Thornlost (Book 3)

by Melanie Rawn

  “Tell that to the law courts.”

  “But it’s not fair!”

  “So now you see why King Meredan dredged up one of the old extinct titles and gave it to Miriuzca, with all its lands and—” He broke off as Jeska smirked. “No lands?”

  “No lands,” Jeska affirmed. “And there’s the real scandal of it, according to Court thinking. Instead, he gave her full interest in ten ships.”

  “A Princess engaging in trade!” Waving a hand in front of his face like a lady fighting off a fainting fit, Cade grinned. “Once my mother hears, she’ll take to her bed for a fortnight with the shock!”

  Another shock was waiting at the castle. Though Mieka saw it at once, none of his friends did. They were escorted to one of the small walled-in gardens that afforded what passed for privacy in regal life, made their bows, and accepted seats at a prettily decorated table under a chestnut tree. There were six of them at table, Touchstone and the Princess and Lady Dylas Clickpine, a dark, shy little girl of about eighteen who said exactly nothing the whole while. Such seclusion from prying eyes and eavesdropping courtiers was a signal honor for which Jeska expressed their gratitude with one of those just-shy-of-incandescent smiles he used on lovely ladies who belonged to other men. A casual lunching of sliced fruits, chopped vegetables, breads, cheeses, and the latest in savory jellies was placed before them—no soup, Mieka was grateful to note—and as the conversation progressed along entirely conventional lines, Mieka decided that if the Princess wasn’t saying anything about it, then neither should he. But he knew now why she had a new title.

  Only the thought of how excited his wife would be when he told her all about their lunching with the Princess kept Mieka from succumbing to boredom. He forced himself to pay attention to most of the talk, added a few stories of his own (those suitable for polite company), but was struggling against yawns by the time the sweet was served.

  The servants withdrew to the doorways. So did Lady Dylas, at a signal from the Princess, with the only words she had spoken that afternoon: “Yes, Your Grace.”

  Rafe smiled at Miriuzca and said, “Begging your pardon, Your Highness, but how do you keep track?”

  She widened limpid blue eyes. “Of what?”

  “Of who you are. In the last hour I’ve heard people call you six different things. Your Royal Highness, Princess, my lady, Tregrefina, Duchess, Your Grace—does anybody ever call you by your name anymore?”

  She looked surprised for an instant, then burst into a deep, throaty laugh completely at odds with her cream-and-sunshine beauty. A girl who looked the way she did ought to giggle. That laugh of hers belonged to a much older woman… and a much happier one, Mieka realized with sudden shock of insight. Then he reminded himself who she was married to—to whom she was married? Was that the right way to say it? Curse Cayden for making him worry about such silly things.

  “One of these days,” Mieka said, “my lady Duchess Highness Grace Tregrefina Princess and all the rest, you’ll have yet another name.” When they all looked at him, he smiled. “There’ll be a little bit of a somebody racing about the Palace yelling ‘Mum!’ at the top of his voice!” He took it as a sign of how quickly and completely she’d learned to mask her true feelings that she didn’t blush, only laughed again. But she couldn’t quite conceal the sparkle in her eyes, and he took the wicked liberty of giving her a grin and a wink.

  On the walk back to their lodgings, Rafe said, “All right, then, out with it. What was all that in aid of?”

  “All what?” Mieka asked innocently.

  Cade eyed him sidelong. “You know something.”

  “I know many, many things!” He danced lightly round a watering trough outside a riverside tavern, like a Piksey round a wishing well—until Rafe grabbed him by the scruff of the neck and threatened to dunk him.

  “River or trough, your choice.”

  Mieka struggled, Rafe shook him, and finally he yelled, “All right, all right! I’ll tell you when we get back to our place!”

  “You’ll tell us now!”

  “Not in front of everybody in Seekhaven, I won’t!”

  Upstairs, in private, with the door shut, he gathered the three of them close with a crooked finger and whispered, “The Princess is in pig.” When they all looked shocked, he made a face. “Thunderin’ Hells, couldn’t you see it?”

  “Somehow,” Rafe mused, “the words ‘Princess’ and ‘in pig’ don’t exactly dance trippingly from the tongue.”

