“I hope Dorane doesn’t come today,” said Hune. “I hope he never comes back.” He lay back down, settling himself as comfortably as possible beneath his blanket. His mattress wasn’t quite plush enough to take the hardness out of the stone floor, or to flatten its bumps and grooves.
Neslan yawned. Then he said, “If he does come, he won’t speak as he used to. He didn’t mean to make you cry, you know.”
The middle child yawned again, and the yawn spread to Valkin, who said, “I don’t care if he meant to make Hune cry. He’s a beast for keeping us here. I hate him, I hate him worse than Ursa. Ursa couldn’t have kidnapped us by herself. Hang them both! I’m tired. We’re all tired. Don’t worry about the bear, Hune. I know the thing’s a monster, but it can’t get in here.”
Hune knew the bear could not get in. He closed his eyes, stretched his legs, and, to ignore the sound of the creature’s growls, started thinking about his pets, especially Moon, his pony. Valkin, and even Neslan to a point, made fun of their brother for choosing a name that rhymed with his, but what else could Hune have called the animal after seeing the crescent-shaped white spot on top his long nose? The mark looked exactly like the moon, especially against the pony’s black fur. Hune missed Moon. He missed brushing him, and he missed the way Moon would brush against his shoulder after he fed him a carrot.
Hune missed Rock as well, the stable hand’s son. Hune would climb on his pony and Rock would take Neslan’s—Neslan never complained because he never caught them—and they would lead their mounts to the open field behind the stables, and break off low-hanging branches to use as swords, and pretend to be knights from the old days fighting dragons. Funny, how the dragons always felt real to Hune. He could picture them, thirty times his size; the sun’s reflection off their hard, red scales dazzled him. Hune could see the powerful, thick tails arching over their backs, smell the smoke on their breath, see their fangs long and sharp as daggers, but the dragons never frightened him like Ursa’s bear did.
Neslan was pondering the question neither of his brothers could answer: what would happen to them if their parents could not arrange their safe return? They had already spent a month in this basement. Was it possible to stay here, trapped, for years? Would Ursa move them to proper lodgings? How long before Valkin did something idiotic out of pure frustration and got himself hurt, or killed, and maybe his brothers with him? Valkin’s restlessness frightened Neslan more than anything else. He knew his brother would never in a million years harm August, but just to think the idea had occurred to him made Neslan’s hair stand on end. The situation proved just how deeply the crown prince felt the injustice he was suffering. How much longer could Neslan keep Valkin’s anger in check? “Someone better get us out of here soon,” he thought. “Soon, or something bad will happen, something worse than just being stuck in this place.”
Valkin was thinking about Dorane and how he had made Hune cry. Having Hune here made Valkin sick; he felt physically ill to see his youngest brother shake at night, to watch him bite his lip each time Dorane claimed magic made them all unique. More than anything, Valkin wished Hune had stayed home the day they had been kidnapped. Neslan was made of tougher stuff. Hune himself was tough for being so small, but he was only eight….
I hate Dorane. I hate him. He has no right to do this, especially not to Hune. I hate him, HATE him! I wish Ursa’s bear would eat him, I really do. I wouldn’t care at all if that happened.
CHAPTER FOUR
The King’s Spy
Vane slept that first night in the guest room he always used at the Palace, a room small but luxurious, with the most comfortable mattress he had ever lain upon. Though it was late when he turned back the sheets, a beam of light shot through the eastern window soon after dawn and fell across the bed to wake him. He stretched his arms and rolled over, deciding to sleep for as long as possible, until the king summoned him. What else could Vane do? He was stuck in the room, could not let anyone see him.
Then he told himself no, time was of the essence and he should be ready to leave when someone came for him. Vane put his feet on the carpeted floor and grabbed a change of clothes from the sack in which he had thrown little else besides two or three pairs of pants and some tunic-style shirts.
A knock came at the door soon after Vane had dressed. When he opened to see no one, he realized Zacry was there. “We’re eating next door. In my room,” said Vane’s teacher. “Too many people come in and out of the king’s parlor. Come by when you can.”
