And Dhulyn Wolfshead was not faking. She no longer knew her. Kera’s heart pounded in her ears. Think, think. What would be the natural thing for her to say?
“Is this your kinswoman, Avylos?” Kera hoped her smile didn’t look as fake as it felt.
“It is, Lady Prince, my cousin. Dhulyn, my dear, this is the Lady Prince Kera, the heir to the throne of Tegrian.”
Avylos helped her to her feet, and the woman looked down at Kera with a grave face and nodded her head once.
“I thank you, Lady Prince, and your mother the queen, for your hospitality. I am Dhulyn of . . .” She looked at Avylos, lips beginning to tremble before she clamped her mouth shut firmly enough that a muscle twitched at the hinge of her jaw.
“Of the Forest Plain Clan,” the Mage finished for her, and Dhulyn Wolfshead nodded.
Had she been about to say something else, Kera wondered. Was there anything of Dhulyn Wolfshead left? How had Avylos done this?
The evening meal, a simple one of rewarmed rabbit pie, fresh water from the lodge’s well, and a few dried apples found in a stone crock near the door, went smoothly enough, with Sylria telling stories of how she and Valaika had met, and Zania telling of how her uncle had once performed The Galan of Illrya without the false nose the part required, and how he had done it.
It had been a long, tiring day, so Zania’s suggestion of an early night was welcomed. Sylria was surprised when Edmir insisted she use the bedchamber, and tried to defer to his rank.
“I’ve been sleeping rough the last moon,” he’d told her. “Plenty of time for beds when we’re back in Beolind.”
When the large shutter that was the bedchamber’s door was closed, Edmir left the soft pile of sheep and inglera skins that made up his bed and crept across the floor to Zania.
“Shall we keep watch?” he said in as close an approximation of the Mercenary nightwatch voice as he could manage.
“Dhulyn and Parno—” Edmir put his finger on Zania’s lips. Trained to project her voice over an area the size of a market square, even her whispers were too loud. Too bad he couldn’t read her lips against the palm of his hand, as Dhulyn had done in Nisvea.
“They would say we should keep watch,” Zania said.
Edmir nodded. “Sylria sounded her normal self at supper, but I thought she was looking at us . . .” He shrugged. Had he actually seen anything? Or were all his fears the result of too easy an imagination?
But Zania was nodding again, and patting his arm. Take the precautions anyway, he thought. What was it Dhulyn was always saying? Prepare for what can happen, not for what might happen.
“I’ll take the first watch.”
Edmir crept back to his own bed and watched the shadowy form of Zania lie down again and pull a blanket over her head to block what little light from the half full moon came in with the breeze through the open windows. He left the bulk of his bedding where it was, taking only an inglera hide thick with wool. He shifted over against the wall, made a pad for his back, and sat braced against the stone.
Caids grant I don’t fall asleep.
Whether it was the spirits of the Caids or not, Edmir was wide awake when the shutter of Sylria’s bedchamber swung noiselessly open, and the older woman, her pale sleeping shift making her stand out in the gloom, padded out into the main room on bare feet. The figure hesitated, looking between the two piles of bedding. Edmir held his breath and shifted his weight forward, prepared to spring to his feet.
Sylria turned to Edmir’s bedroll and squatted down on her heels— an unattractive position, Edmir felt sure, that no woman of her age and rank would take voluntarily. She raised one hand above her head, and Edmir was already rolling forward onto his feet when he saw the blade flash in moonlight as it plunged down into the blankets of his bed.
Edmir continued the roll that brought him to his feet, turning it into a dive that took him across the short stretch of floor and into Sylria’s left side. He landed on top of her, trapping her blade hand, and, half winded himself, hoping even after what he’d seen that he hadn’t injured the woman under him.
“Zania. Some light.”
