It was only seconds more until Dhulyn’s respiration stilled, coming slower and the breaths themselves deeper. Color rose into her cheeks until she looked flushed. Her lips parted. After a moment, his eyes locked on Dhulyn’s, Edmir also stilled. His breathing slowed, until his chest rose and fell in time with hers. Suddenly his color changed, he grew pale, and his breathing quickened, growing loud in the still morning air. He took a step toward Dhulyn, reaching out, and Parno CRACKED his hands together.
Edmir stopped, blinking, and flushed red.
“If you can do that with an audience,” Zania said, her voice tight, “we’ll be rich.”
Kera tugged at the laces on the front of her shirt as she took the chair on her mother the queen’s right. She’d come flushed and sweating from her swordplay lesson with Megz Primeau, the current holder of the Queen’s White Blade, but from the look on her mother’s face, it was lucky she hadn’t taken the time to change out of her trousers and boots before answering the summons. Kedneara was seated in the thronelike chair in her anteroom, dressed formally in dark blue robes with white trim, her hair dressed high, with a circle of gold leaves to bind it.
Rage had brought unusual color to her mother’s face, but the queen was still a great beauty, Kera thought, taller than both her children, her hair still raven-black. She’s only forty-seven, Kera reminded herself, though Kedneara had been queen for more than thirty years. At my age, she was already the ruler of Tegrian. And at forty-seven, Kedneara’s father had been dead already, as Kedneara herself would be, if it were not for Avylos. Kera wasn’t sure quite when it was she’d realized that the Blue Mage was keeping the queen alive; it seemed that she’d always known it.
The problem was that Avylos wasn’t a Healer, nor had there been one in Tegrian for as long as Kera could remember, and though he didn’t like it spoken of, there were limits to Avylos’ magic. All Kera knew for certain was that his attempts to magic women were chancy— either the magic didn’t take at all, or it didn’t last as long as it did on a man.
As if called by her thought, Avylos entered the room, going directly to the queen, bowing low over her extended hand, and kissing it. He took a step back and bowed again—not quite as low—to Kera herself.
“My Queen,” he said, in his melodious voice. “Lady Prince.”
Kera clenched her teeth. Would she ever get used to being called that?
“Another messenger has come from Probic. The city has been destroyed by fires from the heavens. Is this your doing?” The last words were bitten off. Her mother’s breath was short, her hands trembling. Kera almost put out her hand, but stopped—they were not in private, and her mother the queen would not appreciate any signs of concern or even of affection now.
“Please, my Queen, compose yourself. You must be calm, you are putting too much strain on your heart.”
At first there was nothing but silence from the queen. Kera risked a glance at her mother out of the corner of her eye.
“Do not take that tone with me, little Mage. I am queen, and you are not Karyli.”
Avylos turned so white his eyebrows stood out on his face like slashes of blood. His hands closed into fists. Kera wondered whether she could draw her sword fast enough, or whether it would make any difference if she could.
But Avylos only took a deep breath, and flexed his hands. It seemed the Mage would follow his own advice and remain calm. Kera relaxed back into her seat, though the tension did not completely leave her body.
“It was the Nisveans, my Queen. They were to bring the body of Prince Edmir to Probic, and they . . . they used him, Keda.” Kera blushed at the Mage’s use of her mother’s pet name. “Used the noble gesture of returning his body to violate the treaty and attack Probic. They spit on his nobility, and on yours. They had to be punished, my love. They had to be destroyed.”
“You acted without consulting me.” The words were harshly spoken, but Kera could tell the fire was gone from her mother’s anger.
“There was no time to call the Houses,” Avylos said. “No time to prepare the armies. I needed a faster solution. Quick, deadly, and final.
“I had to punish them.”
“And the people of Probic, my people?” Kedneara’s only movement was the quick rising and falling of her breast as she breathed. Again Kera risked a glance sideways; her mother’s face was as cold and hard as the profile on Kedneara’s coins.
