Mazes of Power

by Juliette Wade

  Even when he was angry—even when he tried to fight—Tagaret was harmless.

  Now the ring gleamed, beautiful and perfect in the lights of the Hall. His own piece of power, that he’d found all by himself. It had set his foot on the path to the center of this game. It was why he was here. It was why he had to win.

  “Cabinet members, I ask for your vote,” Innis concluded. “Thank you.” Applause surged through the room, power thundering into every crack and corner, pounding into Nekantor’s lungs as he breathed. The pain diminished, and he breathed in more, more, as much as he could hold. Imagine if the applause were for him—imagine if he alone could stand at the center. Nothing else would matter at all.

  But the applause fell away, disappearing into a tense silence. The room strung together again, and the pain returned, along with the wrongness and the squirming in his body. He watched the whore’s ring gleam under the lights, and kept breathing.

  “Nekantor,” the Eminence said. “Your final statement?”

  The eyes shifted to him, and the tension strung itself outward, tugging his nerves in every direction. How he wanted to count, to touch! But that would lose him the game. What was his final statement?

  All at once he heard Father’s voice. “Don’t try to look better than Innis; he’s twice your age and he’ll make you look like a fool if you do. Let your youth protect you.” The memory tried to strangle him; he clenched the podium until his fingernails bent.

  Father was dead. He was dead, because Sorn had come, and Sorn would only come if Father was dead. Sorn was going to come and deliver the vote, and bow, and receive the inquiry that he kept in his breast pocket. It was planned. Where was he?

  He scanned the room, but the sight of the seething crowd made him sick. Sorn had been escorted out by Arissen; he’d seen that much, but the matter was resolved now. What was keeping him? Sorn had to come back—he had to, because it was planned!

  “My father is dead,” he said aloud. The microphone magnified his voice into the far corners of the room. “Garr of the First Family is dead.”

  Shocked murmurs wriggled in the crowd, crawling through it like desperate spiders.

  The Eminence held up his hand for silence. “Young Nekantor, what are you saying?”

  “His Sorn was here,” Nekantor said. He struggled to breathe, clinging to the sweet perfect gleam of platinum on his finger. “His Sorn would not have come if he were not dead. Where is Sorn now, Arissen? Why has he not come to me? He was supposed to come to me—my father is dead!”

  Herin glanced over his shoulder at his manservant, who ran down the stage stairs into the cabinet area below. Yet another Imbati had appeared there—one who didn’t belong to the cabinet members, who hadn’t been there before. Wrong, wrong! Nekantor’s knees shook, and he held tighter until the steel bit his fingers.

  The Eminence’s servant came climbing back up the stairs and whispered something in his Master’s ear.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pelismara Society,” the Eminence announced, “I regret to inform you that young Nekantor is correct. We’ve just received news that our Speaker of the Cabinet, Garr of the First Family, has taken his place among the stars.”

  The entire room swayed with a sigh.

  Oh, gods, the floor was moving . . .

  “Sorn was supposed to come to me,” Nekantor cried. “What happened to him? He was speaking to Aloran, and then the Arissen sent him out, but he has to come back. Where is he? Father promised he would come to me. He promised!”

  “Nekantor—” said Herin.

  “He was supposed to bring my father’s vote!” The words tumbled from his lips, and the reality fell upon him like the weight of the city itself. Sorn wasn’t here, and that meant Father’s vote wasn’t here, and he needed all the votes. “Gnash it, Father’s not here, and Sorn is missing, and that means the vote is missing, and the whole pattern is broken—”

  He choked; his knees gave way and his hands slipped. He sat down hard in the shadow behind the podium.

  “Sir,” said Arissen Karyas. “Sir.”

  The room was shrinking down on him. Nekantor fumbled the ring from his finger and took it in his hand, rolled it across his palm, stroked its smooth surface. He clung to it, and it was his, perfect and smooth and his, and he tucked his mind inside it, into that place of power and perfection. Nothing here. No Pelismara Society, no cabinet, no candidates, no votes. Nothing but a platinum circle that gleamed and rolled and felt smooth in his fingers.

