“I will be glad to continue in my present capacity as long as you need me.”
“A generous offer. In fact, I have given the matter some thought.”
It was Brinker’s turn to seem absorbed by the huge canvas. “Ah. I thought perhaps you had.”
“You and Graelent are not that different. In the end, it all comes down to bookkeeping.”
“It does indeed,” Brinker said heartily.
“You’re cheerful. No doubt you’ve had plenty of time to cook the books back home. But I didn’t spend all my time in Paris ordering clothes. I spoke to our bankers. They were very helpful. Now that I’m of age, I don’t think I’ll have any trouble obtaining full financial records from them. Full and accurate financial records.”
Brinker looked resigned. “What do you want?”
“I want my heir to be raised in Galazon.”
“Marry and bear your own heir. Raise the creature where you please.”
“I shall never marry.”
“You’re too young to make such statements.”
“How old do I need to be? I’ll repeat it annually if you insist.”
“You’re twenty-one. You will surely have children of your own. In his present queer state, the king might do anything, even marry you. Don’t be too quick to dismiss the plans I’ve made on your behalf.”
“Don’t be too quick to dismiss the plans I’m making for your daughter.”
“You needn’t trouble yourself. Ultimately, she is the king’s heir, too. She won’t need Galazon once she has Aravill.”
“If the child is my heir, she will be raised in Galazon.” Faris hesitated. “If she is my heir. I could choose another from some suitable family. Perhaps I shall adopt a ward. I wonder if the Woodrowels could suggest something?”
“The Woodrowels—” Brinker bit off his exclamation. For a moment he regarded Faris with mute horror, then he spun on his heel and took half a dozen long strides down the hall. When he paced back, his jaw was set, his eyes blazing. “You wouldn’t dare.”
Faris folded her arms. Though she said nothing, her bemused expression seemed to enrage him.
“You would. It’s precisely the sort of thing you would do. Oh, God! Now do you understand why I worked so hard to arrange matters before you came of age? I knew you’d come up with some hare-brained notion—but I never thought you’d be this stupid.”
“Agnes is young. I’m sure the two of you will have many more children.”
“Oh, wipe that pious expression off your face.”
“So you agree? Prosperian will be raised in Galazon.”
“Agnes will never consent.”
“I’m certain you can persuade her. I wouldn’t care to hold her responsible for your financial malfeasance, but I will prosecute you both if I have to.”
“I made the customary settlements. It was all legal. Perfectly legal.”
“Oh, Uncle Brinker. You’ve taken such good care of me all these years. Why don’t you let me take good care of you now?” Her words were silken. “I can make things so inconvenient for you if you refuse to cooperate.”
Brinker’s eyes narrowed. “And if Agnes and I agree to your terms? What then?”
“Unlike me, you have some talent for diplomacy. I want you to use it on my behalf. I intend to send you away—far away—Finland, I think—as my ambassador. Tell Agnes she has a choice. She may stay in Aravill—not Galazon—or she may go with you to—Helsinki.”
“Agnes dislikes cold weather.”
“She might dislike the alternatives more. Oh, there is just one other thing. You purchased some land belonging to Reed’s family.”
“Did I?”
“Quince blossom. Don’t tell me you’ve forgotten the quince blossom?”
“Quince blossom? Oh, yes.” Brinker’s expression cleared. “I remember now. Reed is tractable enough, but his family objected to the taxes long before I began to raise them. They’re a garrulous bunch, and related to half the crofters in the duchy. I needed to give them something else to think about.”
“If they get the land back, and if you and Agnes agree to allow Prosperian to be brought up as my heir in Galazon, I will take no legal action against you for your financial exploits.”
“Done.”
Faris abandoned the seascape. Brinker followed her warily. “Surely that’s not all?”
Faris looked surprised. “I’m exiling you and your wife. I’m going to raise your first child as my own. What more do you think there should be?”
