But Niethe, who accompanied her husband on his annual progress only because she hated being parted from him even more than she hated travel, clearly had not expected to arrive in Tiefenauer only to have the king bid her an almost immediate farewell. This taxed even the queen’s good humor, though normally she accepted the broad demands on her husband’s attention with perfect amiability.
“It can’t be helped,” King Iaor told her apologetically. “I’m certain you will be perfectly safe here, and far more comfortable than possible on a fast ride north.”
Even though the queen smiled and nodded, she somehow gave the impression she had turned her back on him. With a flounce.
Mienthe tried not to laugh. Really it was nothing to laugh at. If Bertaud and King Iaor thought the breaking of the Wall was so dangerous they would not even wait for dawn, but would ride for Tihannad this very night, then there was nothing at all to laugh at. Niethe knew it, too, or she would really be angry rather than merely teasing Iaor in order to make him think she was not frightened.
What was really odd was that Mienthe felt no desire at all to go north herself. It was just as well, since Bertaud would never have allowed her to come—no more than Iaor would allow Niethe to come—but she was surprised she had no urge to ask for permission whether her cousin would grant it or not.
Erich, of course, was going with the king. He came over to Mienthe, leaned his hip against the low table near her, and said lightly, “So now I have at last a chance for swift journeys and brave exploits. I’ll cover myself with glory and when next we meet, I will tell you all my tales of bright valor, do you think so?”
“Of course.” Mienthe smiled up at him. “I’ll expect that of you—brave exploits and bright valor, and only very little exaggeration.”
“I never exaggerate!” Erich informed her in lofty tones. “Well, only a very little.” He hesitated, lowered his deep voice—it was easier for him to boom than whisper, now—and asked, “You know? Why we—why your lord cousin is going north?”
“The griffins,” said Mienthe, deliberately vague. “And the Wall.”
“Yes,” agreed Erich. He frowned at Mienthe. “My father said—this was years ago, but I remember, Mie. He said your country would regret the alliance it made with the griffins. Creatures of earth should not make common cause with creatures of fire. We are too much… ah. Too much opposed. He said nothing good would come of it.”
Mienthe tilted her head. “Well, your father shouldn’t have pushed us to make common cause, then, if he had such strong opinions on the matter.”
“No,” Erich growled, with rather more force than Mienthe had expected. “He should not have. To be fair, he did not expect any such outcome because no one in Casmantium would think to make that alliance.”
“We don’t have your bad history with griffins,” Mienthe suggested.
Erich nodded. “Yes. The bad history. Your lord cousin, he has a good history with the griffins, is that so?”
“Yes, I think he does,” Mienthe said, guardedly, because she could not quite see where the Casmantian prince was going with this.
“He said so. I hope so,” Erich said. He looked at Mienthe for a long moment, the expression in his dark eyes very sober. “But you should remember, you should always remember, a creature of earth should not trust a creature of fire. You will remember this, Mie? If the griffin your cousin says is his friend comes here again to speak to you?”
Mienthe was astonished. “I can’t imagine why he would. He doesn’t know me—he’s not my friend.”
“He made a human girl into a fire mage. Your honored cousin said so. He spoke of it, he and the Safiad.”
By the Safiad he meant King Iaor, as the Arobern meant the King of Casmantium. Even after six years in Feierabiand, Erich liked to use the occasional Casmantian turn of phrase. He might do this to deliberately set himself apart; the prince was not above reminding others that he was Casmantian and royal. But Mienthe thought he simply wished to remind himself of his true heritage and nationality, in moments when he felt himself in danger of forgetting. She wondered what tricks a girl might use to remember her heritage after a griffin turned her into a fire mage. And how well those tricks would work. And for how long.
She said slowly, “I knew that, I think. I had forgotten. And I did not know it was that griffin who did it. Bertaud—” She stopped, not wanting to say out loud, My cousin did not tell me that; he never talks even to me about what happened six years ago.
“That griffin, he saw you when he came to speak to your honored cousin. Maybe he might come back. He took that other girl, before. Maybe he will come here to look for you.”
That seemed very unlikely.
“If he does,” Erich said, taking her hand in both of his—her fingers vanished entirely between his enormous hands. He looked intently into her face, “If he does, Mie, remember that a creature of earth should never make common cause with a creature of fire. Never. Promise me you will remember.”
“Of course I’ll remember,” Mienthe assured him, an easy promise to make as she knew very well nothing of the kind would come about. “I’ll be careful—truly, Erich. But you’ll be the one in danger, which is why you’ll get to do all the brave exploits. All I’ll get to do here is attend the queen and the little princesses and wait for you to send me news.”
The prince’s mouth crooked. “Attending those little girls is a brave exploit.” He stood up and stood for a moment gazing down at her. His eyes held a question, but Mienthe did not know what question she saw there.
But the arrival of the little princesses in person, brought in quickly to make their farewells to their father, interrupted Erich before he could speak, if he meant to.
