“Of course,” she said. “You must excuse my ignorance. I know nothing of Mages and their responsibilities, but surely they must be heavy. In my excitement at finding a kinsman, I may speak too familiarly. Pray believe that I do not wish to offend.”
Avylos found himself smiling. He’d forgotten what the Espadryni were like. This Dhulyn was plainspoken, not disrespectful. Open and straightforward, nothing sycophantic in her tone or carriage. But he remembered, and sobered again. How much did she know?
“What do you remember of your time among the tribes?”
She shrugged. “I was so young when the tribes were broken, that I remember very little about the life. I have learned some things since through study—I can read—but I was not sure . . . were there many Mages among the Espadryni?”
“No,” he said, and then smiled to soften the bluntness of his answer. She didn’t know. If she didn’t know that, she wouldn’t know that he’d been srusha. “But I did not start to come into my powers until after the tribes were broken. No doubt, as a child, much was hidden from me.”
“No doubt.”
“But please, seat yourself, let me offer you some jeresh.” When she nodded, he unstoppered the bottle sitting on the table to his right and poured out two portions into the waiting glass cups. He handed her one, and raised his own in salute.
“To proofs,” he said.
The woman raised her own cup, took a sip, and lowered it again. She looked at him steadily for a long moment, as if she were considering something of great weight. Finally her lips formed the smallest of smiles.
“I am ready,” she said. She set her glass down and lifted her hands to the back of her head. She pushed her fingers into the dark brown curls on her neck and her hair moved. The hairs on Avylos’ own neck shivered for an instant until he realized she was wearing a wig, and was lifting it off. She pushed her hands forward until her fingers were scraping at the hairline around her face, and in a few moments more the wig was lying in her lap.
She rubbed her hands quickly over her scalp, brushing off loose bits of the glue that had held on the wig. There was stubble exposed on her shapely skull, perhaps three days’ worth, a deep red, a blood color almost identical to his own. But something else was exposed as well. Something that cast all his half-formed plans into the fire.
“You are a Mercenary Brother.” He tapped his upper lip with his fingers. Edmir at Jarlkevo, and now this? He was wary of coincidences.
“I am. I am Dhulyn Wolfshead, called the Scholar. I was Schooled by Dorian, the Black Traveler. I have fought with my brothers at Sadron, Arcosa, and Bhexyllia.”
He waited, but it seemed Dhulyn Wolfshead had finished. “You had better stay in my rooms until I can find you another wig, Dhulyn Wolfshead—a red one by preference, though I do not know where I will find one so fine as yours. Kedneara the Queen does not feel well-disposed toward Mercenaries, just now.”
“The very reason for this.” She picked up the dark brown wig and laid it aside on the table. “As you see from my colors, I am employed as a House Guard for Valaika Jarlkevoso, and have been for six or seven moons now. When we heard what was being said about the Lord Prince’s death, and the banishment, the Jarlkevoso advised me to cover my Badge and wait.”
“Do you believe what is being said?” Can I believe what’s being said? Had she been all this time with Valaika? Or had she come more recently? And with a princely companion?
“No,” she said, looking directly at him with her steel-gray eyes. For a moment he believed she had read his thoughts. “The Brotherhood does not murder—but the Queen of Tegrian will not be the first grief-stricken person who puts blame in the wrong place.”
Avylos leaned against the edge of the table, propping his elbow in his free hand. “Do you know why the Jarlkevoso has chosen to come to Beolind just now?”
Dhulyn Wolfshead shrugged, but seemed to give his question some thought. “A group of players came to Jarlkevo. They did a play where a king returns from war to his family. Perhaps the story reminded the Jarlkevoso that her nephew would not be returning from his battle, and that her sister-by-marriage Kedneara the Queen might be bereft.” Again, she shrugged. “I was not told anything of the matter.”
