Lord Arias had been one of those Collared Lords, until Sharpeyes slew him. Ander remembered Callo’s horrified grief after the news of Arias’ death. He was sure Callo had not really meant his oath to slay Sharpeyes in revenge.
“We must prepare,” King Martan said. “Leyland and Righar both.”
“I will so inform King Therey, your Majesty,” the emissary said.
“Do that. Bid him, as graciously as I would wish to convey, to set aside rumors and fulfill our plans.” He waved at Ander. “This boy will be in a position of power, regardless what happens to the succession to the throne.”
“Lord Callo may well die before then, anyway,” Dria said carelessly. “The man is ill from too much power.”
“Yhallin will cure him,” the King said, dismissing the subject.
Chapter Nine
Callo began pacing. It took him five strides to get from one wall to the other. In spite of its size, the room was furnished according to Callo’s rank, with comfort and even a touch of heavyhanded style. There were gold-threaded coverlets and a ceramic pitcher with nude females dancing around it. A rather bloody battle scene adorned one wall.
There was nothing, of course, that he could use to escape. He had already looked. No sharp objects, nothing that could be used as a weapon against the guarded servants who brought his food and drink. The window had a graceful view of a garden courtyard, but was barred; there would be no escape that way.
Yhallin’s poison, offered to him like a sweet on a stick as an enticement to allow him partial freedom, ensured he did not use his mage abilities to escape either. The stuff smelled like a courtesan’s lair, heavy and sweet, in spite of the fact that Kirian said it was diluted so much it was safe to drink. He took it grudgingly; they would not allow him the brief freedom he had been granted if he did not drink the stuff.
And without the candlemarks in the courtyard or in the ring, he thought he would in truth go mad.
Yhallin watched him. “You are restless. Are you having more difficulty containing your magery today?”
“No. I just want out of here. A turn in the ring, a ride. Jashan’s eyes, even a stroll in the garden like a damned debutante would ease me greatly. Is there nothing you can do?”
“You were in the ring with Hon Drale yesterday. You will be permitted time in the castle ring again today, and dinner in the courtyard if you wish it.”
“Time in public, so I may pretend I am not in fact a prisoner.”
“That will not last long.” Yhallin still gave back no expression, nothing for him to work with to know what the woman was feeling. The Mage Healer looked odd, with her shaved head and humble messenger’s clothing. Her voice was calm as if nothing he said could reach her. He was tempted to blaze out in a storm of magery, just to see if he could provoke some reaction from her.
But, of course, he could not. The last dose of phodian made him blind to the magery he had lived with his entire life; he felt blank and dull. He wondered if this was what it was like to be ungifted.
“How do you feel?” Yhallin asked.
“Like I’m behind bars!” he snapped.
“Confinement does make active people irritable,” Yhallin said. “But you are doing well, and it does not appear the phodian has reached its limit of toxicity yet. Only a few days until the caravan goes to Deephold, and then you will be free of all this.”
Callo had agreed to go to Deephold, the place in the mountains that had been gifted to Mage Yhallin when she had pledged her considerable talents to the King. Sharpeyes had known how to bind to him what he needed to bolster his power; he had spared nothing to reward this unlikely mage in such a way she would be tethered to him. Callo had seen the look in her eyes when she mentioned King Martan. There was more than gratitude there, more than the allegiance a rescued halfbreed owed to her savior. The light in Yhallin’s eyes was fervid.
He regarded her with a pained wariness. He had been waiting for her to decide he was a threat to Sharpeyes, and then turn on him. So far he had been fortunate. She knew nothing of his vow, or else she thought it merely the flamboyant words of new grief, and did not believe it.
She took her leave of him. He waited until his guardsmen came to escort him to the ring.
It was a hot afternoon, but the interior walls that surrounded the courtyard still held the chill of the previous night’s air. There were people there, clustered in the cool of the shadowed walls, talking and avoiding the heat of the day.