“I’m ready now,” said Vane. He did not bother to turn invisible; the hallway was deserted. He followed Zacry—or assumed he had followed when the next door over opened of its own accord—to a room identical to his own. There was a wardrobe, a nightstand with a half-consumed candle, and a desk on which someone had put a tray with bread, apples, a platter of eggs, and pitchers of milk and grape juice. Zacry materialized near the window.
“Rexson just brought this down,” he said. “He’ll be back in a moment with the others.”
Vane poured himself a glass of juice and took a seat on the bed, which Zacry had made inexpertly before fetching him. Neither man spoke, but the king was not long in shepherding a group of three through the door. The first was a soldier, a guardsman, probably the one who had let the sorcerers in the night before. His hair, a premature deep gray—he could not be older than thirty-five—was cropped close to his head, and the only word for his step, air, and posture would be military. Vane did not distrust the man, but he made no welcoming figure, and the hardness of his eyes, the way they darted from object to object with suspicion, invited no confidence.
The second man had large ears and hair as fair as the king’s, but thicker. The upper strands fell across his forehead when he smiled, as he did when he saw Zacry. He looked older than the sorcerer, but not by more than four or five years. He carried no bow but had slung a quiver of arrows across his back, a quiver he laid against the wall to better ignore Zacry’s outstretched hand and embrace him like a brother. Vane had never met this person, but had heard enough stories to imagine he was Hayden Grissner, one of the surviving Crimson League.
The last of the king’s party was a woman with red hair vivid and long, tied at her neck to fall halfway down her back. She was young, perhaps thirty, clad in a cotton frock and threaded vest, and tapped her foot in impatience to get at the elder of the sorcerers. “Zac!” she squealed as Hayden let him go, and flew into him with such force he fell back against the wall.
“Geez, Bennie!” Zacry said. But he was smiling. She released him with a ruffle of his ungroomed hair.
“How are you? How are things? Kora told me the news in one of her letters. Congratulations on….” Zacry shook his head, glancing at Rexson, who had fallen into whispered conversation with his guardsman. Vane realized the king would feel horrible if he found out Zacry had an infant daughter at home. “…on the wedding,” Bendelof extemporized. “It was ages ago, I know that, but I haven’t seen you in…. Over ten years, it’s been. Has it really? More than ten years, man alive! Look at you!” Then Bendelof Esper turned her eyes on Vane. “You must be….”
“Laskenay’s son,” Vane told her. He would not have thought her eyes could brighten any more than they already had when she flung herself at Zacry, but they managed it. She put a hand on Vane’s shoulder.
“Of course you are. I’m honored to meet you, though I, I saw you once before, when you were two or three. That’s what the king tells me. I didn’t realize who you were, because your mother kept quiet for your safety. I doubt you remember that night at all.”
The night the Crimson League defended Teena’s inn against a troll attack. The one night Laskenay had seen her son again after entrusting him to the innkeeper.
“Parts of it. I don’t remember you, I don’t think, but leaving home before the trolls came, yes. And I remember my mother: strong arms, eyes like frosted crystal.”
Bendelof said, “That was Laskenay all right. She was a fascinating woman.”
Za
cry agreed. “I’ll never forget how she put the fear of God in me when I discovered I could work magic.”
The room could barely hold the number of people who squeezed into it, but Vane, Zacry, and Bendelof made their way to the desk to fix plates. Hayden drank some juice. As they ate, the king asked Bendelof to brief everyone on what she knew. Zacry erected another sound barrier, an act that made the guardsman none too pleased, judging by his tense expression.
Bennie explained for Zacry and Vane’s benefit, “I broke into the Enchanted Fist’s headquarters, in Yangerton, when Rexson discovered where they were—or Gratton, rather.” She indicated the guardsman.
“Broke in?” said Zacry. “This Arbora hadn’t magically protected the place?”
Bennie flushed as red as her hair. “I have Ranler’s old pick, and well, it’s not an ordinary one.”
“Laskenay enchanted it,” Zacry guessed.
Bennie turned even redder. “I got in without breaking anything. Without breaking any locks, I mean, which is useful, because they never knew I was there. I left everything the way I found it. I made sure of that.
