White Blood

by Holder, Angela

  “I do.” The king accompanied his words with a decisive nod.

  “And do you, Princess Voerell, speaking for your son Prince Barilan, acknowledge and accept his responsibility to take up the crown of Milecha, should it pass to him in turn?”

  “I do.”

  “And if the crown should come to Prince Barilan before he reaches the age of twenty years, do you, Princess Voerell Sompirla;-;Rottolla, agree to serve as regent, acting in all respects as his representative, governing Milecha in his name, renewing the Kingship with your blood at the appointed times, and surrendering your position when Barilan comes of age?”

  What? Maryn leaned forward to get a better look. During the run;-;through of the ceremony, Prelate Kiellan had rehearsed the regency portion with Barilan’s father. Could the prelate have made a mistake? No, he appeared serene as he waited for an answer.

  Voerell looked from Prelate Kiellan to King Froethych, astonished. “Father? I thought Whirter…” She turned to her husband. Whirter grinned and shook his head, gesturing toward the king.

  Froethych beamed at his daughter, pleased with the effect of his surprise. He leaned forward. Just loud enough for Maryn to catch above the excited buzz of the crowd, he murmured, “The law might not allow me to make you my heir, but you deserve the honor every bit as much as your brothers. And nothing forbids a female regent. Likely it will only ever be a formality, but I trust you to fulfill the responsibility admirably, if—may the Holy One forbid—the need should ever arise.”

  The idea of a woman wielding the power of the Kingship, even in her son’s name, unsettled Maryn. Queens might occasionally rule foreign lands, but that had never been the case in Milecha. She knew Voerell was strong and intelligent and well versed in the politics of the kingdom, but even so….

  Others shared her misgivings, she saw. Throughout the hall, people leaned over to whisper to their neighbors, or studied the tableau on the dais with thoughtful or concerned expressions. At the high table, Marolan and Dolia murmured to each other. When Maryn glanced at Carlich he was sitting up tensely straight, his brows drawn together and his eyes unfocused. But in a moment he shrugged, relaxed, and returned his gaze to his sister, assuming a pleased expression.

  Voerell blushed and stammered. “Father, I—I don’t know what to say…”

  He jerked his head toward Kiellan, smiling. “Answer the Prelate.”

  Voerell collected herself and drew herself up to her full height. Proudly, her voice ringing through the hall, she proclaimed, “I do.”

  Kiellan nodded in acknowledgement, smiling a little. With measured, dramatic movements, he withdrew a small gold knife from its sheath at his waist. “Give me your hand, my king. Princess, your hand and your son’s.”

  Froethych extended his hand, palm up. Voerell grabbed Barilan’s wrist and placed their hands into her father’s. Barilan squirmed and fought her, but she hung on tight and refused to let him wrench his arm free. Barilan began to shriek in protest.

  Maryn crossed her arms and pressed them to her breasts as her milk responded to Barilan’s cries. She knew this was a vital part of the ceremony, but she still hated it. At least it would be over quickly.

  Above the baby’s screams, Kiellan’s voice rose in the incantation to the Holy One. He didn’t rush, but it rolled swiftly from his tongue, and within a few moments he proceeded into the specific part of the spell. His knife flicked, opening a small cut in the king’s palm, a matching one in Voerell’s, and a tiny prick on Barilan’s finger. Maryn winced.

  Blue lightning crackled around the three of them, as the buzz of magic vibrated through the hall. A soft halo of light formed around each of their heads. Froethych’s glow outlined and illumined the crown on his head, the same that had rested on the head of each of the kings of Milecha since long before the beginning of the Sompirla dynasty. A bright image of that crown shone over Barilan’s spiky blond hair. Fainter, but still distinct, another copy appeared above Voerell’s head. Barilan’s cries, which had spiked loud with the pain of the knife’s touch, died away. His eyes and mouth grew round as he gazed at the shining apparitions.

  The residual power of the shed blood burned up in a burst of sparkles when Kiellan spoke the concluding words, and the images vanished. Froethych beamed. As Kiellan stepped back, polishing his knife on the soft cloth that hung from his sash, Froethych flung his arms wide and engulfed Voerell and Barilan in a great embrace. Cheers erupted from the watching assembly.

