Stormcaster

by Cinda Williams Chima

  Lyss could not let that happen, but she couldn’t think of how she could avoid it, short of tying strips of sheet together and hanging herself. But she was her mother’s sole living heir. Worse, it would mean the end of the Alister line—the line that had survived more than a thousand years against all odds. It was as if she heard her father’s voice in her head. Stay alive.

  No. She would not be the last of the Alisters. She would not.

  Lyss walked out onto the terrace and looked down at the ocean below. The marble wall of the palace above and below the terrace was smooth, seamless, impossible to climb. Even if she had a rope, the only place she could possibly go was into the water. The familiar tide of panic rose in her, threatening to drown her before she ever got wet. The empress couldn’t have chosen a better barrier to prevent her escape.

  She should have spent more time with her father and Cat Tyburn, learning how to get in and out of tight places. But who knew she would end up a princess held captive in a marble tower?

  There came a soft knock on the door. “Come!” she said, and Breon sloped in, his face a thundercloud. He wore new clothes, as well—only his were velvet and satin, sparkling with jewels. His narrow breeches and fitted jacket showed off the fact that he was filling in nicely. His hair was the color of rich caramel. It had been cut, but the single gold streak had been left longer than the rest. It was braided, and it glittered in the sunlight that streamed in from the terrace. He would have been beautiful, all on his own, even with a scowl on his face. In this garb, he was dazzling.

  They looked at each other—Lyss in her uniform, and Breon in his finery.

  “Well,” Lyss said, “it looks to me like the empress has very different roles in mind for the two of us. She must be intending to keep us alive a little longer.”

  “She brought four sets in different colors—each finer than the last one.” Breon brushed at the velvet, his fingers leaving little tracks. “This is the plainest of the lot.”

  Lyss tried to think of something to say. “You look spectacular, Breon,” she said. “Those suit you—you’re someone who makes the most of them.”

  She’d thought she was giving him a compliment, but he didn’t take it that way. “I an’t a fancy,” Breon muttered. He stripped off the jacket, wadded it up, and threw it in the corner. “Everybody keeps trying to make me into something I’m not, just because I’m pretty.” He pressed his fingers against his face as if he might somehow rearrange it.

  “So . . . you’re thinking that the empress means to . . . ?” Lyss swallowed, sorry that she had gotten into the middle of that question without planning how to end it.

  “Why else would she give me these clothes? Your clothes aren’t like that. Put a curved blade at your belt and sling a bow over your shoulder, and you’d be a Carthian horselord.”

  Lyss looked down at her breeches and overshirt. Then looked up at Breon. “Listen,” she said, “I have no way of knowing what the empress is thinking. I don’t know what she has planned for me. But there are people in this world who wear clothes like yours every single day, and they’re not fancies. The nobility, for instance.”

  “Not where I come from,” Breon growled. “This reminds me of the night you and I met—when Whacks gave me some pretty new clothes so I could do something I’ve been sorry for ever since. I don’t want to go down that road again. I’d rather wear rags. If she doesn’t mean me to be a fancy, maybe she wants to use me to lure people into trouble.”

  “My father always told me to try not to worry about things I can’t do anything about,” Lyss said.

  “Easier said than done. Every plan begins with worry.”

  They came for Breon first. A brace of imperial guards showed up and ordered him to come with them, saying that the empress wanted to see him. He looked fragile next to the bulky guards, his face pale, his eyes wide with fright.

  “Wait!” Lyss commanded. To her surprise, they stopped, and turned back toward her. She embraced Breon, murmuring, “See you soon,” in his ear.

  But she did not see him soon. Hours passed, and dinner came and went, and he did not return. Finally, she crossed through their common area and knocked on his door. No answer. She pushed the door open. “Breon?”

  The room was empty. All of his belongings were gone, as if he had never existed.

  36

  AUDIENCE WITH THE EMPRESS

  Lyss slept little that night, wondering and worrying about Breon. So she was in a particularly foul mood the next morning when a handful of the empress’s guards came to call. She was feeling reckless, itching for a fight, even one she could not win.

