“You brought your foster family,” the empress said, her brown eyes dancing. “What are their names, if you please?”
“Forgive me, Your Imperial Majesty,” replied Sandry, her voice even. I’d bet every stitch I have on she already knows quite well who everyone is, she thought. “Ravvikki”—Namornese for a young woman—“Trisana Chandler.” Tris curtsied again. “Ravvikki Daja Kisubo.” Daja bowed. Using the word for a young man, Sandry continued, “Ravvotki Briar Moss.” Before they had entered Namorn, they had agreed that they were not going to claim the title of mage unless a crisis arose. By then they had all been thoroughly sick of explaining how they could be accredited mages at eighteen.
“Welcome to my empire,” said Berenene with a gracious nod. To Sandry she added, “My dear, two sisters and a brother, however devoted, are not sufficient protection for a maiden of your wealth and position. Men of few principles might see your unguarded state as the chance to capture a wealthy young bride.”
Sandry noticed Briar’s tiny smirk and the sudden, bored droop of Tris’s eyes. Only Daja’s face had the perfect, polite expression that told onlookers nothing of her true thoughts. Daja and I should have spent the trip teaching them a diplomat’s facial expressions as well as Namornese, Sandry thought, vexed. It would be impossible not to guess that Briar and Tris thought they were a match for would-be kidnappers, something that would never cross the mind of an ordinary young man or woman.
Stop fussing, Sandry ordered herself. I know very well my cousin has had spies on me for years, and she is aware we’re all mages.
Now that the empress’s riders had stopped chasing her, Chime decided it was safe to move. She wriggled out from under Tris’s loose riding tunic and up to the redhead’s shoulder.
Instantly Berenene’s companion, the one who was not in uniform, moved in front of the empress, one hand up. The silver fire of magic flared from his palm to wrap around Berenene like a shimmering cocoon.
“He’s good,” Briar muttered to Daja out of the corner of his mouth. “I thought you said her boss mage was some old woman named Ladyhammer.”
“Do you see any old women riding with this crowd if they don’t have to?” Daja inquired.
Chime ignored the magic. She rose to her hindquarters on Tris’s shoulder, one paw clutching Tris’s hair for balance, surveying the Namornese curiously.
Chime, you show-off, thought Sandry with affection. “That’s Chime, Your Imperial Majesty,” she told Berenene. “She’s a curiosity that Tris found in the far south.”
“Curious indeed,” said the mage who still guarded the empress. His dark eyes had been amused when they first rode up, but they were steady and serious now. “It’s not an illusion, or an animated poppet. It looks like glass, or perhaps moving ice.”
“Tris,” Sandry said, a hint for the redhead to explain.
Tris sighed. “She’s mage made. A new mage, one who started out as a glassblower, had an accident. It turned out to be Chime.”
“I don’t believe the imperial glassmaker, Viynain”—the Namornese word for a male mage—“Warder, has ever made anything of the kind,” the empress remarked. “If he could, he would have done so for me. My dear Quenaill, if the creature had meant harm to us, surely it would have attacked by now. I can hardly see my cousin Sandrilene, who has been gone for so long. My dear, allow me to present the great mage Quenaill Shieldsman. Doubtless you have heard of him at Winding Circle.”
Sandry nodded graciously to indicate that she had indeed heard the name, but the truth was that she remembered little else. Their teachers were forever talking about great mages, so the names did stick after a time. Apart from her own specialties, Sandry had very little interest in the practice of magic by the better known professionals. She was far more curious about the latest fashions and weaving patterns by those who excelled in those fields.
The mage Quenaill shifted his mount so Berenene had a clear view of the four, but he remained on his guard. As he lowered his hand, his protective magic vanished into his body.
“Now I’m really impressed,” Briar murmured to Daja. “I couldn’t do it that fast.”
“You don’t do shields at all,” Daja whispered in reply.
“But if I did, I wouldn’t be that fast,” Briar said.
Sandry sighed. “It is a long story about Chime, Your Imperial Majesty,” she said, pretending she couldn’t hear the soft dialogue to her left. “I am sorry that your hunting was interrupted.”
