Daughter of Ashes (Rise of Aiqasal Book 1)

by Moira Katson

  “When what?” Alleyne asked suspiciously.

  Margery considered her answer carefully. “I saw ye together,” she said finally. “Today, in the gardens. We all did. There’s no mistaking … well, you know.”

  Alleyne lifted her chin and stared the woman down.

  Margery was far from cowed by the look. “Aye, and ye look just like an Empress Consort when ye do that. And that’s it: they said he was mad t’give Nerea up—or whatever it was, with them. The woman could lighten a funeral and arrange a treaty at the same time. He was easy in her company, after that much time, how could he not be? To look for a commoner when she’d have been his wife … well, they thought it was madness. But ye make him laugh, and that’s a rarity.”

  “Truly?” He seemed a man inclined to laughter, to Alleyne’s mind. She tried not to indulge in the feeling of warmth that spread through her chest.

  “Aye, always been serious, that one. He listened when ye talk, too. And whatever it was at the end—nay, don’t give me the same thing ye told Baradun, I know it’s half lies—ye’re not afraid to anger him, and that’s good. Into the robe, now.” She waited as Alleyne stepped out of the bathing sheet and held her arms up for the undershift and the loose robe. “I suppose it doesn’t really matter, though, if ye’re only planning to get thrown out of the running.”

  “But you disapprove.” That much was abundantly clear.

  “It’s yer choice and I’ll not argue otherwise.” Margery tied the sash and brushed a bit of lint from the robe. “Jes’ seems a shame, ye being sweet on him, too.”

  Alleyne froze. Margery was so practical and blunt that it was always a surprise when she tried to force an admission. “I am not sweet on him,” she said sternly.

  “Mmm.” Margery was entirely unconvinced. “Well, he’s charmed by ye, anyway, and no mistake. The crown could be yours.”

  “Would you stop?”

  “Aye. Come on, then, and remember yer vow of silence.”

  Alleyne stopped. She’d taken a glance at herself in the mirror, an unassuming little figure in hempen cloth, hair held in a priest’s knot at the back of her head, but now she frowned at Margery.

  Margery tilted her head, wiggling one finger at the sash. “The black.”

  “What of it?”

  “New initiates of the Four take a vow of silence, did ye not know that?”

  Alleyne shook her head. The Priests of the Four were famously secretive, and rarely seen beyond the third wall, where Anatolia and Lycoris held the strongest followings. They were advisors to the Emperor, though in what capacity, none knew, and keepers of their own rituals, none seeming to mimic the devotions of each god’s sect. More than that, it took a rare mind to serve all gods, or so it was said. Most citizens, even most priests, found a calling to one or another, and contented themselves with periodic devotions to the rest.

  “Hmm. Do ye know the bow at least?”

  That, she did know. Alleyne bowed low, the four fingers of each hand splayed and pressed fingertip to fingertip, thumbs tucked between her palms.

  Margery nodded. “Good. Don’t speak, no matter that they say—I’ll handle it—and take this.” She held out a scroll. “The initiates carry a lot of messages,” she explained, “on account of they can’t be asked about the sender’s intentions.”

  Alleyne’s mouth twitched. It was sacrilegious, but strangely funny.

  Margery was also smiling. “Right. So, what’re ye to do?”

  Alleyne said nothing, one eyebrow raised, and Margery clapped her hands together.

  “Good. Come on, then.”

  Baradun was holding a merry party in the receiving room, perhaps in a bid to keep Alleyne from leaving. If so, he failed to account for the servants corridors. Margery pressed on one of the wall panels to open it and beckoned Alleyne into the surprisingly well-lit passageway.

  “The Emperor heard we’d had trouble in the halls,” she explained, when she saw Alleyne looking at the blocks of glowing marble held in makeshift sconces. “He had the mages make us these.” It seemed a small gesture to Alleyne, and Margery saw the look. “How many Emperors would know there was a problem?” she asked archly.

  “Any who cared to ask.”

  “Aye, and how many d’you think care t’ask?”

