“Really, Gulien. Is that what the Kieba told you? You cannot be so easily gulled.”
It was a mistake to have let his father draw him into argument. Gulien knew that. It was a worse mistake to allow his father to stop him with that cool scorn. He knew that. He set himself to lay out the Kieba’s demand and make it clear this was also his own ultimatum.
Before he could quite manage to speak, his father went on. “The Kieba has never truly set her strength against the plagues that ravage the world. It is the nature of the powerful to use what tools come to their hands to enhance their own power, and thus the Kieba uses the plagues that beset the world. She wishes us to remain frightened and ignorant. She declares that she is a friend and ally to Madalin and Carastind, that she is a friend and ally to all mortal men. But in truth she wishes us to remain dependent on her kindness and generosity. That is why she gave Parianasaku’s Capture to our ancestor and yet taught him only the least of its powers, never how to use it to destroy plagues. That is why she has turned against Carastind and against me: She wishes to punish our temerity in daring to protect ourselves rather than come crouching at her feet like dogs, begging for her protection.”
Gulien said, “I’m sure you’re mistaken, sir.” It was true. He remembered Caras burning, and grief; he remembered the violet-black mist creeping through Elaru. Wherever those memories had come from, he knew they were true memories. He was sure his father was wrong. He knew the Kieba truly stood between the world and all the endless plagues and ills that would devastate it. But though he hated the feebleness of his own tone, he could not seem to manage to speak firmly.
His father gave him a chiding look, expecting him to back down. “My son, I assure you, had you never gone to the Kieba’s mountain, even so the Garamanaji prince would have discovered, to his cost, that Carastind was not so helpless as he supposed.”
“Indeed?” said Gulien. Gathering his nerve, he forced himself to go on more strongly, raising his voice when his father tried to cut him off. “You were awaiting the perfect moment to strike Prince Gajdosik and all his men dead, I suppose? When precisely would that moment have arrived? Will you declare it served your aim to allow the Tamaristans to destroy our cannons or to stand aside as our own folk poured out their blood in our streets? I’m sure you don’t mean to suggest that it’s the nature of the powerful to allow their enemies to slaughter their own people and blow up their own palaces. It seems to me, sir, that possibly you failed to protect our folk from the Tamaristan soldiers because in fact you could not protect them; yet it took only a single one of the Kieba’s golems to do so.”
This time he had truly touched his father’s temper. Osir Madalin set his hands flat on the arms of his chair and leaned forward.
Even though Gulien knew he had had no choice but to depose his father, even though he knew that the people of Caras would accept what he’d done just so long as he didn’t falter, even though he knew he had all the power now and his father had nothing—even knowing all that, it took every bit of nerve and resolution Gulien possessed to lift his own hand and say quickly, before his father could speak, “Carastind needs the Kieba’s favor, and we have it, so long as we return the artifact she demands. She cannot take it. Nor can I, not while you remain king of Carastind. But give it to me freely, sir, and I swear to you, I will beg her to forget your defiance and permit you to take back your rightful place.”
He would do that; he meant every word of that promise. He didn’t admit out loud that he could hardly believe the Kieba would listen to any Madalin plea. Besides, maybe he was wrong. Maybe she would after all surprise both of them with forgiveness. He said, “You are still king in name and by right, until I call for a new coronation and the succession is formally proclaimed. Once she has this artifact in her own hand, perhaps she may be inclined to be generous. Then she may not require any such disruption to Carastind’s succession. She cares very little for such matters, I believe. So then you may have an opportunity to make peace, which I fervently advise; or, if you must defy her, then you must see how much better it would be to do so from a position of strength, not while Carastind is so weak!”
Eyes narrowing, his father started to answer him, but Gulien went on quickly, as forcefully as he could. “Do not argue for the strategic advantage of allowing Carastind to fall under the rule of a Tamaristan prince, sir, for I will not agree with you. If you refuse, sir, if you refuse my very moderate and reasonable suggestion, then I will formally divest you of your title and rights and have the coronation this very afternoon, and then this artifact will come to me anyway. Then I will make peace with the Kieba, for I think it most unlikely I will see any advantage in dispensing with her rule, arbitrary and outmoded though you may consider it.”
