Casket of Souls

  “That could have changed by now,” Myrhini said, frowning. “You should have brought this to Klia sooner.”

  Beka pressed her fist to her heart. “I’m sorry. I thought it was just the usual grumbling. I took them to task for it at the time.”

  “Who was it you heard all this from?”

  Beka knew better than to hesitate in speaking out against the sergeant, regardless of what she owed him; she owed Klia far more. “It was one of Anri’s sergeants, a man named Werneus.”

  “Have one of your trusted riders bring him to me, but don’t tell Werneus where he’s being taken. And you stay with your squadron. I don’t want you associated with this, or Nyal.”

  “Werneus is likely to guess why, since it was me who spoke to him about it.”

  “That can’t be helped. You’re dismissed.”

  “Thank you, Commander.” With a final salute, Beka took her leave.

  Myrhini had known Klia a long time and could tell when her friend was angry, even with the princess doing her best to hide it.

  “It could just be an overabundance of loyalty, Klia.”

  “One that could get me executed. And Danos?” Her anger was clearly tinged with hurt.

  “I’ve never had cause to doubt him. Maybe you should bring this to the queen yourself.”

  “I will, when I have more proof. Seregil and Alec are working on it in Rhíminee, thank the Four. And Thero, of course.”

  “Of course.” Grinning, Myrhini clasped her friend’s shoulder and gave her a friendly shake. “Then you have the best of the best working in your favor.”

  “I just hope they work quickly.”

  Beka found her husband at a watch fire with some of Danos’s riders.

  “Nyal, a word?” she said, stepping into the firelight.

  This elicited, as always, a fair amount of ribbing and whistling, but they were used to it and took it with good humor.

  The Aurënfaie waved and grinned over his shoulder, but waited until they were away from the light to slip an arm around her waist. “Talía,” he whispered in his own language, “I looked for you but couldn’t find you. Someone said you’d been called to the commander’s tent.”

  “Yes. We need to talk.” She kissed him as they walked across the trampled battlefield toward a stand of trees near the edge of the encampment. Beka skirted it, checking for nearby pickets, then led him into the trees and told him all that had passed between her and Klia.

  “I’ve heard muttering, but nothing treasonous,” Nyal told her.

  “Be especially careful around Danos and his troop,” she warned. “Bring anything the slightest bit suspicious to Klia at once.”

  “I’m always careful, talía.” Nyal took her in his arms and kissed her again. He was tall for a ’faie, and her head was level with his shoulder. He smelled of leather and horses, as she did herself.

  Beka ran her fingers through his long hair, chuckling at the tangles there. He did the same with her thick red hair, and the feeling of those long fingers caressing her scalp sent a shiver of need through her. It had been weeks since they’d found the time to be alone together. Time was short and life was uncertain. She didn’t want to waste such a rare moment, and neither did he. She wore a pessary as a matter of course, as all the female soldiers did—not only so they could indulge in pleasure without getting a round belly, but in case of rape in the field. The little hank of wool soaked in oil worked well. In the shadow of the trees, moving only as much clothing as was absolutely necessary, they made hurried, silent love, groaning into each other’s mouths as they came together.

  Sergeant Werneus looked suitably uneasy as he ducked under Klia’s tent flap and went down on one knee before her. “You sent for me, Commander?”

  Myrhini stepped behind him, guarding the door.

  “Yes,” said Klia. “At attention, rider.”

  Werneus, a grizzled warrior at least two decades her senior, stood stiffly, hands behind his back, eyes fixed on a spot just over her shoulder.

  “I’ve heard some disturbing rumors, Sergeant. Rumors involving me.”

  Werneus said nothing, but she caught a flash of alarm in his eyes.

  “Speak, Sergeant!” she ordered.

  “It’s just soldiers’ talk, Commander.”

  “About what?”

  A muscle flexed in the man’s stubbled jaw. “Just talk, Commander, about what it might be like if you was in charge of the regiment, that’s all.”

  “Just the regiment?” Klia narrowed her eyes. “I heard that some might want me to be queen.”

