by Carol Berg
Chapter 25
Candlelight splashed over the grand oval table from two long candlebeams of polished ebony, suspended from the coffered ceiling by silver-braided ropes. Reflections of the hundred tiny flames gleamed in silver spoons and sparked and shimmered in gold-rimmed platters, green enameled bowls, and etched glass goblets. The members of my family gleamed and sparkled, too, as they gathered about the knee-high stone table that stood at the heart of any pureblood household—whether or not that household had a heart.
Silos had bade me pause just outside the dining room as he locked an inner door behind us, thus cutting off one possible escape route should some miracle free me from my shackles. So I waited in a small arch, hidden by the shadows that pooled in the corners of the dining room, masking the sideboards and servers’ tables. I fervently wished I could remain there unnoticed and unremembered.
My father, resplendent in a stiff pourpoint of red brocade, a heavy pectoral chain banded with rubies and emeralds, and a red mantle worked in gold-embroidered gryphons and lined with white fur, stood at one end of the oval table. He watched with folded arms as Max settled my mother onto her pile of cushions.
My mother’s sculpted cheeks looked peaked. The heavy kohl diviner’s lines about her eyes appeared more ghastly than I remembered, as her thick black hair was now streaked with white. But her well-filled white bodice glittered with diamonds; her black mantle was lined with the long silvery fur of the Denab fox; and her diamond-ringed fingers still leaked power enough to make the light around her shiver. My mother was a formidable enchantress. And a drunkard. When the doors to the main courtyard opened just behind her, the scent of wine wafted across the vast room to my niche, though the shimmering carafes on the table had not yet been broached.
Thalassa, her green cloak glittering with raindrops and her hood draped gracefully about her neck and shoulders, swept through the gilded doors and hurried toward the outsized hearth. The marble mantel was supported by twin carved gryphons, each taller than two men of my height. There she embraced a thick-waisted young woman in dark blue silk, my younger sister Phoebia.
Bia had grown slightly taller than Lassa, though her body had failed to develop the curves of our robustly female mother and elder sister. Black braids, plaited with pearls and silver cord, wound thick and shining about her head, and her skin had developed a deep coppery hue, which I thought quite pretty, and an immense grace, considering the dreadful bout of girlish pustules that had afflicted her as a child. She had always resented her twin sister’s more fortunate complexion. Mine, too, though my pale coloring, so different from other purebloods’, had earned me a full measure of her ridicule. Bia looked tight and anxious tonight, her gaze darting about the room until it settled on me.
“Here he is!” Phoebia’s exclamation echoed sharply through the room, causing Thalassa to jerk her head around and hushing the quiet talk among the three at the head of the table. “Samele’s night, he is so tall!”
Silos motioned me farther into the room. I moved slowly, so that the humiliating clatter of the chains against the floor tiles might sound less like a millworks. We halted at the edge of the thick rugs and the jumble of embroidered seat cushions that bordered the table.
Five pairs of eyes stared at me, seven if you counted the “second eyes” drawn about those of my diviner mother and sister.
“Manners,” whispered Silos.
Though tempted to throttle him, I settled for a glare. Who likes to be reminded of irksome duties they are resigned to fulfill?
Taking a knee was, of course, impossible with my ankles hobbled. “Patronn,” I said, touching my bound hands to my forehead. “Greetings of evening and feasting.” Neither his rigid posture nor unblinking glare relaxed in the slightest. But then again, protocol mandated only some acknowledgment on the part of the superior, not anything of graciousness or welcome. I rose when I spied his fist clench.
A second bow, this to my mother. “Matronn, the years have not dimmed your presence.”
A spasm in her shoulders might have been a response. Her painted eyes never left her cup.
And one for Lassa: “Sinduria serena, your goddess must be grateful indeed for your courageous defense of her temple yesterday.”
I almost added my own thanks. Whether or not she had intended it so, her appearance on the steps of Samele’s temple had diverted much ugly attention from me. But then again, I would not have been exposed but for her self-righteous meddling. So, no exceptional greeting for Thalassa. She, at least, opened her palms in my direction, before turning away to speak to my mother.
