“I’m cursed well aware of what my balefire can do in war,” Zaira said sharply. “I’m asking about you.”
“All right.” I spread my hands on the table. “I don’t know. They probably wouldn’t execute me.” But my mother’s cousin Ignazio had proven that the Cornaro name was no protection against the consequences of treason; he would spend the rest of his life in an imperial prison. Certainly my political career would be over. “Perhaps they might let me retire in disgrace to some little villa full of books.” Once, that would have sounded wonderful. Now, the prospect brought a clammy sweat to my palms. “My Falcon reform act would fail. And … I would miss you a great deal.”
Aside perhaps from the prospect of imprisonment for treason, none of that came close to balancing the scale against Zaira’s freedom. Even Falcon reform could be taken up by someone else. I stared down at my hands. I knew there was more I could say, things that might convince her to stay—but this had to be her decision. Never mind that if she decided to leave, the Empire could lose its war—and I might lose my title, my freedom, and most of all, my friend.
A heavy silence fell over the room. I didn’t dare look up. I was afraid of what I’d see on Zaira’s face.
At long last, she let out a sigh. “Your grandma did say it was a standing invitation.”
I lifted my head, hope leaping in my chest.
Zaira shrugged. “You think I’d let you fight that festering bastard Ruven without me? That human disease has one cure, and it’s balefire.”
“We’re not at war yet,” I pointed out, to hide the wave of dizzy relief that swept over me.
“I’ll bet you a ducat I can fix that for you.”
Namira cleared her throat to get our attention. “If we don’t do something about Mount Whitecrown, you won’t need balefire to reduce everything around us to ashes.” The reminder set a cold stone in my belly.
“Are you the one who created the artifice circles?” I asked.
She gestured modestly to the other artificers at the table. “We all worked on it, but I was the lead, yes.”
“I found one of your circles,” I said eagerly. “I figured out you’d left gaps in the design on purpose. We have people looking for the others and modifying them to slowly release the pressure.”
Namira let out a long sigh and slumped in her chair, passing a hand across her close-cropped gray curls. “Thank the Graces. That’s a start.”
“What else do we need to do?” I asked.
“You need to destroy the control circle.” She reached behind her and plucked a notebook, quill pen, and inkwell off a desk, then began sketching. “I’ll draw you a map to it. If Ruven uses the control circle, he can trigger an eruption with whatever pressure is built up; it might be smaller, but it’ll still be destructive. He can choose the direction it will blow, too. If you destroy the control circle, then so long as the other circles maintain the containment and continue to ease off the pressure gently, the volcano might not erupt for a long time.”
“How about never?” I asked.
She raised an eyebrow. “It’s still an active volcano. Artifice can’t change that.”
Zaira frowned. “What happens if that stingroach triggers it before we get there?”
A grim expression settled over Namira’s face. “Then,” she said, “everyone had better take cover.”
The Reckoning was held the next day, in the castle gardens. The snow in the open castle grounds had melted overnight, though it still lingered under the shadows of the surrounding forest; the revealed grass grew lush and vivid green as if it were May instead of November, no doubt thanks to Ruven’s magic. If the Witch Lords felt the wintry chill that clung to the mountain air, they didn’t show it. Even my fur-lined velvet coat couldn’t keep me from an occasional shiver.
In contrast to the reception last night, where the Witch Lords had moved quickly from one greeting to the next, making their rounds, the Reckoning was a day for lengthy private conversations. They went for strolls around the grounds together, or found isolated spots in which to stand a breath apart. At a glance, one could take them for couples enjoying a romantic turn in the gardens—and indeed, Zaira felt obliged to speculate extensively about pairings that would make a good match.
“Oh, those two would shred the sheets,” she chuckled, eyeing the Fox Lord talking to the Lady of Otters. “I wouldn’t mind joining the party.”
“Ah,” I managed, my face burning.
“And there’s a sweet couple.” She nodded toward where the Aspen Lord stood in serious conversation with the Elk Lord. “Wonder if he keeps the antlers on.”
“Um.”