  The man went paler still under the scruff and grime. “That’d be talking treason against Queen Phoria, Commander!”

  “You were heard, man.”

  Werneus stiffened. “There’s talk, but it’s only wishful thinking, Commander. All the riders love you. We’d follow you to Bilairy’s gate.”

  “And would you follow General Moraus?”

  “Yes, Commander!”

  Klia regarded him in silence for a moment. Her gut told her this was an honest man. “You know that mutiny and inciting mutiny are hanging offenses, don’t you?”

  To the man’s credit, he met her eye squarely. “ ’Course I do, Commander. I swear by the Flame, it’s just talk!”

  “And who’s doing the talking? Out with it, man!”

  “Some of the other riders, Commander.”

  “Names, Sergeant!” Myrhini barked.

  “Rethus, Morson, Sorian …”

  “And?” snapped Myrhini.

  “And Callin, but he’s just a boy. He don’t mean any harm, just takes in the older riders’ talk.”

  “That doesn’t excuse him, Sergeant. But none of your officers?”

  “No, Commander, by the Flame I’ve heard nothing of the sort from any one of them. They’re as loyal as summer’s turning is long.”

  “We’ll see about that. I want you to go back to your friends and tell them what we’ve said here. I will hang anyone talking mutiny against the queen or our general. Is that clear?”

  “As springwater, Commander.” Werneus saluted, fist to heart.

  Klia nodded and Myrhini dismissed the shaken soldier.

  “What do you think?” asked Myrhini.

  “Summon the others he named.”

  One by one the riders appeared, and each told the same story as Werneus, young Callin in tears. It was only the mutterings of loyal soldiers who idolized their commander. She’d deal with that in the morning. Which left Danos to worry about.

  STARVING on the road had been hard on the whole company, but their stunning degree of success here in Rhíminee carried its own burdens. Atre had hired scrim painters and a few servants, but he’d also set up a grueling performance schedule. Brader saw his family more onstage than he did in their quarters. Atre was in great demand among the nobles, too, and often disappeared after the night’s performance to entertain at private parties.

  On the days the theater was dark, Brader took his wife and children away to find various amusements about the city—anything to get them away from the crowded house and the demands of the theater. In the markets they found necessities for the company, like pigments and cloth, toys, puppet and mummer’s shows to amuse the children, and dressmakers for Merina. The long months of deprivation had been hard on her, and he was happy to buy her the pretty things that made her so happy. Good food and a proper roof over their heads had put the roses back in her cheeks and the children’s, too. He didn’t ever want them to suffer like that again. If only Atre could be content here, and live quietly. Sometimes Brader wished he could pack up his family and leave the company, setting up somewhere to herd cattle, as he had as a boy, before Atre had lured him away to this traveling life. How many years had it been? He’d lost count. He’d forgotten what his mother’s face looked like.

  He’d had other wives and other children, and walked away when he had to, but Merina was different; leaving her and the children would be like cutting out his own heart. And so he c
ouldn’t leave Atre, either—the man his children called uncle, as others had before.

  Returning from such a day out, Brader found Atre in the room with the bucolic murals that might have served as a salon in the past, but was now a practice space. He was helping the twins with their tumbling skills, and laughing with them as they flipped backward and walked on their hands in their loose-fitting leggings and tunics. They were playing mischievous spirits in the play opening the following week. They adored Atre and lived for his praise.

  “Excellent! Outstanding!” Atre cried. “You’ll have the audience believing you can float and fly like hummingbirds at this rate. Ah, Brader, back so soon?”

  “It’s going to rain,” Merina told him, kissing Teibo and Tanni. “Such hard work, you two! Now, children, I believe it’s your turn to practice with Uncle Atre. Run upstairs and change your clothes.”

  Atre kissed her on both cheeks. “They are coming along well, too. They have their mother’s talent.”

  “I should hope so!” Merina laughed as she followed her children upstairs.

  “Can we go now, Master Atre?” asked Teibo.