  Her visitors included the usual imperial guards, but also a man whose garb resembled her own, the difference being that he was wearing a king’s ransom in gold around his neck and at his wrists. His belt was embedded with jewels, the buckle a dragon fashioned in gold.

  “Captain Gray, I believe?” he said in accented Common.

  “That’s right,” she said.

  The stranger looked her up and down with the kind of arrogant ownership that, in her present state of mind, might lead to bloodshed. His blood. Alternatively, she might take his gold chains and strangle him with them.

  “I’m Captain Samara,” he said, jerking his head toward the door. “Let’s go. The empress has granted you an audience.”

  I didn’t grant her an audience, Lyss wanted to say. But good sense prevailed, and she didn’t.

  Samara led Lyss out of the rear of the palace and through what once must have been a lovely garden. The leafless skeletons of trees remained, some of them braced against the ocean winds. The beds were empty of flowers, though metal markers still displayed the names of those that had once grown there. Arbors and pergolas were still threaded with the stems of vines, and stone statues and sculptures were everywhere, as if trying to compensate for the lack of vegetation. A leathery-skinned servant swept twigs and debris from the walkways.

  “What happened to the garden?” she asked, finally.

  “The only way a garden thrives this far north is through magic. When the magic died, so did the garden. The empress has other priorities right now.”

  Like conquering the Realms? Or hunting down the magemarked?

  Speaking of. “Where’s Breon?” she said, as they neared the far gate.

  “Breon?”

  “My friend. We came here together. You took him away yesterday, and he hasn’t returned.”

  “Ah,” Samara said, “you are speaking of the empress’s brother.”

  Lyss’s stampeding thoughts plunged over a cliff, tumbling until they hit bottom. “Her brother?” She gaped at Samara. “Breon is her brother?”

  “Of course,” Samara said, with the smug assurance of someone on the inside. “Why do you think she has been so eager to find him? Her family has been scattered far and wide, and she is working to bring them all together.” He opened the gate and stood aside so that Lyss could pass through. “Now, we must hurry. The empress does not like to be kept waiting.”

  As they walked, Lyss tried to wrap her mind around what the shiplord had said. Breon was Celestine’s brother? That was hard to believe. They were both breathtakingly beautiful, and they both had metallic streaks in their hair—gold for Breon, and red and blue for the empress. There the resemblance ended. Breon was charming, self-deprecating, nonjudgmental, and instinctively kind. Celestine could be charming—until she wasn’t. Otherwise, she was ruthless, cruel, arrogant, and selfish.

  If they were siblings, how had they become separated? And why was it all such a secret? Why didn’t Breon know about it himself—unless he’d lied about that, too?

  Why wouldn’t the empress simply invite her siblings to a reunion, instead of hunting them across two continents? Of course, there are many reasons a monarch might want to track down siblings. Gerard Montaigne was one example that came to mind—he’d murdered his brothers on his way to the throne.

  But why not simply hire an assassin if that was the goal? Celestine ha
d made it plain that she wanted Breon alive and unhurt.

  One bit of good news—Breon might be glad to know that he was dressed like a prince because he was one.

  The empress was waiting in a small, circular pergola overlooking the sea. She was dressed more simply now, draped in layers of fabric secured by a wide belt, a cowl pulled up over her head. The cowl was the only bit of fancywork—it was elaborately beaded and embroidered. A jeweled, curved blade was jammed into the belt.

  Samara bowed to the empress. “Here is Captain Gray, as you commanded, Empress.”

  Celestine looked her up and down approvingly. “You look like a capable soldier, Captain,” she said. “I trust the fit is good?”

  “Yes,” Lyss said cautiously. “I wondered whether—”

  That was when Lyss noticed the chaise parked beside the wall, where its occupant could look out to sea. A familiar mop of hair peeked over the top of it.

  “Breon!” Lyss knelt beside him, looking anxiously into his face. He was wrapped in furs, eyes half open but unfocused. He returned a vague smile and absently patted her hand.

  “What are you doing out here?”

