by Susan Forest
“We attack from safety, then melt into the woods. Deplete their ranks and lose as few of our own as possible.” He wasn’t sure why he was defending Fearghus. “Draw Artem’s attention and resources from the siege.”
“Flies about a horse’s head.” She snorted. “How many battles have you and Fearghus and the others fought? On and on and on, this civil war limps. A year! Artem’s beheaded or imprisoned every aristocrat or magiel who’s threatened to oppose him—any man who would lead us. He’s cut off our head. We must do the same to him. Can’t Fearghus see? Our assassins killed King Larin.”
Despite himself, Sulwyn crunched through the snow to where she stood at the edge of the ridge and looked up the valley. “It’s a fine idea, Meg. But Larin is not Artem.”
“No.” She drew her threadbare furs more tightly around her throat and he was conscious of their closeness. “The Many Gods won’t permit Archwood to fall as long as the Amber remains in my mother’s hand. We go in while the king is absorbed by his hopeless siege.”
“Can you imagine the complexity of such a strike?”
She grasped his hand with hers in supplication. “Listen! I’ve lain awake. I’ve gone through the contingencies. The king’s not in a fortress. He’s in a flimsy pavilion, or at best, a stone house. No city wall. No castle wall.”
He tried to pull back, her touch too warm, too inviting.
Her grip tightened. “I can deliver a curse under the dark of night. Especially if our men draw attention in the valley. I’ve climbed these hills.”
A stealthy strike. “You didn’t say all of that last night.”
“Fearghus wouldn’t hear me. Listen, Sulwyn. I could—”
“No. Not you. You’re a Falkyn, for the sake of the Many!” He disengaged her hold.
“Fearghus has to let me use my magic for more than a curse on a horse’s legs or a cloud of confusion in battle, instead of hiding me back here in the woods!”
“—which makes you too valuable to risk.” Sulwyn could not lose her, as well as Janat. “Act as though you understand your importance.”
She snapped her jaw closed. “The king thinks my sisters and I are trapped in Archwood. His men wouldn’t be looking for me.”
“He’s not sure. Your sister was seen.”
“That was over a year ago, and unconfirmed.”
“If we have no royal spies in our own camps!” Sometimes, Sulwyn wanted to wring her neck. Sometimes...“We can’t risk Artem becoming certain. Now, pretend you’ve heard and understood that.”
She breathed contempt from her nostrils.
“I know your tricks, Meg. You take decisions into your own hands. I’m saying, don’t do it this time. You took an oath to follow Dwyn. That means following his captains.”
“You agree with Fearghus?” Her whisper was incredulous. She looked away in exasperation.
“Come on.” He had to get out of her presence. “I’ll start the fire. Sun’ll be up soon.”
However, her idea was good enough for Sulwyn to run it past Colm.
“You don’t have to deliver the curse,” Colm told Meg. “Have Sulwyn deliver it.” Colm shoveled gruel into his mouth. “I don’t see how Fearghus can object to that.”
“Sulwyn?” That wasn’t the response she wanted.
“Sure. He’s too lame to fight.”
Sulwyn pushed the stump he sat on back from the smoke that wafted his way from the fire. “Meaning, I’m expendable. You should talk.” He nodded at Colm’s arm—workable, but not strong enough for a sword.
Colm shrugged. “We’re all expendable. Except our magiel.” He pointed his biscuit at Meg.
“I have to be the one to go,” Meg argued. “There are spell words.”
“Teach him.” Colm pushed a shank of hair out of his eyes and kept eating. “You infuse your curses with magiel magic when you create them, don’t you? Not at the time they’re used.”
It was true. And she paid for her use of magiel magic at the time of creating the spell, too, which meant she could use them later without fear of suddenly finding herself in another fragment of her life. But— “Sulwyn couldn’t get close enough,” she insisted. She wanted to do something, not hide in the woods. “He’d have to administer the curse to the king directly.”
“And you could?” Colm washed his breakfast down from a steaming cup.
She pressed her lips closed, frustrated.
