“Honey, is it so terrible he knows?”
“I suppose not,” said Kora. “I guess it’s not, considering what could have happened in the last three days alone. Considering that even here one of the king’s sons…. Thank God my mother healed him. Parker, what if she hadn’t been able? He’d be dead. The boy would be dead.”
“That boy is just fine, all right? Him running across that snake was a freak accident. You could never have guessed that would happen. No one could, just like this situation with Kansten. I’d have bet our house she was a sorceress. I never considered she might not be, not after your stories, after what you told me about your bloodline and Mayven way back when.”
Mayven was an ancient sorceress, one of Herezoth’s best-known heroes. She was also Kora’s ancestor, and specifically, the woman to remove the sorcerer’s mark from her descendants.
Kora asked, “So how do we handle this?”
“It doesn’t matter to me whether Kansten or any of the kids can cast a spell. I care that it’s upset her, that’s all. You said it has?”
“Very much so.”
“So we’ll keep an eye on her. I’ll take her to the river to fish. I’ve been meaning to do that, you know, and she would love it. She’s never been. I want to take the major role here, if that’s all right with you. I’m the only person in the family Kansten has who, like her, can’t do magic. At least, I’m the only one we know for sure. Her siblings, they probably can?”
“I would think so. I wish I could say otherwise. I can test them tonight, so we won’t have to wonder…. Yes, take Kansten fishing. That’s a wonderful idea.”
“Kora, she’ll come to terms with her disappointment.”
“I know she will. She never gives in to anything, fights tooth and nail to….”
“Gets that from her mother. You may have been a good bit older, but you came to terms with worse.”
“Thanks to you,” said Kora. “Only thanks to you.” Parker smiled, and Kora stood on the balls of her feet to gain an extra couple of inches, so she could throw her arms around his neck and reach his height to kiss him. She always complained about having to do that, but secretly, she would not have things any other way. That was, perhaps, the one small thing she never would confess to him.
When the two returned home, Kora went straight to Kansten’s room. She wanted to start with Kansten, because she knew what results her spell would have and was sure they would calm her rapid pulse. The girl lay on her side in bed, facing the wall, covered with a single sheet due to the heat of summer.
Before her return to Herezoth, Kora had heard of no incantation to test someone for magic power. After Zacry had cast such a spell on the kidnappers, his sister had asked him about it, and after Kansten’s adventure in her uncle’s library, Kora had to know about her children; there could be no waiting. “Aberigwa Podair,” she whispered, and Kansten shivered a bit. The girl stretched out an arm, but did not wake. As expected, there were no sparks.
Then Kora went to the boys’ room, careful not to step on the various objects that covered the floor. Walten lay on his back on the top of two bunked beds, and jerked as though he were dreaming when his mother cast her spell. She clenched a fist in resignation as soundless sparks flashed above him and just as quickly disappeared. The same occurred with Wilhem, and then it was on to the girls. Laskenay, four years old, mumbling softly in her sleep, proved a sorceress, as did Kora’s baby, her sweet Tressa only two years old, resting in her crib.
Parker was waiting for his wife in the cluttered parlor. “All of them,” she whispered. “All of them but Kansten.”
He took her in his arms and said, “They won’t suffer what you have, Kora. Not for their magic, not here.”
“Good God, I hope not,” was all she could respond.
* * *
That night, at the Crystal Palace, Vane had not yet undressed when a knock on his door disturbed his attempts to read his mother’s journal. He could never get through more than five or six pages at once: she had written very little about the Crimson League, and much about her life before. She wrote of her husband, and how she wished he could be with her, though a part of her recognized the selfishness of that desire, as difficult as things were from day to day. She gave voice through pen to her fears for her son, her terror that Zalski would discover where he was and take him for his own.
