Rain. Good Graces. I’d nearly forgotten my picnic with the Crow Lord.
“You have a very different notion of picnics in Raverra than we do in Vaskandar,” Kathe observed.
I glanced around the glass garden. Muted light gleamed on the delicate, hand-blown curves of orchid petals, the bright explosions of shining daisies on translucent stems, the undulating waves of emerald-green seaweed standing frozen in a moment of imagined time. Rain pattered against the wall of windows that overlooked the busy Canal of Two Maidens, bathing the room in a gentle music to match the soft gray light. The Glass House was a shop, technically, but its private solarium was a popular neutral meeting ground for delicate conversations, and with the help of Cornaro gold, it was even available on decidedly short notice.
After I’d given Kathe the spyglass pendant, which seemed to please him enormously, a servant spread our picnic on a little wrought-iron table ringed by glass flowers, laying out an assortment of pastries, cold meats and cheeses, and crostini on a fine cloth. The bottle of white wine between us had come from my mother’s vault. The Crow Lord looked strikingly out of place with his gray tunic and black-tipped hair, monochromatic and wild in this sea of crafted color. I might as well sit down opposite a real crow, or a piece of the silver-bellied sky itself.
“To be fair, we do usually have them outdoors, when the weather is more cooperative.” I tried a charming smile, but my nerves twisted it into something more like a grimace.
Kathe peered out at the canal below, where a richly dressed merchant and her wife whispered to each other and pointed up at us from their sleek-prowed boat. “We do seem to be stirring up gossip. They’re probably wondering what we’re talking about.” He turned a grin on me. “Shall we live up to their expectations?”
My shoulders tensed. I was determined not to let him run away with the conversation this time. I had to hold my own. “I’m all in favor of skipping the pleasantries,” I said lightly. “It’s the substance of words that matters, not how prettily they’re dressed.”
“What shall we talk about, then?” He rubbed his hands. “The rise and fall of empires? Vengeance and betrayal?” A thought seemed to strike him. “Or is that insufficiently romantic? I could pay you empty compliments, I suppose, or cobble together an improper proposal.”
Now he was trying to make me blush. “The purpose of courtship is to get to know one another, is it not?” I spread fig jam on a slice of cheese to keep my hands steady. “Why don’t we go straight to the essential questions: who are you, and what do you want?”
Kathe placed a hand on his chest in pretended shock. “My lady! We can’t give ourselves away so easily. I thought you Raverrans were supposed to be masters of subtlety.”
“My mother would tell you I don’t always measure up in that regard,” I said. “But I find the direct approach can sometimes prove refreshing.” And it was worth a try. I could hardly talk to a Witch Lord about the weather for half an hour.
“I have an idea.” Kathe grinned. “Instead of telling you about myself, I’ll tell you about you. Stop me when I go wrong, and we’ll switch. We’ll see whose guesses are more on the mark.”
I raised an eyebrow. “Getting a straight answer out of you is like getting a ribbon back from a cat, isn’t it?”
“Let’s see.” Kathe leaned back in his chair, contemplating me across the table. “Your mother, the great and terrible La Contessa Lissandra Cornaro, married your father, Prince Embran Lochaver, as part of an agreement to bring the country of Callamorne into the Serene Empire. You visit your grandmother the queen at least once a year, ostensibly for political purposes, but it’s dreadfully boring and you’ve spent most of your time there sneaking off with your cousins.”
“Have you been talking to my family?” I demanded. He knew far too much about me for my comfort.
“No, but I’ve been to Callamornish court functions. But surely I can do better than that.” He tapped his chin thoughtfully. “Your father passed away when you were quite small, on a visit to his home country. You have no idea how he died.”
I lifted a finger. “Wrong. His horse bucked him off, and he broke his neck. My mother was never one to skip details to spare my feelings.”
Kathe inclined his head graciously. “Your turn, then.”
