Red spots appeared in the sudden pallor of his cheeks, and Dhulyn found her muscles readying themselves for action in response to Avylos’ anger. Then his gaze shifted from the book he had open in front of him to the small casket to his left, and she relaxed. It looked out of place here—old, plain, and unadorned where everything else was of the first quality. Inside it, Dhulyn knew, was the Blue Stone. Dhulyn waited until he was looking at her once more.
“Perhaps she could not find you,” she said.
Avylos’ expression told her how much he believed that. She shrugged, for some reason finding herself reluctant to think ill of the Lady Prince. But Avylos knew these town people so much better than she did herself. She must trust in his knowledge of them.
“Is it possible what he said was true? Could I have been a Mercenary Brother?”
“He is a town man, you say?”
“From his accent and speech, I would say so, yes.” Dhulyn frowned, rubbing her forehead. “Though how it is I know this, that I cannot tell you.” She looked up again. “But you know him, you have seen him yourself. It was that man who jostled me in the queen’s audience. The retainer of House Jarlkevo.” Avylos’ eyes narrowed and the corners of his mouth turned down. Dhulyn felt a trickle of fear run up her spine. Her muscles tensed as she prepared to either flee or defend herself.
“Are you certain?” Whatever it was that had disturbed him, his anger was not aimed at her. Dhulyn allowed herself to relax.
“Of course. That I remember perfectly.”
Avylos came out from behind his table and took her hands in his, squatting so that she looked directly into his eyes. They were a brilliant blue, and kind in a way that made her draw in a deep breath.
“Are there any other signs of your memory returning?” When she shook her head, he continued. “Can you guess why this man should be so interested in you? No? Nothing comes to mind?” Rising, Avylos released her left hand, and stroked her cheek with the back of his fingers. “Rest easy, my dearest cousin. I will help you, I promise.”
“Have there been others like me? Others who have lost their memories to the Stone?”
Avylos hesitated, his fingers still caressing her face, and then seemed to come to a decision. “I will not lie to you,” he said. “There have been others. But they regained their memories within hours of touching the Stone. But again, I promise you—” here his hand tightened on hers. “I swear that I will not abandon you, I will help you.”
Without meaning to, Dhulyn squirmed, lowering her eyes.
“What is it? I cannot help you, if you do not tell me everything.”
“I have told you—” She began again. “Once or twice I have spoken of feeling dizzy . . .”
“But there was more?”
There was a hardness under his words that made Dhulyn hesitate. But once begun . . . “I see images, rapidly, one after another. Sometimes things I recognize—you, the Blue Stone, myself fighting the Mercenary—but often people I don’t know, place I have never, to my knowledge, seen. I thought at first it would pass, and so I did not mention it.” She let her hand fall into her lap and raised her eyes to his. “But it is not passing. Is this the Stone? Can you help me?”
Avylos did not answer her immediately, and Dhulyn felt a tremor of worry pass through her. Still holding her hand, he straightened. He was thinking, and from his face it seemed as though he debated what to tell her. Finally, he spoke.
“Very likely. These may be some form of waking dreams. It may be that proximity to the Stone has brought out some latent power in you, as it did once with me. You must tell me if it happens again, and what you see. I have promised to help you, and I will help you in this as well.”
He kissed her hand. “And to start that help, let me assure you, I have known you your whole life and you were never a Mercenary Brother. It’s as you said to him, the Espadryni are formidably skilled, that is all. You were injured, suffered a fever, and have lost your memory, but you are my cousin. You were never a Mercenary Brother.”
He paused, and obediently Dhulyn repeated the phrase.
“I was never a Mercenary Brother. I have been injured and lost my memory, but I am your cousin.”
“There you are.”
Dhulyn waited until Avylos had left her before throwing herself backward into her chair, with a huff of breath. “I was never a Mercenary Brother,” she said in the tones of gravest solemnity that Avylos seemed to require. “I have been injured and lost my memory.” She leaned back in the chair and rolled her eyes to the heavens. Sun, Moon, and Stars, but grown-ups thought the silliest things were important.
