by Brent Weeks
Vi forgot herself and touched the beast. The light remained, but all else faded. The web around the star was replaced by an old iron lantern. The elk disappeared and in quick strokes was replaced with a bearded, fatherly woodsman. He nodded to Vi and lifted the lamp high. She touched the figure and it faded to be replaced with a grinning dog, balancing the star on its nose. She began walking, and it walked beside her. It was amazing. This entire floor was made to be a safe place for children.
In sudden fury, she punched the wall. The dog faded and a jester replaced it. Vi choked back a sob and hurried to the stairs at the center of the building. When she arrived at Sister Ariel’s room, the door swung open before Vi knocked. “Come in,” Sister Ariel said. She handed Vi a steaming cup of ootai. Her eyes looked bleary.
Vi was speechless. She stepped inside and took the cup in her left hand.
“Sit,” Sister Ariel said. Her room wasn’t large, and most of it was covered in piles of books and scrolls, but there were two chairs.
Vi sat.
“Pay attention and hold still,” Sister Ariel said. She took Vi’s swollen right hand and tsked. “Savaltus.” Pain shot through Vi’s hand, then passed and her bruises faded. “You have an unfortunate habit of hitting things that are harder than your fist. The next time your recalcitrance evinces itself in self-mutilation, I won’t heal you.”
Vi had no idea what the words meant, but she got the gist. “I want you to make it stop,” Vi said.
“Excuse me?”
“You tricked me into ringing Kylar. I want this damn thing off.”
Sister Ariel cocked her head to one side, doglike. Her eyes gleamed. “Had a lucid dream, did you?”
“Fuck! Stop using words I don’t understand!”
Something smacked Vi’s butt so hard she screamed. “The tongue is a flame, child,” Sister Ariel said, her eyes cold. “We who speak to use magic learn to control it, else it burns us. Do you know what I was doing while you were studying today?”
“I don’t give a shit.”
Sister Ariel shook her head. “I have no moral qualm with your cursing, you fecal-mouthed cretin. When a guttershite curses, the world can’t even hear it, Vi. When a maja curses, the world trembles. So I’ve come up with some punishments. I expect that you will exhaust them before I exhaust your defiance. But we’re committed now. Your defiance makes only the path longer. Sa troca excepio dazii.”
Though she’d briefly seen the aura of magic surround Sister Ariel, Vi felt nothing. “What have you done?” she asked, eyes narrowing.
“That, my dear, is half the fun. With each new punishment, you get to guess. Now, you came because you had a particularly vivid dream, did you not?”
Vi stared into the bottom of her cup. Why was she suddenly squeamish to talk about sex? “It was him. He came to my bed. It was real.”
“And?”
Vi looked up. “What do you mean and?”
“You dreamed of bedding a man. So what? Are you afraid you’ll get pregnant?”
Vi’s eyes locked back on the ootai. “We didn’t, um, actually . . . you know.”
“Then why are you here?”
“Is it because of the earrings?”
“Your dream? Definitely. They allow husbands and wives who can’t be together to still communicate. Or conjugate. Only a few even of the oldest rings could do that, by the way. As I recall, not a few Sisters wasted decades studying it to find a way to pass messages instantly over great distances. It never worked. I can’t recall why. But after the Third Alitaeran Accord banning magae from marrying Talented men, no one’s studied it.”
“So what I dreamed, Kylar dreamed?” Vi paled.
Sister Ariel looked at her quizzically. “That’s what I said, isn’t it?” It made Vi feel stupid all over again. “So it frightened you?”
“Not exactly,” Vi admitted.
“Sometimes talking with you is like trying to master the Vengarizian Weave.”
“Ah fuck this,” Vi said. Suddenly, her mouth seemed to be on fire. She jumped to her feet, but Sister Ariel spoke and something hit the backs of her knees and she fell into her chair. “What the fuck was—”
Her mouth filled with fire again, and seeing the not-quite-suppressed smirk on Sister Ariel’s face, Vi understood. After another five seconds, the pain stopped, leaving Vi gaping with pain and outrage. She touched her tongue, expecting it to be burned, but it felt normal.