  Voices spoke around him. The Eminence’s voice, loud and strong. The cabinet’s voices, small. An Arissen-sounding voice. They were asking what had happened to Sorn. He couldn’t stand to listen; couldn’t stand to look up or it would all come apart, every nerve would unravel, and he would scream until his body tore itself in pieces.

  “Sir,” Karyas hissed in his ear. “Pull yourself together. You promised me, sir. We had a bet.”

  “Karyas—” He risked a glance at her, looked down again. She was strong, like always. Perfect orange uniform, ambitious brown skin, hungry eyes. She believed in power—in his power. He looked at her again, and didn’t have to look back down.

  “Get up, sir,” she said. “They’ll forgive you for grief. But get in your chair at least.”

  He gulped air, hissed it out. “Hhh—help. Karyas, help me.”

  “Yes, sir.” She lifted him under the arms.

  Nekantor got his feet onto the wooden floor. Slid into his chair. He still had the ring; it was still perfect and could hold his eyes. But the vote . . . “The vote,” he whispered. “Karyas, they’re missing my father’s vote.”

  “Gnash it, sir, you don’t need all the votes. Just enough.”

  Just enough: suddenly it wasn’t Karyas’ voice speaking, it was Benél’s. What had she done? He sobbed, and burning tears cut down his cheeks.

  “One more minute, sir. Just one more.”

  Nekantor struggled in a breath and glanced up. The Eminence Herin was gazing at him with sympathy. His manservant was no longer visible by his shoulder, but moved instead among the cabinet members below the stage. Gods, they were voting already! And he’d said nothing, given no speech at all . . . Panic climbed his nerves, but he turned the ring in his fingers, and forced air into his lungs. The panic slowed, and breath by aching breath, the room began to open again.

  It would not open completely. Feel the tension all around? It webbed across the audience, the cabinet members, the guards, the servants. He and Innis were at the center, bound to one another and to all of them at once.

  What must he look like to them? Weak and broken—yet thoroughly unlike Innis, who watched everything down his nose with his head held high.

  Gnash Innis. That confidence meant nothing—no one could see the whole game at once.

  Even the Eminence showed curiosity now, though he sat perfectly straight in a suit of gold, the white-and-gold drape gleaming around his shoulders, fastened with its shining pin. At last his servant flickered up the stage stairs like a black shadow and spoke into his ear.

  Herin stood up, smiling.

  “Ladies and Gentlemen of the Pelismara Society,” he said into his microphone, “thank you all for giving us the best of your blood. Thank you for risking your own future in the name of the future of Varin. I know the last weeks have been difficult, but your long wait is over. We have our Heir—and he wins by a single vote.

  “Nekantor of the First Family, can you come and stand by me?”

  Nekantor?

  His name?

  Every web was slashed at once. Vibrations of power struck him, ringing through him like a bell. The crowd surged to its feet and burst into shouts and applause.

  “Sir!” Karyas burst out. She grinned, showing her white teeth. “Sir, it’s you! We won!”

  “I—I heard.” Nekantor found his feet. They shook, so he stood up slowly. H
ow he wanted to look at Innis, to see him miserable in defeat! But it was too dangerous. He might not make it to Herin. Instead, he kept his eyes on Karyas. “You were right, Karyas,” he whispered. “We won, and now I can repay you. I can make sure that the Eminence’s Cohort fulfills its true potential. It may take some time, but if you work with me . . .”

  “Gladly, sir.”

  They walked forward, one step, another, another. Ahead, the Eminence Herin stood with his hand extended in welcome. Nekantor reached out and took it. It drew him forward, into the humming circle of power. He stood with the Eminence, with the Eminence’s hand on his shoulder. Herin’s fingerprints were different: see the power rub off on the boy from the First Family, now that he stood at the center? A wave of triumph flooded outward from Nekantor’s heart, knitting the last of his nerves back together. He looked out at the assembled crowd and smiled.

