The White Mists of Power: A Novel

by Kristine Kathryn Rusch

  “You look awful,” Seymour said. “Where have you been?”

  “In the garden. Thinking.”

  “What about?”

  Byron glanced around the corridor. The doors looked thinner here, as if the oak were less solid in the east wing than they were in the north wing. “Let’s walk,” he said.

  They went out into the courtyard. The sunlight had crossed the top of the east wall, casting cool shadows on the gray stone. Byron wanted to talk about Alma, but he couldn’t bring himself to say anything.

  “I’ve been thinking about how to approach this fight with Kensington,” he said. “I don’t want to attack him. And yet I don’t want him to strike first.”

  “If he attacks first, he commits treason.”

  “And may lose the support of the gentry.” Byron sighed. He wanted to go back to the garden, where it was warmer. “But we risk losing lives.”

  “Either way we lose lives,” Seymour said.

  Byron shook his head. “Not if we don’t fight.”

  “We have to fight,” Seymour said. “We don’t want Kensington as king. Byron, you—“

  “I want to keep my power without loss of life,” Byron spoke softly.

  “It’s too late for that now. We have troops all around the palace. Before dawn, two hundred of them went out to the fields by Anda for a special training exercise–”

  “Alma opposed that.” Byron felt a chill run down his back. Alma knew too much about policy.

  “She still asleep?”

  “Probably,” Byron said. He turned away from the mention of Alma. “We could recall the men. Perhaps try to negotiate with Kensington further.”

  “We had our chance at negotiation,” Seymour said. “You won’t agree to Kensington’s terms, and he won’t tolerate you as monarch.”

  He stopped speaking and stared ahead. Byron followed his gaze. A thin column of men straggled into the palace gate. They were dirt-covered and many were bleeding. Most sat down as the gate closed behind them. Byron ran toward them, his heart pounding in his throat. Seymour ran beside him. The troops had collapsed in shadow, and as Byron left the sunlight, he felt as if the world had grown colder.

  The men wore the tattered remains of clothes. They smelled of powder and burnt flesh, of blood and fear-stained sweat. Byron sent a guard for the healers. Seymour crouched beside the nearest man and unwrapped the bandage around the man’s arm.

  Ile leaned against the gate. Blood trickled down the side of his face, but his wounds looked superficial. Byron went to him.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  Ile reached out. His hands were covered with blood. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

  Byron took the bloody hands, felt the stickiness coat his own palms. “What happened?”

  “We were setting up–maneuvers, like we talked about–and then everything was–they were shooting at us, arrows, flaming arrows, some hand-to-hand. The ground was burning.”

  “The two hundred? You were with the two hundred men near Anda this morning?”

  “Yes, sire. Kensington’s men were waiting for us. They had his colors.”

  Byron glanced around him. The other healers had arrived and were applying ointments, ripping away clothes, cauterizing wounds. The smell of burning flesh grew stronger. “There’s only twenty-five men here. Where are the others?”

  Tears filled Ile’s eyes and ran down his cheeks, mixing with the blood until they fell to the ground in long red drops. Byron tightened his grip on Ile’s hands.

  “Where are the others?”

  “We had to leave them,” Ile said. “I think they were all dead.”

  “Think?”

  Ile nodded. “We brought a few of the bad ones with us, but they collapsed on the way. There wasn’t any movement on that field. None.”

  “None.” Byron was numb. Two hundred men. He let Ile go. A healer carrying bandages passed him, and he grabbed her.

  “Sire?”

  “This man. Help this man.” He propelled her toward Ile. His hands left bloody prints on her arm.

  The woman wouldn’t move. “Sire? It’s Nica.”

  “Nica?” Her features came into focus. Wide eyes. Innocent eyes. Not like Alma’s eyes. He touched Nica’s cheek. “Nica? I didn’t know you were here.”

  “I came to help you.”

  The smear his finger left on her face looked like Ile’s bloody tears. “It’s too late to help me,” Byron said. He pushed past her, but she caught his arm.

  “Sire. Byron.”

  Her voice was soft, affectionate when she used his name. He had loved her once. Thought he loved her once. Before Alma. Always before Almathea.

  Nica shook him. “Byron, please. Listen to me. I came here to warn you.”

  “Warn me?” He tried to concentrate on her words. “There’s no need to warn me. The worst has already happened.”

  “No. You’ve got to stop this fighting or the Enos will destroy us all. Do you understand me? The Enos said–”

  “I know what the Enos said.” The words still echoed in his mind. They train you to be ruled, as your father is ruled, as your grandfather was ruled before him. He grabbed. Nica’s wrists and pulled her hands from him. “I have to think.”

  “But, Byron–”

  “Help them, Nica.” He put a hand to his face. His palm smelled of iron, of blood. “I cannot.”

  iii

  Ikaner dug into the ground, ignoring the heat, the burning against her fingers. The young trees beside her shuddered and moaned. There was no wind inside the cavern, but the air smelled fetid. She touched the trees and felt a sickness: youth overcome by something more powerful, something forcing its way into the sap. Her fingers blistered as she dug, the heat almost unbearable. No one paid any attention to her. She had blocked the other Enos out. They were below, arguing about the white mists, planning destruction of the humans, trying to decide if the humans should destroy themselves.

