“There’s a matter we must discuss before breakfast, my lord,” Dorrin said.
“Before sib? Is that wise?” He smiled, but his eyes were wary.
“My lord, I deem it necessary,” Dorrin said. “Beclan?”
Beclan looked like a child caught stealing sweets. “Please, my lord. You tell it.”
“It’s your story, Beclan. Your father should hear it from your lips. I will make my comments at the end.”
It came more easily this time, Dorrin thought, as Beclan went through the tale again, this time leaving out all his mistakes and feelings of guilt—he must, she realized, have told his father those things before. He went straight to the battle with the Verrakaien in the Kuakkgani trap, describing their attack on his mind, their offer to give him great powers and make him king, his own struggle to keep from being invaded or persuaded.
“You said nothing of this when we visited you,” Mahieran said. He was white around the lips, whether with shock or anger Dorrin could not tell. “You lied when you gave your oath—”
“No, my lord, I did not,” Beclan said. “I thought then I had been mistaken in my earlier feeling … that Gird had given me whatever I used to defeat the Verrakaien. I had felt nothing like it since. And you had bade me say nothing but to answer questions.”
“But when you felt it again—”
“It was when they came to attack the cottage. It woke me … I could tell what they wanted—”
“Though even those with no magery can know that sometimes,” Dorrin put in. “Sergeant Stammel, blinded by a similar attack in Aarenis—Beclan saw him, in Vérella, last Autumn Court; I’m sure you heard about him. He had fought the invader, confining it helpless in his mind, but felt something inside trying to get free.”
“Like your crown,” Mahieran said.
“No. For Stammel, it was agony to resist that voice, to remain himself, agony finally resolved when I called out and destroyed the one who had invaded him. The crown has never hurt me. Go on, Beclan, tell the rest.”
Beclan told about his attempt to push the others’ magery out of his mind, his creeping down the stair in the dark, sword in hand, hoping to find the attackers slowed or immobilized. “And then Surn screamed, and I was angry and tried to go to her, help her—and that’s all I remember.”
“They would have known by that, if they didn’t before, that he had not been suborned or invaded,” Dorrin said to Mahieran. “And I’ve no doubt the blood magery they raised with that horse was enough to cloud his perceptions … giving them a chance to knock him on the head shortly before we came through the door.”
Mahieran shook his head. “It can’t be helped, can it? Not now. Beclan, you gave your full oath to the king, and you concealed this from him … that’s treason.”
“My lord, I did not understand, or certainly know, at the time, and I gave my oath in good faith. I know that having magery cuts me from the succession—I don’t care about that—”
“I do,” Mahieran said.
“And I know it casts a shadow on our family, presumed free of the taint since before Gird’s day. I went to Duke Verrakai this morning to ask her to examine me, to find out whether I had magery or if it was something else, some other sense—”
“And?” Mahieran said, with a piercing glance at Dorrin.
“He has some magery, my lord,” Dorrin said. “He is not invaded; there is no Verrakaien or other spirit inhabiting him. But he does have magery. It is not very strong. It is untrained, of course. It is my thought that in the extremity of his need, there in the Kuakkgani trap, Gird may have unlocked what had been locked in your family so long, just enough to save him.”
“Are you saying I have it, too? That the king does?”
Dorrin shook her head. “Not you, my lord, and not the king. None of you that I met in Vérella seemed to me to have magery. Nor did Beclan until recently. Nothing in the time he spent with me as squire even hinted at it. In that you have other witnesses, my other squires, should you wish to ask them.”
“But where could he have—oh.” From Mahieran’s face some thought had come to him that might explain it. “Celbrin is Konhalt, and Konhalt has intermarried with Verrakai more than any other house.”
“That’s what I told Duke Verrakai just now,” Beclan said.
“Indeed.” He looked at Beclan. “If your mother carried the seed of magery in herself … if you were born with it, but with no training …” Now he looked at Dorrin. “If a child is born with it, how does it show, and when? Could it be hidden so long without the child’s knowledge? Could she have had it and not known it?”
