I could not miss either his particular phrasing or the genuine spark in his dark eyes.
“Might I ask you to walk out with me?” I said, lowering my gaze so that he—or any of the inn’s patrons—would not witness how that spark warmed my own heart. I alone would choose what payment to make for his aid. “My lord’s message is not for common ears.”
“Certainly, mistress. A guardsman told me that tower ruin yonder would give a fine view of the depleted gold works behind the fortress. I’ve hopes Prince Osriel might allow me to walk there, as such places can give a sense of times past. But until then, might a walk to this ruin suffice?”
“Yes. Good.” Any place away from prying ears.
Merton threw his cloak about his shoulders and escorted me out, not speaking until we were away from the street and curious eyes.
“Now,” he said, solemnly, as we climbed a steep, rocky track up to the crumbling watchtower. “Is there a message?”
“No. Forgive my rudeness, but I am desperate for friendly advice, and my position in Renna—neither entirely Evanori nor entirely alien—makes it difficult for me to seek it.”
“That’s not surprising,” he said. He did not offer me his arm, which I approved as recognition that this was business, not flirtation.
“Sir, very ill consequences could result if any hint of what I say goes beyond this meeting.”
My father’s threats were not idle. He had the right to do exactly as he said, and I was no warrior mage who could defend herself against armed soldiers.
Prince Osriel could exert his authority on my behalf, of course. The prince and I were not exactly enemies. The last time I’d seen my old playfriend, his attention had been consumed by magic that left my soul cold and sick. We had argued, and I’d sworn not to return until he forsook whatever he pursued. Quietly stubborn, he had commanded me to leave and not come back. Now, his mere presence shook my unshakeable mother.
“I swear discretion,” said Merton, “and I am humbled…and most pleased…that you would trust me with your confidence.”
“My mother says—that is, I need to know whether it is true that halfblood sorcerers are despised or maltreated elsewhere in Navronne. If one were to travel there, would that person be allowed to live free? To use magic? It has been almost eighteen years since my mother came to Evanore, where the rules for sorcerers are more relaxed.”
My companion nodded soberly, as he picked a careful way up the rocky hillside. “My observations and my studies of history have shown me that pureblood society evolves slowly, if at all. Halfbloods are required to report yearly to the Pureblood Registry and are officially discouraged from using whatever magical talents they possess. They are ignored by the families whose blood they share, and oft forbidden to reside near that family’s holdings. However, I am personally acquainted with several halfbloods who have found most excellent situations with employers powerful enough to shield them from the Registry’s harassment. I’ve no doubt that others flourish in smaller towns and villages where there is no Registry presence to interfere. Thus, taking up a new life outside of Evanore could certainly be a reasonable, if not risk-free, choice, for a halfblood with sufficient reason to attempt it. Does that answer your questions?”
“Yes.” We walked in silence as I churned through possibilities and alternatives.
I appreciated Merton’s clarity, and that he spoke to me as an equal, not patronizing me with warnings or suggestions, as if a woman was too dim-witted to see difficulties on her own. Nor did he presume to probe further. Of course, he likely recognized that if I’d brought such a dangerous question to a stranger, I had nowhere else to turn.
“My father is a man of tradition,” I said, at last, and with only a smattering of guilt, I told the historian the entirety of my dilemma.
By the time I concluded the sordid tale, I knew what I had to do. “I will not sell my future to conceive an heir for a wretched hold of rocks and goats, but I’d prefer not to spend my life mute, chained, and scrubbing cesspits, either.”
“He wouldn’t!” Merton’s shock outstripped my own.
“He can and he will. Thus, I would ask if it might be possible—it would put you in dreadful danger, and you don’t really know me, but I’ve no one else. To set out on a month-long journey alone into strange country, into cities, when I’ve never actually crossed Caedmon’s Bridge out of Evanore…”
My stammering trailed off, as his back sagged against the rubble foundation of the ancient tower and his well-proportioned eyes stared at me in horror.
“You want me to smuggle a warlord’s daughter out of Evanore? Mistress, this is a bit more serious than confidential advice!”
