by Beth Alvarez
“I've never seen this part of the city,” Firal murmured as the carriage halted. Outside, the driver and footman spoke to the guards on horseback in low voices. “I think I would recall this place if I'd seen it before.”
“Father likes being different. He enjoys the recognition,” Vahn said, though the words were devoid of the bitterness she'd expected. Instead, a hint of respect colored his tone. She eyed him curiously but he didn't say anything else as he shifted to open the carriage door.
His hand brushed it just as the footman opened the door from the other side. A hint of displeasure pinched the corners of Vahn's eyes and for a moment, Firal suspected he found their entourage as disheartening as she did.
Vahn slipped out of the carriage first and righted his cape before he turned to offer Firal his hand before the footman could interfere. She accepted the help, cradling Lumia against her chest with her other arm. Vahn helped her straighten her skirts while the footman smoothed the back of Vahn’s cape. Before any of them were presentable, a man in livery appeared at the front door of the manor.
The half-dozen guards on horseback dismounted when they saw him. They positioned their horses in a half-ring behind their queen and king-regent as the gates of the estate swung open.
“Lord Ennil Tanrys gladly receives Your Majesties,” the liveryman said, motioning them in with a wide flourish.
The guards exchanged a few quiet words with the carriage driver and then with Vahn. The two guards without horses remained beside the carriage as the rest of the gathering moved into the fenced estate. More liveried men came from behind the house, intercepting them to take the horses and allow the guards to fall in around their charges.
The men walked close at her heels and Firal didn't like it one bit. She tried to ignore them and inched closer to Vahn's side as they took the front stairs in tandem. Vahn caught her elbow and gave it a squeeze, offering both support and solidarity as they stepped into the house and the large receiving room where Ennil waited.
“My lady,” Ennil said, dropping in a graceful bow that was more respectful than she'd expected, given their brief first meeting. “It is an honor to receive you within my humble home.”
She tried not to laugh. The house was anything but humble, as magnificent inside as the gardens were outside. “Thank you, Lord Tanrys. I am grateful to be afforded your hospitality.” Her eyes were drawn to a wide banner of scarlet and gold above the entryway, embroidered with the crest she recalled from the cape Ennil had worn when he visited the palace. She tried not to stare, unable to puzzle out what exactly the crest was. A bird of some sort, she thought.
Arched doorways led into sitting rooms and a formal parlor, each of them filled with elegance. Most of the furnishings were polished dark wood with red upholstery and gilt edging, though clashing accents in Ilmenhith's colors of silver and blue were sprinkled throughout. Firal didn't see any serving staff as Ennil led them past the parlor and into a grand dining room, but she didn't doubt their existence. Not a speck of dust marred the furniture.
The dining table was large enough to host twenty, though only four places were set. The dishes were delicate porcelain, accompanied by crystal goblets as fine as any the palace could afford. Trays of food were already present, though as they stepped in, a woman entered the room with another. “Ennil, would you—oh! You didn't tell me they were here already!”
A smile of surprising warmth split Ennil's features as he joined her and plucked the tray of vegetables from her hands. “Vivenne,” he said, and placed a kiss on her cheek. “See to your granddaughter. I'll fetch the rest.”
Vivenne's bright eyes sparkled as they turned to Firal and Lumia and, oddly, Firal felt a lump rise in her throat. Vahn bore more of a resemblance to his mother than his father, just as much spirit in her blue eyes as what could be found in her son's. Her pale blonde hair fell to her waist in tight ringlets, and though age had put gray at her temples and laugh lines at the corners of her eyes, her plump face was without wrinkles. A stained apron she seemed to have forgotten covered her green brocade dress. She hurried to join Firal and Vahn at the far side of the room. “Oh, let me see her!” she cried as she swept both Firal and the baby into a hug.
“She mothers everybody,” Vahn muttered, earning himself a playful slap on the arm.
