“First, Your Highness, caution.” The wizard waved an admonishing finger at him, so much like Shimoor that Terrell blinked. “This much concentrated power can easily kill, and not only you, but potentially everyone on the hill as well. I would greatly prefer you refrained from doing anything rash that killed me, Your Highness, and I rather expect Baron DiLione feels similarly.”
Pen gave Terrell a dry look and touched Irreneetha’s hilt again. “I don’t know what she can protect me from, My Lord, and what she can’t.”
Terrell had no trouble filling in the unsaid so let’s please not find out today codicil. “Understood. Caution,” he acknowledged as he curbed his impatience. “Next?”
“There is no harm in simply sitting on the Stone Throne, Your Highness, so long as you do not attempt to draw upon its power,” the wizard lectured. “Only the wearer of the Amethyst Crown may do that safely. To others it will either not respond, or it may kill them.” The wizard paused, regarding him narrowly before he continued. “But supposedly any member of the royal bloodline can use the lesser spells that have been linked to the Throne, notably including the various sight spells.”
Terrell nodded again. “Mother did that during the Conquest. You helped her, didn’t you?”
Chisaad’s face went even blanker than it had been. “Indeed, Your Highness. It is well established that your Silbari blood is attuned to the Hill. The question is whether your Gwythlo blood will interfere enough to deny you that access.”
Anxiety stabbed Terrell. “What happens if it does?”
“That depends. Most likely is simple rejection; the Throne will not respond to you. However, in extreme cases, Your Highness, the results are tragic.” Chisaad shook his head dourly. “The last recorded instance occurred a little over a hundred and fifty years ago when King Chighar’s son Xigren, by his Xir second wife, attempted to use the Long Sight spell.”
“What happened to him?”
Chisaad gestured to the grassy slopes on either side. “He’s fertilizing flowers, Your Highness. The chronicles say his ashes were quite fine and a strong breeze spread them over the Hill before anyone could gather them for a proper ceremony. His father grieved so hard that he died two months later.”
“Has any halfblood ever succeeded?” Terrell asked slowly.
“In using the sight spells of the Throne? A few.” The Wizard rattled off some names from history. “Been chosen King? Never in two thousand years.”
The wizard let Terrell think about that.
I really can die here. Terrell turned that over in his mind; it intimidated him in a way that the Shadow-bears on Storm Pass had not. He knew how to swing a sword, but this struggle atop the Hill wouldn’t involve blades. Is that why the palace staff insisted on introducing me to the concubines first? To show me life can be sweet, but I mustn’t be rash?
Point taken.
Chisaad glanced at Pen, returned his gaze to Terrell and continued in a more positive vein. “Shimoor has conveyed to me your magical education so far. Every eager young candidate for the Twenty wants to try the Sight spells. I imagine you are no different. But approach it slowly, with your shields down and your mind open. Allow the Throne time to recognize you and determine your bloodline. It will change color when it has done so and then fade back to white when it has settled your ancestry to its satisfaction. Only after the Throne completes the color change and returns to white will it permit you to operate the lesser spells. If I may remind you again, Your Highness—”
“Caution.” Terrell nodded. The prospect of being burned to ash had more than a little quelling effect on his curiosity, but not enough to stop him. “What color will it turn when I’m accepted?”
“That varies. If it stays white and does not change, you have been rejected. Any of the colors of the rainbow signify a degree of acceptance, purple being strongest and red the most conditional. Black is bad, a final warning. Very final, as Prince Xigren discovered.”
“Right.” The slow radiance of the Node beneath his feet renewed his eagerness. “If that’s all, let’s go.”
“That is all, Your Highness.” Chisaad made an open-hand gesture toward the final flight of stairs and bowed his head.
Terrell took the last stair at a measured pace; his calves had had enough rest to protest at renewed movement. The platform came into view as he topped the final steps. He paused to stare at it.
It’s bigger than I thought it would be . . . and smaller too.
