Unable to ask him detailed questions about his health in front of the servants, she confined herself to an amusing description of the choristers’ performance and the brief but energetic cake fight that had broken out in the reception room, much to their conductor’s horror. A ghost of a smile wisped across the king’s face, but faded soon enough.
She sipped her wine, studying him over the rim. You’re being seen by my physician as soon as we get to Hellas, my love, and that’s that.
****
Matthias glared in bleariness at his lunch. His stomach roiled at the thought of swallowing it, but he knew from unpleasant experience that it was better to vomit food than green bile. With some effort he managed to detach a small piece of steak and put it in his mouth, chewing stolidly in time to the thumping pain in his skull.
He’d hoped that the headaches were gone. These last few days with Danaë had been pain-free, not even a hint of the skull-cracking agony that had been his secret bane these last three years. His physician had tried every remedy under the sun, some of them so foul he shuddered to remember ingesting them. He’d even swallowed a bezoar against the possibility of poison. Nothing had worked.
His head throbbed again and he winced.
“Eat something dry.”
He stopped chewing, forcing himself to swallow. “I beg your pardon?”
“You should eat something dry,” Danaë said, enunciating, “such as a toasted roll. You look green as spring leaves. Something bland and dry will be better for your stomach than what’s on your plate.”
He looked down at the steak swimming in bloody juice and felt his stomach turn over. He pushed the plate away. “Bring me some toasted bread,” he ordered.
The serving maid waiting on him curtsied and hurried to the kitchens. He forced himself to look at a concerned Danaë. “I’ll be all right in a day or so,” he said. The last thing he wanted to do was look weak. It was bad enough that her bleeding kept him out of her bed, but to be laid low by one of these blasted things added insult to injury. “It’s a headache. I get them sometimes. It’s nothing.”
“And your physicians can’t help?”
The question irritated him. “It’s nothing, I told you. I’ll be fine.”
“It doesn’t seem like nothing to me. Our physicians—”
“Blast your physicians!” he shouted, slamming a fist on the table. “You may be my wife now, madam, but that does not give you leave to pry into matters that do not involve you.”
She went white at that, her chin coming up. “Indeed,” she said. “My apologies, husband. I shall leave you to your meal.”
She stood and swept off as the serving maid returned. The young woman stepped out of Danaë’s way with a hasty curtsey, then approached him like a hunter checking on a wounded bear. “Your rolls, sire.”
He looked at them sourly. “Take them away.” Today he was doomed to be miserable. He might as well do that on an empty stomach.
****
Danaë headed to the office that had been given to the Hellene contingent for their use during her visit. As she’d hoped it was empty and she could be alone for a few moments.
He’s in pain and irritable. Men turn into babies when they’re ill, you know that. He didn’t mean it.
She paced the floor. Or did he? He had seemed to be growing fonder of her, speaking to her with affection and regard during the day. And their nights were something beyond her wildest dreams, blissful cocoons of passion and heat that made her hope…
Foolish woman. He wouldn’t fall in love with you, not so soon.
Her thoughts were interrupted by a brusque knock on the door. Perhaps Matthias had reconsidered and come after her to apologize? She brushed her hands down her gown, raising her chin. “Come in.”
To her disappointment, the man standing outside the door was the commander of the Ypresian cavalry. “Your majesty,” Bardahlson said. “Might I have a word with you in private?”
“Oh. Er, yes, of course,” She stepped back, gesturing him into the room.
He stumped in, hands clasped behind his back. His entire demeanor thrummed with tension as he paced. “Have you and his majesty quarreled?”
“I beg your pardon?”
He turned, narrow brown eyes gleaming with intelligence and distrust. “His majesty had another one of his sick headaches last night. The first one he’d had since your arrival. I thought it might have been prompted by an argument.”
Her irritation rose at his blunt questioning. “Not that it’s any of your business, but the king and I are in perfect accord with one another. It’s not my fault if he’s unwell.” She pressed her lips together to firm them. “Besides, as I understand it he gets these headaches every few weeks. You can hardly blame that on me.”
