by Sharon Shinn
“You will be alone in your bedroom tonight and you want me to come to you there,” he guessed.
She kissed him. “Better.”
“Your uncle has decided you don’t have to marry anyone for another whole year. And no one will be watching you closely that whole time.”
“Better.”
He laughed and shook his head. “You never have to marry, and I can have free run of the palace.”
“They’re going to let me marry you.”
“What?” he whispered.
“It’s very complicated. You have to pretend you’re Ariane’s son. And you have to get a housemark, which will be quite painful, and I’m sorry about that. But then everyone will think you’re long-lost nobility, a bastard from the Twelve Houses, and good enough to marry me. I think we should have the wedding right away, and then we can have the coronation next year for both of us.”
Cammon usually considered himself fairly quick-witted, but it took her another ten minutes and repeated explanations to make him truly understand what she was saying. Abruptly, he sank to a seat in one of her favorite chairs, and stared at her in bewilderment when she sat in the chair beside him.
“But I can’t be king,” he said at last.
“You’ll be a charming king,” she said.
“But I—what do I know about—kingdoms and governing and—and—money—and strategy—and whatever it is kings know?”
“You’ve traveled halfway around the world and all through Gillengaria!” Amalie replied. “You know so much! And you learn so quickly! I think you’ll be a marvelous king.”
“Amalie,” he said, shaking his head, “I want to marry you. I could never dream of anything I would want more. But I’m afraid to be king.”
For a moment, she rested her head against the back of her chair, thinking. “All right,” she said in her usual fashion, her voice seeming so soft but really so decisive. “I’ll be crowned first. And you’ll be my—my prince-consort or some such title. And every few years I’ll ask you again if you want to be king. And if you do, we’ll have a nice coronation for you. And if you don’t, well, you’ll just be my consort forever.” She lifted his hand and carried it to her mouth. “But you’ll be my husband before the month is out.”
RECEIVING the housemark was the most agonizing physical experience Cammon had ever endured. He yelped as the brand was laid against his skin just below the hollow of his throat, and the smell of burnt flesh nearly made him gag.
“And you do this to babies?” he demanded of Kirra, who had wielded the instrument of torture.
“Well, I don’t,” she replied. “But all the nobles do. Yes. When they’re too small to stop us.” She patted him on the head. “You were very brave. And you lay completely still! I was sure you’d be thrashing all over the place.”
“I wanted to kick you. It really hurts.”
“Don’t whine so much,” Justin said. “I’ve had way worse wounds and never even bothered to mention them.”
“An example of stoicism that inspires us all,” Kirra said.
Ellynor stepped over. “Let me see what I can do,” she said. “I ought to be able to heal it so thoroughly that no one will be able to tell how fresh a wound it is.”
Her fingers were cool and gentle against his newly scarred skin, and her mere touch filled him with a sense of extraordinary well-being. He wondered if, while she was there healing the burn, she had just decided to rummage around in his body and chase off any incipient ailments that might have been loitering in the blood. No wonder Justin looked so offensively healthy these days. With Ellynor at his side, he need never suffer a minute’s illness for the rest of his life.
When she was done, they all crowded around him and exclaimed in pleasure. “Look at that,” Kirra said, pulling down the neckline of her dress to show off her own tasteful housemark, a small representation of the letter D. “It looks no different from mine. Well, the style is different, of course. But otherwise just the same.”
Cammon squinted down at his chest, where he could just make out the diamond-shaped scar, appearing as faded and scuffed as if he’d sported it since birth. “Look at that,” he repeated. “I’m Cammon Rappengrass.”
NOT until the housemark had been applied was he brought into the presence of his new family. “I’d be more intimidated at the notion of having Ariane Rappengrass for a mother than at being crowned king,” Kirra told him as she escorted him through the palace to the rooms Ariane occupied.
