Whispered Magics

  The summons couldn’t possibly be about the messenger. No one ever sent her messages, except for dull letters from Elda’s younger sister, Princess Shera, and those always came with the green-cloaked messengers from the kingdom of Gensam.

  Rhis wrinkled her nose. It could only mean that Elda wanted her—and always for some dreary task, or lesson, or duty, and if she dawdled too long she also incurred a lecture given in that sharp, annoyed tone of voice that never failed to send servants whisking about their business, and made Rhis feel two years old.

  Rhis’s feet knew all 538 of the worn tower stairs. She skipped down and dashed onto the landing. A glimpse of pale blue caused her to veer, and she narrowly missed running down Sidal, who tottered, struggling with a stack of books in her arms.

  Rhis reached up to steady her sister’s pile. “I’m sorry,” she said contritely.

  Sidal recovered her balance, and peered over the topmost book. “A slower pace, perhaps?”

  Rhis grimaced. Elda was forever lecturing her on always using a sedate step, as a princess ought. “I will,” she promised. “But I was in a hurry because someone rang the bell.” She looked around for one of Elda’s maids.

  Sidal smiled. “I did. Papa just received a letter from Vesarja. It seems that Queen Briath Arvanosas has invited you to attend the ceremonies arranged for Prince Lios, who is officially being appointed Crown Prince.”

  Rhis clapped her hands together. “Oh! Oh!”

  Sidal tipped her head in the other direction. “They are in there discussing it now.”

  “Oh, Sidal,” Rhis breathed, dancing in a circle around her sister. “I’ve never gone anywhere, done anything—”

  “I think,” Sidal said in a quiet voice, her eyes just slightly crinkled, “you ought to go in and hear what they have to say.”

  Rhis whirled around. Sidal was like Mama. She never raised her voice, or said anything unkind, but when either of them dropped a hint, it was always to the purpose.

  Rhis knew at once what Sidal was hinting at: Elda was in the audience room.

  Despite her promise to be more sedate, Rhis fled down the carpeted hall, her pearl-braided hair thumping her back at every step. She slowed at the corner just before the audience chamber, took in a deep breath, and with proper deportment walked around the corner.

  A waiting servant—Ama, mother to the upstairs maid—saw her, bowed, reached to open the door, then paused. She pointed in silence over one of Rhis’s ears, and Rhis clapped her hands to her head. A strand of hair floated loose. How Elda would glower!

  “Thank you.” She mouthed the words as she tucked the hair back.

  Ama smiled just a little, and opened the door.

  The first voice Rhis heard was Elda’s.

  “. . . and she has, despite all my efforts, no better sense of duty than she had when she was five years old.”

  Rhis stepped in, her slippered step soundless.

  The audience chamber was not the most imposing room in the castle, but it was the most comfortable. It had rosewood furnishings and gilt lamps and the stone walls were covered by colorful tapestries. The king did most of his work there, often joined by Rhis’s mother, when she could.

  King Armad was seated in his great carved chair, a fine table loaded with neat stacks of paper at his right hand. At his left side, in an equally great chair, sat the queen, a book on her lap, her pen busy on a writing board. She smiled at Rhis then returned to her work.

  “Is there nothing you can attest to in my daughter’s favor?” the queen said in her calm voice. Rhis felt her face go hot. She was reassured to see the humor narrowing her mother’s wide-set gray eyes, though her mouth was serious. “You have had the training of her for ten years.”

  Elda flushed, her round cheeks looking as red as Rhis’s felt. “I have tried my very best,” she said. “What she does well is what she wants to do well—singing, dancing, and reading histories. No one dances better, but a great kingdom like Vesarja will require more of a future queen than dancing, or knowledge of which clans fought which back in the dark days, before Nym became civilized!”

  “This is true,” the king said.

  Elda added, with her chin lifted, “As for what matters most, my own daughter—scarcely ten years old—knows her map better, and the rates of exchange, and can recite almost half the Common Laws. If Rhis knows twelve of them, it would surprise me.”

  The king was still stroking his beard. “But your daughter knows that she will one day rule Nym, after my son. Is Rhis’s character bad? Or her disposition?”

