By Divine Right

by Patrick W. Carr

  Gael opened the door to the small stone workshop.

  “He doesn’t lock his door?”

  She smiled at my surprise. “Myle deals in any number of powders and potions that can be fatal to the ignorant. Only a very great fool would attempt to harm him in his workshop.”

  When I stepped inside, I stopped to gaze at the interior. Twice now, Myle had been described in the terms people reserve for those who possess extreme talent as well as the genius a gift bestows, but I doubted whether such a collection of chaos had ever been assembled before. Bowls and implements littered the high tables and shelves without regard to order. Stoppered jars showed a collection of powders and liquids that ran all across the far wall and occupied space on the floor. At least half a dozen mortar-and-pestle sets could be seen on a small centrally located table. A fireplace fed a kiln with a small bellows next to the window. Missing chips of stone from the hearth and wildly colored burn marks on the bricks testified to the fact that on several occasions Myle’s preparations had yielded violent results.

  “Watch your step,” Gael said, picking her way over to the alchemist. “Don’t touch anything. Myle has it arranged exactly the way he wants it.”

  “Astonishing,” I muttered.

  Gael laughed. I noted how clean and uncomplicated the sound was. “Good morning, Myle.”

  A figure sat at the table farthest removed from the window, his back to us and his face hidden by a curtain of lank, dirty hair.

  “Good morning, Gael.”

  She noted my surprise. “I don’t think he understands the concept of titles or nobility.”

  Myle held his head inches away from a crucible, his fingers poised inches above it, pinching a minuscule amount of some red powder that stained his fingers the color of blood. Curious, I drew close to observe just as Myle’s small motion allowed a few grains of the powder to drift down to the surface of an oily liquid.

  Nothing happened, but Myle appeared satisfied. He took a white piece of linen from a stack on the underside of the table and dipped the edge into the mixture. When he withdrew it, the fabric had turned to the most vivid shade of sunset I’d ever seen, the color somewhere between the red of blood and the pink of roses.

  Gael approached and studied the hue with the concentrated intensity of a theologian dissecting an argument. “Beautiful as always, Myle, but will it work with silk?”

  He shook his head without making eye contact with her. “Not without an acid to etch the fibers. I just have to find the right amount.” He blinked as if he were calculating. “Two days, possibly less.”

  Gael’s smile of surprised pleasure lit the room. Myle seemed to share my enjoyment of it. “Who’s he?” he asked, turning away.

  For a moment I didn’t realize the off-hand question had been directed at me. I drew breath to reply, but Gael’s hand on my arm stopped me. “He hasn’t spoken to you,” she said, “only about you, and he still needs to know you’re safe.”

  “How will he know that?” I asked, but she didn’t answer. Now that the wonder of Myle’s workshop had faded, impatience gnawed at my guts. Time was as much the enemy as Duke Orlan.

  “This is Willet Dura,” Gael said. “He told me he was the king’s reeve.”

  Why had she chosen to introduce me by my self-assumed title? I turned to ask her when a clattering noise jerked my attention away and something wet covered my hand. I started, stepping back to see Myle watching me from behind his curtain of hair. A puddle of yellow liquid formed on the floor, dripping from my fingers, and a shallow metal bowl with more of the same thick syrup turned lazy circles on Myle’s floor.

  The room swam in my eyes as if I were seeing it through a sheet of running water before righting itself.

  Chapter 9

  Gael sighed and knelt to pick up the bowl, using the dyed cloth to protect her hand. The smell of lemongrass mingled with metallic scents I couldn’t hope to identify, filling the air. I wiped the liquid onto my cloak and stared in disgust at the clutter. “Why doesn’t he organize it? He’s going to kill himself in here.”

  Gael laughed, pointing at the chipped stones around the window. “I suppose he doesn’t think tripping is the biggest threat.”

  “Ask him, Gael,” Myle said.

  Gael nodded, then turned her full attention on where I stood in the middle of the workroom, weaving on my feet like a stalk of grain in the wind. “Do you intend any harm to me or Myle?”

