The Keeper of the Mist

by Rachel Neumeier

  Tassel tossed her head. “You would not. You’re not a girl. Keri would have, in another moment.”

  “If I were desperate enough, maybe,” Keri muttered, though she knew she wouldn’t have. “How do I look?”

  “All grown up,” Tassel assured her. “You need to wear your hair just like that from now on, Keri. It’s perfect for you.”

  Keri touched her hair, then shook her head. “I don’t know how to play the flirt, Tassel! I’m not like you. I don’t know how to say pretty things and—and trifle with men’s affections—”

  “You don’t?” said Lucas in mock astonishment, putting his hand to his heart to mime heartbreak. “And yet you might so easily trifle with mine, dear sister, if only consanguinity were just a bit less of a concern!”

  He was appalling, but he made Keri laugh.

  “It’s ridiculous,” Cort snapped. “Keri, this is not dignified!”

  Keri gave him a look. “You have a different idea? Because this would be the moment to explain it to everyone.”

  Cort hesitated, plainly torn between insisting he was right and admitting he did not in fact have any other ideas.

  The Timekeeper lifted his watch, inspected it, paused for a tick or two of time, and then tucked it away again. “You have precisely twelve and one-half minutes to reach the Grand Salon, Lady.”

  “Twelve and—” Keri’s voice rose involuntarily. “Can’t you tell them I’ll be late?”

  “Late?” repeated the Timekeeper, with a kind of blank astonishment.

  “Of course not,” Keri said. “Of course not.” She suddenly wanted to laugh. It was better than wanting to burst into tears. Or run away and hide in her room. Or in her bakery.

  “I don’t know why these foreigners should get to dictate the measures of our dance,” Cort snapped, scowling.

  “Because we can’t lock them out and close Nimmira against them!” said Keri. “So we have to do something else, don’t we?”

  Cort’s head went back as though she had slapped him. “Indeed, we cannot,” he said grimly. “So I suppose we must sacrifice our pride.”

  Keri wanted to explain that she didn’t blame him for losing the mist, but she couldn’t think of any way to say so that he would believe. She rubbed her face hard with her fingertips. Puppeteers could juggle half a dozen balls in the air at once. How did they ever keep track? She shook her head and said, “Domeric’s supposed to watch the Bear soldiers, which I suppose he will, but…” She hesitated, glancing sidelong at Lucas.

  Lucas struck a pose and declaimed obligingly, “Sister dear, none of us really want Domeric to be the only one keeping an eye on the Bear soldiers. What an impression they must be getting of us!”

  “Exactly,” Keri said to Cort. “Magister Eroniel you’ve already met. I thought you might be able to take a look at those soldiers from Tor Carron, too. In case it might make it easier for you to notice if they, you know”—she lifted her hands—“start anything. Do anything. Try any door they shouldn’t, break any lock, find any road—”

  Cort’s eyebrows rose. Then he gave her an abrupt nod. “Any door in the House. Any door in Nimmira. If they open it or close it, I’ll know.”

  “Good. All right.” Keri was relieved that he seemed to agree this was a good idea. She had thought so. But it was hard to be sure about anything she was doing. She rubbed her face again. “Tassel, Lucas, I hope you’ll both come with me. And help with, I don’t know, everything.” Though if Tassel demonstrated her flirtation techniques, probably both Osman Tor the Younger and the scary Eroniel Kaskarian would fall in love with her and lose interest in Keri. Would that make things easier or more difficult?

  “Of course!” declared Lucas. “Anything for my dear sister. Besides, I should be dismayed to miss it.”

  Tassel rolled her eyes at him, but she nodded firmly. “We’ll both help, Keri, but you’ll be fine.”

  Keri took a deep breath and turned to the Timekeeper. “Very well. Where is the Grand Salon?”

  Inscrutable as always, the Timekeeper stepped back and gave her a neat, small bow, indicating the great sweeping stairway.

  —

  The Grand Salon was big enough to swallow Keri’s mother’s shop whole, plus another just like it. Keri hated it instantly. The floor was all black-and-white tile, the walls swirled with black-and-white mosaics, the couches were all black leather or white satin, the tables were all carved of some kind of black wood inlaid with pearl. A black harpsichord stood against one wall, white keys gleaming, and a massive black harp taller than she was, with silver strings and pearl inlay down its face, stood in a corner.

