by K.M. Weiland
Chapter Twenty-Two
The way Chris figured it, the Orimere had to be good for something other than ruining worlds and getting him in trouble. In the small palace library, where he and Allara had been meeting for the less strenuous of their training sessions, he scrutinized what he had brought over from his world.
They called this the small library, since there was one about three times as big down on the ground floor, but the comparison was the only thing that made it small. Like all the rooms on the third story, its ceiling soared. Stairs near the door hugged the wall on the way up to a balcony that ran around the length of the room and effectively split it into two levels.
The only light in the room came from the iron-wrought chandelier high overhead and three stained glass windows near the eaves. Whoever had built this castle obviously hadn’t been too enamored of the sun. Shadows lurked in every corner and the library, of all places, was the worst.
He was beginning to think he should have chosen a different room for his presentation. Or maybe just skipped the idea altogether, especially since he had no guarantee Allara wouldn’t take it entirely wrong anyway. He stepped back from the round table at the far end of the room and scrutinized the basket of oranges and the bouquet of white orchids.
Last night, he’d dug the Orimere out of its polished wooden box in the back of his dressing room armoire and gone to sleep with it buzzing in his hand. He wanted to get Allara something. He couldn’t explain exactly why. After almost two weeks, they were thankfully past talking about accusations and apologies, so these token gifts from his side of the worlds weren’t exactly peace offerings. More like the overtures of friendship.
For the last two weeks, after his pre-breakfast fencing bout with Quinnon and before the equitation classes after lunch and the firearms practice before dinner, he and Allara had met in the library for a few hours of politics, geography, and social manners. She was a good teacher, calm and patient, and she never brought up Mactalde. Maybe she’d realized, on the morning of their swordfight, that the door was closed and she had no choice but to move forward.
She was still holding herself back. It wasn’t that she seemed to actually dislike him. It was more she didn’t think she could afford to be friends with him. Based on past experiences, that probably wasn’t an unreasonable assumption on her part. But she was practically the only person he knew in this world. It would be nice if they could be friends.
At any rate, he wanted to thank her for her help. Also, the look on her face—whatever it was—would undoubtedly be worth seeing.
He reevaluated the oranges. Maybe he should just save those for another day. He leaned in to pick up the basket. Behind him, the door opened. He set the basket down and turned around, arms crossed, embarrassed despite himself. So much for presentation.
“Morning,” he said.
Allara’s eyebrows knit. “Good morning.”
Today, she wore a white satin gown with a bodice that laced all the way up the front and rose to a two-inch collar around the back of her neck. Her dark hair was piled high and held in place in the front with a simple silver comb.
She had a kind of effortless beauty that wasn’t so much a result of her features as it was a simple unaffectedness and an inner dignity. He’d started noticing about the time she’d stopped wanting to kill him.
She leaned back against the door to latch it, then came forward. “What’s going on? You haven’t gotten tired of our lessons and decided to burn all the books, have you?”
“What makes you think I’d do that?”
She raised a shoulder. “I did it with my tutor’s books when I was young.”
“You did?” Somehow that wasn’t surprising. He cleared his throat and hooked a thumb toward the table. “Actually, I thought you might like to see something from my world.”
She stopped next to him. Her eyes flitted from the orchids in their glass vase to the basket of shining oranges. The edge of her mouth tugged in something that was almost a smile. “Your world?”
“The flowers are orchids.” He attempted to slip his hands into pockets, only to remember these trousers didn’t have pockets. “Maybe you already have them around here, but I hadn’t seen anything like them.”
“No.” Her fingertips caressed a petal. “Nothing like them. They’re beautiful. And—” she looked from the basket to him, and this time a definite sparkle lit her face, “—snow oranges?”
She liked it then. He breathed out. “Not quite. Esta said something about you liking oranges. But these are different from yours. Bigger and the flavor’s stronger. Thought maybe you’d like to try them.”
Her expression was unreadable. “You used the Orimere to bring these across?”
Here it came after all. “Yeah. But that’s inside the rules, right?”
“Why are you giving me these?”
“Why not?” He grinned. With any luck, he’d melt the ice princess after all. “I wanted to do something for you. For everything. This was all I knew to do.”
She studied the table again, then cast him a sidelong glance. “And what do you expect in return?”
Still suspicious then. She was a politician’s daughter after all. “A smile would be nice.”
That caught her off guard. She looked away, disquieted. When she looked back, she wasn’t quite smiling. But her eyes had softened, and the press of her lips said she had to try not to smile.
“Thank you.” Her voice was low, husky almost. “I’ve always wanted to see your world. To see it properly, I mean, and not just blurry images in the lake. I suppose this is the closest I’ll ever come. So thank you.”
He smiled back. “You’re welcome.”
