Except she hadn’t, not really. Life with Avylos would be considerably easier if she really had forgotten everything. If she didn’t have these constant reminders, these surfacing thoughts, these dreams. The dreams felt real to her, solid, full of color, sound, and feeling. Her life with Avylos, on the other hand, felt empty and flat, as if it had left no footprints in the pathways of her brain.
There. That kind of thinking. What kind of person had thoughts like those? Footprints. Paths. Arrows. Swords. Surely not someone who had spent her whole life in the Tegrian Queen’s Royal House.
Dhulyn rolled her shoulders and flexed her feet. She should try to relax, take advantage of this wonderful bath. It was seldom she ever got the chance for a long soak in a place like this one. In fact, she couldn’t remember when—
“Blooded Stars,” she said aloud, her voice echoing once more off the walls. She sat up and looked around for the towels the attendants had left. There was certainly no point in remaining here any longer, chasing the same thoughts around and around. Surely there must be something Avylos could do. Find a Healer, use a magic on her. Something.
And what was she doing wearing this ridiculous wig in the baths? It itched, and there were no servants here to whisper behind their hands at the scarring on her head. Besides, they’d seen enough of the scars on her back to give them plenty to whisper about. She gathered her feet under her and stood, wiping the water off her body with the edges of her hands before reaching for a towel. After wrapping a large sheet of toweling around herself, she sat down on the bench next to the bath and inserted her fingers around the edges of the wig. She would have it off, if only for a few minutes.
She peeled the wig off gently and spread it out along the bench. It would have to be brushed out, in any case, she thought. Dhulyn knelt by the side of the bath and stuck her head under the warm water to loosen and remove the last of the sticky paste that had held on the wig. Her head felt so much lighter now, and so much cooler. She eyed the wig, twisting her mouth to one side. If only she could go without it. What about when her own hair grew out, could it be combed in such a way that it would cover the scarring on her head?
Dhulyn put her hands to her temples . . . and froze. She felt the skin more carefully with the sensitive tips of her fingers. Nothing. No roughness. She trailed her fingertips over her cheeks and forehead, and back to her temples.
It all felt the same. No scarring.
Dhulyn lowered her hands, and pursed her lips in a silent whistle. She tucked the towel around her more tightly and proceeded to the outer room, where clean clothes had been left out for her away from the moist air of the bathing chamber. As she had requested, she’d been left trousers, a shirt, and a short-waisted tunic to replace the gown she’d been wearing. She frowned. The shirt was long sleeved, and the shoes house slippers instead of boots. Why that should trouble her was just another thing she didn’t know.
She had buckled the sword belt around her hips and was attaching the sword to it before she was aware what she was doing. She lifted her hands away and took a few steps. It felt right. Natural. As if she had often had a sword there. She found herself nodding. This was why she’d fought so well against the Mercenary. She was skilled as a warrior. It must be common among the women of the Tribes.
She drew the blade and weighed it in her hand, admiring its balance.
“Is this your doing, Avylos? Did you hope to trigger my memory?”
Dhulyn resheathed the sword. She needed a mirror. She needed answers. And she would find neither of those things here.
Strange how different even your own home can look, when your hands are bound behind your back and you’re being marched along as a prisoner by the very guards who are supposed to be protecting you. On the other hand, Edmir thought, perhaps it was lucky he was bound. This way no one could see how badly he was shaking. His mother the queen was never an easy person to contend with, and they had not planned on having to deal with her until after Avylos had been neutralized. His stomach clenched and he licked a drop of sweat from his upper lip.
Do I want her to know me, he thought, or not know me?
And that thought made him pause. Staying alive was his worry at the moment, and he needed to focus his attention on that. What would happen with the rest of his life was only important if he lived.