  “Call it what you like. She is. Takes an experienced father to see these things,” he went on, and instantly regretted it when Rafe’s blue-gray eyes went blank.

  “So that shine in her eyes is her husband’s doing,” Cade murmured, “but nothing her husband’s done—if you see what I mean.”

  Jeska was frowning. “Why haven’t they announced it?”

  “How should I know?” Mieka shrugged. “But she is, and it’s a thing I’m thinking will make us a nice profit from a few discreet wagers.”

  “No!” Cade exclaimed, recoiling. “That’s disgusting!”

  “It’s worth money,” he replied flatly.

  “It’s also illegal,” Rafe said.

  “So?”

  “Don’t do it,” Cade warned. “I’m serious, Mieka. There’s no bookmaker in the Kingdom wouldn’t report you for trying to place a bet like that.” Pointing a long finger right at Mieka’s nose, he went on sternly, “Bailing you out of quod isn’t on my list of lovely ways to spend an evening. And lawyers come expensive.”

  Another shrug, and a regretful sigh; might have been nice to make a little extra cash on a sure thing. He bared his teeth and pretended to nip at Cade’s finger. “Oh, all right. But here’s another thought. Briuly’s here, yeh? Let’s have him come on right after us when we do the show at the Pavilion, and sing them all out with a lullaby. The Princess will appreciate that.”

  It was a feature of Trials that minstrels of all sorts roamed about, playing the taverns in hopes of attracting the notice of some lord who would offer employment. Most of the great landowners already had their own pet musicians, but there was always a chance of picking up some work. Briuly Blackpath was as little to be bought as Touchstone or the Shadowshapers, with whom he’d hitched a ride to Seekhaven this year, so despite his brilliance with the lute, he didn’t have a noble employer. Like his cousin Alaen, he played when and as it suited him. Rich he was not, but he kept himself in strings and tavern patrons kept him in beer, and he was just as happy to have it so.

  Briuly had an advantage possessed by no other musician: He was known personally to Princess Miriuzca, for last summer he had been one of the party sent to escort her to Albeyn. Word had got round that at this, the first Trials she would ever unofficially witness, she had asked for him to be present, just as she had asked for Touchstone to be the theater group sent to her homeland. It was Hadden Windthistle’s opinion that Briuly was too unworldly to take advantage of this preference; Mieka understood this to mean that, like Cayden at times, Briuly was too full of himself and his notions of the Purity of Art to attend to the practical side of life.

  When Touchstone reached the castle on the night they were engaged to play for the ladies, Briuly was already there, seated on the edge of the stage, spindly legs dangling as he played whatever pleased him at the moment and ignored the milling throng of Court ladies. Cade went over to him, bent to murmur something in his pointed Elfen ear, and Briuly nodded without breaking the complicated rhythm of his fingers on the lute strings. Watching this, Mieka shook his head and sighed resignation as he mounted the side steps and approached the glass baskets full of withies. The Blackpath cousins were two of a kind, no matter how little they resembled each other physically. Both were deeply in love—Briuly with his lute, Alaen with Chirene—and neither of them had any time or thought for anyone or anything else. In fact, Alaen had stayed in Gallantrybanks during Trials, for Chirene was there and Sakary was here and the silly giddiot continually cherished hopes of seeing her alone
.

  The ladies began to settle into their seats at the Pavilion, eagerly anticipating the shock of what they were about to see. They all wore the usual masks and veils, pretending that nobody knew anybody else and none of them were really here. Princess Iamina was as always identifiable by the jewel of yellow diamonds and pearls that fixed a thin silk veil to her high-piled braids, but this year she had competition regarding rank. For the first time in Mieka’s experience—admittedly not extensive—the Queen was present at a performance. He’d never heard of Roshien’s attending one of these late-night pretend-secret shows. But that pudgy morsel of rose silk and wispy gray veils could only be the Queen, for everyone curtsied as they passed her, and again to the tall, masked girl in blue beside her. Mayhap Roshien was here because of the play’s historical importance. Mayhap she had been persuaded by her new daughter-in-law. Mieka smiled to himself, wondering how much of the Court shared Miriuzca’s secret.

