The prince said, quietly, “What’s over? Can you tell me what happened?”
Perrin’s face turned briefly toward the high masters, but no guidance came from there. “There were two very strong—very, very strong—mages. Shadowborn,” she said with an undertone of defiance. Fejelis nodded impatiently. “And a third, Darkborn, almost as strong, and unstable. The two fought each other. And the third—the Darkborn—bound them together until they died. With the help of the Darkborn and the high masters.”
“The Darkborn was Magister Broome?” said Fejelis, frowning.
“No. One by the name of Ishmael di Studier.”
“Ishmael? ”
said Balthasar, involuntarily.
“You know this man? ” Fejelis said, head turning swiftly.
“I mentioned him in the account I gave the judiciary.” Which Fejelis would not have had time to read. What were the essentials? “He’s—was; I’ll explain later—Baron Strumheller of the Borders.”
“They told me in Strumheller Crosstracks he had been lost during the retreat. They told me he was a mage, but not that he was high ranked.” His voice was edged with strain and suspicion.
“He’s not. He’s first rank, and he’d taken an injury that left even that unusable. Something must have happened to him. He trained with the Broomes—follows their codes.”
Jovance lifted her head. “We must bind him,” she said in that strangely hollow, uninflected voice that told them the archmage and high masters were speaking through her. Fejelis’s shoulders tensed. He stood up to his full height, looking down at her. “Why? ”
“His magic is unstable; he’s a danger to us all.” Jovance’s voice shifted to a normal, young woman’s alto. “Fejelis,” she said, urgently, “this man is even stronger than my grandfather was, and has no more control. It’s not punitive; it’s for all our safety.”
The Lightborn prince was young; he could not entirely hide his thoughts, though Balthasar did not know him well enough to guess what they were. But if the Temple’s handling of Balthasar himself were any measure, there would be layer upon layer of motivation for this, and one of the layers would be power.
Jovance tendered, softly, “Fejelis, Tam’s still alive.”
Fejelis blinked a couple of times, facing over their heads, but chose not to answer her. To Balthasar, he said, “. . . How will the Darkborn react to this?”
“Farquhar Broome will understand the necessity,” Magistra Valetta said. “The rest . . . are not strong enough to trouble us.”
Balthasar only half understood this, but what he understood did not sound good. “Baron Strumheller is a nobleman of the Darkborn realm. Please don’t underestimate the reaction of the archduke and the aristocracy.” Which was stretching it, considerably, in one direction, and not at all in another. The aristocracy might not care what became of Ishmael, but they would care intensely about the principle, the trespass against the boundary of sunset.
“Envoy Hearne,” Magistra Valetta said. “This is a matter of magic.”
Floria’s hand closed firmly on his arm. He knew a warning grip when he felt one. Nevertheless, he said, “Knowing the man as I do, if he truly is a danger to you all, he would willingly let you bind him until he achieves control. He is highly principled, deeply loyal, and has used his magic solely to heal and protect.”
“It is not a matter of the man’s intent—” She broke off suddenly.
Jovance gave an urgent shout of,
“Fejelis!”
The prince whirled and dropped down beside her and caught her as she pitched backward. Balthasar felt magic surge around him, roiling and chaotic, and redolent of the death that Sebastien had carried in his touch.
“Come with me,” said Floria, harshly, to him. On the far side of the prince, Lapaxo raised his head; Floria, ever alert, answered his stare. “If that ensorcellment comes off him, he’s a dead man.” She didn’t wait for leave, but three vigilants caught up with her in the doorway. Floria said, “Carry him,” and he felt himself caught up and lifted off his feet by two taller vigilants.
“Where?” one said.
“The training room.”
Hallways, stairs, at a sprint, Balthasar pinned between them, his sonn making scant sense of anything he passed. Smells of fresh bread, laundry, old socks. They skidded to a halt in front of a door; Floria wrenched it open, and they threw him in. He landed badly, painfully hard, on bare floor. The door slammed on him. He heard her shouting his name, but all he was aware of was the magic, deathly and incoherent, as it tore at the life of every magical entity within the city, from the strongest to the least significant. His last conscious thought was,
Telmaine . . .