“Now, those two make a pretty picture,” she sighed, turning her attention to where the Lady of Laurels bent her head in close attendance to the Lady of Eagles. “All those long legs and flowing hair—”
“Zaira, she’s my great-grandmother,” I protested.
Zaira grinned. “Pity you didn’t inherit the good looks.”`
Someone had placed pedestals around the garden holding wooden bowls full of red or blue stones. At first I thought they were sweets, since the Witch Lords would occasionally pluck one out, or scoop a handful, but a closer look showed them to be polished crystals.
“What do you suppose those are for?” I asked Zaira, curious.
She shrugged. “Decorations, maybe?”
As we watched, Kathe dipped his hand into one, coming up with a red stone. He tossed it in his palm as he sauntered over toward the Lady of Thorns.
“There’s got to be some significance to them,” I muttered.
Zaira elbowed me. “Maybe they’re money. Look.” I followed her gaze to where the Lady of Laurels now passed a couple of blue gems to the Lady of Spiders, thankfully across the garden. My skin crawled just thinking about her, and I quickly glanced away.
“It’s hard to imagine the Witch Lords all paying each other off, though.” I remembered what Kathe had said about what counted for currency at the Reckoning. “They must represent grievances and favors. The exchange must be purely symbolic, a ritual to seal a deal, since there’s no way to keep a proper accounting of them. But they’re trading favors owed for political support, and giving up grievances in return for more favors.”
“And we’re broke.”
“Well, yes.” I straightened. “But we can still try to persuade people the old-fashioned way.”
Zaira grinned and waggled her eyebrows.
“With words,” I clarified, my ears burning.
The sense of power surrounding the Witch Lords was less palpable and oppressive here, where they were spread out across the gardens in the open air, so it was less frightening to approach them. Zaira bantered some more with the Fox Lord, trying to coax him into an alliance with the Empire; I had a polite exchange with my great-uncle the Aspen Lord, in which I discovered he was quite firmly remaining neutral, following his mother’s lead. The Lady of Thorns kept staring murder at me across the garden, until I half expected to break out in a nosebleed from her pure hatred alone. And Kathe had a long talk with the Holly Lord, a well-muscled and young-looking man who seemed to be dressed mostly in elaborate tattoos and a crown of dark leaves with red berries. I found it hard to look away from those two.
I spoke to the Lady of Lynxes, a slip of silken grace with cropped hair and fierce eyes who barely came up to my shoulder, by a trellis shrouded with drooping purple blooms.
“I’ve heard you’re also seeking a domain for your heir,” I said, after managing to keep my smile through introductory pleasantries while feeling rather like a mouse being sized up for dinner, The Lady of Lynxes’ intense, predatory presence was alarming, far out of proportion to her size. “That must be a tricky situation, when your domain is surrounded by fellow Witch Lords.”
The Lady of Lynxes walked a blue stone between her fingers, then up over the backs of her knuckles. “I need two domains, as it happens. One for my wife, and one for our daughter.”
“Even more difficult, then,�
�� I said sympathetically.
“Hardly.” The Lady of Lynxes flicked the stone into the air; it spun end over end, until she caught it with a snap. “They’re both strong enough to be Witch Lords. My daughter is a monster.” She grinned proudly, showing teeth sharpened to a point. “And Sevaeth is big enough to make two domains.”
“You have your eye on Sevaeth then?” I asked. “Does the Lady of Thorns know that?”
“Oh, yes. She’s not fond of me. But she hates you even more.”
“It seems that we might benefit from an alliance, then,” I suggested. “If we both are enemies of Sevaeth.”
The Lady of Lynxes opened her hand; her palm was empty, the stone vanished. “I hunt alone. When you’re done fighting each other, she’ll be weak, and easy prey. That’s when I’ll strike.”
“So you’re staying out of the war, then?”
“Not at all.” She chuckled. “I’m lighting a candle for it. If they don’t get enough backing, they might not go to war, and then she won’t be weakened. I want a nice, even fight, long and drawn out, with heavy casualties.”
“Charming,” I murmured.