Osir leaned back in his chair, considering Gulien. He said after a moment, “You are set on this course, I see. You will not be dissuaded.”
“No, sir. Nor will I wait for your answer, but require your decision immediately.”
“You are mistaken in all your intentions, my son. But the fault is mine as well. I should have kept you closer to my counsels this past year or more.”
“Perhaps, sir, but I think we would still disagree.” But now that he’d thought of the bare possibility that the Kieba might relent, Gulien couldn’t help but hope that he might win enough time to persuade his father to go to the Kieba himself, to speak to the kephalos, to sit in that crystalline chair and see for himself the Kieba’s memories. . . . If he could only persuade his father to agree now, to yield in this one thing, to give up this one artifact, to accommodate the Kieba’s demands just so far . . . then just possibly he might bring his father, eventually, to change his mind. The Kieba had insisted he wouldn’t, even that he couldn’t, but surely the Kieba didn’t understand the depth of Osir’s strength of will. Gulien knew his father could do anything he set his mind to. Even give up an artifact the Kieba swore no one had the strength to give up. Even apologize to the Kieba and ask her pardon. Osir Madalin was capable of admitting fault when he had been wrong. Gulien had seen him do it. He was merely unaccustomed to the necessity.
Gulien hardly dared hope he might yet persuade both his father and the Kieba back into the traditional alliance. He certainly did not dare speak of any such hope now. He said instead, “I must have your answer now, sir.”
For an endless moment Osir did not give him one. Then his father tapped his fingers impatiently on the arm of his chair and, regarding Gulien with narrow attention, brought out from an inner pocket a medallion strung on a silver chain.
It was blue and green and gold, its face inlaid with spidery lines of smoky crystal. Gulien recognized it at once. It had long been a treasure of their house. His father had often worn it on court occasions when Gulien was little. Then he had given it to Gulien, who had worn it himself for some years. Only a year or so ago, Osir had taken the medallion back and put it away somewhere; Gulien had not seen it at all during this last year or so. That suddenly seemed significant. Plainly his father had taken it back once he’d learned how to awaken it; of course he would have kept it close once he’d learned its name and its use. Or something of its use. Enough to do harm.
Certainly it looked different now. Brighter. Smokier. The crystal had seemed like quartz before. Now it was obviously the same smoky black crystal as Gulien’s own falcon pendant. He recognized that much instantly and hesitated to touch the medallion at all, wary of what that crystal might do or become under his touch.
“Take it, my son,” Osir commanded, holding it out. “You will feel the power in it, I am certain, now that it has been woken. But I enjoin you: Do not trust the Kieba. She desires to extend her own power by crushing the kingdoms of men beneath her foot. You mean to ask her for favor, but she will give you nothing save that her gift rebounds to her own benefit.”
Gulien made no answer, but took the medallion quickly, before his father could change his mind. The traceries of crystal glittered. He could feel the life in the artifact the moment he t
ook the medallion into his own hand. It purred warmly against his skin, so that he moved quickly to hold it by the chain instead lest it should send fragments of foreign memory scattering through his mind. It was unmistakably allied to the kephalos of the Kieba’s mountain; he could feel the similarity and connection.
He had not truly expected his father to yield Parianasaku’s Capture to him. He had never once believed that it might be possible to walk into this apartment, argue with his father, and win any concession at all. Meeting the king’s eyes, he said sincerely, “Thank you, sir.”
Osir made a small, dismissive gesture. “You have severely disappointed me, my son. But the fault is partially mine, and I shall hope you may yet learn better.”
Gulien didn’t argue, but bowed his head again and retreated, in better order than he had ever hoped.
Kedmes was not on the landing, so that was reassuring. And even from the top of the tower, Gulien could hear his sister’s voice below, indistinct but familiar. That was even better. Gulien locked the chain behind him with hands that seemed shamefully inclined to tremble even now that it was over and he was out of that apartment. Even now that he had won. He could still hardly believe he had won any victory against his father, but the medallion was heavy in his pocket and he could feel its life even through the cloth.