Callo had practiced here before, but not often; he had never been favored in Sugetre Castle. As Sharpeyes’ bastard nephew, he had been relegated to modest quarters outside the walls of the main castle, and had practiced in the warriors’ ring near the stable yards.
He did not want to practice here today. There were too many eyes.
“I would prefer one of the stable rings,” he told the guard. “Can we not go there?”
“We are here now, where there are others who can help subdue you if you cause trouble,” the man said. “I was told to bring you here, my lord. If it is not acceptable, I’ll return you to your cell.”
Callo’s eyes went to the windows above, on the second and third floors, behind which anyone could sit and watch, even Sharpeyes were he so inclined. It was a mistake to do the worship ritual here, he knew; yet he dared not protest. The privilege might be taken away, and he did not think his slight control could weather that. He shed his cloak and picked up one of the wooden swords that leaned against the wall, testing it with a turn of his wrist. A familiar face smiled at him from across the ring, and he felt better. It was Chiss, in the middle of a varied group of upper servants and city guard.
He smiled back at Chiss, then looked around for others he might know. The grassy area outside the ring was empty of other groups, but there were people on the stone-railed balcony on the facing second floor; they were courtiers, mostly, curious about him no doubt. He caught a glimpse of a red-lined cloak and dark hair and recognized Lord Ander, looking at him unsmiling.
Callo bowed toward Ander and proceeded into the ring. This was unnatural, conducting this ritual with an audience, with his nerves dampened by the drug. But he was a prisoner and must take what he could. Closing his eyes, he lifted the sword in the ritual salute and began the first slow turns of Jashan’s form.
His feet were heavy, and the light wooden sword felt almost disconnected from his arm. He knew his usual grace was absent. Three forms into the ritual, he had not felt the presence of the god. Then he focused on the sword, and the muttering of the people around him faded into silence. He forgot the artificiality of the ceremonial ring, the courtiers whispering on the balcony, and the armed guard watching him. Jashan’s strength was suddenly in his arm. His feet were lighter, his movements inspired.
He lifted his head and moved in the ancient purity of the forms, enveloped in the god’s silence.
Then someone shouted. He opened his eyes, almost stumbling as a hand caught hold of his sword arm. His rapport with the god fled. Gold fire wrapped his hands and coated the cheap wooden sword. Looking around in confusion, he saw a haze of color magery that fled as the sword was wrested from his grasp.
“What?” he gasped, yanked back to earth too suddenly. “What are you doing?”
“Stopping you, color mage,” the guard growled.
A booted foot struck him from behind and he fell to his knees. Someone grabbed him by the neck of his tunic. How dare the man handle me thus? Color magery flared in the corner of his vision and then vanished. The dead quality he associated with the phodian was gone.
“You may stop, guard,” said a new voice. Callo turned to see a gray-bearded man wearing a mage cloak. “I am here to deal with any errant color magery, though I think he poses no danger.”
“My lord, I was ordered to do whatever was necessary to stop him from using any magery.”
“You have done enough,” Oron said calmly.
The guard released him. On the second floor balcony, there was a babble of voices spe
aking at once. From the third floor a mage-cloaked man with a circlet around his head made an appearance in the archway. His Majesty Sharpeyes looked down at the confusion and smiled.
“You saw it!” exclaimed someone in the balcony. “He does indeed have the color magery!”
“Sharpeyes has declared him true Monteni by blood,” said another courtier.
“Pfah, he’s no more than a half-blood.”
“Shhhh!” hushed a woman standing next to him. “The King is here.”
“Are you all right?” Mage Oron asked him. “You look a little pale.”
“It is—they gave me drugs,” Callo said. “To control me. I don’t know what happened. Thank you for your intervention.”
“You would have been better off to practice somewhere private,” said the Lord Mage. He looked up at the third floor. The opening where the King had stood was now empty.
Callo handed the sword to his guard and walked out of the ring, Mage Oron beside him. “I don’t understand.”
