by Amy Raby
Janto nodded. That made sense, though it was aggravating now. There could be a dozen or more slaves like Sirali scattered throughout the palace, people who’d worked with Ral-Vaddis, and one or two of them might know something about what had happened to him. But how was he ever to track them all down? “Tell me about the wards in the palace. What types do they lay, where do they lay them, and how often?”
“Across doorways,” said Sirali. “Don’t know what kinds or how often.”
“You’re sure they’re always across doorways? You’ve never seen one laid across a hallway?”
“Right, and I’ve not. Might make it hard for slaves to get around if they had wards over hallways.”
“Sirali, I’ve a task for you. Do you still hear things, in the kitchens and such?”
“Sometimes.”
“I’d like you to continue to report on what you hear, once per week, but to me instead of to Ral-Vaddis.”
“Right, and I’ll do that,” she said. “Whatever stops the jack-scalders from taking Mosar.”
• • •
Rhianne hurried to the Imperial Garden, anxious to get to the appointed meeting spot. She wasn’t late—in fact, she was early. But she wouldn’t risk missing even a moment of her time with Janto. She was beginning to strategize about what she might do after the wedding and the move to Mosar. Could she not convince her uncle to let her bring Janto along? Janto was Mosari, after all, and he was teaching her the language. He could continue in that role, and act as her cultural adviser or something. Janto wouldn’t mind, would he? Mosar was his home. And this was all perfectly innocent.
All right, in her mind and fantasy life, none of this was innocent. But in the real world, with Tamienne keeping a watchful eye over the two of them, they hadn’t so much as touched fingers.
Janto was waiting for her beneath the Poinciana tree. He was early too.
“Cona oleska, na-kali,” she called to him.
Janto’s face broke into his beautiful grin.
Rhianne sighed. “Please tell me I didn’t wish you a good mountain again.”
“No. You said, ‘Good morning, my alligator.’”
“Three gods. I thought I had it right this time!”
“When you add the na- modifier, it changes the vowel sound in kali. It’s confusing, I know. Say it like this. Na-kow-li.”
She repeated the altered pronunciation until she got it right. Then she glanced at him shyly. “It’s not as if you look like an alligator.”
“Perhaps if I were toothier.” He gestured to the bench.
She sat, clutching the book of Mosari mythological tales she’d brought. It would be harder going than the fairy tales, but she was ready for a challenge. In more ways than one. Gods above, she wanted to touch this man. She eyed the necklace of glass beads he wore around his neck. That seemed a reasonable excuse. “Where did you get this? Can I see?” She reached for it.
He drew away, placing a protective hand over the necklace. “Mosar.”
She withdrew her hand. Rebuffed again. “Why wasn’t it taken from you when you were enslaved?”
“Because it’s worthless.”
“Yet you care about it.”
“If you had but a handful of possessions,” said Janto, “you would care about them too.”
“Fair enough.” If only she could figure him out. She was almost certain he liked her, but he wouldn’t touch her. Maybe it was just Tamienne. “Look, I won’t be here for the next few days.”
“Oh?”
“Augustan Ceres is coming. . . .”
Janto’s jaw dropped.
Rhianne blinked and considered how that must sound to him. “It has nothing to do with the war,” she amended. “That’s still ongoing. But Augustan has been recalled for a few days. For his betrothal.”
Janto’s eyes narrowed. “To whom?”
“Me,” Rhianne said in a small voice.
Janto was silent for several seconds. “Did you have any choice about this?”
“Of course not. Do you think a Kjallan imperial princess gets to choose her marriage partner?” It was the one enormous downside of being what she was. That she would have to marry one man for political reasons while secretly craving another, wholly unsuitable man.
“She might, perhaps, choose among several eligible suitors.”
“Well, that is not what happened,” said Rhianne. “And as for his being a monster, I would like to point out that you are Mosari and have an extraordinarily biased opinion.”
“You are quite correct,” said Janto.
Rhianne eyed him. His response was proper and polite, yet it chafed. For the past few days, he had not hesitated to push back when he’d disagreed with her, and she’d rather enjoyed arguing with him. He reminded her of Lucien, the sort of man she could enjoy an easy back-and-forth with and not worry that, like Florian, he was going to lose his temper, or, like so many of the lower-ranking men around the palace, he would be intimidated by her rank and refuse to challenge her. But now he was simply agreeing with her even when she knew perfectly well he didn’t, and she feared it was because he felt sorry for her.
She felt sick to her stomach. “So I won’t be here tomorrow or the day after. We can meet again in three days.”
Janto nodded, and they began their language work.
They weren’t far into it before Rhianne began to regret her choice of book. The first mythological tale was an adventure story in which the three gods, portrayed as brothers, overcame a series of trials by relying on their separate strengths. First, the Soldier defeated a giant serpent by stabbing it with his pike. Then the Sage negotiated with an evil rhinoceros and helped it by solving a problem with a polluted water supply; afterward, it allowed them to pass. The Vagabond got them past a troll by challenging it to a boasting game. The story was clever, but . . . “This is offensive,” she told Janto.
“Offensive?” said Janto. “How?”