“Your skin is erratic,” Colm said. “Not only is it impossible for you to blend in, there are no women in those camps. You’d be spotted before you got ten feet inside their perimeter.” He waved his cup at Sulwyn. “Send him. He can say he’s a—I don’t know. Messenger.”
“They’d watch for spies.” Sulwyn touched the death token in the band at his neck.
He was right. Talking his way into the king’s tent would be next to impossible.
“Yes. But this siege has been going on for over a year. They won’t be as vigilant as they should. That’s one of the strengths of Meg’s plan. We harry them, pick off a few soldiers, drive them back, and steal a uniform from the battlefield.” Colm filled his bowl with gruel from the pot by the fire. “There. Messenger.”
“King Artem uses his bastard son, Uther Tangel, as his messenger—and for personal communication, his only messenger.” Meg shook her head. “Sulwyn can’t impersonate the boy, and if he poses as another messenger, he’d have to pass the potion on to Uther. He couldn’t deliver it directly to the king.”
“All right,” Colm said slowly, considering. “But with a uniform, Sulwyn could at least get into the camp.” He turned to Sulwyn. “You know the high-born accent already. You used it for the merchant trade. What other duties could bring a man in uniform into the king’s presence?”
“Servants,” Meg said. “If we can steal a soldier’s uniform, maybe we can steal a servant’s livery.”
“Good,” Colm said. “That idea, at least, could work.”
Sulwyn cradled a cup of water in his lap. “We don’t often recover the bodies of servants on the battlefield.”
“Livery can be the mission of one of our harrying raids.” Gods. They could do this.
Sulwyn tilted his head thoughtfully. “Appearance is important, but I won’t get far without knowing the protocols.”
Meg nodded sharply with decision. “I can teach you royal protocols, and I can create a subtle spell that will only kill the king over days or weeks. So you have time to escape.”
“Talk to Fearghus.” Colm wiped the last of his porridge from his plate with a crust and put it in his mouth.
Meg had discovered that curses often exacted more of her than other spells; a curse that killed, especially so. She knew of none that left no trace, though perhaps some existed—she hadn’t been practicing long enough to know any. And a curse that showed no effects for a period of days or weeks...each requirement added to the complexity of her work. This, on top of finding ingredients in winter, far from an apothecary or even a trade center, and with limited celestial alignments. For days, she wracked her brain, visiting and revisiting her same dozen death spells, delayed magic spells, and concealment spells simple enough for a worldling to administer. But she’d boasted to Fearghus that she could do this. And Sulwyn’s safety depended on her.
In the end, she’d had to rely more deeply on magiel magic than her combination of spells would normally have warranted, reaching through time to find the day her dried spider web had been fresh, to find the drops of bat venom that had been collected under Sashcarnala’s single star, to age the owl tears gathered under a noonday sun to increase their potency. She had to hold all the strands in balance and combine them in a far future when Kyaju’s Arrow and the wandering star of the Blue Orum were aligned on either side of the One God’s star.
She had done it.
Then crawled into the sleeping furs in her tent, dreading the payment.
Morning. Bright sunlight streamed through a glassed window, and the air was soft with summer heat. Meg knew this room.
King Ean’s castle in Archwood. Oh, Gods, she was home.
“When are you?” Mama’s voice was sharp.
Meg turned her head. Mama sat on a couch beside her, holding her hands.
She was clean and dressed in a brocade robe, dainty shoes pinching her toes. The room smelled of sweet summer air and far away she caught a whiff of roasting meat.
The day Mama had called her to her room, and given her a spell to perform. A week before she and her sisters had fled the castle, running for their lives. She saw for the first time Mama’s worried frown and hollow eyes. Her mother’s strain. Oh, what a different world Meg had lived in. Blind.
“Meg. We only have few moments.”
“When—”
“When are you?”
She snapped to attention. “The equinox will be in twelve weeks. I know to go to the tarn.”
Mama’s eyes closed briefly in relief. “Good.” Mama gripped her hands. “You will meet a prince there.”
This would change everything. “How can you know—”
“Nothing is certain, but I have—will have—” A look of confusion flicked across her face. “I have put the pieces in place. The importance of this is far greater than you can know, Meg. Do not be the link in this chain that fails.”
