The White Mists of Power: A Novel

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  A ruler is loved differently, Highness.

  And right now he wasn’t loved at all. He would go into that chamber and participate in a ritual before people who hated and mistrusted him. And some who had tried to kill him.

  He pushed open the double doors out of the north wing and stepped outside. The air was chill and fresh. A slight wind made the whistle-woods moan. He blinked at the brightness of the sunshine. To his right, carriages lined up in the courtyard. He recognized Lord Lafa’s and Lord Dakin’s. Everyone had come to see what Byron’s future would bring. He shivered once. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

  The mausoleum was a gray stone building half hidden by the palace walls. It was long and rectangular. The roof rose in spirals around the edges. A large round chimney stood in the center of the roof, to release the smoke from the bier.

  The guards outside the mausoleum bowed when they saw him, then pushed the door open wide to admit him.

  The mausoleum smelled damp. Thousands of candles burned along the walls and beside the pews. A hundred people faced forward staring at the bier and the large crypt beyond. Gentry that Byron had met and some that he hadn’t waited for the ceremonies to begin. The stone floor was cold, and each movement echoed in the stillness. His mother and Alma stood to the side, waiting for him.

  His father’s body rested on the bier. He looked smaller, as if death had diminished him. Three large circles, one inside the other, enclosed the bier. Each circle represented an Old One, and each contained symbolic significance. The circles predicted the next monarch’s future.

  Alma handed Byron a burnstick and took his arm. Her hands were cold. Her hair shone and her gown was simple and chaste, no low-cut bodice, no lace on the collars. Byron glanced at his mother. She was hunched and she trembled as she moved. Her face was hidden by a thick veil, but occasionally the candlelight would reflect her tears. She leaned on Alma for a moment, then stood and led the procession down to the bier.

  The crowd stood as his mother passed. Byron waited until she had almost reached the Flame of Life, then he and Alma started down. He clutched his burnstick tightly. The gentry watched them, and he heard a ripple of whispers as people realized what Alma’s presence meant. He could sense the shock, feel the discomfort. It did not please him like he thought it would. He just wanted the ceremony to end.

  His mother dipped her burnstick into the Flame of Life. The flame turned blue as the burnstick caught. His mother then brought the flame to the center of her consort’s bier, lighting the Circle of Remembrance. As the flame encircled the bier, she leaned over and kissed her husband for the last time. Then she took her place behind the bier, standing to the side of the door to the crypt.

  Byron approached the Flame of Life. It generated little heat, but he could smell a wisp of smoke. He stuck his burnstick into the flame and watched as it turned blue. Through the fire, he saw Lord Lafa. The lord appeared sober, and seemed as majestic as he had when Byron first met him. The lord was watching Alma, and his gaze was filled with hatred. Byron made himself look away. He carried his burnstick to the bier and lit the Circle of Power, canonizing his father’s past and establishing his own control. As the flames engulfed the circle, he took his place beside his mother.

  Lord Kensington sat in the first row. He showed no surprise at Alma’s presence, and did not seem to resent Byron’s participation in the ceremony. The lord’s lack of emotion made Byron tense. He had believed that even Kensington would have enough respect for the dead to wait until last rites had ended before challenging the new monarch.

  Alma carried the flaming burnstick to the last circle, the Circle of Future. She as consort guarded the future of the kingdom in her womb. If Byron had had a child, that child would have been lighting the circle. As she lowered her burnstick to it, a small draft caught the flame and it flickered. The gentry gasped. Byron twisted his ring. If the last circle didn’t burn, custom decreed that he had no future. He would die before his rule truly began.

  Alma’s burnstick went out. Small sparks flew in all directions. She was forbidden by law to return to the Flame of Life. Her gaze caught Byron’s, and he thought he saw fear in her eyes. He wished he could go to her. Whether or not the superstitions of the bier were true, they would affect his support among the gentry. A small smile made its way across Kensington’s face, and Byron felt a chill run down his back. He should have checked the burnsticks before the ceremony. Kensington could have had his magician treat the sticks.

