‘I think you know.’
Mordryn’s gaze did not flinch from Valraven’s own. ‘Senefex has taken every precaution over the emperor’s health. He had food tasters and trained Mewtish assassins disguised as servants forever round him. I don’t think we need worry he died of unnatural causes.’
‘Leonid was a hale man,’ Valraven said. ‘His health declined alarmingly over the last few years. I am not the only one to question that, as I know you are aware.’
‘We took every precaution,’ Mordryn said. ‘I doubt someone was cunning enough to get round them.’
‘Has the empress visited these chambers?’
‘She was with Leonid when he died. She held his hand.’ Mordryn’s mouth curled into a small smile. ‘She is a grieving widow, Palindrake, have no doubt of it.’
‘That is what we will see,’ Valraven said.
‘Quite,’ Mordryn agreed. ‘If everyone keeps calm now, all should proceed without problem.’
Valraven glanced back at the body. He remembered Leonid when he’d visited Caradore, his wild laugh echoing through the castle walls. Leonid had come directly to the Palindrakes when Valraven’s mother had died. He had been a family friend and a father-in-law. Do I owe you anything? Valraven wondered. Or is the lament of old blood a stronger pull? He leaned down and kissed the cold, marmoreal brow of the body in the bed. ‘Goodbye, old friend,’ he murmured.
Chapter Three: Divination and Memory
Varencienne had not set foot in the imperial palace since the day after she’d been given in marriage to Valraven Palindrake. On that day, she’d left her childhood behind, riding in a carriage to far Caradore with only her servant, Oltefney, for company. It was strange to be back. So much had happened in the intervening years and now she had no father.
Had she changed so much or did the palace feel different? Was it really empty, devoid of her father’s huge presence? But the women’s quarters she’d lived in had been far from where the men of the empire planned their futures. Men, including her father, had played little part in her childhood. She’d felt enclosed in womanliness, even though her mother had never been maternal exactly. Varencienne hadn’t been aware of when her father had been at home or away. Perhaps the way she felt now was something to do with the fact that she hadn’t been given her old rooms, but a suite in the guest wing of the palace. The children, Ellony and Valraven junior, had been swept off by servants to a nursery, some corridors away from her, tended by royal nurses. She felt like an outsider and wondered whether that was the desired effect.
Her mother, Tatrini, had not yet visited her. Her brothers – some of them – had sent her flowers and messages, perhaps dictated to secretaries in haste. Bayard would not come. He’d sent her a bouquet of perfect purple roses that filled the dark room with their hothouse scent, but he’d shy away from facing her alone. Even now. She had been given to Valraven as little more than a child. Tatrini had believed her to be a pawn, to be used when the time was right. But Varencienne had found herself in Caradore; its beautiful wild landscape had woken her, given her strength. If she did not love Valraven Palindrake in the way a wife was supposed to, she was fiercely loyal to his clan. Her children would not be playthings for the Malagashes as Valraven’s ancestors had been. This savage independence had not been anticipated by Tatrini. No doubt it had upset some of her plans.
Like a dark omen, a letter had been waiting for Varencienne from Merlan Leckery. It had arrived in Magrast virtually at the same time she had, which meant Merlan must have written it as soon as he’d heard the news of the emperor’s death. Varencienne and Merlan had seen each other occasionally, when he’d visited Caradore on leave, but had never spent any private time together. Not since the affair. She was half afraid to open his letter, for she suspected what would be implied in its contents. Leonid’s death had been a trigger. She remembered the conversation they’d had about what would happen when her father died. If there must be an emperor, it should be someone in whose blood magic runs strong. Dangerous words. Did he still believe them? They’d not spoken of it since. Their secret had remained buried for all these years. What did he want with her now?
Oltefney, unhappy to be back in Magrast, came bustling into the room laden with gowns, which trailed from her arms and tangled round her feet. She was a large woman in her forties, who looked far more comfortable as a woman of Caradore in functional soft clothes than she had as a lady of Magrast, bound into stiff corsets and immovable costumes. ‘Ren, my dear, I thought the green for tonight. What do you think?’ Oltefney attempted to wrest the arm of the dark green gown from her bundle for inspection. It was made of the finest wool, barely weighing anything, yet designed to keep out the cold. Its elegant lines flattered Varencienne’s slim figure. She would wear it in defiance of Magrast’s pretentious, over-ornate fashions.
