Warrior (The Key to Magic) (17 page)

She had entirely eschewed colors for her eyes, cheeks or nails.  The king had a plebian taste, she knew, and would no doubt find her more pleasing without the accent of paints.  Such might have helped conceal some of the tell-tale signs of her age -- she had to be at least a decade older than
the king --
but she felt certain that his attention would not remain long on her face.

She felt no quandary about prostituting her own flesh; any eventual marriage that she might have otherwise made would have been the very same.  She would not waste time railing against the unfairness foisted upon her sex by a society controlled by men.  She would simply use their own puerile weaknesses against them.

She lit the single candle on the tea tray and then, one by one, extinguished the lamps in her room.  Her doors were already securely locked and her servants ordered not to disturb her on penalty of immediate discharge.

The king was predictably banal in his habits.  When in the Palace, as tonight, he would typically supper with his officers, always discussing the untidy business of war, and then spend time reading alone in his dayroom, sometimes far into the morning.  While Rhavaelei knew that she could not pass openly in her harlot's livery through the Palace corridors, she had already prepared an alternate route that would keep her from all prying eyes.

Long before the Phaelle'n invasion, that insolent slob, the justifiably dead Knight-Defender Chor’lhanhz, had revealed many secrets in the throes of his grunting, ox-like passion.  A significant one of those had been the existence of a concealed network of walled-off servants' stairs and hallways that ran through and underneath the entire Palace.  There was no exit from the network in the Rotunda, but the four towers and their adjoining wings were literally honeycombed.  Utilizing only the aid of his own similarly treasonous adherents, the commander of the Palace Guard had renovated those particular sections of the forgotten spaces needed to enable his own nefarious purposes.  As far as Rhavaelei had been able to determine, all others who had had knowledge of the network had gone to their graves alongside Chor'lhanhz. 

As a Senator, Rhavaelei had been able to lay claim the privilege of apartments within the royal residence and had taken care to select rooms in the East Tower that she had known were accessible to the reopened passageways.  It had taken her a month to scout and clear a path with the work of her own hands to an exit into the king's dayroom, but she had not dared enlist the assistance of her servants for fear of her efforts becoming known.

After putting on furred slippers to protect her feet from the rough stone and filth of the passageways, she took up the tray and went into her bedroom.  With the tray balanced on one hand, she went to the rear wall and pressed her thumb on the button incorporated into the eye of an odalisque at the center of a carven embellishment.  Making no discernible sound, a large section of decorative paneling in the left hand wall swung open. 

The hall beyond was only barely wider than her shoulders and she had to take special care not to brush up against the dust caked walls as she followed her own footsteps through an intersection with a still blocked corridor to reach a spiral stair, then descended four storeys to a broad catacomb just underneath the Palace kitchens.  This allowed her to cross through to a much narrower tunnel that brought her into the foundations of the South Tower and from there to another stair that climbed inside its eastern segment.  After a few more turns and stairways that took her by a twisting path about the tower in a widdershins direction, she stood before her goal, a door that opened into the back of a built-in cupboard that sheltered only a dustpan and worn out broom.

In spite of her resolve, she felt some nervous and stopped to take a final long breath and let it out slowly.  Then, once more balancing the tray on one hand with care, she released the catch, eased open the false back, and stepped into the cupboard.  For a moment, she considered knocking, but discarded the idea as asinine and used the tray to push open the cupboard's thin double doors.

The balcony shutters were open to the night and the breeze flickered Rhavaelei's candle.  There were only two other lights in the room, lamps floating magically supported behind the king's chair.  Facing her with his back to the balcony, he lounged with eyes closed and appeared asleep.  As he wore only his small clothes, the raw ends of his amputated limbs and the scars on his torso were rudely displayed.  Around him on the floor and atop an adjacent table were a number of opened books and folios.

To make as little noise as possible, Rhavaelei toed off her slippers and advanced across the worn carpet on bare feet.

When she placed the tray on the corner of his table, the king's eyes shot open.

"You shouldn't be here," he growled in gruff tone.

