“Elgar’s going to attack us no matter what we do,” Kel said. “He wants Reglay, so he’ll find some reason to try to take it. Mist’s Edge is our castle—who can fault us for taking back what’s ours? I should think they’d be impressed. They’ll think we have some fight left in us, and we do.”
“So you mean to make Mist’s Edge the home of the king, as it was of old?”
“That’s right,” Kel said. “That assassin got in so easily.… We can’t ignore the possibility that someone was helping him. Even if they weren’t, if he could get into Second Hearth once, he can again. There’s a good chance Mist’s Edge will be safer.” He swallowed. “There’s another thing. I’d like to invite the other rulers to my coronation.”
Eirnwin nearly choked. “I beg your pardon?”
“Imperator Elgar,” Kel said, “Lady Margraine, and … whoever wants to come from Issamira. They shall all be allowed to pass through Reglay to Mist’s Edge unharmed, as long as they don’t try to bring an army. And as long as they are at Mist’s Edge, they shall be our guests.”
Eirnwin shook his head. “Your Grace, they will never come. They would be fools to come.”
“They wouldn’t be,” Kel said, “because I don’t intend to kill them, and I probably couldn’t if I wanted to. But I guess you mean they can’t be expected to know that.” He saw Eirnwin nod, but continued before he could speak. “It’s a risk for them, I know—it’s a risk for us. But I think they’ll come anyway. I think we can make it worth their while to come.”
“Well, I’d certainly like to know how,” Eirnwin said.
Kel smiled. “Lady Margraine will be the easiest, I think. They say … well, they say many things about her, but I meant that I’ve heard what she’ll pay for even one rare book. Mist’s Edge holds the library of kings, easily the equal of what she inherited at Stonespire. If I offer her free rein of it, I think she’ll agree to come. And if she does, Elgar will have to come too.”
“He won’t be able to bear the thought of his two foes in conversation with each other,” Eirnwin agreed, a thoughtful cast to his expression. “What might you be plotting behind his back? What if you are forming an alliance? And if the Issamiri come as well…”
“The three of us joining together—that’s got to be what he fears most of all,” Kel finished. “He’s got to come, if only to disrupt our plans.”
“And if he decides to disrupt them by killing you?”
“He won’t,” Kel said. “If he’s afraid to even set foot in Mist’s Edge because of the ghosts, if he won’t even keep soldiers there, how would he dare try to murder me there, in the home of my ancestors, while he’s a guest under my roof? He’d piss himself at the thought.”
“Are you not afraid of the ghosts?” Eirnwin asked, but he did not seem to be joking.
“I don’t believe in ghosts,” Kel said. “And even if they do exist, why should the ghosts of my ancestors hurt me? I’m trying to set their legacy to rights.”
Eirnwin stroked his chin, but then he sighed. “Even so, Your Grace, the Issamiri will not come.”
“Why not?”
“Well, they are safe enough on the other side of the Curse, for one thing, and I doubt they will want to venture beyond it. But even if they did, neither Adora nor Hephestion can afford to leave Issamira just now, not until the succession is decided. If one of them is crowned before your coronation, perhaps one or the other of them will indeed attend. But until they are, do not expect to see them.”
Kel considered it, trying to ignore the sinking feeling in his stomach. He had been so sure that he’d thought of everything. “Even without Issamira,” he said at last, “I will still have Mist’s Edge. I will still intimidate him, before he knows what to make of me. I will be strong the way a cripple knows how to be strong; I will show him that I am more determined than he is. It seems to me that makes it worth the doing.”
Eirnwin inclined his head. “To me as well, Your Grace.”
“You mean you agree?”
Eirnwin smiled. “It is a risky plan, certainly, but as I think your lord father said to both of us, there is nothing we can do now that does not involve risk. I would caution that we cannot hope to survive long without help of some sort, but the prospect of retaking Mist’s Edge is an enticing one.”
“I’m glad you think so,” Kel said. “I’m going to need your help to get there.”
