I nodded, and for the first time comprehended what a
relationship with him really meant for the rest of my life.
"The goldenwood throne," I said. "In the letter. I thought you
had it ordered for, well, someone else."
His smile was gone. "It doesn't yet exist. How could it?
Though I intend for there to be one, for the duties of ruling
have to begin as a partnership. Until the other night, I had no
idea if I would win you or not."
"Win me," I repeated. "What a contest!"
He smiled, but continued. "I was beginning to know you
through the letters, but in person you showed me that same
resentful face. Life! That day you came into the alcove looking
for histories, I was sitting there writing to you. What a
coil!"
For the first time I laughed, though it was somewhat
painful.
"But I took the risk of mentioning the throne as a somewhat
desperate attempt to bridge the two. When you stopped writing
and walked around for two days looking lost, it was the very
first sign that I had any hope."
"Meanwhile you had all this to deal with." I waved westward,
indicating the Marquise's plots.
"It was a distraction," he said with some of his old irony.
I thought about myself showing up on his trail, put there by
servants who were—I realized now—doing their very
best to throw us together, but with almost disastrous results.
It was only his own faith that saved that situation, a faith I
hadn't shared.
I looked at him, and again saw that assessing glance. "The
throne won't be ordered until you give the word. You need time
to decide if this is the life you want," he said. "Of all the
women I know you've the least interest in rank for the sake of
rank."
"The direct result of growing up a barefoot countess," I
said, trying for lightness.
He smiled back, then took both my hands. "Which brings us to
a piece of unpleasant news that I have not known how to
broach."
"Unpleasant—oh, can't it wait?" I exclaimed.
"If you wish."
At once I scolded myself for cowardice. "And leave you with
the burden? Tell me, if the telling eases it."
He made a faint grimace. "I don't know that anything can
ease it, but it is something you wanted to know and could not
find out."
I felt coldness turn my bones to water. "My mother?"
"Your mother," he said slowly, still holding my hands,
"apparently was learning sorcery. For the best of
motives—to help the kingdom, and to prevent war. She was
selected by the Council of Mages to study magic. Her books came
from Erev-li-Erval. Apparently the Marquise found out when she
was there to establish Flauvic at the Court of the Empress. She
sent a courier to apprise her brother."
"And he had her killed." Now I could not stop the tears from
burning my eyes, and they ran unheeded down my cheeks. "And
Papa knew about the magic. Which must be why he burned the
books."
"And why he neglected your education, for he must have
feared that you would inherit her potential for magic-learning.
Anyway, I found the Marquise's letter among Galdran's things
last year. I just did not know how to tell you—how to
find the right time, or place."
"And I could have found out last year, if I'd not run away."
I took a deep, unsteady breath. "Well. Now I know. Shall we get
on with our task?"
"Are you ready for another ride?"
"Of course."
He kissed my hands, first one, then the other. I felt that
thrill run through me, chasing away for now the pain of grief,
of regret.
"Then let's address the business before us. I hope and trust
we'll have the remainder of our lives to talk all this over and
compare misguided reactions, but for now..." He rose and pulled
me to my feet. Still holding on to my hands, he continued, "...
shall we agree to a fresh beginning?"
I squeezed his hands back. "Agreed."
"Then let me hear my name from you, just once, before we
proceed further. My name, not any of the titles."
"Vidanric," I said, and he kissed me again, then
laughed.
Soon we were racing side by side cross-country again, on the
last leg of the journey to Remalna-city.
I now had fresh subjects to think about, of course, but it
is always easier to contemplate how lucky one is than about
past betrayal and murder—and I knew my mother would want
my happiness above anything.
Who can ever know what turns the spark into flame?
Vidanric's initial interest in me might well have been kindled
by the fact that he saw my actions as courageous, but the
subsequent discovery of passion, and the companionship of mind
that would sustain it, seemed as full of mystery as it was of
felicity. As for me, I really believe the spark had been there
all along, but I had been too ignorant—and too
afraid—to recognize it.
