The road was crowded with soldiers, strings of horses, hay racks, and dung carts. To travel any distance afoot was evidently unthinkable in such company. Those having nothing better to do lined the fence rails to watch the activity.
A few of these idlers, both male and female, greeted him with gestures only slightly less suggestive than those of the ragged woman at the hovel. Shocked at the ways of city dwellers, Alec pressed on at a canter to the next gate and emerged gratefully again into the long park behind the Queen’s Palace. Nudging his horse into a gallop, he rode to the Harvest Market and the Street of the Sheaf, then east into the city.
People bustled on all sides, jostling each other as they went about their business. Even the buildings seemed to crowd one another, leaning shoulder to shoulder over the street to trap the din of the passing traffic and echo it back. Alec’s discomfort at the proximity of so many people began to well up again.
Afternoon shadows were lengthening by the time as he reached the Astellus Circle. He paused at the colonnade. Across the way lay the wooded park, bordering the circle’s north side. A single street entered the park through a prettily carved stone archway. Richly dressed riders and fancy carriages were coming and going in a steady stream. Curious, Alec rode over for a closer look.
The park embraced the street on both sides and, together with the arch, gave the place a sheltered, almost magical air, as if it might exist quite separately from the crowded city beyond. The villas here had no screening walls and he marveled at the elegance of the facades and gardens. Despite the early hour, each house had one or more colored lamps burning above its entrance. There were only four colors: rose, amber, white, and green. Although they lent a certain festive tone, their order along the street seemed quite random.
“Excuse me, sir,” Alec ventured, catching the eye of a man coming out from under the arch. “What street is this?”
“The Street of Lights, of course,” the man replied, looking him over.
“So I see, but what do the lights mean?”
“If you have to ask that, then you’ve no business knowing, lad!” Giving Alec a wink, the fellow strode off whistling.
With a last curious glance down the intriguing avenue, Alec headed for the Orëska House. Myrhini’s instructions brought him safely there, and Nysander’s guide stone led him back up to the tower door.
He was just raising his hand to knock when Thero came storming out with an armload of scroll cases. They collided hard enough to knock the wind out of both of them. Scroll cases scattered in all directions, rolling and clattering across the stone floor of the passage. One tube flew over the parapet and several startled voices echoed up the atrium as it shattered on the tiles below. Thero glared at Alec for an instant, then began gathering his scattered documents.
“Sorry,” Alec muttered, picking up those that had rolled across the corridor. Thero accepted them curtly and strode off, not bothering to acknowledge that the door had closed behind him.
Much obliged, I’m sure! Alec thought sourly, standing well to one side as he knocked again.
Seregil opened the door this time, and he looked remarkably pleased with himself.
“Gone, is he?” he smirked, letting Alec into the anteroom.
“What was that all about? He practically knocked me over the railing!”
Seregil shrugged innocently. “I came upstairs to borrow a book from Nysander but he wasn’t here. In his absence, Thero took it upon himself to tell me I couldn’t have it. After reasoning with him at considerable length over the matter, I suggested that it was probably his vow of celibacy that keeps him so irritable all the time. I was in the middle of a detailed discourse—based largely on my own personal experience—on the methods he could employ to alleviate his difficulties when he hurried out. Perhaps he means to put my wisdom into action.”
“I doubt it. And isn’t it sort of dangerous, teasing a wizard?”
“He takes himself much too seriously,” scoffed Seregil, sitting down at one of the work ables. “How was your ride? See anything interesting? Who stole your purse?”
“There was a procession at the Sea Market and I—”
Alec stopped, openmouthed, as Seregil’s last questions registered. Checking his belt, he found only the severed strings where his wallet had hung.
“That bastard at the Sea Market!” He groaned.
Seregil regarded him with a crooked grin. “Let me guess: thin, whey-faced, big nose, bad teeth? Got close to you for some reason and wouldn’t be shaken off? Relieved you of this, I believe.”
