“Is this something you can teach others—us, for instance?”
“I doubt it,” Dorrin said. “But what is it? Do you suspect someone here?”
“Someone tried to kill Camwyn, the prince’s younger brother, and my son Aris, by poisoning their horses right before they rode out. Planted a wax capsule under the saddle; we think the poison leaked out and into the horses’ backs—”
Dorrin felt almost faint. “It was not just poison,” she said. “Though it would have been covered in wax, around the clay. The wax melts with the heat of the horse and the pressure of the rider eventually breaks the seal of the clay. Then it is only a matter of time—were the horses restive?”
“Yes. They would not stand still. Then suddenly—”
“They went crazy—bucking, bolting—is that what happened?”
“Yes—their instructor thought it might be some kind of insect sting, a wasp or something, but he found no evidence, though the capsule remained. Broken, of course.” Marrakai looked angry. “Did you know about this? What it is?”
“When I was a child,” Dorrin said, “I heard of such things. You know there are flies and other creatures that lay eggs on livestock, usually in a wound, and infest the wound with maggots. Some cause illness—staggers or flayleg. And some give such a painful bite the animal goes wild.”
“Yes, but—”
“Some of my relatives used magery to enhance those attacks—”
“They attacked animals?”
“As a way to attack people, my lord. I overheard, once—and was punished for having passed by the door at the wrong time—one of them speak of you, Duke Marrakai. You know they hated you, and they hated also your reputation for breeding the best horses. They had devised, they thought, a way to ruin your reputation by destroying your horses, but the process was arduous and they were willing to wait years, they said.”
“They nearly destroyed my son,” Marrakai said. “Though I suppose that, too, would have pleased them.”
“No doubt,” Dorrin said. “Do you know who saddled the horses that day? If it is the same thing, it must be placed on the horse no more than a glass before it is ridden. A groom—”
“None of the grooms admit to saddling those two horses—or any of the horses the boys rode that day. Most often the boys tack up for themselves, but sometimes it is done for them, especially if there’s word they will be late to the stable.”
“Were any of the grooms sick, between the time you captured and imprisoned Verrakaien—including the ones I sent you—and the time of this attack on the horses?”
“Sick?” Mahieran frowned. “I don’t know, to be sure. All the grooms had been with us a long time—”
“One was,” Marrakai said. “Don’t you remember, Sonder? That fellow—what was his name?—who usually did stalls in the new wing. We asked for him—Pedraig, that was his name—and they said he was sick with the wasting. Then in two tendays, that he was like to die, a terrible fever. But he recovered.”
Dorrin’s stomach clenched. “That’s your man.”
“Pedraig? He’s been with us for years,” Mahieran said. “He’d never do anything to hurt a horse or a child, I promise you.”
“Pedraig wouldn’t,” Dorrin said. “But the man in his body now is not Pedraig. Did any Verrakai sicken and die—or die suddenly, aside from execution—while imprisoned?”
“Three,” Mahieran said. Now he looked worried. “Do you think—”
“I think a Verrakai contrived Pedraig’s illness, and took him over,” Dorrin said. “Perhaps one in prison, perhaps one living concealed in the city, or elsewhere in the palace staff. Though how he could manage that from a distance I do not know. What I do know is that I must go now, immediately, and see this fellow—”
“Now?”
“He will know I have come to the coronation—if it’s not gossip in the stable I’d be amazed—and if it is one I captured and sent here, he knows I have the full magery. He knows I can reveal him. At least the king is safe here, or so I hope—”
Mahieran started. “Gird’s arm! He was about to make his progress—!”
“What?”
“Come,” Mahieran said, and Dorrin followed as he hurried back to the reception. Over his shoulder, Mahieran said, “The new king greets all the palace servants—including in the stables—and then mounts his horse to ride in procession through the city and around the bounds—Midsummer, you know.”
“Take me to Pedraig,” Dorrin said, turning to Marrakai. “Find the king,” she said to Mahieran. “Don’t let him come near his horse.” She was halfway to the palace doors before she realized she had just ordered two senior dukes around as if they were her soldiers. And they had not protested.