Though Max was elder, Thalassa’s rank trumped his place in the order of greeting. My brother looked dashing in knee-high boots of pale calfskin, studded and buckled with gold, and a handsome topaz-and-copper-colored doublet that set off his dusky skin. The plain gold band about his forehead caught the light, yet his eyes sparked far brighter. His business in Palinur must be going well. He grinned at me as I bowed.
“Ancieno, to see you twice in two days after so long away staggers the mind…”…and I would quite like to know what causes your smug cheer.
And finally Bia: “Serena pauli, you have grown fairly. I promise not to set your braids afire tonight.”
Her lip curled and nostrils flared. I half expected flame and smoke.
I could well imagine my parents’ harsh reaction to the least hint that Bia might follow my lead. Any sympathy she may have had for my cause had likely withered under their heavy hands. But as I lowered my wrapped hands from my forehead, I extended them toward her and shrugged in what semblance of humor I could manage on a night when my soul languished in a pit from which it might never emerge.
“Vyrsté.”
Bia whispered the nasty word across the table, but my father heard it. Faster than an angel flies to heaven, he stepped around the table to her side and whipped a palm across her cheek. The slap echoed sharply in the silence. “Never in my house.”
To impugn a sibling’s blood purity was to impugn the family’s blood purity—an unconscionable slander. My sister glared at me unchastened, the mark of Patronn’s hand deepening the rich color of her cheek. What would she say if she’d heard my father’s outburst of the afternoon?
I bowed to Bia again, pressing my hands to my breast in sincere apology. How awful that my presence made her willing to suffer Patronn’s wrath. Awful to see that nothing had changed in this house. Awful that her rebellion had not taken her away from it even for a few years. She likely assumed I was mocking her. In truth, my stomach gnawed itself as it ever had when my father struck any of us.
“You may take your accustomed place, Valen,” said my father, affable again as he sat on the piled cushions beside my mother. “Despite your lack of apology, I’ll not insist you sit at a separate table tonight. As the terms of this contract offer specify a lifetime extent, and I am unlikely to summon you back for any reason, this evening will be the last time your presence or absence at this table need be remarked. The rest of you, be seated so we may begin our celebration.”
A hollow welcome, to be sure. The uneasiness that had festered through the afternoon at the abrupt and unlikely offer for my contract flared anew, an unformed anxiety lodged near my breastbone. A lifetime contract—not unheard of. But such an agreement would most often occur after several shorter successful ventures or with exceptional recommendation. What made unskilled magic in an undisciplined package worth gold enough to please my father? I could think of no reassuring aspect of a blind offer for my entire life.
“Are you reciting your Karish prayers, Valen? Take your place.” My father’s eyes smoldered behind his ungracious humor.
My “accustomed place” was halfway down one side of the table, between Lassa and the empty place that was Nilla’s. As her home in Avenus lay too far distant for her to attend on such short notice, her place was marked by a porcelain bowl filled with rosebuds. How had they marked my empty place all these years? A tin plate of thorns?
The
ornate gold cup of the head of family sat at the vacant end of the table opposite my parents—a concession to my mad grandfather’s continuing existence. My father had assumed the duties of head of family sometime near my fourteenth birthday, after presenting evidence to the Registry of my grandfather’s worsening mania and need for confinement. It must gall Patronn sorely that the old gatzé yet lived.
Bia lowered herself to her cushions gracefully. She sneered as my attempt to do the same came near toppling me into the long, shallow libation bowl that adorned the center of the table. Silos caught my elbow and helped me down, preventing the unseemly disaster. After politely assisting Lassa to her cushions as well, he withdrew to the shadowed arch. Max coiled easily into the place between my mother and Bia, kissing our younger sister’s hand with a rakish grin and whispers that prompted girlish tittering.
