by Sarah Remy
Tillion’s wild gaze flicked to Mal and away again. Mal, whose task it was to see the king’s justice carried out.
But Lane was not alive to face Mal’s inquisition because Avani had killed the armswoman, stabbing her through the throat, twisting the blade as she’d been taught to make sure the job was done well. She’d done it to save Baldebert’s life, and it was possible Lane deserved to die as she’d lived, in battle—but to Avani it was still a life taken, and a life taken, innocent or otherwise, was a life wasted.
Tillion asked, “And the other one? Is not he yours, also, Majesty? Himself, his father, and his father’s father before?”
“Only,” replied Renault coldly, “in so much as is any other man, woman, or child who lives upon my land. As are you, sir, so long as you shelter within my walls. Best not forget it.”
The priests shifted on the grass, robes whispering. A cloud blew across the sun, sending shadows along the sepulcher wall. A cool breeze kicked up. Summer was waning.
“Holder will be recovered,” Mal promised. “Sooner rather than later. No one escapes His Majesty’s attention indefinitely. He can’t run forever. To whom here shall I send word when it’s done?”
It was a subtle way of asking whether the temple had yet selected the next Masterhealer. Avani thought Mal’s outward tranquility impressive. She could feel how desperately he wanted to berate the priests for daring to implicate Renault in Lane’s corruption.
“The decision could not be made until our brother was laid to rest,” one of the pallbearers replied. He was younger than the rest. His cheeks were still wet with tears. Avani did not know his name, but she recognized him from time spent in the temple fighting the Red Worm. “Tonight we will celebrate Paul’s life. Tomorrow we will begin to pray that the god will quickly show us his replacement.”
“There is no time to waste,” Tillion agreed, looking at his own bare toes, at the garden wall, and up at the gathering clouds. The wooden staff quivered in his fist. “Our indecision only angers the god further.” His teeth clicked suddenly together and he winced, eyes narrowing in pain.
“I can help you with the tremors,” Mal said mildly. “Mayhap even the cramping. There is a method I’ve seen used—”
"Malachi,” Renault warned even as Tillion reared back, insulted.
“Healing is the temple’s work,” Brother Orat said quickly. “While we appreciate your offer, Lord Malachi, bone magic is anathema and best left to those who are desirous of your specialized talents. Brother Tillion has no need of them.”
A bird called from the branches of a fruit tree. Renault shifted. Avani saw from the flick of his thumb against his sword belt that the king’s patience had at last run out.
“When Brother Paul’s successor is chosen,” he ordered, “let him present himself before me. There is a war to discuss, and I cannot wait upon the god’s decision to make my own.”
Brother Orat bowed again. The rest of the theists followed suit. Renault turned on his heel and strode away from the sepulcher, Mal in his long black vocent’s cape plunging after. Together they were imposing. Avani knew it was by design. She brought up the rear, pausing to admire fading rose blossoms. The cooler air chased her from the garden, through a narrow gate, and out onto the city streets. She reveled in the chill, grown weary of the long, sultry summer.
An escort of six Kingsmen stirred from where they stood outside the temple. Pikes in hand, they surrounded Mal and the king. The streets were slowly filling with people. Wilhaiim was waking. Farmers, housemaids, tradesfolk, and court attendants all gave the Renault and his soldiers a wide birth. They bowed as they passed. Many smiled. Renault was royalty and still well beloved. Avani, watching as the scarlet-liveried troop ushered the king away toward the palace, couldn’t help but worry that theists meant to turn that old, comfortable affection into something poisonous.
“People fear what they don’t understand,” she mused aloud, as her own small escort detached himself from a patch of morning shadow thrown off by the temple walls. “To most of Wilhaiim, Roue is an unknown, its people no less ominous than those of the desert.”
Liam shrugged. “Wilhaiim will be glad enough of Roue when Baldebert’s ships arrive carrying the Rani’s elephant guns.”
Liam wore his own version of the king’s colors: a simple red tunic over gray shirt and hose. The red was a new addition to the page’s uniform and marked him as a senior squire. A brindled hound, tall as Liam’s hip, waited at his side. She panted affably as she watched people pass to and fro, great strings of saliva dribbling from her strong jaws.
