“How much doubt is there of the prince-marshal’s succession?” Ingrey asked Hetwar, with a diplomatic nod at Biast. “Should the king chance to die when so many are gathered in Easthome for Boleso’s funeral, it seems to me the election could come to a head very quickly.”
Hetwar shrugged. “The Hawkmoors, and their whole eastern faction, have long been preparing for such a moment, as we all know. It has been four generations since their kin lost the kingship, but they still hunger for a return to their old ascendancy. They had not, I judged, secured enough certain votes, but given the uncertain ones… If Boleso had been secretly gathering those, they are now scattered again.”
“Do you see such scatterings returning to his brother’s faction?” Ingrey glanced at Biast, who looked as though he was still digesting the intimation of fratricide, without pleasure.
“Perhaps not,” muttered Hetwar, brows drawn deeply down. “The Foxbriar kin, though they know their lord cannot win, surely know they hold a deciding edge if things run too close. If the ordainers were to fail repeatedly to effect a clear outcome, the argument could go to swords.”
Biast’s frown was no happier, but his hand drifted resolutely to his hilt at these last words, a gesture Hetwar did not miss; he held up a restraining palm.
“Were Prince Biast removed,” said Ingrey carefully, “indeed, whether he were removed or not, it seems to me that a spell that could compel a murder could as secretly compel a vote.”
Ingrey had thought he’d held all of Hetwar’s attention before. He’d been mistaken.
“Really,” breathed Hetwar. He could hardly grow more still, but the stillness turned much colder. “And—Ingrey—can you perceive such spells?”
“I can now.”
“Hm.” His stare on Ingrey grew freshly appraising.
And so I am saved, in Hetwar’s eyes. Maybe.
Hetwar vented a noise between a groan and a sigh, running his hands through his hair once more. “And here I thought bribery, coercion, threats, and double-dealing were enough to contend with.” His eyes rose to Ingrey again, narrowing in new thought. “And whom do you suspect of this illicit magic? If not me,” he added dryly.
Ingrey gave him a polite, apologetic shrug. Apologetic, but unabashed. If you value your life, keep your secrets and mine… “I possess no proof yet sturdy enough to stand on. It’s a serious accusation.”
Hetwar grimaced. “Your gift for understatement has not deserted you, I see. This is going to be Temple business, you know.”
Ingrey nodded, briefly and unhappily. He wanted the mage—even in his mind, he yet withheld the too-specific terms sorcerer or shaman—who had laid that evil geas upon him to be brought low. He was not at all sure he wished to be brought down with him. But to know that Hetwar, at least, was one wall that stood squarely at his back was an enormous relief. Ingrey prayed he had not damaged that wall in the testing of it.
And if Hetwar was not in league with Ijada’s would-be murderer, then perhaps a plea for justice would have a chance, here? When else, indeed, was Ingrey likely to come face-to-face with Biast in the next few days? He took a breath.
“There remains the matter of Lady Ijada. If you desire to draw a veil over Boleso’s late madness and blasphemy, a trial is the last thing you want. Let the inquest return a verdict of self-defense, or better still, accident, and let her go.”
“She killed my brother,” said Biast, a little indignantly.
“Then let her pay a suitable blood-price, perhaps, in the manner of the Old Weald—nothing too impossibly high,” Ingrey added cautiously. “Honor served, discretion preserved.”
“The precedent is scarcely a good one for the royal house,” said Hetwar. “As well declare hunting season on Stagthornes, or all high lords. There are sound reasons the Father’s Order spent so much effort eliminating that old custom. The rich might without fear purchase the lives of the poor.”
“And they don’t now?” said Ingrey.
Hetwar gave him a little warning growl. “It is certainly to be preferred that her execution be swift and as painless as possible. Perhaps she might be granted a sword, instead of a rope or the pyre, or some like mercy.”
And I a swordsman. “There is more going on here than is yet…clear.” He had not wanted to play this card, but their closed expressions terrified him. He had planted his ideas in their heads; perhaps he should give them time to germinate. Should her life be forfeit, then, because I am afraid to speak? “I think she is god-touched. You pursue her at your peril.”