So much for the Lady of Lynxes. At least the Lady of Thorns knew she was a threat and would likely hold some strength in reserve to deal with the inevitable attack from the north. Still, it was hard not to feel a growing anxiety. I had yet to definitively convince anyone against the war, and the burden of the trust the Empire had placed in me pressed heavier on me with each polite refusal.
Mount Whitecrown loomed above the castle as a constant reminder of the consequences of failure, its glaciers scraping the sky. Every few minutes, it released another innocent puff of steam to float off southward, casting a wisp of ominous shadow over the Empire.
I looked about for Zaira and spotted her sitting alone in the grass near a row of tall bushes, plaiting flower stems together. I started over, annoyed—How could she sit there daydreaming at a time like this? But she gave me an intent stare as I approached, though her fingers kept idly fiddling with the flowers, and I realized several things at once.
Zaira had grown up in Raverra, where space enough for a garden was a luxury reserved for the rich. There was no way she knew how to make flower chains. Nor was she the type of person to sit alone at a social gathering playing with plants.
She was up to something.
I closed my lips on the greeting I’d been about to call out and approached more quietly, settling down beside her. She gave me a pleasant nod, but whispered through her teeth, “There. Through the gap in the bushes.”
The dense line of slender evergreen shrubs walled off a small, private garden; I glimpsed a fountain and beds of orchids beyond. The Lady of Thorns and her daughter sat on the edge of the fountain: the latter bent and wasted, shoulders drooping with exhaustion or illness, and the former fresh as a spring daisy, her arm protectively around her elderly heir.
Ruven stood talking with them. They were too far away for me to hear what he said, but I could see him gesturing expansively as he took a cup of tea from an offering servant.
“Something’s wrong,” Zaira said softly, without moving her lips. “Look how Ruven’s standing. He’s ready to—ah.”
Ruven’s gesturing hand dipped, quick as a striking snake, to seize the servant’s wrist. The man froze in midcringe.
I shifted uncomfortably. “We should help him.”
“The only way to help the poor bastards working here is to get them out of Kazerath. You tell Ruven to stop now, and he’ll torture him more just to spite you.”
The servant didn’t seem hurt, simply immobile. Still holding his wrist, Ruven extended a hand to the Lady of Thorns’ daughter, with a genteel flourish as if he were offering to help her into a boat. She put her gnarled, trembling hand in his, her eyes down on her lap.
The servant remained frozen halfway through an uncertain bow. He didn’t move, didn’t make a sound—but something changed. His pose became unnatural, somehow—he held that shape not because it was his own, but because it contained him, like paper dolls crumpled up and stuffed into a bottle.
The Lady of Thorns looked away, her lip curling in disgust.
I rose. Zaira caught my arm. “What are you doing?” she hissed.
“We should stop him. Distract him, or—”
Zaira shook her head grimly. “It’s too late.”
Ruven released the man, and he collapsed to the ground. By the way he fell, limp and loose as a bag of sticks, I knew he was dead.
“Hells,” I whispered, shaken. “Why did he do that?”
“Look at that bloody-handed crone,” Zaira growled softly.
The Lady of Thorns’ daughter moved less stiffly as she released Ruven’s hand. More color bloomed in her cheeks. She was no less old, but she wore her extreme age more gracefully, as if it weighed on her less.
Her mother smoothed her thin white hair and spoke to Ruven, the diffidence of her posture conveying gratitude.
Ruven snapped his fingers at someone I couldn’t see, and a servant girl emerged, lips pressed tight together. She picked up the dead man’s feet, averting her face, and began dragging the corpse toward an unobtrusive side door into the castle. She moved without hesitation, as if she’d done this before.
“He’s feeding her lives,” I breathed. “To keep her from dying of sheer old age. That’s the hold he has over the Lady of Thorns. He’s the only one who can do it, because he’s a Skinwitch.”
Ruven made a florid gesture that ended with his palm up, as if he expected something. The Lady of Thorns dropped a handful of blue stones into it, gave Ruven a deep bow, and turned to lift her daughter to her feet.
