The Keeper of the Mist

by Rachel Neumeier

  Domeric drew a breath, but before he could answer, Lord Osman spoke, his voice smooth and kind and predatory all at once. “Lady Kerianna, I hope you will come to understand that none of us are working against you. Nothing could be further from my desire, I assure you. I am confident we will deal well together, but your brother is a man of the world and far more suited to rule. You must recognize that. When you are older, perhaps things may be different.” He took a step forward, edging around Domeric, who made a small movement as though to stop him but then did not. Lord Osman came toward Keri, holding out his hand, smiling.

  Keri wanted to back up, but even if Tassel had moved to let her—which she hadn’t—Keri knew that would be a mistake. So she didn’t step back, but she did hold up a hand, although not to take his. It was a sharp gesture, the kind that a player would use to mean Stop right there. Lord Osman stopped, his smile fading.

  She said, “I know you mean it kindly, Lord Osman—” She even thought he did, probably, though she could see plainly that there wasn’t a scrap of personal feeling in his proposal. She went on, “But I think as you are foreign and were used to dealing with my father, who did not…always keep his proper responsibilities foremost in mind…I think you may not understand what the Lady of Nimmira does, or is.” Just as though she understood it herself. But even while knowing she understood almost nothing, she was certain she understood more than Lord Osman. Or, apparently, her half brothers.

  She said, trying to keep her tone gentle, “Lord Osman, it’s not really about ruling. Not really. It’s about…encompassing. It’s true I’m still learning what that means. But so are you, and you need to recognize that.” She looked at Domeric. “You should know better.”

  “Keri—” he began.

  “Dom, listen,” Linnet said rapidly. “Keri’s right and Tassel’s right and I’m right and you’re wrong, and you ought to know it, too, when you start following in Brann’s footsteps! You’ve never been ambitious, so it’s natural you shouldn’t recognize ambition in other men”—she glanced meaningfully at Lord Osman—“and you’re afraid of the Wyvern King, as are we all, of course, but the succession wouldn’t have gone to Keri if she wasn’t the one best suited to sort out the problems we’re facing, and you should know it, too,” she finished reproachfully.

  Domeric’s mouth twisted, which made him look truly fearsome, but Keri guessed he was actually torn between what he wanted to do and what he thought he ought to do. Stepping forward, she put one hand on his arm to steady herself, closed her eyes, drew a breath, and opened her other hand to catch the breeze that wandered in through the room’s open window. She held the breeze in the palm of her hand and opened her eyes.

  It spun gently in her palm, a handful of air like glass, streaked with silver and white. She brought her hand to her lips and blew it away, and it whispered through the room, rippling the sheer muslin of the draperies, carrying with it the smell of sun-warmed cobbles and baking bread, of horses and simmering apricots and turned soil from the farms beyond Glassforge. Then it was gone, but it was as though she had brought, just for a moment, the heart of Nimmira into the room.

  Keri tipped her head back to meet Domeric’s eyes. “I don’t know what to do to mend everything that’s gone wrong,” she admitted to him. “But I am trying. And the succession came to me. You know it did. It’s up to me to find a way through…all this.”

  Her intimidating brother glowered down at her…but he wasn’t really glowering. It was just his face: those deep-set eyes and brutal cheekbones, and that hard mouth. He didn’t really mean to give her this dark, sullen scowl. Keri told herself that, and more or less believed it. She didn’t let herself step back.

  “That was interesting,” put in Lord Osman, regarding them both warily. “But little tricks with a handful of wind are not going to be sufficient against the Wyvern King, Lady Kerianna. To face him, you’ll need men and strength of arms, which I don’t believe you can gather out of your own resources, unless I am very much mistaken. Not to mention that you will surely require every bit of protection against sorcery you can possibly muster.”

  Keri turned to him, nodding. “Really? Is it men and strength of arms that will get me into Aranaon Mirtaelior’s citadel? Or Cort back out? How many men would that take, do you think, Lord Osman? How many men are you willing to commit to a daring, heroic midnight raid? How many men would you have available for such a raid now, right now, this very afternoon?”