But she was already throwing off blankets and running to the table. When she turned with the oil lamp in her hand, her eyes went first to him, her eyebrows crawling almost to her hairline when she saw where he was, and who he had under him. A sound, quickly stifled, escaped her lips when she saw the weapon.
“Get the knife, quickly.”
Zania darted forward, her eyes huge and dark, took the knife from Sylria’s slack hand and jumped back. Edmir scuttled backward, heels and hands, until he was brought up short by the wall. His mouth was dry, and his heart thundered in his ears.
“Something to tie her with,” he managed to say. As Zania disappeared into the bedchamber, returning with Sylria’s sashes and scarves, Edmir crept forward and held his fingers under Sylria’s jaw. His hands were shaking so badly he had to take a deep breath and try again. Sylria’s heart beat steadily, but her eyes were shut.
“She must have hit her head against the edge of the bench,” Zania said, kneeling down next to them. It made Edmir feel less of a coward to see her hands were shaking as well. “Let’s get her bound before she wakes up.”
Edmir sat quiet, holding a long orange sash between his hands. “If she wakes up.” He licked his lips.
“Edmir, she tried to kill you.”
He looked up, blinking. “Maybe she didn’t. Sylria wouldn’t want to kill me.” He sat back on his heels. “What if it was sleep suggestion? What if it was Avylos?” Not that that changed anything. It didn’t make him feel any better about leaving Sylria unconscious. She was still his aunt’s consort. Oh, Caids, his aunt. What was he going to tell Valaika?
“Edmir.” Zania’s voice a mere thread of sound.
Sylria’s eyelids were fluttering.
“Move the light away,” he said. The sound of his voice brought Sylria’s eyes wide open.
“Are they dead?”
The hairs rose on the back of Edmir’s neck and cold sweat trickled down his back. He realized that with the dim lamp behind him, Sylria saw only his silhouette.
“Yes,” he said.
A look of pain crossed Sylria’s face. “I had to kill them,” she said. “He would have magicked our Janek, made him waste away. Kill them,” she repeated. “Or Janek will waste away. Kill them. Or Janek will waste away.”
Edmir caught Zania’s eye. She had her bottom lip between her teeth and her eyes were huge in the lamplight.
“They’re dead, so you can rest now,” he said to Sylria. “Come.” He helped her to her feet and guided her back to her bed. She crept in like a small child, and Edmir was reminded of putting his sister to bed when they had both been much younger, and Kera wouldn’t sleep unless he tucked her in. He pulled up Sylria’s covers and smoothed them over her with the same gentle gestures he’d used then.
“Close your eyes and sleep now,” he said. “We’re going to —” he cleared his throat. “We’re going to take the bodies away with us, so no one will know. Janek will be safe.”
“I must go to him.”
“No.” Edmir glanced at Zania, at a loss what to do or say next. She moved closer and put her hand on Sylria’s shoulder.
“You must wait here,” she said, her tone calm and authoritative. “Wait until your servants come.”
“I must wait until my servants come.”
“If they ask, tell them the players have gone to Beolind.”
“The players have gone to Beolind.”
“Tell the Blue Mage the one he wanted killed is dead.”
“The one he wanted killed is dead.”
“That’s right. Sleep now.” Zania backed away, and Edmir swung the shutter closed again. He listened for the sound of the latch on the inside, but when he did not hear it, he wedged it shut with the blade of Sylria’s dagger.
“She’ll be all right,” he whispered, more to convince himself than Zania. “Someone will come wi
thin a day or so.”
“He threatened their child,” Zania said. “The sleep suggestion alone was not enough to persuade her to kill you, the Mage had to threaten their child as well.”
“Zania, we should go now. We can’t risk being here when she wakes up.”
“Of course.” She got to her feet with a shadow of her usual brisk-ness. “I’ll harness the horses, I’ll be faster.”
“Zania, we can’t take the caravan.”
She stiffened, and turned to look at him.