By the smile lingering on his lips, he’d gotten something from that exchange. He seemed awfully interested in my Callamornish family; did he know something about them I didn’t?
I had to turn this game to my advantage. I slid my chair an inch closer. “The brothers you mentioned yesterday, dead but unmourned—you don’t love them because you don’t remember them.” It was a guess, but if I was wrong, it would tell me something vital about his character.
Kathe nodded. “They died before I was born. I know very little about them.” His voice softened. “I might have liked a brother. Most people give the mage-marked a wide berth, in Vaskandar, and it can be lonely.”
Unexpected sympathy caught in my throat, sharp as a fish bone. A memory surfaced from some forgotten vault in my mind, blurred and faded with years: the crushing mortification when I had summoned the courage, at last, to ask my parents to get me a little sister at the market, and they burst into gales of laughter at the question.
“But,” Kathe continued with a sigh, “the wisdom among Witch Lords is to have only one heir at a time.”
I wanted to ask why, but I might be able to find that answer through research, while books seemed unlikely to hold the secrets of the Crow Lord’s intentions. I needed to ferret out information for the good of the Empire, not to satisfy my personal curiosity.
It was hard, however, not to be curious about Kathe. Everything from the mischief in his yellow-ringed eyes to the black-dyed tips of his hair invited questions—and promised enticingly unsatisfying answers in return.
“You have a grudge against the Lady of Thorns,” I said at last. “That’s part of why you’re willing to entertain an alliance with the Serene Empire. But it’s not the only reason.”
“Go on,” Kathe said, his face still and watchful.
I licked my lips. “You’re trying to seem like you agreed to this courtship on a whim, but it’s all part of your plan. This gambit is far more important to you than you’re letting on, and you’d give more than you’re willing to admit to see it succeed.”
Kathe fingered the spyglass pendant I’d given him, which now hung around his neck. “You are perceptive, my lady. I should know better than to try to deceive a Cornaro. Please, continue.”
Time to take a risk. I leaned forward, the table’s edge pressing against my jacket buttons. “In fact, you are sufficiently eager for my cooperation that you might give me information about the murders of Falcons by Vaskandran agents in return.”
Kathe’s eyebrows flew up. “I had no idea your Falcons were being murdered. I’m sorry to hear it.”
That was good to know, I supposed, though I couldn’t help a twist of disappointment. “Go ahead, then. Your turn.”
“You can’t help but be dubious about this courtship.” Kathe set his elbows on the table; I was still leaning in, and the shift brought his face close to mine. His voice dropped, confidingly. “You don’t know if you can trust me. There are all those terrible stories about the madness of Witch Lords, after all.”
The yellow rings in his eyes gleamed. Too short a distance separated us now. I could feel the silent hum of his power in the air around him. But I didn’t draw back.
“So far, so good,” I said, my voice barely above a whisper.
“But you need allies for Raverra. You need a way to influence the Conclave, to ensure that as few Witch Lords lend their might to the war as possible.” A clean, wild scent clung about him, like the air after a lightning strike. “You’d give a great deal for the chance to attend the Conclave as my guest.”
I swallowed. “You have my undivided attention.”
“The prospect might well be enough for you to continue this courtship despite your unders
tandable lack of attraction to a strange bird like me.”
“I have to stop you there.” I sat back in my chair, willing myself not to flush.
Kathe blinked. “Because you wouldn’t continue, or because you’ve fallen prey to my questionable charms?”
“That’s an interesting question. It’s a shame we Raverrans are so subtle and despise giving direct answers easily.” I folded my napkin in my lap.
Kathe’s mouth opened, then closed. But I had barely a second to relish catching him speechless before some shift of pressure or deepening of silence warned me to look up, and I found Ciardha standing beside me, my best coat draped over her arm.
My heart dipped in my chest. If my mother had sent her here now, disrupting my picnic with Kathe, the news couldn’t be good.
“Ciardha? What is it?”
