The White Mists of Power

by Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

  “Looks like there are more than two.”

  “Yes, it does.” Byron glanced at Seymour’s plate. “You going to eat those, Seymour?”

  “What do I eat?”

  “Watch.” Byron pried open another shell, loosened the meat, tipped his head back, and swallowed.

  “You didn’t chew it.”

  “No. Half the pleasure is in the swallowing.”

  Seymour slid his knife into the shell he was holding. The meat looked grayish in the light. He pried the meat loose, tipped his head back as Byron had done, and felt something slide across his tongue. When it reached the back of his throat, he coughed, then forced himself to swallow. “Ick.”

  “You didn’t even taste it,” Byron said.

  “It’s slimy.”

  “You’re too fussy.”

  Seymour handed his still full plate to the nearest server. “You can have these,” he said. “Enjoy them.”

  Byron laughed. “I miss you, Seymour. Why don’t you visit me more often?”

  “I’m not the busy one.” A server stopped beside him. Seymour closed his eyes so that he wouldn’t see what the server placed in front of him. It smelled like cooked meat. He opened his eyes. A thick slab of beef covered his plate. He sighed. Normal food.

  “I’ve stopped in to see you a few times,” Byron said. “You were with Vonda.”

  “You could have come in.”

  Byron shook his head. He cut into his slice of beef. “The less I see of her, the better.”

  Seymour took a bite of beef. It was tender and succulent, and it washed the sliminess of the oyster away. “You still haven’t told me what happened in Kerry,” he said.

  Applause scattered through the banquet hall. Byron turned toward the doors. “There are your flame throwers.”

  Seymour took another bite of beef and turned his chair around. They would have to arrive at the same time as the good food–and as soon as he asked Byron about Kerry.

  The flame throwers, dressed in bright red, danced around one another in the center of the room. Each performer held a gray rod. Then, as the rods burst into flames, the performers tossed the brands between them.

  Seymour watched the flames shimmer in the air. The scar on his hand tingled. He had gotten so frightened of fire that he let someone else light his hearth at night. He hadn’t practiced his magic since the night he performed, and he doubted he ever would again.

  “Relax,” Byron said. “I’ll be surprised if they need you.”

  Seymour made himself look away from the flames. The room smelled of sulfur and smoke. “When do you perform?”

  Byron shrugged. “Whenever the king wants me to. Sometimes he doesn’t ask at all.”

  A flame thrower caught the rods as they flew past him and began to stack them end on end. Seymour watched the tower shiver. If the tower fell, flames would skitter along the floor and set the entire room ablaze. The diners seemed unconcerned. They continued talking and eating as if nothing were going on.

  The tower grew until it almost reached the ceiling. Then the flame thrower dismantled the tower rod by rod, tossing the burning brands to his companions. Seymour flinched every time a rod flew through the air. The flame throwers continued their juggling act for a few minutes, bowed, and left the room. The applause that followed them was thin and scattered.

  A page tapped Byron on the shoulder. He nodded and grabbed his lute. “Looks like it’s my turn,” he said. “Someone has to liven up the crowd. Why don’t you move to the servers’ entrance. You’ll get a better view.”

  Seymour glanced at the table. A server had removed his plate. Seymour got up and pushed his chair in. The servers’ entrance was a small door near the head table. Seymour leaned against the wall just beyond the door. He wasn’t the only one standing. Other performers, entertainers, and servers lined the walls. The scar-faced man that Seymour had seen the night of their performance stood a few feet away. Seymour had seen the man around the palace a few times, always watching Byron.

  Byron pulled his stool into the center of the hall. He leaned against it as he had the first night, one foot resting on a rung. “Requests, sire?” he asked.

  The king shook his head. Byron tuned the lute, then began a light ballad, filled with running chords and bawdy verses. The hall grew quiet.

  Vonda stood across the hall. She hadn’t seen Seymour. She was staring at Byron, her hands to her temples, her eyes glazed. Seymour recognized the expression. He had seen it on his father’s face when he mind-tapped. She was trying to tap Byron.

