by Helen Lowe
“So what’s the occasion?” she asked Alianor.
“An audience for envoys from some northern place. Not Aeris or the River,” Alianor clarified, and Malian’s heartbeat quickened, her thoughts flying to the Wall. “They’ve been treating with Ser Ombrose up until now, and today they meet the Duke. It’s just a formality, but we’re all interested in seeing who these people are.”
Yes, thought Malian. She was wondering who on the Wall would send out envoys beyond its bounds at all, let alone as far as Emer.
“And then,” Alianor went on, “there’s to be yet another grand luncheon, although this afternoon should be a little quieter. But we should join Ghis now Ser Ombrose is here, since he’s the one sponsoring the envoys today.”
“And the Duke?” Malian asked, threading between the gathered courtiers.
“Oh, he’s here already, talking to the group by the window.” Alianor nodded in that direction. “He was with Queen Zhineve-An until just before you arrived.”
Was there a tightness in her voice as she said that? Malian wondered. But there was no time to speculate, as she had barely straightened from her bow to Ghiselaine—feeling the eyes of Zhineve-An’s Seven on her throughout this maneuver—when the Duke crossed to the central of the three chairs. Zhineve-An and Ghiselaine both rose as courtesy required, and he bowed to each of them in turn, but without undue formality. He was dressed very much as a plain man, in another of the black jupons over a mail corselet, but without yesterday’s goldwork and jewels. The Duke had set aside the coronal as well, going bareheaded—so whoever these envoys are, Malian reflected, he doesn’t think they’re as important as a queen of Jhaine. She hoped Zhineve-An was duly flattered, but then again, perhaps the young queen would simply see it as her due.
Malian eased back, standing behind both Ilaise and Alianor as Duke Caril seated himself. If this was a Derai embassy, impossible though that seemed, then it was vital that she observe without being seen herself. Already the courtiers were withdrawing to either side of the room, opening up a clear path between the three tall chairs and the doors that the halberdiers had now pushed open. Two more halberdiers stepped into the room, standing to attention on either side of the door as Ser Ombrose moved to the Duke’s right hand. Malian could see no mail beneath the champion’s royal blue silk, but he was the only man in the room, besides the Duke, permitted to carry a sword. She was almost certain the Seven would have hideout weapons, though, as she did herself—and Lord Falk’s commission to use them if required, although she certainly hoped that would not be necessary today.
She craned forward with everyone else, trying to catch a first glimpse of the envoys as one of the Duke’s stewards stepped forward to formally announce them. “Lord Arcolin,” the man said in ringing tones as the noise in the room died away, “and Lord Nherenor, envoys of the Many-As-One to Duke Caril of Emer.”
Malian’s heart lurched and darkness wavered around her eyes. For one disorientated moment she thought she had even forgotten how to breathe—and then the armring concealed beneath her sleeve burned her forearm with cold fire and her vision cleared. Nhenir remained utterly silent, and Malian’s hands closed, the close-trimmed fingernails biting into her palms as she stared at the two men pacing to meet the Duke. Both were tall, but the envoy farthest from Malian had the appearance of a man in his thirties, while his companion looked very young—younger even than me, Malian thought with a slight shock. If asked to guess, she would have put his age at no more than sixteen.
The disparity in age—or in the appearance of age, she reflected grimly—was not the only difference between the two. Both had long black hair bound back from their brows by a narrow silver band, but the older envoy was dressed in a full, floor-length robe of indigo silk, while the youth wore a white surcote over a shirt of blue-black mail. A rayed sun, worked in yellow gold with a wash of red across it, covered the breast of the indigo robe, while the device on the white surcote was smaller—a black lightning strike above the left breast, with a unicorn superimposed above it.
Together they presented every appearance of great and powerful lords, similar to those of Emer. They had even brought the correct small retinue of servants, drawn up formally by the door. And both envoys were handsome by the standards of the southern realms, Arcolin almost floridly so with darkly blue eyes above high cheekbones and a full, sensuous mouth. The youth’s face was high-boned, too, but narrower, his almond-shaped eyes as black as his hair. His coloring was exotic here in Emer—and Ilaise by no means the only lady in the room studying him with interest. But his appearance would not, Malian thought, her mouth very dry, be unusual amongst some of the Derai houses on the Wall of Night.