“You can’t expect me to believe you’re concerned about that miserable vegetable patch of Reed’s.” Brinker looked offended. “Why, if you wanted it, you could have just taken it.”
“No.” Faris stopped and stared at her uncle until he had to look away. “No, I couldn’t.”
Faris joined the king in his presence chamber. He was alone. As she entered, he was walking slowly along the wall of windows, looking out at the streets below. He seemed older, wearier than she remembered, perhaps because instead of his usual bright garb he wore a neat suit of black. Unconscious parody of her own impulse to wear mourning? She wondered. “You wished to see me?”
He turned to regard her. With the light at his back, it was hard for her to judge his expression but Faris thought his shoulders drooped slightly, as if in disappointment. She guessed this was not the greeting he’d expected. “I understood you wished to see me,” he answered quietly.
She crossed to look out the windows herself. It was an unseasonably sunny day, not a cloud anywhere. “Jane thought you might like some advice about Graelent. You’d do better to deport him than to imprison him.”
“If you wish him to go free, he shall go free,” the king said stiffly.
“I wish him to be exposed for the opportunist he is, no more. And no less. He’s a mountebank, but he’ll create more trouble if he can convince people that he’s being persecuted.” She described the method Graelent had used to line his own pockets. “Mock him, don’t martyr him.”
“You know a great deal about Istvan Graelent.”
With an effort, she kept her tone light. “More than enough.”
“I told them to give you the finest chamber in the palace. Have they?”
She nodded. “It’s very grand.”
“You don’t like it.”
“It’s—magnificent.”
“You dislike it, don’t you?”
“I couldn’t. I’m very grateful for your hospitality. Now, may I ask you something? Honestly? How much was it?”
“How much was what?”
“You needn’t feign ignorance. Just say you refuse to answer. But I’d like to know the true amount. Brinker does things his own way—even bookkeeping.”
“What are you talking about?”
“The dowry. How much does it cost an ambassador of the farmyard to marry these days?”
Obviously nonplused, it took him some time to reply. “I think I must refuse to answer.”
“Don’t you remember?”
“Why must you know the exact amount? Are you concerned that I might not have demanded enough?” the king asked calmly.
Faris managed a crooked smile. “Oh, I’m counting on you to have demanded more than enough. I’ll need to spend some of the money on my maintenance here in Aravis.”
“Here? You’re staying here?” The king’s astonishment flickered and vanished beneath a mask of bland interest.
“I’m not prepared to return to Galazon just yet.”
“No?” The curiosity in his tone belied his placid expression. “Why not?”
Faris hesitated. “To mend the rift, I had to surrender much that I value. I am still taking stock of the damage. One thing I lost—” Her words leaped so in her throat, she did not trust herself to continue.
The king looked away. “Galazon.”
“Yes.”
“I’m so sorry.” His voice was gentle, hardly more than a whisper.
She was surprised how much his sympathy moved her. She had to
shut her eyes to conceal her response. “I have something else to ask you.”
“Ask. Understand, I may have to refuse you again. But ask. I will answer if I can.”
“What frightened you so? What did you think I was doing there at the rift?”
“I—feared you would step too close and be lost in the rift forever. Forgive me. I wish to atone for my folly.”
“Folly?” Her anger was so abrupt it astonished her. “You call it folly?”
“I have been a fool. What else can I call it?”
“In your folly, you gave the order to—” She broke off, stammering. His calmness enraged her.
“In my folly, I forgot you were—who you were.”
“How can you look so blank? Do you even understand what you’ve done?”
“I gave an order I now bitterly regret. But you were spared.”
“You don’t understand anything, do you?” She began to pace along the windows. “I gave up Galazon. I let it go into the rift. The rift wanted more. Yet I couldn’t bring myself to give Tyrian up too. And then—then you gave your order. Which you now bitterly regret.”
Still calm, he managed a quiet reply. “Tyrian won, then. He kept you safe. You hired him to protect you and he did. What better end could he have made?”
