“They’re in the west wing now, your wizardness, ever since King Dârio took the throne,” said Gruffyd.
Henddyn winced. “Call him ‘Good wizard,’ lad, unless he has a title.”
“Sorry,” said Gruffyd, trying to apologize to Henddyn and Damon simultaneously.
“I’ve got a title, but it hasn’t had much use in decades,” said Damon. He opened the door to the corridor. “Lead on, Gruffyd. That’s what I borrowed you for, after all.”
* * * * *
Someone was tapping on the door to the queen’s sitting room.
“What is it?” asked Queen Carys. She was doing a piece of intricate embroidery while discussing matters of state—mostly Princess Gwýnnett’s latest plotting—with Astrí. The other woman was weaving thin rods of tight light into colorful patterns. Her dark-blue hood and robes were on the arm of her chair.
“A wizard and a guardsman are at the door with urgent business,” came a servant’s muffled words through the thick door to the sitting room’s antechamber.
Astrí was surprised. “Fercha’s returned from Nova Eboracum already?”
“Tell the queen I’m back, but still haven’t found her daughter,” came a loud male voice from the other side of the door.
“It’s Damon!” said Carys. Her embroidery fell to her lap and her heart nearly skipped a beat. “You have to…”
Astrí was already moving. Her tight-light pattern had exploded into a full spectrum of colored sparks before disappearing. She’d picked up her robes and hood and was running to a dark-blue curtained alcove on the far side of the room where servants could wait until the queen required them. It had its own door to an outside hallway.
“You can’t enter the queen’s presence without being announced,” came a protesting servant’s voice from the antechamber.
Damon opened the door and stepped into the sitting room with Gruffyd behind him.
“The years have treated you well, Carys.”
“You always did know how to give a lady a compliment—and make an entrance,” said the queen, steepling her fingers in her lap.
Damon strode purposefully across the room and sat in the same chair Merry had occupied earlier. Gruffyd stood behind Damon, trying his best to become part of the furniture.
“Have a seat,” said the queen. "Make yourself comfortable."
“Thank you, I will,” said Damon, settling himself deeper into the padded upholstery.
Gruffyd, his face impassive, felt like he was watching the first crossing of blades in a fencing match.
“I’m looking for a girl,” said the old wizard.
“Weren’t you supposed to be doing that more than forty years ago when my daughter disappeared?”
Damon nodded. The queen had scored the first touch.
“I suppose I deserve that,” he said.
This time the queen nodded.
“I’m looking for a younger girl this time. She’s only fifteen. The guards said your personal wizard came to fetch her.”
“What makes you think you’ll be any more successful finding Merry of Applegarth than you were finding Princess Seren of Dâron?”
Damon saw an opening and took it.
“So she was here?”
“Yes,” said Carys. “Just like Princess Seren was in the palace for eighteen years.”
“Stop trying to confuse me with ancient history,” said Damon. “And before you can say it, I know I’m easily confused.”
Queen and wizard exchanged smiles.
“Merry was here and talked to us—talked to me, I mean—for almost an hour,” said the queen.
“Us?” asked Damon. “You and your personal wizard, you mean? Who did you rope into that job?”
“Her name is Astrí,” Carys answered. “She came to court long after you left.”
“Decades ago, I hear.”
“About that long,” said the queen.
“I’d like to meet her,” said Damon. “I’m sure we’d have a lot to talk about.”
“No doubt,” said Carys. “I’ll let her know when she returns.”
“Off on one of your errands, then?” Damon crossed his legs and sat farther back in his chair. “Did she go to Riyas? Nova Eboracum? Bjarniston? Or perhaps the southern Clan Lands?”
Queen Carys laughed.
“I sent her to the Conclave’s library to do some research.”
Gruffyd couldn’t understand all the levels of their conversation, but he could tell the queen was ahead on touches, though neither one had yet drawn first blood.
“Researching what?”
“Freezing spells, if you must know.”
Damon’s face lit up with a grin. Gruffyd could see it reflected in the window panes behind the queen and in the queen’s amused reaction.
“You have a devious mind, Your Majesty.”
