Rachylana moaned again. Her eyes fluttered. Then she slumped.
Mykella started. “No!”
“It’s not that,” said Treghyt quickly. “She’s sleeping…or something like it. That sometimes happens.” He looked to Mykella. “Did she eat something that you two didn’t?”
“We all ate brunch here, and had refreshments this afternoon at Aunt Cheleyza’s, and dinner here. We served ourselves…” Mykella shook her head.
“She didn’t eat anything but that,” added Salyna.
“It could be that she had some bad food,” said the healer. “Sometimes, only parts of things are tainted. Neither of you feels unwell, do you?”
“No,” said Salyna immediately.
“No,” added Mykella.
“Let me know if you do.” The healer’s eyes went back to Rachylana. “She’ll need to rest, and someone should watch her.”
“We’ll take her to her chamber,” Mykella said.
“No,” Salyna said. “My bed is big enough for two. We’ll take her there. I can watch her.”
“Are you—” began Mykella.
“That would be best,” suggested Treghyt.
The two lifted their limp sister and carried her out of the parlor and down the corridor to Salyna’s chamber. Once they had laid Rachylana on the bed, Treghyt again examined her.
After a short time, he straightened. “Her pulse is a little stronger, and the fever feels less intense. She shouldn’t have anything to eat, and only boiled tea or boiled water until I’m certain that it isn’t some sort of flux…or something worse.”
Mykella knew exactly what he meant by “something worse,” but she only nodded. So did Salyna.
Salyna asked, “Isn’t there something you can do…?”
Treghyt shook his head. “The way these…things work, unless I know the cause, or unless it’s clear that the person will die unless something is done, it’s better to do nothing. That’s because the remedy for one cause will make matters worse if it’s actually caused by something else. If she were close to dying…then I’d try…and I’d hope that it would be right.”
“But…what…” Salyna looked to the sleeping Rachylana.
“She might sleep through the night, or she could wake up at any time. If she gets hotter, come get me immediately. I’ll be ready if she takes a turn for the worse, but she seems to be getting better, and usually when something is this severe so quickly, if people start to get better, they keep getting better.”
“That’s…good,” said Salyna.
Mykella nodded.
After Treghyt left, Salyna looked to Mykella. “It wasn’t food. We all ate the same things.”
“But what else could it be?”
“Something she drank,” Salyna declared.
“But why? Rachylana’s not perfect, but she’s no danger to anyone. None of us are.”
“There’s Berenyt. I’d wager one of the women at Cheleyza’s has a daughter they want to marry him. No one but us would suspect, and there were so many people there, how could we even tell who it might be?”
“And it might not have been one of them…or there.” Mykella walked over to the bed and let her Talent range over Rachylana again. The last trace of blue had vanished, but a faint pall of gray still clouded the redhead’s midsection. “I think she is getting better.” I just hope it continues.
“It makes me feel better to hear you say that,” said Salyna.
“When I say that?”
“About that sort of thing, you’ve always been right.” Salyna shook her head. “You didn’t say anything, but I could tell. You knew Mother wouldn’t recover, and you tried not to let anyone know you knew.”
Mykella didn’t want to relive that. “Will you be all right? Tonight?”
“I’ll be fine, and if I’m not, I know where to find you.”
After Mykella left Rachylana and Salyna, she slipped into Rachylana’s room, where she let her Talent range over everything, but she could sense nothing like the blue-green that had struck her sister.
Although Treghyt had suggested that Rachylana suffered from a bout of bad food, he’d really been worried about poison, and Mykella shared his concerns.
Still…why would anyone want to poison Rachylana? Mykella could think of reasons to poison her father, or even Jeraxylt or Joramyl, but Rachylana? For all that Salyna had said, why would any mother risk the displeasure of the Lord-Protector over a marriage that likely wouldn’t occur? Their father had as much as indicated that another envoy was being sent to negotiate a match for Rachylana.
Mykella closed Rachylana’s door and walked slowly back to her own chamber.
31
On Decdi night, sleep was a long time coming to Mykella, not only because of her worries about Rachylana, but also because the bruise on her thigh seemed to hurt more when she wasn’t doing something and because her mind kept spinning through question after question. What exactly had caused Rachylana’s collapse? Was it really some sort of bad food, as Treghyt had said? Or something more deliberate, as the healer had hinted? But, if it were, why would anyone wish to poison Rachylana? That made little sense to Mykella.
Then there were other questions. Why exactly had Cheleyza held a gathering of mostly older women and then invited the Lord-Protector’s daughters? Why was the greenish darkness only in some places beneath the ground? Was that why the palace had been built where it had been? And the suggestion by Jylara that Mykella visit Lord Gharyk’s study to see the painting of Mykel the Great’s wife—that had also been strange, because Mykella hadn’t sensed anything untoward or malicious behind the words. But then, she hadn’t really been looking for that, caught unaware as she had been.
She was the first at breakfast on Londi morning, and she drank half a mug of tea before Salyna and Rachylana appeared. Mykella immediately studied Rachylana, noting a trace of the gray mist around her middle, but it appeared patchy, as if it were dissipating, like fog in the sunlight. Mykella certainly hoped so. “How are you feeling?” Mykella’s voice held concern.
