The White Mists of Power

by Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

  Then he looked up and saw Vonda. A mask fell across his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You have company.”

  “Vonda’s been training me,” Seymour said. “Vonda, my friend Byron.”

  Vonda approached the pallet. She looked down, her expression as cold and empty as Byron’s. “They say recurring dreams are brought on by past sins.”

  “They’re probably right.” Byron hadn’t moved. “Vonda of Kerry?”

  “The same. And you’re Byron now?”

  Something flickered across his face, but the expression disappeared too quickly for Seymour to catch. “That’s what I’m called.”

  “I thought it was Dasvid.”

  “Your memory plays tricks on you, Vonda.” Byron smoothed his blanket, then reclined, resting on one elbow.

  “My memory is quite sharp, Byron. I’ve been watching you since you arrived, wondering what you’re doing here. You’ve learned a lot since you were in Kerry. Even your humility is gone.”

  Seymour moved away from them. The air had turned cold, and shivers ran up and down his spine.

  Byron smiled, but his eyes held no warmth. “The humility is bound to return after last night.”

  “Ah, yes.” Vonda clenched her small hands in her lap, as if that were the only way she could control them. “When did you get such an extensive repertoire? And when did you start taking such great risks?”

  “Why attack me, Vonda? I never did anything to you.”

  Vonda leaned closer, her face almost touching his. “No. But you nearly killed the Lady Kerry.”

  Seymour held his breath.

  “I did nothing of the sort.”

  “Her daughter died the night you disappeared.”

  “Diana?” Byron’s mask fell away. “I had heard she was dead, but I didn’t know. I–”

  “You what?”

  Seymour winced at Vonda’s tone. The light hit half of her face, extending her features, making her almost ugly.

  “You think I killed her?”

  “Who else could it have been?”

  Byron’s fists were clenched around the blanket. “I never touched her. She was a friend of mine.”

  “She died with your name on her lips.”

  “Why didn’t you contact me?”

  “Because we couldn’t find you. You had disappeared.”

  “I had to leave.” Byron pulled the blanket tighter. “If you remember, you were one of the ones who drove me out.”

  Vonda brushed her hair away from her face. “You were dangerous. You still are. I can feel it in the air around you. No one is safe as long as you’re alive.”

  “So that’s why you befriended Seymour? To spy on me?”

  Seymour looked away. He called an iceheal, cradled his hand to his chest. He knew it. Vonda being just his friend was too much to ask. Byron was the only person who liked Seymour for himself.

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Vonda said. “I wasn’t even sure it was you.”

  Byron tossed the blanket aside. He grabbed his trousers and slipped them on, apparently not caring that Vonda saw his nakedness. “I won’t sleep any more tonight. I’ll leave you two.” He buttoned up his pants, then grabbed a shirt, and slipped it over his head. “And Vonda, the night I left, I told Diana something that I had never told anyone else. Maybe you should try to find out who she might have seen, who she might have told.”

  “You think you have a secret that people would kill for?”

  Byron smiled but said nothing. He let himself out the door and eased it shut behind him. The click echoed in the stillness. Seymour couldn’t look at Vonda.

  “Did you befriend me to spy on Byron?” Seymour whispered.

  She shook her head. “I was watching you before I noticed him.”

  “You mentioned him that first day.”

  She came over to him, put her hand on his knee. She was the Vonda he knew again, soft features, warm eyes. “Byron’s different, so much more confident.”

  “He just hides his fears better.” Seymour thought back to the night Lord Dakin had appeared in the inn. Byron had panicked that night. He didn’t always hide his fears well.

  One of the candles guttered, sending dark smoke into the room. “Seymour,” Vonda said. “I’m going to tell you something that you can’t tell anyone, not even Byron. Can you keep a secret from him?”

  Seymour shrugged. He didn’t know what he could do right now. Byron didn’t trust Vonda and Vonda didn’t trust Byron. Seymour trusted them both, and yet he didn’t trust either of them. Byron wore many faces and Vonda withheld information.

  She bowed her head, her long hair falling like water around her face. “Tomorrow everyone will learn that I have quit Lady Kerry’s troupe. She’s leaving me here to watch Byron.”

  “Why?”

  “To find out who he is, and why he killed Diana.”

  Seymour jerked away, letting Vonda’s hand fall off his knee. “He didn’t kill her. He said so.”

  “I don’t believe him.”

  “Well, I do!” The cold in Seymour’s hand had gone to his bones. He chanted away the iceheal, hoping the ice would melt quickly. “I don’t want to be used in something that would hurt him.”

  Vonda frowned. “Do you follow him, Seymour?”

  “He’s my friend! Are magicians incapable of simple friendship? Why does everyone ask me that?”

  “You defend him so strongly.”

  “I’ll continue to defend him until he shows me that I can’t.” Seymour sighed. He took sides, even against himself. “Why don’t you leave, Vonda?”

