The Pearls

by Deborah Chester

  The Guards were coming in now, summoned by the chamberlain, but with a frown Elandra gestured for them to wait.

  “I pity you those lessons, Bixia,” she said in compassion.

  Lifting a tearstained face, Bixia sniffed dolefully. “The Penestricans are not kind,” she whispered.

  “No.”

  “But—but they’ve given me a place, a shelter, a—a home of sorts. Else I would have had nothing.”

  “Our father would have housed you, married you elsewhere.”

  Something—either cynicism or scorn—twisted Bixia’s features briefly before it vanished. “You were his favorite. When Hecati’s true affiliations were discovered, he abandoned me. He did what you’re doing now, judging me by what she was. I had nowhere to go, nothing I could do except stay inside the order.” She wrung her hands together. “It wasn’t fair!”

  How often had Elandra heard her half sister wail that complaint? But how much of life truly was fair? She wished she could believe Bixia’s change of heart. She wanted to, quite intensely. But Elandra remembered the lie Bixia had told their father about how her expensive Mahiran wedding robe came to be torn, and how she’d done nothing when Elandra was blamed for the damage and punished. Every stinging blow of Hecati’s stick remained branded on Elandra’s memory. The humiliation of Hecati’s foot on her neck, grinding her face into the carpet, returned as sharp and vivid as the moment it happened. Elandra’s fingers dug hard into the wooden arms of her chair.

  “What do you want of me, really?” she asked.

  “Can you never forgive me?” Bixia asked softly, tilting her head to one side. “Can we never again be sisters?”

  Elandra had sometimes imagined what she would do or say if Bixia were ever found. The idea of Bixia being safe all this time, with never a message sent, never a single attempt at communication made, was disturbing. I was foolish to worry about her, Elandra told herself now. Bixia is the sort who always survives. Elandra was not a person to hold grudges, but she supposed Bixia wanted a place at court. Elandra would have believed her more readily if Bixia had come begging for money.

  “Oh,” Bixia said now as the silence lengthened. Her expression grew bleak with disappointment. “I see. I am too late for reconciliation. You are too great in estate and position, and I am too low.”

  “That’s absurd,” Elandra said, stung. “You cannot accuse me of such snobbery.”

  “I beg Your Majesty’s pardon. I do not presume to make any accusation at all.”

  Elandra frowned, debating over whether to send for a truth-finder. The Penestricans were the best at it, but her most recent summons to the sisterhood had resulted in this sudden, completely unexpected visit from Bixia. They are testing me, Elandra thought with a spurt of resentment. Just as they did long ago before my marriage to Kostimon. They are trying me in some mysterious way to suit their own purposes.

  Annoying though they were, the Penestricans were staunch allies to the throne, and Elandra did not want to damage that alliance. Furthermore, although she might not like Bixia, she knew she should not appear so cold, so un-sympathetic that people said she’d become a haughty empress, too arrogant to reach out to members of her own family. Bixia, she saw, looked unhealthy. There was strain in her eyes when she wasn’t casting all her charm at Elandra, a sort of exhaustion in the droop of her shoulders that said perhaps she was still ill-treated. Whatever lay in the past between them, her half sister was plainly in need.

  “We shall see, Bixia,” Elandra said. “I must consider what you’ve said to me.”

  Relief lit Bixia’s face, and she looked pretty again. “Thank you!” she cried eagerly. “I know it’s hard for you—for Your Majesty to believe that I’ve changed. I was never good to you before. I was selfish and vain. I know that now.”

  “So you’ve said.”

  “Let me do something for you, something to show you the worth of my intentions.”

  “That isn’t necessary.”

  “Oh, but I want to! I have a talent, a very small gift. The Penestricans discovered it during my training.” A shadow flickered in her face, then vanished swiftly. “A little gift of seeing.”

  This time, Elandra could not conceal her astonishment. “You? Capable of visions?”

  Bixia laughed. “Oh no! Not visions, and I cannot cast truth. I can’t even be trained. I just glimpse what the great Magria is seeing in the rituals.” She shrugged helplessly and gave Elandra a small smile. “It causes trouble, so I’m not allowed to participate or even enter the serpent pit.”

