by Ben Rovik
“Fermi, my boy,” the steward said at last. “Have you told anyone else what you’ve seen, or what you think?”
He shook his head, his light hair flopping from side to side like a rabbit’s ears. “No, Master. I didn’t know who else to trust but you.”
Volman’s eyes searched the table for a moment; then, with a brief inhalation, he nodded and picked up the length of wire with his dexterous fingers, once more inspecting the cut stalks with an appraising gaze. “You’re right, my boy,” he said, not looking up. “It can be hard to know whom to trust. Fermi, can you… ah…?” As he worked, Volman pointed absently to the far wall. Fermi turned to look for whatever the steward needed.
The old man whipped around and looped the coil of wire around Fermi’s soft neck, pulling backwards with all the strength in his wiry arms. The boy flailed against the wire at his throat, his fingertips coming away bloody as Volman tugged harder. The only sound was the scuffing of Fermi’s tattered boots against the stone floor as he spasmed more and more frantically for air. Volman clenched his teeth as the wire dug into his own fingers.
Moments later, court sorcerer Ouste looked up from her reading as five rapid knocks sounded against her chamber door. She gathered up her robes and opened the heavy portal. Her eyes went wide at the sight of the old steward, breathing heavily and clutching his hands. “We must speak,” Volman said, his face burning with urgency.
The door swung shut behind him.
“Step by step, a journey of ten thousand paces,” Lady Ceres said with a faint smile on her face. She held the cup to Naomi’s lips as the girl drank another swallow, taking in the day’s sweet water with obvious relish. The Princess smacked her lips noisily as Ceres drew the cup away, and the regent couldn’t repress a snort of laughter. Naomi looked up at her with mischievous eyes, waggling one of her hands back and forth in an open-palmed gesture of giggling.
Ceres brushed the silver hairs out of her eyes and made her face stern. Princess Naomi made an equally stern face, squaring her jaw and sticking out her lower lip just like the regent. Lady Ceres just sniffed, refusing to rise to the bait. “A waypost on a mountaintop; the hermit sheds no tears for the setting sun.”
<
Lady Ceres shook her head in amazement, watching the girl’s back. Granted, the Ordeal of the Setting Sun was bound to be preferable to the Ordeal of the Torches, or of the Razor’s Edge, each of which posed potentially lethal challenges. But it was not without its tension. A truly worthy heir, it was said, would be able to notice an uncanny green flash at the very moment of the sun’s setting. This green light was a glimpsed reflection of the celestial spheres beyond Earth’s sun, and a very auspicious sign. An heir who passed every other Ordeal brilliantly and still failed the Ordeal of the Setting Sun could never hope for greatness, or for a peaceful reign. The pressure to perform was as enormous in this task as it was in every other for the past grueling thirteen days.
But Princess Naomi seemed possessed of even more energy now, on the eve of her emergence from the Ordeals, than she did at its beginning. Ceres had watched a marvelous transformation from the day a terrified young girl’s hair was chopped off, to this moment, where a spiky-headed midling stood framed in the window, taking obvious pleasure in her duty. Let naysayers like Ouste doubt Naomi’s fortitude; let them question the validity of the Ordeals themselves. The fact was that, in this case, a Haberstorm heir had entered the process as one person, and would emerge as a different one; wiser, stronger, and more fit to rule. If Naomi was not living proof that the Ordeals still could serve their purpose, Lady Ceres thought, nothing would be.
“One more day, Princess,” Ceres whispered to herself. “One more day, and you’ll have your life returned to you at last.”
“But when?” the peasant woman whined. Her stringy hair was tied in tresses that flopped on either side of her narrow head like the drooping ears of an old hound. Jilmaq couldn’t look at her face without a tight bubble of disgust rising in the back of his throat. If it rose all the way to his mouth, he wasn’t sure if would come out as a snarl or a dry heave. Consequently, he kept his back to her and, once again, thrust a hand towards the doorway. And once again, she didn’t leave. Spheres, but this woman is thick.
