A Deliverer Comes

by Jill Williamson

  “You learned quickly,” Qoatch said, eyes roving the Veil for spies.

  “No doubt my years of training as a mantic helped me. That this magic requires no sacrifice on the part of the wielder is remarkable. Why, even you could learn this skill, Qoatch.”

  He had no desire to wield magic of his own and preferred to keep himself separate from shadir. “You might create an army,” he said.

  “Yes, and I could make them all look like you.” She chuckled. “Is that what the Chieftess is doing, I wonder? Making an army? Do you think it possible?”

  “So she could attack Armanguard and take the throne for her son? I suppose.”

  “She kept the magic to herself and Sâr Shanek. Did you hear him say that? She hasn’t taught her maidens.”

  “With the exception of Lady Amala.”

  “No, Sâr Shanek taught Amala,” Jazlyn said. “And if I recall, the Chieftess was not the kindest to the girl. Why might that be?”

  “She is a threat,” Qoatch said. “She has the ability to take the boy from his mother.”

  Jazlyn smirked. “She already has. He would do anything for the girl. Still, it’s clear that Chieftess Charlon is formidable in her abilities. If she believes Sâr Shanek is meant to rule Armania, why isn’t she planning her own attack?”

  “Perhaps she is,” Qoatch said. “Or perhaps she feels he is not ready to rule.”

  “He is gullible,” Jazlyn conceded. “What to do, Qoatch? Shadir are running wild without mantics to temper their cravings. If I could harness this new magic, I could not only rebuild my swarm, it might be bigger and stronger than before. I could establish New Tenma.”

  “You would need a great supply of the new ahvenrood,” Qoatch said.

  “I have only the one plant that Chieftess Charlon gave me. How quickly has it grown?”

  “Not quickly enough,” Qoatch said. “King Barthel mentioned having planted a crop on the islands he came from.”

  She sat up straight. “Was it harvested or left for seed?”

  Qoatch didn’t know. “I could ask.”

  “No, I don’t want to call attention to myself or my desire to gather new root. Should King Barthel discover my interest, he would keep me from it until he learned its value.”

  “Perhaps you could offer your services as a vassal,” Qoatch suggested. “King Barthel left his daughter Laviel to govern his fortress on Islah, but she betrayed him to her own demise. The fortress now sits abandoned, perhaps with a store of new ahvenrood waiting to be claimed.”

  “What an intriguing idea. But how would I explain my interest? Someone of my stature has better things to do than run errands for a king she does not serve.”

  Qoatch thought for a moment. “Empress Inolah will arrive any day now to help her son transition to his role of regent.”

  She grimaced. “Don’t remind me.”

  “Why not tell the king you want to get away for a time? To avoid the discomfort the empress will surely put you through. So you volunteer to govern his interests in Islah in exchange for distance from those who seek to dismiss you as a villain.”

  Jazlyn’s eyes glittered. “I like it, Qoatch. The question is, will King Barthel agree?”

  “He will if you give him something he wants,” Qoatch said. “A meeting with Sâr Shanek and Miss Amala.”

  This brought a scowl to Jazlyn’s face. “Give the man a chance to steal Sâr Shanek and Miss Amala away from me?”

  “Miss Amala is quite fond of you and Princess Jahleeah,” Qoatch said. “And you have never asked anything of Sâr Shanek beyond his instruction after saving Sir Kalenek’s life. King Barthel may try to win the boy to his side, but if the prince is unable to see the king’s motives, surely Miss Amala will.”

  Jazlyn seemed to consider this. “If the king finds out they can do the new magic, he’ll want to learn it. Then I’ll have no advantage over him.”

  “Then we will warn them to keep their secrets safe,” Qoatch said.

  Jazlyn shook her head. “I dare not leave them alone with him. You must stay behind to protect my interests here. King Barthel is still livid over the death of his daughter. Offer yourself as a seer who can watch the Veil for spies. He is paranoid and bound to accept any offer of help.”

  Qoatch stood before the throne in King Barthel’s tent. The man wore black to mourn his daughter’s death, and it made him look sinister, like a lesser version of Gozan. His female mantics and the malleant woman were here as well, sitting on mats on the ground.