“I do not know that much,” Dorrin said. “In my family, we of the pure blood were all thought to carry the ability, but in different amounts. Without training, it could remain dormant, even wither, though in the strongest it would continue to grow.”
“I want to find you innocent,” Mahieran said to Beclan. “I want to find you my son, my honorable son whose oath was given freely and honestly, with a whole heart. But I must tell you, Beclan, that I am cold to the bone with the fear of this—fear of magery itself, fear of what it means for you and all of us. It could knock Mikeli off the throne, plunge the realm into chaos—”
“But why?” Beclan said. “I’m the only one—he’s not—”
“And the only reason we know he’s not is because Duke Verrakai here—a known magelord—says he’s not. I believe her, but how many others will? You don’t know, Beclan, of the rumors spread about her since the coronation. As with Duke Phelan before … and that just occurred to me. But think, lad: Bloodlord priests and Verrakaien renegades killing Royal Guards on our land. Do you not see what could be made of that?”
“No one will believe it of Mikeli,” Beclan said, his jaw set.
“I think we should not discuss this outside this room until we’ve decided what’s best,” Dorrin said.
“You’re right about that,” Mahieran said. “Certainly not with any in the household. But we cannot long delay telling the king and the Marshal-Judicar.”
They ate breakfast in near silence. Duke Mahieran’s wife did not appear, nor any of his daughters resident in the house. Dorrin, Beclan, and the Duke ate alone in the great dining room, clustered at one end of the table. When they had done eating, they returned to the Duke’s study. He had sent a courier to Vérella the night before, to inform the king of the attack and that he and Beclan were both alive. Now he organized a party to retrieve the bodies of the dead Royal Guards so they could be buried with honor. He also gave orders that no one was to leave the household but those he himself sent.
“But my lord,” said his steward with a worried frown, “my lady and your daughters rode away early this morning—did you not know?”
“Rode whither?” Mahieran asked.
“She said something about visiting her family in Vérella, my lord, and she took the north way.”
Mahieran paled. “When did she leave?”
“Early, my lord. Is there a problem?”
“No,” Mahieran said. “Not as long as the whole household doesn’t head for the city. Rothlin’s there; the house will be open. I’d planned to go myself, later today; she could have traveled with me, but I suppose she thought my wound would keep me here longer. I am surprised she took Naryan and Vilian.”
“If you’re leaving later, shall I have your mounts readied? And will Duke Verrakai be traveling with you?”
“Yes,” Mahieran said with a glance at Dorrin. “We’ll all be going: Duke Verrakai, Beclan, and I. And an escort, but only a small one.”
“And the retrieval of the bodies, my lord?”
“Will go on—to be brought here, and I expect a burial party from the Royal Guards will arrive before I get back.”
“I must change,” Dorrin said, aware that she was still wearing the royal family’s colors. That would not do. Mahieran nodded, excusing her from the room.
They rode away within a turn of the glass, Dorrin mounted on one of Mahieran’
s horses, spares led by the following escort. Both before and behind, the escort kept out of earshot.
“I can’t believe it of her,” Mahieran said. No doubt which “her” he meant.
“Whatever you surmise may not be so,” Dorrin said. “She was angry last night; she may go only to make complaint of me.”
“She should not go at all, not without telling me,” Mahieran said. “At least she cannot know the news about Beclan.”
“She knows he survived the attack,” Dorrin said. “And she knows I would know if he were invaded … so she knows he’s not.”
“She could not want her own son to be invaded, surely!”
Dorrin shook her head. Duke Mahieran’s wife had borne his children and been, to all appearances, exactly what she should be these many years. Rothlin and Beclan, the two of them third and fourth from the throne. An eldest daughter recently married. Two younger ones. Dorrin had met her at the coronation and again at Autumn Court; she had been coolly polite, apparently concerned only with the honor due herself as part of the royal family. But Dorrin had not then known of the Konhalt connection. What did that mean? Or did it mean nothing?
