Elegy (The Magpie Ballads Book 1)

by Vale Aida

  Nikas nodded. “Hearsay.”

  “Is she—”

  Emaris swallowed back the question. He seldom missed his own mother, nor had he taken much interest in his father’s stories about her. For as long as he could remember, Shandei had been the one he went to when he was sick or hurt or in trouble, and she would always put things right again. “Have you tried looking for her?”

  “I found her,” said Nikas.

  Emaris stared. In the half-darkness of the room, he could see only a sliver of Nikas’s face. “Then—she must have been freed years ago. Have you written, or visited, or—”

  Nikas turned around, a crystal inkpot lying forgotten in the palm of his hand. “Both of those,” he said. “The trouble, you see, is not that she is dead or enslaved. The trouble is that she will not acknowledge me as her son.”

  A few moments slipped by. Presently, Emaris said, “I see.”

  “So,” said Nikas, ”there is no need to concern ourselves with her.” He set the inkpot down. “I despise her, and yet…”

  Without finishing the sentence, he left the room and went upstairs to his own quarters.

  * * *

  It was another hour before Hiraen returned with Savonn. Emaris, who was drowsing in his chair, came awake at the sound of their voices. By all appearances, they had been fighting the whole way. “Oh, I don’t know,” Hiraen said in a loud whisper, as the door banged shut behind them. “You still seem remarkably fond of him. What if I hadn’t been waiting for you? Would you be with him now, sharing a wineskin and some supper and making fun of us all?”

  Emaris’s eyes came wide open. His armchair faced away from the door, and they had not noticed him curled up in the seat. They headed for the stairs, still arguing. “If that’s what you think,” said Savonn, “perhaps I should’ve gone.”

  They reached the upper floor. A door slammed. Since Onaressi, Emaris had done his best not to listen in on any more private discussions. But if Savonn insisted on disappearing into rooms and having loud conversations, then, he reasoned, no observant passer-by could be faulted for overhearing a thing or two. With all the stealth developed in a long career of eavesdropping, he crept up the stairs and stationed himself in the hallway outside their room. “—no point seeing him again,” Hiraen was saying. “You burned that bridge long ago. So did he.”

  Every syllable of Savonn’s reply was like the snap of icicles. “I burned it to keep you safe. From beginning to end, everything was for you.”

  “Do you think I’ve ever let myself forget it?” asked Hiraen. Like normal people, unlike Savonn, he allowed heat into his voice when he was angry. “I do know one thing. He is you. Whatever foul primeval ooze your soul is made of, his is the same.”

  “Well,” said Savonn, “that explains a great deal, doesn’t it? For instance, why he killed for me when you wouldn’t?”

  After a long silence, Emaris remembered the need to breathe.

  “Oh, put that look away,” said Savonn, the words light and flaking. “If I can be accused of conspiring to murder the Lord Governor, and Rendell as well, and possibly anyone else who has ever stubbed a toe within five feet of my ill-starred presence, then you can hardly escape contempt just because you kept your hands clean.”

  There was another aching pause. “That,” said Hiraen, in a voice barely louder than the hiss of a blade, “is a lie.”

  Feet paced, crossing each other in the confines of the small room. Then Hiraen added, “Don’t act as if you despise me. You envy me, and you always have, because I had the courage to stand up to your father. If you had any shred of honour, you would have killed him before he made you do what you did.”

  The pacing stopped. Savonn said, very quietly, “Get out.”

  Before Emaris could move, the door flew open, and Hiraen stood framed on the threshold.

  They stared at each other. Inside the room it was dark; no one had bothered to light a lamp. Savonn was invisible. As the shock began to recede, Emaris got himself out of the way. “I didn’t hear anything.”

  Hiraen’s face was drained of all colour. He pushed past Emaris and disappeared down the stairs. The front door slammed again.

  There was no sound from within the room. An apology seemed futile, a retreat cowardly. If he was to be eviscerated, it was better to get it over now. Straining against the self-preservatory instincts of every muscle in his body, he made himself step inside.