Varencienne nodded. ‘Whatever you think best, Teffy.’ The last time she’d been here, Oltefney had curtsied to her, called her ‘your highness’. Caradore, with its refreshing informality, had changed all that. Varencienne smiled to recall how Oltefney had been disgusted when her young charge, relieved to be free of Magrast, had discarded city finery in favour of Caradorean comfort. In those days, Oltefney would have curled her lip at the green woollen gown. Caradore had changed them both. Oltefney had been more of a mother to Varencienne than Tatrini had. She’d held Varencienne’s hands as the twins were being born. She’d shared celebrations and sadness and loved Caradore as much as her mistress did. She was part of the family.
Oltefney laid down the gowns on a couch and stood, hands on hips, to survey the room. ‘My, it feels odd to be back, doesn’t it? You know, I’d forgotten what it was like. Dark and huge.’ She mimed a shiver. ‘I’ll be glad to get home, won’t you?’
Varencienne smiled sadly. ‘I wouldn’t be here at all if we didn’t have to cremate my father.’
Oltefney’s face crumpled and she hurried to take Varencienne in her arms. ‘Oh, of course. Forgive me. I shouldn’t have said that.’
‘But I agree with what you said,’ Varencienne said. She was far taller than Oltefney and could virtually rest her chin on the woman’s head. ‘Neither of us want to be here, but we are.’ She sighed. ‘I come to cremate a man I never knew. I have no feelings for him. The emperor lies in state in the great hall, but what is that to me?’
Oltefney drew away. ‘No fault of yours,’ she said. ‘You know who your real family are.’
Pharinet and Everna, Valraven’s sisters, had been worried about her coming to Magrast. It was as if they feared she would never return to them. Everna, particularly, had been furious that the empress had asked for the twins to accompany their mother to the city. Everna was by nature suspicious, but though Varencienne had attempted to calm her fears, in her heart she couldn’t help wondering what plans Tatrini had. Her mother would never do anything out of love or compassion. Varencienne was already steeling herself for a fight of some kind. No doubt its nature would be revealed in due course.
While Oltefney finished the unpacking, Varencienne picked up the letter from Merlan, which lay on a table by the heavily draped window. She put the thick envelope to her nose. It smelled of Mewt, or how she imagined Mewt: a hint of incense and the burned aroma of the desert. She broke the envelope’s seal and took out the single sheet of thick paper from within. It was printed at the top with the address of the Magravandian governmental offices in Akahana. She imagined Merlan, dressed in flowing native garb, sitting in a shady room, taking out this sheet of paper, wetting his pen with ink, pausing before he began to write. She sensed he’d wanted to write to her many times. Sometimes, in dreams, she had felt him near. He addressed her as ‘My Lady Palindrake’, no doubt in fear that others might see the letter. He wrote to express sympathy for her father’s demise, which he said he’d been expecting. He understood that she would soon be visiting the Magravandian capital for the funeral. There was no mention of why he hadn’t written to her at home. Merlan knew something.
He’d known Leonid was about to die. That was no doubt the influence of his mentor, Lord Maycarpe. It was said Maycarpe was a great magus. Or perhaps the information had come from a more mundane source: the intelligence network Maycarpe was said to employ throughout the empire. Merlan went on to enquire as to the health of Varencienne and her family and then mentioned he’d been travelling a great deal, ‘seeking out curios of antiquity, which in their essence have great bearing upon present concerns.’
‘When we look into the past,’ he wrote, ‘we see a window into the present and all the great kings of legend are walking upon a road towards us.’
Varencienne smiled to herself. The letter seemingly made no sense, and sounded like the ramblings of a romantic drunk. She tapped the paper against her lips, staring down from the window into the courtyard below, where a troop of soldiers was marching past, decked in the indigo livery of mourning. No king to lead them. Not yet. She glanced back at the letter. What had Merlan picked up on his travels?
After a few more anecdotes of life in Mewt, Merlan finished the letter by saying he hoped he would see the Palindrake family again in the near future.
He will arrive here soon, Varencienne thought. After years of silence and repressed emotion, Merlan had decided to wake old ghosts. At Maycarpe’s directive? Varencienne was not gullible. She would wait and see, although she was aware of a slight tremor of excitement at the prospect of seeing Merlan again. It would be different this time. She knew that one of them would make sure they found time alone together.
A formal invitation arrived from the empress as Varencienne was putting on her gown for the evening. Tatrini requested her daughter’s presence for dinner, along with the grandchildren. This was unusual, for children rarely ate with adults in the palace.
