by Megan Derr
Sol laughed, but stood good naturedly, and Iah listened with a smile as he and Esta began to work on the Salharan dances he was teaching her.
It was, he thought, not unlike the old days. Of course, he'd been able to see and had often messed up his own steps laughing when Kalan and Matthias danced together, making up the steps as they went. "So are you enjoying yourself at all here, Salharan?" Iah asked.
Beraht did not immediately reply; Iah could hear him shifting and settling on the wooden dais. "Yes," he said finally. "I wouldn't have thought so. It's probably obvious that I didn't have the… upbringing the rest of you did."
"I wouldn't know," Iah said with a smile. "If you look uncouth or uncultured, it matters little to me. You speak Illussor like everyone else in the city, minus the Salharan accent. I suspect you'll have a title before too long. It would be Matthias' style, and he's got three of them to hand out."
"What are you talking about?"
Iah grinned. "Nothing of importance. So are you going to wind up stuck in Dieter's bed again tonight?" He felt Beraht stiffen.
"Not if I can help it," Beraht muttered, adding a few curses. "The bastard."
"I wonder when you two will finally get around to killing each other. I thought once we got here the hostilities would ease, but they seem only to be getting worse."
Beraht shifted on the dais, obviously restless. "He doesn't know what to do with himself now that he doesn't have an entire country to terrorize. I'm sure that will change once he has to start teaching everyone how to fight. I still think the prince was insane to contrive such a scheme."
Iah shrugged. "It seems a good idea to me. Better to have the Wolf on our side than to fight him without magic. We'd be massacred." He paused, head bobbing as he thought. "Though I don't know that he would."
"Would what?"
"Massacre us."
Beraht snorted. "A good general takes advantage of a situation. What else would he do? Let you live? Why in the stars would you even be out there fighting without being able to actually do so?"
"I didn't say we would. It was just an observation, really."
"A poor one," Beraht said, and Iah could hear his clothes rustle. He recalled the bruises on his throat that Beraht had been complaining of the other day—loudly, to Dieter. Sometimes it seemed Beraht went out of his way to incur Dieter's anger. "He has no qualms beating me, and my ability to fight back is rather nonexistent. I don't think he'd hesitate to crush a weak army."
Iah laughed. "You seem to do all right." Beraht didn't reply. From the dance floor, Esta burst into laughter. Iah felt a pang. "What's she laughing about?"
"Hmm? Oh, she keeps messing up the last step. It's this weird twist one way while the feet go the other. Some of the soldiers I was with used to dance when they were drunk. It was hysterical." Beraht laughed. "I'd forgotten about that until now. Captain used to scream himself hoarse, and we just kept laughing—until the arcen burn anyway. He was always good at that."
"Arcen burn?"
"Sort of like the way Sol and I woke up screaming. Really good mages know how to do it on a smaller scale. They 'set off' the arcen in our systems. Nasty piece of work, that spell. Luckily not practical, as it burns the user's arcen off pretty fast."
Iah started bobbing his head again. "Is that why the spells you guys use are seldom, in and of themselves, fatal?"
"Yes," Beraht said. "Too costly. Arcen powerful enough to use in war is hard to grow. Used wisely, a yellow dose of arcen can last weeks, if used properly. We do not dare use it carelessly, and risk being without."
"Do you miss it?"
"Yes," Beraht said, "but I'll live."
"Why?" He felt Beraht shrug. "I wasn't trying to pry."
"You're not. I'm not used to talking to someone who isn't threatening my life or beating me to a pulp. People don't talk to nameless except to tell them to get lost. The army is about the only place that will take a person who doesn't exist."
"Doesn't exist? I find that hard to comprehend," Iah said. "If you're here, you exist. A name doesn't decide that."
"Doesn't it?" Beraht asked. "Try spending twenty-eight years of your life without a name then tell me the lack of one doesn't matter."
Iah reached out, hand landing on what seemed to be Beraht's knee. "I'm sorry; I didn't mean to offend. It's simply hard to understand, though you are giving me some idea. Sol did not explain it quite so."