Once we were in place and a steward had poured the wine, my father raised his crystal goblet. A skull-like grimace masqueraded as a smile. “So many of us together again…it does my heart good to see it. Though our recondeur remains lamentably unchastened, we receive him back into our embrace tonight, while at the same time celebrating an exceptional opportunity for him to do his duty by the family. Amid the vagaries of political change—the rise and fall of princes and kings—the Cartamandua name yet soars. The blood that fills our veins makes even our dregs prized. Let us offer proper reverence to Kemen, Lord of Sea and Sky, to Samele, Lady of Earth and Wind, and to our family’s especial patron, Deunor Lightbringer, Lord of Fire and Hearth, for this restoration of our honor.”
With each invocation he raised his cup higher. Then he poured half of his wine into the bronze libation bowl and drank the rest in one swallow. The steward had to refill my mother’s cup before she could do the same. My father’s face flamed scarlet at this slight delay in ceremony. Once my mother had tipped a paltry spoonful of her wine into the bowl and drained the rest, my three siblings poured and drank in their turn.
Truly we were a sorry excuse for a family. No matter the future, the prospect of a curtailed stay in their bosom did not grieve me.
My own crystal cup sat gleaming like a great ruby of temptation, within easy reach for one with usable hands. The smell of the potent vintage came as near anything to driving me into groveling submission. Ah, gracious Erdru, Lord of Grape and Harvest, if I must be shuffled off to some grim lot, could I not at least be drunk?
I leaned toward my elder sister. “Will your goddess overlook my failure to join in this pious practice?” I said in a mock whisper. “Perhaps you could hold my cup for me…”
Lassa ignored my irreverence. Instead, she raised her refilled glass toward my scowling father. “Patronn, my mistress, divine Samele, surely guided me to the recondeur’s hiding place among the Karish. I offer the goddess the entirety of my evening’s refreshment and advise the rest of you to do the same. With the realm so unsettled, we must not take our debts to the divine lightly.”
My elder sister had never shied from conflict with my father, but was far more diplomatic than I had ever been. She had certainly displeased Patronn by leaving his control for temple service when she was sixteen.
Thalassa proceeded to empty her entire cup of wine into the libation bowl and prevented the steward refilling it. Bia hurriedly did the same. I came near moaning at the scent.
When it became clear that no one else was going to give up their wine to the gods, my father signaled the servants to begin serving the meal. “It matters naught who sits Caedmon’s throne,” he said. “Our interests will be well served with any outcome.”
“Not so, Patronn,” said Max, whipping out a jeweled eating knife. “Navronne needs strength on the throne. The Hansker grow bolder every day that Perryn and Osriel refuse to recognize Prince Bayard’s legitimate claim. Traders tell us that the Velyar and the Sydonians have sucked all use from their own lands and will be on the rampage by spring, as if they can smell our weakness. Prince Bayard is the only one of the three who knows how to fight barbarians.”
“Bayard is a barbarian,” said Thalassa. “Who else would make a pact with Sila Diaglou? The Harrowers will bring him down in his turn. Did you know they consider purebloods as blasphemous aberrations in need of ‘cleansing’ the same as Karish priests or Sinduri? At least Perryn could have—”
“Never fear, sister,” said Max. “My prince can control a few ragtag fanatics. Perryn of Ardra is a weakling dandy who tried to cheat his way onto the throne. He couldn’t even hire a competent forger. Now that Perryn’s cowardly ass is bared for all to see, Osriel will have no choice but to heel as well. He hasn’t mages enough or warriors enough to challenge Bayard on his own. Evanore’s gold can rebuild whatever these mangy Harrowers tear down better than it was before. Let the storms of purification rage their little while…and rid us of a few laggards and slums…”
Bia laughed uneasily. My mother drained another cup. Max raised his wine cup with one hand, and with a motion of the other drew from it a burst of colored sparks, swirling the flying particles into a glittering ring that hovered over his head.
“…and if the fanatics win the day and chaos reigns”—with a quick spread of all five digits, he dispersed his crown into a shower of color that tickled my nose—“then who is more likely to survive than a pureblood, who can terrify the fearful masses with a twiddle of his fingers?”