He took a breath, let it out, waited a moment to make sure he had managed to compose himself, and did not run down the stairs—though he still went down much faster than he had come up.
Oressa had been talking to the guardsman she liked, Kelian; too handsome by half was Gulien’s opinion, but Oressa approved of him and his sister wasn’t easy to fool. But the moment Gulien came down that last flight of stairs, she jumped up from her bench and darted forward, taking his hands and looking anxiously into his face. “Gulien! That was quick! And you didn’t need to be rescued after all! Kedmes came down after you went up, but he said you’d sent him down and told him to stay out of your way—I thought he was telling the truth, although Kedmes! You know he’ll be loyal to Father forever. Are you all right?”
Gulien wouldn’t have claimed so much, but he made himself smile reassuringly. “Kedmes was telling the truth. He’ll do well enough, I think. It’s the men who aren’t honest about their allegiance who might make trouble.” He took the medallion out of his pocket to show her. “Recognize it? When you pick it up, you can feel, now, that it’s an artifact.”
Oressa touched it with a fingertip and looked impressed, whether at the artifact or at the fact that Gulien had gotten their father to give it to him. He could tell she was sorry he’d had to do something so difficult, afraid of what their father might do in retaliation, and anxious about the Kieba. She hugged Gulien hard. “You’re so brave.”
Gulien pressed her hand gently. “Father said . . .”
Oressa patted his hand anxiously. “I’m not sure I want to know.”
Gulien didn’t blame her. But he needed her opinion. He put an arm around her shoulders, leaned his cheek against the top of her head, and said in a low voice, “He says the Kieba is our enemy. That she allows plagues to strike the cities of mortal men because she wishes us to be frightened. To depend on her protection. To remain ignorant and afraid of even the least traces of the dead gods’ power. He said that Parianasaku’s Capture can be used to destroy plagues. . . .”
“He would say so! Well, I don’t believe it,” Oressa declared instantly. “I don’t believe a single word of it, and neither should you. The Kieba letting plagues run across the world? It’s ridiculous. It’s nonsense from front to back, Gulien, and you know it!”
“Yes,” Gulien said, relieved. “I know it can’t be true.” He did know, but somehow he was still glad to have Oressa say it so firmly. He wouldn’t tell her what else their father had said. You have severely disappointed me, my son. He flinched from that memory.
Nor would he tell her what he had offered in exchange for their father’s cooperation, either. Not, he decided, unless it seemed likely that the Kieba would indeed accept his request to allow his father to take back the kingship. A year to set Carastind in order; that could also be a year for the Kieba to forget her anger and for his father to learn better than to mistrust her. Then everything could go back to the way it was supposed to be. But Oressa wouldn’t like that at all. It would probably take the whole year to talk her around to the idea.
Oressa said energetically, “You’ve done exactly what had to be done. Right from the start. If you hadn’t gone to the Kieba, everything would be awful. That Tamaristan prince would own not only Caras, but also me and Parian-whoever’s artifact, isn’t that right?”
“Only Madalin kings can own Parianasaku’s Capture as our father did, apparently. I grant you, I wouldn’t want either you or Caras in Prince Gajdosik’s hands.” Gulien smiled down at his sister, then turned the medallion thoughtfully over in his hand. Light glittered across its face: enamels of blue and green and gold cut through by whorls of smoky-dark crystal.
“Your Highness, be careful!” Kelian edged a step closer, craning his neck to get a look at the medallion. “If that’s a god’s artifact, and awake, then it’s probably dangerous. You shouldn’t touch it or keep it close to you—you should let me take care of it.”
“I’m sending it out of the city tomorrow,” Gulien told him absently. “It must go back to the Kieba.” He rubbed his thumb across the medallion’s face again, a lingering gesture, feeling the half-familiar purr of the crystal against his skin. But he did have to send it back to the Kieba, and as soon as possible. He looked sharply at Kelian. “I need someone to take it to her. Someone I can trust. Can I trust you, Kelian?”
