The Barbed Coil

by J. V. Jones

  As if he had spoken the question out loud, the woman held out her hand and said, “Come, I am too old to waste my time standing on ceremony, and have well passed the stage where I need an entourage to excite respect.” A well-arched eyebrow arched one degree more. “Pour yourself a glass of wine, then sit or stand as you wish.”

  Camron’s fingers barely had chance to close around the cool palm of Lianne, countess of Mir’Lor, before the woman withdrew her touch. She turned her back on him, and he followed her toward the center of the room. Unlike the formal sections of the palace, the countess’s private chamber was low ceilinged and intimate. Umber-painted panels glowed in the candlelight, thick saffron-colored carpets muted Camron’s steps, and deep within a red stone hearth, a small but forceful fire blazed with purely golden flames.

  Reaching a cluster of high-backed chairs, cushioned benches, and tables, the countess turned and made a small gesture to a silver tray laid with goblets and a single jug of wine. Even though his mouth was dry, Camron did not want a drink. Something told him he would need all his wits about him when talking to this woman. He could not refuse her request, though, and poured them both a cup of wine. As soon as he tilted the jug, the fumes of fourteen-year-old berriac rose up to meet his nose. Memories, brittle as autumn leaves, gathered in the back of his throat: Thorn, his father, long evenings sitting around the great hearth, talking weapons and supplies and estate business.

  Camron swallowed hard. Aware that his hand was shaking, he forced himself to concentrate on pouring the wine as evenly as he could. When he looked up, he saw the countess was watching him.

  “There is no wine to match that made in Thorn,” she said.

  Seeing her this close, Camron realized she was very old. Small, too, though he had not noticed it when he followed her across the room.

  “What do you want from me?” he asked.

  She seemed less surprised at the question than he was. Camron could hardly believe he had asked it. Was it the fumes from the wine or the sheer weight of the countess’s presence that had forced him to speak so openly? He didn’t know. But he did not take the question back.

  Taking the second goblet from his hand, Lianne said, “You will be heading north with my son’s forces at dawn.” It was not a question, but she paused all the same, giving Camron time to realize that she knew all that had happened that morning in the Hall of Kings. Fixing him with a gaze as direct as only eyes that color could allow, she said, “Tell me, Camron of Thorn, when you meet Izgard’s army on the field, what will you be fighting for?”

  Camron felt blood flush up his cheeks. He looked down, away from the scrutiny of those perfect blue eyes.

  “Vengeance?” she said. “Love for Rhaize? Or do you see it as a chance to step out from your father’s long shadow and create a new generation’s Mount Creed?”

  Angry now, Camron shook his head. “I will fight for my father’s memory, and for Thorn and the people who died there.”

  “Aah,” Lianne said, ringing the goblet with her finger. “All three, then.”

  “No.” Camron slammed the jug onto the tray. Silver goblets tinkled like bells. What was it about this woman? What gave her the right to say such things? Feeling almost drunk, as if he had swallowed rather than inhaled the wine before him, Camron stepped away from the countess and her nest of tables and chairs. “I did not come here to talk of myself. As you say, the Rhaize army moves north first thing tomorrow. I came to Mir’Lor to warn your son that Izgard is fighting with—” Camron checked himself, remembering his earlier performance in front of the Sire’s entourage. “Unnatural advantages.”

  A husky sound that might have been a laugh sounded deep within Lianne’s throat. Turning toward the light from the fire, she took a long drink from her cup. Camron saw then how beautiful she was: the long sweep of her neck, the upward tilt of her cheekbones. What was it people used to say about her? All of Rhaize is met within her eyes. There was something else, too. Something about her having had the two most powerful men in the country as her suitors. Besides the old Sire himself, Camron could not guess who the other man might be.

  Lianne, countess of Mir’Lor, trailed a long finger over her lip. For a moment she looked just like her son. “What if I could give you another reason to fight, Camron of Thorn? What would you say to that?”

  Camron tugged at his hair, frustrated. Men and women were dead. His father was dead. Why couldn’t he get the people in this palace to see that? Why wouldn’t they listen? “I have reasons enough to fight, my lady. Anyone who sees the harras cannot doubt that.”