  Lacquered bowls of red flowers glowed on every table, paintings of red flowers occupied every wall, and black cushions embroidered with red flowers rested on every couch. A decanter of wine and a dozen crystal goblets stood on the largest table, and the wine was red, red, red. The Grand Salon was beautiful, striking, and the most artificial-looking room Keri had ever seen. There were no windows at all, which added to the artificiality; lamplight never looked quite like real daylight, and in the Grand Salon, all the lamps were tucked behind translucent shades of red glass.

  On the far side of the room, Osman the Younger lounged on one of the white couches, his foot resting on the edge of a black table, his fingers laced together across his drawn-up knee. His black eyes and the garnet drop in his left ear were exactly suited to this room. The earring did look just as though it had been made of blood. Keri wondered if it really was a sorcerous implement. There were jewels like that in plays: garnets or rubies that turned out to let the villain see through illusion or summon monsters or whatever. But those were children’s plays; those weren’t real.

  Though if the young Bear Lord held a little magic in his jewel, that might explain his attitude of perfect unconcern.

  But Keri suspected that he was just like that. He actually looked as though he belonged here. He looked, in fact, the very image of a proper Lord.

  On this side of the room, standing with his hands clasped gently behind his back and pretending he was the only one present, Eroniel Kaskarian gravely studied one of the paintings. His cool, polite expression suggested that the painting—of red peonies in a crystalline vase on a table draped in red satin—was a nice effort for the sort of barbarian artists who must work in a backward little land such as Nimmira. Or maybe Keri was being unfair. She had to admit that she did not feel much like being fair to the Wyvern sorcerer.

  Unlike the other man, the sorcerer had retained his cloak, which was a pale silvery gray almost exactly the same color as his long, perfectly straight hair and only a shade or two lighter than his opaque pewter eyes. The red lamps tinted his cloak and hair an unsettling bloody rose-gray. It probably wasn’t fair to think of blood when she looked at him. He hadn’t furnished this room or chosen those lamps. But Keri already had tales of magic and mystery in her mind and couldn’t help it.

  Both of Magister Eroniel’s ears were pierced; three tiny crystals set in silver glittered in his left ear and two in his right. Keri couldn’t remember whether the Wyvern sorcerers of Eschalion used jewels to work their sorcery, the way tales claimed they did in Tor Carron. The old tales she could think of all seemed to suggest that the sorcerers of Eschalion were born with magic in their blood, or that they could pull magic out of the air and out of sunlight. She couldn’t remember. Either way, though, those crystal earrings looked very elegant. A fine silver chain had been braided into the hair on the left side of Magister Eroniel’s face. A wyvern carved of jet or obsidian or something swayed at the tip of that braid, another crystal gripped in its claws.

  Despite his elegance, Eroniel Kaskarian didn’t look like he belonged in this room. He didn’t look like he belonged in any mortal house at all, no matter how sophisticated. He looked much more as though he had stepped out of some misty twilight realm where neither the sun nor the stars ever shone. With his broad forehead and wide-set eyes, his straight, narrow nose and thin mouth, he was beautiful, possibly the mo
st beautiful man Keri had ever seen, certainly more beautiful than the sharp-featured Bear Lord. But his delicate beauty did not seem quite human.

  Both foreigners had plainly been assiduously ignoring each other. Keri thought it was probably lucky they hadn’t tried to kill each other.

  Keri wished she didn’t feel quite so alone. She wasn’t actually alone, of course, however she felt. The Timekeeper stood at her side. He was frightening on his own account, at least. And Tassel was on her other side, far more comforting, with Lucas behind Tassel, craning his neck to get a view of their guests. There was a slight but noticeable check in his step as he caught sight of the Wyvern sorcerer, but Keri couldn’t look at him questioningly without letting everyone else see. She hoped she would remember to ask her brother later what had surprised him.

