“Is the captain here with her party?” Huryl spoke to the doorkeeper while his eyes roved the packed antechamber.
Kallista’s eyes narrowed. Huryl seemed to be hoping they hadn’t come. Why? He could have no reason to dislike her without ever having met her, and she could be no possible threat to his power. She had to be imagining it.
“Yes, High Steward.” The doorkeeper gestured. Kallista stepped forward, Torchay just behind her left shoulder, Aisse trying to keep out of sight behind both of them.
Huryl looked them over with the same dissatisfied expression he’d done everything with so far. “Very well.” He backed away, holding the door wide. “Come.”
Kallista felt her queue as she approached the door, checking for neatness.
“Stop fussing,” Torchay muttered. “You look fine.”
She glanced at him, flashing a quick grin. “So do you.”
And they were inside, proceeding down the length of a high, wide, endless chamber between two rows of white marble columns. The floor was an inlaid mosaic—stone, not tile—of green and gold twining cheerfully around and through the black-and-white marble geometrics.
When they drew close enough, Kallista saw that the golden throne sat empty, a red velvet throw tossed carelessly over the arms. Huryl led them past the throne on its dais to a door hidden behind a tapestry depicting hunters flying hawks. Beyond it, they were ushered into a room like many Kallista had known, with maps and papers tossed onto tabletops, books crowding shelves, chairs scattered everywhere. It was a working headquarters. The furnishings were of more luxurious materials than Kallista was accustomed to, and the inhabitants smelled rather better, but the familiar scene relaxed the tension between her shoulders.
The breeze coming through the open windows stirred the clutter on the wide desk. A slender white arm emerged from the cluster of fringe-shouldered generals, picked up a gem-crusted silver goblet and used it as a paperweight.
Huryl cleared his throat. “Your Majesty.”
CHAPTER ELEVEN
T
he generals parted and Kallista caught a glimpse of the Reinine before sweeping into a bow so low her forehead nearly touched her knee. “Majesty.”
“Rise, Captain. All of you,” the Reinine added when Torchay and Aisse didn’t move as Kallista straightened.
The ruler of the twenty-seven prinsipalities of Adara held out her hand. Startled by this gesture of extreme honor, Kallista took it and bent to kiss the ring she wore—a ring that could be the twin of the one on her own finger. The Reinine’s ring showed centuries of wear that Kallista’s did not, and it made her stifle a shudder. She could see Huryl frowning from the corner of her eye. What did he have against her? Or was she imagining his animosity?
“Come.” The Reinine gestured toward the window and Kallista followed as she drew aside.
Only now could Kallista take in details of the woman to whom she had sworn allegiance. The Reinine was a small woman, not as tiny as Aisse, but half a head shorter than Kallista. Her blond hair was streaked with gray, dressed simply in a coronet of braids atop her head. Her blue eyes held an ageless wisdom, and a warmth that had Kallista wanting to wrap herself in it.
“So,” Serysta Reinine said. “Tell me what has happened to you, my naitan.”
Kallista found herself pouring out the tale. It took some time in the telling, with the Reinine’s frequent interruptions for questions. There was a quarrel with the Reinine’s pair of bodyguards over whether Kallista would remove her glove to show the ring she had received in her dream. The Reinine won.
The glove was removed, Torchay standing close by to hold the glove and return it when the inspection of the ring was completed. When Kallista’s tale was done, Torchay was called to the window to tell his tale, and after him, Aisse.
The clocks had told several hours by the time they finished. “Do you know what this means, Majesty?” Kallista asked when she and Torchay were bid to join Aisse.
“No, naitan, I am afraid I do not. I have suspicions, but—”
Kallista wanted to demand explanations but could not. Not of the Reinine. Instead, she inclined her head in obedience. “I await your pleasure, Your Majesty.”
“I have not seen you at dinner, have I, naitan?” Serysta Reinine said.
“Er—no, Your Majesty.” The question startled Kallista. “We’ve been eating in our chamber.”
“I was not aware you wished the captain to be included in court activities,” Huryl said smoothly. “I will see to it at once.”