“At least I know you are here at last. And you are expected in Dancruan,” Berenene replied. Even while Quenaill had rushed to protect her, she had not moved as she casually leaned on her saddle horn. “For weeks, Ambros fer Landreg has spoken of little but preparing the town house for you.”
“The caravan will let the saghad know we are on our way, thank you,” Sandry replied, using Ambros’s Namornese title.
Berenene smiled. “You will need to rest, no doubt, after your long journey. You may call on me the day after tomorrow—shall we say, at ten in the Hall of Roses? It is more intimate than is the throne room. And of course your…friends are invited to attend with you. In fact, I insist on it.” Her brown eyes caught and held Sandry’s blue ones. She nodded, smiled, then turned her horse. Quenaill and the guards followed her with the ease of a well-oiled clock. She slowed when they came abreast of the first of her companions, the handsome young man who had yelled at the four earlier, and extended her hand. Without hesitation the man got his horse moving so that he could catch and kiss the hand, riding up on Berenene’s free side. Once he was level with her, she leaned closer and caressed his cheek, then urged her horse into a gallop. Quenaill and the man kept up with her as if they had read her mind, while the rest of her court and her guards spurred their own horses into motion. The group followed Berenene as if they were one creature at the end of her leash.
Only after the hunting party had ridden out of view beyond the ridge did Briar say, “Did you notice that none of her friends so much as twitched when Chime came out? They were all boiling when they came chasing our glass friend over that ridge, but once Her Empressness was talking to us, they sat there like so many well-trained dogs. They didn’t even show fang at Chime.”
“I hope you’re more diplomatic than this when we get to court,” Daja told him. “Nobles dislike being compared to dogs.”
“Whether they dislike it or no, I’ll name them for what they are, and I’ll be ready for them,” Briar snapped. “Don’t you go letting the pretty clothes fool you, Daja. If you’d ever been hunted by a pack of nobles, you wouldn’t be so nice about what you call them.”
The reminder was like an itch Sandry couldn’t scratch. I’m getting so tired of this! she thought. “More experiences you’ve had that you won’t explain, Briar,” she said irritably. “Talk about something pleasant or don’t talk.” She swung herself into her mare’s saddle.
Briar took a drink of water before he said thoughtfully, “There were some uncommonly pretty ladies with that pack, Her Imperialness not the least of them. I look forward to time spent in their company.”
“You’re disgusting,” said Tris, beckoning to Chime. The dragon rubbed her head against Tris’s and slid down to the girl’s lap.
“Can I help it I like the ladies?” Briar demanded, needling her with innocence on his face. “There are so many delightful ones in the world, each beautiful in her own way. Even you, Coppercurls.”
“Briar!” cried his sisters.
“I didn’t mean that I’d gratify her with my attention,” Briar said impatiently. “Kissing one of you would be like kissing Rosethorn.”
Daja chuckled. “Kissing Rosethorn would be safer than kissing Tris,” she pointed out. “Mildly, anyway. Minutely.”
“Cursed right,” Tris said. “I’m not kissing anyone. I’m going to Lightsbridge.”
“You won’t be safe there,” replied Daja as she mounted her horse once more. “Frostpine and I went to the university after we left Namorn. I think kissing�
�s all those students think about. Well…that, and drinking. And throwing up.”
“I’ll bet the mage students don’t drink that much,” Briar said as he swung back into his saddle. “Elsewise, Lightsbridge would prob’ly be a smoking hole in the ground.” He shuddered along with the three girls. None of them had liked their first attempts at drinking, or cleaning up the wreckage of the abandoned barn they had chosen to do it in.
“Well,” Sandry remarked as Tris mounted her horse, “we may not want to drink, but in just twelve more miles, we can unpack and laze in hot Namornese baths.”
All of them groaned with longing as they took to the road once more. Daja had described the Namornese baths with such eloquence that, after weeks of travel, the four could hardly wait to give them a try.