  She wished she seemed half as confident as both of the foreigners looked. This was her House—well, not really, not yet. Yes it was, of course it was, but it didn’t seem like it—she hadn’t had time to get used to it. And all this white and black and red, she couldn’t stand it. She wanted yellow flowers. And blue. And bronze cushions on the black couches, blue on the white ones, and surely there must be a harp somewhere that was not black. What a ridiculous color for a harp. It looked like the kind of harp that, in a play, would lay a curse on you if you tried to pluck its strings.

  She was thinking about colors and players’ tales because she was scared, of course. She resented her fear. She wanted to resent it, she wanted to get angry, but mostly she was just scared. She wished Tassel were Lady. Tassel would be able to do this. She almost even wished Brann were Lord. Though not quite.

  Lucas, maybe. Maybe she wished Lucas were Lord after all. He wasn’t stupid. And he could certainly play a role and make everyone believe it. Whatever had bothered him, he had hidden every trace of his disturbance now. He stepped past her toward the table with the wine decanter and the glasses, smiling around at everyone as blandly as though they were all good friends.

  “Smile,” Tassel whispered in her ear.

  Keri smiled. She wondered whether the expression looked as artificial as it felt. Maybe no one would be able to tell, in this artificial room. Maybe no one would care, even if they guessed.

  Tassel, naturally, looked as if she had never thought of anything she’d rather do than meet with foreign lords and sorcerers. She turned a special, warm smile on Osman Tor the Younger, then on Eroniel Kaskarian. The young Bear Lord smiled back, looking slightly stunned. But the sorcerer did not. He lifted thin silvery eyebrows, regarding Tassel coolly from eyes the color of a storm-shot sky. At least Lord Osman was gazing at her with the exact struck expression Keri had imagined. Keri, entertained, felt her smile become real, at least for that moment.

  The Timekeeper stepped aside, sank into one of the black couches, folded his bony hands across his knees, and regarded them all with an unreadable calm.

  “How wonderful!” Lucas declared. “All of us so amiable together!” He poured wine and presented a goblet to Keri with a flourish, without the faintest hint that he or anyone else might knock over a goblet or spill a drop of wine. “Lady!” he said warmly. “Shall we drink to new friends and good neighbors?” He smiled at her, but she thought there was a new tension in his smile, and she saw how he avoided meeting Magister Eroniel’s gaze.

  “Um,” said Keri. “Ah…of course. Yes.” She didn’t know where she should look, or at whom. She didn’t have the slightest idea what she should say.

  “Lady, allow me to make known to you Eroniel Kaskarian of Eschalion,” Tassel said. She smiled blindingly at the Wyvern sorcerer, transferred her smile to Osman Tor the Younger, and added, “And how lovely to be able to meet you at last, my lord! You have not met Lucas, either, I believe? He is another of the Lady’s brothers.”

  The Bear Lord stood up, bowing neatly. “Lady, ah, Tassel. The pleasure is certainly mine.” He turned to Keri. “Lady Kerianna. Lord Lucas. I am honored by your courtesy.”

  Eroniel Kaskarian gave them all a cool, faintly amused nod and murmured to Keri, “Lady Kerianna. We have heard so much about you…lately. And so little before.”

  Handed this smooth insult, Keri found herself nodding and saying earnestly, “Yes, but I think it’s important for the people of a small country to establish friendships with their neighbors, don’t you?”

  Lord Osman shot Magister Eroniel a look, inclined his head, and said to Keri with a smile, “Indeed. To be sure. What a beautiful country you rule, Lady Kerianna, however small it may be. And how startling to find even a very small land suddenly right here on a border we had believed we shared only with Eschalion! How generous of you to invite…us…to attend your ascension, though of course I offer my condolences on your recent loss.”

  Tassel looked at Lord Osman narrowly. Keri pretended not to notice. “Yes,” she said. “Of course. I mean, thank you.” She knew she was blushing. That was all right. It would make her look young and uncertain. She said carefully, “I’m not used to”—she gestured vaguely—“any of this. No one ever thought I would be Lady, you know.”

  “A shock, to suddenly be forced to assume so great a responsibility,” Lord Osman said blandly. “Though of course you fortunately have your brothers and…advisors to support you.”

  His eyes had flicked toward the Timekeeper on this last. Keri could see he did not know quite what to make of the Timekeeper. Neither did she, so that seemed fair.

