Were it not for the distance, steer, you would be mine.
Yet the unspoken words contained a note of triumph, as if the distant Alector had discovered something. The purplish mist slowly dissipated, and the purplish glow of the Table subsided, dropping until it almost vanished, as if the struggle between the distant Alector and her had exhausted it.
Mykella uttered a single sigh, almost a sob, shuddering as she stood there in the dimness of the Table chamber. She had to get out. She had to leave. She forced herself to stand there, breathing deeply, waiting until she was no longer shaking or shuddering.
She looked at the Table, then willed her legs to carry her back toward it, until she could see the mirrored surface. She would not be driven from the Table that was her birthright, for it had to be her birthright, since no one else in the Lord-Protector’s family seemed able to use the Table.
Slowly, she willed the Table to show her Salyna. The swirling mists appeared, then vanished, showing her younger sister sleeping, her comforter thrown back to her waist.
Mykella smiled. Only Salyna would find the chill of the palace too warm.
Mykella shivered, almost uncontrollably, and she found her legs shaking. Much as she would have liked to use the Table or try to learn more about it, she was too exhausted to do more, and that thought generated anger at the distant Alector, who had made her waste the evening.
Reluctantly, she left the chamber, making sure that the door was firmly closed behind her before she made her way to the staircase up to the main level. Once she reached the landing, she paused. She sensed that the guard was back in position, standing less than a yard from the door.
As quietly as she could, she unlocked the door, then, holding the key in her hand, slowly depressed the lever and eased the door ajar, gathering her sight-shield around her. She could squeeze out, but barely, so long as the guard did not turn. Even if he did, he would not see her, but she wanted no attention paid to the lower level and the Table chamber.
She managed to get the door closed, but not locked, before the guard whirled. Mykella froze, standing unseen beside the door.
The guard stared at the closed door. “Not again.”
Mykella eased a coin from her wallet and threw it down the corridor. It clinked loudly.
The guard turned, then stepped forward as he caught the glint of silver.
Mykella locked the door and then eased along the side of the hallway. She was even more exhausted and trembling once again by the time she reached her chamber, where, after sliding the door bolt she seldom used into place, she just sat dumbly on the edge of her bed.
As she sat there, still shaking, a greenish-golden radiance suffused the room, and in its center hovered the Ancient, a winged and perfect version of a feminine figure, if less than the size of a six-year-old girl.
You have done well, child.
Mykella wasn’t certain what to say to the Ancient…or if she could. She had so many questions, but she knew she could not delay. “Was that an Alector?”
Rather an Ifrit from the latest world they are bleeding of life. You must watch the Table to see that they do not try again, and you must become stronger. You will not take them by surprise again.
“I hardly know what I’m doing,” Mykella protested.
You must learn to use your Talent.
“How can I learn with all the plotting and scheming going on here?”
If you learn, then the plotters can do little to you. If you do not, it matters little whether the plotters succeed or fail.
“Give me some useful advice.” Not all these general platitudes.
Seek and master the darkness beneath the Table. With that, the Ancient faded and vanished.
Seek and master the darkness beneath the Table? What did that mean? How?
Mykella sank onto her bed, then turned convulsively and buried her face in her pillow, trying to stifle the sound of her sobs and frustration.
11
Octdi morning was warmer, and a good breakfast left Mykella feeling less shaky than she had been when she woke, although she still felt tired when she reached the Finance chambers.
“Good morning, Mistress Mykella,” offered Kiedryn cheerfully, “even if it is a shade on the chilly side.”
“Good morning.” She settled into the high-backed stool that she had found most comfortable for dealing with the large and heavy ledgers and opened the master ledger that Kiedryn had obviously placed there for her.
After leafing through to the last page and checking the handful of entries, she looked up. “You were a clerk for my grandfather, weren’t you?”
“Lord-Protector Dainyl? Aye…I was. A junior clerk, down in the ledger entry section.”
“What was he like?”
“I didn’t see him often, Mistress Mykella. He was dark-haired, like your father, but stern like Lord Joramyl. Everyone said he was hard, but fair. Like his namesake.”
“Who was his namesake?”
“According to the archives, and some writings of Lady Rachyla, Dainyl was the last High Alector of Justice and the last surviving Duarch. He was the only one she considered fair and just, but the name wasn’t passed on until one of Mykel’s great-grandsons received it.”
“My grandfather was named after an Alector?” Mykella found that hard to believe.
“He was named after his forebears,” Kiedryn said with a smile. “There have been three Dainyls.”
“How many Mykels?”
“None. No one wanted to saddle a youth with living up to the name.”
“I suppose I’m the first Mykella?”
“The first I know of, Mistress, but the archives aren’t nearly so clear when it comes to daughters.”
That scarcely surprised Mykella. “Where does Father’s name come from?”
“Feran was the first arms-commander of Lanachrona. He came with Mykel. He was almost as fierce as Mykel, and one of his granddaughters married Mykel’s eldest grandson and heir.”
