The White Mists of Power

by Rusch, Kristine Kathryn

  “Thank you, but no.”

  Lady Jelwra tilted her head. Sunlight reflected off the diamond studs decorating her ears. “I didn’t tell Lord Dakin about you.”

  “Although you were sorely tempted.”

  “Although I was sorely tempted.” She laughed, a faint, tinkly sound almost like a wind chime. Seymour thought the laugh did not suit her. “Don’t you trust anyone, Sir Geoffry?”

  “I trust quite a few people, milady. You are not one of them.”

  Her smile faded to a pout, but her eyes still sparkled. “I’ve never had a man turn down a ride with me.”

  “Lady,” Byron said, his tone husky, “someday I will ride with you. But not today. Think of it merely as an opportunity postponed.”

  The lady stepped back into the carriage and closed the door. “I will,” she said, then tapped on the roof with her fan. The driver clucked at the horses and the carriage rode off.

  Chapter 8

  Adric leaned on his pitchfork. His side ached and he felt so tired. He hated the stable, hated pitching hay. He hadn’t had a decent night’s sleep since Rogren found him. First the pain was too great, and then, when he was just starting to feel better, Rogren put him to work. Cassie was nice, but she couldn’t stand up to Rogren. Adric had barely been able to stand that first day, but he had managed to get some work done.

  He sighed and dug his fork into the hay. The stable was clean, and the odors of leather, hay, and tack had faded into the background. He had even become used to the noise.

  No one seemed to be looking for him. No guards showed up at the door, no questions on the street. He tried to send word through retainers and other customers at the stables that he wanted to see the king’s people, but no one came. He wanted to go home, but he was afraid to leave here, afraid that Rogren might not take him back. Then he would be out on his own with no protection.

  Not that Rogren was much protection. He had beaten Adric one afternoon when he found the boy resting in the hay. Adric’s side had hurt much worse after that, but he never slacked off, he always worked.

  The stable doors eased open, letting in a sliver of sunlight, and Milo entered, lugging buckets. Water sloshed over the sides of the wooden buckets and left a trail on the floor. Milo set them down and went outside for more. Adric kept working. He knew that Milo was working twice as hard to cover for his own inabilities. And Milo had been patient, teaching Adric how to pitch hay and clean tack.

  Milo brought two more buckets inside, then closed the doors. The stable seemed dark without the sun. “Did you hear?” he asked.

  Adric shook his head. Talking left him short of breath and put pressure on his rib cage.

  “We have a holiday tomorrow. We are not allowed to work.”

  Adric frowned. Rogren wouldn’t do that. Rogren insisted on work every day, sunup to sunset. “Why?”

  “The prince is dead.”

  Adric felt his heart in his throat. Milo poured one of the buckets into the trough. “They say he died of some disease,” Milo said. “There’s talk in town that the whole royal family has it and they’re all going to die. The royal consort has it and she lost the child she was carrying. So we’re going to have to work twice as hard today to enjoy tomorrow.”

  “The prince is dead?” Adric repeated. They had stopped looking for him. They thought they couldn’t find him, so they declared him dead. And his mother lost the baby. All because of him.

  “Haven’t you heard the crier? There’s about ten of them screaming the news all over town.”

  Adric dropped the pitchfork and ran to the door. He knew where the king’s guards were now. He had been about to approach them when Rogren brought him back the first time.

  “Where are you going” Milo called.

  “I’ll be back.” Adric grabbed the stable door and pushed it open. The sunlight blinded him and made him sneeze. In the distance he could hear crier’s bells. Milo wasn’t lying.

  Adric ran down the street to the main thoroughfare, dodging people as he went. His side ached and he could barely breathe, but he kept moving. He had to find the guards, get them to take him home. His father would be angry, but at least his mother would see him. Some of Milo’s information was wrong; perhaps the news about the miscarriage was too.

