And so she twisted the knife from its pouch one more time. Perhaps she should have done this from the beginning, and saved the woman all her pain. But there had been hope then for another way. Hope for Teza, as well.
She poised the knife over the woman’s belly. She could see the movement beneath the belly, like a snake wriggling out of an old skin. The boy was clearly still alive, and for a little while longer, had the strength to show it.
“Forgive me,” she said aloud, and plunged in the blade. Blood sprayed her face, warm and salty. She wiped a hand across her eyes to clear them; her face and arm were smeared with the holy color of the sun.
“Ah, Teza. Ah, love,” said Davoren. And at last, he turned away, unable to force himself to see the rest. He held the woman’s hand as though she were still living, and waited for Teza to finish.
Love? How long had she waited to hear those words once more from Davoren? And now she could not return them.
Peeling back the skin of the woman’s stomach, Teza saw the gray and white organs beneath: the ropes, big and small, and the womb, still untouched. She raised the knife again, and cut through the last layer between herself and the boy. Then she saw him, bloody as she was. He did not look at all like his pale-skinned mother. Even his hair seemed black with blood.
Teza removed him, knotted and cut his cord. He was free of his prison now. But instead of holding him to her tightly, as she might have wished, Teza set him on the ground beside the woman, and closed the walls of her womb. The needle she took from her boot, and threaded it with the bottom string of her own dirt-colored shift.
It does not matter now, she told herself. But still she held the womb in place and stitched it as neatly as any wound she had ever cared for. There was little blood now. The initial spray had been the last of the heart’s power. Now the body was at rest.
Over the ropes, careful of the doubled eggs, she pulled the final thickness, stitched again. Tiny stitches they were, she thought dimly. Worthy of the Weave-Gift.
When she was finished, the boy lay so still that she began to fear all her work, her risk, had been for nothing. Was he dead?
She leaned over him. His eyes were closed, but his cheek was still warm. She put a hand to his tiny chest, felt the rise and fall of breath.
Only tired, then, she decided with weak relief. And with perfect right. As I am rightly tired.
“What will you call him?” asked Davoren. It was the father’s traditional question, after the birth had been swept away, and the mother made presentable once more. She chose her children’s names, and she alone.
“I—” She hadn’t thought of that. The woman had given the girl a name, had she not? Elin. Teza liked the way it flowed on her tongue, like a last piece of winter ice on a warm spring day.
“Etan,” she said at last. It seemed the right name, somehow, though it was not one of the long list she had chosen, once upon a time in her fanciful youth. She had thought then she would have ten or twelve children, and planned good names for each of them, boys and girls.
“Etan and Elin. They are good names.” It was the father’s voice once more, complimenting the woman not only on her choice of names, but her Work in getting their bodies from the Red-Father’s realm to the Circle of Seven.
“Davoren—” Teza began. She wanted to tell him all she felt for him, all he had ever been to her. But how?
“Do you need more water?” a voice called from a distance. It was Finas.
Davoren looked at Teza, as if to ask her whether he should delay the discovery of her deed another moment or not.
Teza answered him with her eyes. What purpose to delaying the inevitable? And what purpose in telling Davoren what he must already know? It would only make it worse for both of them.
“No water,” called Davoren back. “It is finished.”
Finished indeed. Teza struggled to her feet, refusing Davoren’s hand offered to help her. Then she picked up the boy in one arm and reached for Davoren to hand her the girl in the other. A double burden, but she would gladly bear it.
“How do those of the White Kingdom treat their dead?” she asked Davoren, as the rumble of the crowd approached.
In the Circle, it depended upon the Gift one was born to. Those of the Water were returned to their element. Those of the Fire were burned. Those of the Stone buried beneath rock. Those of the Wood were laid in the natural treetops, to feed the birds. Those of the Weave were wrapped in their last and finest work. Those of the Mind—Teza did not know what happened to those of the Mind. The old prophet’s body was taken by the new, who was not inclined to explain such things.
As for the Blood-Gift, Teza remembered her mother’s death well. She had been bled dry and then dried in the sun before being turned out of the Circle, alone.
“They are buried in earth, I believe,” said Davoren.
“See that she is treated properly, then.”
Davoren nodded. He would make sure it was done, after Teza was gone. She knew that of him.
“The earth will receive her own,” he said, and Teza hoped it was true.
HIERARCHY OF MAGIC
The king’s third son was found murdered and I was sent to investigate.
The king had seven sons altogether, from three different wives. One of the wives was dead. Two are still living, though the older one the king had put away because she betrayed him with a courtier. Convenient for him, that just as her younger sister came into her full beauty, and to the attention of the king, she happened to fall violently in love with a man ten years her senior, with a drooping eye and to whom the king also owed a good deal of money.