  Confused, Elandra sat back, not sure she believed such a tale.

  Lady Avitria caught her eye. “I have heard of such people, Majesty,” she murmured helpfully. “They are called latents.”

  “Oh yes.” Elandra nodded. “The naturals who are sometimes found in villages and brought into the orders for…training?”

  “More likely to protect them from ignorant peasants.” Lady Avitria glanced at Bixia and said cautiously, “I have always heard latents are not trainable.”

  “I’m not,” Bixia agreed blithely. “I’m of no use to the sisters. I can’t even manage to be a dream walker. So I am a service sister. I clean and mend. Sometimes I see what the great Magria sees, and sometimes I don’t.”

  Distracted by the unwelcome—although just—image of her highborn sister scrubbing and fetching for the sisterhood, Elandra heard a strong hint in Bixia’s voice.

  She sent Bixia a sharp look. “And you’ve seen the latest of the Magria’s visions?”

  Bixia nodded. “She’ll be angry with me for telling, but how can it hurt if I show it to you?” Hesitating, she tilted her head and sent Elandra a most beguiling little smile.

  Elandra found herself smiling back. How often had she seen Bixia turn such a look on their father? He had melted every time beneath Bixia’s charm. Elandra remembered how amusing Bixia could be in their father’s presence, how she used to make him roar with laughter, how she used to coax anything from him that she wanted.

  Still, Elandra remained cautious. Tempting though it was, she was about to refuse Bixia’s offer when her half sister said, “I thought it might please you to see how the emperor’s sister does on her journey.”

  Everyone came to attention. Even Lady Avitria smiled, and the chamberlain stepped closer.

  “Lady Lea is well?” he asked eagerly, forgetting it was not his place to interrupt the empress during an audience. “She has reached Trau safely?”

  Bixia hesitated, and Elandra lifted her hand to recall the chamberlain to his duty.

  Turning red, he mumbled an apology, bowed, and retreated.

  Swiftly Elandra reconsidered her decision. As yet the court was unaware that Lea might be in difficulties. Her young sister-in-law’s immense popularity had not waned since her departure from the palace. If anything, people talked about her more.

  The overwhelming desire for news made Elandra set aside her caution. How could Bixia know about Lea unless she really had seen something, perhaps even the same vision Caelan had seen? Elandra dared not throw away this opportunity to gain more information. With her guards and attendants in the chamber, she felt safe enough.

  “You won’t tell the great Magria, will you?” Bixia asked with some apprehension. “I mean, she hasn’t given me permission to do this, and only she is supposed to share visions with Your Majesty. I just wanted to prove to you that I’ve changed.”

  It was rather pathetic, Elandra thought. Poor Bixia, plumper, not as pretty now, not as young. Elandra saw the same lazy defiance of rules, the same willingness to do whatever it took to get what she wanted.

  I’ll give her anything, Elandra thought, although she had no intention of saying so, or of looking too eager. “What payment do you ask for this defiance of the Magria’s rules?”

  Bixia looked shocked. “Nothing!”

  “You don’t expect a place at court? The emperor’s sister is much favored here. Do you want the same status?”

  Greed flickere
d in Bixia’s eyes, but she bowed her head quickly. “No, Majesty. I ask for nothing.”

  Elandra heard the lie in Bixia’s voice and knew the request would come, if not today, then soon. Bixia must be wild to escape the strict austerity of the sisterhood. No doubt her eyes had been filled today with the grandeur and magnificence of the women’s pavilion. They could never beat the love of luxury out of her, Elandra thought.

  Warning herself not to expect too much from this unreliable source of information, Elandra stepped off the dais to join her half sister. When her protector tried to accompany her, she waved him back.

  “Very well,” she said to Bixia. “Cast your vision if you can.”

  “Majesty,” the protector said, “take care.”

  Nodding, she watched Bixia, still not believing her capable of much.

  Bixia raised her hands into the air and tilted back her head, mouthing something in silence. Then she reached into her robes and brought forth a handful of pale sand. She dribbled it onto the floor in a pattern that did not resemble the usual Penestrican symbols. Indeed, these looked like harmless squiggles, and the sight of them made Elandra frown in disappointment, certain that this was charlatanism after all.

