“It’s—it’s difficult to explain. Try to imagine a flaw, a tear in the pattern of the world.”
“Oh. Magic, is it?” Brinker looked glum. “I’m afraid I had to promise the king that you’re perfectly incapable of performing magic of any kind. He wouldn’t agree to the match without my assurance. Something to do with Menary, I take it. After Jane did whatever it was you persuaded her to do, he decided you and Menary were both abusing your powers. He seemed to think Menary wanted to let something out. Something that would make her more powerful than he is. Is that what you were up to?”
Faris shook her head. “I had to close the rift. Prosperian caused it. It was my responsibility.” She despaired of putting it into terms her uncle might comprehend.
He was already looking sardonic. “I don’t see how that follows. Can’t Prosperian put out her own fires? In a manner of speaking, of course.”
Through the palace door cautiously came a pair of trumpeters. Without taking their eyes from the watchful lions, they played a desultory fanfare. After them, the guards returned, bringing the king, with Agnes hanging on his sleeve.
The king’s wrath had given way to shocked silence. He simply stared at Faris and the huddled shape beneath the black robe.
Agnes looked puzzled by his lack of response. She tugged at his sleeve, prompting him. “Arrest her, Father. You must give the order for her arrest.”
The king’s voice was a husk of itself. “No.”
“Certainly not,” Brinker said sharply. “We have had enough misunderstandings here today. It’s pure chance we’ve avoided a most unfortunate incident. No one is going to arrest the duchess of Galazon for anything.”
Agnes was taken aback by Brinker’s bluntness. “You too?” She turned to the king. “Say something, Father.” At his silence, she recoiled. “Everyone’s bewitched!” She pointed an accusing finger at Faris. “It’s your doing. This is all your fault.” With a hiss, she sprang at Faris.
Before the lions could pull her down, two guards intervened. Agnes struggled between them until the king realized they were looking to him for direction. At his vague nod, they escorted Agnes away with what dignity they could muster.
Scarcely had they withdrawn than the palace prefect appeared in the doorway, half out of breath, bald head aglisten. “Your Majesty, here is her excellency, Dame Edith Parry, the ambassador extraordinary and plenipotentiary of Great Britain.”
Almost on his heels the British ambassador arrived, dressed with splendid propriety for a morning call at the palace, in dove gray. The trumpeters bleated dutifully and subsided. The palace perfect withdrew. The ambassador regarded the assembly in silence. Her keen gaze did not fail to note Faris and the figure beneath the black robe.
After the British ambassador came Jane Brailsford, neatly brushed and scrubbed, but still in her red evening gown. Reed, in his somewhat crumpled costume, was beside her.
“You did it! I felt you do it. You’ve mended the rift.” At her first look at Faris, Jane stopped abruptly. “What happened? You look ghastly. Where’s Tyrian?” She glanced about at the lions, then saw the stillness concealed by the robe. She paled and looked back at Faris, horrified.
Reed frowned, baffled. “Where? What?” He followed Jane’s gaze. “He can’t be.”
At her friends’ expressions of stunned grief, Faris felt her own face twist. Her sore throat tightened.
“With your permission, your majesty,” Brinker addressed the king, who was staring numbly at nothing, “perhaps your guards might detail enough men to remove the body.” He motioned to the robe. Before Faris could protest, he added, “For honorable burial.” To the ambassador, he said, “The king will doubtless make clear how deeply he regrets this accident.”
Hesitantly, the king nodded. As the guards responded to his order, Jane murmured to Reed. Reed accompanied them.
Faris watched until the men had borne Tyrian away. There was silence on the windy heights. The lioness sank gracefully down at Faris’s feet and began to clean a paw. Faris closed her eyes.
Jane’s crisp voice rang out. “Catch her. She’s going to faint.”
As Brinker reached for her, Faris collected herself. “I will not faint.” She swallowed painfully. “I may be sick.”
Brinker looked mildly scandalized. “In front of the British ambassador? I think not.”
