This time, she saw it happen. The belly of the effigy burst open and a hail of objects was propelled at high speed through the air toward the crowd. The red-haired mage moved his hands slightly, and his lips formed words she did not hear. The blades dropped from the sky as if the air itself had been drawn out from beneath them, and they clattered harmlessly to the ground.
The third effigy began to sway. A woman with short dark hair ran at the toppling figure and thrust out both of her hands, palms forward, and then brought them down sharply. Water flowed out of the nearby well and a watering trough for horses and it slammed into the burning effigy, extinguishing the flames. It groaned and wobbled, and then collapsed to the ground as the crowd fled as best they could in the press, but the deadly payload inside did not discharge.
It was impossible for Aidane to tell from the crowd who was trying to flee for their lives and who was running toward the effigies to stop the carnage. With the mages and many of the soldiers out of their normal dress, she had no idea who was who. A dozen men ran at the legs of the effigy to the Crone and brought it to the ground. It crashed with a solid thud, far too heavy for a straw shell, but none of its weapons discharged.
Two more of the effigies were burning. A dark-haired man with a determined look planted himself in front of the third effigy, the figure of the Mother. He brought his open
palms up from his sides in a swift gesture. A wall of dirt rose into the air high enough to reach the effigy’s head, and then the full weight of the airborne ground struck the effigy, cracking its supports and toppling it as the crowd surged to outrun its falling weight.
Men Aidane assumed were soldiers were trying to keep the panicked crowd from stampeding, with only partial success, but they had cleared a swath around the last burning effigy, the figure of Istra, the Dark Lady. A thin young man with lank, straw-blond hair stood alone in that no-man’s area. He brought his hands together with a clap that sounded like thunder, and then pushed out with both palms at once, sending a stream of red fire to match the flames of the burning figure. For a moment, flame seemed to fight flame, and then the red fire won, consuming the figure in a blaze of lethal heat that singed Aidane’s hair although she was a distance away. The fire mage held his ground, although his clothing began to smoke. Whatever weapons the effigy might have held inside never had the chance to discharge. One moment, the figure was intact, identifiable; the next, it crumbled to the ground in a mound of cinders and ash.
The soldiers had pushed down the rest of the effigies that were not on fire, aided by some of the clear-headed men in the crowd. A thick blanket of smoke hung over the festival area, which was much emptier of people than it had been not long before. Over the din of voices, Aidane could hear soldiers shouting for order. She blinked against the smoke, amazed to still be alive.
Aidane became aware of chanting, and she looked up to see the Sacred Vessels standing in a protective circle around Berry, who was still shielded by Jonmarc. As if
they had suddenly agreed that the danger was passed, the chanting stopped and the curtain of light winked out. Kolin helped Aidane stand. To Aidane’s astonishment, the seer who wore the yellow beads of the Lover’s oracle walked toward her.
“We heard your spirit, Thaine of Nargi. Know that you have the thanks of the Sacred Lady.”
Aidane’s heart pounded, and she did not know whether her own fear or Thaine’s was greater. She stammered for words, still in shock over her role in the turmoil. “Thank you, m’lady,” she managed to say.
The oracle looked at her and her eyes grew sad. “You would leave us, Thaine of Nargi?”
Thaine’s spirit came to the fore. “I’ve given you all the information I had. The men in the crowd were the men I saw in Nargi. I have nothing else to offer. I would go to my rest.”
The oracle nodded. “You did not die in vain, Thaine of Nargi. I cannot make your passage to the Lady, but I give you my blessing. May you cross the Gray Sea in safety.”
Thank you. For everything.
Thaine’s voice brushed along Aidane’s mind. Aidane felt the spirit flow through her, taking one last, full breath. As she exhaled, the spirit seemed to follow the breath, gradually leaving her body, until nothing of Thaine remained. Aidane shook herself, as if awakening, and she found Jonmarc staring at her with an expression on his face that she could not read. Surprise, concern, and sadness mingled in his dark eyes.
A moment later, Jonmarc helped Berry to her feet. His shirt and coat were bloody, and he had grown pale. Berry looked at him with concern, but Jonmarc shook his head as he jerked the blade from his shoulder and threw it aside.