The thought of that child is the only motivation I have to keep on, and the only one I need. He never chose to come into this world. I chose that for him when I conceived, and I will ensure this world is a safe place for him, or I’ll die in the attempt to make it so. It’s just that simple. When complications threaten to overwhelm me, I must remember, it’s that’s simple. That girl we found today, that Kora.... It matters not what legends she might or might not fulfill. It matters not what skills she may have. I hope for her own sake she proves tougher than she seems, but should she not, it changes nothing of what I do. I will restore Herezoth to what it was, for my son, or not live through the attempt to accomplish that for him. Simple. So simple that if I wonder if it’s too simple to....
Vane had read that much when the knock came. He eased the journal closed and slipped it beneath his mattress before he opened his door to Rexson. The king, fully robed, has a resolute expression on his face, one that unsettled Vane. “Invisible,” urged the king, and Vane cast the spell to make himself vanish. “Follow me. I’ll explain as we go.”
Vane followed Rexson down the corridor, in the direction of the staircase to his office. Rexson spoke softly, almost in a whisper. As Vane stood behind, he had to struggle to hear, but he comprehended Rexson’s words.
“Carson Amison waits to speak with me. The Duke of Yangerton. If you’re even considering joining court, you should listen to this discussion. Mark who he is and how he deals with me. He will not be a friend to you when he learns you’re accepting your title. He believes you dead, like most, and would wish you to remain so, or at least in a such a place and station that he mustn’t suffer you.”
Vane nodded before he realized he was not only walking behind the king, but was invisible. “I see,” he said. “Rexson....”
“Stay silent. Don’t expose your presence. Just watch and listen, not only to imagine how the man might react to you, but to learn. He’s as astute as any I’ve known when it comes to politics. Like it or not, you’ll be drowning in political affairs as a duke.”
They walked without further discussion until they reached the king’s office. Rexson left the door open as he entered, to allow Vane to shuffle in behind and stand against the wall.
The lighting was poor, but from what Vane could see, Amison was a tall and stately man with a closely cropped beard. He dressed as finely as anyone Vane had even seen, the king included. The Duke of Yangerton looked older than Rexson, approaching fifty, and his tawny hair was beginning to gray, but not to thin. His voice was deep and assertive when he spoke. He had not dared to sit without the king’s bidding, in deference to what Vane assumed was court protocol, but the boy did not imagine for a second the man feared Rexson or held him in much regard. He seemed annoyed to have been kept waiting, and spoke before the king could utter a word.
“Your Majesty, I....”
“A moment, Amison,” spoke the king, and poked his head into the corridor to call a passing servant back: an excuse to explain not shutting the door behind him. He ordered brandy to be brought for the two of them, and then secured their privacy. He nodded Amison to seats at the circular table opposite his desk.
“Some business involving my estate in the capital brought me to town, and I wished to assure myself of your health. When Your Majesty couldn’t make it into Yangerton last month for the annual dedication of crop and handiwork to the Giver, with hardly an explanation, I feared the reason could only be related to....”
Amison’s tone belied him. More likely he had hoped the king was ill. Rexson stopped him right there and said, “I have never been in better health. I wrote you directly, sta
ting that a scare involving my daughter’s health and an unexpected disagreement between the vintners and tavernkeepers must keep me in Podrar. Was the message not received? I was told you read it in the presence of my courier.”
Amison scowled. “Vintners? That was an excuse. You would never snub me over a vintners’ squabble. If that squabble were somehow of importance, then it was Yangerton’s concern as well, and you should have outlined the discord that so needed your mediation.”
“Surely, Amison, your domains are expansive enough to provide you ample crises, without needing a scroll-length description of concerns that have nothing to do with you? I can promise, I had more urgent business than outlining such things for a nobleman not involved with the capital’s wine supply.”
“Yangerton consumes vast amounts of Podrar’s wine, Your Majesty. Its wine and mushrooms. You know this. Such matters will always concern me.”
Vane had never heard Rexson speak so curtly. “The matters of which we speak have been settled, Amison. Before they reached any point where they threatened to affect trade with your duchy. Had that point been approached, I would have involved you. As I always do. Though I thank you for your worries over my health, and especially my daughter’s. She’s recovered, by the way.”