  The music continued, but Byron stopped singing. His fingers still found the chords and he swayed to the beat. A frown creased his forehead, and Seymour remembered what Afeno had said about the bluff Enos. She had come from the woods, she and Byron had stared at each other, and after she had healed Seymour, they spoke as if they were continuing a conversation. Byron knew how to tap as well. And if he knew how to tap, he knew how to block a tap.

  Seymour no longer wanted to be in the hall. His duty was done; he could leave. He pushed off the wall, when the main doors into the hall opened. Two pages held the door and bowed as the Lady Jelwra walked in. She paused, making sure she had the king’s gaze, and then curtsied. Her long white dress accented her dark skin, and she wore pearls in her dark hair.

  Seymour sank back against the wall, feeling its chill against his shirt. He had to stay now, to see what she would say when she saw Byron. If she revealed him as Geoffry of Kinsmail, and if the king got angry, Seymour would run, find Colin and Afeno, and get them ready to flee the palace as soon as Byron left the banquet hall.

  The lady walked behind the diners, greeting those she knew. She acted as if the music provided a backdrop for her entrance. Byron did not turn, but Seymour could tell he was aware of the change in the room. Vonda let her hands fall to her side, the tap apparently unsuccessful.

  The lady stopped when she saw Seymour. She chucked her fan under his chin. The wood edges scratched. He couldn’t bow as he should have for fear that the fan would dig farther into his soft skin. “Is your master here?” she asked, her words barely audible above Byron’s music.

  “I have no master, milady.”

  Her smiled challenged him. He hated the way it failed to light her eyes. “Not even the king?”

  Seymour blushed, but kept his voice level. “Besides the king.”

  She removed the fan and turned away from Seymour as if he no longer existed, leaving the scent of roses behind her. She rounded the corner to the king’s table, patting Lord Boton on the shoulder as she passed. Seymour rubbed his chin and recited a simple heal spell. The scratches stopped itching.

  Byron bent over his lute and switched to a lazy instrumental that he often played when trying to calm himself. The battle with Vonda must have been a difficult one. Seymour wished he could signal Byron to warn him about the Lady Jelwra, but even as he stepped out to catch Byron’s eye, the lady approached the king.

  The ballad broke. Byron’s fingers fumbled along the strings. The king had taken the lady’s hand, but stopped to look at his bard. Byron recovered with a bridge into a sad ballad. The lady sat beside the king and whispered something without taking her gaze from Byron.

  Seymour shoved his hands into his pockets. His palms were sweating but his fingers were cold. He didn’t want to leave the palace. He had never been this happy before. He wished she had never appeared. He wanted to go to the king and deny everything she had told him.

  Byron finished the ballad with a plaintive note that hung in the air before fading. The applause was warm, but Byron didn’t acknowledge it. The lady had not taken her gaze from him, and the king noted her intent stare.

  “Byron, play something for Alma.” The king had taken her small hand in his.

  Byron lifted his head and met the lady’s gaze. Something in his expression made Seymour even colder. Byron got down from the stool and bowed before the head table, his attention on the lady.

  “Byron?” the Lady Jelwra’s voice
was low and mocking. The king looked sharply at her, and Lord Ewehl sat up straighter in his chair.

  “Yes, milady.” The lordly posture Byron had had when he first met her had disappeared. He leaned back against the stool, relaxed but deferential.

  “My new bard, Alma, the one that I told you about.” The king’s voice carried in the quiet room.

  “The one who knows every ballad ever written?”

  Byron shook his head. His fingers toyed with the strings. “Not every ballad, milady, but most. I’ll play whatever you wish to hear.”

  The lady tilted her head. She smiled the same smile she had used with Seymour. “Do you know any ballads about the Lord of Kinsmail?”

  Seymour clenched his fists in his pockets. His fingernails dug into his skin. The scar-faced man grinned as if something amused him.

