The Will of the Empress

by Tamora Pierce

  “I should think so!” said Rizu, awed. “You’ve led such adventurous lives!” She leaned her curly head against the door frame. “All this must make her feel like a bird in a cage, then,” she commented. “Maybe the three of you feel that way, too?”

  Briar grinned as Tris chuckled and Daja shrugged. “We don’t like cages,” Briar replied for all three of them. “We tend to stay away from them while we can.”

  “You’re lucky you’re not noble, then,” said Rizu, a shadow passing over her face. “We’re supposed to think our cages are open air.”

  The supper bell chimed at last. Daja was the first to get up and leave the room. As she passed Rizu, she linked her arm through the woman’s, drawing her along with her. “Come away with us, then,” she offered casually. “Live without cages.”

  Rizu threw her head back to laugh. The light gilded the line from her chin down to her bosom. Daja looked at that gilding, and away, feeling heat rise in her cheeks.

  They sent up a tray of food from supper when Sandry refused to come downstairs. She poked at it with her fork, far too angry to eat. She kept trying to sort out her feelings, but they continued to tangle. How can I feel selfish for yelling at my friend, proud because I finally said something, humiliated at the idea that I might be carried off like a prize sheep, frustrated because I hadn’t unraveled those disgusting kidnappers all the way, ashamed of myself for sulking, and homesick? she asked herself, stacking vegetables on top of meat for entertainment’s sake. All at once?

  I hate it here, she decided, pushing away from the table. I hate how you never know what people are really thinking. I hate being a prize sheep.

  Someone tapped on her door. “Come in,” she called, thinking that Gudruny had come to collect the tray.

  Fin opened the door and stepped into the room. “We missed you at supper, Lady Sandry,” he said. “Ambros told us what happened.”

  Oh, dear, thought Sandry as he came over to kneel by her chair. He’s going to try to court me.

  Fin caught her hand. “Forgive me that I wasn’t there to protect you,” he said, his blue eyes blazing. “I should have been. I’d have sent those dogs on their way before they could set so much as a wrinkle of worry on your brow. I’ll do it now, if you ask it. Ambros can give me a couple of squads and I’ll find those curs and bring them back for your judgment.”

  “That’s very good of you, though I am certain they are long gone by now,” Sandry replied gently. “But truly, I needed no defenders. I can take care of myself, Fin. And Cousin Ambros needs the men for plowing.”

  “Plowing, over your honor and safety? I knew Ambros was little better than a bookkeeper, but what an insult! And you shouldn’t have to defend yourself!” he protested. “You are a gentle creature who must not be touched by sordidness like that! From now on, I’m your devoted servant. My sword is at your command. And if any more hedge-knights distress you, I’ll make sure they get a lesson they’ll remember for what’s left of their lives.” He kissed Sandry’s hand fervently. “Unlike them, I care only for your happiness.”

  Sandry couldn’t help it. Her mouth curled with disdain. “And my moneybags?”

  Fin kissed her hand again. “Don’t interest me in the least,” he assured her. “You don’t see something precious and beautiful and consider its cost—or, at least, a true nobleman does not. Leave that for the merchants, and the Traders. Those of us of rank know what real value is.”

  She got rid of him finally, after two hand kisses and more fervent promises of protection. He waited until after dark to offer to go recapture those men, Sandry thought dismally as she wiped her hand with her cloth napkin. Oh, I’m not being fair. He’s been fidgeting ever since we came—no doubt he wants to go kidnapper-chasing.

  Briefly she remembered Dymytur’s furious, red face as the man had shouted at her. For an instant she fought the urge to call Fin back and to order Ambros to give him enough men to capture Dymytur and his uncle. It was harder than she had expected to resist the temptation.

  Humiliation again, Sandry thought glumly. I hate uncomfortable emotions. They’re so…Her stomach cramped. Sandry wrapped her arms around her waist and thought, Uncomfortable.

  She had managed a spoonful of stewed apples when someone else knocked on her door. “Come in,” she said, thinking this must be Gudruny.

  Jak entered, a smile in his brown eyes and on his handsome lips.