“Oh, hush you! I've every right to mother your wife. I am her mother now!” Vivenne held Firal at arm's length. “Oh, you're magnificent. I couldn't have asked for a more lovely daughter. And that baby! Why, her hair's just like yours. Here! Let me see her pretty face.” She scooped Lumia up before Firal could do more than laugh.
“Mother, please. You act like you've never seen a baby before.”
Vivenne gave him a reprimanding look as she cradled Lumia to her bosom. “I've not seen this one, and look at how big she's grown already! Oh, her head still bobbles, the precious dear! How old is she now, a month?”
“Two, almost.” Firal's throat stuck. She swallowed hard. Vivenne looked every bit the part of a proud grandmother, and despite all she knew, she felt a pang of remorse for the relationship she and her own mother had never had.
“And here I am, just seeing her for the first time.” Vivenne gave Vahn a shadowed look.
He cleared his throat. “You've prepared tonight’s dinner yourself, Mother?”
“She thought it best that the staff be given the night off. Fewer prying eyes and ears.” Ennil returned from the other room with a pair of wine bottles. He gestured toward the table with them as his eyes skimmed the armed men in the doorway. Firal raised a brow and he went on. “The royal family's business shouldn't be the gossip of Ilmenhith. And whether we like it or not, we're now a part of it. Sit, please.”
Vahn pulled out a chair and motioned for Firal to seat herself. After she did, he drew back another chair for his mother. “And whether you like it or not, the royal family's business will always be the gossip of Ilmenhith. You can't avoid that forever, Father, no matter how you try to avoid us.”
Ennil's mouth tightened.
“Oh, look at her eyes,” Vivenne cooed, stroking Lumia's cheek. For all that she sounded distracted, her face was pinched with anxiety, and Firal felt a stroke of pity for the woman. Though Vivenne tried to diffuse it with the baby's presence, the tension between the two men didn't slacken in the least.
Ennil stared at his son for a long moment, and the silence grew so thick it made Firal's scalp prickle. Then at last he dropped his gaze to the baby in his wife's arms, dispelling the sense of dread. “They are an unusual color, aren't they?”
Firal straightened in her chair. “It runs in the family, it seems.”
“Something to do with being the child of a mage, I suppose,” Vivenne said, smiling up at her. “Just lovely. Such a dear. I had hoped to have more children than just Vahnil, though I suppose it's best that he ended up being our only, what with the handful he was.”
“Is,” Ennil grumbled.
Vahn gave his father a hard look as he filled plates for himself and Firal. “Carus,” he called over his shoulder. One of the guardsmen stepped forward as Vahn lifted Firal's plate. “Test the queen's food.”
“Don't be silly,” Firal chided. She reached for her food and scowled when he lifted it beyond her fingers to pass it to the soldier behind her. “Vahn, we're at your family's home. Your mother made this herself!”
A look of amusement crossed Ennil's face as the soldier tasted everything on the plate. “Forgive me, Majesty, but your husband is wise.” Firal turned to him, startled, and he gave a grim smile. “You should trust no one, my lady. Those who don't wish to kill you will wish to control you instead.”
She tensed and cast a wary glance toward Vivenne and Lumia. The woman was pale, staring at her husband in disbelief. Slowly, Firal's eyes drifted back to Ennil. “And which party do you fall in?”
Ennil rested his elbows on the table, laced his fingers together and watched with a steel gleam in his blue eyes.
Vahn filled a pair of goblets with
wine from the table and held one up for Carus to take. Firal didn't need to look to know the soldier would be as pale as Vivenne. She heard him sip and swallow hard, and then he passed both wine and food back to Vahn. “Safe, King-regent.”
Vivenne exhaled heavily, her shoulders sagging with the weight of relief. Firal did not stir.
“Control, my queen,” Ennil said at last. He filled his own goblet and took a long draught. “But only enough to keep the peace and set things straight in the capital. No more than your mages want of you, I'm sure.”