  “He likes to watch the ships,” Celestine said, though the only ships in view were moored at the dock.

  Lyss stayed focused on Breon’s face. “Is that true? I was worried about you. I didn’t know what—”

  Breon tapped his fingers against his throat and shook his head.

  Lyss swung around to face the empress. “What’s the matter with him?”

  “I’ve taken his voice for now,” Celestine said.

  “What do you mean, you’ve taken his voice?” Lyss’s own voice trembled.

  “There is a desert plant we call ‘secret keeper.’ It stills the vocal cords. Unlike cutting out a person’s tongue, the effect is temporary.”

  “Why would you do that to your own brother?”

  The empress’s eyes narrowed. She looked from Lyss to Samara. “Ah,” she said, and sighed. “Captain Samara has been gossiping again.”

  Samara stood frozen, one hand on the hilt of his curved blade, his face a thundercloud.

  “Perhaps he’s the one you should be dosing,” Lyss said.

  The empress nodded. “Perhaps he is. You are dismissed, Captain Samara. The rest of you as well. Go, and take my brother with you.”

  “But . . . your grace . . . you mustn’t risk—”

  “Captain Gray is not a mage,” Celestine said. “I hardly think it’s a risk to speak with her in private, as I intend to do.” When he still didn’t move, she waved him away impatiently.

  Cheeks flaming, Samara bowed. “As you wish, Empress.” Motioning to the others, he stalked off toward the palace, his back stiff with rage. His men followed behind, herding Breon along like an errant sheep.

  “Captain Samara forgets himself sometimes,” Celestine said, when they were out of earshot.

  I’ll bet he forgets himself a lot of times, Lyss thought. As often as you’ll let him.

  Celestine gestured at the other chair. “Now. Sit.”

  Up close, Lyss was surprised at how young Celestine was. If she had to guess, she’d estimate that the empress was not yet twenty. Her coloring was striking, with her purple eyes and tawny skin and silver hair. She was not particularly tall, but she was plush, as Lyss’s father would say.

  Celestine was studying Lyss in turn. “You are quite the legend, Captain Gray,” she said. “Are any of the stories I’m hearing true?”

  “That depends on what stories you’re hearing,” Lyss said, wishing that Breon hadn’t shared her military name with the empress. “If you’re talking about the incident in the taproom of the Thistle and Crown, that was blown way out of proportion.”

  The empress stared at her, then burst out laughing. “You see?” she said to no one in particular. “That’s exactly why I didn’t kill you on the beach. It’s been so long since I’ve had anyone around with a modicum of wit. The bloodsworn are so tiresome.”

  If you’re looking for some kind of a court jester or pet, keep looking, Lyss thought.

  “I can see that there is magic in you. Is it true that you turn into a wolf in the heat of battle? Are you a . . . shape-shifter?”

  Clearly the empress had been doing her homework.

  Lyss shook her head. “When I go into battle, I’m in it to win. Maybe that’s how that story got started.”

  “Ah,” Celestine said, looking disappointed. “I was so looking forward to seeing that. Most stories have a kernel of truth.” She paused, and when Lyss said nothing, continued. “How long have you been fighting for the wetlanders?”

  “I took the field when I was twelve,” Lyss said, “after my father was killed.”

  “Your mother allowed that?” Celestine raised an eyebrow.

  “She wasn’t happy, but she allowed it.”

  “My mother was very protective of me,” Celestine said. “She loved me very much.”

  What’s that about? Lyss thought crossly. My mother loved me more than yours?

  “It’s hard to send a child to war,” Lyss said, thinking of Cam, who’d died defending her in the streets of Southbridge.

  “How old are you now?”

  “Nearly sixteen.” Lyss realized with a start that her birthday—her name day—must be close, if it wasn’t already over. Not the way she’d intended to spend it.

  “You’ve moved up quickly, then, if you’re already a captain.” There was a question hidden in that.

  “Unfortunately, every marching season, the war demands a blood price. We often have vacancies that need filling.” Lyss paused. “How old are you?”