“I could not pick and choose, my Queen. My magics do not work in that fashion. I had to act quickly. But only think! It will send a message of warning to the Nisveans—to anyone!—showing what will happen if they dare to invade your lands. As for your people, I am certain they would rather die and be held in the hands of the gods than be slaves in Nisvea.”
Kera wasn’t so sure of that herself, but it seemed that the queen found Avylos’ argument persuasive. She was nodding.
“So be it. They are in the hands of the Caids, and let the Caids sort them out.”
Avylos looked squarely into the queen’s deep blue eyes and bowed. At the very last moment Kera saw a flash of satisfaction pass over the Mage’s face.
Kera gripped the arms of her chair, and she was speaking before she was even aware of her intentions.
“How was it your magics prevailed in Probic, when they failed in the Limona Valley?” There. That should upset some of his smugness.
Her mother the queen’s face changed, her eyes narrowed in speculation. She reached out for Avylos’ forearm, and Kera saw the strong fingers dig in.
“You knew? You knew Edmir went to Nisvea and you did not tell me? You failed to either stop or aid him?”
Slowly, reluctantly it seemed, Avylos came to his knees before the queen. “Most assuredly I did not. My magics cannot fail, as you know. But they must be used. Edmir was misled somehow, tricked or prevented from calling upon me. The battle was done before I knew of it. Tzanek in Probic was the last to see him, to counsel him. Who knows what may have passed between them?”
“But you did not tell me of his intentions. Who else knew of them? Did you counsel Edmir to go to Nisvea? The Houses whose sons went with him—Avros and Redni—they have returned, ransomed. Was this their idea?”
Avylos was still on his knees, his head lowered, but he turned his eyes to Kera and a trickle of cold ran down her spine. Would he speak? Tell her mother the queen that Kera herself had known of Edmir’s plan and said nothing? She sat up straight. Well, she’d started this herself by exposing Avylos. She might as well keep control of the tiles in her own hands.
And out of the Mage’s.
“Edmir didn’t want you to know, Mother.” She’d be safe enough, she hoped. Kera was now her mother the queen’s only child. Never the favorite, but given the choice, Kedneara would choose her own blood, every time. “This was Edmir’s own plan. He shared it with me, and later with the Blue Mage, but I did not counsel him against it. At least, not at first.”
“Oh, Edmir.” The queen rubbed at her eyes with her fingertips. “He was always so impetuous, so eager. He should have waited for the treaty to be finished.”
Kera stifled a sigh. “He wished for your approval,” she said. “He wanted to show you he could lead your armies.”
Kedneara waved this away. “Of course I approved of him, he was my son. How could he be so foolish?” Kedneara took Kera’s hand in both of hers.
From his position still on his knees, Avylos placed his hand atop both of theirs. “Calmness still, my Queen.”
“But, Mother, you see, don’t you, that Avros and Redni have no blame in this.”
Kedneara nodded, and patted Kera’s hand.
“Who else knows of the Lady Prince’s involvement, my queen?”
Kera was momentarily speechless. She had not thought of what she’d done to help Edmir in quite those terms.
“What do you mean, Avylos?” the queen asked.
“Who knows that the Lady Prince advised her brother in his plans? Wait, hear me out. We had the same motives, Kera and I, to a
id our Lord Prince, to enhance his reputation and gain him a greater following among the younger House lords. But—” he turned to Kera. “It could also be said that you deliberately urged him to go, and secretly advised him to reject my aid, knowing that he would very likely meet his death.”
There was a sudden buzzing in Kera’s ears. “But I would have no motive . . .” Her voice died away. Of course she had a motive. Of course she did.
“Exactly.” Avylos was nodding. “You would have your brother’s power for yourself. You would have the throne.” He turned back to the queen. “And people would believe it, Keda. She is, after all, so much better suited to rule.”
