The Exile's Curse

by M. J. Scott

  Roland's face was serious but not hostile as he descended the stairs to greet them. He was fifteen years older than the king, a few years older than Lucien himself. His braided blond hair reflected the red from the torches, and the light caught the silver of an old scar across one eyebrow.

  "Colonel Brodier," he said as he reached them and bowed. "Welcome to Deephilm." He spoke Illvyan, which was a relief. After six hours in the charguerre, Lucien wouldn't have been surprised if all his knowledge of Andalyssian had been rattled out of his brain entirely.

  "Thank you, Wardmeister," Colonel Brodier said. "Illvya is glad of your welcome."

  They continued the formalities, and Lucien listened with half an ear while he discreetly scanned the surroundings. And resisted the urge to turn around and see if Chloe had made it through the journey in one piece. Of course she had. The woman wasn't made of glass, and none of the charguerres had plunged over the edge of the mountain. She was perfectly safe. Or at least as safe as any of them were inside these walls.

  She wouldn't thank him for looking.

  She might thank him to mind his own business and make sure he was doing his part in this mission. Well, perhaps not thank him, but at least she would have no further reason to be disappointed in him.

  If he did his job here well, that would keep her safe. Hopefully. He still wasn't entirely sure what might happen if he discovered that House Elannon weren't trustworthy. The extra squadron of soldiers they'd brought with them wouldn’t save them should the Andalyssians truly turn against them. The sanctii might manage to get some of them out alive but not all.

  Not that that was really any different to the reality of any diplomatic mission. Far from home and outnumbered.

  He had to have faith in the power of the empire and the goodwill of the man Roland served.

  Colonel Brodier finally said, "And this is Major de Roche, the Marq of Castaigne."

  "My lord Truth Seeker," Roland said. "Welcome back to Andalyssia."

  It seemed he was remembered. He sharpened his focus. "Thank you, Wardmeister. My congratulations on the upcoming happy occasion."

  Roland's face was about as expressive as the stone walls of the palace, giving no clue to his feelings. Presumably he was privy to the real reason Lucien was here. "Thank you, my lord." He looked past Lucien to the rest of the Illvyans. "We appreciate Illvya's support of the king." His expression lightened slightly. "Now, I think it's best if I show you all to your quarters. The journey from Elenia is never easy. And none of you are used to our weather."

  In other words, “come inside, soft southerners, before you freeze to death.” Though whether there was duty or concern or the desire to demonstrate that northerners were tougher behind the words was anyone's guess. Lucien wasn't going to argue. A warm room, food, and a good night's sleep and he would be a far happier man.

  The Surayov palace was something of a maze, as all palaces were. Though none of the other palaces Chloe had ever been inside were carved into the side of a mountain, giving the impression that they might go on forever and ever into depths of stone and earth.

  The walls were hung with tapestries and the stone-flagged floors, once they got past what she assumed were the ceremonial parts of the building and further into the private areas used for everyday things like living quarters and such, laid with layers of rugs and carpets to ward off the chill. The Wardmeister—handsome in a grim sort of way, as Giane had whispered to her back in the forecourt—escorted the delegation through the palace to the wing where they would be staying. A bevy of servants waited as Roland gave a quick explanation of the communal areas of the wing, a private dining room and several areas set up like parlors for relaxation and meetings, before handing them over to be shown to their rooms.

  A short and wiry girl with ice-blonde hair and eyes the colors of grassberries came over to Chloe and Giane, introduced herself as Allita, and led the way to their rooms, moving swiftly, the heels of her gray leather boots tapping on the floor. The bedrooms ran along two corridors, and Allita took them right to the end of the longest hallway before producing two keys and handing them one each.

  Chloe smiled and took hers, thanking Allita in Andalyssian. Individual rooms. A luxury she'd hoped for but hadn't expected. After a week sleeping in a tiny cabin with Giane snoring gently over her head, it was a relief to know that she would have some privacy during their stay.