She had been Holder’s dog, before Holder disappeared. Now she seemed attached to Liam, who had an uncanny way with animals. He fondled her large ears, staring after the king’s party until it disappeared from view. He seemed mostly unaffected by his ordeal in the Bone Cave, despite the bruises still purpling one side of his face. The discoloration made the old scars on his cheeks and brow more pronounced: a trellis of white seams carved into his flesh by jagged sidhe blades.
“Any news of Jacob?” Liam demanded. He’d asked Avani the same question each of the past five mornings, ever since she’d made the mistake of worrying out loud that the raven had gone missing.
“Nay.” She reached to ruffle Liam’s dark hair but he ducked away from her hand, making her laugh. “It’s not the first time he’s gone off on business of his own, nor will it be the last.” She could still feel Jacob on the edge of her senses, a faint but reliable impression of ruffled feathers and distemper, less intrusive than Mal’s serrated wit and more familiar. She’d lived with pieces of the raven in her heart—a blessing and a curse—since the Goddess had seen fit to tie Jacob to her, back when Avani had first arrived on flatland shores.
“Aye, well. Jacob had best be careful.” Liam scowled as he followed Avani into the street. Passing strangers gave the dog at his side a large berth. “It’s not safe as it once was outside the city walls. The days are growing longer and strange things are stirring after dark.”
“Ai, Holder will have to show his nose sooner or later.” Avani spoke with more assurance than she felt. “And when he does the Kingsmen will have him. There are more scouts riding the King’s Highway of late than even Deval can recall from years past.”
Liam shook his head. “There are worse things in the fields and on the road than Holder,” he muttered. “Dire things.”
Avani glanced around. They both recalled the dire things that had once walked the Downs, and the destruction left behind.
“Not sidhe,” Liam said quickly. He met Avani’s gaze before glancing away. “At least, I don’t think so. Wythe’s horse guard talk over supper of wolves in the fields, whole packs of them, and great, frenzied elk stampeding in herds from the red woods, afraid of no man. Riggins says he’s seen an enormous eagle with eyes like flame circling over Whitcomb. Big as a pony, he said it was. More than big enough to swallow a raven entire.”
“Big as a pony, was it?” Stopping, Avani quirked her brows. Liam flushed but lifted his chin in challenge. Wilhaiim eddied around them, becoming noisy as the morning ripened. The blacksmith’s hammer rang out from three streets over. A fishmonger called her wares while a man selling summer squash out of woven baskets played a jolly tune on a small silver flute, vying for attention. Avani’s stomach rumbled. She’d skipped breakfast for the Masterhealer’s interment.
Once she would have soothed Liam’s worries with spiced cider and a pasty roll. Once, when a full belly had been a luxury for the pair of them, an indication that all was right with the world. But now Liam was stretching toward manhood and he no longer looked to Avani for comfort. Lately, he kept his counsel close as any treasure, doling out companionship as parsimoniously as coin.
It struck her that his concern for the raven had sent him to her side five days in a row, a rarity and a boon, and so she checked her amusement before it could do either of them harm. She gripped his shoulder as she had seen Renault do Mal’s, equal-to-equal, and let him see the
honesty in her face.
“I cannot tell you what mischief Jacob is about, but wherever he is, he is alive and not made meal for eagle or wolf. I would know,” she promised, “if it were otherwise.” She touched the place on the edge of her perception that was Jacob, gingerly as a tongue probing a bad tooth, and felt the raven’s distant irritability in reply. Whatever the bird was up to, he wanted no part of her interference.
Liam released a breath. The brindled hound wagged her massive tail, neatly knocking a man in a feathered cap sideways. The man swore. Avani awarded him an apologetic smile.
“Come,” she told Liam, “I’ve a desire for cider before the day warms to unbearable.”
Chapter 2
Eight days after Lane’s death Avani was startled from her loom by a sudden pounding on the chamber door.
“My lady!” As Avani rose from her stool a sharp cry joined the drubbing. “My lady! Are you there?”
Puzzled, Avani crossed the room and opened the door. The scent of honey wafted from the corridor without. Even so it took her longer than it should have to recognize the woman hovering impatiently on the threshold. She’d learned to distinguish the lords and ladies of Renault’s court out of recent necessity; she did the throne little good if she could not pick out the king’s advisors from his detractors.