Across the wide stone-flagged courtyard, the royal procession was forming: grooms held the horses of those who would ride—Dorrin had declined the honor, having no proper mount for the occasion. The horses were decked out with manes and tails elaborately braided and dressed with flowers and ribbons, bridles and saddles festooned with bells and brightwork. The king’s horse, a Tsaian gray stallion, stood at the head of the line, tossing its head now and then and pawing with one massive hoof. Already some nobles had changed their court shoes for boots and were standing in clumps, chatting as they waited for the king to arrive. From the king’s horse to the gate, a line of grooms held baskets of rose petals, ready to strew them in front of the king as the procession began.
“Pedraig,” Dorrin said to Marrakai. “Is he here?”
“I don’t see—there!” Marrakai nodded at one of the grooms with baskets, a nondescript light-haired man.
As Dorrin’s gaze met that of the man in groom’s livery, she knew at once he was Verrakai … and then, that he was her father. Her father, here? He smiled, a smile widening into such vicious glee that she felt cold all over, immobilized with horror. Before she could raise a shield of magery, he struck, a bolt of pure enmity and malice aimed not at her but at Marrakai. She parried it, but not fast enough: Marrakai fell as if hit by a stone.
Dorrin stepped over Marrakai’s body, shielding him from further attack, and loosed her own magery, first trying to hold him at bay. But he was stronger than any she had faced before. Again he struck, this time at a horse in the procession, a flick of fire that set its trappings ablaze; it screamed, jerked loose from its handlers and plunged away. The other horses reared, squealing and fighting their grooms; instant turmoil followed, with shod hooves ringing on the stones, shouts of command, screams of fear, the rasp of swords from the sheath.
She glanced around, and a flood of power broke through her shield; she staggered against force that sought to hold her as the king had been held. The sense of weight increased; she felt her knees buckling. With agonizing slowness, she forced her head around to see her father grinning at her, that same feral grin.
You cannot stand against me—daughter. The remembered voice mocked her. No once-born could. Your power came from me; it is part of mine; I am its master.
“Falk’s Oath, you are not,” Dorrin said aloud. Her voice sounded odd, but she was able to force herself upright. “You are evil, your strength comes only from blood magery.” She struggled forward, fighting the pressure of it, drawing her sword, ignoring the plunging horses, the screams and yells. “Falk and the High Lord defend me; they have given me the true magery—”
You sent the mother who bore you to her death; would you kill your own father as well? And you call me evil?
Dorrin ignored that, took step after slow step, as if wading through thick mud. His power pressed on her; she could see no effect of hers on him; he stood there smiling.
Remember those nights in the cell? Remember how you begged for your puny suffering to end? What a coward you were … and are still. Now you are old, barren, weak. An empty husk, useless for anything but torment. I will take your body but keep you as a mind-slave, helpless but aware, and use your power as my own.
Memory flooded her mind: the pain, the smells, the ta
stes of it. Her father, worse than Carraig … nausea cramped her belly; the vile taste filled her mouth. Unshed tears burned her eyes. Again her knees sagged; her hand’s grip on her sword loosened, and the sword tip fell to the stone, ringing a warning. Her hand clenched tighter. Not again, not again … She tried to say Falk’s name, but her mouth was dry, dry as bone-dust and as bitter. Dry as a cursed well …
A well that now brimmed with clean water. From the depths of despair, from that recent memory, she reached for the source of her own power, the power Falk promised was hers, untainted. Falk’s knight, not her father’s daughter; Falk’s knight, who had freed a woman and her unborn child from a curse that bound them in unending torment, whose tears had renewed the waters.
“Falk,” she managed. At once that sweet, cold water filled her mouth, washing away the taste of evils she had endured, washing away fear and hatred. As she swallowed, the water seemed to renew her whole body; her strength surged back, as water had done in the well. She saw her father’s expression change even as she felt her power mastering him. Could he feel her new determination? Now she held him motionless, and knew he could not flee. Should she bind him for others to capture, or would it be better to kill him herself? She raised her sword, saw his concentration change to fear, and then to glee again … the look she had seen on the child’s face who had been about to force a transfer.