Not once did his gaze stray from her face.

"I had trouble sleeping," she told him with a meek, apologetic smile.  "Knowing that you are often afflicted with the same ailment, I thought that you might like to share some tea with me."

"Leave," he ordered flatly.

Her confidence abruptly shaken by his apparent total disinterest in the charms outlined by her clinging robe, she used slightly shaking hands to pour a cup of the tea.  She had long practice discerning lust in the stares of men and in his eyes she saw nothing.

"Consider this a peace offering," she said as she extended the cup toward him, working to hide her fears.  "I believe that we can work together to restore Mhajhkaei and bring down the Brotherhood."

Instead of lifting his single remaining hand to receive it, the king floated up from his chair as he stared intently at the tea.

When he looked at her again, his face was full of disgust.  "You're a fool."

The cup shattered in a burst, scattering the tea, and then a sharp force hurled her backwards.  As she tumbled, her robe ripped open, and then she landed in an awkward heap, shocked into speechlessness.

"Subaltern E'hve!" the king called out in a carrying voice.

Armsmen burst through the doors instantly, swords drawn.  Sprawled, she feebly tried to gather the disheveled robe about her but their hard glares entirely disregard her nakedness.

"Lock her in chains and cast her in the dungeon," the king said as he turned away.

Rhavaelei screamed in rage and continued screaming as the pitiless armsmen dragged her away, but when the blacksmith began to heat the rivets to seal her manacles and leg irons, she began to weep.

TWENTY-THREE

143rd Year of the Reign of the City

(Thirteenthday, Waxing, 3rd Springmoon, 1645 After the Founding of the Empire)

The highlands of the island of Gh'emhoa

Working his way down from the saddle of the pass, Ghorn negotiated a precarious, rocky stretch of the overgrown track that wound along the slope, edged around a sharp, cliff-hugging curve, and then finally reached a wider section where he had some confidence that he would not tumble down the mountainside if he made a single misstep. 

A bit further, the cottage slid into view from behind a jutting crag.  With a moss-covered slate roof and well fitted dry stone walls reinforced with sun-bleached timber, the small structure was just large enough to have a single room.  Though there were no windows to betray signs of occupation, a good flow of light smoke from the chimney suggested that the tenant had recently stoked up a fire previously banked for the night.   The small level shelf that it sat upon had grown up with low brush and saplings for maybe a year or three, but a good bit of work had been done recently to clear the garden terraces that lay uphill from it, with dense piles of hacked limbs and stripped poles heaped nearby.  A new shed built of mill sawn planks stood just paces from the cottage, and a few white-faced milk goats peeked out at him with evident suspicion as he strode across a small, flinty yard to the solid oak door of the dwelling.

He half-expected it to open as he neared, but it remained shut and he was compelled to knock firmly but not insistently upon it.

It took a moment for the door to swing open, and when it did, he found himself facing a cocked crossbow pointed squarely at his middle.

Dropping his eyes without flinching, he bowed low.  "Good day, my queen."

Without being obvious about it, when he raised his head, he took stock of the young woman.  She wore a thick, bulky, and definitely warm-looking fleece coat that extended nearly to her boot encased feet, but it could not conceal the size of her protruding belly.  Her time was not far off.

She evidenced no surprise at his presence.  Nevertheless, her expression was not welcoming.  "You're supposed to be dead."

"And you in Mhajhkaei at the side of the king.  The world is out of kilter, it would seem."

She extended the crossbow to gently prod the chest of his heavy jacket with the steel barb of the quarrel.  "I can tell that you're not someone else concealed behind a glamour.  And you're obviously flesh, not spirit.  I'll assume that you are who you appear to be.  Why are you here?"

"To persuade you to return to the king."

The queen's expression went flat. "I'll not do that. How did you know where to find me?"

"The sorcerer told me." 

Her eyes did register surprise at this.  "Waleck?"

Ghorn nodded.  He would not speak that name.  It might only be baseless superstition, but he still remembered the stories that his nannies had told him as a child.  To name a sorcerer was to make him aware of your presence.