“Thank you,” said Carys. “You didn’t think you were our only hope of stopping the Bifurlanders, did you?”
“I knew you always think eight moves ahead,” said Damon. “You’re the one who taught Seren shah-mat, after all.”
“And she was an excellent player,” said the queen. “Before she disappeared.”
“Before she disappeared, aye,” said Damon. “This Astrí must be a powerful wizard.”
“She’s skilled.”
“Strong enough to freeze the Brenavon?” asked Damon.
“Perhaps, if it comes to that.”
“If Astrí is that strong, the two of us should work together to make it happen.”
“Now that I know you’ve agreed to help, I’ll suggest that to her.”
“Good,” said Damon.
“Fine,” said Carys.
Gruffyd was confused. It seemed like the match was over. What about Merry?
“What happened to the girl?” asked Damon.
Tight muscles in Gruffyd’s neck relaxed.
“Derry’s daughter?” asked the queen. “She left with Princess Gwýnnett nearly an hour ago.”
“Why didn’t you stop her?” asked Damon.
“Merry? Or the princess?”
“Either,” said Damon. “Both.”
“She’s a resourceful young woman,” said the queen. “I thought she might learn something.”
“Or Princess Gwýnnett might,” said Damon, shaking his head.
The wizard looked up and over his shoulder at Gruffyd.
“Do you know the way to the spider’s lair?”
“I can take you to Princess Gwýnnett’s apartments,” said Gruffyd after he loosened his jaw. His teeth had been clenched ever since he’d heard who Merry had left with.
“Let’s get moving,” said Damon as he rose and started to follow Gruffyd to the door. “It’s been a pleasure chatting with you, Your Majesty.”
“It certainly has, Master Mage,” said the queen. “We’ll have to do it more often.”
Chapter 23
Fercha
Fercha flew into an open upper window in her townhouse in Brendinas. Her bedchamber was much the way she’d left it. She tossed her flying disk on the bed and traded her blue wizard’s robes for green ones before reclaiming her disk and strapping it to her back. A thin sleeve of yellow beryl turned her new blue magestone green, completing her transformation.
She rolled up a tapestry of a mage and a unicorn to the left of the fireplace across from her bed and tied it in place with leather thongs. A fresco of a faux stone archway framing an emerald green landscape was revealed. Fercha knew a second fresco remained hidden behind a similar tapestry on the right, but the left side was where her heart was. She stood in front of the fresco. With a word and a gesture, the gate opened and Fercha stepped through into the highest room in a tower anchoring one corner of the royal palace in Riyas.
* * * * *
A dark-haired, powerfully built man dressed in sumptuous green fabric trimmed with white fur sat on a straight-backed chair beside a wide bed. He was a few years older than Fercha and had an air of command about him, as if he was
used to his word being obeyed.
“Your Majesty,” said Fercha.
King Túathal of Tamloch tilted his head and regarded her for a few moments.
“You were expecting to find my brother?” he said.
“I was expecting to find an empty bedchamber.”
“And instead you found me,” said the king. “Verro’s out seeing to various preparations for the upcoming battle. I like to sit in his rooms from time to time. It helps me feel close to him when he’s away.”
“How touching,” said Fercha. “Brotherly love. I’m glad you were waiting for me. You’re the real decision-maker.”
“That’s the burden of being a first child,” said Túathal.
He gestured to another chair at a nearby writing table. Fercha sat.
“It’s a shame, really,” said the king. “Verro would have been a better ruler, but he was second in line and took himself out of the succession by becoming a wizard.”
“You’ve done well as king,” said Fercha, “except for restarting the war with Dâron.”
“Except for that,” said Túathal, a corner of his mouth turning up. “I take pleasure in knowing this will be the last war between our kingdoms.”
“Oh?”
“After this conflict, Tamloch and Dâron will be one realm, under one king.”
“And that king would be you?”
“Perhaps. Perhaps not,” said Túathal. He smiled, showing his teeth.
“You never married and don’t have an heir,” said Fercha. “Won’t that be a problem?”
“Less than you’d think,” said Túathal.