"Perhaps because General Sol deVry has always had a name, if occasionally too many of them. Had we both returned to Salhara at winter's end, our tasks completed, he would have been among those who do not acknowledge me outside of giving orders."
"Sol wouldn't do that," Iah protested. "Not when he knows what it's like to be shamed."
Beraht laughed bitterly. "Yes, he would have. If only to preserve his own role as a general and cousin to the queen. Someone of such importance does not demean himself by speaking to people who don't exist. It would have tarnished the role he was playing." Beraht stood up. "I am feeling hungry. Excuse me."
Iah heard him stomp away—then stumble to a halt, apologizing to… Kalan, Iah realized as he finally heard the new voice clearly. Then Beraht was gone. "Kalan, come to dance?"
"I've told you before I don't agree with torture," Kalan said. "I paid my dues thrice over growing up." Iah listened as Kalan's boots clicked on the hardwood floor, grinning at the pianist's frustrated sigh as he was forced to stop yet again.
"What do you want, Kalan?" Iah knew her hands were back on her hips.
Kalan's grin was in his voice. "Apologies, my Queen. I've come to steal away your dance instructor." He yowled a second later, a screech Iah knew all too well—Esta was pulling his hair. Hard.
"What do you want with Sol, Duke?" Esta asked in too-sweet tones.
"Merely a bit of his time, Duchess." Kalan hissed in pain, and Iah heard him move closer to where he was sitting. "Which reminds me—are you going to give the title back to your brother now that he's home for good?"
"Yes," Esta replied.
"No," Iah said at the same time.
Kalan laughed. "Excellent. Then we can hand the title back when Matti hands out all the rest. Sol—a word with you in the hall? You've come highly recommended for a particular task, and I should have thought of it myself."
"Certainly," Sol said in his calm way. Iah heard him approach, and tilted his face up for the kiss Sol gave him, allowing himself to be tugged up. "Would you like to be taken back to our room first?"
Iah nodded. "Yes, I think so."
"Let me take him," Esta said, the faintest bit of hesitation in her voice. Iah smiled, and he knew Sol did as well. "I promise I won't let him trip on the stairs again," Esta said more firmly.
"Oh, Essie. You can't still be upset by that? It takes getting used to. Now come on, help me back to my room. I've got the layout memorized, but people are still the very devil." He didn't voice that when he tried to do it alone, the whispers that chased him were the worst part. Some were even scared of him; he heard it in the way they greeted him: stiff, uncertain, occasionally derisive. It was nothing he hadn't expected. He had Sol, along with his sister and friends. He'd be fine. "We'll just make a penalty—cause me to trip and you have to be nice to someone."
"I'm always nice," Esta protested. "You just don't like that I'm always right."
Kalan started coughing. "Pardon me—better yet, pardon us. I will see you later, Esta. Iah. Make sure if you do trip that I'm the first one on that list." He and Sol made a hasty retreat, to judge by the sound of their rapid steps.
Esta took his arm. "All right," she said. "Tell me if I'm doing something wrong."
"One would think," Iah said with a grin, "that as I'm the one who is blind, I would be more nervous than you. Leading me around has got to be easier than getting Matthias to do as he's told."
"That's certainly true," Esta muttered. "All right—ten paces to the door?"
Iah grinned. It was actually twelve, but she'd get the hang of it. "Then we t
urn right, yes? Did you know that damned staircase has a hundred and seven steps?"
*~*~*
"So what did you need?" Sol asked, shaking his head as Esta began to lead Iah to their room. He followed as Kalan led the way to what turned out to be a small office.
"It's nothing we can't mention to the others; I just didn't feel like making Essie worry when she was having such a good time." He leaned against edge of a large, dark desk. It was covered in neat stacks of paper and cumbersome ledgers. One whole wall was given over to books ranging in quality from thin paper and heavy stock covers to rich leather and thick, cloth-like paper. "Remember our conversation this morning? About the counter stone?"
"Yes," Sol said, nodding. "You still have not been able to obtain it."
