The Soldier King

by Violette Malan

  Twenty-three

  THIS WAS AN EXCEPTIONALLY good idea. Dhulyn stretched out in the hot water until her toes touched the far end of the bath. The water was scented somehow with pine, and she took a deep restful breath, letting it out slowly. She’d turned the servants out, not because she preferred to bathe herself, but because of their obvious discomfort at the scarring on her back. Or perhaps it was her own inability to explain where the scars had come from that made the bath attendants uncomfortable. Since Avylos had judged her well enough to take part in one of the queen’s audiences, Dhulyn had asked to be given more freedom around the Royal House. Her kinsman had not agreed entirely, but he could hardly deny her a trip to the bathhouse.

  According to what Lady Prince Kera had told her while bringing her here after breakfast, the Royal Baths had been built years before over a hot spring. Though from the smooth perfection of the stone floors Dhulyn suspected that this was the site of an ancient Caid building, and that certainly the Royal House, and perhaps the city of Beolind itself rested on an old Caid settlement—

  She opened her eyes. That seemed like a Scholar’s thought. But surely, if she were a Scholar, Avylos would have told her so. And her clothing, she eyed the carefully folded gown and overtunic on the bench against the warm inner wall. That was not the blue tunic and brown leggings of a Scholar. She sighed, closed her eyes, purposefully letting her muscles relax again.

  The scent of pine was very soothing. And were the candles not beeswax? The heat was so pleasant.

  There is smoke and screaming, the wild flickering of fires, and running shadows. A woman bends over her, though her arms are bare, her face is wrapped in scarves as though against the winter’s cold; only her gray eyes show above the folds of material. She is tying similar scarves around Dhulyn’s face, and as if that realization frees something in her mind, Dhulyn knows this is her mother, and the scarves are to keep her from choking on the smoke. Her mother speaks, and Dhulyn strains to hear her, trying to force the dream to give up her mother’s voice. She fears that, as often happens in dreams (and how does she know this?) she will hear the voice clearly within the dream itself, but will have lost the precise sound of it when she awakens. . . .

  A circle of women, their hair the color of old blood . . . Her own hands lay out vera tiles in a pattern she does not recognize from any game. . . . The Mercenary Brother with pipes in his hands. . . .

  She is in the garden again, dressed in her lady’s gown, her hair bound and swinging down her back. She swings a sword . . . a stave. No, it is a sword. She is in Avylos’ workroom, and she fights a slim-hipped, dark-haired man. When she looks closely at him the dark wig disappears and she sees his Mercenary badge, with a black line threaded through the red-and-gold pattern. The steel rings, and rings again, the vibration of sword blade striking sword blade shivering in the hilt she grips in her left hand. There is blood dripping from her right hand, which she holds high to give her balance. Another thrust—she whips her blade around the other, keeping the point away from her skin, though she doesn’t manage to disarm her opponent. Another thrust, this time at her belly, another parry, a thrust of her own that draws blood from her opponent’s forearm; her satisfaction is short-lived as he changes hands and begins to fight left-handed as well. A lunge to the right, followed by two steps back—this is the Knife-Maker’s Shora, but why then has blood been drawn? The next blow comes from . . . there, and can be countered with—a gasp of indrawn breath as her sword enters her opponent’s side. He falls to his knees as she withdraws the blade from between his ribs. She puts out her hand to touch his face. . . .

  A circle of women, their hair the color of old blood . . . Her own hands lay out vera tiles in a pattern she does not recognize from any game . . . The Mercenary Brother with pipes in his hands. . . .

  Again the smell of burning. Blood. Now she stands to one side and watches herself watching her mother. She has never Seen herself with her mother before, never from this perspective (what does that mean? Before what?) Her mother turns toward her and sees her, within the dream itself, as if they were both really there. Even though she can’t see her mother’s face, Dhulyn knows that she is smiling. She turns the head of the child so that she is looking at herself. She blinks, seeing a tall, slim woman with short red hair and tattoos above her ears. She blinks and sees her mother and the small child who is herself. She puts out a hand, but there is nothing to steady herself against.