Fercha thought his expression was far too close to that of a cat who’d just lapped up a bowl of cream.
“Why did you never marry?” she asked.
“Don’t you know?” asked Túathal. “It’s heartbreaking when the one you love only has eyes for another.”
The king of Tamloch stared at her long enough to make Fercha feel uncomfortable. He frowned at her, then smiled.
“At least my brother has good taste.”
Fercha nodded slightly and tried to keep her face impassive. Verro had told her Túathal knew about them, but could the king be hiding feelings for his own brother? Stranger things had happened in the royal families of both kingdoms.
“Very well,” said Túathal. “Let me save you time. I’m not calling off the war. Verro and I have been planning it for far too long to stop now. Tamloch and Dâron will be united. Together we’ll push the Eagle People into the Ocean and put an end to the Clan Lands, north and south.”
Túathal likes to hear the sound of his own voice, thought Fercha. Verro said little, except for pillow talk after… She stopped that line of thought, even though they were in Verro’s bedchamber with all its reminders of the times they’d spent making love on the mattress not five feet away.
Fercha considered what Doethan had told her about then Prince Túathal and Princess Gwýnnett—and what their affair implied about King Dârio. Perhaps Túathal was still figuring out his preferences when he was younger, she considered. Or perhaps he didn’t consider gender as an essential qualification for selecting a bed partner? Many didn’t.
“You’re going to marry Princess Gwýnnett and step aside to install King Dârio as the sole monarch for the combined kingdoms.”
“Bravo,” said Túathal. “You’re every bit as clever as Verro said you were. It would be a marriage of convenience, of course. Gwýnnett has assured me Dârio is tightly under her thumb.”
“Right,” said Fercha, keeping all traces of irony out of her voice. “And your younger sister Rúth will conveniently die of the wasting disease while the war is in progress, leaving the succession even more clear.”
King Túathal smiled.
“Is Rúth even sick or will it all be Gwýnnett’s poisons?”
“Whatever could you mean?” said Túathal, flicking imaginary dust from the cuffs of his shirt.
“You and Gwýnnett weren’t married when Dârio was born. She was officially married to Prince Dâri.”
“There’s the beauty of our plan,” said Túathal. “Dâron’s nobles and wizards will gladly accept my compromise—after our battles or perhaps before. The king of Dâron will rule the combined kingdoms, while I pull his strings with help from Princess Gwýnnett.”
“And a little thing like a formal marriage has never mattered in the Tamloch succession,” said Fercha.
“You’ve been reading our history books,” said Túathal.
“I’ve found it pays to know my enemy.”
“We don’t have to be enemies, dear lady,” said Túathal. “Wouldn’t you love to openly share Verro’s bed when the kingdoms are united?”
Fercha leaned against the tall back of her chair and glanced over at Verro’s bed. Would Túathal’s plan be all that bad? Especially if it ended the conflict between Dâron and Tamloch? Dârio was far more than Túathal knew, Fercha considered, and Princess Gwýnnett could be dealt with. She could be locked in the Blue Spiral Tower along the Rhuthro, for that matter. Her horned-owl familiar, Tuto, could keep watch. The Blue Spiral Tower in Melyncárreg was also an option. King Túathal would be more of a problem, however.
“I’m tempted, Your Majesty.”
“That’s the idea,” said the king.
“What could I do to support your plan?”
“You could smooth our way with the Conclave and advise the old queen that uniting the kingdoms would be the wisest course.”
“I could,” said Fercha. “But no promises. Dâron’s Conclave is unpredictable and Carys follows her own counsel.”
“Understood,” said Túathal, “but your thumb on the scale couldn’t hurt.”
“As you say, Your Majesty,” said Fercha. “I may want to discuss this with Verro. Where might I find him?”
“Where he can cause the most trouble for Dâron, of course.”
“I see,” said Fercha. “You’ve been most helpful.”
“A good king wants to help his subjects—and his future subjects,” said King Túathal.
He stood when Fercha rose from her chair. They froze in place for a moment, their eyes locked. Neither one gave ground.
