Everyone stared. It seemed as though the party had been forgotten by now—the courtroom drama playing out around the central dance floor was better entertainment than any celebration of national unity.
Tyvian knew he didn’t have long. The Guardian would kick him out eventually, and then he was caught. Androlli wasn’t stupid either—he’d petrify him straight away, not bothering with a trial—trials were a Saldorian luxury not often extended to other nations. He had a picture in his head of his petrified self, standing there alone in some out of the way corner of Eretheria, and then Sahand coming along, swinging a stone pick and a mallet . . .
A dark, dark end.
There was, to his mind, only one way out of this.
Sahand grinned at Tyvian. “Yes, you see it now, don’t you, Reldamar? Two choices—death now or death later. What will it be?”
Androlli cocked his head. “What? What are you talking about?”
Tyvian knew. “I’ve got to hand it to you, Sahand—this is quite the setup. You could have just sent assassins to my house, you know.”
Sahand laughed. “You’d be expecting them. And with those pet monsters of yours? Ha! I’m not stupid. I can appreciate talent, Reldamar, and you are a talented survivor.” He stepped forward and spread his arms to encompass the entire hall. “But this? The perfect bait—the perfect trap. Just like your mother, you can’t resist the finer things, can you? An ego the size of the ocean is easy enough to lead by the nose.”
“It was you started the rumors, then?” Tyvian asked.
“A year of very subtle efforts.” Sahand gestured to Tyvian, all alone in a ring of firepikes. “It seems to have worked. A year of work well spent, I think. Don’t you?”
Part of him thought to just go with Androlli. How bad could petrification be, anyway? And Myreon owed him one—she’d break him back out. Artus would be there for him, too.
Tyvian shook his head. He couldn’t. Hool had a point—how much pain was he going to force others to undergo for his own edification? How much could he really expect them to risk?
But was his other option any better?
Dammit. Myreon was right.
Count Duren of Vora grunted. “I, for one, have no idea what they are talking about.”
The Guardian grunted. “It seems . . . in the interest of harmony and that the party may go ahead as planned, I—”
“Wait!” Tyvian shouted. “I hereby declare myself heir to the Falcon Throne, rightful descendant by blood of Perwyn the Noble and Perwynnon the Falcon King, my father!”
The world seemed to gasp all at once. Count Duren turned so red that Tyvian thought he might pop like an engorged tick. “What? What?” He pointed at Tyvian. “You, sir, need a sponsor! You can’t just storm in here, ruin a party, and then . . . then—”
Countess Ousienne raised her fan. “House Hadda supports the heir.”
Interesting . . .
Tyvian pointed at the Guardian. “As a declared and supported heir, I am considered your liege lord until my claim can be substantiated, yes?”
The Guardian seemed to crumple beneath his beard. “Well . . . I . . . yes. Milord.”
“Then you cannot deny me hospitality by law!” Tyvian rounded on Androlli. “And by the laws of the Arcanostrum, no agent of the Keeper of the Balance may detain or hinder a head of state. Correct?”
Androlli looked ill. “That . . . yes, that is correct.”
Tyvian snapped his fingers. “Then get these firepikes out of my way!”
Androlli nodded to his men. The mirror-men withdrew their weapons. “This is only a delay, Reldamar,” Androlli said. “Everyone knows you aren’t the true heir. Everyone.”
Tyvian walked up to Androlli and bowed in the most sarcastic way he knew how. “It is the pawn’s prerogative to play the game, Magus.”
“This is not a formal declaration!” Count Duren roared.
Tyvian spun on his heel. “I’m on my way to the Congress of Peers right now, where I will be declaring presently, whether you are there or not! Enjoy the rest of your party, sir.”
Tyvian swept out of the hall—something he found he could do because at least one out of every three people there either bowed or curtsied to him as he passed. He assumed his most regal posture and tried to mentally catalogue those who were paying him respect. It was impossible—there were too many, and most of them were masked. It hardly matters anyway, he thought, since at least half of those people kneeling would sink a dagger in my back as soon as they could do it without being caught. And Ousienne of Hadda would be first in line.