  “Yes, go have some fun. You’ve earned it. Just be ready for practice tomorrow morning.”

  “We will!” Tanni said as she followed her brother from the room, already pulling off her sweat-soaked tunic.

  When they were alone, Atre looked closely at Brader. “You’re looking weary, cousin, and I see some lines around your eyes.”

  Brader nodded, resigned. “Yes, it’s time.”

  “Tonight, then, after the show.”

  Atre was changing into fresh clothing when Brader came to his room that night. “You’re going out again?”

  Atre went to the mirror and pulled his long auburn hair back with a ribbon that matched his embroidered black coat. “Yes, Duke Laneus invited me to a drinking party he’s having tonight. Tanni is coming with me. Didn’t she tell you?”

  “No.” Brader frowned, not liking the idea of the impressionable girl in such company. “Does her father know?”

  “Zell doesn’t mind. Why should you?” Atre replied with a shrug. He appraised Brader’s reflection in the mirror. “You go too long between these days, cousin,” he scolded. “It makes things noticeable.”

  “And you do it too often,” Brader said, weary of the perpetual argument. “You’ll start to look like Teibo if you’re not careful. The night of the opening I noticed Lord Seregil and Lady Kylith staring at you all evening.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous. I know what I’m doing. It’s your own choice to starve yourself.” Going to the wardrobe, he moved a few hats aside on the upper shelf and took down a battered leather case. Setting it on the dressing table, he unlocked it and took out two glass phials sealed with cork and wax incised with a circle of tiny symbols. The contents were milky and one of the phials clinked as he handled it, the child’s clay marble he’d used to make the elixir knocking against the glass.

  “There you are,” he said, giving it to Brader.

  The tall man gazed at it a moment, his expression a mix of regret and revulsion, then broke the seal and quickly downed the contents. The effect was slight, not even eliciting a shudder as some of the stronger ones did, but those were risky. And addictive. Brader had given them up years ago.

  Atre inspected him closely. “One more, I think.”

  The second phial contained a tiny bow made from faded blue ribbon; it looked a bit like a butterfly. It made Brader think of Ela, and he did shudder as he drank this one, but not because of the magic.

  “That’s better. Life was easier before you grew a conscience,” Atre remarked with a smirk.

  “When did you lose yours?”

  Atre emptied the marble and ribbon into the rubbish basket among the fruit peelings and candle ends, then replaced the empty phials in the case, and the case in its temporary hiding place, the one Brader knew about.

  Brader watched, his face sad and devoid of the old hunger. It made Atre want to slap him. There had been a time when his cousin relished these draughts as much as Atre did. Now he pulled a sour face every time. Just as Brader’s brother Van had, before he’d given up and left them. Perhaps that was when Brader’s regrets began?

  “We’re running low, my friend. Time to hunt again. Unless, of course …” Atre went back to the wardrobe and took out the special jewel casket, setting it on the bed between them. Taking the little key from his purse, he opened it and drank in the sight of all those jewels with all their shining threads of life attached. He held up a ring labeled KYLITH. There were so many threads that it looked more like a gently wavering nimbus of light, though Brader could not see it.

  “Ah, dear cousin. Think how many precious little ones could be spared with just one draught made from this lovely bauble,” Atre teased.

  Lady Kylith was indeed a fine prospect, now that he didn’t need her money anymore—so many years, so many connections. Where a slum child might share the threads with a few family members no more potent than the child was, the nobles were thick with them, part of the great net of life that he and Brader supped from. It was like comparing a moldy crust with a banquet. He ran his finger through the other jewels, admiring the combined glow that issued from the casket. His mouth fairly watered at the thought of all that accrued life force, all that power. And these weren’t even the best ones. Those he kept hidden away even from Brader.

  They’d taken a few powerful souls in Mycena—a few too many, as it turned out—but nothing to rival the potential he was reaping here in the Skalan capital, itself a nexus of great power. Even a noblewoman of modest rank like Kylith would be a veritable feast, and so generous with her little gifts, as were so many of her kind, ready to lavish a little something on the lapdog actor.

