“My beloved,” Marek said coldly. “And now my betrothed.”
“But that’s another thing!” Hinda said, a hand to her reddening cheek. “She’s a witch—you can’t marry her! You’re a prince!”
“I will marry her,” Marek said. “If I must renounce my birthright to do so, then I will. As you just said, I never wanted the throne.”
“But you can’t do that!” the queen protested. “You’re my heir! You’re all that’s left of our family; you must take the throne!”
Marek paused at that; Darissa could sense his mood changing from anger to pity. “What?”
“You’re all that’s left!”
“You never married?”
“Married who? I couldn’t marry a commoner, it was politically impossible even if I found one I wanted, which I did not. I needed a king or a prince from another kingdom, and we’ve fought wars against half our neighbors, and marrying the wrong one would anger the others, and…and I didn’t want any of them. The kings and princes around us who weren’t already married and were anywhere near my age were all repulsive, and most of them weren’t interested. Oh, I considered it anyway, I sent emissaries and secret envoys, but even the ones who didn’t refuse outright rejected the role of prince consort—they would be kings of Melitha or nothing, and I would no longer rule my own realm. I would not accept that.”
“No, of course not,” Marek said, and Darissa felt a thread of bitter amusement beneath the pity.
“That was why it became so urgent to find you!” the queen said. “I wanted to revive you once our father was gone and I was firmly on the throne, but the wizard said the statue had been stolen, and…and I admit it, I did not really try to recover it. I thought it would be safe enough, wherever it was. But once I knew I could no longer hope to bear children even if I did find someone to sire them, I needed you to take the throne when I die. We need an heir! Without one, there will be wars, and Melitha will be destroyed.”
Marek stared at his sister. Darissa could feel the intense tangle of his emotions—love and hate and pride and disgust and more. From Hinda she felt hope and despair and anger and guilt.
Then Marek said, “I will marry Darissa. If that means I cannot inherit the throne from you, then so be it—I will do my best to negotiate a peaceful transition to whatever nation may claim Melitha.”
“But you can’t,” Hinda said. “Don’t you think I’ve tried? Trafoa and Bhella will never agree to anything Kanthoa and Eknera will accept. There will be a war if there isn’t a clear heir.”
“Then name one—one of your advisors.”
“No, please, Marek, don’t do this! That won’t work, no one would accept it. You know that.”
Darissa saw that Hinda firmly believed that, and what’s more, she knew why. Hinda knew that she was not loved and trusted enough for her choice to be accepted once she was gone. She knew that her court was made up of rivals and enemies vying for favor and position, not allies working together for the good of the kingdom. She was not happy about this, nor proud of it, but she knew it and acknowledged it to herself as her own failure.
But only to herself. She would never say it aloud.
“Then I will be king when you are gone, and Darissa will be my queen,” Marek said calmly, refusing to yield.
“You can’t do that!” Hinda shouted, almost in tears. “The Wizards’ Guild will not allow it! At best they will depose you; more likely they will kill you both. No magician can be a king or queen, or consort to a king or queen; you know that!”
“Marek,” Darissa said, “you do not need to marry me. I will be your mistress, and you can marry some princess who will bear your heirs.”
Marek turned on her angrily, perhaps the angriest she had ever seen him. “No!” he said. “I will not do that. That would not be fair or kind to you, or to this imagined princess or our hypothetical children! To live knowing your husband loves another, and that you exist only to produce heirs—what sort of misery is that? To grow up knowing your father only tolerates your mother out of political expedience—what sort of childhood is that? And to have you dismissed as a mere toy, rather than my beloved equal? I will not do that! You accepted my proposal of marriage, and I will not withdraw it. I love you, Darissa, and I will marry you, and if the Wizards’ Guild does not approve, may demons take them all!”
“Marek, brother, please!” Hinda said, reaching out toward him. “You can’t marry a witch! This isn’t Klathoa!”
For an instant there was silence, but then Darissa said, “Then I won’t be a witch.”
This time the silence lasted longer as the siblings turned to stare at her.
“But you are a witch,” Hinda said.
Darissa raised her chin. “I am a witch’s apprentice,” she said. “But after forty-five years, I have not been made journeyman—what sort of a witch is that?”
“But…that forty years…” Marek said.
“Is forty years,” Darissa said. “My master still lives, but has never approved my promotion. Clearly, I am a failed apprentice and will never be a witch.”
“The Wizards’ Guild will not be fooled,” Hinda said.
“The Wizards’ Guild owes us a favor,” Darissa replied. “For what we did in Tazmor, if nothing else.”
“Can you give up your magic?” the queen asked.
“No,” Darissa said.
“Hinda,” Marek said, “I am going to marry Darissa. Then, if the Wizards’ Guild has no objection, I will be your heir to the throne of Melitha. We will argue that despite her magic, she never completed her apprenticeship and is therefore not a witch. We will argue that the existence of Klathoa and the Vondish Empire demonstrates their willingness to make exceptions. If they agree, I am your heir; if they do not, then you’ll have to find someone else. Perhaps…” He looked at Darissa. “Perhaps we will have a child who can inherit the throne.”