Avylos nodded. It could be. It was possible. The players he had already heard about, and if she was merely a guard—however valued, as a Mercenary Brother would be—she might know nothing of the arrival of Edmir. Valaika would bring her to Beolind to keep her from finding out . . . And whatever else she might be, she was Espadryni, and Marked. So long as he had her here, in his hands, surely she was more asset than liability. “However did you become a Mercenary Brother?”
“I had seen the Hawk Moon perhaps five or six times when the Espadryni were overrun. My parents were killed, and I was sold to slavers. Sold several times, in fact—I don’t believe we make good slaves, we Espadryni. When I had seen the Hawk moon eleven times, the slave ship I was on was taken by Dorian the Black, the Mercenary Schooler. He said he would teach me to kill my enemies, an offer I was happy to take.”
Slavers. Avylos hoped she did not see him shiver. “I was luckier than you, I think,” he told her. “My Clan was near the forest that is found at the western end of the plains, and I escaped into the wood when we were overrun. I was found and hidden by farmers—folk we’d often traded with. They would have made a home for me, gladly, for their family was not so numerous, but I could not settle to that kind of life. And then my powers began to come, and the news out of Tegrian spoke of the Consort Karyli’s gathering of the gifted and Marked to be licensed. So to Tegrian I came, and to Beolind. And I have been here ever since.”
“Are you happy here?” There was something different in the tone Dhulyn Wolfshead used to ask this question, and to his surprise, Avylos answered honestly.
“I have been glad of the time to study, to increase my powers. I have done much here in Tegrian, and will have a chance to do more, as Kedneara the Queen extends her rule. But tell me, what brings you to Beolind?”
Not for the first time, Dhulyn wished she had Edmir’s gift for telling tales. Already she was losing track of what she had told him, and she was keenly aware that she was taking too long to answer now. But she was just as certain that she had to tread carefully. Avylos reminded her of Delmarin Hammerfist who had been Schooled with her, a person quick to feel slighted, and who needed frequent reassurance. Parno was better at handling this kind of person than she was.
“I might easily say that you are yourself my reason to be in Beolind, Lord Avylos. There was talk of you in Monara, and someone who claimed to have seen you, described you in such a way that I thought you might be Espadryni, and so I came to see. I had been, as I said, six moons or more with House Jarlkevo, working my way here, when the news came of the Lord Prince’s murder and the banishment of the Brotherhood. House Jarlkevo, knowing of my intention to seek you out, in her generosity chose me to be one of her guard when she came to see the queen.” She picked up her glass and took another sip of jeresh. “I did not dream I would be so lucky as to see you on the street. Will you speak for me to the queen? Ask her to exempt me from her order of banishment?”
Avylos leaned back again in his chair and Dhulyn breathed more easily. If he was relaxing, perhaps he believed her.
“I will be happy to speak to her,” he said. “But if you take my counsel, we will wait. Give her more time. My assurances will help her to act justly, but you will not gain her favor unless we wait. And I wish you to gain that favor. You may stay here as long as you desire—as you said, we are each of us the closest thing to kin that either of us has left in the world.” Avylos hesitated, as if these words had stopped his throat. “I must ask that you remain here in my apartments for now,” he continued. “Or, if you will resume your wig, in my garden. Others cannot enter here without my knowing. Give your own hair time to grow out more. If I can claim you as kin, our assurances to the queen will be stronger.”
“What of your escort? Will they
not speak of me?”
Avylos shook his head. “I will tell everyone that you are ill, and that you must stay in my care until there is no danger.”
Suddenly he came around the table and took her hands in his. They were cool, and strangely rough as if his calluses were in the wrong places. There was a softness in his eyes, and for a moment Dhulyn thought he was going to kiss her hands. She widened her eyes and lifted her brows.
He smiled and the moment passed. “I am expected to join my wife the queen for supper, so I must leave you. Let me show you into the garden, you will be safe there. If you can be patient and wait, I will bring you a meal myself later in the evening.”
“I am used to going without food,” she said. “It is part of our training.” She picked up the wig and pulled it on. It fit well enough, even without the glue, to fool anyone who would only see her in a garden.