Faris turned on him. “Why choose to wear black today, of all days? I know why I’m in black. Why are you? Mourning?”
He looked startled. “One does not wear mourning for a servant.”
“You still don’t understand, do you? He was not my servant.”
He regarded her anger, aghast. “What then? What else could he be?”
Her empty hands shook as she held them out to him. Her voice shook as she replied. “Glove to my hand.” Slowly she closed her fists. “Everything.”
Rage choked her. She left him there, staring numbly out at nothing. Grief and anger drove her through the palace, from the presence chamber to the lion-guarded heights.
On Candlemas, Faris stood again at the empty heights where the rift had been. The sky was cloudy. A steady breeze from the west promised mild weather to come. Far below lay the narrow, noisy streets of Aravis. Faris did not spare a glance down at them. She looked westward. But for the lions, who were fond of her company, she was alone.
The Monarchist party had ceased to play any part in the politics of Aravill. Lord Brinker Nallaneen and his lady wife had departed for Finland. Their child, deemed too young for such a journey, was sent to Galazon with her nurses. Reed escorted them to Galazon Chase, the child’s home for the winter months.
As soon as spring came, Reed would take the child and her nurses to Shieling, where Prosperian would be cared for and protected by Warin and Flavia Woodrowel. In return for the child’s maintenance, the Woodrowels would pay tribute: one pine bough, once a year. A fresh one.
To secure the castle, the doors to the warden’s stair had been locked and bricked shut. World’s End Close was sealed and guarded.
The king’s silent calm continued. His once-lively social schedule had given way to near isolation. Though this change concerned his ministers, his diligence concerned them more. He seemed determined to review every nuance of his political responsibility.
Greenlaw was still in session. Dame Brailsford’s absence could not be excused indefinitely. Reluctantly, Jane had taken her leave a week before.
On Candlemas, Faris watched Greenlaw from the heights of Aravis. Far off, she saw a sleek Minerva limousine roar across the sands of low tide on the spine of paved causeway. With a flourish, the long automobile drew up smartly before the gate.
Before the engine had ceased idling, the little green shutter snapped open. The gatekeeper’s grim face was round and red, chapped by the offshore wind. “We have no use for automobiles here.”
The driver’s door opened and Jane Brailsford emerged, immaculate in her Parisian traveling clothes.
The gatekeeper was dismayed. “I beg your pardon, Dame Brailsford. I thought you were a tourist.”
Jane leaned in to address someone still inside the limousine. “Thank you, Charles. I’ll send someone down to collect my luggage while I report to the Dean. You’re not to trouble about it. I recommend Mere Poulard’s for lunch, by the way. Thank you again for the chance to practice my driving. If Uncle Ambrose notices anything fishy about the gearbox, do blame it all on me. Oh, and don’t worry about leaving the limo for lunch. I’m sure the gatekeeper will be glad to keep an eye on it for you.”
Disgusted, the gatekeeper slammed his shutter. After a moment, the wooden gate swung open.
Jane walked through the gates of Greenlaw, the visible built of oak, the invisible built of the Dean’s will. She crossed the threshold and was lost to Faris’s view.
Alone on the heights of Aravis, Faris turned away. Far below lay the narrow, noisy streets. She did not spare them a glance. She felt loneliness welling up within.
From about her neck, she drew the fine chain that held the key to the warden’s stair. For a thoughtful moment, she let the key swing and spin, admiring the way its facets gave back the morning light.
The lions looked back toward the palace door. She followed their glance and saw the king emerge. He moved stiffly, almost warily, toward her. With disfavor, Faris noted that he was still wearing black. Pointedly, she turned her back on him.
Faris looked down. Far below lay the city, crowded, heedless, aimlessly busy. She stretched out her hand until the key hung, flawless and brilliant, over the edge.
“The palace prefect told me you were here,” the king said softly.
Faris did not bother to turn and acknowledge his presence. The effrontery, to follow her here. It must be obvious she wished to be left alone. Quite alone.
