CHAPTER EIGHTEEN
“They say that before Stonespire was the seat of the Margraines—before it was a city at all, or even a castle—there was only the spire and the orchard, high up on that hill. They say that was why the very first Daven Margraine chose that spot, because he’d learned the apples’ secret.” Roger nodded, surpassingly pleased with himself. “And thieves have been plotting to make their fortunes off those same apples nearly ever since.”
Lucius frowned. “What, so she was really the marquise of Esthrades? That can’t be right.”
“I doubt it is,” Roger said, and laughed. “If Arianrod Margraine were really wandering about stabbing people instead of sitting on her throne, I expect we’d have heard about it.”
“But if the apples only grow in the orchard at Stonespire Hall, and they can’t be stolen, and the Margraines won’t sell them, how did Seren obtain one?”
“I didn’t at all say they couldn’t be stolen,” Roger said. “I told these two already: the trouble isn’t stealing one, it’s that one alone isn’t worth anything. Nor two, nor five, nor even ten, and I’m certain no one’s ever stolen so many as that at once.”
“Why aren’t they worth anything?”
Deinol answered that one, waving his hand absently. “Because the value’s in the orchard, or something like that.”
Lucius’s frown didn’t soften. “So why not just take the seeds from the apples you stole and plant your own orchard?”
“Wouldn’t work,” Seth said. “If you want the same kind of apples you started with, you’ve got to graft the branches onto rootstock. Though I suppose a thief might steal a branch as well, if he was clever enough.”
“Even I can’t say whether that ever happened,” Roger admitted. “All I know is that the second Daven used to hand out branches for grafting to his very particular friends—for a while, at least. But what do you think happened to all those grafts?”
“They wouldn’t grow,” Seth guessed, because he couldn’t see where else this might be going.
Roger beamed. “Right you are. No one, in fact, has been able to get blood apples to grow anywhere other than that orchard.” He scratched his neck. “Not that many people have been able to try—it isn’t as if the Margraines are eager to share them.”
“Yes, but why?” Lucius asked. “Are they some delicacy?”
“You really don’t know?” Roger asked, but he was grinning—he knew they didn’t. “Gran told me any thief worth his pick had heard of them.”
Deinol struck the bar with his open palm. “Yes, well, I may be a thief of sorts, but not every thief happens to share your family’s peculiar taste in stories, all right? Stop preening, and just tell us about the bloody apples.”
Roger pursed his lips, but he obliged. “The Margraines have been eating them in everything since the orchard first came to be,” he said. “But they never share them. Whenever the lords and ladies of Stonespire dine alone, it’s apple-stuffed pork, mutton in applesauce, apple pie, apple pudding, apples dipped in molasses or dusted with sugar. But whenever they have company, apples are never served—they can’t eat normal ones, Gran said, because they don’t like the taste, and they don’t want to waste blood apples on guests. And because they eat blood apples … you can’t poison them.”
Deinol rolled his eyes. “Oh, come on, Roger.”
“You come on, it’s the truth! Or it’s probably the truth, anyway. It’s just … well, no one knows precisely how or why the apples have that effect, and the Margraines aren’t telling. But folks have been trying to poison the rulers of Stonespire for generations, and if you check the history books, you’ll not find one recorded success. The sixth Daven lived through three attempts—the last one was the stranger’s red, the deadliest poison this side of the eastern sea. They say he shat blood for three days afterward, but three drops of the stuff should’ve turned his insides to paste. And Gran told me a story about old Berius Margraine, who was so fat, even the throne of Esthrades squeezed him. One of his rentholders feasted him for his birthday, and served an entire suckling pig stuffed with as much evenflower as he could fit. Berius had the place of honor, so of course the pig went to him first. The rentholder watched his supposed victim eat the ribs, the belly, the rump, and two legs, after which he merely retired for an after-supper nap and woke up in time to arrest his host for treason.”
“And your gran told you all this,” Deinol said. “Did she also tell you about how Elgar has two cocks and I’m the son of an emperor?”