Sandry listened to them with the tiniest of smiles. So who we were together before, it’s not entirely gone, she thought. A common threat, and we’re closer than ever. And we all want hot baths.
It’s a start.
Berenene, empress of Namorn, allowed her maids to take away her hunting dress and let Rizu, her Mistress of the Wardrobe, replace it with clothes more suitable for afternoon wear. Once her hair was set in order again, she told Rizu and the maids to tidy up and left her bedchamber for her most private workroom.
It was small compared with her other rooms, its walls lined with bookshelves and maps. The chairs, particularly her own, were designed for comfort. The desk met Berenene’s exact requirements, its drawers and furnishings within her reach. Beside it was a window that looked out onto any part of the palace she wished it to, needing only the proper word to change what it showed her. At the moment it was filled with views of her favorite gardens. Berenene loved springtime. Winters in Dancruan, or anywhere else on the shores of the vast lake called the Syth, were long and iron hard. She bore them with the help of her precious greenhouses, but she reveled in the arrival of spring and the wild growth outdoors.
A leather folder sat on her desk. She sat in her cushioned chair and kissed the lock that kept its contents safe. The lock, like so many of the men at the court, responded eagerly to her lips. It popped open.
Inside were sheets of parchment, condensed notes of reports that she had been assembling for more than seventeen years. Its contents dealt with all things that touched on her young cousin Sandrilene. The girl had been foremost in her mind since the mages of the Living Circle communications chain had sent word that she was on her way from Emelan. Now that Berenene had actual faces to put with the notes—the sketches and portraits her spies had made were well enough, but she trusted her own judgment most—she wanted to review the file one last time.
She lifted a painting on vellum. It was a very good portrait of Sandry, all things considered. She’s added more curves since my agent in Emelan painted her, Berenene mused, but the likeness is nearly perfect, right down to her posture and expression—I didn’t really need Sandry’s resemblance to her mother to tell me who she was.
Berenene skimmed the written notes until she reached the all-important summary.
The lady Sandrilene appeared to be a stitch witch on her arrival at Winding Circle temple. Following the earthquake in which she and her friends were trapped, they linked their magics together somehow. All of their powers, including hers, increased by magnitudes. Since that time she has woven magic like thread, created healing bandages and clothing that disguises the wearer, and turned her opponents’ garments against their wearers. At thirteen she was granted her mage’s credential by the governing council at Winding Circle, an honor normally reserved for those at least twenty years of age or older. At fourteen, she took over the running of her paternal great-uncle Vedris of Emelan’s household and lands. Vedris is known to respect her advice in matters such as trade, magecraft, and diplomacy. At present she seems to be at odds with her Winding Circle friends. They do not appear to act in magical concert as they did before the other three departed on journeys with their teachers. Should they reforge that old link, there is no way to estimate what works of magic they might create. Certainly they will be able to communicate over distance once again: The limit of that distance was once judged to be approximately a few hundred miles.
Duke Vedris of Emelan will not be complacent if his great-niece is forced to act against her will. There is open speculation in Emelan that he intends, as is his right under that country’s laws of succession, to name Lady Sandrilene as his heir over the sons of his own blood. It is believed that his older son Gospard will acquiesce, though his younger son Franzen will not. There is no confirmation of these rumors; no changes of the duke’s will have been filed. If His Grace learned she had been imperiled in any way, he poses no military threat, but he is a major threat to southern trade. With his allies there he could well cut off the trade in gems and spices. Her Imperial Majesty also has a number of bank accounts in Emelan that would be at risk.
Lady Sandrilene is an extraordinary girl. Although she possesses her mage’s credential, she does not flaunt it. She is aware of her lineage and quick to assert the rights of her noble birth if she feels that she is not respected. The lady has a temper. She has engaged in flirtations in the last year—one with a temple novice, two with the sons of noble families in Emelan—but they have been flirtations only. The lady does not appear to be interested in marriage at present.
The empress set the papers aside, tapping her chin with a perfectly manicured finger. “Why couldn’t the richest heiress in all Namorn have been a noble little sheep?” she asked the empty air.
