And now he was dead.
She set the token carefully down and took a leisurely bath. Dressed in the soft cotton nightgown they’d left for her, she took the candle and the token and walked through the rooms she’d been given, watching how the token flared briefly with green color here, reddish there, and once a sharp blue snap.
A network of protective wards, just as Ananda had told her. Maybe only wards to let someone know when she crossed the threshold, but possibly stronger ones, meant to prevent her from doing magic, or to prevent magic from reaching her.
Now she knew where they were, at least. She tucked the token under her pillow and snuffed the candle so she could sleep.
o0o
The next morning she toured the kitchens, asked questions about the baking and cooking, tasted and complimented everything. She saw that there was little chance of egress there, as the kitchens lay directly adjacent to the expanded guard barracks.
At noon she toured the housekeeping area and introduced herself to Mistress Eban’s replacement. The woman was so stiff, so wary, that Atanial knew immediately she’d received stringent orders about communicating with the king’s “guest.” So she kept her questions confined to cloth, weaving, sewing and the current styles in Sartor. By the time Atanial had inspected the lyre-backed chairs with the cushions embroidered with queensblossom, the woman had unbent enough to flick a look her way.
Atanial gave her a smile, but left knowing she’d met defeat there.
o0o
Canary invited her to dinner.
Again they were alone.
By then she was ready to begin the first tier of questions.
“Where is Dannath Randart?” she asked.
Canardan grinned. “You want to see him again?”
He gave her such a comically skeptical look that she replied tartly, “I was hoping he’d dropped dead. Preferably with a bolt in the back.”
“So you heard about that, eh?”
“Who hasn’t?” She spread her hands and then grabbed up a fresh corn bun, noting as she did the faint color along Canardan’s still-handsome cheekbones. “I find it utterly reprehensible, and frankly hope that he’s on the other side of the kingdom.”
“He’s going out to sea,” Canardan said. “Far enough to keep you from one another’s sphere.”
“My second question is, what have you done with Mistress Eban and the others?”
“Nothing, as yet. That depends upon a number of things. Including you.”
“If you dare try to hold their lives hostage in order to force me into something, I will shout it from the rooftops.” Her fists thumped on either side of her plate.
He patted the air between them. “No, no. I know better than that. I should be more clear. I believe more lives will be saved if I keep all of you safely here until the kingdom settles.”
She sighed. “Even if you do find Sasha, and if by some miracle she agreed to your proposal, how could a marriage possibly settle the kingdom?”
“It would go a long way toward reestablishing good will.” He saluted her with his wine goblet. “Join the names, all that.”
“But if you do get her, and threaten my life—”
He looked skyward. “What did I just tell you? I might add that my wayward son, who seldom notices a wall until he smashes into it, would probably object as loudly as your daughter. He thinks he’s quite a catch. When he isn’t following bards around, he’s off flirting with every pretty face he meets. And apparently they all seem to like him. No princesses, though,” Canary added regretfully.
Atanial couldn’t help but laugh. “It sounds like he’d much prefer a minstrel.”
“If she’s pretty and she paints, he would probably marry her out of hand.” Canardan gestured with his butter knife.
“When do I get to meet him?” Atanial put her elbows on the table and her chin in her hands. Math’s voice came back from all those years ago, Jehan’s a fine boy. And smarter than his father thinks, despite all the daydreaming.
To which Glathan had said in his gruff growl, Maybe because of it. He learned early to keep his mouth shut. But we don’t know if what he’s thinking is to our benefit or not.
Which is why I’m going to write him, since no one else seems to be doing it, Math had said, and despite Glathan’s shake of the head he’d been true to his word.
Atanial had never found out if the boy all the way across the continent had written back. Math had never mentioned him again, and Atanial wondered now if that was because of Glathan’s disapproval, or if the correspondence had ended with the one letter.
The pause had grown into a silence, Canardan frowning into the middle distance. But he was watchful for all that. All she did was look up, and the flick of her eyelashes seemed to release him from his reverie.
“I’ll see what I can arrange, but right now he has duties at the academy.” Canardan drank, then set his goblet down, his thumb aligning it with an absent stroke just beyond the point of his knife. “Do you remember the midsummer games?”
“The cadets and their demonstrations. Relay races through the hills. And the yacht races in the harbor.”
“Well, we’ve had to cancel the yacht races, but the relays and the rest will go on as usual.”
“Why no yachting? I thought the academy is where you got your navy captains as well as your guard captains?”
“Yes, and we’ll hold ’em anon. But the merchant codes were pinched by a pirate a few days ago, and we have reason to believe he might try to slip into either of the two main harbors. Those same codes are being used by countless legitimate merchants, so we don’t know if he’s coming or already there in some kind of disguise. We already know he has a way of stealing in, doing untold damage, and slipping out unheeded.” Atanial saw the telltale signs of anger in the tightened skin at the corners of his eyes.
Her brow furrowed. “Is this the pirate who holds my daughter?”
He spread his hands. “How can we know? He doesn’t exactly communicate with us.”
“Back to your son.” She set her goblet down. “I’d like very much to meet him.”