“Lord Mage,” came the voice of Section Leader Megz Primeau from behind him as they neared the doorway which would let them out into the grounds. She tightened her grip on his right arm and gave him a shake. “This one does look most remarkably like Prince Edmir.” Her hand clamped down painfully when she said his name, and Edmir winced. “May I,” another painful squeeze. “Suggest that we cover their heads, lest the whole House know,” squeeze, “of this imposture? I do not offend you,” squeeze, “I trust.” Squeeze.
Edmir heard enough of Avylos’ answer to know that it was in the negative, but his attention was focused elsewhere. Whether it was his recent training at catching cues on the stage, or that his present predicament sharpened his wits, Edmir couldn’t know, but he thought he understood Megz Primeau’s message. His arm would be badly bruised, the section leader had fingers like metal pincers, but her squeezing had not been random.
Edmir. I. Know. You. . . . Trust.
In that moment, Edmir’s perception shifted. With Megz’s words, what happened in the audience with his mother the queen—what she believed, and what she would say to him—became less important. Getting through the interview—that was now the goal. Section Leader Megz was the senior guard present, and would undoubtedly be put in charge of them when they were dismissed from his mother the queen’s presence. All he and Valaika had to do was hold out until then.
That, and do everything they could to buy time for Parno and Zania.
Now Edmir lifted his head and looked around him. They were almost across the corner of the grounds between Valaika’s rooms and the main citadel of Royal House. From what he could see, they were heading for the entrance known as the consort’s door, not the main entrance and the more direct route that would take them through the Great Hall. So Avylos was taking no chances. The fewer people who saw them, the fewer there would be to ask questions and delay them. But just the same, Royal House was full of people, personal servants, cleaners, kitchen staff, pages, and guards on normal patrols. It was impossible for them to march through even the lesser-used corridors without being seen and remarked on.
Avylos said nothing, his set stare was enough to clear their way of anyone they encountered. The other guards were not so quiet, however, and Avylos did nothing to stop their murmurs of “traitors to the queen” and “an impostor.”
What Edmir saw when they finally entered his mother the queen’s private sitting room made his heart sink. She wasn’t stalking back and forth, her long strides making the skirt and sleeves of her gown flutter. That would have meant she was angry. She wasn’t standing by her window, leaning on the ledge and looking out into her private garden. That would have meant she was seriously annoyed. No. Kedneara the Queen was sitting in her large chair, the one that most resembled her throne, gripping its arms so tightly that her knuckles were white.
She was in a flying fury. They would be very lucky if blood was not shed.
Edmir lowered his eyes and tried to make his breathing as shallow as possible. It was cowardly of him, he knew, but he did not want to do anything that would bring the full force of that fury down on him.
“Get out,” the queen said. Her voice was still musical, but it was as if someone plucked the strings of a harp with a dagger. The three pages who had been waiting with her looked at each other out of the corners of their eyes, but they did so as they were moving to the door. Even the guards holding Valaika shuffled their feet, falling still only when Avylos raised his hand to them. Edmir risked a glance upward, but his mother was looking at Valaika.
“Valaika, you Hellish cow,” she spat, as the door was closing behind the last page. “Have you always hated me this much?”
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br /> Edmir knew a sudden, though not unfamiliar, pang. Once his mother would have looked at him first, asked about him, even if she thought he was only an impostor. Those days were long gone.
“I never hated you, Kedneara,” Valaika was saying. The guards had forced her to her knees. “You loved my brother, you chose him. You were happy, Kedneara, and Karyli was happy with you. That was enough for me.”
“You don’t hate me?” Kedneara, hands still gripping the arms of her chair, leaned forward as though she would spit in Valaika’s face. “You say you don’t hate me? Why else would you do this? Join with my enemies to conspire against me, kill my child, come here with an imp—”
Edmir pulled against Megz’s grip as his mother’s face darkened, suffused with blood. Her mouth was open, but it seemed she could neither speak nor breathe. Her grip on the arms of her chair became, if possible, even tighter, but her body began to heave and jerk. Megz let go of his arm and moved forward, but Avylos reached the queen’s side before anyone, holding the others back with a short chop of his hand.