Time could snap any instant. “I won’t, Mama. But—”
Mama took her hands. “Train Rennika. I bore her to have the most power. She might—she might—even have the ability to reach the seventh Heaven, the Heaven of the Ruby and the One God. I pray she will.”
“Rennika?” Shock rippled through her. “I thought—”
“Any of the three of you can use the Amber. If Rennika can’t do it, do it yourself or call on Janat, but go beyond the sixth level. Do you understand? You must go all the way to the seventh Heaven. Pray to the One, not to Kyaju. You must—”
Wind slammed into the tent, shaking it.
Meg sat up in the dark, her heart thumping as if she’d just run a great distance, sweating beneath her woollen cloak. She was back in the uprisers’ camp.
One discontinuity? Only one?
Rennika...
Mama had found a prince...
Huwen? No. Huwen was training at his father’s side, doing everything he could to destroy Orumon. To destroy magiels. To destroy the prayer stones. He would never bring her the Amber.
Eamon?
She knew little or nothing about the king’s second son. He was a recluse, and had been ever since he’d almost died, just before King Artem began his mad attack on his neighbors. Meg could not believe he would find his way to a hidden lake in some distant hinterland, a mere twelve weeks from now.
That left Jace. What did she know of him? He was younger than her, Rennika’s age. Meg had only seen him a few times and paid little attention. He’d run around after his older brothers, stick in hand, brandishing it like a sword. So, he would be about twelve now. Again, how would he get away from Holderford to come to Coldridge without a retinue? Perhaps, Mama meant one of the deposed kings? They were dead or in hiding, except Dwyn Gramaret.
But King Gramaret was no prince, and hadn’t been, when the war began.
And Rennika. Mama had borne her, gifted her with the most power. This fact held no surprise for Meg. Mama had gifted their youngest sister with stable skin, and she could easily disguise herself among the worldlings. Mama had foreseen a day when the beautiful complexion of a magiel would become a liability.
Rennika.
CHAPTER 27
A lesser darkness dimmed the stars. Sulwyn stuffed his white cloak behind a tree, and tugging his newly-fitted tunic into place, followed the outhouse path from the low scrub forest onto the open, snow-covered hilltop below the cliffs of Archwood, that was Artem’s advance camp. Though nothing moved, his surveillance yesterday with Colm told him the men—particularly the servants—would soon be active.
A messenger had ridden up the valley late last evening, and Fearghus had withdrawn the uprisers to let him pass, urging Sulwyn to hurry, that he might overhear the message. Of course, the king’s man was on horseback traveling on a beaten trail by a direct route and would clearly reach the king’s encampment many candlemarks before Sulwyn could make the journey. It was disappointing but could not be helped.
Sulwyn hobbled to the tent he and Colm had identified as most likely the wash tent. It was unguarded. Within, a boy dozed by the fire. His timing was good. The servants had not yet begun their daily preparations. Sulwyn pilfered a set of matched, soft linen towels monogrammed in the colors of House Delarcan, before his movements woke the boy.
The child jumped to his feet. “Wash water, Sieur?”
“Yes.”
“A bag of soap powder?” The unquestioning boy was sleepy and filled the linen bag from a bin, before Sulwyn could answer.
“And a shaving cup.”
“Yes, Sieur.”
He turned to leave, but the door flap opened. Another servant in livery identical to his stopped short when he saw Sulwyn.
The man took in Sulwyn’s supplies. “Bit early, today?” he asked querulously. “The commander has asked not to be disturbed before the candlemark past sunup.”
After a year of siege, the necessity of rising early was undoubtedly long gone. “I was summoned by Magiel Col,” Sulwyn answered, grateful for Meg’s information. He scanned the other’s uniform for a sigil marking his position in the king’s household. “—Sieur,” he said, spotting the metal piece on the man’s collar.
“Where’s Fallon?”
Fallon. Must be Wenid Col’s man. Sulwyn tucked the fact away. “Unwell, Sieur. I’m sure he will be better with another candlemark’s sleep.”
“Why haven’t I seen you here before?”