We hurried to put a stretch of green lawn between us and Ruven before he emerged from his secluded nook. But that space was an illusion; he was in the grass under our feet, the looming shadowy pines beyond the gardens, the sickly-sweet purple flowers that bloomed unseasonably all around us. He could blink an eye and wither every one, then make them blossom again.
“I wish we could get the entire population safely out of Kazerath, somehow,” I muttered to Zaira.
“I know a simpler way to free them from Ruven.” She flexed her fingers into claws.
I spotted the Elk Lord pausing by a bowl of blue stones, the great spread of his antlered crown dipping as he selected a few. I’d been waiting for him to be alone all morning.
“I should talk to him,” I muttered nervously.
“You do that. I’m going to go see what that brat is up to.” Zaira tipped her chin toward a stone terrace that looked out over the gardens. The red-haired boy stood at an easel, painting.
“Ruven’s willing alchemist,” I breathed. “We can’t let him keep making that horrible potion. If we can talk him out of it somehow …”
“I’ll let you know it goes,” Zaira said. “Good luck with old branches-for-brains.”
Zaira headed for the terrace, leaving me to approach the Elk Lord on my own.
I took a deep breath and strode toward him. He watched me come with eyes knowing as the night sky, gleaming from a deep brown face carved into stark lines of wisdom. It was hard to push through the thickening cloud of power around him to get closer; he was old, older than the tall pines girdling the hill, and his quiet presence made me feel an urge to stop and put down roots like a tree.
When I’d drawn close enough for conversation, I bowed. “My lord. Amalia Cornaro, of the Serene Empire. I’m honored to meet you.”
He regarded me impassively. “No one from your Empire has attended a Conclave before. You bring change on the wind of a crow’s wingbeats.”
I suspected that was exactly Kathe’s hope. But without knowing how the Elk Lord felt about change, I merely smiled. “Some changes are more dangerous than others. Such as the upheaval of war.”
“War.” The Elk Lord sighed, and gazed out toward the mountains. “When you are as old as I am, Lady Amalia, you gain a perspective on the patterns of history. They unfold as clearly before you as the rhyt
hms of conversation. War is not change. Not in Vaskandar.”
“I may lack your years of experience, but I am a student of history,” I said. “I know of Vaskandar’s cycle of violent expansion.”
“Then perhaps you can see the problem that makes conflict with your Empire inevitable.” The long folds of his embroidered leather robe stirred as he began to walk. I scrambled to stay at his side; his legs must have come up to the bottom of my rib cage, given how his casual stroll outpaced me. “We have run up against the Witchwall Mountains like a rising flood against a seawall. The peace cannot hold. The Witch Lords must either fight you or each other.”
“Surely there must be some other solution. War hurts us all.”
“Not while we have would-be Witch Lords hungering for domains and immortality.” The Elk Lord shook his head, the great span of his antlers sweeping the air. “No, as much as I find it distasteful to back a Skinwitch, we must have this war.”
I leaped on the opening. “But if war is a part of Vaskandar’s natural cycle, isn’t a Skinwitch a greater threat to stability? You’ve never had a Skinwitch ruling a domain before.”
“That’s true,” he conceded. “I will admit to some concern. The Skin Lord of Kazerath could become a problem.”
“He’s planning to trigger an eruption in Mount Whitecrown, to spread his influence with its ashes,” I pressed. “That certainly tampers with the order of things.”
“We reshape the land all the time. A few ashes will not be enough to affect the blooded claims of other Witch Lords.” The Elk Lord frowned. “This is a matter of some concern in that it shows his recklessness, however.”
“Can you truly justify using your substantial power and influence to support one such as he?” I spread my hands, trying to match his philosophical demeanor. “What may come of it?”
The Elk Lord stopped. He turned to look down at me, and the weight of his gaze fell on me like a mountain, ancient and uncaring. “What he does is counter to the workings of nature,” he said. “He is like a mad creature that eats its own filth. But whether he poses a threat to any but his own people remains to be seen.”
The Defiant Heir Page 38