Kelian, looking startled, drew himself up. “Your Highness—I mean, Your Majesty—”
Gulien dismissed this confusion with a flick of one hand. “Until my coronation, my father is still king. Let that go for now. It’s an important task I ask of you, but it shouldn’t be dangerous.”
Kelian, collecting himself, said firmly, “Of course you can trust me with this errand, Your Highness. I will set the artifact directly into the hand of the Kieba herself.”
Oressa was smiling. Gulien knew she was relieved and proud because she was the one who had brought Kelian to her brother’s attention.
“Shall I take the Kieba’s artifact now?” the guardsman asked. “I can leave at once—”
Gulien shook his head. “I think we need not require quite so much haste! I’m certain you will have a great many things to see to tonight. You may leave in the morning. Early, to be sure. You may collect the Kieba’s artifact from me an hour past dawn.” He clapped the new guard captain on the shoulder and added less formally, “I must say, I will be sorry to lose you, even for a few days. I have too few men here I can trust.”
CHAPTER 7
Oressa couldn’t sleep that night. She was worried about Prince Gajdosik and what he might do; she was worried about the Kieba and what she might do; she was worried about Magister Baramis and everyone else and what they might do. Most of all, she simply couldn’t forget that her father was in his tower apartment and still—until Gulien’s actual coronation, which for some reason Gulien seemed deliberately to be delaying—still officially king of Carastind. She couldn’t forget that she knew of two secret panels in that apartment, and though neither would let her father actually get out of the tower, she had to wonder whether there might be more he knew about and she didn’t.
When she finally slept, she dreamed she was running through the dark, empty rooms of the palace. Some of the rooms were missing ceilings, some of the walls had been torn open, and all of the secret doors were standing wide open. Oressa knew that her father had discovered all of her hiding places; everyone knew about them; there was nowhere to hide. She ran across the rooftops of the palace, but the winged god wasn’t there. She saw his shattered face and broken wings lying far below, shards of white stone scattered across the red gravel. She was on the roof, but it broke beneath her feet—she was going to fall—she was
falling—she jerked hard and woke herself up.
After that dream, she lay awake for a long time. The ordinary night sounds of the palace were not the same as they had been. Too much of the building had been damaged, and too many of the servants’ routines had changed, and everything was just different. It was much too easy to believe that she heard people walking through the hallway and standing outside her door, even when she knew this was impossible. Or at least very, very unlikely. Even so, Oressa found she couldn’t rest unless she slipped out of her bed and curled herself under her dressing table instead. The table was hung with yellow silk, and it was big enough that she could be almost comfortable under it, especially since she’d wrapped herself up in her dressing gown and taken her best pillow with her.
She knew her father must be plotting. He was always plotting. Maybe that sometimes made him a good king, or at least an effective king, as Gulien said. But if he thought all those awful things about the Kieba . . . What would he do if he truly believed all that? She could feel him brooding, a dark presence on the highest level of the palace, thinking and thinking about how to use everyone to get what he wanted while all the time making them think they were getting what they wanted. It was amazing how nobody ever seemed to notice that in the end Oressa’s father always got things his way.
“Not this time,” Oressa whispered. “This time will be different.” But she was afraid to go back to sleep even though she was hidden under the table.
At dawn she appeared exactly where everybody expected her to be: at breakfast in her room. She drank tea and nibbled nut bread and creamed eggs. Everything was exactly as it should be on any ordinary morning. She chatted with Nasia and with the girls who brought her breakfast, finding out the kitchen gossip, just as on any morning. But the minute the girls took away the breakfast things, she tossed her light house slippers under her bed, took off the frilly silk Nasia had helped her put on, dressed again in a practical traveling outfit of plain linen, took the pearls out of her hair and rebraided it with a simple ribbon, and found her riding boots. The right boot was a little tight over the bandage she still wore on that foot, but she could walk without limping if she tried. So she walked, with a carefully firm step, to her door.
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