Fercha was the first to turn away. She reopened the gate with a word and a gesture and stepped through into her townhouse in Brendinas.
Too bad you’re not a good king, she thought, not looking back.
Chapter 24
Doethan
Every time Doethan saw the Conclave’s octagonal hall from the air he wanted to reverse course and return to the reassuring rooms of his comfortable tower. The walls of the hall were made from blocks of blue-veined gray marble and the bright-blue glazed terracotta tiles on its high-pitched roof sparkled in the afternoon sun. A long rectangular wing with a flat roof extended from one of the octagon’s sides. It provided a safe spot for Doethan to land. He reluctantly touched down, slung his flying disk on his back, and steeled himself for the confrontations to come. He didn’t have long to wait.
“It’s about time you got here,” said a muscular wizard a foot taller and ten years younger than Doethan. He had dark, short-clipped hair and was blocking the entrance to the stairway leading down to the eight-sided assembly hall. “Where have you been?”
“You’ll know in a few minutes when I brief the Conclave, Hibblig.”
The big wizard was wearing a short blue-on-blue striped robe that marked him as a member of Princess Gwýnnett’s faction. Its length allowed him to show off his muscular calves. He looked as ready to throw Doethan off the roof as let him pass.
“You’re keeping us in the dark about Tamloch’s plans, aren’t you?”
Hibblig wasn’t just a member of Gwýnnett’s faction, he led it. Doethan would have been glad to postpone their discussion, but Hibblig wasn’t giving him a choice.
“Tell me, old man,” said Hibblig, reaching out to put one of his large hands on Doethan’s shoulders. Doethan generated a small disk of solidified sound that pushed Hibblig’s ha
nd aside.
“You’re as charming and courteous as ever, I see,” said Doethan. “I’ve returned to brief everyone on the Conclave’s role in the kingdom’s defense. You’ll hear what I have to say along with everyone else.”
“That’s not good enough,” said Hibblig. He stuck out his jaw. “I deserve to know before the others.”
“People don’t always get what they deserve,” said Doethan. “Now step aside. Time is of the essence. I’d have given the briefing half an hour ago, if I could have managed it.”
A small woman slid past Hibblig from the stairwell like an otter gliding around a rock on a river. She joined the men on the roof.
“You’ll have to settle for ten minutes from now,” said Inthíra. She was a comfortable-looking wizard a few years younger than Doethan. Inthíra had with curly brown hair and wore a solid sky-blue robe marking her as part of the faction of crown wizards supporting Queen Carys. Doethan was glad to turn away from Hibblig and lean down to hug her.
“So good to see you,” he said, raising his voice so it echoed in the stairwell behind them.
“The princess wants to replace you,” Inthíra whispered, her lips brushing Doethan’s ear. “She wants him as Senior Mage.”
Doethan nodded into Inthíra’s shoulder. Princess Gwýnnett’s ambitions for Hibblig weren’t exactly new news. They broke their embrace and Doethan spoke.
“Everyone’s waiting in the assembly hall, I assume?”
“Every crown and free wizard in Brendinas,” Hibblig replied, sounding smug. More of his faction lived in the city.
“I’ve notified the wizards outside the capital,” said Inthíra. “They should gate in momentarily.”
“Excellent,” said Doethan. With luck, Gwýnnett’s faction wouldn’t have a disproportionate presence.
“Let’s get on with it, old man,” said Hibblig, his voice sounding like it was only a matter of time until he was in charge.
The three wizards descended the stairs with Doethan and Hibblig walking side by side, each trying to take the lead.
* * * * *
It was noisy in the assembly hall. Wizards liked to talk, especially to other wizards.
Doethan stood between Hibblig and Inthíra on a rectangular raised platform along one of the octagonal sides defining the hall’s broad open space. Above and behind the platform was a carved wooden balcony. More than a hundred wizards filled the octagonal floor. They stood or sat on constructs of solidified sound, catching up with each other while waiting for Doethan to speak. Some seemed hostile, some friendly, some just curious.
The Congruent Wizard (The Congruent Mage Series Book 2) Page 14