As soon as she was alone, Dhulyn made her way back to the Blue Mage’s workroom. Once there, however, she stood outside the door tapping her upper lip with her tongue. The door was now a plain, smooth expanse of painted wood. There was no door latch, no sign of hinges. It could be a decorative piece of paneling, for any evidence to the contrary. Knowing it to be a waste of time, she nevertheless felt over the smooth surface, paying particular attention to the spot where she had seen the latch when Avylos had used it.
Still nothing. She blew out her breath in a noiseless whistle and turned back to the garden. So much for sneaking into the room, grabbing the Muse Stone, retrieving Bloodbone and the bulk of her weapons from the stables and riding away while the Mage was elsewhere. She would have to think of a new plan.
Dhulyn expected to find the garden familiar, even though this would be the first time she had seen it directly, and in the clear light of day. There was no mistaking the pool, for example, in which she’d seen Edmir’s reflection. She sat down on the pool’s wide stone edge and trailed her hand in the water. Too bad she couldn’t use the Mage’s ghost eye to see Edmir for herself. Though if she was wishing things, she’d prefer to see Parno.
Escaped into the woods, she thought. I wish I could believe him. But she couldn’t, not really. In her Visions Avylos had been terrified, granted, but there had been no sign of what he’d been running from. And while Avylos had been young, he was old enough to hold a sword and die beside his family—or at the very least old enough to lead other, younger children away into the woods, to escape as he had himself. Why hadn’t he done so?
Why would he have run without even trying to help? Dhulyn rubbed her hands dry on her leggings. Were her questions reasonable? Or did her thinking reflect that of a Mercenary Brother, and not that of a young Espadryni boy? She’d always assumed that what had made the Mercenary School feel so right for her was that it had provided the same sense of unity she remembered feeling as a child, riding behind her father on his horse. The unity that would keep one Mercenary standing over an injured Brother until the fight—or their lives— ended. In Battle, or in Death.
If Avylos had not felt this, was the fault in him, or in her own memories?
Even if she were willing to believe that part of his story, what of the things he hadn’t mentioned? There could be no doubting now that he was the same Avylyn who had been a member of Troupe Tzadeyeu. Even if the names had not agreed, there was that plain wooden casket she’d been so careful to ignore, sitting on the end of his worktable, that matched so perfectly the drawing in Zania’s book. Dhulyn put her hand where she could feel the edge of the book under her tunic. She stood up once more and followed the path on the far side of the pond. It led to a section of wall that had obviously been rebuilt at one time. In this light, and from this angle, it seemed likely she could climb the wall, when the opportunity presented itself.
“Oh, yes,” she muttered, still in her mother’s tongue. “I’m sure he spent ten summers living on a farm, that’s likely.” But a short time on a farm, and then a second escape to the players troupe? That was far more likely. And if the Stone enhanced what powers he did possess— or somehow triggered powers which had been latent? That would explain a great deal. It seemed likelier still that he had taken it and fled for the greater protection of the Royal House of Tegrian.
She stepped back from the wall, propped her left hand on her hip, and tilted her head to one side.
“Aren’t you going to miss your supper, loitering about here?” she asked.
After a long moment the girl Dhulyn had sensed sitting behind a flowering bush on a rough protruding stone in the rebuilt section of wall stood up and picked her way down to the ground level.
Dhulyn’s face relaxed into a smile. She knew who this girl must be. Her hair was the same red gold as Valaika Jarlkevoso’s, though obviously without the gray. And while her face was more oval, she had her brother Edmir’s strong nose. Dhulyn raised her hand—
Older. Perhaps ten years older. On horseback, a white horse with deep blue saddlecloth, crested. Her light red hair clubbed back away from her face, smoothed down to take the helm. Her deep blue shirt and cotte covered by a hammered silver cuirass, worked around the edges with lapis lazuli inlay, and crested with the crowned mark of the princes of Tegrian. The soldiers around her, clearly awaiting her orders.