“Falk!” she cried, pleading, and for the first time in her life cast the death spell like a spear, not knowing if it would truly kill.
His face contorted for an instant, and then he fell and lay motionless. Dorrin ran to the fallen body—she felt nothing there—no taint of evil, dire mist as she’d seen after Carraig died, no hint of lingering malice. “I’m sorry,” Dorrin said, to the body that had once been an honest groom’s, as she sheathed her sword. “You were a good man once; you deserved better.”
She looked around—the courtyard was still in chaos. With a touch of magery she calmed the horses, put out the smoldering fire that had started the panic. She hoped no one would notice that part. Duke Marrakai still lay where he had fallen; now his sons crouched beside him, staring at her wide-eyed.
She walked back to them.
“You killed him!” Kirgan Marrakai said, eyes blazing. “You killed them both! He should have known you lied! You’re just like the rest! Traitor!” He drew his dagger and lunged at her. Dorrin barely evaded the thrust, and backed away.
“Kirgan Marrakai—I did not!”
“I saw—he was beside you, he fell, and you tried to make it look like it was that groom. We know him; we’ve known him for years!”
“It was not that—” Dorrin stepped back again as the young man still advanced, dagger now in his left hand, right hand reaching for his sword.
“I saw it too,” said one of the counts. “Seize her—”
Glancing around, Dorrin saw only hostile faces, weapons drawn. Nobles and palace guards alike, they formed a ring around her, all clearly frightened but determined. Was this the gods’ punishment for killing her parents, even though they were evil? Well, if so, at least she had saved her king. She folded her arms and stood still, waiting for the blow that would kill her.
“Hold!” That shout from the palace stopped Kirgan Marrakai’s arm in midswing. “Stand away—let me see her.”
The Marshal-General of Gird, with Duke Mahieran and the king, came down the palace steps and across the courtyard. Slowly, reluctantly, the nobles sheathed their weapons and bent a knee to the king. Dorrin, arms still folded, made her bow as well.
Into the moment of silence, Aris Marrakai spoke, a boy’s voice shaky with fear and surprise. “He’s—he’s breathing.”
“What?” Kirgan Marrakai turned.
“Wait,” the Marshal-General said. Everyone stared at her as she went to Duke Marrakai, knelt beside him, and looked him over. “How did he fall?” she asked. A dozen voices answered, tumbling over one another.
“She did it—he fell backward—he just fell—I didn’t see but I heard—”
“He’s alive,” the Marshal-General said, “but he hit his head on the paving stones.”
“She made him fall,” Kirgan Marrakai insisted, pointing at Dorrin. “He was beside her and there was a flicker of light and then he fell. She used magery—”
The Marshal-General turned to Dorrin. “Well? What say you?”
“I did use magery, Marshal-General. Duke Marrakai pointed out the man we were sure had poisoned the horses a tenday or so ago … not the real groom, but a Verrakai who had taken over his body during his illness. I thought he would attack me first, but he attacked Duke Marrakai, and my attempt to shield him from that attack was not enough. To my shame.”
“Is this what you were telling me about on the way, Duke Mahieran?”
“Yes, Marshal-General. I went to warn the king before he came out here, and she and Marrakai went to find Pedraig—the groom.”
“You are convinced she was telling the truth?” Before Mahieran could answer, she turned again to Dorrin. “How did you kill him? And do you know which Verrakai he was?”
“I killed him by magery, Marshal-General, because he was too far away to reach with the sword when he attempted another transfer, to another innocent man.”
“Which Verrakai was he?”
“My father.”
The Marshal-General chewed on her lip for a moment. “To kill with magery condemns you to death, under the Code of Gird—you know that.”
“Yes, Marshal-General.”
“Did you think of that at the time?”