Darissa smiled. “I would be happy with that,” she said. “I’ve been preventing it, but if I am no longer to use my magic, that’s an easy place to start.”
Hinda looked frustrated and lost, but then she gathered herself together. She rose to her feet, raised her chin, and pointed a hand at the two of them. “I will accept this,” she said.
“You have no choice,” Marek said.
“Do not interrupt me! I am still the Queen of Melitha. You struck me, apprentice, and for that you should die, but I know…”
“My hand did not touch you,” Darissa interrupted. She could feel that Hinda was on the verge of collapse, that she was barely holding herself together, but she was not going yield to the woman who had stolen forty years from her. If Hinda tried to punish her, she would find out that witchcraft could harm people, even if witches almost never used it that way.
“Your magic did, child!” But then the queen sagged. “And because I have wronged you, I will pardon it. Now be still, while I make a decree.”
The lovers exchanged glances. “We can always leave if we don’t like it,” Marek said.
“Fine. Go on, your Majesty.”
“I hereby give you permission to wed, and to remain in Melitha. I name my brother, Prince Marek, as my provisional heir, and require you to make what terms you can with the Wizards’ Guild in this regard. We will announce that you have been under a spell all these years, cast by a wizard in the pay of one of our foes in the war we were fighting when you vanished. There will be no mention of my own role in your enchantment, or this agreement is void. Our entire conversation here today did not happen—neither of you will say anything of it to anyone but the three of us. I ask you, Marek, to study government to the best of your ability, so that you might be a good king when I am gone. I ask you, Darissa, to refrain from making use of your magic in public, and to refuse any attempt to promote you to journeyman. Do you accept these terms?”
The pair exchanged glances again.
“I do,” Darissa said.
“Then I do, as well,” Marek said, “though we still have much to discuss in private, sister.”
Hinda relaxed. “I know,” she said. “I know. I’m sorry. But for now, let us go announce your safe return and welcome you home.”
Marek rose, as did Darissa—and only then, belatedly, did Darissa realized they had remained seated in the presence of the queen, which was a serious violation of court etiquette.
Marek knocked on the door, and the guard outside opened it, and the three of them marched back to the great hall to spread the joyous news of Prince Marek’s safe return.
Chapter Forty-Seven
Morvash of the Shadows
10th of Newfrost, YS 5238
The door of Erdrik’s house was broken open and hanging from one hinge; apparently Tarker had come up from underneath the house, and then smashed its way out in pursuit of Zerra’s carpet. On Ithinia’s advice, Lieutenant Fullan and his soldiers had prevented anyone from entering the house, or even going near it, while they waited for matters to be resolved elsewhere.
The men on guard recognized Morvash, though, and after a brief discussion allowed him past. He marched up the steps and pushed the ruined door aside.
Karn, his uncle’s senior footman, had accompanied him, while Zarek, Gror’s coachman, waited with his vehicle; now Karn hesitated on the steps.
“Oh, come on in,” Morvash told him.
The two men made their way inside, where they were immediately swarmed by several chairs. Papers and nicknacks that had been piled on shelves and tables were now strewn on the slate floor of the entryway, presumably knocked there by Tarker’s passage; several of the papers were damp, the ink smeared, and Morvash guessed that rain had blown in through the open doorway. He shooed the chairs away and led Karn further in.
The fire on the hearth in the parlor did not light when they entered the room; Morvash guessed that some of the house’s magic had died with its master, or perhaps merely been disrupted by the demon’s violent entrance and exit.
That entrance had evidently been made through the dining room floor; the polished wood had been smashed upward, leaving a five-foot hole. Splinters and broken bits of board were scattered throughout the room, and the table had been thrown against the north wall. The chandelier was intact but had lost most of its candles; the sideboard was where it had always been, but the brass bowl was on its side and the platters out of position.
Leaning carefully, Morvash peered down into the hole and saw the familiar cellars, but with a gaping hole in the stone floor.
Karn stood beside him, looking down. “Was it like that before, sir?”
“No,” Morvash said. He grimaced. “I think this house will have to be torn down; I don’t think it’s safe.” Not, he thought to himself, that it ever was really safe.
“I see,” Karn said, stepping back from the hole.
The kitchen seemed undamaged, and unchanged, and Morvash studied the connecting passage, trying to determine whether there was a seam between the World and some other place. If the kitchen really was in another reality that might make demolishing the house more complicated. He had been meaning to check this for months, but had never gotten around to it.
He ran his athame along the wall of the passageway without finding any discontinuity, but then he came to the doorway joining it to the dining room and had a sudden glimpse of a dusty, empty closet, and the top of a cellar stair that did not run straight, as the visible one did, but turned a sharp corner. That was the division.
That sort of magic was far above his abilities; he would leave it to Ithinia and the other Guildmasters. He turned and headed for the stairs.