The older of the princesses was called Karianes Nataviad Merimne Safiad. She was nearly five years old, plump, pretty, cheerful, and kindhearted; everyone said she was very like Niethe’s mother. The littler princess was Anlin Nataviad Merimne Safiad, a child who already, at three, showed her father’s strong will and determined temper. Both little girls ran to say good-bye to Erich after speaking to their father. He had been at the Feierabianden court all their lives and, not having a clear idea about just what a hostage was, they thought he was their brother. Erich called them his little sisters once removed and let them tease him into the most impossible mischief.
Erich threw Anlin up into the air and then caught her again, repeating the procedure at once with her older sister. “Oof!” he said, pretending he might not be able to lift the five-year-old. “Have you grown more just over these few days?”
Karianes laughed, but then pouted. “Do you have to go?”
“I have to, yes, but Mie will be here.”
The little girls gazed at Mienthe with doubtful expressions. A year was a long time to such small children, and they were clearly uncertain whether they should like to trade Erich for Mienthe. Then Anlin said, “You gave me a kitten.”
Mienthe smiled, surprised the child had remembered; the last time the princesses had visited the Delta, Anlin had been only just talking. Even surrounded by her nurses and her mother’s ladies, she had seemed somehow alone to Mienthe. And one of the stable cats had had kittens the right age. “Yes,” she agreed. “A black one with white feet and a white nose.”
“He wanted to come,” declared Anlin. “But Mama wouldn’t let him.”
Mienthe had very little idea how to talk to children. “Traveling is hard on cats,” she said sympathetically. “I’m sure he’ll be waiting for you at home.”
“He wanted to come,” Anlin repeated, scowling. “He told me he did.”
“Maybe she has an affinity to cats, like Tef?” Mienthe said to Erich. She was pleased by the idea, almost like finding such a gift in the child would be a tribute to Tef’s memory. But then maybe the child simply had a vivid imagination. She was very young for any gift to come out.
Erich shrugged, but looked a little envious. Affinities for particular animals, common as dirt in Feierabiand, were fairly ra
re in Casmantium—just as the people of Feierabiand usually were smaller and fair, where those of Casmantium were broad and dark. Erich thought the ability to speak to an animal was a very exotic sort of gift, much more interesting than the making and building that were common gifts in his own country. Mienthe thought she wouldn’t complain if she had even the most common gift in the world, but both Erich and she were well past the age when gifts usually came out.
The princesses’ nurses swept down then to carry them back to their beds, and there was a general movement of the king’s party toward departure. Erich pressed Mienthe’s hands quickly in his and said, “Remember your promise!” She nodded, and he strode quickly away without looking back.
Bertaud strode over to take Mienthe’s shoulders and look down at her in earnest concern.
“You’ll be well,” Mienthe told him. “You’ll find something to do, even if the Wall breaks.” Her tone sounded odd even to her own ear, midway between a plea and a command.
Her cousin said swiftly, “Of course I will. And you’ll be safe here.”
That was a command, to the world if not to Mienthe. She nodded.
“I’ll send you news if I can, if there’s any to send. And I’ll return as swiftly as I may,” Bertaud told her. “Mienthe—” He stopped.
Mienthe waited.
“If Kairaithin comes here, if he comes to you,” her cousin said, and paused again. Then he said quickly, “If he comes, I think you should probably trust him. Especially if he says he comes from me. If he says so, it will likely be true. Do you understand?”
“No,” Mienthe said honestly. “I don’t think I understand anything. But I’ll remember.”
Her cousin barely smiled. “Yes, well. Very well. Remember, then, and that will do. I doubt he’ll come. I’m sure he’ll have no reason to come here. All the trouble will be in the north.” He hesitated another moment, gazing at Mienthe as though he wanted to be certain he’d be able to recall her image perfectly, forever. Then he released her and spun to stride after Iaor.
Mienthe watched him go. If this were a romantic epic, she would disguise herself and sneak along with Bertaud and the king. Of course, if this were a romantic epic, then Erich and she would be certain to have amazing adventures and save Feierabiand—or more likely, both Feierabiand and Casmantium. They would fall in love and part tragically, he to be King of Casmantium and she to be just another Delta lady. They’d never see one another again because, no matter how good the road between the two countries was in the real world, that was how romantic epics ended: tragically.
Mienthe sighed. There was no point in counting over the thousands of reasons it wouldn’t work out like that even if she did sneak herself into her cousin’s party, which, of course, she couldn’t.
Even though it was so late, Mienthe thought she might just slip past Tan’s room quickly and assure herself he was safe and well. He would be asleep—she knew that—but she was somehow uneasy and knew she wouldn’t be able to sleep herself until she’d glanced in and made certain that he was well. She didn’t understand this. But she knew it was true. She didn’t even go to the window to watch Bertaud and Erich and the rest ride away. She went straight to Tan’s room.
The hallway outside the room was empty, but Mienthe didn’t think anything of that; she’d forgotten that Captain Geroen had been told to have his guardsmen attend Tan. It wasn’t the absence of the guardsmen that alarmed Mienthe. Yet she abruptly became certain, even as she walked quickly toward the door, that something was wrong. She took hold of the doorknob with a peculiar sense that the door might not open to Tan’s room at all—that it might open to anything and any location except that room. But when she swung it cautiously back, there was the room after all. The sheets of paper and jars of ink were still laid out in good order on the bed table, but the bed was empty. The whole room was silent and empty.
