The White Mists of Power

by Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

  He glanced at her, unable to tell if she was joking. “I saved his life and we’re traveling together, all right? Do you have more questions, or can I sleep?”

  “Just one.” She put a hand on his arm. Her palm was warm and dry. “Who are you?”

  “My name is Seymour.”

  “Son of Dysik the Great?”

  He blushed. “What makes you think that?”

  “Rumors. The son of Dysik the Great traveling with one of the bard guild’s most talented and secretive members.” Her voice lilted with amusement. “You don’t hide your feelings very well, friend Seymour.”

  He brought his knees up to his chest and rested his chin on them. The guard was not supposed to have said anything. Now the entire palace was probably talking.

  Vonda squeezed his arm. “Don’t worry,” she said. “Your secret is safe with me.”

  “Apparently it’s not a secret,” he said. “And even if it was, how could I trust you? I don’t even know who you are.”

  “I’m part of Lady Kerry’s entertainment troupe. We were going to leave several days ago, but the isolation proclamation trapped us here.”

  Seymour glanced at her. He had never heard of the proclamation before. “We did have some trouble getting past the guard at the gate.”

  “Well, it’s impossible to leave,” Vonda said.

  Seymour relaxed, let his knees down. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve heard that the king is in mourning.”

  “You’re a great one for gossip, aren’t you?”

  She grinned. The lines crossing her face looked as if they were etched by an artist. “I’m bored.”

  “So that’s why you came over here.”

  “Partly. I was going to offer to train you. But I’m sure the son of Dysik the Great doesn’t need any training.”

  Seymour let out a small laugh. “The son of Dysik the Great can’t even mind-tap.”

  A troupe of jugglers set up in the far end of the courtyard. They tossed balls that flashed red in the sun. “Didn’t your father train you?” Vonda asked.

  The sound of the inn explosion rang through his ears, overlaid with his mother’s voice yelling at him to iceheal. “It didn’t go very well.”

  “Why don’t you let me try?”

  One of the jugglers dropped a ball. It bounced and rolled toward the side of the building, the juggler chasing, his skin flushed with embarrassment. Seymour understood the feeling. “I’m thirty-five years old, Vonda, and by anybody’s standards, I should be at least fifth class. My last employer thought death was the only way to cure my ineptness.”

  “And what about your bard friend?”

  “He doesn’t say anything.” Byron hadn’t even mentioned that horrible explosion in Coventon, although Afeno had said that Byron asked the Enos to heal Seymour. Sometimes Seymour thought it would be easier if they did talk.

  “I see.” Vonda picked at the grass growing between the cobblestones. “Why don’t you let me try anyway?”

  “No.”

  “If the king is in mourning, we’re stuck here for weeks. I don’t want to sit around.”

  Seymour frowned. He had heard nothing about anyone dying. “What’s the king in mourning for?”

  “His son died. They say that his air left him and he died.”

  A ghost of a memory touched Seymour’s mind. “Fluid in his lungs?”

  Vonda shrugged. “I don’t know what the official story was.” She glanced at him. “You know healing?”

  “Some.” His sudden knowledge surprised him. He usually had trouble remembering any spells, even herb witch spells.

  “The son of Dysik the Great has a lot of secrets.”

  Seymour didn’t want to talk anymore. He closed his eyes. “The son of Dysik the Great is tired.”

  “Let me know when you want to start training,” she said. He heard her skirts rustle as she stood to leave. He didn’t move. Eventually her footsteps rang over the cobblestones as she left the courtyard.

  ii

  Milord:

  They have entered royal lands. I will wait until an opportune moment and then strike. The Lady Kerry is here with her entertainers and spies. I trust that she too will attempt to kill the bard, but I will be there first. No one uses magic to embarrass Corvo.

  I plan to move slowly. I don’t know who the bard’s powerful magician is, and until I discover that, I will be very cautious. Be assured, my lord, that he will die before the appointed time.

  The king, as you know, is in mourning. I have several weeks to work. I will wait one week before putting any plan into action. I hope to hear from you by then.

  Corvo

  iii

  The night was dark and chill. Torches hanging from the walls of the courtyard in the entertainers’ quarters only ate at part of the darkness. The rest slipped in shadows across the stone walls, down the stone floors, and into the corners. Seymour leaned against a pile of coats that had been thrown by the wall. He sipped on a tankard of ale and watched the musicians tune their instruments.

  The musicians–a horn player, a lute player, a drummer, a fiddler, and a piper–stood at the opposite end of the courtyard from Seymour. They leaned together, planned tunes, and stopped often to tune their instruments. Byron usually played on these nights, sometimes alone, sometimes with the group. This time he had given his lute to Colin, who stood beneath a nearby torch, clutching the lute for dear life.

  The music started again, mournful and slow, taking a moment to find its rhythm. The dancers gathered in the middle of the courtyard, the place of the most light and the most shadows. Seymour squinted. He saw Byron, wearing his customary black, holding the hand of a young woman from another troupe. As the music’s pace grew, the dancers swung into movement. The women’s feet were bare. Their skirts rose above their ankles as they twirled. Seymour could see flashes of thigh in the half-light, and he wondered why he just watched. He should have been out there too, dancing with a woman that he would take to his bed.