And just that suddenly the Vision was over.
“Avylos can’t tell when I’m there,” the girl said, half question, half statement.
“I’m not Avylos,” Dhulyn said. But the girl’s observation was interesting. “Are you often in his garden unknown to him?”
The girl shrugged, and in that movement Dhulyn saw Edmir again. What was the name? Kera, that was it.
“You are wearing Jarlkevo colors,” the princess said. “Did you bring the Mage some news?”
“I may have news for you, Princess Kera.”
“I’m called Lady Prince now,” the girl said, looking away. The corners of her mouth turned down.
“That may be,” Dhulyn said. “But you have no right to the title. Your brother is alive, Princess. He misses you, and thinks of you often.”
The girl took a step back. Suspicion and anger fought each other on her face. “How do you know?”
To answer, Dhulyn once again pulled off her wig.
“Don’t point, don’t even look,” Parno said, walking just behind Valaika’s shoulder, where a good personal guard would naturally be. “When we’re looking in some other direction, tell me relative to that where our objective is.”
“The trouble with you Mercenaries is that you think no one but yourselves knows how to do anything.” There was amusement in Valaika’s voice. “Believe it or not, I was practicing this kind of misdirection before you were born.”
Parno grinned. That was exactly the reaction he’d expected. It had been only a few hours since they’d arrived in the rooms permanently set aside for Valaika and her family in the Royal House—rooms within the Royal compound, but actually in a separate building from the queen’s own residence. Valaika had sent word to the woman who had been her sister-in-law as soon as they’d arrived, but it seemed the queen was in no hurry to acknowledge Valaika’s presence.
“From here you can see the road we used to come into the city,” Valaika said, coming to a standstill at the top of a short flight of stairs that raised them to the level of a small square tower which would provideshelter to the night guard in bad weather. “The wing we want is behind us, and slightly to our left. When we turn to go back, look for where a section of wall has been repaired with lighter stone. Behind that section is his garden.”
Another thing Parno hadn’t needed to tell her was not to say the words “Mage” or “Avylos” aloud, lest they catch the wrong ear.
When they reached the doorway into the square tower, Valaika turned and they began to retrace their steps. As the personal guard he was pretending to be, it was natural for him to scan their perimeter, easy to look in the right direction. The repaired wall stood out, just as Valaika had said it would. Apparently the Mage took as his apartments the very end of
a long ell built against the outer wall of the Royal House. It would have windows giving on both the courtyard and the outer world.
The young man with a Balnian accent who had escorted them to Valaika’s apartments had already told them of the gossip that was circulating, that a cousin of the Blue Mage had arrived and was recovering in his apartments from the crying fever. A young woman whom he was isolating for fear she would spread the infection. But she was alive, and she was expected to appear in public as soon as her recovery was complete.
Parno concentrated, fixing the image of the Mage’s wing in his mind for later consideration, even as every muscle in his body wanted to launch himself across the distance separating him from his Partner. Now. He wanted to go now. See her with his own eyes, touch her with his own hands. Make sure she was not looking at Avylos with a heart that said, “Cousin.”
Just as they were nearing the stone stairway that would return them to the grounds, and the path that would take them back to Valaika’s wing, a page with a crown embroidered on the left side of her deep blue tunic came toward them with a determined step.
Valaika stopped and signaled the young girl to approach.
“Good morning, House Jarlkevo. I bring greetings from Kedneara the Queen. She welcomes you to Royal House, and looks forward to seeing you the second morning from now, at her audience.”
“I thank you, Page. Tell my sister, Kedneara the Queen, that I anticipate with great satisfaction seeing her, and my niece, the Lady Prince Kera.”
“I will tell her so.” The page gave an abrupt nod that set her dark curls bouncing and turned on her heel. Parno watched which way she went. Her errand accomplished, she was headed back to the pages’ room where she would wait until sent on another.
“Well, only a three-day wait altogether. The Great King’s been known to keep even his own mother waiting for longer than that.”
The Soldier King Page 27