“Headquarters was a converted apartment, like the one we used as the League, but bigger. With the information I unearthed, I was able to join their number.”
Zacry went pale. “You turned spy?”
“Someone had to. I was the only one who could. I used what I discovered in my raid and what Hayden knew about Arbora to pass as a seer, a master of the crystal ball. Rexson told Hayden a lot.”
Vane said, “That’s lucky.”
Bennie agreed. “I met up with Arbora as soon as I could. Said I’d discovered my power through a paperweight my father had, and that I’d learned about the Fist through a client who was a former member and had parted on bad terms: saw that in the personnel files. He was barred reentry. I badmouthed him, and she bit my demonstration of magic hook, line, and sinker, sure as if she was one of Ursa’s fish and I shared the woman’s power. I joined her little group and met both Ursa and Dorane, though never together. One of them must have been with the boys at all times.”
The thought of so many records struck Vane as odd, until he realized that, with Ursa’s money, the Fist would have no problems supplying itself with all the paper and ink it wanted for any documents it wished to draw up.
The woodlands to the west of both Podrar and Yangerton provided spruce trees for pulp mills up and down the Podra River. The trees were so plentiful the king hardly needed to regulate the amount of timber the mills consumed, but he did, as a precaution against deforestation. Paper was not cheap, but a reliable supply of wood in conjunction with the good, strong inks pigmented thanks to a poisonous berry that grew wild and free up north, near the Pearl Mountains, kept costs reasonable. Dried hawthorn from the same region gave the ink its base, and as hawthorn was never scarce, ink abounded throughout the kingdom.
Zacry told Bennie, “I can’t believe you pulled off that charade. How’d you manage? You never were a spy before.”
“Not for the League, no…. I’m not sure how I managed, but I didn’t put the boys in danger giving myself away, so I guess it went all right. I flattered Dorane a lot and made like I shared his philosophy, in the hopes he might confide the kidnapping to me, might tell me where the boys were: no luck. Ursa hated me on sight, but never suspected I was Rexson’s. Where others were concerned, I passed myself off as a bit of a gossip, one who refused to pull out my crystal ball except for a fee no one was willing to pay. I wasn’t popular, for sure, but I got people talking from the get-go about other members, especially the ones we care about. Last week, Arbora needed someone to go to Podrar to check out some locations for a meeting place here. I volunteered, because I knew it was time to get back near the Palace. I knew Zacry’s letter would arrive any day. Arbora transported me.”
Bennie finished, “From what I could tell from conversations and meetings, the kidnapping was a private job between the two or three who carried it out. There’s no record of it, and no one mentioned it despite my conversational leads, which means it’s doubtful the group as a whole knows it even happened. That means there’s only a certain number of places they could be holding the boys. I think the most likely’s Ursa’s mansion, down in her village on the coast.”
“How likely?” asked the guardsman. “We should be positive.” Vane would have expected Gratton to turn up his nose at Bendelof, her being so inexperienced with spying, or at the least to patronize her. The man did neither. In fact, he had listened to her with respect, if not great interest, as though he doubted anyone would find valuable information at the Fist’s headquarters. The criminals would not be that stupid.
“Well,” said Bennie, “Dorane’s dirt poor. He hasn’t paid dues in two years, and doesn’t have the money or space to house three more people.”
The king interrupted her. “We don’t need to be positive. We need to be sure Ursa’s home when we call on her, nothing more. If the boys aren’t there, we can force her to reveal where they are. Her instincts for self-preservation are strong. You had that impression, and I noticed as much through Arbora’s negotiations. She’ll comply.”
The guardsman shook his head sharply, almost angrily. “There’s no we where you’re concerned. I told you, Sire, you shouldn’t involve yourself, not personally.”
The king countered, “I’m taking part in the rescue. I don’t care how unwise you judge it, Gratton, not a jot. I’ve had enough of this madness. My parents and brother died at the hands of a sorcerer, I nearly was killed myself, and now a second upstart magician has threatened my sons. Like hell will Dorane harm them, like hell he will! He’ll pay for what he’s done, and Ursa with him, Arbora too. I’ll personally see my boys returned to safety. That’s not up for debate.”
