How long had she been wandering the halls of this damaged palace without being aware of herself?
Her stomach growled. When had she eaten last?
She remembered nothing: not why she wandered these once-magnificent halls; nor why she haunted this huge building like a ghost, alone and lost to everything and everyone she held dear.
Somehow that aloneness seemed almost . . . not quite, but almost . . . right.
She imagined what the passageways must have been like when they were filled with courtiers and politicians, ladies and gentlemen who spent their days—and nights—pretending to agree with the king’s demands. Then she imagined herself, a wispy ghost, drifting behind them, eavesdropping, laughing at the truths they would never admit to themselves. The king listened to no one and those who agreed with him, more often than not, met with disfavor.
They were all small dogs chasing their own tails in a fruitless race. But she was not part of that and never would be.
How did she know that?
A brilliantly colored tapestry on the wall caught her attention. Women sitting at lace bolsters concentrated deeply on their bobbins and the yards and yards of floating threadwork. The scene seemed familiar. She reached out to caress the woven picture. Her broken fingernails snagged a thread. Immediately she halted her quest to touch some part of her past through the picture and worked the jagged edge of her nail free without pulling the entire thread loose.
Something was wrong. She stared at the dirt encrusted in the cuticle and beneath the nail. Never before had she allowed her hands to become so filthy. No lacemaker did.
Lace.
Her hands curved as if lifting two pairs of bobbins for an intricate stitch. The sensuous feel of carved bone and wood crawled through her. Deep satisfaction at the creation of delicate and airy fabric expanded in her lungs and gave her a sense of rightness.
Lace! Her world revolved around lace.
But not a scrap of it graced her night robe, shift, or the tops of her slippers. If she did not wear lace, she must be a worker rather than a noble designer or teacher. She reached up her hand to her silvery blonde hair. Her fingers drifted through the long tresses without resistance. She wore no cap, nor had she braided her hair properly.
“I must find the workroom,” she resolved. “After I find something to eat and wash. Then I must plait my hair.” Two gathered braids from temple to nape that broke free until they reached the center of her back then joined into a single thick rope. That was the proper number for a worker.
“Not two plaits. Three at least.” Three plaits belonged to the nobility, and four were reserved for the queen. So if she deserved three plaits, why did she not wear any of the precious lace fabric?
“Three plaits,” she repeated. That did not settle in her brain as correct, but better than two plaits or . . . shudder . . . must she revert to the single plait of a peasant or lace factory worker until she knew the truth of her identity?
“Three plaits,” she insisted. “But first I must wash and eat.”
Her feet automatically headed down three flights of stairs to the long, long dining hall. The central table stretched out with places for fifty people. Remnants of food lay scattered about the table and floor where rodents and other scavengers had left it.
Impatiently, she grabbed one of the discarded serviettes and brushed a place clear for herself. She sat down on the tapestried armchair at the head of the table. The large chair was too large. But she knew this to be her place. The view of the room was correct, but the chair did not fit her.
Why? Why didn’t it fit? And why had she presided at the head of the table in this magnificent—but crumbling—palace.
While she puzzled out the problem of where to sit, a series of small crashes brought her awareness back to the palace. Brickwork loosened by the kardiaquake fell throughout the building. Perhaps the impromptu remodeling would allow more light to penetrate the workrooms. She smiled again. An act of nature had defied the pompous king and given her the one thing she wanted most—light to work by.
Well, almost the thing she wanted most. Knowing who she was and why she wandered the palace alone might be useful. But knowledge would come, once she returned to her lace.
More richly colored tapestries hung on the high walls of the hall, from just below the narrow windows near the ceiling, to the top of the sideboards. The one depicting the signing of a long-ago wedding agreement sagged, along with the wall and ceiling. A long rent in the fabric separated the politicians from the bride and groom.
A second tear pushed the couples representing the parents even farther away from the two centers of action.
She almost giggled at the subtle irony created by the rips.
Her stomach growled again. She needed to eat. But . . . but the servants had fled the kardiaquakes. No one would bring her soup and bread. No one remained in the palace but herself. Why had she been left behind in the exodus?
Sitting here would not help. She had to find food. A niggle of pride followed her determination to do something for herself. She’d like to see the politicians in the tapestry fetching anything without help.
Servants always entered through that door to her left and food had always been hot. Therefore the kitchen must be nearby.
Cautiously, she traced the route. Footprints in the dust told her that someone else had passed this way, several times in recent days. She placed her right foot delicately into one of them. For a moment the frayed toes of her embroidered slipper fascinated her. She shook off the thrall of following the patterns of the stitches. Her foot fit perfectly into the indentation in the dust.
A quick scan of the array of prints indicated she had passed this way at least four times in recent days.
Scattered prints next to the wall looked tiny. The impression of heavy toes and light heels indicated someone moved furtively along. A small person. Perhaps a child.
She hastened her steps, suddenly afraid of what she might find.
The end of the passage—longer than she thought necessary to ensure hot food in the dining hall—opened into the cavernous kitchen. A hearth opened from each end of the room. Each fireplace could roast an entire beast. A tall man could stand within without getting soot in his hair.
But no fire burned there now, nor had for some time. Cold ashes, mixed with fallen plaster and bricks from the chimneys, littered the floor before both hearths. Scraps of bone and desiccated meat protruded from the layers of debris. A hole in the exterior wall let in a lot of light. Too much light. She examined the jagged hole, not big enough to crawl through and too many loose bricks to be safe. The kitchen had not fared as well as the rest of the palace.
