by Ari Marmell
“No.”
“Ah.” Well, he’d known it had to come eventually.
Corvis propped the sword against the chair and craned his neck back as though reading the past in the dust and cobwebs along the ceiling. “Would any answer I could give make any difference, Irrial?”
“Probably not. Try anyway.”
“Because Imphallion was dying—is dying. Slowly rotting away, while a few parasites grow fat off its diseased wounds. The cities grow corrupt and stagnant, while small villages starve. The Guilds want only to make themselves rich, and the nobility are too weak, and often too selfish, to stand up to them.
“I wanted to change that. I wanted to make Imphallion great again. Not just for me, but for everyone.”
“And if you had to kill a few thousand people to do it, well, that was just fair trade, was it?” Clearly she didn’t believe a word of it. “Was it worth those lives? The lives of my friends and my family?”
“Yes,” he told her without hesitation. “If it had worked out the way that I’d planned, absolutely.” Then, more softly, “I’m just … not sure anymore that it would have. Even if I’d won.”
Irrial rose, swept up her sword, and disappeared back up the stairs, leaving the former conqueror alone with his thoughts.
“HELLO, CERRIS.”
Through the open door, Corvis stared through time, listened to a voice carried from the past on a gentle breath. He knew she must have changed in five years, but damn if he could see it. Only the faint circles under her eyes were new.
“Hello, Tyannon.”
Silence, for a while. Then, “I hate the beard. It makes you look old.”
“No, the fact that I’m getting old makes me look old. The beard just makes me look hairy.” He watched, expectant, but the smile he’d hoped to elicit never appeared. “You don’t seem surprised to see me,” he added finally.
“I’m not.” Tyannon stepped back from the door. “You’d better come in, both of you.” She punched the word both perhaps a bit harder than she’d needed to.
“Ah. Tyannon, this is the Baroness Irrial, of Rahariem. Lady Irrial, Tyannon. My wi—my former wife.”
“My lady.” Tyannon somehow managed to curtsy without breaking stride.
“Tyannon.”
They were in the dining room, now, though Corvis had no memory of taking a single step. Habit, rather than courtesy, kept him on his feet until the women were seated—habit, and perhaps more than a touch of confusion. He finally selected a chair beside Irrial and across from Tyannon, and couldn’t help but wonder if he’d chosen properly.
“The children?” he asked softly.
“They’re fine,” she said, voice tight.
“Could I—?”
“No, that’s not a good idea. Anyway, they’re not here.”
Corvis found himself scowling. “Damn it, Tyannon, I’m not going to hurt them. I just want to see—”
“You’ve already hurt them more than enough, thanks.”
“Gods damn it, you’re the one who left! You …” He stopped at the pain shooting through his hands, startled to find himself pounding the edge of the table without even realizing it. Corvis examined his fist, as though unsure what it was. Tyannon watched him. Irrial watched them both, her face unreadable.
“But they’re all right?” Corvis asked finally, rather than retort to the voice only he could hear. “You’re all doing well?”
“As well as can be expected. Cerris, why are you here?”
Tyannon, he couldn’t help but note, hadn’t even bothered to ask how he’d found her. Either she had a pretty good guess, or she didn’t want to know.
Or both.
‘You should tell her anyway,’ the ugly inner voice suggested. ‘Don’t you think she’d love to know about your spell? About how much you actually trusted her? Come on, it’ll be funny!’
“I suppose you’ve heard the rumors?”
She nodded brusquely. “From some fairly reliable sources.”
“I didn’t do it, Tyannon. I’ve been in Rahariem until just recently. I haven’t murdered anyone.”
‘Oh? Those Cephiran soldiers, and the guards in Mecepheum, they just dropped dead on their own, did they?’
“You came all this way just to tell me that?” She sounded—not doubtful, exactly, just vaguely astonished. “Why?”
“I just … needed you to know.”
“And I’m supposed to believe you?”