Twenty-two
LATE AS IT WAS, AVYLOS found the Lady Prince Kera coming up the Great West Stair, as if she was heading to his apartments, rather than toward her own. He gestured her into a nearby alcove, empty since the removal of a bust of Kedneara’s grandfather.
“But I met a messenger from my mother the queen—I had to go to her. I came back to find you as soon as I could,” Kera said in answer to his query.
It was a good lie. One that on any other day he might have believed. Had he not been returning from the queen himself, he might very well have believed it. As it was, he fought to keep his face serene against the rage that swept through him, hot as fired metal. Fought to keep his hand at his side when it itched to lift up, draw a symbol in the air and watch her try to breathe through a closed throat.
How dare she. How dare she lie to him. Just like her mother, using him, treating him with smiles and now lying to him, turning her back. After all he had done, and was doing, to ensure that the throne would come to her. Well, that was at an end. He saw clearly now. Very clearly. Edmir was already gone, he had accomplished that through Sylria. He had Dhulyn, and she had Seen him full of light. Full of power. What did this mean but that together they would unlock the Stone and he would have all the power he wanted. He no longer needed to bring Kera to the throne. With Dhulyn, and the book, he could bring himself there. He could be Mage King, not over the Espadryni, not over a mere ragtag band of nomads as his father had been, but over the whole of Tegrian and its territories. Over the whole world.
A shifted foot, a cleared throat, returned Avylos’ attention to the girl in front of him. However compelling, he must set his vision of the future aside for now. There were still items in the present which required his attention.
“Did you not tell them you were looking for me?” His voice was mild. “That it was urgent?”
“I did.” Kera’s cheeks flushed. “But it was Lady Mora who came for me, and she refused to listen.” Again, on any other day Avylos might have taken her flushed cheeks and trembling lips for embarrassment and frustration at having been thwarted by her old nurse. But today he knew it for a liar’s agitation.
“If there is nothing else, Avylos, and your cousin is safe, then I must return to my mother the queen.”
“Of course, my Lady Prince.”
As he watched her go, walking as fast as dignity and formal gown would allow her, he lifted his hand again, index finger extended, thumb out in the proper position . . .
Avylos let his hand fall. Not yet. Soon, but now was not the time. He should have realized that the other Mercenary would come looking for his Brother. He and Valaika were as yet unaware that Edmir was dead, and their involvement in these events was now at an end. But if Avylos wanted to keep Dhulyn Wolfshead, and he did, he would have to find a way to deal with the other Mercenary—and perhaps Valaika as well. But it was already late, and there was little he could accomplish now that could not wait until morning.
Wait. He had already taken a few paces down the corridor toward his wing when a thought occurred to him. There was something he could do, and now was the best time. He descended the West Stair into the Great Hall, but instead of heading toward the East Stair that would bring him eventually to the queen’s rooms, he set out across the hall toward the outer doors. The evening meal was long over, and the extra wall sconces were starting to be doused for
the night.
Avylos was aware that his anger still burned, a small flame like those in the sconces, deep inside him. Not yet, but very soon he would deal with Princess Kera, and the queen, as he had dealt with Edmir. Soon he would have no further use for the Royal House of Tegrian. He had thought—even hoped—that Kera was malleable, but he now knew she also would lie to him, hide things from him, treat him as though he was a person of no consequence. Avylos took a deep breath, and unclenched his fists. Only Dhulyn repaid his attentions with trust, only she came to him for help, came to him as one does to family.
And her trust of him did not come about through magic. He had not removed her memory, nor tampered with her feelings in any way. What he was experiencing—what she was experiencing, must be Dhulyn’s own natural reaction to him.
