Dhulyn had earlier made note of the spot where the corridor of dressed stone widened as it approached the doorway of Avylos’ workroom, and made a small corner. It wouldn’t appear possible, but at night, with only the light from the sconces in the main hallway, that small corner created just enough shadow for a slim person to stand unseen. Provided that person was using one of the Stalking Shoras. Dhulyn pressed her shoulder blades against the cold stone and breathed shallowly. She’d arrived early, but just as she’d expected, she hadn’t been able to open the door to the Blue Mage’s workroom. Once again, there was neither latch nor lock, just the plain, unbroken expanse of wood.
She had only been waiting for a few minutes when the rustle of stiff silks warned her that Kera was coming. Loud enough for three people, she thought. Good thing I’m the only one here. And a good thing that she wasn’t wearing formal court clothes herself—even her breathing would have been too loud for caution.
“Kera,” she whispered as the girl passed her.
The princess squeaked and brought her hands up in self-defense, almost taking off the end of her sleeve with the sword held in her right hand. Squeak or no, Dhulyn noted, the girl held her sword steady, and she’d turned in the right direction, toward what had frightened her. Kera lowered her left hand slowly, and peered into the shadow.
“Dhulyn Wolfshead?”
Dhulyn stepped out of the narrow shadow and carefully took the blade out of Kera’s hand.
“How much time have you?”
“Not long. I said I was going to the water closet, and then I had to stop in my room for the sword.” She looked at it, lower lip between her teeth. “It was my father’s,” she said.
Dhulyn had already noticed it was a soldier’s blade, plain with only a single rough stone in the pommel.
“Best that you don’t come in with me, then.” Not that I would have let you, but there’s no need for you to know that. “The door will not open for me,” she added.
“Unless he’s renewed it . . .” Kera stood in front of the door and slowed her breathing. She lifted her hand to a spot rather higher than Dhulyn would have expected a door latch to be, and an elaborately wrought metal handle appeared just as Kera’s fingers closed on it. The door swung open the width of a hand.
“Either he has no secrets from you,” Dhulyn said. “Or he thinks there’s nothing in there you can discover by yourself.”
“I used to think it was the first one.” Kera shrugged. “But what need to spell the door against me if I can’t open anything once I’m inside?”
“I’ll see what I can do,” Dhulyn said. “Best you be off before you’re missed.”
Kera looked once more into the room, indecision plain on her face. Finally she took a step back. “Caids smile on you,” she said, and ran back down the hallway toward the main part of the Royal House.
Dhulyn waited until the sound of rustling silk died away, and she could both hear herself think, and hear anyone else who might be coming. Standing to one side, she pushed the door farther open with the tip of the sword blade, and listened.
She took four measured strides into the room and stopped, looked about, and took one more step. What she now saw matched what she had Seen in her Vision. There was the angle of dim light from a moon only half full slanting in the narrow window, casting the shadows of the bars across the polished oak floor, with its band of dark inlay around the edges. There were the softer shadows cast by the chairs, the piece of rug that seemed, in this light, to have no pattern and no color. The worktable and the plain casket that stood upon it. And the darkness in the far corner. Where, in her Vision, she was standing with a full view of the room.
But sometimes, in her Visions, the room had been empty. She hadn’t always Seen herself.
Out of habit and training Dhulyn moved slowly, her feet making no sound. As she advanced toward the worktable, she felt along the left seam of the shirt she was wearing and finally pulled out a steel wire as long as her hand. She’d bought it off a jeweler in Cabrea, a long time ago, and it was still her best lockpick, though usually she wore it woven into the braids of her hair. She put the lockpick between her teeth, and pulled a soft silk scarf out of the front of her shirt. Among its many qualities, silk was thought to insulate and cleanse. Finders, she knew, often used silk to wrap and store their scrying bowls, and the ancient box that held her vera tiles was lined with it. She wrapped the scarf carefully around the hilt of the sword and, taking it in her left hand, approached the worktable with its small casket.
She was alert for the phenomenon Kera had described, of heading toward the casket and finding herself suddenly on the far side of the room. Dhulyn slowed her breathing, let herself fall into a Hunter’s Shora, senses alert, focused on her prey, the plain wooden box. The box filled her mind, her vision narrowed. Almost, she could taste it.
Turning her body sideways to present the smallest target, Dhulyn struck with the blade in her left hand, making flashing touches on the casket’s lid, then on the right, left and front sides.
Nothing. No resistance, no flash of light, no shimmer such as Finders or Menders had described to her sometimes happened when they used their Mark.
Dhulyn took two steps closer, still focusing her senses on the casket. She laid the sword on the tabletop and wrapped the silk around her left hand, lowering it slowly, alert for any change in either the box or herself. But she felt no reluctance—nor did she suddenly find herself at the other end of the desk, unaware of her intention of moving. Even through the silk, the wood was cool and smooth under her fingers.She could clearly see the faceplate of the locking mechanism, a fine Balnian lock after the old pattern—just as Therin had described it in the journal still tucked into her shirt. It seemed there was no avoidance magic on the box itself, that Avylos was relying solely on the magicked door. It struck Dhulyn as a strange economy of magic, to use both spells and physical deterrents. Was there some strategy she did not see, or was Avylos only conserving power?