“Laugh if you like, but Gran knew what she was about. The fact is, the Margraines are unpoisonable, and those blood apples are the reason. That’s why they’ll sell every trinket in Stonespire Hall before they let those apples go: they don’t want anyone to get the chance to study them, to figure out if maybe there’s some poison they can’t guard against.”
“Wait a moment,” Seth said. “I had some of that apple myself. Does that mean I—”
Roger laughed. “I’m afraid not, boy. I told you, didn’t I? One is worthless. You have to keep eating them over time—I couldn’t tell you precisely how long, but the Margraines start their whelps on ’em as soon as they can take solid food.”
Seth frowned. “So if Seren had one…”
“Then it’s likely she had the promise of more, yes—especially if she let you eat part of the one she had.”
Lucius held up a hand. “I don’t care if she has one apple or a hundred—how does she have them? She’s not a Margraine herself, and if you’re right, there’s no point to stealing them.”
“It’s got to be the stone,” Deinol said. “Elgar wanted it, and it seems like the marquise did too. They must know something about it we don’t, and that makes it worth any price.”
Lucius’s brow furrowed at that. “So blood apples were Seren’s price? That doesn’t make sense.”
“Why not?”
“First of all, Roger just said the Margraines wouldn’t—”
“Maybe for this they would. Maybe it’s just that important.”
Lucius shook his head. “If those apples really do protect you against poison, then I’m sure that’s useful. But if you can name your price, why ask for that in particular? It makes sense to value them if you’re a Margraine; people try to assassinate rulers all the time. But whom did Seren think was going to poison her? She didn’t seem overly paranoid to me, and why else would you be willing to do so much for those apples?”
One day, if you’re lucky, you’ll kill for something too, Seren had told him. But she had shared the apple with him as if it was just food to her. Lucius was right; it didn’t make sense. Surely she wouldn’t have been so passionate about an antitoxin, no matter how effective it was?
“Maybe we’re thinking about this the wrong way,” Seth said at last. “Maybe the apples weren’t the reward at all.”
Lucius shook his head again. “I doubt Lady Margraine would just give them away.”
“Maybe she—”
“Oh, what does it matter?” Deinol asked. “No matter how she got them, no matter why she wants them, she has to be at Stonespire, doesn’t she? That’s where we’ll find her.”
“That’s where we would find her,” Lucius said quietly, “if we were going in search of her. But we aren’t.”
“Well, why the hell not?”
“Because we have no reason to,” Lucius said.
“No reason? Lucius, she stole from us. She betrayed us. What more reason do we need?”
“Even if she did, we’re no worse off for it, are we? So your pride took a blow—all of ours did. We’ll get over it.”
“Aye, we could do that,” Deinol said. “Or we could get even.”
“Oh, and how do we do that? By marching up to Stonespire and ordering the marquise to give us Seren and the stone back?”
“You were willing to take on Elgar and his guards, weren’t you?”
“In order to free Morgan and Braddock, not just for the hell of it!” Lucius snapped. “But the
y’re free now, so who cares about the rest of it? In a way, Seren almost did us a favor. I didn’t relish handing Elgar anything of value, no matter how slight.”
Deinol sighed, staring at his boots. “Is giving it to Arianrod Margraine really any better?”
“Yes,” Lucius said, without hesitation. “Arianrod Margraine didn’t destroy Aurnis. Arianrod Margraine didn’t kill Prince Ryo and his kaishinrian. That might not matter to you, but it matters to me. If not for that man, I…” He clenched his fist around empty air. “The only gift I should be giving him is a sword in the belly.”
Deinol’s scoff came out half choked, almost guilty, but Seth knew his pride wouldn’t let him back down. “If you believe that so strongly, what are you doing here? Why don’t you join the Issamiri army, or start your very own rebellion in the streets of Sheath?”
Lucius laughed without any mirth. “Because I’m a coward, that’s why. But a coward can still have convictions.”
Deinol blinked at him, stunned. “What in the gods’ name do you mean? Roger’s a coward. You—why, if any other man called you that, I’d knock him flat.”
