From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

  But not yet.

  Eva waved a hand at the Sitosen lift and the doors opened to them; before Lina could protest, Eva pulled her into the lift and selected the track to Guerline’s floor. Finally, she looked at Guerline, the first time she’d been able to see her up close since that morning. The ladies-in-waiting had dusted some sparkling powder over her cheekbones and shoulders; the impression was that even Lina’s skin held starlight. The effect was stunning, and Eva was almost loathe to touch Guerline’s face for fear of smudging the powder—almost. She took Guerline’s head in her hands and kissed her, softly, gently; she felt her fingers tingle, as if coming back to life after long hours in the cold.

  When she leaned back, Guerline smiled at her, her brows raised with hope. “Are we not going to the festival yet?”

  “No,” Eva said, smirking. “I thought we could celebrate privately first.”

  Guerline laughed and tilted her chin up for another kiss. Before Eva could oblige her, the lift doors opened. They grinned at each other and hurried down the hall, all the way to Lina’s bedchamber.

  Desmond Kavanagh winced as the cart hit another stone and sent him flying from his seat once more. He landed with a dull thud and a sharp pain in his tailbone. His escort, a trader named Malcolm, laughed at his groan.

  “Ye’d not have such a time if ye’d just get some meat on yer bones!” Malcolm said.

  “It’s not a question of meat,” Desmond said, a tad irritably.

  “Well, best get used to it, witch-son,” the old trader said. “The Moor Road’s the best kept of all the Diamond Roads.”

  This, Desmond knew, was false. The Moor Road, which connected the north and west of Arido, was in fact the second worst kept road in the Outer Diamond, the roads that connected the four points of the compass. However, Malcolm had only ever traveled the Moor Road, so Desmond did not challenge his assertion.

  Desmond had been traveling the country at the behest of his mother since he was a lad of sixteen, touring the central cities where magic was shockingly uncommon. The four witch clans of Arido had kept the country safe from war and natural disaster for one thousand years; but, like his mother said, humans were short-lived and small-minded. For the past nine years, it had been Desmond’s job to keep the clans relevant and to humanize the distant Kavanagh sisters.

  The Kavanagh sisters—his mother and aunts—were the leaders of the clans. Aradia, the eldest, ruled Gwanen, the coven of life in the south. Morgana held Adenen, coven of strength in the west. His mother was Olivia of Sitosen, coven of wisdom in the north; and Fiona, the youngest, ruled Thiymen, the coven of death in the east. Over the course of their six hundred year reign, the humans had drifted out of the middle plains and condensed themselves either on the borders, close to the clans and the magic, or in the center, where magic only ever came up in discussions of politics. The last few decades, especially, had seen a rise in such discussions, and in the capital of Del, the politicians rarely argued in magic’s favor.

  Troubled by the disconnect, Olivia had sent her only child—a boy, at that—out into the world to bridge the gap. As far as Desmond knew, he was the only boy-child to ever be kept and raised by a witch mother. Only women could be witches, so if a witch’s child grew into a boy, she usually relinquished parental rights to the father or the family that fostered him, even if he had not yet reached the testing age of nine; she would do the same for a girl who showed no signs of magic at her testing. No one was certain why Olivia had kept Desmond, or even who his father was—but his mother was notoriously taciturn and kept silent on the subject.

  “How far are we from Olsrec, Malcolm?” Desmond called down.

  The old man laughed. “Well now, someone hasn’t been paying attention. Look, ye fool, it’s right over the next hill.”

  Desmond grinned sheepishly. “Right you are.”

  Olsrec was roughly halfway along the Moor Road, and its people often couldn’t decide if they were northerners or westerners. They combined the northern penchant for engineering with the western fondness for metallurgy and blacksmithing. And unlike the rest of the country, even the lowliest of the town’s buildings were constructed with metal frames. One man, whom Desmond had spoken with at length on his last trip to the west, was experimenting with spinning a metal thread which he claimed would be stronger and more durable than any rope yet made. Desmond couldn’t wait to see if he’d succeeded.