He had expected the Stone Throne to be in the center dominating the flat space, but it sat to the northwest side facing inward. The throne’s small size surprised him, and the way it perched on a tiny dais that raised it only one step above the pavement. White marble traceries made the blocky chair seem draped in snowy linen. He moved towards it, noticing the patterned pavement under his feet and the ring of squat bollards around the outer edge. The light of the Two Suns flowed over him like honey poured from heaven. His scalp prickled, and the air seemed thick with ghosts.
Hundreds of my ancestors have walked here before me. Perhaps they left some bits of themselves behind? Or is this how the Throne examines me?
Shimoor had taught him how to raise and maintain elementary shields around his mind, as everyone with any magical sensitivity was taught. Now Terrell firmly pushed those barriers lower with each step. If you can hear me, creation-of-my-ancestors, here I am. When he reached the Stone Throne, he lightly touched the nearest arm. Despite the Suns the marble slid cool and slick under his hand, as if it had been carved yesterday instead of millennia ago.
Weather and time do not harm it.
The white marble began to sparkle, then ripple with pale colors that strengthened from red through orange to sun-yellow and green and finally blue, shot through with veins of turquoise. The prickling sensation in Terrell’s scalp grew stronger. A cowardly voice inside him insisted this was madness, he should flee. He ignored it, held onto the arm while the rippling peaked and faded back to white. Then he stepped up onto the dais, turned and sat.
Instantly he plummeted into the same sensation he had known when he learned to operate the little message sender back in Gwythford Castle, so many tendays ago. Only here the Stone Throne seemed to rise around him, to cup him in a giant embrace of layered spells. Instead of a single shining bar crossing his vision there were dozens of them in a wide array of colors and shapes. They shifted constantly, each one moving nearer as he focused his attention on it and leaping away as his gaze shifted. The circular plaza could still be dimly seen beyond the ghostly swirl. Pen hovered a few yards away, an anxious blur beyond the bewildering veil of spells.
The wizard circled Pen at a distance to take up a position at Terrell’s right hand. His voice seemed distant as he said, “It activated for you in blue, Your Highness. That’s a very positive sign.”
“That my Silbari blood is ascendant?” Terrell asked. Relief washed over him “Which of these are the Sight spells?”
“They should appear to you as a set of green bars. If you want the long-sight spell, which can reach across the city and beyond, use the crossed pair. Grasp them with your mind and point them where you wish to look. There will likely be some disorientation at first.”
Crossed green bars. Where are the crossed green bars?
There were a hundred swirling geometric shapes here, in all the colors of a rainbow and a few he had never seen before. A set of red circles tempted him; they looked important and powerful.
And they might kill me if I misuse them. Better not touch.
He finally found the right shape, reached with his mind as if it were a third hand, and after a struggle, managed to grasp the center of the cross. Much to his relief, all the other spells faded away and the green cross hovered before him, faintly pulsating. The top of the hill, the city beyond, and Pen and Chisaad all looked sharp as cut glass.
He also discovered a strange sense of presence, noticeable now that the distracting cloud of spells had muted. It gave him a sensation oddly like seei
ng himself in a mirror. He shook off the feeling and focused on the task at hand.
Where do I want to look? Let’s try the harbor.
Terrell pulled the crossed bars to the left and the view swung dizzily, like being thrown from a horse. He fought down the desire to vomit, thanking the Seraphs that breakfast had been hours ago, and strove to look at the distant towers of the Navy Gate. It took a few tries, but he found he could focus on individual stones in the towers, peer through the glass windows in the top and see the harbor wizards at work managing ship traffic. He tried leaning in closer, found himself looking into some junior wizard’s ear. It needed a thorough washing. He pulled back, searched left and right, gradually growing comfortable with the moving point of view.
This must be how a bird sees the world. I wonder if I could find an individual? Such as that mage who touched my mind during my procession? I wish I had some idea what he looked like. I must make time to discuss him with Shimoor.
He tried to look at the Bazaar and quickly gave up that notion. The swirling crowds were far too numerous.
The city is too big. No one man could look at everybody, even using this amazing device.
He sighed, and his mind reluctantly let go of the Sight spell. The green bars faded into the background and the bewildering array returned. Only now that brooding sensation grew sharper, more watchful. As if a face not his own looked at him out of a mirror.