Seregil tossed Alec a purse. It was his own, and quite empty.
“His name’s Tym.” Seregil’s grin broadened. “I figured he’d hit you at the market. He can’t resist working a crowd, especially if there are bluecoats around.”
Alec stared at Seregil, aghast. “You set him on me! He works for you?”
“From time to time, so you’re likely to see him again. You can settle up with him then, if you want. I hope you didn’t lose too much.”
“No, but I still don’t understand why you did it. Bilairy’s Elbows, Seregil. If I hadn’t been carrying that pass in my coat—”
“Consider it your first lesson in city life. Something of the sort had to happen sooner or later. I figured sooner was better. I did warn you before you left to watch out for yourself.”
“I thought I did.” Alec bristled, thinking of the rough characters he’d managed to avoid in the Ring.
Seregil clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, don’t fret. Tym’s a professional in his own small way, and you’re his favorite sort of victim: just in from the country, green as grass, mouth hanging open as you take in the city. So tell me about your ride.”
“Didn’t Tym tell you about it?” Alec scowled, feeling he’d been made a fool of.
“Tym isn’t you. I want to hear what you saw.”
Still smoldering, Alec sketched a terse description of the Ring, pointedly including the ambushers, then moved on to the procession at the Sea Market.
“Lord Vardarus.” Seregil frowned, twirling a glass rod between two long fingers. “I did a few things for him in the past. I’d have said he was completely loyal to the Queen.”
“That cutpurse of yours said he’d tried to assassinate Lord Barien. Myrhini and I saw Lord Barien before I left, over at the Palace. Maker’s Mercy, Seregil, he must have just come from the execution when I saw him, and he was talking of some festival!”
“The Festival of Sakor, at the winter solstice,” Seregil replied absently. “I wonder what Nysander knows about all this? I’d never have taken Vardarus for a Leran.”
“What are Lerans, anyway?”
Seregil glanced up in surprise. “Bilairy’s Balls. You mean I never told you about Idrilain the First?”
“No. That night on the Darter you said there was a lot I’d have to learn about the royal lines, but then you got sick.”
“Ah, well then, you’re in for a treat. Idrilain the First’s one of my favorites. She lived four hundred years ago and is the first and only of the Skalan queens to take an Aurënfaie as consort.”
“An Aurënfaie?”
“That’s right, though this wasn’t her first husband. Idrilain was a great warrior, known for her strong will and fiery temper. By the age of twenty, she was already a general. At twenty-two, she married on the day of her coronation and soon produced an heir, a daughter named Lera. Not long after, Zengat declared war on Aurënen. The Aurënfaie appealed to Skala for help and Idrilain led the forces south herself.”
“Where’s Zengat?” Alec broke in, his head spinning with unfamiliar names.
“West of Aurënen, where the mountains of Ared Nimra reach the Selön Sea. The Zengati are a fierce bunch, most of them warriors, brigands, and pirates. Occasionally they get bored with fighting among themselves and band together to make trouble for their neighbors, especially Aurënen. This time they were laying claim to lands down near Mount Bardôk. Once they got into western Aurënen, the
y decided they might as well have the rest of it.
“During her campaign there, Idrilain fell in love with a handsome Aurënfaie captain named Corruth. He returned to Skala with her, where nearly caused a civil war by putting aside her first consort to marry him.”
“But you said it was common practice for a queen to change lovers as much as she liked,” Alec recalled.
“But they usually only did so to gain an heir. Idrilain already had a daughter. But there was also the matter of Corruth being Aurënfaie.”
“You mean not human?”
“That’s right. Even though the ancient ties from the Great War were still remembered with gratitude, it was quite a different matter for alien blood to be mixed into the royal line.
“As usual, Idrilain had her way in the end and the match produced another daughter, Corruthesthera. Her father, a kind and noble man by all reports, eventually gained acceptance from some of the nobles. But there was also a strong faction, the Lerans, who could not accept the possibility of Corruth’s daughter reaching the throne. Idrilain’s first consort was at the heart of it from the beginning, and probably involved Lera as well, although it was never proven. Whatever the case, relations between the Queen and the Princess Royal were strained, to say the least.”