“Kedneara, my Queen, look at me.”
It seemed that his mother couldn’t raise her head, but she managed to twist it enough that she could look sideways at Avylos through slitted eyes. Froth tinged with blood formed on her lips. Holding her gaze with his own, Avylos took hold of the queen’s wrist in his right hand. With his left, he began to sketch in the air. Edmir was not surprised when lines of light flowed from the end of Avylos’ finger, and a symbol formed in the air, but the guards, who perhaps had never seen the Blue Mage actually perform from this close a distance, drew their breaths in sharply and took a pace back, leaving Valaika alone on her knees. She watched, tight-lipped, as the symbol glowed first blue, then gold.
“Inhale, my Queen. Inhale.” As if Avylos’ words were themselves a magic, Edmir’s mother suddenly inhaled. The gold symbol flew in between her parted lips and almost immediately the dark color faded from her face, leaving her pale except for a slight blush on her cheeks. Her breathing regularized, she blinked, and sat back in her chair, holding both hands against her heart.
Edmir’s own heart felt cold in his chest. This was what they had not known, he and Kera. They had not known how sick their mother was, and how dependent on Avylos’ magic. Of course, Kedneara was a woman, the Mage’s magic would not cure her once and for all. He would need to renew the magic regularly, perhaps even find new magics when the old ones failed to serve. If he and his friends succeeded in what they were trying to do, if they succeeded in taking and destroying the Stone and Avylos’ magic faded away, so would his mother the queen. She would die, if they stopped Avylos.
Finally she looked up, right into Edmir’s eyes.
“Edmir,” she said, but her voice was so flat, it was impossible to know what she meant, impossible to be sure that she knew him.
“That is not Edmir, my dear one, my Queen, do not let your illness trick you.” Avylos was already drawing in the air again, this time in the open space before the queen, short, chopping lines, a symbol harsh with corners. “This is an impostor, my Queen, Edmir is dead. This is not Edmir.”
Edmir watched as his mother dragged her eyes from his to focus on the Mage and his symbol. She began slowly to nod.
“Mother,” he cried, pushing forward. If only he could get her to look at him again.
But Section Leader Megz Primeau’s steely hand on his arm pulled him back. “Edmir is dead,” Megz said. “This is not Edmir.”
“Valaika, close your eyes,” he cried out. “Valaika!” Megz raised her fist to strike at him, but when he lowered his head and turned away, she let her hand fall open again.
“Edmir is dead. This is not Edmir.”
His mother the queen, Megz, and the two other guards had spoken in unison. Without looking up, Edmir couldn’t be certain whether Valaika had also spoken, or whether she remained unaffected by Avylos’ magic.
Two at least of the people affected were women, which meant that eventually both his mother and Megz Primeau would recognize him again—but that eventuality was very small comfort to him now.
“My Queen, do not hesitate, do not let your kind heart lead you astray.” Avylos was still standing next to the queen’s chair. “You see how insidious they are, what havoc they could cause, do not hesitate I beg you, send them to the Black Dungeons now.”
“But the other Houses—”
“Do you believe that any of them will speak for Jarlkevo? Outsider as she is? If you feel the need to tell them, do it after the fact, when the imposter is dead and the danger is past.”
At these words Edmir looked up, unable to believe that Avylos gave this advice seriously. Jarlkevo was a new House, as these things were counted, but a High Noble House it was, and the idea that the other Houses—so jealous of their rights and privileges as they had always been—would stand meekly and nod agreement when one of their own, even a relative newcomer and outsider, was put to death without trial or hearing . . . No. What was done to Valaika Jarlkevo could be done to any of them, and they would know it, and their reaction would be swift and dangerous.
Regardless of the consequences to himself, Edmir had opened his mouth to say so, but Avylos pointed at him, a flicker like the flame of a candle appearing on his fingertip. The flame flew to Edmir’s mouth, and he found he could not speak.
“I will see to it that the other Houses are informed,” he told the queen. “Trust me, this you must do, for your own protection.”