Eleven
Telmaine
“
W
ell” was the first thing Telmaine heard. “Words quite fail me.” The voice was that of Telmaine’s imperious elder sister, Merivan. But Merivan was in the city, where Telmaine had left her. Merivan could not be here.
“That’d be a first,” whispered Balthasar, breath stirring Telmaine’s hair.
She turned her head toward his voice, sensing even as she did the presence of magic encasing that familiar vitality. What was Balthasar? “Bal?”
His answer was to draw her to him, bedcovers and all, tucking her head against his neck, mind open to her in utter abandonment and an incontinence of thought uncharacteristic of him. She mumbled protest, both at that and the force of his embrace.
“I shall tell Mother that she appears to be awake,” Merivan said over their heads. “Assuming,” she added, “you do not smother her in the meantime, and add to the scandal the two of you have visited on our family.”
She left in haste. Merivan never liked to be around people when she cried.
“Bal,” Telmaine mumbled, “I have to breathe.”
His grip eased, and she abruptly changed her mind and put her arms around him. “I thought you were gone,” he whispered against her neck. Through her touch-sense, like a spill of gaming chips, came the memories: that ghastly boy insisting she was dead, the archduke failing to contradict it, crossing to the other side of sunrise, Floria . . . She caught her breath in jealous shock. “Why didn’t the archduke
tell
you?” she demanded. “Vladimer said he was acting on
his
orders. Wasn’t he? ”
“He was. He simply did too thorough a job of making it appear you had died, using the ash, having you leave your jewelry—”
“Oh, do you have it?” It seemed of paramount importance that his silver love knot once more be resting in the hollow of her throat, that his rings be circling her fingers, all recovered from the ash of her false death. He produced all from his breast pocket and silently fastened the chain around her neck, and slid the rings onto her fingers. She remembered how cold his hands had been during their wedding ceremony, the high-society wedding an ordeal for the shy, young physician. They seemed little warmer now. They also reeked of Lightborn inks. His thoughts were troubled and complex and scarcely coherent—but she did sense his joy and profound relief at having her
back
. “What have you been
doing
, Balthasar, and why do you have that ensorcellment on you? ”
“Acting as the archduke’s personal envoy to the Lightborn court. It’s likely to become a long-term position—”
Before she could question the thoughts behind his words, the doors swung open on a chorus of “Mama, mama, mama! ” Balthasar intercepted their daughters’ charge long enough to rescue Amerdale’s kitten before Florilinde, with Amerdale two hands and a knee behind, threw herself on Telmaine.
Amerdale got the first words in. “Mama, you slept through my
birthday
! ”
Florilinde corrected, with all the authority of her year’s seniority, “She wasn’t sleeping; she was
very ill
.”
“Did you have a baby? ”
“Amerdale! ” That was Merivan, shocked.
Telmaine abandoned her maternal responsibility to correct and guide, and forgot her concerns about her husband, and simply shook with laughter. Balthasar remained straight-faced, cradling the kitten in one hand and stroking it with the other. Its tiny mouth opened and closed, mewling unheard over the rumpus. The room filled: Merivan; the dowager Duchess Stott, who had last sonned her daughter being led to her execution; her stodgy elder brother, the current Duke Stott; her flighty younger sister, Anarysinde; her other brothers . . .
“I haven’t the stamina to be an invalid,” Telmaine complained, after the dowager had finally shooed them all out—knowing her family, just before celebration turned to recrimination. “I couldn’t entertain all these
visitors
.” Getting out of bed was easier announced than achieved; she was shocked to find how much support she needed simply to reach the armchair. Balthasar succeeded in tucking in the corners of his smile at her affront, but not the smile itself.
“And how
many
kittens did Amerdale cozen you into allowing into the household? ” she said, once settled.
“Only three. One for her, one for Flori, and one for me.” The rhythm was that of a six-year-old piously enumerating fair-shares. “There’ll be one for you, if you want it. Of course, if we take that one, we’ll not be able to leave the last of the litter behind.”