The sister begged the king not to have her put to death, but to send her into exile, and she went eagerly enough, agreeing to give up all claim to the throne, and to never see or write to her sons again. Her magic, which was a first noble daughter’s magic of flight, was taken from her with the iron on her hands. She had to do it herself, to prove her loyalty to the king, hold her hands on the burning iron until the smell of flesh and the pain made her faint. Then she was bandaged and given drugs to ease her.
I have always wondered if it is the drugs more than the pain that take away the magic, but that is one of those pasts that I do not look into too closely. The future will be plenty of time for me to see such a thing, if I fail the king in the present.
I first went to see the place of the murder. The body was still there. The king’s chamberlain who ushered me in and then put a cloth to his nose, a finely embroidered one filled with a stink I found worse than that of death, turned away from me. I did not bother to explain to him for the next time that I only needed to be in the place of the event to see the past.
But perhaps there were others like me who had lesser gifts and needed to touch an object or a person from the event to see the past. I did not seek out others like myself. There was no order to the magic of the past as there were to other magics. We were rare, freakish, and largely feared, even by kings.
Which was why they made sure that we were well paid and that we were given whatever we asked for, to help with our magic. I could have asked for gold leaves in my soup and dancing girls every night, if I wished it, I suppose. But I had a liking for my own company rather than that of others who were forced to it. It was a bargain for the king, no doubt, but I did not care enough to tax my mind on what to take from him for the sheer sake of annoyance.
I felt cramped inside the room, though I knew it was one of the more spacious ones. It had a single window to the side, and was filled with lavish decorations and furnishings. The son’s own bedroom, with only one entrance. The body showed no obvious signs of violence. He had been nearly twenty years old, and had a look of pampering. His face was fleshy and his arms showed little sign of muscular development. They were bare, the open wide sleeves of silk falling back against the floor. His body looked as if he had been laid down gently, almost lovingly.
“Do you know who it is, then?” asked the chamberlain impatiently.
&nbs
p; “I need silence,” I said. “And privacy.”
He hesitated a moment, then sighed. As if I were asking for some whim. And yet he was probably used to them, living as he did amongst such a large royal family.
He nodded to the guard and then bowed and excused himself.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes. And was struck immediately with the image of a serving boy standing over the body. The boy was blonde and thin and his hands shook. I could not see his face clearly enough to read the eyes. But the tilt of the head seemed afraid, the movements jerky.
Then the image was gone.
I could have called the chamberlain then, but I did not. I sat in the room and looked through the son’s wardrobe. It was filled with silk and brocade and satin in butter and amber and gold, as if he had one color that was his own and he had to choose a shade from that palette or risk the ire of his other brothers. The clothing would be worth a great deal. If I piled it into my arms and walked out with it, I imagined that the chamberlain would be tempted to stop me, but in the end would not. But what did I want with such clothing? It would only mark me as a target for thieves.
I looked underneath the chairs surrounding the bed, and then the bed itself. There was a book of paintings of women and men in various improbable sexual positions, naked or with drapes of cloth over them. Tasteful, expensive. The son might have commissioned them himself.
Tucked behind a chest was a jeweled ring with the letter “J” engraved on it. I was not sure, but I did not think this son’s name started with the letter “J.” I had not asked his name. I had not thought it would matter.
It did not matter. I already knew who had done the murder, did I not? Yet I was lingering. I wanted to know why. That was the part that the images rarely gave me. I had magic of the past, and strangely understood the past very little. It was looking into the son’s things that I hoped would give me some clarity.
And perhaps it was also true that I did not have any interest in hurrying along the execution of the young serving boy whose image I had seen. However guilty he was, I was sorry for him. He might have been too stupid to know what would certainly come to him. New enough to the palace that he did not know that the king had ready access to one such as myself.
Or he might simply have had no other choice. If the son knew something that he held over his head. Or if he had been threatened with something worse than his own death. There was no look of satisfaction with revenge on the servant’s face. Whatever he had done, he was just a boy.
A knock on the door.
“Are you finished?” asked the chamberlain.
“No,” I said. I sat on the bed and suddenly saw another image of the past. The serving boy again with the king’s son, grappling on the bed in some game of sexual conquest.
I should have known better than to touch the bed.
I stepped back and returned to the body. If he had fallen, where would he have been standing to begin with? I tried this position, then that one. I closed my eyes and put a hand out. It grazed the wall and I saw three figures. Two of the other king’s sons, one older, all arguing. And in the background, a third son, much younger than these two. Four or five years old. The son of the newest wife, looking on with an expression of fear on his young face.
The eldest son of the king had the magic of agreement. He could persuade others to his point of view easily and even made the people trust him. No one spoke against the king’s eldest son. He was a hero in their eyes, and if he had faults, they were the faults of a man who worked hard for others.
The second son of the king had the magic of war. I did not know the sons by sight, but I believed that this son was the one I had seen in the last image. It was a dangerous thing to argue with a king’s second son. He had power not only to direct a war with careful precision, but also a mind that was made for intrigue. A second son made plans behind the scenes. It was an interesting balance of power, between first and second sons. A wise first son courted the favor of a second son first and foremost. But a second son could make his own alliances.
