The White Mists of Power

by Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

  “How did you know who I was and didn’t know who she was?”

  “I’d only heard people talk about the lady, sir, but I had never seen her before.”

  “And you had seen me?”

  “Yes, sir. I have often wondered if you needed a magician in your entourage.”

  The lord smiled. “You seem a bit too ragged for my entourage. I take it she is waiting in her carriage?”

  Seymour nodded.

  The lord tossed him a coin. Seymour caught it, just barely. The lord pushed his way out the front door, the other man trailing behind him. Seymour waited until the door closed before he leaned against the wall. He was going to pass out, he knew it. Deep breaths, deep breaths. Then he would be all right.

  Several patrons on their way out glanced at him. The wall was cool but made of rough wood. A sliver stuck into his finger as he pushed against the wall to stand. He pocketed the coin and backed away from the door. He climbed a few stairs, but saw nothing in the darkness. If Byron didn’t show up soon, Seymour would sit down. After this tension he might never stand again.

  At least he had some money in his pocket. The coin wasn’t much, but it would help.

  At loud crash at the top of the stairs made Seymour start. He moved out of the way as a tall nobleman bounded down the stairs, a black cape billowing behind him. The man grabbed Seymour’s sleeve and tugged fiercely, almost ripping the garment in his haste. “Come on,” he hissed.

  Seymour pulled away. He didn’t have the time or energy for more foolishness.

  “There you are!” someone shouted from the darkness above. “I found him for you. Caught him coming out of his room. If you hurry, we can take him on together.”

  The man Seymour had talked with earlier ran down the stairs. As he passed Seymour, he said, “Let’s get him.”

  The nobleman at the foot of the stairs adjusted the lace on his sleeve, then ran a hand through his thick black hair. He kept his head down.

  Seymour frowned. Where was Byron? Something had gone wrong. “No, wait–”

  “You’re afraid.” The man spoke loudly in his disgust.

  The nobleman glanced up. Seymour’s heart seemed to stop. The nobleman looked just like Byron. “Are you coming or not?” he asked, using his rich voice with authority.

  “Ah–yes, milord.” Seymour walked slowly down the stairs. The nobleman had to be Byron. He couldn’t be anyone else. Still, he looked comfortable in those clothes, as if they had been tailored for him.

  When Seymour reached the bottom of the stairs, Byron handed him a small valise. “We’ll be on our way, then.”

  “Hey!” The man leaped down the stairs and blocked their path. His breath whistled in and out between his rotten teeth. “What’s going on here?”

  Seymour turned. His entire body was trembling. “We are going outside. We have people waiting for us. I’ll call you if I need you.”

  “Oh.” The man stepped out of their way. “Right.”

  Byron grabbed Seymour by the arm and led him out of the inn. The light stabbed Seymour’s eyes, and the noise seemed to have grown, throbbing, throbbing, throbbing inside his head.

  Beggars surrounded them, crying for money. Seymour tripped as someone jostled him. “What did you do?” he asked.

  “What does it look like I did?” Byron walked faster. He walked along the side of the road, pushing people as he went. “Let’s find a place to stay–far from here.”

  “But how–?”

  “Seymour.” Byron stopped. People did not touch him as they passed. Horses avoided him. He seemed to have gained a foot-wide invisible body shield along with the clothes. Seymour couldn’t detect any magic, however. “I stole these, along with an extra change of clothes and quite a bit of money. And I don’t want to discuss it. If it bothers you, remember this: you refused to cast that spell.”

  Seymour shoved his hands in the pocket of his robe and felt the coin the lord had given him. He had never expected Byron to steal to get them a place to stay. If Seymour had known, he might have tried harder to gather his luck web. It probably wouldn’t have worked, but at least he would have had the satisfaction of a failed attempt. He glanced behind them. It seemed as if no one had followed them. “You look like a lord in those clothes,” he said.

  Byron smiled. The tension seemed to flow out of him. “Do I really?”

  “I didn’t recognize you.”

