by Beth Alvarez
“Where is he, while you’re expecting me to find your child?”
“I already said,” she raised her voice, “Vahn has gone across the island with his father.”
“Vahn?” he repeated, incredulous.
She lifted her chin and stared at him in challenge.
He stared back for a long time.
Dread grew in the pit of her stomach, roiling until she thought she'd be ill.
“Well,” he said finally, drawing back and giving a stiff bow. He never took his eyes off her. “Good luck with your useless mages.”
She almost dropped her cup in her haste to put it down. “Where are you going?”
“The dungeon, presumably, until I figure out how to get out. Again.” He strode toward the door.
“You can’t just leave,” she cried.
He wheeled, color flaring in his eyes. “Do not tell me what I can and cannot do. You are not my queen and you never will be.”
She glared back. “I’m giving you a chance to be free!”
“I am free!” he snarled. “Or I was until you dragged me back here to subject me to more punishment I don’t deserve.”
Firal rolled her eyes and threw up her hands. “Oh, and what do you think you deserve? A hero’s accolades for conquering the kingdom? For trying to make a martyr of yourself the moment you came back?”
He raised a finger. “Brought back. You brought me back. I wanted nothing to do with this.”
“As I noticed in the last thirty years without you here,” she said dryly.
“Because I’m supposed to feel so welcome after your council tried to hang me.”
There it was. She’d expected his accusatory tone. Firal gritted her teeth. “Do not try to blame me for this.”
“No?” Rune barked a laugh and turned for the door. “Then don’t pretend you have any idea what I’ve been through because of you.”
She bristled. “Don’t you walk away from me!”
He ignored her, opened the door and stormed into the hallway. The guards outside jumped and started to follow him, but Firal waved them out of the way as she picked up her skirts and hurried after him. “I'm not finished!”
“I am,” he snapped.
“Come back here!” She had to run to keep up with his long-legged strides.
He turned down a long, window-lined hall and nearly collided with Lord Kaith.
The dark-skinned man spat a word she didn't recognize; a curse in the trade tongue they spoke in the north, she assumed. She understood enough to get by, but despite the burgeoning trade between the regions, she lacked real proficiency in the language.
Rune started to push past, but Lord Kaith grabbed his shoulder. “I was looking for you.”
“Not now, Garam,” Rune growled.
“You need to see something,” the old man insisted.
“Not now!”
The councilor from the mainland held Rune in place and refused to let go.
Firal stopped a few paces behind them, puffing for breath. She'd thought it hard enough to keep up with him when they were young and traversing the ruins. She hadn't been wearing a corset then.
Lord Kaith spared only a glance for her before he frowned and turned to lead Rune away. There was something in that look, weighted and concerned.
She frowned, too, as she let go of her skirts and followed them. When she realized where they were going, her stomach dropped.
The hall was lined with portraits of her predecessors. She'd marveled at the paintings herself, once, mused over the stern faces and the empty space where her father's portrait belonged. That had been her first visit to the palace. Kifel hadn't wanted to be displayed alongside the kings of the past, choosing instead to relish his living days. His portrait had graced the wall since the day she'd been crowned. Not long after, hers had been added beside it.
That was where the men stopped and the old councilor shared quiet words she couldn't understand. Firal closed her eyes and swallowed hard. She didn't want to see, but she couldn't make herself look away. She watched the emotions that shifted across Rune's face as Garam showed him the small family in the painting dressed with a gilt frame.
Shock, confusion, disbelief. He shook his head and took a half step back. She knew what he saw, knew from his reaction that he knew what it meant.
Seeing his eyes in her daughter's face every day had nearly killed her.
Rune turned, his expression melting from pain to anger. “You kept this from me.”
She struggled to keep her face placid. “Don't pretend you have any idea what I've been through because of you.”
He twitched, startled, then scowled. Looking back at the painting only once, he pushed Lord Kaith out of the way and stormed down the hall alone.