“Days,” Bardahlson corrected. “He gets them every few days.”
That shocked her. “But the maid said—”
“They build up, you see. A bad night every other night or so, and then one great whopping one that lays him out like a corpse for a day.” The commander’s bushy brows drew down. “Except that he hasn’t had any at all since your wedding. Even he’s remarked on how good he’s been feeling. So you understand my concern when all of a sudden he’s laid out without warning. I thought perhaps you’d had a lover’s tiff or some such foolishness, and that brought on the sickness.”
“No, not at all.” Danaë’s concern returned. “What has his physician done for him?”
“Poked every headache remedy known to man down his throat. Even tried a bezoar. Nothing works. Did y’do something different last night when you bedded?”
She felt her cheeks flame. “That’s none of your business, commander,” she snapped.
“Forgive me, but it is my business, majesty,” Bardahlson said. “His majesty is not only my liege lord but my friend as well, and an old one at that. It’s bad enough to have seen him suffer this sickness. To see some measure of relief waved under his nose and then yanked away galls me. Now, I neither want nor need details of what goes on between the two of you, but was anything out of the ordinary last night?”
Danaë pulled her irritation back under control. “Apart from the fact that we slept in separate rooms, nothing.”
Bardahlson looked surprised at that. “He didn’t sleep with you?”
“No. He said he had a headache from dinner and didn’t want to disturb me.” She allowed to herself that Bardahlson was entitled to be concerned with his king’s health, but she was not about to discuss her courses with this great, hulking man. “So he slept in his own rooms.”
The commander frowned. “I don’t understand it. That room’s been cleaned top to bottom any number of times, and his linens washed every week. It can’t be some sort of contagion or poison.”
Danaë went rigid. “Who would want to poison Mat—the king?” she demanded.
“No king is loved by all his subjects, majesty. King Matthias has his share of enemies both within and outside of Ypres. But a bezoar would have taken care of poison.”
She tried to think. “How long has he been suffering from these headaches?”
“They started soon after the queen died. Pardon me, majesty—Queen Hanne, I mean.”
Three years. Matthias had suffered from debilitating hemikrania for three years, and she’d had no word of his suffering. “There still could be something in his chambers,” she said. “Not poison but a natural material such as pollen or certain plants. Our physicians know that some people can react to these substances with symptoms like a bad cold or even headaches and vomiting.”
“Aye, our healers know of those, as well. But there’s nothing like that in milord’s chambers.” The commander sounded frustrated, trying to defend his king against an enemy no one could see. “Have you been in there yet, majesty?”
The abrupt conversation turn flummoxed her. “I … no. The king has always come to my rooms,” she admitted. “He said they were more comfortable than his own. I’d assumed they were Queen Hanne’s cham
bers.”
Bardahlson shook his shaggy head. “No. Queen Hanne always shared the king’s bed.”
Hurt shot through her, echoed by a cramp in her lower belly. She tried to ignore both pains. “Well, I haven’t seen them, in any case,” she said stiffly.
“As I suspected.”
Bardahlson’s casual dismissiveness grated on her already sore nerves. “In which case, I don’t see how I can help you,” she said through her teeth. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”
“Can’t or won’t?”
“What?”
“You do seem to be hard of hearing this afternoon, majesty,” Bardahlson observed. His tone was polite enough, but beneath it lay a veneer of suspicion that rankled. “It can’t have been easy for a young woman to accept someone of his majesty’s age as a husband. Perhaps you think it wouldn’t be all that much of a tragedy if he succumbed to his headaches. That leaves you as the ruler of not one but two countries, a rich bounty that will give you your pick of handsome young suitors—”
“Enough!” Over the years Danaë had struggled to keep a grip on her temper, one so fierce that her father had tagged her “Empress of Storms” after a memorable tantrum. Once she had reached puberty and her mage talents appeared along with the blue lock in her hair, she’d worked even harder to regulate her feelings; an out of control mage was a mortal danger to herself and those around her. But here in this small room the combination of her courses, a poor night’s sleep, the specter of jealousy that wore Hanne’s face and Bardahlson’s insulting words combined to batter at her shields.
