The Defiant Heir

by Melissa Caruso

  “I must correct you, Roland,” Bree said haughtily. “Those are the best parts of town.”

  Zaira snickered and clinked her glass against Bree’s.

  After the last apple cakes were cleared away and half the great hall emptied, those who lingered milled about and talked with each other. Bree grabbed a pitcher of beer from a passing server and descended to the lower tables, throwing herself into the thickest crowd with the excitement of a dog leaping into a duck pond. Zaira went to join Terika, while Roland and I remained at the high table.

  “I can’t believe they’re letting you go to the border, but not me,” Roland muttered, taking a sip of beer as he watched the people below greet his sister with unmistakable enthusiasm.

  “Only because they have to. No one wants to let the heir do anything,” I commiserated.

  “It’s supposed to be different in Callamorne. A Lochaver is supposed to put their life on the line for their people.” He gestured toward our grandmother with his mug, dropping his voice. “Like she did at the Battle of Ironblood Bridge. There’s a song about that, you know.”

  “I know.” Roland had sung it to me first, when we were both small, with great seriousness and passion, before we played a game acting out the battle. He was the queen, and Bree and I were the charging Vaskandran invaders.

  “I’m never going to prove myself worthy to my people if Grandmother keeps me safe in Durantain all the time.” Roland’s voice held a faint trace of uncertainty that I knew too well. It wasn’t his people he had to convince of his worth, I suspected; it was himself.

  “There are other ways to be worthy besides in battle,” I said. “Otherwise, I’d be hopeless.”

  Roland sighed. “Battle is my best hope. I’m not good with people. Not like Bree is.”

  Below us, Bree already had half the hall gathered around her, Raverran officers and Callamornish castle folk alike, holding mugs and engaged in some uproarious conversation. Everyone was smiling and laughing.

  “Look at her,” Roland murmured. “She can walk into a room and make everyone love her within five minutes.”

  “It’s not a talent I have, myself,” I admitted. “I’m lucky if I can leave a party with one or two people thinking I’m somewhat pleasant.”

  Roland gave me an understanding glance. “You’re a step ahead of me. All I can manage at parties is to stand in a corner and try to look princely.”

  “Maybe we should go down there and mingle, too,” I said, with some trepidation. I was supposed to be here to reassure the Callamornish people, after all.

  Alarm flashed in Roland’s eyes. “Or we could sit here awhile longer. We have so much to discuss.”

  I raised an eyebrow. “You’re scared of them, aren’t you?”

  “No! Of course not.” Roland grimaced, and pushed his napkin away from him on the table. “Well, yes.”

  “Of your own people?”

  “Any people,” Roland said. “If I went down there, I wouldn’t know what to do. I’d feel stiff and stupid, and everything I did would be the wrong thing.”

  “Not to them, it wouldn’t,” I said.

  “But it would to me. And then I’d beat myself up for it for days or months, running through in my head again and again everything I did wrong.”

  “Ah, I see.” I nodded sagely. “You’re expecting yourself to be a fine, majestic Lochaver prince, and so you’re upset when you’re not as perfect as you think you should be. Do what I do: expect yourself to be a complete disaster, and then if you manage not to trip over your own bootlaces you can count it a resounding success.”

  Roland laughed. “You might be on to something.”

  Still, he made no move to descend from the high table.

  I sat with him until the crowd in the great hall thinned and Roland got drawn into conversation with the queen and a handful of lingering advisers. Then I rose from the table at last and wandered through the shadow-hung hall to the spot my eyes had been avoiding all through dinner.

  I stared up at my father’s portrait. Candles burned at a small shrine beneath it, flanking a single fresh remembrance lily. It had been easy not to glance this way, since I was seated facing another direction, but a part of my mind had never forgotten his portrait was here, watching. It felt inevitable that I stood before it now, as if my father had been waiting patiently for me to finish what I was doing and come visit.