  Desmond and Malcolm pulled into the center of the city, and there the youth dismounted the cart. He slung his pack over one shoulder, faced Malcolm, and offered him a traditional northern salute by kissing his fist and raising it to the other man. Malcolm, who couldn’t remember if he was from the north or the west, kissed his fist, raised it to Desmond, and then crossed his arm over his chest. Desmond laughed.

  “My thanks, Malcolm. It was a pleasant journey, as always.”

  “No thanks necessary, milord. Always happy to lend a hand to the witch-son.” He waved and walked away, leading his horse and cart to the trade district.

  Desmond strolled to a building on the north side of the town square. It was the Hammermill, his inn of choice in Olsrec: a four-story building of metal and stone, with wooden floors and great black chimneys. It was known for its innkeeper as much for its food or accommodations. Harval Pentok was harsh, firm, and arrogant, but if a traveler could endure him, they were treated to the best food in Achazia Valley. Desmond had won favor with him by “noticing” that the innkeeper’s surname was a far-removed branch of the ancient and mighty Pent family, from whom Arido’s first emperor, Lukas I, had come. In fact, Desmond was one of the only people Harval ever appeared happy to see.

  Sure enough, when Desmond walked into the tavern floor of the Hammermill, Harval’s short, stout frame immediately approached him. He was a broad old man whose muscles had, for the most part, gone slack with age. His skin was brown and leathery; before he was an innkeeper, he had been a carpenter and stone mason. He had worked on most of the buildings in Olsrec, including his own inn. His wide grin afforded Desmond a chance to admire the old man’s teeth, which were still white and almost entirely intact. This was quite the feat, since Harval’s notion of entertainment was seeing what he could break with them. He’d even gone so far as to try stone and metal, and likened his teeth to both hammers and millstones, which was how he’d come up with the inn’s name.

  “Young Master Kavanagh! A pleasure to see you. Are you here for dinner or lodgings?” the man inquired.

  Desmond shook his hand. “Master Pentok. I seek both, if I may be so bold.”

  Harval chuckled. “Boldness is a virtue, boy, never beg pardon for it! And how long will you be with us?”

  “A few days, perhaps a week. I’m at leisure, on a casual visit to see my aunt at Adenen,” Desmond replied.

  Harval nodded politely and reached up to take Desmond’s pack from his shoulder. Desmond stooped to one side to help him slide it off.

  “We’ll put you up in your usual room,” the innkeeper said. “Take your ease anywhere in the dining room, and Darran will have a meal out for you.”

  “Thank you,” Desmond said.

  Harval disappeared up a set of stairs at the back of the room, and Desmond turned to his right, where tables of various shapes and sizes were arranged. He chose a small round table in the middle. There were a handful of other people sitting around him, drinking and eating. The crowd was smaller than usual, but it was too early for supper yet. Most of the guests were likely out about their business.

  He nodded briefly to the other patrons and leaned back in his chair, stretching. He infinitely preferred riding a horse to riding in a cart. It just felt more natural. Aunt Morgana had taught him to ride his first summer with her, when he was a boy. She’d given him his first horse, after determining that he was a worthy enough rider to own an Adenen mount. The western clan dealt primarily in war-magic, forging, and horsemanship, and Adenen horses were the best in the empire.

  His first horse had been a mare named Seri
a, after Desmond’s grandmother. It was a way for Morgana to honor her mother, who’d died some five hundred years ago, long before she should have; but despite her good intentions, the name seemed to carry the woman’s ill fate to the horse. Eight years of constant travel wore Seria down, and she died a month past at Sitosen Castle while Desmond visited with his mother. Desmond was very sorry to lose her; truth be told, he probably killed the creature with his bulk. He stood a head and a half over most men, and his shoulders were very broad. His densely-built body was not the lightest of burdens for a small, pretty mare. He had already determined that it was time to retire Seria and choose a new horse when the shifter gods claimed her. The priests of Javan performed a very nice sending off for the mare, for which Desmond had been grateful, even if he knew the truth.

  That was how Desmond had ended up taking a cart to Olsrec instead of riding his horse, and that was how he’d gotten such a nasty pain in his back. He turned to the side in his chair and hung his body over his knees, gripping his ankles to stretch the kink out of those lower muscles. He exhaled.