  She brushed her hair back, stood, and stared at him for a moment. Then she walked to the door. “I do care about you, Seymour,” she said, and let herself out.

  Seymour blew out the candles and crawled onto the pallet. It was still warm from Byron’s body. Things were never simple. He always had to make choices. With luck they would leave in a day or so, and he wouldn’t be in the middle of Byron and Vonda anymore. He lay down and closed his eyes. He knew that sleep wouldn’t come, but he didn’t care. He sighed once, and pretended to relax.

  viii

  The breakfast chamber seemed small with both Boton and Ewehl at the table. The king wished Constance was beside him, but she had said that he would have to start doing business on his own. Sunlight streamed in the floor-to-ceiling windows, illuminating the congealing eggs, the overdone sausage.

  “You haven’t had a bard in years, my liege,” Ewehl said. “Why start now?”

  The king pushed his plate away. He hated doing business during meals. “Because I like the man. He’s the most talented bard I’ve seen for a long time.”

  “He upset you during his performance,” Boton said. He had finished his meal. A small drop of egg had landed on his collar.

  “The ballad was my choice,” the king said.

  “I don’t like him.” Ewehl ate another piece of sausage and talked through the food. “He insulted me in front of the entire hall. He admitted that he was outspoken, and his troupe obviously has no control.”

  The king stared at Ewehl. With his dark skin, emaciated face, and beady eyes, the man looked like a snake. “I haven’t laughed that hard in months, Ewehl. I will have the bard and his troupe serve me.”

  “Let me suggest a compromise.” Boton said. His voice was deep and soothing. The king found himself nodding before he even realized what Boton had said. Old habits, he reminded himself, and concentrated on the breakfast. “Hire the bard but not his troupe.”

  “No.” Ewehl set down his fork. “I don’t like the man. I don’t want him in the palace.”

  The king sighed. He didn’t want to fight these two. If he was finding it difficult to fight over a bard, he would have even more trouble when he announced his decision to find a new consort.

  The king snapped his fingers. The servant standing by the door hurried to his side. “Bring the bard to me.”

  “I oppose this, sire,” Ewehl said,

  “I know.” The king
looked at his plate. He had eaten only half of his eggs and one of his sausages. No more meetings over meals. He would waste all of his food.

  He snapped his fingers again and two servants removed the plates. Two other servants set cups of tea on the table. Then the door opened and the bard walked in. He wore the same clothes he had worn the night before, and he had his lute slung over his shoulder. Deep shadows ran under his eyes, and his skin looked pale. He seemed almost as tired as Constance. The bard glanced at Boton and Ewehl, and then bowed. “Highness.”

  “I want to make a request,” the king said.

  The bard stood and eased his lute into position. “Anything, sire.”

  “Do you travel without your troupe?”

  The bard flushed, then ran a hand through his dark hair. “No.”

  The king folded his hands on the table and then leaned forward. “I have need of a bard but not an entire troupe. You will not perform without them?”

  “I will perform without them, sire, but I will not travel without them. I’m responsible for them.”

  The king nodded. “Good. Then we will find jobs around the palace for them. And you will serve me as my bard.”

  The bard bowed and rose, his eyes sparkling. “Thank you, sire.”

  “The servant who brought you in will take you to your new quarters.”

  The bard bowed again and followed the servant out of the room.

  Boton watched him go. “I don’t care for the man much either,” he said. “Perhaps we can make this a limited appointment.”

  “The man is hired.” The king pushed his chair away from the table and stood. “He is my bard until I say otherwise. Is that understood?”

  Both lords nodded. The king strode across the room and let himself into the hallway. It was cooler than the breakfast room. His stomach rumbled, unhappy with the food. He sighed. He didn’t have any more strength that he had had thirty years ago. He should have fought then, when he was younger. He had no choice now.

  He walked down the hall. He would join Constance. She would soothe him. He wondered if she would do that after the new consort was chosen. He certainly hoped so.

  Chapter 18

  The canopy of large trees above Milo and Adric covered them with cool shade. High, fluting calls echoed above them, and below, something buzzed and then stopped. Adric took shallow breaths. His back ached, and he wished more than once that Milo had not let the horse free when they arrived in the village.

  They were getting closer to the palace. Adric was sweating even though he was cool. Milo wanted to find someone to take them in, but Adric hoped they could get past the guard on their own. They agreed that if someone passed, they would ask for help into the palace. They were posing as brothers looking for work, and indeed, Adric had never felt closer to anyone.

  “Shhh.” Milo grabbed Adric’s arm. “I hear something.”

  Adric cocked his head. He heard it too–the rhythmic clip-clop of horse hooves. He moved to the side of the road, grass tickling the bottom of his bare feet. Through the trees he could see a single horseman leaning over his mount.

  “Remember,” Milo said. Adric nodded. He would not say anything about who he was. He would let Milo do the talking.

  The horseman rounded the bend. He was an older man, a guard that Adric had seen but never spoken to. He never traveled alone. Usually he had one or two valets to help him with his equipment.

