The Soldier King

by Violette Malan

  “Though she’s getting gray I see, and a little stouter than when I saw her last. Her consort’s a woman, you know. Ran off and married her when I married your father, her brother, so you know what that means.”

  Kera managed to refrain from shutting her eyes and sighing. She’d heard the story a thousand times. How Aunt Valaika had fallen in love with her mother, and, of course, how her mother had wanted her father and how Aunt Valaika had been persuaded to go away, and “stop mooning around me” as Kera’s mother had always put it, by the granting of Jarlkevo House.

  Her aunt had eventually married, Kera knew, and had produced an heir—though no one knew who the father had been. It was not her consort with her today, Kera saw, as she watched her aunt stroll through the room, heading steadily, if not particularly directly, to the throne. Valaika was a High Noble House, and as such had taken her privilege to bring her own retainer with her.

  The man who kept correctly just behind Aunt Valaika’s left shoulder would make a fine father of anyone’s children, Kera thought. On the tall side of average, muscular but lean, the sun had toasted him a golden brown, his skin just a shade lighter than his hair, and two shades lighter than his short beard. As his eyes scanned the room, he seemed to be on the verge of smiling, and he padded along at Valaika’s heels with the smooth movement of one of her mother’s hunting cats.

  Kera had expected to recognize her aunt, but there was something familiar about her aunt’s servant as well, something she couldn’t quite—

  The man suddenly became alert, eyes brighter, focused. Kera shifted her own eyes to see what the man looked at—of course. Dhulyn Wolfshead had appeared almost four days ago, the day after the message had come announcing the imminent arrival of Aunt Valaika. They had arrived in the city at the same time, the man with Valaika walked with the same catlike smoothness as Dhulyn Wolfshead, and he was looking at the Mercenary woman with an expression that made Kera’s breath grow short.

  And then his eyes met hers, and his expression cleared, becoming again the correct, bland politeness of a personal guard.

  I must speak privately with Aunt Valaika.

  The princess was not quite so much the stiffly dressed girl child that she looked, Parno Lionsmane thought. Conscious that what her eyes could see, others could see also, he dragged his own gaze away from where Dhulyn stood next to Avylos the Blue Mage. He had seen her for the last moon with her Mercenary badge covered, but not with hair her natural color. This is what she might have looked like if she’d grown up in her own Tribe, if she’d never become a Mercenary Brother. What her mother must have looked like, according to Dhulyn’s descriptions of the Visions in which her mother had appeared.

  She didn’t look all that much like the Blue Mage, beyond the superficial similarity of their coloring. But Parno didn’t like how closely together they were standing.

  He was certain she’d looked at him, but there had been no change of expression on her face. Of course there wouldn’t be, he thought, with a mental sigh. His Partner schooled her features better than anyone he’d ever met—even if she was an Outlander. She looked calm but watchful, like a person somewhere for the first time. Or like a personal guard.

  But she should have acknowledged his signal.

  He followed Valaika up to the throne, and when Avylos, too, stepped up onto the dais to greet the woman who was still, to a degree, part of the Royal House, Parno took advantage of everyone’s attention being elsewhere to shift over next to Dhulyn. He pretended to stumble and took hold of her arm.

  His own arm was instantly in a grip like a Racha bird’s talons and he was roughly pushed away.

  “Take your hands from me, town man.”

  In an instant Avylos was beside them, taking Dhulyn’s elbow and turning her away.

  “Your pardon, Lord Mage, Lady.” Parno spoke in the exaggerated Imrion accent he’d practiced for the stage. “New boots have made me clumsy.” He peered at Dhulyn as if seeing her for the first time. “Do I not know you? Have we not met?”

  “No.” Her voice was very cold, very final. “I do not know you.” She turned away from him to the Blue Mage

  Valaika appeared as Avylos was murmuring to Dhulyn. “Any trouble?”

  “Not at all, House Jarlkevo.” Avylos turned to face them, keeping Dhulyn behind him. “My ward was startled, that’s all. She has only recently recovered enough from her illness to rise from her bed.”