  The piper began a lilting melody that rose above the rest of the instruments. The dancers whirled to its sound. Patterns formed and disappeared, the steps grew more frenzied and intricate, the music louder and louder. People behind him began clapping, as if the music controlled their hands.

  Then the dancers broke apart and joined their audience in clapping to the rhythm. Byron and his partner remained in the middle. He caught her in his arms and twirled her, her skirt rising, displaying her feet and legs to the crowd. Her laughter mingled with the pipes. The music slowed, and they separated, gripping each other’s waists as the piper began again. Around they spun, kicking and laughing as they went. The clapping grew louder, the dance grew wilder, until Byron and his partner became a blur of colorful clothes and flesh flying around the cobblestones.

  The music rose in pitch, swelled, and stopped. The couple didn’t expect the ending. They tried to stop spinning, lost their balance, and fell together against the stones. Byron emerged from the tangle of skirts, then helped the woman up. The musicians started another rollicking number, and she tried to drag him into a dance, but he shook his head and let go of her arm. He grabbed a tankard of ale from Afeno and drank deeply, then handed the tankard back, wiped his mouth with his sleeve, and walked toward Seymour, ignoring the women who tugged his arm.

  “Don’t you dance, Seymour?” Byron’s hair was damp, and his shirt clung to him.

  Seymour snuggled against the coats, content in the slight chill. “I think watching is a lot more relaxing.”

  Byron sat next to him, took Seymour’s ale, and drank. “I agree. That was a bit much.”

  “You’re a good dancer,” Seymour said.

  Byron smiled, shook the water out of his hair, and leaned against the coats. “In my profession you have to be.” He took a deep breath and let it out. “I’ll be so glad when this waiting is over.”

  Seymour glanced at him. The torchlight caressed Byron’s face, making him look younger. He had never mentioned the
long wait before. “We might be here for a few more weeks.”

  Byron didn’t move, but Seymour sensed tension rippling through him. “Where did you hear that?”

  “That’s the gossip.” Seymour grabbed a coat sleeve and draped it across his arm. He was getting goose bumps. “They say the king is in mourning. His son died.”

  “His son?” Byron sat up. He put a hand on Seymour’s leg. Byron’s palm was damp and too warm. “What happened?”

  Seymour shook his head. “I don’t know. The woman who told me wasn’t too sure. She said that’s why we’re doing all of this waiting.”

  The music grew louder as another fiddler and piper from a different troupe joined in. Nearly everyone was dancing now, clapping, laughing, and shouting. A few of the king’s retainers, who always watched the evening entertainment from a distance, allowed women to drag them into the dance.

  “No one else seems to be mourning,” Byron said.

  Seymour picked up his tankard. The ale was lukewarm and tasted sour. “It’s only a rumor.”

  Byron stared at the musicians, all from different troupes, playing together. “In a few days we’ll all be fighting for a place at the king’s table,” he said. His voice sounded hollow. “You’ve worked up something, haven’t you?”

  Seymour felt panic rise. The change of subject startled him. “I have something,” he lied. Maybe he would ask Vonda for help. He had been practicing all of the spells he knew, but they seemed even more hopeless than before. Simple spells that he had been able to perform in the past seemed even more difficult to him. He blamed the explosion. He kept hearing it every time he chanted his luck web.

  A man stepped under the torchlight behind the musicians. He wore deep red robes that grabbed the firelight and made it seem brighter. He was bald and his lack of hair made his face seem both old and young at the same time. When he moved his hand, rings glittered.

  Seymour finished his ale. He set the tankard aside and stared at the bald man. His presence marked something different. He was not a member of the entertainment troupe, nor was he a magician. He looked almost like gentry, although Seymour had never seen the deep red colors before. The man walked through the clappers at the edge of the crowd. When he reached the inner circle, the retainers stopped dancing. Other dancers, sensing something wrong, stopped too. The musicians brought their instruments down one by one, until a single pipe held and then faded.

  Byron leaned forward. “What is going on?”

  Seymour pointed at the bald man. “That man stopped this.”

  “Lord Boton.” Byron burrowed back into the coats, trying to make himself small. “Maybe there is something to your rumor after all, Seymour.”

  The lord was speaking to the retainers. Seymour could hear the deep bass of the lord’s voice, but not his words. As he spoke, he moved his hands, and his rings caught the light, sending flashes of glare into the crowd. When he finished speaking, the retainers nodded, then spoke to members of the crowd. One young retainer, his face flushed, leaned over as he passed Byron and Seymour.

  “Lord Boton asks that we bed down for the night,” the retainer said.

  “What’s gong on?” Byron asked.

  The retainer shrugged. “I guess we’re disturbing the king.”

  “We haven’t disturbed him before,” Byron said.

  “We haven’t been this loud before.” Seymour stretched and moved away from the coats. The retainer moved to a small group standing beneath the torches. His voice, asking them to bed down, carried across the wind.

  Byron didn’t move. He appeared to be watching the lord.