“It portrays the gods as equals,” said Rhianne. “The Sage, in this story, is just as effective as the Soldier, and so is the Vagabond, while in reality—”
“That’s the whole point,” said Janto. “The story demonstrates that peaceful negotiation or trickery can accomplish as much as brute strength.”
“Yes, yes, well done, but in so doing it portrays the Sage and Vagabond as the equals of the Soldier, when in fact the Soldier is the primary god and the Sage and Vagabond are his subordinates—”
“Only Kjallans believe that,” said Janto. “Surely you know that belief is not universal. It’s not shared by Riorcans or Sardossians or Inyans, and it’s certainly not shared by my own people. We consider the gods to be equals. Brothers, in fact.”
She wrinkled her nose. “That’s sacrilegious.”
“To us, it’s offensive for you to elevate the Soldier above the other two gods.”
“Well.” She glanced at him. “Perhaps your country—and Riorca—are losing to our forces because your sacrilege offends the gods.”
Janto went very still, and a flush of anger crept up his cheek. “We are losing, and Riorca has already lost, because your forces outnumber ours ten to one.”
Rhianne bit her lip. It pained her to torment him, but he sat there pitying her, as if he were superior. How could he be so calm, so proud, so secure in himself, when he was a slave and his country was about to be conquered? Shouldn’t she be the one pitying him and explaining to him the error of his ways? “Kjall was not always a large country, you know. Long ago, my ancestors occupied only the southwestern corner of the continent—this corner, where Riat sits now. We conquered our neighbors. We grew and became prosperous because the gods willed that we should. I forgive you for your anger, because you’ve been taken from your homeland, and I can only imagine how painful that must be. But like it or not, the Soldier demands that strong nations should rule weak ones, as the
Soldier himself rules over the Sage and the Vagabond.”
“And your emperor,” said Janto. “Did he attack Mosar because the Soldier told him to or because he coveted our sugar crop?”
“It’s not my place to question the emperor.”
“I wonder, do you support this philosophy yourself? Larger nations should rule smaller ones?”
“I said stronger nations should rule, not larger nations.”
“But it is Kjall’s size that gives it the advantage over Mosar.”
Rhianne shook her head. “Not only size. Our military tactics and training are superior.”
“How can you know, when you know so little of Mosar?”
She gave him a sour look.
“You are a woman,” continued Janto. “Do you believe women should be ruled by men because men are physically larger?”
“That’s . . . not the same thing.”
“I fail to see the difference. I think the Soldier as envisioned by your people is something of a bully.”
“Stop it!” He hadn’t even raised his voice, yet his words were like knives. Her family had ruled Kjall for generations. He was wrong. Biased. Of course he was; he was Mosari. “You’re twisting my words around! At least on Kjall we don’t engage in unnatural practices like casting our souls into animals.”
“I assure you, on Mosar we find it equally strange that you cast your souls into inanimate objects.”
“Gemstones,” corrected Rhianne.
“Last I heard, gemstones were inanimate objects,” said Janto. “Our scholars have researched the origins of magic, and we have reason to believe that the first mages used animal familiars, that the type of magic we practice on Mosar is the oldest and most time-honored and is what the gods intended us mortals to use. Your riftstones are, we believe, an aberration—a means of gaining the magic through an unintended and inappropriate pathway, and one that lacks some of the benefits of soulcasting. After all, you can have no telepathic bond with a gemstone.”
“Telepathic bond?”
“Do you not know?” said Janto. “A Mosari mage shares a telepathic bond with his animal familiar and can speak to him through the bond.”
She blinked. “But what would you have to say to an animal?”
“After soulcasting, it’s not an ordinary animal. It carries part of one’s soul, and it’s sentient. It will be one’s companion for the rest of one’s life. How can a lifeless riftstone compare to that?”
Rhianne looked at him sharply. He spoke with such conviction that she could swear he had once been a mage himself. “You know an awful lot about it for a palace scribe.”
“The Mosari palace is full of mages,” said Janto. “Just like the Imperial Palace.”
Rhianne reached for the gold chain that hung around her neck and withdrew, from beneath her syrtos, a glowing purple amethyst. “Our riftstones aren’t exactly lifeless.”
Janto stared. “Is that your riftstone? What sort of mage are you?”
“A mind mage,” she said.
“Confusion and forgetting spells? That sort of thing?”
“Also truth spells and suggestions. It’s boring, I admit,” said Rhianne. “All the women in my line are mind mages, and all the men are war mages. You’d think we might be more creative. But it’s tradition. And mind magic is protective. It allows me a little more freedom than I would otherwise have.” She slipped the amethyst back beneath her clothes. “Janto, what you said before about the Soldier. That’s not what we believe. The war is not about one nation bullying another. The Soldier desires to bring order to the Five Nations, bring them under one banner, put an end to war and strife. For now, there may be some pain, some suffering, but in the long run it’s for the good of all. It is the Soldier’s will, as inevitable and unstoppable as his long march through the skies.”
“Imperial Highness,” said Janto, “do you know what your Kjallan army does when it captures a Mosari village?”
“No.” Her heart sank. She knew it couldn’t be good. Why did he have to tell her these things when she liked him so much, wanted to like him, and he obviously hated her people? He probably hated her too. No wonder he wouldn’t touch her.