  Finally, across the street he saw three retainers dressed in palace gold. He recognized one of the men as the young sword master who gave all of the others lessons. They lolled against a street cart as though they were waiting for someone. Adric took a deep breath, made sure his walk was steady, and walked over to the. “Ile,” he said, “Take me home.”

  The sword master looked at him. The man’s face seemed haggard and his uniform slightly dirty. “Where’s home, laddie, and how did you learn my name?”

  “He heard us talking,” one of the other retainers said. He was taller than Ile and thinner. Adric didn’t recognize him. “And now he’s going to tell us that he’s the prince and we should take him away from all of this.”

  “Yes, but–”

  All three men laughed. They were mocking him.

  “I really am!” Adric said.

  “So were the other three we saw this morning.”

  “I can prove it!” Adric grabbed his shirt and started undoing the lacing.

  “And I can prove you’re not,” Ile said. He took Adric’s hand and ran his finger along it. “Calluses. No royalty has calluses, except for sword fighting, which the prince never learned. You’ve done some heavy work, boy, and you don’t have that soft look that comes with easy living.”

  “I’ve been ill,” Adric said. He pulled his shirt open. “Look, the mark–”

  The other retainer pushed him, sending a wave of pain down Adric’s side. He tripped, but did not fall. “Get out of here, lad,” the retainer said. “The prince is dead. They entombed the body this morning while I was doing watch.”

  “They couldn’t have,” Adric said. His hands were shaking in panic. “I’ve been here.”

  The third retainer put a hand on his sword. “I’m tired of this disrespect.”

  Someone touched Adric’s arm, and he turned. Milo stood beside him, breathing heavily. “He didn’t mean any disrespect,” Milo said. “He has been very ill with fever and his mind isn’t always sound.”

  The retainer took his hand off his sword. “Then take him away before he gets into more trouble.”

  Milo put his arm around Adric and led him through the crowds, shielding him, protecting his side. Adric watched a pregnant woman cross the road and thought of his mother. She thought he was dead. Somehow he had to get home. He had to see her, to tell her that he was all right.

  Milo stopped when he reached the street leading to Rogren’s stables. He laced up Adric’s shirt. “So that’s what your mysterious marking means. Why didn’t you tell us who you were?”

  “I was told not to. They said people might use me against my father.”

  Milo smiled. “Rogren would have. For money. But me and Cassie are all right.”

  Adric nodded. He felt tears burning in the back of his eyes. He blinked, trying to make them go away. “Why do you believe me when they don’t?”

  Milo’s smile faded. He glanced around to see if anyone was listening before he spoke. “You look different now. You’re not a fat lordling. You’re slender and as sickly-looking as the kids around here. I knew you weren’t from the streets when I first saw you. Those clothes we threw away were fine, richer than any I’d ever seen. You didn’t know how to use a pitchfork, and it was clear from your injuries that you weren’t very successful at defending yourself. And all the questions you asked people who came into the stables. I didn’t know who you were, but I knew you were someone important.”

  Adric glanced back down the street. He couldn’t see the retainers any longer. “What do I do now?”

  “I don’t know. But if I were you, I’d get back to that stable before Rogren throws you out.” Milo put his arm around Adric again and began to lead him slowly. “We can a
lways decide what to do there.”

  “You’ll help me?”

  “I’ve done crazier things.”

  Adric smiled and leaned on Milo. His support felt very, very good.

  Chapter 9

  Lafa lurched slightly and grabbed for the wall before him. But the wall moved, danced away like people had, moving, constantly moving, and making him dizzy. He swayed a little before regaining his balance. He adjusted his coat and pretended at dignity. Without dignity a man is nothing, he had said to Crystal before she died and left him to remember his betrayal in the stink of blood.

  His stomach turned. He reached for the wall again and found it in time. The wood’s firmness surprised him; he almost expected his hand to pass through it. He took a deep breath to steady himself, and for a moment his vision cleared.