Had she missed magery in Celbrin? She had not noticed anything in Beclan, either. Undeveloped magery … she had been intent only on detecting those who had been invaded. She’d never tried to find out if other nobles had magery; she’d accepted the convention that they did not.
What if more did? Rothlin, Beclan’s older brother, the king’s friend, cousin, and potential heir … or even Duke Mahieran himself, unknowingly carrying the seed of magery, passing it to his children? What if the king himself did?
She glanced at Mahieran, his face pinched with cold and pain. Was he thinking the same thing? What would happen to Tsaia and its relation to Fintha, to the Fellowship of Gird, if it were known that magery still existed not only in the Verrakaien but in others … in all?
“How fast is she likely to travel?” Dorrin asked after they had slowed the horses for a breather.
“If it were not for the girls, very fast indeed. Celbrin rides well, but I’ve never known her to push the pace. But angry as she was last night—and with whatever intent she has today—I don’t know. And she has a long lead on us.”
“Are we sure she’s going to Vérella?” Beclan asked.
“We are not sure of anything,” Mahieran said, “except that all has changed, not only for you and our family but for all.”
“Where else might she go?” Dorrin asked.
“Her parents’ home,” Mahieran said. “Western Konhalt. It’s close to your border. Not far from where Beclan was patrolling.”
Dorrin thought back to the maps in her office. She had known Konhalt land was south of hers and that not all Konhalts had been attainted; once those who were had been captured and taken to Vérella, she’d ignored Konhalt domains. Had his mother’s relatives planned the attack?
The rest of the way to the city, the party said little. Traffic between Vérella and the Mahieran estate continued through the winter, with couriers back and forth almost daily, so the hoofprints heading north might be—or might not be—those of Celbrin and the Mahieran daughters.
Dorrin paused at Verrakai House to let her house-wards know she was in the city, then rode on to the palace with Mahieran and Beclan. Mahieran sent one of their escort to Mahieran House.
The guards at the palace gates let them in. “Did my lady come earlier?” Mahieran asked.
“No, my lord. Did you expect her?”
“I thought she might have. She’s in town,” Mahieran said. He dismounted with difficulty, grimacing; Dorrin knew his arm must be giving him great pain. They handed their horses off to stable staff and at the entrance met one of the palace staff hurrying to meet them.
“My lords! We did not expect you today.”
“I know,” Mahieran said. “But circumstances brought me here—and Duke Verrakai and my son Beclan as well. Please inform the king that I beg an audience as soon as may be.”
“Trouble?” the man asked.
“A matter of concern,” Mahieran said.
“I will tell him,” the man said. He bowed and withdrew.
Servants had appeared by then and led them to a room with a fireplace; others came with hot sib and pastries.
“Are you all right, Father?” Beclan asked.
“My arm hurts, I’m cold, I’m stiff, and I’m hungry,” Mahieran said. “I’m also worried. Aside from that, I’m all right.”
They had been waiting only a short time—still not through with the large pot of sib—when Rothlin Mahieran opened the door.
“Father—Beclan—my lord Verrakai—I was told you were here. What’s amiss?”
“I must speak to Mikeli first, Roth,” Mahieran said.
Rothlin plucked a pastry from the tray and sat down in one of the empty chairs. “Did you send Mother ahead of you?”
“No,” Mahieran said.
“Well, past noontide, Mother sent me a note from our house here. She wanted me to arrange an audience with the king but did not say why. I sent it in, but Mikeli’s been busy with other matters. He’ll see you before he sees her, he says.”
“That’s good,” Mahieran said. “I was hoping for that.”
“Can you tell me what it’s about?”
“No, Roth, I can’t. Not until I’ve talked to the king and the Marshal-Judicar.”
“Beclan’s not … invaded …”
“No,” Dorrin said. “He is not.”
“Then—you’ll tell me later, won’t you?”
“Yes. My word on it.”