  “No,” I said, trying to answer simply, but my mouth seemed to want to run ahead of my mind. “I’m trying to find a way to prove”—I clamped my teeth shut around the name—“someone’s guilt in a murder.”

  “Whose guilt?” Gael asked.

  At first I didn’t answer. As much as I wanted to confide in her, the currents in the king’s court ran deep and dangerous in ways I couldn’t understand, and Orlan owned her allegiance.

  Her gaze bored into mine, her blue eyes intent. I could think of worse ways to pass the time.

  “You can trust me,” she said.

  Why did I believe her?

  After the first question, Myle appeared to lose interest in the conversation, but curiosity lit Gael’s blue eyes from within. “Why did you come to court posing as a servant?”

  I didn’t see the harm in answering and the words spilled from me of their own volition. “Duke Orlan is trying to duplicate the gift of kings.” I gaped at my blunder. “I should never have said that, my lady. Please pardon my indiscretion.”

  She took a step back as if I’d struck her, but Myle never stirred from the inspection of powders at his table. “You have proof, master reeve?”

  I nodded, intent on keeping my answer to that gesture alone, but my mouth seemed more tied to her will than my own. “Two gifts have gone free in the last month, pure gifts, and I saw the duke do something only a gifted could do.” But even as I said it, Laidir’s questions sowed doubt into my mind and my stomach lurched. What might I have to do?

  “Does the king know?” she demanded.

  I nodded, almost desperate to answer. “He knows.”

  Something in my response failed to satisfy her. Her tone turned serious. “But what is he doing about it?”

  My brain struggled to figure out some way to rescue the hash I’d made of the conversation. If she were aligned with Orlan, I had to sow doubt in her mind. “He will have the duke’s men dispatched to the border forts.” Too many notions warred in my head—I couldn’t seem to sort them out.

  “Why did you come to Myle, Willet Dura?” she asked.

  “One of the king’s musician’s was murdered,” I said. “I think someone gave him poison to make it appear he had a stroke.” I nodded toward Myle. “The king’s physician said if anyone knew whether it was possible, it would be him. He said Myle was the best alchemist in Collum.” Inside I breathed a prayer of thanks that my answer hadn’t included the consequences of my night walks.

  Myle’s face remained hidden behind his curtain of hair, but the stone walls brought his muttered comment to me even so. “The best in Bunard. Second best in Collum.” He paused as if in thought. “Possible, but only for a few.”

  I hardly needed to ask my next question, but nothing could be left to chance. “Who’s better than you?” I’d forgotten to relay the question through Gael, but Myle chose to answer anyway.

  “Lira Obair.”

  Either Gael didn’t notice the way I reeled with Myle’s response or she didn’t care. “What will you do now?”

  That question seemed safer. In the end, I was expendable. “The duke has ordered me to serve him at court. I’m going to listen for any information that might prove his guilt.”

  “Are you sure he’s guilty?”

  I nodded. “He caught the flagon.” She didn’t have to speak, her exquisite eyebrows framed the question just as well. I gave her the same explanation I gave the king. By the time I finished, her gaze testified to her amazement. One of the ideas struggling for recognition within my mind became clear, and I reached o
ut to grasp her hand. Too late, she tried to jerk away.

  I held her fast despite the oily liquid that still clung to my skin. “What poison did you give me?”

  She wrenched her hand from my grasp and I saw her waver on her feet. “Myle doesn’t have a name for it.” Her lips pursed as if she tried to force them to her will and they refused.

  “Why did you speak to me at court?” she asked.

  I blinked, and for a moment my resolve held and the answer stayed locked behind my teeth.

  Gael blinked in surprise. “Tell me why you spoke to me at court.”

  My intention crumbled and my face heated to mimic the color and heat of Myle’s kiln. “I’ve seen you a few times as I journeyed from the tor to the poor quarter and wanted to see if the mind matched the beauty.” I shook my head. “I shouldn’t have spoken.”

  “And does it?” Gael asked, the blue of her eyes, a richer color than a cloudless sky, intent.