“Mother of All, we’ll be overrun with cats.” She put her hands out, decently gloved again, and he took them tightly in his. “There were times I never thought we’d . . . Bal, what happened? After I . . . after—”
He released a hand to touch her lips, gently; behind the touch was the memory of retrieving her from the Borders and bringing her home. “You’ve been unconscious for nearly three weeks; that’s why you’re so weak, in part. Olivede thinks your magical strength will come back, given time. I must let her know. You mustn’t try to use it yet, and you shouldn’t try at all unless there are one or more other mages around.”
“I would be happy never to use it again,” she said, with feeling. “Oh, Balthasar,
who
? ”
She hated that guarded professional expression that told her he was weighing how much to tell her. “Balthasar, please. I
know
people died. Just tell me who.”
Ishmael
. . .
He sighed. “We lost Farquhar Broome. The Lightborn archmage and two of the high masters. Magister Tammorn. Neill of the Shadowborn. Between the six of them, they managed to shield the rest of you, to some extent. Magistra Phoebe is still unconscious—she was most closely linked to her father. I’d have been dead, too, but for Floria. She realized what would happen to the ensorcellment on me if anything happened to the high masters. She got me into a dark room just in time.”
“I will thank her for that.” She breathed into her hands. “But Ishmael. Is he . . . ? Where is he? ”
“My brother, who turned up in Isolde’s service, told me that Ishmael simply disappeared.
Lifted
, to where, we don’t know. Olivede tells me that she thinks both Magister Broome and the archmage of the Darkborn
gifted
him—as Ishmael did you—with as much of their knowledge of magic as they could. This was in the last moments of their lives, and quite possibly a sacrificial move. It may have helped him regain control. In any case, none of the surviving mages have been able to sense him. As far as I know—and I think I am close enough to both the archduke and the prince now that I would be told—no one else knows where he is, either.”
“He could be dead,” she whispered.
“I don’t think so. If he were, and assuming we understand the situation correctly, the Curse would have failed. We are still Lightborn and Darkborn, and still alive.”
“Still . . . alive? ”
“A rather chilling speculation that came up in the aftermath: given Imogene’s nature, would she permit release of her curse without consequences?”
“You’ve been spending
far
too much time around Vladimer.”
He gave a rueful smile and a slight headshake. “Not Vladimer; Lysander. He was captured outside Stranhorne, searching for his son.”
“And the boy? ” she said, tight-lipped.
“He lived,” Balthasar said. “In poor shape, but expected to recover eventually. He’s with the Temple. They’ll be able to train and discipline him; they’ve still got enough mages of sufficient strength to control him. And he’s safer under Lightborn law. His twins are with the Broomes still, which is where I’d sooner they stay.”
She sat straighter in her chair, the better to give force to her assertion. “If either that boy or your brother does the least thing to hurt you—”
“Lysander went south—to Isolde’s stronghold—as soon as he was certain the Temple would look after the boy. I think his Shadowborn lady—Ariadne, the boy’s mother—came through, but I don’t know how well. I offered to help, if he needed it, but I don’t believe he will take me up on that. It was a strange meeting. I suspect he might try to come to an arrangement with Vladimer. I think they might understand each other quite well.”
“Vladimer,” Telmaine said, suspiciously. “Why Vladimer? ”
“The archduke signed an order of exile on Lord Vladimer four days ago.”
“That’s not fair! ”
Balthasar smiled at her swift reversal. “Political necessity, given the mood in the Lightborn court. And Sylvide’s death.” She chewed her fingertip. How could she have neglected Sylvide? Yet Vladimer’s public trial and punishment—possibly even execution—would achieve . . . what?
Politics,
she thought. When had affairs she disdained as not seemly for a lady’s attention come to define the fates of people she cared for?
Despite
herself, in some cases.
Balthasar continued, thoughtfully, “I also suspect that Sejanus is using this to place Vladimer in Atholaya. Ferdenzil Mycene will surely take an interest in the choice parts, though the archduke may regard that as preferable to his interest in the Islands. Though I think his relationship with the Stranhornes will not be the same as before, which is all to the good.”
“Might Mycene marry Lavender? They seemed to be getting . . . on in Stranhorne Crosstracks.” He’d laugh at her if she had to admit that she’d concluded it from an argument and Lavender’s concern for Mycene’s bereavement. At least, she hoped he would laugh at her. She hoped he was still capable of laughter.