“I didn’t mean to startle you.”
Something troubled Faris, but she could not identify what it was. She frowned at the key, twisting on its chain as it caught the light and surrendered it.
When she did not answer, he inquired calmly, “Won’t you need that key?”
She spaced her words coldly. “The stair is closed. If I shatter the key, the stair will remain closed.”
“There may be other doors. And what makes you certain the key will shatter?”
She glanced down at the cluttered streets below. “From this height? Can you doubt it?”
“Who can be certain what Hilarion’s key will do?”
More intent on the tone of his words than the sense, she answered almost absently, “It’s mine now. And I no longer need it.” Then the sense reached her, and she demanded, “Who told you it was Hilarion’s key?”
He touched her shoulder with a gloved hand. “Come away from the edge.”
At those words, in that place, Faris drew breath sharply. In that voice. She remembered that voice. With every bone in her body, she recognized it.
She felt something shift within her as a pattern came clear and clean. Something she could not name came right, as swiftly, as neatly as one might cut a deck of cards.
As she had felt during her vigil, even in the darkness of that last hour before dawn, that all was right with Greenlaw, so she felt now. All was well. Relief drove words away.
Faris willed herself to keep her eyes on the horizon. She would not look at him, she would not. She did not need to look. She could feel him behind her. The voice, the touch, the calm competence were all utterly familiar.
Then she remembered Hilarion’s swift adjustments, his amusement. She closed her eyes.
At that, as clearly as if he were standing at her side, she heard the words Hilarion had spoken to her in Paris: I know of no one and nothing that can restore that light once it has been extinguished. And she heard words Hilarion had never spoken to her at all, but his voice was unmistakable: I have had so little light in these long years, I am reluctant to let any go to waste.
Faris understood. She could turn and look or not, it made no difference. When she saw him, no matter how the world perceived him, she would behold him as he truly was: Tyrian
. She swayed a little.
“Come back.” He drew her gently away from the edge. The warmth of his hand on her shoulder melted something inside her that she hadn’t even realized was frozen.
Giddily, she heard herself speaking her thoughts aloud. “If love were the only thing, I would follow you—in rags if need be—to the world’s end . . .” And then, more light-headed still, “Ten leagues beyond the wide world’s end, methinks it is no journey—” And then laughter jerked somehow into tears.
When she could speak again, Faris wiped her eyes on her sleeve. She said, almost levelly, “I know you look like him. But no one is as calm as you are. How could it have taken me so long to recognize you?”
His quiet voice held an edge of anger. “I don’t just look like him. I wheeze like him. I limp like him. No doubt every function is the same.”
His bitterness took her aback. “But you’re here. Where is he? Has he gone? Or are you in there with him?”
“He was gone when I—arrived. I’m alone in here. Hilarion made that clear. And the arrangement is permanent. He made that clear, too.”
“Hilarion did it. Why?”
He had to clear his throat before he could answer. “The king intended to kill a warden. Hilarion is—was—a warden himself. He knows what that means in a way you have just begun to understand. The king ordered his men to fire at you. That was reason enough for Hilarion.”
“And you?”
“Well, I saved a warden’s life. At the cost of my own. Hilarion meted out punishment and reward.”
“And you said nothing about it.”
“What could I say? I dared tell only you. But by the time I understood what had happened, you were surrounded.”
“Talking to Uncle Brinker hardly qualifies as being surrounded.”
“Lord Brinker, Jane, and Reed,” he countered. “Not to mention that handsome weasel, Graelent. And the British ambassador could surround someone all by herself.”
“True.”
“I expected you to realize what had happened at first sight. You didn’t. So I wondered what Hilarion had intended for us. Perhaps I was supposed to keep silent until you recognized me. I had a hard time concealing myself. And if I had a dinara for every time I heard someone say, ‘The king is not himself’—no wonder my hair is gray.”
A College of Magics Page 37