  “Are you goin’ to vomit?”

  Desmond jerked upward at the voice, hitting his hand on the table and cracking his back in the process. He winced at the pain in his hand but smiled at the relief in his spine, and grinned up at the girl standing over him. Like her father, Darran Pentok was short and solidly built. Unlike her father, Darran was very pleasingly proportioned. She had a small, wry smile, a twinkle in her eye, and the loveliest curly red hair Desmond had ever seen. She was smirking at him now, holding a plate and a mug of ale for him.

  “You’ll be glad to know I’m not,” he said.

  “What were you doin’, then?” She set the food on the table.

  Desmond winked. “I was stretching, just stretching. I had to ride a cart down from Javan, you see. Beastly uncomfortable things.”

  “You poor soul,” Darran said, without a hint of real sympathy. “Is there anything else I can get for you right now?”

  “You can give me a real smile.”

  Darran grinned wide then. She reached down and tugged the end of Desmond’s long blonde braid, which had fallen over his shoulder during his stretch.

  “Don’t you start that now, witch-son,” she said. “My sister’s a witch, you know. I could write her to tell Morgana-lami that her nephew’s a lecher, and then you’d be in for it.”

  “I doubt it. Aunt Morgana’s more lecherous than I am.”

  Darran snorted and flicked Desmond’s ear lightly. He grinned at her while she shook her head at him.

  “There is something you can help me with, though. I need to get a message to Marga. Can you do that for me?” he asked.

  “Aye, I can. What shall I say to her?”

  “Tell her I’m in the market for a new mount, and that I would like to meet with her at her earliest convenience,” Desmond said.

  “You’re so polite when it’s witches you’re talking to,” Darran observed. She was teasing, but there may have been an edge of real annoyance about her voice and the corners of her mouth. Desmond smiled apologetically.

  “I’m only impolite to you because your beauty makes me forget all my manners,” he said.

  “Oh, you silly man!” Darran laughed.

  She fluttered her apron in his face and bustled off to send his message. Desmond thought he perceived a distinct effort on her part not to turn around and look at him again. He chuckled. Darran was really a sweet girl, and very sharp; but there were many such girls in the empire. He couldn’t be expected to marry all of them, could he? So instead, he just watched her leave the room, pulled his plate toward him, and began to eat.

  Chapter Six

  There was no way she could do this.

  Yesterday, the coronation took place. She had been officially declared Her Imperial Majesty, Empress Guerline I of House Hevya, Ruler of Arido, Keeper of the Altecs and the Lansing and the Loti, Commander of Magic, Mother of the Realm. She’d trembled as the priest set the crown-combs in her hair, and her hand shook when she grasped the trident. Priest Piron had tried to smile reassuringly, but his occupation was so easy that he could not possibly have sympathized with her. If he didn’t know the answer to a question, he could simply claim that the ways of the shifter gods were unknowable and ever changing. Guerline didn’t have that luxury. The country belonged to her, and she couldn’t foist its care off onto supernatural fantasies.

  It probably won’t help me to think blasphemous thoughts at the altar. She sat at the first of the curved benches in the palace Temple’s sanctuary, exactly where she had waited for Fiona Kavanagh to claim her parents’ souls. At least that had been a thorough distraction from the statues of the gods. Now, there was no buffer between her and them.

  Guerline had once been frightened of the statues, Lisyne’s especially. The eyes of the statues were carved out, leaving empty, dead negative space. In a phenomenon she had never understood, the perfectly stationary eyes always seemed to follow her, no matter where she was in the temple. When she had complained of this to the priest, he’d told her that of course the gods were watching her. They were protecting the little princess. Guerline had not felt so much protected as hunted.

  It was difficult to pinpoint when she had stopped believing in the gods. Perhaps it had begun when Jon Wellsly, Lord Historian, had given her books on the major religions of the neighboring kingdoms. Alcander had scorned such study, calling those gods and holy texts nothing but folktales. He’d had no answer for why his criticisms could not also be applied to the Book of Skins, but her question had earned her first slap from him, and when he told their parents, she had been separated from Eva for a week. Perhaps it was that response, more than anything, that had pushed her away from such a creed.