She inclined her head in a short bow. “Lady Amalia. My profound apologies for this interruption, but the Council of Nine requires your presence at the Imperial Palace. La Contessa sent me to escort you there at once.”
The Map Room at the Imperial Palace had hosted innumerable councils of war. Vast, detailed maps of Raverra and the Serene Empire adorned the walls, and the floor inlay spread out all the continent of Eruvia beneath the Council’s feet. Every time I crossed its threshold, I could feel the scope of the Empire’s history pressing down on me. I’d sat in on strategy sessions before, where the Council crowded around the table with generals and admirals; this meeting had a more spare and urgent feel, with only the Council of Nine and the doge himself gathered to peer down at the marker-covered map before them.
I paused inside the door after Ciardha gestured me through, held back by the sense that my summons must be a mistake. I had no place in this room right now. But Ciardha didn’t make mistakes.
“It could still be a feint,” the Marquise of Palova was saying. Her white hair had partially escaped its knot, straggling around her face. But she was a veteran of the Three Years’ War and one of the best military strategists in Eruvia, so everyone listened with grave respect. “We know Vaskandar wants Loreice, after they failed to get it twice in the last century. If we focus too much of our strength on Callamorne, at the other side of the Empire, we won’t be in a position to defend if they come across the Loreician hills in number.”
“So we use the minimum force we’re certain will hold the border, and keep much of our power in reserve but ready.” The doge glanced up as he reached for a marker on the map. His glittering, deep-set eyes caught mine. “Ah, Lady Amalia. Join us.”
I approached the table, my boots tapping across Osta and the southern coast as I crossed to my mother’s side. Dozens of markers covered the map: blue for imperial forces, and green for Vaskandar. There were far fewer of the latter, but I suspected that had more to do with our limited intelligence resources across the border than it did with the forces at Vaskandar’s disposal.
“I hear you secured us an alliance with the Crow Lord of Let,” the Marquise of Palova said approvingly. “Best news I’ve had all day.”
I touched the claws hanging on my chest and dipped my head in a bow of acknowledgment. “I’m glad I could help.”
“But that is not why we’ve called you here.” Niro da Morante, the doge of Raverra, was not a man to waste time tossing around compliments. He gave me a narrow, assessing look, as if estimating the heft of a weapon he might take to hand. “We have two tasks for you. The first is a matter of diplomacy.”
I shifted uneasily. There was too much tension in the air. My mission to Ardence had been a matter of diplomacy, too, but with the city’s survival at stake if we failed. “I am always pleased to serve the Serene Empire.”
“Good,” my mother said. “It’s time for you to pay a family visit.”
“Ah.” I glanced at the map; a great many of the green markers clustered along the western end of the Witchwall Mountains, at Vaskandar’s border with Callamorne. “You mean my grandmother.”
La Contessa nodded. “For several reasons. The most straightforward being the diplomatic one: to show our commitment to defending Callamorne and stopping Vaskandar at the border.”
“I still think we should dispense with diplomacy and strike across the border first, while they’re fussing about waiting for this Conclave.” That was Lord Errardi, an elderly council member notorious for dozing off during Assembly meetings. “Why give them time to make their infernal preparations, when we can crush them with overwhelming force before they’re ready to invade?”
“Because it would be stupid,” the Marquise of Palova replied bluntly. “Setting aside the fact that the snow could come down and close the passes anytime in the next six weeks, trapping our forces across the border—we’ve never won a battle on Vaskandran soil.”
That got my attention. “What, never?” Military history wasn’t one of my primary areas of study, but as I mentally reviewed what I knew of the Three Years’ War, it did seem all our key victories had been defending our own lands, not pressing into theirs.