Ignoring the lions, who kept a respectful distance from her, the British ambassador had stepped forward. “Do I address the warden of the north?” Without appearing to notice Faris’s distress and dishevelment, she gave her a formidably correct greeting.
Faris braced herself and returned it. “I have that honor.” She glanced down at the lioness. “Although I have not had it long. You find me—and my affairs—in disarray. I will be glad to speak with you another time.”
The ambassador gave Faris a look of piercing appraisal. “I understand. You have more important matters to address. But I should like to be able to assure King Edward’s government that his embassage here enjoys the good will and protection of the warden of the north.”
“You may assure your government that you and your embassage have my entire good will.” Faris sighed. “You do understand that I play no part in the government of Aravill?”
“Certainly.” The ambassador glanced back at the king, who stood surrounded by the remaining guards. “I am sure the government of Aravill regrets this entire misunderstanding. No doubt all charges against the warden and her friends will be withdrawn. Perhaps the government of Aravill wishes to make a statement to that effect?”
The king seemed to search for words. “I—I deeply regret …”
The ambassador looked pained by the king’s obvious confusion but said only, “So I shall report.” She eyed the lioness, who had moved on to another paw. “With the warden’s permission, may I remain? I wish to observe—in the interest of rendering a full and accurate report.”
Brinker raised one eyebrow. “There is very little more to observe. Unless you wish to observe us leaving.”
Unruffled, the ambassador looked past Brinker. “Yet here is another party who plainly craves an audience with the warden.”
Istvan Graelent came forward, brushing a trace of ash from his white shirt cuff. His watchful henchmen lingered at the head of the pepper-pot stair, where they had taken shelter from the blizzard.
“Your majesty—” Graelent intercepted Faris. With finesse, he backed her a step or two away from Brinker and dropped his voice to a conspiratorial murmur. “A word in your ear, your majesty.”
“Don’t call me that.”
Brinker folded his arms and waited, one eye on the lioness. Jane joined him, head cocked at an angle that made it obvious that she was there to eavesdrop.
Graelent took Faris’s hand. “Your grace—”
Faris pulled away.
“I must warn you—” Graelent paused and took a portentous look around. “You have enemies everywhere.”
Everyone was regarding them with bright-eyed interest, even the lions. Everyone but the king, who had gone so waxen pale that Faris wondered if he would be the one to be sick in front of the British ambassador.
Earnestly, Graelent continued. “Trust no one, your majesty. Yet fear no one. You know who you are to us.”
“Why does he seem to have such difficulty with her title?” Brinker asked Jane.
“I offer you my protection.” Graelent’s gesture took in the pepper-pot tower, the warden’s stair. “Come away with me. Accept your place in the world.”
“I begin to see why they call him Tom o’Bedlam,” Brinker said.
“Quite daft,” Jane agreed.
Graelent ignored them. “If you go with them, you go as a pawn. Your time with me under the city makes you mine, Faris, not theirs.”
Faris knew there must be a sensible reply to make, there had to be. Something that would end this foolishness. And end it before Graelent told the world, inadvertently or not, that she had been his prisoner.
“Let them reckon us by our deeds. Faris? Your grace?” Graelent seemed puzzled by Faris’s silence.
“More trouble with the title,” Brinker observed.
Jane stepped close and steadied Faris. “Let me take this one,” she murmured.
“Jane—” Faris turned to her friend, wide-eyed with relief.
“Allow me to introduce myself. I am Jane Brailsford. Your name, if I recall correctly, is Thomas of Bedlam.”
He replied with simple dignity. “My name is Istvan Graelent.”
“Oh, dear. How silly of me. I heard you announced on Twelfth Night but we were never introduced. I was Red Riding Hood. How delightful to meet you face to face at last. Your name has become a byword in the past day or two.”
Before Graelent could respond with suitable modesty, Jane continued. “You seem concerned for Faris’s safety. Very creditable. Yet I can’t help but wonder if you’ve been paying much attention to current events of late. Perhaps news does not travel so quickly ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end, hm?”