  The Book of Skins did say that humans had souls, and she of course knew that to be true. But she did not see any great difference between the shifter gods and the Thiymen witches, who traveled between worlds and were sometimes strong enough to take the form of animals.

  Despite her skepticism, Guerline had never avoided the Temple. This was partly out of a sense of self-preservation, because it appeased her parents that she should go to the temple; but the beauty of the architecture, with the exception of the statues, also gave some comfort to her. She found peace in the ivy and flowers that trellised down the walls, and the sound of the trickling fountain in the center of the sanctuary. It was sweet and solitary, and thanks to the personal altar in his chambers, Alcander had never come here.

  The odds of finding a moment alone in the sanctuary had always been good, and Guerline was pleased it was still the case now that she was empress.

  Empress.

  The word still seemed so foreign to her, even after all the revelry and speech-making and oath-swearing from yesterday’s ceremonies. It seemed impossible that the rule of Arido had gone straight from her esteemed father, a twenty-year veteran of the throne, to her, a nineteen-year-old girl whom no one had bothered to teach governance. The full responsibility had struck her early this morning, waking her from the first sound sleep she’d had in weeks. While Eva still slept, Guerline came to the temple, thinking perhaps to find comfort in the gods. Perhaps she would even try to believe, if what Piron said was true and Lisyne truly would protect her. People came to the temple and left seeming happier for it all the time.

  No such luck for Guerline. The gods seemed to glare at her disapprovingly, as though they knew she was a fraud and a liar. She looked around the temple for something that wouldn’t judge her and noticed a single dead vine hanging on the wall.

  She rose from her bench and investigated. The plants in the temple didn’t die. They were magically developed by Gwanen clan and were at least one hundred years old. Guerline touched the blackened leaves lightly. The vine snapped and tumbled to the ground. She stared at it, then glanced back at the statues. She wasn’t given to superstition and omen-reading, but with the fate of the empire weighing on her shoulders, she decided caution was best.


  “Fine,” she said aloud. “No need to make a fuss. I’ll go.”

  “Are the gods speaking to you now, Lina?”

  Guerline whirled around, arms raised defensively. But it was only Evadine—Alcander was dead. Guerline smiled. Eva stood in the doorway, watching her with a friendly smirk on her beautiful, angular face. Her black hair was piled atop the crown of her head, artfully tumbling about her ears and falling gracefully down her back.

  The young empress embraced her. “No, Eva, the gods are not speaking to me. Sometimes I rather wish they would, but I think, in the end, I’m grateful they’re not involved. If I had any more advisers, I would be driven mad.”

  “Arido has already suffered several mad emperors and empresses. You hardly need to add to that list.”

  Guerline laughed and looped her arm through Evadine’s. The two women left the temple and took the short walk to the garden. It was an ornate labyrinth of tiered stone planters, ivy-covered trellises, and trickling fountains. Guerline wandered it constantly and knew it like the back of her hand, but it was so large that she could still pretend she was lost in it. Tall trees brought in from the northern forests surrounded it and blocked the view of the rest of the palace. It made one feel that the garden was somehow removed from the city. The fact that she took pleasure in this idea made Guerline feel a little sad, and she stopped and sat down on a stone bench.

  “What is it, Lina?”

  “Oh, nothing. I’m just tired,” she said.

  Eva arched a brow at her. “You did crawl out of bed at an obscene hour.”

  Guerline blushed, embarrassed, and cast her eyes down. It was then that she noticed that Evadine was wearing a new dress, and a very fine one at that. It was a two-piece summer dress. The underneath was a long-sleeved shift made with layers of a sheer, floaty material. It was a light cream color, cool against Eva’s warm skin, and the seams were all embroidered with a delicate gold design. The overdress was a simple sleeveless robe of heavy purple silk, bound at the waist by a wide gold belt inlaid with silver. It was the latest in courtly fashion, and very different from the plain linen dresses Eva had always worn.