by A. H. Lee
Roland nodded. “If we get caught, I’ll just have to talk our way out. Unless you’d rather forget about getting a piece of the mirror. It might all be cleaned up by now anyway.”
Sairis shook his head. “We have to try.”
So, they tiptoed from behind a wood panel at the foot of the stairs to the strategy room. The palace’s interior halls had never been heavily patrolled at night. There wasn’t any need. A lamp in a sconce had been lit near the foot of the stairs, though. Roland felt horribly exposed in the golden light as they hurried beneath and upward into the comforting shadows.
The hall at the top had been cordoned off. Roland noticed smoke and fire damage on the walls and ceiling. He was afraid the strategy room might be gone—burned beyond safety, fallen into the lower story even. He said as much as they approached the door. “You’d better bring out your light, Sairis. There might be holes in the floor.”
“Doubt it,” said Sairis, but he brought out the green glow anyway.
Roland was surprised to discover that Sairis was right. The room was structurally intact, though charred.
“Fires need air,” explained Sairis. “They’re like living things. With the door shut, this one would have eaten its way through the most combustible materials and then suffocated.”
“You would be the expert on fire,” said Roland. “Is that how you deal with knights?”
Sairis shrugged. “Only if I can’t think of something else. It takes a lot of magic—” He stopped.
“I didn’t mean—” began Roland and couldn’t think how to finish the sentence without making it worse. I didn’t mean, “Tell me how you deal with knights so that I’ll know how to deal with you someday.” “We are on the same side,” he said aloud.
Sairis didn’t answer. He was prowling around the edges of the room. No furniture remained. The map wall had been reduced to a plane of crumbling charcoal.
Sairis covered his mouth to stifle a cough in the still, heavy air near the back of the room. The mirror was gone. It had probably shattered in the heat. Nothing of it was visible on the wall, and the floor had been swept. Sairis crouched on hands and knees, moving along the blackened baseboards. He stood up at last, holding the barest sliver that gleamed in the light of his magic.
“Is that enough?” asked Roland doubtfully.
Sairis had already folded the splinter of glass in a handkerchief and stuffed it into his pocket. “Yes. I mean, we’ll see. If this isn’t enough, I doubt a larger piece would make any difference. Let’s get that sword and get out of here.”
“May I buy you a drink afterward?”
Sairis shrugged, “Is this more of the getting-to-know-you thing?”
“It might be.”
“Aren’t drinks supposed to happen before...?” He waggled his eyebrows and Roland covered his mouth to stifle a spasm of laughter.
He saw the flash of Sairis’s teeth as he turned away. Well at least you’re feeling comfortable enough to joke about it now. “We seem to be doing things in the wrong order,” he said aloud.
“If we get out of here with that sword, you’re going to have a hard time getting me away from it this evening.”
“All work and no play is unhealthy, I hear.”
“Necromancy is not something one does for one’s health.”
Roland looked at him sidelong. “Really? Because I thought you said earlier—”
“For gods’ sakes, Roland, we are burgling the royal palace! One thing at a time.”
“I don’t think I can be said to be burgling my own—”
“And there’s a demon loose, probably one of Hastafel’s, and someone here wants you dead.”
“A fair point. I’ll withhold drink recommendations until later.” Roland was feeling almost optimistic about the evening when they arrived at the top of the stairs and froze. A figure sat alone in the pool of light at the bottom. It appeared to be a girl, her light brown hair loose and shining in the lamplight. She was wearing a red dressing gown over a frilly night robe, too elaborate for a servant. She was sitting with her knees drawn to her chin, her head in her arms. For a moment, Roland thought she might be asleep. Then a barely audible sob escaped from beneath her hunched shoulders.
Roland caught a movement out of the corner of his eye. Sairis was drawing the cloaking charm from his pocket. He made a motion with his head. They were going to have to tiptoe past the weeping girl. Sairis held out an arm with an impatient gesture as though to say, “Well, surely you know how this works by now.”
Roland hesitated. Then he shook his head. I can’t walk past this.