He’s Swarm, she reminded herself sharply. He can use their sorcery to give himself any appearance he chooses.
Ilaise leaned close to whisper something to Alianor, and when she shifted back the emissaries were straightening out of the correct formal bow to the Duke. Someone has briefed them well, Malian thought, and her eyes went to Ser Ombrose as he turned to address the Duke. The champion’s right hand gestured to the older of the two men first. “Your Grace, may I present Lord Arcolin and his fellow envoy, Lord Nherenor. Lord Arcolin, Lord Nherenor: His Grace Caril Sondargent, Duke of Emer.”
The next quarter of an hour were taken up by formalities: the Duke’s speech of welcome, followed by Lord Arcolin’s thanks and assurance of the Many-As-One’s great desire for friendship with Emer. Introductions to Queen Zhineve-An and Ghiselaine followed, with further expressions of goodwill toward Jhaine.
Is this why the queen is here, Malian wondered: to be part of meeting this embassy, since only Ishnapuri envoys are allowed into Jhaine? Or part of why she is here at any rate? Except if that were so, she did not think either the young queen or her Seven looked at all happy about it. The queen’s face was a blank mask, her eyes remote, but the Seven’s half circle had drawn in close around her chair. Why? Malian wondered. What do they know that the Emerians don’t?
“The queen and her Seven are bound together.” Nhenir’s thought slid into her mind. “They sense the Darkswarm taint, although they may not know what it is.”
Arcolin’s attention was focused on the Duke, but Malian, watching closely, thought his eyelids flickered—as though he had sensed some other power in the room when Nhenir used mindspeech.
“Kinsman.” Nherenor spoke in a clear voice, his accented Emerian attractive rather than heavy. “Do not forget that we have brought gifts.”
“I have not forgotten.” Arcolin was smiling, easy, as he turned to Ser Ombrose. “With your permission, Lord Champion?”
Ser Ombrose looked to the Duke, who nodded, and now everyone was craning forward again as the waiting servants carried in caskets of plain black wood, each one inlaid with silver and white jade. “Ishnapuri work?” a courtier beside Malian whispered, but his companion shook her head.
“I have made a study of Ishnapuri designs for my jewel box collection. This is similar, but not one of their styles.”
Someone else shushed her as Nherenor opened the first chest and lifted out a silver birdcage with a jeweled golden bird inside. Every detail of feather and beak was perfectly rendered—and Malian was as amazed as everyone else when the young man turned a key at the base of the cage and the bird opened and closed its wings and began to sing. She did not recognize the tune but it was clear the Emerians did. “The spring song of Rolan and Lyinor,” the woman courtier whispered again. “How wonderful!”
As soon as the song stopped, Arcolin took the birdcage from Nherenor and presented it to Ghiselaine with a sweeping bow. “For the Countess of Ormond,” he said.
A bird in a cage, Malian thought—and a song of doomed springtime love. It could be pure coincidence, but these envoys were Darkswarm, so she suspected the concealed barb. Clearly, they had good intelligence as well, although with two facestealers infiltrated into the ranks of the Normarch damosels, that was not surprising. No one else appeared to have noticed anything, though,
and Ghiselaine was smiling as she inclined her head and Ilaise received the gift. Arcolin’s intense stare took in the damosel and dismissed her, before turning back to his fellow envoy.
“And for the Queen of Jhaine.” Arcolin bowed to Zhineve-An as Nherenor took a slender book, wrapped in black silk, from the second box. “We offer a work by J’mair of Ishnapur, his rare Seasonal Analects.”
“Not rare,” the Duke said slowly, before any of the Jhainarians could speak. “I understood that there were no copies of the Seasonal Analects left in existence.”
Arcolin smiled. “Your Grace, the Many-As-One have always included those with a gift for finding that which others have abandoned seeking. It is only one of many skills that we would willingly share with our friends.”
So is it the real book, Malian wondered, or a clever simulacrum—a little Darkswarm sleight-of-hand to draw the Emerians into their orbit? Rare gift or not, Zhineve-An did not look at all pleased. Two fiery spots of color burned in her pale cheeks, but she nodded stiffly and one of the Seven—Zorem, Malian thought, recalling the Maraval introductions—stepped forward and took possession of the book.
