"I know you walk an oiled bridge of swords and your distaste for the foolishness of Court has given you enemies eager to push you.” The seer shook his head.
"I knew you would be here early,” Asqual said. “We don't have much time before the Court pours in. How is the King?"
"Better spirits, but not by much. It is only wise to know what the common people believe and fear, but hearing all the market gossip doesn't help. Before, he was simply worried about having failed the people and the Mother. Now, he's worried about his manhood. Next they'll say his mind is failing."
"Prove it,” Shazzur said mildly.
"They don't have to prove it,” Elzan said, trying not to snap. “All they need is for my—for the King to believe it."
"Very good.” He nodded. “You have learned what we believe is often more powerful than what is. I am also pleased you think of him as your father often enough to slip in speaking. Your loyalty as his son is more valuable than anything else you could give him."
"Will it be enough?"
The doors groaned open before Shazzur could answer. Elzan bowed to both men and led them to his bench. They said nothing as people flooded in. Soldier and seer stood behind the seated prince, somber expressions greeting the gossiping courtiers. A puddle of silence spread outward from the bench, and Elzan was glad of it.
A cluster of young men glittering with gold in their hair, in purple kilts that clashed with their rubies, sauntered in. The people bowed as the princes entered the room in a herd.
"What's the group name for swine?” Elzan muttered. Choked laughter and a hand squeezing his shoulder showed both Shazzur and Asqual had heard.
Elzan stood to meet his half-brothers. The Court dropped to their knees and touched their foreheads to the tiled floor at the shrill of trumpets. King Doni'Jazzan'Nebazz'Dayona entered with First Concubine Lady Mayar at his side and the three remaining concubines behind him. Elzan hated that gap between his parents. If Lady Mayar were Queen, she would walk arm-in-arm with the King.
High Priest Chizhedek, robed in white and gold, raised his ancient voice in a chant, calling the assembly of the Court to order. He begged Mother Matrika to bless the King and give him power and wisdom to care for the people.
The King stood before the throne and spread his arms, but instead of gesturing for the people to rise from their knees, he extended his hands to where Shazzur knelt beside Elzan.
"Welcome First Advisor, Doni'Hobad'Shazzur'Conia. Restored to Bainevah in our hour of need. I grant you the right never to kneel to royal blood, you and your descendants."
Elzan bit his lip against a grin. His half-brothers weren't so quick to silence their gasps of astonishment.
Not only had the King restored Shazzur to his position of authority and honor, but he had effectively silenced all the nasty rumors that had circulated for years, trying to put the blame for Lady Naya's death on his hands. Some still claimed Lady Naya had been killed in punishment for some treason of Shazzur's, and other, worse tales. Giving Shazzur and his descendents freedom from the duty to kneel destroyed any doubts and shamed those who continued to speak poison.
"Prince Doni'Nebazz'Elzor'Mayar, bring my friend and seer to the throne,” the King continued.
Elzan caught his brothers’ scowls and dumfounded looks. The King never used his son's pedigree names in Court unless he honored them; custom was to refer to them by their mothers’ names. To tell Elzan to bring Shazzur to him honored Shazzur and implied honor for Elzan.
Somebody is going to pay for this later, Elzan realized as he bowed and offered his arm to help the seer stand.
Shazzur winked at him, rested his wrinkled, callused hand on the prince's hard biceps, and tilted his head back in the proper Court stance. The two matched their steps and approached the throne.
Somebody would pay for this new honor to Shazzur. Elzan felt cold despite the dry heat.
* * * *
Challen woke early, unable to sleep in a strange place. She wandered through the gardens on the third tier of the Healers Temple—after asking permission and determining it was safe—enjoying the cooler air, taking tiny glimpses of the hundreds of buildings spread to the horizon.
Her thoughts churned around her vision-soldier. She was convinced that his presence had kept the Bull-man from entering her dreams last night. Challen wondered if Matrika had sent the dark-eyed soldier to guard and encourage her, and he did not exist in the daylight. Only at night, and in her dreams.