  “I am twenty,” the empress said.

  “You’ve moved up quickly, then, too.”

  “I am my mother’s firstborn daughter,” Celestine said. “So, I rise when my mother falls.”

  A shiver went through Lyss and the flesh pebbled on her arms as a cloud passed over the sun. Her nurse, Magret, used to say that this meant the wolves were walking over the graves of the queens.

  “Are you well, Captain?” The empress was studying her, frowning.

  “I am well,” Lyss said, fanning herself. “This climate takes some getting used to.” More than anything, she wanted to escape this awkward conversation. So she changed the subject.

  “Captain Samara said that Breon is your brother,” Lyss said. “But—if he’s your brother, why didn’t he know about it?”

  “He once knew, but he doesn’t remember,” Celestine said vaguely. “I am the eldest of nine children. When I was only thirteen, my brothers and sisters were stolen away by enemies of the empire.”

  “Enemies?” Lyss hoped the empress would clarify, but that didn’t happen.

  “My mother would not allow me to go and look for them, because she feared for my safety. After she died, I began the search again, but by then, the trail was cold.”

  Something wasn’t adding up. To Lyss, it sounded rehearsed, like a story the empress told herself and others, but didn’t quite believe.

  “So . . . enemies of the Nazari stole them, but kept them prisoner? They didn’t kill them outright?”

  “Clearly not,” Celestine said impatiently, “since some of them are still alive.”

  Something was nagging at Lyss, a familiar scent that came and went. Then she spotted the smoldering pipe on a table next to Breon’s seat.

  Furious, Lyss scooped it up and flung it over the wall into the sea.

  Celestine watched the arc of it until it splashed into the water. “Well, now. That’s a waste of some very fine leaf.”

  “You gave him leaf? Why would you do a thing like that?”

  “The secret keeper is mixed with it. It soothes the pain of losing his music,” Celestine said. “I want him to be happy.”

  “That won’t make him happy,” Lyss said, “not in the long run. He’d just managed to get clear of it, and now—”

  “Captain Gray, I did not invite you here to lecture me,” the empress snapped, fla
me flickering over her skin. “You are offering opinions on matters you cannot possibly understand. You know nothing about us, nothing about our customs. My brother is charming, and handsome, and no doubt highly capable between the sheets, but you must let go of any hopes of a future with a blooded Nazari prince.”

  Lyss, speechless, stared at the empress as thoughts tumbled through her head. She thinks I . . . She thinks we . . .

  “Your Eminence, I—”

  “Enough!” The empress’s eyes darkened to almost black. “If you cannot do that, this conversation is over and I will find you another role to play.”

  Lyss’s cheeks burned. The threat in those words couldn’t be plainer. Unless she wanted to join the bloodsworn, she’d have to remember who held the power. Unless it was already too late.

  “I . . . ah . . . yes. I see how impossible that is.” Lyss took a deep breath, released it. “I apologize, Empress. I was out of line.”

  Celestine shook back her silver hair, the fire in her eyes still burning hot. “You think I am ruthless. I am as ruthless as I need to be to survive in this world. Those who are not of royal blood do not realize what a burden it is to rule, the difficult decisions that must be made.”

  Hanalea’s blood! It seemed that everything the empress said hit too close to home. Maybe Celestine knew the truth about her birthright and was merely toying with her.

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” Lyss said, eyes downcast, shoulders rounded against sorcery.

  “Are you this bold when you speak to your queen?”

  “Sometimes,” Lyss said. She cleared her throat. “Not usually.”

  “In the future, I expect you to offer me the same courtesy and respect.”

  “Yes, Your Eminence,” Lyss murmured.

  “Good.” With that, the storm passed and the sun came out. Celestine gestured for her to sit.

  Lyss eased back into her chair, heart still pounding, legs rubbery with relief, as if she’d just experienced a near miss on the battlefield.

  Long ago, she’d traded the palace for the army, because on the battlefield the criteria for success were clear. It was all about performance, and that was something she could control. Now she was thrust back into the most dangerous game of all—the game of politics.