“Candice,” he said softly.
The girl’s head snapped up and she spun on the step, eyes huge and glistening in the lamplight. She stared at Roland. Sairis had gone as still as a waxwork. Roland wondered if he’d managed to activate the charm. He thought, belatedly, that that might be better. She didn’t need to see both of them. But then Candice’s eyes made a quick back and forth movement, and Roland knew that she’d spotted Sairis.
Candice got to her feet, shaky and clutching her gown. “Prince Roland... They said you were ill from the fire, and Magus Sairis...” She trailed off.
“It’s alright,” said Roland gently. “We are trying to figure out what happened with the fire. Please don’t tell anyone we were here.”
His words hung in the air between them. Candice’s eyes narrowed. Roland knew she’d understood the offer. “We’ll keep your secret if you keep ours.”
“Candice,” continued Roland, “are you in trouble? Is someone hurting you?”
Something flickered in her eyes, but this time he couldn’t interpret it. Instead of answering his question, she asked, “Is the queen alright?”
“She’s fine,” said Roland. “She’ll be back soon.”
Candice nodded. “You’re trying to figure out who tried to kill her.” She spoke matter-of-factly, watching Roland’s face.
Roland was surprised at this swift deduction. He said nothing.
“Do you think it was my father?”
Roland’s eyes flicked briefly to Sairis, but the necromancer offered no comment. His face looked bloodless in the wan light.
“It might have been my father,” said Candice, who seemed entirely willing to carry on this conversation one-sided, “but if you want proof, I don’t have it.”
Roland’s mouth fell open in surprise. “I wasn’t... I wasn’t about to ask for anything.”
“Also, I’m not going to marry you.”
Roland almost laughed. “We are in accord,” he managed gravely.
Candice’s mouth quirked up. It was the closest thing he’d seen to a smile from her. “Can I help you?” she asked.
Well aren’t you full of surprises? “Maybe. For now, just don’t tell anyone we were here.”
“Alright.” She wiped at her nose. Roland saw what looked like a new bruise on her arm. He almost said, “Just come with us.”
But it would have been perfectly mad, and Sairis had come to life with an impatient twitch beside him. “Go back to bed now,” said Roland.
Candice hesitated. Then she turned and walked away towards another distant pool of light. Roland waited a long beat and then darted for the panel that would take them back into the tunnels.
Chapter 24. Sairis Asks a Question
“I know it was stupid,” said Roland as soon as they were alone.
Sairis said nothing.
“I should have waited for you to activate the charm so that you, at least, could stay out of sight.”
“I did activate it,” said Sairis. “She just saw through it. Suspicious kid.”
“Oh.” Roland hesitated. “Did you see the bruises?”
“I saw them.”
Roland was finding it difficult to interpret Sairis’s tone again, the more so in the dark. He didn’t think Sairis was angry. Although I did put him in danger without warning and without consulting him.
They’d almost reached the stables when Sairis said, “Is
it still my turn to ask a question?”
Roland felt relieved. “Of course.”
“Who was Marcus?”
Roland’s mind skittered to a stop. There was no sound in the passage except the soft swish of their footsteps. “You saw the carving in the hayloft,” he said at last.
“Yes. But you said his name earlier. Right before you pulled that sword out of me. You said, ‘Marcus, I’m sorry.’”
“Oh.” Roland licked his lips. “I...wasn’t aware.”
When he couldn’t seem to find a way to continue, Sairis ventured, “He died in the fighting?”
Roland cleared his throat. “He was one of my father’s wards. He came to court when I was twelve. We were close. He died on Mount Cairn about a year ago.”
Sairis waited.
Roland realized he’d just taken a wrong turn. “I will tell you the story, but...later?”
He thought Sairis might say something pointed like, “This getting-to-know-you thing was your idea” or “You’re quicker to ask the personal questions than to answer them, aren’t you?”
But Sairis said only, “Later.”