  Lord Osman, eyes narrowing, answered smoothly, “Lady Kerianna, a small, clever raid is no doubt wise. My retinue indeed contains soldiers experienced in such work. But, as you say, it is the Wyvern King’s own citadel. I can hardly command them to such a risk without certain commitments.”

  He wasn’t scowling, but Keri didn’t believe his elegant politeness for a moment. It was obvious he had realized by now that Nimmira had no soldiers of its own, but at least he was trying to take advantage of that fact in a charming sort of way. She said in a firm tone, “That is indeed unfortunate, but after all, we of Nimmira have managed our own affairs very well for quite a long time. I don’t believe we have ever lost an inch of our land to the Wyvern King in that entire time. This…” She searched for a word besides disaster. “This situation presents unusual challenges, I don’t deny it, but I’m sure we’ll manage without Tor Carron’s assistance this time, as we have for the past hundred years or more.”

  “No, we need him,” Domeric objected. “We really do, Keri.” He took a deep breath and added, “Lady, I’ve handled some rough situations in my time, but it’s not the same. Lord Osman—”

  “Domeric,” Keri said without looking at her brother, “be quiet. Lord Osman, if you want an alliance, that’s one thing, but I can’t commit myself or Nimmira to anything more, not without taking time to think about it carefully, and as I said before, there’s no time now. Getting our Doorkeeper back is the first thing. After that, we can think about everything else.”

  The foreign lord spread his hands helplessly. “Lady Kerianna, I regret this deeply, but it simply is not possible for me to assist you without a clear understanding between us, an understanding on behalf of both our lands. This mission is difficult. It would be as well if we succeeded, of course. But if we failed! My father would disown me for risking myself and spending the lives of Tor Carron’s men on a wild chance without real gain to show for it.”

  Keri nodded. “Well, we couldn’t have that. It’s unfortunate, but there we are. If you will excuse us, then, my brother and I have things to discuss.” She stepped past the men, opened the door, and made a polite, expansive gesture, inviting Lord Osman to leave.

  He held his ground, though he did look nonplussed by her easy dismissal. “Lady Kerianna, I fear Lord Domeric has already announced—”

  Tassel stepped smoothly past Keri, already speaking. “Pardon me for saying so, Lord Osman, but those of us born to Nimmira truly understand how impossible it is for anyone but the rightful Lady to make decisions of that sort. Domeric, though he may have been swept forward in the moment, knows this very well, as, forgive me, a foreigner such as yourself may not. Lady Kerianna is the Lady of Nimmira, and quite capable of making her own decisions and announcements.” And she gave Domeric a stern look.

  So did Keri.

  So did Linnet.

  Domeric took a breath. He said, his tone grim, “Very well, yes. I will say I made a mistake. I will announce that the matter is still under consideration. But, Keri—Lady—”

  Linnet cut him off neatly, slipping forward, laying a hand on Domeric’s arm, and saying softly, “She needs you, Dom. She needs your strength. You should be supporting Nimmira and the Lady. You know that.”

  Domeric stared at Linnet for a moment. Then he gave a short nod, looked at Keri, and nodded again.

  Keri let out her breath. She was, now that the crisis had passed, shaking. She tucked her hands in her skirts to hide this fact.

  Tassel, sounding perfectly normal and cheerful, said to Lord Osman, “While
Lady Kerianna discusses these matters with her brother, perhaps you will join me for a glass of wine. Or some honey mead. I believe our mead is highly thought of—have you tried it? And I would be glad to discuss the history of Nimmira with you. You might tell me a little of the history of your country as well. We are very insular here and know almost nothing of other lands, as I’m sure you have realized….” She eased him out so smoothly he might not have realized he had lost the game.

  Or at least this round. Keri doubted he had given up on the game. She didn’t think Lord Osman was accustomed to losing. She was a bit surprised he let Tassel coax him away. But then, Tassel was persuasive.

  Once Lord Osman was gone, she looked at her brother.