She held his gaze for a moment, as if she wanted to say something else. Then she broke contact and turned back to her seat at the table. Head down, she reached for the big book of maps they were using to study Lael and its border countries: Koraud, Illise, and Rivale. She opened the book and riffled through the faded green and red of the maps to find the one they had left off discussing yesterday.
He sat down across from her, caught the glance she cast at the oranges, and pulled one from the basket for her and start peeling it. From the looks of things around here, princesses seemed to get a lot of bowing and scraping and yes-your-ladyshipping, but not much genuine or spontaneous kindness. That ever-present haggard look in the back of her eyes and the way she was always rubbing at that crooked finger of hers said she needed a little genuine spontaneity.
He tossed the peeling back into the basket, split the orange with a faint puff of sweet-smelling mist, and handed her half. “So what are we learning today that’s going to help me bump off evil warlords?”
He craned his head to read the map. His recently acquired grasp of their alphabet system was enough to at least recognize the names of the countries they’d been studying. “Koraud.” He sat back and tweaked off an orange wedge. “I’ve been wondering about that. You talk about Koraud being its own kingdom, but you said it pays tribute to Lael. Because of what happened during the war?”
She took the orange and settled back in her chair, her wide sleeves spread over the armrest. Her face was smooth and unruffled again. Back to business, then. But her fingers were slow as they peeled back the first wedge of the orange. “Yes, more or less.” She bit the tip off the wedge and savored it.
“Good?” he asked.
“Yes.” For just a second, she almost looked happy. It was a good look. “They’re even better than snow oranges.” She swallowed and returned to the map. “You have to understand the Koraudian people are fiercely independent. They live in the mountains and eke their living out of the mines and timberlands. Not to generalize, but they love it and they’re proud of it. And most of them have always disliked Lael on general purposes. Our position on the coast gives us unrivaled access to the speed and efficiency of oversea export and import. Everyone else on the continent has to go through us.”
“Which means Lael has all the money.”
/> “Not all, certainly. But eventually it all surfaces here one way or another. So even before intermarriages and treaties united the other kingdoms under us, we were the de facto capital of the continent.”
He sat back, chewing. The long-sleeved jerkin he was wearing squeaked against the leather cover on the chair. “Until Harrison arrived.”
She shook her head. “What happened can’t honestly be blamed solely on either Harrison or Mactalde. I believe Mactalde would have invaded even had Harrison never come. And Harrison would have tried to steal the throne from my father even if he had never met Mactalde. But, as it was, they were the spark to each other’s tinder. They fed off each other—in more ways than one in the end.”
He gnawed his lip. “So if this does turn into another war, what kind of odds are we looking at?”
She shrugged. “We’ve known something like this was coming, with or without Mactalde, for the last twelvemonth. But it takes time to communicate and assemble troop movements over such a great distance. If Mactalde strikes soon—and he’s wise enough to know he must—he’ll catch Lael at perhaps only half our full strength.”
Outside the room, footsteps tromped down the hall. A rap on the door was followed by the high-pitched voice of a woman, and the door opened before Allara could respond.
Lady Esta tiptoed in at double-time, skirt held in front of her like a sail. “My lady, forgive me.” She ducked a curtsy. “But young Yemas here tells me we have a bit of a situation outside.”
Guardsman Canard Yemas stopped in the middle of the room to salute Allara. He was a narrow-faced kid of nineteen or twenty with soulful eyes that didn’t look like they missed much. He had seemed particularly interested in Chris’s arrival. More than once, Chris had caught the kid watching him with a strange expression.
“There’s a Nateros demonstration in the street, my lady,” Yemas said.
Her mouth tightened, but she didn’t move. “That’s hardly news. They’ve staged a demonstration every day since the Gifted’s arrival.”
“This is a bit different, I’m afraid.”
Esta cast a long glance at the orchids and oranges, cast a longer one at Chris, then glided to a stop next to Allara’s chair. “Crofton Steadman is asking for a private audience with you and the Gifted.”
Allara sat up straight and pushed the remainder of her orange back onto the table. “Och. I suppose it was only a matter of time.”
“Who’s Steadman?” Chris asked.
“More or less Nateros’s spokesman.” She rose. “Where’s Captain Quinnon?”
Yemas backed out of her way. “He’s aware of the situation, my lady.”
“And is he coming?”
“Yes, of course. However, time is of the essence right now if we don’t want them tearing apart the Vesper district.”
She started rubbing at her finger. Indecision twisted her face.
Chris stood up. “What does he want?”
She shook her head. “I don’t know. Nothing good I’m sure.”
“Can’t hurt to talk to him, right? Maybe we could work out some kind of compromise to get him to calm his people down.”
“Not likely. He’s a fanatic. His kind doesn’t calm down.”