  “I’ll get Colin and Afeno,” Seymour said, but he didn’t leave.

  Byron nodded. He waited until the lord left the courtyard, then he stood up. “The king’s son,” he said. “Interesting.”

  iv

  The noise in the courtyard faded. The king leaned against his headboard, the blanket warm across his feet. The fire in the hearth had faded, leaving a chill that wouldn’t go away. Constance slept beside him, the shadows under her eyes deep. He pushed the hair off her forehead and tucked the blanket around her shoulder. Ever since the death of their son, she had looked gray and old.

  He probably didn’t look any better himself. He didn’t feel any better. For too many nights he hadn’t slept and too many mornings he hadn’t wanted to wake up. Constance was right. They knew why this was happening, and he had to stop it. He was fifty-five years old, fat, and ill. He would not live much longer.

  The headboard dug into his back. He picked up his pillow and adjusted it. The hearth glowed orange, bathing the room in the colors of dawn. If he died without an heir, Kensington would ascend to the throne. Kensington was a good man, but a distant relation. He knew little of the rules that governed the monarchy, and perhaps even lacked the white mists–whatever good that had done the king and his family. The Cache Enos were supposed to protect his family and they had done nothing. The king sighed. He had done nothing either, and he would have to. Should he die without an heir, the council–or the Enos–might not accept Kensington. The nobles–Boton, Ewehl, a few others on the council–might want to seize power themselves. He was certain that was why all ten of his children had died. The succession was in doubt. There would be war.

  He slid down in the bed and brought the covers up to his chin. If there was war, the Enos would use the power hidden in the Cache to wipe the humans from the land. Gerusha had set up that pact. Each succeeding monarch had worked to protect it. Now, with Constance drained and his own life force weak, he risked losing what had been built during the centuries.

  He had to have an heir, and he had to protect that heir. Constance was not strong enough to bear another loss, and he doubted that he would live until the child reached adulthood. Constance had suggested that another woman, a young woman, become his consort and bear his children. He put his hand on his wife’s shoulder. He did not want another woman. He did not want another child.

  He cuddled against her back and wrapped his arms around her waist. If only one of his children had lived, he would abdicate power now, let that child make the decisions that he had always hated to make.

  “Constance,” he whispered, wishing he had no more worries, wishing he could sleep as she did, wishing that he had the option, the courage, to die in his sleep.

  v

  The great arched hallway leading into the kitchen was crowded. Seymour stood next to a small suit of armor that crouched expectantly near the wide double doors leading into the banquet hall. The woman next to him, a piper from another troupe, rubbed her hands over her instrument as if trying to warm it. Byron had his back to Seymour. Colin and Afeno peered into the banquet hall. The rich, greasy scent of roast pig was making Seymour nauseous. He stuck his shaking hands into his pockets and closed his eyes.

  He should have left as he had planned, when he arrived, after he was sure that Byron was settled. But Byron’s moods had fluctuated so rapidly, and his usual confidence seemed to disappear so often, that Seymour didn’t want to leave. Besides, he had enjoyed the food and the rest. Now he had to pay for it.

  Someone tapped him on the shoulder. He opened his eyes to find Colin beside him. “You haven’t looked yet, Seymour.”

  That was right; he hadn’t looked. He didn’t want to know what he was facing. But he took a deep breath and peered around the corner. Rows of diners sat down two long tables. Another table faced them, and in the center of that table sat the king and his party. The king was a big man with a wide red face. A small woman sat beside him, her graying hair in a bun. The bald man sat a few seats down, next to a man who was so thin he seemed almost skeletal. No one spoke as they ate. The only noise that accompanied the scrape of plates was the music from the Kerry entertainment troupe.

  It performed in the box created by the tables. Vonda moved along the head table, performing hand tricks. She had promised not to use any of the tricks that she had taught him, and as far as he could tell, she had kept her word. He wished s
he had been right about the mourning period. They had been at the palace another week when the king finally opened his hall to entertainers. In that time Seymour had learned one trick fairly well and several poorly. Vonda told him that all he needed to do was relax, but for Seymour, relaxation and magic did not mix.

  Byron approached Seymour beside the door. Byron wore his lute over his back. His mouth was drawn thin and his thick brows nearly met over his nose. Small lines had appeared in the corners of his eyes. He did not glance into the banquet hall, and he hadn’t spoken a word since they started to wait. His nervousness made Seymour nervous. If Byron was frightened, something would go wrong.

  Colin and Afeno had moved away from the door and cleared a small space to practice their juggling act. Byron had been trying to teach them in the few weeks that they had been at the palace, but the boys were unable to work together. Other performers caught stray balls, and one hit the suit of armor, creating a clang that made Seymour’s ears ring. Earlier that day, Byron had borrowed jester suits from another troupe, and Seymour was glad that he had. At least the boys’ mistakes would look planned.

  Seymour moved away from the door and looked at the other troupes. Most seemed bored, although some huddled in small groups, practicing. A thin man stood on the other side of the hallway, watching Byron. Seymour frowned. He thought he had seen the man before. A long scar cut into the man’s profile, adding depth to his face.