She smiled at her silly thoughts. Hadn't he said he had been at the Healers Temple visiting his mother? If he had been only a product of her dreams, he wouldn't have scolded her. He would have held her close and kissed her, and his mouth would have tasted of wine, like in those poems her father refused to read because their language was overblown.
No, the soldier who had rescued her was real. Solid. His hands hard and tight. Smelling of sweat and dust and leather. She was still lost in her daydream when Vandan came to fetch her, to visit the man being held prisoner in the underground rooms of the Healers Temple.
"According to Lord Shazzur, you are the only one who can see if a person's shadow is missing,” the healer priest explained. “Lady Mayar cannot come here until after morning Court, but she asked that you look at...” He sighed and led her into an empty room, with a barred and chained door at the other end. “This is a strange, dangerous situation, Lady. You must keep this secret. The man who attacked you is Prince Doni'Coori. He was wounded, and taken over by magic. Until we can be sure the magic is destroyed, he must stay here."
"And no one can know because of the danger to the throne,” Challen murmured. Her mind raced. If she remembered correctly, this prince had a sister, and other than Lady Mayar's son, they were the only royal siblings with a Bainevan mother. All the other concubines were diplomatic gifts from other countries.
"Exactly.” Vandan took a set of keys from his belt and opened the three locks on the chain holding the door barred shut. At some silent signal, four temple soldiers came into the room. He opened the door, offered his hand to Challen, and led her into the room.
The prince sat propped up against pillows, his shoulder bandaged and stained with a few specks of blood, wearing nothing but soldier's trousers. He looked flushed with fever, but offered them a smile when they came into the room.
"Good morning, Vandan,” he said in a pleasant, baritone voice. “I'm a lucky man, to have a pretty priestess tending me.” He swung his legs off the side of the bed and made to stand up.
In an instant, the gray of his eyes vanished, swallowed up in black—and the multiple shadows cast by the four lamps in the corners of his room disappeared as if someone had slammed shutters across a window.
"Vandan—” Challen clutched at the priest's arm and took a step back.
The prince leaped at her, his hands stiffening into claws. The temple soldiers blocked him, the hard thuds of their bodies meeting reverberating dully. Vandan hooked an arm around Challen's waist and dragged her from the room. He sat with her until the sounds of struggle stopped and the four temple guards came out and reported the prince was in his right mind again.
"What does it mean?” Challen whispered.
"We're not sure,” Vandan admitted. “He attacked Lady Mayar when she visited him this morning, and she was not in healer green. He attacked you, but he has not attacked other healers."
"The magic knows identities?” she guessed.
"Who can know? Come.” He held out his hand. “I will take you back to your room, and then I must report to our Lady."
Challen had little time to wrap her thoughts around what had happened before the priestess Cyrula bustled into her room with a breakfast she had only heard of in stories; chilled cream and stewed apricots; fresh bread glistening with crystallized sugar and dripping with butter; tiny, fried fish; and fortified wine swimming with spices.
Cyrula had charge of Challen, to pamper and test her and introduce her to the temple routine until Lady Mayar returned. To Cyru
la, that meant nearly drowning Challen in lovely new clothes, gifting her with makeup and ornaments and dressing her hair. Except for experimenting in the cold winter evenings, for amusement, Challen had worn her hair in three simple styles all her life. A long braid down her back; a coil on top of her head to keep the warm weight off her neck; or hanging loose around her face as insulation against the cold outdoors. Cyrula was incensed at such a gap in her education.
"No more than I expected of the Seer,” she said with a most unladylike snort.
It became a chuckle when Challen stared at the woman, who for all her bulk gave an impression of daintiness. Her silver curls bobbed and her cheeks turned brighter red than normal and she sat on the stool in front of the dressing table.
"Your father is a wonderful man, and glad I am he has returned to his proper place, but he really was rather short-sighted when it came to your lady mother."
"He always said she was the most beautiful woman in Bainevah,” Challen protested.