“My mother used soap,” Sister Ariel said, “but I couldn’t figure out a weave for that. Now, you woke me for a reason. After you tell me what it was, you can go back to bed.”
After thirty seconds, Vi realized Sister Ariel was serious. “Have you ever even fu—had sex?” Vi asked.
Sister Ariel said, “Actually, I lost my maidenhead riding a horse.”
“I had no idea you were so coordinated.” Vi had tried that once. It hadn’t ended well.
Sister Ariel burst out laughing. “I didn’t know you had such a wit,” Ariel said. “I like you more and more, Vi.”
Oh, from riding a horse, not while riding a horse. Vi laughed. She couldn’t help it. She’d sooner die than squander even such a small bit of Ariel’s regard. It was also an artful dodge of Vi’s question. Hell, it was no use. Vi was tired and her stomach still felt as if she needed to shit. “I’ve—I’ve bedded dozens of men,” she said.
“Good job,” Sister Ariel said. “The correction, I mean, not the promiscuity.”
“I never felt anything, with any of them, not since I was a kid. But with Kylar . . .”
“I’m no authority, but I think it’s supposed to be different with someone you love.”
That word set Vi off. “Not ‘I didn’t feel anything for them’! I didn’t feel them! I’m totally numb down there. But tonight—” her mouth snapped shut. Since she was a child, fucking had been something Vi observed, something men did to her. Gradually her powerlessness had become her power. Men were slaves to their meat. Vi’s body was simply currency, with the advantage that she could spend it again and again.
When she’d first thought of fucking Kylar, it had only been to think that after what she’d done to him, she owed him. Tonight had been horribly different. Different even from her earlier dream of Kylar. She had wanted Kylar in more ways than she could have imagined. Her body ached for him. It was like something lying so deeply asleep in her that she’d thought it dead was waking. Fucking Kylar wouldn’t be a casual gift of the use of her body. It would be surrender.
“You have to get this earring off,” Vi said. She was shaking, cold sweat beaded on her forehead. “Please, before I go see Elene. She’s still here, isn’t she?”
“I’m sorry, child. Yes, she’s here. You’ll speak with her tomorrow.” Sister Ariel sighed. “Viridiana, I’ve read everything I could find on those rings. The bond is unbreakable. It seemed like a good idea when they made them, I suppose. First they were used to bond a magus and maja who knew what they were getting into. Then others began to use the rings in political marriages. Kings and queens alike began to demand that the ringsmiths exaggerate the compulsion properties toward one side or the other, like yours are exaggerated to give you control. I don’t know if we can understand the depth of human misery those magi wrought. But seeing what they had done, the Vy’sana, the Makers, took an oath to make such rings no more. They gathered those they could find and destroyed them and every text on their making. That ring in your ear is at least four hundred years old. That it survived to the present age is nothing less than a miracle.”
“A miracle? You call this a miracle?”
Sister Ariel spread her hands helplessly.
Her carriage was waiting for her, but when Momma K got in, she wasn’t alone. The dark blob in the opposite seat resolved itself into Scarred Wrable as soon as she sat. “Good evening, Momma K,” he said. “Headed to the coronation?”
“As a matter of fact, I am. You need a ride?”
“I don’t think so. It seems I’ve fallen out of favor with t
he queen.”
“It seems?”
“I wake up from a good long drunk and go to get some hair of the dog and I got five guys telling me stories about what I did to the queen. Somehow, it’s the wrong day. I was drunk, but I shouldn’t have slept for a day and a half!”
Durzo. Her stomach twisted.
Ben Wrable’s face was as pale as his scars. “It’s Durzo, isn’t it?”
“Don’t be ridiculous. Durzo’s dead.”
“I know. I killed him, remember?” Oh, yes. Wrable had killed Kylar when Kylar had been disguised as Durzo. “He swore he wouldn’t haunt me, but now my best client wants me dead.”
“You still killed him. That had to be upsetting.”
“You’re not playing with me, are you? You didn’t send some other wetboy to talk with Queen Graesin?”
“I didn’t send anyone. I didn’t arrange for the ambassadors to be insulted. I haven’t moved against Terah Graesin.” Yet. “Get out of the city for a while, Ben. Durzo probably just wanted to make sure you didn’t take any more jobs for the woman who ordered his death.”