  Unaffected by the force of his words, Lianne smiled slowly. “You are so like your father when you are angry, you know.”

  A muscle tightened in Camron’s chest. He felt disoriented, as if he had been thrown into the middle of a game with no rules. “You knew my father?”

  Lianne nodded. For the first time since Camron had walked through her door, she looked down. “You could say that. Many years ago now. Back in the days of war and Mount Creed.”

  Camron’s first reaction was disbelief. How could his father have known the countess of Mir’Lor and not mention it?

  “We were of an age, he and I,” Lianne said, turning her back on Camron and walking toward the fire. “He and I were the only two left who remembered Garizon for what it was.” She shrugged at the flames. “Now Berick is dead, and I am the only one.”

  Abruptly she turned from the fire. Her eyes were bright, and two spots of color blazed high on her cheeks. “So don’t think you come here telling me things I do not know. All tales of Garizon and its kings are old news to me.”

  Camron bowed his head. Every time this woman spoke she stole a little more of the solid ground beneath his feet. “He never spoke of you.”

  “There was much he never spoke of.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “He never spoke of Garizon to you, did he?”

  “You are mistaken, my lady. He did speak of Garizon. He told me how, twenty-one years ago, he relinquished his claims upon the crown because he wanted to give the Garizon people peace. He said they had suffered enough at Mount Creed and a civil war would only tear them apart.”

  Lianne made a small flicking motion with her hand. “If your father relinquished all claims on Garizon, why then did he sign all his letters with the amethyst wax of Garizon sovereignty up until his dying day?”

  Camron kept very still. His chest felt so tight, he didn’t risk a breath. Amethyst wax. The same color he had used to seal the very last letter he’d written to his father. The same color that was caked under his thumbnail as he’d pumped at his father’s heart.

  Lianne watched him with a steady gaze. “He made you use it, too, didn’t he?”

  Camron felt the pressure in his chest shift down toward his gut. He shook his head. “It meant nothing. Nothing. It was just a family custom, that was all.” Even as he spoke he felt the lie. The fire suddenly seemed close enough to burn his face.

  “I don’t think you really believe that, do you?”

  And with that, Lianne, countess of Mir’Lor, took away Camron’s last patch of solid ground. Camron felt himself falling. He was back in his father’s study once more, kneeling over Berick’s body. The room was full of light, the air tasted of wet fur and warm blood, and as the harras changed from monsters to men, they cast shifting, liquid shadows on his back. Camron watched them leave. He felt the vibrations of their boots on the stone beneath his knees and heard the dull thud as the last harrar threw something on the floor before he left.

  Camron shuddered, coming back to the present with a jolt. His hands formed fists by his side.

  Sealing wax. The last harrar had thrown a block of red sealing wax onto the study floor.

  During all the madness that had followed—the terror of his father’s cooling body, the men below stairs, butchered, their blood steaming in the heat from the furnace—he had pushed it from his mind. There was no space for anything except death that night. Camron pr
essed his lips into a hard line. He should have gotten to his father sooner.

  “Sit, sit.” A hand brushed against his shoulder, then up to his cheek. Camron looked up to see Lianne of Mir’Lor watching over him. How could he have been so wrong about her eyes? They weren’t cold like jewels. They were soft and deep, with so many sorrows collected in their irises that they made his throat go dry.

  She guided him to a chair, plumped a cushion for his back, brushed a lock of hair from his forehead, and handed him his cup of wine. “Drink,” she said. “I know you do not want to, but do so because I ask.”

  He brought the cup to his lips, closed his eyes, and drank.

  The wine tasted of home. He felt it slipping down his throat like a prayer mouthed in the dark. It calmed his pumping heart, released something in his chest, making it easier to breathe.

  Lianne smiled softly. “See,” she said, sounding just like a mother teasing a stubborn child. “I told you it would help.”

  Camron couldn’t stop himself from returning her smile. She made him feel very young.

  Raising her own cup to the light, she made a toast. “Rhaize.” Camron repeated the word and drank. After a moment Lianne brought her cup down to her lap. Her eyes shone brightly, their focus shifting to some unknowable point before coming to rest on Camron’s face. “You know I speak the truth about your father.”