  Finally she found the trickle of blood. It whispered to her, the words faint and sing-song: When I am a sapling, you will move me into the sun. The air will be young again, and I will be warm. I will bend with the wind and live forever.

  She wanted to pull up the young trees and move them, plant them outside in the air. She grabbed the base of the nearest sapling. Beneath her burned palm, the tree screamed.

  She backed away and almost fell off the edge. The hum of Enos voices in her mind stopped. She turned, and they were looking at her. Come here, she said.

  They stared at her and then stood as a unit. She crawled back to the blood. The tree was still screaming, the blood coursing to the young tree’s roots. She shoved a rock between the blood and the tree. The blood boiled against the rock, tried to surge over it. The tree’s screams eased to a moan.

  You cannot stop us, the blood whispered. We are stronger.

  Ikaner said nothing. She was an Enos. She protected land. She would protect the trees as she had protected her bluff–with her life, if she had to.

  iv

  The blade glittered. Byron saw his reflection in it. The image wavered and faded, colors blurred against the light. It seemed to have found him, this dagger, and now it would not let him go. He liked the way it sparkled.

  The door was heavy, but he opened it anyway. The guards let him do anything. So different from before. Never had he had such freedom. He closed the door gently, waiting for the snick of the latch. The main room was dark and he carried no light. He waited until the darkness faded into gray shapes.

  The door to the bedroom was open. Light cracked around the edges, white light for a woman who wore nothing else. Inside the chamber she slept, her hair sprawled along the pillow. In sleep she was plain, young. The moonlight caressed her: she wore nothing else.

  Her chest rose and fell with each breath. Her ribs were etched lightly under her skin. He could count them if he wanted to. He eased the blanket down, revealing her small, pert breasts. He didn’t want to mar such perfection, but two hundred men–the b
lood of two hundred men already stained her hands.

  The dagger rose and his arm followed, waiting over the delicately etched bones, beneath the tiny breasts. Then it came down and the moonlight caught the blade, bathing it with white light. His ring, Diana’s ring, flashed, and an Enos’s voice echoed in the room:

  A knife glistens in the darkness. A simple silver ring adorns the hand which guides the weapon on its deadly path, the path which seals the darkness forever.

  He whirled but could not see her, this hidden Enos who spoke with the voice of prophecy.

  He was alone, with the white lady, in the moonlight.

  Chapter 27

  i

  The Enos crouched around the blood, watched it surge against the rock. Finally it quit and burrowed into the ground, going underneath.

  Saplings and sunlight, it whispered. Move us. The voice in her head made Ikaner shiver.

  Zcava touched the stain on the rock. It is the Old Ones. They go for their new home.

  Behind her the young tree screamed.

  They kill the tree! An Enos reached for the tree, as if to save it. Zcava grabbed her hand.

  It is the way.

  Enos do not kill trees. Ikaner dug for the blood again. She could feel the pollutant in the land, the thirst rising from the grove beyond the Cache. Enos help the land survive. The Old Ones will kill this grove.

  To save themselves. Zcava pushed Ikaner away. We cannot survive without the Old Ones.

  Enos die for their trees. How can the Old Ones ask the trees to die for them?

  We need the Old Ones. They are our wisdom.

  Ikaner leaned back. That was why she was not allowed to stop the white mists. He was supposed to kill. The humans were supposed to die so that the Old Ones could live. They would travel on a river of blood to the young trees, replace the sap, remove the young tree souls, and live. So many lives, Ikaner thought.

  We need the Old Ones, Zcava repeated.

  Even if the white mists did not kill, we would need human blood? The land beneath Ikaner grew more and more thirsty. The trickle of blood did not flow, but she could feel land tendrils spreading, searching for more blood.

  The white mists will kill. The humans will die. So the Old Ones have prophesied.

  The trickle had disappeared under the ground. The young tree had stopped screaming. Ikaner felt it, felt its life force weak against the blood. She grabbed the tree, added her strength to its sap. The bark burned her fingers, the whistle-wood screeched, blood spurted from the hole beneath the rock. The little tree shuddered and clung to her in fear.

  Enos died for their trees. She sat before the small grove. No one defended it, no one guarded it. The young tree’s branches held her close. She had become their Enos, and she would protect them.

  ii

  Byron sat at the top of the stairs, his back against the wall. One foot rested on the step below, the other leg extended before him. His eyes were closed, his breathing ragged. He still clutched the dagger.

  “Byron?”

  He opened his eyes. Seymour sat on the second step. He looked worried. “I was looking all over for you. Where have you been?”

  Byron felt as if he were climbing out of a heavy sleep. His eyes were scratchy and dry, his throat parched. “Thinking.”

  “Well, I’ll give you more to think about. Kensington’s men ambushed our archers just outside the palace.”

