by Amy Keeley
Wondering how many times she would have to repeat her name, she said, “Yes?”
“You are accepted. Follow me.”
She walked with him down the narrow corridor that felt as if it stretched forever, past a number of places where the corridors split, thick with the smell of food, then past a series of rooms. Time itself felt changed, and she couldn’t tell how long she had been walking. No wonder people would believe the castle is a long way off, she decided. She nearly tried to see through the illusion, as she had with Zhiv’s spells before, but decided against it. Now was not the time to risk magic for the sake of curiosity.
All the distortion ended when they reached a small, circular set of wooden stairs built into the stone of the castle. Up they went, passing doors at each floor. After four or five, the man turned and said, “We are about to enter the keep. If you should happen to see a noble, or other personage of high regard, please keep your eyes on the floor.”
“Yes, sir,” she said, hoping they wouldn’t meet anyone of high regard.
“We do not usually do this, but Hon Mikailsin...we have been told to bow to his wishes if he ever received a visitor and he wishes to see them in his room. Please do not abuse this privilege.”
In his room? She had expected to see him in a sitting room, or some other place that existed between public and private. Not his room. She tried to sound calm. “I understand.” Perhaps the rules were different in the castle.
He opened the door and she felt very small. I truly didn’t see anything when we came here last, she thought, trying to remember what had surrounded them as they had approached the dying King for a final audience. She didn’t remember this. Rich tapestries covered the walls of the large corridor they entered, pictures of famous characters in songs and stories appearing in between. A long series of rugs stretched across the floor, intricate designs in gold and red making her terrified of stepping on them with her common boots. The man didn’t step on the rugs as he walked down the corridor, and she did as he did. She followed him past a handful of mahogany doors until the man stopped in front of one of them and knocked, though the door was partially open. “Hon Mikailsin? I’ve brought Goodwife Jyomsa.” Of course he’d use that title. She still wore her blue sash.
To her great dismay, her stomach fluttered when she heard Zhiv call out, “Let her in.”
Forcing herself to ignore her reaction (it must be the fact that he’s here in the castle and not in the places I feel comfortable), she thanked the man when he opened the door for her to enter. She didn’t look for Zhiv immediately. Instead, she looked around his room. Star maps covered the walls and ceiling, as well as neat Ornic lettering that she couldn’t read. In between them were windows covered with thick, red, velvet curtains. Stacks of folios sat on top of what appeared to be a chest with drawers in it, as well as piled on the floor along the perimeter of the room. This room was far more messy than the one at the Jixsin home, and yet it seemed to fit what she knew of Zhiv better than that stark bedroom. “It’s not what you expected?” Zhiv asked, and still she found she couldn’t look at him. Not yet.
“I did once say you were above me,” she said, looking closely at a star map on a nearby wall.
“The great minstrel to the King is above you. Not me.” She heard him get up from either a couch or a chair, she couldn’t tell, and walk closer to her. “I’m certain you will always see me as the traveling fiddler who collapsed by the river.”
“Oh, I wouldn’t be so certain of that yet.” She turned, and was met with his brilliant aquamarine eyes, a color that never seemed to be either blue or green, but always something shifting in between the two. His hair, always unruly, only added to the charm of his mischievous, alluring smile, which right now also seemed tired. Remembering why she’d come, she said, “How are you?”
His brows knit briefly before he turned away and walked back toward the red and gold-covered couch where he must have been before she arrived. “Is that the only reason you’re here? To check up on your patient?” He lay down, feet crossed and hands behind his head. He was still in his black leggings and boots, his dark purple, sleeveless tunic unbuttoned, revealing his cream-colored shirt underneath more fully than when she’d seen him this morning. The desire to slide her hands under his tunic and feel the contours of his chest made her turn away before he could see it and take advantage of it. He’d tried to seduce her once. Who knew what he might try now, tired or not? “You didn’t eat this morning.” She studied a bit of Ornic writing on the wall. “Now isn’t exactly the best time to be ignoring yourself.”
He groaned and she turned in time to see him slide further down the couch, hands covering his eyes. “It doesn’t matter.”
“It matters if you’ve overexerted yourself,” she said, walking toward him now, though the desire was still there, pushed aside only by her concern for him.
He took his hands from his face and folded his arms. “Jyomsa? Whose name is that?”
“The name of my father. I’m not married anymore, I might as well use it.”
“With a blue sash.” She was close enough, he reached out and grabbed the end of the blue material around her waist. He didn’t pull her closer, only examined the rough edge, fraying slightly after seven years use. “You know what they’re saying about you now, of course.”
So, the rules weren’t different after all. Her cheeks flamed at the thought. “You weren’t well. And I had a message to bring from Hon Jixsin.”
His smile grew. “Did you? How many women do you think have entered this room, Krysilla?”
Her cheeks flamed even more, both at his question and his use of her personal name. “I’m sure I don’t know.”
“You could guess.” He turned the end of the sash over with his long fingers. “The great Zhiv Mikailsin, with a voice unlike any heard in the kingdom—”
“And an arrogance unmatched by any in the kingdom.”