  He stood on the street alone, in front of an inn. It was small, dark, something he never would have looked at in the old days. But he belonged there now. His clothes were torn and matted with mud. Passersby glanced at him, then averted their eyes. Someone had spit at him. He remembered now. Someone had spit at him in the last inn. He had stumbled forward in anger, spilling his ale, and the barkeep had thrown him out. People thought he wouldn’t remember, but he was cursed with remembrance. The ale couldn’t destroy his memory–the memory of Crystal’s bloated, blood-splattered body.

  Someday he would avenge himself on all of them: the retainers who raped his land; the nobles who manipulated him; the Lady Jelwra, who robbed him; and the peasants, the low-lying filthy scum, who treated him as if he were lower than they were. He would get revenge on them all.

  He was tired and thirsty. He needed something to drink. He guided himself along the wall with his hands until he found the door. It swung open at his touch and he stumbled inside. Darkness engulfed him, along with the familiar scents of ale and roasted meat. Slowly his sight returned. The inn was almost empty, except for one table–one table and the man who had caused it all.

  He wore clean clothes tailored to his form. He reclined in his chair, his long legs stretched before him as he conversed with a smaller man in squire’s clothing. Two boys sat beside them, eating quickly. He seemed contented, as if he didn’t care that he had killed Crystal, that he had ruined everything.

  But he hadn’t ruined anything. Lafa knew that. He had known that before he saw Crystal’s body and the mess she had made.

  Lafa swallowed. The dryness in his throat had grown. If that bard had married Crystal, she wouldn’t have come to the manor, and Lafa’s wife would not have thrown her out. When Lafa found Crystal, she had already aborted the child. And then she had bled for three days, until she bled dry.

  His stomach boiled. He gripped the door frame and shouted. “Byron the bard, I told you to stay away!”

  The bard turned. His dark eyes showed no recognition. Then he nodded, once. “Lord Lafa.” His voice held pity. “Would you care to join us?”

  The bard’s companions looked up from their meal. The squire pulled a chair over.

  “No, I would not care to join you.” Lafa was not the equal of peasants and entertainers. He was their master. They seemed to be forgetting that. He weaved toward the bard’s table, squinting to see the bard’s clothing more closely. Lace accented the bard’s slim wrists and he wore a velvet waistcoat. “I’ve never seen you look so fine. What did Dakin do for you? Let you marry one of his daughters?”

  “He has no daughters.”

  Lafa suddenly realized that the bard had no pity for him. The emotion on the other man’s face was disgust. Let him feel his disgust. Lafa sat in the chair that the squire had pulled over. The bard hadn’t had to watch Crystal die.

  Lafa grabbed the wine bottle sitting in the middle of the table and poured himself a glass. The wine was a rich red, the color of Crystal’s blood. He had vowed never to drink anything red, but he was so thirsty that he drank until the glass was empty.

  The wine was good. It slid gently down his throat. He didn’t deserve gentleness. He wanted something harsh. He pushed the glass off the table, enjoying the crash as it shattered against the floor.

  All expression left the bard’s face. Only his eyes moved, dark, deep, and fathomless. Lafa remembered the look. He had seen it several times, whenever the bard was angry. The man had constantly told Lafa how to run his manor, how to manage his peasants. “You should leave,” Lafa said, “before I send my retainers after you.”

  The bard leaned back in his chair. His body seemed relaxed, but his eyes seemed blacker, emptier than they had before. “You have no authority in Coventon, milord. The mayor rules here.”

  “Always the smart one, aren’t you?” Lafa’s hands were shaking. The mayor did control city lands. No wonder that barkeep hadn’t apologized when he threw Lafa out. Careless, careless to forget such details. But the bard, this talented peasant, had no right to torment him. “Wait until you get outside the city.”

  “Why? The Lady Jelwra bears me no grudge.”

  Lafa gripped the chair. The room was swaying. “Is she the one dressing you so fine?”

  “No, milord. I got these clothes through some good fortune of my own.”

  Good fortune. The bard had always had his share of good fortune. Lafa’s Enos had said that was because of the silver ring he wore. “It is an Enos ring,” she said. “It attracts good luck.”