As a distant bell rang, Canardan got to his feet. “Speaking of whom. I thought we might see if one of his charities is worth what I pay out. Are you finished?”
Atanial rose, shook out her skirts, and took his offered arm. Canardan led her through the informal dining room, made of pale peach marble, through the formal dining room that she remembered from the old days. Then it was silver marble to match the Zhavalieshin silver-and-crimson firebird. They walked along the balcony above the main entryway to the palace. From there he took her through the private door to the royal box above the private theater, which was tucked behind the palace’s enormous ballroom.
Canardan appreciated her surprise and delight when she saw the lit stage, empty and waiting. The rest of the low circular tiers of chairs were empty. Only their box had a single candle. Two liveried servants stood by, one with wine, another with extra cushions, as Canardan guided Atanial to one end of the beautiful rosewood couch with its fine velvet cushions. He sat next to her and nodded at the servants.
They poured honey-colored wine in the goblets on the little tables at either end of the couch, and set out porcelain plates of tiny lemon-and-custard pastries, layered delicately so that one could take a bite without experiencing any gooshes of custard or splatters of crumbs. Next to the plates, crystal vases of just-budding white roses breathed a delicate scent.
All very thoughtfully arranged, she thought. For?
Another campaign.
Down on the stage, a master illusionist stepped out in the black gown of his calling, and sat upon a stool at one side. Prince Jehan’s “charity” was a company of first-rate players. The custom for the master illusionists to come forward onto the stage instead of remaining behind had been introduced twenty years before, so people could watch the magician at work making the scenes. The old days of one or perhaps two rudimentary illusions cast and left up for the du
ration of the play were gone. The subtle metamorphosis of scene sets behind the players had become art, as it had been centuries before.
In the intervening twenty years, the gestures had taken on stylized grace, reminding Atanial of a person on Earth performing poetry in sign language. Hidden musicians played on flutes and horns, evoking a garden of birds. The stage glittered with a rainbow splash of color as a setting coalesced into being.
The setting was a garden terrace, with tiers of flowers at various levels. Atanial recalled something about Sartoran gardens, how they might take a century or more to properly mature. Colendi gardens could take even longer.
The players strolled out, wearing layers of silk fashioned in complicated folds, the colors subtle gradations of shades from rose to gold. They gathered around a young man in layers of celestial blue.
Atanial tightened all over, bracing for some obvious message aimed at her through the performance, but before very long even she, relatively ignorant of this world’s history, recognized the legendary story of the brilliant Prince Tivonais of Sartor. If he lived, it was a couple thousand years ago.
This was a musical comedy, about the one woman who did not surrender to his incredible charms. Any message was confined to the varieties of human passion and love. Atanial sat back and relaxed, chuckling at the ancient jokes about human actions and reactions that hadn’t changed much in millennia, whichever world you happen to be on. She sipped the wine, which tasted like liquid gold.
Gradually her focus on the stage widened to include Canardan so close beside her. One of his hands tapped out a counter-rhythm to a dance, while players whirled and stepped and leaped on stage. She heard his breathing as he leaned back, eyes shut, during a beautifully sung lament.
As the play drew to its end, Tivonais sang his serio-comic song about loss. The singer revealed just the right touch of mockery in the relative sorrows of a handsome prince who has everything and everyone he wants. He asks for a single gift from his beloved, a white rose.
While Atanial tried to remember if the white-rose custom among new lovers came before the play, or if the play establish the custom, her body was aware of fingers tracing, ever so lightly, along her shoulder. Her other shoulder. A well-shaped arm touching her back.
It was pleasant—she had to admit it was pleasant—that despite the years, the dashed hopes and disappointments, the betrayals and chases, he was still attracted to her. Either that, or he was a master tactician.
But recognition of your opponent’s skill in battle is not cause for surrender.
For a moment she considered jumping up and screaming, You’re trying to seduce me! Oh, how fun it would be to see him embarrassed. Except he wouldn’t be, he’d laugh. No, the embarrassment would be all those players down there, now taking their bow for their audience of two. They did not deserve to have their beautiful work reduced to a mere hissing of gossip along the corridors.
She stood. The fingers lifted away. She clapped loudly, then scooped up the white roses from the crystal vase and tossed them one by one down onto the stage.
Below, the young man playing Tivonais, perhaps still in character, made a debonair gesture as he bent, swept up a rose, kissed it and saluted her with it.
She kissed her fingertips and flung her hands out wide, and the other players all clapped too.
Tivonais took another bow. Atanial was aware of Canardan standing beside her, clapping as well, his profile sardonic.
The players bowed a last time, then filed off, the exquisite acoustics carrying back the sound of their whispering.
Atanial turned away from the empty stage and walked to the door, perforce Canardan following, his blue eyes narrowed with not-quite humor as he made a gesture dismissing the waiting servants.
She waited until they were gone and said, “Yes, I felt it. No, I won’t act on it. Yes, I was a pompous twit when I first came here all those years ago, but I do not have to justify any actions except—” Even here there were pitfalls, for she dared not suggest that Math was alive, that she might know where.
Nothing but landmines around.