Kallista didn’t know whether to resent Huryl’s subtle insult in using her military rank rather than her title as naitan, or the Reinine’s unexpected generosity. She didn’t think she wanted inclusion. Court was expensive, and as a temple child, she did not have an independent income. Nor did she particularly like the thought of putting on her best clothes and best manners every third night. But it was kind of the Reinine. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
The Reinine smiled. “Do not feel that you
must
come, naitan. Only if you wish.”
“Thank you, Your Majesty.” This time a smile accompanied Kallista’s words. She should have known the Reinine would read the truth. It was her magic, after all, truth-saying.
“We will speak again, when I have consulted with my scholars and meditated on the matter.”
Kallista bowed low and left the room with her companions. The Reinine, her guards and the generals followed her out, but stopped at the dais. Kallista decided the next appointment must be designated for the throne room. Someone they needed to impress. Huryl escorted them down the length of the room, not quite so endless now they were departing, and opened the door.
The waiting crowd swayed forward as they emerged. Huryl had turned to the doorkeeper, Kallista and her party already forgotten. Torchay stepped forward to force a passage from the antechamber, when a hoarse shout echoed through the room.
“Chosen One! Chosen of the One!” a man’s voice cried out.
Kallista turned, her attention caught like that of everyone else in the room, and saw a hand reach through the press of bodies toward her. Steel encircled the wrist, led to another hand, led to a man in shackles, his eyes wild as he struggled to free himself from the soldiers who held him.
She could see Torchay caught by the curious crowd, fighting to reach her, heard him bellow her name, but the prisoner held all her attention, somehow keeping her in place. Despite the tight queue it was bound into, the bright yellow of his hair and golden hue of his skin declared him another Tibran.
Where had he come from? Why was he in Arikon? What was he doing? He threw himself forward and his outstretched hand latched itself around Kallista’s wrist.
Power slammed into her with the force of a storm-driven wave and she screamed as it tumbled her head over heels in its wake. The Tibran shouted in chorus with her, convulsing as the magic reverberated between their bodies with ever-increasing speed and strength.
She could feel him inside her skin, or perhaps she was inside his. They slid through each other, touching things that were never meant to be touched, a fiery caress of souls that made her scream again with the pleasure of it. The magic exploded, fountaining up through the room in a pyrotechnic shower of invisible color. She could not hold it, neither the pleasure nor the magic, and she screamed one more time as she collapsed on the anteroom floor, bringing the Tibran down with her.
The magic faded, folding in on itself. She felt stretched, somehow made larger. Slowly the magic ebbed out of her, not into the air around them or the marble beneath them. It flowed into the Tibran lying with his face in her lap. His shackled hands clutched her knees as he shivered and twitched on the floor.
“No.” The Reinine’s voice carried from the doorway over all the noise. “Don’t touch them. Don’t separate them.”
Kallista could see Torchay’s hand held motionless, inches away from her, other hands stopped as they reached for the Tibran. She gasped for air, trying to comprehend what had just happened.
“Well,” the Reinine said as she entered the suddenly vacant anteroom. “It seems you have made your presence known to the court in an interesting way, my naitan.”
“Wh—” Kallista had to stop and make her lips cease trembling before she could try again. “What was that?”
“Other than enough magic to move mountains, I am not sure.” The Reinine pushed between her bodyguards to come closer. “What do you think it was?”
Kallista shook her head. She felt hollowed out, empty, perhaps because she had been so full.
“You’re petting him,” Torchay said quietly from his place on one knee beside her.
So she was. Without her realizing it, her hand was stroking over the Tibran’s head, smoothing down the hair that rebelled against its confinement by fluffing out wherever it could. She stopped the motion, but could not seem to remove her hand. It…comforted her somehow, though she couldn’t feel much through her glove.
“Who is this man?” the Reinine asked of those remaining in the room.
“Reinine.” An officer in infantry dun bowed low. One pair of ribbons, white. A lieutenant.
A man, Kallista realized, when he straightened. No wonder the voice had seemed so unusually low-pitched. She’d heard there was a male officer in Ukiny’s garrison, but had been too busy to seek him out, to see what such a creature might be like. Was this the same man or one of the few others?