As Oltefney fussed with Varencienne’s long, dark gold hair, fashioning it into a semblance of a Magrastian coiffure, Valraven came to his wife’s door. Oltefney, always thrown into a panic by the sight of the Dragon Lord, curtsied and bowed away from him as he came into the room.
Varencienne held a mirror in one hand. She looked at her husband in it, touched her hair. His dark beauty, as always, unsettled her, mainly because she could not allow it to affect her. Every time she saw him after a long break, she experienced a slight shock, as if seeing him for the first time. They’d not seen each other for months, but there would be no fond reunion. That wasn’t part of their relationship. ‘Good day to you, my husband,’ she said. ‘Are you here to escort me to dinner?’
She noticed, in the mirror, that Valraven looked slightly worried, which probably meant he was extremely distressed. He rarely displayed any feelings. She turned in her seat, one hand draped over the back of the overstuffed chair. ‘What is it?’
Valraven came and kissed the top of her head formally. ‘The palace is like a nest of hornets about to be poked. Surely you feel it?’
‘I can’t feel anything,’ Varencienne said. ‘Mother has shut me away in a cupboard. What’s going on?’
‘Your father’s vizier wants Gastern crowned with an indecent haste. Thunder clouds are gathering.’
Varencienne looked back into her mirror. ‘I can’t help thinking that, despite their loud voices, my brothers are really too cowardly to do anythingc desperate. Surely, Gastern will be crowned. Senefex is wise to expedite the coronation. It will end all the speculation, anxiety and fear.’
‘So speaks a Malagash, in simple terms,’ Valraven said, but his voice was light.
‘I’m a Palindrake,’ Varencienne said. ‘Your sea wife. I’ve earned that. Don’t push me back into the enemy camp.’
Valraven sat down on a sofa. ‘It was merely a joke.’
Before Varencienne could comment on his poor humour, Oltefney came in saying, ‘Oh, this is annoying. We can’t make tea. I’d forgotten you have to order servants to bring you even the most meagre of refreshments here. You can’t make your own. I’m used to Caradorean ways.’ She appraised the Dragon Lord. ‘I’m sorry I can’t offer you anything, my lord. Shall I send for something?’
‘Order a tray,’ Varencienne said. ‘But bearing something rather stronger than tea. I need fortification to meet the beast in her lair.’
Valraven laughed. ‘You have swum with Foy, queen of the sea dragons. You have controlled the dragon daughters. Yet you still fear your mother?’
‘It’s not fear,’ Varencienne said, ‘but weariness. I can’t be bothered with the subtle knifing.’
‘I’ll order a tray,’ said Oltefney, sharing a conspiratorial glance with Varencienne.
Oltefney left a silence behind her. Varencienne sensed there was more on her husband’s mind than concern about royal inheritance. ‘Something has happened, hasn’t it,’ she said.
Valraven stared at her unblinking for a few moments. ‘Yes.’
‘Will you speak to me about it or leave me to interpret the flavour of your silence?’
‘You are always so adept at guessing, Ren. I’d like to hear your thoughts.’
Varencienne appraised him for a while. ‘You had better tell me. I’m in no mood for games.’
‘Then you’re hardly ready to meet your mother.’
‘Val!’
He raised his hands. ‘You are waspish today, my dear. Very well. The empress has taken Tayven Hirantel into custody.’
Varencienne frowned. ‘That name – I’ve heard it before. But it means nothing to me now.’
‘Hardly surprising. He was thought dead for a long time.’
Varencienne felt a wave of cold plunge through her. She remembered. ‘Khaster,’ she said. It brought back to her the night Valraven had told her why Khaster could never forgive him. He could have saved Tayven’s life, saved him from Bayard, but he hadn’t. Apparently, it hadn’t been necessary.
‘You’ve gone quite pale, Ren. Have you intuited the rest?’
Varencienne glanced sharply at her husband, felt her colour rise once more. He could not possibly know how many times she had lingered before the portrait of Khaster Leckery at his family home, Norgance. For a while she had been quite infatuated with a dead man – until his brother Merlan had come into her life.
‘Khaster is alive,’ Valraven said. ‘Hirantel told me so himself. They worked a fine disappearing act on us. Khaster did not fall in battle, as his family fondly believes. He’s been living in Cos, presumably with the Cossic rebels.’
Varencienne turned away, sure her face must betray her feelings. ‘This isc astounding news.’
‘What’s wrong? Are you worried for Pharinet? Why? She is hardly the grieving widow.’ How much awareness was there in his voice? She could not tell whether he suspected the truth or not.