  “I’ll see it doesn’t happen again. You.” She turned to Parno. “Back to our rooms, now.”

  It was the only thing Valaika could have done, the only order that would make sense to the audience watching them out of the corners of their eyes. Parno didn’t like it, but he had to leave the audience chamber.

  He blew out each breath slowly and completely as he went, consciously forcing the muscles in his shoulders, arms, and hands to relax. He would kill that Mage with his own hands. He didn’t know when, or even how, but if it took him the rest of his life, he would kill that Mage. Now he knew how Edmir had felt, back in Probic, when that City Lord hadn’t known him.

  Dhulyn’s reaction had been no act. She hadn’t known him. His Brother, his Partner, hadn’t known him.

  Sylria woke with a dry mouth and a head that felt strangely light and empty, as if she’d had a fever and had taken too much fens bark tea. At first the door to the tiny bedchamber seemed to be stuck, but with repeated jiggling and shoving she eventually had it open. Her foot kicked something almost as soon as she entered the main room, and sent it skittering a short way across the cold stone floor.

  A dagger.

  And then the whole of the previous night came sweeping over her, and Sylria had to sit down, and hold her now too full head in her hands.

  “I did it,” she said aloud. “I killed him.” And not just Edmir, Sylria realized, as she looked around her. She’d killed them both, the young girl as well.

  She barely made it as far as the door before she threw up.

  When she was finally able to turn back into the room, she was struck by how clean and tidy it was. She must have cleaned up, removed the bodies. Of course. She must have. She fetched herself a cup of water from the bucket that sat next to the fireplace, rinsed out her mouth, spat, and sat down again.

  She knew absolutely that she had killed Edmir. But now that she thought about it, she could not remember the actual act. She knew the bodies had been removed, and the players’ caravan hidden. She could not remember doing it.

  It had been done. All of it, of that she was certain. What did it matter that she could not remember the details?

  “This comes of Avylos’ ‘help,’ ” she said aloud. Even her voice sounded sour. Her stomach threatened to rebel again and she sipped at the cup of water. She simply could not bear to recall what she had done, and so her mind rejected it. There had been a guardsman once, who had lost his wife, but he simply could not retain the fact of her death, and so he had eventually gone mad. Would that happen to her now? Would she lose her sanity? She took in a deep breath, released it slowly. Better that, better anything, than losing Janek.

  One thing did remain to be done. Carefully, feeling unsteady on her feet, Sylria went into the bedchamber and came out with her saddlebags. From an inner pocket she took out the book of poetry she’d brought with her from Jarlkevo House. She set it down on the table, in the full light of the sun, and opened it to the middle pages.

  Avylos snapped the book shut with a snort of pleasure. It was done. Finally, Edmir was really dead. Finally, everything was falling into place.

  The grounds of the Royal House of Tegrian resembled a small park, with sections for fruit and shade trees, and stretches of formal garden with white-pebbled paths. Like all such places, and at this time of the morning, it was busy, with messengers and guards in livery walking to and from the gates, servants on errands to the stables at the southern end, or to the kitchen gardens. No one took special note of Parno Lionsmane as he strolled through, his chanter to his lips, warming up by play
ing parts and snippets of tunes and runs of notes. In no time, as he’d fully expected and counted on, a group of children were following him, begging for tunes and songs. Anyone who was within the grounds had been passed through the gate, and was safe to play with.

  By allowing the children to think they were chasing him, Parno led them close to the repaired wall that marked the Blue Mage’s wing. He noticed that the children were not afraid to approach it—and that there seemed to be no special guards or watchfulness on the wing itself. He went so far as to lean his shoulders against the repaired part of the wall, hiking up one knee and making himself comfortable. He began to play a an old tune, a familiar tune, one that he’d both heard and played many times himself, and the children clapped their hands and whistled, beginning to bounce up and down in time with the music. In a moment they had chosen one of the smaller boys to be the Blind Man, and an older girl pulled off her neck scarf and bound his eyes as the rest organized themselves in a circle around him, joining hands.