  “Not at all?”

  Seymour shook his head.

  “Good.” Byron looked ahead, into the crowd. “Because that retainer up there is wearing Lord Dakin’s colors.”

  Chapter 4

  Adric walked toward the spires. They looked cold and distant, yet at the same time too large, like the fingers of a giant. His legs ached and he smelled, but no one seemed to notice. The crowd surged forward, and when he thought to look, his traveling companions were always different.

  Beside him now, a merchant hurried, his chin up, glancing over the heads to something Adric couldn’t see. On Adric’s left, a thread of troubadours pushed the wrong way. One hit Adric, jostling him. Their gazes met, then the troubadour looked away. Here on the street, voices milled and rumbled. Occasionally a horse rode through, and Adric dodged as the others did, watching for hooves out of the corner of his eye. When a carriage passed, he stopped and gazed, hoping to see the unmarked black carriage or at least one with an insignia he recognized. But most of the carriages were small and unfamiliar, pulled by two horses and steered by men in simple leather.

  As twilight grew, Adric seemed no closer to the spires. He was tired and hungry, but he wouldn’t let his fear surface. He knew that Lord Ewehl had to find him. The lord couldn’t go back to the palace without Adric.

  Someone tugged on his sleeve. Adric whirled, expecting to see one of the footmen. Instead a girl about his own age smiled at him. Her long brown hair straggled around her face. Her skin was thick with dust, and most of her teeth were missing. “You look lost,” she said.

  He could barely hear her over the noise. When the words did reach him, they sent a shudder though him, and for a minute his eyes burned with the threat of tears. He took a deep breath to calm himself.

  “Where’s you going?”

  “To the center of town, the place where the king’s carriage usually waits.” His voice hitched as he spoke. He felt as if he had been alone for weeks instead of hours.

  She nodded and took his arm. “I know where that is.”

  Adric trembled. Finally a little bit of hope. The girl led him through the press of bodies to the side of the road. There a small side street angled off into the dimness. It looked like the road he had been attacked on: strangely hung signs, the wooden platform, and haphazardly placed buildings. Only this street had no gutter running down the middle.

  “This is a quicker way,” she said. Now that they were away from the noise, Adric could hear a lisp in her speech caused by the lack of teeth. She looked him up and down, taking the lace edge of his sleeve and rubbing it between her fingers. “Your clothes are nice.”

  “They were nicer this morning.”

  “It was a bad day for you, then,” she said.

  He nodded, not really wanting to chat. He wanted to move, to find the carriage before nightfall.

  “It’ll cost you a gold piece to get to the center of town.” The girl held out her hand.

  Adric stared at her palm for a moment, not understanding her. When he finally realized that she wanted him to pay her, he shook his head. “I don’t have any money,” he said.

  The smile left her face and her eyes became flat and hard. “Lordlings like you always carry money.”

  “I was robbed,” he said.

  She laughed and snapped her fingers. “Sure you were,” she said.

  Adric opened his mouth to tell her the story when he was tackled from behind. As he landed on the hard-packed dirt, the air whooshed out of his body. Dozens of small hands reached in his clothes, ripping, tearing, searching. His body was cramped and he could
barely move. Finally he gasped, filling his lungs. He tried to roll over, but his shoulders were pressed tightly to the ground. A knee dug into the small of his back as the hands moved down to his trousers, cupping and grabbing even his private parts. He screamed and flailed, but he couldn’t strike anything. Then the hands disappeared except for the two on his shoulders. The knee pushed harder into this back, sending a dull, throbbing ache around to his belly.

  “I thought you said there’d be coins on this one.” A boy’s voice, cracking and rough.

  “He looked like he would,” the girl said.

  “He’s no better off than we are.”

