The Councillor

by E. J. Beaton

  The night air tickled their necks as they emerged from a gap the man made, at discomfiting speed, by untethering the cloth at the back of the tent. Lysande’s guards were still standing by the entrance, out of range, and her heart sank as she saw that the smaller tent opposite was bare too. She thought she could make out an animal running on all fours at the other end of the camp—a crowd of guards from all five parties chasing it with swords outstretched, running swiftly—before her captor twisted her arm and pulled her away. The scent of musk permeated the clearing.

  Then they were moving through the back of the tents and into a line of trees, and there was no one to hear her footsteps, no one to see her running as they passed further and further from the torches of the camp.

  Seven

  The farmhouse stood in the middle of a group of fields, half-shrouded by the darkness. They came to a stop, panting, while a woman stepped out from the doorway. Lysande took in the hooded cloak and the thick hide of the boots.

  “How’d the bear go?” the woman said, looking at Lysande’s abductor. “Did it kill anyone?”

  “Hate to disappoint you.”

  “I suppose it’s for the best. Bit of a waste, though.” The woman smirked. “Don’t tarry. He’s been waiting.”

  Lysande’s captor pushed her through the door and into a small chamber, then through a kitchen, a bedchamber, and a study—all empty, and lit by candles—and she observed as much as she could without slowing down. The room in which they stopped was at least three times the size of the others. It was occupied by a table covered in papers and envelopes, with a candelabra mounted in the middle of the wood, and at the far end of the table she could see a figure in a chair; the sitter’s distance from the light made it impossible to discern the face. She could only make out a glint of white hair.

  “Welcome, Signore Prior. Do come in and take a seat.”

  The voice carried across the table, a mellifluous tone honeying the words. She distinguished the shape of a brimmed hat in the gloom.

  “I do apologize for the nature of our lodgings—they are somewhat frugal out of necessity—and I must extend my apologies for sending Signore Welles to fetch you. He is skillful at handling a bear, but he grew up north of Valderos, and I am afraid his idea of courtesy is cutting your throat with one stroke instead of two.”

  The scarred man chuckled and stepped back against the wall. Lysande walked to the end of the table, one hand reaching for the gold dagger at her hip. Her fingers trembled against the hilt. Be imperative, she told herself.

  “If I cannot see my captor’s face, I demand to know his name.”

  “I would take my hand off that blade if I were you, my dear.” The speaker leaned forward. “Queen Sarelin may have trained you, but my weapon does not need to be drawn.”

  Wind engulfed her as the figure in the chair lifted his hand. Lysande scrabbled to grasp the corner of the table and several sheets of paper scattered onto the floor. She steadied herself until her host lowered his hand. The wind ceased as quickly as it had begun, leaving in its wake a probing disquiet, as if someone had been blowing a gale inside of her, disturbing the private chambers of her mind and body.

  “Sit, Signore Prior,” the man said. “I mean for us to be friends, and there are no formalities between friends, are there?”

  Lysande sat. The chair at the end of the table creaked as she moved it, but she barely heard the noise—her mind was already racing through everything she knew about elementals. Of course Welles had not been concerned by her daggers. Of course the big man had been able to subdue and transport a bear without losing a limb—he could probably move fire, or water, or air, too—she should have worked that out already. But if these were the White Queen’s people, why was she not dead? She quelled the trembling of her fingers. “Forgive me, signore, but I do not believe I know you.”

  “My name is not important—to those who matter, I am simply called Three.” The man in the brimmed hat leaned back in his chair.

  “How long have you been following me?”

  “Signore Welles here has been following you. I prefer to rest on the margins of the page. But as for you, Councillor Prior . . . it was curious for Sarelin Brey, the Iron Queen of seven battles, to pick a scholar for her companion, was it not?”

  “You seem to know a lot about me.” Lysande kept her face impassive. “But when it comes to you, I confess I am in the dark.”

  Three rose and walked to the window. “Perhaps it will help if I permit some light.”

  He pulled the wooden boards open and streams of moonlight washed over him. The man she saw was tall, though his frame lacked the breadth acquired by soldiers through years of hefting a longsword; his angular face might have been classically beautiful, before it had acquired its sharper, wiser aspect. Despite the brimmed hat and the embroidered doublet, Lysande saw nothing to identify him, no crest or motto anywhere; only a triangular pendant of silver dangling in the middle of his chest. The hair that hung down his back was a pure white, yet he could not have been much older than thirty-five. She did not look away.

  “You need not fear that I will detain you long. Prince Fontaine, the Irriqi, the First Sword, and that charming boy-prince would miss you if I kept you here. Fontaine in particular.” Three gave a smile as he said this, sitting down beside her.

  They eyed each other. Lysande sat straight as a blackfoot tree, working to keep her feelings off her face. She searched for words from Sarelin that would help. Iron bows to no hand. Was it enough to rely on Sarelin’s wisdom, though?

  “When you look at me, Signore Prior, what do you see?” Three said.

  Lysande’s eyes passed over his person, coming to rest on the pendant.