  Allita used another key off the ring hanging from her waist to open the second-to-last door at the end of the corridor. She held it open, ushering Giane inside and telling her she'd be with her shortly. She then unlocked the very end door and held it open for Chloe.

  The air that wafted out was warmer than the corridor, and Chloe stepped inside quickly, not wanting to let the heat escape. The room had plastered walls painted a deep green and lined with more tapestries. It seemed Andalyssian needleworkers must be kept busy. The floor was slate, but there were plenty of rugs. Maybe in summer the stone underfoot would be cooling, but she was glad to see she wasn't going to have to pad across it in bare feet.

  There was a large double window in the far wall and lamps already burning on each wall. A fire crackled in the small grate, throwing out a surprising amount of heat. Allita crossed over and fussed with the curtains, drawing them tight across the window, hiding the last rays of light. Chloe took quick stock of the rest of the room. A large bed framed with wrought iron and piled with layers of blankets and feather quilts with a dark fur draped over the end stood in one corner, positioned out of any drafts from the window. Against the other wall sat an armoire that looked like it would just be large enough to fit all the damned gowns.

  “Once your luggage is brought up, I will help you unpack,” Allita said, stepping back from the window. Chloe was pleased that she could follow the girl's Andalyssian, though she suspected Allita was speaking a little more slowly than usual to be kind to a foreign guest.

  “This is the bathroom,” Allita continued, opening a door between the bed and armoire.

  Chloe stepped through, keen to wash her hands and face after the long journey. The bathroom wasn’t huge, but it was more luxurious than expected. Tiled in a riot of colors partially obscured by plants in woven hangers, it was dominated by a large tub sunk partway into the floor.

  "It's warmer here than in the other room," Chloe said, puzzled. "How?"

  Allita smiled. "There are hot springs beneath the palace. Under parts of the city, too. The hot water gets piped through the palace, which helps keep it warm. The bathrooms tend to be warmer. They have the most pipes."

  With that, she excused herself and went to help Giane, leaving Chloe to contemplate the empty room. It was the first time she'd been truly alone in a week, and after washing, she made a beeline for the hearth to soak up the heat. Hopefully there might be time before dinner to test out the bath and soak some of the charguerre-induced aches from her body, too.

  Because tomorrow the real work began.

  "Someone should tell them that ‘hearth’ is supposed to mean something cozy," Giane whispered as they waited for the welcome ceremony to begin the next morning.

  "Shhh," Chloe hissed back. She didn't disagree. The King's Hearth, as the Andalyssians called the throne room, had nothing welcoming about it. She'd been in the throne rooms of the emperor's palace and the Anglion palace at Kingswell, and while those were both ostentatious and dazzling, displaying power through wealth, this one was brutal.

  Dominated not by the throne but by the massive fireplace it was named for. A rough-hewn gaping space that could have easily roasted a team of the fer-taureaus within its depths, it looked like it had been drawn forth from the heart of the mountain. If not for the fire blazing within, Chloe wouldn't have been overly surprised to see snow on the rough-hewn wall above it. The flames were a curious golden color, too uniform to be entirely natural. Illvyans burned salt grass anointed with oils to make offerings to the goddess, and those burned blue or green. Perhaps the Andalyssians had a similar tradition.

&nb
sp; Or perhaps it was something more.

  Whatever burned in the fire, the air was permeated with the scent of smoke and incense and something damper and greener that reminded her of some of the mosses Ginevra had used to bind wounds. Not entirely unpleasant but strange, like the slow, icy song of the ley lines below her feet, even cooler and deeper than they had seemed on the journey up the mountain.

  For someone used to the emperor's palace, which was all glass and gold and white marble and vivid colors, the King’s Hearth felt like stepping into another world.

  Everything was shades of gray and silver. Sharp edges and angles to the arches and columns supporting the roof conveyed rock and mountains and strength and threw odd shadows over the assembled court.