  Near Princess Iamina, and also providing competition, was the new Archduchess, flagrantly waving to someone. Had she wished to remain anonymous—and Mieka couldn’t think of a single reason why she would—she would have done better than to wear her husband’s colors. Included in this tribute of gray and orange was her wedding ring: a great lump of gray pearl surrounded by orange topazes. The thing reached almost to her fingernail and looked heavy enough to anchor a ship. Much had been made of this gift in the broadsheets, and it served to make her as recognizable as did Princess Iamina’s gaudy yellow flower. Honestly, Mieka thought to himself as he mounted the steps to the stage, the things women did to outshine each other. Rather than turning at once for the glass baskets that had already been set up for him, he walked over to where Rafe stood at his lectern.

  “I think the Archduchess needs a bit of excitement, don’t you? For her dear husband’s sake, if nothing else.”

  The fettler licked his lips and nodded slowly. “Iamina will be relieved not to be the focus tonight.”

  “Oh, you can spare a touch for her, too. But have a care with Miriuzca. And with the Queen. They’re right next to each other, the ones in blue and pink.”

  “The Queen?” After a quick glance into the audience, Rafe smoothed his beard with one finger. “Hmm. So that’s why the Stewards are here tonight.”

  “What? Where?”

  “You really do have to start noticing things that aren’t shoved directly under your nose. Four of ’em, tucked behind pillars. They’ll be protecting the Queen, if necessary.”

  “But they never before—I mean, Iamina always comes to these things.”

  “Yeh, but who cares about her? Nobody that I’ve ever heard of. Roshien and Miriuzca, though, they’re important. Even if they’re not officially here.”

  “It’s insulting,” Mieka grumped.

  “Yeh, it is. But the Stewards are here on somebody’s order, so we’ll just have to treat the ladies as delicately as mistflowers.” He chuckled. “ ’Cept for the Archduchess, of course.”

  “Fine it down to a needle point and stick it to her,” Mieka agreed.

  He darted to the back of the stage, stretching his shoulders loose as he went. Blye’s beautiful glass baskets awaited him. The usual fond smile never reached his lips, however. Laid across the black-rimmed basket was a huge feather, all iridescent blues and greens and touches of gold. A peacock feather.

  He backed off, one hand groping towards Cayden. Mastering himself at once, he snatched up the feather and threw it to the far back of the stage. The others mustn’t see it, this traditional symbol of bad luck, this worst thing that could ever be discovered in a theater. He knew that the superstition was irrational, groundless, ridiculous, childish… and he felt a shiver down his spine anyway as he took up position and flexed his fingers. He would pay no attention to the peacock feather. Touchstone would be as good as ever—better, by all the Gods.

  The play began with wind and rain, progressed through the hiding of the Rights of the Fae beneath the tumbling wall, the capture, and the scene inside the castle, with everyone gasping in all the right places. But when the cloak fell from the Fae’s shoulders, instead of wings—minutely described to him by Cayden from his observations of his ancestress—instead of delicate iridescence Mieka created long, lush, gorgeous, many-eyed wings made of peacock feathers. From the corner of his eye he saw Cade’s startled blink, and grinned to himself. Someone had thought to unnerve Touchstone with a single peacock feather; Mieka created two dozen of the damned things, just because he could.

  The Fae’s arrogance and contempt (and perhaps a bit of Mieka’s as well) spread through the audience, emotions that had put sneers onto other faces during other performances, though here, of course, expressions were invisible behind the veils. One of the tricks of the piece was the transition from the righteous defiance of the Fae to the righteous anger of his judges. However justified the Fae felt in hiding the Rights, what the Fae Folk had done in starting a war that killed thousands was an unforgivable crime. Lives broken and ruined, all for the sake of a few bits of gold and silver and glass, and the magic they represented. What merely mortal being—Human, Wizard, Elf, Fae, Piksey, Sprite, Goblin, Gnome, Troll, Giant—could justify destroying so many lives for his own ends? It was intolerable, and it was wrong. And Touchstone always made sure the audience knew it.