I was still thinking it all over as dawn gradually dissolved
the shadows around us and the light strengthened from blue to
the peach of a perfect morning. There was no wind, yet the
grasses and shrubs in the distance rustled gently. Never near
us, always in the distance either before or behind, as if a
steady succession of breezes rippled just ahead of us,
converging on the capital. Again I sensed presence, though
there was nothing visible, so I convinced myself it was just my
imagination.
We clattered into the streets of Remalna under a brilliant
sky. The cobblestones were washed clean, the roofs of the
houses steamed gently. A glorious day, which should have
brought everyone out not just for market but to talk and walk
and enjoy the clear air and sunshine.
But every window was shuttered, and we rode alone along the
main streets. I sensed eyes on us from behind the barriers of
curtain, shutter, and door, and my hand drifted near the
saddle-sword that I still carried, poor as that might serve as
a weapon against whatever awaited us.
And yet nothing halted our progress, not even when we
reached the gates of Athanarel.
It was Vidanric who spotted the reason why. I blinked,
suddenly aware of a weird singing in my ears, and shook my
head, wishing I'd had more sleep. Vidanric edged his mount near
mine. He lifted his chin and glanced up at the wall. My gaze
followed his, and a pang of shock went through me when I saw
the white statues of guards standing as stiff as stone in the
place where living beings ought to be.
We rode through the gates and the singing in my ears
intensified, a high, weird note. The edges of my vision
scintillated with rainbow sparks and glitters, and I kept
trying—unsuccessfully—to blink it away.
Athanarel was utterly still. It was like a winter's day,
only there was no snow, just the bright glitter overlaying the
quiet greenery and water, for even the fountains had stopped.
Here and there more of the sinister white statues dotted the
scene, people frozen mid-stride, or seated, or reaching to
touch a door. A danger sense, more profound than any I had yet
felt, gripped me. Beside me Vidanric rode with wary tension in
his countenance, his gaze everywhere, watching, assessing.
We progressed into the great courtyard before the Royal
Hall. The huge carved doors stood wide open, the liveried
servants who tended them frozen and white.
We slowed our mounts and stopped at the terraced steps.
Vidanric's face was grim as he dismounted. In silence we walked
up the steps. I glanced at the door attendant, at her frozen
white gaze focused beyond me, and shuddered.
Inside, the Throne Room was empty save for three or four
white statues.
No, not empty.
As we walked further inside, the sun-dazzle diminished, and
in the slanting rays of the west windows we saw the throne, its
highlights firelined in gold and crimson.
Seated on it, dressed entirely in black, golden hair lit
like a halo round his head, was Flauvic.
He smiled gently. "What took you so long, my dear cousin
Vidanric?" he said.
TWENTY-THREE
COUSIN?
I THOUGHT.
Vidanric said, "Administrative details."
Flauvic made an ironic half bow from his seat on the throne.
"For which I thank you. Tiresome details." The metallic golden
eyes swept indifferently over me, then he frowned slightly and
looked again. "Meliara. This is a surprise; I took you for a
servant." His voice was meant to sting.
So I grinned. "You have an objection to honest work?"
As a zinger it wasn't much, but Flauvic gave me an
appreciative smile. "This," he waved lazily at Vidanric, "I
hadn't foreseen. And it's a shame. I'd intended to waken you
for some diversion, when things were settled."
That silenced me.
"You included sorcery among your studies at Court?" Vidanric
asked.
Personal insults vanished as I realized what it was my inner
senses had been fighting against: magic, lots of it, and not a
good kind.
"I did," Flauvic said, stretching out his hands. "So much
easier and neater than troubling oneself with tiresome allies
and brainless lackeys."
I sighed, realizing how again he'd played his game by his
own rules. He'd showed me that magic, and though he had called
it illusion, I ought to have let someone else know.