“Look here, wizarder,” she said, insulted and terrified. “It’s two days gone since I petitioned you to help cure Our Justen’s eyes. We scrounged you that money so he might have the chance to see her Royal Highness pass them Ordeals. Well, now it’s the feastday eve, and you say you ain’t even cast your magic for him yet?”
“Leave,” Jilmaq barked.
“Ooh! The nerve of you! Takin’ money from a mother of a blind boy. You’re a common thief, you are.”
“I cannot cast a spell if the spirits are not ready.”
“And what they been doin’ two full days? Ain’t they ready now? Go on, get started!”
Jilmaq hissed over his shoulder at her, narrowing his bloodshot eyes. “Do you think you’re the only petitioner I have? I have many other, far more important spells to focus on before tending to your crippled whelp. Now leave.” He gave her his back again.
The woman’s jaw clenched with anger. She reached down with her weathered hands, dug up a handful of earth from his dirt floor, and threw it at the back of Jilmaq’s head. He turned at an inopportune moment, and the clod struck him mostly on the right ear. The wizard yelped, his head ringing and his ear burning as he dug a nail in to clean it out. “You’re a right fraud,” the peasant spat. “I been to two other wizards afore, and they started their spells right away. Done before sundown the first night, they were. Harder spells than this, too.”
The wizard scowled, scraping his ear clean. “As if you’d know, you ignorant—“
“You keep lazin’ about, stealin’ money from folks like me, and we’ll run you out of here, wizard. See if we don’t! You cure my son this very night or I’ll have every able-bodied soul in Drabelhelm at your doorstep, club in one hand and a rock in the other.”
She kicked the ground at him ineffectually, sending dust into the air and peppering his bare calves with bits of dirt. He said nothing, keeping his hand outstretched with a long finger pointing the way to the exit. Finally, the peasant woman stormed out of his hut, knocking something over in his yard with a spiteful clatter once she went out of his view.
Jilmaq lowered his arm, drained by the encounter. The LaMontina clan may have thought it merciful to exile him from high society rather than taking his life, but an eternity of service to people like this coarse woman was worse than any torture; worse than any fiendish execution. He wiped his face, sweat and dirt mixing on his fingertips. One day more, he thought as he went to the door.
He pulled his door closed by the central ring, taking care to avoid touching the splintered boards. He lowered a sturdy wooden brace into place, ensuring that he would have no more unwelcome visitors entering his space. He couldn’t afford any distractions; not with so much riding on the next twenty-four hours.
Jilmaq opened his trunk and looked down at the small black bag resting on top of his faded clothes. The wizard swallowed, but his throat stayed dry. He lifted the bag by its drawstring, and the light braid inside raised up with no effort at all. Such a delicate weight, he thought. His heart began to race in his chest. There was no denying that he was about to commit a great crime. The fact that it was for a great reward was an explanation, not an excuse; and certainly not an exculpation. Was the reward worth it? His visitor had promised him wealth, and a new life outside Delia where he could weave spells for the worthy people in society again. But what if the Mobinoji abandoned him for so great a sin? What if they d
enied him their power, barring him from ever harnessing magic again? The spirits were not known to be especially moral beings, but there were tales of wizards with far cleaner consciences suddenly finding themselves bereft of magical ability. A momentary windfall was hardly compensation for a lifetime of impotence.
Jilmaq exhaled through his teeth. Even as he ran through the same uneasy thoughts one more time, he knew that the time for making decisions was long past. When he’d taken the visitor’s money, and accepted this black bag, he had cast his lot. Any hope of survival now lay in his ability to do what he’d been paid to do, no matter how ill the thought of it made him.
The wizard reached into the black bag and grabbed hold of the silky hair within. He let the bag drop to the floor, cradling the braid in his hands. His bloodshot eyes grew wet with tears. “Forgive me, Princess,” he whispered.
