by Rachel Aaron
“Master Oban sent me as soon as it came,” he said, keeping his distance from the Spiritualist and her monster. “Ten minutes maybe? Twenty?”
That was all Miranda needed. She hooked her arm over Gin’s nose and he lifted her up onto his waiting back.
“Lady!” Marion cried. “Where are you going?”
“To the castle, of course!” Miranda shouted. “Eli’s made his move, and I’m not about to let him get away so easily this time.”
Marion opened her mouth to say something else, but the ghosthound dashed behind her and Miranda swept the girl up onto his back. Gin whirled, patterns flashing wildly over his fur, and dashed up the hill, pouncing in silent bounds toward the castle.
The moment the ghosthound was out of sight, the neighborhood started pouring out of its hiding places. Men, women, and grubby children flooded the muddy street, and the royal messenger found himself surrounded by gawking, dirty people. One look at the knives some of the men wore in their boots and the messenger decided it was time to return as well, and he followed the ghosthound up the hill toward the castle at a dead run.
CHAPTER
7
Oban, the Master of Security, was waiting for them at the castle gate with a roll of parchment in his hand.
“Lady Miranda!” he shouted, running toward them as Gin slid to a stop.
“Is that the letter?” Miranda hopped down.
“Yes.” He shoved the parchment into her hand. “Read it quickly.”
She shook the paper open and read, muttering along as she went. “ King is safe … Send riders to the Council … Mellinor shall pledge an additional thirty-five thousand to Monpress’s bounty ”—her eyebrows shot up—“ and five thousand in cash —these demands are ridiculous!” She shook her head as she finished reading. “ ‘ Raise a white flag from the second tower when you receive the new bounty notice from the Council and await further instructions.’ Why that greedy little thief, what is he playing at?” She thrust the note back at Oban. “You said the king wrote this?”
“Yes,” Oban said, “under much duress, we fear.”
Miranda gave him a flat look. “He has very good handwriting for a king under duress.”
“Oh, this isn’t the original.” The Master of Security ran a nervous hand over his bald head. “It’s a scribe copy.”
“Well, that won’t do.” Miranda put her hands on her hips. “Where is the original? I need it now.” Time was precious. If she got it soon enough, the faint, weak spirits in the ink might still remember the ink pot they’d lived in. That would give her a direction at least, maybe even a relative distance, but only if she got to them before they fell asleep completely and forgot that they’d ever been anything except words on a page.
The Master of Security blanched. “I’m afraid I can’t get it, lady. The situation’s, um”—he clutched his hands—“changed.”
“Changed how?” Miranda’s eyes narrowed.
“Go to the throne room, and you’ll see.” He sighed. “They don’t know I let you see the note, lady, but I couldn’t let you go in there without some information at least. Good luck.” He bowed slightly, then whirled around and disappeared into the stables.
“He stinks of fear,” Gin said, his orange eyes on Oban’s retreating back.
“Do you know what this is about?” Miranda asked Marion, who was still working her way down off the ghosthound. The girl shook her head.
Miranda stared up at the white castle, which looked much more forbidding than usual. “Ears open, mutt,” she muttered. “Be ready if I call you.”
“Always am,” Gin huffed, sitting down in the middle of the stable yard.
Miranda nodded and hurried up the castle steps, Marion keeping close behind her.
The entrance hall was quiet and empty. Miranda frowned, glancing around for the usual clusters of servants and officials, but there was no sign of them. She quickened her pace, trotting across the polished marble to the arched doorway that led to the throne room. As she rounded the corner, what she saw stopped her dead in her tracks. The entire servant population of castle Allaze, from the stable boys to the chambermaids, was crammed into the great hall that led to the throne room. They were crowded in, shoulder to shoulder, filling the hall to bursting.
Miranda stared bewildered at the wall of backs blocking their way. “All right,” she sighed, slumping against the wall, “I give up. What is going on?”
Marion hurried forward, tapping the shoulder of a man at the back of the crowd wearing a blacksmith’s leather apron to ask what was happening.