* * * *
Sairis had a lot on his mind besides Roland’s romantic history and the future prospects of his unfortunate child fiancée. An astral demon far from its master and clearly with its own agenda... Has Hastafel lost control of it?
Back in the stables, Roland produced an unfitted leather sheath—a simple, folded thing—in which he intended to carry the sword. Sairis insisted on carrying it himself. He could feel the unnatural cold of the blade through the leather.
It feels like a focus. That had been Sairis’s first impression, and it was only strengthened as he took up the blade again. Why in all the hells would Hastafel risk losing his focus?
Sairis considered other possibilities. It might just be a magical artifact. Someone else’s focus, someone who’s dead. But Sairis didn’t think so. The sword’s magical signature was very similar to what he had glimpsed of the wolf’s, which was certainly Hastafel’s creature. Swords were perhaps the most commonly enchanted items in existence. If this was Hastafel’s primary magical focus, it was rather uncreative. Hastafel had not struck Sairis as an uncreative man. Still...
He’s a warlord, a conqueror. A sword fits.
He had not planned to lose it, of course. He could hardly have known Sairis would be present in the strategy room, could hardly have expected Sairis to set the wolf-knight on fire. He’d expected something, though. The more Sairis replayed that scene in the strategy room, the more puzzled he became. Hastafel had arrived with a sword made for killing magicians and magical entities. He’d been prepared to let his demon use this dangerous weapon because... Because he didn’t trust the portal, Sairis realized. He never stepped through himself, not even to get the sword back. He sent his soldiers and his demon through, but he didn’t trust it for himself.
That means... What?
Sairis followed the silhouette of Roland’s broad shoulders through the narrow streets, letting him choose the way, thinking. Hastafel didn’t need a sword like that to kill Queen Daphne or Roland. The Malconwys were an afterthought.
“Are you the best they could do?”
Sairis felt his spine stiffen again at that remembered sneer. It was ridiculous to feel offended on the behalf of Mistala, and yet somehow he did. Am I playing for team Malconwy now? Truly?
Sairis forced himself to stop trying to figure out whose side he was on. Hastafel put a sword through me. That’s reason enough to kill him.
Sairis rehearsed the facts. Hastafel didn’t bring that sword for the Malconwys. Whoever he expected to fight wasn’t in that room. Instead he found me, and I suppose I should be flattered that he thought I was worth attacking with spelled stone.
“They say necromancers die hard.”
Harder than you dream, demon mage. Sairis slipped his free hand into his pocket to touch the scrap of cloth wrapped around the bit of mirror. You may not have been hunting me, but I am about to be hunting you.
He was so lost in his plans that he almost bumped into Roland as the knight stopped walking. Sairis realized that they were back in the alley behind the tavern. A smiling Hazel answered the door. “Roland, Sairis, your friend beat you here.”
“Friend?” echoed Roland with a trace of alarm. “I didn’t send any friend.”
Hazel’s smile faltered. “The qu— I mean, Fifi seemed to know him.”
For a big man, Roland could move with incredible speed. Sairis scampered after him as he whipped down the hall, turned into the kitchen...and there sat Daphne, cradling a cup of tea beside a lanky man who looked vaguely familiar. It took Sairis a moment to place his long face without the wig.
“Prince Anton,” said Roland stiffly.
The prince of Lamont rose and bowed. He was wearing the sort of simple clothes that Sairis supposed rich people thought of as stealthy, although the cut and fabric were too fine to pass close inspection. “Prince Roland. Daphne said I have you to thank for the message. I cannot tell you how pleased I am to find you all well.” His eyes did not linger on Sairis, although Sairis could practically feel his politely-averted curiosity.
Roland’s glare was more than enough to hold anyone’s attention. “What message?”
“Roland,” said Daphne smoothly, “I am glad you and Sairis are safely back. I had Joslyn tell Anton where to find me. Please don’t be upset. I am willing to trust him, and so must you be. Report.”
This simple order seemed to put a muzzle on Roland’s objections and he proceeded to outline their evening of espionage, excepting their activities behind the tapestry. Daphne’s face went a little pale when he got to the part about Maniford and the demon. She turned to Sairis.