“They kill the children.”
Her eyes met his.
“For the slave ships, your people want young, able-bodied men and women,” said Janto. “The old and the very young they have no use for. They line them up on the beach and slaughter them.”
She looked down at her book. This was how he saw her, as the offspring of mass murderers.
“Is this how your people put an end to war and strife? By slaughtering children? Princess, this is a horrific corruption of the Soldier’s purpose. The Soldier stands for courage and strength, not brutality and aggression.”
“War is an unpleasant business, but it’s not—it’s not for me to judge the methods . . . ,” she stammered.
“You’ve never seen the methods, have you?” said Janto. “War is abstract for you. You don’t know what your soldiers actually do.”
She gave him an odd look. “No, because Florian never lets me go anywhere. How can I know?”
“Ask questions and learn,” said Janto. “You’re a smart woman. You know more now than you did half an hour ago.”
6
Rhianne sighed as her attendants fussed over her, making every fold of her gown lie flat and even and every curl in her hair fall in just the right place. It was ridiculous. She was going riding, so in no time at all it would be a mess.
Augustan’s ship had arrived during the night. He’d been escorted up to the palace and ensconced in a stateroom, so she had been told. She was due at the audience chamber, midday, for their formal introduction.
The gown was one of her favorites, green and ivory with gold accents, attractive but reasonably practical; she could wear it in the sidesaddle. Florian had tried to convince her to wear the imperial orange, but with her coloring she simply could not wear orange and come off looking like anything but a butternut squash.
A knock came at the door.
“Tami?” called Rhianne.
The door cracked open. “It’s time.”
Rhianne hopped off her chair and headed for the door, trailed by her entourage, eager to get this frightening business over with. She straightened her shoulders as she walked down the hallway. Perhaps if she could muster the outward appearance of confidence, it would stop her hands from trembling.
When she entered the audience chamber, her eyes went everywhere, searching for the man who must be Augustan, but there was no one in the room she did not already know. Florian stood on a raised platform. The marble throne—one of several he used, in multiple chambers—loomed just behind him, but he was not sitting in it today. The jewel-encrusted loros glittered on his chest. Lucien, immediately to his right, stood balanced on his wooden leg, hands tightly interlaced behind his back as if he wished he could sit on them. The other people in the room were Florian’s usual set of advisers and Legaciatti.
“You look spectacular, my dear,” said Florian, gesturing to the empty spot on his left.
Rhianne took her place beside her uncle, straightened her gown, and waited.
“Bring him in,” called Florian.
A door opened at the far end of the room and three men appeared, one in front and two just behind him—Augustan and his entourage, Rhianne guessed. All were in military dress. If the man in front was Augustan, he was handsome, at least. The three walked smartly up to Florian and knelt before him, bowing as one.
“Rise,” said Florian. The men obeyed. “Augustan Ceres.” Florian stepped forward and clasped wrists with the foremost man.
“Your Imperial Majesty,” answered Augustan.
As they completed their formal greeting and Augustan introduced his two underlings, Rhianne scrutinized him. She couldn’t fault him in the looks department.
He was typical Kjallan in many respects: big and muscular, dark in coloration, though his hair was closer to brown than black. He had a pleasing face, although its lines suggested he didn’t smile much, and a scar cut a small jagged line across his chin. She supposed one could hardly wage war as long as Augustan had without collecting an occasional such memento of battle.
“I would like to introduce you,” Florian was saying, “to my niece and adopted daughter, Rhianne Florian Nigellus, Imperial Princess of Kjall.”
“Legatus,” said Rhianne, stepping forward and clasping his wrist.
His face broke into what looked like an unaccustomed smile.
She sat through the usual litany of platitudes and welcome speeches from her uncle, which seemed to bore Augustan as much as they bored her, and finally the two of them were dismissed to the stables for their planned ride, escorted by a dozen servants and Legaciatti. The horses were waiting for them, tacked and ready to go, although Rhianne’s mare, Dice, was wearing the hunt saddle instead of the requested sidesaddle. The groom, when he spotted Rhianne’s gown and realized his mistake, went as white as the mare and led the animal back inside for a tack change.
Augustan swung up on Flash, the dapple gray gelding with a curious tail that was ivory on one side of his body and black on the other. Dice came back wearing the sidesaddle, and the apologetic groom boosted her up and handed her the riding crop. Rhianne hooked her right leg over the saddle horn and smoothed her gown. She preferred riding astride, but Florian had insisted on a formal gown, and he was the emperor, so that was that. The irony was that riding sidesaddle was more precarious and thus more dangerous than riding astride, so, far from being chivalrous, asking a woman to ride sidesaddle demanded more skill from her and asked her to take greater risks than a man. But Rhianne had long given up trying to make sense of it.
She was at no great risk riding Dice. The mare was gentle, with smooth gaits, and her name came from her coloration, not from any tendency toward risky behavior. Dice’s natural color was what horsemen called flea-bitten gray—white flecked with black spots—but the stable staff bleached out the spots, having decided pure white was a color more appropriate for the mount of a princess.