Fool, I thought. What do you know of survival? Unless he had learned to conjure food from grass or wine from bare vines, neither finger tricks nor Cartamandua magic would fill his belly if these end times came to pass. He had seen war, but his royal contract would have assured that he had never gone hungry, never slept but coddled in furs, never lacked for clothes, servants, or gold enough to buy whatever he lacked. I looked around the table at my family, entrenched in this strange world I had so long refused, and of a sudden, felt older than all of them. They had no idea what they faced if the Harrowers had their way.
As if summoned by Max’s cheerful bloodthirst, servants descended on us like a plague of silent gnats, carrying platters of roast duck that I knew would have skin like crisp bits of heaven, delicate fish sprinkled with rosemary and nuts, and plump vegetables golden with saffron.
Unable to partake, I closed my eyes and imagined myself away from this table. How fine it would be to be sitting in the light-bathed Gillarine refectory eating stewed parsnips, stolid Brother Cadeus scratching his nose as he droned some interminable lesson at the lectern, Brother Robierre kindly buttering old Abelard’s bread, and Jullian and Gerard sitting on either side of me, grinning at each other around their soup spoons. Such a room needed no marble hearth to warm it. I had not thought I would ever miss the abbey so.
Which thoughts, of course, led me back to the nagging worry about Gerard. Had the boy ever been found? He’d not seemed at all a rebellious sort, but always performed his duties cheerfully. What would lure him from the security of Gillarine? Gildas had thought to send him to the dolmen with my provisions, but I’d told him not to. Deunor’s fire…had he done it anyway? What if the boy had gotten lost or tripped and cracked his head on a stone in the night? No, no. Gildas would say something if he’d sent the boy into danger. And then my thoughts slipped further afield. How much more interesting this dinner would be were the members of the lighthouse cabal our guests—enigmatic Luviar, incisive Brother Gildas, the scholar-warrior Lord Stearc and his intelligent secretary Gram, and Elene…Elene in a woman’s gown that clung to her ripe figure…
“…but I was surprised to hear of the Karish hierarch’s move. After so many years of loyalty to Perryn, to turn on him so abruptly.”
Thalassa’s comment snagged my attention. My eyes snapped open.
“The hierarch saw which way the wind was blowing,” said Max, gesturing to a serving girl to sauce his meat with fruit conserve from a red enamelware dish. “Providential that he would find the long-lost writ so soon after Prince Bayard trounced Perryn at Wroling, don’t you think?”
Deunor’s fire! Eodward’s wri
t of succession…
Thalassa waved away the servant trying to install frosted grapes on her plate. “The Sinduri meet at dawn to discuss the implications. Bayard’s debt to this hierarch could alter the balance in favor of the Karish apostates. Though we’ve tried to remain neutral throughout—”
“You’re saying Hierarch Eligius found Eodward’s will?” I burst in, unable to withhold longer. All eyes turned to me.
“This Karish priest claims he’s found Hierarch Angnecy’s copy of the missing writ and that it names Bayard king,” said Thalassa, her tone unemotional. “Even if the document is authentic, one wonders at the timing.”
Tales said Eodward had made three copies of his will. One he had hidden in some place of safety where it would be revealed at his death. The other two he had entrusted to the two clergymen who had brought him back to Navronne, Sinduré Tobrecan and Hierarch Angnecy. But no verified copy had ever been brought forward. Angnecy had preceded Eodward in death, and his successors as Hierarch of Ardra had long professed ignorance of any such document. Tobrecan had died in Evanore in the same month as Eodward, and his copy had never surfaced. In the early days of the war, Prince Perryn had produced a writ that cited his own name as heir—purportedly Angnecy’s copy. But the paper had been declared a forgery by three witnesses out of five. In any case, no one would accept it as valid without the confirmation of either of the other two copies.
Thalassa’s ringed eyes, smoky and shadowed, met mine for the first time that evening. I’d have sworn I felt their heat drill through my skull. “As a result of the ‘astounding revelations’ contained in this newfound writ, Hierarch Eligius has withdrawn his support for Perryn and turned him over to the Smith.” Her voice took on a more sober cast. “The implications are profound…as even you can well imagine.”