"With all of your abilities, Mykella, it's too bad we're cousins." said Berenyt, not quite jokingly.
"I like you, too," Mykella replied politely. Always implying, never saying, that was Berenyt's style. He never really used words that committed to anything, even as he was implying the unthinkable.
"It really is," insisted Berenyt.
Even though his eyes remained fixed on her face, Mykella could sense the physical appraisal . . . and the muted lust. She barely managed not to swallow or show her disgust. "We are cousins. Nothing will change that."
"You might wish otherwise." Berenyt smiled brightly.
"What I might wish, Berenyt, has seldom changed what is."
"That's true, Mykella, but often what I've wished has." With a pleasant smile, he nodded, then turned and walked down the corridor.
Within herself, she shuddered.
Then, for a time, she stood outside the Finance door before reaching out and opening it.
XX
Early on Quinti morning, Mykella donned black, from nightsilk all the way outward to boots, tunic, and trousers, as well as a black scarf that could double as a head covering, if necessary. The events of the past week, especially Berenyt's words and her encounter with the male Ifrit the night before, had convinced her that anything she could do as a woman —anything that would be seen as acceptable for a woman, she corrected herself— would not save her or her father, or her sisters, from Joramyl and his schemes.
She needed to discover if what the Ifrit had attempted against her was something she could master— and use, if she had to. She had a sickening feeling that would be necessary.
Under cover of her sight-shield, she made her way to the small building behind the palace that served as the slaughterhouse. She waited until no one was looking, then opened the door and closed it behind her, walking as quietly as she could toward the open-roofed slaughtering courtyard in the back.
Three lambs, close to being yearlings and mutton, were confined in a pen— an overlarge wooden crate. Several fowl were in the next crate.
Melmak, the head butcher, looked to a rangy youth. "We need to get on with it. The first one."
As the youth folded down the front of the crate and lifted a blunt stunning hammer, Mykella reached out with what she could only call her Talent and grasped the lamb's lifethread, a thread that felt both thinner and yet coarser, or stronger, than her own seemed to be. But no matter how she tried, she could not break the thread.
The hammer came down, and the lifethread remained. Then the youth dragged the stunned animal over to the iron hook and chain. Only after he slit the animal's throat did the lifethread break— spraying apart at the node, as if all the tiny threads unraveled all at once.
Mykella tried to work on the second lamb, but just as she thought she had understood how to undo those threads, the assistant completed the kill.
She struggled to work more quickly on the last animal— and she succeeded. It died before the assistant even raised his bloody knife.
"It's dead."
"Never seen the like of that before," said the butcher.
"Melmak, ser, you just scared it to death."
"Off with you. You hit too hard with the hammer."
As she turned away, Mykella felt chill inside. She'd never killed anything before— except spiders and flies and the like. Still, the lamb would have died one way or the other. And Jeraxylt and Kiedryn had both been killed by Joramyl's plots.
She stiffened, then walked back across the rear courtyard toward the palace, still holding the sight-shield.
XXI
True spring had finally arrived in Tempre— or at least several days and afternoons warm enough to enjoy the private gardens to the northwest of the palace, and on Decdi Mykella slipped away from the palace to the gardens and their budding foliage to be alone. She was edgy, and still had trouble sleeping, even though the ledgers showed no more diversions, and the actual receipts matched the ledger entries.
One of her favorite places was a small fountain in the northwest corner of the extensive walled garden. There, water trickled down what resembled a section of an ancient wall, and tiny ferns circled the shallow pool below. In summer and fall, miniature redbells bloomed.
She was halfway across the garden on the side path when she heard a feminine laugh from behind one of the boxwood hedges forming the central maze. The laugh was Rachylana's, and Mykella could sense that her sister was not alone. She moved closer, drawing her sight-shield around her.
"You're much more beautiful than Mykella." That voice was Berenyt's.
"Mykella has her points."
"But so many of them are sharp . . ."
Mykella snorted. Time to put a stop to this particular scene. "Rachylana! Where are you?" As if she didn't know.
There was absolute silence from the hidden bower, but Mykella dropped the sight-shield and moved toward it, making sure her boots echoed on the stones of the curving pathway. When she came around the last corner of the boxwood hedge before the bower, Berenyt stood.
"Mistress Mykella." His words were pleasant.
Mykella could sense the unvoiced condescension and the irritation. "Good day, Berenyt," Mykella said politely. "I didn't realize you were here."
"It was a most pleasant end day, and I happened to encounter your sister, and she suggested we enjoy the garden. It has been such a long and gray winter."
"It has indeed," Mykella agreed, "some days being even grayer than others."