If Arcolin was aware that he might have caused offense, it did not seem to trouble him, although Malian noticed that Nherenor’s smile had vanished. Ser Ombrose was frowning slightly, but the Duke simply waited. And clearly, Malian thought, his gift must come next—and outshine the other two.
“For the Duke’s Grace,” Arcolin said, on cue, “we offer not one but two presents, a mark of the great esteem we hold for his person and the depth of our affection toward Emer.”
Malian was almost certain the Jhainarian First’s lip curled, but everyone else appeared focused on what Arcolin was passing to Ser Ombrose. Another book, she saw, this one larger than the gift made to Zhineve-An. She thought the silver-and-gold design embossed onto the black cover looked familiar, but Ser Ombrose had handed the book on to the Duke before she realized that it showed the same depiction of Haarth that had graced a map table in her Derai home, the Keep of Winds. As though, Malian thought—and although the day was warm she felt chilled—the map had been drawn by the same hand, or hands that knew the same skills.
Duke Caril was turning the pages slowly, his attention caught, and Malian guessed that the book must hold a series of maps, either of Haarth or of Emer. “The detail and precision,” the Duke said finally, “are outstanding.”
“Ser Ombrose told us how you value learning,” Arcolin replied, “and that you hope to found a university here, to rival the one in Ar. We felt this gift might be of practical benefit as well, given you have a new cartographer from the River.”
Malian really held her breath this time, the blood beginning to pound as she wondered whether the Duke would request Maister Carick to step forward, bringing her to the personal notice of the Swarm envoys. But the Duke just nodded, closing the book. “I will certainly let him see it,” he said, “once I have studied it in more detail myself.”
Arcolin inclined his head, his expression impossible to read, and presented the second gift. It looked like a flat-bottomed spirit lamp, of the kind said to originate in Ishnapur but found throughout the southern realms—except that this lamp appeared to have been cut from crystal. The facets flashed in the sun as Arcolin turned it, but when he passed his palm over the lamp’s surface, the crystal lit up from within. The courtiers gasped and even the Duke leaned forward as the initial spark steadied to a soft glow. Arcolin passed his hand across the lamp’s surface again and the glow faded.
It’s like the lamps set into the wall in the heart of the Old Keep, Malian thought; and a little like the cone lamps that our priests used there, too. She was aware that her pulse was pounding again, and she had to force herself into the Shadow Band discipline for achieving calmness, so that she could hear past the roaring in her ears. But Swarm agents giving Derai lamps as gifts, while a Derai map graced the cover of their book—Malian swallowed back bile, even as she kept a courtier’s smile starched onto her face.
“Why do you fight against the truth that you already know?” Nhenir inquired, but she pushed the helm’s mindvoice away, concentrating on what Arcolin was saying as Ser Ombrose brought the lamp to the Duke.
“These gifts are a token, not just of our esteem, but of the knowledge and skill that we shall continue to gift to all those who join with us in friendship.”
Malian was remembering how the lamps in the Old Keep had activated at her touch yet not Kalan’s—but the Swarm had made sure that this lamp worked for the Duke. She watched him pass his hand across its surface, his expression thoughtful as the white light flowered, before he passed the same hand back, letting the glow fade. “You are generous with your gifts, Lord Arcolin,” he said at last.
Arcolin bowed. “The Many-As-One are generous, Your Grace—but also humbly pleased that our gifts find favor.”
“And in return for such generosity?” Duke Caril asked. “What, besides our reciprocal esteem and friendship, do the Many-As-One seek?”
Nherenor made a slight gesture; surely not of dissent? Malian thought. Does he really expect the Emerians to believe that such extravagance is offered without any thought of recompense? Arcolin turned slightly, catching his fellow envoy’s movement, and Nherenor stilled at once.
“The Many-As-One greatly esteem the friendship of Emer,” Arcolin said, smooth as cream. “So much so that we offer formal alliance.”