The lass standing in the corridor and smelling of honey was no titled aristocrat. Avani almost did not recognize her away from her brightly colored tent and toothsome wares. But her remarkable alabaster hair—now bundled off her face beneath a patchwork scarf—and delicate features made a lasting impression on most who met her. Villein and soldiers alike were drawn to her tent, intent on sampling more than honey. In Avani’s experience the lass had a bold wit and a talent for flirtation and seemed to enjoy wielding both.
“Beekeeper?” Avani inquired, puzzled. She was not unaccustomed to patrons knocking on her door at odd hours in search of her favors as weaver and seamstress, but rarely did a client seem so intent on beating in her door.
“Cleena,” the beekeeper said, and Avani was abashed to think she’d never bothered ask the lass’s name. “Come with me. Hurry.”
“Is something the matter?”
“You’re wanted, my lady, at once.” She looked past Avani’s shoulder, dark eyes scanning the chamber. “Faolan said to bring your healing tackle—your teas and ointments and such.”
“Faolan!” Avani ducked out of the doorway and swiftly gathered up the odds and ends she kept close in case of illness or injury amongst the more reticent of the king’s subjects. Despite temple rhetoric, there were many who preferred magus over priest when it came to ailments of the body, and more than a few of those who favored Avani’s quiet competence over Mal’s brusque bedside manner.
“Faolan is in Wilhaiim?” she demanded, scooping equipment into her sturdiest sack. She knotted it neatly closed, then slung it over one shoulder. “Is that wise? Is he injured? Sick?”
Cleena grimaced. “Mulish and hardheaded,” she said. She plucked at her patchwork apron with long, pale fingers. The apron, like the lass’s scarf, was all the colors of a wheat field at sunset: gold and yellow, lavender and rose, and black and silver where pieces of damask were sewn into the hem. “Are you ready?”
“Aye. Where are we going?”
“Down,” replied Cleena.
Avani’s chambers, while not so luxurious as Mal’s, were nevertheless situated high enough above the bailey as to indicate her worth to the king. Even during the heat of midsummer, with her windows cracked, she was rarely troubled by the sound of city traffic. The rest of the floor was deserted but for an elderly viscountess who, for the most part, kept to herself, preferring sleep to company. Locked doors guarding empty rooms ran the length of the twisting corridor between torches smoldering blue mage-light.
Cleena darted unerringly toward the back staircase used almost exclusively by Avani and the palace servants. Avani’s pack bounced against her spine as she jogged to keep pace, the worn carpets muffling their footsteps. The servant’s stair was hidden behind a discreet tapestry featuring a spearman, a hound, and a rearing stag. The striped hound called to mind Liam’s brindled companion.
Cleena twitched the tapestry aside. She slipped into the staircase, gesturing for Avani to follow. The steps were wide, square-hewn, slanting at right angles into the depths of the palace. More mage-light kept shadows from encroaching, but Avani still brushed the knuckles of one hand along gray stone walls for balance as they descended. The stone was pleasantly cool and dry to the touch, the air crisp no matter the season. For all the times she’d traveled up and down the staircase Avani had not yet found a magus’s sigil but she knew it must be there, hidden high above her head near the tower eves or carved in the old stone near the bottom-most stair, mayhap anchored with a sliver of bone to keep the temperate spell strong as time unspooled.
A pinched-face lady’s maid passed them on the stairs, slippers whispering on stone as she hastened upward, a bundle of clean linen pressed against her chest. She eyed Cleena warily but awarded Avani the briefest of curtsies before rushing on. The labored puff of her breath echoed as she disappeared upward.
“How far down?” Avani queried when the Cleena led her past floor after floor with no sign of slowing. Avani knew from experience that the stair eventually led to the sewers beneath the castle foundation. She’d gone swimming in the Maiden’s Spring once and wasn’t inclined to repeat the experience.
Cleena didn’t look around. The beekeeper’s long, silvery hair cascaded down her shoulders almost to her waist, shimmering in the dimness. Even in haste her hips undulated provocatively. Her simple shift bared strong calves and delicate, sandaled feet. In the close stairwell she was redolent of lavender and honey.