Corvis felt as though he’d been slapped; the chair literally rocked back beneath him as he flinched. “You—I … Tyannon, I’ve never lied to—”
“Don’t you dare!” Even Irrial, off to the side, cringed from the venom in Tyannon’s voice.
“I didn’t,” Corvis insisted, his own tone pleading. “I promised you an end to it, and I meant it! It wasn’t the same—”
“Magic? Charms? Mind control, Cerris? It’s exactly the same thing!
It—”
“No, I—”
Irrial coughed, deliberately, just once. It cut through the argument like an assassin’s dagger.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “and I truly don’t wish to be rude. But I have to guess that this particular disagreement is one you’ve had before, and I don’t think we’ve the time to try to settle it now.”
The glares Tyannon and Corvis hurled her way were identical, a tiny indication of how close they’d once been.
“She’s right, you know,” Corvis admitted grudgingly.
“Probably. Are you two—together?”
“Absolutely not!”
Irrial’s vehement denial, though painful, saved Corvis the trouble of coming up with his own, far more complicated answer. He was, at the very least, heartened to note a swift flash of what might just have been relief cross Tyannon’s expression.
‘You’re a fool. You know that you’re a fool, right? I’m sure I must have mentioned it a time or two …’
“But I can assure you,” the baroness continued, far more calmly, “that he’s telling you the truth. Cerris was in Rahariem, aiding our fight against the Cephiran occupiers. He’s not behind these murders.”
Tyannon nodded slowly. “I owe you an apology, Cerris. I’m sorry.
“And I’m sorry for your loss,” she said to Irrial, perhaps having abruptly made the family connection with Duke Halmon.
“Thank you.”
Again the trio sat, none quite looking directly at any other, silent save for the constant commentary in Corvis’s head.
“What’s happening in Mecepheum?” Tyannon asked finally.
He shrugged. “Same as always. Everyone’s running around like a two-assed dog chasing both tails, and nothing’s getting done.”
She took a deep breath, steeling herself. “What happened, Cerris? Why didn’t it work?”
Why did you throw your family away on a gambit that failed?
Corvis sighed, absently fidgeting with the finger that once wore a ring. “Those damn Guilds … I knew they’d fight, but I had no idea they’d …
“I pushed too hard, too fast,” he acknowledged finally. “I thought that once I had my people near the top, once I’d arranged for the ascension of a regent who’d make the right decisions, held the right beliefs—”
Irrial inhaled sharply but chose not to interrupt.
“—I thought that’d be it.”
Tyannon grimaced. “But the Guilds didn’t bend, did they?”
“No. I thought with the amount of pressure I was putting on them, from the nobles and from some of their own members, they’d have no choice. I never thought they could replace so many of their own people, so quickly. I certainly never thought they’d use their economic influence to force Halmon to abdicate.” He grinned, a rictus without a trace of mirth, a sickly echo of the helm he’d once worn. “I always thought of the Guilds as weak. I guess, when it came to defending themselves, I underestimated them.”
Irrial apparently couldn’t keep silent any longer. “You arranged for my cousi
n to become regent? How much power did you have?”
Corvis shrugged. “Not enough, obviously.”
‘There’s no such thing. You should have learned that long ago.’
“I don’t understand. If you hate the Guilds so much, what were you doing as ‘Cerris the Merchant’?”
“I couldn’t just leave things the way they were,” he told her. “Imphallion was in worse shape than ever, and part of that was my fault. But another military campaign wasn’t an option. I’m getting too old for that, and besides …” Here he glanced sidelong across the table. “I gave Tyannon my word that the Terror of the East was dead. Maybe she doesn’t believe me, but it’s a promise I intend to keep.”
His heart skipped a beat as, clearly despite herself, Tyannon smiled.
“So I thought,” he continued, “that maybe I could change things from within. There were too many people who might recognize me in Mecepheum, but Rahariem was far enough away while still being economically important. I figured if I could gain power in the Merchants’ Guild there, maybe I could use that influence to steer the Guilds.”
