by Eric Flint
"Chetrive is not a country of sorcerers, Lord Hefger, and well you know it. Do you encourage the ignorant in their uneasiness?"
"I have not," he said, and his smile was the smile of a snake. "But the danger exists, Lady. There are those who would use the people's fear to foment insurrection."
Against a witch and a witch's son. It was all she could do to meet his eyes. "I'm sure there are, lord. I am quite sure there are. Was there anything else?"
"Not at this time, Your Highness. I have said what I needed to say."
More than enough. "Very well. Thank you, Lord Hefger. I will give careful thought to your concerns."
He bowed, not so deeply this time. "My concern is your welfare, Lady. Think well."
She could feel her mask, her face of certainty and power, crazing like damaged china as he closed the chamber door. She sank into the nearest chair, trying not to tremble. He wanted her to fear him. She did. Accusations and trials for the use of magic were rare, almost unknown in most of the kingdom, but there had been five in Hefger's lands since she became queen. One accusation led to a mob stoning. Under threat of further investigation, the dead man's relatives had forfeited property to the hold lord. To Hefger.
She stared at the sky framed by the high window before her. It was a bright autumn blue, like the cloudless sky on the perfect day when Richard had asked her to wed.
"But won't your people hate me for even a little magic?"
"We won't tell them. You won't turn me into a frog if I displease you, will you?"
She had laughed about make-believe things from children's stories on that wonderful day so long ago. Eleven years. She had been nineteen then, and in love. Her fears dissolved in Richard's presence. He would protect her and the children they would have.
Always.
Tears again. Stop. Hefger wanted her to panic; to agree to whatever plans his ambition had lain out before him. His family was high nobility, close in line to the throne, but that, apparently, was not enough to satisfy him. She turned her wedding locket in her fingers, trying to draw strength from the warming gold, trying to imagine what Richard would do.
Why did he have to die? The hunt was an easy one over open countryside. No obstacles to jump, no hole to bring a horse crashing to the ground.
But the horse hadn't fallen, hadn't even stumbled. She knew. She had seen it. Just five weeks past, she sat with wives, daughters, and sons too young to join the hunt. A wave of fear sent her to the privacy of her chamber—to her locket. She saw Richard in the secret inner glass. Saw him topple from the saddle like a man made of wood, saw one foot catch in the stirrup, saw his galloping horse finally circle and stop.
She had wanted to scream, and could not. She could not let the others know what she had seen, or how she had seen it.
The glass had been dark for her since.
Now, Hefger.
* * *
She returned to her rooms, alone with her clouded thoughts. The halls were well guarded, but her meeting with Hefger had destroyed her usual comfort within the castle walls. Her hand stayed near her tapestry purse. Now that Richard was gone, only Freida, her personal maid, knew about the fine steel and sheath of hard leather under the soft handkerchiefs. Richard had approved of anything that would help keep her safe.
Richard.
She acknowledged the guard at her antechamber door and swept into the peace of her apartments. Her ladies had been sent to their families' homes for the duration of her mourning. It was whispered that this was a sign that grief had affected her mind. She had heard the whispers and didn't care. Chatter and rustling silks, sympathy real or pretended . . . No. She needed quiet and as much privacy as could be stolen from her office.
Garrick's nanny, a local girl, was off for a half-day, and Freida was watching Garrick after his morning lessons. The boy played in a stream of light from a leaded window, galloping painted chargers toward each other over and over, quietly mimicking the sound of hoofbeats. She wanted to call him to her, to stroke the thick silvery hair so like a boyhood lock kept by Richard's mother and so unlike her coppered brown. But he carried his own grief and she would not burden him with hers.
Freida appraised, seeing what Elena could hide from most. "Are you well, Ma'am?"
She was closer to her maid than to anyone else in this castle of the realm she had married, but even Freida must be shown the strong mask of Queen and Regent. "Yes, thank you, Freida, but some fresh air would do me good. I think I'll go riding."
"Riding?" Garrick left his play horses and ran to her side. "May I come too?"
She straightened the simple collar of the soft woolen shirt he wore. He hated what he called prince clothes and tolerated velvet and stiff brocade in public only because Chancellor Penvir told him that it was part of his duty. "Not today. I think I will do some fast riding. I don't think Snowball could keep pace." He looked so disappointed she knelt to give him a hug. "Your riding master told me that he thinks you're ready for a bigger pony. Would you like me to ask Bart to find you one?"
He pulled back to look at her, eyes wide. "As big as Storm?"
She smiled. Storm was the huge mount of Garrick's favorite Guardsman, Jevin. "Not quite as big as that, I think. Let's leave it to Bart."
"A new pony!" He turned to Freida. "A fast pony! Not like . . ." He was suddenly serious. "Do you think Snowball will be angry if I don't ride him anymore?"
"And how would I know that, young Sir?" Freida said. "Do I look like a fuzzy little pony to you?" He giggled, and she went on. "If I were a tiny pony like Snowball, I think I would be glad that I didn't have to carry a great big boy like yourself anymore—that is, as long as that great big boy remembers to visit, and doesn't forget the carrots."
