The Will of the Empress

by Tamora Pierce

  “Come, Lady Sandry,” he said, his voice very close to her prison. “You were lively enough a moment ago.”

  He had heard her crying—screaming, like a child lost in the dark. “Tell me—” She stopped. Her voice had been a low croak. She cleared her torn and scraped throat and tried again. “Does my cousin know about this?”

  “Why would I trouble her with details?” he asked. “Your imperial cousin appreciates deeds, not promises. Once you’ve signed a marriage contract—with all the constraints required of a mage wife, of course, to ensure you never turn your power on me—I will accept Her Imperial Majesty’s congratulations and praise for my boldness.”

  His smug reply set not the frightened child, but Vedris of Emelan’s favorite niece, to blazing. “Maggot-riddled festering dung-footed imp-blest mammering pavao!” she growled, scrambling again for her power and feeling it trickle away. “Bat-fouling dung-sucking base-born churlish milk-livered kaq! Naliz! Amdain!”

  “Endearments,” he replied. “You’ll find better ones when we’re married. Once you’ve put your signature to the contract, and your kiss, too, marked in blood for surety, I will even let my uncle give you control of your magic again. Not until then, of course. Not until you know that if you ever defy me, I will turn the marriage spells on you until you will crawl to beg for my forgiveness. The men of Namorn know how to handle mage wives.”

  “If you think my cousin will congratulate you for kidnapping me in her own palace, you don’t know her,” Sandry retorted. “She’ll free me of your precious contract and your precious uncle!”

  “Not if she wants your moneybags to stay in Namorn, which she does,” Fin reminded Sandry. “And my uncle is head of the Mages’ Society for all Namorn. I think even Her Imperial Majesty will have to swallow any vexation with me, once I have the mages’ backing and your wealth at my command. What?” He was answering a question from someone outside Sandry’s trap. “No, she will be well enough. I must show myself at the ball, so no one believes I had anything to do with her disappearance.” The sound of his voice came closer to her prison. “Don’t fret, my dear,” he told her. “Later you may write to your friends from our honeymoon nest. Oh—if you’re hoping for rescue? You’re belowground. No wind will carry word of you to that redheaded terror. You’re in a room without plants, so the green lad can’t find you. And if you’re waiting on the handsome and clever Pershan, even if he could find you, he wouldn’t dare. Her Imperial Majesty knows her lover’s attention has been straying.”

  Despite her fear, Sandry gulped. Shan and Berenene? She could be his mother!

  Fin continued: “She’s watching him. He hasn’t been allowed to leave her side for two days without her knowing exactly where he goes. Poor Quen was getting all excited, thinking she would get rid of Shan and turn to him again. Instead, she’s clutching Shan tight. It shows how much she wants to keep you here—normally she just dismisses the girl from court.”

  “You’re disgusting,” Sandry croaked. “Making up such foul lies about people.”

  “Oh, I’ve made you unhappy, ruining your pretty little dreams. Get used to our marriage, if you please,” retorted Fin. “Once you present me with an heir, I’ll be happy to leave you to your own devices. Until later, my dear.”

  Then he was gone. Without Fin to hate, her fear of the dark swamped her again. Sandry screamed until she had no voice. When that was gone, she slid down and slammed her feet against the side of her prison over and over, until her back was bruised and her knees and ankles were on fire. Only when she could no longer kick did she curl up into a tiny ball, shuddering. The dark overwhelmed her for a while.

  The sound of people banging around outside brought her to herself again. It seemed Fin’s helpers were settling down to a game of cards nearby. Oddly, their voices gave Sandry’s mind something to latch on to. She wasn’t quite lost, not if she could hear rough men cursing each other’s bets and cards.

  What am I without magic? she asked herself dully, forcing herself to sit upright. Just a game piece, like Zhegorz said. Just a pretty…Zhegorz. Daja. Briar, Tris.

  Wait. Wait. I have bits of Briar’s magic in me, from when we were kids. And Tris’s, and Daja’s. I spun us into one magic, but then I had to weave us into four separate people again. Still, we each kept some of one another’s power so we could go on seeing magic, and hearing conversations. What’s around me are spells only for thread magic, not green or weather or metal magic.