Strangely, perhaps, Cammon did not find Ariane frightening at all. He had met her under extraordinary circumstances almost a year ago, when her granddaughter was dying and Ariane would have made any bargain to keep the girl alive. What he had thought at the time was how much he wished someone had loved him enough to go to such lengths to save him. He had been impressed, not so much by her ferocity, but how that ferocity had alchemized to love.
“Don’t let her make you nervous,” Kirra said. “Ariane always orders everyone about. It’s simpler just to do what she says.” She knocked on the door and then smiled in her wicked way. “I’m not staying. Best for you to learn how to handle Ariane on your own.”
But when he took a deep breath and stepped inside the room, he was hopeful, he was excited. And right away, as he faced that strong-willed, broad-faced woman, he knew that she was just as hopeful as he was.
“Cammon,” she said, holding out her hands. “You can’t know how many years I have waited to see my son again.”
She took him in a powerful embrace, this indomitable woman whose force of personality was legendary. And all Cammon could think was how her generosity had reshaped his life, and how easy it would be to love her.
THEY had been back in Ghosenhall a week when Amalie insisted on leading a procession through the city. Everyone protested, of course—the Riders, the regent, her stepmother—but Amalie was adamant.
“I have been shut up in this palace my whole life,” she said in the gentle voice that covered such determination. “I will not cower inside these walls while I am queen. I will go among my people so that they know me and I know them.”
Since it was clear that she would walk out the gates with or without an entourage, Tayse and Romar and Senneth hastily arranged an escort of soldiers and sorcerers. Cammon, in his new role as her betrothed, was allowed to walk beside her through the streets, holding her left hand in his—and seeking through the crowd for anyone filled with ill intent. Six Riders ringed her round; Donnal and Kirra circled overhead. Senneth, who had no fire to summon if fire was called for, strode at the head of the column, waving the royal flag.
The raelynx pranced along on Amalie’s right, gazing about with undisguised interest. No amount of protest had been able to convince her that he should be left behind. Indeed, he had become her official mascot. The Riders wore their new sashes sporting the traditional gold lion interspersed with the raelynx rampant. The flag that Senneth carried contained lions in two quadrants, raelynxes in the opposite corners.
Cammon thought it actually would be a good thing if the raelynx were to accompany Amalie on all her public appearances. The creature had offered ample proof that it would fight to protect her, and certainly its presence would cause any would-be attacker to think twice about getting too close. As long as it didn’t eat any innocent spectators, Cammon thought, he was happy to have the beast along. So far, it was proving very well behaved.
Unlike the day they had returned from battle, the streets were crowded with well-wishers, waving and cheering. So many flowers had been ripped from the gardens and flung to the cobblestones before Amalie’s feet that Cammon had to think there wasn’t a single blossom left in any garden. The day was gorgeous, sunny and warm, and beneath that perfect sky, Amalie seemed to glow and shimmer. Or maybe, thought Cammon, it was the affection pouring out from the gathered crowds that brightened her hair, turned her pale skin lustrous. Certainly she seemed to grow more beautiful every time a young woman tossed lilacs at her feet, every time a little girl
blew her an untidy kiss.
But here and there, Cammon could sense darker pockets of hostility and unease. He wasn’t sure if the words were being spoken aloud or if he merely heard them in his head. Mystic. Sorceress. Not to be trusted…
They had been following a slow route for almost an hour before true trouble cropped up. Cammon sensed it first, a surge of discontent emanating from a group of young noblemen gathered on the street corner, and he silently directed Tayse’s attention toward them. Cammon didn’t recognize them, but their colors gave them away. One wore the pearl-encrusted vest of Fortunalt; another had the Storian topaz pinned to his hat. Two others wore sashes embroidered with a black hawk clutching a red flower. Men of Gisseltess.
From all four, Cammon picked up grief and bewilderment as much as anger and fear. They had probably believed passionately in their marlords, had accepted without question the doctrine of the Pale Mother. Now their idols had been overturned. Who were they to believe now? How could anyone know the right path to follow?