Rachylana smiled, if faintly. “Much better, but Treghyt says that I’m to have only tea this morning.”
“That’s all you will have,” added Salyna. “I’m here to see to that.”
“And have your own breakfast,” added Mykella lightly.
Just after Muergya poured Salyna’s tea, Jeraxylt stumbled into the breakfast room, slumping into his chair.
“You had a late night, it appears,” offered Salyna to her brother.
Mykella could sense Jeraxylt’s headache, even before he replied, “I’m not used to drinking the way some of them do.”
“Then, I suggest you don’t,” said Feranyt dryly as he stepped into the breakfast room. “No one will notice how much you drink so long as you lift your goblet as many times as they do. They only notice if you don’t lift it. Laugh, whether you think what they say is humorous or not. Laugh and appear to drink and enjoy it, and no one will notice.”
Except those who are watching closely, thought Mykella. She studied her father. Did he have a faint tinge of gray about him? She wasn’t certain, but she was certain of something else—that many little unseen threads that spun out from his body into a knot—a node—did carry a gray tinge, although that vanished beyond the node where they fused into the single life-thread that arched away from him. Mykella turned her senses toward her sisters, and the same pattern existed with them as well—but without the gray. Rachylana still had the faintest trace of the gray mist around her mid-section, but none around the node, which Mykella thought was good, although she couldn’t have said why.
“It’s…rather late for that advice, sir.” Jeraxylt winced as he lifted his mug of spiced tea.
“I offered it before dinner both on Novdi and Decdi. You either didn’t hear or didn’t listen. When one doesn’t listen, one usually pays double. You are.” He turned to Rachylana. “Treghyt said you had a bout with bad food. Are you feeling better?”
“Yes, Father, bu
t I’m to be careful with what I eat.”
“You do that.” Feranyt paused, then added, “Good morning to you, Salyna and Mykella.”
“Good morning,” the two replied quietly, if scarcely in unison.
“And we will hope that it will be a good morning.” Feranyt smiled, then picked up his mug and took a long swallow. As soon as Muergya served him his omelet, he began to eat heartily.
Mykella found that she was far hungrier than she had realized because she left nothing on her platter. She was eating a second piece of too-brown toast when her father began to speak again.
“Tomorrow night we will have a formal dinner with the envoy from Southgate. Your uncle informs me that he will arrive sometime today, possibly this morning.”
“What about Envoy Sheorak?” asked Rachylana quietly.
“Both envoys will remain through the season-turn events and celebrations. That way they can observe both Tempre and you three. One cannot be too careful, and I would like them to know you all better. It certainly was most helpful that your uncle was given time to learn more about your mother when he was envoy in Dramuria.”
“What was her sister like?” asked Salyna. “You’ve never said.”
“I’ve never said because I don’t know.” Feranyt laughed. “Joramyl only said that your mother was far better suited to me, and time proved that to be so.”
Her father’s words bothered Mykella—not because they were false, but because they bore the ring of truth. If Joramyl had wanted the best consort for his older bother, why was he now plotting against him? Or was he merely trying to feather his own nest without the Lord-Protector finding out? That didn’t seem right, either.
“You’re all young and good-looking,” Feranyt went on. “You’re truly good matches for anyone of power and ability, and you can make good households anywhere, just so long as you realize that your role is to be supporting. If you see something, or if you have advice, always give it to your husband quietly, and when no one else is around. That way, the people always believe in his strength.” He shook his head. “Too many women don’t understand that when they appear strong and capable, it undermines their husband. That’s a pity in many ways, but that is how the world works.”
Mykella could see that her father believed that. She could even see how such a practice might work. She didn’t have to like it…and she didn’t. She thought about asking whether the same would apply to a husband if the wife were the ruler, then decided against it. Her father would only say that she was asking a question about something that could never happen.
“Are there times when a wife can speak for her husband?” Salyna asked.
“Very few. If he is away on a military campaign, I suppose, but only if she repeats what he would have said, and only before small groups of his strongest supporters.” Feranyt took another long swallow of his tea. When he finished, he pushed back his chair. “That should hold me.”
As he stood, Mykella studied him. If there had been any gray around or within her father, it had certainly vanished, and that, she felt, was all for the good.
When she finished her own tea, she hurried off to wash up, then made a quick stop before the mirror in her own chamber. After studying herself in the mirror, she added a green shimmersilk scarf to the nightsilk tunic—since she had decided to visit Lord Gharyk before going to the Finance study.
She walked deliberately down the main staircase and along the front corridor, heading east. Her steps conveyed purpose, but not haste, as she made her way nearly to the east end of the palace, before stepping into the antechamber of Lord Gharyk’s study.
The clerk who sat at the table inside the door looked at Mykella for a moment, his face wrinkling as if his thoughts were conflicted between questioning what an unaccompanied young woman was doing coming into the study of the Minister of Justice and trying to recognize who she might be.
“Mykella,” she said, adding the words she hated to use, “the Lord-Protector’s daughter. I’m here to see Lord Gharyk.”