* * *
Her ladyship sent Almasy out again early; she was gone before Gravis had finished his breakfast, and the knowledge of her leaving made the food churn in his stomach. It was never good news that sent Almasy from Stonespire, and he did not doubt that soon men would die.
Though the day’s judgment had concluded, he was surprised to find her ladyship seated once more on the throne, propping a book open upon her lap as she read. “Don’t be alarmed, Gravis,” she said, looking up when she felt his eyes on her. “I just desired a change of scenery, that’s all.”
He watched her carefully. She seemed a bit paler than usual, and somewhat drawn about the eyes, but if anything, her mood was better, not worse. He couldn’t say that was unexpected. “I never thought Almasy would return,” he said. “I was so sure that damned deserter was lying.”
She chuckled lightly, keeping her eyes on her book. “And yet you believe in curses and demons and all sorts of superstitious rubbish. I’ll tell you what your problem is, Gravis: too much listening, not enough reading. Not every story your mother told you was true, but there are many strange things out there she never mentioned.”
Gravis snorted. “I don’t doubt it. And I don’t doubt you’ll find a way to put that thing to some nefarious use, whatever it truly is.”
She smiled. “Are you afraid of that, Gravis?”
“Should I be?”
“As it happens, no,” she said, leaning back against the throne. “As much as I love putting things to nefarious uses, this time it simply wasn’t worth the trouble.”
Gravis frowned. “What does that mean?”
“Well, if your demons existed, I’d say it means I won’t be turning into one at present, but as they don’t…” She shrugged. “I suppose it means you can stop looking at me as if I’m about to burst into flames.”
“Do those books of yours tell you demons don’t exist?” Gravis asked.
She tapped the spine of the one she held, still smiling. “They do, in fact, though common sense could serve as well.”
“Just because a man decides to write a book about something he’s never seen doesn’t mean it isn’t real.”
For a moment he thought he saw a flicker of annoyance in her eyes. “Actually, Gravis, sometimes people who write books prefer to study the subjects of their inquiries, rather than simply trading stories around campfires. I could offer you several works of exquisite scholarship disproving the existence of demons, ghosts, spirit transference, instantaneous transportation, resurrection, divination, and the goat-pig hybrids my farmers love to gossip about, but I’m sure you’d fall asleep just from the unaccustomed exertion of opening the front cover.”
Lord Caius had disdained books all his life, and never willingly set foot in Stonespire’s library. After his father’s death, he would’ve been perfectly willing to leave its volumes to gather dust, but his daughter had found her way there before they’d even thought her old enough to need a tutor. After that they’d see her dragging a tome or three after her no matter where she went. When she was a child, she would read at the dinner table, stealing a bite of food here and there if she remembered. Her father always watched her with what might have been jealousy, though of whom or what Gravis couldn’t have said, and the books soon became the target of his irritation. “Put that down while we’re at table, Arianrod,” Gravis remembered him saying once, his voice carrying effortlessly throughout the high spare room.
His daughter barely looked up, a sliver of pale blue peeking over the book’s spine and then back down again. “Don’t worry, Father, the big scary words aren’t g
oing to hurt you.”
Lord Caius learned very quickly not to try any verbal sparring with her—she could out-insult him before she was ten, and his favorite rebuttals were littered with words that were not suitable to use before a young lady, however trying she might be. Instead he resorted to what he was best at, and thumped the table with one enormous fist, sending a tremor down its length. His daughter gave a startled yelp as she lost her grip on her book; a hasty catch just barely saved it from tumbling into her soup. “You made me lose my place,” she complained, all prim disapproval, but she did not touch the book again until supper had concluded.
When she grew older, Lady Margraine no longer took her meals with her father, and alone in her chambers she was free to read as much as she desired, waving away trays of cold porridge and half-eaten roasts. And though he’d always loved to eat, Lord Caius had picked at his food, listlessly muttering to his servants that he was not hungry this evening.