  The painting didn’t look like him. His pose was too stiff, with one hand resting on a scroll and the other on the hilt of a sword—which itself was ridiculous, since so far as I knew, my father had never fought anyone in his life. His expression was too wooden and distant, almost bored. Time had blurred my memories of him, like water spilled across an ink painting, but I was sure his face had always been in motion: smiling kindly down at me, laughing, winking at some mischief we were getting into of which my mother might not approve. Grimacing when she inevitably caught us. This still, flat image wasn’t right. It wasn’t him.

  Boots rang on the stone floor. My grandmother, Queen Galanthe Lochaver, the Hero of the Ironblood Bridge, blessed of the Grace of Victory, strode toward me, her face grim as if she went to face the Witch Lords in battle once more. But then she looked up at her son’s portrait, and her face softened.

  “I miss him every day, you know,” she said.

  I squeezed my eyes shut, remembering how I used to run giggling toward the closed drawing room door when my mother was having some dreadfully serious policy meeting just so my father would scoop me up in his warm arms and tuck me under his chin, scolding me gently. We can’t disturb your mother now. Come on, let’s go to the library and pick out a book …

  I opened my eyes to find my grandmother watching me. “I wish I remembered him well enough to miss him every day.”

  She clapped a hand on my shoulder with gruff sympathy. “You do, you know. With the way you smile, the way you look at something that makes you curious, the way you slouch in your seat when you think no one’s looking. You remember him in a thousand little habits and actions and expressions.”

  Graces, I was not going to cry. I swallowed. “Thank you.”

  She looked away, giving me a moment. Her eyes fell on Roland, where he sat talking with the Serene Envoy at the high table, and softened with fondness. She let out a long breath. “I overheard a few words of what Roland was saying to you. I wish he understood why I’m holding him back from danger.”

  “He wants so badly to show you he’s good enough,” I said softly. It was a feeling I understood far too well.

  “Of course he’s good enough.” My grandmother’s voice went a touch indignant, as if I’d said otherwise. “I just can’t risk losing him. He’s the only possible heir.”

  “Bree isn’t so bad,” I objected. “I know she’s not exactly a polished courtier, but—”

  “That’s not the problem.” The queen turned grave eyes on me. “Brisintain is a vivomancer.”

  “Bree?!” The word burst out of me louder than it should have. I reined in my voice. “I never …” But I trailed off, remembering a few incidents when we were children. A trick she’d shown me in the castle orchard, hitting a tree just so to make a ripe apple fall into your hand; I’d never been able to duplicate it. The time she’d soothed a panicked horse in seconds by speaking its name gently, or how insects never seemed to bite her even when they swarmed the rest of us on muggy summer days.

  “She’s not mage-marked, like her father,” my grandmother said, “so the Empire might not insist she abdicate, like they did for Carrogan; but the Callamornish people have fought vivomancers trying to seize our country for too long to hand the throne to one willingly. We’ve hidden her abilities all this time.” She sighed. “I’m afraid your grandfather was too strong, and the magic in his blood has bred truer than I’d hoped.”

  “Grandfather.” Everything seemed to come back to this man I’d never met. Bree’s magic, the Lady of Thorns’ enmity, Kathe’s and Ruven’s interest—and perhaps even my father’s death
. “He was a Witch Lord’s son?”

  The queen nodded. “His mother was the Lady of Eagles.”

  I searched my memory of the books I’d read. “That’s the title of the Witch Lord of Atruin, the most central domain in Vaskandar.”

  “Yes.” Pride straightened my grandmother’s shoulders. “She’s one of the strongest Witch Lords. When I married Vandrin, that put a stop to the attacks across our border. That’s probably why you got the impression the Lady of Thorns doesn’t like us; she and Vandrin used to be allies. She may have considered it a betrayal when he sided with Callamorne in the end. But no matter how angry she was at Vandrin, she didn’t dare risk his mother’s ire.”

  “But now she’s preparing to invade again. And the Wolf Lord, too.”