“Zania, even with both Stumpy and Sylria’s horse, the caravan would slow us down too much. We’d be easy targets. As it is . . . If all goes well, we can retrieve it—look, I know how much it means to you, what it holds of all your family and your life, but it isn’t worth risking your life for! Everything you are, your family, it’s in here.” He touched her on the forehead. “And in here.” A light touch just above the collar of her gown. “The rest . . . it’s just things.”
She bristled, and for a long moment he braced to continue the argument, wondering how far he would take it before he gave in. Finally her eyes dropped, and her shoulders lowered as she nodded her agreement.
Twenty
“THIS THING IS VERY HOT.” Dhulyn’s fingers strayed to the edge of the new wig Avylos had found for her. Somehow, she looked more natural with longer hair, though why he should think so Avylos didn’t know; he’d never seen her with long hair.
“Nevertheless you must leave it on, my dear,” Avylos said as he sat down in the chair next to where Dhulyn had been served her breakfast in the garden. “The scarring from your head injury will cause too much remark. Town people are suspicious and untrustworthy enough, as I’ve told you already, without giving them something to worry them.”
Dhulyn nodded. “And it is that injury which has affected my memory?”
“Not precisely.” Avylos wondered how much it would be useful to tell her at this point. His excitement at finding what was clearly a manual for the Stone kept him fidgeting with his cup of ganje, and pushing his breakfast away. He had spent most of the night in study of the book she’d had hidden in her tunic, but the language in it was like nothing he had ever seen. If Dhulyn Wolfshead was able to read it— and she must have been, she had changed the setting of the Stone—she was more valuable to him than ever. And it was safe to keep her now. Safe. She remembered nothing of her former life. He could tell her whatever he chose, and with the sleep suggestion, he could control what she remembered. It would be worth it. He took hold of her hand, and held it, rubbing the back of it with his thumb. “I am doing everything I can to restore you completely, but I am a Mage, not a Healer.”
“And are you my cousin?”
He hesitated. What to say? What might prove most useful in the long run? If she believed they were blood, well, no tie was greater to an Espadryni—but he should not make it too close a tie, he thought, looking at her hand in his, there were other considerations after all.
“A distant cousin, yes,” he said finally. “However, there may be no others of our Tribe, and that makes us closer.” He squeezed her hand and replaced it on her lap, sitting back in his own chair. A bird landed on the back of a nearby branch, looking with a hopeful eye at the remains of Dhulyn’s breakfast on the low table beside her. Dhulyn’s hand flashed out, and the bird was caught.
“I’m not finished yet, little cousin,” she said, holding the bird close to her face. She blew into its beak and tossed it into the air, where it flew off, clearly more annoyed than frightened.
Avylos smiled. As events were unfolding, how right he’d been to put off killing her. It had not been sentimental weakness in him, not at all, but strength, and shrewdness. Events were unfolding better than if he had planned them. Not that he’d ever before felt any lack of family. His own siblings, his two brothers, and their sisters, had never looked at him the way Dhulyn did now. On him, she smiled, her gray eyes warm, showing stony only to the pages who had brought their food.
She did not treat him with exaggerated patience, she did not dismiss him as of no value. She did not look on him with pity, when she thought he did not see. He could keep her. He must keep her.
And, he thought, looking around for the bird she had released, Dhulyn clearly still retained the physical skills she’d spent a lifetime developing. His hand strayed back to the book that now rested in the pocket of his robe. Had someone sent her after the Stone, or had she come on her own, having learned of its existence from Edmir? Where had the book come from, and could she read it? Surely she would not have had the book with her if she had merely been sent by another?
“Tell me, Dhulyn, do you recall what you were doing with the Blue Stone in my workroom?” It had been on the floor when he’d entered and found her there.
“That cylinder of crystal?” She frowned, her eyebrows, growing blood red once more with the removal of the dye, drawn into a vee above her gray eyes. “I’m not sure. Judging from where it was lying, I would say that I had it in my hand when I fell. But I don’t remember.” She looked up at him. “Is it important? Did I damage it?”