Yangerton bowed to plead his dismissal, though the king had drinks coming. They were both busy men, Vane assumed, and Amison had accomplished what he’d come to do: register his insult at the king’s supposed snub, and see for himself what state the man was in. Suspicions of royal illness among the higher-ranking nobles could not bode well for Rexson.
The king granted his duke’s mute request, and Amison swept from the room with a gait stiff enough to betray his resentment. Vane, gaping, watched him go. The door fell to behind him. The sorcerer took in a breath to cancel his invisibility. Rexson must have heard, for he reminded, “The brandy,” and Vane said nothing.
The servant knocked within two minutes, to deliver a tray with four glasses and a thick, corked bottle to the table where the king still sat. When Vane found himself alone with Rexson again, he made himself visible and took Amison’s withdrawn seat.
“You can be sure,” the king told Vane, “that if any count or duchess called upon him before he came here, he threw in some passing references to concerns for my health, to a letter that alarmed him. Carson Amison’s no man to miss an opportunity, especially one to paint me as weak.
“Don’t get in his way,” Rexson warned. “The man barely respects my authority, as you just saw. He’s older than you by far, and more experienced, and won’t take kindly if he thinks you hope to cut into the name and the power he’s made for himself since Zalski’s fall.
“My coronation made things precarious for him, Vane. He was often seen about the Palace in your uncle’s days, drinking his wine, fraternizing with his guests, and ensuring the new social structure wouldn’t crush him as it developed. The Crimson League’s victory astounded me no less than it did Amison, but it came, and all that work he’d considered a safeguard became a liability over the course of nothing more than a few hours. I’ve never truly trusted him, and he’s no fool to think I’d grant him favors. He’s only recently begun to feel comfortable enough to insult me to my face as he did upon occasion when my father still ruled.”
The king explained, “You can’t escape your uncle’s legacy. We all know that. Amison will know for sure, and since he can’t make people forget Zalski, he’ll oppose Zalski after the fact by standing against his blood.”
Vane had to admit, “That makes sense. I suppose it’s even smart, in his situation.”
“He’ll use Zalski’s bad name to undermine you, if you give him that opportunity. Don’t invite him to suspect you of impropriety.”
“Rexson, you know I wouldn’t.”
“Treat him with deference, but without giving an impression of weakness, and you’ll have nothing to worry about from Amison. He’ll test your strength, but he can’t do you harm if your loyalties are transparent. If your life after joining court is an open book, not only to him but to all. Remember he’s your peer, not your superior. Stand firm but don’t antagonize. Assert yourself his equal, one with no desire to disrupt his affairs, and he’ll have no warrant to act against you.”
Vane’s head began to spin as he contemplated the balancing act he must perform. “Is that all I must do? Just that?”
“Few truly respect the man. Some fear him, I’d say, which he confuses with some nobler sentiment, but actual respect.... Remember, Vane, you needn’t join the court. If you’d prefer....”
“Is that why you had me watch? To talk me out of this?”
“To inform your decision. Nothing more. The choice is and has always been yours, yours alone.”
“I’m taking up the title, Rexson. I must. You know I must.” Vane sighed. His insecurities threatened to overwhelm him. Looking at the man who sat beside him, Vane saw not his king, but the closest thing to a father he had ever known. It was to that father he admitted, “I don’t feel prepared for this.”
“I’d never imagine you did. I’d worry if you did, in fact. It would be a mark of pride that could only cause you ill. Nonetheless, Valkin Heathdon, you are prepared. I saw to it that when you reached this point in life, the future your parents envisioned for you would be an option. I made sure you were taught to read and write as a child in Fontferry. Those years you spent with your aunt in Podrar before going to Traigland, I saw you prepared more extensively then. You might not have realized that’s what I was doing, but the hunting and archery lessons, the equestrian who trained you.... Many agreements between nobles are made over sport.
“You also had books to read, did you not? About Herezoth’s history and foreign relations. Did you notice how many of them focused on Podrar in particular, and its political geography? The economies and customs of each duchy? I left you with a right tower of books in Traigland, and you promised you would read every one.”