  Qoatch made Empress Jazlyn’s proposal to travel to Islah and take care of whatever mess Rosârah Laviel might have left behind. He also offered his services to the king while Jazlyn was away, then invited the king to dine with his Great Lady, Sâr Shanek, and Miss Amala that evening.

  “These are pleasing developments,” King Barthel said. “I’m eager to meet Sâr Shanek and Miss Amala, and I would appreciate your assistance in dealing with those that travel the Veil. Please thank the empress for me. As to her part, I left little on Islah. The fortress is nothing more than a drafty house of sticks. The air there is humid and it rains nearly every day in the winter. It would be most unpleasant.”

  “The empress does not want to be gone long,” Qoatch said. “She simply wishes to distance herself from New Rurekau while Empress Inolah gets settled.”

  “She will lose all her power here,” King Barthel said, “especially if she is away.”

  “The empress is tired, Your Highness,” Qoatch said. “The babies keep her very busy. She does not have the energy to fight for the throne, especially when her magic is waning and she knows that those who stand in her way are set against her.”

  “She’s in an unfortunate position.” The king furrowed his ridged brow and rubbed his bony fingers on the arm of his throne. “I cannot part with any of my mantics at present, nor can I offer her the evenroot I promised, as that has been destroyed. I can, however, send her with twenty of my guardsmen for added safety and to aid in packing up the area. There is likely some furniture left behind. Perhaps even some of my daughter’s personal effects, though she likely moved nearly everything to the ship. The empress can communicate with me through the shadir if she has any questions. And she must bring back any compelled Puru when she returns.”

  “She would be happy to, I’m sure, Your Highness,” Qoatch said, bowing.

  Timmons entered the tent and signaled to catch the king’s attention.

  “Well?” the king said.

  The onesent bowed. “Abaqa mi Niseh has arrived, Your Highness. He brought with him three men.”

  “Bring them in at once,” the king said.

  “Yes, Your Highness.” Timmons bowed and departed.

  “Zenobia, Mattenelle, Lilou,” the king said, snapping his fingers. “I don’t believe the giants will attack, but be on your guard all the same. Zenobia, you will translate. Qoatch, watch the Veil for any unfamiliar shadir. I’m convinced these giants must have access to some.”

  “Should you call forth Dendron as well, Your Highness?” Qoatch asked. “Surely a great shadir could sense more about these newcomers than I could observe.”

  “He is busy with other matters at present,” the king said. “You will have to do.”

  Qoatch bowed, though he couldn’t imagine what task Dendron might find more important than the arrival of giants who harbored their own mysterious magic.

  Timmons returned with four of the overly large men. Each had to squeeze through the tent entrance, which shook the canvas structure again and again.

  Abaqa mi Niseh stopped before the throne. The Jiir-Yeke headman wore a leather cape covered in black feathers and a crown studded with gowzal teeth and claws. His men stood side by side behind him. He grunted and hit his fist against his chest in greeting.

  King Barthel inclined his head. “Abaqa mi Niseh, welcome.”

  The giant headman spoke, and Lady Zenobia cast a spell that enabled her to translate the guttural language of the giants.

  “You br
ought the Puru?” she asked.

  “They are here,” the king said. “Do we have a bargain?”

  Abaqa grunted. “As I say, it will be done.”

  King Barthel clasped his hands together. “Excellent! We will leave first thing in the morning. Qoatch, if the empress doesn’t mind, I’d like you to accompany us to the Jiir-Yeke village.”

  Visit the giants? Qoatch had no desire to make such a journey.

  “Your men are welcome,” Abaqa said once Zenobia had translated, “but women may only participate in the sacred ritual as . . .” Lady Zenobia paled, “. . . as sacrifices.”

  “How strangely barbaric,” King Barthel blurted, then gripped Zenobia’s arm. “Don’t translate that. Mikray, fetch Yohthehreth, Lau, and Harton. Tell them to be ready to leave at dawn for a journey into the mountains. Tell them to dress warm.”

  The shadir vanished.

  “Shall we eat, Headman?” the king asked. “You must be hungry from your journey.”