  He could just make out the outline of Savonn’s head and shoulders against the starlit window, still as a stone bust. “I didn’t mean to eavesdrop,” he said. “I was asleep in the front room and couldn’t help…”

  It sounded feeble to his own ears. “O gazelle,” said Savonn. “What is it like to be you? Sensitive to every change of wind, always listening for the wolves and the hunters…”

  His voice sounded broken. He stopped. As no evisceration seemed on its way, Emaris drew a steadying breath and said, “You can tell me if you like. I won’t tell anyone.”

  There was a hesitation. In the dark, he could not ascertain its cause. Earlier he had placed himself between his commander and his patrol, ready to fight with his bare hands to save them from certain death. It was beginning to occur to him, with shameful tardiness, that the look he had seen in Savonn’s eyes then was hurt.

  All traces of it had since been tucked away, like a room made neat for guests. “I wish,” said Savonn, “you wouldn’t be so noble all the time. It’s bad for the health.”

  Emaris was tired of being mocked. “The Empath—”

  “—is a man with a name, who can be killed like any other,” said Savonn. “There is no need to fear him.”

  “And will you kill him?”

  He knew that he had outstayed his reprieve. “If you present an opportunity, I will,” said Savonn, brisk and cold once more. “Since none are available at the moment, I shall turn in for the night. Must I beg your leave to do so?”

  Emaris backed away. He locked the door from the inside before he shut it, so that no one else would stumble in on Savonn’s wrath, and fled down to his own room.

  * * *

  As agreed, they were gone before daybreak. By the time Emaris woke, Savonn and Hiraen seemed to have come to some sort of unspoken rapprochement, and their combined charisma got the griping company out of the house and marching to the gate. Celisse did not send them out empty-handed. They had fresh ponies and a fortnight’s worth of rations in their packs, enough to see them to the forts in Ilsa’s Pass, the second of the major highways between Astorre and Betronett. The men complained, but Vion and Lomas were silent, and even Nikas was subdued.

  The Saraians were nowhere to be seen. Only the Empath was watching from the top of the city wall as they filed through the gate and over the drawbridge in their neat ranks, his hair a striking banner against the pre-dawn sky. Savonn did not glance his way, and following his example, neither did Emaris.

  15

  The message from Iyone came the day after Midsummer.

  It had been a long wait. Heeding advice, Shandei pleaded an alarum of the womb and missed most of the festivities; which, according to her friends, was no great loss, since the Midsummer play was puerile, the actors distracted and the chorus out of tune. A stable on the Efren property caught fire. Lord Willon’s housekeeper quit, convinced that the family was cursed. The hours dragged on, sluggish as frozen butter, and by the time Linn called, Shandei had decided in a pique that Iyone had probably forgotten all about her.

  The note, delivered by Linn with a piercing look, was brief, terse, and nearly incomprehensible. Not yet able to come in person. Because we were seen together the day the bridge fell, W. has convinced himself that I am abetting you in your Thorny activities. The real Thorn is also spying on me. A ticklish mess. Continue to lie low until I make some headway in pruning them both. Linn is a friend in the most unphilosophical use of the term, and can take me a message if you need me.

  It was not signed. Shandei supposed that someone with a presence like Iyon
e would not see the need for such trifles as signatures. She sat clutching the scrap of vellum long after Linn had gone, studying the brisk, firm hand, the fine letters marching across the page without loop or flourish. If she ran her fingers under the writing, she could feel the deep indentations the quill had left on the page. The real Thorn. So Iyone knew who was behind the Efren disasters. Had she found out, too, who had killed Vesmer?

  Shandei had no answers. What she had was the start of a lurking fear, that Iyone—the one person who had tried to help her—was in danger. And following hard on its heels, blossoming in her fingertips as if transmitted through the ghost of Iyone’s firm hand on the page, was a hardening resolve. She could not stop the Thorn hounding her footsteps, bringing calamity wherever she trod. She could not bring Vesmer back to life. But this, at least, she could do something about.

  Continue to lie low. Her father had always said she would make a terrible soldier, because she never followed orders. As in all things, he was right.

  She knew how to help Iyone.