  Camron didn’t reply. He didn’t trust himself to recognize the truth anymore.

  “Izgard didn’t kill your father because of the victory he won at Mount Creed.” Lianne shook her head. “No. He was killed because of the amethyst wax. Izgard knew, you see. He knew that by continuing to use the wax to seal all his correspondence, your father—despite all his fine, selfless words of denial—was keeping alive his claim.”

  “But he said he never wanted to rule Garizon. He swore it.”

  “He wasn’t doing it for himself.” Lianne tilted her chin as she spoke, offering Camron the answer with her eyes.

  Camron shook his head, refusing to take it.

  Lianne shrugged and spoke it out loud anyway. “Yes, Camron of Thorn. He kept alive the claim for you, just for you.”

  The room seemed suddenly hot and dim. Camron felt sweat trickle past his ear. Even though deep down he knew the countess was right and that the block of red wax thrown by the harrar was a sign that Izgard knew it too—no one was to use amethyst except him—Camron still shook his head. To accept what she said changed too much.

  Lianne continued speaking, her soft voice turning rough. “Even though your father was cousin to the old king, he knew he could never rule Garizon after Mount Creed. They would never have him back. He was the great Rhaize hero, the man who fought and won the greatest battle in half a century, who slew twenty thousand Garizons on a mountain in midwinter and didn’t leave a single man standing to bury the frozen dead.”

  Camron frowned.

  “Make no mistake about it, Camron of Thorn, your father wanted to rule Garizon. He wanted it in his heart, his bones, his blood—he wanted to wear the Coil. Yet he could not take back his victory at Mount Creed, and fifty years wasn’t nearly enough for the Garizon people to forget.”

  “But the people of Rhaize forgot. They forgot all about Garizon’s past.”

  Lianne’s smile was gentle, but her words when they came were hard. “The defeated always remember the longest. All Rhaize remembers, all this court remembers, is that half a century ago Rhaize won a magnificent victory over Garizon. Tomorrow my son rides north believing he will do the same.”

  Camron locked gazes with the countess of Mir’Lor. He was beginning to understand things now.

  Lianne’s hands made a swishing sound against the silk of her dress as she brought them together in a knot. “I loved your father once.”

  Camron nodded. He had heard as much in her voice minutes earlier.

  “I would have married him, too.”

  “If he had taken the Barbed Coil?”

  Lianne didn’t blink. She regarded him with such a look that Camron felt his cheeks grow hot. What had possessed him to say such a thing?

  Then she smiled; the countess of Mir’Lor smiled with such brightness and warmth that it took Camron’s breath away. “I am too old for lies, Camron of Thorn,” she said, “and have long forgotten the art of verbal dancing. So even though it hurts my vanity to do so, I will confess that you are right: I was young and ambitious and determined to marry a king.”

  She was so beautiful when she spoke, her eyes sparkling with such dark brilliance, that Camron could see how she had gotten away with it. She could tell a man to his face she wanted him for his title and his wealth, and he would go right ahead and marry her anyway. She was that sort of woman.

  Yet even as he admired her and fell a little bit in love with her himself, the tightness returned to Camron’s chest. His father had given up so much at Mount Creed: his country, his future, the woman he loved.

  Shaking his head, Camron murmured, “Fifty years is so long.”

  “Yes,” Lianne said, knowing immediately what he meant, “it is, but he had his conciliations, you must not forget that. He had a wife who loved him dearly and his work as a peacemaker: to this day the Garizon people do not know that Berick saved ten times as many lives as he took. He stopped Rhaize generals from tearing Garizon apart after Mount Creed, forcing the destruction to be limited to Veizach. God alone knows how much suffering he saved by that.”

  Lianne paused, bringing her gaze up to meet Camron. Behind her, the fire crackled softly, throwing out a halo of wavering, golden light. “And then there is you, Camron of Thorn. Your father had a son to love and dream for.”

  As she spoke, Camron felt his body becoming heavier. He felt drained, as if he had run and run until he could go no farther. Looking into Lianne’s dark blue eyes, feeling too many things to put names to, Camron made a decision.