“I did,” Vane told him. “Every one, at least once. They’re in Zacry’s office now, most of them.”
“There’s not a nobleman your age who was schooled by a finer tutor than Zacry Porteg. You had your share of debates and discussions with him on political topics, no?”
“Of course. Almost daily.”
The king smiled. “You might not have thought of that as training. It was, Vane. Zacry wrote me regular letters, outlining your progress. I didn’t leave just a boy with him all those years ago. I left a program of studies as well, topics he was to make sure you could discuss with competence, ranging from your uncle’s reign to how Hogarane’s population compares in size with the Fishing Villages, and which noble families have estates in each.”
“I suspected what that was about, Your Majesty.”
“You can thank Zacry for much, not least for the example he set you. You learned from watching him what it means to be a leader a man can respect, I’ve no doubt of that. There are finer points of etiquette and protocol you lack, but Gracia would prove an apt instructor there. Three weeks with her, and you’ll know all you need. Should you choose to pursue this course—and you have, if I’m not much mistaken—you’re lacking nothing you would need to make as fine a duke as your father and grandfathers.”
It was Vane’s turn to smile, as he tried to believe the king’s words. “Thank you,” he said, “for that explanation. Thank you for bringing me here tonight. It’s given me much to think about, later. We’ve still the Fist to deal with before any court matters.”
Rexson nodded. “That’s true. And the Fist needs our attention tomorrow. You should sleep while you have the chance.”
Vane knew he would not be able, not between the journal’s latest revelations about his mother and what he had seen of Carson Amison, but he took the king’s words to constitute a dismissal to his room, where he returned with a transport spell after bidding Rexson good night. Only when Vane climbed in bed did he realize they had forgotten the brandy. He thought he could have used a glass of it, or thre
e or four, to calm his nerves. He flipped to his side to jolt Carson Amison from his mind. His brain sought a lighter topic to consider, something pleasant.
Vane wasn’t sure why that something was August Hincken. He didn’t trouble about the reasons. Thinking about her calmed him, and allowed him to doze off.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Dorane’s Demand
The morning after the king’s confrontation with Carson Amison, Vane transported to Yangerton while Rexson stayed behind. The king told Vane, “I don’t trust myself not to slaughter Dorane on sight. Besides, there are matters here that demand my attention. You know my bargaining points where each kidnapper’s concerned.” The two had spent the previous afternoon discussing them. “Get this settled, won’t you? Once and for all.”
So Vane met up with Zacry at Yangerton’s prison. Two jails in two days: he had never experienced anything like it, and hoped never to again. Yangerton’s prison was more similar to Podrar’s than Vane expected, it being a converted palace. The visiting rooms, the secure conference room, and even, Vane suspected, the cells and guards’ quarters had more space without seeming any airier, any bit more cheery. A lighter stone sat in the walls, but one just as drab, with the same eerie lanterns fixed to it. One of the greatest differences was a square table in the room where Vane awaited the Enchanted Fist.
Zacry, still posing as a guard, was one of the men who escorted the prisoners and the only man in uniform to stay behind. He was not surprised when Vane passed him a clean roll of parchment, a quill, and an inkwell with which to record notes on the proceedings. As strange as he would feel letting his student take the lead, Vane had talked to the king more recently, and likely had instructions the elder sorcerer knew nothing about.
Vane erected the customary sound barrier. Everyone took seats in uncomfortable, armless chairs. Rexson’s absence startled Zacry, but he asked no questions. As for the Fist: Dorane could have been sleepwalking, so deadened was his air. With half his face purple and swollen, he might have passed for an ogre. Ursa, in contrast, was more than alert, alternating between a suppressed nervous panic and a deep sadness that somehow gave her energy and motivation. Only Arbora was in command of herself, her hair more frazzled than usual but her intention to apply her leverage written on her brow. Whatever her capture had done to her, however it might have weakened her resolve, that resolve had strengthened once again, as the king’s entire party knew it must.
The Magic Council (The Herezoth Trilogy) Page 26