Kalan nodded, folding his arms across his chest. It was easy to see the office was his, and not one he'd simply picked because it was empty. It had his same quiet flare, with splashes of color that somehow managed to fit together. Mostly red, but there was a rainbow of accents in the pillows on the small couch, the books, and the colorful rug on the floor. Yet even in all the color, his jewel-green coat stood out. "I wondered if you'd like to help find it."
"I don't know that I would be of much use," Sol said slowly, "but I'm certainly happy to try. What precisely is the problem?"
"Excellent. The problem is that we can't figure out where it's been hidden."
Sol frowned in thought. "You can't sense it?"
"No," Kalan said. "The stone is little more than dead weight until someone like Beraht activates it. Don't ask me to explain, that's more Matthias' field. He's been studying what little information remains nearly all his life."
"Do you have any theories as to it's most likely general location?"
"The palace, though that is not completely certain. We doubt he's hidden it elsewhere, but we're not discounting the possibility entirely."
Sol nodded. "What places have you already tried?"
"Only the cemetery. I doubt it's in his bedroom, or anywhere that a great many of people go, but he doesn't go anywhere else."
"Nowhere at all?"
Kalan shrugged. "To visit his wife's grave. All the royal family is buried in a private cemetery at the far end of the palace property. No one else is allowed in there."
"An easy hiding spot," Sol said.
"That's what I thought, but I combed the area and had no luck." He made a face. "Cost me a jacket and my favorite pair of pants. Trust me, it's not there."
Sol smiled. "If it's no insult to you, I will check once more. You will also have to tell me what else he does, where he goes, everything you can think of. To figure out where someone might hide something, you must be able to think as he does. My sister and I used to love playing hide and seek when we were children, but we got too good at knowing where the other hid. I will need to speak with everyone who knows him well."
"Matti and Esta can be interrogated at dinner. I'm probably not the best. I know he's quick to anger and quick to get over it—or at least he used to be. Lately, he's nothing but a grouchy old man who lets his son do all the work and then reprimands him for it. I think age is getting the better of him." Kalan shrugged "I guess you can't really blame a man who lost his uncle, his brother and his son to the magic that keeps his country functioning."
"One would think, then, that he'd want to be rid of the magic."
Kalan gave a half smile. "Like I said, age is getting the better of him. I'm sure Matti will crack him eventually, but time is a luxury that we do not have. Not that we often do."
"Where is the king now?"
"Probably in a meeting with the ministers—a private lunch thing where they all complain about Matthias, and the king assures them that yes, his son is young and foolish and no, he won't let the boy do anything stupid."
"The prince strikes me as someone who is most definitely not stupid. I would think men shrewd enough to run a country would notice that."
Kalan sniffed. "We work hard to make sure they don't realize, thank you very much. Do you know the last time twelve ministers were dismissed simultaneously was at the end of the war that put Matthias' family on the throne? Every last one was removed from office: seven were executed and the other five banished. One tried to sneak back into the country ten years later and was killed within days. That was… not long before the war with our neighbors began. I guess no one likes to be too idle." He gave another shrug. "Regardless, it's going to cause a massive upheaval. I don't doubt one or two will turn to violence. The fewer who know it's coming, the better. Speaking as the future Minister of Finances, it'll be cheaper as well."
"Why finances?" Sol asked.
"Because," Kalan answered with a grin, "no one ever pays attention to the poor fool who got saddled with such an unhappy job. Far too easy to redistribute funds if you know what you're doing and highly unpopular because the Finances department is the one most likely to complain about every new scheme."
Sol smiled back. "So you're in a fine position to continue communications with Spiegel and others of his sort."
"I'm sure I don't know what you mean."
Laughing, Sol turned back to the original topic. "So walk me through the areas the king frequents. Tell me what he does, if you're not busy."
"Nothing that can't wait or be foisted onto lackeys," Kalan said. "Come, I'll take you to the cemetery first. You can have a turn destroying your pants."
Outside, the sky was sunny, but clouds loomed not too far off. By dinner, the weather would be gray and damp. The wind held a bite, a promise of snow. Kalan let out a happy sigh. "I love winter. Salharans spend most of the year warm, don't they? I don't know how you do it."