As the last of the sun’s rays was filtering through a gap in his barred-up window, Jilmaq moved into the back room of his hut to begin casting the most important spell of his life.
Chapter Nine
Beneath The White
The royal apartments gleamed so brilliantly they made Lundin squint. He and Samanthi had just been in the bright dawn sun, traversing the trellised open-air breezeway from the main body of the palace to the west wing where the Princess lived. Looking down from the marble walkway, spacious enough for five people to walk side by side, their eyes had been dazzled by a riot of colors from the blooming garden below and the vibrantly painted city buildings outside the palace gates. And then, ushered through the ornate double doors by a pair of footmen, Lundin and Samanthi found themselves enclosed in a world of white.
White upholstered furniture. White silk wall coverings with off-white satin stripes. White marble sculptures portraying the chiseled features of generations of Haberstorm rulers. A white staircase with an elegant white wooden railing. And, naturally, a flock of servants bustling in every direction in white jackets and skirts. Morning sunlight pouring through the arched windows reflected off these pale surfaces in an assault of radiant white beams. Lundin felt his eyes start to water. Or maybe they’re melting, he thought with sudden concern, narrowing his lids so much he could barely see through his eyelashes.
“I heard,” Samanthi said, blinking furiously, “that once a Haberstorm passes the First Ordeals and becomes a midling, she gets to decide on new colors for the royal apartment.”
“One more reason to wish Her Highness all the best,” Lundin said, wiping his eyes.
A hulking, blurry shape appeared in front of his eyes. “You two should get sun visors like we have,” Sir Mathias said, tapping what was either his helmet or his ear. It was hard to tell. The Petronaut put a hand on Lundin’s shoulder, rotating him gently towards a corridor on the right. “Come on; the carters already delivered all our squad’s equipment.
“Samanthi—you and Horace will be stationed in an anteroom just outside Princess Naomi’s personal chambers. Palace Guard says you’ll be fairly centralized there. I don’t need to tell you that if you go sneaking into her chambers without permission, I’ll lop your idiot heads off to save the Regency Council the trouble of doing it themselves.”
“Don’t look at me,” Samanthi said. “Or… were you looking at me? I can’t see a damn thing in this place.”
“Any changes to the timetable?” Lundin asked, his eyes finally starting to adjust. They were heading down a long white hallway with white pressed metal ceilings. There was no direct sunlight hitting the windows on their right, so at least the environment wasn’t so blinding. “Is Her Highness still coming out to the main balcony at three?”
“As far as I know,” Mathias said, adjusting his bracers. He was in his black Close Quarters armor, burnished to a steely shine and nearly silent, except for that one impossible-to-fix popping gear in his left knee on which the technicians had sworn undying hatred. The CQ suit didn’t have the bulk to stand up to a hail of longbow arrows or musket balls, though grapeshot at long range would be very unlikely to break through. It also didn’t make use of the bulky thrust packs he and Kelley had deployed in the Verrure campaign. But the lack of that extra weight meant the ranine coils in the legs could work that much more efficiently. In CQ armor, even a huge warrior like Mathias could leap six meters in any direction as easily as a fencer might sidestep. He’d also be able to sprint as fast as a racing horse, though the ranine coils had a tendency to go into spasm during a prolonged run, sending the wearer either toppling to earth or jumping unexpectedly skyward. A Petronaut in such a suit was a match for six swordsmen. Not that there would be any swordsmen to battle today, of course; but the CQ armor had the additional advantages of being much sleeker and easier on the eyes than the Recon suit, and without the extra bladders of highly combustible petrolatum that the thrust packs in the Recon suits required. The Palace Guard wanted as few caches of explosive ‘tum as possible in the vicinity of Princess Naomi, for reasons the ‘nauts fully understood.
Sir Mathias looked over at Lundin as he walked, frowning. “From what we’ve heard, the schedule isn’t being changed. But I wouldn’t be surprised if a delay crept in. From the few glimpses I’ve caught of Lord Potikal and Lady Ceres talking, I think something’s making the Regents nervous.”