  “Go,” her mother tells her. “Oh, my soul, do not watch. Find your own soul and save yourself. Go now, go.”

  But she does not go. She sees her mother tell her to hide in a nearby tree. “You’ll be found in the morning,” she hears her mother tell her. “When they have tired of killing us.”

  Why did I not remember this? she thinks, as the Vision fades. Why have I never Seen this before?”

  And what do I mean by before?

  She tried to follow that thought, but as she does. . . .

  A circle of women, their hair the color of old blood . . . Her own hands lay out vera tiles in a pattern she does not recognize from any game . . . The Mercenary Brother with pipes in his hands. . . .

  Dhulyn jolted awake just as her nose was about to slide under the surface of the water.

  “My lord Mage.”

  Avylos kept his eyes focused on the book in front of him, as if by concentrating on the symbols he would be able to force his brain to understand them. When Dhulyn returned from her bath, he resolved, he would show her the book and see if she remembered how to read it. There was a chance, of course, that in doing so the rest of her memory might be triggered, but Avylos thought he had found a solution to that in one of his old texts. A light sleeping trance should do the trick. . . .

  The page was still standing in the doorway and Avylos finally raised his head. Though he could not recall the name, he recognized the young man. This was that son of one of the Balnian Houses, recently come to Beolind to give his service to Kedneara. The talebearer and gossip. Though from the shrewd hardness of the eyes above the pleasant smile, there was more to him than a flapping tongue. Perhaps he was more astute than he seemed, astute enough to know that the way to advancement lay through Avylos.

  For a moment Avylos considered simply sending him away. Whatever it was he had come to report, it could not be more important than the study of the book. But the young man was astute, and only a very good reason would have brought him into the Mage’s wing at this hour, when breakfast was over, and no other service would be required for some time.

  “Yes?”

  “My lord Mage,” the young Balnian began again. “The Lady Prince Kera has gone to visit Jarlkevo House.”

  Avylos closed the book with a snap and leaned forward. Emboldened, the young Balnian came two steps into the room. Avylos had fully expected Kera to remain in the bathhouse with Dhulyn, in a futile attempt to interrogate her.

  “The Lady Prince may certainly visit her aunt Jarlkevo if she chooses.”

  “Of course, Lord Mage. But two newcomers arrived this morning, and must have ridden through the rain to arrive so early. Young guards from Jarlkevo, it is said, with a report for their House.”

  Yes, the boy was astute. The guards must be bringing the news that Edmir was dead. And Kera, no doubt hurrying for a counsel with her aunt and the Mercenary Brother following the unsuccessful attempt of the night before, would learn that her brother was definitely dead.

  And Edmir’s body? Where would it be now? Sylria, showing good sense, had buried it without mention to anyone. Better he should know where it was, however, in case Valaika was thinking of doing anything with it. He could send Olecz and a few carefully chosen others.

  “Come with me.”

  The Balnian page stood to one side and followed Avylos out of his sitting room, along the corridor and down the steps to the garden doorway. Here Avylos hesitated. It was unlikely that the boy could see anything in the pool, but it was best to be cautious.

  “Wait here,” he said. The
boy took up his post next to the open door and Avylos strode down the path, white pebbles crunching under his house shoes, until he reached the pool. He sat on the wide stone ledge, leaned forward and with his left hand drew a symbol, about a handbreadth above the surface of the still water, as though he were writing on an invisible tablet. When he withdrew his hand, the symbol remained, drawn in light, and the water began to darken.

  As the water cleared, Avylos sat up straight, drawing in a sharp breath. He had expected to see first the darkness of earth, and then some hidden forest clearing where the angle of light would tell him in which direction from Jarlkevo lay this gamekeeper’s lodge. This was no grave site, however, but the shadowy darkness of a shuttered room, the flickering light of candles. A sitting room. A fireplace freshly cleaned and laid with kindling. The bear’s head emblem of Jarlkevo House carved into the thick oak beam of the mantel.