  Mieka was gentler than usual with the transition to the grim finality of the condemnation, but added a droplet of fear just before the Fae was hanged, knowing Rafe would direct it at the Archduchess. Yet as Jeska spoke the last lines from the shadows, something odd happened. Mieka’s tutor had once likened the art of glisking to a river, in which one must be careful not to drown an audience. One slid emotions, sounds, tastes, sensations into that river—Mieka always thought of them in terms of colors added to clear water, or pinches of different spices that subtly altered the taste of a sauce—and blended them together. But all at once it was as if the fear he had just conjured was a trickle of bitter blood seeping into a stream, and something—someone—beneath the surface was sucking it away with a ravening thirst. Sometimes a few people in an audience clutched at an emotion, so impatient to feel more or so empty of feeling themselves that instinct yearned beyond their controlling. Mostly they grasped at love, or happiness, or giddy laughter; at times there would be someone eager to experience the thrill of more brutal emotions, and this was why a fettler exerted such powerful control on the magic. But this was different. This seized on the fear and demanded more. He’d sensed something akin to it in only one place before: that weird old mansion outside New Halt. Twice now Touchstone had performed for an audience of a single mysterious person swathed in furs, but the feeling of being devoured was the same. Odd, though, that it was only fear that was so fiercely consumed.

  He was too good at his work to allow this to distract him. As the piece ended, he paused to catch his breath. Then, as the applause swelled, he found the peacock feather and broke it off up near the eye, tucked it behind one ear, and leaped over the glisker’s bench to join his partners.

  Cade flinched back like a spooked colt. “What in all Hells—?”

  “Later,” he replied as they took their bows. He found the tall blue figure next to the short pink one, and chuckled; the Queen was applauding politely, but Princess Miriuzca was jumping up and down and clapping her hands like anything. It occurred to him that this was the very first time she’d ever watched a play from somewhere other than behind a screen or up in a minstrels gallery. He made sure their next group bow was directed right at her, and wished his ears were sensitive enough to hear that deep-throated laughter.

  Briuly ended the evening with a lovely lullaby as the ladies left the Pavilion and Touchstone packed away their glass. Mieka had just finished nesting the second crate of baskets when he heard Cayden say, “Hope you enjoyed it, sir.”

  Mieka glanced up to find one of the Stewards nearby—not the white-bearded one whose wife had knitted him, though equally old to judge by the wrinkles all over his paper-fine skin. He was lean
ing on two intricately carved canes, and so bent in his spine that he had to twist his neck awkwardly to look up at Cayden.

  “Always do, my boy,” the man rumbled in a voice surprisingly powerful for one so frail. “Always do. Knew your grandsir, I did.”

  “Cadriel Silversun?”

  “Well, him, too—I meant your lady mother’s sire. Lord Isshak Highcollar.” As Cade gave a little start of surprise, the old man went on, “Last of his line. Fine man.”

  Husband of Lady Kiritin Blackswan, she who had invented new and horrifying ways to use glass withies in war. She was the reason glasscrafting was forbidden to Wizards. Mieka gulped and bent over the crates, and tried to pretend he wasn’t listening.

  “Good man,” the Steward was saying. “Got the children spared—though you’d know all about that.”

  “Yes. I know all about that,” Cade said in the rigidly controlled tone that meant he wanted to smash his fists into something.

  “Well, then.” He cleared his throat. “Splendid to see the talent in you, boy. Excellent show tonight. Well-played. The ladies were impressed—or would have been if they were ever officially here, what?” He wheezed a conspiratorial laugh and limped away.

  Mieka bit both lips together over the questions that stung his tongue. This was the Elsewhens all over again, he thought resentfully. Cade had secrets that it seemed everybody knew except Mieka. There were two methods of discovery, as far as Mieka was concerned: Wait for him to tell, or bully him into telling. Though patience was not one of his prevailing virtues, he always felt guilty whenever he worried at Cade like a dog with a sheep shank in its teeth.

  He’d forgot that he had his own telling to do. They hadn’t taken more than ten steps into the night-dark castle grounds before Jeska snatched the feather from behind Mieka’s ear and ground it under his boot heel.

  “I don’t know where you got that from,” he said, his voice low and shaking, “but I don’t ever want to see one of those things near me again!”

  “It’s naught but silly superstition!” Mieka protested. “Did anything go wrong tonight? Did it? No! And anyways, what makes you think I had anything to do with it? Laid across the baskets, it was—d’you think I’d do such a horrid thing deliberately?”