  “We will not to eat,” Abaqa said. “Take us to the people now.”

  “Very well. Timmons, take the headman to the Puru tents.”

  Zenobia translated and the giants exited with Timmons, the tent again shaking each time one squeezed out the narrow entry.

  Qoatch hadn’t heard of any Puru people in King Barthel’s camp. What negotiation had he just witnessed?

  “I must prepare for dinner with my great-grandson,” King Barthel said. “It’s better that the giants have no stomach. Now I won’t have to split my attention. Lady Mattenelle, choose twenty soldiers to accompany me tomorrow. Qoatch, inform me at once if you’ll be joining us.”

  “Yes, Your Highness,” Qoatch said.

  When the king had gone, Qoatch made his own exit and met Mattenelle in the doorway.

  “Why would the king give up his soldiers to the Jiir-Yeke?” he asked.

  “Not soldiers,” Mattenelle said. “He traded twenty of the Puru women and children he brought from Islah as an exchange for a demonstration of their magic.”

  How intriguing. “What kind of magic can they wield?”

  “That’s why the king is going to the giant village. To find out.”

  That night Qoatch watched his Great Lady struggle. They had agreed he would accompany King Barthel to the giants’ village. Neither could understand why the man refused to attack Armania, and while Jazlyn hated to part with Qoatch for so long, she believed he would learn much by spending time in the king’s service. What preoccupied her thoughts even more at present were the risks involved in the evening’s dinner.

  She had warned Sâr Shanek and Miss Amala against Barthel Rogedoth, but the man had charm and magic on his side. As the guests feasted on the best food and wine New Rurekau had to offer, the king regaled the young couple with tales of his childhood as a prince in Sarikar, stories of his service as a soldier in the Centenary War, exploits of hunting cheyvah in the Echo Crack, and the history of how he and his wife started the Lahavôtesh.

  King Barthel’s mantics worked steadily all night, upholding spells of trust and fascination between the king and his guests, not that Barthel Rogedoth needed their help. He was an expert at manipulation, and Sâr Shanek and Miss Amala—despite the warnings Jazlyn had given them—listened raptly, their eyes only leaving the king when they reached for food or drink.

  “I’m so glad you came tonight, Sâr Shanek,” the king said, “and that you brought such a lovely young woman with you. I’ve been longing to make your acquaintance, but I feared too many would seek to keep us apart. I thank you, Empress Jazlyn, for introducing me to my great-grandson. Your kindness knows no bounds.”

  “My pleasure, Your Highness.” Jazlyn took a sip of wine, hiding her fake smile behind her goblet.

  “I’m going on a trip north,” the king told the young guests. “The empress is also going away. I do hope that when we return you will come and visit again?”

  Sâr Shanek glanced at Miss Amala, clearly incapable of making a decision without her input. The girl nodded eagerly as she finished off the last of her cranberry crispel.

  “We will visit again,” the prince said.

  “Wonderful.” The king raised his glass. “Let us drink to friendship.”

  As everyone lifted their glasses and drank, Qoatch met Jazlyn’s gaze. He knew that look. She would be counting on him to monitor the situation while she was gone. It was imperative that she find the king’s new ahvenrood store before the man learned of its value. Only then would she stand a chance at succeeding in her plans to break free from King Barthel and establish New Tenma.

  Inolah

  Inolah’s contingent approached New Rurekau just as the midday bells were tolling. A two-level log palisade set up on a rampart of earth surrounded the city on all sides. The river had been diverted into a moat that ran along the eastern and southern walls. The rooftops that Inolah could see were all thick layers of stepped thatch. Strangely there was no snow here.

  She noted with distaste the dissimilar tents assembled outside the stronghold, no doubt belonging to Barthel Rogedoth. If she discovered that he and Jazlyn had conspired to kill her sons and take control of this realm . . .

  That could wait. First she must see to Ferro’s safety, then do what she could to make sure that New Rurekau was firmly allied with Armania in regard to Rogedoth.

  The procession stopped outside the gate, then continued over a drawbridge. It pleased Inolah to see the vast number of Rurekan soldiers here to greet her men. Surely if Rogedoth had taken over, it would have been his men here instead and they might have prohibited her entry.