“I don’t doubt that some books tell the truth,” Gravis said at last. “And some lie, just as men do. So just as with men, I believe the ones I trust and doubt the rest. I put most faith in what I’ve seen with my own eyes.” And that’s enough to know you aren’t like ordinary people, he didn’t add.
Yet she seemed to guess at his thoughts. “You know, it’s funny, but when Esthrades first rebelled from the empire, they told my ancestors the people would never fear us, because we claimed no crowns, and no title grander than we’d had before. Back then, that was what passed for common wisdom. Men had to see power, we were told, to believe in it.”
If only that were true, Gravis thought, wondering what she meant by it. “I should’ve thought that way myself,” he admitted.
“And you would’ve been as wrong as the rest. It doesn’t matter if you sit on a throne, a chair, or a cold stone floor, so long as you can rule from there.” She propped her chin on her hand. “Men fear the splendor of the crown, they said; men fear the grandeur of throne and title. My ancestors knew this was nonsense. Men fear what they are taught to fear, Gravis, and if they do not fear you, that only means that you have failed to make the lesson stick. The people of Esthrades have never ceased to understand what the title of marquis means, no matter how many hundreds of years have passed. And look at yourself—you were raised on superstition, and so it dogs your steps. You see witches in the walls, and simply because you and I have our disagreements, you cling to the conviction that I am some demon from your mother’s tales. If I truly were, you’d probably fear me less.”
“Pity there are no demons, then,” Gravis said.
“There are no demons, Gravis, because if there were, we should have outstripped them ages ago. Why look to shadows for the violence and greed you can find all around you? I should think that, of all people, the captain of the guard would have learned this by now.”
Gravis shook his head. “Men are good by nature, else they would not submit themselves to justice. It is only that it is too easy to turn them from what they are.”
She laughed. “Do you truly believe that? I would never have expected it of you. Does that mean you think I had some original goodness in me? Where would it have gone, I wonder?”
Gravis stared hard at her, then shook his head again, more slowly. “I don’t think there was ever any good in you, my lady. That is why you are something out of the common way of mortals.”
She leaned back in her seat again, smiling faintly. “Now how shall I take that? I don’t know whether to be complimented or simply unimpressed.” But then her gaze turned almost serious. “You are wrong, though, Gravis, to think of me so. I may be out of the common way, as you put it, and glad I am to be so, but I’m as mortal as you are. I would not have you forget that.” She laughed again. “My enemies, to be sure, are free to forget it—in fact, I hope they will. But as it is your job to defend me, I would prefer for you to remember I may one day need defending.”
Gravis bowed. It was stiff, but it was a bow. “I have not forgotten my oath,” he said.
Lady Margraine had already turned back to her book. “No, if nothing else, I am certain you will remember that.” She turned a page. “Tell me, do you still think my father deserved such an oath?”
The question brought back far too many memories: Lord Caius’s bloodstained hands, the silence that had fallen over Stonespire, and the screams. But if she thought the remembrance would make him uncertain, she was mistaken. “I do.”
She smirked, stroking the following page but not quite turning it yet. “Yet now your oath brings no benefit to him, and only binds you to serve me. It hardly seems fair.”
Gravis kept himself very straight, looking down the length of the hall toward the doors. “It isn’t,” he said.
* * *
“What are you doing?” Seth yawned, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “Nobody’s here but me. Even Roger’s left.”
“I know,” Deinol said, propping himself up against the doorframe. “It’s you I want. I’m leaving a message.”
“A message?” Seth asked, his stomach dropping out sharply. “Are you going somewhere?”
“Aye,” Deinol said, with a smirk that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “To Esthrades. That’s what you can tell them, if they ask.”
If they ask. As if they would all simply fail to notice that Deinol wasn’t where he’d been every day since they’d ever known him. “You’re leaving now?”
“I’ve waited long enough, I think.” He was trying to sound nonchalant, but Seth could see how stiff his posture was, how he clenched and unclenched his hands. “I don’t want to wait any longer.”