  “Congratulations, Nekantor,” Herin said into the microphone. “I believe the spirit of your father was with us here tonight.”

  Nekantor remembered to temper his smile with sadness. “This has been a difficult time for me,” he said. “I’m grateful for your indulgence and understanding. I give thanks to the Eminence, to the cabinet, especially Fedron and Lady Selemei, and of course to my father, without whom I would not be here. My job as Heir will be to learn from all of you.”

  Herin waved his hand. “I invite you to join me in the ballroom for a celebration.”

  Danger—the crowd would break—Nekantor quickly turned his eyes to the Eminence’s handsome face, so easy on the eyes.

  Herin gave him a smile. “Do you want to know why I changed my mind about you?”

  Oh, he knew why: because Herin was far more afraid of Innis than an inexperienced boy. But an inexperienced boy would not already know why; he would ask for his superior’s advice.

  “Why?” Nekantor asked. “Because I forswore my earlier indiscretion?”

  Herin chuckled. “Did you, now? Very good. No, really, I was thinking about our future. Innis is too old. We can’t have Heir Selections coming along too often; they’re not good for the Race.”

  Nekantor nodded. “That’s true.”

  Herin squeezed his shoulder. The power made his bones hum. The Eminence meant what he’d said—he had changed his mind, and that meant that the Third Family’s two votes had both come to the First Family. Of course, with a margin of victory of only eight to seven, that meant some people—people he should have been able to count on—had betrayed him.

  Nekantor glanced back over his shoulder. The cabinet members followed behind them through the arch, nothing but relief and jubilation showing on their faces. Lady Selemei held Fedron’s arm—Amyel and Boros were laughing, Arith looking gleeful, and even Caredes smiled.

  They could smile all they liked. He knew the truth: some of them were playing secret games. Somehow, he’d figure out who had fooled him. He had plenty of time ahead. And when he knew beyond a doubt, then he’d teach them a lesson.

  He could play games as well as anyone.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Faithful

  Something invaded Aloran’s nose. A smell, like a punch in the face.

  He snorted and tried to move away from it. His eyes blinked open. He was lying on his back. A castemate was looking down at him.

  “Aloran, sir?”

  Aloran coughed. Officer Warden Xim removed a vial from under his nose, capped it, and tucked it in a pocket.

  For a moment, Aloran could only breathe. Where was this place? If Xim was here, it had to be somewhere at the Academy . . . No, wait. This was still the anteroom, but all around him stood a black silk crowd, men and women marked with the diamonds of the Courts.

  Wardens. Twenty of them at least.

  “Aloran, sir,” said Xim again. “I’m so very glad you thought to close the public door.”

  Aloran shook his head cautiously. The choke had been well-administered, because his neck felt almost normal. “Garr’s Sorn?”

  Xim looked over his shoulder. Aloran followed his glance as castemates moved out of the way: Sorn was bound and gagged, held tightly by at least five wardens.

  “He has forfeited his Mark,” Xim said. “He will be excised from the Imbati, and imprisoned casteless. No Grobal will ever recognize him again.”

  Sorn made a desperate grunting sound, and when Aloran looked at him, gestured urgency with his eyes.

  Aloran looked away and shuddered. “You should inform his partner, Fedron’s Chenna.”

  “He was taking this from you when we arrived,” Xim said, placing the white paper in his hand. “Before we gagged him, he was insisting that we charge you to fulfill your duty to the First Family, and deliver it.”

  Aloran slowly unfolded the paper. On it, Grobal Garr had written the words Heir and Nekantor, and a shaky signature.

  “I understand,” he said.

  “We are deeply grateful for your intervention.” Xim inclined his head, and every warden in the room bowed. “Your name will be recorded by Headmaster Moruvia into the Academy lists for outstanding service to the nation.”

  That was more honor than he’d ever imagined—but he hadn’t done it for the nation. He got slowly to his feet. “Thank you, all of you. Now, if you will please excuse me, I must attend my Lady.”

  He refused to look at Sorn’s face again, but walked between the wardens who moved aside for him, and entered the Maze. His hand tightened around the vote. With every step through the dim stone halls, his feet urged him faster.

