by Beth Alvarez
“Rune,” Garam prompted.
Frowning, Rune gave his friend a sidewise look.
The queen cleared her throat. “You sit before the council so that we may address your future.”
He opened his mouth to speak, but closed it again when Garam glared at him. He rolled his eyes and slouched lower.
“While Ilmenhith and the rest of Elenhiise have not forgotten your crimes, the council recognizes your unique talents,” she continued, “and so do I. As a result, I make an offer. Instead of execution, I present you the chance for pardon and freedom, in exchange for an act of service to the crown.”
“That's what you said in the throne room,” Rune said. “You don't need to repeat yourself.”
Firal's mouth tightened with a look of irritation she couldn't quite suppress. She drew a breath, squared her shoulders and sat straighter. “I repeat myself for the benefit of the councilors who were not present during your arrival. Your service for your freedom. Does that appeal to you or not?”
He hesitated.
“Let it be clear,” a man said, leaning forward. Rune recognized him as the wharfmaster of Ilmenhith, but he couldn't recall his name. “Your options are service or death. If the people of Ilmenhith do not see immediate value in keeping you alive, there is no reason to do so.”
Firal nodded, ever so slightly.
Rune's stomach sank. The offer had caught him off guard, but he'd hoped there was more to it. That his presence was desired, that someone had finally found a way to help him come home. Yet he hadn't been arrested because he was a threat, or because of Kifel's death, or even because Firal missed him.
He'd been arrested because he was a tool.
“A choice between servitude and execution isn't much of a choice.” The fire faded from his voice and he struggled to hide his disappointment. He knew it was foolish to think Firal might have wished to see him, but there had still been the tiniest sliver of hope. It should have died when he stood before her in the throne room, when she first looked at him with contempt, but it hadn't. Its slow death inside him now was more painful than he expected.
“But it is a choice being given to you,” Firal said.
“Then I'm going to have to know what sort of service Her Majesty expects,” he replied.
The corners of her mouth twitched. “A mage has taken something that belongs to me. I wish for you to retrieve it.”
Rune snorted. “If you want someone to play fetch, get a dog.”
“I did,” she said. “It's sitting in front of me.”
His face fell as a few councilors raised their hands to stifle snickers and hide smiles.
“Yes or no?” Firal asked.
“No.”
“Then you will hang.”
“I won't do something when you won't tell me plainly what it is. I thought you were capable of communicating,” he snapped. “Or is your head too big for that crown of yours now? The pressure making it too hard to think?”
Her amber eyes narrowed.
“Watch it,” Garam murmured in the trade tongue.
Rune ignored him. “Don't pretend you're doing me a favor by allowing me to live in a kingdom that should have been mine.”
Ordin Straes, Ilmenhith's Captain of the Guard, leaned forward with a scowl. “Again you claim a right to the kingdom, reminding everyone of your crimes.”
The captain had always struck him as reasonable, and Rune struggled to keep from grinding his teeth in frustration as he locked eyes with the man. “Again you fail to consider that my right to the throne existed before your king fell. Or have your eyes begun to fail you in your old age, Captain?”
Startled, Ordin drew back. Then he leaned closer, studying him. Rune lifted his chin. Good; he hadn't changed so much in thirty years that he'd be unrecognizable. As Ran, he'd worn a guise of blue eyes and tawny hair like his father's, an illusion forged by an amulet Medreal had crafted in his childhood. It had changed the color of his hair and eyes and hid his scales, but it couldn't change his face. If the captain looked hard enough, he'd realize it.
“Regardless of what you think you deserve, I am queen,” Firal said. “And I'll not have you trying to rile my council while you make your decision.”
Rune scoffed and straightened in his chair. “As if I have any choice. You say servitude or death, but you put forth a great deal of effort in finding me and bringing me here. No one would believe you if you said I was to die. You'd simply hold me here, imprison me, maybe torture me, until you got your way.”
A look of pure offense sprang onto her face. “I do not torture my prisoners.”
He burst into laughter.
The councilors shifted in discomfort, looking between themselves as he laughed.
Color rose in Firal's cheeks and she cleared her throat. “I will have an answer, Daemon of the Underlings, a people who are no more. If not now, then soon.”
His laughter faded and his face grew solemn. No more? The Underlings were gone?
“Council is dismissed for now,” she said, “as there is nothing more for us to discuss until you agree to offer your assistance. You may return to your rooms.”
A pair of armored guards stepped forward to take him by the arms.
“What happened to the Underlings? Where are my people?” Genuine concern seeped into his voice. He jerked his arms away from the guards. They seized him more aggressively, pried him from the chair and dragged him toward the doorway. A handful more followed, ready to assist.
“I will go with him,” Garam said, rising. “To make sure he doesn't give your men trouble.”
Firal gave a curt nod. “Very well.” She stood and moved around the tables with her head held high. Behind her, the councilors began to rise and straighten their clothing. She swept toward the door, but slowed just long enough to lean close to one of the guards.
“You will bring him to my private receiving parlor in half an hour,” she said. Then she paused and glanced over her shoulder as Garam moved toward them. “Make sure he is alone.”