  It was hard to ignore her terror and her very real pain. First she had to rip pieces from her linen shift to bind up her bleeding hands and feet. Her throbbing head was hard to ignore, too. Somehow she forced herself inward, thrusting her awareness of the dark from her mind. She even made herself forget those voices outside her trap. Slowly she sank down into herself, into the core of her power.

  She was shocked to find it in disarray. When did I tend it last? she wondered, seeing a mess of threads and connections where she was accustomed to finding a spindle of fiery thread. Oh, cat dirt—not since we reached Dancruan, I think. I never used to be this sloppy, she thought as she poked through the tangle. I shouldn’t get so distracted that I don’t straighten things up. For one thing, here at least I can see light.

  She found the crimson thread that was her bond to Daja. She gave it a few sharp tugs. She waited, but no response came. She bit her lip to keep from wailing as her grip on her power started to melt. Daja was blocked off, which meant that she must be with Rizu. There would be no help from her.

  For a moment, darkness surged back into Sandry’s mind. She kicked the wall again, then cradled her throbbing foot, tears streaming from her eyes. She had forgotten her bruised and bloody feet.

  Enough, she ordered herself as the pain ebbed. Enough. I have one tiny setback and I go to pieces. Gudruny held on for ten years. Zhegorz survived for fifty. Daja floated in the sea five days thinking she was lost forever, and she let a forest fire go through her, and walked through burning buildings. From what Rosethorn said, she and Briar were in a war. I get locked up by one silk-breeches noble and I just collapse? Enough.

  Forcing herself to be calm once again, she sank down into her power to find her connection with Tris. It wasn’t as strong as the bond with Daja, probably because they’d only used it once, and that recently. Sandry shoved herself through the thin strand, questing for the redhead.

  A monstrous jolt shocked her clean out of her concentration. She leaned her head back carefully, tasting blood where she’d bitten her lip.

  “Of all times for her to play with lightning,” she croaked, feeling for her handkerchief. Not many people would rather shroud themselves in storms than attend a brilliant party, she added silently, so she wouldn’t hurt her lip or her agonized throat.

  What is the time? When will Fin come back? She had no idea of the hour. She wasn’t sure that much time had passed, but it was impossible to tell with her magic loose and floppy, and Tris and Daja both unavailable. He could be on his way back here now. Sandry wasn’t sure how much longer she could endure this tiny, dark space and be sane. If she was going to be in any condition to rip him to shreds when she was free, she had to escape.

  That left Briar, who had not allowed her back into his mind. Her tie to him was dull gray. Too bad, Sandry told herself. This is no time for niceties.

  She reached into the pouch at her neck and took out her precious thread circle. She found Briar’s lump in it easily. It blazed green in her magic, with filaments of Sandry’s, Tris’s, and Daja’s powers mixed in. Plunging through it, Sandry shrieked silently, BRIAR!

  Images shot through her mind: lace-trimmed skirts, Caidy’s wild eyes, a thud on the floor, Briar helping a livid Caidy to her feet.

  I told you to keep OUT! he roared at her down their connection. Oh, cowpox, he said, recognizing the thread circle as it blazed in her mind and her hand. You’re using the string. I thought you said you’d never make us do this. “Your own free will,” that’s what you said. So just shut…He slowed, spread
ing himself through her mind. Say, what’s all this? You’re in a box with magic in it.

  No, do you think so? demanded Sandry, fighting to keep her mental voice from shaking. Here I was thinking it was the empress’s chambers. No wonder I feel so cramped.

  Don’t bite my nose off, he said absently. How did you get into this thing? Where’s your night lamp?

  I jumped in. For good measure, I pulled the top on and put locks on the outside. I decided I needed a challenge!

  What’s the matter with you? Briar asked, so caught up with Sandry that he barely felt it when Caidy slapped his face. It’s Tris who’s the grouch, remember? “Good-bye,” he called absently as Caidy walked away from him.

  Sandry made herself take a breath. If I’m grouchy, it’s because I need rescuing, she said reasonably. Losing her temper, she cried, And I hate needing rescue!

  I guess so, Briar replied, walking outside into the gardens. Rain soaked him instantly. He ignored it. Now, where are you?