  Alleyne shut up.

  She couldn’t have spoken if she wanted to, in any case, for they came out into the main hallways soon after. It was a bustle of activity. Lords and ladies walked with children in tow; there was more than one sullen daughter of the house, clearly displeased with the Emperor’s edict, and there were a great many younger children playing mages and warriors. Alleyne smiled at them, and was delighted when they smiled back—children this young were still untainted by the machinations of the court, and not so different from the children who lived beyond the walls. She had never expected children of her own, but every once in a while, Alleyne saw the children running and playing on the docks, and had felt a strange ache in her chest …

  Margery led the way confidently toward the heart of the palace and the Philosophers’ Court. When Alleyne wandered, watching children skip off, the maid’s hand clamped around her arm and dragged her along the side of a smaller corridor. “Empty headed priests,” the woman muttered.

  There was stifled laughter from the other servants, and even knowing that Margery was creating a distraction, Alleyne felt her cheeks color.

  “What’s your lord need a brown-robe for?” one of the men asked.

  “He don’t want t’be answerin’ questions ‘bout the girl, now do ‘e?” Margery’s accent had returned with a vengeance; she was all merchant now.

  No one was looking at Alleyne at all anymore. She watched Margery in admiration, trying not to smile as the maid hooked and held the attention of the other servants with a knowing grin.

  “Heard the Emperor likes her,” one of the other maids said.

  “Regent don’t,” Margery said flatly, with a significant look. She shrugged. “And with the Emperor, who can say? Any man can like a pretty face for a few minutes.” She shrugged. “But there’ll be hell to pay if we don’t get this message to the philosophers.”

  “Bet they’d love to examine all the beauties.” The maid’s look was weary.

  “Aye, but they’ll not get the chance till the Regent says, will they?” Margery whisked Alleyne down the corridor with a few laughing goodbyes, though her smile died quickly as soon as they were gone.

  “Is the Regent truly so powerful?” Alleyne asked quietly.

  “Don’t talk,” Margery reminded her. “But, yes. Always was, always will be, or so the nobles say. Of course, someone less educated might point out that the Emperor seems to be makin’ a few changes.” Her smile was bitterly amused.

  Things were changing—and for the first time, Alleyne began to wonder in earnest about those who might not like the changes so well. How many had built their livelihoods around the Regent’s ascendancy? Darion’s confession in the garden today now seemed as much wishful thinking as anything.

  The corridors had grown less traveled while Alleyne was lost in thought, and Margery stopped briefly to point through a wall of intricately carved marble, at a large amphitheater under a skylight.

  “The Philosophers’ Court.”

  She smiled and carried on, as if it were no more than a pretty diversion, but Alleyne lingered. Priests were a nation’s conscience and soldiers were its fists, but the philosophers were its memory and its mind. Every issue one could imagine was debated here, and though there was no law to mandate it, no Emperor undertook any large matter without consulting the philosophers first. Even Darion, all carelessness and good humor, had consulted them about his marriage.

  She paused, remembering the look in his eyes as he spoke of Aiqasal’s rot. Perhaps his easy laugh hid a more thoughtful heart—and perhaps there were those among the philosophers who also yearned for simpler times.

  “Melisande.” Margery’s voice was insistent. She beckoned from down the hal
l.

  Alleyne stayed a moment longer, one hand rising to trace the arabesque latticework in the marble. Had the philosophers counseled Darion to kill her? Surely someone could tell her.

  Did she want to know?

  A few corridors later, Margery opened a small door and beckoned Alleyne to look. “And this is the Great Hall.”

  Alleyne looked inside and had to stifle a gasp. The room was dusty, the chandeliers and tables draped with cloth, but it was impressive nonetheless. At Margery’s nod, she slipped in to look around.

