The King's Sons (The Herezoth Trilogy)

by Grefer, Victoria

  “Latest popular romantic trash,” she said. “Howar picked it up for me, to take my mind off things. Kind gesture, but I couldn’t get through two pages. My head’s still pounding, and I feel like I’ll swoon each time I try to focus on the words.”

  “Do you know where Howar’s gone?” Vane needed the baker’s reaction to the Yangerton plot. The sorcerer almost shook, to think how close the king and his army had come to defending the wrong city.

  “He doesn’t give me explanations when he comes and goes.” Francie forced a smile, then winced in pain, and let the expression fall. “You look better since you slept a bit,” she said.

  “Do I? At least that makes one of us.”

  “They’re just bruises,” Francie offered, with a chuckle that turned into a groan. “Don’t make me laugh.”

  “I’m sorry,” Vane said, and pressed her shoulder. “Can I get you anything? Do something for you?”

  Francie pursed her busted lips, hesitating to speak, and Vane lowered himself to the edge of the bed, careful not to jar her. He insisted, “If there’s something you need, just name it.”

  “I’d like to ask you something,” she said. “I’ve been thinking, and fearing, and I know I’m pregnant, Vane. I just know it. I have no clue where I’ll go when I leave this place, or what I’ll do, because I can’t stay on the council, but none of that worries me right now. Not compared with the thought of a child. I can’t raise that man’s child. I can’t do it, not alone, and my family would spurn me. They’ve been spurning me for years. You know what a hateful witch my mother is. She never wanted me to join the council. Right disowned me when I did.”

  “It’s completely her loss, Francie.”

  “Wish I could feel that way. I could use a mother right now, for sure, and she…. She’d slam the door in my face. Tell me she’d warned me about something like this, and I brought it on myself, and I can deal with the consequences without bothering her.”

  “She’d really do that?”

  “You know her, Vane. Don’t act like I’m wrong.”

  Francie, unfortunately, didn’t err in her assessment of her mother. The woman had chased Vane and the innkeeper who’d raised him out of Fontferry when Vane was a child, because Francie told her she had seen the sorcerer’s mark on Vane’s back. She doted on Francie’s worthless brother, but had never been as fond of her daughter. She had never overcome her prejudice against magic, and Francie’s brother had no powers. To imagine the woman would accept a sorcerer grandchild wrought of rape….

  “I can’t go to my family, we both know that. And I’ve been thinking, about the resources you have. About how much I respect you, and how beautiful your family is from the way you talk about your wife and kids. About how my baby, it’ll have magic like that monster does. Like you and your children.

  “I know this is immense to ask, especially after all you’ve already done for me. And I realize this could come to nothing, because I might not be pregnant at all, or might miscarry. I don’t want you to feel obligated to agree to this, because there’s always the option of an orphanage.”

  Vane nodded, his expression somber. Francie admitted, “It’s not a pleasant thought, because no family would take an infant sorcerer in, which means the baby would grow up alone. Still, I could bring the baby to an orphanage. I’d rather it have parents, though: a mother like August, a father like you. Vane, if you’d take it, if you’d raise it like your own, I’d like to entrust the child to you. In all honesty, that’s the best thing I could do, to provide for it. I imagine the king’s been asking of me….”

  “Of course he has.”

  “And I know he would give me anything I need, but I’m too proud to ask his help, and even with his full support, I wouldn’t be able to look at the child without resentment. Without remembering. I couldn’t handle that.”

  “Francie, I….”

  “You don’t have to answer right now. You’ll have to talk with your wife first, and I don’t imagine she’ll be thrilled by the idea of taking that man’s son or daughter in.” Francie shuddered, and Vane took her pale, cold hand. She said, “Don’t you dare feel obligated. I mean that.”

  Vane replied, “I’d be honored, Francie. That child doesn’t belong in an orphanage. I was an orphan myself, but my aunt took me in. When I think where I otherwise could have ended up…. August would love your child like her own. Dalen, my youngest, he’d love a little brother or sister to cuddle, and the twins would dote over the baby like they did Dalen himself. As for tainted blood, you’re one of the strongest women I’ve ever met, and if you think that strength doesn’t run in your veins with enough force to destroy any influence from that cretin, well….”