“Why wouldn’t they be nervous? Princess Naomi’s not out of the Ordeals yet,” Samanthi said.
“It wasn’t your standard case of jitters. Lady Ceres looked whiter than these walls when I saw her talking to Portikal, and he kept wringing his hands. Deep worry lines across their faces.” Sir Mathias sighed, shrugging away the memory. “I just hope Princess Naomi is doing all right. People like us with incredible hair have to stick together.”
Samanthi snorted as they rounded a corner. The techs had just enough time to catch a glimpse of an armored Sir Kelley in earnest conversation with a thin, bald woman in silver robes before Sir Mathias groaned and spun the techs around to face him, one meaty hand on each of their shoulders. “Spheres help us all,” he said through his teeth. “I have another assignment for you. If you have any spare time from palace business today, I want you doing everything you possibly can to put Sir Kelley back the way he was.”
The techs looked at each other, then back at Mathias. He waved at them impatiently, saying, “I know, I never thought I’d be asking that either. But we can’t get anything done with him like this. He has to shake every passing servant’s hand and tell them what a valuable contribution they’re making to the day. He’s bowing and scraping to the Regents so hard he’s going to pull something. And he keeps asking for my opinion on what the squad should do next.” He shuddered. “It’s just not natural.”
“Lundin’s fault,” Samanthi said simply.
“Maybe, but it’s your problem too now, senior tech,” Sir Mathias said. He looked down at Lundin. “What was the spell you cast on him again?”
Lundin scratched an itch on the back of one hand, his eyes flicking to the ground. “Just a simple spell of friendship; something to make him warmer to me, Samanthi and the mechanized wizardry project. I tried to adjust the Illustration so he’d only feel friendlier to the squad.”
“Great job,” Sir Mathias shook his head. “He loves everybody. And, today, he’s got this strange thing he’s doing with his face.”
“That’s new. What kind of thing?”
“It’s... you’ll see. It’s noticeable.”
“Spheres, Horace,” Samanthi said. “You broke Kelley.”
Lundin swallowed. “Well, since Sir Kelley insisted we bring the squawk box and all our disks to show off, we’ll have everything we need to work on making him better.”
“Good. ‘Cause much as I hate to say it, if you’ve permanently ruined his mind, I’m going to have to turn you over to the disciplinary board. And you know the penalty for a tech who knowingly causes harm to a Petronaut within his squad.”
“Did I mention that, at the time, I was extremely tired?” Lundin said desperately.
“Who is Sir Kelley talking to
, anyway?” Samanthi said, looking across the room.
“Ouste, the court sorcerer. Kelley’s probably telling her what a revolution your fancy box is.”
His squadmates blinked in surprise as Lundin crossed the room in a few dozen lightning-fast steps, in an awkward gait that was four parts sprint to one part nonchalant saunter. “—don’t need to tell you again what a revolution it might be,” Sir Kelley was saying. The wizard was still, polite, her hands perched lightly on her hips; but the upraised curve of one thin eyebrow said it all. Lundin’s heart sank as he plastered a dutiful expression on his face.
The senior ‘naut brightened at the sight of his favorite technician. “Mister Lundin! The Guard finally got you and Samanthi cleared for duty, I take it. It’s my great honor to introduce you to Ouste, the distinguished personal sorcerer to Her Royal Highness, and the noble Queen who preceded her.”
“I’m thoroughly honored, Lady Ouste,” Lundin said, bowing deeply.
“Just ‘Ouste,’ with no title,” she corrected. “It’s not my custom to over-reach, and pretend that I’m something I’m not,” the wizard said to the technician with a thin, glacial smile. Lundin did his best not to quail too visibly under her pale blue eyes.
Sir Kelley went on blithely. “I’ve been telling Ouste about the tremendous potential of the magic box you and Ms. Elena have made. Imagine a world where spellcasting machines work alongside traditional wizards!”