  Mila of the Grain, have mercy on me, thought Sandry as she gave Jak her most polite, chilly smile.

  “I came to see how you did,” he said easily, digging his hands into the pockets of his light indoor coat. “I missed you at supper.” Sandry had noticed that, in the jockeying at mealtimes, Jak had most often gotten himself into the chair next to Sandry, being smoother and more adept at distracting others than Fin. “Ambros told us what happened,” Jak continued. “You should write to Her Imperial Majesty.”

  “I thought she was contemptuous of women who got taken, since she managed to escape when it happened to her,” replied Sandry.

  “Well, she’ll approve of you taking care of the matter yourself, but it’s not just that. May I sit?”

  His eyes were so open and friendly that she caught herself gesturing to a chair before she’d really considered it. Jak dragged the chair over beside hers and sat, leaning forward to brace his arms on his knees.

  “You are all right, then?” he asked. “No aftermath jitters, no fiery wish for revenge now that you’ve had time to reflect?”

  Sandry smiled. “None at all. Such men are their own worst enemy.”

  “You certainly deserve better,” Jak replied. “A man of culture and refinement. Someone who can make you laugh.”

  “But I don’t want to be married,” Sandry pointed out reasonably. “I’m happy being single.”

  “But think of the freedom you’d have as a married woman!” protested Jak. “You can ride wherever you like—within limits, of course. There’s crime everywhere. But on your own lands you’d be safe. You’d have your lord’s purse to draw on, his lands and castles and jewels to add to your own, an important place at court…what?” he demanded as Sandry gave way to giggles. “Why are you laughing?”

  “Because I’m not interested in any of those things, Jak,” she explained when she could speak. “I know other girls are, but I have all I need when it comes to wealth, and if I were as poor as a Mire mouse, I would be able to earn my way with my loom and my needles. With Uncle Vedris I am important at court. You’re sweet, truly you are, but you don’t know me in the least.”

  Jak looked down. “And I suppose that gardener, that boy, does?” he asked quietly.

  “Briar?” Sandry cried, shocked. “You think I prefer—please! He’s my brother!”

  “I hadn’t noted the family resemblance,” Jak said.

  “Well, it’s there,” Sandry replied. “I would no more kiss Briar than…oh, please! It’s just too grotesque to even think about!”

  Jak grinned at her. “Well, that’s a relief, at least.” He must have heard the genuine disgust in Sandry’s voice. “Look, just forget what I said,” he continued. “We can still be friends?”

  “Yes, of course,” Sandry told him, offering her hand. Jak clasped it with a smile, then left her alone.

  He’s sweet, she thought. If I wanted a husband…

  Suddenly she saw Shan’s face in her mind’s eye: the easy smile, the wicked twinkle in his eyes, the firm, smiling mouth.

  Nonsense, she told herself strictly. “I don’t want a husband. Any husband.” She said it aloud, in the hope that it would sound more real that way.

  She shook her head with a sigh and put all of the dinner things back on the tray. She opened the door, then fetched the tray and set it in the hall. With that chore taken care of, she closed and locked her bedroom door. Gudruny and her children had their own door to their bedroom, which meant Sandry could have a good night’s sleep without one more interruption, from anyone. I’ll write to Uncle and set a date for my return
home, she told herself, taking out paper and pen. After that, I know I’ll sleep well.

  11

  The 4th day of Rose Moon, 1043 K. F.

  Sablaliz Palace to

  Clehamat Landreg, Namorn

  Three days later, at the Sablaliz Palace, just twenty miles from the Landreg estates, Ishabal Ladyhammer found the empress in her morning room, watching the sun rise. Berenene, wearing only a light nightgown and a frothy lace wrap, read over reports as she ate a light breakfast. Her cup of the fashionable drink called chocolate cooled as she read and reread one report in particular, drumming the fingers of her free hand on the table. She only looked up from her reading when the door opened and Ishabal, dressed for the day, came in with a sheaf of papers in her hand.

  “Have you seen the reports from Clehamat Landreg?” Berenene wanted to know. “Shall I ring for more chocolate?”