"I will, and I won't!" He spun back to his mother and hugged her around the waist. "Don't tell Jevin; please? About the new pony? I want it to be a surprise!"
"Not a word. I promise."
"Should I tell the Guard captain that you'll be wanting Jevin and Rafe at the stable, Ma'am?"
"Yes." The meeting with Hefger came back to the surface of her thoughts. "No. Rafe and someone else. Tell him I want Jevin assigned to Garrick."
* * *
The stablehands gave her quick bows or brushed foreheads in salute as she passed down the well-swept aisle between the stalls. She loved the stable and the men were used to seeing her there. At the beginning, they had hovered about, trying to be helpful. It had taken almost a year to convince them that she was not a spun-glass creature and that, occasionally, she liked to use more strength than was required for needlepoint.
Her chestnut gelding nickered a greeting and she paused to stroke his nose before turning through the short passageway to the tack room. On each side, racks held saddles and bridles, each covered against the dust that could drift through from the stable. Her two saddles were on the far wall; the sidesaddle she used for formal occasions, and the saddle brought with her when she married. She had learned to ride astride with her brothers; had taken part in most of their training, as well as their hours with tutors. In Chetrive, it was possible for a woman to become Queen in her own right, so it was considered wise to raise royal daughters accordingly.
When she wed Richard, she never thought she would need any of her "boyhood" lessons, but now she was Queen, in practice, until Garrick came of age. Thirteen years. How many curs like Hefger would she have to outsmart, outmaneuver, outlive, to keep the throne safe for Garrick—to keep Garrick safe for the throne?
The room was warm and full of the familiar, comforting smell of clean horses and well-kept leather, but her thoughts kept peace at bay. She was too small, too alone. Richard's saddles were next to hers. His favorite, the one he used for hunting, was closest. She ran her hand slowly over the fringed purple cover.
"Oh, I'm sorry Ma'am. I'll not disturb you." It was the head groom, cap in hand. She hadn't heard his footsteps on the planks outside the door.
"It's all right, Bart. I thought I'd go for a ride."
"Beautiful day
for it, Ma'am."
"Yes." She realized her hand still lingered on the pommel of Richard's saddle and let it slide away.
"It's all just the way it was, Ma'am, when it was taken off Grayhawk's back." He twisted the cap in his hands. "Just the way it was. Everything's there that was there when they brought the horse in."
They'd never had a problem with thefts from the stable, and Bart was an honest man, but he was acting as though he expected to be accused of something.
"Is there . . . Was there something missing when you unsaddled Grayhawk?" Images from that day flooded her mind: falling—caught—dragged. She stepped back against the saddles for support. The stirrup must have broken away somewhere.
If Bart noticed how she had faltered, he pretended not to. "Yes, Ma'am. The flask His Majesty carried when he went hunting. The case was buckled on good and firm to the pommel, too, Ma'am. Still is."
The wine flask was silver, but easy to identify. It would be hard for a thief to sell it without being caught, and Grayhawk had been surrounded by guards from the moment of Richard's fall. True, there had been confusion in the courtyard when they brought him home; men shouting, ladies crying, Hefger barking orders. Hefger screaming for the court physician though it was obvious that Richard . . . Hefger grabbing Grayhawk's reins from a groom and hurrying the stallion into the stable himself.
Not long alone, but long enough to remove the flask. No. There was little she would say in defense of Hefger's honesty, but he was too wealthy and too clever to risk a petty theft.
"Perhaps it was lost in the field," She couldn't voice—couldn't quite grasp—the dark flutterings of thought at the edges of her mind, but she had to say something to put Bart at ease.
"Could be, Ma'am."
He was no more convinced than she was. Richard had been careful with his things and wouldn't have left anything lying where they had stopped for a noon meal, wouldn't have left the case open so the flask could bounce out, but it was the best way she could devise to leave the question. "It may be found some day; if it's not, it's not the fault of you or your lads."
"Thank you, Ma'am." He tucked the cap into the deep pocket of his over-tunic. "I'll have Sunset saddled. He was out for grass this morning and had a good brushing when he came in, so it'll be just a few minutes. The guards are here and ready."
He didn't have to ask which saddle she would use; he lifted the older saddle and a bridle with a mirror-polished bit.
"Oh, and Bart . . ." She had almost forgotten, but it seemed more important, more urgent, now, though why, she wouldn't have been able to say. "The Prince needs a bigger, faster pony."
"Yes, Ma'am. I'll talk to the riding master about the sort that would be right." Arms full, he nodded the suggestion of a bow and pulled the tack room door shut behind him.
He always closed the door to give her privacy to remove the outer skirt she wore over loose riding trousers. In the past, it had made her smile; she was, after all, fully dressed beneath the skirt and the preparation was no more provocative than removing a coat, but today, his concern for her modesty rang sweet and true. Perhaps it seemed so in comparison to Hefger's veiled bullying, or perhaps she just needed to gather goodness to herself as an antidote.