Yemas ducked his head in an apologetic bow. “Forgive me, my lady, but I think it would be best if you spoke to him. You’ll be perfectly safe. And perhaps what he has to say will be worth your while.”
She took a breath, glanced at Chris, then let it out. “All right. Have him escorted into the throne room for an audience. And make sure Captain Quinnon’s informed.”
Esta plucked at Allara’s gown, straightening folds. “I’ll send for your crown.” She scowled critically at Chris. “And I’ll have his manservant fetch him a formal cape and a dress sword.”
Allara waved her off. “Never mind. It doesn’t matter. That sort of thing won’t impress Steadman anyway.”
“Don’t be ridiculous. You’re representing the sovereignty of Lael. You’re going to do it properly.” Esta whisked off.
Chris had to admit he’d be happy to have the sword. “Any big protocol issues you want to warn me about?”
Allara started toward the door, her face grim. “Mostly just try not to make him want to kill you any faster than he already does.”
__________
Réon Couteau’s throne room rose through all three of the castle’s stories. The elaborate vaulted ceiling was almost lost in the shadows high above. Dusty shafts of light speared from the round stained glass windows amid the eaves and crisscrossed the black and white checkerboard floor. At the far end of the room, three ebony thrones sat side by side, the middle one raised eight inches. Thick, waxy candles on waist-high pillars surrounded the thrones and flickered both light and shadow.
“Cheerful place.” Chris sat in one of the outer thrones. “Did you design it to strike fear in supplicants’ hearts?”
“Why not?” Allara sat in the other outside chair. She let Esta spread her skirt, then motioned her away. The ridges in her cheek stood out in a firm white line. “If they can’t be reverent, at least let them be a little afraid.”
He sat on the throne’s edge and kept one hand on the scrollwork of his rapier hilt. He tugged at the red velvet-lined cape Parry had tied over one shoulder and under the other. He didn’t feel reverent or afraid, just slightly preposterous.
“Why three thrones?”
She stared ahead. “Considering you’re sitting in one, isn’t it obvious? Réon Couteau is the domain of the Gifted and the Searchers as much as, if not more so, than the kings.” She clenched her fists in her lap. “Don’t say anything unless you have to.”
At the end of the room, liveried footmen swept open the arched doors. The dozen Guardsmen who lined the room snapped to attention and stamped their left boot heels to the floor in unison. Their noisy tradition was probably as much to remind guests of their presence as to respectfully acknowledge them.
Escorted by Yemas, and not Quinnon, who apparently hadn’t considered the meeting worth his time, the Nateros delegation of three men entered the room.
The slender man who walked at their front wore a knee-length white coat that contrasted sharply with the dark glare of his eyes and the black hair curling past his ears. He clasped his hands in front of him, and his face was soft, marred only by the twist of a scar in his upper lip. He looked less like a fanatic and more like a wistful monk.
He glanced at Allara when he entered, but his eyes stayed on Chris all the way up the room. His expression wasn’t threatening, so much as curious. But it never flinched. It was the look of one man taking the size of the other and making certain the other knew it.
Chris looked right back, even though he wasn’t entirely sure what he was looking at. For now, Allara’s fear of Steadman was good enough reason to be more than a little wary.
At the end of the green carpet that stopped ten feet short of the thrones, Steadman stopped and faced Allara. He didn’t do the thumb-and-forefinger salute, but he inclined his head.
“Searcher. Thank you for granting me an audience.” He spoke with a slight lisp, probably thanks to the scar.
Allara sat painfully straight. Her expression was impenetrable, every bit the iron-faced royal beneath the green jewels that tipped her crown’s circlet. “Let us hope doing so will end these demonstrations in the streets.”
He smiled, gently. “We can hope.” Then he turned to Chris. “I am honored to stand in the presence of one who has seen both sides of our worlds.”
Chris wasn’t sure what to say to that, so he just nodded. Nateros was supposed to hate the Gifted, not be honored to stand in the same room.
“I welcome you personally,” Steadman said, “and as the spokesman for Nateros, I welcome you, too, on the behalf of an eager people. We’re not certain what you may have heard of us.” The fingers of one hand rose from where they still clasped each other and gestured briefly to Allara. “But we wish to tell you we embrace your advent with great hope and expec
tation.”
“You’re right, that’s not exactly what I’ve been hearing.” Chris kept his voice light.
“I apologize for any misunderstanding.” Steadman offered a smile. “Nateros has nothing against the Gifted. You are dragged from one world to this, without no choice in the matter. Unlike those who do the dragging.” He offered another faint gesture to Allara, who shifted forward in her seat, as if about to rise. “Indeed, we recognize the power of the Gifted to change the times and to work great good for society.” His voice was soft and low, mellifluous, but powered from deep in his throat. “You’ve come to us unwitting, and we forgive you for that, even though you are an accursed second. But now that you’re here, we entreat you to use your influence to aid in our mission of freedom against King Tireus.”