More than once in the history of this kingdom, a second son had killed a first son and taken his place and his magic. A first son had more than once killed a second son before he had time to grow into a threat. But it was in the interest of the king and the kingdom to keep multiple sons alive. And this king had done better than most.
A third son had the magic of money. He gathered taxes and made investments. A third son with plenty of magic rarely lost a ship or was lied to. Some might say he was simply lucky, but it had only to do with money. Third sons too often ended up alone, unmarried and unhappy. But they were useful for the king, and were well protected against any threat of hurting themselves.
A fourth son had the magic of—now I was struggling to remember. Not many kings had the fortune to have a fourth son. But if I was correct, it was the magic of music. Or perhaps it was dance. Or were those too ordinary magics for king’s sons?
A fifth son? A sixth? I thought there were magics of memory and clarity. The seventh son? The magic of the wind? I could not think. There were greater and lesser magics and somewhere there was a grand list of them, of who inherited which magics with which titles. Dukes and Earls had a right to certain magics, along with their heirs. And even the peasantry had some magics. Mine was a magic that was not assigned to any particular rank, but came to ever kingdom regardless. One man at a time. When I was dead, another man would rise with the same magic. I wished good luck to him, whoever he was.
The chamberlain knocked again.
“I am finished,” I shouted out. I did not want to be enclosed here any longer with thoughts of endless hierarchies of magic. My head ached and the boy was guilty, I was sure. If one of the other king’s son was involved, what would the king do? Pardon him undoubtedly, give him a warning, and no more than that. I wanted to know some truths, but I began to think that this was one I could do without.
He came back in. “And so?” he asked.
“It is one of the servants,” I said. “I don’t have a name. Can I see them?”
“If you must,” said the chamberlain. He clapped his hands and sent the guard to fetch the servants.
They filed in, looking at the floor, looking at each other, looking at anything but me. Most of them were too old, but a couple of the boys I motioned to.
The guard poked them forward from behind, and I caught a glimpse of their faces. Neither of them was the boy from the image I had seen.
I shook my head.
“Who is missing?” demanded the chamberlain.
No one said a word.
The chamberlain nodded to the guard. A knife glimmered and there was a servant on the floor in front of me, bleeding profusely from the slice across his head that had taken off his ear.
It might as easily have been his throat.
A moment more, and two voices offered a name. “Kuy.”
“Where is he? When was the last time you saw him?” asked the chamberlain.
No one knew where he was now.
“Must have slipped away in hopes of going free. Fool,” said the chamberlain.
But I was not surprised when the search led quickly to the news that Kuy had been found in his room, dead by a knife wound to the chest. There had been no struggle.
The chamberlain looked up at me.
“Take me there,” I said.
He muttered something about following me through the whole castle, body after body, and wasn’t I supposed to stop the killing.
I did not deign to explain to him that my magic dealt with the past, not with the future, nor with morality.
The serving boy’s room was shared with four other boys. There were pallets on the floor and little else. A few reminders of home. A crudely carved horse. A lock of hair tied with ribbon. A leather bracelet painted with blood. A bit of animal fur that looked to have been rubbed for comfort more than luck, though it seemed a ghoulish token.
The boy lay across two of the pallets, legs spr
awled beneath him, head turned to the side. There was none of the care in his death that there had been in the king’s son’s.
I thought of what would happen if I simply refused to give the king what he wanted. My magic would still be valuable. There were others who were interested in the past, without needing to force images of murder into my heart and mind. I could help find lost objects, or lost spouses. I could seek lost knowledge. I could simply solve arguments between two people who remembered the same event differently. Or give an old man pleasure in telling him details that he had long forgotten about the best day of his life.
Tricks that were bought and sold in the market square, but they would be more than tricks if I had the magic for them. I could not live in the style that I currently enjoyed, but I could live simply. I could go hungry for a meal or two a day, or for several days. I would be free.
But I knew I would not be. I could not escape the images the king had already forced me to accept. Even if I took no more, I could spend the rest of my life haunted by what I had already seen. And I would be haunted if I did no more than comfort those who could pay me with a turnip or a parsnip.
No, the king had me trapped as surely as if I were in his dungeon. I was dependent on him for a new distraction. And I knew that though he gave it to me gladly, I would only send myself deeper into the dungeon each time. Was it his fault or mine? He was once a first son, with the magic of agreement. Perhaps I could blame it all on that. Yes, indeed, I had no choice in the matter.
The chamberlain and the others had left me by now, and I was in silence once more. Time for me to use my magic.
I touched the boy, but I got no image from that. I walked around the room and touched other things in hopes of drawing an image. The wall near him. The door. The lintel above the door.
Nothing brought me an image.
This had never happened to me before and I began to feel anxious. I had never spent time discovering the mechanics of magic, how one magic worked or another, and why it was that magic could change from one man to another as easily as a man changed wives.
The Queen's Truth Page 3