  Inolah glanced out her window as the carriage rolled to a stop. The crude log castle was vastly inferior both architecturally and aesthetically to the fortress Jazlyn had destroyed in Old Rurekau.

  Sir Doran opened the carriage door. “We are here, Your Eminence. Rosârah Thallah comes this way.”

  Interfering woman. Inolah hoped she knew better than to speak of Ulrik and their deception aloud. For now, no one must know that her eldest son was alive.

  Inolah took Sir Doran’s hand and, with his assistance, climbed from the carriage. The streets had been laid out on a rectangular grid. Wet and warped wooden planks covered the boggy ground. Inolah treaded carefully, thankful for a chance to stand and stretch her legs. Sure enough, Rosârah Thallah was headed toward them, planks bouncing under her heavy steps.

  Father’s third wife seemed to have aged a great deal since Inolah had last seen her on Bakurah Island. Her hair had grown thick streaks of gray, and deep wrinkles creased her mouth and forehead.

  “Empress, thank the gods.” Rosârah Thallah bustled to a stop on the planks outside Inolah’s carriage. “We must act quickly to protect Rurekau from the influence of mantics.”

  “Doesn’t that include yourself?”

  Thallah set her hand over her ample bosom. “I am no mantic, Empress.”

  “Yet you kept a shadir and evenroot powder.”

  “Had I not, the giants would have taken us all.”

  “How fortunate, then, that you are so deceitful.”

  Thallah’s brows sank. “I saved your son, Empress. The least you can do is—”

  Inolah raised her hand and pushed her voicing magic into the woman’s mind. “Any reference to Ulrik will be spoken silently, is that understood? I would think a woman familiar with shadir would know better than to speak where the creatures can listen.”

  Thallah puffed up her cheeks and expelled a long breath. “I’m not a fool, in spite of what Taleeb and his band of men might have told you. They simply don’t like being ruled by a woman.” She glanced at the baby in Kreah’s arms. “Is this the princess Tinyah? She’s a precious one. Wait until you see your grandchildren, Empress. They are equally beautiful.”

  Inolah’s heart constricted. “I long to see them,” she admitted.

  “That woman keeps them in her chambers,” Thallah said. “Prince Ferro as well. I’m afraid she’s working a compulsion so he’ll want to remain wit
h her, despite your arrival.”

  “I know she has not, for I have spoken with Ferro often.” Inolah walked past the rosârah, toward what she assumed to be the entrance. Sir Doran followed alongside, and Kreah, holding Tinyah, kept pace on her left. “Step carefully over these boards, Kreah,” Inolah said.

  “Empress Jazlyn is planning a trip,” Thallah said, her heavy steps clacking behind Inolah. “I don’t think she should be allowed to take the prince anywhere.”

  “Where is she going?” Inolah asked.

  “She won’t say, though it’s by ship.”

  Inolah recalled Ulrik’s concern for his children. She couldn’t allow the empress to take them away. She also wanted Ferro out of Jazlyn’s control. Immediately. “Have a servant show my staff to my rooms. You will take me to Ferro.”

  Thallah passed Inolah’s order to a boy, and Sir Doran quickly split the guard in half, leaving ten men to accompany Inolah. They passed through a corridor with no ceiling. A section of carved, burned woodwork along the wall was quite ornate. It seemed Ulrik had made some attempts at beautifying this overly plain structure.

  Thallah led Inolah through an archway and into a wooden foyer. From there they passed down another corridor, up two flights of stairs, and halfway down a narrower hallway to a set of double doors painted in gold leaf. Where had Ulrik found gold leaf enough to waste on the apartment of his traitorous wife?

  Thallah knocked, and they waited in silence. Inolah’s stomach flipped. It had been over a year since she’d last looked upon her Ferro. He would be ten now. They had conversed with their mind-speak magic, but Inolah worried things might be awkward between them, especially since he thought Ulrik had died. She hated to lie, but Ferro could not keep a secret.

  The door opened, revealing a Tennish serving woman. She inclined her head. “Empress.”

  Inolah pushed past her. “I have come for my son.”

  “He’s just waiting in the—”