If I’d done what Duke Verrakai told me, none of this would have happened,” Beclan said. The Marshal-Judicar, who had asked for the tale “from the beginning,” harrumphed.
“What did she tell you to do, Beclan?” Mikeli asked. The king’s gaze did not waver.
“Gather up troops from the villages along the way back to the main house and then follow directly to Harway. But that’s not what I did. I thought I could gather more troops going a different way.”
“Why?”
Beclan flushed. “To show off, sir king. I—I wanted to bring in more than she expected.”
“I see.” Mikeli glanced at Dorrin, then at Duke Mahieran. “Were you alone when you made this decision?”
“No, sir king. My escort—two tensquads—was with me, and Sergeant Vossik said I shouldn’t.”
“Sergeant Vossik was …”
“A veteran of Phelan’s Company, sir king. He died to save me.” Beclan’s voice wavered. “I told that before.”
“I have the Royal Guard commander’s report on this,” Mikeli said. “And the reports your father has sent, as well as the letters you wrote him. And there is an oath between us, Beclan Mahieran, an oath I think must be in doubt, since you and your father and Duke Verrakai come asking immediate audience with me and the Marshal-Judicar.” He leaned forward a little, his face stern. “I warned you, Beclan Mahieran, that the oath you swore was binding as if you were of age. That false swearing was treason. Did I not?”
“Yes, sir king.”
“So tell me now, Beclan: did you swear falsely? Do you come to beg mercy for being faithless, with all these additional deaths to your name? Every one of those men now lying dead, men sent to guard you, was known to me personally. Every one had a father, a mother; some were fathers themselves. They are dead because of you, Beclan, and I tell you I will not forgive you if you are guilty of designing their deaths.”
Dorrin glanced at Beclan. Tears ran down his face, but his voice was clear as he said, “Sir king, when I gave you my oath, I swore truly, as far as I knew. I thought Gird himself had given me the strength to resist those men, their attempt to invade me.”
“And now?”
“And now … I think … Duke Verrakai has confirmed … that something—maybe their attack, maybe Gird, maybe both—awakened some talent of my own, some innate magery I did not know I possessed. The night they attacked the cottage
, I woke aware of danger. I heard a noise; I felt the same pressure I’d felt before. A sort of … of call. I took my sword and tried to sneak down the stairs, but something hit my head, and when I woke up again, it was all over.”
“That was the night the cottage was attacked, sir king,” Mahieran said. “I had met Duke Verrakai on the River Road, on her way to Vérella, and when I told her about Beclan’s situation, she insisted the precautions against attack were not enough. She convinced me. We rode for the cottage and arrived to find the attack in progress.”
“As you wrote in the report I received this morning.”
“Yes, sir king.”
“But you did not mention this … possibility.”
“No, sir king; I did not know of it until Beclan came to me this morning and told me. That courier went off last night. I was wounded in the attack, as were many of my soldiers, and Beclan had no chance to talk to me privately.”
“And her part in this?” The king’s glance at Dorrin was cold.
“She saved my life and Beclan’s,” Mahieran said. “If she had not insisted we go to the cottage, he might very well be invaded or dead. He was knocked unconscious, went into convulsions—and she healed him.”
“I could wish she had not been so hasty,” the king said.
“Mikeli—! Sir king—” Mahieran’s face paled.
“I do not hate Beclan, Uncle,” the king said. “But he has complicated my life, and yours, and that of the realm. If he had died of injuries inflicted by rogue Verrakaien, he would have been a tragic and heroic figure, deeply and honestly mourned. Think how many people have died on his behalf, trying to save a Mahieran from evil … and yet he is tainted, and yet he is alive. Is that fair?”
“It is not fair to blame Beclan for the deaths of those who guarded the cottage,” the Marshal-Judicar said slowly. “They were ordered there by you, sir king. You and Duke Mahieran chose to make the lad bait—you knew trouble might come. The lad is not responsible for that.”
Echoes of Betrayal Page 41