  Maryn applauded with the rest. To her surprise, she found tears stinging her eyes. Froethych’s love for his daughter and grandson was so evident. She blinked them away.

  At length the commotion died down. Froethych, Whirter, and Voerell came back around the table and resumed their seats. Barilan, tired and hungry and aware once again of the pain in his hand now that the entrancing lights were gone, began to bawl. Voerell passed him with a thankful sigh to Maryn, who stepped back to her place among the other servants and settled him in to nurse. She checked his diaper with a practiced finger. Slightly damp, but not messy; nothing that couldn’t wait until later.

  A line of dignitaries formed and began to process up the center aisle. Representatives of all the districts and landholdings and towns in Milecha filed to the front of the hall and presented their gifts to the infant heir. A great variety of precious goods and fine workmanship was displayed to the crowd before servants bore them away. Furs and gems, silver and gold. Weapons of every sort: swords, spears, shields, bows and arrows. Examples of every type of craft: wrought metal, carved wood, glass, pottery, embroidery, weaving.

  Maryn swallowed and looked away when the delegation from Ralo came forward. She’d tried to prepare herself to face this moment, but still grief welled up, tightening her throat and stinging her eyes. This day should have meant so much for her and Edrich and Frilan. She and her husband had spoken together often of the prince’s heirship ceremony, when Edrich’s talent would at last be fully recognized, and all their struggles and sacrifices would be richly repaid. She remembered snuggling against Edrich’s side in front of their hearth, Frilan on her lap nursing, heads bent close together as they spun out fantasies of what they would buy with all the money that would be theirs once Edrich’s tapestries hung in every castle and manor in Milecha.

  Though she struggled to keep her emotion hidden, a few tears escaped from the corners of her eyes, and she had to awkwardly support Barilan with one arm while she swiped them away. She scowled at the big swath of fabric the delegation from Ralo proudly unrolled to display to the king. It was a bland, generic tapestry in no way comparable to Edrich’s lost masterpiece. The woodland scene and band of hunters pursuing a stag seemed superficially pleasant enough, but Maryn’s experienced eye easily picked out the uneven threads, dull colors, and unbalanced composition. It must have been made in a sloppy rush by one of the weavers who resided outside the burned sector where most of the best tapestry artists had lived. Her disdain for the stiff, unnatural position of the stag’s legs and the asymmetrical spread of his antlers helped distract her until the worst of the pain passed.

  After that it was just a matter of enduring the long, boring procession. Barilan fell asleep. She slipped him off her breast and adjusted her clothing, but Voerell was engaged in animated conversation with the king and her husband, so Maryn continued to hold Barilan. She propped him on her shoulder and swayed back and forth.

  Carlich got up and strolled over to stand behind Marolan’s chair, where he struck up a conversation with Dolia. There was something strangely taut about the way he held himself, as if poised for action. Remembering her speculation about his plans, Maryn watched him closely. Was he going to flirt with Dolia right in front of the whole court? But no, he kept his attentions well within the bounds of what was appropriate, merely making witty observations about the gathered dignitaries and the offered gifts. Dolia laughed. Marolan looked as if he would like to shove his brother off the dais, but only sat and glowered.

  At long last the presenta
tions were complete. Servants cleared away the last of the gifts and began to bring out the first course of the feast. A steward bore tall gold goblets of wine to the high table, served the king first, and moved down the line of dignitaries.

  Carlich leaned over and snagged Marolan’s cup. He took an exaggerated swig. “Ah, I’ve been waiting far too long for that.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

  “Hey!” Marolan was obviously deeply annoyed, but he forced a genial laugh. “Get your own!” He waved toward Carlich’s seat, beyond the king, where Carlich’s goblet waited.

  “Sorry, brother,” Carlich said, with no trace of remorse in his voice. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the edge of the goblet with a flourish. “Here. It’s a very nice vintage; Father spared no expense for our nephew’s feast. Too bad Barilan can’t enjoy it.”

  “I swear, Carlich, someday you’re going to learn some manners.” Marolan accepted his goblet and took a long draught.