  Tamelera needed him.

  He rushed in through the suite, straight to his Lady’s side. She sat crumpled on her bed, her tearful face pressed against the bedpost. At the sight of him, she sat up straight.

  “Aloran!”

  Aloran knelt at her feet. “This is what I was doing,” he said. “I deliver it to you, and thus I discharge my duty to the First Family.”

  A puzzled wrinkle formed between her eyebrows. She took the paper, unfolded it, and gasped. At once, she swept out of the room.

  Aloran closed his eyes, waiting for her without moving. He was alive, breathing the sweet air of home. At last came the rush of silk that always accompanied his Lady’s entrance.

  “Premel was kind,” she said. “He let me use the stove.”

  Aloran said nothing.

  “Aloran, I’ve burned it,” she said. “For once, I’ve silenced Garr. And you’ve carried out your duty to the First Family.”

  It was too much. A sob bubbled up in his throat. “I don’t want to serve the First Family,” he cried. “If I’m to give my life, I want to give it for you, Tamelera. Only for you. The Mark on my face I have taken in your noble name. My duty, my honor, my love, and my life to your service!”

  For several seconds, she didn’t respond. Blushing, Aloran began a breath pattern. At last, very slowly, Tamelera came close and sank to the floor beside him. “The next part,” she whispered. “Say the next part.”

  His throat closed; he shook his head.

  “Bestow,” she said. “Bestow a touch—please, Aloran, ask me.” She lifted her hand toward him. “Let me.”

  He could feel her touch now, both in memory and anticipation. Half his soul recoiled; the other half trembled. “Lady, I would be remiss,” he protested. “My duty requires that I protect you, not endanger you.”

  “That’s why I have to ask.”

  His whole body flushed hot; he gulped air and shook his head. “It is—”

  “No!” she cried. “Sirin and Eyn, Aloran, don’t you dare say it’s my privilege!”

  He snapped his mouth shut.

  Tamelera dropped her hands into her lap. “I know you’re Imbati,” she said, pleading. “And you have your training. But that’s not why I trust you. I trust you because you’re good, and gentle, and flawless in your discretion.” She clenched her fingers in he
r skirts. “Aloran, you were gone so long, I was terrified I might lose you forever.”

  A good servant would tell her it was nothing. But it was not nothing. The jealous darkness had only barely released him back to her side.

  “I cried, because I thought I’d lost my chance to tell you. That I want—I want to be with you, always. That I would Fall for you, if you asked me.”

  Her hand, pulling back his curtain . . . Every part of him stilled in focus upon her. “You mustn’t,” he whispered. “I could never ask you that. I would be damaging the one I have sworn to serve.”

  Tamelera was silent for a long moment. “Aloran, there are good reasons not to do it. I’d be quite willing to damage Nekantor’s prospects, but I’ve always believed Tagaret will be able to do something important for Varin, and I don’t want to take that away from him.”

  Thank merciful Heile. “Of course not, Lady. I am happy to be yours.”

  “But Aloran—I want to be yours, as much as you are mine. Please look at me.”

  Suddenly it was so easy. He no longer tried to argue against the compelling character of her nose and her lips—no longer struggled to focus on her blank forehead so he wouldn’t notice the grace in her brows and hairline. She was breathtaking. She was close. She was gazing at him—and then her blue eyes lowered, blinked and lifted again in gratitude. Oh, Tamelera . . . Returning the gesture sent a thrill deep into his stomach, rousing an immediate physical response. All his training screamed at him to distance himself, to breathe, to look away.

  He did not.

  “It never felt with you like it did with Eyli,” Tamelera confessed. “I’ve realized now, I’m going to love you whether or not you let me. If the love you say you hold for me is not like mine, then tell me now, and I’ll let you go. Gods—” She glanced down. “Maybe I should let you go anyway.”

  “Lady, no!”

  “It’s just that—I don’t want to command you, Aloran. Not in this. I’ll kill myself before I force you to act love falsely.”