  “Aye,” I answered. For once my mouth didn’t run away with me. I struggled to get my next question out. “How long does the effect last?”

  Gael shook her head, but the answer came anyway. “A fraction of an hour, perhaps ten minutes.”

  “What do you love about her?” Myle asked from behind the curtain of his dark hair.

  Gael’s eyes widened, and for a moment I thought she would order me not to answer, but the silence that ensued carried a force that pried the words from my lips, though inside I wanted to grind my teeth in frustration. I fell into my confession like a leper who sought healing by bathing naked in the river.

  “The sweep of her jawline,” I said. “The fullness of her lips.” I gazed at them and she bit the lower one, her face flushing. “The darkness of her brows and the way they follow the thoughts of her mind.” My mind grew fuzzy. “Did I mention her lips? They shape words into something more than mere speech.” I shook my head. “Her mind and wit are quick enough to delight any man, yet she misses the truth of her beauty. And I have watched as she walks the merchants’ quarter bestowing kindnesses on the unfortunate.”

  I let my gaze flow from her neck down across the slim strength outlined in the dress she wore. “She’s tall and comely enough for any man, the flow of her clothes hinting at . . .”

  “You may stop now,” she said quickly.

  Released from the question, I attacked again. “Who else knows of the poison? Is there an antidote?”

  Gael shook her head, but her eyes retained the same slightly unfocused look. “No one and there is none.”

  “Too dangerous,” Myle muttered from his perch. “Information is the greatest power of all.” He didn’t bother to turn around.

  The room swam, and suddenly the floor, despite its exotic mix of dirt and potions, seemed like a perfectly fine place to sit. Gael stared down at me, her expression carrying far too many emotional ingredients for me to identify them all, but I thought I noted a measure of compassion among them.

  “Those who visit Myle’s shop for the first time are questioned,” she said, her gaze clearing. Those perfect brows drew together. “How did you know you’d been drugged?”

  “I was the clue.” In stages the disorganized swirl of thoughts in my head coalesced into order once more. “As much as I—” I struggled for a description that wouldn’t be inappropriate—“admire you, Lady Gael, I would never surrender my thoughts in that way. I hope you’re more careful with other visitors to Myle’s workshop. You might reveal dangerous secrets.”

  She nodded. If she took any offense at my correction, it didn’t show. “Usually we just ask the one question.”

  The other idea I’d been struggling to bring forth came together. “Orlan may already have all the gifts he needs to duplicate Laidir’s ability.” There was no longer any point to shading the truth, and I needed her help. “By law, if I can prove his guilt, his life is forfeit.”

  When she nodded, I struggled to rise to a standing position but then gave up. “He’s ordered me to serve him tonight.” Her face wavered in my vision in a way that had nothing to do with my personal feelings, and I found myself staring at the ceiling with my back on the floor.

  I looked at Gael, who swayed back and forth in my vision like an inverted pendulum. “What’s wrong with me?”

  She swallowed, clutching the edge of the table next to her for support. “It’s Myle’s drug. You absorbed too much of it.”

  Her lips still moved in my sight, but her voice became the soft buzz of insects on a summer day. Invisible weights pulled my eyelids closed.

  When they opened, the russet glow of sunset had painted the landscape crimson and ochre outside the window. Myles and Gael were both gone. I ran back to the tor at a pace that had me panting and lathered like a horse, but for all that, the thoughts in my mind were faster. They’d left me. No, she’d left me after I’d been drugged into confiding in her.

  But if Gael wanted to prevent me from saving the king, why not just kill me? I shook my head. Too many questions. A grim smile etched its way across my face. The blade wasn’t her style. All she had to do was get Myle to use his poison to delay me. Then, after Orlan had taken the throne, he could dispose of me at his leisure. Fool that I was, I’d never asked her if she was loyal to the king.

  A small voice in my mind that sounded far too much like Ealdor’s tried to point out the flaw in my logic, but I refused to listen. Lady Gael represented all the good fortune and possibilities I’d learned to distrust because they were so unlikely. I patted the pocket sewn into my cloak.