He paused, his smile becoming a grin. Snatching the sash’s end until he had a fistful of it, she felt it gently tug her toward him. “That’s debatable.” He put her sash to his lips, watching her. “How many? Guess.”
She thought quickly, remembering that the Disciples were near and that his behavior had to be above reproach. “None.”
“Not a one. You’re the first.”
“It would explain the puzzlement.”
“And the rumors that are probably now flying. The entire castle will be whispering it just out of our hearing. What kind of woman would the King’s minstrel...” his face clouded briefly, “the Queen’s minstrel bring after all these years of celibacy?”
“A relative, of course.” Her mouth felt dry. “The great Zhiv Mikailsin has too much self-control to waste himself with any woman. He’d only speak in a closed room to family, as is proper and right.”
He lifted his head, his gaze never leaving her. “Ah, yes. Third cousin on my mother’s side? I believe that was what I told the servants at the Felldesh manor when I met you there.”
Nothing about this moment felt like what should exist between family. Terrified of what might happen if she let him continue to lead the conversation, she said, “Hon Jixsin spoke to me about a drawing you two had created.”
Whatever mischief had been in his eyes disappeared. “Did he?”
She nodded and put down her sack. Pulling out the map, she unfolded it. Zhiv got up from the couch and knelt down next to her, facing the map. “This is the good copy,” he said, pleased. “And he told you why we drew it?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Very good.”
“He also said you...you had something you were creating for me?” She looked at him, but he continued to stare at the map, looking over the paths that had been drawn.
“We’ll have to update this.” He quickly gestured around the point where the three colors—red, blue, and green—could be found next to each other. Krysilla felt the spell sink into the three colored inks. Satisfied with his work, Zhiv continued. “About the things you
mentioned, I haven’t even started on them yet. Too much to gather, and when I create a surprise I keep it as close to me as I can until it’s finished. Plus, recent events have taken away my attention from more important matters.”
Like boots, she thought. “Do you want me to bring you some food?”
He chuckled. “All I have to do is ask the kitchen for food if I want to eat, Krysilla.”
It was the second time he’d used her personal name. “Shouldn’t you call me something else?”
“You’re family. Whatever status you have, married or not, it would seem out of place if I didn’t call you by your personal name.” He looked at her then, and for a moment she was much too aware of how close they were right now, of how she could lean to one side and press into his shoulder. A little further, and she would be close enough to kiss him.
And then he smirked and she found enough strength to focus on folding the map.
“Didn’t I once say,” he said, standing up, “that time breaks everyone?”
“I believe I took issue with that.” The paper seemed much more difficult to fold this time.
“Do you want my help?”
“No. Thank you.” She opened it up again, trying to keep her hands from shaking.
“You’re going to rip it.” And yet, there was no condemnation in his voice, only that infuriating assurance that told her he knew the reaction his nearness had on her. He crouched down next to her once more and covered her hands with his. “Allow me.”
His touch was like fire on her skin, a power that couldn’t be stronger if he’d cast a spell on her. Perhaps he has, she thought, and remembered the King’s words before things had gone so very wrong in the bell tower. “What am I to you?” she asked.
He withdrew his hands. “What do you mean?”
“The King said I was your fire.”
He stood now and walked to the stacks against the wall. “The King never understood the deeper meanings of Ornic symbols.” She could hear Zhiv’s frustration as he spoke, though he hid his agitation well. “Your main talent isn’t fire.” Digging among his folios, he pulled out a scrap of paper, then reached behind another stack and pulled out a rectangular pencil. Putting one of his folios underneath, he sketched a circle, with twelve rays extending from it. “Each ray is a symbol for an aspect of the different talents each person has within them. Everyone has these talents in varying amounts, and each trade demands them in varying amounts. Four belong to the physical, four to the spirit, and four to the mind. The physical is easy to identify because it’s the things we can touch and manipulate.” He looked up and she was surprised to see all the cynicism and calculation gone from his eyes. “Earth, air, water and fire belong to that realm. The next level is spirit. Spirit is the aspect that communicates between the tangible and the intangible, between flesh and mind. Its four aspects are—”
There was a knock on the door.
“Wait a moment,” Zhiv called out, then turned back to Krysilla. “Rhythm, peace, flexibility, and passion. I believe your main talent is one of those four, but to focus too much on this is a waste of time.”
The knock came again. Zhiv growled and stared at the door. “Yes?” he called out again.
“I’m to clean the room,” a gruff, female voice said on the other side.
“Are you?” a wariness had entered Zhiv’s voice. Krysilla quickly folded the map, an easier task now that he was focused on something other than her. “They usually wait until afternoon.”
The door swung wide and a servant in her clean black dress with a blue sash wrapped around her waist ducked into the room. Before Krysilla could get a look at who it was, Zhiv had leaped forward and grabbed both her hands, shoving her face first into the floor. Still holding her hands behind her back, he said, “Who sent you?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
And then Krysilla recognized her. “Nitty?” And then she realized Nitty was holding a dagger.
Nitty’s eyes focused on Krysilla and widened in horror. “What are you doing here?”
Krysilla snatched the dagger away from her sister, still pinned to the floor by Zhiv. “I think you need to answer Hon Mikailsin’s question.”