“Sire, I must insist….”
“I thank you for your input, Gratton.”
The king’s voice turned cold. Gratton bowed, and said nothing more to the royal; the guardsman stood next to Vane, though, and Vane heard him mutter, “On your own head be it,” as he straightened his back. The sorcerer thought:
He’s arrogant, isn’t he? But he’s here for a reason. Rexson’s a good judge of character, the best I’ve known. He would have been dead years ago if he weren’t. Three years he was dispossessed….
Zacry brought the conversation back around, asking the king, “They tried to negotiate?”
“I’ve spent six weeks speaking with Arbora on neutral ground, on her terms, biding time until you came. Arbora ordered no abduction, and I’ll go so far as to say she regrets it happened, but that hasn’t stopped her taking advantage of the situation. We both know Dorane’s a fanatic. If his threats against my sons must be genuine to get his council, the threats are genuine. He wouldn’t be proud of killing them, but the act would support the common good, the good of many, that’s what he tells himself. He’s hoping no word gets out about their disappearance, but if it does…. That’s why I’ve hushed this over. That’s why I’ve pretended to negotiate with his mouthpiece, who has a mouth of her own, as I’ve said. Suddenly, the magicked not only need a council, they need an official adviser in the Palace. They need an extensive piece of land on the outskirts of Podrar, so they can live together and protect one another. They’d need protection all right, if I sanctioned that idiocy.
“I’ve played my part well. Proposed the adviser be unofficial, that the magic commune she wants to found would be better placed in Yangerton, farther removed from court. I said the public would find the sheer audacity of the scheme less alarming in Yangerton. Yangerton’s too populous, she argued, as I knew she would. Her people would be too outnumbered. So I proposed Hogarane. Hogarane’s too small. Arbora wants a city. Specifically, she wants urban amenities to attract young magicians. I couldn’t care less what she wants. She’s not getting a thing.”
“Nor should she,” said Zacry. His facial muscles tensed, like the afternoon before in Kora’s cottage. “This is a political ploy, and it’s sick.”
“Ou
r prime objective,” said the king, “is to capture Ursa on the eventuality the boys aren’t at her mansion, so she can’t scamper off and have Dorane….” Rexson could not bring himself to finish the thought, but there was no need. “Where else could the boys be?” Rexson turned to Bendelof. “Has anything you’ve seen sparked ideas since we last talked? Could they be with Arbora?”
“I was thinking that,” said Bennie. “She’s a sorceress, so she could keep them secure. Make sure they don’t get away, I mean. She could cast some spells at Ursa’s mansion just as easily, but if she personally wanted to watch over them, well, her own place would be best.”
“Where is it?” asked Gratton.
“Arbora does all right for herself. The Enchanted Fist brings her money, but I only found one home attached to her name. It’s near Partsvale.”
“I’ve never been to Partsvale,” said Zacry. “I can’t transport us there.”
“I can,” said Vane. “My aunt took me there once, for vacation.”
“Good,” said the king. “It’s lucky you’re here, Vane.”
Gratton said, “If possible, we should know whether Dorane’s in Ursa’s mansion before we act. We don’t want him there, for the boys’ sake.”
“I agree,” said Hayden. “I agree completely. I was just about to say that.”
The six of them spent four hours developing a plan, and at moments debate was heated. Gratton wanted to slaughter Ursa’s bear straightaway. He could see no way around it, but Zacry thought that would only alert the woman. He wanted stealth. Gratton said to have stealth, they had to slay the bear; otherwise it would attack the lot of them while Zacry and Vane searched the mansion for Ursa, who let the beast roam free. With Hayden’s support, Gratton’s argument won out.
Gratton was uncomfortable with sorcery. He proposed non-magic alternatives to everything he could think of a non-magic alternative for: like the bear problem. His stance did not shock Vane, but did offend him, and Zacry made no attempt to hide his resentment. “If I’m not to use my magic, why am I here?” he demanded. “Why did Rexson stall a month for me to come from Traigland?”
The Magic Council (The Herezoth Trilogy) Page 5