Ben Wrable nodded, unthinking, and that unthinking nod confirmed what Momma K had suspected: it was indeed Terah Graesin who’d ordered Durzo killed. The bitch. Well, she’d get hers. Soon.
44
The Great Hall was filled with the cream of the realm, though given the hardships of the last year, that cream was more like watered milk. Many of the lords and ladies of the realm wore garments they wouldn’t have had their servants wear a year ago. The number of nobles was also considerably reduced. Some had been killed in the coup or at Pavvil’s Grove. Others had sided early with the Godking and had since fled. The chamberlain had done his best to fill in the ranks and bedeck the Great Hall appropriately, but the pageantry seemed thin. For once, however, there was no criticism. It was too hard to critique the royal guards’ threadbare uniforms hastily patched with the colors of House Graesin while wearing a stained dress and borrowed jewels.
Kylar stepped in through a servants’ entrance. He had no wish to be announced; he just wanted to see the effects of his handiwork. There was, however, one problem with the servants’ entrance: it was full of servants.
“Milord? Milord?” a cheerful man asked.
“Uh, that will be all,” Kylar said. If I use you to cover these clothes, are you going to eat a hole in the crotch?
~Hard to say.~ The ka’kari seemed to smirk.
“Ah, milord? Is milord lost?” The cheerful servant didn’t wait for an answer. “Milord may follow me.” He turned and began walking, and Kylar had no choice but to follow. Some servants, he thought, were too smart for their own good.
The servant marched him to the main entrance and handed him off to the chamberlain, a humorless man who looked him up and down, cocking his head like a bird. “You’re out of order, marquess, you were to enter after your lord.”
Kylar swallowed. “I’m sorry, you’ve mistaken me. I’m Baronet Stern. You needn’t announce—”
The chamberlain double-checked his list. “Duke Gyre informed me pointedly that I was to announce you.” He promptly turned and struck the ground with his staff. “Marquess Kylar Drake, Lord of Havermere, Lockley, Vennas, and Procin.”
Feeling like he wasn’t in control of his own body, Kylar walked forward. Eyes turned toward him, and more than once he heard “Wolfhound.” Logan hadn’t only legitimized Kylar by giving him a real title, unlike the baronetcy of Lae’knaught-held lands, he’d promoted him to dizzy heights. A marquess was beneath only the dukes of Cenaria. Kylar’s chest tightened. It was a real title, with real lands and real responsibilities. Worse, Logan must have worked with Count Drake to have Kylar formally adopted. Kylar’s bogus pedigree had been wiped clean. Logan was putting his own integrity behind Kylar. It was his last attempt to save Kylar from himself.
Kylar took his place to Logan’s left in the front row. Logan smiled, and the bastard was so charismatic Kylar felt himself smiling along with him, too astonished to be pissed off.
“Well well, my friend,” Logan said. “I half expected you to be slinking around up in the rafters. So glad you decided to join us mortals on the ground.”
“Uhm, rafters, right. So overdone.” Kylar cleared his throat, flabbergasted. “You’re causing quite the scandal.”
Still facing the front, Logan said, “I won’t give up my best friend without a fight.”
Silence. “You honor me,” Kylar said.
“Yes, I do.” Logan smiled, clearly proud of himself, but charmingly so.
“Did Momma K . . . ?”
“I came up with this all by myself, thank you, though Count Drake augmented it.”
“The adoption?”
“The adoption,” Logan confirmed. “Six rows back. Left side.”
Kylar looked, and the blood drained from his face. In a section of poorer barons, a middle-aged blond lord and lady in even more modest clothing than most stood under the Stern banner. Beside them was a young man, as dark as they were light: their son, Baronet Stern.
“That might have been . . . awkward,” Kylar said.
“We all need friends, Kylar,” Logan said. “Me most of all. I’ve lost almost everyone I can trust. I need you.”
Kylar said nothing. He noticed Logan’s clothing for the first time. The duke was wearing a somber tunic and trousers, finely cut, but unrelievedly black. They were mourning clothes. Logan was still mourning Jenine, his whole family, many of his retainers, and perhaps Serah Drake as well. That old sick feeling rose in Kylar’s stomach once more. Logan and Count Drake both were gambling their honor, which to each of them was his most sacred possession, on Kylar. Terah Graesin’s assassination now would be more than a tragic difference of opinion. To Logan, it would be betrayal.