She took up the next portrait: that of Briar Moss, as he called himself. Ah, yes, she thought, amused. She had seen the way his eyes lingered on her curves once he had relaxed a little. The young gallant. More importantly to me, the green mage. He may be only eighteen, but he is definitely male, and I can handle men. And that shakkan on one of the packhorses—that must be the one the spies wrote about, the one he began with. What a beauty it is! If that’s a sample of his art, then I must entice him into my service. A talented young man, coming from poverty as my reports say he does…I will pay him a fortune to tend my shakkans and oversee my other gardens. He’ll wonder how he could ever have lived anywhere else, by the time I’ve done with him! She set aside the notes about Briar. She knew what she needed to do as far as he was concerned.
The third portrait was of Daja Kisubo, the dark-skinned young woman who was clothed Trader-style. Cast out from the Traders, yet carrying a staff and dressing like one, Berenene thought. And they’ve made her wealthy. Not all outcasts are so fortunate. I wonder if that metal piece on her hand hurts? I know she makes incredible things with the excess from it: a living metal leg; gloves that enable someone to handle fire without getting burned; a living metal tree that blooms copper roses.
She glanced at her notes.
Daja Kisubo has excellent connections in Namorn. She has close ties to House Bancanor in Kugisko, and thus to the Goldsmiths’ Guild and its network of banks throughout the empire. From the work that she and her teacher did while in Kugisko, she has alliances with the Mages’ Society of Kugisko and the present head of the Smiths’ Guild for all Namorn. Politically, at least, she is as powerful as Lady Sandrilene in Namorn.
These mages! sniffed Berenene as she set the notes aside. Isn’t it bad enough they support one another, without meddling in non-mage politics? The allegiance of the Kisubo girl would gain me friends among the smiths and the mages, which is always useful…The Traders might not involve themselves in my politics on her behalf, but the living metal trade would come here. Then the taxes on the sales of those living metal toys would enter my coffers, not Vedris’s.
She was an outcast once. Outcasts always respond well to offers of position, if I can find no better inducement for our young smith.
The last portrait was that of the redhead, Trisana Chandler, the fourth member of Sandry’s little family. Berenene drummed her fingers on her desk, frowning slightly. Trisana was the unknown quantity among Sandry’s companions. Some of the st
ories about this girl that her spies had sent on were simply outlandish. Still, there was that glass dragon—made by an imperial subject and the nephew of the present Imperial Glassmaker. The boy had been promising before an accident on the shores of the Syth had nearly killed him. They had sent him away, believing he was useless to the family. Berenene remembered it well.
Then word came from so far south, it’s barely on my maps that his skill is better than ever—he’s making glass that lives—and this girl Trisana had something to do with it, Berenene thought. A merchant’s daughter, allied to my cousin and these other two, the student of the great mage Niklaren Goldeye. A loner. A puzzle.
The notes read:
What is provable about her is that she is a weather witch of some skill, can manipulate winds, and has been able to earn sums by calling rain, finding water for farmers and towns, and supplying winds to ships. She invests what she earns, has added to her savings, and is respected by her bankers in Emelan.
Other tales are unconfirmed: Emelan—she destroyed an entire pirate fleet with lightning. Tharios—she can scry the wind. Ninver, Capchen—she caused it to hail indoors, created windstorms in her parents’ home, made her father sink into the ground when he punished her. Winding Circle temple—she may have put a temporary halt to the change of tides.
Berenene smiled and closed the folder. It must have embarrassed my agents so, to pass on such wild tales. But they did it, which is what they were ordered to do. I will make sure they are duly rewarded. Whatever else, the presence of a girl who can cause such rumors would give my enemies something to think about.
The empress nodded. The notes had confirmed the conclusion she had already reached: Each of these four young people would be an asset to the empire, and well worth any trouble it might take to convince them to stay. My court and I will put out our best efforts, Berenene told herself, closing the folder and locking it once more. They’ll be so enraptured with us and with Dancruan, they won’t even remember there is an Emelan.
The Will of the Empress Page 6