  “You know that I cannot abide the stuff, Imperial Majesty,” replied Ishabal. At Berenene’s nod she slid into the seat across from the empress. “I have already breakfasted. And yes, I have read the reports from Landreg. They are fascinating.”

  “Fascinating, my foot,” Berenene said crisply. “I want fer Holm and fer Haugh to know I am displeased. If they haven’t learned that no one may nibble the apples in my garden until I have had my taste, they must be made to understand it.”

  “Fer Holm and fer Haugh are ruined, Imperial Majesty,” Ishabal said gently. “Ruined men are desperate.”

  “Can you believe it?” Berenene asked, shaking the papers that she held. “She undid their clothes. And then she undid everything else they had with stitches in it. That had better not happen to me, Ishabal.”

  “Charms against such magics are easy enough to make,” said the mage. “Surely these men have been punished enough. The heiress escaped. How could we improve upon such humiliation as she gave them? They were forced to run naked to Pofkim, where the good people sent them on their way with pitchforks and laughter.”

  Berenene looked at her chief counselor from under raised brows. “My empire, my garden. They tried to take what is mine,” she repeated patiently. “The laughter of villagers is not punishment enough for poaching my property. I prefer the sight of such bold and brawny fellows on their knees before me, thank you all the same.”

  She glanced at the report again. “I am also disappointed at the lack of information about my cousin’s new ‘secretary.’ Really, the girl might have chosen him to infuriate me. First she is accosted by a madman—whose life Daja saved back in Kugisko. Then she hires this Zhegorz, as her secretary—or so our spies tell us. Except that her secretary spends his hours magically protected by Trisana and Briar, so our spies know nothing of what they are doing. Zhegorz spends precious little time writing, certainly. And now I am told that we have no history of the man before Daja met him in Kugisko, because the hospital where he was locked up burned to the ground, including its records! All we know is that he came to Dancruan sometime last summer and that he lived on begging and charity. Oh, yes, and that all who knew him swore he was mad—those who were not mad themselves!” She dropped the papers on her table. “I can’t justify taking agents off important security work to concentrate on someone appearing to be a madman in need of magical help, but there’s no denying it, Isha.” Berenene drummed well-manicured nails on the tablecloth. “I dislike mysteries, and peculiarities are like an itch I cannot scratch.”

  “Here is something to divert your mind,” said Ishabal, handing over a piece of paper. “My investigator mage just returned from an inspection of the new river walls at Pofkim.”

  Berenene snatched the paper and read it over twice. “He says the walls are solid all along their length,” she murmured. “Under the bridge as well, and solid around the timbers and piers, as if they were poured mortar made of stone. The villagers say the ground shook and produced these stones for hours? Impossible.” She looked at Ishabal and raised her eyebrows. “It is impossible.” It was half a statement, half a question.

  The great mage helped herself to bliny filled with jam. “I trust my mage. The girl did it. She managed a storm in the Syth, she made the ground produce a multitude of stones and pack them into walls along the riverbank, without disturbing the bridge. I find her…intriguing.” She tucked a strand of silvery hair behind her ear. “She would be a very useful addition to Your Imperial Majesty’s mages, if she chose to join us.”

  Berenene flapped a hand, as if she was not particularly interested. “Then she is your concern, not mine. Recruit her. Offer her plenty of money. These merchants’ spawn always grasp quickest for wealth. Offer her whatever amount you think is just. Certainly she sounds useful…” Her voice trailed off, indicating her lack of interest in the subject. “Do you know, I am disappointed in Jak and Fin,” she told Ishabal. “Staying abed while Sandry goes riding with a tiny escort—really! I don’t care if they had caught pneumonia, the girl will never be convinced of their devotion if they are not constantly at her side. They would have looked so brave, shaking their swords at fer Holm. Honestly, Isha, these men! If we didn’t hold their coats for them, how would they ever manage?” She tugged a bellpull.