  I made for the main entrance and passed through the giant arch as the last bit of dusk light died, my mind and gaze filled with the necessity of getting to Laidir’s court. A hand closed on my arm like a steel trap, and I pulled a dagger with my free hand at the same moment that Jeb’s face registered. He shoved me back out of striking distance into the shadows and waited for me to sheath the dagger.

  “Follow me,” he ordered, leading me to an out of the way corridor off the entrance hall. Twice he checked over his shoulder before he spoke. I heard both sets of knuckles crack at his sides, and he faced me as if he couldn’t decide whether to be angry. He’d never minced words in my presence, or anybody else’s for that matter, but he stood there, his jaw working. “There’s been another death.”

  Somewhere in my middle I knew the answer to my next question before I asked, but there was a dance to the conversation I felt obliged to follow. “Were they gifted?”

  At his nod, I followed with another question. “Stroke?”

  “The king’s castellan is dead.”

  That surprised me, but conflicts within noble families could be as bloody as warfare. “What was his gift?”

  Jeb looked at me as if I were stupid. “He was the king’s castellan, Dura. What do you think?”

  I nodded. “Helps.” That made three gifts the duke possessed. He didn’t have them all yet. I felt a bit of the tension ease between my shoulders. I still had time. Then I saw the scrap of parchment in Jeb’s hand, his eyes filled with the knowledge of what was written on it.

  Willet,

  Two free gifts from the Orlan province are unaccounted for.

  —C

  My guts hollowed out. I hadn’t counted on the fact the duke might have taken other gifts besides Lira’s outside of the city. While Bunard held the vast majority of the gifted in Collum, that didn’t preclude the smaller cities or even some of the larger villages from having one or two of the gifted within them. How long had Orlan been plotting his ascension?

  “I need more time.” Doubt wove tentative threads through my voice, and the sound barely made it to my own ears, but Jeb answered even so.

  “He won’t wait. King Laidir will die.”

  I shook my head. “He can’t kill him at court. He’ll have to wait until he leaves the tor.”

  Jeb’s laugh didn’t have any humor in it, but then again, it never did. “Don’t be simple, Dura,” he hissed. “Of course he can. He just has to give the king the same poison he’s g
iven everyone else. Then he can claim the gift of kings came to him. And now he can prove it. He might not even have to show evidence of all of them. After demonstrating one or two gifts outside of his own, the clergy will put the throne on his head, relieved that they don’t have to search the kingdom for some unwashed peasant with abilities he shouldn’t have. Orlan will plant his netherside on the throne, and within hours his men’s swords will be at our necks.”

  “Our necks?”

  Jeb shook his head at me. “Do you think you can keep the duke from discovering your identity? He probably knows it already. You and everyone around you will fall under his suspicion.” Jeb’s grin mocked both of us now. “That includes me.”

  The stitches in my back chose that moment to remind me of my last trip to the throne room. “If he knows who I am, I won’t survive the evening.”

  For some reason, Jeb found this amusing. “Then help yourself to the wine, Dura. It’s probably better than anything you can get in the city.”

  I nodded. Too many of my friends from the war had tried to drown their memories in wine or spirits. Most of them just ended up drowning themselves, dying with a network of veins showing through the yellowed skin on their faces. A few went literally, their bodies recovered from the Rinwash, where they’d fallen in their stupor.

  If I survived the evening, but Orlan succeeded in taking the throne, I’d be executed in short order. I had one chance of coming out of the evening alive and proving Orlan’s guilt.

  But if I failed to unmask him? The worn leather of my dagger’s hilt glided under my fingertips and I looked down. Flexing my ankle to the side, I reassured myself of the dagger in my boot.

  Jeb followed my gaze and gave me a nod of approval. “You’re a dead man, Dura, but the king can live. A servant can get within arm’s length of the duke, where a reeve can’t.” His laugh could have ripped the bark from a tree. “By my hope of heaven, his brother will probably make you serve him all night.”