“The gossip will be all around the castle before nightfall that you are what His Majesty has announced—a color mage, true Monteni by blood—even if illegitimate. Worthy to be recognized, if you can get your heritage under control.”
“Instead of a bastard nothing to be scorned, as I was before.”
“Just so.” Mage Oron put his hand in front of the guard as he attempted to follow them back into the castle. “You need not follow us, man. I have it under control.”
“But Mage Yhallin commanded me.”
“I think you may tell Mage Yhallin that I have other orders for you. Do you have some objection?” The guard paled as Oron’s mild, gray eyes scanned his face. Then the mage smiled as Chiss came running up to them. “Here, I have a younger man to help me should Lord Callo turn violent. Go your way, guard. My respects to Mage Yhallin.”
There was nothing the guard could do. He backed away, scowling. Callo felt an immense relief; though he was still under guard by Mage Oron, this was the first time he had felt relatively free since he had been brought drugged and bound into Sugetre Castle.
“My lord, are you well?” Chiss asked, keeping pace with them as they swept through the corridors.
“I am, and also very glad to see you, Chiss,” Callo said. “Are they treating you well here?”
Chiss shrugged. “I have not been mistreated. I am given no duties, so you will be pleased to know I have been your eyes and ears around this place for the last sennight. I have much to tell you.”
Callo smiled. The presence of his oldest friend brought him comfort. “That is good. But better yet to see you well.”
They stopped in Mage Oron’s spacious outer chamber. The shutters were flung wide. A stained glass pendant hung from one lintel, casting rainbows around the room.
“Now,” Oron said with emphasis, “what possessed you to show your ability in the ceremonial ring, in front of all the chatterboxes in the castle?”
Callo was taken aback. “It should not have happened. The drug failed to work—the one they have been giving me to suppress the mage talent.”
“You have lived here before,” Oron said. “You know what this place is like. Your display—your loss of control—was a mistake. You have advanced your cause if you wish to be next ruler of this land. Otherwise, you have made an enemy of the boy who is the legal heir.”
“Ander was there,” Chiss said.
“I saw him,” Callo said.
“You bowed to him,” Oron said. “That was a sign to those who watch such things. I think you have no desire to be our next King, Lord Callo. Am I right?”
“Lord Ander will be the rightful King,” Callo said.
“Ah, but oddly timid and uninterested in the realities of wielding power. He is not a strong personality. I have watched those who are used to dealing with His Majesty meet the boy and come away looking puzzled, sometimes concerned. They are not sure, these righ and their representatives, that he can rule.”
“He is just a boy,” Chiss said.
“Yes, just fifteen. Surely His Majesty Sharpeyes will be around for many years, so Ander will have time to hone his skills for ruling this land. Is that quite right, Lord Callo?”
Callo felt a jolt of anger, and knew it had reached his eyes.
Oron smiled. “I thought so.”
Callo turned and began to pace, nerves jittering through him. The effects of the drug seemed to have vanished. He was hyper-alert now. “What do you mean?”
“I too loved Lord Arias Alkiran,” Oron said.
“You are the King’s man, bound to him with color magery so you may raise no hand against him. I have known you for many years, and I know you are loyal.”
“In fact, I am. If you strike at him near me, I will do what I can to thwart you. But I must confess to great anger over what was done to my young friend Arias.” Oron sighed. “I have not yet worked it all out. But I do know that Lord Ander must be our next King, as is his place by honor of his birth. You are a bastard half-righ, with neither the support nor the control of your magery to hold these arrogant Collared Lords.”
“I told His Majesty I would not follow him on the throne. There need be no further discussion.”
Oron smiled, but it did not reach his eyes. “I think I believe you. But it is clear that King Martan does not. Why else would he keep you, like an icetiger feebly chained with straw, and cultivate your skill? Like it or not, if Mage Yhallin can help you get control of the color magery, you will owe the King a debt.”