  Avylos clenched his teeth. It had not been guards bringing news of Edmir’s death who had arrived this morning, but Edmir himself. How was this possible? How had Sylria managed to lie to him?

  Rising to his feet, he headed for the door, calling out to the still waiting Balnian page. “Fetch Royal Guard Commander Lord Semlian to the queen’s apartments. Run.”

  Avylos waited until the boy was out of sight before returning inside. He checked his workroom door before following, keeping his pace brisk but controlled. Even now, he could not afford to look as though he were in any way perturbed. Meeting him, no one would be able to guess how loudly the blood pounded in his ears.

  Edmir, the Mercenaries who had rescued him, Valaika. All here. Now. His plans unraveling. His pace slowed as his thoughts moved furiously fast. There was a way he could turn this to his advantage. A very clever way. A way that might very well solve more than one problem, and speed his plans.

  He walked faster.

  When he arrived at the double doors leading to the queen’s private rooms Royal Guard Commander Semlian was already waiting for him. The Balnian page was nowhere in sight, but the guard commander was accompanied by Megz Primeau, one of the section leaders. All the better. Nodding to them, Avylos threw open the doors, waved aside the startled pages who sat ready for orders in Kedneara’s anteroom. He had never done this, never just charged his way into the queen’s presence. Until now he had always observed protocols scrupulously in approaching the queen, and it was obvious that none of her pages knew quite what to do. The old consort, Karyli, yes, he’d been allowed to flaunt protocol, but never Avylos. It was with unexpected relish that, Lord Semlian at his heels, Avylos pulled open the inner doors and found Kedneara on her feet, her shocked face turned toward the sounds of intrusion.

  He went directly to her, taking her right hand in his and going to his knees. “Forgive me, my love, my Queen. I bring news of traitors to your rule.”

  “Traitors?”

  Avylos rose to his feet and slipped his free arm around Kedneara’s waist. “Sit, please, my Queen. You must be strong.” The lady page who had been pinning the sleeves of her new gown pushed her abandoned chair closer and Avylos lowered the queen into it.

  “Tell me.” Her face was flushed with anger.

  Smiling on the inside, Avylos knelt again and pressed her hand to his forehead. “I grieve to be the one who brings—”

  “Tell me.”

  “It is House Jarlkevo, my Queen.”

  “Valaika?”

  He raised his eyes to her face. “Yes, my Queen. My magic tells me that in her apartments she has an impostor, a young man she plans to claim is Edmir.” Out of the corner of his eye, Avylos saw Section Leader Megz put her hand on her sword hilt.

  “This is how she repays me.” Kedneara’s whisper was harsh. “This is what comes of spurning her love, all those years ago.”

  Avylos blinked, but kept his face steady. Was it possible that all Kedneara saw here was the revenge of unrequited love? Could even Kedneara be this self-absorbed? She gripped the arms of her chair.

  “How can she do this?”

  “There is a resemblance. I can only guess that he must be a child of the Jarlkevoso’s own, a puppet she has been hiding, holding in reserve against a bid on your throne.”

  “And are you sure . . . ?”

  “There speaks a mother’s heart.” Avylos kissed the back of the hand he still held. “But you know it cannot be. You know he is dead. This is not and cannot be Edmir.”

  “This cannot be Edmir.”

  He felt her pulse slow under his fingers. Much as he would have preferred it, it would be dangerous to have Kedneara repeat his words in front of these people.

  “Is it Valaika then who is behind all this? Nisvea’s invasion? Edmir’s death?”

  Good. She clearly believed in Edmir’s death. “That I cannot know, my Queen. But it seems likely.”

  Kedneara’s face hardened, and Avylos felt her pulse increase. She turned her stony face to the guard leader. “Bring them here.”

  “My Queen, you distress yourself too much. Let me spare you. Would it not be better—let me go with Guard Leader Semlian. Think of the scandal. Let me deal with the traitors. If necessary, it can be made to look like an accident.”

  “I thank you for your advice,” Kedneara said in a voice that meant the opposite. “But I would speak with this woman and with those she uses against me. Bring them here. Now.”

