Seymour leaned against the wall, closed his eyes, and checked his luck web. It still hugged him. Servants pushed through the crowd of entertainers and into the banquet hall, removing plates. Other servants carried trays of cakes into the room. The banquet had already run six courses. Seymour had been standing for two hours. He didn’t know how much longer he could wait.
The Kerry troupe’s musicians began their closing number, a short ballad composed to honor the king. Byron snapped his fingers. “This is it,” he whispered.
Seymour’s shaking grew. He remembered the explosion, his father’s voice calling him a failure, his mother telling him to iceheal, iceheal. The ballad ended and the Kerry troupe hurried in. Vonda followed the last musician into the hall. She touched Seymour’s arm and smiled at him. He looked away.
Byron slung his lute into position and walked slowly into the center of the banquet hall. His black clothes added to his slenderness and made him look taller. He stopped before the king’s table and hesitated, staring at the monarch. For a moment Seymour thought Byron would forget to bow, but then he did. When he stood, he extended a hand toward the troupe.
Seymour couldn’t hear from the doorway, but he could tell from the hand signals when to enter. Colin ran in, purposely tripped, and slid into position next to Byron. The boy stood and bowed before the king. Then Afeno ran toward the head table, his body unusually close to the tables lining the left wall. When he reached the head table, he bowed and slowly rose, extending two bouquets of spoons to the monarch. The king gaped and the diners laughed. Afeno tossed the spoons to Colin, who returned them to their places.
The toss was Seymour’s cue. He took a deep breath, feeling a tremble at the base of his stomach. Then he clenched his fists and murmured the words to his fireball spell. A tiny flame appeared in his hand. He tried to ignore it, tried not to see it get big, explode, and eat the night sky, as it had so often in his dreams. The flame grew as he approached the king, the red and orange hues mixing with the air currents like paint on an artist’s pallet. When Seymour reached Byron, he whispered another incantation and the flame became a rose.
A gasp echoed through the banquet hall and destroyed his detachment. He felt the heat against his palm, and the rose shattered into a thousand tiny flames that fell to the floor like rain. He was losing control. He tried to stamp out the flames before they reached a table, but some skittered away from him. The diners laughed, thinking it part of the routine, and then they started to applaud.
“Bow,” Byron whispered, and Seymour obeyed automatically. One small flame licked the tablecloth near the king’s feet. Seymour rubbed his fingers against his palm, calling the stray flames to himself. They flew to his hands, leaving a piece of charred cloth smoking across from him. Then he felt heat sear his hand. He tried to shake the flames off, and when that didn’t work, he called the iceheal spell his mother had taught him so long ago. The flame danced upward, away from the ice that now encased his hand. The crowd watched the flame soar. Seymour whistled for it, knowing that a flame wouldn’t come twice in a row, but it did, slowly returning to the ground.
The flame did not settle on Seymour, though; it landed on the main table. Colin turned to the table beside him, grabbed a water pitcher, and tossed water at the flame. The flame hissed as it disappeared, but the water kept flying, finally hitting the thin lord in the face. He sputtered, slid back, and stood as a roar of laughter echoed in the hall. The lord turned, face dripping, to the king, and for the first time the monarch laughed too.
The king gasped for air, then let his laughter die. He clapped his hands. Two servants appeared beside him. “See to Lord Ewehl.” The servants took linen napkins and started to wipe the lord’s face. The lord grabbed the napkins and waved the servants away.
“Young man,” the king said to Byron, “sing for us. I don’t want to laugh anymore.”
Byron nodded to Seymour and the boys. Afeno brought Byron a stool, then the three of them went to the edge of the hall. Byron sat on the stool, his face composed, his body rigid. He placed one foot on the floor and the other on a rung just above. His face was white. Seymour clasped his hands together, wincing as he touched ice. It wasn’t over yet. He couldn’t relax until Byron was done.
Byron positioned the lute, placing his left hand around the neck and holding his right fingers above the strings. He bowed his head slightly and said, “I will play whatever your highness desires.”
“A battle song.” The king’s smile seemed small and impish on his wide face. “In keeping with your performance.”
“And what is your favorite battle song, Highness?”
The room grew quiet and so did the hallway. If the bard did not play the song requested, he could be imprisoned for mocking the king. Colin put his hand on Seymour’s arm, and Seymour could feel the boy trembling.
The king appraised Byron for a moment, all laughter gone. Then, seemingly assured that Byron was serious, the king nodded. “I don’t know the name of the ballad because I haven’t heard it for a long time. The tale it tells is of King Gerusha’s victory over the six island kingdoms.”
“A favorite of mine as well, my liege. It had many titles. For this evening we shall call it ‘The King’s Battle Song.’” Byron’s long fingers found several chords. His expression softened as he played the melody once through and then he began to sing. His voice was warm and deep and fluid, carrying the words as if to a lover. The song told the history of Gerusha’s campaigns and concentrated on the ancient king’s heroism. And then Byron sang a verse that Seymour had never heard before:
“Strength, some say, will make a man
and wisdom is his tool
‘Twas heart on which Gerusha ran
and compassion led his rule.”