One of the Gisseltess men stepped into the street, partly blocking Senneth’s progress. She had her free hand on her sword, but she didn’t draw it. “And you’re to be queen now?” the young lord called out to Amalie, his voice hoarse. “You’re to rule over us all?”
Amalie came to a halt and peered past the Riders to see him. “Yes. I will take the throne early next year.”
His three friends crowded behind him. Cammon felt Tayse’s impulse to force them away with outright violence, but from Amalie he was picking up a desire for colloquy. Just wait. Hear them out, he thought in Tayse’s direction, and the Rider pulled out his sword but made no move to attack. Beside Amalie, the raelynx fixed its eerie eyes on the speaker and waited.
“Mystic,” the young man said, spitting out the word. Beside him, his friends echoed the word. “Mystic,” he said again. “And we’re to have you as our queen?”
Now the rest of the crowd began a troubled muttering. Cammon sensed both confusion and uncertainty from the onlookers. Some of them had no particular dislike for mystics, though the thought of one on the throne did make them uneasy. Many, he thought, were anxious to have Amalie explain away her power—or at least give them reasons they should not fear it.
He squeezed her hand and dropped it. Talk to them, he told her.
She nodded and stepped forward, brushing past Senneth, though the raelynx stayed firmly at her side. “I am a mystic,” she said calmly, addressing the malcontents but raising her voice enough so it could be heard by everyone in the vicinity. “I have the power to draw strength from those around me when I need it most. I believe it is a gift from the Pale Mother herself. I believe all magic flows from the gods—and I believe there are many gods and goddesses that the people of Gillengaria have long forgotten.”
That caused a murmur to ripple through the crowd, full of surprise, dissent—and speculation.
Amalie made a half-turn, spreading her arms as if to envelop every onlooker. “Not only that, I believe all of us have been touched by the gods to some degree,” she said. “Some of you have feared mystics your whole lives, without realizing that you, too, possess a kind of magic.” She pointed at an old woman wrapped in a shawl despite the day’s warmth. “You. What is your special skill? Can you make flowers grow in the hardest ground? Can you ease a child who is coughing in the night? A goddess has blessed you with her own magic.”
She pivoted and pointed at a young man who looked clever and dexterous—street thief, Cammon guessed, though Justin would probably know better than he would. “You. What is your particular talent? Can you steal behind a stranger in utter silence? Can you convince anyone of your sincerity? Can you sing? Can you fight? If you can do any of those things, you have been touched by one of the gods.”
She spun back to face the frowning young lords, still standing on the corner and starting to gape at her. “You—from your clothing I see you are from some of the great Houses of Gillengaria. You’ve witnessed the marlords as they’ve watched and worried over their properties. Have you ever seen a marlord pause for a moment—stop and listen—and seem to be hearing the land speak to him? Don’t you realize that is a kind of magic? Don’t you know that every marlord, every marlady, is a mystic under the protection of a powerful god?”
Now the muttering of the crowd was louder but not, Cammon thought, unfriendly. It was just that the idea was new, yet so universal. Every single person who could hear the princess’s words was starting to review his own peculiar skills, her own useful range of talents, heretofore taken entirely for granted. Could it be true? Could these be divine blessings?
Amalie turned again, spreading her arms even wider. “We are all mystics,” she said. “We must honor our gifts, not despise them. Yes, I’m a mystic. I will lead the way for all of my people.”
AFTER that, even Romar had to admit that it wasn’t such a bad idea to let Amalie go out in public from time to time, connecting in a most personal way with her subjects.
“And take the damn cat with you when you go, if you like,” the regent said. “Until he eats the first small child, he’s a most excellent bodyguard and should see you safely wherever you travel.”
Romar had stopped in Amalie’s parlor to say good-bye, at least for a time. His wife had been taken to bed with labor pains, and he was off to Merrenstow in the morning. Cammon could tell that he was both excited and a little frightened at the notion of becoming a father. “But I’ll be back as soon as I can,” he promised. “You and I have much work to do.”