  Adric pushed against the ground and managed to roll away from the hands and knee. He looked up to see a dozen dirty children looking down on him. “Look,” he said. “If we’re all in the same position, maybe–”

  “You don’t know anything,” the tallest boy said. He was the one who had spoken before. His body was stick-thin, and scabs covered his arms and legs. “Look at you.” He pushed Adric’s hip with his foot. “You’re fat and well-dressed, and your hands are soft. You don’t know anything.”

  He kicked Adric’s side. Pain shot up through his chest. Adric tried to get up, but the other children leaped on him, kicking and biting and scratching. He managed to raise his hands to his face as he crumpled back to the ground. Thinks popped and snapped in his body. His chest burned and he could barely draw breath. A sharp blow landed on his head, and he must have passed out, for when he opened his eyes, it was fully dark and he was alone.

  He looked up, his eyelids sticky with tears and blood. The stars shone above him, the same stars as the ones he saw at home. He missed home. He wondered what Lord Ewehl was doing, if the carriage still sat in its appointed spot in the center of town. He had to see.

  Adric eased his arms down, feeling sharp stitches of pain in his shoulders and sides. He still couldn’t catch his breath, and he could no longer feel his chest. It was as if his chest weren’t there at all. His legs throbbed, and he knew he had a long gash near one of his ankles.

  He tried to roll over and found that his chest still didn’t exist. The pain was exquisite, so fine-tuned it seemed that if he experienced it long enough, it would send him somewhere else, somewhere better. He toyed with testing the theory, then realized that his mother would worry about him. His mother needed him at home.

  Adric managed to sit up, but the movement seemed to take hours. Ahead, he saw a single light burning through open doors, revealing hay, horses, a stable. A boy who was almost a man, whose shoulders were broad but whose body was still child-slim, carried two buckets toward the open door. Water splashed along the sides. Adric licked his lips. He was thirsty and he was tired and he hurt everywhere. If he got a little water, he would be able to make it to the center of town, he knew it.

  He tried to stand up, shook, and collapsed on his knees. He didn’t care. He crawled, feeling the dirt dig into his palms, his legs. His clothing hung in tatters around him, and in more than one place he thought he felt the stickiness of blood.

  As Adric neared the stable, he could smell the richness of hay mingled with horse sweat and manure. Familiar scents, scents of home. Inside, the boy whistled, stopping occasionally to talk to one of the horses. Adric almost crawled in, then hesitated. Everyone else he had met abused him. He didn’t dare trust this boy. Adric couldn’t take another beating. He swallowed, his Adam’s apple bobbling against the dryness, and forced himself to think.

  He had to get the boy out of the stable without closing the doors. Adric’s hand closed around a hard clump of dirt. He tossed it, using all his strength, his arm cracking and tiny shudders of pain jabbing him. The dirt smacked against the far wall of the building beside the stable. Adric leaned forward, his chest burning so badly that he had to concentrate on each breath.

  The whistling stopped. The boy appeared at the stable doors, his face half shrouded in shadow. His hair was blond, with pieces of straw sticking out of it, his clothing too small but clean.

  Adric grabbed another clump of dirt and, willing himself strength, threw it.

  The boy turned at the sound, then walked toward it.

  Adric had to move quickly. He crawled along the dirt, keeping his head turned so that he saw the boy.

  The inside of the stable was warm. The smell of hay, horses, and manure seemed stronger here. Adric found the nearest pile of hay and burrowed into it. The stiff pieces scratched his already wounded body and the hay dust tickled his nose, but he was warm and he was safe, at least for the moment.

  “False scare,” he heard someone say, probably the boy speaking to the horses. The whistling started again, and Adric closed his eyes. His pain throbbed in rhythm with his heart. When the boy left and the light went out, Adric would get himself water, and then he would leave. Until then he would rest.

  He sighed once and shivered as hay rubbed against his wounds. The whistling continued and Adric concentrated on it, following the rise and fall of the song until he fell asleep.

  Chapter 5

  i

  Seymour followed Byron’s gaze. Through the crowd Seymour caught a glimpse of a familiar brown and tan uniform, and then saw another. He swallowed and pressed his hands together. He hadn’t seen that uniform since the day Dakin had led him to the hounds. Seymour had thought the next time he saw it, he would die. That feeling was very still very strong. “What do we do?”