Rune's brow furrowed and he turned to speak to her, but she was already gliding down the hallway, as graceful as a swan.
One by one, the councilors filed past him. Most pretended he wasn't there. Only Ordin paused to study him, his face serious and his eyes troubled. The captain's notice was a small relief, and the only one to come from this meeting. Another seed of dissent planted. With luck, it would have time to germinate before the council built a gallows in the courtyard.
“All right,” Garam sighed as the last councilor disappeared. He folded his arms over his chest and adopted the more comfortable trade tongue. “At this point, I think you have some explaining to do.”
Rune let his gaze fall to the floor. “Yes,” he murmured. “I suppose I do.”
The guards turned him toward his temporary quarters and he sent his friend an apologetic glance. “Soon, Garam. I promise.”
“It's going to have to be,” Garam growled. “Half an hour wouldn't be much time to explain anything, and we have to use half of that walking.”
“The castle's not that big,” Rune protested, though he had to admit the guards took the least efficient route through the halls possible. That was both deliberate and tactical. If a visitor didn't know the best paths to take, they'd be easier to find—and apprehend—should a visit go unfavorably. It seemed the guards had not yet noticed his familiarity with the palace.
Garam made a sound of exasperation. “How do you know? How do you know any of the things you know about this place? Your homeland? All right, I'll give you that. But you were the one who pushed for an alliance.”
One of the guards looked at Rune from the corner of his eye.
“Garam,” Rune prompted softly.
“You said you were passingly familiar with the island,” his friend continued.
“Garam.”
“Knowing which rooms are which inside the palace isn't passing familiarity!”
Sighing, Rune rolled his eyes and clamped hi
s mouth shut. The last thing he wanted was for the guards to take an interest in what they were saying. It was easy for them to ignore it when it sounded like idle conversation, but Garam's words grew more and more heated as he went on. Sowing rumors was one thing. Stating the truth outright and in full would sooner make him look mad. Rune had tried once, sharing his story with Sera. She had laughed in his face.
Instead of responding to Garam's ongoing rant, he put his head down and pretended to be chastised. That was easy to fake, at least. After the attitude he'd presented before Firal, he deserved it. After a time, the guards lost interest.
When they reached his room, one of the guards stepped back. “Lord Kaith, if you wish me to escort you—”
“I'll stay here,” Garam said before he could finish. His Old Aldaanan slurred more, betraying his agitation. “The prisoner's attitude must be addressed.”
A few of the guards chuckled. They arranged themselves outside the door and let Rune and Garam pass through. Rune paced farther into the room and released a long, heavy sigh.
Garam all but slammed the door. “What is your problem?”
“Don't lecture me.” Rune raised a finger, as if in warning.
“You said you had a plan, but so far that plan seems like it's just you doing everything in your power to get yourself killed. What are you doing? You walk in here, the first thing you do is challenge the queen—”
“She's my wife,” Rune said, and the confession felt like acid in his throat.
Garam froze. “What?”
Squeezing his eyes closed, Rune turned away and raked his clawed fingers through his hair. He didn't know what else to say. The chain between his wrists pulled taut, an unpleasant reminder of how stuck he was.
“What?” Garam repeated, incredulous. He shook his head. “Oh, no. No, no, no. Don't do this to me.”
“She's my wife.” This time, the words were hollow, defeated. Rune bowed his head. “Or she was, before she was queen. I... I don't know what happened. The last days I spent on the island were a mess. The battle, the duels—”
“And here I wondered why you never wanted to move on,” Garam muttered. “It's obvious things didn't work out, but whatever bad blood there was, you need to get over it. You're being offered an opportunity that isn't just once in a lifetime, it might be the last opportunity of your lifetime. You're going to die, Rune. Pushing the queen isn't going to do anything but rush you to the grave.”
The door creaked. “It's time,” one of the guards announced.
“Of course it is,” Garam replied sarcastically. He turned to lead the way, but Rune caught his arm.
“She wants me alone.”
Garam scoffed. “She wants you dead.”
“Not until she gets what she wants from me.” Rune withdrew his hand and stalked to the doorway to join the guards. “Wait for me. There's more you need to know. Tour the palace, ask to see the hall of portraits, something. We will speak when I'm done.” He held out his wrists to let the guards guide him once more.
“Rune—”
He shook his head. “When I'm done.” One of the guards grabbed the chain between his wrist irons and dragged him into the hall.
12
Because of you
The fragrance of the warm mint tea waiting in the parlor wasn't enough to soothe her. Firal poured herself a cup just the same, though her hands shook so badly that the teacup clattered against its saucer.
She hadn't known what to expect from a reunion. She'd made a point of never letting herself imagine one. Her stomach churned and her limbs felt cold, sensations she hadn't felt in the face of confrontation in decades. She thought the meeting might be awkward, but she'd never imagined it would be like that.
His anger was understandable. She suspected he might blame her for what led to his exile, and she couldn't fault him. She was responsible, whether she liked it or not. She'd had the chance to speak, to pardon or condemn him. Instead she'd chosen silence and allowed the mages to sentence him to death. It didn't matter if it was what she wanted or not; it had happened. But there was so much hate and bitterness burning in his eyes. Eyes that were cold beyond those heated feelings on the surface, that betrayed nothing. He might as well have been looking at a statue, rather than a friend or lover. Rather than his wife.