Kera thought she couldn’t register any more surprises, but she was shocked speechless when her mother merely pursed her lips and nodded at this.
“If it had been Lady Prince Kera at Limona, rather than Edmir,” Avylos was still speaking. “She would not have failed. She would have carried the day, magic or no, and we would even now be marching on their capital in her train. Edmir was a fine young man, but Kera will make the better queen, and all know it.”
“But people didn’t think Edmir was such a fool,” Kera said, “or why would anyone have followed him?”
“You are right, Kera. They thought him courageous, and were proud to be among his friends. Still, they will be happier to follow you.”
Kera wanted to deny what Avylos was saying. But she knew when she’d been outmaneuvered. Anything she could say now would only sound like false modesty—something her mother the queen would not appreciate.
And besides, her mother was satisfied now, and nothing Kera could say would change that.
“If you have no further need of me.” Avylos raised the queen’s hand to his lips, lowered it gently, then moved toward the door.
“Avylos.”
The Mage stopped with his hand on the door.
“We will not speak of this further, since it could do Kera harm. But you will not act in such a manner again without my orders. I am Queen in Tegrian.”
Kera made sure to keep her face straight.
Avylos kept his face impassive and his pace steady as far as the door to the consort’s apartment. He could not contain himself enough to make it back to his own apartments in the Mage’s wing. Rage burned through him like fire through a dry field of grass. He’d come within a breath of reaching out and snapping her neck. The cow. That she would speak to him in such a way—as if his magics were of no account. As if they were not all that kept her alive and on her throne.
She would not speak to him like this if she knew what had really happened to her precious Karyli whom she’d loved so much. She was no different, to dismiss all he had done for her, the conquests he had made possible once Karyli and his foolish scruples were out of the way.
He rubbed his lips with his hand, pushed his fingers through his hair. He could not be seen like this. He must calm himself. He could not afford to treat them as they deserved—both of them!—until he had the full power of the Stone in his hands.
Kedneara he’d expected to have to soothe and explain—she was easy, he understood her. Any explanation that praised her, or her children, would persuade. But Kera! She had been such a pleasant child. She would often come to play in his garden, and he had thought of her—when he thought of her at all—as a sweet child, even his friend. And perhaps she had been, once. Now that she had the throne within her grasp she was just like her mother. They saw him only as a tool, a servant, useful for what they could get from him.
All of them, sneaking, conspiring she-cats. All the women in his life, none of them to be trusted. First his mother—
He rested his forehead against the pane of glass. It was cool, soothing. He needed to calm down, not enrage himself further. And besides, it wasn’t true. Not all the women in his life had turned on him, though it had certainly felt that way at the time. . . .
At first he hadn’t even been able to identify the feeling, it was so strange to him. He could never remember feeling content, let alone happy. But the troupe had welcomed him, had been impressed by his talents—not only as a magician, but as a mechanic. Inventing the mechanisms to help him in performing his magic tricks had given him several useful ideas that could be used in staging plays as well. When they saw that he was ready to help them and share his expertise, their respect grew.
And there was Marika. No older than himself, but wise beyond his understanding, already a widow with a small child. Matters between them proceeded rapidly, adding to his sense of well-being and contentment.
“For the first time I feel as if I belong,” he said to her one night, rolling up on his elbow. He brushed her hair back from her face and kissed her eyes, her cheekbones, her lips. She laughed and rolled up to meet him, pressing her cool forehead against his own, giving him the courage to go on, to say aloud what he’d been thinking of for days.
“Marika, I could not bear to leave you. I would like to stay with you, to become a permanent member of the troupe. Marry me?”
Marika consulted her father, and the others of the troupe, and they had all agreed. He would join them. They would become his family, his Clan, his Tribe. He would not be alone again. Not excluded, not laughed at. Not hunted down.
Three nights later they welcomed him into their ceremony, allowed him, as part of their family, to pray with their household spirits. They showed him the Stone.
