The Destined Queen

by Deborah Hale

  Casting a glance behind him, the death-mage collected his icy composure. “I would not dream of rousing His Excellency at this hour.”

  “But you said it was urgent…”

  “Urgent for me to prepare the report I will deliver as soon as he rises.” Fixing the young soldier with a glare, the death-mage stalked off down the gallery with long, hurried strides.

  Where was he headed? Somewhere to prepare a report, he’d told the guard. But Maura had become familiar enough with the palace to know this way led to the women’s quarters.

  She raced after him, catching up just as he halted before one of the doors and began hammering upon it with his fist. “Mother. Let me in. Hurry!”

  Did death-mages have mothers? Though Maura knew they must, the notion taxed her imagination.

  After a moment, she heard the sound of a lock turning and the door swung inward. She managed to slip in on the death-mage’s heels before it was closed again by an old woman wrapped in a fine robe, her thinning white hair pulled back in a tight braid.

  She scowled at the death-mage and spoke in a tone so sharp Maura doubted any other Han but the High Governor would dare use it to a member of the feared Echtroi. “What brings you here at this hour, pounding on my door? Are you being sent over the mountains? A good thing it would be. We do not want one of your rivals to steal all the credit for crushing this rebellion.”

  The death-mage shook his head. “That is the least of our worries. My mind is beginning to break. Soon I will be a babbling simpleton!”

  He sank onto an ornately wrought chair. His shoulders slumped and his pale hands began to tremble.

  “That cannot be!” With stiff movements, the old woman dropped to her knees beside him and clutched one of his hands tightly in both of hers. “You are young still, and you have always been strong-minded, even as a child.”

  The death-mage refused to take heart. “Remember Tharled. He was younger than I when he became a raving madman and had to be locked away!”

  “Tharled was always too high-strung for his own good.” The woman’s sharp features twisted into a sneer. “He should never have been allowed to join the order, let alone rise so high so fast. But he had the House of Zardisvon behind him—the scavengers! There have been others like Tharled who lacked the strength to control the power they wield. But I have known many who kept their wits to a great age and died at the height of their powers.”

  Huddled in a shadowed corner, Maura listened with a sense of grim justice. So death-mages did not escape unscathed from the pain and terror they inflicted. Even the ones who did not go mad lived in fear that they might. Now she understood why her sudden appearance and disappearance had struck terror into this one.

  For a moment the old woman’s hand hovered above her son’s shoulder, as if she wanted to offer comfort but did not know how.

  Instead, she struggled up from the floor and took a seat opposite him, speaking in a brisk tone. “You seem to have all your wits about you now. Perhaps you only dreamed whatever has unnerved you.”

  The death-mage’s head snapped up. “What is madness but dreaming when I am awake? I saw her, I tell you! Dareth—down in the low chamber.”

  Maura watched the old woman stiffen and stare at the mention of her mother’s name. “Perhaps she is here. One of your rivals might have found the little wretch and brought her here to discredit you at a crucial moment.”

  How could her mother discredit him? Maura wondered. Because she had escaped from him all those years ago?

  “You do not understand.” The death-mage rose from his chair and began to pace behind his mother’s. “Dareth did not enter the chamber…or leave it. She just…appeared. But I could see through her like a reflection in a window. She did not look to have aged a day since I saw her last. And when I called her name, she disappeared again and a voice asked what I had done to her that she should haunt me.”

  With each word he became more agitated. “What I did to her? Protected her. Hid her.”

  His voice broke, but not before Maura heard him keen the impossible words, “Loved her!”

  She jammed her hands over her ears, but it was too late. Like one small stone rolling down from a mountaintop to cause an avalanche, the death-mage’s admission triggered a hail of memories in Maura’s mind.

  She recalled something Langbard had said before going on to tell her that she was the Destined Queen. The shock of his revelation had chased it from her mind. Now it came back to her.