The friendly, flirtatious nature Avani remembered from the Fair seemed now too pronounced, her allure exaggerated into ripe sexuality. The back of Avani’s neck prickled warning even as her mouth went dry in late understanding. She stopped on the stairs and reached for her wards. Her fingertips throbbed as protective magic burst around her, sparkling silver.
The beekeeper whirled. Her dimpled smile turned derisive.
“There’s no call for disrespect,” she said, “little witch.”
“What are you?” Avani challenged.
Cleena pursed her lips in irritation. “You know,” she said. “You’ve seen, always. I’ve never bothered to hide more than the edges of the truth. Humans are so easily beguiled by merriment and sweets.”
“Sidhe,” Avani accused. She drew her wards tight, wondering if she dared reach for Mal.
“Sidheog,” Cleena replied, terse. She eyed the glittering perimeter of Avani’s spell. “Mind your manners; I mean you no more harm now than I did when last we exchanged gossip over my wares.”
Avani swallowed. The sidhe were a clever folk fond of word games. The beekeeper’s promise was no promise at all.
“What is sidheog?”
Cleena dimpled. “When the ban side dance above our barrows, it is the sidheog who calls the steps. And when the hag calls warning beneath a dying man’s window it is the sidheog who tempers her song. Before iron and magi forced my people into the depths of the earth, it was the sidheog who sent sidhe disguised as the fairest of maidens to warm mortal beds and suss out flatlander secrets.”
“But I closed the all sidhe tunnels beneath Wilhaiim!”
“And I rode through the east gate with my hives in a wagon behind, a farmer’s lass proud of her bees.” Cleena scoffed. “Did you suppose Faolan the only aes si intent on passing amongst you? Rumors of war have penetrated even our deepest dreams; the elders are stirring in their sleep.”
“Faolan,” Avani prompted through gritted teeth. Her wards crackled, sending sparks into the air, echoing her alarm. She was confident she could keep the sidhe woman at arm’s length for the moment, but she couldn’t help regret the sword she’d left behind in her rooms.
Cleena whirled on the step, apron fluttering. “Two more turning
s,” she said over her shoulder. And then, as an afterthought, “Your master is with him already. He’d be a pretty piece for my bed, that one, if not for the rough-healed broken nose and the shattered heart. What a waste of fine flesh.”
Mal was visibly relieved to see Avani. He waited on the staircase just inside a narrow door deep enough into the castle foundation that Avani thought she could smell the sewers below. From the layer of dust on the stairs and on the threshold itself, it was apparent the door was rarely used.
“This way.” Mal waved Avani through the door. A rudimentary passage waited beyond—packed earth floors and imperfectly cut gray stone walls.
The only illumination was the green-silver sheen thrown off by Mal’s mage-light and the entirely natural torch he held in one hand. He offered Avani a second smoking torch, waiting until she snuffed her angry wards before leaning close.
“Be careful,” he murmured into her ear before straightening.
“You took your time,” he accused Cleena, sweeping the sidhe with his green gaze. “Or you ran into trouble.”
Cleena replied, “Neither. Your student was distrustful.” She pushed past Mal, quickly disappearing down the gloomy passage.
Mal looked thoughtfully after. “They see in the dark easily as any night bird.”
Avani grabbed his sleeve. The Hennish leather warmed between her fingers. “What is this place? What has happened?” She uncurled inquiry along their link but Mal quickly shook his head.
“Not here,” he warned. “Don’t be fooled. That one’s strength is deceptive. Best not give her any reason for suspicion.” He folded gloved fingers over Avani’s on his sleeve and chivvied her forward. “Nevertheless, Faolan has done us a great favor, whether he intended it or not.” He made a sound of dry amusement as he sent his mage-light ahead along the tunnel. “And he refuses succor from any but you. I am, apparently, unworthy.”
Avani appreciated the lightness of Mal’s tone. Since returning to Wilhaiim he was more often bitter than not, seemingly jealous of Renault’s regard. The king had done little to bolster his vocent’s flagging confidence, professing to distrust the changes that capture, imprisonment, and deep water may have wrought in the magus. Renault relied more often on Avani’s judgment, even as she sought to distance herself from the roll of advisor, and Mal had grown sour in the face of the throne’s distrust.