  Rhis bit her lip. She longed to point out that Elda’s disposition was none too amiable, and she’d married a prince. But she stayed silent, fuming to herself.

  Elda gave one of her annoyed sighs, short and sharp. “Her habits are lazy. She would rather loll about in her tower room, piddling with her song books, than apply herself to appropriate studies. Her disposition is not bad, for she does not argue or stamp or shout. She simply disappears when she does not agree with what she ought to be doing.”

  The king looked up at Rhis. “Is this summary true, child?”

  Rhis gulped. She wanted so badly to shout that Elda was not being fair. Rhis was not lazy—she kept busy all the day long. She simply didn’t see the reason to study those dull laws and tables, since she wasn’t going to rule.

  Yet Papa had not asked if Elda’s words were fair. Only if they were true.

  “Yes, Papa,” she said in a subdued voice.

  Her father stroked his long silver-white beard with one hand, and lifted the other toward Queen Hailen.

  The queen said, “We will discuss it further.”

  o0o

  Everyone from high degree to low knew that Elda was a princess, born and raised in Gensam, and Rhis’s mother was just a magician whose family had been farmers. They knew equally well that when King Armad was gone, Rhis’s mother would sail east to the Summer Islands to teach magicians and Gavan and Elda would rule Nym. Still, no one—including Elda—ever argued with Queen Hailen.

  “Very well,” Elda said, and walked out, scarcely giving Rhis a glance.

  “Come, child.” The queen rose to her feet. “I have worked the morning away. Now I need to stir a bit.” As she passed the king she bent a little and laid her hand briefly on his old, gnarled hand.

  The king smiled at them both, then returned to his work. Rhis glanced back doubtfully. She hadn’t really thought about how old her father was. She knew that after a long single life, refusing every match, he’d been nearly fifty when Queen Hailen was sent to replace the old Royal Magician, and he fell in love with her almost at once. Gavan and Sidal had been born each year following the marriage, but another fifteen years had passed before Rhis was born.

  She seldom saw her father, except for formal occasions. Now, as she and her mother passed out onto the roofed terrace, she wondered how she could not have noticed how frail he looked.

  The door closed behind them. Rhis turned to discover her mother studying her. She was now fully as tall as her mother. Who had aged, too. Rhis was eye to eye with her mother. For the first time she saw the tiny lines at the corners of the queen’s mouth and eyes, and her brown hair, so neat in its coronet, was streaked with gray.

  “Is Papa all right?” she asked in a whisper.

  “Your father’s health is good, and his mind is quite as strong as it was when he was young.” The queen smiled, but her eyes were serious. “I confess it would hearten him very much to see you well established.”

  “Well, I do know what my duty is,” Rhis said, trying without success not to sound resentful. “I’ve always known that Gavan and Elda will one day rule, and after them Shera.” Rhis thought of her thin, small niece, named after Elda’s own sister. Princess Shera was so good and perfect. She studied all the time, and never smiled, or laughed, or made jokes. Despite the fact that Elda never failed to hold Shera up to Rhis as an example of what she ought to be, Rhis sometimes felt sorry for her niece. “Sidal will be Royal Ma
gician. And since I did not want to go away and study magic, my duty is to marry to the benefit of Nym.” On impulse Rhis pleaded, “Oh, but is it so wicked to wish for adventure and romance first?”

  “Wicked? No one could say it’s wicked.” The queen laughed softly. “Perhaps the wish for adventure is, oh, a rash one, as adventure is seldom comfortable for anyone undergoing it.”

  Rhis smiled. She had embroidered the saying she thought so wise, taken from one of her ballads:

  Adventure is tragedy triumphed.

  “And romance, for those who wish it, is not unreasonable. It can also lead to disaster, if one makes it an end in itself.”

  Rhis held in a sigh. How many lectures had she endured from the sharp-tongued Elda on the follies of young girls and love?

  A hesitation, a quick glance, then her mother said, “This invitation is a splendid opportunity. It will be a chance to practice courtly behavior among others your age, and to hear the wisdom of your elders in another kingdom. You could learn much.”