“Chisaad, that’s amazing. Can any member of the Twenty use the Throne this way?”
“Theoretically, though the less gifted find it wearying. Had it activated for you in red you would be exhausted now. In practice, most of the older candidates do not try until there is a choosing. It is fairly rare for there to be a candidate as young as you are now, Your Highness.”
The wizard indicated the twenty cylindrical stone bollards that ringed the platform, each shaped vaguely like a stool and a little more than knee high. The sides that faced the throne had chiseled numbers in an archaic script. “Speaking of that, please note the seats for the Twenty Candidates. As the only son of our reigning Queen you will have number one, with the right to attempt to claim the Amethyst Crown first.” He cleared his throat and gestured to the nearest bollard.
Terrell reluctantly stepped down from the Throne. The spells immediately furled themselves and it became only a gleaming marble chair again. He went to the bollard and dutifully seated himself there. No spells rose to serve him; it was simply a shaped rock.
“You’ve been told the names of the current members of the Twenty,” Chisaad lectured. “Tradition demands—”
Terrell listened with half his attention to the details, while the rest of his mind followed his gaze back to the Throne. That brooding sense of a face in a mirror remained.
It’s more than a fabulously powerful tool. When Chisaad referred to it as something that would examine me, he wasn’t using a metaphor. There’s a presence there.
CORRECT.
The word rang in Terrell’s mind and he completely lost track of Chisaad’s words. For a moment he sat frozen, listening for that bell-like voice again.
Is someone there?
IN A SENSE. GREETINGS, TERRELL DuRILLIN DiGWYTHLO.
The voice seemed to be coming from the Throne. Terrell stared at it. What are you? An Angel?
NO. I AM JUDGEMENT.
Are you judging me now? He fought down a surge of panic, he hadn’t prepared for this.
NO. THAT WILL COME WHEN THE CROWN RETURNS, IF YOU PRESENT YOURSELF BEFORE ME.
Relief, then curiosity as Terrell asked, What happens then?
I CHOOSE THE NEXT KING.
Daringly, he asked, Will it be me?
YOU SHALL SEE.
The voice ended on a note of finality that discouraged more questions. Terrell blinked, thinking furiously. That’s the Throne—no, it’s something that lives in the Throne. Something not human, something cold and analytical. Spell construct? Spirit? Whatever it may be, it’s not done weighing me.
And I must appeal to it, somehow, if I want to be King.
* * *
“What are you thinking?” Pen asked him quietly as they slowly descended the Hill.
“That this is a more complicated challenge than I understood,” Terrell answered. “Mother never said very much about using the Stone Throne. I suppose that’s because she did so little of it before Father took her away to Gwythlo. It’s the key to actually being King, and I knew that, but there’s knowing and there’s really knowing.” He resisted the temptation to glance back over his shoulder at the peak of the Hill, still aware of that brooding presence. “I don’t only need the Hierarchy’s support to rule, or the loyalty of nobility and commons to get things done. I need that, that thing’s consent too. Else, no matter what else I accomplish, I won’t be King.”
“Well, of course,” Pen said, sounding faintly surprised. “But you can do it.”
I must, Terrell thought. Or somebody else will. He squared his shoulders. “Yes, Pen. I can do this. I will.”
* * *
Chisaad turned the Prince and his bodyguard back over to Fantillin’s eager fawning with a relief that he couldn’t let anyone see. A servant told him that Shimoor had gone to his Palace quarters to rest, so Chisaad shut himself in his office to let down his guard for a few precious moments. He stared out a window at the cone of the Hill towering above the city and allowed himself to think the thoughts that he hadn’t dared think while Sir Penghar and his damnable sword hovered so near.
It talked to him, I’m certain of that. He brought it up to blue. Blue! I only managed green. The halfbreed pup is acceptable to the Throne. He can use its power. It might even . . .
He swallowed hard, hating the thought with a sudden acid jealousy.
It might even choose him to be King.
He turned his back on the window, sat at his desk and leaned his forehead on his fists.