“So my champion tells me.” The Duke’s nod was crisp. “Nor do we discount the benefits such an alliance could bring. We are willing to hear you further, and Ser Ombrose will arrange the necessary meetings. But for now, I hope that you will stay and join our luncheon?”
Malian could see the rigidity in Alianor’s back—and remembering Summer’s Eve and the were-hunts ravening on the Northern March, she dared not look at Ghiselaine. Surely, though, the Duke must know that the Many-As-One whose envoys he was entertaining were the same Swarm who had been behind those attacks, as well as the poisoned cup that had been sent to Ghiselaine in his son’s name?
“Yet we have already accepted,” Nhenir interposed coolly, “that Swarm actions in the north suggest their agents may be working at cross-purposes. As does the intervention at Tenneward lodge.” Again, Malian caught the surreptitious movement of Arcolin’s eyes, as though he sensed the breath of another’s power in the room: a clear indication that he was a sorcerer or adept of some kind himself.
The Duke stood up and joined Nherenor, signaling the end of the formal audience. “Ombrose tells me that you’re competing in the tourney?” the Duke said, and the young envoy nodded, his expression growing animated. The servants began to withdraw with the empty caskets, and both Ghiselaine and Zhineve-An rose to their feet. Ghiselaine’s smile had not reached her eyes, which looked strained. Zhineve-An was still very white, her gray gaze shadowed as she stared at Arcolin, and the Seven remained in their tight, protective formation.
“She looks as though she’s seen a ghost,” Alianor murmured. “But I’m not sure whether she is frightened or just angry.”
Malian was fairly certain that the young queen was both. “Let me take the birdcage back to your apartments,” she replied, just as quietly. “I will go over it while you’re at this luncheon and make sure it’s safe.”
Alianor’s eyes widened slightly and then she nodded. “I wish Lord Falk were here,” she said.
Inwardly, Malian agreed. I have Lord Falk’s commission, she thought—but what if that turns out to be contrary to the will of a Duke who has a queen of Jhaine sitting at his right hand and has just received Swarm emissaries with favor? Mind you, she reflected, if the Duke doesn’t know about Lord Falk’s commission, then he can’t countermand it.
She found that thought cheering, despite her fear for Ghiselaine and foreboding at what the Swarm’s presence here, bearing gifts and honeyed words, meant for the Derai Alliance. And I don’t know the Duke’s mind, she reminded herself; I can’t be sure that he’s been taken in.
“Do you think Ghiselaine could ask to see the J’mair book?” she asked quietly. “I need the chance to look at every one of these gifts.”
What better place to plant a fallback trap, after all, should the alliance talks fail—unless access to the palace and those about the Duke was the real fallback option. Malian folded her lips together, feeling as somber as Alianor had looked a few moments before. “I wish Lord Falk were here, too,” she said, watching as the Duke bowed to Zhineve-An, offering her his arm. “Or any of the others, for that matter. But they aren’t and we are.” She relieved Ilaise of the birdcage as Ghiselaine accepted Ser Ombrose’s escort from the room. “So,” she added, her vision narrowing on the Swarm envoys being mobbed by smiling courtiers, “we’ll just have to do the best we can.”
Chapter 36
The Sword Ring
The heralds, Kalan decided, had been right about tourney camps breeding rumor—and now, by the third day of elimination rounds, speculation was rife. It was hardly surprising, he supposed, given that Queen Zhineve-An had accompanied the Duke during the opening ceremonies, then spent the second afternoon with Ser Ombrose beside her in the ducal stand, while Ghiselaine had not yet made an appearance. The Normarch company might know that was because of the incident at Tenneward lodge, but all most people saw was the presence of the Queen of Jhaine and the absence of the Countess of Ormond. It did not help that Lord Hirluin had not yet arrived back from the Eastern March either, although he had been expected to attend the tournament prior to the ceremony officially reconfirming his betrothal to Ghiselaine.
No wonder people believe these rumors that he’s going to marry Queen Zhineve-An instead, Kalan thought. Personally, he was starting to wonder what the Duke’s heir was about, while Audin’s habitual expression had become a frown. One Choughmark knight had been unfortunate enough to repeat the Lord Hirluin marriage rumor just before he was matched against Audin in the joust trials, and Kalan had never seen anyone go backside over crupper so fast.