  There was a note of begging in Francie’s voice. “Don’t,” she pleaded. “Don’t compliment me. Not you of all people.”

  “Francie, I swear to you, you’ll overcome this. Nothing’s ever beaten you down. I meant what I said: you’re strong.”

  She whispered, “I’m not.” Vane had the impression she would have yelled, had every muscle in her face not caused her obvious pain with each word she spoke. “I’m not strong, Vane. Not when it comes to you. Ten bloody years it’s been. Ten blasted, bloody years, and I’m still every bit in love with you as I was when we first met again at my council interview. My interview two months after you married. I’m that absurdly weak, so I mean it, don’t compliment me. I can’t handle that, not now. It’s pure torture to think I owe my life to you, all right? And while I know the best arrangement possible is for you to take any child I might birth, it’s torment to think that you of all the people in this cursed kingdom might raise my child without me. If I hoped to stay on the council I wouldn’t say a word of this, but I can’t keep on. I know I can’t. I can’t continue to work with you, and you must be on the Magic Council. You’re its spokesman. You’re its only noble, the source of any respectability it has. The idea of a king’s council with no nobleman at all, it’s laughable. You must stay on, so I’ll have to leave.”

  “Francie….” Vane ran a hand down his face. “Francie, you know I never meant….”

  “You haven’t given me a reason to hope something might happen between us. Not in a decade. You would never betray your wife, and I’ve never dreamed otherwise. This is entirely my problem, and entirely my fault. My fault, Vane, for failing, and failing, and failing again to move past an impossible attachment. For being fool enough to accept the king’s appointment in the first place, when I should have known that attachment would strengthen as we became colleagues. Ten years I’ve wasted. Ten years of my life, gone, and come to this.” Tears brimmed in her blackened eyes. “I have no idea what to make of myself now. What I’m fit for, without the council.”

  Vane told her, “I can’t prevent you thinking that, but I won’t let you say it. Wasted ten years? Francie, you put more time and sweat into founding the council’s school than the rest of us combined. You moved to Carphead for a year and worked as the headmaster’s assistant, when the woman we’d hired resigned at the last second because of threats. You’ve held your head high despite curses and jeers. Despite arson. You haven’t wasted your life, do you hear me? This kingdom owes you an incredible debt. The work you’ve done, the feats you’ve accomplished for its sake….”

  “Have ruined me,” she persisted. “I never should have joined the council. I never would have, had I known. Why did you have to be at that library, Vane? Why did you bloody save me? You should have let them kill me. Good God, I’d be better off!”

  “You listen to me,” Vane said, “I swore on Teena’s chickens I would see you through this. I don’t back away from a chicken swear, never have and never will. I didn’t risk exposing my loyalties to the king at that Hall for you to despair over surviving. I know things seem hopeless now, but you’re Francie Rafe, damn it. You don’t give up. You didn’t when your brother tried to drown that runt. You were only seven, but you kicked the boy in the knee, grabbed the dog, and ran to Teena’s.”

&nbs
p; “This is different, Vane.”

  The duke insisted, “You didn’t give up when Conroy Blake rebuffed our offer to be headmaster of the Carphead Academy. You knew he was the perfect choice for our school, given his record in Podrar. He didn’t even apply for the post, but that didn’t stop you. You wouldn’t take no for an answer, and he’s still down in Carphead six years later. The Academy is thriving thanks to him, and he considers his work not just an occupation, but a calling.

  “Francie, you didn’t forsake your calling to the council when those thugs tried to burn your aunt’s store, and you won’t give up now. Not on life. If you need to leave the council after a full ten years of dedicated service, for whatever cause, that’s one thing, but you won’t give up on life. You’re too smart and too brave for that. You’re worth too damn much, do you understand me?”