  Rhis curtseyed. “Yes, Mama.” She peered out through the misting rain toward the green mountain slopes. In the distance a waterfall thundered. Now that she’d gotten over the surprise, this invitation was beginning to sound more like a duty—and not very romantic at all. The invitation sounded more like a summons.

  “But . . . you wish that this unknown prince had come courting you here, am I right?”

  Rhis stared at her mother.

  “You remind me very much of my sister, who was even more romantic than you,” the queen said, still smiling. “At least you can be practical when it is necessary. Consider this: if you were to marry Prince Lios, you would be living in Vesarja. How else can you find out if you can adapt to their ways?”

  Rhis exclaimed, “Oh! I see. But why are they inviting me? No one knows me—I’ve met no princes. In fact, I’ve hardly met any boys my age.”

  Her mother made a quiet gesture of agreement. Nym’s rulers did not keep court. They met frequently with the guild council, and Elda and Gavan spent the summer and autumn months each year traveling about the country, the better to truly see what the various provincial governors were doing. Last year they had taken their daughter—as future queen, Elda explained, Shera ought to get to know her important subjects—but Rhis had been deemed unnecessary.

  The Queen said, “Your father knows Queen Briath, for they are close to the same age. He thinks that she has invited every young lady she deems eligible so she can look them over at once.”

  Rhis turned to her mother in silent dismay. “So it is a summons!”

  The Queen’s eyes crinkled—just like Sidal’s. “What that really means is that there will be parties, picnics, ridings, dances, and all manner of wonderful festivities planned for the young people. You can be sure that if there are princesses and girls of suitable high rank invited, there will also be boys who very much want to meet those princesses. Even if you and Prince Lios do not take to one another, there will be many opportunities to find another boy you might like better—and you’ll have the time to get to know one another. And meanwhile, you will be an ambassador for our own kingdom. Good relations with our neighbors is important.”

  Rhis laughed. “Being an ambassador might not be romantic, but the parties and dances sound like fun!”

  Queen Hailen patted her cheek. “I think it will be. Flirt all you like, but remember you cannot marry until you are at least twenty. That might be a comfort.”

  Comfort, Rhis thought indignantly.

  Her mother went on with a smile, “At sixteen we often make vows about the rest of our life, but the truth is, the rest of our life usually looks very different at seventeen, and even more different by eighteen. Enough talk! You have a long journey ahead, so you must prepare. And part of that preparation is to listen to Elda. She knows a great deal about the etiquette of court life. This is something I know nothing of, which is why she undertook to teach you, and not I.”

  Rhis bit her lip. She did not want to complain about Elda, but she did not look forward to extra lessons.

  Her mother took both her hands in her cool, strong fingers. “Part of being a ruler is to recognize that everyone has something of value to offer. What isn’t as valuable can be . . . overlooked.”

  Overlooked. Did that mean that the queen knew as well as Rhis did that Elda was a sour-pie?

  The queen gently squeezed Rhis’s hands. “I see you understand what I mean.”

  It was all she said, but suddenly Rhis felt a lot more grown up. “All right, Mama,” she promised. “I’ll learn as much as I can.”

  Two

  Once the decision had been made that Rhis should go, Elda took over the organization of her journey. With her customary brisk and indefatigable energy, she not only insisted on doubling Rhis’s lessons in proper royal etiquette, she also made certain that Rhis would travel with an entourage fit for a princess of Nym, complete to a new wardrobe.

  This last item made all the tedious lessons, and lectures, worthwhile for Rhis. For the first time, she realized what being rich meant.

  Though no one would know it to look at them all in their sturdy castle that had for several centuries held off ferocious winter winds, and equally ferocious warriors, Nym’s royal family was wealthy. Queen Hailen only had a single jeweled and embroidered velvet gown not because they couldn’t afford any others, but because she only wore it once or twice a year, and thought it impractical to order more. She was more proud of her mage’s robes anyway. Those she’d earned, she’d told Rhis once.

  Nym was small, mountainous, wealthy—and not the least romantic any more.