“So what happened?”
“In the thirty-second year of her reign, Idrilain was poisoned. No connection to the Lerans could be proven, but Lera ascended the throne under the shadow of suspicion. It didn’t help matters any that Lord Corruth disappeared from Rhíminee without a trace the day of her accession. To Lera’s credit, she didn’t have her half sister, Corruthesthera, assassinated right then. Instead, she quietly exiled her to an island in the middle of the Osiat Sea. The people of Aurënen were outraged and relations between the two nations have never been the same.
“Queen Lera was a harsh, tight-fisted woman. She’s recorded to have had more people executed during her eighteen-year rule than any queen in the history of Skala.
“Ironically, her half sister survived three different assassination attempts, while Lera herself died in childbirth with a stillborn son. In spite of some threat of revolution, Corruthesthera was recalled from exile and crowned as the only remaining heir.”
Alec mulled all this over for a moment. “So that means that the queens who came after were part Aurënfaie?”
Seregil nodded. “Corruthesthera favored her father’s race; they say she appeared to be hardly more than a girl at age fifty.”
“What do you mean?”
“Well,” Seregil explained, “in addition to living three or four times as long as humans, the Aurënfaie mature more slowly. A man of fourscore years is close to Bilairy’s gate, while an Aurënfaie is still considered a youth.”
“They must become very wise, living that long.”
Seregil grinned. “Wisdom is not necessarily the product of age. Still, imagine being able to draw on the experience of three lifetimes rather than one.”
“How long did Corruthesthera live?”
“She died in battle at the age of one hundred and forty-seven. Queen Idrilain the Second is her great-granddaughter.”
“Then if what Tym said is true, the Lerans are still around.”
“Oh, yes, though they’ve never achieved much beyond an assassination or two. But they still boil up to make trouble every now and then. With the war coming, they could be more of a threat. And not only to the Queen, it seems. Was Barien by himself?”
“No, Phoria, the oldest princess—”
“Princess Royal,” Seregil corrected, fidgeting with the glass rod. “Though she prefers the title of general. People have been speculating about her and Barien for years now—But go on.”
“General Phoria was with him, and his nephew.”
“Lord Teukros?” Seregil gave a derisive snort. “Now there’s true Skalan nobility for you: nephew and sole heir of the most powerful lord in Rhíminee, scion of one of the oldest Skalan families, not a drop of foreign blood in his lily pure veins. Perfect manners, expensive tastes, and all the brains of a flounder. Quite the gambler, too. I’ve taken his money more than once.”
“He’s Barien’s heir?”
“Oh, yes. Being childless himself, the Vicegerent has always doted on his sister’s son. Barien’s no fool, mind you, but love does make excuses, as they say. It just goes to show that the nobles ought to learn what any hog farmer knows, and do a bit more out breeding now and then.”
19
UNEASY SECRETS
Seregil inhaled the familiar morning smells of the tower as he and Alec headed up to the workroom the next morning—the mingled incense of parchment, candle smoke, and herbs overlaid with the more immediate aromas of breakfast.
Upstairs, early morning sunlight slanted down through the leaded panes of the dome, giving the jumbled room a comfortable glow. Nysander sat in his usual place at the head of the least cluttered table, both hands clasped around his mug as he conversed with Thero.
A bittersweet pang shot through Seregil. In the days of his apprenticeship, he’d sat in Thero’s place each morning, enjoying the early quiet while Nysander outlined the day’s tasks. It had been at such moments that he’d felt, for the first time in his life, like he belonged, that he was welcome and useful.
This memory brought with it a momentary stab of guilt at the thought of a certain scrap of parchment carefully concealed at the bottom of his pack. Seregil pushed the thought away.