Graelent looked suspicious. “Who is this?” he asked Faris.
Jane was all affability. “Oh, I’m no one in particular. Just a friend of Faris’s. You seem to be acquainted with Faris yourself. If I may, I would like to give you a piece of friendly advice. Look at Faris. Look at the lions. Couchant, I believe the heraldic term is. Mild as lambs as long as no one threatens Faris. Now ask yourself, ‘Why?’”
Graelent, frowning, began to speak.
Jane cut off his reply with a chuckle. “My dear boy—my dear boy, you have offered your protection to the warden of the north. Look around. Do you think Faris needs your protection when even the beasts acknowledge her wardency?” Jane spoke to Faris. “There. I’ve done my best to make matters quite clear. If he doesn’t take the hint and go away, I recommend that you turn him into a mouse. Perhaps he’ll pay attention to the lions then.”
Haltingly, the king spoke to Graelent. “The warden of the north has all the protection she needs. She will come to no harm here. Any who think to threaten her—think again.”
“Your majesty—” Graelent was addressing Faris, not the king.
“Go away,” Faris managed to say quite loudly. The world was whirling about her in ever swifter circles. As her knees buckled, she thought of Dame Brachet and her string of pearls.
She heard Jane call out, “Catch her.”
No one did. Faris hit the ground and the world went out completely.
Faris woke in a very small, very dark room. That was what she thought at first. As she collected her wits, she realized she was in a bed, an enormous bed, with the brocade hangings drawn. She stirred against the bank of pillows and sat up, blinking. With pleased surprise, she discovered that she was wearing her own well-frayed, familiar nightgown. And her hair was no more tangled than a night’s sleep usually left it. Faris let out a great sigh of relief.
The curtain rings clicked smoothly as Jane pulled the brocade hangings back. “Awake at last?” Beyond her, Faris could see that the bed was in a very large room indeed, paneled with more brocade, and a great deal of what must have been gold leaf. It was too gaudy to be anything but genuine.
“Oh, Jane—I had the most horrible dream.”
But Jane’s expression, grief-stricken, told Faris that her relief was mistaken. It had been no dream.
Faris thought she would strangle before she could make herself speak again. “Tyrian?”
Jane shook her head. “But you mended the rift. There’s nothing wrong with the way things work here anymore. You did it. The rift is healed.”
Faris felt the numbness that had enveloped her since Tyrian’s death falter. She caught her breath at the pain the shift revealed. When the desolation ebbed and she was able to speak again, she asked, “What shall I do now?”
“You will do your duty.” Jane looked sad.
“But what is that? I’m out of responsibilities. I’ve used them all up. Oh, God. What if I live to be seventy? That’s another half century—with nothing to do.”
“Don’t exaggerate. It’s only forty-nine years.”
“Is it? What day is it?”
“The thirteenth. You’re of age. So much for using up your responsibilities. You have a whole new set now.” Jane moved around the great bed, pulling back the curtains so that Faris could see the vast expanse of the room.
“Where are we?”
“We’re still in the palace.”
“My goodness. Is it all this grand?”
“By no means. My room is only about half the size of this one, with ivory brocade instead of rose. Not as much gold leaf, but the ceiling is frescoed—‘The Triumph of Love.’ Want to swap?”
“Jane?” Faris took another look around at the splendor of the room, frowning slightly. “Are we under arrest?”
“Of course not.”
“Why aren’t we? You used magic on the king. I killed Menary. Who knows what other crimes the king thinks we’ve committed?”
“We’re honored guests now. Free to go or stay.” Jane looked thoughtful. “The old boy seems to have had a nasty shock.”
“Where’s Brinker?”
“Hovering anxiously in the corridor, last I saw of him. He’ll be relieved to hear you’ve recovered. If you had been harmed, he’d have had to take a very firm line with his majesty—very firm indeed.”
“What happened to Graelent? Did they arrest him? Or did you turn him into a mouse?”