Firal's eyes narrowed and she bit her tongue to keep it still. The mages scolded her often enough about speaking without thought, and though she knew they were right, the idea of heeding the advice of mages immediately after his jibe about their control made her seethe. He was right, though. There were times her council—the mages—squabbled over making decisions as if she weren't even there. Her jaw tightened, her anger stirred anew. “I have no intention of being a mouthpiece instead of a queen. The mages offer valuable counsel, but I will not let myself be a puppet on their strings or yours.”
“Very well, not a puppet. A dancing bear, perhaps? Ready to maul us all, the moment she's off the leash.” Ennil smirked, lifting his goblet as if in toast.
Vahn slammed his hands down on the table and thrust himself from his chair. “You will not speak to your queen like that!”
“And you will stop calling yourself king-regent!” Ennil snapped. “Your trepidation only makes this whole situation worse. You are ruling as your wife recovers, and your child is the heir to the throne. You could be king, boy! You bow to your wife as head of the kingdom and bow to no one else. Ilmenhith needs strength and decisiveness.”
“And if I am king, you will not speak to me in that manner either,” Vahn said through clenched teeth.
Ennil stared at him for a time, his gaze weighted, judging. Then he burst into laughter, put down his wine, and clapped slowly. “Very good! Much improved, and very quickly at that. Please, sit. If it pleases you. Now that your head is in the right place, there is much for us to discuss, Majesties.”
Vahn blinked and shot Firal a confused glance. She raised a brow, inclining her head toward his chair. He sank back into it, eyeing his father distrustfully. She didn't blame him. Only an instant before, his father had been aggressive, power-hungry. The sudden, respectful shift in the man's tone threw her off.
Vivenne shook her head and stared at Lumia, the child now drowsing in her arms. “You know I don't like it when you play those games, Ennil.”
“You have an unusual way of speaking to people. I see why you aren't popular in the palace.” Firal drew herself up in such a queenly fashion that even the mages would have been pleased. “Allow me to make one thing clear, Lord Tanrys. You are not in my good favor, nor in that of my husband, and you are remarkably fortunate that you've not yet been arrested for your mouth tonight. That can change quite easily, of course, so I allow you one opportunity to explain yourself, before I have you dragged off to the dungeon for your disgraceful show of insolence and borderline treasonous suggestions to your son.”
Ennil's brows lifted, the look on his face a mix of surprise and what she thought might be respect. “My apologies, Majesty. I don't wish to disrespect my queen, but I must know I have your full attention if I am to be of any assistance.”
“And how would a retired noble be of assistance to me?” Firal asked, just a hint of impatience in her tone.
“I've already said. I will be part of your council, and we need to discuss matters now. You will need my presence desperately, if I am to extricate you from the mages as the balance of power shifts among them.”
She kept her expression neutral, though a prickling sense of uneasiness crept up her spine. “Why would I need your help when I have the Archmage?”
“Because, my lady,” Ennil said earnestly. “The Archmage is dying.”
11
Basilisk
The doorknob turned, but the door didn't move when he pushed. Rune gritted his teeth and threw his shoulder against it. The latch strained but held fast. He glanced down the hallway behind him before he took a step back and kicked the door hard enough that the walls shook. He grimaced.
At any moment, the barracks would spring to life as soldiers scrambled to organize their belongings and prepare for departure. Any second, someone would realize he was gone. He flexed his toes and kicked again. Wood splintered around the latch. The door flipped open and banged into the wall behind it.
Rune darted into the dark office on the other side, his heart hammering in his chest. His eyes scoured the walls, the shelves, the space under the desk and table. It had to be there somewhere. The captain hadn't mentioned the sword again, not so much as a whisper. Books on weaponry still sat in piles on the desk, betraying the man's curiosity. It had to be there, if the captain was researching it.
He threw back the lid of the chest at the bed's foot and dug through it. Nothing. Growling, he dropped to his knees to look beneath the bed. The sword was the one piece of his life that was still at his fingertips, still within his control. He wasn't leaving without it. He jerked the wardrobe open and flung clothing aside. Nothing. He cursed, raking claws through his short hair as he turned to look around the room again. A shadow moved into the doorway and he froze.