  “Bitch,” Lafa murmured. The Enos had left him when the Lady Jelwra stole his lands. An Enos belonged to the land, not a lord, she had reminded him.

  And the Lady Jelwra had snatched the lands from him. He had never guessed such cunning hid behind such a beautiful face.

  Lafa pushed himself out of the chair. He was tired of himself. He didn’t want to be here. He didn’t want to be anywhere. He walked back to the door and stared at the bard. None of this would have happened without the bard. He could still hear the bard’s voice, heard it every hour of every day: She’s carrying your bastard, Lafa. You marry her. I won’t be responsible for your mistakes.

  Arrogant, insufferable, critical bastard. Lafa was still a lord. He still had power over life and death. He could kill the bard and no one would criticize him for it. The bard’s death would be Lafa’s vengeance and his salvation. The memories would disappear. Crystal would finally rest in peace.

  Chapter 10

  Adric gripped the post. His wrists were tied together and braced against a nail. The post seemed like his only friend, his sole support.

  The street in front of the stable was empty. The few people who walked past averted their eyes and moved away quickly, as if they knew what they were going to see. The whip snapped in the air before fire burned his back. He bit his lower lip. He wished he had listened to Milo. Milo had told him that Rogren would do this.

  “Running away, were you?”

  The snap again. Adric tensed as the whip cut into his back.

  “Four times now I have the king’s guards bringing you back, telling me you’re loony.”

  The whip wrapped itself around his waist. Adric jerked and splinters jammed into his hands. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Milo feeding the horses. Milo kept his back turned so that he wouldn’t have to look.

  “You owe me money, you little thief, and you agreed to work to repay your debts.”

  The whip cut across the first welt. A tear trickled down his face, stinging against the scratches in his skin. He hadn’t known that his back had so much feeling and could ache so badly.

  “Now, are you going to stay, or do I have to sell you to get my money’s worth?”

  Adric licked his cracked lips. Sell? He closed his eyes and leaned against the post as the whip snapped again. This time the leather dug into his shoulder, and he imagined it searing to the bone.

  “Answer me, boy.”

  Hadn’t he already answered? He couldn’t remember. Slowly he parted his lips and whispered, “Stay.”

  The whip cracked again. Adric’s back tingled as he waited for the blow to fall.

  “I can’t hear you.”


  The whip whistled through the air and wrapped itself around his still tender rib cage. “Stay!” Adric screamed. “I’ll stay!”

  Milo turned at the sound. His face was white, his eyes luminous and dark. Adric couldn’t tell if he had said the right thing. Behind him, leather slapped against the ground. Cloth rustled as Rogren came closer. “I’ve been waiting to hear that,” he said.

  Rogren rubbed his hand against Adric’s torn back. The burning grew until it felt as if his skin were on fire. Milo had disappeared. Adric’s knees buckled. Only his tied wrists kept him from falling.

  “I want you to work a full day for me tomorrow. From dawn until dusk. No disappearing, no fainting. A full day’s work or I’ll whip you again. Understand?”

  Adric swallowed. His throat was dry. “Yes,” he said. The word came out as a whisper and he cringed, expecting Rogren to hit him again.

  “Good.”

  Rogren’s knees creaked as he pulled himself up. His footsteps grew fainter until they gradually faded away. Adric closed his eyes. His eyeballs felt thick and swollen. He had never been so in touch with his body. His hands were going numb and a single toe was bent awkwardly in the dust. He tried to remember the feel of silk against his skin, the warmth of the fire in his old room, the richness of the milk he had had for breakfast every morning, but his mind told him such things were not real. They were part of a dream he had conjured to save himself from Rogren, from the pain that seeped into his back and his heart.

  The numbness spread through Adric’s arms. Had Rogren left him there to die? Adric couldn’t remember. He couldn’t remember what it was like to be anyone but Adric, the boy with calluses on his fingers.