The upper floors showed less immediate damage; the demon had evidently not bothered to come up here, since by the time it burst through the floor downstairs Karitha had already been flown away. Morvash walked slowly along the gallery, looking it over.
The brazier he had used for Javan’s Restorative was still there; the remaining jewelweed was strewn across the floor, and the peacock feathers had toppled. The window where he and his companions had climbed onto Zerra’s carpet was still open, and the floor below it stained where rain had blown in. A broken rod dangled above one window where draperies had been torn down to serve as improvised garments.
All the statuary was gone, of course, and the place looked bare and desolate. There was no sign of the cat that had been a soapstone carving before Morvash cast his spell; he supposed it had gotten out the broken front door and was living in an alley somewhere.
The alcove at the north end of the gallery was not the one that Morvash had seen during his months of preparation, but the one that had appeared when Erdrik was released. He tried the vault door, but it was locked.
Karn cleared his throat, reminding Morvash that he was there. The wizard turned.
“Those are mine,” he said, pointing to the ingredients from his spell. “In fact, anything you find in this room is mine. But most of my things are in the bedroom back there.”
“Which bedroom, sir?”
“I’ll show you.” As they walked, he added, “The food in the kitchen is mine, too—anything that hasn’t gone bad.”
Half an hour later the two men had gathered all of Morvash’s belongings, and had begun loading them into the coach when a woman approached them. She was not quite young anymore, but by no means elderly.
“Excuse me,” she said.
Morvash stopped shoving a box of assorted supplies onto the seat of the coach. “Yes?” he said, straightening up.
“Are you Morvash of the Shadows?”
Unsure what to expect, Morvash warily said, “Yes.”
To his astonishment, she flung her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “Thank you!” she exclaimed.
“For what?” he asked, baffled.
“You saved my brother! He spent thirty-five years as a statue, and now he’s back!”
“Oh,” Morvash said, blinking. “Which one was he?”
“Radler the Difficult,” she replied. “He was just a boy, eleven years old. I was nine.”
“Oh,” Morvash said again. “I think I remember him.” He was one of the ones Ariella had been unable to hear.
“You have to let us thank you! Please, come see us when you can—we live in Eastwark, on North Eastwark Street, two blocks from the wall. Come to dinner!”
“Maybe when I have the time…”
“Please! It’s the least we can do.” She reached for her belt. “And I know we can’t pay you the full fee, but please accept this.” She pulled an unbroken round of silver from her purse and held it out.
Morvash wordlessly accepted the coin, still trying to comprehend what was happening.
“North Eastwark Street,” she repeated. “The house on the corner has a shrine to Blusheld, with a bronze bowl for flowers, and we’re the next house west.”
“Thank you,” Morvash said, still holding the silver.
“If there’s anything else we can do for you, just tell us!”
“Of course,” the wizard said, and then immediately thought that was a stupid thing to say.
The woman apparently did not; she just grinned, released him, and walked away, smiling back at him over her shoulder.
Morvash watched her go, then looked at Karn.
The footman remarked, “She thinks you’re a hero, sir.”
“Well, it’s good to know someone appreciates what I did.”
“Sir, I have heard what some of our house-guests said about you. Your efforts are very definitely appreciated.”
“Oh,” Morvash said. He wondered whether he was blushing; he felt as if he might be. He shoved the box into place and said, “Come on, let’s get this stuff back t
o my uncle’s place.”
They made the trip back to Lord Landessin’s mansion without incident, though once or twice Morvash thought he heard his name spoken, and some of the people on the streets seemed to be staring at the coach even more than usual.
They had just brought the first load into the house when Gror intercepted his nephew. “Any problems?” he asked.
“No,” Morvash said. He hesitated, trying to decide whether to mention the woman on the street.
“Good, good,” Gror said, not noticing the hesitation. “Because it seems you have a dinner engagement.”
“I what?”
“A messenger came while you were out. You are requested—not invited, requested—to dine with Ithinia of the Isle at her home on Lower Street tonight.”
“Oh,” Morvash said. “She must want to know what happened to Erdrik.”
“I’d guess she wants more than that,” Gror said. “But you’ll find out soon enough.”
Neither of them mentioned any possibility of refusing the request; turning down Ithinia would be unwise, and they both knew it.
Accordingly, as the sun was sinking behind the western rooftops Morvash found himself knocking on the Guildmaster’s door beneath the careful scrutiny of two gargoyles. A servant of some sort—Morvash was unsure whether the man was a butler, a footman, a housekeeper, or what—ushered him inside and led him to the dinner table.
Ithinia was already seated. “Thank you, Obdur,” she said. “Please sit, Morvash.”
There was only one other chair at the table, so there was no question of where; he took his place and looked around uncomfortably.
The room was large and elegant without being extravagant, and Ithinia obviously liked white—the walls and half the furniture were white, as well as the Guildmaster’s robe. A place was set before him. Morvash pulled in his chair and looked at Ithinia expectantly.
“Obdur will bring the soup in a moment,” she said. “But let us get directly to business.”
Stone Unturned: A Legend of Ethshar Page 44