  She said quickly, “I’m sure my brothers will be such a help to me. You have met Domeric, I believe, so you know how strong and confident he is.” She almost wished Domeric were here right now, except she didn’t know what he would do or say or think if he saw her flirting with these foreigners. She thought she might be able to imagine what Brann would say. Her oldest half brother was nearly as supercilious as Eroniel Kaskarian, who was barely troubling to disguise his disdain behind a narrow smile. She said out loud, “I think I’ll need a strong, confident brother to help me now that I am Lady. I’m sure I’ll need all my brothers to help me.”

  Tassel patted her hand and said, in a tone that was just a bit oversincere, “But, Keri, you’re doing splendidly.”

  “Indeed, I’m sure your brothers will be strong supports for you,” agreed Lord Osman. His smile, like Tassel’s, was just slightly too sincere. “Your brother Domeric is older than you are, is that not so? Forgive me if this seems strange to me. Your customs of succession are…unfamiliar to the people of Tor Carron.”

  “How our succession is determined is a mystery even to us,” Lucas assured him. “I, too, am older than Lady Kerianna. Not that anyone ever expected the succession to come to me, but then we simply never know, do we? It does add excitement to these moments. Though,” he continued earnestly, “we are of course all very sad about our father’s passing.”

  “Yes,” said Keri. “He always knew just what to do.” She touched her fingertips to her eyes, trying to look as though she were struggling against tears. She actually would have given a great deal to have Lord Dorric back if it meant they could also have the border restored to the way it was supposed to be, and these foreigners not here, but she hoped that Osman the Younger would not be able to guess that.

  “So no one expected you to succeed your estimable father?” murmured Lord Osman.

  “The choice is determined through some augury or divination, I presume,” Eroniel Kaskarian said politely. “Or through a magic that enters your ruling Lady through the land itself, so that the land itself decides where its magic will reside. This is indeed interesting. So different from those domains where men fight like animals for dominance.” His lip curled slightly on this last, though he did not quite look at Lord Osman.

  “Augury, yes, of course,” Keri said before the young Bear Lord, whose mouth had tightened with anger, could answer. She did not actually know what the word meant, but presumably it was some kind of magic. She said, “It’s awkward sometimes, because of course it’s so important for someone strong to guide Nimmira.”


  “Strength is indeed important in a ruler,” agreed Lord Osman, not looking at Magister Eroniel. “Strength and ruthlessness and will. We are not accustomed to…any woman taking the circlet in Tor Carron.”

  He had not quite said any little girl, but Keri was sure she had heard that in his tone. Tassel had heard it, too, from the glint in her eye. Keri tried to avoid looking at her, in case she should laugh. She said quickly, “I don’t think it’s happened often here, either. I don’t think Nimmira has ever before had such a young Lady as myself, and you know, Tassel and Cort are almost as young as I am.” Should she gaze appealingly at Lord Osman? How exactly did one gaze appealingly at anyone? Had she sounded sincere? She was afraid she might have sounded stupid. Or like she was obviously calculating every word. She wished she were. She ought to have thought all this out beforehand. Except the Timekeeper hadn’t given her a chance. She darted an urgent look at Tassel.

  Tassel didn’t precisely flutter her eyelashes and coo, but her warm smile somehow gave the impression of girlish fluttering. She murmured, “I do hope you will tell us of your own Tor Carron, Lord Osman. We of Nimmira never travel. Perhaps if our two peoples become friends, we will be able to be less insular and more adventurous. I’m sure it would be a fine thing for Nimmira to forge strong alliances with our neighbors.”

  Lord Osman’s eyebrows rose. He smiled, his black eyes measuring Tassel with a very masculine interest. “I shall assuredly hope for that.” Then he took a breath and shifted his gaze back to Keri. “How…farsighted and brave of you, Lady. To seek a strong…ally.”

  Lucas coughed, and hastily took a sip of wine. The Timekeeper did not even blink. Keri tried to think of something to say, but before she could, Eroniel Kaskarian reached out languidly to collect a goblet and pour himself some wine, effortlessly drawing all their attention. Osman the Younger did not scowl openly at the other man, but his face tightened.