"Exactly.” Cyrula stood, smoothed the tent of her green robes and picked up a brush. She gestured for Challen to turn on the low stool. “He thought Naya was beautiful whether she was covered with mud or with jewels. It didn't matter to him. No matter how extravagant the hairstyle or how daring the dress, he barely noticed. He did notice when other men noticed her. Rather interesting, how unflappable Shazzur...” She frowned, struggling for the right word.
"Flapped loud and hard?” Challen guessed with a chuckle.
She remembered how her father had reacted the first time a soldier at the oasis garrison approached her with romantic intent. Shazzur's face went stony, his eyes held flames, and his shoulders jerked as he clenched his fists. Challen had hurried to verbally slap the presumptuous soldier back into his place, to keep her father from doing worse things. It took years before her father trusted her not to fall for pretty words—and to let her drive away her unwanted suitors. Challen sometimes wondered if Mackal would have survived as her father's apprentice if he hadn't been so totally inept in courting her.
On the journey to Bainevah, Challen had wanted her father to frighten some respect into Asqual's soldiers. To her utter frustration, Shazzur was content to let her handle her unwanted suitors. Challen suspected fear of the King's Seer would have stopped the importunate young men sooner than her words or fire gift. None of them feared the Seer's daughter even if she set their clothes on fire. What would she have to do to get people to respect her?
"You, my dear, are going to be the wonder of the Court for an entire moon. Everyone will expect you to be innocent and ignorant. And you, with your father's wit and your mother's humor, will turn them all into fools and weave their beards into your loom.” Cyrula chuckled as she brushed Challen's hair.
"Father taught me about the rules and undercurrents of Court. I know how to use them, but I think they're silly."
"Exactly. Such lovely hair. You have the fire talent to match, I see.” She grinned wider when Challen twisted around to look at her, startled. “Ah, did no one tell you? I discern talents. I also hate wasting time, so we shall make you a lovely distraction during your first lessons."
"This is so strange,” Challen murmured, as she began to relax under the comforting rhythm of the brush through her hair. “Father and I grew up talking of gifts and talents and legends of the Powers as if they were everyday things. Yet I never realized other people possess them also. Every person I have met since coming through the gates is gifted."
"Be careful in such assumptions, child of Naya.” The plump woman gave her hair a gentle tug of admonition. “In the Temple are many gifts. We are a world unto ourselves, because our gifts are given to serve Mother Matrika and Bainevah. Only one of one thousand people in the rest of the city is gifted. Maybe fewer. Now, we shall see what we shall do with your hair."
In the next hour, Challen learned how to create stiff curls around her face using ointments and rods heated on coals; how to paint her eyes, elongating them with kohl lines and making her lids sparkle like a rainbow; how to drape her lovely new dresses to show off her figure without being suggestive or indecent. She and Cyrula laughed together over her father's possible reactions to such drastic changes in her appearance.
Challen learned she had many sleeping talents, just as her father and Vandan both said. Water talent, deeply buried; mind scribe talent and fire talent, like her mother; healing talent that could gather energy from the ground itself.
"You could perhaps be one like me, child,” Cyrula said, after a long silence. “There is a brilliance to your eyes, which to my sight means you are made to see things others cannot."
"Like when people don't have shadows?” slipped from Challen's lips before she thought to stop herself.
"When people don't have shadows?” She held very still, then a shudder rippled over the woman's massive frame.
It struck Challen that despite her bulk, Cyrula was not flabby but solidly built, tightly woven together, in full control of her body, mind and talents.
"Is something wrong? Do you know what such a thing means?"
"No. Except that such an idea frightens me.” She squeezed the girl's shoulder. “Be careful that you do not tell the wrong person what you see."
A thud on the door startled them. Cyrula stood still for several heartbeats before she smoothed the frown off her face and went to answer the door. The novice who peered through the doorway at Challen was a wide-eyed girl with ebony skin. She could barely open her mouth to whisper to Cyrula, who glanced once over her shoulder at Challen, then nodded to the child.