Berenyt bowed. "I will not intrude further. Good afternoon, ladies." His smile was clearly for Rachylana. He stepped gracefully past the sisters and made his way down the hedge-lined path that would lead him out of the maze.
Mykella waited for the outburst that was certain to follow once Berenyt was out of earshot.
"You came out here looking for us, didn't you?" accused Rachylana.
"No. I came out here to be alone, but you were giggling and making over him. He's your cousin."
"He's going to be Lord-Protector someday. Father won't wed again."
Mykella had tried to avoid thinking about that. "If Lady Cheleyza doesn't have a son, and if nothing happens to Berenyt."
"He'll still be first in line."
"He's your cousin," Mykella repeated.
"So?"
"Berenyt's just using you," Mykella said, not concealing the exasperation in her voice. "You're behaving like every other silly woman, even like a tavern trollop. You think that he cares for you. All he wants is information and power. He really doesn't even want to bed you, except to make his position as heir-apparent to his father more secure."
"That's not Berenyt."
"That's very much Berenyt. While you're thinking he's appreciating you, he keeps asking you questions, doesn't he? He flirts, but never says anything." Mykella's words were edged with honey more bitter than vinegar.
Rachylana lunged toward Mykella.
Mykella stepped aside, but also called up the unseen webs of greenish energy.
Rachylana reeled away from the unseen barrier and staggered back, nearing toppling over the stone bench. "You hit me!"
"I never touched you, but I certainly should have. You tripped over your own feet, and you'll trip over more than that if you're not careful."
"You and your pride. You seem to think that you can do anything a man can, and you can't," snapped Rachylana. "You're the one who'll trip." She straightened herself and smiled. "You seem to forget, Mykella, that you're a woman, and women need to carry themselves with care if they're to acquire what they wish."
Mykella had never forgotten that she was a woman. How could she, reminded as she was at every turn about what women couldn't do, shouldn't do, or ought not to do? She said nothing more as Rachylana turned and stalked down the garden path.
Only after Rachylana had left did Mykella walk to the far corner of the garden. How could she make people pay attention to her— truly pay attention to her? She was half a head shorter than her sisters, and sh
e was a woman. Her voice and perhaps her posture were the only commanding aspects she possessed.
Could she use her talents . . . She paused. The Ancient had not said talents. She had said Talent— the same sort of Talent that her ancestor had possessed. Could she summon the Ancient?
Standing in the shadows of late afternoon, she concentrated on the Ancient. Nothing happened.
How could she reach the soarer? Could she find the blackness below? She wasn't all that far from the Table, not really. This time, she reached downward toward the greenish black darkness. Surprisingly, touching that underground web was far easier away from the Table. Did the Table make it harder?
The Table interferes with many things. The soarer hovered to Mykella's right, in the deeper shadows. You have called me. A sense of amusement radiated from the soarer. What do you wish?
"Some assistance with a few small things," Mykella said.
Why should I offer such?
"You wanted me to deal with the Ifrit, didn't you? I did. Now, I may need to deal with others."
Mykella gained the sense of a laugh.
You need little from me. You can already tap the lifeweb of Corus.
"Outside of the shields and the sight-shield, I don't know much," Mykella confessed.
You can kill, reminded the soarer.
Mykella winced. Did the Ancient know everything?
Only what you have done, because you have accessed most of your Talent.
"It doesn't seem that way."
That is because you do much when you are not linked to the lifeweb. If you link to the web itself, all that you do will be strengthened. The soarer vanished.
"Who were you talking to, Mykella?"
At the sound of Salyna's voice, Mykella whirled. "Salyna?"
"I thought you were talking to someone, but there wasn't . . . there isn't anyone here." Salyna frowned.
Hadn't Salyna seen the soarer? Did one have to have some vestige of Talent to see the Ancients? Was that another reason why the soarer had contacted Mykella?
"Mykella?"
"Sometimes . . . sometimes I just have to talk things out to myself," Mykella temporized.
"What's a lifeweb?"
"Oh . . . that's something I learned in the archives. Everything in the world that is living is tied together. That's what the Alectors thought." Mykella hoped that her hasty explanation would be enough. "I was trying to work out . . . about why some things happen. Sometimes, it helps to put it in words."
"I thought I was the only one who did that," offered her youngest sister, pausing, then adding, "You know . . . you really made Rachylana mad."
"I'm certain I did, but she shouldn't be sneaking off and flirting with Berenyt. They're cousins."
"He can be nice."
"He can. Of that, I'm most certain." Mykella smiled. "We might as well head back so that we won't be late for supper."
Salyna nodded, clearly glad not to say more about Rachylana and Berenyt.
Mykella knew she had much to practice in the days ahead.