“No, no. It’s come to no harm. But it is a very powerful magical artifact, and touching it may have contributed to your memory loss. I must ask you not to touch it again.”
The Blue Stone had come to no harm, that was true, but something had happened to it—though what he didn’t know. The setting was definitely changed, and it seemed active, alive in a way he had not seen before. But its power level appeared the same, neither higher nor lower. Perhaps the Stone worked differently on the Marked? Perhaps the talent was stored in a different way?
Or perhaps it had not drained Dhulyn Wolfshead of her Mark, just her knowledge of who she was. What irony, if it had also drained the knowledge that would help him finally achieve his goal. Now, with the book and this woman of his own blood who could read it, now, he was the closest he had ever been to having total control over the power of the Stone.
Dhulyn cleared her throat and he looked over at her once more. Her brow was furrowed, her breath came short, and she clutched at the edge of the table with both hands.
A golden-haired man with tattoos on his temples laughs and holds out a peach . . .
A woman with hair the color of wheat and a jeweler’s lens in her eye carves on a length of blue crystal . . .
An older, red-haired man draws pictures of light in the air while she laughs and claps her hands . . .
She stands in the dark corner of Avylos’ workroom and takes a step toward herself . . .
She lunges with her sword at the tattooed man . . .
Water crashes across the deck of a ship . . .
She has the blue crystal in her own hands, she is speaking, and turning the ends . . .
Avylos holds the blue crystal in his hands, light streams from it . . .
“Dhulyn? My dear?”
She blinked and looked into Avylos’ face. What had just happened to her? What did it mean? She swallowed and licked her lips. Better she should say nothing just now. Her cousin thought she was getting better, and she wanted to do nothing that would upset him.
“A momentary dizziness,” she said, smiling as naturally as she could.
He got to his feet and held out his hand. “Come, then. Kedneara the Queen has graciously invited you to this morning’s audience.”
In this informal audience chamber, the dais was only two steps up from the floor, but from her seat next to the queen, Kera could clearly see everyone as they entered the room. This was not a public audience where anyone could come to petition the Royal House for judgment or favor, but rather a private gathering of people invited expressly by Queen Kedneara. Petitions would be made here, yes, favors granted and accepted, but there was a pretense of informality and intimacy to the gathering. Servants circulated with cups of ganje, jeresh, and wine, and others with small bite-sized nibbles from the kitchen.
“Be careful not to fall for any of these boys, my lamb,” her mother said, just loudly en
ough to be overheard by the people standing nearest the throne. “Trifle with them if you like—experience is always a good thing, but go no further than trifling.”
There were High Noble Houses present, and some had brought younger kin with them—for the most part unmarried kin, and male. Kera nodded at her mother the queen, and put on her most careful smile. Now that she was Lady Prince, and not to be sent away to seal some foreign alliance, every High Noble House saw profit in dangling their sons before her.
“I’ll be careful, Mother.” And she would be, too, if not for the reason her mother expected. The throne was not to be hers, no matter what all these people might think. And no matter what I might think, said a traitorous inner voice. Edmir would be back. She would not wish her brother dead, not for all the thrones in the world.
As if in response to the sound of her voice—blessed Caids, let it not be my thoughts he heard—Avylos turned to smile at her from his position to the left of the dais. He also had his seat, on the other side of the queen’s throne, but at these affairs he liked to stay on his feet, and watch those who approached his queen from their own level.
And today, of course, he had Dhulyn Wolfshead with him. Though she still seemed not to know who she really was.
“There is your Aunt Valaika, Kera my sweet, do you see her? The golden-haired woman coming in the door.”
As if Kera wouldn’t remember her aunt perfectly well from her father’s burial ceremonies. Valaika had taken her out hawking, a pastime she still loved, and had sent her a horse for her naming day only last year.
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