And he learned what the Stone could do.
He learned he wasn’t srusha, wasn’t barren, and everything in his world changed, even his history, even his past, now that he understood what had really been happening, and just how badly his own people had betrayed him—before he betrayed them and escaped.
All that he had been, all that he had done, had occurred in order to bring him to the moment when he had first touched the Stone, and had felt the magic within him rise.
He lifted his forehead from the window and sighed. All that was years behind him. He would think of it no more.
When he was calm enough to control his face, and the way he held his body as he walked, Avylos headed back to his own wing. Almost unnoticed around him were the usual activities of the Royal House, the stewards on their rounds, pages, guards, and kitchen servants already beginning the preparations for the evening meal. In a shaft of sunlight from one of the upper windows in the Great Hall, a Knife sat beside her patient as the man—injured by a fall from a ladder while working on the roof tiles of the Westwind Tower—snored under the influence of the poppy she’d given him.
Avylos’ steps slowed as he considered taking the Knife, but his pace soon quickened again. She was too useful, even though she could not help the queen. Without the Knife, he might be called upon to waste his magics on just such injuries as she tended now. Instead, he would hold her in reserve; the time might very well come when he would need her. Ordinary skills, talents, and abilities such as the Knife’s were useful to him—even if not as useful as the talents of another Mage.
And he might need to feed the Stone even the Knife’s meager talents sooner than he’d like.
Kedneara would not be useful to him for very much longer. And Kera . . . Kera would take handling of a different kind. Perhaps everything would need to be handled differently from now on.
Typically, Kedneara had seen the destruction of Probic only as it affected her personally. The woman thought the sun rose and set for her. Her message, what happened to people who invaded her Tegrian. But Probic’s fate carried another message, one Kedneara had not considered. With Probic in ruins, and the army of Nisvea destroyed, Avylos had told the world that the Blue Mage did not need an army.
Ten
IN THE END, they did not do a performance at Vednerysh Holding after all. At least, not a proper performance, not to Zania’s way of thinking. So much time had been spent earlier in the day making sure the Mercenary Brothers no longer looked like Mercenary Brothers that there had been no time left for learning parts. Neither of them had hesitated for a moment to cut their hair
quite short, and the Wolfshead had even insisted on having hers shaved completely.
“It’s the color,” she explained. “The one thing everyone knows about the Red Horsemen is the color of our hair.” She accepted a dark blonde wig which Zania had passed over with reluctance, her fingers suddenly clumsy, and tangling in the long tresses.
“It’s my mother’s hair, from when she was a young girl,” Zania said, when her hesitation became apparent. “It’s been worn since of course, many times, but never . . .” She fought to bring her trembling chin under control. “Never by someone outside the family. Please be very careful with it, Wolfshead.”
“And speaking of being careful,” the Lionsmane interjected. “We must be Dhulyn and Parno to you both from now on, even in your thoughts. Our other names will give us away as quickly as our badges, to those who know the Brotherhood.”
Zania considered, her head on one side. That made sense. “If we think of you by your public names, we’ll slip up, for certain.” She turned to Edmir. “We do the same when we rehearse a new play. We make sure never to think of the other actors by their real names, lest we use them on stage.”
Zania had the paste ready, and with a few practiced strokes of the brush applied it to the Wolfshead’s—Dhulyn’s, Zania corrected, Dhulyn’s head along the front edge of her hairline and over her temples. A very small part of the Mercenary badge still showed, but Zania knew she could cover that with stage paint in an instant. Deftly, she moved the wig into place and pressed firmly along the glued edge.
“You can lift it off from the back it you have to,” she told the Mercenary woman. “But the glue should hold for several days unless it becomes wet.”
“Keep the beard, do you think?” Parno was saying. “I haven’t shaved since Limona.”
“Why not? If you’re normally clean shaven, the beard will be a decent disguise in itself,” Edmir answered. “I wish mine would grow in so well.”
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