  Bixia beckoned Elandra to step onto the sand. “Look, Empress,” she whispered, holding her hands before Elandra’s face and spreading them wide.

  At first there was nothing to see, but then a glimmer appeared in the air between Elandra and her half sister. Elandra saw the air darken before her as a swirling cloud of inky mist formed.

  “Look,” Bixia said, her voice taking on the crooning persuasion of a professional hustler. “Come closer. Look deep and see.”

  Frowning a little, Elandra refused to lean forward as she was urged, but she did look.

  And she saw a shape, very small, very dim, taking form within the dark swirling mist. It looked like a girl. It looked like Lea. Amazed, Elandra reached out.

  Quick as a striking cobra, Bixia grabbed her wrist and twisted it hard, jerking her forward into the mist. Instinctively, cursing her own gullibility, Elandra pulled back, lifting her topaz pendant for protection as she did so.

  Fire shot from the mist, right at her face, but struck the pendant instead and glanced off. Although most of the magic shot missed Elandra, as she ducked she felt the edge of it burn across her temple. People were shouting around her, and she heard Bixia cursing in a shrill, frantic voice.

  Elandra’s pendant exploded. Knocked backward by the blast, Elandra was torn from Bixia’s grasp. Her ears were ringing. Her whole body felt numb. She could see nothing. And then she hit the floor with a jolting impact that knocked the breath from her lungs. The back of her head hit something hard and sharp, flaring white pain through her head, and all went dark.

  Chapter 22

  With a groan, Thirbe came to, and found himself lying with his face in the dust. He shifted his head, which weighed as much as a boulder, scraping his cheek through the dirt before he managed to rest it on his outflung arm.

  Memory stirred in his muddled thoughts, confused impressions of shouting and violence exploding around him, the thunder of galloping hooves, a stab in the back, steel—alien and cold—piercing his armor and ribs, the jolting impact of hitting the ground, then nothing.

  Until now.

  Merciful Gault, but he hurt.

  All was quiet around him, save for some birds squawking in the trees and the song of insects in the grass. He’d fallen into a small fissure of rock down below the trail, and extracting himself was awkward. Sitting up nearly made him pass out, but he sucked in his breath to keep from yelling and endured until the pain subsided. Nauseated and trembling, clammy with sweat, he felt certain he might as well lie down and die right there.

  He did neither.

  The wound was midway up his back. He was losing blood, and when he tried to lift his left arm the agony left him doubled over and gasping.

  So here he was, sitting trailside, with a sharp piece of rock digging into his rump while he slowly bled to death. Thirst burned his throat. Someone had stolen his cloak, but he still had his boots and weapons, probably thanks to having fallen into these rocks.

  Betrayal was a sour thing, a rotten evil, and he cursed Hervan in all ways possible. He cursed the Crimsons and their fool ideas that had jeopardized the emperor’s sister and brought him, Rafin Thirbe, to being left to die in a dusty ditch.

  “May you find hell, Hervan,” he swore aloud. “May you rot there for a thousand eternities with Mael’s breath charring your bones and Beloth’s claws digging out your entrails. May your flesh burst from pustules and your privates shrivel up and burn with fire. Damn you!”

  A soft sound down the slope from him caught his attention away from angry self-pity. He drew his dagger, gritting his teeth in an effort not to moan, and leaned forward as much as he dared to see what was coming. A sorrel horse with a white blaze came into sight. It was grazing with its bridle on, the reins dragging the ground, a saddle twisted askew on its back. Thirbe stared in disbelief. It was his horse, and he’d never loved an animal more than at that moment.

  He licked his dry lips and gave a low whistle. The horse lifted its head, pricking its ears in Thirbe’s direction and staring at him while Thirbe held his breath and dared make no movement that might frighten it off.

  “Come on. Come on,” he said under his breath.

  The horse put its head down to graze again, cropping the sparse tufts of grass growing from rocky ground.

  “Here, you lazy rack of bones,” Thirbe said. He whistled again, holding out his hand.

  The horse snorted and climbed the hill to him with some tail switching and head tossing. It hesitated just out of reach, and Thirbe forced himself not to lunge for the dangling reins.