“Looking for something?” Garam folded his arms over his chest, though his face stayed impassive.
A hint of red flickered in Rune's eyes. “You have something that belongs to me.”
“Your uniform?” The captain didn't stir. “On the bed. Right where we left it. Going to need it when we ride out tomorrow.”
Rune shook his head and scoffed. “I'm not riding anywhere. I left my homeland because of war. I'm not riding straight back into it.”
“You'll ride wherever I tell you to ride,” Garam replied, tone even, though his dark eyes glinted like steel. “You're a member of the guard now, which means you're under my command. You'll do as you're told, and you're not going anywhere.”
“Try and stop me,” Rune spat.
Garam lifted his chin, lowered his arms, and squared his shoulders. “All right, then. If that's how you want to play it, we'll play. Get past me and you're free to go.”
Rune hesitated, studying the captain, but the man's face gave away nothing. “And if I can't?”
“Then you stay under my command and you don't go anywhere.” Garam quirked a brow. “Because if I win and you try deserting, you'll regret that you ever survived your first round in the arena.”
Silence fell between them and Rune's eyes searched the room one last time. He saw the captain's sheathed sword beside the bed, knew Garam saw him looking at it. There weren't many options to weigh.
He bolted for the weapon, jerked it from its sheath and spun to strike. Garam knocked the sword aside and caught Rune's sword arm, wrenching it behind his back.
Rune grimaced and lurched to the side to twist out of the captain's grasp. But the man caught his ankle with a foot, swept Rune's legs out from under him, and sent him crashing down. His head hit the floor and his eyes flared crimson as stars burst in his field of vision.
Garam struck the sword from his hand and Rune answered with claws, tearing fabric and flesh. The slash yielded nothing from the captain. Instead, Garam split his lip with a backhand and pinned his sleeve to the floor with the sword. He twisted Rune's other arm and held him to the ground.
Spitting curses, Rune tried to jerk his arm free of the sword, but the many layers of fabric he'd worn to make his borrowed coat fit kept him anchored in place. Garam twisted his other arm a little farther. He gritted his teeth against the pain.
“Don't make me hurt you,” the captain growled. “You're no use to me if I have to beat you the way you deserve.”
Rune glowered at him and spat black blood.
“Give up yet?” Garam asked.
Again Rune tried to free his sleeve from the sword, but every movement made his opponent shift a little more. The pa
in in his twisted arm inched toward agony.
“I'll break your arm if I have to.”
He tried to get to his knees, but found himself unable to move without his arm snapping like dry tinder in the captain's grasp. He cursed again and angled his shoulders to lessen the pressure. Unwilling to surrender yet, he pulled his sleeve against the sword until sweat beaded on his brow. Nothing. He collapsed against the floor, gasping for breath. The blade was so dull it couldn't have cut butter.
Garam eased his grip just slightly as he felt Rune's resistance wane. “You were good in the arena, I'll give you that. But I didn't get to be Captain of the Royal City Guard by luck or inheritance. Consider that, next time you get cocky.”
“Let me go,” Rune growled.
“Give up?”
Rune squeezed his eyes shut and cursed one last time.
“Yes or no.”
“Yes.” The single word escaped as an angry groan, the grumbling of wounded pride.
Garam let him go and jerked his sword from the floorboards.
Rune exhaled heavily. With his head bowed, he drew himself to his knees and gripped his aching shoulder. “You fight without weapons often?”
“When I need to. Less often, these days, but it's a good skill to have.” The captain offered a hand. Rune eyed it distrustfully and Garam curled his fingers into a fist as he stepped back. “Get up and get your uniform on.”
Rune struggled to his feet with a grimace. He'd been bested in fights before, but he couldn't recall it ever happening so quickly. He didn't know whether to be angry at the captain or himself.
“I gave you an order.”
Rune gave him a dark look. “What makes you think I will obey?”
Garam crossed his arms. “Because you lost. Or have you really got so little honor that you'll still play the coward and run from your responsibilities?”