“Didn’t ya hear?” the man said. “Lord Renaud’s back.”
Marion’s face went white as cheese. She thanked the man and hurried back to Miranda. “Lord Renaud is back,” she whispered.
“So I heard,” Miranda said. “But let’s assume for the moment that I know nothing about this country. Who is Lord Renaud?”
“King Henrith’s older brother.”“Older brother?” Miranda frowned in confusion. “Is he a bastard or something?”
“Of course not!” Marion looked mortified.
“Then why did Henrith become king, and not him?” None of the research she’d done on Mellinor had mentioned any variance in the normal lines of succession. Of course, she hadn’t had time to do much research in her rush to beat Eli.
“Lord Renaud was first in line for the throne, but then there were, um”—she glanced pointedly at Miranda’s rings—“problems.”
“I see,” Miranda said quietly, following her gaze. “You know, in most countries, having a wizard in the royal family is considered a blessing.” Marion winced at the coldness in her voice. “He was banished as a child, then?”
Marion shook her head. “That’s usually the way, but not this time. You see, no one knew he was a wizard until a few days after the prince’s sixteenth birthday. The old king was furious when he found out, of course, and he banished Lord Renaud to the desert on the southern edge of Mellinor.”
“Sixteen is far too old for a manifestation,” Miranda said, drumming her fingers against the stone doorway. “A wizard child can hear spirits from birth. It’s obvious by the time they can talk that something is off. A prince, especially an heir to the throne, is hardly raised in obscurity. How did no one know?”
“The queen covered up for him,” Marion said sadly. “It was no secret that she loved him the most. She wouldn’t let the servants near him. She took care of him herself, dressed him and mended his clothes, prepared his meals, and so forth. We assumed it was because Renaud was the crown prince, since she never did any of that for Henrith. Now, of course, we know the real reason.”
Miranda arched an eyebrow. “So how did it come to light?”
“The queen had a weak heart,” Marion said sadly. “It got worse as she grew older, and finally there was nothing the doctors could do. She died on Renaud’s birthday. They say the prince went mad with grief after that, his mother had been his whole world, and with him going on like that, there was no hiding what he was. He was banished before the week was out, and Henrith was made crown prince in his place.” Marion leaned on the wall beside Miranda. “Of course, this all happened years ago, well before I came to the palace. I’ve seen Lord Renaud only once, when the king drove him out of the city.”
Miranda eyed the packed crowd. “The return of a banished prince, no wonder everyone’s making such a fuss. Well,” she said and straightened up, “strange goings on or no, I need to get my spirits on that note or we’ll be right back where we started. Follow me.”
She walked up to the wall of backs and, without fanfare, began to elbow her way through. Marion wiggled along behind her, apologizing profusely to the angry people in their wake.
“I could have asked them to move,” she huffed, squeezing between two guardsmen. “Despite the circumstances, you are a guest of the masters.”
Miranda shook her head. “From what I’ve seen of Mellinor, announcing I’m a Spiritualist would be the same as shouting ‘fire.�
� I don’t want to cause a stampede.”
As they neared the throne room doors, the press of people grew even tighter, and Miranda’s and Marion’s progress slowed to an agonizing crawl.
“This is ridiculous,” Marion gasped, pressed against Miranda’s shoulder by a pack of guardsmen. “We’ll never get through.”
Miranda pursed her lips, thinking, and then her eyes lit up. “Let me try something.”
She closed her eyes and slumped forward slightly, letting her body relax. With practiced ease she retreated to the deepest part of her mind, the well of power her spirits sipped from, the well that was usually kept tightly shut. She breathed deeply, relaxing her hold just a fraction. The effect was immediate.
The crowd around them shivered and stepped away. It was only a step, but it left just enough room for her and Marion to push through all the way to the golden doors. As soon as they reached the throne room’s threshold, Miranda clamped down again. The small knot of people behind them gave a slight shiver and pressed in again as if nothing had happened.