  He said the room was plantless so you couldn’t find me, Sandry replied, fighting not to sound forlorn. He left men to guard me, or help him smuggle me out of here, wherever “here” is.

  I don’t need plants—I can follow our tie. Who’s “he,” anyway? Briar set off down a promenade through the rose garden, keeping an eye on the thread that shone silver through the dark and the pouring rain.

  Fin. He was supposed to be my escort, and he lured me into a very well-laid trap. He was ready for this, Briar. He had drugs to put me to sleep and there are binding signs for my thread magic on this box as good as anything we could make. His mage uncle helped. Fin said he’s got a house that’s the same. A tear dripped from one of her eyes; Sandry ignored it. At least talking to Briar helped her keep the dark from overwhelming her, barely. He said Berenene didn’t know, but that she admires boldness in a man.

  The Sandry-thread led Briar back inside, through a side door with freshly oiled hinges. He found himself in an older wing of the palace, where the thread took him to a small back hallway. The good news is that you’re still in the palace, I think, he told her. There were signs of neglect everywhere. Human footprints marked the dust on the floor tiles, leading him to a small door. You said you’re guarded? I’d better get reinforcements.

  They’re blocked off, Sandry replied glumly. Probably Daja and Rizu are together. Tris was playing with lightning. I think I have a scorch mark on my power.

  Briar grinned at the thought. Well, the stormy part’s over. He reached out along his newly strengthened connection with Tris.

  What? the weather mage demanded. Briar got the impression she was back in her chambers, changing into her nightclothes. I was busy—

  Briar opened his mind, trusting her to know what to look at and what to leave alone. It took Tris only a glimpse of what lay before his eyes, then Sandry’s eyes. The redhead put her book aside. I’m coming, she told them.

  15

  Briar slumped to the base of the wall, taking out two of his knives in case someone arrived who felt he did not belong there. We have a bit of a wait, he told Sandry. He felt their connection shudder, and knew that her fear of the dark was returning. It had always been a marvel to Briar. Sandry was the least fearful girl he knew, and yet the dousing of a lantern could leave her trembling if no other light was available. It was the reason that he, Daja, and Tris had made Sandry’s night-light crystal in the first place.

  I never really talked to you about Yanjing, did I? he asked, pretending not to notice her fear. They call it the Empire of Silk for a reason, you know. They have this cloth they call the Rain God’s Veil, just a hair thick, almost. They dye it colors they call by names like Green Tea, Almond Milk, and Lotus Pollen. If you don’t pin it down, it just drifts away, like invisible creatures are carrying it. The imperial concubines wear it for veils, and they all have a little girl servant whose only job is to catch the veils if they slide away.

  He could feel Sandry take a deep, shuddering breath and lick her lips. Briar promised himself that Fin would pay for frightening her so badly. He couldn’t have scared her more if he had planned it deliberately. Only terror of the unknown could have made Sandry as strident as she had been when she called for him.

  You know that penchi silk you were so curious about? They get it from silk made by worms they find in wild trees, not ones on farms. The country people make it, so its threads aren’t so smooth, but the thing is, they could be. One old thread mage told me her family has made penchi silk for ten generations and could do as fine a thread as the fancy houses. But the little imperfections, the “slubs,” you called them? Every family that does it does them in a pattern. Back home in my notes I copied down some of them for you. She says it’s how they used to send messages under the emperor’s nose, and sometimes they still do.

  Sandry’s mind filled with wonder and excitement. Lark and I thought so, but Vetiver told us that was silly, she replied, her mind on silk now and not her captivity. She said who would be desperate enough to send messages in tiny slubs like that!

  Well, it’s the slubs and the weave, Briar explained, delighted to have her attention. And they don’t always do it, so it’s not every piece of cloth.

  He had exhausted penchi silk and was describing the butter sculptures of Gyongxe when he felt a roiling storm of power approach. He got to his feet. “That would be Tris.”

  Down the hall, he heard a door slam. It was indeed Tris who came down the hall. She had put on a gown again, though it was hard to see it under the lightning that crawled over her head and dress. It glittered on the onyx buttons of her shoes and sparked on the rims of her spectacles. Chime stood on her shoulder, one tiny forepaw gripping a braid, lightning sparking from her eyes, claws, and wingtips.

