“Nor am I a queen, yet,” she said. “Though it would please me greatly if you would be my guest at my coronation.”
“I would be honored. And perhaps by this time next year, you can be my guest at mine.”
“May I show you around my castle?” Terah asked, extending her hand to Garuwashi and dismissing the rest of them.
From the looks in their eyes, Logan expected Lantano Garuwashi would be mounting the ramparts in no time.
36
Her name was Pricia. She was the fourteen-year-old concubine who had wept for her friends and not for herself when Garoth died. She’d hanged herself with a silk belt. She was naked, her clothing folded neatly in a pile to one side, all her beauty gone. Her face was discolored, eyes open and bulging, tongue protruding, shit running down her fair legs. Dorian touched her and found her body only slightly cooled. From his touch, her body swung slightly. It was obscene. Dorian rubbed his face.
He should have known. The concubines had probably learned that Garoth’s body had been recovered even before Dorian had. For the Godking’s bodyguards, the recovery meant a small reclamation of honor. To the concubines, it meant death.
The former Godking’s wives would be expected to join him on his pyre. Only the virgins and the concubines the next Godking desired would be spared. Dorian had said he was claiming no one. The women thought they would all be burned.
“When did you figure it out, Hopper?”
“Your Holiness?” Hopper asked. “I’m not sure I understand the question.”
“Try again.”
Hopper cleared his throat, fearful. “I was with the rest of the concubines. Pricia came into this room to fetch something. I had no idea—”
“Try. Again,” Dorian said coldly.
Hopper searched Dorian’s face, his eyes wide, panicky. He must have seen something that satisfied him, because he said, “Ah.” The mask of fear dissolved and he bowed. “I knew you were an Ursuul after I told you that you seemed different. An eccentric slave would continue as before. A pretender would redouble his efforts to appear servile.”
“What is your position within the Godking’s Hands?” Dorian asked.
“I am their chief,” Hopper said, inclining his head.
So it was as Jenine had suspected. Who better to keep an eye on the Godking’s people and secrets than a eunuch whose awkward gait made him seem a buffoon? Hopper was at the confluence of the Godking’s eunuchs, concubines and wives, and servants. Through them, he had eyes on every important Vürdmeister, aetheling, and general in the realm. “How did you really lose your toes?” Dorian asked.
“When His Holiness your father offered me the position, he said that would be part of the price. I welcomed the chance to make such a sacrifice.” He smiled ruefully. “Being gelded, on the other hand, wasn’t so welcome.”
“He offered? Did you have the option to refuse?”
“Yes. His Holiness was always fair with us.”
It was a new side to Garoth Ursuul, a kinder side than Dorian had known. It was unsettling. “Why didn’t you expose me?”
“Because I didn’t have anyone to report to, and I didn’t know what you were trying to accomplish. By the time I did, you had accomplished it. It was, if you will pardon my presumption, one of my few failures as Chief of the Hands.”
No wonder he didn’t know what I intended. I didn’t intend it.
Hopper swallowed. “Your Holiness, I suspect some of the aethelings and Vürdmeisters know what I am. I guard against mundane spying, but I have not the means to stop their vir.”
It was astonishing how Dorian had blundered into success. He’d kept Hopper in the throne room the day he had seized power. The Vürdmeisters had come into the room and had seen not only a fearless Dorian, but Hopper off to one side, tacitly endorsing him. How much weight had that carried?
Dorian suddenly felt sick to his stomach. He suspected it was a lot.
He looked again at Pricia’s body dangling in the room. Death was so common here that life wasn’t considered sacred. Or did the cause and effect run the other way?
“What is your name, Hopper? Your real name.”
“I was ordered to forget—I’m sorry, sire, my name was Vondeas Hil.”
“I thought Clan Hil was annihilated.” Garoth had used the krul to wipe them out.
“The Godking saved me from . . .” he hesitated. “From the fleshpots. He thought I had potential. I did my best to prove him right.”
The fleshpots. So the krul and their feeding habits were no great secret.