Firal stayed where she was. She heard the guards behind her and raised her voice. “He is to have free roam of the palace, as long as he doesn't disturb anything. Guard every exit, and double the patrol in the courtyards. He is not to set foot outside without an escort, and is not to leave the palace grounds at all.”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” one of the men said. The pair of them hurried to spread the word, leaving her and Lord Kaith alone in the hall.
The dark-skinned man turned to look at her, his face thoughtful.
“Come with me,” she said quietly as she turned back toward her private parlor.
Lord Kaith followed, treading into the parlor behind her like a wary animal.
Firal settled on the couch with a sigh and looked toward the teapot. There weren't any more cups, aside from the two she'd filled with tea for herself and Rune. When Medreal lived, it seemed the right number was always on hand. She squeezed her eyes closed and fought back tears.
“He described you to me,” the councilor said. He moved forward slowly and eased himself into a chair. “Many times. I suspected, when I first saw you, but I tried not to assume.”
“You must think me a dreadful person,” she murmured, hugging herself. A deep cold had settled in her bones, an iciness that threatened to consume her. She didn't know how to ward it off.
“I think there's a complicated story here,” he said. “One he never bothered to explain.”
She nodded. “You are his friend?”
“His commanding officer, for a good while. He was drafted into the Triad's army when I was young.”
Firal snorted. “Then you know how difficult he can be.”
Lord Kaith shrugged. “And also how loyal.”
Her lip curled in distaste before she could catch herself. “So loyal that he struck down my father and then fled the country.”
He raised one white brow. “So loyal that in your time of need, he's the one you call.”
Except she hadn't called him. Nor had she even considered it. She'd tried so hard to push him out of her thoughts, to the point where he was so unwelcome that he rarely crossed her mind. Firal lowered her eyes.
The councilor sighed. “Look, I'm sure this is awkward for you, but I want it to be clear I'm not here to ask questions or form opinions. I was charged by King Vicamros II to escort Rune here and see that everything was... taken care of before I returned. Nothing more.”
“So you brought your friend to die?” Disgust seeped into her tone.
“He brought himself to die,” Lord Kaith replied.
Firal shook her head. “I've never known him to be stupid.”
“I've never known him to be happy.” He spread his hands in a helpless gesture.
A small feeling of guilt crept into her and she fell quiet. The silence grew heavy. Unable to bear it, she pushed herself up and carried her cup to the table against the wall, where the teapot waited. The tea was cold, but at least pouring it gave her something to do.
“He kept that name,” she said after a time, thoughtful.
“Rune?” Lord Kaith asked.
She nodded. “I thought he'd abandon it. Goodness knows he's had enough names.”
“Met a mage once that called him something else. He di
dn't like it.”
Startled, she turned. “What sort of mage?”
“A woman with white hair.” A description that fit any number of mages. Which he knew, judging by his amused look.
“What did she call him?” she asked.
“Lomithrandel.”
She felt sick again. Numb, she stared down at her tea and left it on the table. Even mint was no longer appetizing.
Lord Kaith studied her. “Is that a problem?”
“Maybe,” she murmured. “It seems that knowledge is more widespread than I thought.”
“Secrets have a way of spreading,” he agreed. He gazed at her thoughtfully a while longer, then rested his elbows on his knees and laced his fingers together. “Now I have a question for you.”
She looked at him over her shoulder.
The councilor met her eye. “Who is he?”
Of all the questions he could have asked, she hadn't expected that one. “He never told you?”
“He's rather tight-lipped about everything that came before our meeting. I know only what I've been able to piece together, and that's very little. That he was a noble, that he had military experience, that he was tied to your king somehow.” He paused. “To your father.”
“His father,” she murmured.
Lord Kaith raised a brow. “Pardon?”
She grimaced. “It's complicated. But I know you heard him speak when you brought him in. In truth, he did have more right to the throne than me. But my people don't know it. When the man they knew as Lord Daemon escaped and fled from execution, no one noticed right away that Lomithrandel, the king's son, had vanished.”