  Francie’s only response was to allow tears to flow down her battered face. Vane softened his voice, but he repeated, “Do you understand that, Francie?” She nodded, and Vane wrapped his arms around her, let her weep into his shoulder. He held her until she’d cried all the tears that would flow and made a weak effort to pull away from him. He told her, “You will have a life. You will. Any post you might want as a secretary at the Academy or the Palace, it’s yours. You’re qualified for that kind of position, and you’ve earned it. If you want to return to Fontferry, to your roots, we’ll find employment for you on a farm there. You were always wonderful with animals. If you want to try your hand at gardening, the king’s man could train you. If you want to cook, same thing. Rexson won’t turn his back on you. You’ve served him much too faithfully for far too long. I swear to you, you’re not alone now, and even if you were, you’d overcome. You’re Francie Rafe. That’s what you do.”

  “Vane, I’m sorry. I should never have told you how I feel about you.”

  He told her, “I knew. I’ve always known. No one can help what they feel, Francie. You of all people should know that, with your power what it is. You’ve never once acted in a way that was inappropriate, never tried to pull me from August, and I’m not ungrateful for that. I just wish there were something I could do, to help you feel differently.”

  Francie took some deep breaths, to collect her thoughts. Finally, she said, “You can’t stop me feeling my own emotions, Vane. What you can do is take away my magic, to stop me feeling what others do. You told me years ago you could do that, and I wouldn’t let you, because I needed my power. I couldn’t stay on the council without it. If I’m leaving all that now, my magic’s nothing but a burden. All the jolts and spikes of anger, or passion, or a boredom that’s not even mine: it’s exhausting. You have no idea how very tired I’ve been, all my life. After all that’s happened, the last thing I need is that magic sucking away what energy I have. It….”

  The woman stopped, embarrassed. Vane told her, “You can tell me, Francie.”

  “Each time you touch me, I pick up on things I shouldn’t. How much you love August, how you grudge having to leave your family, how frightened you are about something. My power can’t tell me what, but the fear’s there. A dread. Leaving your kids with no father?” she guessed.

  “You know me well, don’t you?”

  “Always have.”

  “Francie, your magic’s tied to objects, not skin. How are you…?”

  “Your wedding ring,” she whispered. “People never connect their wedding rings with my….”

  “I see.”

  “You play with yours quite a bit, Vane.”

  Vane knew he did. He started to tell Francie he would gladly destroy her powers, once she were strong enough to withstand the spell’s weakening effects, when they both looked to the door that opened to the landing and the steps down to the bakery. Someone was coming up, one foot jolting the stairs harder than the other. Rushing.

  “That’s Howar’s step,” said Francie. “Why…?”

  A scream from her own lips cut off her question. She and Vane were not alone.

  Vane yelled “Adarg Reflayha,” and a large, triangular shield the same shade of ice blue as his mother’s eyes, his children’s eyes, burst into being before him and the invalid, just in time to protect them from a flaming jet of air that sped toward them. The shield sizzled, dissolving as it turned black in an instant, and Vane shouted “Desfazair” in the direction of the corner beside the door. An auburn-haired sorcerer with a patched tunic and faded black trousers popped into view with a snarl on his face. The expression made the right side of his bearded chin hang lower than the left.

  Terrance Vole.

  Francie shrieked, pushing back against her headboard with what little strength she had as Vane dove to the floor, off the bed’s edge and away from her, to prevent any spells shot at him from threatening her as well. Having shown himself a sorcerer, the duke figured he would be Terrance’s main target, and he wanted to keep Francie out of range of a magic duel. Vane yelled an incantation as he tumbled, to make sure he had Terrance’s full attention. At the same time, Howar barged into the room at full speed.

  Vane succeeded in distracting Linstrom’s man from Francie; the baker skidded to a halt just shy of the spot where Vane’s binding spell, a magic jet of lavender, collided with a second strip of fire from Terrance, aimed at his rival sorcerer. Each spell was knocked off course. Vane’s struck a metal water jug on the bedpost, wrapping around it, causing it to fall with a splatter. Terrance’s shot of fire bounced back and hit the wooden wall some three feet to his right, igniting it.

  From the rugless floor Vane yelled, “Kaiga!” That incantation would trip Terrance, and succeeded not only in throwing the man off balance, but also in interrupting the spell he tried to cast: what spell, Vane shuddered to consider. It wasn’t one he recognized. Meanwhile, Howar carried a bread knife, sharp and long, and took advantage of Terrance’s stumble to rush upon him.