Still, the box would not open.
Dhulyn rolled her eyes as she pulled the lockpick from between her teeth. Balnian locks, though good, could be mastered with sufficient practice. The pick went in easily, and after a few tense moments of careful prodding, Dhulyn felt through her fingers the ‘click’ that signified the lock was open.
She licked suddenly dry lips, picked up the sword once more and backed away from the table. Using the tip of the blade, she flicked the lid open with a twist of her wrist.
Inside the box, nestled in what looked to be layers of dark red velvet cloth, was the Muse Stone. Even if she had not already Seen it in her Visions, she would have recognized it from the meticulous drawings in Therin’s journal. A cylinder as long as her forearm, the dark blue of a Berdanan ice sapphire, though the moonlight was not bright enough to make it sparkle. There were lamplighters in a bowl, and Dhulyn used one to light the squat oil lamp on a nearby shelf. The crystal remained dark, as the journal had led her to expect. She frowned, peering more closely. She could not quite make out the markings that should be around the end of the Stone.
Dhulyn took a deep breath and let it out slowly. Both the journal and Zania herself had said that the older members of the troupe had handled the Stone many times and had taken no harm from it. Still, it was as well to be careful. Dhulyn shifted the sword to her right hand, reached out with her left and picked up the Stone.
It was warm. There was no vibration, no noise, but it was warm, like a grindstone recently in use, or a stone crock kept close to the kitchen fires. And now she could see the symbols the journal had described. The Marks, circle around a dot, rectangle—though here it was closer to a square—long triangle, and straight line. Each Mark clear, the carving deep, and set at the four compass points within a bowstring’s width of the end of the Muse Stone. A finger width farther in, Dhulynfound the fifth Mark, the Lens, three concentric circles. As Therin’s journal had indicated, the Lens was placed exactly between two of the Marks, at present, between the t
riangle of the Mender and the dotted circle of the Seer.
And there were the symbols on the other end. Dhulyn’s eyebrows arched as high as they would go. She knew these symbols now, though she hadn’t when she’d first seen them in the book. They were like the signs that Avylos had drawn in the air. Like the signs she’d Seen him, and one other, draw in her Visions.
So one end for the Marked, and one for Mages?
She tried to turn the bottom, twisting it as the journal described, but it stood fast, as if in one solid piece. There was no feeling of either resistance or give. In fact, Dhulyn had no sense of a mechanism at all, as she’d had with the lock.
She checked the tightness of her belt preparatory to slipping the Muse Stone into the front of her shirt. With her shirt collar in one hand, she paused, thinking.
A few moments ago she’d questioned Avylos’ strategy. A magical lock on the door that at least one person could get through, at least some of the time. No other magics, nothing but mundane locks and bars. She held the Stone out in the light again. Was it all too easy?
A false Stone, set to trap the ignorant? If she could think of this idea, he could think of it. But unlike any other who might come into the room, she was not entirely ignorant. She tapped the book hidden in her shirt with her fingertips. She could test the Stone. She wanted neither to receive power nor to bestow it, but surely what Therin had called the Null Chant, the empty words which drew no response from the Stone other than to turn the cylinder, they would be safe.
Elis elis tanton neel;
Dor la sinquin so la dele.
Kos noforlin sik ek aye,
Kik shon te ounte gesserae.
The Stone grew marginally warmer, as if the stone crock had been moved closer to the flames. Careful not to put her fingers on any of the symbols, Dhulyn tried again to turn the end of the Stone, and this time it moved. Repeating the lines, she kept turning until the Mark of the Seer lined up with the Mark of the Lens.
The room disappeared. A great light filled her eyes. A bell began to ring.
A snowstorm, a voice calls from somewhere to her left . . .
A man with hair the color of wheat sits behind a desk reading a massive book in an unknown tongue. A large round mirror stands to his right . . .
A stocky, fair-haired boy looks down into a bowl . . .
The deck slants almost vertical and water pours off in sheets; a man with a red-and-gold Mercenary badge goes over the side into the churning waves . . .
The body of a Cloud falls from a great height, his Racha bird keeping pace with him, keening . . .
An older Kera walks toward a throne. A circle of women across a room. . .
A one-eyed man peers into her face, asking a question . . .
A smiling man with hair the color of old blood matching his huge mustache offers her a ball of light in the palm of his hand . . .
A horde of cavalry rides over the ridge and darkens the valley below . . .
A red-haired woman pushes a sword through Parno’s heart . . .
Water seeps up through pale gray sand, forming a pool as wide as her spread hands . . .
She stands in the dark corner of Avylos’ workroom and takes a step toward herself . . .
Avylos runs through the woods, falls, gets up and runs again, looking back over his shoulder. Far down the trail, two men with hair the color of old blood give chase . . .
Three sisters hold hands, beckoning toward her, and holding out their free hands for her to join their circle. Each has the Mark of the Seer tattooed on her forehead.