At that moment, the corridor door opened, and one of the junior clerks from the bookkeeping rooms on the lower level appeared, carrying several ledgers. He inclined his head to Mykella and then to Kiedryn. “Mistress, sir…these be the ledgers with the latest entries for supplies for the Lord-Protector’s palace accounts.”
“Thank you, Shenyl.” Kiedryn took the ledgers.
Mykella went back to going over the latest entries in the master ledger, but there wasn’t anything there that looked obviously out of line.
A half glass or so later, once Kiedryn had reviewed the palace ledgers, Mykella began to study the entries there. She couldn’t help but wince when she saw the charges for seamstresses. Most of the charges were accrued by Rachylana and her father. Her father? He seldom wore anything that new. After a moment, she nodded. Those charges were for Eranya’s garments, one form of payment for her “services,” Mykella suspected.
But if Eranya kept her father happy…Mykella certainly wasn’t going to begrudge him that set of pleasures. Rachylana, on the other hand…The only ones she was dressing for seemed to be herself…and Berenyt.
By late afternoon, Mykella had the feeling that she had truly determined everything that she could from the various ledgers. She looked over the ledgers piled around her, and then at her personal ledger, which held the notes she had taken about the irregularities in all the official account ledgers. Despite all those irregularities, and what they suggested, they were not proof of what she knew had been happening.
In the end, there was no help for it. She’d have to find a way to visit the High Factors, bargemasters, and Seltyrs personally, and arrange it so that she finished those meetings before either Joramyl or her father knew what she was doing.
In the meantime, for the remaining time in the afternoon before she made her weekly trip to the Great Piers, she decided to look into the financial records of the Southern Guards.
Another half glass passed before one entry amid those made near the end of the fall accountings piqued
her interest. Fifty golds for tack, paid to one Berjor, with the notation, “leatherworks, per Commander Demyl.” She paged back through the ledger until she found a similar entry at the end of the harvest postings. More searching found another at the end of summer, and yet another at the end of spring. Each was for fifty golds. There was no similar entry for the end of winter, nor for the end of fall or harvest in the previous year.
To check farther back would require digging out the older ledgers from the Finance records storeroom, but Mykella knew she would not find any other references to a leatherworker or leatherworks named Berjor. Saelukyl was supposedly the best saddlemaker in Tempre, and she’d heard of others like Hemylcor and Essiant. She’d never heard of Berjor. By itself, that didn’t mean anything, but two hundred golds for tack was a great deal, especially when all other outlays for the Southern Guards were steady or decreasing, and she hadn’t found much in the way of entries marked for purchasing mounts. Also, Demyl was the second in command of the Southern Guards, just under Arms-Commander Nephryt, and why would it require the commander’s approval for tack—except for the amount, which was far higher than it should have been, especially since the Guard wasn’t expanding?
She rubbed her forehead, feeling overwhelmed.
Should she return to the Table chamber after dinner?
No. She could feel that she was still shaky, and if she had to deal with the distant Alector or Ifrit or whatever he might be, she wanted to be in complete control of herself, and she still had to ride to see the portmaster.
At half past third glass, she left the study and made her way to the stables, where she quickly saddled her gray gelding. The ride was uneventful, and she discovered nothing new from Chaenkel. She returned to the palace as the bells announcing the fifth glass of the afternoon chimed.
Still, she reflected, as she made her way back toward the family quarters, once she did discover something, she could tell her father that she was not just looking at figures in ledgers. When she reached the family quarters, she washed up and walked to the family parlor. It was empty. She eased up to the north-facing window and looked out at the gardens below, and then at the wooded slopes that formed the southwesternmost part of the Lord-Protector’s Preserve.
She couldn’t discover anything more until Londi, and she needed to do something to get her thoughts off the discrepancies in the Lord-Protector’s accounts. If the weather held, perhaps she could persuade Salyna to accompany her on a ride through the Preserve. Some of the duty Southern Guards would have to accompany them, but on end-days the duty guards didn’t mind at all, finding it preferable to standing by in the cramped duty building just to the east of the palace.
Sensing someone nearing, Mykella turned toward the parlor door. She felt as though it had to be Salyna. At that, she froze. How could she know that?
Yet the door opened, and Salyna stepped inside.
“What’s the matter?” asked Salyna. “You look upset.”
Mykella shook her head. “I was just thinking. I just have to get out of the palace. Would you like to take a ride with me in the Preserve tomorrow? If it doesn’t rain, that is?”
Salyna smiled. “That would be lovely. Since it’s in the Preserve, I can even bring my new saber. It’s a fighting saber, and I even got Moraduk to let me sharpen it on the grindstone.”
“Would you really want to be a Southern Guard, even if they took women?”
“No,” admitted Salyna, “but it’s the only way I can learn about weapons, and since I’ll likely be matched to some younger son somewhere, I want to be able to protect myself. I had to prove to Undercommander Areyst that I could use a dagger before he’d let me pick up a saber.”
Areyst? Mykella had seen the man on more than one occasion, but all she could recall was a vague impression of a blond officer who’d seemed muscular and competent.
“Does Father know?”
Salyna laughed. “I’ve never told him, but he has to know. Where we’re concerned everyone tells him everything. I’m sure he thinks that I’ll grow out of it, that, once I’m matched and dispatched from Tempre, weapons and the like will be a thing of the past.”