  The throne was as unforgiving as the hearth. Tall slabs of pale gray granite formed a rough chair shape that protected the king from the heat of the fire behind him but couldn't be comfortable. No furs or cushions padded the stone, only the king's robes providing any barrier between him and the stone.

  Perhaps that explained the elaborate layers of court robes the Andalyssians wore. Pleated into shapes as angular as the stones, overlaid with embroidery in intricate geometric designs that somehow only added to the severity. There was symbolism in those lines of color. Statements about houses and loyalties and history. But deciphering the subtle details was beyond her. Difficult enough to try to recall the key colors of the sixteen houses, let alone their lesser vassal families and everything else the embroidery conveyed.

  The large room was cool despite the fire roaring in the hearth. Perhaps that was the other reason for the heavy structured robes. A convenient way to hide the layers of clothes needed to avoid turning to icicles.

  But the Andalyssians showed no sign of feeling the cold. Predominantly pale-skinned and pale-haired, they might have been carved from stone, too.

  The eyes in those pale faces ranged from ice-pale green to leafy to something near the color the darkest heart of a forest. There were a few other shades, pale grays and blues, and the odd more coppery head of hair, but on the whole, the assembled court seemed cut from a single mold. No streaks of deep red or black in their hair to indicate a strong connection to earth or water. But Andalyssians used magic differently. Their devotion to balance demanded that no one strength was used dominantly, with few exceptions for healers and their priests and seers. But even they used magic woven from all the strengths.

  Andalyssians didn’t bond sanctii. Which was one reason the empire had an upper hand. All the mission's sanctii stood with their mages, possibly more sanctii than any of the Andalyssians had seen in one place before.

  How they reacted remained to be seen.

  Colonel Brodier stood closest to the throne, back straight, her blonde hair pinned around her head in coils. The Andalyssians favored looser styles, their hair falling halfway down their backs, the pieces around their faces picked up in groups of thin braids in a variety of configurations as complicated as the embroidered robes.

  At the front of the court stood fifteen men in robes more elaborate than the others. Eight to the king's left, seven to his right. All of them older than the king, though two of them looked as though they had, at best, maybe five or six years on him.

  The Ashmeisters.

  Only fifteen. They had deliberately left a gap in the row of seven. A space where an eighth man would have stood. House Elannon. Their colors were green and orange, and so far, she hadn't spotted anyone wearing those colors.

  King Mikvel had shown no emotion as they'd entered the room, merely watching their approach with vivid green eyes. Unlike the rest of the court, his robes were a gray so pale it was near silver, the designs picked out in silver and white threads that shimmered in the flickering light from the fire and the oil lamps hanging from the ceiling. His hair was unbraided, held back from his face by a silver band studded with diamonds that glittered like his robes.

  The king finally nodded at Honore, acknowledging her presence. She stepped forward and bowed. Well rehearsed, the rest of the delegation did the same. When they'd all straightened again, Colonel Brodier launched into her greeting, her Andalyssian sounding effortless to Chloe's ear. The words provoked no reaction from the court, at least. Though stony silence could be good or bad.

  "Thank you, Colonel Brodier," the king said after Honore fell silent. "You are welcome at my court. And my thanks to the emperor for sending you to share in my joy."

  His voice was deep and low and his Illvyan near flawless. The s's were perhaps stretched a little too long, as they would have been in his native tongue, but otherwise there was no hint of an accent.

  Hopefully his proficiency was shared by most of his court. Her Andalyssian was improving, and she would use it where she could, but she didn't want to make a fool of herself.

  "It is His Imperial Majesty's pleasure, Your Majesty," Colonel Brodier replied. "He wishes you and your bride-to-be every happiness."

  King Mikvel nodded thanks, and Honore launched into a longer speech in Andalyssian. The king's face was serious as he listened, his expression still. Which, in Chloe’s experience of courts, was the way of things. Kings and queens and emperors didn't show their hand until it was useful to do so.

