From Under the Mountain

by Cait Spivey

Chapter Eight

  When Desmond woke the morning after his arrival in Olsrec, he saw a stuffed pastry and a note sitting on his bedside table. The note said one of Marga’s assistants would meet him at the inn and escort him to the ranch. That was somewhat unusual. Marga was a very busy woman, and he hadn’t expected to hear from her for at least two days, let alone get a meeting with her so soon. He couldn’t say he was disappointed, though, so he got out of bed and dressed. He ate the stuffed pastry—full of eggs, bacon, and good cheese—on the way down the stairs, a satisfied smile on his face. No one made stuffed pastries like Darran.

  He popped his head into the kitchen, hoping to congratulate her on an excellent breakfast. She didn’t appear in a mood to talk, though. She saw him, rolled her eyes, and jerked her head toward the door of the inn. He tried to speak, but she immediately began pounding down dough with a rolling pin. What on earth have I done to offend her? he wondered, walking slowly out of the inn. He hadn’t even gone to see her last night.

  Ah. Perhaps that was the problem.

  He almost started laughing, but stopped when he realized that his escort was already waiting for him.

  “Hello, witch-son,” she said.

  “Dona,” he said warmly, opening his arms wide. “It’s been ages!”

  Dona embraced him. She was a tall brown-skinned witch from Marga’s ranch, and they had been friends since they were young. They were the same age, and met when Dona turned twelve and had come to live at Marga’s to further her specialty in horsemanship. Dona was a rough-and-tumble kind of woman; she and Desmond spent much of their teenage years staging huge wrestling matches whenever he visited on the way to Aunt Morgana’s. He tried to court her in his sixteenth year, the first year he’d traveled the country on his own; when he tried to kiss her, she’d knocked him down and told him if he ever tried it again, she’d cut off his lips.

  That was when Desmond had known they really were best friends.

  “Look at you!” she cried as she pulled away from him. “You’ve grown your hair out like a fancy pony! Look at this, you could sit on it,” Dona said, holding up the end of his braid.

  It was true, his hair hung down past his hips. He hadn’t cut it in six or so years. He’d been joked with about it, people asking if he kept his strength in his hair or if he was trying to compensate for something. There was no particular reason for his hair being as long as it was, he could just never be bothered to cut it.

  “Are you finally trying to get married? Hoping to attract someone with your pretty golden hair?” Dona asked, running a hand over her own short, abundant black curls.

  “Course not, you know I’m still waiting for you,” he said, poking her in the ribs.

  In answer, she leapt onto his back and wrapped an arm around his throat. With her forearm over his windpipe, it was difficult to speak, but he tried anyway, gasping that he was only joking. She laughed and released him.

  “All right, I forgive you. Here, come with me,” she said.

  Desmond rubbed his neck and rolled his eyes, following her to two horses tied up at a post. She handed him a set of reins.

  “Is this my new horse?” Desmond asked, eyeing the animal at the end of them. He was a good size, but seemed a little old.

  “No, your new horse waits for you at the ranch. Bruno’s just here to get you there.”

  Desmond nodded, mounted Bruno, and set off after Dona toward the outskirts of town. Marga’s ranch was about an hour’s ride outside Olsrec, and that was just the nearest point. The farthest stretched almost three hours from the center of town. They kept a moderate pace, trotting down the well-worn path that would take them to the plains.

  “So why bring Bruno along, and not just bring me my new horse? Nothing against you, old man,” Desmond added to the horse.

  “Because it’s not just a question of giving him to you,” Dona said, laughing. “We have to make sure Keno actually likes you before you try to ride him.”

  “Gods,” Desmond said. “She’s not giving me some unbroken stallion, is she?”

  “Of course not! Keno is just picky about his riders. He’s really a gentle soul, and he dislikes a hard hand. He’s more the kind of horse you ask to do things, rather than tell,” she explained.

  Desmond nodded. He joked, but in the end he trusted Marga’s instincts in these things. She knew horses better than almost anyone.

  “Will I get to see Marga?” he asked.

  “Unfortunately, no. She’s taken some horses down to Adenen. They lost a few in a big fire at Artan Forge last night.”