She traced the gold embroidery on Richard's saddle cover with one finger. If he were here . . . But he wasn't here. Just an empty saddle and an empty flask case.
The dark idea-wisps brought their flutterings in from the borders of thought and gathered around the hidden case like moths around a lantern. Why would the flask be missing? Who would benefit? She forced herself to repeat the awful images she had last seen in her glass. Richard falling, rigid, not even trying to grab saddle or mane, falling like a man already dead.
A man who had drunk from a missing flask.
For six weeks, grief and fear had been all she could feel. Anger blazed now, fanned by the dark wings in her mind. She breathed deeply, fancied that the very air was hot with bright fury that burned the fog obscuring her one small Gift. She opened the locket, not fearful, this time, that there might be nothing there.
The image of her horse, waiting in the stable aisle, was as clear as though the glass had never denied her. Extending her reach, she found Garrick playing siege with his toy castle. Her hand shook as she closed the locket. Yesterday, she would have wept for joy at the return of her Sight. Today, tears were usurped by purpose. Today, she would hide her feelings behind the mask of a queen.
* * *
A low fire kept the chill from the nursery, but she pulled the blanket up to Garrick's chin. During the day, she tried not to be too protective, tried to let him grow with the self-reliance he would need, but at night she often sat and watched him sleep. He was all she had now. Garrick's birth had been hard, and she had not conceived after, but he was strong and healthy. A fine boy, a fine heir. He murmured in his sleep and burrowed deeper into his pillow. Did he ever have troubling dreams? Was seven old enough to grasp the finality of Richard's absence?
She thought of her own father, King of Chetrive, honored for his wisdom as well as his Gifts. She had always felt like a tone-deaf child in a family of musicians, but he had been patient with her small Gift as he helped her practice.
"But isn't it like snooping, Papa?" she had asked as they sat before the silver-framed scrying glass that seemed huge when she was young.
"I suppose it is, in a way. That's why we never use it for foolishness. Never soil your Gift, Elena, by using it like a common gossip. Use it to protect yourself and those who depend on you. If you become a queen, use it to protect your people."
"But I can't see into the future."
He hugged her, and smiled in an odd, sad way. "I can't always see into the future," he'd said, "and sometimes it doesn't matter. Sometimes the dangers are in the present."
She left Garrick quietly and went to the nursery window. Clouds drifted peacefully across a fat half moon. It would be good to talk to her father right now, but she already had his advice.
The dangers were in the present.
* * *
There were clouds tonight, too many to see the stars outside her bedchamber. She often watched the sky when she wanted to think. Sometimes she imagined how nice it would be to just float through the window and leave the troubles of rank and duty behind.
She shook her head at her foolishness and retreated to the edge of her bed where the velvet hangings would shield her glass from the shifting light of the fire. She would do all she could to keep this strange magic-shunning land safe. For Garrick. For Richard. Her fingers traced the engraving on the locket and opened the first cover. Richard had designed the locket himself and had it made in Chetrive. If people thought her vain for consulting a mirror, it was better than what they would think if they knew the truth. The bright glass slid aside to reveal its darker sister.
Since the return of her Sight, she had spent many secret hours watching the comings and goings around the castle. Watching everyone. Watching Hefger.
He had stolen Richard's flask. She was sure of that. He would have considered taking Richard's horse to the stable a task beneath him, but he had done it and gained a moment alone to silence whatever tale the flask could tell.
But she couldn't brood on what she already knew. She summoned a view of the stable yard and watched like an owl waiting for the movement of a mouse.
There, by the outbuilding that held carriages. Two figures blended in and out of the edges of light cast by the stable-yard torches. She counted her breathing to unravel the knot of tension that impaired Sight. One of the men was Hefger. The other's name she did not remember, but she had seen him before; a plump man with a wisp of gray hair tied at the nape of his neck. Richard had expelled him from the kingdom because of mysterious deaths that seemed to follow him, though no proof could be found. The glass could not give her the words spoken, but gold glinted as the banished man counted coins, stacking them on his flattened palm.
It was proof, even if the means of gathering it made it usele
ss for accusation. Hefger had made handsome payment to a poisoner. But was it Richard's death he had just purchased—or hers?
* * *
Hefger stepped from a doorway and into her path. "Your Majesty. You are well, I hope. I have received word that you have been keeping to your private chambers more than is usual."
She glanced down the hall to reassure herself that a Guardsman was on duty by the tiny end window, and caught a glimpse of the advisor's hulking personal bodyguard, partially concealed in the room Hefger had left. So—even predators had fears. "This is not a usual time, lord."
"Of course not, Ma'am. It is a time of great loss, a time of great trouble."
"A time of great danger, Lord Advisor?"
His expression didn't change, but it took an extra instant to adjust to her challenge. "There is always danger, Majesty, for those in power."
"Indeed." The malevolence that surrounded Hefger made it hard not to call for help—but what reason would she give? That the Lord Advisor had stopped to inquire about her health? "I have given our recent meeting considerable thought, lord, but before I reach a decision, I must know one thing."