Law of the Broken Earth: The Griffin Mage Trilogy: Book Three

by Neumeier, Rachel

  Just as she started to wonder very seriously where exactly the guardsmen were taking them, the streets suddenly opened up and there before them was a very large stone fortress, a building not without a certain grace, but obviously intended far more for defense than for beauty. There was no evident garden, only a small courtyard of raked granite grit, with stables to one side and one massive tree on the other.

  “The governor’s palace,” said their guide. “The Arobern is there now. I will show you where to wait and then I will take word to the king’s… ah, the word is… the king’s chamberlain, yes? Forgive me; I am clumsy with your language.”

  “But you speak Terheien very well,” Mienthe said.

  The man ducked his head again. “The honored courier flatters my poor skill,” he said politely, and swung down from his own horse to hold hers.

  Mienthe dismounted. So did Tan, though no one held his horse for him. He kept a grip on his horse’s saddle, Mienthe saw, and his mouth tightened with pain as his weight came down on his bad leg. She gave him a worried glance, to which he returned only a short nod. He let go of the saddle and took two deliberate steps away from his horse, hardly limping at all, though Mienthe did not like to guess what that effort cost him.

  The door to which the guardsman brought them was a plain one, set out of the way, well around the palace from the main doors. It opened onto a narrow hall, but the rugs on the stone floor were good ones, and the walls paneled in carved wood. At the end of the hall was a surprisingly pretty receiving chamber, furnished with clear attention to elegance and style. The floor was stone, with rugs of violet and blue to muffle the cold and noise. The furnishings were all wood save for the small tables, which were each topped with a sheet of polished granite. A bronze statue of a leaping stag stood in one corner, and a pewter tree with silver leaves and little birds of copper and black iron in another. There were no windows, but lamps of copper and glass hung from the paneled ceiling, and porcelain lamps stood on the tables.

  “I will leave you here,” said the guardsman, speaking to Mienthe. “I will tell the chamberlain. I will be very clear. I think the Arobern will send for you quickly, but I will tell them to send tea. You will wait? This is acceptable?”

  “Yes,” said Mienthe, wondering what he would say or do if she said No. She said helplessly, “But my hair—” and stopped, blushing in embarrassed confusion.

  The corners of the guardsman’s mouth twitched uncontrollably upward before he tamped his lips out straight again. He said very firmly, “The King of Casmantium is accustomed to receive urgent news from couriers and agents. Honored lady.”

  “Yes,” Mienthe said, though not with nearly the firmness the man had managed. She told herself it was perfectly true. The guardsman bowed, rather more deeply than she had expected, and went out. None of the guardsmen stayed in the room with them, though she was not at all surprised to see two of them stop outside the door—there was only one door—with a patient attitude that suggested they might be there for some time.

  “Your hair looks perfectly charming,” Tan told her, without the hint of a smile, after the door had closed. “There’s a tiny bit of ash on your chin, just—” He brushed his thumb across his own chin.

  Mienthe scrubbed her face vigorously with her sleeve, sighed, and looked around. At least there were chairs, nice ones with thick cushions. She thought hot tea sounded wonderful, especially if it came with cakes or sweet rolls, and she thought even more strongly that Tan should sit down. She sank into the nearest chair herself, by way of example, and said, “I suppose the Arobern really is here.”

  “Yes,” agreed Tan. “For a brief time, I was afraid our friends there might be taking us somewhere other than to the king, but now I rather suspect they are royal guardsmen and not merely local men who prefer soldiering to farming.” He lowered himself slowly into a chair, not grimacing at all, and carefully stretched his leg out before him.

  Mienthe did not ask about his knee, since the way he moved told her everything she needed to know. Anyway, she had some hope he would be able to rest it properly now. She asked instead, “You do intend to tell the king who you are, don’t you? If he will see us, I mean? Because I don’t know how to explain everything without explaining that.” She considered for a moment and added, “I don’t know how to explain anything without explaining that.”