  Alma waited for the circle to light. As she stepped away, a whoosh echoed, and the far corner of the circle erupted into blue flame. Byron felt some of the tension flow from him. The bier had sent a sign: he and his descendants had a chance to continue ruling in Kilot, but the chance, like the flame that spread around the circle, was slim.

  Alma took her place beside Byron and slipped her hand through his arm. She was trembling. She too knew that the sign boded ill for their future. Fear flashed through Byron. If Alma thought she had no chance of surviving with him, she might turn against him. He slid his hand over hers, wishing that he could reassure her.

  His mother bowed to the figure on the bier, then walked into the crypt itself. Byron bowed and followed, as did Alma. The crypt seemed even colder than the outer room had, and had a damp, musty odor. They stopped at the cornerstone on which his father would lie and placed the burnsticks into the small circular holes carved for them. Byron looked past the monarchs into the side reserved for the royal family and noted that one crypt near the end was empty. He squinted to read the inscription and started when he realized that it had been his. He wondered who had rested on the bier in his place.

  The three of them left the crypt and returned to the great room. They again bowed to the dead monarch, circled the flames, and walked up the aisle. Byron could hear the rumbling as the first row of gentry made their respects to the bier.

  He followed his mother out of the mausoleum and into the dying sunlight. They would have a half hour before the death banquet. His mother continued toward the palace, Alma behind her. Byron stopped and gazed at the mausoleum. Smoke rose from the curved chimney on the roof. He would see that smoke for another month or more, until the flames completed their circles and his father was laid to rest with his ancestors.

  For weeks people in the palace had watched the smoke rise from a burial that was supposed to have been his. Byron shuddered. No wonder so many of them found it hard to accept him.

  He entered the palace as he had left it, through the north entrance. He hurried up the stairs and pulled open the door to his chamber, half expecting Alma to be waiting for him. The outer room was empty. He opened all the doors in the inner chambers. The musty odor had returned and dampened the smell of Alma’s perfume. All of the rooms were empty. For a moment he thought of trying to find her, then rejected the idea. He would see her at the banquet. They could talk after that.

  He grabbed his lute and walked to a chair in the main room. The instrument felt warm to his touch, like a living thing. He tuned it, then played a random series of chords. The sounds filled the chamber, made the empty feeling disappear. He hadn’t realized until he heard that most of his chords were in a minor key how much the lighting of the Circle of the Future had frightened him.

  His fingers found the melody of a lullaby and he let the notes echo. He rocked back and forth, feeling himself gather strength. Soon he would have to face the gentry in the banquet hall. Afeno was angry at him for going ahead with the death banquet in traditional form.

  The traditional form followed the pattern of the bier: the monarch and his family sat in the center, with the past council members in the inner ring, present council members in the middle ring, and the rest of the guests in the outer ring. Guards were stationed outside the room, so as not to hear any state secrets that could emerge in impromptu eulogies. Afeno had pointed out that Byron was trapped and a single dagger could find him easily. But Byron was gambling that Lord Kensington was too smart to attempt that assassination.
If Byron did die, the lord would first have to be tried for treason before he could take over.

  A knock on the door made his heart leap. He knew it wasn’t Alma–she would have come in–but he found himself hoping for her anyway. He set down his lute and pulled the door open. A page stood in the doorway. “The guests are ready, sire,” he said.

  He thanked the child and closed the door behind him. Then, flanked by two guards, he walked down the long, narrow hallway leading to the banquet room. Alma stood outside, her back to Byron. She was talking with a retainer wearing blue and gold. Kensington’s colors. Byron closed his eyes. Already it had begun.

  The retainer looked over Alma’s shoulders and saw Byron. The retainer made a quick bow to Alma and disappeared before Byron reached them. He extended his arm to Alma. “What was that?” he asked.