“Oh, dear. What a waste of male beauty that would be. No, he recognized the chance to make a quick exit when it came. As you fell into a graceful swoon, he and his lads escaped down the warden’s stair. Why? Do you think he should have been arrested?”
Faris shook her head. “It’s better this way. Small political parties only grow larger if the leaders are imprisoned. If I were the king, I would arrange to deport Istvan Graelent at once. As soon as he’s out of the country, I would make it known that he has diverted party funds to his own account in Zurich. That would cool his followers’ ardor.”
Jane looked appreciative. “Nothing quite like a good rumor to distract the opposition, is there?”
“Particularly if it has the merit of being true.”
“Would you like to advise the king on this matter yourself? He’ll probably be relieved to know you’re awake at last. I’ll send someone to help you bathe and dress while I tell him you’ll grant him an audience.”
“Wait—”
Jane turned back.
“I’ll grant him an audience?”
“Must I explain it to you, too? Faris, you’re the warden of the north.”
Faris had bathed and dressed by the time Reed knocked at the door. While the maid who had buttoned her into her black suit hovered watchfully, Faris gave Reed permission to enter.
“The king is waiting for you in the presence chamber. Jane sent me to tell you to take your time. And this is the first chance I’ve had to give you this.” Reed held out a bundle wrapped in black cloth. “I thought you should have it.”
“What is it?” Faris put it down on the nearest table—golden legs supporting a slab of porphyry. Reed looked so unhappy that she hesitated. “What’s wrong?”
“Nothing. Well, nothing new. You needn’t unwrap it. Perhaps you’d rather not. It’s his.”
Faris knew without asking whom Reed referred to. Gently, she unfolded the rough cloth. Inside the bundle she found Tyrian’s pistol, his knife, a set of lock picks. And, crumpled almost beyond recognition, one of the gloves she had worn at the Twelfth Night ball.
She smoothed the glove, turned it over and over in silence. When she looked up, Reed handed her his handkerchief without speaking. While she blew her nose, he wrapped up the personal effects.
“I’ll take it away if you’d rather.”
“No. No, leave it. I’m grateful to have it.”
“Good.” He turned to depart. “Jane said you should take your time. I’ll tell her you’re going to.”
“Reed—th
ank you. May I ask a favor?”
Reed looked curious. “Yes, of course.”
“I’m not going home to Galazon just yet. But Galazon can’t wait for me. We need to rid ourselves of Lord Seaforth before he makes himself too comfortable.”
“Why aren’t you going home?”
“It’s hard to explain. The rift changed things for me. I need to get used to it before I try to go back to Galazon. Otherwise I’m not sure I can bear it. Anyway, I need someone I can trust. I’d like to send you back. My mother’s advisers and the Curia Ducis are no more. But they could begin again. And from them, Galazon might forge a government.”
Reed looked baffled. “I’ll go if you wish me to, of course. But we have a government. We have you. The duchess of Galazon.”
“No.” Faris felt the memory of her pride in that title jar against the numbness that was all the rift had left her. “I am the warden of the north.”
By the time Faris was ready to leave her opulent chamber, the redness of her eyes had diminished. Brinker was waiting for her in the corridor outside.
“I am relieved to see that you are looking better.” He fell into step beside her. “Though I must say black is not your color.”
Faris took comfort in the familiar irritation her uncle’s manner provoked. “If you must, you must. Have you come to wish me a happy birthday?”
“In fact, I did. I do. Don’t look so skeptical. I am not as devious as you would like to think. Where are we going, if I may ask?”
“Nor are you as ingenuous as you would like me to think. I have no idea where you’re going. I am going to grant the king an audience in his own presence chamber.”
“Feeling better as well as looking better. I am relieved. Perhaps you have even given some small thought to what role you wish me to play now that you have attained your majority.”
“So that’s what brings you here.” Faris halted. Brinker joined her before an immense seascape. Faris pretended to admire the painting while Brinker regarded her with bemused calm.
A College of Magics Page 36
