“I have considered it a great deal in the days since I returned to you, my lady, and I think I understand a part of the King’s thinking. Perhaps he is less Willing than you to destroy the mortals because he thinks that they are not entirely to blame.”
She stared at him.
“It could even be that our king, in his labyrinthine wisdom, buttressed with the voices of his ancestors—your ancestors, too, of course—has come to believe that we may have helped to bring our woeful situation upon ourselves.”
Yasammez rose from the chair in a blind rage, her aspect abruptly juddering about her, shadow-spikes flaring. Kayyin came closer to his promised death at that moment than ever before. Instead, she raised a trembling, ice-cold finger and pointed to the door.
He stood and bowed. “Yes, my lady. You need solitude, of course, and with the burdens you bear, you deserve it. I await our next conversation.”
As he walked out the room behind him came to life with flickering shadows.
The strange, glaring sun had long since set. Yasammez sat in darkness.
A soft voice bloomed inside her head. “May I speak with you, Lady?”
She gave permission.
The far door opened. The visitor glided in like a leaf carried on a stream. She was tall, almost as tall as Yasammez herself, and slender as a young willow. Her white, hooded robe seemed to move too slowly for her progress, billowing like something underwater.
“Have things changed, Aesi’uah?” Yasammez asked.
The woman stopped before the chair and made a ritual obeisance of spread hands as her strange, still face lifted to Yasammez. Her pale blue eyes gleamed like sunlight through stained glass, giving the face a little animation: but for that effulgent stare she might have been an ancient statue. “Lady, things have, but only slightly. Still, I thought you should be told.”
Someone other than Yasammez, someone other than the famously imperturbable Lady Porcupine, might have sighed. Instead she only nodded.
Her chief eremite spread her arms again, this time in the posture of bringing-the-truth. Aesi’uah was of Dreamless blood, and although that blood had been diluted by her Qar heritage, she had inherited at least one trait beside her moonstone gaze from those ancient forebears: she had an extreme disinterest in lies or politic speech, which was why she had become Yasammez’ favorite of all her eremite order. “The touch of the King’s glass has made him restless.”
“Is he awakening already?”
“No, Mistress.” The face was placid but the words were not. “But he is stirring, and something is different, although I cannot say what. He is like out-fevered—restless, full of unsettling dreams.”
Yasammez would have scowled at that, but she had lost the habit of showing emotion in such a naked way. “We know nothing of his dreams. “
“fust so.” Aesi’uah bowed her head. “But his sleep seems to be that sort of sleep, and what is just as important, his restlessness makes the other sleepers un-easy, too.”
She was just about to ask the chief eremite how much longer before everything ended for good and all when another voice spoke in her head, faint as a dying wind.
Where are you . . . do you hear me? Do you . . . know me?
Of course I know you, my heart. A claw of terror gripped Yasammez, but she tried to keep it from her thoughts. How could you doubt it?
Her beloved one was gone for a moment, then returned, sighing, tattered. So . . . cold. So dark.
Yasammez made the sign for “audience ended.” Aesi’uah did not change expression. She spread her hands, then glided out of the chamber like a phantom ship sailing beneath the moon.
Speak to me, my heart, said Yasammez.
I fear. . . I am going soon into . . . that greater sleep . . .
No. Strength is coming to you. I have sent the glass.
Wliere is it? I fear it will never come. The thoughts were timid, simple as a child’s. To Yasammez that was the worst torment of all.
Gyir brings it, she promised. He is young and strong and his thoughts are clear. He will find his way to you in time.
But what . . . what if he does not . . . ?
Do not even think it. Yasammez put every bit of strength she could behind the thought. He will come and you will be strong again. I will bring the scorched stones of the sunlanders’ cities to make you a necklace.
But even so . . . even so ... !
Quiet, my heart. Not even the gods themselves can unmake that which is. Rest. I will stay with you until you sleep—not the greater sleep, but only the lesser. Fear not. Gyir will come.
She held on, then, to that faint wisp of thought and gave it comfort, though it fluttered against the darkness like a dying bird, by turns terrified and exhausted. The shadows flickered again in the hall, moving and stretch—
ing all through the true night as she took her aspect upon her once more, but this time they were softer—not spikes but tendrils, not the black, reaching claws of death but the fingers of soft, nurturing hands, as Lady Porcupine struggled to soothe the only living being she had ever truly loved.
The day was cold and gray, seasoned with drifts of rain, and although the doors to Effir dan-Mozan’s front room were open to the courtyard as usual, a large brazier had been lit to provide warmth. As Briony came in the merchant was bending forward—not an easy task over his rich-man’s belly—and warming his small, beringed hands at the coals.
“Ah, Briony-zisaya,” he said. “You have not left your meal too soon? I did not want to interrupt you.”
“I was finished, Master dan . . . Effir. Thank you. The servant said you and Shaso wished to speak with me.”