  “Lord Kensington wanted to express his regrets,” she said, “but did not think he should approach you. I told his retainer that I would pass on the words.”

  Byron nodded. The conversation had seemed too involved for that. And if Kensington had felt that way, he could have told Alma himself. Byron would investigate further when he was alone with her. “Ready?” he asked.

  The guards pulled the doors open, and Byron and Alma made their entrance. They eased their way through the openings in the circles, greeting the gentry as they passed. Lord Dakin refused to return the greeting. Lord Kensington and Lady Kerry sat on opposite sides of the circle and ignored Byron’s nod.

  Byron and Alma took their seats beside Byron’s mother. Dishes of cold soup were already in place. No one spoke, according to custom, and the hall filled with the sound of clanking dishes. Byron’s shoulders were tense. He could feel a headache building along his neck. He wanted to turn, to survey the guests, but knew that he couldn’t show any signs of nervousness. He ate the vegetable stew and mutton and dessert slowly, concentrating on his food. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He heard a movement behind him, and then his mother stood.

  For a moment he didn’t understand what was happening. Then he realized that she was about to give her eulogy–tradition demanded that she go first. Byron was not allowed to speak about his predecessor, a way of preventing the new king from defining the old. Only the old king’s friends, relatives, staff, and council members could eulogize him.

  His mother lifted the veil from her face. Her eyes seemed dull, as if the tears had washed the color away. “I have lost five sons and four daughters.” She spoke softly. Some of the gentry in the back circle leaned forward in order to hear. “And as one son returns to me from the dead, I lose the person who helped me go on living. I don’t plan to die soon, but I know I no longer have a life. Yet I will not speak of the past, but of the future–my son’s future and my future through him.

  “When Adric was a child, his free-thinking ways frightened most of us. It’s clear that he continues to act for himself, that his survival has depended upon his quick mind. My son has survived against great odds, and I believe that he is the stronger for it.

  “I have never spoken out on policy before, but it is my right as consort and as the new ruler’s mother to do so now. Kilot has not seen a war for hundreds of years. Our land’s island status has protected us from invaders, and we have had peace within. Emotions flared the night my consort died and Adric surprised all of us. That night could be forgotten and forgiven. If this split between the royal house is not mended, Kilot could be divided. The outer island circles will break off from us and we’ll lose our protection. I will urge now, while my consort’s body lies encircled on the bier, that you support this man who is my son.”

  His mother pulled her veil over her face and sat down. Byron did not look at her. He stared straight ahead and listened to the silence that engulfed them. He had his mother’s support, and yet he felt the undercurrent of blame in her words. If he had kept silent about his identity, the kingdom would have remained at peace.

  Loneliness encircled him like the flames encircled the bier. He wished Seymour could give him a potion to heal the melancholy that was filling him. But there were no herb-witch cures for his ailments. He had to struggle and fight on his own, alone, for a cause no one else seemed to believe in. He watched as a lord stood in the back to speak. All his life Byron had wanted to come back here, to sit in his rightful place, and to use the knowledge he had learned during the years of hardship. But nothing was as he had imagined it, and he wondered if happiness was as much a myth as the tale-tellers said Gerusha was.

  ii

  A whisper of smoke carried in the breeze. The whistle-woods moaned. Each cry was different, distinctive: one had a bass tone, another a touch of treble. Ikaner stood in the grove, reaching for the souls of the Old Ones. She was finding nothing against the ground except for a strange sense of nostalgia. She had seeded here, and in the caves the Enos had brought her to flower, before wiping her mind and tying her soul to her bluff. The training had settled well. She wanted to go home, to sit on the bluff, and feel the river wind touch her face, without hearing her ancestors cry from the trees that imprisoned them.

  Yes? The voice rose with the cry of the trees, and at first Ikaner wasn’t sure she heard it.

  I have come to ask a question. Her thoughts felt as if they echoed in silence, as if no one heard. She couldn’t project into a mind as she was used to, and the ground felt as if it forced the thoughts to bounce back, into the wind. Strands of her thinning hair brushed across her face, and she pushed them back.