  “If the Arobern actually sends for us, I suppose he must have the entire wretched story from top to toe,” Tan said, not as if the prospect pleased him. He tilted his head against the back of his chair, closed his eyes, and let his breath out, slowly.

  “I hadn’t known—” Mienthe began worriedly, and stopped.

  “I had no difficulty until I tried walking on it,” Tan said, not opening his eyes. “I’m sure it will soon be better. You will do me the favor of not mentioning the problem to anyone.”

  “No, of course I won’t,” Mienthe promised, though she couldn’t decide whether this request—or command—was based on any practical consideration or merely on Tan’s habitual unwillingness to let anybody know the truth about anything.

  There was a sound at the door, and she turned, thinking of the promised tea. But the sound did not presage a tray-bearing servant, but rather an elegant man in lavender and gray who bowed his head briefly to Mienthe and said, in smooth, perfect Terheien, “The Lord King Brechen Glansent Arobern is pleased to grant you audience, esteemed lady, and you, sir, if you will please accompany me.”

  The King of Casmantium looked very much as Mienthe had expected.

  Bertaud had never spoken to her—not even to her—of the summer of the griffins, nor of his months in Casmantium that had followed. Mienthe had clearly understood, as so few people seemed to, that whether he had achieved some sort of triumph or not, whether or not he was honored for whatever he had done, her cousin had suffered somehow in that year and did not like to think of that time.

  She had once believed, with a child’s natural romanticism, that he had probably fallen in love with a Casmantian woman and she had broken his heart. Later, it had occurred to her that this was, perhaps, a simplistic explanation. Also, she had come to understand that her cousin’s grief, whatever its source, was in some way deeper—no, not deeper, that wasn’t fair. But then perhaps somehow broader than the grief that afflicted men who were merely unlucky with a woman. Though this assessment was based largely on the lovesick and forlorn men who trailed behind her maid Karin like a line of goslings piping piteously behind a swan—well, that was a silly image, but anyway, perhaps comparing Bertaud to her maid’s hopeless collection of would-be lovers wasn’t quite fair.

  Whatever the source of his distaste for the subject, she had never asked her cousin any questions about that time. Even as a child, she had very well understood how someone might wish to forget the past. Or, if the past could not be forgotten, at least to keep from dragging through unpleasant memories. She had been wordlessly determined that, with her, Bertaud might speak or keep silent, exactly as he wished.

  But that had not stopped her deep curiosity to know everything about her cousin and what he had done. After he had brought her to live with him in the great house, she had admired him enormously and had longed to know all the details about every admirable thing he had ever done. She had asked his guardsmen, and the servants, and she had once found the nerve to ask King Iaor, and although no one knew everything, she had learned by heart the bits they all knew and had made up stories to tell herself that explained the parts they did not know.

  But she would have known the King of Casmantium anyway, because he looked so much like his son, Erich. When she saw Brechen Glansent Arobern, she almost felt as though she recognized him. It was odd to think that he could have no idea who she was.

  The Arobern was a big man, burly as well as tall, who looked more like a professional soldier than a king, except for the sapphire and amethyst buttons on his shirt and the heavy gold chain around his throat. He wore unornamented black and had a black-hilted sword slung at
his side, and as his close-cropped hair and heavy beard were also black, he made rather a grim, aggressive impression, which Mienthe supposed was purposeful. Certainly it was effective. His jaw was heavy, but his deep-set eyes, glinting with wit as well as forceful energy, prevented him from looking dull or brutish. She would have been afraid of him, except she saw him through Erich’s memory as well as her own eyes, so she saw kindness and generosity in his face, as well as aggressive energy.

  The king sat in a plain chair of polished granite, in a room that was not large and yet managed, with its violet-draped walls and thick indigo rugs and the sapphire-blue glass of its lanterns, to seem ostentatious. Though there were other chairs in the room—plain wood—everyone else in the room was standing.