“A little odd, isn't it?”
“No,” she said. “The nobles knew Ran was a temple mage, and mages came and went on temple business so often that it wasn't strange for him to be gone. It wasn't until months later, when he didn't resurface, that the whispers began. They accused the mages of making him disappear. Accused me. They said the temple wanted me on the throne instead of him. Had he risen to challenge me for it, I couldn't have stood against the Uncrowned Prince.” Nor had she wanted to. Had he returned any time in that first year, she would have gladly surrendered the throne.
He exhaled heavily. “That explains the kingsword, then,” he muttered under his breath.
She blinked. “The what?”
“Nothing,” he said, waving his hand in dismissal. “So you acquired the throne through your marriage to him?”
Firal shook her head. “King Kifelethelas was my father.”
Lord Kaith looked at her oddly. “I thought you just said he was Rune's father.”
She flushed and faltered over her words. “Yes. I... Well, it isn't how it sounds. As I said, it's complicated. We're not related, if that's what you're thinking. My mother hid me. Rune was adopted and raised in my place. I am the one with a blood tie to the throne, but Rune was raised in the palace, with the assumption he would one day be crowned as Kifel's heir.”
“You're right,” Garam muttered, rubbing his forehead. “It is complicated. Seems things go that way, whenever he's around.”
She stifled a laugh. “Yes, so it would seem.”
“There's one thing I don't understand, though, Your Majesty.” He smoothed his close-trimmed beard with one hand, thoughtful. “If what I've been told is the truth, your daughter is little more than a baby. And yet she's older than my children, who are mostly full-grown with children of their own. I know the Eldani people live longer, but...”
An unpleasant question, but one she should have expected. Even her own people thought it strange, though they were willing to forgive it as a sign of power passed through her bloodline. They weren't mistaken; they merely mistook the side the power came from. She took her cold tea and finally returned to the couch to sit. “She takes after her father.”
The councilor tilted his head. “She looked normal enough in that portrait.”
“She was born a free mage.”
Lord Kaith cursed and thrust himself to his feet.
“Where are you going?”
He moved with a grace that belied his age, and seemed to grow taller as his movements filled with purpose. “I need to speak to the head of your court mages. And send a message to both your Archmage and mine.”
Firal put her teacup aside and stood in a hurry. “What? Why?”
“Because I know why your daughter was taken.” His brow furrowed with concern as he looked back at her. “And I know what the kidnapper wants.”
13
Blood and betrayal
From Vahn's room, Alwhen looked like any other city. He lingered by the window, watching the rooftops as the moon crept overhead and disappeared beyond the horizon. He watched still as the sun crested the earth's rim and spilled light across the sky. Swallows darted in the early morning light, their sweeping flight only serving to remind him that he was trapped.
His room was not a cell. Its furnishings were modest but not crude, indicating he was in a noble's house, perhaps in the servant's quarters. The palace was on the other side of the city, dark and square, rising from Alwhen like the face of a cliff. If the city truly was under Envesi's control, he assumed that was where she would be. And with her, his daughter.
It was a good hiding place, he had to admit. He'd considered this half of the island and dismissed it almost without a thought. In his head, it made more sense for a mage to hide where their kind were welcome. Or where seeing one was less suspicious, at the very least.
But why bring him to Alwhen? The idea of being just another hostage rankled, but he couldn't imagine any other reason to capture him. They wouldn't see Ennil as a threat. His father's allegiance to the former Archmage galled him more than anything else, but Vahn could use it to his advantage. It wasn't an ideal situation, but it did provide him with a great deal of information. The question was how to get a message to Firal or the temple mages in order to relay everything he'd learned.