  Terrance cast a transfer spell, the same one Vane had whispered to move the Lifestone to Francie’s shoe. His placement was precise, behind the shield Vane projected to defend Howar. The duke’s ice blue barrier proved useless when Terrance sent no ball or jet of magic energy to be blocked, with the result that one moment Howar gripped his knife and the next it stood before him, blade inward. The baker’s momentum ran the steel between two ribs; he tumbled with a shout, clutching the handle that protruded from his chest.

  The flaming wall behind Terrance had begun to smoke. Gray fumes made the sorcerer cough, which gave Vane an opportunity; the noxious air had not yet reached the floor, where the duke still lay after his dive from the bed. He yelled, “Contfabla!”

  A muting spell. Terrance’s hacking cut off short as a yellow energy ball struck him in the face. Unable to cast without a voice—incantations were useless if not spoken—the intruder darted for the door, but Vane made a sound barrier and sealed him in. The duke clambered to one knee and got out half the incantation to freeze a man like a statue before Linstrom’s accomplice barreled into him, slamming him hard enough back down to knock the air from his lungs.

  With no breath to cast, Vane tussled with Terrance on the floorboards. He pried the man’s fingers from his throat, then gasped when Terrance kneed him in the stomach. Vane’s one thought was that he mustn’t lose this struggle. He mustn’t die, or Terrance would steal the Lifestone and kill Francie. Vane had to throw off his assailant, and soon; more smoke filled the room by the second.

  Vane swung at Terrance’s face. The effort felt like it broke Vane’s fist, but at least a brittle snap told him he’d cracked the man’s jaw. Terrance drew back, to regroup, which gave the duke a second to draw a fume-tainted breath. Vane willed himself not to choke on it, to force out one last incantation as his attacker lunged forward; he stretched out to wrestle Terrance while casting a spell he had used only once, to kill the Duke of Yangerton.

  “Abra Pechum!”

  As Terrance fell Vane’s hands caught his face, one finger scratching an eye. Two thin but long gashes, forming an X, had opened the man’s chest and also his th
in shirt, which had not been the case with Carson Amison ten years back. Vane’s magic had grown, and Terrance’s blood spattered everywhere: on Vane’s tunic, his arms, the bottom of the nearest wall. Terrance grasped for Vane’s clothing, but his arm dropped, convulsing, as he snatched empty air. Smoky air.

  There was little time, certainly none to waste shaking in stupefaction. Vane crawled from under Terrance’s body to bend over Howar. The pool of blood expanding from the man’s knife wound was small, small enough for Vane to hope he could save his ally.

  The baker was dead. The knife must have hit his heart, hit it squarely. Vane would never know for sure; to verify with magic Howar breathed no more was enough. Francie lived still, and Vane had to move her from the burning bakery, had to do so before soldiers came or Linstrom made his presence known through some other sense than sight.

  Vane stumbled to the bed, his neck sweating, eyes streaming from the smoke, which was so thick now it billowed around him and constricted his throat when he inhaled. Francie, he felt more than saw, had lost consciousness, either from the fumes or her horror at viewing Terrance again. Perhaps both.

  That blasted smoke…. Vane would never cast a spell in the room, never get a word out. He dropped to the floor, where the air was purer than above, and took a few sharp breaths. He muttered the incantation for a much needed energy spell, and felt it take effect. Reassured, he took Francie in his arms and then crouched again as he prepared to transport away. He would leave the corpses to be cremated; that way, the manner of Terrance’s death would remain Vane’s secret. No one would surmise the Duke of Ingleton had killed him with the same magic he had used to slaughter a peer.

  Francie was too weak to transport, but Vane had no choice. He could take her to Oakdowns, for he’d kept his manor open to travel magic, shunning his uncle’s example. Zalski Forzythe had protected the Palace against transports after taking control of the building, but Vane needed the security to exit his home from any room. When he’d found an incantation to secure a space from magical intrusion among his uncle’s spellbooks, preserved by Rexson, he had never intended to cast it. The magicked had been among his supporters, not his enemies. Now he condemned his willful ignorance.