  “In ancient times, the triangle was a symbol of magic. Three sides: for fire, water, and air. You’re an elemental, and you’re bold enough to carry a symbol identifying you as such.”

  “Very good.”

  Her heart was fluttering in her throat. “You had a man lead a bear to our camp to get me away. You bring me to a farmhouse in the middle of the night, with the help of people who all wear the same cloaks . . . so you deal in secrecy, and you’re highly organized.”

  Three regarded her without speaking.

  “The last clue is your name. Since you already wear a triangle pendant, I’d say that Three does not refer to the elements. And since you have people working for you, I’d say you’re third in charge of some magical group.”

  “Excellent.” He looked pleased. “But you have omitted the name of our organization.” His smile turned sly. “I should have thought it was obvious to a discerning mind.”

  Her pulse should not have been racing. Sarelin would have faced these people like a slab of thick marble, without even the tiniest crack; if she tried hard enough, perhaps she could manage something of that façade. Yet emulation was not the limit of her strength. She delved inside herself, seeking the determination that had carried her through the long night after Sarelin’s death, through the silent screams in her bedchamber when her ribcage threatened to rend and her jaw ached.

  “Even a scholar cannot deduce a fact from thin air, signore,” she said.

  “You have heard our name before.” Three tilted his head, and moonlight struck the brim of his hat. “You simply need to remember.”

  As she stared at him, she caught a smell wafting from one of the pages on the table, and it only took her seconds to identify the scent of rose-oil—faint and fragrant, but unmistakable. She remembered bending over the fireplace and picking up a corner of paper in the royal suite. The explanation that had been hiding among the fears and anxieties of the last twenty-four hours blazed forth, and though she knew she was guessing, this guess fit.

  “You’re a member of the Shadows,” she said.

  He nodded and, walking around to the side of the table, lowered himself into the chair beside her. Up close, she could s
ee the experience written on his face—and the urge to reach for her dagger died as she looked into his eyes, taking in their quiet power.

  A note from her compilation came back to her, leaping out: According to Kephir’s study of etymology, to be elemental is simply to be made up of smaller parts, some of which are hard to see, to perceive, to understand. She gazed at Three.

  “You will be wondering who we are and why we have so rudely transported you here.” He leaned back in his chair. “I expect you have a multitude of questions, Signore Prior.”

  Lysande had spoken with enough courtiers lately to know when she was being invited to contribute. She also knew when it was better to stay silent. Three clicked his fingers at Welles and the scarred man disappeared into the house, returning a moment later with the woman who had greeted them.

  “Six, my dear,” Three said, “would you be so good as to show Signore Prior your face?”

  The woman dropped her hood. In the moonlight, the burn that disfigured her right cheek was painfully clear: a twisted expanse stretched from the hairline to the jaw, suffused with the angry red that could only have come from a magical flame. Lysande could not help gasping.

  “Tell me, how do you think the White Queen persuaded fifty elementals to fight in her army? Powerful people, many of whom thought her a tyrant and a threat to their own land?”

  Questions like that had come to her when she had first begun compiling the notes for her treatise. Seeing the aftermath of the White Queen’s impatience was quite different. “Not by asking politely,” she said.

  “Swords, knives, hot irons, and flames . . . she took her time with those who refused her. You need only look at Welles here.”

  The scars on the big man’s face took on a different aspect as she looked at them again; it was not fear she felt, this time, but something she could only have described as a kind of understanding . . . the kind that came when you dug through some of your own prejudices, clearing away the dust. She marshaled all her effort to put up the façade again.

  “And what about you, signore?”

  “Some scars lie below the surface.” Three adjusted his hat, and for a while he let a silence linger between them. “In addition to being able to move the air, I have what is called a power of the mind,” he said, at last. “The White Army had to try different methods on those like me. Even a boy was worth keeping alive for months, if there was hope that he might be broken. Any brutality was justified to win the prize of a power of the mind for the White Queen.”

  Sarelin had read her a sermon, once, which claimed that some elementals used darker powers, forces that drew upon the depths of their “depravity.” It was impossible to forget the fire in those words, and Sarelin’s voice rising to declare that Fortituda and Vindictus would “smite the damned lot of them”—impossible not to shiver, still.

  But with time, understanding could flourish. She had come to realize that if Charice was a person like any other, so must other elementals be individuals; that reverence for Sarelin did not have to cloak the truth.

  “You must have escaped her, to be sitting here today,” she said.

  “Some would call it an escape. Others who fled her clutches know better.”

  Lysande was silent, reflecting on the causes of hair turning white before old age.

  “I had been living in a sewer in Axium for eight months when I came across others like me: elementals who had escaped. Some more scarred than others. We formed a group to share food and a roof, and when we had lived together long enough to trust, my new friends introduced me to an organization.” As he spoke Lysande glanced again at the pendant on his chest. “A group of elementals who felt that they should use their talents to hold back the White Queen. They saw the way forward for our people as peace, not tyranny, and they were neither of Sarelin Brey’s army nor the White Army.”

  “The Shadows.” She felt the weight of the word on her tongue. All those moments. All those times in the midst of her grief when she had railed at herself for not knowing what Sarelin had meant; they melted away now that she truly understood.