  “Gods. Is everyone all right?”

  “Aye, I think so. The Raehan wizards were able to stop the sandstorm.”

  They rode in silence the rest of the way. Once they got out onto the plains, they raced briefly, but old Bruno was no match whatsoever for Dona’s horse, Gorra. Desmond didn’t want to tire the old nag unnecessarily, so they took a much more relaxed pace from then on out. There was nothing too pressing at the moment; though the news of Artan did unsettle him a little. It was good that he would be with Aunt Morgana soon, to hear about it firsthand. He could guess that the presence of the wizards would cause some trouble for her.

  The ranch came into view, and Desmond forgot those somber thoughts. It was beautiful, stretching as far as the eye could see and dotted with barns and fenced rings. Marga’s house was in the center of it all, long and low. The front of the house was flat, but the back of it was curved. Tall trees were planted to one corner, and a long walk went from the other corner to the nearest barn. The house looked like a cat curled up on the hillside.

  Dona led him along a fence to one of the smaller barns and dismounted. A girl came up to take both horses from them. Dona patted Gorra goodbye and turned to Desmond.

  “This way,” she said.

  He followed her to a nearby pasture where a few horses were grazing peacefully. Dona whistled a five-note tune and a large bay pricked up its ears. She waved it over to where they stood against the fence. It approached and draped its head over the top, allowing Dona to scratch its forelock.

  “This is Keno. He’s a gelding, five years old, very well-behaved as long as you’re polite,” Dona said, smiling. “He doesn’t stand for rudeness.”

  Desmond grinned and gave Keno a small bow.

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you, Master Keno,” he said. “I wonder if I might beg the honor of rubbing your nose?”

  Keno sniffed Desmond’s ear, then stuck his nose into the young man’s face. Desmond and Dona both laughed, and Desmond gave Keno’s neck a vigorous rub. The horse made a satisfied whickering noise.

  “There now! I was fairly confident he’d like you, but you can never be too sure,” Dona said.

  “I’m incredibly offended that you had any doubts,” Desmond said. “Everyone likes me.”

  Dona rolled her eyes.

  “Come on, you. I’ll show you his tack.”

  After inspecting the saddle and bridle, the two got Keno tacked up and took him to a ring for his and Desmond’s first ride together. Desmond was well pleased by the time they were finished. Keno was the perfect size for him, and solidly built. He didn’t appear to have tired overmuch, despite all the cantering and the gallop they’d taken outside the ring. This was an excellent sign. Stamina was an absolute requirement for any horse of Desmond’s. He would have hated to ruin another mount.

  “This will be perfect,” Desmond said while he rubbed Keno down afterward. “Now I’ll have someone to talk to on those long rides between places. Gods, I wish we had a smaller country.”

  “Ah, but if the country was smaller, we wouldn’t be the greatest empire of the Trident,” Dona said.

  “My dear Dona, with the exception of Raeha, we are the Trident. I don’t know why we don’t just absorb Raeha. It’s mostly desert, and the people are nomads anyway. I doubt much would change, except that if they had any serious problems, it wouldn’t require diplomats to figure out the terms of our assistance anymore,” Desmond said.r />
  “That may well be true for some rulers, but then there are some who would try to take advantage of the Atithi and the other tribes,” Dona said.

  “I suppose what we really need to do is find the perfect ruler, and then make them immortal.”

  Dona threw a curry comb at him.

  They went up to the house for a light supper and spent the next few hours trading stories of what had happened to them since the last time they saw each other. Dona had turned down yet another suitor by telling him that he wasn’t strong enough magically for her, but Desmond knew that the real reason was because she was in love with Yara, one of the other witches who worked on Marga’s ranch. Desmond had been tackled by a little blonde pickpocket the last time he was in Del; she pretended that she was being chased by men who were trying to rape her, and had been thrown completely off her game when Desmond offered to find them and kill them for her, then insisted that she stay with him until they were apprehended.

  “Your story wins! Your stories always win,” Dona said.

  “That’s because I get out more,” Desmond replied. “One of these days, you ought to come visit me.”