Yet she sponsored me. What’s her game?
As he walked past Sahand, the Mad Prince put a heavy hand on his shoulder and squeezed hard enough to make Tyvian’s arm feel numb. “This is what I hoped you’d do.” He whispered, loud enough for five people to hear. “Now my revenge will be even sweeter.”
Tyvian shook Sahand’s slablike hand off him and continued on his way. Artus appeared from the crowd, somebody’s glove in his hand. “What the hell are you doing?”
Tyvian whispered out the side of his mouth. “Just smile and act casual.”
They escaped the grand hall via a side door which the Guardian held open for them. As soon as they were through it, it boomed shut behind them.
The Guardian frowned at Tyvian. “Will you ascend tonight?”
Tyvian shook his head. “I have a feeling that would be frowned upon.”
The man waddled closer. He had big hands, with fingers so thick he may as well have been wearing gloves. “What they want is of no import. If you are king, you will be able to sit on the throne, and nothing they can say will change that.”
Tyvian grimaced. “If I am to sit on the throne, sir, I would like to remain there, alive, for quite some time. What the peerage says can change that.”
The Guardian stiffened at this comment. His big, hairy ears turned bright red. He said nothing, though. “You and your squire will follow me.” He led them down another cavernous hallway, though this one with ceilings only seventy-five feet high or so.
Artus followed Tyvian. “Squire?”
“It means you’re my stooge,” Tyvian whispered back. The Guardian was about ten paces ahead of them, but the huge, empty hall had a way of echoing.
“Oh.” Artus shrugged. “So nothing’s changed, then.”
The Guardian stopped in front of a small side door in the corridor. He glared at them and gestured with one thick arm. “This way, if you please.”
They were now passing through a much smaller passage, but still impressive nevertheless. The white and royal blue motif remained in place, but here were stained-glass windows about eight feet tall, each depicting a haloed figure in armor smiting this or that sinister beast or skeletal warlock. They travelled up a grand staircase past more falcon-carvings and beneath more and more elaborate stained-glass windows until the Guardian opened a small door and gestured them to go inside. “This is the royal antechamber. You have a guest.”
“Who?” Tyvian asked. “Do you know them?”
The Guardian frowned. “No one dangerous, I assure you. You are both under my protection.”
Tyvian pressed his lips into a flat line. “Who?”
“The Lady Lyrelle Reldamar, Earless of Glamourvine, former Archmage of the Ether.” With that, the Guardian spun smartly on his heel and marched away, staff in hand.
Tyvian froze, staring at the door handle. His mother. It wasn’t a coincidence, of course.
“Tyvian? You okay?”
Tyvian steeled himself. “Not dangerous my arse. Come on.”
They went in.
Chapter 28
Family Reunion
Artus thought the chamber through the door was cozy, or at least cozy in comparison to the cavernous halls through which they had just come. Another vaulted ceiling of polished stone, but only twelve feet high at its center; three stained-glass windows along one wall, one of which was open to reveal a formal garden beyond and admit the sound of cricke
ts chirping in the late evening. A single silver chandelier hung from the ceiling’s capstone, casting the soft white glow of illumite through the room. For furniture there were two large chairs situated before an unlit fireplace and a bench placed before the windows, all carved from pale birchwood and affixed with plush cushions of purple, blue, and gold. In one of the chairs sat Lyrelle Reldamar.
Artus had heard so much about the sorceress’s existence yet so little about her nature that he expected to see a woman who was cold and calculating, severe, and probably rather ugly. He had fixed in his head the image of an old widower from his village who was known to whip her horses too much and had no patience for children—she had a face like an old, mean hound dog. Artus expected to see somebody like that, except in nicer clothes.
What he saw instead was a beautiful woman with hair like gold falling in waves over one shoulder and eyes of the sharpest blue. She barely looked old enough to be Tyvian’s mother at all. When she smiled, her perfect white teeth somehow outshone the jewels hanging from her neck and wrists and fingers and made her silver gown seem drab by comparison. Somehow, Artus felt like she was smiling at him alone, and not both of them. He felt a tickle in his stomach and found himself standing up straighter.