The awareness chilled her spirit like nothing had for years. But she was not a girl in her twenties any more, to indulge in screaming stomping fits because she’s so very right while everyone around is wrong, wrong, wrong.
She held her hands out to him, palms toward him. “Age builds its own internal cities, you have to admit that. Whatever your castle walls are made of, I don’t know. I don’t know if I can believe you if you try to tell me, because there lies behind us the matter of the past. Here’s what you can believe from me. Between the garden of appreciation of your attractions—and they are there, as they always were—and the road to action is the wall round my own castle, a wall deep and high, called trust.”
He had the grace to take her hands and the poise to lightly kiss her fingers. And let her go.
Then he walked away, and the silent servants conducted her back to her rooms.
Chapter Seventeen
War Commander Dannath Randart arrived in Ellir not long after midnight. Two days of very hard riding, sleep and meals scanted while the horses were changed at military posts along the way, brought him tired, aching, and irritable to the west gate, which is where the guard barracks was located.
Randart’s vile temper eased slightly when he saw the walls patrolled by alert guards, the gatekeepers awake and speedy once his trumpeter had blown the king’s signal.
He jumped off his sweaty horse and left his troop to rouse the stable hands as he strode upstairs to the commander’s tower. He arrived at the same time his younger brother Orthan did, Orthan fastening his tunic with one hand and carrying his boots with the other.
“Dannath,” Orthan Randart said by way of greeting, blinking himself awake.
“Any word on Prince Jehan?”
“His personal guard arrived at sunset.” Orthan fell heavily into his chair behind the desk. The joints in the wood creaked. “But the prince wasn’t with ’em. Apparently there’s some girl somewhere outside of town he simply had to visit, and they left him there. But he promised to be along by morning.”
Randart sighed, and when a hastily dressed cadet runner arrived, he ordered coffee and whatever food could be made hot the fastest.
As soon as the boy was gone, the war commander shut the door and set his back against it. “News?”
“Nothing.” Orthan indicated the darkened window, which overlooked the harbor. Tiny lights bobbed slowly on the water, lanterns legally required on bows, sterns and foremasts. “Nothing.”
“As expected. Well, continue mustering the fleet, except for those at Aloca. I’m going out in force. What’s the status of the games?”
“Officially or confidentially?” And when his brother shrugged, Orthan smiled. “Officially, everything is in order. Ready to begin. If the prince does show up. As for our business, Damedran will take every prize.”
Randart thought of his huge, husky nephew, but did not smile. “What about archery? Is he at the top there?” On the war commander’s orders, Orthan had been drilling his son with extra lessons, but though Damedran was a brute with sword, stick, and grappling, he couldn’t seem to get the eye for superlative shooting.
“He’ll win,” Orthan said.
“He’s finally good enough to best the Valleg girl?”
“No. But it seems she suffered a broken arm. Won’t be competing in the games.”
Randart frowned. “He didn’t—”
“No, no, absolutely not. He knows better now, he really does. No, apparently she was offered a drink or two celebrating someone’s Name Day, while on stable duty. She tripped over . . . her own feet. Damedran handsomely offered to cover for her—gave the watch commander an excuse. Officially there’s no disgrace, and unofficially she’s in his debt.”
Randart smiled at last, thinking, Now that is the thinking of a good future king.
His brother saw that smile, and knew what it meant, but they did not say the word �
��king” out loud.
Instead they turned their attention to logistical concerns—guard rotations, patrol of the harbor, searchers covert and overt as ships continued to come in, though they didn’t have much hope of nabbing Zathdar in the act.
The last errand runner left the room. When they were safely private, War Commander Randart said to his brother, “Here’s the truth. I don’t really want to catch the pirate lurking around the harbor. I’ve been given a free hand to take the entire fleet, and I mean to sweep the whole sea of all suspicious ships. ‘Suspicious’ defined as those crewed by names well known on resistance rosters. Zathdar has far too many allies out on the waters. Some judicious slaughter might be salutary to the entire maritime world. At the end of that, if I find the pirate, fine. I’ll consider it a job well done.”
Orthan grimaced at that mention of judicious slaughter, but he had learned never to interfere with his brother, who was, after all, the king’s right arm. Orthan himself was only a headmaster and garrison commander, positions he felt far more comfortable filling. Training boys and running a garrison, he could do. Judicious slaughter?
But Dannath Randart did not see his brother’s grimace. He was too busy sorting through the reports on Orthan’s desk, reading the headings, then re-sorting them in his own priority order.
When he was done, he said, “So patrols as normal, no assiduous searches. I want the best men rested and ready for the launch of the entire fleet. We’ll form a pincer between here and Aloca. We’ll gather them all together and get rid of them.”
His mood had improved by the time he downed the potato pancakes a sleepy cook had put together. He swallowed his coffee and withdrew into the command suite to catch some rest, waking at the dawn bells.
He’d been through the baths and was pulling on a clean uniform when a runner reported, “Prince Jehan has arrived.”
In the commander’s office the brothers exchanged brief glances, and then War Commander Randart said easily, as befitted the prince’s best advocate in the kingdom, “Request his highness to honor us with his presence, if that is his royal desire. Or we could join him wherever he wishes, to go over the king’s orders.”
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