  There were several guardsmen and servants, but there were also some few people who were clearly more important than these attendants. Close by the king’s side, leaning casually against the back of the stone chair, stood a slight, fine-boned man with perfectly white hair. Mienthe immediately recognized this man. Bertaud might not like to speak of Casmantium, but both King Iaor and Erich had described him to her. Though King Iaor had disliked him, Erich had told her that while he was impossible to deceive, he was also wise and kind. He’s the only man in Casmantium who isn’t a little afraid of my father, Erich had said. When he’s kind to you, it isn’t because you’re a prince.

  This was Beguchren Teshrichten, who, Erich said, had been a mage but who, so King Iaor had said, had somehow lost his magecraft—used it up or burned it out, or the griffins had burned it out when they defeated him. Something had happened to him, but King Iaor had not been clear about exactly what that was.

  But Lord Beguchren looked like a mage. Despite his white hair, at first she did not think he was very old. Then she looked again and was not sure, because his opaque pewter-gray eyes somehow seemed ancient. He was a very small man, no taller than Mienthe herself—if anything, he was a little shorter than she was. Despite his small size, the impenetrable calm in his pewter-dark eyes made Lord Beguchren rather intimidating, especially because he was also thoroughly elegant. There was delicate white embroidery on his white shirt, which had buttons of pearl and just a little lace at the wrists—Mienthe, who was not ordinarily much interested in fine clothing, instantly longed for a gown made by his tailor—and there were very fine sapphires set in the silver rings on three fingers of his left hand.

  Behind this man and a little to the side stood a man who was so much taller that he made Beguchren Teshrichten look as small as a child. He had broad shoulders and big hands and a strong, bony face that was not exactly handsome. Yet he owned, Mienthe could not help noticing, a lanky, raw-boned masculinity that was, in its way, more striking than ordinary handsomeness.

  The tall man was also particularly perceptive: For all Tan was working to stay quietly in the background, the greater part of his attention was definitely fixed on Tan and not on Mienthe. She wondered how Tan had caught his interest so quickly and definitively. The tall man did not seem to wish to stare, but he looked again and again at Tan with quick, covert glances, each time looking away at once. Mienthe frowned at him. He noticed it after a moment, took a deep breath, closed his eyes for a moment, and then gave Mienthe a carefully attentive look and a smile. She did not find his gaze aggressive like the Arobern’s nor unfathomable like Beguchren’s, but curious and even friendly. If not for his strange reaction to Tan, she would have thought it the look of a warmhearted man who wished to believe the best of every stranger. But there was that reaction, so she did not know what to think.

  Beside the tall man stood a small, delicate woman with lovely molasses-dark hair and great natural poise. By the way she rested her hand possessively on his arm, she was clearly his wife. There was no sign of warmth or friendliness from her, but there was no hostility, either. Her gaze was, Mienthe decided, professionally intent and curious. She did not seem to share her husband’s fascination with Tan, but gazed steadily and analytically at Mienthe. It was the sort of look Mienthe expected from a mage. Probably she was a mage, whether Lord Beguchren was or not. For all her cool dispassion, Mienthe was absurdly glad to see another woman in the room.

  Mienthe wanted to look at Tan, but he was a step behind her. So after a moment, since there was plainly nothing else to do, she walked forward, offered the Arobern a very small bow—he was not her king, so although she longed to be able to ask someone, she thought it must be wrong for her to do more. Then, straightening, she waited for the king to address her.

  The Arobern nodded back, very grave and regal. He said without preamble, in strongly accented but understandable Terheien, “You did not send me a wand, but I think you are a courier. From the Delta, I am informed. Also from the Safiad, yes?”

  Mienthe stared at him for a moment. She remembered Tan saying, I suppose he must have the entire wretched story from top to toe. But she did not know how to begin.

  Then Tan breathed in her ear, “Whose cousin are you? Well?”

  Mienthe blinked. She took a deep breath and said, her voice only wavering a little, “Lord King”—she thought that was the correct Casmantian form of address—“Lord King, I am not precisely a courier. But it is true I carry a warning from the Delta. From my cousin. I’m—my name is Mienthe daughter of Beraod. Bertaud son of Boudan is my cousin. He—I—I know you are an honorable man and a strong king. So I came to you, because there is trouble in the Delta and I did not know where else to go.”