Biast snorted. “A murderess? I doubt it. If so, let the gods send her a champion.”
Ingrey held his breath lest it huff from his mouth like that of a man punched in the gut.
It seems They have. He’s just not a very good one. You would think the gods could do better…
His pent breath found other words. “How long, my lords, has it been since the hallow kingship grew so hollow? This was once a sacred thing. How did we dare to come to treat it as merchandise to be bought and sold at the best market price? When did god-sworn warriors become peddlers?”
The words stung Hetwar, at least, for he sat up in open exasperation. “I use the gifts the gods have given me, including judgment and reason. My task, my tools. I have served the Weald since before you were born, Ingrey. There never was a golden age. It was always only iron.”
“The gods have no hands in this world but ours. If we fail Them, where then can They turn?”
“Ingrey, peace!”
Biast was rubbing his brow, as though it ached. “Enough of this! If I am to attend the procession, I must go wash and dress.” He stood and stretched, wincing.
Hetwar rose at once. “Indeed, Prince-marshal. I, too, must ride out.” He frowned in frustration at Ingrey. “We will continue this when you have regained a more considered temper, Lord Ingrey. In the meantime, do not speak of these matters.”
“Learned Lewko desires to interview me.”
Hetwar blew out his breath. “Lewko, I know. A most unhelpful man, in my experience.”
“I defy the Temple at my gravest risk.”
“Oh? That’s a new twist. I thought you defied anyone you damned well pleased.”
How long they would have locked each other’s gazes, Ingrey was not sure, but Biast reached the door first. Hetwar perforce followed, waving Ingrey out. “You had better not lie to Lewko. I’ll speak with him later. And with you later.” His gaze flicked down. “Don’t drip on my carpets.”
Ingrey flinched, and clasped his right hand with his left. The bandage was wet through, and leaking.
“What happened to your—no, tell me later. Attend on me at the funeral rite. Dress properly,” Hetwar ordered.
“Sir.” Ingrey bowed to his retreating back. Symark, who had wandered away down the hall to examine Hetwar’s tapestries, hurried to join the prince.
So. Hetwar was going to think before reacting. Ingrey did not find this wholly reassuring.
It was full morning in Easthome, lively with bustling crowds, when Ingrey regained the street and turned toward the river. Ijada was awake now, he felt in his heart. Awake, and not, at the moment, unduly distressed. The reassurance eased him. Without what he now realized was an endemic state of covert panic driving his strides, his feet found their own pace, and it was a slow one. Did this strange new perception run two ways? He would have to ask her. He trudged wearily back toward the narrow house.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
THE PORTER ADMITTED INGREY AGAIN TO THE HALL. INGREY’S gaze flicked up. Ijada was above, locked in with her warden as instructed, presumably. It crossed Ingrey’s mind that while Horseriver’s servants and one somewhat-damaged swordsman might be enough to keep a docile naïve girl from escaping this imprisonment, it was a woefully inadequate force to ward off attack. Ingrey might foil one assailant—well, a few—several—but a sufficiently determined enemy had merely to send enough men, and the conclusion would be grimly certain.
For some subtler, uncanny attack
…the outcome was not so obvious. Could the weirding voice prove a defense? The hum of questionable power in his blood unnerved him still. Earl Horseriver apparently knew, even if Ingrey did not, of the full range of Ingrey’s new capacities. Wencel’s oblique promise of some sort of training troubled Ingrey’s thoughts.
The porter produced a slightly crumpled piece of paper. “Temple messenger brought this for you, my lord.”
Ingrey broke the seal to find a short note from Learned Lewko, the penmanship blocky and neat. It appears my time will be taken today with that matter of internal Temple discipline you helped to uncover yesterday, for which I thank you, it read. I will wait upon you and Lady Ijada as soon as I may following the prince’s funeral rites tomorrow.
Ingrey could imagine that the Temple would urgently wish to correct the dereliction of its acolytes before the state occasion. It was perhaps not entirely his imagination that he sensed a tart aggravation between the brief lines. Relief warred with disappointment in his heart. Lewko unsettled him, but he could think of no one better to ask about the laughing Voice that he had heard in his head during yesterday’s scuffle in the temple court. Although his greatest secret hope, that Lewko would assure him it must have been a hallucination, seemed increasingly forlorn.