  The queen pressed her lips together, then nodded. “The Lady of Eagles is highly neutral about everything and keeps to her own domain. After Vandrin passed, the other Witch Lords knew she wouldn’t interfere on behalf of her more distant descendants, and Callamorne became fair game again. It’s why we needed the Serene Empire’s protection. And why the Lady of Thorns can target the Lochaver line with impunity.”

  I glanced over at Bree, in her crowd of friends, and then at Roland, who sat alone now, staring glumly into his mug. “You should let Roland go to the border anyway,” I said, my voice low. “Maybe not into true danger, if you think you can’t risk him. But he told me that a Lochaver puts their life on the line for their people. You should let him help.”

  For a long time, my grandmother didn’t say anything. I thought perhaps I’d gone too far. But then she passed a hand over her brow. “I know,” she whispered.

  “Then why don’t you?”

  “I can’t keep you all safe. I know that.” The pain in her eyes was old, deep, and harrowing, and I shied away from looking at it. That was my father, shadowing her gray gaze. That was the shape of the empty space in our lives where he should stand. “But perhaps, just perhaps, I can protect one of you.” She patted my shoulder, with brisk affection. “Now, go get some sleep. You have a long day tomorrow.”

  The queen wasn’t exaggerating. With only one full day to show me off as a living token of the Serene Empire’s commitment before I had to leave for Mount Whitecrown, she’d created a packed schedule for me. I met the nobles of the court, made public appearances before large crowds in the city, visited temples to the Graces, and met so many dignitaries they all blended together in an endless blur. At first it was terrifying, but I went numb quickly enough.

  Everywhere I went, as I bowed and smiled and made variations on the same brief speech, I kept encountering reminders of my father. His memorial stele in the remembrance garden outside the Temple of Love caught my eye across the crowds as I made a public appearance in the Temple Square. The Lord Marshal sighed and told me how much I looked like him. I was introduced to a group of barons as “Prince Embran’s daughter.” And everywhere I went, I kept thinking how my father’s eyes had fallen on the same scenes, and his feet had walked the same stones, and I wondered what he’d thought and hoped and wished for when he was my age.

  By the time I returned to my room for a brief respite before a formal reception in my honor to be held in the castle that evening, I was feeling somewhat melancholy.

  At least in Callamorne, a day of formal events didn’t require a corset. I kicked off my boots and stretched on a divan in my sitting room, surrounded by faded old tapestries depicting violent and tragic Callamornish legends, and considered whether to distract myself with reading or go next door to see if Zaira might be willing to talk. Given how she’d grumbled about being dragged all over the city with me today, and the firm tones with which she’d stated her intent to take a bath and a nap, I rather doubted it.

  A gentle knocking sounded not at my door, but at the floor-to-ceiling shutters that led to my balcony overlooking the gardens.

  I rose, drawing my knife, and tensed to listen.

  Nothing. Perhaps it had simply been a windblown branch, or a bird?

  Knock, knock. “Lady Amalia?”

  Graces preserve me. It was Kathe.

  Chapter Twelve

  I flung open the shutters, my dagger still in hand, and found him crouched on the stone railing of the little balcony, his feathered cloak hanging down behind him. The wind ruffled his black-tipped hair.

  He broke into a grin. “There you are!”

  I leaned on the door frame, a certain giddy weakness flooding my limbs that was not exactly relief. “Yes. Here I am, because this is my room. So it makes sense that I’m here. Whereas it makes no sense whatsoever that you’re here.”

  He raised his brows. “I heard they’re throwing a formal reception for you this evening, so of course I stopped by on my way back to Let.”

  “Of course you did.” I glanced past him into the castle garden. Guards patrolled the battlements of the thick outer stone wall, and my balcony was a good twenty-five feet off the ground. I rather suspected my grandmother would have mentioned if she had a Witch Lord as an expected guest. “I’d invite you in, but I don’t want to compromise someone else’s wards without their permission.”

  I stepped out onto the balcony with him instead, to be friendly, but regretted it almost at once; there wasn’t much space, and we were quite close. My pulse quickened—nerves, I told myself.