“I believe it was an astral aspect of Lust,” said Sairis. “It has your uncle in thrall. He is not himself. You should not judge him too harshly.” Before she could respond, he asked, “How exactly did your father die?”
“Jousting,” said Daphne with a frown. “But everyone said it was his heart. He’d been complaining of the pain all morning, but he insisted on participating. He fell off his horse, dead. No one was touching him at the time.”
Sairis nodded. “I doubt your Uncle Maniford or the demon were involved. However, Lord Winthrop could be in danger.”
Daphne drummed her fingers, thinking. After a moment, she said, “Finish your story, Roland.”
When he’d done so, there was a moment of silence in the kitchen. Sairis felt impatient. “I would like to examine this sword,” he began.
At the same time, Roland said, “Would it be alright if we went upstairs and had a drink?”
Daphne’s eyes flicked between them. And for no reason whatsoever, Sairis felt the color rise in his cheeks. What is wrong with me?
“Yes, I should think you two need a chance to catch your breaths. Go have a drink. We’ll talk about this in the morning. Sairis, you’ll tell me if that sword seems likely to kill us in our beds?”
Sairis bowed with a resigned expression. “I will, my lady. I would prefer to begin testing it at once—”
“But it can wait an hour?”
Sairis licked his lips. “It can wait an hour.”
“Then take a moment to relax. Roland, do you think Anton and I would be welcome up there?”
Roland was surprised. “Well... You wouldn’t be unwelcome, but...does Prince Anton know...?”
“I believe I’ve given him a clear idea of what to expect,” said Daphne crisply.
Roland looked like he very much doubted that, but he shrugged. “As you wish. I’m going to change clothes and get the hay out of my hair.”
As they started down the hall, Daphne called, “Also, Sairis, there’s a live mouse in a glass jar on your dresser!”
Sairis braced himself for some icy response from Roland. Instead Roland started to snicker. By the time he pushed open the door to their room, Sairis was laughing too. “Someday,” whispered Roland, “you’re going to remember the t
ime the queen of Mistala gifted you with a live mouse.”
Sairis looked up at him. Roland’s blue eyes crinkled to slits, a blond curl falling into his face. Someday, thought Sairis, I’m going to remember the time her brother looked at me that way.
Chapter 25. Regrets
“Marcus was the youngest son of Lord Kinnic,” began Roland. Sairis sat on the stool beside him in what he was beginning to think of as “their” corner and listened. “His father was—is—a border lord to the east. Lord Kinnic had an unfortunate habit of attacking Falcosta unilaterally and generally behaving like a law unto himself. Gods know my father was willing enough to attack Falcosta, but he did like to know about it first. Marcus ended up at court as a hostage to Lord Kinnic’s good behavior. He wasn’t the only one. We have some powerful border lords. Constant war will do that.”
Roland paused to sip his drink. Across the room, Queen Daphne and Prince Anton had seated themselves at a table and were watching the room with the wide-eyed curiosity of people who knew how to negotiate an international trade agreement, but had never ordered a drink at a public tavern in their lives. Prince Anton clearly thought he was in some kind of spy story. He’d brought a short-brimmed workman’s cap, which he kept pulled down over his eyes. They looked as inconspicuous as frogs in a fruit salad, but Sairis doubted anyone would identify them as royalty.
“There were about a dozen of us,” continued Roland, “young lords I was raised with. But Marcus was special. He was a couple of years older than me—a green-eyed, red-haired fireball. Jousting, swordplay, hunting—anything that was happening, he was in the middle of it. And he...preferred men, as I did. Such things had been legal for a few years by then, but it was still shameful...not something a prince should do. I was twisted up with guilt, but Marcus didn’t feel guilty at all. He knew he had to be discreet, but he didn’t think there was anything wrong with him. It wasn’t long before that started to make sense to me.”
Sairis felt an unfamiliar pang of what might be jealousy—not over Roland’s affections, but over the carefree life he described. “You were lovers?”