My skin heated to an approximation of a midsummer bonfire.
“Stupid. Stupid, yes. How could I have—?”
Goddess Mother, I had lost my wits entire. I wanted to vanish, to mime the legends of the earth’s guardian Danae by dissolving into the ground. But all I could do was back away from him, turn, and leave.
“Forgive me, sir. Forget everything I said. I am a presumptuous lack wit.”
I had stumbled only twenty paces down the track, when his laughter rolled down the hill behind me. “Certain, I’ll escort you into civilization. What an adventure!”
AS THE CHILLY MIDDAY BLUSTERED past, we sat atop the watchtower, careful, for wind and ice had ground the crenellated parapet to rubble. We worked at a plan to get me away cleanly without implicating Merton. I’d only three days until my bedding, but for those three days, no one would care where I was. I could tell my mother I was placating my father with a tour of his demesne. I could tell my father that my mother needed help with an outbreak of the pox at Magora Syne—a remote fortress. Three days was time enough to meet Merton at Caedmon’s Bridge, the crossing that linked Evanore to the rest of Navronne, and get a good head start on the northern road. The only problem was Merton’s mission.
“If we just had more time,” he said, regretfully. “A generous patron has funded this expedition, and to leave with nothing … without seeing Angor Nav, the fortress heart of the Great Siege, or without walking Dashon Ra, where your father’s ancestors stripped out enough gold to build an Aurellian palace…”
A hawk soared above us as Merton’s graceful fingers sketched the broken parapet in his book. He said drawing helped him work out complex puzzles. “Where did all the gold go? Why is Dashon Ra deemed haunted? Was it true that the miners refused to sleep there? How did the warlords and King Caedmon hold off Aurellian sorcerers for half a century with such devastating loss that the invaders gave up? So many questions. To write a true history of Evanore is my life’s work.”
How could I expect a man to risk his life’s work for a girl he’d met exactly twice?
“I can help a little,” I offered. “I’ve listened at firesides my whole life. As my father’s heir, I sit behind him at the warmoot twice a year, where the history and legends of Evanore are repeated endlessly. My memory is exceptional—part of my healer’s gift. Certainly, my information would not be the same as visiting these sites or speaking to elders, but I’ve visited almost every place of importance. There’s likely only one person who could tell you more of the actual battles and the stranger things, like hauntings and Dashon Ra—” My mouth slammed shut.
Merton was beaming. “This is marvelous, mistress! Our first conversation should have told me that you were exactly the resource I needed. I wasn’t even sure that warmoots were real. Perhaps a few hours with this other person to cover what you cannot…and then you could be free and I could repay my patron’s generosity.”
“He won’t meet with you.” Stupid to think of Osriel. A hundred times in the first year after our break, I had applied to see him. He had refused every time.
“Perhaps if he understood. Other Navrons fear unconquerable Evanore. What makes this place so different? The mountains? The hardship? Demons? Would it not bring our kingdom into better harmony if we learned the truth of our shared past? For me, the fut
ure is the truest work of history.”
Prince Osriel would never be king. He had always been sickly; his mother and mine had nursed him through illness after illness. And though, on rare royal visits, I had witnessed the love good Eodward held for his youngest, Osriel had two healthy elder half-brothers, both born from legitimate marriages. Yet I believed the prince I’d once known, and King Eodward himself, would relish and approve Merton’s vision of history.
“He won’t,” I said, sighing, “but I’ll ask.”
HIS GRACE, PRINCE OSRIEL, HAS no hour to spare for visiting historians, however visionary.
I glared at the abrupt response to my application. It wasn’t even Osriel’s handwriting. And I had worked for an hour on the damnable query, agonizing over whether to include a mention of my marriage dilemma. I’d chosen not. Rather I framed the visit as a matter of state importance to let the true history of Evanore be written. After so many personal refusals, there seemed a better chance he’d admit Merton alone.