Avylos had never thought to see another of his Tribe, of his race. He’d long ago convinced himself he never wished to see one, not after all the tricks and lies they had shown him, making him believe he was srusha. Once he had encountered the Stone, and it had unlocked the powers those jealous of him had blocked—yes, even his own father, making him believe he was barren and empty of magic—he no longer feared the appearance of an Espadryni. But Dhulyn was different. She was too young to remember what he had done to revenge himself. If he could see to it that she now regained only parts of her memory . . . surely it could not be dangerous to keep her, once he’d dealt with the people who had come to take her away.
And her Mark? If it was truly returning, he had only to tell her what she’d told him herself. That it was erratic, and not to be trusted. He could still use it.
The guards at the entrance to the Great Hall saluted him, and sprang to swing open the heavy doors.
The main entrance of the citadel of Royal House was raised above the level of the grounds by five stone steps, each wide enough to be almost a platform in itself. Avylos paused on the top step, letting his eyes adjust until they could see into the darkness beyond the torches that bracketed the doors. A breeze had sprung up with the sun’s setting and pulled at his hair and the edges of his cloak, bringing the scent of flowers and greenery with it.
And if her Mark made Dhulyn herself unreliable—Avylos pushed that thought away. He would not think it. He would not. She was his kin, something he never thought to want again. But now that he had her, she was his. He would not lose her. He started down the steps.
Avylos did not need light to find the portion of the wall he was looking for. He laid his hands on the stones. The avoidance magic he’d laid on it two moons ago was gone, he could feel no trace of it. The stones were rough here where the repair had been made, and he had noticed before that the better a thing was made, the longer it would hold a magic. Magic or no, however, he hadn’t been overly concerned with anyone obtaining entrance from this quarter. The wall was rougher here, but not so rough that it was easily scaled. It would take an accomplished climber to do so. Apparently the Mercenaries Schooled their Brotherhood in more than force of arms. He hadn’t been concerned when Dhulyn had managed to get into his workroom. As his father had told him so long ago, women were difficult to magic, and Espadryni women even more so. But if the Mercenary Brother could climb this wall . . .
With his right hand he drew a pattern on the stones. It glowed blue, and held. With his left hand he drew another, a different pattern over the first. It glowed gold, and where the line of one pattern touched another, the colors began to run, twisting and twining.
“You cannot be climbed,” he told the wall in the language of the Espadryni. “You have no handholds, no toeholds. You are as smooth as blown glass.”
There, let the Mercenary try to climb that.
Sword in hand, she duels with the golden-haired, tattooed man, the mercenary brother . . .
Two men trot down a narrow path in heavy woods. It is early morning, and the sun is just penetrating the canopy of trees. The pines are ancient, so thick that there is little underbrush, and the snow that shows on upper branches has managed to fall to the ground only on the path. This is a wild place. One man has a cloth tied over the right side of his face, and from the blood on it, Dhulyn would guess that he has lost the eye. The other man has his left arm tied closely to his body. His right arm is out for balance as he runs, the hilt of his sword shows over his right shoulder, where it is slung down his back. Both men have hair the color of old blood; both men show other wounds sketchily cared for; both men have the flushed cheeks and bright eyes of fever. The one-eyed man grunts out something Dhulyn cannot catch, pointing ahead. The other man draws his sword, and they break into a run . . .
She fights a one-eyed man . . . the mercenary brother . . . a tall black man stripped to the waist . . . a thickset woman with green eyes . . .
Avylos is on his knees, laughing. He spreads his arms wide, and beams of light pour from his fingers’ ends, from his eyes, from his open mouth, from the ends of his hair. And he laughs . . .
A storm rages, pushing walls of water over the rails of the ship washing over the decks. There is so much water it is almost impossible to breathe, one could drown standing upright, clinging to the sheets. She looks down to the deck in time to see a man, his golden hair darkened by the wet, swept off the pitching side of the deck by a wave taller than two men. She wails, her heart breaking, and lets go of the rope she clings to . . .