“Guess this one wasn’t poisoned. I’ve had worse.”
Berry turned to the Sacred Vessels. “Thank you,” she said, making a low bow.
The speaker for the Childe inclined her head, just a bit, in recognition. “This is our gift from the Sacred Lady in all Her Aspects,” the oracle said. Her eyes seemed to darken, as if she saw shadows they could not. “Darkness is coming. You must be wary, but bold in your attack.”
“Your Majesty.” It was Gellyr. He looked uncomfortable trying to extricate Berry from the circle of seers. “While the crowds are clear, we need to get you to safety.”
“Yes, of course,” Berry said. Although Aidane hadn’t seen him draw his weapons, Jonmarc stood slightly in front of Berry with a sword in each hand. Gellyr led them toward the edge of the stage, and for a moment, Jonmarc looked behind them at the soldiers who had taken command of the wreckage and the aftermath as if he wanted to join them. Then he looked down at Berry and managed a lopsided grin.
“You know how to make an entrance.”
Aidane stepped over the body of the first attacker, the man who had jumped on stage. Only then did she see the hilts of two throwing knives embedded in his chest. Berry moved past her, defying the guards, and bent over the man, removing her knives and cleaning them on the dead man’s shirt before returning them to the folds in her skirt. She straightened.
“Hant will find out who he was. If I know Hant, he’ll have the mechanism that was inside those figures analyzed by daybreak.” The queen looked up at Jonmarc, and the look in her eyes was much older than her years. “Let’s
patch you up, and then I want you there when Hant questions any prisoners. I want to know who they are and what they know.” There was an undercurrent of cold, hard rage in the young queen’s voice. “I will not lose this kingdom to the Durim, or to invaders from the north. If the Lady wants a vow from me on my coronation day, then there it is. We’re going to fight this, Jonmarc, with everything we’ve got.”
Aidane shifted her attention to Jonmarc. She saw resolve in his face, and anger, but there was something more, something she might have noticed because of Thaine’s memories, something Berry did not see.
He knows, even though Berry may not, that the Lady hears vows like that. And he knows just how costly that vow will be to uphold.
Jonmarc drew a deep breath and looked away. “Let’s get back to the palace. We’ve got a mess to clean up, and a war to plan.”
Early the next morning, a commotion in the courtyard roused Jonmarc from sleep. He looked out his window. Three fine carriages fit for royalty were in the courtyard. Each carriage was pulled by a team of sleek black Eastmark stallions, horses Jonmarc knew to be worth a small fortune each. With the carriages were wagons for servants and a dozen men at arms mounted on war steeds. Though the guards wore no livery, Jonmarc knew their origin from the fit of their armor and the style of their saddles. He swore profusely under his breath as he dressed quickly, belting on his sword as he left his room.
He caught up to Jencin in the castle’s grand entranceway. “Were you expecting company?”
Jencin sighed. “The delegation from Eastmark was due, but I was hoping they wouldn’t arrive until after Haunts.”
“Actually, they’re right on time.” Berry’s voice came from behind them, and Jonmarc turned to see the queen approaching, looking regal in a dress of forest-green Mussa silk. “Father and King Kalcen made several treaties and agreements after the wedding in Margolan last year. We were told that they would send an ambassador, and a gift to seal the alliance. I doubt there was time for word to reach them about Father’s death.”
Jonmarc shrugged. “Let’s just hope everyone remembers that Kalcen repealed the death warrant his father issued on me. Otherwise, there might be a ‘diplomatic incident.’ ” He looked at Jencin. “How many of them are there?”
“An ambassador, two military strategists, two of their
Hojun
priests, a dozen servants, a contingent of bodyguards—and Prince Gethin.”
“Prince Gethin?” Berry repeated in astonishment.
“Any idea why he came along?” Jonmarc asked.
Jencin shook his head. He seemed more nervous than usual. “No. No. The king didn’t include me in his negotiations with Eastmark. He said he still had some details to work out. The Eastmark delegation has been very polite, but they’ve made it clear their business is with the queen.”
Berry and Jonmarc looked at each other. “Well,” Jonmarc said, “let’s see what brought them all this way.”