  There was a pause, during which the King of Casmantium looked hard at Mienthe. He did not smile or nod, and for a moment she was afraid he did not believe her. Then he stood up and inclined his head to her, and she saw that though she had taken him by surprise, he did not doubt her. She supposed few people dared lie to him. Certainly not with the rather alarming Beguchren Teshrichten by his side.

  “A chair for Lady Mienthe,” the Arobern commanded, and waited for one to be brought over before he dropped back into his own chair. He made a broad gesture that dismissed most of the guardsmen and nearly all of the servants. Then, once the room was more nearly private, he said, “I have had word from the Safiad. That is why I came to Ehre, so that couriers from Feierabiand could come to me more swiftly. Now you say you are come directly from the Delta, not from the Safiad but on your own account? Tell me your warning.”

  It seemed an unbelievable tale when Mienthe laid it out, which she tried to do in order, from Tan’s appearance in Tiefenauer carrying secrets he’d stolen from the Linularinan spymaster, straight on through his kidnapping right out of a guarded house by that same spymaster and then the immediate invasion of the Delta by Linularinan soldiers. It sounded unbelievable even to her. She stumbled embarrassedly through an explanation of how she’d found Tan, of how she might be waking into the mage gift, though she didn’t feel like she was becoming a mage, but really she did not know what becoming a mage felt like—here, though no one interrupted, Beguchren Teshrichten and the tall man exchanged a significant look, and Mienthe stopped.

  “Go on,” said the Arobern, with an impatient frown for his own people.

  Mienthe hesitated for a moment, but when no one else said anything, she went on to describe the book, the one with the empty pages, that the Linularinan spymaster had brought with him from Teramondian. She looked again at Tan in case he should want to explain about the book. He only nodded at her again, so she explained how they thought Tan must have taken some powerful legistworking or law out of the book and how the Linularinan spymaster, or someone, seemed amazingly determined to get it back.

  Mienthe looked from one to another of her audience, unable to gauge what anybody thought of any of this. She said uncertainly, “And then when we thought we might go north, Tan and I, we were afraid we might find Linularinan agents before us. They won’t stop. I don’t know if King Iaor knows all this yet, though some word must surely have got north by this time. But I don’t know whether he’s free to respond to Linularinum’s provocation, because of the griffins. You do know about
that? That’s what was in the message you were sent, isn’t that right? A mage of theirs, named Kairaithin, I think, brought word that the Wall, the Great Wall my cousin helped build, that it was cracked through. But was there anything about Linularinum in that message?”

  “No,” said the Arobern, looking at her.

  “Well, then I bring you that word,” Mienthe said simply. “We don’t know why they are so horribly determined, but we think—that is, I think—”

  “We,” said Tan quietly, the first time he had spoken.

  Mienthe nodded, grateful for his support. “Maybe it’s not so, but we think it’s something to do with the book and the magic of law it held, and we think there were Linularinan agents still behind us in the pass. Maybe three hours behind? Just at the crest of the mountain when we had reached the iron gates. Though it might not have been—that is, honest travelers might also have come behind us by chance.”

  The Arobern looked at Mienthe for a moment. Then he studied Tan for a much longer moment. At last he said to Beguchren Teshrichten, “What do you say, hah?”

  The small man gave his king an impenetrable look and then glanced up at the tall man with the quirk of one frost-white eyebrow. He asked, “Gereint?”

  The tall man looked carefully at Mienthe and then glanced at Tan, though he looked away again at once with a slight wince. He took a deep breath, shrugged, and said to Beguchren, his voice exactly as deep and gravelly as Mienthe had expected, but somehow not harsh, “I don’t know whether the honored lady is a mage. I’m looking right at her and still I can’t tell. I told you how oddly magecraft has been behaving of late. That may be interfering with my perception. I look at the honored lady and sometimes I think she’s a mage and sometimes I think she’s nothing like a mage.” He glanced at Tan once more and away.