  Rhis could recite Nym’s history without much thinking about it. Its gemstones were world famous, and its mines—most of them made by magic centuries ago by the mysterious Snow Folk, whose descendants lived in the fog-shrouded Summer Islands to the east—difficult for anyone but the people of Nym to find and exploit. Many had been the attempts over the years to conquer Nym, and failing that, to raid the caravans that left twice a year to sell gems. For ages they had been protected by the tough mountain fighters who had honed their abilities in Nym’s interminable clan feuds, but after the country was united, the king had chosen to protect his interests through magic rather than bloodshed.

  Rhis had learned her history, but until now the only part of it that had interested her were the old romances. Not that there were many, but those few had been fairly spectacular—night-time raids, escapes, abductions (planned by the princess in question herself, so it would go right)—and most of them happy. She didn’t like the ones that had come out tragically.

  Finally the last day arrived. Everything was packed, and loaded, and guards picked, and all the servants that Elda thought appropriate for a Princess of Nym were also ready. This included a lady’s maid, something Rhis had never before had. Elda had declared that she would choose a proper lady’s maid, but unexpectedly Queen Hailen had intervened, and saw to the selection herself.

  Rhis did not say anything, but she was secretly glad. Elda’s own lady’s maid was a prim, sour-mouthed woman who spied on servants and royalty alike, reporting wrong-doings—real or assumed—to Elda. Instead of getting another such person (who would, no doubt, write awful reports back to Elda on every mistake Rhis made) she was introduced by her mother to a quiet, calm-faced woman named Keris, with a sweet voice and quiet ways.

  And so, at last, night fell. A terrific storm battered the castle. Rhis lay in her bed listening to the wind howl and rain and hail clatter against the windows. The rain itself didn’t disturb her. Anyone who grew up in Nym knew that mountain weather, though fierce, seldom lasted long. But she was so excited she couldn’t sleep. Even if the night had been balmy and silent, she suspected she’d still be lying awake.

  Finally, when the distant bell rang the midnight pattern, she gave up trying and clapped on her glowglobe. She could at least read for a while, and daydream.

  She was just reaching for a book when she heard a soft tapping at her door
.

  She dashed across the cold stone floor. “Who’s there?”

  The door opened, and to her surprise a tall silhouette in pale blue emerged from the dark hallway and walked into the light room—her sister Sidal.

  “I came to wish you a safe and happy journey.” Sidal sat on the bed beside Rhis.

  As long as she could remember Sidal had been tall and competent and a little remote, busy with her magic studies. At an early age she had showed magical talent, and had trained hard in order to take Mama’s place when it became necessary. Rhis had also shown magical talent, but she’d never had her sister’s interest in the hard work of becoming a mage.

  “Sidal,” Rhis asked doubtfully. “Do you think I’m silly to wish for romance?”

  The silvery light of the glowglobe glinted in her coronet of soft brown hair. Sidal was not pretty. No one in the family was considered pretty. They all had long faces and strongly marked bones, but right then, while she was looking out at the rain-washed window, Rhis thought privately that Sidal was beautiful. “I think,” the princess-mage said slowly, “that it depends on what you mean by romance.”

  “Oh, like the ballads. Overcoming great odds to find your true love, or doing great deeds to save him. ‘Adventure is tragedy triumphed!’ Or he does great deeds to win you. Something dashing and heroic,” Rhis explained. “For love.”

  “Not great deeds.” Sidal gave a tiny shake of her head. “Too many great deeds translate out to be great pain for those who lost.”

  “Except it’s always villains who lose,” Rhis said quickly. “They deserve to lose. When the heroes lose, then it’s a tragedy, and I hate tragedies.”

  “The villains would think their losses tragedy,” Sidal said with a rueful smile. “Of course there are truly evil people in the world. The emperor of Sveran Djur is reputed to be one, and I believe it, for he has done terrible things with his magic. But there are so many others who set out with the best intentions, or what they believe to be the best intentions, and find themselves on the opposing side of others who also have the best intentions. The people on each side, in their own ballads, appear as heroes, and the other side as villains.”