  As Avylos led Lord Semlian and Section Leader Megz Primeau toward the Great West Stairs, his face was hidden from them and he was able to smile. Kedneara was so easily manipulated, he thought. All he had to do was suggest that he wished to spare her, that something might be too much for her, and Kedneara would insist on seeing the traitors for herself. And if her health was completely undermined by the depth and deviousness of the treachery—one which might even involve the Princess Kera, if she were still in Valaika’s rooms—well, who would be surprised?

  Parno came out of the room Valaika had given him tugging on the sleeves of his shirt. It was now of fine silk, with wide sleeves and buttons rather than simple lacing, and over it he wore a long formal velvet overgown, open in the front and edged with marten fur. If his trousers were cut more loosely than was the strict court fashion of the moment, he trusted that no one would be looking at him closely enough to notice. He would have preferred to keep his own boots, with their hidden knives and his lockpicks sewn into the trim, but in order to pass as a minor House member, he had to settle for leather half boots.

  With her lifetime of practice, Zania had taken less time than he had to change her costume, and was already dressed in a heavily brocaded gown, tightly laced, which left her neck and the upper part of her shoulders exposed, but whose long sleeves reached almost to her feet.

  “The laces can be cut,” Zania said, “and then the whole gown just falls to the ground.”

  “Undoubtedly exactly what the designer had in mind,” Parno said. “Though I would imagine for a different purpose than the one we have.” Zania curtsied, fluttering her eyes before she started to laugh.

  “Guess where she has the rope,” Edmir said from his perch on the edge of the table. Valaika was still sitting in her chair on the other side, frowning at her own thoughts.

  Parno looked Zania up and down, taking two paces around her to be sure. “Around her hips. Oh, don’t worry,” he smiled, seeing the look of annoyance on Zania’s face. “I’d give odds that no one else will notice it, and if they do, no one will remark on it. They’ll just think you feel yourself too thin.” He was pleased that Zania had come up with this solution. His sword he’d be able to carry openly, but the climbing rope they needed to get Zania up the wall wasn’t something they could simply carry through the grounds.

  Parno cocked his head, turning toward the door. He automatically moved to place himself between it and the others in the room.

  “Someone’s coming,” he said. “Valaika, any legitimate reasons for guards to be coming to your door?”

  The Jarlkevo roused herself. “None,” she said, crisply enough.
>
  “Well judging by the sound of their footsteps, guards are coming now.” Parno crossed quickly to the door and made sure the latch and locking mechanisms were secure. Not that that gave them much security. The lock was impressive in looks only, meant to give a feeling of security to what should, after all, be a perfectly secure place already. One well-placed kick and the door would open.

  As if in answer to his thoughts, the door shivered under a pounding fist. “Open in the name of Kedneara the Queen.”

  “Quick, the window.” At this time of the morning, it was unlikely that anyone would notice their descent. They were only one story up, and the window opened directly onto the wide cobblestone path that skirted the inner wall of the grounds. A short hedge of flowering bushes edged the pathway at this point, enclosing a small orchard of carefully pruned apple and pear trees. The trees wouldn’t provide much in the way of cover, but they would at least slow down pursuit.

  And if they were very lucky, the guards were all at the door, and none had been left to watch the windows.

  “Edmir.” Parno caught the prince’s eye and jerked his head toward the open casement.

  “No,” Valaika strode forward, taking hold of Edmir’s sleeve and addressing herself to Parno. “You and Zania go first. Edmir and I are the least at risk if it transpires that we cannot follow. Whatever else may happen, you must get to the Stone, that is the most important thing.”

  Parno hesitated, surely Edmir was the most at risk, but there was no longer any time to argue. “Zania, follow me. Edmir, you’re next lightest, and lastly Valaika.” He caught the older woman’s eye. “I expect you to follow, Jarlkevoso,” he told her, with as much meaning as he could force into his tone. He thought he recognized the look on Valaika’s face. Defeat, and despair. Now that the planning was over, and she’d been given time to brood, her shock over what Sylria had done had once more taken possession of her mind.