“I just came up from the lower camp, Sieur.”
The man eyed him askance, then nodded, and Sulwyn stepped into the predawn cold, his mouth suddenly dry and his armpits damp. He blew out to steady his breathing, then crunched purposefully if unevenly with his stiff leg and steaming pail up the hill. The sooner he was done his business and gone, the better.
Two soldiers guarding a large stone building with a proper thatched roof watched him approach. “No one requested a barber,” one said.
Sulwyn frowned in perplexity. “I was told the king rises early today.”
“No,” said the other. “Who told you that?”
“Fallon,” Sulwyn said in surprise.
“Fallon serves Magiel Col,” the first one said. Confirmation.
“And why are you here? Where’s Ioan?” the other asked.
“I’m up from the camp in the lower valley. Ioan is ill.”
“This is irregular.” The first one looked at the second. “Run down to check with the quartermaster.”
Sulwyn shifted with his bucket. “The water’s getting cold. Can I at least take it inside until this is sorted out?”
The first guard waved him in. “Don’t wake the king,” he warned.
An attendant dozed by an interior door, the embers in the hearth were choked with ashes. Heavy tapestries insulated the room, though the cold still penetrated the chinks in the stone. A map-strewn table stood in the center of the carpet, and the messenger—wrapped in furs and blankets—slept on a cot.
Sulwyn snatched a glance at the uppermost map. Memorized lines and symbols on familiar landmarks. He hoped he could remember.
But he had only minutes before the guards sorted out that he was not one of their men.
Without waking the attendant or the messenger, Sulwyn pushed the interior door with his shoulder and entered the king’s bedchamber.
King Artem stood in a fur-lined robe by a tiny window, its drapes slightly parted, the pale light falling on his face.
Piss.
The king turned, his eyes abstracted; he resumed his contemplation of whatever lay beyond the window. Sulwyn flicked his gaze to the floor to cover his surprise and forced himself to breathe evenly. Servants were invisible.
He nodded a bow to the king�
�s back and moved soundlessly over the carpets to the side table, where he poured steaming water into a basin and laid out the king’s washing and shaving tools.
Sulwyn had counted on waking the king by bringing his bedside wash towel. Casting Meg’s spell—and chanting the spell words—with the king awake would be more than just a little tricky. His fingers trembled as he laid the razor on the towel. He needed to do this deed and leave before dawn lightened the sky and the camp woke.
“Boy!” The king pitched his command loudly enough that Sulwyn assumed he was not being addressed, but he readied himself for instructions, even so.
The shaving mug. In his hand. Meg had created a curse the king could wash in; Sulwyn was not to let it touch his skin. He emptied Meg’s powder into the shaving mug.
The servant from the outer chamber appeared.
Sulwyn covered the charm with soap powder.
“Send Uther in.”
Uther Tangel. The messenger.
The servant bowed. “Yes, Majesty.” He disappeared, returning momentarily to place candles about the room and stoke the fire.
Sulwyn added half a ladle of hot water to the cup.
The messenger, hair standing at all angles and livery rumpled, entered, closing the door behind the retreating servant.
“Uther.”
“Father.” The young man bowed his head, a quick nod. The king’s eldest son bore him a resemblance, but only if one knew to look.
“I have a reply for you to take back to Lord Innes, Regent of Midell.” King Artem waved at the desk across from the bed. “Get paper and ink.”
“Yes, Sire.” Uther did as he was bid and sat at the desk.
Sulwyn mixed the ingredients, an aroma of bitter herbs rising from the cup. The Gods must be on his side.
“Honorifics. And then: the three towns taken by the uprisers in the last few weeks must be regained at all costs,” the king dictated. “Track down witnesses to the uprisers’ reported new magic.”
Uther wrote. Thank the Gods. Sulwyn hadn’t missed the entire debriefing.
“Within two weeks I will send you a thousand troops.” The king cast a glance at Uther, who wrote diligently. “Regarding your request for support from the treasury, I am obliged to inform you that you must raise the necessary funds yourself. You have my blessing to raise taxes on the farmlands of Midell.”