  One eye on the children—it wouldn’t do to outstay their pleasure— Parno settled in to accompany them for as long as he could. He was playing not for them, but for his Partner, and the longer he played, the greater the chance that Dhulyn would come into the garden on the other side of the wall and hear him. Would she recognize the tune? He hoped so; she’d been studying this child’s game, and the tune that came with it, when they’d been in Imrion the year before, and she had special reason to remember it. Of all the tunes that he could play, he wagered this would be the one to catch at her mind and memory.

  Whether the magic of the music would be enough to undo what the Mage had done to her—that was what he couldn’t know.

  He wasn’t sure exactly how long he’d been playing, long enough for the shadows to move a finger’s breadth perhaps, but not long enough to dry his mouth unduly, when he saw a page whose colors marked him as one on loan to Valaika, coming toward them down one of the nearby paths. Parno waited until the page was almost standing next to him before lowering the chanter from his mouth. Immediately the children who were waiting their turns to play surrounded him, calling out for him to continue.

  “Off with you, fiends and torments! I’m summoned and that’s the end of it. Off now, enjoy your freedom while you can.” He turned to the page even as he began the walk back across the grounds to Valaika’s suite. “I am summoned, I take it? Not that I could have played much longer, mind.”

  “If you please, sir. The Lady Prince Kera has announced her intention to visit her aunt, and our House wishes you to be present.”

  “Lead on, youngster.” Parno was happy to get another look at Edmir’s sister. And he was interested in what made Valaika think she needed a Mercenary Brother with her when her niece visited.

  Dhulyn was humming along with the tune she heard rising and falling on the other side of the garden wall, and soon found herself on her feet, stepping two paces to the left, to the right, forward and back, turning and offering her hand to someone who wasn’t there. She faltered.

  Surely there was a song as well. The words were on the tip of her tongue. She could almost see them—

  “What are you doing?”

  She turned, smiling, and ran to Avylyn—no, she corrected herself, he was called Avylos here. The Blue Mage. He was smiling, as if he’d had some very good news.

  “Did you hear that music? Come, I remember the steps to the dance. Come dance with me.”

  “Men do not dance.” Avylos actually put his hands behind his back, as if he feared she would catch them and pull him forward. “Not our men, anyway, not Espadryni.”

  She stood still, something throbbed behind her left eye. Was that right? “Do they not? I remember . . . no, I suppose I don’t. For a moment there I thought—but perhaps you’re right, perhaps it is only women who dance.” She shrugged and stepped away from him again. “Then I shall dance by myself.” Three steps to the right, two steps to the left. A spin with the arms wide open.

  A circle of women, their hair the red of old blood, holding hands, eyes closed, feet moving in rhythmic pacing . . .

  An old crone, a young woman with dark hair and a heart-shaped face, a stocky blond man in a Scholar’s tunic, and a young boy, thin and round-eyed, holding hands, singing, feet moving in rhythmic pacing . . .

  The golden-haired, tattooed man, with pipes in his hands . . .

  Water crashes over the deck of a ship . . .

  A golden-haired man with tattoos . . .

  Avylos with the Blue Stone in his hands, light burning through him . . .

  She was standing still.

  “Could you dance later, my dear one? Would you come with me, now? I would like you to try something.”

  “Something to eat, I hope?”

  He smiled, but stiffly now, his good humor already faded. Sun and Moon, what was wrong with the man? No humor, no fun, stiff as a bow that was never bent. She stopped spinning. That was an odd simile to think of. Perhaps she’d been a hunter?

  “Very well, then, Avylos my brother—” The words stuck in her throat, and she had to cough. Odd. “I’ll be as serious as a Scholar, nay, as serious as a Mage.” She dusted off the skirts of her gown and joined him, linking her arm through his.