  When she’d asked about the identity of her father, Langbard said her mother had kept that secret from him, even during her passing ritual. Just as she had kept Maura from seeing the face of her lover during her memory vision. Why keep such a secret unless it was a source of regret and shame?

  Maura’s skin crawled and her gorge rose. She wanted to weep or vomit or smash something, but she dared not do any of those things.

  The Hanish woman—her grandmother?—sprang from her chair with surprising energy for her years and gave the death-mage a hard slap on the cheek. “You were mad back then—bewitched! Seeing and hearing things is nothing compared with the folly of what that creature compelled you to do.”

  That creature? Maura longed to fly at the pair of them and give them a haunting they would never forget!

  The old woman gentled her tone. “You came to your senses before and you will not take leave of them now. Go get some sleep and try not to tax your powers for a few days. It will be well. You will see.”

  This mixture of harshness and concern seemed to work on her son, for he grew calmer. “Perhaps you are right. I have not slept well since that incident at the Beastmount Mine. It may be that all this recent unrest among the Umbrians has stirred up old memories.”

  As he headed for the door, the pair spoke about matters and people that meant nothing to Maura, even if she had been able to concentrate on what they were saying. But she could not.

  The notion that she might have Hanish blood threw her mind and heart into paralysing turmoil. She had feared and loathed the Han for as long as she could remember. Any kinship with them would be like a vile parasite invading her body. How could she be the Destined Queen of Umbria if she were tainted with the blood of their most hated foes?

  The death-mage pulled open the door but stood a moment taking leave of his mother. Not able to stand being near either of them for a moment longer, Maura risked slipping past them. Once she reached the corridor, she fled back to the cellar as fast as her legs would carry her.

  But that was not swiftly enough to evade a question that dogged her thoughts. Was this what Rath had learned about her from the Oracle of Margyle? Had it poisoned his trust in her and his love for her?

  He would make the Hanish scum sorry for what they’d done to those miners! Righteous rage seethed within Rath as he stood in the secret room of the tannery and tipped the growth potion to his lips. He would make them sorry they’d ever set foot in his kingdom!

  Out on the streets of Prum, everything should be ready. Rath had left it up to Idrygon to execute that part of his plan, and Idrygon had proven himself a master of execution.

  For once he swallowed the foul-tasting potion with something like eagerness. Perhaps every wrench of pain it inflicted on him might be one less the townfolk of Prum would have to suffer. He kept reminding himself of that as the spell went to work. The thought helped him bear it better than usual.

  The pain was beginning to ebb and his head brushed the ceiling when someone tapped softly on the hidden door. Rath did not call out in case it might be Hanish soldiers searching the building. With quiet movements he drew his sword and raised it.

  The door swung inward on well-oiled hinges.

  “Giver’s mercy!” The tanner shrank back, clutching his chest when he glimpsed Rath’s hulking form.

  “Your pardon!” cried Rath. “I feared it might be…”

  “Of course, Highness.” The tanner mustered his composure and sank into a deep bow. “I came to tell you the time is at
hand and all is as you ordered.”

  “The womenfolk, elders and children are off the streets?”

  “Aye, Highness. Word has gone round that some cowherders from the north steppes are spoiling for a fight with those from the south. Folk with any sense will be keeping off the streets. Lots do, anyway, at fair time.”

  Rath nodded his approval. “Then we had better get a move on. I cannot stand to think of Prum under Hanish rule a moment longer.”

  “Nor I, sire.” Boyd Tanner held the door wide for Rath to lumber through, hunched to keep from hitting his head on the ceiling beams. “Right handsome suit of armor ye got there, if ye don’t mind my saying—fine work.”

  “And yours.” Rath had become so used to seeing men in armor, he had not noticed the tanner’s sturdy jerkin. “Make it yourself?”

  “Aye.” The tanner chuckled as they descended the stairs. “I’ve put on a pound or two around the middle since then, though. It’s a mite snug.”

  Rath chuckled. “Let us hope you will soon be able to hang it up and never worry about wearing it again.”