A strange sensation. Her cheek on something cool. Tiles? Floor tiles? She set the palm of her hand down flat. Oak. Hard wood. She thought about pushing herself upright. But her head was so heavy.
A sharp crackling sound, and there was light on the other side of her eyelids.
Footsteps. Feet. Black house shoes with a dark blue trim. Satin? Velvet? Hands on her arms, in her armpits, dragging her upright. How could her head possibly be so heavy? Had she been ill? What was she doing on the floor? Where was she?
Who was she?
Strong fingers on her chin, holding her head steady and upright. She blinked. A long face, pale. Blue eyes. Hair a very dark red. Blue eyes narrowed, dark red brows drawn down in a vee over a long, thin nose. Lips pressed tight together.
She tried to speak, but her throat was thick. She licked her lips, cleared her throat, and tried again.
“Where am I?” she said, finding she could not bring herself to ask the more important question, “who?” “Who are you?”
The man’s face relaxed, though his eyes were still narrowed. The hand on her chin became a caress, and the muscles in her neck and shoulders which had been very tight a moment before loosened. Her head still throbbed.
“Don’t you know me, my dearest? Has your fever become worse?”
She took his hand and struggled to sit up. Something hard poked painfully into her ribs and she winced, her hand going automatically to the spot. There seemed to be something . . .
“Here, let me help you.” The man helped loosen the ties of her shirt and drew a slim book out from under her clothing. He raised his eyebrows, but did not seem in any way surprised or upset. He reached up and put the book on the tabletop above her head.
A sound made them both look to the door.
Kera went directly to Dhulyn Wolfshead’s room when she was finally excused from the banquet. She’d never realized, when Edmir was alive—when Edmir was at court, she corrected, Edmir was still alive. She hadn’t realized, in any case, just how much of his time was taken up with being the Lord Prince, meeting the right people at the right times, attending functions that until now she’d mostly been excused from. Which probably explained why he’d been so much more tense and abrupt in the last few years, without time to play with her. Even his journal entries, she now knew, had been shorter, with fewer of the stories he used to make up for her.
Now that she was Lady Prince, and the heir to the throne, it seemed there were not enough hours in the day. Her feet slowed. If she was being honest, she would have to admit that she didn’t feel at all tense or abrupt. Even her mother the queen was easier to handle, now that all their contact was strictly formal. And the servants were definitely easier to deal with. Now, when she told them to leave her, they stopped cooing over her and patting her on the head. They actually went. Well, most of them.
Kera turned from the main hallway just before she reached the passage which held Avylos’ study, into a much shorter passage which had only one door at the end of it. Kera lifted the latch and stepped inside. The Wolfshead’s room was very simply furnished, like that of an upper servant. A bed, a table with a single chair. A brazier under the table, empty, and unlit now in the warm weather of summer. Three wooden pegs attached to the dressed stone wall to hold clothing, also empty. There was enough clothing tossed over the furniture, however, to make it difficult to be sure what Dhulyn Wolfshead was wearing. The bed was rumpled, the pillow showed the indentation of a head.
Had the Mercenary woman returned to this room, then? Or was all this a stage setting, so that if the Wolfshead was found up and wandering around she could claim to have just left her bed?
Kera took her lower lip between her teeth. The room was telling her nothing. The Wolfshead was not here; could she be still in the workroom?
She retraced her steps back along the passage to the main corridor, turned left, carefully eyed the patch of shadow where it widened to assure herself that the Mercenary was not in it, and stopped at the door to Avylos’ workroom. The thinnest line of light showed in the opening. She waited, straining forward. Was that voices? She tilted her head closer to the door, and held her breath. Voices, for certain, though she couldn’t hear any words. She touched the door with her fingertips, meaning just to open it slightly, but misjudged the pressure, and, dry mouthed, watched it swing fully open.
Kera stood dead still, her fingertips still on the door. Dhulyn Wolfshead was on the floor
, propped against the table leg. Avylos had his hand on her face, holding her by the chin, the way a Knife might when he wanted you to stay still for an examination. His head was tilted forward at such an angle that Kera was certain he had been about to kiss her.
Avylos dropped his hand when he saw her, but he did not move away from Dhulyn Wolfshead. Kera saw she had hold of Avylos’ sleeve.
Kera stepped forward, speaking before anyone could ask her questions.
“I saw the light,” she said, “I thought you were still with my mother the queen.”
“Avylos, who is this child?” A thread of accent heavier than Kera had heard from Dhulyn Wolfshead before.
Kera stepped forward with more confidence. Dhulyn Wolfshead would not be speaking in that tone, and asking that question, if there was any trouble. She was letting Kera know that their acquaintance was still a secret from Avylos. But as she got nearer to the two at the table, Kera’s step faltered. She expected Dhulyn Wolfshead to pretend not to know her, but that wide-eyed stare, that hint of tension—even fear—that was no pretense. When they were younger, she and Edmir used to disguise themselves and wander through the public portions of the Royal House, and even into the nearby streets when they could manage to get out the gates. They learned very early to tell the difference between people who genuinely didn’t recognize them and people who were just playing along with the Royal children’s game.
The Soldier King Page 30