“But how could you be sure you’d—?” Understanding finally dawned, and Irrial’s face purpled. “You forced Danrien to sell you his businesses! You used that same damn spell, didn’t you?”
“He got a fair price,” Corvis protested.
The women shook their heads in unison.
“So what now?” Tyannon asked.
“Now we find out who’s been murdering people in my name,” he said simply. “Maybe then we can figure out a way to get the government moving while there’s still an Imphallion left to defend.”
Tyannon chewed the inside of her cheek, clearly struggling with some decision. “Jassion’s hunting you,” she said finally.
“What?”
“He was here, looking for you, just a few weeks ago.”
Corvis shivered. Despite the intervening years, despite the mystical healing that had dragged him between death’s jaws, he occasionally ached where bones had broken, still felt the chafe of manacles on his wrists.
No, he’d sooner die than allow the Baron of Braetlyn to take him alive a second time.
‘Pansy.’
“What did you tell him, Tyannon?”
“What could I tell him? I might have helped if I could—I thought you were running around murdering people, remember?—but I didn’t know anything.”
“How many men does he have?”
“He—just one, I think. His name’s Kaleb.”
It meant nothing to Corvis. “Well,” he said, trying for a lightness he didn’t feel, “we’ll just have to avoid him, won’t we? It’s a big kingdom, shouldn’t be too hard.”
Unsure of what else to say, he rose to his feet. Irrial and Tyannon followed.
“Tyannon, I …” He shook his head. “You won’t even tell the kids I was here, will you?”
“No,” she said softly. “I don’t think so.”
“If you change your mind …” His voice cracked, and he swallowed hard. The room was starting to blur. “If you change your mind, tell them I love them. And tell them—tell them I really thought I was making the world better for them.”
He spun, chair clattering to the floor in his wake, and was gone.
TYANNON WATCHED the man she’d loved—or the man she’d thought had become a man she could love—flee the room. The house quivered as he threw the front door open. The other woman, Irrial, bowed swiftly, offered what Tyannon assumed was meant to be a kindly smile, and followed.
Only when she heard the door click shut did Tyannon collapse to the table. Her entire body shook, her shoulders heaved, but now that she finally needed them, the tears wouldn’t come.
She’d trained them too well, these past five years.
“Mom?”
She jolted upright. Lilander stood beside her, one hand reaching out as though he didn’t really know what to do with it.
“I thought I told you to wait in your room,” she said without much weight. She couldn’t bring herself to be angry, not now, not with him.
“I couldn’t.” He sat beside her, not even trying to dissemble—truly a strange state of affairs for a boy his age. “It was all I could do not to come in, Mom. But I had to listen. I had to hear his voice again.”
Tyannon’s brow creased in worry. Eventually, he’d ask about what he heard, and she’d need an explanation. Eventually—but not now.
“Why didn’t you tell him about Mellorin? Maybe he could have gone looking for her.”
“That wouldn’t have been a good idea, sweetheart.”
“Why?”
Because I know damn well she’s gone with my brother. And as long as she’s with him, I don’t want Jassion and your father anywhere near each other.
Tyannon took her son’s hands in hers, squeezing as though she’d never let go, and said nothing at all.
IT TOOK IRRIAL TWO BLOCKS to catch up with Corvis, who moved with a stiff-legged pace that chewed up distance at a startling rate. Clearly he wanted nothing more than to leave that house behind.
“We could have stayed,” she told him, dodging a small cluster of workmen in the street and falling into step beside him. “At least long enough for you to see your children.”
“They weren’t there.” He refused to look at her. “And Tyannon wouldn’t have let me stay until they got back.”
“I think maybe they were,” Irrial argued. “Did you notice she always called you Cerris?”
He shrugged. “Doesn’t mean anything. She called me that as often as she did Corvis. And especially now …” Another shrug.