  They paused at the bottom of the stairs. “Tell me, Highness, if it ain’t too bold for me to ask, what became of the lass who was here with you that night—the one Exilda was looking to come. Did she find what she was looking for?”

  “She did,” said Rath. “Thanks in part to your help. Now she is off looking for something else in a place even more dangerous. I hope she finds someone as brave as you to aid her this time, if need be.”

  “I don’t know about brave, Highness.” The tanner flashed him a weak grin. “It’s one thing to do a bit on the sly against the Han, but to come out in the open and take up arms? Right now my guts feel like jelly and my palms are so wet I’ll be lucky not to drop my blade.”

  “You’ll do fine, I reckon.” Rath laid one massive hand on the man’s shoulder. “Beforehand is always the worst. Once the fighting starts, you’ll be too busy to fret.”

  “I hope so.” The tanner pushed open the door. “After you, sire.”

  Rath drew his sword as he charged out to meet his foes.

  The sun shone bright and warm as he made his way toward the center of town, but the breeze coming down from the north carried a crisp promise of autumn.

  When he caught sight of a cluster of Hanish soldiers, he raised his enchanted voice and bellowed in Comtung, “Filthy, slinking cowards! Vile murderers! Are you afraid to take on a foe who can fight back?”

  For an instant the Han stared at him, stunned. Then his insults goaded them to action. With roars of outrage, they raised their weapons and charged toward him through the milling crowd. If they all reached him at once, Rath would be in for the fight of his life.

  But they did not all reach him, let alone at once.

  The milling throng in the street hardly seemed to take notice of either Rath or the Han. But when the soldiers started toward him, two of them only got a few steps before clumsy feet thrust into their paths, sending them sprawling.

  That still left three. Out of the corner of his eye, Rath glimpsed reinforcements coming.

  “Folk of Southmark!” he cried, bounding forward to engage the first of his attackers. “Rise up and claim your freedom!”

  He had no time to watch and see if his rallying call worked, for he was soon fighting as hard and as desperately as he ever had in his life. Back and forth his blade flew, parrying blows. Once he caught the rhythm, he could keep two enemies busy. The third was a problem that would only grow worse as he tired.

  He landed one hit, but it only dented the Han’s armor. While his sword arm was raised, he felt a Hanish blade thrust in and strike him below the ribs. His enchanted leather armor stopped the worst of the blow that might have slain him otherwise. But the force of it knocked him off balance and his flesh felt the bite of Blood Moon iron.

  Rath might have faltered then, but he heard the Han who had struck him give a bellow of pain as Boyd Tanner cried, “That’s one less for you to worry about, sire!”

  Someone else leaped in to divert his second attacker. He was down to one now—hardly a fair fight for his foe. Except that he was beginning to feel his wound. The movement of his sword arm slowed and the force of his attack waned. To make matters worse, his opponent was young, strong, swift and fierce. Rath staggered and just barely managed to deflect a powerful blow.

  Then, as the two blades caught, Rath felt his gaze drawn to the young Han’s helm. There was something odd about it. Only a short stub of flaxen hair rose from it, rather than the usual luxurious plume. Perhaps he had been a fool, letting this whelp live to fight him now. But he didn’t feel a fool.

  At that moment, the Han recognized something familiar in Rath’s relentless glare. His eyes widened and his jaw fell slack. “You!”

  “Me.” Rath grinned and fresh strength surged through him. He shoved the young Han back and gripped the hilt of his sword harder for a renewed attack. “Don’t say I didn’t warn you, boy. I showed you mercy once. Do not expect it again.”

  “Maura, is that you?” Warm with relief, Delyon’s voice wrapped around her as she slipped into their hideout. “Praise the Giver’s mercy you’re safe!”

  Through the darkness, he groped his way toward her and clasped her in an anxious embrace. “I feared so for you after what happened. What did happen? I still do not understand.”