“No. I thought how horrible it was that another man might die—and hated what I did, but—I did it.”
“The Code of Gird offers no alternatives to death for your act,” the Marshal-General said. “Do you feel that is just?”
Dorrin just stopped herself from shrugging, which would add rudeness to her crime. “Marshal-General, laws are written as they are for a reason. I swore fealty to the king, which included swearing to obey the Code of Gird as administered in Tsaia. I have no complaints.”
“I do,” the king said. He looked from Dorrin to the Marshal-General. “I believe she saved my life—and other lives—by acting as she did. This man nearly killed my brother and Aris Marrakai; we asked Duke Verrakai to help us find the one who did so, and she has done that. By all reports, she has carried out the commands we first gave her, when we asked her to take on the Verrakai domain. I am not moved to waste a valuable peer for a quibble of law.”
“You must, my liege,” Dorrin said. “For if a king does not obey the law, how can his subjects?”
“I do not want to see you die, Dorrin Verrakai.”
“And I am not particularly eager to die,” Dorrin said. “But the law is the law, and we are both sworn to it.”
“As administered in Tsaia,” Duke Mahieran put in, quoting the oath. “And in Tsaia there are other things to be considered, mitigating factors, and also the King’s Mercy. That Dorrin Duke Verrakai killed with magery is not—since she freely admits it—in question. But the King and Council may, if they choose, consider her motives, what alternatives she might have had available, and then at the king’s discretion, he may choose an alternative punishment.”
A mutter from those watching.
“Let us consider,” Mahieran went on. “First that this man, as Duke Marrakai and I were both convinced from Duke Verrakai’s words, did poison the horses of Prince Camwyn and Aris Marrakai, and thereby imperil their lives. He was guilty of treason, and for that alone would have been condemned in a trial to shameful death. Second, that since he was not really Pedraig the groom, but a Verrakai in Pedraig’s body, his life was already forfeit under the Order of Attainder. Third, that he was no doubt conspiring to assassinate our king on the very day of his coronation by poisoning his horse—and perhaps others—the very same way he had done with the prince and young Marrakai’s horses.”
Mahieran looked around; the peers and palace guards were nodding.
“So that Duke Verrakai having killed this traitor is no crime, but a service to the Crown. She used magery to kill him, that is true, and killing by magery is against our laws—but suppose she had pierced his body with a poisoned blade? Killing with poison is also a crime—but is there anyone here who thinks if she had done that she would deserve death for so dispatching an enemy of the Crown and people of Tsaia?” Heads shook, the murmur rose.
“So I say, it is unfortunate that circumstances forced her to use magery, but if she had not, we would face worse problems. If this Verrakai had taken another body—if she had not been able to shield—at least partially—Duke Marrakai—if she had not been so determined to find and dispatch this villain that she ordered me around like one of her soldiers—” His glance at Dorrin was almost mischievous. “Then our king might be dead, and the realm in chaos worse than frightened horses loose in the palace court.” He turned to the king and bent his knee. “I ask the King’s Mercy for Duke Verrakai, my liege.”
“And I—And I as well—” Other dukes chimed in, all but Marrakai who lay still on the pavement. Mahieran turned to Kirgan Marrakai.
“Will you answer for your father, Kirgan?”
“I—” The young man looked at Dorrin. “My lord Duke, I mistook you, and what I saw. My pardon, my lord.” And to the king he said, “My liege, I also ask the King’s Mercy for Duke Verrakai.”
“Kneel,” the king said. Dorrin knelt on the rough stone; she felt one of her stockings rip. The king drew his sword and put the tip at her throat as she looked up at him. “For that you have done this thing, your life is forfeit.” Then he laid the flat of it on her head. “But for that you have done this thing in our service, and by it have served the Crown and People of the realm well, I pardon you, Dorrin Duke Verrakai, and if the gods would punish you, let the punishment fall on me, as your lord and king. Now rise.”
Dorrin rose; someone in the rear of the throng clapped, but it died away; the matter was too serious for applause.
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