  And he’d captured one of the greatest possible prizes. He smiled as he glanced down at Elani’s ring.

  Brader sighed. “Take care, Atre, for all our sakes.”

  Atre and Tanni rode in a hired carriage to Duke Laneus’s villa. The house was in Ruby Lane, at the heart of the Noble Quarter. Tanni, looking older in her silken gown and upswept hair, was fidgety and excited. This was her first time entertaining at a noble’s house.

  A servant ushered them in and led them to the duke’s opulent salon. Atre had half expected to see Seregil and Alec among the guests, knowing that they were the duke’s friends, but they weren’t there. Laneus, Marquise Lalia, Duke Malthus, Duke Zymir, Duchess Nerian, and a fat, bluff man introduced to him as General Sarien sat on couches set up in a wide circle, drinking wine and eating nuts and fruit. Shells and peelings littered the floor.

  “Ah, here they are!” Laneus exclaimed as Atre and Tanni came in. “Master Atre, it’s good of you to come.”

  Atre bowed. “We are honored, Your Grace.”

  He and Tanni performed scenes from several plays, and were rewarded with small gifts and much applause.

  “Wonderful!” Duchess Nerian exclaimed, giving Tanni her silk and ivory fan.

  “I told you they are the best in the city,” said Duke Laneus, gifting Atre with a fine gold chain.

  “You weren’t exaggerating their skills,” the general said, eyeing Tanni in a rather unpleasant way. “Pity the trials of war have kept me so busy as not to see them in the theater.”

  “Are you home from the front, my lord?” asked Atre, interested to meet another powerful personage.

  “Oh, no,” the general replied. “I’m the Protector General, second to Prince Korathan himself in the defense of the Palace and city. This is my front in the war.”

  “Please, go and refresh yourselves in the kitchen,” Laneus told the actors, as if it were an honor rather than the treatment one would give to a mountebank or tradesman.

  Atre covered his annoyance with another smile and allowed a servant to lead them to the back of the house, where the cook, to her credit, offered them a very fine venison pie and excellent wine. Still—in the kitchen!

  While they were eating the cook and her scullio
n took their leave for the night, leaving them alone. Atre saw a chance and took it.

  “You stay here,” he told Tanni, patting her arm. “I’ll be right back.”

  “Where are you going?”

  “Just to look in on our host and thank him for this fine repast.”

  He gave her a wink and retraced his way to the salon. Finding the corridor deserted, he put his ear to the door.

  “I don’t mean to offend, Malthus, but I begin to doubt your faith,” the fat general was saying.

  “Just because I won’t go along with out-and-out murder?” Malthus replied. His voice was soft, but the actor could still hear the anger that edged his words. “Tell me, my friends: are we seriously contemplating that?”

  Atre’s eyes widened. This was not at all the sort of conversation he’d expected. He held his breath and put his eye to the thin opening between the door and frame. Malthus was on his feet, pacing, while the others sipped their wine.

  “A quick slice makes for the most successful surgery,” Duchess Nerian noted, swirling the wine in her cup. “We can’t simply ask Phoria to step aside, now can we?”

  “And then there’s Elani to be dealt with, after that,” Duke Zymir said. A chill ran up Atre’s spine, thinking of the gracious young girl. If anyone was going to claim her life, it was going to be him! Anything else would be a ridiculous waste.

  “Not if she were to have an unfortunate accident or illness,” Zymir replied. “Now that they’ve chosen to attack Klia herself!”

  “The message said it was Plenimaran assassins,” said Malthus.

  “You don’t really believe that, do you?” asked Laneus. “No, I think the battle has been joined.”

  “I wonder if an assassin could breach the Palace?” said Marquise Lalia.

  “Perhaps that Rhíminee Cat fellow?” Sarien suggested. “By all reports the man can break in anywhere.”

  “He’s no assassin, as far as I know.”

  “But this is ridiculous!” Malthus objected again.

  “You want Klia on the throne as badly as any of us, don’t you?” asked Laneus.