  The revulsion Maura had not dared vent before would no longer be contained. Delyon’s show of concern shattered her self-control. She began to tremble as harsh, dry sobs shook her. Her knees gave way, and she would have collapsed to the floor if Delyon had not borne her weight.

  “What happened?” He sank down slowly as she clung to him. “Are you hurt?”

  “No.” It felt like a lie. True, she had come to no bodily harm, but she would rather have suffered the Echtrois’ worst torture than endure this torment of heart and mind. Her only crumb of comfort came from the warm arms that held her and the concerned voice that whispered in her ear.

  Part of her wished it was Rath who held her, or Langbard. Another part rejoiced that it was not. What would either of them think if they knew? How would it change their feelings toward her? Rath had changed toward her during their last days on Margyle…becoming gruff and suspicious. Small wonder.

  Delyon raised one hand to stroke her hair. “If you have come to no harm, then what is wrong?” He tensed. “Have the Han found the Staff of Velorken?”

  “No!” Maura gasped, glad to be telling the truth about that at least.

  “Thank the Giver!” The tension eased out of Delyon as quickly as it had come. “But what has happened to upset you so? It must be dire, for you have been a tower of strength—even when the Han captured us. I know I have been more burden than aid to you on this quest, but whatever is wrong, I promise I will do anything in my power to help.”

  “You…already have helped.” Maura choked out the words. “More than…you will…ever know.”

  “About time I made myself useful, isn’t it?” Delyon’s soft derisive chuckle had a strangely soothing effect. “Come now, tell me what grieves you. Keeping it all inside you will only make it worse—I know.”

  She had no intention of telling him or anyone else—at least not yet. No doubt there would come a time when she’d have to confess the truth. For now she only wanted to protect her shameful secret as fiercely as her mother had—to death and beyond, if need be. But the shielding cloak of darkness and the protective intimacy of Delyon’s touch tempted her to unburden herself.

  What if she was wrong? False hope added its seductive whisper to the call. A scholar like Delyon might be able to weigh her evidence with calm reason and reach a less damning conclusion.

  “The death-mage—he called me by my mother’s name.” Caution tried to silence her, but she could not stop once she’d begun. “He knew her.”

  “You think he might have been one of her captors?” Delyon’s arms tightened around her. “Perhaps the one who killed your father?”

 
Maura began to tremble again. In a hoarse whisper she confessed, “I do not believe Lord Vaylen was my father.”

  “What? But he must have been. I mean…who else?”

  Her silence gave Delyon the answer she could not bring herself to speak.

  “He…the death-mage…?” His tone betrayed the grimace that must be on his face. “You think he…defiled your mother?”

  That would be easier to accept by far!

  “From what I overheard, I believe she may have…seduced him…to gain her freedom.”

  “There must be some other explanation.”

  “If you can think of one, tell me, please,” Maura begged him. “For I could abide almost anything better than this.”

  She told him what she had seen in her vision, as well as what she had learned from her mother’s family and from Langbard. The only thing she could not bear to tell about was the secret revelation Rath had received from the Oracle of Margyle.

  “I’ll admit,” said Delyon after a moment’s thoughtful silence, “what you say does make sense of an appalling kind.”

  A weight on her heart that had eased a little now pressed down, heavier than ever, but Maura did not resume her weeping. Repulsive as the whole idea was, some small part of her had already begun to accept it. If it was true, all the denial and tears in the world could not change it now.

  Delyon’s hand brushed down her cheek to cup her chin, “But even if it is true, that does not change who you are. Your parentage and the manner of your getting does not make you one of them and it never will! It is what you believe and how you put those beliefs into action that make you Umbrian.”

  It was just the kind of thing Langbard might have said if he’d been there. Maura’s eyes misted with fresh tears, but of a different kind. These were healing tears.

  “Please, Delyon, do not tell anyone else of this. I know it will have to come out, but I want to break the news in my own way and my own time. When it will do the least damage to our cause.”