To her dismay she felt the first trickles of gathering energy oozing over her skin, making the hairs rise on her arms. She could already feel the moisture of the room gathering, waiting to act on her will. You have no idea what I could do to you, lord commander. Even an adept could cause you to drown in the middle of a bone-dry room.
With an intense effort she regained control of her talent, pushing it back into that space where it resided. “I have no desire whatsoever for the king’s death, as he himself would confirm if you asked him,” she said, giving Bardahlson an icy look. “And you may keep your disgusting opinions about suitors and betrotheds to yourself.”
Bardahlson drew himself up. “Is that so? Then you’ll come and look at his rooms?”
“For what?”
“I don’t know!” The words were barked at her, the first real loss of control she’d seen from the commander. “Evil wishes, a curse, something that I’ve missed. Examine his rooms and tell me there’s nothing amiss, and I’ll have naught but praise for you.”
“And what’s the king to think if he finds us alone in his chambers?” she bit out.
“Bring your maid as chaperone,” Bardahlson snapped back. “Bring a troop of them, I don’t care. But I ask that you put my mind at ease. Majesty.”
She weighed his request. It was far more likely that Matthias suffered from hemikrania and his commander didn’t want to acknowledge a weakness in his king. But if there was a chance that someone had sent something magical against Matthias and she didn’t investigate…
She nodded once. “Lead on, commander.”
They headed for the wing reserved for the royal family. After a brief stop at Danaë’s chambers to collect a puzzled Flavia, Bardahlson led them to the end of the corridor, stopping in front of a large carved door. He knocked, waited, then knocked again.
“The foolish man is still in his damned meetings,” he muttered, grabbing the brass handle and jerking the door open. “I suppose I should be grateful for his pigheadedness this once.”
Danaë stalked past him into the king’s chambers. The room was much the same temperature as her own, and the air held the scent of soap, wood polish, and the faint, warm scent that belonged to Matthias alone. His chamber was half again as large as hers, and had been divided into two changing areas and a sleeping area proper. The massive royal bed lay against the far wall, its burgundy velvet curtains drawn back and tied to dark-stained oak uprights with heavy gold ropes. The nearer changing area belonged to Matthias’s, judging by the masculine furniture and well-tended look of everything. The other changing area, ostensibly the late Queen Hanne’s, lay in the far corner of the room. All the furniture there had been covered by drop cloths, looking like nothing so much as shrouds. For some reason Danaë shivered at the sight.
And then jumped as a short, neatly dressed man burst through the doorway. “What in the world—how dare you invade the king’s chambers!” he bleated.
Bardahlson held up a massive hand. “Calm yourself, Mohrs. Her majesty is looking for something.”
Mohrs—the king’s valet, Danaë remembered—spluttered on until the commander dragged him off to a corner and had a short whispered conversation. Now pale, the valet came over to Danaë, tugging at his vest. “Can I assist you in any way, your majesty?” he asked.
“Yes. Why is that furniture covered?”
The valet frowned at the shrouded shapes. “It belonged to Queen Hanne. His majesty couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it, so he had it covered.”
Danaë moved through the room, passing the king’s dressing area. Something hummed at the edge of her consciousness.
“Well?” Bardahlson demanded.
She held up a hand to silence him, concentrating. “I can hear something. It sounds like the buzzing of flies,” she murmured.
Mohrs and Flavia joined the commander. “I can’t hear anything, mistress,” Flavia said.
Danaë didn’t know how to explain a sound that couldn’t be heard with your ears. She stopped at the bed, running her fingers along the top edge of the footboard. The dim buzzing had grown stronger, but it wasn’t coming from the bed.