Squeezing her eyes closed, Firal made herself drink. The tea did nothing to calm her stomach or her nerves, nor did the heat of the cup in her hand grant any warmth to her limbs. She had to stay calm, no matter what she felt.
Either way, she didn't have time to compose herself. By the time she'd gotten away from the councilors and into the small private parlor adjacent to her quarters, she had precious few minutes to drink her tea and try to rein in her racing thoughts. She drank barely half her tea before someone knocked at the parlor door.
“Come in,” she called without turning, taking one more sip of tea before she put down her cup on the table.
Armor rattled behind her as the guards stepped in with their captive between them.
Firal glanced over her shoulder. Rune stared at her with a cold intensity in his eyes. She avoided his gaze. “Leave him.”
The men hesitated and exchanged glances with each other. “Majesty, perhaps it would be best—”
“Do not forget I am a temple-trained mage. I can protect myself. Leave him,” she repeated, sharper. “And unchain him, for mercy's sake.”
The guards hastened to comply, removing Rune's shackles and then retreating to the hall. They closed the door, but she heard no footsteps. They had positioned themselves outside in case of emergencies, of course.
Sighing, Firal made herself face him and let her eyes slide over his form. It was the first real look she'd allowed herself. It was remarkable how little he had changed. He still stood head and shoulders taller than her, his dark hair still jaw-length and as ragged as if cut while blindfolded. He was a little more tan, perhaps, which struck her as unusual. She couldn't imagine he saw more sun in the north. The only noteworthy difference was how far behind him boyhood now was. His shoulders were broader, his chest deeper and his frame more heavily muscled.
She gestured toward him. “You're bigger.”
“So are you,” he replied.
Anger blossomed in her chest and her cheeks grew red. She bit her tongue to keep it still and made herself breathe deep. She couldn't afford to rile him any more, lest it make him uncooperative. He'd always balked at being controlled, which was one of the reasons she wished Vahn had involved her in the plan to retrieve him. Leading him through a Gate in chains was probably the worst way to begin.
“Would you care for some tea?” She did her best to sound placid as she indicated the teapot and cups on the table behind her.
He did not respond.
Firal poured a cup for him anyway. “I apologize for the council meeting. There are certain protocols that must be observed, and they wish to believe they are a part of this. However, I thought it best if we discuss the details in private.” She held out the cup in offering.
His eyes narrowed. “Since when does a queen pour her own tea?”
“Since I have no one to do it for me.” She waited a moment longer, then carried the cup to the small table beside one of the upholstered chairs. The parlor wasn't meant for receiving more than a few guests, furnished with only two chairs and a narrow couch. Bookshelves flanked the tall table where she left the teapot. The scent of the books always reminded her of the temple's library. In the past, that scent had been soothing.
“Where is Medreal?”
“Dead.” Firal sank onto the couch with her own cup of tea and adjusted her skirts before she took a sip.
Disbelief worked its way over his face.
She lowered her eyes. “A bit more than a week ago. Envesi—the former Archmage of Kirban Temple—entered the palace and killed her.” Her throat grew tight, but she kept from choking on tears. Would it ever stop being hard to speak of her stewardess? The woman had been so vital to every part of Fira
l's life in the palace.
“That's impossible,” Rune said, his voice unsteady. The emotion was surprising, though Firal supposed it shouldn't be. For all that Medreal had been a friend to her, she'd been like a mother to him.
“So I believed, at first. I couldn't imagine anyone overpowering her. But it happened, and Medreal died defending her ward.” Her fingers tightened around her teacup until her knuckles turned white. “If she was powerful enough to get past Medreal, then you are the only one I know who will be strong enough to challenge her.”
His eyes darkened. They were more expressive than they had been in council, giving away his thoughts, but they reflected shadows of anger now. “And you think that chaining me and threatening me with execution is going to make me want to try?”
She grimaced. How much easier this all would have been if Vahn had told her what he'd intended to do. “I'm begging you, Rune. Envesi has taken my daughter.”
The corners of his mouth twitched and his expression grew cool.
Her stomach turned over. “I don’t know why she was taken. She’s just a baby. I expected Envesi to make demands, but none have come, which means someone must go after her. If she's grown as powerful as a natural-born free mage, you're the only hope we have.”
“You remarried,” he murmured.
Firal blinked at the abrupt change of subject and her brow furrowed. After all this time, had he expected she wouldn’t? “You didn’t?”
Rune said nothing. She almost would have preferred an outburst to the cold emptiness that returned to his eyes.
“Vahn has gone across the island with his father to find as many mages as possible to support the effort,” she continued, wishing the mint in her tea would settle her insides. She took a sip anyway. “But without you, they may well be useless.”
“How long did you wait?”
“I beg your pardon?”
“Before you replaced me.”
She pursed her lips. “That’s none of your concern.”
“But finding your child is?” He snorted. “Who is he?”
“Rune—”