“Yes, but Lord dan-Heza is not here yet. Please, make yourself comfortable.” He gestured to one of the chairs arranged in a semicircle around the brazier. “It is a filthy day but I cannot bear to have the doors closed.” He laughed. “I like to see the sky When I look at it, I might be at home.” The smile soured a little. “Well, not today. We do not have skies like this in Tuan. When the rains come, we go to our temples and give thanks. Here, I should suspect it is the reverse.”
Briony smiled. “I have never seen a house like this one, so low, with the garden in the center. Do people live like this in Tuan?”
“More or less. The nicer houses, yes. Although I wish I could have shown you my family home in Dagardar. Much larger, much more finely furnished—until it was pillaged and then burned by the old autarch’s soldiers. Still, I cannot complain. The March Kingdoms have been good to an exile.”
“It is still a very nice house.”
“You are kind. What you politely do not ask is why a rich man would dwell in such an unsalubrious part of Landers Port.”
She colored a little. She had wondered just that many times. “They do seem to have better . . . views from higher up on the hill.”
“Ah, yes, Princess. And they are jealous of them, too. A man like me can build himself a fine house here among the other dark-skinned folk and no one is too upset. But I promise you that were I to have built it somewhere that a lord like Iomer M’Sivon or the native merchant-folk had to look on me and my home every day, I would soon find that neighborhood even less pleasant than this one.” His smile had a bit of a twist to it. “The important thing in this life is to know not just who you are but where you are.”
Shaso came in, dressed as though he had been outside, his face hidden by scarf and drooping hat. He shook the rain off his cloak and draped it across a chair. Effir dan-Mozan did not look pleased to have water sprin kled across his carpeted floors.
Shaso took off his hat and sat down. “A ship came in from Hierosol,” he said by way of explanation. “The sailors were drinking. And talking. I was listening.”
“And what did you learn, Lord?” asked Effir, who had regained his equanimity.
“Hierosol is preparing. Several dromons—that is what they call their warships, Princess—that were awaiting repairs are being rushed through dry-dock. Drakava has also called back his cap
tains, who were punishing reluctant taxpayers along the Kracian border. He seems to expect a siege.”
“And my father?”
Shaso shook his head. “These tidings come from sailors, Highness. They know little and care less about politics or prisoners. No news, as they say, is doubtless good news. The only concern is what will happen when Drakava realizes he will get no ransom out of Southmarch now.”
“What do you mean?” she said hotly, then realized a moment later that Shaso was right: the last thing Hendon Tolly wanted now was for King Olin to return. “Oh, those .. . swine! Will Ludis Drakava hurt him?”
“I cannot imagine he would.” Shaso shook his head but wouldn’t meet her eye. He was unpracticed at deception and did not do it well. “There is nothing to gain from it and much to lose—like any chance of help from the northern countries if he is attacked by Xis.”
As if sensing Briony’s doubt and fear, Effir suddenly clapped his hands. “Come, let us have something hot to drink! A chilly day like this gets into your bones if you are not careful. Tal! Ah, no, wait, he is not at home today—off on some errand of his own.” He clapped again, and at last one of his older and more doddering servitors meandered in. When the ancient had been dispatched for mulled wine, Effir rubbed his hands and began talking, perhaps making sure the conversation did not wander back onto the uncertain ground of a few moments earlier. “We brought you here because the time has come to make plans, Princess.”
“What plans?”
“Just so, just so.” Effr turned to Shaso. “My lord?”
“You and I cannot stay here forever,” the old Tuani said. “You have told me so yourself, Highness.”
“Where will we go?” Her heart seemed to swell and grow lighter. “To my father?”
“No.” The scowl turned his face into a mask. “No and no, Briony. I have told you, there is little we could do for him, and it would be even worse foolishness now that the autarch seems to be considering an attack on Hier-osol. What we need are allies, but there are very few people we can trust.”
“Surely there must be someone left who believes in honor.” Briony balled her fists. “By the holy Trigon, will they all simply stand by and see our throne stolen? What about Brenland, or Settland—we’ve sent help to them more times than I can count!”
“Your fellow rulers will do what suits them—and their people. I would advise you no differently myself.” He raised a hand to forestall her indignant objection. “That is not so bad as it sounds, Highness. Any alliances we can make will be more straightforward if we do not clutter them with ideas like ‘honor.’ As long as we can bring our new ally some benefit, he will remain our ally—a simple, clean arrangement. And things are not so helpless as I may have painted them earlier. We do not necessarily need an entire army to reclaim Southmarch. All we need is enough strength to prevent Tolly getting his hands on you and killing you outright or pronouncing you an impostor—we could get by with a fairly small force. Then, if we can avoid being overwhelmed immediately, we will be able to reveal you to the people of Southmarch and denounce the Tollys as murderers and usurpers. That is the first step.”