  Now that the speeches were underway, she risked sneaking sideways glances at the court. But unlike the Illvyan court, where there would probably have been a courtier or two making whispered remarks, the Andalyssians were remarkably focused on the throne. Perhaps they were reserving their commentary until they saw whether or not Honore made it through her speech without stumbling. Or maybe they were quelled by the presence of the sanctii.

  Right now, faced with a court silent as stone, she wished they'd brought more sanctii with them. But some had stayed with the navire, bonded to the water mages who would be taking it to the next stop. The emperor didn't have enough of the vessels yet that he could afford to have one sitting idle for five weeks while the delegation was in Andalyssia. So the navire would carry out some smaller errands in the region and return every week to make sure things in Andalyssia were running smoothly.

  There were contingencies in place if something went wrong. Ways for sanctii to contact sanctii if there was need, but they may have to retreat to Haalbrod and wait if something went truly terribly wrong.

  Which it wouldn't. Honore was smart and experienced, and Lucien was no slouch at navigating political situations either. It would be fine. It was a wedding, not a treaty negotiation.

  Though all royal marriages were treaty negotiations to some degree. It just wasn't a treaty negotiation with Illvya.

  Rather between the man on the throne and his stone-faced court.

  Who, she hoped, would prove somewhat less stony during the festivities. Or else it would be a very long five weeks indeed.

  Honore finally fell silent, drawing a deep breath before bowing again to the king and then stepping back to stand beside Lucien.

  Mikvel inclined his head once more, then turned to look to his left. Chloe couldn't help following the line of his gaze. In the far wall of the room, a door she hadn't noticed before opened and a woman strode through, her footsteps striking the stone floor with a confident rhythm, accompanied by the tap of the tall black staff she carried in her right hand, and deep red robes flowing around her.

  She reached the king in seconds, though she didn't seem to be moving overly fast, bowed to him, then turned to face the Illvyans.

  Chapter 14

  Chloe's spine prickled, and she fought not to step back a pace. Something about the woman's posture reminded her of Domina Skey, back in Anglion. A woman perhaps too comfortable with her own power.

  Or maybe that was Chloe being paranoid, having trained herself for too many years to avoid drawing the attention of the temple. Not that this woman was a domina. The Andalyssians didn't worship the goddess exactly. The dominas in Lumia had always said that other religions were just acknowledging the goddess in one of her many aspects, but whether or not the people who worshiped those ot
her gods agreed was not always clear. But Andalyssian priests wore green, not red.

  No, this woman was something else.

  A sejerin, unless Chloe was mistaken. One of the mysterious Andalyssian seers.

  Maybe it was the firelight, but the shade of her robe was too close to blood, deep and bright, for comfort. It was unadorned other than the hem, which had a border several inches deep embroidered with densely clustered Andalyssian runes in white, forming a triangular pattern that resembled the stylized mountains on the king's banner.

  The seer regarded the Illvyans steadily, hand easy on the twisted and carved staff. Unlike Madame Simsa, it didn't seem as though she particularly needed the staff. It was too tall to be a useful support anyway. Ceremonial, then.

  Or else she was going to lay into someone. The blood mages back home trained with staffs to build strength and agility, and Chloe's experiences in the training ring had given her a healthy respect for the staff as a weapon.

  Easy to picture this woman striding into battle with one.

  Her eyes were eerie. So light as to be nearly colorless. In contrast, her hair was a pale shade of red gold. Faint lines at the corners of her eyes suggested she was older than she first appeared. Unlike the rest of the court, the sejerin was using her magic.

  Chloe watched warily. Better to be overly cautious than foolish. The song of the seer’s magic echoed with a sound like a rush of cold feathers underscored by the deep heart of a bell tolling. For a moment she was suspended in time, as though icy chilled air surrounded her, the sun sharp in her eyes and the song of the mountain hawks piercing the air. Almost as though she stood on the mountain rather than within it.

  But then she blinked and she was back breathing smoke and mystery, staring at the seer. Who glowed from more than the firelight, the edge of magic around her a misty rainbow shine that Chloe hadn't never seen before.