Berry composed her face and drew herself up to her full height. Jonmarc saw her expression take on a blankness that made it difficult to guess what she was thinking. Something else he imagined that royals practiced, a necessary survival skill.
“All rise to greet Queen Berwyn of Principality.”
Jencin announced their entrance as he swung open the doors to the great room. Nearly twenty Eastmark visitors rose as the queen entered. Their dark skin made them stand out, even in Principality, which had more than its share of mercs and merchants from throughout the Winter Kingdoms. Eastmark was a proud kingdom, and under the previous king, King Radomar, it had maintained an aloofness from the other kingdoms.
Jonmarc noticed a dignified older man and a sullen but handsome young man at the forefront of the group. Behind them, two Eastmark
Hojuns
wore the elaborate robes that marked them as shaman-priests. The
Hojuns
’ heads were shaved bald, and intricate runes covered their scalps, designs that had been cut into the flesh and left to scar. Complex patterns of tattoos wound down their arms onto their hands. The
Hojuns
wore carved amulets and bracelets of wood, bone, and gemstones, and disks of copper around the hems of their robes made bell-like sounds as they moved. The rest of the group looked to be functionaries and bureaucrats. Whatever servants or valets the group brought were likely to already be housed with the rest of the palace staff.
The older gentleman, a poised man with close-cut, white hair, stepped forward first. He gave a polite bow that stopped short of real deference. “Your Majesty. We offer condolences on the untimely death of King Staden and our sincere best wishes for a long and prosperous reign, even in these difficult times.”
Berry gave a polite half smile that did not reach her eyes. “Thank you.”
“I am Avencen, and I have been sent by King Kalcen
as ambassador to Principality.” He smiled, and it made his finely featured face more open, although his black eyes did not soften. “It’s been long overdue. Before we departed, I welcomed my counterpart to Eastmark. You may rest assured that he is comfortable.”
“Again, our thanks.”
Avencen paused, and Jonmarc thought he looked nervous. “King Staden’s sudden death left important negotiations with Eastmark unfinished. Those negotiations must now be between
you and King Kalcen.” He seemed to steel himself and took a deep breath. “It leaves us in an awkward situation.”
Berry frowned. “How so?”
Avencen stepped to the side. “May I present Prince Gethin, son of King Kalcen, third in line for the throne of Eastmark.” Gethin stepped forward and made a stiff bow. To Jonmarc’s eye, he looked to be about nineteen years old. Jonmarc saw Berry’s attention move to the prince. Gethin was a good-looking young man, and Jonmarc guessed that that was not lost on the new queen.
Gethin stood a bit taller than Jonmarc, with a trim, lithe build. His coal-black hair was shoulder length, and straight. Ebony skin indicated that he was from the highest ranks of Eastmark society, and his eyes glinted like obsidian. A medallion in the shape of a silver stawar joined the symbol of the Lady on a leather strap at his throat. A complicated tattoo on the left side of his face curled from brow to chin, and Jonmarc knew it indicated his rank in the succession. He had seen such a mark before when he had served as a soldier in Eastmark, at Chauvrenne.
Gethin was dressed in traveling leathers that were only slightly lighter than his skin. Where Avencen and the
others favored the bright orange and yellow colors popular in Eastmark and loose, flowing pants and billow-sleeved shirts, Gethin’s close-fitting leather outfit seemed stark, almost military. Jonmarc noticed that he wore a scabbard and a baldric, though both were empty. From Gethin’s stance and manner, Jonmarc guessed the young man was an accomplished fighter.
Avencen cleared his throat. “King Staden and King Kalcen had agreed to all but one provision of the accord. Staden insisted that Prince Gethin travel here so that he could meet the prince and take the measure of his character.”
The same possibility seemed to dawn on both Jonmarc and Berry simultaneously, as they exchanged wary glances. Berry drew a short breath. “For what purpose?”
“To seal the alliance, King Kalcen has offered something unprecedented: the hand of his son in marriage.” Avencen swallowed. “As Your Majesty surely knows from Eastmark’s history, when the king’s sister, Princess Viata, eloped with Prince Donelan of Isencroft, the Winter Kingdoms nearly came to war. Such an alliance was forbidden until King Kalcen changed the law in his sister’s memory.”