept him and fell out of the chair, winding up facedown on the expensive Illini rug. When he spoke again, it was out of the half of his mouth that wasn’t pressed against the ground. “I need to answer the letters! Once . . .” He groaned, trying to roll himself over and failing. “. . . once I can write again.”

  Artus frowned. “I dunno. Hool won’t like this—this sounds an awful lot like one of your crazy plots.”

  “Yes . . . or no . . . not exactly.” Tyvian flailed his arm in the air. “Artus, if you please!”

  Artus hoisted Tyvian to his feet and helped him back to the wingback chair. “I guess I could write the letters, right?”

  “With your handwriting?” Tyvian shuddered. “I . . . I need to think. Alone. And I could use something to eat.”

  “More porridge?” Brana asked, his rear end wiggling.

  “No! Gods, no—never mind, I’ll starve.” Tyvian waved his arm toward the study entrance. “Just . . . leave me in peace. At dinner I’ll have something worked out. I promise.”

  They left him. Tyvian caught a glimpse of Hool, wearing her shroud, watching from the hallway. He assumed she’d heard everything he’d just said. Very well then.

  He closed his eyes and tried to think like an Eretherian count.

  By early evening, Tyvian felt he had regained enough movement in his hands to try writing responses to a few letters. He was wrong. Granted, he could make legible letters, but they lacked any kind of elegance, any kind of flair, and the last thing he wanted to do was appear a useless rube. Nothing would put him in a coffin sooner than looking like a country bumpkin trying to play prince. Nobody liked an upstart.

  Letter writing in Eretherian noble circles was no minor matter. Every letter Tyvian might send would be scrutinized to the point of obsession, searching for any implied insults, compliments, threats, or promises. The way he dotted his i’s could be misconstrued as anything from a confession of carnal desire to the orthographic equivalent of a kick in the shins. Each letter would need three drafts—one for content, one for diction, and one for calligraphy. He simply didn’t have it in him. He would have to fall upon his backup plan: fewer letters, more social engagements.

  And, therefore, the implied risk of duels. But, of course, if he couldn’t stand, he couldn’t be expected to duel. Someone would have to stand for him, and that someone would almost certainly be Artus. Artus, though a more than competent brawler for his age, was no duelist.

  Every which way I turn, there lies another bad end.

  At dinner, Brana carried Tyvian into the dining room. Everyone was there, and the serving specters were laying plates upon the table. As hungry as he was, Tyvian found he couldn’t think about eating. There was too much to do.

  Brana installed Tyvian in another high-backed chair and propped him up like a fragile dowager. Artus tended the fire in the broad hearth to get it roaring against the chill of the evening. The sun had set about an hour ago, the gates had been locked, and Sir Damon had been sent home. The five of them were alone in the House of Eddon, and the dining room table had been warded to prevent eavesdropping, sorcerous or otherwise.

  Nobody ate. They waited for Tyvian to speak.

  Tyvian cleared his throat. “Friends,” he said, “it seems we’ve gotten too comfortable.”

  “We?” Myreon arched an eyebrow. “Don’t you mean you?”

  Tyvian didn’t rise to the bait. “We’ve been living in the lap of luxury this past year, pleasantly incognito, and have forgotten just how big the world and how numerous our enemies.”

  Artus sipped some wine. “Well, mostly your enemies.”

  Tyvian closed his eyes. “Please stop interrupting. You’re interfering with my . . . my . . .”

  “Careful wording designed to trick us without overtly lying?” Myreon offered, batting her eyes sweetly.

  “Everybody shut up,” Hool growled. She was unshrouded and curled up in her huge chair like a lioness on a rock, her mane blazing red-gold in the firelight. “Get to the point, Tyvian.”

  “The point,” Tyvian said, “is that somebody is working to destroy me. Those invitations . . .” Tyvian gestured vaguely in the direction of the
study. “. . . are opening salvoes in what is bound to become a massive political battle fought over yours truly. They should be considered what they are: clear and obvious warnings that, if we don’t act fast, we will likely end up dead.”

  Silence. Hool had her ears back—she had something to say, but she was waiting for Tyvian to finish. Artus poked at his food. Myreon seemed lost in thought, her eyes distant. Brana was eating.

  Tyvian sighed. “All of you, with the exception of the lovely Myreon . . ” He cast a quick glance to see if the word lovely had scored any points. It had not—she glared at him as though intending to set him on fire. He cleared his throat. “. . . are implicated and involved in this. We can’t sit back and let this pass. Besides . . .” He shrugged. “. . . I’m assuming you’d all rather not see me dead, in any case.”

  Myreon frowned. “Well, not dead. Is tortured an option? Castrated, perhaps?”

  “I don’t get it,” Hool said. “Why would they care if you’re supposed to be king? I thought they never had kings here.”

  Tyvian shook his head. “Not exactly—they’ve had two. One, Perwyn the Noble, who founded Eretheria about sixteen-hundred years ago and another, Perwynnon, the Falcon King, who ruled Eretheria for about three years in the final years of Keeper Astrian X. That was just under thirty years ago.”

  “What happened to him?” Brana was alert, ears up. He always loved a good story.

  “Perwynnon was found dead in his chambers in the Peregrine Palace, evidently poisoned, though the exact cause of death has never been determined.” Tyvian shrugged—which he was pleased to realize had returned to his physical repertoire. “The method scarcely matters, though—the fact is that the ruling families of Eretheria, the five Great Houses who dictate most policy and custom here—didn’t want a king telling them what to do and one or all of them had him killed. They needed Perwynnon to defeat Sahand, but once Sahand was sent back to Dellor with his tail between his legs, they quickly wanted to get rid of anyone wearing a crown.”

  “Which brings us back to you,” Myreon said. “There are always rumors about this or that person being the heir. What’s different about you? Besides your ego, of course.”