“Vondeas Hil, I will remember your name and the sacrifices you have made. Will you serve me as the Chief of my Hands?”
Vondeas bowed low.
“I have questions for you. Where are my two hundred missing Vürdmeisters?”
“Vürdmeister Neph Dada sounded a religious summons when His Holiness your father died. He called all Vürdmeisters to help him bring Khali home. Currently, your Hands believe them to be in your eastern lands.”
Eastern Khalidor was sparsely populated. There were no major cities there, and hadn’t been since Jorsin Alkestes had turned Trayethell into Black Barrow. “They’re at Black Barrow?” Dorian asked.
“In its vicinity, at least. We don’t know the exact location. Spies who’ve attempted to infiltrate the camp haven’t returned.”
Well, that at least was one problem that could wait. Meisters and magi, Vürdmeisters and archmagi had been smashing themselves against Black Barrow for centuries. Neph Dada at the head of two hundred Vürdmeisters was a serious problem, but at least Dorian would have until spring to consolidate his forces—and Neph wouldn’t bother putting together an army. All Dorian’s former tutor cared about was magic. Still, it was a problem that bore looking into.
“Redouble your efforts. I want to know what they’re trying, and what—if anything—they’ve accomplished.”
“Yes, Your Holiness.”
“How many aethelings are completing their uurdthans?”
“Seventeen that I know of.”
“How many of those are in a position to form a credible threat to me in the next six months?” Dorian asked.
“You must understand, Your Holiness, your father kept secrets even from me, so anything I tell you is complete to the best of my knowledge, and I did know more than he knew I did, but I cannot have full confidence that I knew all of his aethelings. I know that Moburu Ander lives and is attempting to subvert the wild men. I have reports that he believes himself to be some kind of prophesied High King. Your father cared little about that. He cared more that there appeared to be some evidence of collusion between Neph Dada and Moburu, though he and I believed any association between the two to be tenuous at best.”
“Yes, I can’t imagine Neph letting anyone live after they’d served his purpose. Nor would one of my brothers.”
“The only other aetheling I know about was one I was not supposed to know, and I never learned his name. He was part of a delegation of war magi that Sho’cendi sent to recover Curoch. The magi made it as far as Cenaria, and witnessed the Battle of Pavvil’s Grove, then returned to Sho’cendi, satisfied that Curoch was not present.”
Dorian scowled. He had been certain that some of his brothers must be attempting to infiltrate the school of fire as he had been sent to the school of healing, but learning that one had been successful left the sick taste of betrayal in his mouth. He knew most of the magi that might have been sent on such a mission. Had he been friends with one of his own traitorous brothers? He shook his head. That was a distraction. Moburu and Neph were the real problem, and surviving until he could consolidate his men against them.
“Very well, Hopper. Thank you.”
Hopper bowed once more, and when he straightened, he wore the slightly befuddled expression of Hopper once more.
“Dorian? Dorian, I’ve been looking all over for you,” Jenine said, coming into the room.
Dorian was shocked to realize that he was still standing in a ro
om with a hanged child. For all the good things he’d gained from learning to focus, he didn’t think being able to ignore the ruin of a young girl was among them. By the God, it was a travesty, and he’d sat here, blithely contemplating politics. What was he becoming? His stomach threatened to rebel.
Jenine wore a shy smile. From where she stood, she couldn’t see Pricia’s hanged body. She was dressed in a simple gown of green silk that was gathered under her breasts. “I’ve made my decision,” she said, walking forward. “I will marry you, Dorian, and I will learn to love you as you love me.”
“Jenine, you shouldn’t—” But he was too late. Jenine saw the hanged naked body and the first expression on the face of the woman he loved upon their betrothal was horror.
“Oh gods!” Jenine said, putting a hand to her mouth.
“I killed her,” Dorian said and threw up.
“What?” Jenine asked. She didn’t come to him.
“She killed herself rather than be forced to burn on Garoth’s pyre,” Hopper said quietly.