Briony frowned. “Why is that only the first step? Surely if we could engineer such a thing that would solve the whole problem.”
Shaso clicked his tongue at her. “Think, Highness! Do you believe that even if he is revealed as the worst sort of usurper, Hendon Tolly will simply surrender? No. He and his brother Caradon will know they must hold what they have stolen or die on a traitor’s gibbet. Hendon will go to ground in Southmarch like a badger in a hole and Caradon will reinforce him. Anyone trying to force Hendon out will find himself trapped between the castle walls and the army of Summerfield.”
“So we don’t need an army, but we need an army? You’re not making sense.”
“Think on it carefully, Highness,” Shaso told her.
She hated it when her elders talkechhat way. What it meant was, I al-ready know the answer because I’m grown and I know things, but you need to learn how to think, and then you can be wise and wonderful like me. “I don’t know.”
“What is our true need—no more, no less?”
Effir dan-Mozan, meanwhile, was watching the exchange with bright-eyed interest, as though he were a spectator at some particularly fascinating contest. That reminded Briony of something. “What is it my father always says when he’s playing King’s Square?” she asked Shaso. “Something from one of those old philosophers, I think.”
“Ah, yes. ‘Errors of caution are more likely to be considered at leisure than errors of boldness—but less likely to be considered after a victory.’ In other words, if you are too careful, you are more likely to live, but less likely to win. It is one of his favorite epigrams—and one of the reasons I admire him.”
“It is?” She was so pleased to hear someone, especially Shaso, talk about her father as a living person instead of as though he were already dead that she forgave the old man his lecturing ways.
“Yes. He is one of the most thoughtful men I have ever met, but he is not afraid to move swiftly and boldly when necessary—to take risks. It is how he beat me at Hierosol, you know.”
“Tell me.”
“Not now. We need to consider our present situation, not review ancient battles.” Was that the hint of a smile? “Now think. What do we truly need?”
“To do something bold, I suppose. To get our castle back.”
“Yes, and you will only get it with the Tollys out, or dead. But as I said, we do not necessarily need an army. We can raise that from the March Kingdoms and even within the walls of Southmarch itself, if we can keep you alive long enough.”
“So we need an ally with at least a small force of soldiers.” She thought. “But who? You’ve said we don’t know who to trust.”
“We must make trust—we must find an ally who wants to bargain with us. And we must do something bold to find that ally. Hendon has no doubt filled the roads to Brenland and Settland with spies and assassins. I do not doubt he has people in the courts of all the March Kingdoms as well, probably under the guise of being emissaries from the court of the infant prince.”
“I’m going to kill him.”
“Beware your own anger, Highness. But I think we must make a move
Hendon docs not suspect. As I said, I doubt any of your fellow rulers will do something for you out of the good of their hearts.
“Syan is our best hope, I think. To begin with, King Enander has no love for Summerfield Court, going back to the days when Lindon Tolly, the old duke, was trying to marry his sister to your father. When your father chose your mother instead, Lindon was so determined to build a link to the throne of the March Kingdoms that he snubbed one of King Enander’s own nephews and married his sister Ethna to your father’s younger brother, Hardis ...”
Briony shook her head. “Gods give us strength, you remember more of this family lore than I do.”
Shaso gave her a stern look. “This is not ‘family lore,’ as you know very well—this is the stuff of alliances . . . and betrayals.” He frowned, thinking. “In any case, Enander of Syan might be sympathetic to your cause—he has never quite forgiven the Tollys—but he will exact a price.”
“A price? What sort of price? By the gods, does the Treaty of Coldgray Moor mean nothing? Anglin saved them all, and Syan and the others promised they would always come to our aid.” She bit back several unladylike words: Shaso had heard her worst while training her, but she felt shy about cursing in front of Effir dan-Mozan. “Besides, until we take Southmarch back we have nothing to give these greedy people . . .”
“Enander of Syan is not particularly greedy, but that treaty is centuries old, however much it is revered in the March Kingdoms. It could be he will settle for gold when we have your throne back, but I believe he also has a marriageable son, who is said to be a goodly man .. .”
“So I must sell myself to get my throne back?” She felt so hot in the face that she pushed herself back from the b
razier. “I might as well marry Ludis Drakava!”
“I think you would find the Syannese prince a much more pleasant husband, but let us hope there is some other way.” Shaso frowned, then nodded. “In fact, if you will excuse us, Highness, perhaps Effir and I can begin inquiries in Syan. Whatever we do, it should be soon.”
Briony stood, angry and miserable but struggling not to show it. “I will marry to save my family’s throne, of course ... if it is the only way.”
“I understand, Highness.” Shaso looked at her with what could almost pass for fatherly fondness, if she had not known the old man to avoid it like an itching rash. “I will not sell your freedom if I can avoid it, having fought so hard in my life to keep my own.”