He climbed to his rooms to have Tesko help change his soaked bandage and take away his town garb to clean the bloodstains. The new stitches proved intact, and the spaces between them had scabbed over again. The unhealing wound was beginning to disturb him. His episodes of bleeding had perfectly reasonable explanations, most having to do with his own carelessness; it was only in his nervous fancy that they were beginning to seem like unholy libations. And if small magics draw a small blood sacrifice, what would a great one do?
His bed beckoned, and he sank down on it. The notion of food was still repulsive, but perhaps sleep would help him heal. He no sooner lay down than his thoughts began spinning again. He had been assuming from the beginning that the motivation of Ijada’s mysterious assassin must be political, or revenge for her killing of Boleso. Perhaps such theorizing was an effect of his being so long in Hetwar’s train. Yet trying to widen his thinking only made it feel more diffuse and foolish. I know less and less each day. What was the end of this progression, a glum future as a village idiot? The absurd images trailed off at last in muzzy exhaustion.
HE WOKE LATER THAN HE HAD INTENDED, THIRSTY, BUT FEELING as if he had paid off some accumulated debts to his body. Inspired, he sent down orders via Tesko that dinner should be served to him and his prisoner in the ground-floor parlor. He donned town garb again, combed his hair, wondered why he owned no lavender water, considered sending Tesko out to buy some tomorrow, scrubbed his teeth, and shaved for the second time that day as the shadows deepened outside. He took a breath and descended the stairs.
He turned into the parlor to find Ijada already standing there in the illumination of the sconces, in the wheat-colored dress looking like candlelight herself. She turned at the sound of his step, and a smile flared on her face that made his lips part.
He could not very well fall upon her like a ravening wolf, not least because the accursed warden stood at her side, hands and lips tightly folded. The table, he saw to his dismay, seemed to have been reflexively set for three. Horseriver’s servant was surely Horseriver’s spy. Simply to dismiss the duenna bore unknown dangers.
Regardless of his own strangely shifting internal allegiances, he supposed he must guard his own reputation as well as Ijada’s, or risk being relieved of his post. But he might hazard a smile, and did. He might chance a touch of her hand, brought formally to his lips. The scent of her skin, so close, seemed to bring all of his senses to heightened sharpness. The sheer intensity of her, at this range, almost overwhelmed him.
One desperate return squeeze, her nails biting fiercely into his skin, was all her opportunity to say, I feel it, too. She muted her smile to something social, the trained courtesy of a high household, as he helped her to her seat and a manservant brought their meal.
“I believe this is the first time I have seen you out of your riding leathers, Lord Ingrey.” Her tone seemed to be quite approving.
He touched the fine black cloth of his jerkin. “Lady Hetwar makes sure that her husband’s men do not disgrace her house.”
“She has a good eye, then.”
“Oh? Good.” Ingrey swallowed wine without choking. “Good.” His thoughts tangled on too many levels at once: the arousal of his body, the political and mortal fear of their situation, the remembered shock of that mystical kiss. He dropped a bite of food off his fork, and tried surreptitiously to retrieve it from his lap.
“Learned Lewko did not come.”
“Oh. Yes. He sent a note; he means to come tomorrow, after the funeral.”
“Did anything further come of your ice bear? Or your pirate?”
“Not yet. Though the rumors had already reached my lord Hetwar.”
“How did your conference with the sealmaster go?”
He tilted his head. “How would you guess?” Do you sense where I am, how I feel, as I do you?
She gave a small nod in return, and essayed slowly, “Tense. Uncertain. There was…an incident.” Her gaze now seemed to dig under his skin. She glanced at the warden, who was chewing and listening.
“Truly.” He drew breath. “I believe Sealmaster Hetwar is to be trusted. His concerns, however, are wholly political ones. I am less and less of the opinion that your concerns are wholly political ones. Prince-marshal Biast was there, which I did not expect. He did not warm at once to the idea of a blood-price, but at least I had a chance to set the idea in his mind.”