  Maryn, watching from behind, noticed something change in the set of Carlich’s shoulders, and was puzzled for a moment. But when nothing further happened, she shrugged off her suspicion. Barilan stirred and whimpered, and she shifted her attention to him, swaying and murmuring soothing words to try to lull him into deeper sleep. It worked; he squirmed, resettled his weight, and sank again into stillness.

  Carlich returned to his seat. Servants brought in a large, fanciful pastry, a precise replica of the palace baked in savory bread flecked with herbs and stuffed with cheese. The main construction was placed before the king and cut and parceled out among the occupants of the high table; the guests at the long tables each had individual little towers. Maryn’s stomach rumbled. She breathed in the warm, salty scent of the cheese longingly. It would be at least an hour yet, probably longer, before she could retire to the nursery and enjoy her own repast. She eyed the remains of the demolished palace, speculating on whether she might be able to sneak a piece unnoticed if she made some pretext to approach Voerell with a question or comment on Barilan’s well being.

  An odd choking sound cut through the rumble of conversation. Though soft, there was something in the sound that immediately caught the attention. Maryn looked up, seeking its source. She followed the turned heads and shocked eyes of the crowd to the point where they focused. Marolan leaned over his plate, his face deathly pale, retching as if to vomit, but nothing emerged from his open mouth but that soft, strangled cough.

  For a shocked instant no one reacted. Then Dolia’s scream pierced the stunned silence. Carlich leaped to Marolan’s side. “He’s choking!” he cried. “Get Rogelan!”

  Maryn watched in horror as Carlich whipped out the little jeweled knife he used for sorcery and slashed open his palm. Blood splattered on Marolan. Carlich waved his hands about frantically, and the blood burst into a brilliant display of flashing blue sparks and swirling lights of all colors.

  Despite Carlich’s efforts, Marolan continued to strangle. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he swayed. Froethych seemed frozen in his chair, staring at his eldest son’s distress. But Voerell and Whirter sprang forward. “Stand back!” Voerell cried to the rapidly converging throngs that pushed toward Marolan. “Carlich can help him! Give him space!”

  Marolan slumped sideways in his chair. It overturned, spilling him to the floor. His long limbs thrashed about. Carlich crouched over him, never ceasing his urgent gestures.

  But it was no use. As the minutes stretched long, Marolan’s movements grew slower, and weaker, and ceased altogether. The choking noises faded to a faint rasp, and then nothing.

  Maryn stood paralyzed, horrified, staring. She clutched Barilan to her chest, so tight he woke and squirmed in protest.

  Rogelan burst through the main doors into the hall and pushed his way through the crowd. “Let me by!” People pressed aside to let him through.

  When he reached Marolan, Carlich was hunched over his brother’s still form. He raised a pale face to Rogelan. “There was nothing I could do. Something was blocking his lungs, but I couldn’t find any food or other obstruction. His throat just swelled shut.”

  His voice was ragged, distraught, but somehow it seemed off to Maryn, just a little too glib, his words a bit too fast. She wasn’t the only one who noticed; Voerell’s brow furrowed, and Whirter frowned.

  Rogelan looked at King Froethych grimly. “It sounds like poison.” He put a hand to Marolan’s neck, holding it there for several long moments before shaking his head. His voice was gentle. “I’m afraid he’s gone, your Majesty. If Carlich wasn’t able to save him, I could not have, either. But if he was poisoned, perhaps I can discover the source. If blood was used to create a magic poison, the traces will remain to be revealed.”

  Voerell sank to her knees beside Marolan’s body, weeping. Dolia sat frozen in her chair, looking back and forth between Marolan’s still form and the faces surrounding him, an expression of deep confusion on her face, as if she must strain to understand every word spoken. The Ambassador put his hand on her arm and murmured rapidly in her ear.

  Froethych rose to his feet, thunderous anger in every line of his body, his face a dangerous, dispassionate mask. “Do so.”

  Everyone shrank back, cowed by the king’s implacable authority. Maryn backed as far as she could from the still form on the floor, but the wall behind and the press of bodies hemmed her in. She wrapped her arms tight around Barilan, heedless of his flailing arms and kicking legs. Heartbeats hammered in her ears, and she couldn’t seem to draw a deep enough breath. She longed to flee, to run until she found some safe dark hiding place where she could cower with her helpless charge, but she was trapped. Guards converged from every direction, their weapons drawn, casting about in confusion for someone to apprehend. But they were no comfort. They had failed to protect one prince; how could she expect them to keep another safe?