“That’s what makes the Witch Lords so dangerous.” The marquise’s voice went deep and hollow as an old grave. “Every living thing in their domains bends to their will. In the Three Years’ War, we tried making attacks across the border at first. But you might as well mount a sortie into the Hell of Carnage. An entire platoon of soldiers with their eyes pecked out by birds. A forest of men hanging impaled on branches, sometimes six to a tree, stretching as far as you could see. And you’ve never watched someone die badly until you’ve seen them swarmed by a hundred furious rats.” She shook her head. “I could keep going, but I won’t.”
“I see,” old Lord Errardi muttered weakly, looking ill. I had some sympathy; my stomach fluttered uneasily at the scenes she’d conjured.
“If they take territory and hold it for more than a few weeks, it starts to become theirs.” The Marquise of Palova planted her fists on the table. “We don’t dare cede them an inch. No one has ever taken back land from a Witch Lord once they’ve put their claim on it.”
“So you can see why Callamorne is nervous,” La Contessa interjected, pulling my focus back from wild images of corpses dangling from trees like hideous fruit and rivers of furry backs heaving over picked-clean bones.
I eyed the map. There were a lot of green tokens on Callamorne’s northern border, more than anywhere else. “I’d certainly be worried if I were them.”
“And they’ve only been part of the Serene Empire for twenty years.” My mother said it casually, as if she hadn’t been the one to bring them into the Empire by marrying my father, but I caught the faintest lift of pride in her voice. “Callamorne suffered near-constant raids from Vaskandar when they were an independent country, even with the mountains acting as a natural defense. Protection from their northern neighbor was one of the primary enticements that persuaded them to join the Empire.” The same had been true of Loreice; one could argue that Vaskandran expansion had gained the Serene Empire more client states than any other force in history. “They need reassurance that we can and will keep them safe, if we want them to remain our staunch ally and loyal subject.”
“I can do that.” It made sense. And I liked my grandmother and cousins, even if the Callamornish court was overly fond of ceremony for my taste.
I took a closer look at the map. The two domains bordering Callamorne across the Witchwall Mountains were Sevaeth and Kazerath. I knew the latter was Ruven’s father’s domain, so the former must belong to the infamous Lady of Thorns. Green markers clustered in the major passes through the mountains, ending at the western flank of Mount Whitecrown.
I recalled another gathering of forces on that same mountain last month, and frowned. “Mount Whitecrown again,” I murmured.
“Which brings us to the other and more urgent reason we called you here.” The doge’s voice sharpened. “I am told you have some familiarity with Prince Ruven’s research into volcanoes.”
A chill struck me like a sudden icy rain. I caught my mother’s eyes.
She nodded gravely. “We’ve just received a report from the Witchwall Mountains. Our scouts have found a newly graven artifice circle near the base of Mount Whitecrown, barely on our side of the border. The artificer at the local garrison says he’s never seen anything like it.”
No. I gripped the table edge. We’d stopped Ruven’s plot to trigger a volcanic eruption. Hadn’t we?
“That could be Ruven’s doing,” I said slowly. “If he studied the book he tried to steal long enough to replicate the design.”
“Do you think it has a chance of working?” the Marquise of Palova asked, her dark eyes bright and piercing.
“Perhaps. I don’t know.” I shook my head. “It was highly experimental, combining vivomancy and artifice.” Vivomancy was nature magic, wild and raw and personal, originating in the shadowy forests of Vaskandar; artifice was a precise magical science, working through patterns and rules, developed by the scholars of ancient Osta at the other end of Eruvia. “There’s been very little research done into combining the two types of magic, since they’re so different. But the theory in the book seemed sound enough. Like taming a wild river through irrigation canals.” I heard the mounting excitement in my own voice and forced my mouth shut before I could launch into a dissertation that no one here cared about but me.
“We can’t take the chance that it might work,” the marquise said grimly. “An eruption would wipe out our defenses in some of the key mountain passes. Even a moderate one could destroy major fortresses, artifice weapons, and wards, and slaughter the thousands of troops we have stationed there. It would be a catastrophic loss and would open the border wide to their invading forces.”
The Defiant Heir Page 8