Tyvian seemed notably less impressed. “Well, I hope you’re proud of yourself, Mother.”
“Don’t be so dramatic, Tyvian,” Lyrelle said with a laugh. “A few years ago, you would have seen this as the greatest opportunity in your life.”
Tyvian snorted and threw himself into the chair across from her. “Yes, but a few years ago I could have robbed, cheated, and stabbed my way out of this once it became unprofitable.” He waggled his ring hand at her. “But you boxed me out of that option rather neatly, now didn’t you?”
Artus frowned. “Wait, what’s your mother have to do with the ring?”
Lyrelle turned her dazzling smile on him. “And you must be Artus. Very pleased to meet you at last.”
She extended her hand. Artus took it in a handshake, then froze. “Oh, uh . . . sorry.” He awkwardly maneuvered her delicate, thin hand so he could kiss the back of it, and felt the heat rising to his cheeks as he did.
The sorceress beamed at him. “Oh Tyvian, he’s perfectly adorable. I can see why you love him.”
Both Artus and Tyvian stiffened in unison. “What?”
“Calm down, calm down.” She rolled her eyes. “May the gods save all men from themselves, I swear.”
Tyvian ran a hand through his hair. “Very well then, Mother—you’ve met Artus. Any other purpose for your visit? Would you like to kill me yourself, right now, and get this over with?”
Lyrelle sighed and looked at Artus. “You see what he thinks of me? No doubt he’s told you horror stories. Have you ever met a man who disdains his mother more?”
Artus found himself grinning at her. “No, ma’am, I haven’t. He loves complaining, though.”
Lyrelle smiled. “He does, doesn’t he?”
“Mother,” Tyvian snapped, “stop charming the boy and talk to me.”
Lyrelle let her smile drop and focused on Tyvian. “You don’t have many of the houses on your side, now do you?”
Tyvian grimaced. “Maybe Hadda, probably only to keep Sahand at bay. The rest of them would probably like to see me publicly embarrassed and then dead, in that order. If I sit on the throne, I’m doomed.”
Artus raised his hand, and both Reldamars looked at him. “I thought the whole point was to not be king!”
“It was.” Tyvian sighed. “But then Sahand got me in a corner—either I declared or you and I would have wound up statues.”
Artus scowled. “I keep telling you—me and you, just like old times. We pack a bag, we hop a spirit engine, and we’re gone!”
Lyrelle raised an eyebrow at her son. “The boy raises a good point, Tyvian. Why don’t you just run away?”
Tyvian folded his arms and said nothing.
Artus laughed. “You’re nuts! We shoulda just ignored the whole thing from the start! Then Hool would be with us, still, and Brana, too!”
Lyrelle looked at her son long and hard, as though trying to read his mind. Eventually, her expression softened. “Myreon has been very good for you, hasn’t she?”
“I do not wish to discuss Myreon at this or any other time with you.”
Lyrelle smiled broadly. “Artus, Tyvian doesn’t want to run away. He is only now realizing that he doesn’t want to run away because, for the past week, he has been working very hard to convince himself that he did. But now—right now—he’s realized that he’s failed.”
Tyvian’s face contorted into a painful scowl. “May you burn in the deepest pits of hell, woman.”
Lyrelle was beaming. She looked triumphant, somehow, as though she had just won a long, hard battle. “That’s what I thought.”
The Guardian arrived. “The peerage has assembled in the Congress and awaits your pleasure. Your rooms are also ready, my lords. If you will follow me.”
Tyvian turned away from Lyrelle. “Let’s get this over with, Artus, and then let’s get some sleep.”
Artus followed, but looked back over his shoulder at Lyrelle. She gave him a wink. “Be seeing you, Artus.”
Artus waved good-bye just as Tyvian slammed the door behind them.
The Eretherian Congress of Peers met in the Peregrine Palace’s Great Throne Room. It was a circular chamber situated just beside the base of the Empty Tower. Its domed roof was fashioned from translucent mageglass and supposedly inlaid with engravings depicting Hannite religious iconography as well as the images of falcons in flight that was the nation’s motif. At the moment, looking up from the polished floor toward the midnight sky, it was too dark to see much of anything. Tyvian couldn’t help but take it as a sign. I’m off the map, now.