  * * *

  The weeks went by. Amid a storm of half-formed plans, Iyone received a letter from her brother Hiraen, delivered from the mountains through a circuitous relay of couriers. It was full of trivialities but purposefully vague about the company’s movements and whereabouts, and ended with, I have tried to make this letter as long as possible, because I don’t know when the next one will be. If you still pray, pray for us. And thank you for what you promised me.

  Iyone did, in fact, pray: to the only goddess she believed in, her mother. Informed of her recalcitrant daughter’s quest for blackmail material, Aretel Safin was predictably unhelpful. “Josit? Children? Not that I’ve heard, and we’ve known her for years.”

  “Since she came to Cassarah with Savonn’s mother,” Iyone agreed, keen to keep the conversation moving at the same breakneck pace at which she did most things these days. Their privacy was circumscribed. They were in the parlour, drinking tea, and any moment Elysa would come in proffering biscuits or something. “What about before that? She could have had children in slavery.”

  “Well, of course,” said Aretel. “But they would be hard to trace. They would be free now, like her.”

  “Yes,” said Iyone briskly. That had already occurred to her. “So the better question is: if she’s had children, where are they now? And why didn’t she acknowledge them as soon as she was freed?”

  One can’t know everything, Josit had said. Aretel shrugged. “Perhaps they’re dead. Perhaps she couldn’t find them, or didn’t want to.” She frowned at Iyone across her teacup. “Does this have anything to do with that girl Shandei?”

  “Oh, it’s nothing,” said Iyone. “Just a hypothesis I was testing.” There was a tap on the door then, and Elysa came in smiling, with a platter of scones.

  From the highlands also arrived, alarmingly and without explanation, a handful of Dalissan coins and a bundle of dispatches written in Saraian. Savonn had sent an accompanying note, signed in his official capacity as Captain of Betronett. The spoils of war are shared among the victors, proportionate to the part they played in the victory. Iyone was there when, tight-lipped, Josit translated the dispatches for the Council, every face stony with dismayed confusion.

  “Well?” asked Josit, when it was over. Lacking her usual sweetness, she sounded older and hoarser. “By the looks of it, Marshal Isemain has had his hirelings ensconced in the Farfallens for years. Now we have proof. What do you mean to do about it?”

  But it was clear that Marguerit was the furthest thing from Willon’s mind. Since the collapse of the Carnation Bridge, nearly all his hair had gone grey. He had grown a beard, straggly and unkempt, beneath which his jowls sagged like the sail of some becalmed ship. He frowned at Josit, the loathing palpable. “I thought the Silvertongue was fighting them,” he said. “I thought that was the point of him. Meanwhile, may we discuss more pressing issues? Such as, for instance, the killer in our midst?”

  It was impossible to forget said issues. For one thing, the Council now convened only in a heavily fortified tower in the citadel, armed with a full complement of guards and food tasters. For another, Josit was seated right across from Iyone at the meeting table, unassailable as a wolf in sheep’s wool. The only good thing was that Yannick Efren had fled to his country estate after the Midsummer scare, and grudgingly, Willon had permitted Iyone to fill the scribe’s seat at the table. This was probably just because he wanted her where he could see her, but even small victories counted for something.

  Her father was speaking. “This missive was written weeks ago,” he said, pointing to the date on Savonn’s letter. “But we have a corroborating report, more recent and more troubling. The Lord of Medrai writes that a large Saraian host is stirring in the Farfallens. Rumour has it that the Marshal is leading it in person with a”—he shrugged, part chagrined, part resigned—“a red-haired sorcerer called the Empath. The villagers are abandoning their homes and harvests and streaming to the lowlands in droves.”

  Iyone felt her brows rising. “Peasants are prone to superstition, Lucien,” said Oriane, who seemed to share her thought. “I didn’t think you were.”

  “I repeat,” said Willon, cutting across whatever retort her father might have mustered, “I thought Lord Silvertongue was dealing with this. He ran off with eight hundred men and more horses than I care to count, promising to do exactly that. Why hasn’t he stopped this Marshal?”

  Of late, Iyone’s temper had been braced on eggshells. The worst thing was that Willon had a point. “Against a foe who has the unqualified support of Queen and government behind him, your lordship,” she said, “you’d be astonished how few eight hundred really is.”