No. It must not. IT MUST NOT! I cannot let this Gwythlo bastard become King of Silbar. I won’t. As the One is my Witness, I will not let that happen.
He sat up, straightened his robes while he thought. He would need to gather resources, most importantly a means to pry this pup away from his cocoon of protections without any of those protectors realizing that their charge had been spirited away.
I need the right tool. I need that acrobat, and more help besides.
Ap Marn’s quiet voice followed a hard rap on his office door. Chisaad admitted the man and found him accompanied by another, a man wearing a concealing robe and hood who moved with a fitful energy. The wizard bowed them in, shut the door, made sure his spells would prevent anyone from overhearing them, and turned a questioning look on the ex-governor.
The other man threw back the hood and shrugged out of the Silbari robe as if wearing it disgusted him. He had bright red hair and a perpetual sunburn to match it—Duke Darnaud, the younger son of Gwythlo’s Chief Druid Klairveen.
Ap Marn’s face looked strained. Darnaud looked sulky.
When the workman needs them, the tools will come to hand, Chisaad remembered the old quote. And here they are; one ex-governor and one disaffected noble.
“Governor Ap Marn and Duke Darnaud of Guglione.” Chisaad ushered the two into chairs before drawing one up for himself. “How may I help you?”
“The question is, how may we three help each other?” Ap Marn answered. His steady gaze held the Wizard’s for a long moment.
Chisaad deliberately relaxed. “Indeed.” He glanced at Duke Darnaud. “Your Grace, the gossip already says your mother attempted to slaughter the Prince before he left Gwythlo, and again on Storm Pass. Then he snubbed you on his procession through the valley. Are you perhaps feeling less than secure in your duchy?”
Darnaud growled, jerked his head in a hard nod. “Ap Marn says you feel likewise.”
“Indeed.” Now Chisaad let a small smile rise to his face. “I believe the Governor has phrased the question most exactly. How may we help each other, my lords?”
; CHAPTER 17: TERRELL, CHISAAD, AND YMERA
“Shimoor’s allotted span is ending, Your Highness,” Dona Seraphina reported sadly.
Terrell closed his eyes for a moment, feeling the upwelling grief. He stopped his servants in the midst of clothing him for Millago’s party. “How soon?”
“He will not see midnight.”
“Take these off,” he told his valets with a gesture at the fancy clothes. “Bring me something plain and comfortable. Fantillin, tell Ap Marn to convey my apologies to the Millago family, but I will not be attending their child welcoming tonight.”
“Your Highness!” gasped Fantillin. “That is one of the most important social occasions of the year! It’s your first chance to impress the leading—”
“I understand that,” Terrell interrupted firmly. “And I don’t underrate the importance of the social dance of influence. But loyalty to those who have served me must come first. Take my message to Ap Marn, and make sure Chisaad knows too.”
To Seraphina, “I’ll sit with Shimoor.”
“Very good, Your Highness.” She bowed to him more deeply than usual.
Fantillin bowed stiffly and departed to deliver the messages.
* * *
Melancholy dogged Chisaad as his carriage rattled over the cobblestones on the way to the Millago mansion.
I should be with Shimoor, he thought, and knew a moment of profound sorrow. He tried to force it away by telling himself wisdom required his presence here. This excessive grief threatens my good sense. There’s a risk that I might reveal too much in front of the Prince if I did stay with them. And this opportunity to find that halfbreed is too important. I must keep my mind on my goal.
Yet his heart still ached.
His carriage delivered him to the mansion and he swept through the entry in appropriate style to his office. It took only moments to verify that Ap Marn had already arrived and informed the Millagos’ majordomo why the Prince would not be attending. Chisaad knew a moment of amusement at the way Reshghar Bovea Millago’s face lit up when the house herald announced the arrival of Silbar’s Acting Royal Wizard. Somehow the first adjective didn’t bite quite so hard tonight. Tomorrow I may finally gain the title in full, but would that serve my ambitions as well as not having it? While I dangle in this uncertain state like him, Ap Marn is inclined to trust me.
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