The king stood suddenly, his chair falling behind him. “Stop, bard,” he said hollowly.
Byron stopped singing, his fingers still poised over the lute strings. He appeared calm as he faced the king, but Seymour could see his left hand trembling.
“Where did you learn that lyric?”
“Which, sire?”
The king’s eyes seemed to have sunken into his face. “The last.”
“An old bard told me them, sire, after I sang the ballad in Lord Dakin’s lands. He chastised me for singing the ballad before a mere lord, saying the ballad was written for the royal family, those who would follow in Gerusha’s path. And then he told me that I had forgotten a verse and gave me that one.”
“And the bard’s name?”
Byron shook his head. “He would not tell me, sire.”
Seymour wanted to look away but couldn’t. Colin had slid closer to him, almost hiding behind him.
A servant picked up the king’s chair, but the king did not sit in it. “That was Adric’s favorite verse,” he said softly. “My oldest son.”
A slight flush rose in Byron’s cheeks. “Sire, I–”
“Don’t apologize. You couldn’t know. No one remembers him now.” The king ran a thick hand over his face. The woman beside him touched his arm. He put his hand on her shoulder. “You are very talented, young man. What is your name?”
Byron paused, and when he spoke, his voice came out small. “Byron, sire.”
“And where are you from, Byron?”
Byron took his hands from the strings and slung the lute over his back. “I’m late of Lord Dakin’s lands.”
“Why didn’t he cling to such an adept bard?”
Seymour put his arm around Colin, glad for the warmth. The ice on his hand sent shivers down his back.
“I am quite outspoken, sire,” Byron said, “and I’m afraid I insulted his pride once too often.”
“Aren’t you afraid of insulting me?”
“No, sire.”
“And why not?”
“You are a greater man than Lord Dakin, and therefore harder to insult.”
The king laughed. The sound echoed in the large room. The diners watched but did not join in. “And you are naive, young
man. The greater the man, the quicker his pride is stung. Remember that, Byron of Dakin.”
Byron nodded.
The king helped his lady to her feet. “I have had enough merriment for one evening. Thank you, young man.” He took a sip from his goblet, then led the lady out of the banquet hall, guards trailing them.
When the king had disappeared, the other diners slid their chairs back and relaxed. Conversation hummed throughout the room. Byron got off the stool. Colin moved away from Seymour. Byron passed them without even looking at them.
Seymour hurried out of the hall and caught up to Byron. The corridor outside the banquet hall was emptying. Byron looked haggard, his back bowed as if his lute weighed twice as much as usual.
“Byron, I’m sorry–”
“What do you have to be sorry about?” Byron’s voice sounded older, coarser, with no music in it.
Seymour held out his ice-encrusted hand. “I failed. I’m so sorry.”
Byron touched Seymour’s shoulder. “You did well this evening. Everyone thought you were funny. I was the one who failed.”
“But you couldn’t have known what the king would choose.”
Byron shook his head. “I expected to walk in and amaze them all. I imagined them all silent because of my audacity and my talent. And when I finished, I expected the king to stand up and ask me my name, then tell me that he wanted me as his official bard. The king’s bard. Such dreams I have. Such silly dreams.”
“You did amaze them,” Seymour said. “What happened was not your fault.”
Byron smiled, and there was a sadness to it. “You’re a good friend. I’m sorry that I proposed this scheme in the first place.”
“Propose another, and I’ll go with you.” The words startled Seymour because he knew they were true.
“They’ll probably ask you to stay after tonight. Maybe even be the king’s magician.”
“The king has gone through fifteen magicians in thirty years. I value my life too much. I told you once before, I only have so much luck. I think I used most of it against Lord Dakin’s hounds.”
“Does that mean you wouldn’t stay if they ask?”
“It does.”
Byron shook his head. “You’re a strange one, Seymour.”
“No stranger than you, friend bard,” Seymour said. “No stranger than you.”
vi
Milord:
He keeps himself guarded constantly. Someone is always around him. I will have to attempt an attack when he is surrounded by people. He performed before the king last night, and the king noticed him. If the bard is dismissed after this recognition, I will have no trouble assassinating him. But if the king decides to keep him on, the bard’s death will be noticed. I will send you further communications should events change.
Corvo
vii
Three candles resting on the table sent an orange glow around Seymour’s corner of the room. Byron slept near the wall, on his back, his arms flung above his head. Seymour leaned against the wall. The stone was cool and damp. He hated stone buildings, hated their coldness, their dampness. Wood felt warm and friendly, although wood burned so easily.
Seymour’s hand tingled as it thawed. A small heart-shaped burn had formed on his palm. He sighed, wishing the ice would disappear faster. He had spent so many nights like this, sitting up in his room, waiting for the ice to melt from his hands. He would burn himself often and his father would always yell to him:
Concentrate, Seymour. Concentrate!