  Twenty-one

  KERA’S MOUTH WAS AS DRY as winter sand. She held herself stiffly as she walked, her hands folded at her waist since her awareness of the need for caution was giving them a tendency to tremble. She had dressed carefully, had a lady page at her elbow, and she’d rehearsed her speeches to Aunt Valaika until she felt she could recite them without hesitation or sign of how nervous she really felt. She put on the face that she’d been taught to use in public. Formality, Edmir had always told her, was a tool to fall back on when fear or uncertainty nipped at your composure. Informally, she would have walked directly across the grounds to the section of rooms set aside for the use of House Jarlkevo. As it was, she and her escort were walking sedately around the long way, through the buildings, Kera pausing where appropriate to let her lady page open and close doors for her.

  As she walked along, she used the time to consider—yet again— what she was doing. Logic said that Aunt Valaika, by virtue of her long estrangement from the Royal House, and her subsequent isolation in her mountain fortress, had few ties, if any, that would make her an ally of the Blue Mage.

  But logic made for poor signposts on the road of human nature. Just because Valaika had no particular friends at court didn’t mean she wanted to make an enemy.

  After what seemed like hours, Kera’s lady page opened the door to her aunt’s suite and announced her. Kera signaled that the woman should remain outside, and walked in. Her first thought on entering her aunt’s receiving room was relief that the tall, golden-haired personalguard was already there. Now she wouldn’t have to make up some excuse to ask for him.

  Very correctly, Valaika stood as Kera entered, and waited for the door to be shut behind her. Kera stopped just inside the door and let her aunt come to her. Now that she was Lady Prince, she took precedence over even an older blood relative. Over everyone except the queen, herself. As a close blood relative, however, Valaika did not kneel, but took Kera’s hand and bowed over it. When she straightened, and would have stepped away, Kera found herself clinging to the hand, warm and rough, in hers. She looked into her aunt’s face, and Valaika met her eyes steadily. Her aunt’s eyes were the same dark blue as her father’s, full of warmth. The same warmth, the same welcome, as the day they had buried her father.

  Kera’s lower lip trembled, her determination to remain formal crumbled, and she took another step forward into her aunt’s arms.

  “There, my little one. I’m here. Whatever it is, I’ll help you.” Even the voice, with its Hellish accent, reminded Kera of her father.

  Strong arms around her, hands patting her back. Valaika would help her, Kera was certain, though she didn’t know how she knew it. These weren’t just words. But much as she would have liked to go on clinging to this woman w
ho reminded her so much of her father, there was someone else in the room, and pride made Kera straighten her shoulders and take a step back, clearing her throat and adjusting her brocaded sleeves, trying to regain the composure she’d had when she’d come in the door.

  “I thank you,” she said in as steady a voice as she could manage. Pride told her to say no more, but curiosity was stronger. “What makes you think I need help?”

  “No one stands near the throne and doesn’t,” Valaika said, smiling to take the sting of cynicism from the words. “I knew that when I was younger than you are now, and farther from a throne.”

  Kera swallowed. “You’re right, of course,” she said. “I have come looking for an ally, though to be honest, I’m not sure what any of us can do.”

  “Start at the beginning.”

  The deep, unexpected voice made Kera jump just a little, and she brushed a bit of fluff from her skirt to cover the movement. If he were just a personal guard, he wouldn’t have spoken, and that meant her thinking was correct. Time to set formalities aside.

  “Do you know a Mercenary Brother called Dhulyn Wolfshead?” she said. Her breath caught. “I see from your face that you do.”

  The man stepped forward until he was almost too close for protocol, and Kera found herself leaning very slightly away from him.

  “My name is Parno Lionsmane, called the Chanter. I was schooled by Nerysa of Tourin, the Warhammer. I fight with my Brother, Dhulyn Wolfshead, she is my Partner. Do you know what has happened to her?”

  Valaika drew Kera to a seat at the small table, waving to Parno Lionsmane to bring up another chair. There was a plate of small poppy seed cakes and ganje in a glazed jug being kept warm on a metal stand over a small oil lamp.