Or not quite empty. Geroen’s young guardsmen were sitting on the floor, against the wall, pale and insensible. But Tan was not there.
Yet Mienthe found she knew where he was, just as surely as she knew, without looking, which way was down or where her own hands were.
She knew Tan was unconscious. She knew he was nearby, but getting rapidly farther away. She knew he was heading west, toward the river and Linularinum. And she knew something else: that she would never manage to persuade Geroen she knew anything at all.
She was right about everything but the last.
CHAPTER 3
Tan, smiling, pulled the bed table nearer to hand and riffled through the stack of paper a servant had brought, along with a very good supper and a passable wine. The supper was now crumbs and the wine was gone, and he had even slept for a while, which he had not expected after so long unconscious. But then, unconsciousness was not quite the same as sleep, he thought, amused. Now, despite so recently wearing himself out with his gift, he found himself rather drawn to the paper and quills that had been provided. The lamplight would be adequate, if he happened to wish to write a little.
It was good paper, thick and heavily textured. Well-made paper like this was a pleasure to work with; it wouldn’t let ink smudge or fade. The array of inks was also impressive. The blue was a good, deep color like distilled Casmantian sapphires, the green fresh and bright as springtime, the purple dusky and rich.
He thought that a young woman of the Delta was unlikely to know, but would probably like, Anariddthen’s newest cycle, all sweet love and desperate loss and brave heroism, and an ending that was, contrary to most romantic epics, at least ambiguous rather than tragic. It would please pretty little Mienthe, he decided. He was clear already that anyone who wished Lord Bertaud’s goodwill might well give some thought to pleasing his cousin.
The Anariddthen—yes, Tan decided. Not only would young Mienthe probably like it, it also could be taken in pieces of a sensible size. There wasn’t much chance he’d fall into the legist’s trance and wear his fingers to the bone trying to reach the end in one session. Yes. The Anariddthen would do very well. Green ink, Tan thought, for the beginning. He picked up a green quill—made from a parrot’s feather, he presumed, and very handsome it was, if not the sort of quill a professional would care to be seen using for serious work. But perfect for a light romance. He dipped it into the matching ink, and found himself standing alone, chilled half to death, in a cavernous building filled with dim shadows and dusty cobwebs.
There had been no sense of transition at all. Tan’s shocked gasp and sharp twitch backward were natural, but ill-advised: He discovered that his ankles were chained together and his wrists chained to his ankles by coming too hard against the limits of the chains, losing his balance, and falling. And then he discovered that another chain was around his neck, this one running high aloft to the distant ceiling of the building. With his hands chained, Tan could not catch himself: The chain about his neck slipped through a steel ring and he was suddenly strangling. It took a terrifying moment of breathless, off-balance struggle to regain his feet, and even then he had to toss his head sharply to get the strangling chain to run back through the slip-ring so he could catch his breath.
His throat felt bruised where the chain had closed around it. For an instant he could not help but picture what would have happened if he’d fallen with a little more force and crushed his windpipe, or if he hadn’t been able to get back to his feet and had simply hung there, strangling—The images went beyond vivid to visceral, and he shut his eyes for a long moment and devoted himself to breathing. Slow, steady breaths. He was not going to panic and give himself to his enemies… to Istierinan, to be plain, and what was Istierinan doing with a pet mage running his errands? What mage would it even be? None of the court mages at Teramondian served or worked with or even liked Istierinan, so far as Tan knew. Obviously he had missed something. Evidently something important.
Tan knew very little about magecraft, but obviously Istierinan couldn’t have stolen him out of the Delta’s great house and tumbled him into this place through a blank moment
of time unless he had a Linularinan mage working with him. But, earth and iron, why had the Linularinan spymaster gone to such trouble to do it? Istierinan risked offending not just Feierabiand but the Lord of the Delta by stealing Tan out of his own house? Even when it was patently too late to stop the stolen information from getting out? It was incredible.
Although, on the other hand, Tan had to credit that Istierinan had clearly managed the trick. Perhaps so silently that Lord Bertaud would not be able to take official offense? At least, so silently that Istierinan could tell himself that the Lord of the Delta wouldn’t be able to take offense? Tan ran that question backward and forward in his mind even while he turned most of his attention toward examining his situation and his prison. He wasn’t injured. Not even bruised, save where the chain had closed across his throat when he’d fallen. Istierinan and his people had taken some care, then, that he not be harmed. Yet. But his shirt was gone, and his boots. No wonder he was cold. His skin prickled with the chill. Or maybe with fear.
He tried to bury the fear beneath rational thought and a practical attention toward possible escape. The building seemed to be a warehouse. Or a barn. A barn, yes. That loft had probably held bales of hay or straw, and those rot-riddled boards over there had probably once outlined neat stalls. Though the table near at hand was new, obviously brought in recently. Like the chains and their bolts. An old disused barn, then, freshly tricked out for its new and far more questionable role. Too far from the city, he was certain, for passersby to hear shouts.
Law of the Broken Earth: The Griffin Mage Trilogy: Book Three Page 8