Dhulyn woke up tasting tears, her chest heaving. What strange night-mares. She sat up, swung her legs over the side of the bed, taking deep breaths to slow down the thumping of her heart. That golden-haired man, that was the Mercenary Brother. Why should his loss, even in a dream, affect her so? She went to push her hands through her hair and felt the wig. In a daze, almost as though she were still dreaming, she threw off her coverings and went to the round mirror that hung on one wall. The moon was down and it was too dark to see any reflection. She used the sparker laying to one side on the table and lit the oil lamp, carrying it over to the mirror.
With her free hand she pulled off the wig.
Scars covered the sides of her head above her ears. There was no tattoo. The man had been lying then.
The morning’s rain made it seem much later, but the sun was only just up when the Lady Prince Kera joined Dhulyn for breakfast in Avylos’ sitting room. Dhulyn put her hand out for the crockery pot of nellberry jam the princess was passing her and froze, blinking, her hand suspended in the air. She had the strangest feeling that she had lived through these actions before. What was it that was familiar? Breakfast? Nellberry jam? She groped after the memory, but nothing came.
Twice she had opened her mouth, about to ask Kera why she had not gone to fetch Avylos to the garden. Both times she’d filled her mouth with jam-covered biscuit instead. Her instincts were telling her to trust the girl—but she didn’t know whether she could trust her instincts. For now, she would have to rely on Avylos’ judgment.
“I woke up wondering about what that man told me, night thoughts, I suppose,” she said instead. “I wondered whether I might have been a Mercenary Brother. So I looked.”
“You looked?”
Dhulyn nodded, waving her free hand at her wig. “But it was as Avylos had told me, only scars.”
“Do you think the scars might have been caused by removing a Mercenary’s badge?” Kera waited, a cup of ganje halfway to her mouth. “Perhaps I should take a look.”
Dhulyn held up a finger, turned her head, and a moment later Avylos entered the room. Dhulyn smiled. Now that the Mage was here, Kera did not repeat her offer to examine Dhulyn’s scars. The girl did have secrets, that was clear. But were they dangerous ones?
“I had a most curious dream last night,” she said, reaching toward Avylos. “I dreamed I saw you full of light.”
The sun was just up, but the rain was making everyone at Beolind’s west gate grumpy and querulous. Not that there were many people here, Edmir noticed, just those few like themselves, travelers already out when the rain began. Anyone else with business in the city was doubtless taking s
helter, waiting for the rain to stop.
“Members of House Jarlkevo with a report for our House.”
Caids, Edmir thought, Zania even sounded more like a soldier than he did. He kept his focus on the gate guard’s chin strap in an effort to pretend that he was looking the man boldly in the face. Though he doubted that many among the guard at the west gate had any clear idea of what their late Lord Prince looked like, Edmir still felt as though anyone and everyone in Beolind would recognize him.
Or maybe I’m hoping they recognize me. Surely Avylos couldn’t have magicked the whole city?
Zania flirted a bit more with the guard before they were passed through. Once they had emerged on the far side of the long tunnel that led under the city walls, Zania cuffed him on the shoulder and pointed up the street. Edmir looked, but could see nothing of consequence.
“Try to put an awed look on your face,” she hissed through a strained smile. “We’re plain country soldiers on our first trip to the capital. Try to look as though everything’s new to you. Gawk, you idiot. Gawk.”
Edmir did the best he could to follow Zania’s direction, smiling and nodding like a fool as she pointed and gasped. She was right, he knew she was. They’d talked about it on the way here, and had decided on this as the safest way for them to behave, as if they were merely plain country folk who had never seen a city the size of Beolind before. Trouble was, Zania was a much better actor than he would ever be. In fact, it was some help to Edmir that he’d rarely, if ever, come into the city through this particular gate, though that hadn’t been the reason they’d picked it. His mother the queen always used the north gate, as it would accommodate both carriages and people on horseback, which she felt made a much better entrance. It was far more likely he’d be recognized by the guards there.
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