  “Certainly, milady,” Byron said. “There are several. Is there one in particular that interests you?”

  “A ballad about Sir Geoffry, the last Lord of Kinsmail, would interest me greatly.”

  Seymour closed his eyes. She was teasing them.

  “To my knowledge, milady, there is but one song about the last Lord of Kinsmail, and it does not mention him by name. It runs like this…” Byron strummed a few chords, then sang a song about battles and wars, about a man who had lost everything and still lived for the day he would get his home again.

  When he finished, he let the music die before speaking. “Is that the ballad you meant?”

  The king was frowning and the hall was silent. Seymour knew what they were thinking: the Lady Jelwra had stumped the bard. If she said that he had sung the wrong ballad, she would ruin Byron as quickly as if she exposed him as the Lord of Kinsmail.

  The lady shrugged and pulled her hand from the king’s. “I had no particular ballad in mind. I had simply heard a legend about the last Lord of Kinsmail, and I wondered if there was a ballad that retold it. Thank you, sir bard.”

  Applause began somewhere near Seymour, then scattered around the room. Byron bowed his head, acknowledging it. When it had finished, he turned to the lady. “Is there something else you would like to hear?”

  She studied his face, then shook her head. “Oh, something about deception and lies and love.”

  “Your wish, milady.” Byron ran his fingers across the strings and began a ballad about a ladylee who had disguised herself as a servant to gain entrance to the king’s chambers. The song was funny and as the diners laughed, Seymour let himself relax. Maybe she wouldn’t say anything. Maybe she would extract a price for her silence. Or maybe she didn’t care about a bard.

  When Byron finished, the king stood. He hadn’t smiled since the lady had arrived, and now his face looked gray and tired. Byron slung his lute across his back and got off the stool.

  “Stay, Byron,” the king said. “This will only take a minute. I’ll want you to play when I’m through.”

  Byron sat back down. The king put his hand on the Lady Jelwra’s shoulder. She rested her cheek on his hand, then looked up at the crowd.

  “With the death of my son,” the king said, “I have no heir. My lady Constance is too old to bear another child and has graciously offered to step down from her rightful place at my side so that I might become a father again. I am announcing to you all that I am looking for a lady or ladylee to help us through this troubled time. And I will, in two weeks’ time, hold a festival to choose her.”

  The king let go of Alma’s shoulder. “I only offer the chance to mother the heir to the throne, and cannot offer my companionship. That belongs, by right, to the Lady Constance.”

  The king sat down. The Lady Jelwra tried to take his hand, but he moved away from her. Lord Boton whispered to Lord Ewehl, and then they left, followed by members of the council.

  Seymour looked at Byron. He should have begun a song immediately, but he was staring at his lute as if he had never seen it before. The silence seemed heavy.

  “Play,” the Lady Jelwra said.

  Byron’s hands moved across the strings, but the song sounded flat. He did not sing for a long time. When he finally began lyrics, his words seemed sad and slow.

  The king gulped an entire tankard of ale. The Lady Jelwra whispered to him, but he did not respond. After Byron had finished two songs, the king left. Byron sang one more ballad, one that spoke of love betrayed, and the hall was quiet until he was through.

  Chapter 20

  The palace grounds seemed darker, older, more careworn. A serving woman walked by, her feet bare, the edges of her skirt ragged. Adric had never noticed poverty at the palace before. He scurried along the cobblestones, almost skipping. Milo had to run to keep up.

  The guard, Butante, had shown them to their quarters, leaving his dirty clothing and sword behind. Then he had gone on to a meeting, and Adric had grabbed Milo’s sleeve, forcing him out onto the palace grounds. If he didn’t go to his father immediately, everyone would wonder why he had waited and might even use that against him.

  He stopped in front of the west wing door and glanced around before trying it. The door was locked.

  “I don’t like this,” Milo whispered.

