by Mark Anthony
The baroness was not the only one who had found another marked door. Grace hadn’t—she had barely had a few minutes between the council and her lesson with Kyrene to search—but both Beltan and Travis had had success. One room was in the cellar, two floors below—but sharing a ventilation shaft with—King Lysandir’s chamber. The other was the room of a minor noble just above King Kylar’s chamber. Beltan had questioned the earl whose room it was, and he was certain the noble knew nothing about the symbol.
As she listened to Beltan, suspicion crept into Grace’s chest. Why was it that no marked door had been found near Boreas’s chamber?
Stop jumping to conclusions, Grace. No one found anything near Eminda’s chamber, either. The Raven cultist isn’t done yet. That’s the only explanation.
With a piece of charcoal, Aryn marked the last of the new rooms on the map. “I believe we’ve learned a lot for our first day as a conspiracy.”
Beltan studied the black marks. “Really? And here I was thinking that things are more confusing than ever. Now there are five rooms to worry about, not two.” He looked up. “And why are they marking so many rooms anyway? Grace said they plan to murder only one of the rulers.”
“They always mark the places they plan to attack,” Travis said in a low voice.
The others gazed at him. His eyes were clouded behind his spectacles.
Grace swallowed, then broke the silence. “The conspirator I overheard said he didn’t know yet which ruler would be the target. I think they’re waiting to see how the council goes. Then they’ll decide who to take out, in order to alter the next reckoning.”
Durge stroked his mustaches with a thumb and forefinger. “But which decision wins a king death, my lady? To reckon for war … or against?”
Grace didn’t have an answer to that. If they knew which way the Raven Cult wanted the council to vote, then they would have a much better idea of who was the intended victim. Right now they had to assume it could be any of the rulers … any who slept near marked doors, that was.
“All right,” Beltan said. “So we’ve found three more doors. Now what do we do?”
“We watch,” Grace said, and all eyes turned toward her.
That night the Circle of the Black Knife engaged in a stakeout. Eminda’s and Boreas’s sleeping chambers were not far apart, both within the main keep. In ones and twos, the members of the Circle concealed themselves in alcoves and watched passageways that seemed likely candidates for the Raven Cult’s work.
They kept watching until dawn was closer than midnight. At last they gave up and regrouped. They had seen nothing more suspicious than a bleary-eyed serving boy sent on a mission to the pantry by a sleepless noble. By the time Grace shucked off her gown and crawled into her bed, the sky was no longer truly black outside her window, and birdsong shattered the crystalline air. She tossed and turned until it was time to get up, struggle back into the gown, and listen to more whispers at the Council of Kings.
After the council, Grace met again with Kyrene. Her studies with the countess were progressing, but to where, Grace could not exactly say. She was getting better at the Touch. All it took now was a moment’s concentration and she could reach out with her mind, could feel the life in all the things around her. However, when she asked what she was to do with that power, Kyrene would only smile her smug, enigmatic smile.
Once again it was pitch-dark by the time the Circle of the Black Knife met. However, this time Grace was first, not last, to the wine crypt—a location again chosen by Aryn.
“I have to select the vintage to serve at the coming Midwinter’s Eve feast,” Aryn said when she and the others arrived. “I thought if we were caught, I could say I was conducting a tasting.”
Beltan’s eyes lit up. “Which cask should I open first?”
Aryn gave him a sour look. “It’s a ruse, my lord. We’re not really going to taste any wine.”
The big knight’s disappointment was plain to see.
They started to draw up new plans for keeping watch in the vicinity of Eminda’s and Boreas’s chambers, but Durge raised a hand to halt them.
“My luck was better today,” the Embarran knight said. “I found a servant’s room that was marked with the Raven symbol. It has a small window, and outside is a narrow ledge that runs for some distance, until it passes the window of Queen Eminda’s chamber.” He pointed to the map of the castle.
Aryn shook her head. “But I checked that very same room yesterday, and it wasn’t marked. Which means the cultist marked the room last night.”
“And which means we completely missed it,” Travis said.