  Her father shot her a cautionary look. It was less effective than one of her mother’s, but given how much there was at stake, Iyone subsided. “He needs reinforcements,” said Lucien. “If Marguerit means to invade this fall, Betronett can’t hold her off alone. Look, if we each send a hundred men from our own households, that would make a decent-sized army—”

  “Marguerit won’t come now,” said Willon, annoyed. “The passes will snow over. She’d get stuck there all winter. Now, if you please—”

  “If you please,” said Lucien icily, “some of us have sons in the Farfallens whom we haven’t seen in months.”

  Quite by accident, Iyone caught Josit’s sardonic eye across the table. With a shared sense of inevitability, they watched as Willon’s chest swelled with a preparatory inhale. “Some of us,” roared his lordship of Efren, “have sons who are dead!”

  Oriane gazed towards the high rafters of the meeting room, as if in silent prayer for temperance. Into the tense silence, Josit said, “I doubt the fact has slipped from any of our minds. I agree with Lord Lucien. If you are so doubtful of Savonn’s capabilities, surely we ought not let him face Marguerit alone.”

  Silence, as Willon tripped over this stumbling-block of hard logic, flailed, and regained his balance. Changing tack, he said, “Who’ll lead the force? You?”

  “I could send my captain of guards,” said Josit. “A doughty, reliable freedman, with much experience of war.”

  “With respect,” said Oriane, “a Saraian can hardly lead the charge against Saraians. No one would ask that of you.”

  Josit smiled tolerantly. Apprehension prickled down Iyone’s spine, only half understood, like the first rumblings of a thunderstorm still far off. She said, “Send Cahal.”

  “No,” Willon snapped. “Are you crazy? I need him. Oriane—”

  Oriane was frowning at Lucien, her teacup half raised to her lips. “I can spare a hundred men, but someone’s got to lead them. Josit’s right. Lucien, you’ve seen the roads and trails above Medrai, and the Silvertongue’s more likely to heed you than anyone else. But of course…“

  Her father’s jaw was pulled taut, his face less round than usual. “What?”

  But it was Josit who answered, leaning forward solicitously. “Of course, you don’t want to go. Not af
ter Kedris, and the things you saw.”

  Seized by belated, horrified understanding, Iyone half rose. First Hiraen, and now this. “Send one of your other sons, Lord Willon. Send the city guard. Send—”

  Lucien cut her off. “No,” he said. His eyes glinted from under their wrinkled lids, cold and unamused. She found she could not remember the last time he had lost his temper with her. “Be quiet, Iyone. Don’t you see what they’re saying? Willon is beleaguered by Thorns and Oriane is afraid for her life and Josit is unsuitable. And you, I suppose, think me too craven to go myself.”

  “Father,” said Iyone.

  “Well,” said Lucien Safin, getting up to loom his full height over the Council table, “I will be most delighted to prove you wrong. I’ll go.”

  * * *

  The discussion that ensued was circular as ever, revolving around tedious matters of logistics and military strategy. Losing both nerve and interest, Iyone excused herself—no doubt to everyone’s relief—and walked out.

  Josit had won another round. Naturally, she was worried for Savonn, her protégé. She wanted to send him help. And the manner of the sending was a blow struck against Iyone as much as Marguerit. Look what I can do, it said. Look how easily I can ruin you, just as I am ruining the Efrens. So sit tight and do not interfere.

  Check, and check, and checkmate.

  It was a pity Iyone was only human, born to a mortal family she loved, with all the frailties and pressure points this entailed. Playing alone, she might have enjoyed the game with Josit. But as it was, her father was going to war. Her brothers were already embroiled. Hiraen had entrusted her with something that was proving to be even more of an inconvenience than she expected. And Josit was still on the move. Yesterday there had been a second fire in the Efrens’ kitchens, and another bouquet of roses had found its way into Oriane’s residence. Once the muster of reinforcements had been seen to, Willon’s attention would no doubt return to Shandei. Who, for all her good sense, was far too stubborn to stay in hiding for long.