Irrial’s expression clouded. Clearly she wasn’t sure she believed him—but just as clearly, she knew that now wasn’t the time to press it. “I’m sorry,” she told him gently, and anyone watching would have been hard pressed to decide which of them looked more surprised that she’d said it.
Through the day’s moderate traffic, and the occasional squad of soldiers moving to join the eastern nobles’ haphazard mobilization, they wound their way, each lost in very different thoughts. And so they might have continued, had it not been for a soft, high-pitched cry from off to the left.
“Corvis!”
He froze in the center of the road, and his neck ached as he fought the panicked instinct to glance about him. Nobody here should have known to call him by that name! If he’d been recognized, it was only a matter of instants before …
But no. A few people glared at him for blocking traffic, but it appeared nobody else had heard the call. Even Irrial, who’d continued several steps before noticing that he’d stopped, seemed bewildered.
“Corvis! Over here!”
He focused on a narrow gap between a winery and a baker’s. Irrial must have heard it, too, this time, for she was peering intently the same way.
“Trap?” she whispered.
“Maybe, but I think we’d better find out.”
They approached warily, hands on hilt and haft. Their eyes watered and noses stung at the miasma of uncontrolled and unintended fermentation, an indication that both neighboring establishments thought nothing of dumping their dregs in the alley. Beetles, roaches, and rats scurried through the detritus. One particularly large, mangy rat approached them with a peculiar stagger, and Corvis almost chuckled, wondering if it had gotten itself drunk on the rotting sludge.
Then the rat looked up at him and said, “Hello, Corvis,” in that same high tone, and he started to wonder if he was the one who’d somehow gotten accidentally drunk.
Irrial gulped loudly beside him, her jaw hanging open, and Corvis actually felt better. It meant he wasn’t going insane.
‘Not about that, anyway.’
On the heels of that realization, a second swiftly followed, and he knew, with an abrupt certainty, what was happening. An enormous grin split his beard as he knelt to meet the rodent’s beady eyes.
“Why, hello, Seilloah.”
The rat blinked and appeared to notice Irrial for t
he first time. Whiskers and tail twitched in agitation. “So, uh, Cerris …” it—she—began nervously.
“It’s all right, Seilloah. She knows pretty much everything.”
Another blink. “Was that wise?”
Corvis shrugged. “I’ll let you know. Seilloah, this is Baroness Irrial. Irrial, Seilloah.”
“Charmed,” the rat said.
“She’s a rat” was Irrial’s brilliant reply.
“She’s a witch, actually,” Corvis told her. “She’s just inhabiting a rat.”
“But it’s talking. How can she make it talk?”
He couldn’t help but smile, remembering the first time he and Seilloah had held a similar conversation. Echoing what she’d told him then, he asked, “Are you telling me that you’ve no problem accepting the fact that she can mind-control a rat, but it bothers you that she can make it speak?”
Seilloah snickered. Irrial just shook her head. “I don’t think I’ll ever really understand magic.”
“That’s why it’s magic.” Corvis turned back to his smaller companion. “Not that I’m not glad to see you, Seilloah, but surely there was an easier way. Where are you actually …?” Without really thinking about it, he focused, casting his mind along the mystic tethers he’d fastened to all his lieutenants, the same spell he’d used to keep track of Tyannon. And he found …
Nothing.
“Um, Seilloah? I’m not getting any sense of—um, of you.”
Somehow, she twisted the tiny snout into an approximation of a sad smile. “That’s because this is all that’s left of me, Corvis. I’m—well, I’m dead.”
Corvis felt the alleyway tilting. He fell back against the wall, slid to sit in a sludgy heap of refuse. “My gods, Seilloah. What …?”
“Jassion came to Theaghl-gohlatch.”
“I’ll kill him.” Corvis felt blood pounding in his temples, saw the bricks of the opposite wall waver in and out. He’d lost friends, lost family, but Seilloah? He’d always thought of the graceful witch as eternal. “I don’t bloody care whose brother he is, I’ll gods damn kill him!”
“Well, I should certainly expect so,” Seilloah said primly.