  Milo put one foot into the road and waved. “Excuse me, sir,” he said.

  The guard stopped. “What?”

  “My brother and I are looking for work.

  “Plenty of work in Anda.”

  Milo shook his head. “We’ve just come from there.”

  The guard examined them. His eyes were round, and thick jowls hung around his mouth. “You’re runaways?”

  Milo lowered his head. “Yes, sir.”

  “Why would I help runaways? I could turn you in and maybe get a reward.”

  “No, please don’t!” Adric took a step forward. He couldn’t bear to return to Rogren. “We’ll do anything, any kind of work.”

  The guard nodded, then clucked to his horse. “Not interested,” he said.

  “Wait!” Adric cried. Milo put his hand on Adric’s arm to stop him. “You need a valet, don’t you? You never ride without a valet?”

  The guard patted his horse and peered at Adric. “And how do you know that?”

  “We’ve seen you,” Milo said. His voice shook. “In Anda.”

  “Two peasant boys can’t valet.”

  “I can,” Adric said. “I can polish a sword, clean boots, maintain your armor, and take care of your horse.”

  “Unusual skills for a peasant lad.”

  Milo’s grip tightened on Adric’s arm. “We’re from town.”

  The guard let his reins drop and twisted in the saddle to face the boy. “What are you names, lads?”

  Milo spoke up before Adric could answer. “I’m Milo, he’s Ric. We’d be grateful for the work, sir.”

  “Will you run away?” the guard asked.

  Milo shook his head. Adric glanced at the palace walls, at home. “We have no need to,” he said.

  Chapter 19

  Seymour hurried down the hall. A page had summoned him to sit in on the banquet that evening. The palace had a dozen herb witches, but in the past few weeks the injured and sick had sought out Seymour. His cures seemed to work better than even the court physician’s. On this night, a troupe of flame throwers, planning to perform for the king, had lost their herb witch in a carriage accident on the way into the palace. They needed someone to watch and be ready in case they lost control of the flames.

  Seymour could do that. He figured fire was his specialty.

  But he was already late. He hurried past the suits of armor in the large hallway, turned the corner toward the dining room, and was assaulted by the scents of roast beef, quail, and carrots. His stomach rumbled. He hadn’t realized how hungry he was. He crossed into the dining room, his ears automatically adjusting to the low hum of conversation. The tables were set up as they had been the night that he had performed for the king, and they were almost all full. He glanced at the head table. The king sat alone. The chair to his right, normally reserved for his wife, was empty.

  “Seymour?”

  He turned. Byron was seated at the end of the far table, with the lower retainers. He slid a chair back. Seymour sat down. “What are you doing here?” Byron asked.

  Seymour was still breathing rapidly. It felt good to be beside Byron. They hadn’t seen each other for days. “We have some unprotected flame throwers tonight,” he said. “I take it you’re performing.”

  Byron nodded. “Almost every night. I’m the king’s prize showpiece. Everyone tries to see if there’s a song I don’t know.”

  “You’re the one who set it up that way,” Seymour said.

  “I know.”

  A server set a bowl of soup in front of Byron and another in front of Seymour. He picked up his spoon. He hadn’t realized that the head table was eating. He glanced up there again. The king was on his second course. Seymour took a spoonful. The soup was cold but sweet. He ate quickly, relieved to put something in his stomach.

  “I hate these fruit soups,” Byron said, and switched bowls with Seymour. Byron leaned back in his chair to await the next course. He looked good. He still wore his customary black, but his clothing was silk now. The king had ordered three more lutes for him and kept him well fed. Seymour rarely saw Byron these days because Byron spent his free time sword fighting with Afeno and Colin or learning new ballads. Whenever he had a day to himself, he would disappear, and no one seemed to know where he went.

  “I saw Afeno today,” Seymour said when he finished the second bowl of soup. “His hands are getting nicked from all the sword fighting. What are you training them for?”

  “I want them to be good enough to be king’s retainers,” Byron said. He sat up as the server set the second course in front of him, a plate
full of shells. He pried one open with a knife. “I hate watching them do kitchen labor.”

  “Colin seems happy. He likes the serving work.” A server set a plate in front of Seymour. The shells smelled like fish.

  “He’s too talented for it.”

  Seymour picked up a shell. “What is this?”

  “Oysters.” Byron opened his shell, tilted his head back, and swallowed. Then he set the empty shell aside.

  “But they haven’t been cooked.”

  Byron grinned and took a sip of water. “I know. You eat them raw.”

  Seymour glanced beside him. The retainers already had a stack of shells next to their plates. “Is this customary?” he asked, thinking he would rather be in the kitchen again, getting his pick of the leftovers.

  “The king’s trying to impress someone.” Byron picked up another shell. “But I can’t tell who.”

  “I noticed a few empty seats when I came in,” Seymour said. He picked up a shell. It was dry and hard.

  “There are always two for latecomers.”