  Almost instantly a maid popped into the room. That was one of the things Berenene liked about this seacoast palace: It didn’t take forever for servants to respond to a summons. It should also prove less intimidating to visitors such as her young cousin, for example, than the palace in Dancruan. She had brought her court here yesterday, to enjoy the sea air, she had said. In truth, she had brought them here to continue her siege of Sandrilene.

  “Have word sent for my attendants to have their horses saddled,” she informed the maid. “We’re going to pay a visit to Landreg.”

  The maid bobbed a curtsy and left at a run.

  Berenene saw that Ishabal was watching her. “I miss my cousin,” the empress said innocently. “She must be tiring of account books and prosy Ambros. And she’s had three days of close confinement to the castle and the village, to keep her from would-be kidnappers. She’ll be eager for imperial entertainment. There is safety for tender young heiresses in a large group such as ours. Besides, I haven’t seen Ealaga in months.”

  “If you were a bit kinder to Ealaga’s husband…,” murmured Ishabal.

  “He knew he thwarted me when he refused to tell Sandry they were short of money and required her presence,” Berenene said tartly. “Besides, he is prosy. A fine steward for the girl’s lands, but dull.” She inspected her nails. “Perhaps, when Sandry has given over her lands to her husband’s direction, I may speak to Ambros about the Imperial Stewardship. If he does with the realms as he’s done with her property, we shall prosper. Though I’ll make you do all the talking with him, Isha.” She got to her feet in a rustle of light silk. “Will you ride with us? You’ll have a chance to talk with Viymese Tris.”

  The mage smiled. “You will have Quenaill to protect you, Majesty. And I will be here, making charms to defend your men against the power of a stitch witch, should things come to force. I do hope for all our sakes that they will not. The more I consider what Lady Sandry did to her kidnappers, the more I am concerned about what she may do elsewhere, if her hand is forced. Have you forgotten the prodigies that were reported of these four young people?”

  The empress leaned against the wall. “They did prodigies in concert with their teachers, in a time when they shared a mutual tie,” she said patiently. “I have also not forgotten the reports of their behavior since their reunion in Summersea, Isha. No two of them have worked in magical concert since then. They’ve had plenty of chances to do so on their way to us or while they’ve been here. Instead they quarrel. Their bond is shattered. Without it they are lone mages. You and Quenaill would not be the highest-paid mages in the empire if you could not find a way to best any lone mage.”

  “What if you force them to reunite?” demanded Isha stubbornly. “I have some experience of young people, remember.”

  “Your children and grandchildren? They are well-behave
d mice. I happen to understand high-spirited youngsters,” replied Berenene. “They are always very proud and very certain that their errors are the blackest crimes known in the world. These four are no different. You’ve read the same reports I have. They bicker like brother and sisters. Would you be happy to let your sister or brother share your mind, if you were them?”

  Ishabal sighed.

  “You’re being cautious for me—good. That’s what I want,” Berenene said lightly as she walked through the door to her dressing room. She called back over her shoulder, “But don’t let caution produce monsters who don’t exist. They aren’t great mages, not yet, and you and Quen are.”

  Isha shook her head. I am not as certain of that as you are, she wanted to tell her empress. I can get no sensible reports of what Briar and Trisana did while they were gone so far from home. I do know that Daja Kisubo put out a fire by pulling in a vein of the Syth, and that she walked through three burning buildings, each bigger than the last. I also know that Vedris of Emelan, a wise and careful ruler, counts your pretty little cousin as his chief lieutenant. Without magic she is more clever than the average eighteen-year-old, and she is a powerful mage.

  Isha gathered up her sheaf of reports. In all the years that she had served the empress, she had learned one thing: When Berenene wanted something, she could be relentless. She wanted these four young mages to stay in Namorn. Isha sighed and thought, It never occurs to her there are some people—they are rare, but they exist—who aren’t particularly interested in money, position, or fame. I hope these four are not like that. Trisana Chandler could be wealthy anytime she wishes, if she chose to do war magic. Well, perhaps it’s war magic—not a dislike of money—that has kept her from accepting a position. If we offer her wealth to do magic as she wishes it, perhaps she will choose to stay. It is worth a try.