The clerk bolted to his feet, his eyes taking in and abruptly recognizing the nightsilk garments that only the wealthiest in Tempre could afford. “Oh…yes, Mistress Mykella…he’s here. Let me announce you.”
Before Mykella could have said a word, the clerk turned, took three steps to the door behind and to his right, opened it, and stepped inside, leaving it barely ajar. “Sir…it’s the Lord-Protector’s daughter, the dark-haired one, to see you.”
“Show her in, Nealtyr. Show her in.” Even through the crack between the door and its frame, Gharyk’s hearty voice filled the outer chamber.
Nealtyr scurried back out, holding the door open and bowing, then gesturing for Mykella to enter the study.
She would have closed the door behind her, but Nealtyr did so before she could.
Lord Gharyk had risen from his desk and stepped out before it, but Mykella’s eyes skipped past him to the full-sized portrait that hung on the wall behind the Justice Minister’s desk. The woman portrayed at the bottom of the grand staircase of the palace had shimmering black hair, shoulder-length, with piercing green eyes that dominated her face. She wore a high-necked dress of a green so dark it was close to black, with a brighter green scarf and matching belt. Her forehead was neither too high nor too low, although her eyebrows were strong and dark. She also had high cheekbones, and a strong nose, but not one that could be called overlarge. The hand that rested on the balustrade showed long fingers—the only trait besides height, Mykella realized, that she did not share with the image of Rachyla.
Gharyk—a slender, short, and balding man barely half a head taller than Mykella—offered a faint smile and inclined his head slightly, but did not speak.
“I do hope that I’m not intruding, Lord Gharyk, but yesterday your wife mentioned that you had a painting of Rachyla here in your study and that she thought there was a certain family resemblance. She suggested that I should visit you at my earliest convenience.”
Gharyk stepped back and gestured to the painting that hung on the paneled wall behind his desk. “I knew you resembled the portrait, but not how much. As you see, you could be sisters, so close are your likenesses.”
“I did not know,” Mykella admitted. “I’ve never seen the portrait.”
“I imagine not.” Gharyk smiled warmly.
Unlike so many of those with whom Mykella had conversed lately, Gharyk’s expression and inner feelings seemed to match, although there was a concern behind that warmth, Mykella sensed. “I would have thought it might have hung in the receiving hall or…somewhere else.”
“Somewhere of greater prominence?” Gharyk nodded, then asked, “Do you know why this painting remains with the Minister of Justice? Or has for the last hundred years or so?”
“I cannot say that I do.”
“Mykel the Great is reputed to have said that justice must always be tempered with practicality and that he had learned that in the hardest way possible from Rachyla. According to the stories, her portrait was placed where she could look down at the Minister of Justice and remind him of that.” Gharyk laughed softly.
“Does she?” asked Mykella lightly.
“She reminds me. I can’t speak for most of those who preceded me, but my immediate predecessor thought so as well.”
Mykella looked up at the portrait again. The image conveyed strength and purpose, so much so that the woman’s beauty faded behind the intensity of that strength. And yet Mykel the Great had won her? A mere Cadmian majer? Or had she inspired him to become Lord-Protector of Tempre so that he could win her?
“She had to have been most impressive,” Gharyk said.
“I can see that.” Mykella waited to see what else the Minister of Justice had to say.
“Did you know that Mykel never called himself the Lord-Protector? He only claimed the title of ‘Protector of Tempre.’ His great-grandson was the first Lord-Protector. That might have been because Mykel understood from the beginning that justice depends not only on streng
th of arms and a consensus among the powerful, but also upon standards that apply to rich and poor, high and low alike. That understanding is rare, and a ruler who applies that principle is even rarer. In our day, all across Corus, all too often blood is stronger than the water of justice, and all suffer when that becomes the law and supercedes equal standards applied equally to all. Did you know that Mykel threw out his own brother because Viencet didn’t understand that the law of fairness applied to everyone, even the brother of the Protector of Tempre?”
“No, I didn’t.”
“He knew that entrusting his brother with any kind of power would only lead to great trouble. Few men or women, fair and just as they may be in other areas, can look beyond blood to do what is best. Some are so besotted with power that they destroy those close to them for fear of rivalry. Others fail to see the lust for power in those close to them, and still others see and ignore it. Rachyla shared that understanding with Mykel and was the one to insist that her cousin, a High Seltyr who had been her guardian, be forced to return to Southgate.” Gharyk smiled warmly again. “You came to see a portrait, and you get a lecture in history. I do apologize. At times, I forget myself.”
Mykella understood that he had forgotten nothing. “Your stories are fascinating. I’d never heard any of that, and none of it is in any of the histories I’ve read.”
He shook his head. “I still cannot believe how closely you resemble Rachyla, even in deeds. You are overseeing the accounting of the master ledgers, I hear.”
“Reviewing them and reporting to my father. That is more accurate, I fear. He will do whatever he thinks best with what I report.”
“I’m sure that he will. He is a good man, and kind.”
Mykella could almost sense the unspoken words—too kind, especially to his brother.
“And you are most kind, Mistress Mykella, to indulge my wife’s whim and come and visit me and the portrait.”
The Lord-Protector's Daughter Page 20