“Not even long enough to tell Lucius yourself?” Seth leaned against the nearest table. “It’ll hurt him, you know.”
Deinol shook his head, not saying no, just giving vent to his frustration. “I gave him enough chances to come around, didn’t I? He knew what I wanted; I never made a secret of it.”
He hadn’t, and neither had Lucius. It seemed that Seth was the only uncertain one. “Do you have a plan?”
“I’ll make it up as I go.”
“That means no,” Seth said, and couldn’t help a smile.
“I’ve tried to forget about it.” Deinol finally curled one hand into a proper fist, bringing it up to his chin. “It’s not that I care so much about the stone’s value—Lucius is right about that. If we wanted riches, there are plenty of other ways to debase ourselves getting them. I don’t want to do what Elgar wants, or what he or Oswhent or anyone else expects. But I do want to get even with her. We helped her—you helped her, more than any of us. So I want to look her in the face and see what she has to say for herself.”
Seth could go get Lucius. Deinol wouldn’t run away, if he did that. He could convince Deinol just to talk to Lucius one last time, and then Lucius would convince him not to go. That was how it worked: Deinol was always saying he was going to do one crazy thing or another, and Lucius was always talking him out of it.
“I want to go with you,” he said.
Deinol’s eyebrows rose a little, but he wasn’t really surprised; Seth wondered if that was part of the reason he had come. “I won’t lie, I’d be glad of the company,” he said. “But it’s going to be dangerous, much more dangerous than before, and we’re going to be doing it without Lucius. Are you sure you’re all right with that?”
Are you sure you are? Seth thought. But he smiled. “If it’s going to be that dangerous, then I’d better come along. Someone’s got to make sure you don’t do anything stupid.” He shook his head. “Anything stupider than this, anyway.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Elgar’s fingers curled into the parchment, but he didn’t crumple it; he knew, no doubt, that he’d just have to smooth it out when he inevitably went over it again. “You’re sure this is right? The old king is dead, but the boy lives?”
Rumors had been pouring into Valyanrend for days, and it had been nearly impossible to separate truth from falsehood. Varalen had heard all manner of stories: both Kelkens
were dead, or only the father, or only the son; father and son were alive, but the old queen’s bastard daughter had been slain; the assassin had been captured, or he had escaped; he had been young or old or fat or thin or male or female; he had appeared in a puff of black smoke and vanished the same way; he had grown wings and flown; he had scaled the walls with hands like claws. But over time he had managed to discard the wildest tales, marking which details were repeated again and again in each day’s gossip. “As far as I can ascertain, my lord, that information is accurate. The boy Kelken is the new king of Reglay.”
“Lot of good it’ll do him,” Wyles muttered, snickering, but Elgar appeared not to hear him.
He stood up, bracing his weight against the table with both hands. “He is young enough, but still … this is not how I would have had it. His father was mature but predictable; we knew all his tricks, had counters for all his strategies. This boy is an unknown. He could be a genius or an idiot, and we won’t know until he makes his move.” He glanced at Varalen. “Yet your report claims he has hardly moved at all. He has made no announcements, no changes. He burned his father, the way they do, and then he retreated into Second Hearth. He has not even held a coronation ceremony.”
“Considering what happened to his father, perhaps he is afraid.”
“Perhaps,” Elgar said, but he did not look convinced. He stroked the parchment. “They say he is a cripple.”
Varalen raised his eyebrows. “They … do say that, my lord, yes.”
Elgar shook his head. “And yet the father fell to the assassin’s blade while the son lived? How bizarre. Unless it was pity, I suppose.”
“I doubt that,” Varalen said carefully.
Wyles snorted. “A pitying assassin’s in the wrong business.” Had they actually just agreed on something?
Elgar finally released the parchment, sinking back into his chair. “It does not please me, but what’s done is done. If I could resurrect old foes, Caius Margraine would still be sitting the Esthradian throne, and I’d have many fewer headaches.”
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