  She was looking down onto the hall from a balcony, for it was sunk below the rest of the palace. Columns flanked the walls, nearly as large across as Alleyne was tall. The floor was even more beautiful than that of the Peacock Court, the most popular sigils of the four gods picked out in gemstones, over and over: Elius’s chariot, Anatolia’s sheaf of wheat, the scales of Lycoris, and the black orb of Alogo. The thrones sat on a dais that overlooked the whole hall, and at the other end was a massive staircase. Trumpeters would stand at the top of the stairs, Alleyne imagined, and a crier would call out names as the nobles made their appearances …

  “We should go.” Margery’s voice was soft.

  “Of course.” Alleyne let herself be led away, trying to recall if she had ever seen an event there. “Is the hall not used much, then?”

  “No.” Margery’s mouth twisted. “They say Darion doesn’t have his father’s skill for entertaining. P’raps he cares less for giving the nobles their trinkets and more for the people, but …”

  “But?”

  Margery hesitated. “Baradun once told me that the Ravennans had a saying: bread and circuses.”

  “What does that mean?”

  “It’s how you placate the people,” Margery explained. “If there’s too much famine, if all the world is dark to them, they’ll rise up and take the throne. So you make sure they have their bread, and you give them festivals.”

  “I see.” Alleyne blinked. “And …”

  “And, well—mayhap what works for commoners also works for nobles, aye? Make sure they get to show off their pretty robes and have their entertainments?”

  It was something to think about. Alleyne followed the maid, her mind working furiously, and it was not much further before Margery yanked Alleyne down a side corridor to stop at a nondescript door.

  “This belongs t’the Truthspeaker.” She rubbed her thumb and forefinger together. “The place cost me dear, so if ye get the throne, ye’ll pay me back.”

  Alleyne ignored her, starting forward, but she stopped when the woman’s arm shot out.

  “Think carefully,” Margery advised. “They say this man can see yer secrets at a glance. I don’t believe such things, but there’s a reason he’s feared, and he’s loyal only to the Emperor.”

  Alleyne had been wavering, but those last words spurred her into motion again. This man might be feared, but he was party to a plot that would set her nation at war—and his grief told her that he did not join to engulf Aiqasal in violence. She must do what she could to stop this before it went further.

  Still, she did not want to worry Margery. She clasped the woman’s hands in hers. “I will make sure you and yours prosper,” she said seriously. “I know the wharfs. I will do what I can to make sure your family’s ships find safe berth and honest workers. Now … I must do this.”

  Margery looked as if she would like to protest, but she stepped back, and carefully, Alleyne tried the lock and slipped into the room.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  The rooms were shuttered and still. No windows, magelights, no lanterns, not even a candle illuminated the darkness. Alleyne stood still, palms pressed against the door, and waited. Her days beyond the wall had made her witness to more than a few nighttime chases, and a participant in a few more, and from that, she knew the importance of knowing her surroundings before making any move. There was no opponent at her heels now; she could wait.

  Her eyes gradually became accustomed to the darkness. A thin line of light showed under one of the doors, perhaps no more than moonlight flooding into an adjacent room. That would be the bedroom, then. Another door stood open on the other side of the room and she took her time to examine her surroundings as she crossed to it.

  The main chamber was configured to be a receiving room. Who would a truthspeaker entertain, she wondered? Perhaps his status an advisor to the Emperor necessitated such things. It was well appointed, at any rate, with a heavy wood table and chairs seated with velvet, embroidered hangings on the walls, and a carpet and low couches for guests to recline upon.

  In the next room, a table flanked one wall, covered in books, scrolls, and bottles that gleamed dully rather than glittering. The center of the room was unusually clear, and lines of white chalk caught the faint light.

  She edged closer to look at the pattern and came up short when she saw the truth: the lines gave off their own light. Whatever spell this was, it was alive in its own right. That was unsettling. She stood back and waited for the telltale sound of breath, or a person stirring in the darkness.