  “We have to try,” Adric said. He led Milo across the courtyard, past the bench on which Adric had sat that long last morning. He touched the stones, barely able to remember their coldness and his own anticipation. He had so much to tell his mother–and he hoped his father would do something about Rogren. He knew that they would help Milo’s family. Anyone who had saved a member of the royal family had to be rewarded.

  They reached the main doors, which stood open. The palace interior smelled musty. A guard standing just inside the door put a hand on Adric’s shoulder as he entered.

  “What’s your business, lad?”

  By now he had learned. He understood that he no longer looked like the prince and that people would not recognize him. His lie was ready. “We’re Butante’s new valets. He sent us to get something he had left in the audience room.”

  “The king is in the audience room. You can’t go in there.”

  “All right,” Adric said. “At least let me tell Butante. He’s waiting in the west wing. I’d like to show my brother so he knows how to find his way there later.”

  The guard grunted his assent. Adric circled in the great room, staring at the marble floor, the high, vaulted ceiling. He was home! He hurried down the corridor to the west wing, then veered down a side corridor that he knew lead to the audience chamber. The corridor was narrow, filled with paintings Adric had never looked at, and performers’ closets that he used to hide in. Milo struggled beside him.

  “Do you know where you’re going?” Milo asked.

  Adric nodded. “I lived here my whole life.”

  He glanced at Milo, saw how his friend seemed to look smaller here, almost faded. He put his arm around Milo. “Don’t worry,” Adric said. “Once I tell my father what happened, he’ll let me treat you like my brother, like I want to.”

  Milo bit his lower lip. His shoulders were tense.

  They rounded a corner and Adric saw the edge of a stairway. He took a deep breath. He was almost there.

  Footsteps rang in the hall above and voices murmured softly. Adric started up the stairs before recognizing whom he heard. Lord Ewehl, the man who had left him. The lord stood at the top of the stairs, talking with a retainer. Then the lord started down the steps, his dark robes flowing behind him. Adric turned his face and tried to run past.

  “Just a minute, lad.” The lord grabbed Adric’s shoulder. “Where are you going?”

  “I have a message, sir,” Adric said, his head still lowered. The lord put a bony finger beneath Adric’s chin and forced his head up. When their eyes met, the lord gasped.

  He turned to the retainer at the top of the stairs. “Get the guards. Tell them there are intruders in the place. Hurry!”

  The retainer ran down the corridor. Adric wrenched himself from Lord Ewehl’s grasp and tried to pass him, but the lord reached out. His arm
hit Adric and pushed the boy backward. Milo grabbed Adric’s shirt, trying to prevent his fall, but Adric couldn’t get his balance. They tumbled down the stone stairway, Adric protecting his head with his arms. The sharp edges of the stairs opened the remaining scabs on Adric’s back. He sprawled at the staircase bottom, unable to get his breath.

  Lord Ewehl hurried toward him, his dagger drawn. Adric pushed away along the floor, but the lord grabbed his shirt and pulled him to his feet. Milo leapt on the lord from behind. The lord let go of Adric. Adric took two steps toward Ewehl as the lord swung Milo off his back. Adric reached for Ewehl’s arm and missed. The lord’s dagger swung past, followed by a thud and a groan. Adric turned, saw Milo stumble forward, the dagger in his back.

  Adric attacked the lord, pounding him and forcing him against the stairs. The lord raised his hands to protect his face. Adric kicked him in the stomach. The lord’s feet snagged on the stairs and he fell backward, his head smacking against the stone.

  Milo leaned against the wall. Above them, Adric heard footsteps. He put his arm around Milo’s waist and dragged him into a nearby performers’ closet, slamming the door behind them.

  The closet was dark and smelled of greasepaint. The light filtering through the cracks in the door illuminated a lute, juggling clubs, and a magician’s robe. Adric spread the robe out like a pallet and helped Milo onto it. Milo grabbed his wrist.

  “Adric…”

  Adric covered his friend’s hand. “I’m going to get help.”

  “No.” Milo’s voice sounded weak. “That man, he’ll kill you.”

  “I’ll be all right.”

  “No, Adric, please…”