  “Where? You’ve yet to settle down anywhere.” After a moment, she asked more seriously: “Do you think you ever will?”

  “Will what? Settle down?” Desmond considered it. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it. I do like to travel.”

  “You’ve been traveling constantly for eight years,” Dona said.

  “Aye. I suppose that I’ll settle down someplace when Mother tells me she doesn’t need me to keep the country together anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s what you’re doing?” Dona laughed, then turned serious again. “Well, you’re doing a piss-poor job of it, then. The governor at Braeden has whipped his supporters into a frenzy against the Commander. He’s making it look like the wizards caused the sandstorm, rather than stopped it.”

  “What did cause it?” Desmond asked.

  “A Waste wind, they said,” Dona replied.

  Desmond frowned. “And I’m willing to bet Derouk didn’t let Aunt Morgana get a word in edgewise to explain things. They never do. I should get to her sooner rather than later. I spent four years convincing Derouk to like me. I may be of use.”

  Dona nodded. She led him back down to the stable and helped him get Keno tacked up again.

  “Give Marga my best. I may yet see her at Adenen,” Desmond said, and rode off.

  It was full dark when he returned to the Hammermill. He stabled Keno and went up to his room, ready for a good night’s sleep and an early start tomorrow. He’d taken a bit of a rest from his diplomatic duties over the past several weeks, but it appeared that it was time to start up again.

  Chapter Nine

  Guerline stood at the head of a rectangular stone table, the seven people of her council before her. Eva sat on her right. Beside her were Lord Treasurer Pearce Iszolda, a southerlander, and Lord Merchant Lanyic Eoarn of Olsrec. Lord Historian Jon Wellsly, a longtime friend who had held his position as long as Guerline could remember, sat at the far end of the table facing the young Empress. Theodor, Lord Engineer, sat opposite Lanyic; beside him sat Lord Justice Shon Marke out of Suel in the East. On Guerline’s left was Lord Legislator Neren Famm of the southern city Neva.

  Silence rang in the air, absolute and piercing. The room accentuated the discomfort. It was cramped, with flat and expressionless stone walls. Far from inducing successful problem-solving, its bleakness was much more likely to drive the councilors mad.

  But at that moment—that one moment—Guerline wasn’t thinking about the mind-numbingly bare room. Her eyes were fixed on Councilor Iszolda. The scrawny old man jutted his pointed chin forward defiantly. He seemed to be getting angrier the longer she was silent, as though her calm expression was too much for him to accept. She fought to keep her eyes from twitching.

  “I understand your concerns, Pearce-ami,” she said softly. “Arido does rely heavily on the witches. That is indisputable. What we had better decide, if our discussion must find this topic, is whether or not it is a dangerous reliance.”

  Evadine jumped up. “Of course it is!” Her voice rang against the stone and overshadowed the last echoes of Guerline’s words. “The witches have too much power. The people, in the border cities especially, follow witch-law over ours, to the point of direct disobedience to the crown!”

  “That is because our laws are not always practical,” said Theodor in his slow, even tone. “The people of Javan cannot be expected to pay four silver per sheet for the crown’s paper when Sitosen has taught them to make their own.”

  “We’re discussing witches, not stationary, Lord Warren,” Eva snapped.

  “Enough,” Jon said. “Power has always been shared by the clans and the crown. We need each other. Arido was founded on magic, and she cannot live without it. This is fact.”

  Johan Hevya stepped out from behind Jon’s high-backed chair. Guerline inhaled sharply but managed to stop herself from jumping. The last thing she needed was to appear insane in front of her council. At least her father was not rotted this time, but fully fleshed. His flabby face scowled at Evadine. He’d never much cared for the outspoken young woman while he lived. Only his wife Maribel’s intervention, her insistence that Guerline have a companion, had allowed Eva to stay. Eva herself had often speculated that Maribel’s support of her was directly inverse to Johan’s hatred of her.

  “So you propose that we continue to allow the witches to do what they will?” Lanyic said.

  Neren leaned forward. “There must be a balance. The middle plains are empty, and now it is either at the border with the clans, or in the center with the crown. The balance has been upset, and it must be restored—”

  “Why must it?” Eva stared at him across the table. He looked away.