Lucius smiled. “I know you would.” But then he dropped his eyes, crossing the room to rest his hand against the doorframe. “I’m going round to Halvard’s for a bit,” he said at last. “I won’t be long.”
He’d barely left before Deinol started to fidget, reaching for the hilt of his sword. “I’d, ah … I’d best be gone as well. Errands. Mind the shop, you two.”
After he had gone, Roger leaned heavily on the bar. “That’s hardly what I like to see from those two, especially now.”
“No,” Seth agreed. And it wasn’t over yet, he knew. Neither one of them was prepared to concede the point, but Deinol didn’t want to go without Lucius, and Lucius clearly didn’t relish the thought of letting him go alone. “We’ll have to wait for them to settle it, I guess.”
Roger propped his chin on his hand. “Well, maybe not. What do you think?”
Seth started. “Me? I … Well, what do you think?”
Roger laughed. “I think I’d dearly love to see Stonespire Hall one day, but not as an unwelcome interloper, much less a prisoner. And my, ah, expertise only works in this city, I’m afraid, so I’d be no help in those prisons.” He grinned at Seth from over his clasped hands. “All right, now it’s your turn.”
Seth bit his lip. What did he think? Lucius was right, of course; he always was. The only thing they’d find at Stonespire was trouble, in one shape or another. And they didn’t need to go—all they had to do was lie low and get word to Morgan and Braddock once the whole affair had blown over, and they could go on just as before. He’d have everything he loved back again, just as he had wanted. Deinol was stubborn, but with Seth, Lucius, and Roger all entreating him together, surely they could get him to see reason. He was angry, but he’d been angry before. It would pass.
He remembered Seren’s knife at his throat, the feel of his blood against her fingers. And he remembered before that: What happens to weak people? he had asked.
They die, more often than not, Seren had said. But even when they live, their will is not their own.
“I don’t know, Roger,” he said. “Does it even matter what I think?”
Roger spread his hands along the bar. “You were there, boy. You were part of it, just as much as they were. If anyone else’s opinion matters now, yours does. So you’d best figure out what it is, and quickly.”
* * *
In the days of old, the rulers of Reglay had been buried beneath Mist’s Edge, in a maze of crypts hollowed out under the stone. But it had been generations since Mist’s Edge had belonged to the Rayls, and the second Kelken, whose father had died losing the castle, had decreed that he would be buried in the tomb at Mist’s Edge or not at all. And according to his tradition, all the succeeding kings and queens of Reglay had burned.
His father’s ashes were scattered from the tallest tower of Second Hearth, in the hope that the wind might carry them to Mist’s Edge. It fell to Kel to do the scattering, standing beside the great urn with Eirnwin and Lessa, an honor guard around them. He dipped his hand in again and again, trying not to think of how this dust had once been his father. It took longer than he would have thought to scatter it all, and by the time he was done, his legs were stiff and sore from so much standing in the same position, leaning on one crutch so he could keep the other arm free. Eirnwin helped him soak his legs, and dressed them in snow’s down to ease the swelling. He demanded that Kel stay abed until his legs were back to normal—or what passed for normal with them, anyway—but Kel knew their plans could not wait. So Eirnwin and Lessa pulled up chairs beside his bed, and Kel propped himself up against his pillows, his crutches resting nearby.
“My lord,” Eirnwin started, bowing his head, and then abruptly stopped. “No—Your Grace. You must know, first of all, that if you wish to name a new advisor, there are—”
“Don’t be silly, Eirnwin,” Kel said. “Come on, we don’t have time for formalities.”
Eirnwin’s eyes remained grave, but the set of his mouth eased just slightly. “If that is so, Your Grace, my first suggestion regards your coronation. It must be held sooner rather than later—immediately, dare I say it, would be best.”
“It will be done as soon as I can manage it, given the circumstances,” Kel said. “I’ll have more to say about that soon. Right now I wish to speak of my—of my lord father’s plans, and of what mine shall be.”