“I’m sorry. I thought he might relent if it was just for you and not me.” Of course, I’d counted on Merton to lay out my dilemma for the prince, once they met.
Merton sat on the rim of a cistern halfway between the great battlements of Renna Major and the lesser walls of Renna Syne, the more modern, graceful residence the king had built for Lirene and Osriel. His journal open on his lap, Merton was sketching the sloping road that seemed to drop into an abyss between Renna’s plateau and the ridge to the north of us. Evanori knew where to build their fortifications.
“Onward to our plan, then,” he said, closing the book with a snap. “You’re right we should leave separately. Tomorrow, I’ll finish what little business I’ve done here and arrange for a pack horse and provisions enough to get us as far as Elanus. At dawn the day after, I’ll meet you at Caedmon’s Bridge and we’ll ride north like the summer wind.”
He hesitated. “You’re sure about this journey? About leaving your home?”
“I detest sleeping out, but I’m capable. I detest the fuss of horses, but I can keep them moving and healthy. I can’t stay here.” A cold raindrop took that moment to splat on my nose. Nature’s mockery. “Are you sure?”
“Quite sure.” His grin should have made the raindrop turn to steam, but it vanished quickly. He understood his danger. “I value rarities, mistress. My honor is pledged to protect them. I will see you safe to your chosen destination.”
“Dawn of the second day from this,” I said and we gripped wrists in agreement. My skin warmed at his touch.
Trumpet blasts and barked orders announced the guard change at the fortress gates, so we separated quickly, before anyone could note our meeting. Merton pulled up his hood and vanished into the rain. I headed for the town stables to fetch my mare. Leaving now, I could be at Rowe before nightfall to gather my kit, and head out before rain turned the road entirely to slop.
Every passing moment made this venture look more foolhardy. If Papa got wind of my leaving before I got to the bridge, he’d have me in irons. If he suspected Merton’s aid, he’d gut him. It wasn’t fair.
The gates of Osriel’s house swallowed the party of fresh guardsmen and spat out those going off duty.
Damnable Osriel. All he had to do was command my father to leave me choose my own path. Papa would obey. He would curse me for betrayal as he had my mother, but I would be free of his odious alternatives.
If I could just speak to the prince face to face. Surely my onetime friend, no matter how morbid his turn of mind since his beloved mother’s death, would not abandon me to Daegle Fillol.
But how to reach him? My written petitions were certainly not compelling. The guards at Renna dared not disobey his orders. My mother called Voushanti, Osriel’s bodyguard, the Hand of Magrog the Tormentor. My mother …
I abruptly reversed course and sped back to my mother’s house, a fine little guesthouse just outside Renna Syne’s wall. She wasn’t home. Good.
My mother’s back door opened directly into Osriel’s garden, giving her access to her most important patient at any time. But only when she was summoned. The door was locked and spell warded from the garden side. I had once known how to open that door. Osriel and I had sneaked through it many times, back when we were children and knew nothing of consequences.
My fingers touched the latch. Spellwork tickled like feathers, then pricked, so light you almost didn’t notice the first drops of blood. The magical feathers had barbs. I whispered the password and fed power into the brass latch-plate, unwinding the spiraling enchantment until the metal grew warm. Exactly as I remembered. The prickling ceased. All I had to do was push the door open and walk through.
My hand hesitated. This would work only once; they’d change the ward when they discovered me. Merton had offered to risk his life’s ambition to save my own. How could I do less in return?
I restored the latch ward without opening the door. In case my plan went awry—Osriel would likely throw us out after all—I left Mama a note, telling her of my plan to appease my father’s marriage idiocy by touring his demesne. She never argued my plans. Never sent for me. Certainly, she never visited Rowe. She assumed that if I wanted to learn what she could teach, I would come to her. I left the message on her table where she’d be sure to see it. More optimistic than I’d been since Papa had called me into his study the previous morning, I set out to find Merton.
THE INN WAS MOST INVITING. Falling night and rainy gloom made the lantern light sparkle and the smoke tease of soup, hot bread, and mead to warm one’s insides. I’d been foolish to show myself there more than once, inquiring after Master de Vallé the historian, so I rounded back to the alley and raced up the outer stair.