Sol laughed. "I never understood why Kria and Illussor were so fond of being buried alive every winter. But the snow begins to appeal, after a while, though that might simply be the madness talking, I don't know."
"Could be," Kalan agreed, chuckling. "Here's the path to the cemetery," he pointed. "It winds round all the way to the perimeter. Many don't like its being so close, but it was established early on and trying to move it later was too difficult a task. They're all buried above ground; the building is actually rather pretty."
Rounding the few buildings where various craftsmen lived, Sol immediately spotted the gray and white building. It wasn't terribly large, but plenty big enough to house several generations of royalty. "The gravestones indicate special personages considered important enough to be buried with royalty. I shouldn't doubt you'll all wind up here."
"I sincerely doubt traitors, no matter how loyal to the country for whom they betrayed their own, are fit to be buried with kings." Sol smiled ruefully. "We're much more the sort of thing everyone likes to forget about after a time."
Kalan snorted. "I want to see you tell that to Matthias. Trust me when I say that for all he was reluctant to cooperate with 'enemies', he has taken to all of you. Perhaps because you've already done more than anyone else has." He grinned. "Except me, but my main role is to stay with him, which limits me to the palace."
"I am humbled by the prince's trust."
This time Kalan's grin was slow, sly. "Well, even if we didn't trust the others, it's pretty obvious you're not going anywhere unless Iah decides to pack up and leave."
"Iah was… unexpected." Sol looked away, embarrassed and stared at a well as they passed it. A young girl stared back then shuffled away with her heavy bucket of water. "If I am causing some offense—"
"No!" Kalan said hastily. "I'm sorry, I was only teasing. Iah used to be a bit of a flirt growing up, but he mellowed, and after he joined the army he just… sort of gave up. I can't even begin to imagine what it must be like for him now." He shook his head, pale hair catching the sunlight that was even now beginning to succumb to cloud cover. "I'm glad he has you. I don't think even friends would be enough right now."
Sol glanced at him. "I think you underestimate him."
"I doubt it," Kalan said. "Iah's strong—no choice when you're related to Esta—bu
t he has his mother's sense of duty and his father's stubbornness. Which means he's good at suffering in silence." He glanced at Sol. "I've caught snatches of more than a few comments about his blindness. Hopefully he hasn't caught wind of them."
Sol shook his head. "He has not mentioned it, but that may explain why his nightmares are coming back."
"I would suffer a great deal more than nightmares in his situation," Kalan said with a grimace. "As I said before—I cannot even begin to imagine. Unfortunate that the least deserving of us is the one who suffered. I'm sure it all makes sense to the Goddess." He grinned playfully. "What is it Beraht's always screaming? Stars refuse them!—that's it. Perhaps those stars know something we don't."
"Yes," Sol said with an answering smile. "Stars see things that those of us on the ground never notice."
"Irksome stars," Kalan replied. They reached a high, iron gate; the bars were so close together that a grown man or woman would not have been able to slip a hand through. From his coat, Kalan pulled a ring of keys and selected a larger key made from iron. The lock turned easily, but the gates squealed loudly as he pushed them open. "Welcome to the royal cemetery," Kalan said. "This isn't going to be a very exciting tour, I'm afraid."
"I would imagine not," Sol replied, smiling, but it was distracted as he began to take in and examine the small cemetery.
Perhaps three dozen or so gravestones. The marks on them were meaningless to him, but the words indicated names, dates and a brief poem to the deceased. "In Salhara, bodies are burned so that they might reach the sky and become stars."
"We burn them too, though mostly because the ground is too hard to bury the ones who die in winter. These markers are just… reminders."
Sol nodded. The wind snatched at his hair and his long, dark blue coat. Beside him Kalan cursed as the wind sent his hair flying in all directions, the ribbon holding it blowing away faster than Kalan could move to catch it.
"Let's go inside," Kalan said. "Before I lose my clothes." He stopped in front of the door to the mausoleum and withdrew a small, ornate key made of silver. This time the door opened soundlessly, and the smell of dust and decay wafted out. The inside was as ornate as the outside had been, with whorls and loops and all manner of whimsical, grotesque figures no doubt meant to keep several things out—and perhaps a few in.