  “Another thing we don’t have in Vaskandar. But then, I don’t need wards in my own domain.” He leaped down from the railing, graceful as a cat. Now barely a foot separated us. His lips curved in a mischievous smile. “I’m glad you still trust me enough to meet with me alone like this. I was worried, after the Lady of Thorns was so rude to you.”

  “I’m a Cornaro. Our trust is always conditional.” I lifted an eyebrow. “Though perhaps you’re only interested in my Lochaver blood.”

  “My lady, I assure you that both sides of your legacy fascinate me. But what we two can do together is most intriguing of all.”

  I gripped the railing to keep my balance. I didn’t know how to begin to peel back the layers on this man. “And what is it you hope we could accomplish?”

  “Oh, all manner of things. The possibilities are wide as the sky and deep as the sea.” He cocked his head. “I’d say you should come visit my domain, to know me better. But you’d have to pass through Kazerath or Sevaeth to get there, and you might not make it alive.”

  “Perhaps we could meet somewhere,” I suggested, feeling daring. “Like at the Conclave.”

  He laughed, the feathers on his shoulders rustling. “The Conclave! Strike at the heart to slay the beast, eh? I’d love to see the stir if I brought you along. The Lady of Thorns would tear the mountains themselves with her rage.”

  “Is that an invitation?” I pressed. “You did imply you could bring me as your guest.”

  “You’re far too eager to fling yourself into that nest of chimeras.” Kathe shook his head. “Vaskandran politics are different than your little games of gold and poison. You don’t even know the rules.”

  “I could learn.”

  He caught my hand in his, quick as a snake, and panic flashed white-hot through my chest. But he only turned it in his cold, graceful fingers, examining it as if it were a gem of some worth. “In Raverra,” he asked thoughtfully, “what do people want from you?”

  “Money,” I said at once. Half of me wanted to snatch my hand back, and the other half hoped he didn’t let go. His touch left a strange tingling in its wake, less unpleasant than Prince Ruven’s twisted magic. “And influence. A shortcut to my mother’s power, and the doge’s ear.”

  He traced the scar on the back of my wrist, from an assassin’s dagger long ago. “And what do I want from you?”

  I stared into the vivid yellow rings around his pupils. “That,” I said, “is a fine question.”

  “You don’t know.” He released my hand. “You can’t win a game if you don’t know the stakes your opponent is playing for. What do you think a Witch Lord wants?”

  Graces have mercy. I
didn’t know what to do with him—his glittering eyes, the haughty planes of his face, the power that thrummed in the air around him, all far too close on this wretched balcony. It didn’t help that I wasn’t so certain I wanted more space between us.

  “Power,” I guessed, rubbing my hand. “But that means something different for you than it would for me.”

  “We’re all fighting for the same prize.” He tilted his head. “Do you know the secret of a Witch Lord’s power? What makes us so much more than a mere normal vivomancer?”

  I leaned in eagerly, my pulse quickening. “Tell me.”

  His eyes gleamed. “You tell me. When you can, I’ll take you to the Conclave.”

  Of course he couldn’t answer the question he’d posed himself. He had to make it a challenge—in this case, a magical theory challenge.

  Good. That was my specialty.

  “I’ll hold you to that,” I warned, smiling fiercely.

  “Please do. I’d love to see what you might unleash there.” He drew closer, bending until his breath stirred the hair by my ear. “Here’s a hint for you.”

  His voice dropped to a whisper, taking on a mesmerizing, singsong quality.

  “One lord, all alone

  Ten spires made of bone

  One realm circles round

  All roots underground

  Ten streams through it all

  One wood growing tall

  All things quick with life

  One sharp, bloody knife

  Ten drops fall on stone

  One lord on the throne.”

  A delicate chill settled over me like mist. “Is that a riddle?”

  “A rhyme the Yew Lord sang to his children.” He drew back, his eyes shuttered and solemn. “And they to theirs, and my mother to me.”

  A nervous, breathless laugh escaped my lips. “It’s hard to imagine you having a mother.”

  “Even Witch Lords are born, and even Witch Lords can die.”