  Domeric said uncomfortably, “Keri—”

  “Yes?” said Keri. And realized only then that it was her mother’s look and her mother’s tone of voice. The awareness brought a sharp flick of grief and anger, but she put that aside, she put it all aside, none of it helped here, not the grief and certainly not the anger.

  He let his breath out, turned one big palm up, and said grimly, “Little tricks with the wind are not sufficient to face the Wyvern King. And the Bear Lord won’t work with a girl he thinks he can seduce. He needs to work with a man he respects. What he respects is a strong man, and what does he know of magic or encompassing Nimmira?”

  “Oh, so you thought you and Lord Osman could shove me into the background while you got together to make all the hard, dangerous decisions that matter?”

  Her brother looked away. Then he looked back. “It was stupid. But that Bear Lord, he could turn anyone around.”

  It was an apology. Of a sort. Keri took a deep breath, putting anger forcefully aside. “No,” she said. But gently.

  Domeric gave a small nod. “I know.” He paused. “So, now. What will you do?”

  He might have meant, About me? Or he might have meant, About all this? Keri couldn’t tell, and it didn’t make much difference anyway. She frowned sternly at her brother. “I am going to pretend to accept Lord Osman’s refusal. You can lead him to believe that I really will make any agreement he wants, but only after he helps me get Cort back. If Lord Osman believes that, I think he will help us, whatever he says now. Can you make him believe that, do you think?”

  Domeric scowled at her. Not a real scowl, Keri reminded herself. It was just his way. She held his gaze. “I will try,” her brother said at last.

  “I want you to go to Eschalion. With Osman’s men, and Lucas.”

  “Yes,” her brother agreed, as though this were so obvious he was surprised she had to put it into words.

  Linnet murmured to Domeric, “Lord Osman can’t be trusted to help us, but he can be trusted to be the Wyvern King’s enemy. If he’ll help at all, he may insist on going himself. He’s that type, I think. So it’s important you go, Domeric, because Lord Osman cares most about Tor Carron. We need you to remember that rescuing our Doorkeeper is the most important thing.”

  “Yes,” Keri agreed, but with some private misgivings. Lucas was the one she trusted to keep their priorities straight in his mind. But she wasn’t sure how to arrange matters so that Lucas would be in command.

  “Very well, then,” said Domeric. “I will go. As long as you stay here.” Scowling, he took a step forward and gripped Keri by the shoulders, hard enough to bruise, though she thought that was an accident. His hands were massive; he loomed over her like a bear or an old oak. “You must not leave Nimmira,” he growled.

  “I know!” Keri said. “But I need to talk to the Timekeeper before the rest of you go. There’s never been time, we’ve never had enough time! Right along, things have been happening too fast and at once, until everything jumbles up! Time—time is most of all what we need now.” She swung around, strode across the room, and flung open the door.

  The Timekeeper was standing right there in the hallway, a foot or two away from the door. He had not been striding forward; he had not raised his hand to knock. He was simply standing there, waiting, so that she jumped back in surprise, with an embarrassing little squeak.

  The Timekeeper’s long hands, and the gold chain that looped across his fingers, and the white lace at his cuffs were all vivid against his beautiful black coat. Keri could see that he had known she was going to open that door at that exact moment, that he had known she was going to be looking for him. From his complete lack of expression, she guessed he had also known she was going to be angry, but maybe that was just her, because of course his stark, bony face was never expressive.

  But as soon as she got over her surprise, she certainly was angry. Furiously angry. She was glad of it. Her anger seemed to make everything clear and sharp and vivid, so that she knew exactly what to do. If. If she could do it.

  She stood in the doorway and demanded, “Tell me how much longer Cort has before he loses the Doorkeeper’s magic. He hasn’t lost it yet, has he? How many hours does he have? As much as a day?”