She pushed some noodles across her plate with her fork. “I think the gods have little interest in politics. Only in souls. Look to souls, Lord Ingrey, if you seek to guess Their minds.” She looked up, frowning.
Conscious of the glowering warden, Ingrey asked more lightly after Ijada’s day; she returned in kind a description of an amusing old book of household hints, apparently the only reading matter the house had offered up. After that the conversation fell flatly silent for a space. Not what he had hoped, but at least they were both in the same room, alive and breathing. I must raise my standards for dalliance.
A sharp rap on the front door, the shuffle of the porter, voices; Ingrey tensed, aware he’d left his sword upstairs and bore only his belt knife, then relaxed a trifle as he recognized the new voice as Wencel’s. He rose to his feet as the earl-ordainer entered the parlor, and the warden scrambled up and curtseyed apprehensively.
“Ingrey. Lady Ijada.” Wencel nodded to them. He was dressed in full court mourning, a little grimed, and looked weary to the point of exhaustion. The darkness within him was quiescent, as if benumbed or suppressed. His eye summed the chairs. “You may be excused,” he said to the warden. “Take your plate.”
The woman curtseyed again and removed herself promptly. She did not need to be told, by Wencel at least, to close the door behind her.
“Have you eaten?” Lady Ijada inquired civilly.
“This and that.” He waved. “Just some wine, please.”
She poured from the carafe, and he took the beaker and sat back in his chair, his legs stretched out, his head tilted back. “You are well, lady? My people are seeing to your needs?”
“Yes, thank you. My material needs, anyway. It is news that I lack.”
Wencel’s chin came down. “There is no news, at least of your plight. Boleso has arrived in Templetown, where his body will rest tonight. By this time tomorrow, that carnival, at least, will be over.” He grimaced.
And Ijada’s legal one will begin? “I have been thinking, Wencel…” Succinctly, Ingrey explained his blood-price ploy once more. “If you really seek to redeem the honor of your house, cousin, this could be one way. If the Stagthornes and the Badger-banks could both be persuaded. Which you are also in a position to do, I would point out.”
Wencel gave him a shrewd look. “I see you are not an imparti
al jailer.”
“If such a jailer was what you really wanted, I’m sure you could have found one,” Ingrey returned dryly.
Wencel lifted his beaker in an only half-mocking salute, and drank. After a moment he added, “Speaking of indirect evidence, I presume by the fact that I am not yet arrested for defilement that you have kept our secrets.”
“I have managed to keep you out of my conversations so far, yes. I don’t know how much longer I can succeed. I’ve drawn some unfortunate attention from the Temple. Did you hear about the ice bear yet?”
Wencel’s lips twisted. “This funeral procession today being short on piety and long on gossip, yes. The tales I heard were lurid, conflicting, and ambiguous. I was possibly the only confidant to whom the events were crystal clear. Congratulations upon your discovery. I didn’t imagine you would learn of that power for quite some time yet.”
“My wolf never spoke like this before.”
“The great beasts have no speech. That shaping must come from the man. The whole is a different essence from either part; they alter each other as they merge.”
Ingrey contemplated this remark for a moment, finding it plangent but maddeningly vague. He decided to leave out mention of that other Voice.
“And,” Wencel added, “your wolf was truly bound before. Separated from you even while trapped within. Neither the Temple nor I was mistaken on that, I promise you. It is its unbinding that remains a mystery to me.” Wencel raised his brows invitingly.
Ingrey ignored the hint. “What else might it—might I—we—do?”
“The weirding voice is actually a great and subtle power, nearer the heart of the matter than you know.”
“Since I know practically nothing, that is no great observation, Wencel.”
Wencel shrugged. “Indeed, the shamans of the forest tribes bore other powers. Visions that did not deceive. Healings, of wounds of the body or mind, of fevers, of sicknesses of the blood. Sometimes, they could follow men who had fallen into great darkness of mind and bring them back out again. Sometimes their powers were reversed; they could plunge victims into those darknesses, or thwart healing, even unto death. Darker necromancies still, consuming mortal sacrifices.”
The Complete Chalion Page 118