There was nothing to do. Marquess Kylar Drake sat in the front row, with eyes constantly on him. Perhaps the Night Angel could invisibly drop from the rafters and scoop up the deadly crown, but Marquess Drake could only watch the consequences of his choices unfurl. Kylar stood as Terah Graesin was announced, as she strode regally to the front, as the patr and the priest lifted prayers and blessed her coronation. Finally, the two divines and Duke Wesseros together lifted the crown from its purple pillow.
Not yet. Dear God, not yet. Kylar hadn’t even thought of what would happen to those crowning Terah if she was already sweating. Symbolizing all the gods and the land itself, the three men placed the crown on Queen Graesin’s brow.
Nothing happened. She accepted a scepter from Duke Wesseros and a sword from Lord General Graesin, held each for a long moment, then handed each back. The men bowed low, then she bade them rise as she sat. The men retreated, and Kylar’s heart edged back out of his throat. Trumpets pealed and Kylar jumped. Everyone stood and applause thundered through the Great Hall.
The queen smiled as everyone cheered. She stood and gestured generously with her hands. Doors banged open on every side and a procession of servants streamed in, bearing tables and food. Musicians and jugglers mingled with the crowds as the servants rearranged the room for a feast. Kylar barely saw it. His eyes were latched on Terah Graesin.
Logan clapped him on the shoulder. “Well, that’s that, huh?” Kylar didn’t turn. “Come, Marquess Drake, tonight you sit at the high table.”
45
Kylar allowed Logan to usher him to a seat between a nattering forty-year-old third cousin of the Gunders, who was hoping to press a claim to the Gunder duchy, and Momma K, who was seated at Logan’s right. She smiled at Kylar’s open wonder.
“Don’t tell me he got you a title, too,” Kylar said.
“You forget, Kylar, I’ve been to more court functions than you have—although I admit, not many in the last decade. To the abiding fury of every eligible woman in the room, Duke Gyre chose to escort me this evening.”
“Really?” Kylar asked, incredulous. Belatedly, Kylar remembered that Gwinvere Kirena had been the courtesan of an age, though she’d retired by the time Kylar knew her. S
he had doubtless escorted many of the lords in this very room to similar functions. He knew there had been a convenient fiction early in her career that Gwinvere was a visiting Alitaeran countess, but after a time, even that had been unnecessary. A woman as beautiful, as charming, as graceful a dancer, as skilled a singer, as adept a conversationalist, and as discreet as Gwinvere Kirena was the exception to many rules.
Momma K raised an eyebrow.
“Uh, sorry, I didn’t mean . . .”
Logan came to his rescue, he said, “I asked her before anyone else could. I find there are so few beautiful women in this realm intelligent enough to form complete sentences.”
“Yawp,” Momma K said, in a perfect coastal Ceuran drawl. “Where’s thet spittoon?”
Kylar laughed out loud. The truth was more likely that wearing mourning clothes and showing up with an older woman were the best ways Logan could fend off unwanted advances. If Logan had shown up with a young woman as his escort—or none at all—the matchmakers would have started in on him, mourning clothes or no mourning clothes. Kylar was still chuckling when he saw Terah Graesin, a few places beyond Logan, and his laughter died.
“Kylar?” Momma K asked. “Is something wrong?”
He shook himself. “I keep waiting for her head to explode.” To his right, the nattering grasper gasped. He ignored her. He couldn’t take his eyes off the queen. She drank. She leaned close to Lantano Garuwashi on her right and shared private observations. She jested with a lord at one of the lower tables who’d spilled his wine over his wife. She chatted with her brother who sat at her left. All the while, her death was waiting.
Kylar had expected it to explode soon after the crown was placed on her head, while she was still standing alone before the lords. Now, if he’d put too much philodunamos under her crown, he might kill others, too. Luc Graesin, though a relative innocent, wouldn’t be much of a loss. But Lantano Garuwashi? Killing the legendary Ceuran would be disastrous.