“If so, it is greatly outweighed by the debts he owes me.”
“Once you are bound, King Martan’s life will be safe. I remember that when I have doubts about whether I should override my King’s leniency and take matters into my own hands. But you cannot be bound in this . . . condition.” A dismissive wave referred to the color magery that even now fought past the dullness of the drug to ring Callo’s arms and hands.
Callo could not stop the shiver that ran through him at the thought of being bound to the King.
Oron noticed. “It must be done, you know. As you are, you’re a wild card, uncontrollable. If you had been known to have mage talent, it would have been done long ago.”
“I had forgotten. So, that is why the King has not summoned me. He waits for his discussion until I can be bound to his safety with his color magery, and can no longer pose a threat.”
“Work with Yhallin,” Oron said. “You must, to save your own life. She may be strange, but she is brilliant beyond anyone I have met. The treatment works—much of the time. Though it is true you present a special case.” Oron shrugged and turned his head at a banging on the door. “Apparently our escape has been foiled. Those will be King’s men, come to return you to your pleasant imprisonment. I will argue your case with the Council members, most of whom despise you. They will like to see you gone.”
“Gone, or dead?” Callo said.
“A fine distinction, to some of them. As to the King, he has been warned of your recalcitrance, but he is full of pride. You are the result of his grand strategy of thirty years ago, and he will not let go so easily.”
* * * * *
Kirian entered the small room she had been assigned near Mage Yhallin’s chambers. She tossed her cloak on the bed and sat, thinking back over her day.
Mage Yhallin had been an undemanding superior thus far. Kirian’s mornings were usually free. She had been using the time to work through the information Yhallin had amassed on the diagnosis and treatment of insane color mages. In the afternoons, Yhallin told her to make herself useful at the Healer’s College clinic.
Kirian had no idea there were so many color mages who had difficulty containing the energies they must deal with. Reading through the pages of sloping handwriting in Yhallin’s records, she learned of the adolescent color mage who, torn between the normal stresses of his development and the pressure of color magery, had committed suicide by drinking poison in his family’s Healer’s rooms. Another case was of a woman, who unlike
most female righ was able to use the ability usually only manifest in males of her family. She had no one to help her learn to contain the magery, and had died consumed by it before the eyes of her family at the age of nineteen.
There were other cases, some only hearsay from before Yhallin’s time. Sometimes the details were sketchy. Usually the stories were suppressed by the righ family.
Kirian noticed there seemed to be more of these cases in recent years—at least, if the anecdotal evidence in Yhallin’s records could be trusted. She wondered if this had anything to do with the relentless inbreeding practiced by the righ class, in their quest to make sure their mage ability was ever assured and enhanced in future generations.
Then there were the mages who came to Yhallin for help. Yhallin had pages of notes on these boys and men, detailing everything from their family histories to the results of her attempts to heal them with traditional instruction, drugs, and assistance from Mage Oron.
A few of these chapters had a single note at the bottom: To Deephold. And then no further notes at all.
Kirian spent that morning looking for information on whatever was done at Deephold. She found nothing. Then Yhallin required her to learn how to figure dosages of mellweed and phodian to suppress uncontrolled magery without incapacitating the mage. Now it was midafternoon, and Kirian was tired. She nibbled on some fresh fruit and bread she had taken from the kitchens and decided to lie down for a moment, enjoying the feel of the breeze coming in through her open shutters. It was the first cool breeze Sugetre had felt for a while. Wrapped in stifling heat for most of the summer, the city welcomed this harbinger of the coming autumn with open windows.
After a candlemark or so, she went to visit Callo.
Callo sat in his only chair, staring out the barred window when Kirian arrived. His hair streamed in a fall of pale gold over the chair back. As Kirian entered, he looked over at her, amber eyes half-lidded from sleepiness or boredom.
“Here to give me more of Yhallin’s drugs?” he asked.
“Have you not had your dose today?”
Sword of Jashan (Book 2) Page 12