Amalie kissed him on the cheek. “Give Belinda my love.”
The regent was only one of many who were poised to leave Ghosenhall now that, for a time at least, the realm was peaceful. Kirra and Donnal had barely bothered to make farewells before taking off on the very evening of Amalie’s grand procession.
“I am so restless I almost can’t stand my own skin,” Kirra had said frankly. “We must be gone by sundown or I swear I’ll descend into madness.”
“If you hear a wolf howling at the moon tonight, that will be me,” Donnal said.
“Better if we’re gone.”
And so they left.
Three of the Riders also departed after taking formal leave of Amalie. They praised her father, expressed pleasure that they had been able to serve her briefly, but claimed that they could no longer endure the burdens and responsibilities of their calling. Amalie thanked them extravagantly, pressed significant sums of money on each of them, and sighed to see them go.
A fourth Rider departed without any ceremony at all. Wen strolled into the city one afternoon after taking her shift on duty, and never bothered returning to the palace. She left a note for Janni that stated merely, Don’t worry about me. I’ve decided to leave and I don’t want to be talked out of it. Serve the princess as best you can. Think of me as you guard her coronation.
All the remaining Riders were shaken up by her abrupt disappearance, and half of them gathered outside of Tayse’s cottage once the letter had been discovered. Sensing distress, Cammon had hurried in that direction in time to hear Janni read the note. “What happened? Why did she go?” was the general tone of the baffled questions.
Janni seemed as perplexed as the rest of them, but Tayse had an inkling. “She was fighting side by side with my father when he and the king went down,” Tayse said. “She might have thought she betrayed them both by living. A king should never die unless every Rider beside him has already been murdered.”
“But no one would have been able to save Baryn that day!” Janni exclaimed.
Justin and Tayse exchanged glances. “Tir died,” Justin said quietly. “I think both Tayse and I would have been dead that day, and our bodies found alongside Baryn’s. Wen feels she failed as a Rider. And she is not willing to fail Amalie. So she left.”
Tayse’s eyes sought Cammon. “Where is she?” Tayse asked. “Close enough for us to go after her?”
If he concentrated, Cammon could sense Wen, a small, sad, and sturdy shape ev
en now drawing farther from the city. He shook his head. “She wants to go,” he said. “I can’t help you change her choice.”
Justin growled and punched him hard in the shoulder. “You show your scruples at the most inconvenient times,” he said.
Cammon shrugged helplessly. “You wouldn’t want to be kept against your will. It’s not fair to fetch her back.”
Tayse nodded. “So. Another position to fill among the Queen’s Riders. All of you be on the lookout for candidates to present.”
So those were losses, and Cammon hated each of them, but the hardest one came a week later. Milo had chased him from Amalie’s parlor to discuss meaningless topics like a royal wardrobe, and Cammon had wandered down to the walled garden where the raelynx still stayed when Amalie had no attention to spare. The difference was that the wrought-iron door, though it remained closed, was no longer locked. Cammon could not rid himself of the suspicion that the raelynx came and went pretty much as it chose.
Valri was standing just outside the garden, as he had found her one time before. Her hands were wrapped around the bars, and her gaze was fixed on the giant cat sleeping inside the enclosure. She turned her head as she heard him approach and gave him a smile that seemed a little sad.
“I always thought I would be taking him back with me to the Lirrenlands one day,” she said without preamble. “I always thought he should not stay here, this wild creature, penned up in such a small space. And yet he has come to belong in this palace more surely than I ever did. It would be cruel to remove him now. Amalie loves him—and I believe, in his unfathomable way, he loves her.”
Cammon came to stand beside her, resting one hand on the rough stone of the wall. “And you’re not going back to the Lirrenlands,” he said.
“But I am,” she replied.
He knew his dismay was written plainly on his face. “But you can’t! Amalie needs you! It’s months till the coronation—and all these stupid marlords are coming in every day—and—and, there’s so much to learn about running the kingdom—”