  “My father wanted me to rule Garizon in his place?”

  Lianne smiled like a wise teacher. “Yes. Though for many different reasons he couldn’t say it.”

  “Why?”

  “He feared for you. Assassination is a way of life in Garizon. Izgard moved to kill his rivals the day he was crowned king. If you had openly opposed him, it would be you who are dead today, not your father.”

  Camron flinched.

  Still Lianne wasn’t finished. “Second, he didn’t want to push you into it. If you were going to stake a claim on Garizon, he wanted you to come to him.”

  So much. So much he hadn’t understood. Camron covered his face. All those years his father had been waiting . . . that last night in his study he had been waiting. Yet his son never came.

  “It’s not too late,” Lianne said, her voice gentle. “You can still fight for what he wanted. Even now.”

  “I—”

  “Go and talk to Balanon,” Lianne said, cutting him short before he knew what it was he was about to say. “He is the real leader of the Rhaize forces. My son talks a fair game, but he has yet to meet war full on. And when he finally does it won’t take him long to realize how little he knows and turn to Balanon for help. Here—” Lianne crossed over to Camron, pulled his hand from his face, and pressed something warm and smooth into his palm. “Give Balanon this. He will know it’s from me. It’s enough to make him listen.”

  Camron closed his fist around the object. He did not look at it.

  “For all its grand halls and corridors Mir’Lor is really a small place.” Lianne smiled a small private smile. “Most here owe me a favor or two.”

  Camron stood. He had to be alone.

  Lianne took a few steps with him, then halted, letting him find his own way to the door. “Sleep on what I said, then go talk to Balanon at dawn.”

  Grabbing the door handle, Camron said, “Why did you tell me this?”

  Lianne, countess of Mir’Lor, pulled herself up to her full height. Jewels that Camron had hardly been aware of before flashed at her throat and wrists, and as she spoke her eyes reflected the go
lden light from the fire. “I tell you this because I am Rhaize’s memory and its heart. I am the only one left who knows what Garizon is and what its war kings are capable of.” She shook her head. “And perhaps I’m too proud to admit I made a mistake all those years ago by not marrying your father, but even so I still find myself living with regrets.”

  Camron tried to say something, yet the words wouldn’t come, so he nodded once, then left.

  T W E N T Y - T H R E E

  R iding on the mud-mired, drizzly road that led north to Bellhaven, Tessa was beginning to realize two things. One, a velvet cloak was no good against the rain; and two, Missis Wicks had an opinion on everything. A farmhouse wasn’t just a farmhouse, it was “a scandalous misuse of timber and a waste of good paint,” and a bundle of logs wasn’t just a bundle of logs, it was “oak: perfectly fine for chests, joinery, and milking stools, but wholly unsuitable for clocks, tables, and decorative bowls.” Missis Wicks didn’t as much say these things as pronounce them, as if she were a rather irritable god bestowing wisdom on mere mortals too dim to realize what was good for them.

  “That meadow over there,” Missis Wicks said, sitting high atop her horse, back straight. “That’s owned by the monks on the Anointed Isle. Good land for grazing, but unsowable in spring.”

  Tessa nodded, hoping that Missis Wicks wouldn’t see fit to elaborate further on why the land was unsuitable for sowing—she was feeling wet, miserable, and sore all over, and she really didn’t care.

  It was midday. The small party of five that had left Kilgrim yesterday at noon had spent the night in a tiny wayside inn that Missis Wicks had pronounced as “one large breeding ground for fungus, wet-rot, and sin.” Tessa rather liked the place—at least it had candles and doors. Everyone had bundled down in a common room around a fire, and the only thing Tessa could remember thinking as she’d wrapped herself in a blanket was, I’ll never fall asleep on this hard floor. She was woken from a deep, dreamless sleep at dawn by Missis Wicks, who urged her to brush and clip up her hair for decency’s sake and drink a bowl of whey for stamina on the road. Tessa had wound her hair into a tight knot but refused to drink the whey, which as far as she could tell was some thin, watery cheese by-product that smelled like sour milk.