Nitty laughed. “It doesn’t matter. I’m dead either way.”
“How?” Zhiv asked. He was no less wary, but not as...terrified? He’d been terrified. Krysilla tried to think of the last time she’d seen him afraid, and couldn’t think of anything. Angry, yes. Not this.
“Like I said, you won’t believe me.”
“I believe a lot of things,” Zhiv answered. “Try me.”
Krysilla traced the characters etched into the hilt of the dagger and felt a chill prickle her skin. They were Ornic characters. “Hon Mikailsin.” Somehow, saying his personal name didn’t seem right around Nitty. “It’s not the one the King gave you, but does it have magic in it?”
“I’d have to hold it,” he said, with a shake of his head. “Though it does bring rise to excellent questions, and you still haven’t answered my first.”
Nitty squeezed her eyes shut. “It doesn’t matter.”
“You keep saying that. Why?”
Amazed at her sister’s increasingly plain despair, Krysilla got on her knees, her head on the same level as her sister’s. “Nitty, please. If you’re in trouble—”
Nitty laughed, though Krysilla thought she might actually be crying. Still, she tried, “We could help you.”
“Ah yes,” she said, recovering somewhat, a tear rolling down her cheek. “Help from a disgraced minstrel and his lover.”
Krysilla’s cheeks burned. “You know what he and Hon Jixsin are to me.”
“I do indeed. And very soon you both will be dead.”
“This isn’t working,” Zhiv muttered. He closed his eyes and, still holding Nitty’s wrists with one hand, Krysilla knew he was about to try casting something.
“Nitty!” Hoping that raising her voice might do something before Zhiv could work a spell that might turn out as awful as what he had cast around the King, Krysilla grabbed her sister by the head with one hand, the dagger still well out of reach in the other. “You do not want to do this! Tell us!”
“Tira is with Hon Jixsin,” Nitty said. “Please, take care of her.”
The words made no sense to Krysilla. And then, awful sense poured over her thoughts like icy water. Lord Teranasin. To Zhiv, she said, “Whatever you’re casting, don’t.”
“Too late.” And Nitty’s eyes went wide with panic.
“Yes, I thought you’d recognize a persuasion when you felt it. Bit stronger than what your former husband managed, isn’t it?” Zhiv let her go then, stepping away without ever turning his back on her. “Stay there. You can sit, but don’t let your legs leave the floor.”
Nitty did exactly as he said, with a glare that promised death once the spell was done.
Krysilla watched, horrified. She knew persuasions could influence others. She’d never seen anyone made to do something against their will by them.
As if realizing what she was thinking, Zhiv said, “You know what one of these is, Nitty. I can’t force you to do anything you don’t want to do. I’m just allowing one side of that battle in your soul to gain an advantage.”
Tears filled Nitty’s eyes.
“It’s Lord Teranasin,” Krysilla said. With a persuasion cast, Nitty could only avoid the truth by refusing to answer.
Nitty began to shake, tears racing down her cheeks. She said nothing.
“He’s dead.” But Zhiv didn’t sound as certain as he had this morning. “I killed him myself.”
Nitty’s cry tumbled her forward, her sobs soft and hopeless.
“Hon Jixsin said he might be alive,” Krysilla said, fighting the need to rush forward and hold her sister in her arms. If only you hadn’t entered here with a dagger, she thought.
Zhiv wasted no time. Crouching down in front of Nitty, he said, “Did he send you here?”
She nodded.
&nb
sp; “To kill me,” Zhiv said. Nitty shook her head. “No, I imagine not,” he muttered, “given our last conversation. He’d want to do it himself.” His fingers tapped his knee. “A slight thing like you wouldn’t get better than a nick on an enemy. What’s in the dagger?”
Nitty began to rock. “The...the—” she looked at the dagger, with fear in her eyes.
Zhiv stared hard at her. “Show me,” he finally said. Nitty looked horrified and Zhiv got up and turned to Krysilla. “Damn modesty,” he said. “Goodwife Jyomsa, would you mind checking for a mark that lines up with the characters on the dagger?”
Zhiv remained facing away while Nitty pulled her blouse up, revealing bright red marks on her back that were indeed a match to the Ornic characters on the dagger. “Well, goodwife?”
“I see them.”
He sighed deeply. “I see.”
“What does that mean?” she asked both Nitty, who had now lowered her blouse, and Zhiv, who had now turned back around.
“It means, she can’t leave this room without this dagger drawing blood. If she does, she dies. If you please?” He held out his hand and Krysilla gave him the dagger.
“How long do we have?” he asked, closing his eyes.
“Not long,” Nitty said, her voice rasping from her fading tears. In a voice so small Krysilla could barely hear her, she said, “I didn’t know, Silla. I didn’t think you’d be here.”
“Vyomsi might not have known himself. He wanted me to watch you burn, didn’t he goodwife?” Zhiv said to Krysilla, eyes still closed. “He’d likely count it as his good fortune to catch us both.” He turned the dagger over, then brought the pommel to his forehead. “Definitely Ornic, definitely old. And there’s something here I can’t make out.”
“I didn’t mean—” Nitty began.