  Byron shrugged. “Risk passing him, I guess. Why don’t you wait here? If something happens to me, there’s enough money in that valise to take care of you.”

  Seymour didn’t want to be by himself, especially with stolen merchandise on his arm. “I can’t let you go alone–”

  “We have to go separately. Together we’ll be too conspicuous. I’ll divert his attention and then you run past. We’ll meet at that side street down there.” Byron pointed to a street that veered off behind the retainer.

  Seymour shook his head, about to protest again, when the cries of “Carriage! Carriage!” rose. People scurried aside. A woman pushed against Seymour in her haste, knocking him against Byron. She nodded at Byron, her face flushed, “Sorry, milord,” she said as she passed.

  Byron took Seymour’s arm and led him to the side of the road just as the white carriage rumbled past. Seymour felt the wind from its wheels, smelled the rich leather of its frame. A young boy stood in the carriage’s path, but it didn’t slow. A merchant grabbed the child away just in time.

  The carriage stopped near Lord Dakin’s retainers. The crowd remained near the side of the road, moving forward again but giving the carriage and the retainers a wide berth. The carriage rocked for a moment, and then the door opened and a woman stepped out.

  She wore a long white day gown that accented her dark hair and skin. She was tiny, perhaps half Seymour’s size. Her hair cascaded down her shoulders in ringlets. She carried a small white fan which she swung like a knife.

  Byron took a few steps forward. Seymour followed.

  “You are one of Lord Dakin’s retainers?” Her voice carried above the noise of the crowd.

  “Yes, ma’am.” The retainer bowed and stayed down until she tapped him on the shoulder with her fan.

  “Who is she?” Seymour asked.

  Byron stared at her. The tension seemed to have returned to his body. “The Lady Almathea Jelwra. She is one of the richest and most powerful nobles in the kingdom. Her mother used to be on the council.”

  “Do you know where Lord Dakin is?” the lady asked.

  The retainer stood. “He plans to be here shortly, ma’am. He had a bit of trouble back at the great house.”

  “Trouble?”

  “With an execution, ma’am.”

  “Those damned dogs again,” she said. “How barbaric.” She slapped her fan against her palm. “Tell your master that if he hasn’t shown up by this time tomorrow, I shall leave. If I do not see him, I will consider our business concluded and I will so notify the palace.”

  “Yes, ma’
am.”

  The mention of the hounds sent shivers through Seymour. He touched Byron’s arm. “Let’s go now, before they notice us.”

  Byron’s eyes were hooded. Seymour could read no expression on his face. When he spoke, his tone seemed reluctant. “I suppose we should hurry.”

  This time Seymour grabbed Byron’s arm, and pulled him past the beggars, minstrels, and merchants lining the streets. Seymour crouched as he moved, hoping to stay hidden in the masses of people. The crowd noise lessened, but he lost track of the conversation behind him. Gentry everywhere, and Lord Dakin coming to the city. They had to get out as quickly as they could.

  Once Byron’s attention had been diverted from the lady, he moved rapidly. Seymour glanced over his shoulder. The retainers had their backs to Byron and Seymour. The lady was gesturing with her fan, then she began to climb the stairs to her carriage, but stopped when a man approached her.

  “Oh, no,” Seymour whispered.

  “Come on, Seymour,” Byron said.

  Seymour nodded. “We’ve got to get off this street.”

  “That’s what I’m trying to do,” Byron said.

  “No, you don’t understand. Our benefactor is standing over there.”

  Byron looked at the carriage and swore under his breath. “Lord Kensington.” He tapped Seymour on the arm and then loped toward the side street. Seymour had to run to keep up.

  The side street was smaller, the road narrower. The smells were less thick here, and the noise dimmer. The crowd seemed different, a bit rougher, filled with people like the one Seymour had encountered the day before.