Marion looked over her shoulder with wide eyes. “What did you do?”
“I opened my spirit,” Miranda said.
“Opened your …” If possible, her eyes got wider.
That was all Miranda had meant to say, but, after that awed display, she couldn’t help showing off just a little. “Opening the spirit reveals the strength of a wizard’s power,” she whispered. “Remember when I told you that a wizard’s true power is control? That’s because all wizards are born with more spirit, more energy than normal people. However, that energy is generally locked away shortly after birth by the child’s own self-defense mechanisms. Having your spirit wide open all the time makes you vulnerable. Spirits are attracted to power, you see, and not all of them always mean you well. With training, wizards can learn to open their spirits, sometimes a little, sometimes all the way, depending on how much power you need to display. This is a vital part of getting a spirit’s attention when you start really working with them.”
“But,” Marion said and frowned, thoroughly confused, “I thought you said you couldn’t control people?”
“Well,” Miranda smiled smugly, “what I just did is more of a trick on my part than any kind of real magic. Normal people can’t feel a wizard’s spirit even if it’s open full blast—not consciously, anyway. However, I’ve found that with just the right feather touch even the most spirit deaf will feel a slight pressure without knowing they feel it, and step away.”
“So,” Marion shivered, “that feeling just now, like someone was stepping on my grave, that was you?”
“Yes,” Miranda said, nodding. “A bit unconventional, but dreadfully handy.”
“Must be,” Marion said. “What would happen if you opened it all the way?”
“Let’s say it would be very uncomfortable for everyone involved.” Miranda smiled. “Come”—she grabbed the librarian’s hand and pushed through the last line of people separating them from the throne room—“let’s do what we came here to do. We’ve wasted too much time as it is.” She tallied the time inwardly and winced. The note was probably dead asleep by now. Still, any clue, anything at all, and this would all be worth it.
Though the crowd was better dressed, the throne room was every bit as packed as the hall outside, and buzzing just as intently. Miranda stood on tiptoe, looking around for the Master of the Courts or anyone who could help her, when she heard the solemn sound of metal on stone. It must have been a signal, for all at once the whispers died out and the crowd fell silent. All attention was now on the tall, slim figure climbing the steps of the dais. When he was one step from the empty throne, he stopped and turned to face the crowd. As his face came into view, Miranda caught her breath.
After Marion’s story, she wasn’t sure what she was expecting. A bitter, weather-worn exile, perhaps, or a smug, spoiled prince enjoying his triumphant return. Whatever she’d expected, the man standing on the dais was nothing like it. He was, however, undoubtedly a prince. Tall and handsomely dressed in a dark-blue coat, he projected the confidence of someone used to being obeyed. A waterfall of golden hair hung down his back, swaying gently as he bowed low to the crowd. His fine-featured face was almost feminine in its beauty, and Miranda swallowed despite herself. He certainly didn’t look like someone who’d spent the last ten years exiled in the desert.
The golden prince looked out over the sea of people, a benevolent and humble expression on his lovely face. He held up his hands in a welcoming gesture. Miranda could almost feel the crowd leaning forward to drink him in as he began to speak.
“Citizens of Mellinor!” His voice rang out through the enraptured room. “I come before you as a criminal and an exile. Many have asked me how, seeing this, I come to stand before you today, and so, first, before you all, I must confess. Eleven years ago, I was banished for being born a wizard, in accordance with the ancient law. Yet, despite this, and because of the deep love I bear this country, for the past eight years I have disobeyed my father’s order and lived among you. For Mellinor’s sake, I have lived nameless, a pauper among paupers. I was here four years ago when my younger brother, Henrith, took the throne, and I cheered him in the streets alongside you, without jealousy or malice. Until yesterday, I was content to live forgetting the duty I was born to and denying the curse that took my crown if that was what was needed to stay here, in my home. But yesterday, when I heard of the atrocious crime that had been committed, not just against the throne of Mellinor, but against my own flesh and blood, I could stay silent no more.”