  At Keri’s demand, the Timekeeper bowed his head. His dead-white hair was just as neat and straight as ever, not a single strand escaping its black ribbon. His watch swung gently from his finger, as though it were itself a pendulum to a greater clock: the quick little black hand counting off the passing seconds and the sapphire hand counting off the minutes, each one gone into the past as Keri just stood right in one place, doing nothing useful. Seconds and minutes gone, lost. She could see the rose crystal hour hand was poised at the top of the noon hour: soon that hour would count itself off and disappear, and still, for all the bewildering rush of the morning, Keri had done nothing toward finding and rescuing Cort.

  There was something appalling about the steady progression of time, or at least about dividing time into sharp little seconds and counting them off, like a knife flicking through the day, tick tick tick, and nothing anyone could do to turn back the hands of time.

  Keri pulled her gaze, with an effort, from the Timekeeper’s watch and looked into his face. “Well?” she demanded, because he had still said nothing.

  The Timekeeper answered, his desiccated voice whispering like the sound of time lost and never recovered. “I fear I cannot count off the hours or days that will pass before his magic deserts him. I do not know what the Wyvern King may do, or has done. That will very likely matter as much as any intrinsic quality of our magic or of our Doorkeeper.”

  Keri stopped, her anger dying before those quiet words. Then she rallied. “You can’t leave Nimmira, either. Not even to rescue Cort. Not even if you make a knot of time so that you and he and all the rest of you have hours or days that you otherwise wouldn’t.” It wasn’t quite a question. But she waited anyway, in the hope that he would tell her she was wrong and he meant to go with the others.

  The Timekeeper tilted his head slightly, a considering movement. He said at last, “No magic of Nimmira lingers long once carried beyond its borders. But mine least of all. Once I set foot beyond Nimmira, my time will cease.”

  Keri absorbed this. “How unfortunate,” she said grimly. She turned to Domeric. “You, then. And Lucas. And Lord Osman, with his men, if he will, and I don’t take no for an answer there, because you are going to get him to say yes. But you mustn’t trust Osman, Domeric. He’ll try to take over and have everything his way.” She took a deep breath, straightened her shoulders, and said firmly, “Lucas is the one who knows Eschalion, knows people there. Lucas will be in charge.”

  Domeric growled. If there were words in the sound he made, Keri couldn’t distinguish them. She said quickly, “Listen to me! Lucas is clever, and he knows how important it is to keep Nimmira out of the Wyvern King’s power.” She met Domeric’s frowning, stubborn glare, hoping she looked confident. A real Lady would be confident. She could at least play the role. She said, willing Domeric to accede, “Lord Osman won’t turn his head, you can bet on that. If anything, it’ll be the other way around.” She hoped no one asked her how she planned to enforce any of her decisions once the rescue party was gone through the gap into Eschal
ion.

  “I don’t think—” Domeric began roughly.

  “Dom,” Linnet said seriously, “Lady Kerianna is right. Lucas is clever. He can keep his eye on all the balls in the air and never drop one, and he won’t let Lord Osman distract or confuse him. He’s the best choice, and even if he wasn’t, there’s no time to argue about it! So agree, and we can start this play.”

  Domeric appeared grim, but he looked at Keri and nodded abruptly, as though he feared words of agreement would choke him if he tried to speak them.

  “Good, then,” said Keri. She didn’t like it, she hated sending everyone else while she stayed safe in Nimmira, but she thought it was the best she could do, the best any of them could do. She told Linnet, “Go tell Tassel what we’re doing. Ask Lord Osman what we should take with us and what we can expect. Don’t ask him for help. Don’t explain that Domeric’s going. Don’t even mention Lucas. He doesn’t know I can’t leave Nimmira, so let him think maybe I’m going to try to rescue Cort personally, and not only that, but that maybe I’m planning to go all by myself. That should make him want to step up, don’t you think?”

  “Oh, clever!” Linnet exclaimed. She collected herself and added more formally, “Yes, Lady, I think that’s wise. I hardly see how Lord Osman could let a girl go alone to Eschalion.” Her eyes were bright with humor. “No, if we let him think that, I’m sure he’ll insist on sending some of his men, if he doesn’t go himself.”