“Good morning, you two! I hope you are hungry,” Nysander said, pushing the teapot their way. Thero acknowledged their arrival with a cool nod.
Nysander’s workroom breakfasts were legendary at the Orëska House: fried ham, honey and cheese, hot oat cakes with butter, and good strong black tea. Anyone was welcome and if you wanted anything else you could bring it yourself.
“Valerius will be pleased with you, Alec,” said Nysander as they sat down. “Seregil is looking much more himself today.”
The boy shot Seregil a pointed glance. “It’s none of my doing. He’s done just as he pleased ever since Valerius left, but he healed up anyway.”
“I daresay you underestimate your influence over him, dear boy.” The wizard turned to Seregil with a rather searching look. “Well now, what are your plans?”
Seregil could feel his old mentor watching him as he spooned honey onto a piece of oat cake. Nysander was waiting for another argument over the scar and, under most circumstances, that’s exactly what he’d have gotten. But not this time.
Concentrating on his breakfast, Seregil replied, “It’s time we headed home. With a war brewing for the spring, there ought to be some jobs waiting for us.”
“True,” said Nysander. “In fact, I may have a bit of work for you myself.”
“About this new Leran upsurge?”
“Precisely. I hope to put what details I can before you within a few days.”
Seregil sat back, on safer ground now. “Do you think Vardarus was really mixed up in all that?”
“I must say, I would never have suspected the man. Yet he signed a full confession, and spoke not one word in his own defense. The evidence seemed incontrovertible.”
Seregil gave a skeptical shrug. “If he’d contested the conviction and lost, his heirs would lose all claim to his property. By admitting his treason, they were allowed to inherit.”
“But if he was innocent, then why wouldn’t he have said so?” asked Alec.
“As Nysander said, the evidence against him was irrefutable,” Thero answered. “Letters in Vardarus’ own hand were produced. He could have pleaded forgery, or that magic had been used to alter them, yet he refused to do so. The Queen had no choice but to pass sentence. With all respect, Nysander, it is possible that he was guilty.”
Seregil tugged absently at a strand of dark hair. “And if he was innocent, what could have enforced such damning silence? He was attached to the Queen’s Treasury, wasn’t he? I’ll need a list of the nobles he associated with in that position, and s
ome idea of his personal habits.”
“I shall see you have all you need,” said Nysander.
Alec found himself studying faces over breakfast. Seregil had been unusually pensive, although he seemed to brighten up once he’d gotten some food in him. Thero was as stiff as ever, and Nysander just as easygoing, yet there was something in the older wizard’s expression when he looked at Seregil, as if he were trying to figure him out.
As for himself, Alec realized that he was finally beginning to feel comfortable here. The sense of disorientation that had depressed him during Seregil’s recovery had lifted at last. Watching his companion trying to tease Thero into some pointless debate, he sensed that a certain important equilibrium had been reestablished.
“You are quieter than usual this morning,” Nysander observed, catching his eye.
Alec nodded toward Seregil. “This is more what he was like when we first met.”
“Annoying Thero has always been a favorite pastime of his,” the wizard sighed. “For goodness’ sake, Seregil, let him eat in peace. Not everyone shares your taste for banter first thing in the morning.”
“I doubt there are many tastes Thero and I do share,” Seregil conceded.
“A fact for which I am continually thankful,” Thero parried dryly.
Leaving the two of them to their private battle, Alec turned back to Nysander. “I’ve been wondering about something you mentioned when we talked that first night.”
“Yes?”
“You spoke of shape changing spells. Can a person really be changed into anything?”
“A brick, perhaps?” Thero interjected.
Seregil acknowledged the gibe with a gallant salute of the honey spoon.
“That is correct,” Nysander replied. “Transubstantiation—or metamorphosis, if you will—has always been a favorite subject of mine. I made quite a study of it, years ago. Few of the spells are permanent and the risks are often high, but I do enjoy them.”
“He turned us into all sorts of things,” Seregil told him. “And it still comes in handy now and then.”
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