Dorian was on his knees. He blinked his eyes and grabbed a rag off the floor to wipe the vomit from his mouth. It was only after he wiped his beard clean that he looked at the cloth in his hand. It was Pricia’s underclothes. They still smelled of her perfume.
He vomited again and staggered to his feet. This time he wiped his mouth on his cloak and turned so he couldn’t see Pricia’s body. “Hopper,” he said. “Please take care of her. And double the watches on the concubines. Jenine, I need you to help me make a hard decision. It may have . . . consequences for our engagement.”
37
Vi poured cold water into the basin from a copper pitcher and splashed her face. On the narrow desk by the door, she saw a note addressed to “Viridiana.” Vi didn’t touch it. She’d get ready when she was good and ready. The room was terrible. More like a broom closet. The unfinished stone walls were barely far apart enough to fit the narrow bed with its thin straw mattress. At the foot of the bed was a chest for her belongings and the washbasin. The chest was empty. They’d even taken Vi’s hair ties. Tyros possessed only what the Chantry gave them. In Vi’s case, that meant one ill-fitting white tyro’s dress. The infuriating thing was that she knew that they had a dress that fit perfectly, as if Master Piccun had a fit of genius as he worked with what should have been terminally uninspiring wool and had somehow conquered the cloth to make Vi look beautiful.
That, obviously, was not the intended effect. That dress had been spirited away, and this white sack put in its place. They hadn’t bothered tailoring a shift for her. The one she’d woken in was obviously used, if—she hoped—clean, and the previous owner had been fatter than she was tall. The shift didn’t even come down to Vi’s knees.
Vi brushed her hair back irritably. They’d taken her damn hair ties. She wasn’t going to her lectures. She wasn’t leaving the room. They’d taken enough. She looked around the room for something she could use. Her eyes fell on the copper pitcher. “To hell with them,” she said to activate her Talent as she ripped off the handle. In a minute, her hair was pulled back into a fiercely tight braid. “To hell with them,” she said again, and squeezed the copper into a tight circle binding her hair.
She picked up the note and unfolded it. “Viridiana, after your classes this morning, please come to the private dining hall. Elene wishes to meet you. Sister Ariel”
Vi couldn’t breathe. Elene? Oh, fuck. She’d known Elene would show up eventually, but so soon?
The door burst open and a wild-eyed, frumpy teenager stared around the room suspiciously, her arms raised as if she were summoning vast powers. “What’s going on here?” the girl demanded. “You were using magic! Twice! Don’t deny it.”
Vi laughed, first nervously, then openly, glad for the distraction. The girl was practically wheezing from running. Her cheeks were flushed, sweat beading on her pale forehead under dark hair. She was fat enough and short enough that Vi wondered if this lard barrel had been the prior owner of her shift. She was perhaps fifteen, her white cotton dress edged with blue, and a brooch of gold scales prominent on her chest. “You got me,” Vi said.
“You admit it!”
Vi raised an eyebrow. “Of course. Now get out. And knock next time.”
“It’s forbidden!”
“Knocking’s forbidden?” Vi asked.
“No.”
“Then try it next time, Chunky.”
“My name is Xandra, and I’m the Floor Monitor. You used magic, twice. That’s two days in the scullery for your first offense. And you disrespected me. That’s a week!”
“You little shit.”
“Swearing! Another day! They told me you’d be trouble.” Xandra was shaking. It made her fat jiggle.
“You’ve got to be fucking joking,” Vi said.
“Disrespect, swearing again! That’s it! You’ll report to the Mistress Jonisseh for a switching immediately.”
“You call that disrespect, you squealing sow?” Vi stepped forward. Xandra opened her mouth and raised her arms. Vi said, “Graakos.”
The shield snapped in place instantly, and whatever Xandra threw at her grazed right off it. Vi grabbed the girl’s arm, twisted and heaved her out of the room. Xandra slid a good ten paces across the hallway’s polished floor. As Vi stepped into the hall, she saw at least thirty little girls staring at her, wide-eyed, most of them under twelve.