Despite her sister’s light tone, Mykella could feel the determination behind those words, a determination that concerned her, although she could not have said why.
“The seamstresses are already working on a green gown for you,” Salyna ventured. “It won’t be suitable for the season-turn parade, but it will be ready for the ball.”
“I didn’t ask—”
“Zestela said that you commanded it.”
Mykella sighed. Once again, there would be stories about how difficult she was, when all she’d wanted was not to look like she’d been stuffed into a flour sack.
Neither Rachylana nor Jeraxylt joined them, not surprisingly, since Rachylana had been avoiding Mykella, and slightly before sixth glass, Mykella and Salyna stepped from the parlor.
The two walked along the main corridor and then into the family dining room, an oblong chamber on the west side of the upper level of the palace—on the south side of the serving staircase that led up to the pantry. The breakfast room was on the north side of the pantry. The serving staircase, which had obviously been added to the palace building later, led down to an archway through the original wall. On the other side of the wall were the kitchens. Even at an early age, Mykella had been able to see that the stonework of the one-story kitchens did not compare to that of the original structure, and over time, the stone floors of the kitchens had sloped slightly downhill to the west. Unlike the main part of the building, there were no lower levels, and storerooms for provisions had been added to the north and west. In the angle between the storerooms and the kitchens was a walled courtyard for receiving livestock and other supplies.
Mykella stood behind her chair, waiting for the others. At the evening meal, she did not sit to the left of her father at the long cherry table. Rather, she sat to the right of Eranya, who was always seated at Feranyt’s right. Mykella had never quite understood why her father felt it proper for Eranya to be served as if she were his wife and consort at dinner, but why Eranya never ate breakfast with the family. Did Eranya just prefer to sleep late, or was there some elaborately rationalized reason for the difference?
Jeraxylt hurried in, wearing his Southern Guard uniform, and took his place to the left of where his father would sit, and then Rachylana followed, taking her place beside her older brother. Salyna stood behind her chair to the right of Mykella.
Within moments, Feranyt and Eranya appeared. The Lord-Protector’s mistress was only five, possibly six years older than Mykella, with dark brown wavy hair and a heart-shaped face. She was tall and well-endowed, and every movement was graceful. Her brown eyes were kind. Because of that kindness, Mykella did her best to be polite and charming, difficult as that often was when she considered that Eranya was replacing her mother in her father’s affections.
“Go ahead. Be seated,” Feranyt said.
No one actually did get around to seating themselves until he was settled into his place at the head of the table.
“An excellent day,” Feranyt stated, if to no one in particular, before looking to Jeraxylt. “How was your day?”
“We practiced mounted attacks with sabers.” Jeraxylt smiled. “It’s harder than it looks to strike down from the saddle without injuring yourself or your mount or those around you.”
“That’s why you practice, isn’t it?” said Salyna lightly. “It looks interesting.”
“You were watching?”
“For a time. I’d like to try it.”
“Using weapons from the saddle takes skill,” Jeraxylt replied.
“I can loose three shafts in a row from my bow at a gallop and hit the targets.”
“That would be fine if you were a grassland nomad,” her brother pointed out. “The Guard uses rifles.”
“They won’t let me use one. That’s why I use the bow,” Salyna pointed out.
“Rifles
are not ladylike, are they?” asked Eranya.
“They both kill people,” Salyna began, “and—”
“Enough,” said Feranyt. “We can talk of better things than killing over dinner, can we not?” He smiled fondly at Eranya. “I daresay that with the grace and beauty at the table, that might be possible.” He paused briefly, then looked down at the platter that had been placed before him. “Domestic fowl. More tender than quail or bush fowl, but not nearly so tasty. Not nearly.”
Eranya smiled her agreement, politely, not quite timidly.
Mykella didn’t agree. To her, bush fowl tasted gamy, almost rancid at times, and unless it was well seasoned and prepared, venison was equally distasteful, but no one wanted to hear her opinion, especially Rachylana.
“Oh…” Feranyt cleared his throat. “I do have an announcement of some import. You might like to know that there will be envoys from Southgate and Dereka here for the season-turn ball. Their sovereigns requested—quite politely—that their envoys be allowed to attend and to make your acquaintance.”
“How droll,” said Rachylana.
“They’ll report on how we look and whether we look like good broodmares,” added Salyna.
Mykella managed not to wince at her younger sister’s words. While Mykella felt that way, she’d never voiced such words.
“Salyna…” Feranyt’s use of his daughter’s name was a clear reprimand. “Before long, I’ll have to send envoys elsewhere to find a match for Jeraxylt. I would not wish to have them encounter such an unhelpful attitude. Such an attitude will not be in your best interests, either, I might add.”
Salyna stiffened. After a moment, she replied, “I watched the envoys who came to the spring ball last year. They looked at Rachylana like she was a filly for breeding. I know matches must be made, but manners and consideration would be nice.”
“I thought they were rather well-mannered, according to what your father said,” offered Eranya. “Did they not all ask whether you would be happy in their lands?”
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