The baroness groaned. “That wasn’t lucky at all, Durge.”
The knight’s shoulders drooped farther under his soot-gray tunic.
Grace glanced at the Embarran and tried her best to sound encouraging. “That still makes only six marked doors. And there are seven rulers. That means there’s still a chance of catching the conspirator in the act.”
“I wish we could go to King Boreas,” Beltan said. “With a word, he could have fifty men-at-arms going over this castle from dungeon to turrets.”
“But we can’t go to him,” Aryn said in a tight voice.
Beltan gave her a sharp look, then nodded. Grace noticed that he held one hand motionless with the other.
Travis scratched his beard. “We’ll just have to keep watching.”
Grace met his eyes. She knew what the real plan was, the one Travis had not spoken of. Yes, they would keep watching for signs of the Raven around Boreas’s chamber. And if they found one, if he was marked for murder like all the other rulers, then they would know it was safe to go to him for help. And if not …
Grace’s fingers slipped to the pouch at her belt and through the leather felt the little wooden bull tucked inside.
“Come on,” she said. “It’s time to start spying.”
83.
The next afternoon, Grace met Aryn for a walk in the upper bailey. The council had ended early that day, for the last ruler to make a report, King Kylar, had finished. The council would now recess for three days before a second—and final—reckoning began. Because Aryn’s and Grace’s studies were not until that evening, and because the Circle would not meet until later that night, they were left with a brief respite.
It was the twentieth day of the month of Valdath, which Grace guessed was something akin to December back on Earth. For several days the weather had been clear, bright, and bitterly cold. A bucket of water set outside froze in minutes, and those forced to brave the elements did so only after they covered every inch of skin with cloaks, hoods, gloves, and rough wool blankets.
However, unlike the last few days, that morning had dawned gray, and by afternoon, if not exactly warm, at least bare skin didn’t freeze the moment it was exposed to air. Just as Grace contemplated the idea of venturing outside, a knock had come at her chamber door. It was Aryn, dressed in a heavy gown and cape.
“I think we need to get out,” the baroness had said.
Grace had not disagreed. Things were moving so quickly now, there had been so little time to just walk with her friend as she used to, and talk—not about kings, or witches, or murderers—but about small things.
Their boots crunched on the frozen ground of the bailey as they walked. Grace drew in a deep breath. The frigid air pinched her nostrils, but she did not care. She was weary of the rancid soup that passed for air inside the castle, and the way it dulled her mind. The sharp air sliced through the smoke like a scalpel, and it left her brain clean.
They were not the only walkers encouraged by the milder—if only in relative terms—weather. Other pairs strolled the upper bailey, the garden, or through the gate to the lower bailey, where the market thronged despite the cold. A couple passed nearby, an earl and his lady, both comely if only because of youth. Grace recognized them. They were petty nobles in Boreas’s court and had married just recently.
Aryn’s sigh fogged on the air. Grace looked at her friend in concern.<
br />
“When do you think you will marry, Grace?” the baroness said.
The question struck Grace like a blow. Aryn reached out to steady her.
“What’s wrong, Grace?”
She gulped in air. She didn’t mean anything by the question, Grace. This is a world where all noblewomen get married, whether they want to or not. It’s politics, not love, that’s all.
“I don’t think I’ll ever get married, Aryn,” she said.
Aryn’s expression was alternately surprised and thoughtful, as if this were a possibility she had never considered, then she sighed again. “King Boreas has been preoccupied by the council, but I imagine he’ll find a husband for me when spring comes. If spring comes. It’s hard to believe it ever will.”
Grace regarded her friend. “Who do you hope the king will choose for your husband?”
Aryn’s words were automatic. “A good man, who would help me rule my barony with a strong, just hand.”
“That’s not what I meant.”
“There is no one for whom I hold a secret love, Grace. Is that what you mean?”
Grace thought for a moment. “What about Beltan?”