Eirnwin nodded. “Of course.” Lessa said nothing, but looked at him expectantly.
Kel took a deep breath. “Before my father—before—” He bit his lip, and started again. “You all know what he wanted. But I told him there was another way. I could go to Issamira in Lessa’s stead, and offer Princess Adora my hand. Lessa could still marry Hephestion, but the marriage would take place here, not in Issamira. And if the princess agreed, I would stay in Issamira with her.”
Alessa started up in her chair. “But, Kel, that would mean—”
“Giving up the throne, yes,” Eirnwin said, his face expressionless. “But I expect His Grace realized that.” He hesitated, then spoke more slowly, choosing his words with care. “While I understand your father’s concerns, Your Grace, it is not my place to ensure that the succession follows any particular bloodline. I am merely here to advise the current king as best I can, and in that capacity … your plan might work as well as your father’s. Perhaps better. The alliance with Issamira would be much more secure—you’d be offering Hephestion a kingdom, not a bastard, and removing a potential thorn from Adora’s side. It would not be ideal to leave Reglay without a sitting king while you go to negotiate, but on the other hand, you should be able to complete the journey with no problems, while for Alessa the risks would be … considerably greater. And recent events have proven that Second Hearth is not so safe a place for its king as we might wish.”
Kel thought back to the assassin, to his thin fingers and trembling mouth. Kel suspected he was a man, from what he’d heard of the assassin’s voice and seen of his face when he’d looked up at him from the floor. But other than that, neither Kel nor Lessa could remember anything of note, and if his father had seen the man’s face, that knowledge had died with him. As much as it infuriated Kel to admit it, he could think of no way to find his father’s killer.
He remembered how the man had stopped so suddenly, the way he had shuddered as if he was afraid. But why had he been afraid of Lessa? Why had he run when he saw her?
His father had told him to run, and he had. But he had told Lessa to run, and she’d stood her ground. He had run, and she had stayed. And now his father was dead, and he and Lessa were alive.
“Your Grace?” Eirnwin asked mildly.
Kel started forward, wincing as his legs shifted. “Yes. Sorry, I’m … surprised you like my plan so much.”
“It is not a matter of liking it or not, Your Grace. It is simply a matter of what might work, and what might not.” He clasped
his hands. “Do you mean to tell us you have decided to pursue this course?”
Kel hesitated, but he already knew what his answer would be. “I … No, I can’t.”
Eirnwin frowned. “You can’t?”
“You know what happened,” Kel said, looking at Eirnwin and Lessa both. “My father … died for me. He died to save me. And before he died, he told me what he wanted. The throne … it’s barely real to me, but what my father wanted most was to see me sit it after him. Even if my plan could work, I can’t throw away everything he wanted, not after what he did for me. I just … I can’t.”
Eirnwin worked his tongue against his teeth. “If you can’t, Your Grace, then you can’t,” he said at last. “Does that mean you will be doing as your father wished after all?”
“No,” Kel said. “I owe him a debt, but the throne is mine now. Lessa stays with me.”
“But then—”
“We won’t be sending anyone to Issamira,” Kel finished. “That’s right.”
His sister finally spoke up. “Kel, if we don’t get the Issamiri to help us—”
“We may still get them to help us,” Kel said. “But I won’t send anyone there just now. There’s something else I need to do first.” He paused, gathered himself, kept going. “You’re the one who said Second Hearth isn’t safe, Eirnwin, and you’re the one who said I need to hold my coronation. You’re right, and that’s why … that’s why I’ve decided to hold my coronation at Mist’s Edge.”
For a moment they simply stared at him, and then Eirnwin sucked in an audible breath. “And how do you propose to do that, Your Grace?”
“I propose to walk to Mist’s Edge and put the crown on my head,” Kel replied. “Elgar hasn’t kept soldiers there for more than two years; it’s deserted. My father could have taken it back at any time, but he was afraid of giving Elgar cause to attack us.”
“And does that fear not still stand?” Eirnwin asked.
The Empire's Ghost Page 26