The dais stood along the back edge of the room, ten yards to a side and rising ten feet above the floor, an island of white marble atop a sea of azure blue. The throne looked to be about fifteen feet tall by itself, fashioned, predictably enough, into the image of a bird of prey rising from the floor. Tyvian hadn’t been in the palace for more than a single night and already the decor was wearing on him. If, by some odd happenstance, he were to become king, a complete renovation would be the first of his royal decrees.
Five great doors entered the Congress, but only four were accessible to the peerage. The fifth opened up behind the throne itself and, as that door was reserved for royal use, no one could go through it. This meant that the five Great Houses of Eretheria would, at times, be forced to enter through the same door as members of a different, rival house. In true Eretherian fashion, there were so many books of laws and customs governing who had to enter which door with whom that they could fill their own library. In point of fact, Tyvian was fairly certain that such a library existed and was located somewhere on the palace grounds.
Between the four broad aisles that ran from the doors to the dais were benches, much in the manner of very comfortable church pews in which the various nobility of Eretheria were ensconced. As this was a meeting of the Congress in the midst of the Blue Party itself, the floor was a riotous mob of liveried servants, banner-waving pages, and powder-wigged nobility. They were all in the midst of shouting at each other at once, it seemed. In a room full of self-important rich people, everyone was very keen on being listened to, but not terribly interested in listening to anyone else. Even as Tyvian stood in the doorway, he saw at least three duels being declared.
The Guardian strode into the hall with an exaggerated gait, lifting his knees high and stamping them down as though stepping over tripwires, and then bashed his staff against the floor four times. “The Palace recognizes Tyvian Reldamar of Saldor, Declared Aspirant, who shall address the Congress!”
A uniform hush fell over the assembly. As one, they all turned to stare at him. Fans were raised to lips so that whispers could be spread. Viewing glasses and other such magecraft were stuffed into eye-sockets, all to get a better look at him. Ty
vian knew that there were men that would crumple before such scrutiny. Tyvian was no such person. He beamed at them. “Good evening, everyone!”
Tyvian headed down one of the broad aisles that led from the doors to the dais as though he had been doing it all his life, though forcing himself to limp just enough to make himself look vulnerable. As he went, he told himself that the giant, raptor-esque chair at the end wasn’t a symbol of impending doom but rather an insignificant piece of furniture one kept in a familiar room—no more notable than an armoire or divan.
All I’d have to do is sit in that chair and, if I wasn’t zapped into ash, I’d be king. Just like that. The thought was perverse. It was, he realized, the same thought coursing through the minds of a few hundred peers, earls, viscounts, and counts who watched his every step with white lips—except a great many of them were rooting for the zapping.
Tyvian arrived at the base of the dais, climbed the first stair, then the second, then the third—each step was met with gasps from the assembly. When he was a mere step from the throne, he raised one more foot. He let it hang there, savoring the intake of breath he heard behind him. Then he returned the foot next to its fellow and turned around to find himself with a fine view of all the persons who would plot and conspire to either destroy him or empower him over the next few days.
Tyvian cleared his throat and noted how it echoed—the acoustics in here were good. “Well, let’s get this over with, shall we? Standing before a congress of my peers, I formally declare myself, Tyvian Reldamar, the heir to the Falcon Throne and son to Perwynnon, the late King of Eretheria.”
“There can be no recognition without ascension!” Count Yvert shouted, to a smattering of applause by the assembled Camis peers.
Tyvian shrugged and jerked a thumb at the throne just behind him. “Would you like me to ascend now, Your Grace?”
Yvert’s mouth hung open, then clapped closed, then hovered in an in-between state before he finally said, “If it pleases you, sir. I merely was pointing out an error in protocol.”
Countess Ousienne of Hadda fluttered a fan as she rose. Her husband next to her was holding a small dog that yapped in Tyvian’s direction. “House Hadda formally endorses the heir’s declaration, but asks that he refrain from ascension until the complex matter of his kingdom’s administration is discussed.”
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