“Please knock next time,” Vi said. She turned on her heel and slammed the door.
From the hall, she heard Xandra quaver, “Slamming a door, that’s—”
Vi opened the door and stared daggers at the girl, who was still lying in a heap against the far wall. The words dried up in Xandra’s mouth. Vi slammed the door again, and sat on her bed, picked up the note, tried not to cry—and failed.
38
In all his life, Kylar had never seen the people of the Warrens so happy. Agon’s Dogs had stayed with the wagons full of grain and rice to manage the distribution. All the Dogs were members of the Sa’kagé, and they had taken it into their minds to make sure that the food was fairly distributed. “We got our bit coming,” Kylar heard a Dog tell a scowling Sa’kagé basher. “I’ve heard it from high up. Now make sure those guild rats share!”
The Rabbits joined long queues that moved slowly but steadily forward, and a hard-bitten old coot broke out a tin whistle, sat on his new sack of rice, and began to play. In moments, the Rabbits were dancing. A woman soon had several pots boiling and anyone who dropped a measure of their rice or grain into one pot immediately could take a full, seasoned measure from another. She served bread and rice and soon wine. Someone offered herbs, someone else butter, another meat. In no time, it was a feast.
In a break between songs, one of Agon’s Dogs stood up and yelled. “Ya might recognize me. I’m Conner Hook, and I grew up in this neighborhood. I seen ya and I know ya and I’m tellin’ ya now, by the High King’s bollocks, if any of ya come tru’ the line twice, I’m callin’ out yer name, and we’re gonna fookin’ add yer ass to the meat pot, got it?”
A cheer went up—and the line thinned considerably. For the Rabbits, to whom corruption was the unquestioned norm, it was a gift as unexpected as the free food itself. Kylar listened, and heard many a toast to Logan Gyre and many variations of the tale of him slaying an ogre and teary, drunken renditions of his speech establishing the Order of the Garter, and the word “king” muttered a dozen times. He smiled darkly, then froze.
He glimpsed a lean woman with long blonde hair on the far side of the square. In contrast to the Rabbits, she was so clean she was radiant, and he caught a flash of white teeth as she smiled. His heart stopped. “Elene?” he whispered.
The woman disappeared around a corner. Kylar went after her, pushing and dodging his way through the jubilant, dancing crowd. When he got to the corner, she was already fifty paces down the twisting alley, turning onto yet another. He ran after her with the speed of his Talent.
“Elene!” He grabbed her shoulder
and she jumped, startled.
“Hi . . . Kylar, right?” Daydra asked. She had been one of Momma K’s girls. Playing the virgin was her specialty. From a distance, she looked like Elene.
Kylar’s heart lurched, and he wasn’t sure if it was more from disappointment or relief. He didn’t want Elene here. He didn’t want her in this pit of a city or anywhere nearby when he murdered the queen, but at the same time, he wanted to see her so badly it ached.
She smiled at him awkwardly. “Um, I don’t work the sheets anymore, Kylar.”
He flushed. “No, I wasn’t—I’m sorry. I . . .” He turned and made his way to the castle.
39
Feir Cousat and Antoninus Wervel emerged from Quorig’s Pass after noon. As they approached Black Barrow, the evergreen forest that carpeted the foothills ended. Feir hunkered down in his coat against the deep autumn chill and climbed a low rise. The sight took his breath away. No one had lived in Black Barrow for seven hundred years. The land should have been long overgrown with grass, trees, undergrowth. It wasn’t. The grass, at the least, should have been an autumnal brown. It wasn’t. Seven centuries ago, the decisive battle of the War of Shadow had been fought in the early summer, and the grass at Feir’s feet was still short and green. He saw the raw depression where a farmer’s stone fence had been pulled from the earth, the stones taken into the city so that they might not be used as missiles by the enemy’s siege engines. Nothing had grown in the bare depressions that marked where this fence had stood—seemingly only days before. Time had stopped here.