She studied him for a moment with a hard gaze and then lowered the weapon.  "Come in and shut the door.  Spring always comes late here in the hills and, as Gran always used to tell me, you're letting the cold in."

When she stepped back, he immediately did as bid.  With the door shut, the fire in the hearth lit the cramped interior in sharp contrast, with warm highlights and deep shadows.  Much in the cottage was old:  the simple table and two chairs, plank shelving with mismatched dishes and pots, the unvarnished frames of the two narrow beds.  But the bedding and linens of the larger bed and the lush rugs that were scattered on the stone floor were new.  In one corner, set aside for eventual use, was a beautifully carved and varnished rocking crib.  He had seen similar in markets in half a dozen cities and knew that it would fetch a price of almost a gold.

"I'm just having breakfast," the queen told him with genial disdain as she hung the crossbow on a hook alongside the door.  "It's just porridge with goat's milk.  There's enough for two, if you'd like."

"Indeed I would, my lady queen."

She went the hearth and swung the simmering pot out on its iron pivot arm, then reached out to the shelf and took down two white and blue bowls. 

"You don't have to call me that, you know," she informed him in an even tone.  Without turning, she began to fill the bowls with the gruel. "I'm not your queen any longer.  If indeed I ever was."

Ghorn inclined his head.  "The king is still the king and you are still the queen.  Nothing will ever change that." 

She walked to the table and put the bowls down, one before each of the chairs, then added brass spoons and brown ceramic mugs, which she filled from a covered pitcher.

"Mar must be a king.  The magic of the Blood Oath compels that, but it doesn't compel me to be queen.  I have all that I was destined to have of him and I am content with that."

Finding no appropriate comment, Ghorn simply took his seat.  Although the old man had told him exactly where and when to find her, the tortured soul had not been specific as to what Ghorn must do once he did.  His simple warning had been,
Convince her to return, or all is lost. 

As was his habit, Ghorn ate without speaking, downing the porridge and milk in an efficient, uninterrupted, and almost reflexive process.  As it happened, he was quite hungry.  Having underestimated the time that it would take him to hike into the hills, he had made no provision for a morning meal.  The night before, at his simple camp in a nook between two boulders, he had finished the remnants of the trail food that he had bought in the town.

For her part, the queen seemed equally satisfied to not complicate her meal with conversation.

In just a few minutes, they had both finished and the queen rose and rinsed the dishes in a bucket of water and set them aside to dry.  When she was done, she sat back down across from Ghorn.

"Gran -- my grandmother -- was a witch," she told him, clearly making an explanation, but not an apology. 

"When a vision would come to her, she would write them in her book.  I lost the book some time ago, but I read it so often that I still know everything in it by heart.  When she was my age, she had a vision.  She did not describe what she saw in detail, but she did write this:
Nothing will save the Emperor.
  I did not connect this to Mar until Khalar, but I'm sure that you can also see that it can only refer to him."

Ghorn leaned back in his chair. "And you interpret this vision as predicting his doom?"

"Can he have any other fate?"

"Yes and you are the key to it."

Telriy examined his face.  "How so?"

"The sorcerer is two men.  One is merciless, powerful, and driven to change the world.  The other is old, weak, and content to let the world be as it will.  This second foretold my escape and thereby, I believe, enabled me to do so.  He also told me a great many things about the state of the current world and how the future of Mhajhkaei will unfold.  One of these was that the king, without you, cannot prevail against the monks.  He will be slain and so will all those who are sworn to him."

The queen sat without saying anything for several moments, regarding him with an uncompromising stare.  Then, she allowed, "I've seen the two men that Waleck is, one ancient, one just old.  I trust neither.  Why do you?"

"I do not.  But I do know that it is a fact that the king is better with you than without.  Thus far, everything that the old man has predicted has come to pass. Given the disastrous consequences should this final prophecy also come to pass, I do not feel that I have the luxury to ignore his warning on the chance that he may be wrong."