  “Come on,” he crooned, and the horse walked up to him and blew hot breath in his hair as it nuzzled him. Its velvety mouth lipped his fingers.

  Thirbe closed his hand over the reins and felt profound thankfulness.

  Using his horse as support, he made it to his feet, gasping and fighting off the tiny black spots dancing in his vision. It wasn’t easy, but he righted the saddle and fumbled in his supply pouch for cloth and a spare sword belt. Eventually he got a crude bandage cinched around himself, and then he sat down for a while, the reins firmly knotted around his wrist so the horse couldn’t wander off while he slept.

  When he awakened, feeling more parched and terribly weak, he found the sun going down.

  His head had cleared, and although his anger burned a steady flame in his heart, he felt grateful that he’d not died unsworn; Gault had been merciful to him there.

  Feeling decidedly shaken by his close call, he bent his proud neck and humbly gave thanks, seeking forgiveness for his actions and renewing his vows. Maybe the gods would accept his prayer and maybe not. He would have to perform an act of atonement for taking the Hidden Ways. When he found a priest he’d have to pay for a sacrifice and full cleansing rites.

  For the first time since regaining consciousness, he allowed himself to wonder about Lady Lea.

  Hervan, the damned little pox mark, had been right when he’d said Thirbe loved her, aye, he did. But like a daughter. He’d felt the brittle shell around his heart soften from the first day he entered her service, when her blue eyes had stared at him with such warm understanding and her smile had lit up his dour world.

  Gritting his teeth, Thirbe climbed into the saddle and set his horse picking its way slowly through the battle site. Men lay sprawled in death, flies buzzing around them, stripped of boots and gear, their protections and personal effects scattered, their fine uniforms bedraggled or stolen, their helmet plumes trampled in the dirt. Vultures already wheeled lazily in the sky, waiting for the feast to come. The unnecessary waste of lives made Thirbe scowl grimly.

  He found Lieutenant Rozer, lying gray and still in an enormous pool of blood. He found Sergeant Taime crumpled near the gulch wall, so hacked and battered he was almost unrecognizable. Nearby lay Aszon
dal’s body, tangled with the corpse of a mercenary. And over in the bushes, as though he’d been hiding, lay Poulso the priest, stabbed in the back.

  “Like me,” Thirbe muttered with a fresh wave of anger.

  Bad enough to see his comrades slain like this, but it was the betrayal that burned Thirbe worse than his wound.

  The insult of it, the dirty cowardice of Rozer’s sneaky blow just as they poured out of the Hidden Ways, left a bad taste that Thirbe could not spit out of his mouth.

  “Knifed and left for dead,” he said. “But I ain’t dead, Captain Fancy-Me-Lad, and since you ain’t here, I figure you’ve slipped off and let your men die without you.”

  He circled around, counting carefully, but Hervan was not found. At the edge of the trampled ground, Thirbe finally found a track, a hoofprint he recognized as belonging to the captain’s horse. Thirbe had been trained to always know the tracks of his officers in case of trouble; the skill had come in useful during his army years, even more useful when he was a predlicate, and now he stared in the direction Hervan had taken and narrowed his eyes.

  “I ain’t letting you get away with attempted murder, shadow magic, and whatever the hell else you’re doing,” he said aloud. “Using the shadows always carries a reckoning. I don’t know what’ll be coming to me for it, but I’m your reckoning, boy. I’m your reckoning.”

  He knew he hadn’t a prayer of saving Lady Lea now. Gault help the poor maiden, for he’d failed her. But he could hunt down Hervan and take vengeance on him. Young Captain Hervan of the Household Regiment—blessed with good looks and the vanity to go with them, a young man favored at court, favored in life, raised to do anything he pleased and damn the consequences—was not going to be saved this time, Thirbe thought grimly.

  “Papa can’t buy you out of this trouble,” Thirbe muttered, his voice hoarse as he tightened his reins. “Thanks to you, my sweet lady is lost. For that, and this hole in my back, I’ll be your shadow. I’ll track you, chase you through the very gates of hell, if I must. I’ll see you eat steel, even if I die for it.”