"You are required,” was all she would say as she tugged Challen's new, pale blue dress straight and tweaked her braids into place. Then Cyrula tutted and wiped away two-thirds of the blue, green, and silver makeup around her eyes.
Someone important, then, waited to see her. Someone who might not be amused with their innocent fun before the mirror.
As she followed Cyrula—who moved with amazing speed and grace—down the stairs to the main floor of the temple and to the altar, Challen felt something inside her chest tighten with apprehension. Who could be so important they called her before the altar? Who could command with such authority in the High Priestess's absence?
When she reached the circular central room and entered alone, somehow Challen was not surprised to see the tall, skeletal, elderly man. He stood with his back to the door, his shaved head bowed before the inner altar of the Healers Temple. He wore white trimmed in gold threads, proclaiming his authority by the simplicity of his clothes.
Chizhedek, High Priest to Mother Matrika.
"Holy son of Mother Matrika,” she said in the required greeting, and knelt the moment he turned to look at her.
"I had hoped to see more of your mother,” he said, his voice creaky and dusty but not at all cold or unpleasant.
"Sir?” Challen nearly raised her head; this was not what she expected from him at all.
"Come, child.” Chizhedek stepped over to one of the benches lining the wall. He groaned a little as he sank down onto the closest one, and beckoned for her to sit next to him. A tired smile changed his mask of cold authority and power to the face of a weary, old man. “I'm here as your grandfather, not as the High Priest."
Challen moved slowly, scrambling for memories of her grandfather. She knew Shazzur respected the man for his wisdom and sense of honor and years of experience serving the Mother. Other than that, he had spoken little of Chizhedek during their years of exile. Challen knew the High Priest hadn't approved of his daughter's choice to marry the King's Seer, but she couldn't honestly remember any enmity between the two men.
She remembered sitting on the roof of Matrika's Temple while her grandfather called birds to sit on her head and arms. She remembered sweets and feast days and sitting on his lap while he told her stories. She remembered her grandfather kneeling next to her, an arm around her while her parents stood before the altar to dedicate her newborn brother, Asha.
"You don't remember me, d
o you?” he asked, his voice quiet, a gleam of some strong emotion in his eyes.
"A child's memories. I've lived in an entirely different world, it seems. I don't know the rules, and I don't think I'm going to like them very much.” She tugged self-consciously on one of her decorated braids.
Chizhedek snorted, the sound turning to soft, dry laughter. “I think I see Cyrula's handiwork on you already, yes?” His smile turned wider when Challen nodded and grinned. “She was forever trying to turn your mother into a doll, painting her face and weighing her down with fancy clothes and playing with her hair until Naya thought it would fall out. No, your mother loved simple things and to move lightly and swiftly. It nearly suffocated her, to agree to spend the required two years in the Sanctum. But she obeyed the Mother's leading, and all Bainevah was blessed. Remember that, child, when your land and your king ask hard things of you."
"Yes, Grandfather.” Challen's heart squeezed when her simple address brought warmth to the old man's eyes. It had never occurred to her until that moment that the High Priest could be lonely. Under all his power and influence, he was simply a tired old man, whose only child had been murdered when he was too far away to help her.
"Your mother saw many things, spoke of many visions. In that, she was well matched with your father. She foresaw the danger to your brother, and provided for his safekeeping."
"Do you know where my brother is?” She nearly stood, shocked at the implied revelation. All the years of grieving, wondering, hoping—wasted?
"I know he is safe, protected, being prepared to serve the Mother. Other than that, only your mother and the Mother know where. I suspect that finding your brother could be instrumental in the recovery of the Three.” Chizhedek sighed. “Just as you will be instrumental in protecting Bainevah until that time. You know that any danger to you will hinder your father's service to the King, yes?"
"Yes, Grandfather.” A heaviness settled in her chest. This wasn't simply a family reunion, an old man's hunger to see his long-vanished grandchild. This was kingdom work.
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