  Rogelan knelt by Marolan’s body. His voice rose in the incantation to the Holy One, shaky at first, but steadying as he fell into the rhythm of the familiar words. He drew his knife and cut the pad of his finger, a generous slice that immediately began to bleed.

  Energy buzzed in Maryn’s feet and up to her jaw. Blue lightning flashed from Rogelan’s hands. Marolan’s body began to steam, much as Maryn’s milk had when Rogelan tested it. The vapor rose into a cloud, mounting higher and higher toward the ceiling, until it was large enough to be seen by everyone in the hall. Portions thickened, others thinned. The billowing white clouds settled into the distinct shape of a face, the mirror of one that looked up at the mist in horror.

  Slanted oval eyes, slim elegant cheekbones, long flowing unbound hair. Dolia’s lovely countenance floated over her betrothed’s body.

  Carlich jumped up, lunging. “You!” he cried, as Whirter grabbed him and held him back. Guards surged in and seized Dolia, wrenching her to her feet, twisting her arms behind her. Ambassador Honro leaped to her assistance, but he, too, was seized.

  Carlich continued blurting furious, hoarse accusations. “You used your blood to poison him! You never intended to marry him! Was the betrothal a plot all along, to assassinate him? Or was this the only way you knew to escape an unwanted marriage? Wonora will pay for this in blood! Blood, I swear—”

  “Silence.” King Froethych’s voice was not loud, but it cut off Carlich’s tirade in midstream. “Sorcerer. Your spell shows that the princess’s blood was found in Prince Marolan’s body, yes?”

  Rogelan quailed before the king’s cold voice. Above him, the last shreds of vapor drifted away. “Yes, your Majesty. And not just any blood; I specifically looked for blood transformed by magic into a poison. Princess Dolia’s image could only appear if her blood was what killed the prince.”

  Froethych nodded. He looked at the captain of the guards. “You will take the princess to the palace gaol. The Ambassador too, and all their party. Hold them there. In the morning, a trial will be convened, and guilt will be determined. The one responsible for my son’s death will face execution.”

 
Dolia remained confused for a moment, until Ambassador Honro spoke urgently to her in Wonoran. She blinked, and her face blanched in horror. “No! No, I kill not Marolan! My betrothed, I love him, hate him not! Why kill him I?”

  Carlich growled at her, “Be silent, murderess. Save your lies.” His voice rose to a shout as the guards dragged Dolia away. “We’ll show your father what he can expect if he tries to tangle with Milecha. There’ll be no treaty now to let you steal our crown!”

  Voerell, still hunched over Marolan’s body, froze. She looked up at Carlich, an expression of profound horror flooding her features. “Carlich,” she whispered. “You didn’t…”

  For a moment Maryn didn’t understand. But then cold washed over her, as one by one things she’d seen and heard fell into place.

  Voerell looked at Whirter. The same awful realization was dawning in the duke’s face. He took a step sideways that placed him between Carlich and the only clear route of escape.

  “F-Father.” Voerell’s voice shook so badly she almost could not form the word. She swallowed and tried again. “Father, I think…Carlich had Dolia’s blood, on his handkerchief. I saw it, this morning. She pricked her finger on a rose thorn, he cleansed the blood for her…but maybe not all of it?” She shut her eyes and shook her head, trying to deny the knowledge. “He was so upset about the treaty, so angry that you wouldn’t try to change it. He asked for our support, because he was going to try something different…” She blanched. “Carlich, how could you? You—Marolan—our brother…”

  Carlich slowly swiveled to face her. “Voerell, you’re talking nonsense. Of course I would never harm Marolan. Father, she’s out of her mind with grief. You can’t possibly believe that I—”

  Froethych motioned him silent. If it were possible, he had grown even more still. He fixed Voerell with his gaze. His voice was bizarrely gentle, coming from that terrible stern countenance. “Did Carlich have an opportunity to put Dolia’s blood in Marolan’s food?”