Now Aryn smiled. “I think you mistake both the king’s nephew and me. I care for him, of course, but as a girl does her elder brother, and I am certain it is as a sister he regards me. He will make the innermost circle of the Mysteries of Vathris if he wishes.” Her smile faded, and her face grew sad, yet hard all the same: a sculptor’s sorrow hewn from marble. “No, it is best if I do not let my heart choose another, when I know one will be chosen.…”
The baroness’s words crumbled on the icy air. If Grace had believed in fate she would have cursed it. Another couple had chosen that moment to step through a door into the bailey. She was young, plump, and pretty, but it was not the lady who held Grace’s attention. She had not seen him since the night of the feast when he rejected Aryn’s invitation to dance. He was as square-shouldered and square-jawed as she remembered, his crown of gold curls uncovered despite the cold.
“Leothan.”
Even as Aryn whispered the word, the two linked arms and crossed the bailey. When they were even with Grace and Aryn, the plump young woman turned her head, as if she sensed eyes upon her and her companion. She noticed Aryn’s stare, then smiled and coiled her arm more tightly around Leothan’s. He did not glance their way. They moved toward the gate to the lower bailey, perhaps so he could buy her a trinket in the market.
“I hate him.”
Grace turned in shock at the harsh voice. Beside her Aryn stood rigid, her left hand clenched into a fist. Her eyes were blue stones.
“Aryn?”
“It’s wrong.” The baroness’s voice was a hiss. “It’s wrong that he should be so handsome and so beastly. I hate him.”
Aryn’s eyes rolled up, her back arched, and she stood on her toes. Then Grace felt it, like the presence she had sensed that first day with Kyrene, only stronger, darker, and hot with anger. It streaked past Grace, so furious it almost knocked her over. A cry of dismay echoed off stone. Grace jerked her head up. Across the bailey Leothan stumbled, his hands pressed to his temples. The young woman screamed.
Grace knew she had only seconds. She clutched the baroness’s arm and squeezed. “Stop it, Aryn.” She forged her voice into a knife. “Stop it. Now!”
Aryn did not respond. Grace dug in her fingers, so deep she could feel bones grind together. The baroness drew in a ragged breath and slumped against Grace. Across the bailey Leothan staggered, then lowered his hands. His companion rushed to him, held him, and dabbed with a white cloth at the blood that trickled from his nose. He gave a weak nod, and she helped him through a door back into the castle.
Grace pushed Aryn away, forced her to stand. The baroness stared at the door where Leothan had vanished, then spoke in a hoarse voice.
“What are we becoming, Grace?”
Grace shook her head. She didn’t know how to answer. It was not what they might become that frightened her, but what they might already be.
“I’m cold.” Aryn’s face was white as frost.
“Come on.” Grace guided Aryn back toward the keep. “Let’s go get warm.”
Later, Grace walked alone through the castle. She knew she should get back to her chamber. It was time for her lesson with Kyrene, and the countess was to come to Grace’s room that evening. However, Grace had wanted to think.
After wandering for a time, she came to a halt and realized she stood before her own door. So that was her decision—she wanted to know more, despite what had happened with Aryn in the bailey. Or maybe because of it. Somehow Aryn had used the Touch to affect Leothan. Was it really that different from what she did in the ED? Didn’t she use the Touch to heal people?
Maybe. She didn’t know. That was why she was here—to learn. Grace pushed through the door of her chamber.
“There you are, sister.”
Grace opened her mouth in surprise. The countess stood before the fire in a gown of serpent’s green, a cup of wine in her hand.
“You weren’t here, so I let myself in,” Kyrene said. “You don’t mind, do you, love?”
Grace’s mind raced. What might have Kyrene found if she had searched the room? Not the half-coin, or her necklace, or Hadrian Farr’s business card. Grace’s most precious objects were in the leather pouch she always wore. Only the drawings of the castle then, including the ones with the rooms marked on them. What might Kyrene have thought of those? But what might Kyrene have thought of anything? Grace still did not know what the countess’s game was, although she had an inkling of its ultimate purpose: greater power and position for Kyrene.
“No, Kyrene,” Grace said. “You’re welcome here.”
Kyrene smiled. Grace stepped in and shut the door.