‘It is a shock,’ Varencienne said, forcing herself to face him once more. ‘You know your family – and the Leckerys – are my own now. This has great implications. The Leckerys believe Khaster died nobly in battle, despite the rumours of cowardice that Bayard put about. What will you tell Saska?’
‘It is not yet time for Khaster’s mother to receive this news,’ Valraven said. ‘I need to discover more. Khaster’s exact whereabouts, for example. I can’t go to Saska with this information. She’ll be distraught that Khaster sent her no word he was safe.’
‘Has Hirantel been with him all this time?’
‘Apparently not. Tayven was apprehended by Tatrini’s agents in Mewt. He’s been in Darris Maycarpe’s service for some years. Merlan knows him. We can only presume Merlan has known quite a lot he’s kept to himself.’
‘I can’t believe he’d keep this from his family. He knows the way they feel about Khaster.’
‘And that is undoubtedly why he’s kept silent. Saska has enshrined Khaster. The truth might damage her. She’s not even aware of Khaster’s relationship with Hirantel.’
‘Merlan said there was no proof of that. They were only friends.’
Valraven gave her a meaningful glance. ‘If Merlan spoke to you of this matter when your mother cam
e to Caradore, I can only say he’s learned a lot since then.’
‘I see,’ said Varencienne.
‘What we have to ask ourselves,’ Valraven said, ‘is what your mother wants with Tayven now. Is she interested in him because he works for Maycarpe, or because she’s heard a whisper about Khaster? We should be careful at this time. Tatrini knows I do not support her desire for Bayard to become emperor. She will want to put a curb on Bayard’s enemies.’
‘She does not yet know where my loyalties lie,’ Varencienne said. ‘Perhaps I should steel myself for a grilling.’
‘And where do they lie?’ Valraven asked.
‘With you,’ Varencienne answered.
Valraven laughed quietly. ‘Thank you for the show of support, but you know what I mean.’
‘I do.’ Varencienne stood up. ‘Are you coming with me to dinner?’
Valraven was staring at her speculatively, clearly mulling over what she’d said to him. ‘What? Oh, I’m not invited. Tatrini wants a motherly private meal with you. I thought I’d let you know what I’d learned so you could undertake some careful investigation.’
‘Nothing gets past my mother’s guard, you should know that.’
‘Perhaps if she believes she has an ally in youc’
Varencienne raised her eyebrows. ‘Are you suggesting I lie to the empress?’
‘I don’t know. You haven’t revealed your private thoughts to me. For all I know, you may support your favourite brother.’
‘Val, I support what is right for my children. They are my prime concern. I do not want Rav to follow the life you’ve had to lead, forced to become a general in the imperial army. Who do you suppose I should support to achieve that aim?’
‘None of your family would allow the Dragon Heir to avoid the customary role. It’s a tradition rooted mainly in superstition and fear, and therefore rigid.’
‘It would appear that way.’
‘What are you saying, then?’
Varencienne stared at him, unsure of whether she should speak her mind or not. She hadn’t had to think about this matter since her mother had visited Caradore four years earlier and she’d enjoyed her brief but intense affair with Merlan. She’d learned much then of the Dragon Heir and what he symbolised. She’d helped her husband partly reclaim his heritage and had thought this event would have at least inspired discussion, if not action. But from the day after the ritual on the beach at Old Caradore, Valraven had made it clear he did not wish to take the matter further. As far as he was concerned, he’d laid Foy to rest, and a cycle in his family’s history had come to a close. Had he thought of it since? The fact of it had lain buried, unmentioned, but she’d always known that one day it would become the focus of their lives. Valraven could not hide from what he truly was. He’d defied the empire’s decree and had renewed his family’s contact with the sea dragons. He was awake in the world, as generations of Dragon Heirs had not been. The Palindrakes were held in high esteem by the empire that had conquered them. Varencienne knew her father had trusted Valraven and his father implicitly. The Dragon Heirs had bowed to the yoke of Madragore, because hundreds of years before a young Palindrake son had submitted to the will of Magravandian fire mages, unable to do otherwise. His home had been ransacked, his father killed. Perhaps the spirit of Palindrake had been broken then, but in Valraven, it could flare anew. Leonid’s death heralded a time for great change, and the Palindrakes should be part of that. Merlan Leckery knew it. Valraven’s sisters knew it, and so did the Sisterhood of the Dragon, the secret organisation to which they belonged. Even Darris Maycarpe, Magravandian governor of Mewt, knew it. Only Valraven didn’t seem to know, or perhaps he didn’t want to admit to it. Had he ever desired to be king?