  “What are you saying, Eva?” Jon asked.

  “The witches behave like they have equal power with the empress,” Eva said. “This is not the case, nor should it have ever been. The Book of Skins says that Lisyne created the witches to protect us.”

  “Which they do,” Guerline said.

  Eva turned to her. Some of the edge was gone from her voice as she continued.

  “The champion who protects his lady is still her servant. So should the Kavanaghs serve you. I know you admire them. You would treat them as equals. You would encourage their delusions of rank. This is very dangerous. They have such a hold on this country that should they ever decide to unseat you, they could do it in the time it takes you to blink.” She reached out and took Guerline’s hand. “I fear this; for your sake, and for the sake of Arido.”

  “Your fears are unnecessary, Eva,” Neren said. He seemed to have regained his composure. “The Kavanaghs are content with their positions. They desire no more power.”

  Evadine’s gaze snapped to Neren. Guerline looked down at their clasped hands; Eva’s grip had tightened.

  “Really, Lord Legislator?” Eva asked, her voice hard again. “Aradia, perhaps, is content. That is her nature. Olivia also I believe to lack ambition. She is happy to sit among her dusty tomes until the coming of hell.” She addressed the whole table. “But what of Morgana? Morgana has power, and worse: Morgana has weapons and warriors. Our armies have been molded by her hands. And Morgana is not my worst fear. What of the Black Sister?”

  Silence fell again. Guerline watched each of the councilors blink and squirm. They struggled to conceal their fear and apprehension at the mention of the youngest Kavanagh. How easily they seemed to forget that they had all been at Fiona’s mercy not two months ago, when she came to escort the souls of Johan and Maribel to Ilys. She’d stayed not a moment longer than she had to, and seemed to have no interest in any of the humans beyond what was needed for Thiymen’s script—she had even, it seemed to Guerline, been a little kind.

  “Fiona’s nothing but a good little soldier.”

  That voice—familiar, but Guerline knew it didn’t belong to any of the councilor
s. She glanced around the room. The girl, the pale blonde one from her dreams, stood beside her father’s still-present phantom at the far end of the room. The girl smirked at Evadine; after a moment, though, she seemed to feel Guerline’s eyes upon her. Her brow furrowed, and she met Guerline’s gaze.

  “How is it that you see so much?” the girl asked, her voice a soft whisper that echoed in Guerline’s ears.

  Guerline opened her mouth, though what she might say, she had no idea. Then she winced at the pressure on her hand, which pulled her attention away from the vision. When she looked back, Johan and the girl were gone. Guerline bit her lip to keep from hyperventilating. Visions of her dead parents, her brother; these she could at least attribute to years of abuse at their hands.

  But who was this pale girl? Was she even real?

  Eva spoke, her voice like a clarion that grounded Guerline once more in the horrible, dull council room; her madness would have to wait. “Yes. Fiona hates us,” Eva said. “She would kill us, given the chance. This I am sure of. She would take the Aridan throne for herself. She lusts for power and would use her black magic to overcome us—”

  Shon stood. “Enough! I will not hear Fiona-lami spoken of in this way! You will retract your words.”

  Eva only smiled at him. His face twisted into a scowl.

  “Take them back!”

  “Stop!” Guerline stood and pulled her hand from Evadine’s grip. “Sit down, Lord Marke! I am appalled by this behavior—especially from you, Eva.” She glared down at her lover, who looked affronted. “You, my friend, who knows Aridan history so well. Remember that Thiymen has tried to seize power before. The other clans put her down.”

  She knew what Eva would say if she hadn’t just been reprimanded: Fiona was not the leader then. Would Olivia be able to stop Fiona? Would any of her sisters be willing to stop her?

  The empress sat down and shut her eyes. Her heart was pounding. Eva’s words seemed like they came from a stranger, and Guerline was wholly unprepared to address them. Eva was no great supporter of witches, but she had always seemed to treat them as most in Del did: a distant and immovable part of the Aridan landscape. Guerline flexed her hand under the table and breathed deep, hoping that her councilors couldn’t hear the incessant drumming in her chest.