Chris leaned back in the throne and tried to seem at ease. “Why are you so opposed to the king—and the Searcher?”
“You, of all people, need ask that?” Emotion rumbled Steadman’s voice.
“I, of all people, know the Searcher doesn’t have any more control over my being here than I do.”
Steadman stepped forward, one foot off the green carpet. “Why is it that those of you who are entrenched in these antiquated creeds of autocracy—” his arm swept open to include Allara, “—are determined to hoard power into the fallen religion of the dreams and your so-called God of all?”
“I’m not hoarding power. I’m just here trying to do a job. You really think an internal schism is such a great idea right now?”
Steadman’s smile faded. “You have much to learn from us, just as perhaps you may have much to offer. Allow me to say what I have come here to say: Join us.”
Allara stood so fast she was lucky she didn’t fall over. “If this is all you’ve come to say, then you may leave.” Her face burned white, and her nostrils flared.
Steadman ignored her and raised both hands to Chris in entreaty. “I tell you now that no one has the power to stop this coming war except the followers of Nateros. We are the voice of the people! Join us, help us. Bring freedom of mind as well as body to this land. If even a Gifted were to speak out against the old ways, everyone would see their worthlessness!”
Allara snapped her fingers at Yemas. When the Guardsman didn’t move from his post by the door, she stepped down from the throne dais and into Steadman’s line of sight. “How dare you bring your lies here?”
“They’re not lies.” He held Chris’s gaze.
“They’re madness!” Allara said. “You fly in the face of the sacred traditions and expect to be rewarded with peace. But you will find peace with neither God nor man!”
Steadman whirled on her and took the two steps necessary to bring them face to face. “You vixen. You witch. You dare talk to me of the sacred when you twist tradition to conjure forth an unholy second Gifted in your lifetime?”
The Guardsmen finally started forward. The room hummed with their drawn pistols. But Chris was the closest. He reached Steadman and clapped a hand on his shoulder. “Back off. Haven’t you heard of royal distance?”
Steadman glared at Allara. “Your day has come. The Searchers hold thrall in Lael no longer.”
“I have never held thrall! But if you reject the traditions the God of all has given us, you reject Him—and that you cannot be pardoned for.”
Steadman laughed and then, without warning, spat at her. Chris let go of him just long enough to punch him in the face.
Steadman staggered into two Guardsmen, who hauled him to his feet, arms twisted behind his back. “The dungeon, my lady?” one asked.
She shook her head. “Let him go. He hasn’t done anything.”
Steadman blinked and coughed. “I’ll see you again, Searcher.” He looked at Chris. “And you too. Perhaps you’ll be more sensible about your loyalties by then.” He turned and walked out without resisting his Guardsmen escort.
Yemas hovered behind, brows knit over his soulful eyes. “I’m sorry, my lady. He meant no harm, I’m sure.”
Chris rubbed his knuckles. “He meant a lot of things.”
Yemas watched Steadman leave the room. “I’m glad you met with him. He says many things of sense. But I am sorry it ended this way.” He turned and hurried after his men.
Chris watched him go. “Better keep an eye on him. If I didn’t know better, I’d say you’ve got a sympathizer on your hands.” He turned to her. “You all right?”
She breathed out. The tense expression on her face was more one of anger than fear. “I’m fine.” She looked at the hand he was kneading. The corner of her mouth lifted. “You didn’t have to hit him.”
“He was out of line.”
In her hand, something flashed: a tiny pistol. Maybe she hadn’t been as endangered as he thought.
“You always carry that?”
“I always carry something.” She lifted the wide part of her sleeve, from the elbow down, and revealed a spring-loaded forearm holster. “People have tried to assassinate me before.” She was matter of fact about it, but she didn’t look at him. She was embarrassed people tried to kill her?
She fitted the pistol back onto its metal track, then started for the doors. “Where’s Quinnon?”
Chris untied his ridiculous cape and followed, still flexing his knuckles.
They found Quinnon entering from the courtyard. He hooked a thumb over his shoulder to where the Guardsmen were just taking Steadman out through the front door. “You want to tell me what’s going on? What are Crofton Steadman and his whelps doing here?”
Allara frowned. “I thought you knew.”
If Quinnon’s temperature rose a few more notches, he would start blowing steam out his ears. “I knew he was outside. Not that he was in the same blithering room as you. I was on my way up to talk to you about it, but I got held up at the stables. Don’t ever do that again.”
“It’s all right.” She glanced back at Chris. “I was taken care of.”