She seemed to remember a number of passages throughout the palace blocked by collapsed ceilings and bulging walls.
How long before the entire building fell on top of her?
“M’ma!” a tiny voice squealed as a grimy form flung itself at her from the depths of one of the hearths.
She looked carefully at the sobbing bundle of mismatched clothing, dirt, and cobwebs.
“M’ma, you found me. They said you died. They said I’d never see you again. They said . . .” the child sobbed into her skirts, clutching her knees so tightly she thought she’d tumble forward and crush her baby.
“M’ma? Am I truly your M’ma?” she asked in wonder. She wasn’t alone. Someone remembered her.
Then concern for her child overtook her joy. She stooped down to study her baby at eye level. Bright blue eyes looked back at her from a smudged face, still round with baby fat. Probably about three. That number felt right. Three years. Three plaits. Silvery-blonde hair scraggled out of three plaits that had started out gathered tightly against the child’s head. The end of one plait was still held almost in place by a frayed pink ribbon that clashed with her red hair. The second plait had come undone and hopelessly tangled. The center plait wobbled back and forth as if the little girl had tried to fix it herself and failed.
“Are you hurt, baby?” she asked, soothing tangles away from her child’s face. The name eluded her. But that didn’t matter. They were together.
“I’m hungry.” The little girl pouted.
“What have you eaten these past few days?”
“Some of the roast. I found a turnip!” The child’s face brightened as she held up half of a withered root vegetable. Tiny teeth marks showed around the edges. She didn’t lisp around missing teeth, so she must still be very young. The number three settled in the woman’s mind more firmly.
“What a clever girl you are. Where did you find the turnip?” Her own hunger began to plague her insistently.
“Down there.” The child pouted as she glanced at a trapdoor and then back to her mother’s skirts. A cellar or pantry. More food, assuming the place had not been looted when the kardiaquakes sent everyone in flight from the city.
“You were very brave to climb down there. Will you come with me as we look for more turnips and things.”
“A rat scared me.” An almost clean thumb crept toward the little girl’s mouth.
The woman allowed the child to find what little comfort she could from sucking. Stargods knew when they’d live a normal life, in a normal home, with a normal schedule again.
Schedules.
The concept of following a routine determined by others sounded oddly comforting and right.
She stood and held her hand for the child. “We’ll protect each other from the rat, baby. You and I can do anything together.”
“I’m Jaranda. Not a baby anymore.” The baby rewarded her with a bright smile and clutched her fingers.
“Of course, Jaranda. How could I forget. You are a big girl now. Big enough to hold the door open for me while I climb down. Be sure you stand so you don’t block the light.”
“Yes, M’ma.” Jaranda stood a little straighter and took her finger out of her mouth.
“I don’t suppose you remember
my
name, Jaranda?” she asked her daughter.
“M’ma,” Jaranda replied importantly.
“Somehow I thought you’d say that.”
CHAPTER 4
“
W
here have you hidden my son, Rejiia?” Lanciar asked the bottom of his ale mug. He didn’t really expect an answer. The steed-piss ale of Hanassa didn’t even quench his thirst, let alone show him any truths.
Briefly, he longed for a simpler time when King Simeon still lived to rule SeLenicca and Lanciar had only a minor magical talent. He didn’t have to think or make decisions. He only had to obey Simeon, and all the wonders of the coven surrounded him with sex and power and influence. He could love Rejiia in secret and experience the thrill of fathering a son on her while Simeon believed the child his own.
But then Simeon had sent him to seek out the man who wielded enough power within the mines to threaten the coven.
Lanciar had discovered Jack. The young magician was just beginning to recover his memory and his talent after some adolescent trauma.
And then the day came when a deep kardiaquake had collapsed the mine. Jack’s newly awakened senses had alerted him to the coming disaster. He, with Lanciar’s help, had rescued an entire team of slaves. But Simeon’s guards and administrators were caught up in the chaos; the entire complex had to be abandoned. All who survived ran for their lives. Lanciar had attached himself to Jack and his friend as ordered.
On the trail out of the mine Jack had drawn Lanciar deep into a questing spell, seeking the dragon that Simeon had magically wounded and imprisoned. During that long night on a lonely mountain pass, Lanciar’s full talent had awakened.
Now he was a master magician having to think and make his own decisions in order to survive, and able to see Rejiia for a selfish, power-hungry bitch who used everyone she came in contact with to augment her own illusion of greatness. Lanciar had to rescue his son from Rejiia’s ungentle clutches.
The Kardia rolled beneath his feet. He braced himself against the exterior wall of the tavern, momentarily reliving the terror of being trapped underground in the mine with tons of Kardia pouring down upon him. He owed Jack his life as well as his respect—probably the only truly honest man he had ever met.
But it was a little quake this time and did not deserve his fear. Almost a daily occurrence here in Hanassa, the city of outlaws. None of the ragged denizens of the city seemed to notice the disruption.
Satisfied that the ground beneath his feet was solid once more, he stared into the last few drops of liquid in his cup. Not enough to scry a vision of Rejiia or the child she had stolen from him. The horrible ale served here was too thick to see through anyway.
Should he drink another? Yes. The dry air within this ancient volcanic caldera that housed the dregs of the world left a constant sour taste in the back of his throat.
“Let’s try the next tavern,” he suggested to the mug. “Maybe someone there has seen Rejiia with a child. Maybe their ale tastes better.”