XXII
By Londi night, Mykella had managed two more small skills. In addition to getting light to flow around her to render her invisible to others, in trying to use her Talent to focus a lamp into a dark corner of her chamber to help locate a broach she had dropped, she had stumbled across another skill. In the end, she managed to concentrate or focus light around her without making her less visible. The effect was to heighten her presence, as if she were outlined in light.
If she were the Lord-Protector, such a skill might be valuable, but for now, it was merely a curiosity.
She also managed to project a whisper the length of the long corridor at night. She'd almost laughed when the duty guard had jumped and whirled.
She'd had no success in trying to walk on air. She could lift herself almost a yard above the floor, but she could not figure out how to move laterally. Nor could she even imagine how one could walk on water, when the blackness she drew upon had to be so far beneath the surface.
Going to work on the ledgers had become more and more of a chore, because Maxymt and the clerks had clearly gotten the word to make sure all the entries agreed. Yet Mykella felt that if she did not keep overseeing the accounts, matters would revert to what they had been.
On Duadi, as she was checking the latest entries in the master ledger, the door to the Finance chambers slammed open, and Salyna rushed in. "It's Father! He's had a seizure. He's dying, and he wants you!"
Mykella bolted from her table desk, dashing after her sister toward the Lord-Protector's apartments.
At the door to the bedchamber stood Joramyl. His face wore a concerned look, and there was worry beneath the expression, although Mykella had the feeling that the internal worry was somehow . . . different.
"What happened?" Mykella asked.
"We were having an afternoon chat in his study, and he began to shake." Joramyl shook his head. "He tried to stand, and his legs gave out. I helped him here to his bed and summoned the healer . . ."
"Mykella . . . he needs you." Salyna pulled on Mykella's sleeve.
Mykella turned.
Treghyt, the white-haired healer Mykella had known for years, stood at the far side of the wide bed on which Feranyt lay, still in the brilliant blue working tunic of the Lord-Protector although the neck of the tunic had been opened and loosened.
Mykella moved to the nearer side of the bed and bent over the shuddering figure of her father. "I'm here. I'm here, Father." She forced the tears back from her eyes.
". . . Lord-Protector . . ." gasped Feranyt.
"You're the Lord-Protector," Mykella insisted quietly, taking her father's hand in hers, aware that his fingers were like ice. She could feel his lifethread fraying as she sensed it.
"Joramyl, and . . . after him . . . Berenyt . . . they . . . must . . ."
"Berenyt?" blurred Mykella.
". . . still of our blood, daughter." Feranyt took short shallow breaths, each one more labored than the one previous. "Promise me . . . promise me. The Lord-Protector must . . . must be of our blood."
"The ruler of Tempre must be of our blood," repeated Mykella. She could promise that.
The faintest smile crossed Feranyt's lips before a last spasm convulsed him
"He's gone," said the angular healer, looking toward Joramyl, who remained standing beside the doorway. "Lord-Protector."
Mykella wanted to protest. She did not, but straightened, looking down at the silent figure of her father. There was an ugly bluish green that suffused his form, fading slowly as his body cooled. Poison? It had to be, and she had no doubts about who had been behind it. Yet how could she prove it when the only evidence was what she could sense and that no one else could?
And if she insisted it had been poison, too many questions would arise as to how and why she knew. Besides, her father was dead. So was Jeraxylt, and Joramyl was Lord-Protector. And . . . all of it had happened because —or at least sooner— she had noted discrepancies in the ledgers and tried, as best she could, to do something about it.
XXIII
After her father's death, Mykella knew she had little time in which to act, especially after both the healer and Joramyl concluded that her father had died of a brain seizure. Over the next two days, she made several more trips to the slaughterhouse, working so that the animals died from her efforts only instants after their blood gushed out, and so that Melmak never knew what was truly happening.
She also made other arrangements . . . and forced herself to wait. Waiting was the hardest part, and that was the part of the role of a woman of Tempre that had always challenged her.
On Quattri, Joramyl requested Mykella, Rachylana, and Salyna to join him in the Lord-Protector's study immediately after breakfast.
Mykella led the way and could not have said that she was surprised to find Joramyl behind her father's table desk, at least the desk she had thought of as her father's. Nor was she particularly amazed to see Berenyt there, although he was s
tanding.
"If all of you would be seated." Joramyl gestured to the four chairs set in a semicircle before the desk.
Mykella recalled that there were usually only three there.
After waiting until the four were seated, Joramyl went on. "Everything has been arranged for your father's funeral tomorrow. There will be a week of mourning following the ceremonies. The procession will be public, the interment and final blessing private, in keeping with tradition. Do you have any questions?"
Jim Baen's Universe-Vol 2 Num 2 Page 20