Renaud leaned forward, his ringing voice heavy with contempt. “You have heard by now that the wizard thief Monpress, wanted throughout the Council Kingdoms for a list of crimes too long to read here, has kidnapped our king. This crime must not go unanswered.”
A great cry rose up at this, and Renaud leaned into it, letting it grow. When the noise reached a fevered pitch, Renaud threw out his arms, and silence fell like a knife.
When he spoke again, his words were choked with sorrow. “My friends, I come to you with no expectations, no pleas, nothing but the offer of my service. It was my wizardry that forced this burden upon my younger brother. Let it be my wizardry that ends it. As I was once your prince, I beg you now, let me face this criminal and help save my brother, the only family I have left. Let me serve him as I could not serve you, and I swear to you, I swear on my life that Mellinor will have her king again!”
He threw his fists in the air, and the crowd erupted. The nobles around Miranda clapped and cheered, but their polite noise was drowned out by the crowd in the hall, who hadn’t seen such drama in years, if ever. Even the somberly dressed masters were milling about looking impressed despite themselves, and some of the younger ones were cheering just as loudly as the servants.
Marion bounced up and down on her toes. “Oh, isn’t it exciting?”
“Quite.” Miranda scowled. Something about Renaud’s smile as he shook the waiting masters’ hands didn’t sit well with her. Marion gave her a quizzical look, but Miranda had already begun elbowing her way through the well-dressed crowd.
She ran to catch up. “Lady! Where are you going?”
“To hold him to his words,” Miranda said, pushing past a pair of old ladies waving their lacy handkerchiefs at the prince. “He says he wants to help, so I’m going to make him give me that note.”
Marion shrank from the nasty looks they were getting, but before she could start apologizing, a boy in page’s livery popped out of the crowd right beside Miranda.
“Lady Spiritualist,” he said, bowing nervously. “Lord Renaud wishes to meet you right away.”
“Well,” Miranda said. “That saves some trouble. Lead on.”
The page turned and led them away from the crowd to a small door just off the back half of the main throne room. This opened into a small, richly decorated parlor. As soon as they were inside, the page vanished back into the crowd, letting the door close softly behind him.
“Well,” Miranda said, dropping into one of the silk couches, “that was all very neat. We were swept up and tucked away before we could cause trouble.” She glanced at Marion, who was still standing by the door, looking slightly dazed. “Your Renaud seems to have gained quite a bit of influence in a very short time for a banished wizard prince. His speech wasn’t that good.”
“Prince is the key word there, I think.” Marion sighed, padding across the carpet to take a seat on one of the straight-backed, carved wooden chairs under the window. “With the king gone, Mellinor’s been headless. Since our founding, we’ve never been without a king for more than a day. There’s no precedent at all, so it’s no wonder the masters are in a panic. I shouldn’t say this, but they’d probably follow the king’s dog at this point if it could prove a royal lineage.” She glanced at the door. “Lord Renaud sure picked the right time to come back. Only in a situation like this could his status as a prince outweigh his stigma as a wizard.”
“How very convenient for him,” Miranda said thoughtfully.
Marion paled. “Please don’t take offense, lady. Stigma’s the wrong word. I—”
“It’s fine.” Miranda smiled. “Don’t apologize. You’ve given me a lot to think about.”
“It’s just …” Marion pulled at her dress. “I’ve never had to think about things from a wizard’s—Spiritualist! Spiritualist’s point of view, and—”
She stopped midbabble and sprang out of her chair. Miranda looked at her, confused, but Marion shook her head fiercely and pointed at the door before dropping into a low curtsy.
A second later, Prince Renaud himself swept into the room.
CHAPTER
8
He was alone, which struck Miranda as unusual, and he bowed as graciously as any servant as the door drifted shut behind him.
“Lady Spiritualist,” he said, “I’ve very much looked forward to meeting you.”
Miranda stood up and bowed as well, hoping Mellinor had no special deviations from common court etiquette. “Lord Renaud, I appreciate your taking the time to see me. There are several things—”