  Briar opened the door and bowed. “After you, Viymese,” he said. It’s not that I mind a good fight, he told himself as he followed her down the long, curved stairwell that lay beyond the door. Still, why wear myself out when she can wind things up in a hurry?

  A draft blew into his face as he descended. She’s pulling the air up past us, so they may not hear us coming, he realized. You’re wasted, not being a thief, he told her.

  So funny, I forgot to laugh. Her retort fizzed in his mind. She was very angry.

  He was impressed. Back at Discipline, you got this mad, you’d scorch the top off the thatch, he reminded her. Or at least, you did before me and Rosethorn protected it.

  I won’t lose control, if that’s what worries you!

  Worry? No. I’m hoping for it, he replied.

  The round shoulders ahead of him slumped briefly. I’m not. Her reply was much less crackly. Then it surged again. Though I’ll probably change my mind when I see Fin next!

  The stair seemed to descend forever. The walls around them were carved stone, cut from the living rock under the palace. They were also old. The two mages passed through sections that had been braced with heavy wooden beams to keep the passage from collapsing. Fin must have had fun carrying a knocked-out girl down here, Briar told both Sandry and Tris.

  Too bad he didn’t fall and break his neck! Sandry retorted.

  Well, then he might have also broken yours, Briar pointed out. Excuse me for saying as much, but I wouldn’t dare show my face to your uncle if I’d let that idiot kill you and himself. The only way His Grace wouldn’t keelhaul me is if I could give him Fin.

  At last they reached the bottom and a door. Tris listened at the keyhole for a moment, tugged at an unraveling braid she had pulled from its net, and flung a fistful of hard air at the door as she thrust it open. The air exploded into the room, knocking over the table that stood between two men, scattering cards, mugs, their unsheathed swords, and a bottle on the floor.

  As Tris and Briar came in, the men jumped to their feet, cursing, and grabbed for their fallen weapons. Tris loosed hair-thin bolts of lightning at the blades, forcing their owners to drop them with a yelp. Briar went over to collect the swords and strip the guards of their daggers and any other weapons. O
nce he was done, Tris set a ring of lightning around the throats of each guard. They dared not move a hair for fear of touching those fiery collars.

  “Please, Viymese, don’t kill us,” babbled one rogue. “He’s our master, we had to obey!”

  “Shut up,” Tris ordered softly as her fistful of wind dropped a coil of rope in her outstretched hand. “You annoy me.”

  Briar opened the other closed door in the room. The scent of salt and drops of spray struck his face. He looked back at Tris. “It’s a cove tucked under the cliff.”

  Tris set about binding one guard’s hands. “So that was the plan? Escape with her by boat?” When he said nothing, she gave the rope a hard yank. “We don’t need both of you,” she pointed out.

  Would you really? Sandry asked. She could see all this through her friends’ eyes. Would you really kill one, when it’s Fin who’s to blame?

  They don’t know that, snapped Tris. She took away his lightning collar and shoved the man onto a chair. As she tied his legs, Chime flew to his shoulder. To make sure he didn’t kick, the dragon gripped his shirt collar with her hind paws and his nose with her forepaws. She leaned into his face and silently hissed, her curved glass fangs within an inch of his eye.

  “Yes—by boat,” said the talkative man. He stood perfectly still, sweat dotting his forehead in large beads. “Up the coast to a place where my lord has a cart and household troops waiting.”

  “They’ve got a long wait, then,” Briar said, shutting the door to the cove. “Now, let’s see about this box.” He went over to it, running his hands over the iron straps that held the top in place.

  “You can’t open it,” said the talkative guard as Tris tied his arms, then removed the lightning collar. “Bidis Finlach has the key!”

  “Locks are for the unimaginative,” said Briar, placing his hands on the wood of the box. “Unless they’re artists, of course. Normally I’m all for art…” He fed himself into the wooden boards. They were new, as they had to be to take the magic that had been placed inside them, all relatively young and plump boards, not long off the tree. Briar called that green life to him, yanking it from the wood, leaving them dry, wizened, and shrunken. The box fell to pieces. Briar caught the iron straps to keep them from hitting Sandry. Once they were safely put aside, Briar helped her to her feet.