Finally, she went to the largest of the shrouded pieces in the queen’s dressing area and pulled off the dusty sheet. It turned out to be a tall armoire in the same wood as Matthias’s but with delicate fretwork of leaves and vines around the edges. “Queen Hanne’s?”
Mohrs bobbed his head. “Yes, your majesty. As far as I know it hasn’t been opened since her funeral.”
Cautious, Danaë touched the fretwork, extending her senses. The armoire wasn’t the source of the buzzing, either. She moved to the next shape, pulling its drop cloth free. A beautiful changing table was revealed, its inlaid top still holding cut glass bottles of perfume and silver-backed brushes. The elegant mirror featured beautiful engraving along the edges, but was dull from lack of polishing. Danaë ran her fingertips through the fine layer of dust that had settled underneath the drop cloth, imagining the fine wood clean and glowing as the late queen sat before her mirror.
But it still wasn’t the source of that infernal buzzing. Turning away, Danaë went to the last covered piece. As her hand touched the drop cloth a chill went through her. The buzzing rose to a hungry crescendo. If she hadn’t known better she would have sworn that the cloth covered a bloated carcass serving as a feast for carrion flies
She yanked the cloth free. An oval cheval mirror stood there, its elongated glass gleaming and spotless. The difference to the mirror at the changing table was like day and night.
Danaë slammed her mage shields up, flinching back from what she could hear in the mirror. The buzz had turned into sibilant whispers. You killed your father. You know you did. Your fault, your fault.
She swallowed past sudden nausea. “This is it,” she forced out. “This is what’s poisoning the king.”
The commander joined her, glowering at the mirror. “How? I can’t hear anything.”
“You wouldn’t. But if you slept in this room you would hear something in the night, something horrible.” She gritted her teeth. “I need a mage, the strongest Aqua in the city.”
“I know the one you want,” Flavia blurted. “I’ll go myself.”
Danaë nodded, unwilling to turn away as her maid left. All of her attention was focused on keeping her shields up against the swirling horror she could sense on the other side of the mirror.
Bardahlson
fingered the sword at his hip. “Should we break it?”
“No!” Danaë ordered. “All that will do is open a gate between their world and ours.”
“Their world?”
“A place of demons, dark and foul.” She shuddered. “A very skilled mage bespelled this mirror and turned it into a conduit between our worlds. The demons wait on the other side until the room is dark. Then they start whispering, sinking hooks into their victim’s mind. They call forth a person’s deepest guilts and terrors, turning them against their victim until he or she dies in terror. Then they feast on the life force.”
“My gods!” Mohrs stumbled back. “But it’s been in here for years!” the little valet said, horrified. “The king—”
“Is still alive and sane because he had it covered. If the demons cannot see their victim, they can’t kill them. But they can still whisper.” Still focusing on the mirror, she waved at the door. “Both of you go. I don’t want you anywhere near this thing until the conduit spell is broken.”
Light footsteps pattered to the door and into the hallway as Mohrs beat a hasty retreat. But Bardahlson remained where he was standing. “I will not leave you alone with this evil thing, majesty,” he said.
The buzzing grew again, invisible fingers scratching at her shields. Murderer. Patricide. “You cannot help me, commander,” she said through her teeth. “If you value your king and wish to serve him best, go and guard the door. Don’t let anyone in here, especially his majesty, until the mage arrives.”
He hesitated. The scratching increased, whispered accusations digging runnels into her control. “Go! Please!”
Muttering a curse, Bardahlson stomped to the door. With only herself to protect, Danaë was able to pull her shields in, reinforcing them. The whispers died to a muted buzzing.
With one part of her mind maintaining the shields, she could study the construction of the mirror. It was as well wrought as the other furniture in the king’s chambers, but didn’t quite match the style. The mirror frame was made of mahogany, darker than the stained oak of the armoires and dressing tables, and bore an elaborate carving pattern that appeared to be more geometric than the leaves and vines of the queen’s armoire.
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