Or should he try to warn the temple mages? Some of them were here. The Archmage's own sister was here. The thought of Shymin made bitter bile rise in the back of his throat. They had to have trapped him on purpose. His father had set their course. Ennil must have notified Shymin, let her know where they would be. And his father had selected every last man in the band of guards they rode with. Men still loyal to him over Ordin, no doubt.
Silently, Vahn cursed his own naivety. He shouldn't have trusted his father. Medreal never had.
For what had to be the hundredth time since Ennil left, Vahn checked the door. He knew it would be locked, but checking gave him something to do, something to make him move. He'd tried to bust down the door, but it was barred on the other side, and he had nothing to slide past the door to lift the bar. Where they'd put his sword and armor, he didn't know, but they'd even taken the knife he kept hidden in his boot.
Boots. He looked at his feet, surprised he hadn't thought of it before. He still had his boots. His eyes drifted to the narrow window. The idea of breaking the glass and dropping a note was something he'd returned to over and over during the night. He hadn't, but only because smashing a piece of furniture to get a club narrow enough to use would have had mages and guards on him in a heartbeat. With a soft leather boot—if he did it right—he could break the window without making much noise.
The window was only as wide as the span of his fingers, too narrow to try to escape through. Plenty large enough to throw out something to reveal his presence, though, if he could find a way to write something.
But even if he did find something with which to write a note, what would it say? Frowning, he paced back to the window and peered at the city below. No one here knew who he was. And if the city was under Envesi's control, there was no reason for anyone to help him. Especially when none of the people milling about seemed unhappy. Everything in the city carried on as usual in the morning light. Below his prison, people ran errands and children played in the streets.
Stifling a sigh, he sank to the floor and buried his fa
ce in his hands. How was he supposed to save Lulu if he couldn't even save himself?
Eternity crawled by. Through the hours, the warm sunlight shifted its narrow outline of the window across the floor. He still sat on the floor when the bar on the other side of the door scraped out of its holdings and the door creaked open.
Bleary-eyed, Vahn lifted his head. He’d expected a servant or messenger, maybe even a guard of some sort, but a woman in the white robes of a Master mage stood there instead. She carried a tray awkwardly in both hands, and the cups sloshed tea and fruit juice over their rims as she walked.
“Good morning.” Her tone was too calm to be curt, but her face was pinched, giving away her annoyance at being reduced to the role of a mere servant.
He frowned. “What’s that?”
She arched a brow. “Breakfast.”
Vahn squinted out at the sky. He could have sworn he’d been there forever, but the sun’s position said it wasn’t even yet noon.
“Will you have need of a bath before your meeting?” the mage asked.
He hesitated. She’d left the door open, but didn’t seem concerned. He was no match for a single mage, especially not unarmed, but it was odd to think she wasn’t worried about him trying to escape. Unless she didn’t realize he was supposed to be captive. “What meeting?”
“Master Shymin will see you,” she replied. “After you are ready, of course.”
He tried not to grimace as he pushed himself to his feet. He’d need hours to prepare himself to face her. “I need a privy.”
The mage suppressed a shudder, nodded stiffly and motioned toward the door. “Come with me. You can wash after. I will ensure your meal stays warm.”
As if the temperature of his meal was of any concern. He wanted to shout at the woman, demand he be taken to the other mages, demand to see his father. Instead he tempered his response, caught his tongue with his teeth to keep it still, nodded and forced a smile. He’d do no good if he was angry, and thinking before he spoke was one place he usually excelled.
The white-robed woman led him down a shadowed stone hallway. Odd, compared to the buildings he was used to. Ilmenhith was mostly wood and plaster with a shell of pale stone. From what he could see through the narrow window, Alwhen was almost all stone. Even wooden shakes were rare. Every building he’d seen bore dark slate tiles on the shallow-pitched roofs. But they’d lived without mages for a number of decades, Vahn reminded himself. And even before the Giftless king cut himself off from the Eldani, mages had conducted little business in the eastern half of the island. In Ilmenhith, mages would snuff a fire within moments of its catching.