The inn had one private room and one that was shared among all comers. I picked Merton for the private, thus the window on the left of the landing. My well-honed latch-lifting spell had the shutters open without a creak.
“Merton,” I whispered, as I squinted into the not-quite-dark. “Good sir.”
He wasn’t there, but I smelled him—an indefinable mingling of soap, skin, smoke, and what my physician’s mind had categorized as clean male. Goddess knew I’d smelled enough of the other kind.
I climbed in, enjoying the thought of my father’s horror at his virgin daughter sneaking into a man’s room. Raising pale magelight from my fingers, I searched for paper and pen. I’d leave Merton a message clear enough to lead him to my mother’s house, while cryptic enough to prevent anyone else deciphering it. Then, I’d figure out how to get my mother out of the way.
Merton’s journal lay on a scrubbed pine table, alongside a candlestick clotted with ten years’ melted wax and oddments like pens, ink bottle, a small pouch of sand, a stick of wax, an ivory comb, and a silk handkerchief. Thinking to use a page for my message, I ruffled through the book. Every leaf was blank.
This was certainly his journal, scuffed black leather stitched with red. Was it possible…?
My mother had taught me little of magic beyond healing. She believed it a waste of time for a halfblood. But Osriel and I, both halfbloods, had learned whatever we could, like door wards and lock magic, fire magic, and how to hide secrets or expose them.
I recalled a little spell we had devised, infused it with my will, and summoned power. Resting my hand on the journal, I swept away the subtle hiding spell that had lurked beyond my perceptions. Half the small book was filled with sketches and notes, scribed in his elegant hand.
Only a sorcerer could lock and unlock such spells.
Merton was a sorcerer! He’d never even hinted at it.
I didn’t like that. Yet, he’d not known where my true loyalties lay. If word got out that he was pureblood, no true Evanori would ever have spoken to him, much less told him tales.
The journal’s last-written page depicted me, sitting on the cistern rim beside him. No one had ever done a portrait of me. Plain, bony, wind-scoured. Unlovely. I’d have expected nothing else. But determined, too, and looking as if I had a de
cent mind. I liked that he saw me that way. Behind me he’d sketched in the road from the valley and the fortress battlements, and alongside made notations of heights, and guard positions atop the walls, and the time of the guard change.
Something deep inside my belly shifted. Uneasy.
I paged more carefully through the parchment leaves. His sketches were more polished than I’d realized: the fortress gates with details of height, materials, and position, estimates of internal fortification, the number and times of guard changes. The view from Howl’s Hill was refined to a map of the village, with the fortress, Osriel’s residence, stables, barracks, inn, bakery, and shops neatly labeled. The sketch of the watchtower detailed its position and distance from the village. Vacant, he had noted, and unvisited over five-and-thirty days. My five can shelter there. No new or active goldworks evident atop Dashon Ra.
My skin heated. Breath came short.
Another page listed neighboring demesnes and their descriptions. Rowe was noted as meager, unproductive, unthreatening. Four warriors listed, along with a lord who has spent ten years as a minor guard captain. No matter that I’d spoken worse, my jaw clenched in shame. And fury.
A sorcerer. A spy. Not three hours since, I had volunteered to tell Merton everything of Evanore’s history. I had come here to invite him through a back door, straight into my prince’s house.
Stupid. Blind. Naive. Idiot.
Personal humiliation was unimportant beside the dangers, both the one I had just avoided and what remained. Who had sent him here?
One ear on the inner stair, I read from the beginning, details of the routes to Renna from Caedmon’s Bridge, conversations he’d overheard at the tavern about Prince Osriel’s strange behaviors, rumors of his dead-raising, of demonic rites, and of the odd halfblood girl who had played with him as a child.
When I thought anger had swollen in me beyond bearing, I came upon a sketch of my mother. Naked. Smiling in the way she did when she spoke of her “good fun” with men. I wanted to vomit.
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