  He nodded. “Our goal then—as it is now—was to know things. To find out where the White Queen’s soldiers were going and what her plans were. To have hands among her papers. Ears on her walls.”

  If Sarelin had known about a magical intelligence service, why had she never mentioned it until she was dying? And why had she asked Lysande to find this group of elementals? Did the city-rulers know about the Shadows? And what about Charice—what knowledge had she been privy to? Too many questions, like fibers fraying at the end of a sleeve, threatened to unravel her thoughts. She searched for simpler words. “If you were loyal to the realm, I thank you.”

  “We serve only our own people.”

  “Yet if you have a structure, you must have a leader.”

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “Above a Three, there is a Two and a One,” Lysande said.

  “We have a system, in the way that a paper castle has a system behind its intricate construction, invisible to all but the creator. Each of us knows only the people we need to know. Secrecy is our religion, Signore Prior. In fact, I can assure you that the name of One is not known to any but herself.”

  “Then how can you be sure that it is not ‘himself’?”

  He regarded her closely, over the top of his folded hands. She was not sure if she had imagined the twinkle in his eyes.

  “I see my colleague Two was not wrong about you,” he said.

  A clink interrupted them: Six and Welles had slipped out some time ago and now they returned with plates of cheese and baskets of bread, setting them down in front of Lysande. The bread was roughly cut, and it gave off a tempting smell. “Please, help yourself to some bread and cheese.” Three waved a hand. “And perhaps Six will bring us a little water . . . I expect you do not want wine, after all that drinking.”

  “You are singularly well-informed of my doings, signore.”

  He passed her the nearest basket. There were no cured vegetables or honeyed cakes here, but there was enough to stave off the hunger that had woken in her since her run through the fields. Lysande made to reach for the platter of cheese, and paused with one hand upon it.

  “You need not fear poison here,” Three said. “But I admire your suspicion.”

  He pulled the platter nonchalantly over and, closing his eyes, chewed a wedge of cheese slowly. “Pescarran, I think. Of all the Rhimese towns, Pescarra is the one to stop in for goat’s cheeses—make a note of it, my dear. You never know when you will need good cheese.”

  The cheese was indeed good, but the bread was better, crusty on the outside and soft on the inside. Lysande’s body felt too taut for her to really enjoy it, yet she forced herself to eat, aware that food in her stomach would help her to stay alert. She considered all the dangers that might come next. Three left the room with Six, the pair whispering to each other. They did not return until she had devoured nearly half a loaf.

  Lysande’s eyes slid to the burns on Six’s cheeks. She had heard of the crown’s enemies ever since childhood, in every lesson about the hidden people, biding their time, waiting for the moment to strike and seize control once again. No one had spoken of the hidden people attacking each other. That would surely have disrupted the accepted story.

  Three placed something on the table, something bright, and it took her a few seconds to realize that the rainbow of plants on the square of black cloth he had laid down was familiar; that the sprigs of crimson, yellow, and white were wild heather, the lime-green stalk crowned with purple was a queensflower, and the dark green leaf, shining almost black, was a piece of eastern ivy.

  “Strange, isn’t it, how the meanings of things are determined not by their essence, but by what they symbolize. Take this little symbol.” Three nudged the queensflower with his finger.

  She picked the purple flower up. “
Surely, you can’t deny that this is a cut queen.”

  “It is a tribute to a queen. Not a literal queen, necessarily, but any person who embodies the qualities of a queen: strength, wisdom, majesty. Sharp edges.”

  Another pause. Lysande watched him for a sign of deceit. He rose and walked about the room, and Lysande turned over the queensflower in her hand, before placing it in front of her.

  Staring at the flower, she thought of the night Charice had spoken of the creative spirit of nature, her friend pressed thigh to thigh with her on the sweat-flecked sheets, Lysande kissing the nape of her neck and relishing the shiver that came in response; Charice’s voice swelling, growing sonorous as she argued that magic was derived from the life-giving rhythms of the seasons, the elements, the land itself.

  Something in her stomach had kicked while she was listening to Sarelin raging about elementals, months later. Words were not supposed to mean so much, but they did, and words like pernicious and unnatural evinced a determination to stay around for a long time after you first heard them.

  “The Old Signs appear threatening, like peaks viewed from the other side of a cloud bank. But when swirls of gray mist roll back and reveal the emerald summits, you see that they are not jagged at all.” Three let the words linger for a moment. “The Shadows wish to make you an offer, Signore Prior,” he said, as he sat down again. “Work with us. You have the connections to help. Take our information and our advice, and use it to defeat the White Queen.”

  In the silence between them, responses curled and uncurled. Lysande pushed a lock of hair back from her face. She understood, now, where all this had been leading. “The White Queen may be dead,” she said, stolidly.

  “I think we both know that that is as likely as snow in Lyria.” His voice was still kindly, but there was something of a merchant leaning across a stall-top in it. “There are many things I have confirmed about Mea Tacitus. And some of them concern Sarelin Brey, too. You would be surprised to hear what we know.”