His father’s anger always made things worse. Seymour would conjure a fire, his father would yell, Seymour would lose control and the fire would engulf his hand. His father would call his mother, and she would iceheal Seymour. She finally taught Seymour the iceheal spell so that he could do fire spells on his own.
Funny that he hadn’t used the iceheal when the room exploded in Coventon.
He should have known better than to trade spells from those magicians. He had a limited repertoire of spells and he didn’t dare add to them. He was an eighth-level magician and would never be anything more. When Byron woke up, they would talk about Seymour’s abilities and see if together they could find something else for him to do.
The last of the ice chipped away, leaving his palm red and wet. The burn glowed white against the redness. Seymour opened a jar and rubbed some cooling ointment on the burn. He had made the ointment when he started his lessons with Vonda, knowing that he had to be prepared should anything go wrong. The lessons had lulled him; he hadn’t made a single mistake. He should have known that everything would fall apart during the performance.
The ointment soothed the burn, making the whiteness seem less fierce. He should have become a healer instead of a magician. Healing was calming, just as magic was violent.
But he was not a healer. He had almost left the iceheal on too long. The last thing he needed was frostbite. But the ice kept the swelling down and kept the burn from going deeper. In a few hours, when the pain started, he would apply the spell again.
Seymour glanced at Byron. He had rolled onto his side, muttering and tossing his head. He looked haggard in the dim light. Seymour would never have been able to fall asleep after such a disappointing evening. But Byron used sleep as healing. Seymour would wait until he was completely exhausted before trying to sleep. By then Byron’s tossing would end.
A scratching on the door made Seymour sit up. He knocked the table, causing the candles to flicker. He grabbed the holders to steady the flames. Then he held his breath, waiting to see if the scratching would come again. It did, accompanied by a whisper.
“Seymour? You awake?”
“Who is it?” he whispered back.
“Vonda.”
Seymour felt a flush rise in his cheeks. He didn’t want her to see him, didn’t want her comments about his performance. But he had already acknowledged his wakefulness, and he couldn’t very well turn her away. He got up. The stones were cold against his bare feet. He pulled the heavy oak door open. “What are you doing here? It’s almost dawn.”
“I couldn’t get away any sooner.” Vonda slipped inside, her blue robes glimmering gold in the candlelight. Seymour closed the door behind her. “I came to see how your hand is.”
He put a finger to his lips and nodded toward Byron. She glanced at the sleeping man, then stared. Seymour couldn’t see the expression on her face, but he could feel the fascination. He sighed and sat down. He didn’t blame her. Byron was the interesting one. He was good-looking and flamboyant, and very much alone. Seymour was alone too, but his features were plain and his manner dull. Now that he had shown what a fool he was to the entire entertainment wing, he didn’t blame Vonda for turning her attention to Byron.
“Well?” Vonda whispered.
Seymour looked up, surprised that she was speaking to him. She held out her hand, and it took him a moment to remember what she wanted. He finally turned his hand palm up. She moved a candle closer and crouched, running her finger along the edge of the burn. “It’s not as bad as I suspected,” she said. “It almost looks like someone icehealed it.”
“I did.”
“Really?” She looked younger in the darkness. The webs around her eyes had disappeared. He wanted to touch her to make sure they were still there.
“My mother taught me how. I used to burn myself a lot.”
“And the ointment that’s on there?”
“I made it.”
“Oh.” Her laugh sounded funny. “Then you don’t need this.” She pulled a jar or ointment from her robes. Seymour could smell the mallow leaves, part of a simple child’s potion.
He took the jar from her and set it beside him. “I appreciate it,” he said. “I’ll need it as this heals.”
Her smile was uncertain. She knew as well as he did that her ointment only soothed. The water-based liquid he had placed on his burn would heal it.
“Seymour, I–”
“Shhh,” he muttered. He cupped her elbow with one hand and brough
t her closer. Her eyes were wide and dark, the silver glow in the center almost gone. He put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face toward his. Her breath caressed his skin. He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his own, then waited. She did not pull away. Instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him closer. Her body was warm and soft against his. He let his hands slide down her back, and he kissed her again, this time tasting her.
Byron screamed. His cry was high and desperate and ragged. He thrashed on the pallet, striking out against the wall.
Seymour let go of Vonda and hurried to the pallet. He crouched beside Byron, grabbed his shoulders, and eased him away from the wall. Byron grabbed Seymour’s wrists so tightly that he cut off the circulation. Byron screamed again, then the scream broke off, and he sat up, his eyes wild and frightened.
“You all right?” Seymour asked. His heart was pounding heavily. Byron had had dreams before, but never like this.
Byron blinked and slowly the fear left his face. He took a deep breath. His entire body was shaking. He let go of Seymour’s wrists and the blood came back, making the wrists ache.
“I haven’t had that nightmare for years.”
Seymour sat on the edge of the pallet. “You want to tell me about it? Sometimes they seem less real if you talk about them.”
Byron grabbed a corner of the blanket and rubbed his cheek. The shaking eased. “I can’t.”
The White Mists of Power Page 16