  There was nothing, and so she edged carefully around the diagram toward the far table with its stack of scrolls. Perhaps there was a letter there. If she could find proof, she could accuse him with more confidence. She must be quiet, however. Jarin could not wake until she had her evidence; a person woken unexpectedly tended to be more compliant. She held her robes up and wished she’d found a way to bring the knife with her. She felt better with a weapon in her hand, more prepared for—

  She hadn’t been careful enough with the spell. A brilliant white light flared at the corner of her vision. With a rush, and the sigh of kindling consumed by fire, the lines leapt into the air to form a diagram that radiated out from a center shining like a tiny, glittering star in the darkness.

  She had heard about magic, of course. Everyone knew there were mages who could make illusions, summon fire, control the very fabric of the world. But it was rare and precious, and rare and precious things did not make their home in the slums of the city. She had never seen magic—and she had never expected it to be so beautiful.

  She lifted her hand to trace along the lines, and the working began to spin, moved by her touch. She could not keep back a wondering laugh. It was so clear, starlight brought to earth, and she could not bring herself to care what it was, and what it meant.

  She didn’t notice the cold until it was too late. The warmth was being sucked from the room. Her teeth chattered, and the first, violent shiver took her a moment later. She tried to wrench her hand back, and could not. She had the sudden, vivid memory of her mother’s face the last time Alleyne saw her: cold fingers pressed to Alleyne’s cheeks, eyes streaming with tears. She had not felt such cold since then, even in the dead of winter as snow drifted onto their rooftop shelter.

  She could die from this. Alleyne struggled, but the harder she fought, the more quickly the strength and warmth seeped from her body. She could not seem to stop fighting, however. It was an animal instinct, fighting a trap, and it was beyond her to control. Only when the room lit with golden light, the creak of the door behind her a warning far too late, did she freeze. Footsteps crossed the receiving room at a run, and stopped abruptly behind her.

  “A priest?” It took a moment to recognize that voice now that it was no longer strained by fear. It had a timbre not unlike Darion’s, though she was reminded of the cynicism she had seen the in the garden. “What is a priest of the four doing snooping on a truthspeaker’s workings?” The voice changed slightly. “And, in Elius’s name, what are you doing to them?”

  Alleyne didn’t bother responding. She yanked with all her might, trying to free herself.

  “Oh, I wouldn’t advise you to fight.” The voice was mild. Robes swished on the floor as he drew closer. “You know it won’t do any good. You must know that, surely, if you’ve activated it.”

  But she hadn’t—she hadn’t known, and she hadn’t done whatever was happening now. Was he
trying to trick her?

  Not entirely, at least. She hadn’t been able to free herself so far, and her efforts were only tiring her. She quieted and let her mind race ahead. No way to run. What was her next best option?

  “Since you’re here …” Now there was humor in his voice. “I think I’d like to ask a few questions of you. You’ll say you’ve taken a vow, of course, but on the other hand, I’m not sure your vow would be broken by my art. A question for the gods, perhaps.” He came to peer at her face.

  There was nothing for it. She lifted her head to stare him in the eye, and had the small satisfaction of seeing him stop dead in his tracks.

  “The girl Baradun rescued? Are you …” His brow furrowed. “Are you truly a priest of the four?” She was just wondering if she could make that a plausible lie when he shook his head. “Of course not. Then why are you here, and why are you dressed like that?”

  He strolled closer. He was quite handsome, she saw now, lanky, with a body that could easily run to a warrior’s grace. Clearly, he had cultivated other talents instead. He paused to consider her, and for a moment, she was reminded strongly of Almeric. The set of the cheekbones, perhaps. The way he held his head.

  Almeric … Her heart twisted, and she clung to the memory of him as a lifeline. She had to get out of here, or she would never see him again. Worse, he would never understand the stakes. She would disappear, and he would go for the kill, and …

  She swallowed hard against the lump in her throat.

  “Why are you here?” The Truthspeaker’s eyes had gone cold and hard.

  She had the truth as her only weapon. If she pushed him too far, he might kill her—but if he went through her mind, she was equally dead. “Why are you party to a plot against Darion?”

  His face went grey. Even in the dim light, she could see it. She saw a tangle behind his eyes, possibilities surfacing and disappearing as he considered what he might say, and for a moment, she thought she had won.