“This man is a prisoner from the battle at Ukiny,” the lieutenant said. He was old for a lieutenant, almost Kallista’s age, she judged, and she was old for a captain. But then he was male. His medium-brown hair was combed straight back from a forehead as high as Torchay’s into a tight queue three times as long as most, falling forward over his shoulder. From her vantage on the floor, Kallista could see the crossed swords of Filorne prinsipality, just to the north of Turysh, embroidered on his dun tunic in silver and black. “Stone, Warrior vo’Tsekrish,” he continued. “He is the only Tibran inside the city to survive—”
The lieutenant seemed to realize then just who held his prisoner’s head in her lap. Without altering his low bow, he looked at her, the bright blue of his eyes meeting her own. “To survive the—the magic that ended the assault.”
“I was told no one lived. No Tibran.” Kallista had to still her hand again. It wanted to stroke him.
“As was I.” The Reinine’s amused voice startled Kallista. She had forgotten her ruler’s presence. “Rise, Lieutenant. Suteny, isn’t it?”
He looked as if he would sweep into another bow, but confined himself to a deep nod instead. “Yes, Your Majesty. Joh Suteny.”
“Of Filorne. They raise fine horses in Filorne. And fine men. Congratulations on your accomplishments.”
The praise made him blush. He inclined his head again. “Thank you, Your Majesty.”
The man in Kallista’s lap went stiff with tension, his trembling ceased. Kallista removed her hand from his head. What had the lieutenant said his name was? “Stone.”
The Tibran threw himself back, scrabbling along the floor in a clatter of chains until he fetched up against the wall, his eyes white and rolling with terror. Torchay moved when Stone did, interposing his body between Kallista and the bound man.
“Aisse,” Kallista called to her servant. “Speak to him. Tell him he’s safe.” She feared she would pick the wrong language to try on the prisoner.
The small woman spoke from her position crouched behind Kallista, relaying the message. Stone looked wildly from one woman to the other.
“He speaks Adaran.” Suteny moved toward the huddled Tibran. “Perfect Adaran.” He went down on one knee, speaking quietly to Stone, but the chained man’s eyes never left Kallista.
He had blue eyes too, strange in a Tibran’s golden-skinned face. He was a handsome man with a finely carved straight nose and sensitive mouth. He looked as if he was a man who smiled often, or had been once. Now his face showed only fear.
“Warrior,” Serysta Reinine said, but he did not look away.
His tongue crept out, traveled across dry, shaking lips. “What have you done to me, witch?”
Kallista used Torchay’s shoulder to get back to her feet. “The proper title is naitan, and I should ask you the same. What did you do to me?”
He shook his head. Suteny stood and lifted the Tibran to his feet. “Nothing,” Stone said. “I did—I don’t—I remember nothing until—” He blushed and Kallista knew he recalled the sensuous rush of the magic pounding through them both. She had felt it with him, felt what he felt and knew now that he had received her reactions in turn. It disturbed her, yet she thought it should disturb her more.
“Are you marked, warrior?” the Reinine asked.
Marked?
Kallista shot her Reinine a sharp look. What hadn’t she been told?
Suteny took the prisoner by the shoulder and turned him so his back was to the Reinine, then tipped his head forward and moved aside the stubby queue. Kallista shivered in a sudden chill. Serysta glided forward, her feet invisible beneath her wide-skirted robes. The Tibran had to bend lower before the Reinine could look at the back of the warrior’s neck. Then she turned and beckoned to Kallista. “Come and see.”
Shaking her head no, Kallista came as she was bid, Torchay hard by her side. She looked.
There on the Tibran’s nape, rising almost into his hairline, was a round, mottled red mark. The shading, red into pale into red again, made it look very much like a…rose. Kallista’s hand lifted, touched it. Stone twitched as he might have if she’d shocked him with a spark, but she was gloved. The sparks couldn’t escape until her control improved. Nor could she feel his mark’s texture. She wanted to, needed to, but couldn’t remove her glove here.
“Does it look like—” She glanced at the Reinine first, who didn’t notice her, or didn’t wish to, then at Torchay.
He nodded. “Like yours, without the compass.” His eyes were liquid with compassion. She wanted to step into his arms, use them to ease the yearning ache the magic had created.
“Show him,” Serysta Reinine said.
Now Kallista turned, lowered her head, moved aside the queue. She could feel Torchay’s tension vibrating the air as the prisoner turned, his cascade of chains rattling. She could feel his gaze on her neck, or imagined she could. The chains rattled again and Torchay moved, lightning quick as only he could, catching the prisoner’s wrist.