Edmir looked on, astonished, as his mother the queen nodded, and waved her hand. “Take them away,” she said. She had not looked at him again.
“To the Black Dungeons?” It seemed even the other guards could not believe what they’d been told.
“Yes,” said the queen. “Take them, now.”
It was not until he felt the pain in his throat that Edmir realized he was trying to scream.
Parno sat astride the top of the garden wall, his hands shaking, and the sweat drying on his face. He could taste blood; he must have bitten the inside of his lip on his way up. The Sable Monkey Shora controlled his breathing and heart rate while he was using it, but now he felt the exertions in the burning of his muscles, and the pounding of his heart.
He spat to one side as he uncoiled the rope and tied one end around his waist before tossing the loose end down to where Zania stood waiting, her arms already raised to catch it. As soon as it reached her, Zania created a loop in the rope, using the knots he’d shown her, and pushed her head and arms through it. When she was ready, she tugged on the rope. Parno swung both legs over to the garden side of the wall, and began to walk down, taking it nice and slow. With his weight to counterbalance hers, Zania would be lifted up the outer side of the wall at a pace which would let her use her hands and feet to prevent scraping or bumping against the wall. This was a trick taught in the Mercenary Schools, and Parno had practiced it many times before, both as anchor and counterweight.
Just as his feet touched the ground on the garden side of the wall, Zania’s head popped up over the top. She swung her legs to the garden side of the wall, and, in answer to Parno’s waving hands, maneuvered herself over a half a span to her right, where she could use the limbs of a tree to help lower herself to the ground.
“What now?” Zania said as he freed her from the rope and began coiling it again. “Kera is not expecting us until nightfall.”
“Can’t be any harm in looking around a bit. Who knows, maybe Avylos has left his workroom open.”
When he straightened from hiding the rope under the nearest flowering bush, Zania was looking at him with her brows drawn down. “Are you sure it won’t be safer to hide somewhere in here? Those hedges against the wall over there would give us plenty of cover.”
Parno found his hands had clenched into fists and forced them open, spreading his fingers as far as they would go. It went against the grain to tell his true feelings—his true worries was more the point, to anyone except his own Partner. Even to Zania, even after
spending all this time on the road with her. But his own Partner had not known him the last time they spoke, she had fought with him, tried to kill him. In fact, the last time the real Dhulyn had said anything to him had been her signaled “In Battle” as she rode away. She had not even seen his response “In Death.” He filled his lungs with air, and let it out slowly. They were not dead yet, and if this wasn’t a battle, he’d like to know what it was.
“Dhulyn may be inside,” he said finally. “I cannot wait here, hiding, knowing that. I must at least try to find her.”
Zania was silent for so long Parno turned to look at her. Except for the tiny wrinkle between her brows, her face was expressionless. She glanced up at him, just a flash of her green eyes before she looked away again. “I understand,” she said. “Lead the way.”
Parno patted her shoulder. He should have known Zania would understand. He imagined that she would like to know where Edmir was just now. “The door’s this way,” he said.
The Mage’s garden was like a miniature of the grounds outside, but the pathways and plantings were not so numerous that Parno could not remember the layout. He followed one narrow path and came, as he expected, to the small pool. Just beyond it, near the rock garden, was the table and two sturdy wooden chairs where Dhulyn and Kera had been sitting. He stopped and picked up the garden stake Dhulyn had used against him. He put it back down and looked around, mentally counting the paths leading from this spot. When Dhulyn had sent her for Avylos, Kera had run in that direction, he decided, choosing the central pathway. That way lay the door. He gestured to Zania to follow him.
“Will the door be magicked?” she asked, as they drew closer to it.
“Unlikely. But then again, I didn’t expect the wall to be magicked.” Standing as far back as he could and still retain leverage, Parno reached out with his sword, positioned the point under the metal latch, and lifted. The door swung open outward. Neither locked nor magicked by the look of it.
The Soldier King Page 38