“Tell me, love, how is Lord Logren?”
Grace dropped the decanter she had picked up back on the sideboard, then managed to steady it before it spilled. She clutched her cup and turned to stare at Kyrene. How did the countess know Grace had been thinking of him, or that she had even met the high counselor of Eredane? Grace gulped some wine to buy time to think.
Kyrene sauntered toward her. “Don’t fear, sister. Believe me, there is more than enough of Logren for both of us. He is, shall we say, quite great in his manhood.”
Grace winced. She didn’t want to hear this. Or did she? Again she pictured Logren’s large hands, dark against her own white skin. She forced herself to breathe. “What do you want from me, Kyrene?”
“No, Grace, what do I want for you. That is the true question.” Kyrene set down her cup, then forced Grace to do the same. She took Grace’s hands in hers. “You are such a puzzle, love. You rival any woman in beauty, yet you do nothing with it. You hardly even seem to realize it.”
Grace shook her head. What was Kyrene saying?
“Let me show you, love. Let me show you of what you are capable. There is so much more to being a witch than grinding herbs in a mortar.”
Kyrene ran warm fingers up Grace’s arms, across her shoulders, over her breasts. Grace trembled, but she could not move. The countess’s voice was a honeyed whisper.
“Join me, sister. Let us weave our magics together. Logren could never resist us both.”
She pressed her cheek against Grace’s. Kyrene’s skin was soft and hot. A low moan escaped Grace’s lips—it was the only sound she could make. Kyrene whispered in triumph.
“Join me, and he will be ours.”
“Lady Kyrene!”
The voice was sharp and commanding. Kyrene leaped back, a child caught in an illicit act. Grace staggered and leaned against the sideboard. Then she looked up to see the queen of Toloria stride into her chamber: tall, beautiful, fierce. Ivalaine’s icy gaze moved from Kyrene to Grace and back to Kyrene, then she nodded, as if she understood exactly what had transpired, and Grace supposed she did, certainly better than Grace herself.
“You will go, Lady Kyrene,” Ivalaine said. It was not a reque
st.
Kyrene started forward. “But, sister—”
“You will not call me that.” The queen’s voice was as cold as her eyes. “You are no longer needed here. I will see to the Lady Grace’s studies myself from now on.”
The color drained from Kyrene’s face. “But, Your Majesty, I was only—”
“You would dare question my words, Kyrene?”
Kyrene’s jaw snapped shut as if Ivalaine had struck her. She glared at Ivalaine, then at Grace, and her green eyes were filled with venom. Now she drew herself up and thrust her shoulders back.
“You will regret this, Your Majesty.”
“I already do, Lady Kyrene.”
The countess walked boldly to the door, then turned to regard Grace. Her expression was one of hatred and envy. “I know you won’t forget what I told you. Love.” There was a flash of green, then the door shut, and Kyrene was gone.
Grace wasn’t certain she was going to keep her feet, then Ivalaine was beside her. The queen took her arm—her fingers so cool where Kyrene’s were warm—and guided Grace to the chair by the fire. Grace sank down, but the queen remained standing.
“Listen to me, Lady Grace. I will say these words only once, for I know no more is required. Kyrene’s magic is small and petty. Her way is simpler, and thus it leads to simple things. Your power can be far greater if you wish it, as can the Lady Aryn’s. Already you have great control with the Touch, and you learn quickly. Your experience as a healer has benefited you much.” The queen cupped her chin in her hand. “It will be more difficult for Aryn, I think. Her talent is hidden deep within her. And yet, I think, it is stronger than yours or mine—perhaps the strongest in a century. If she can learn to bring it forth and to shape it.”
Grace nodded. “It’s going to be hard for her. She is so kind, so gentle. Only there’s anger in her, anger she tries to hide, but I saw it today.” She looked up at the queen. “It’s going to hurt her, Your Majesty.”
Ivalaine’s eyes went distant. “It hurts every one of us, Lady Grace, as all worthwhile things do.” Her gaze grew focused again, and now she smiled. “And when we are alone, you may call me sister—sister.”