  Speak.

  I have met the white mists. He has strengths.

  He threatens the land with blood.

  No. Ikaner glanced around her. The trees appeared to be glowing, as if from an internal heat. Humans have fought before. We threaten the land.

  If the humans pollute the land with blood, we destroy the humans. It is our agreement from long past.

  The winds rose, making the shrieks louder. Ikaner could barely hear her own thoughts. But if we add human blood to the land, we too pollute the land.

  We follow the prophecy.

  She whirled in the wind, seeing if another Enos stood near her. She was alone in the trees. She shivered. The wind had become chill. You make the prophecy.

  She heard no response. The trees wailed and then the wind died. The silence pushed against her ears, making her feel as if a great pressure had left her body. She felt strange here. She wanted to go home to her bluff, and think about growing trees and directing sunlight. She wanted to be the bluff Enos again instead of Ikaner, one of many.

  You make the prophecy, she thought again, but the thoughts seemed to echo in her mind, trapped, as she imagined human thoughts to be. She stepped out of the grove into the sunlight, and knew she was alone.

  iii

  The laces on Byron’s shirt flapped against his chest. Seymour stood inside the door to the royal apartments as if he could go no farther. Byron leaned against a chair and rubbed a hand against his face. His skin smelled of Alma.

  “I will do what I want,” he said, “and that’s the end of it.”

  Seymour glanced at the door leading to the bedchamber where Alma still slept. “That’s not the end of it, Byron. When you die, we all die for supporting you. It’s not your life anymore, don’t you understand that?”

  Byron grabbed the laces and finished threading them. “It never was my life,” he said.

  “Kensington will kill you if you meet alone. At least put a guard in there with you.”

  “Afeno will be behind the panel.” Byron had discovered the listening panel in the audience chamber, a place he suspected that Boton and Ewehl had used often.

  “And he won’t be able to get out in time to save you.”

  Byron shrugged. “If I die, I die.” He picked up his lute and slung it over his back. “Maybe we’ll all be better off.”

  “Don’t ever say that,” Seymour said. “Don’t ever.”

  The bedroom door opened and Alma leaned against it. Her long black hair flowed down her back. She had pu
t on a white dressing gown that seemed to reveal more than it covered. “You’ll wake the entire kingdom.”

  Seymour looked at her, then away. She crossed her arms over her chest. Byron smiled at her with a warmth he didn’t feel. “Good morning, Alma.”

  She didn’t smile back. “If you’re going to see Kensington, you’re a fool.”

  “It’s my affair.”

  ‘It’s our affair. I agree with Seymour, for once. You’ll jeopardize everything.”

  “He asked for the meeting, and I’m going to give him another chance. The last thing I want to do is fight him.” Byron could feel the strain in his back and shoulders. If only he could relax. “I think fighting him would be worse than my death.”

  “Well, I don’t,” Seymour said. “You’ll leave the kingdom to Kensington, who obviously cares for no one but himself–or it’ll go to the lady over here, who has shown her potential for abusing power as well. Or have you forgotten, now that you’re her lover, that she stole land from Lafa using the king’s seal?”

  Alma stepped into the room. Her skirts swayed and she seemed to be taller. “What I did is none of your business.”

  “Stop it,” Byron said. “I’m going to see Kensington, and that’s all there is to it.” He pushed past Seymour and let himself into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. The guards looked straight ahead, as if pretending that they heard nothing. Byron walked down the hall, hearing his footsteps ring out against the stone floor.

  They were right. He was taking a risk by meeting Kensington alone in the audience chamber. But Byron wanted to see if he could prevent the kingdom from splitting further.

  He passed the performer’s closets, passed the portraits of his ancestors, and climbed the stairs where Milo had died. The door to the audience chamber stood open, and inside, he saw Kensington sitting on the king’s chair. A little chill ran through Byron. Kensington was going to play power games.