  “Another slaughter?” His voice worked slowly, the melody gone. He felt empty inside.

  “No. We turned the ambush around. We lost a handful, but Kensington lost almost everybody.” Seymour smiled. “We are going to succeed.”

  Seymour’s pleasure sent shivers through Byron. “How many?”

  “We lost about ten.”

  He wasn’t communicating well. His mind was sluggish. “How many did Kensington lose?”

  “Hundred or so. I don’t know.” Seymour frowned. “That upsets you?”

  “Yes.” Byron dropped his head onto his arms. Alma hadn’t known about that maneuver. She hadn’t known at all. He sighed. “I’ve made a decision.” His voice sounded hollow inside his arms. “Let Lord Kensington know I want to negotiate peace terms.”

  “Negotiate? But we’re winning!”

  “We’re all losing, all of us.” Byron made himself stand. He was dizzy. He put a hand out to steady himself. The wall felt damp. “Come with me. We can talk about it.”

  Their footsteps echoed in the corridor. The guards standing outside Byron’s door nodded when they saw him. He handed one of them the dagger. “Keep this,” he said. “I don’t want to see it again.” Then he let himself in the door and froze. Alma sat on a cushion, her fingers toying with his lute. The notes she plucked were jagged and toneless.

  “I’ve been waiting for you,” she said. “You haven’t been here for two nights.”

  He couldn’t look at her. All he could see was her face as it had been on the pillow, bathed in moonlight. Fear surged through him again. He had snapped and nearly killed her.

  “Byron? Are you all right?” Seymour put a supporting arm behind his back and led him to a cushion.

  Byron nodded. The weakness had passed. “I haven’t slept.” He waved away Seymour’s concern and forced himself to look at Alma. “Why do you want to see me?”

  “There’s a leak here in the palace.” She threw a packet to him.

  “What is this?”

  “I placed a spy in Kensington’s camp.”

  Byron picked up the packet. The papers were light. He recognized Kensington’s seal. “A spy?”

  “Well, no one else seemed to know what they were doing.” She shrugged. “I’m sorry about the first attack, but I didn’t know about the ambush. The spy didn’t warn me. But this time I sent word to your archers and they were ready.”

  Byron closed his eyes. “You say there’s a leak here.”

  “Oh, don’t worry. I found it.” Alma sounded smug. Byron forced himself to look at her.

  “Who is it?”

  An empty smile played at her lips. “Why don’t I let Seymour tell you?”

  “Me?” Seymour’s voice rose. “I don’t know anything about a spy.”

  “No?”

  Byron forced himself to concentrate. “Seymour? Why should Seymour know?”

  “Because he’s the spy. He and Vonda, the spider lady.”

  Seymour? Seymour a spy? Byron shook his head. How could he believe that Alma betrayed him and not believe that Seymour would? “Is that true, Seymour?”

  “No!” He knelt beside Byron.

  Alma watched them. She set down the lute, and ghost chords echoed in its belly. “Then tell me how Vonda knew of the battle this morning. A battle I didn’t even know about.”

  The color drained out of Seymour’s face. “How do you know Vonda knew?”

  “I saw her leave early. My spy says she’s been bringing Lord Kensington regular reports.”

  “Oh no.” Seymour sat heavily. “I told her so much because I trusted her. You can kill me, Byron. You have every right to.”

  Byron put his arm around Seymour and hugged him close. He remembered Seymour’s burned hands, the stench of burned skin, his gratitude that he would no longer have to perform. This fight was Byron’s. His friends had suffered enough. “There’s been enough death.”

  Alma snorted. “I would pick my confidants more carefully, Byron.”

  “Leave him alone, Alma.” The dizziness returned. Byron felt the strain weaken him. “I need sleep.”

  He knew now what he should do. It was the only way. “Send that dispatch, Seymour, to Kensington.”

  “What dispatch?” Alma asked.

  “Peace terms.”

  “We’re giving in?” Her body tensed. Not with displeasure but with anger.

  “No,” Byron said. “We’re trying something new.”

  iii

  The blood flowed and she squeezed it out of the trees. Other Enos joined her, and soon the cavern was splattered with whispering, fl
owing blood. Soon there’ll be too much to fight, Zcava had told them. She was going to wait until Ikaner and her Enos were too tired, and then she would help the Old Ones find their way into the trees, into the future.

  Ikaner thought of her bluff, the warm river breeze, trees unthreatened by death. She wanted to see it once more. Zcava was right: there had been more blood in the morning. She knew that once the Enos joined the fight that the blood would flow like her river and it would drown the young whistle-woods.

  The young whistle-wood voices were soft, and they dreamed of music, of combining tones, of nurturing seedlings, and creating Enos. Every creature had dreams, even the Old Ones. But the Old Ones dreamed of survival and youth, something they had had. The whistle-woods dreamed of new things: of their future.

  Ikaner had no future. She left the others to guard the trees. She had to stop the Old Ones before the blood began to flow again.

  Enos die for their lands.

  She wished she could see her bluff one more time.

  iv