"I take it you wish to forgo the exchange of niceties and
proceed right to business," he went on. "Very well." He rose in
a fluid, elegant movement and stepped down from the dais to the
nearest white statue. "Athanarel serves as a convenient
boundary. I have everyone in it under this stone-spell. I spent
my time at Meliara's charming entertainment the other night
ascertaining where everyone of remotest value to you would be
the next day, and I have my people with each right now. You
have a choice before you. Cooperate with me—obviating the
need for tedious efforts that can be better employed
elsewhere—or else, one by one, they will suffer the same
fate as our erstwhile friend here."
He nodded at the statue, who, I realized then, was the Duke
of Grumareth. The man had been frozen in the act of groveling
or begging, if his stance was any indication. An unappealing
sight, yet so very characteristic.
Flauvic suddenly produced a knife from his clothing and
jabbed the point against the statue, which tipped and shattered
into rubble on the marble floor.
"That will be a nasty mess when I do lift the spell,"
Flauvic went on, still smiling gently. "But then we won't have
to see it, will we?" He stopped, and let the horrifying
implications sink in.
The Prince and Princess. Savona. Tamara. Bran and Nee.
Elenet. Good people and bad, silly and smart, they would all be
helpless victims.
I'd left my sword in the saddle sheath, but I could still
try. My heart crashed like a three-wheeled cart on a stone
road.
I
must try,
I thought, as I stepped
forward.
"Meliara," Vidanric said quickly. He didn't look at me, but
kept his narrowed gaze on Flauvic. "Don't. He knows how to use
that knife."
Flauvic's smile widened. "Observant of you," he murmured,
saluting with the blade. "I worked so hard to foster the image
of the scholarly recluse. When did you figure out that my
mother's plans served as my diversion?"
"As I was walking in here," Vidanric replied just as
politely. "Recent events having precluded the luxury of time
for reflection."
Flauvic looked pleased; any lesser villain would have
smirked. He turned to me and, with a mockingly courteous
gesture, said, "I fault no one for ambition. If you wish, you
may gracefully exit now and save yourself some regrettably
painful experience. I like you. Your ignorance is refreshing,
and your passions amusing. For a time we could keep each other
company."
I opened my mouth, trying to find an insult cosmic enough to
express my rejection, but I realized just in time that
resistance would only encourage him. He would enjoy my being
angry and helpless, and I knew then what he would not enjoy.
"Unfortunately," I said, striving to mimic Vidanric's most
annoying Court drawl, "I find you boring."
His face didn't change, but I swear I saw just a little
color on those flawless cheeks. Then he dismissed me from his
attention and faced Vidanric again. "Well? There is much to be
done, and very soon your militia leaders will be here clamoring
for orders. We'll need to begin as we mean to go on, which
means
you
must be the one to convince them of the
exchange of kings." He smiled—a cruel, cold, gloating
smile.
Flauvic was thoroughly enjoying it all. He obviously liked
playing with his victims—which gave me a nasty little
hint of what being his companion would be like.
My eyes burned with hot tears. Not for my own defeat, for
that merely concerned myself. Not even for the unfairness. I
wept in anger and grief for the terrible decision that Vidanric
faced alone, with which I could not help. Either he consigned
all the Court to death and tried to fight against a sorcerer,
or he consigned the remainder of the kingdom to what would
surely be a governance more dreadful than even Galdran's had
been.
Vidanric stood silently next to me, his head bowed a little,
his forehead creased with the intensity of his thought. There
was nothing I could do, either for him or against his
adversary. I had from all appearances been dismissed, though I
knew if I moved I'd either get the knife or the spell. So I
remained where I was, free at least to think.
And to listen.
Which was how I became aware of the sighing of the wind. No,
it was not wind, for it was too steady for that. But what else
could it be? A faint sound as yet, like a low moan, not from
any human voice. The moan of the wind, or of—
I sucked in a deep breath. Time. I sensed that a diversion
was needed, and luckily there was Flauvic's penchant for play.
So I snuffled back my tears and said in a quavering voice,
"What'll happen to us?"