Chapter 25

 

 

i

 

The suite smelled musty. Dust motes rose in the air, although Byron had ordered the rooms completely cleaned. Fresh linen covered the bed in the back room, and the coverings had been removed from the furniture. A servant brought in the last of Alma’s clothes and hung them in the large wardrobe. Byron’s two outfits hung in the other wardrobe. Alma said she would have tailors come to make him more clothes.

Alma sat before a mirror in the dressing room. She wore a skimpy white shift and leaned her head to the side as she combed her long dark hair. Byron caressed the smooth skin on her shoulder. “You’re cold,” he murmured.

She took his hand and kissed the palm. “Do you want to warm me up?”

He touched a finger to her lips and then pulled away, his body trembling. He would love more than anything to stay here with her, to consecrate the room and begin their life together. But their first action as a couple would not be lovemaking; it would be participating in his father’s funeral.

Byron lifted a curl from her back and kissed her neck. She smelled of roses and her own warm musk. He sighed. “Get changed, Alma. We have to be ready for the service.”

Byron shrugged. “I don’t know, but I want to concentrate on him right now. You and I have time to concentrate on each other this evening. Now change. I want you at my side in the mausoleum.”

Alma turned back to the mirror. Her reflection was distorted, her eyes too wide, her chin too narrow. “Impertinent bard,” she said, “ordering ladies about.”

Smiling, Byron left the dressing room and crossed the suite to his own room. He pulled open the wardrobe and stared in at the two outfits hanging there. Not elegant enough for a king, but they would have to do. He removed the silk shirt and matching trousers and tossed them over a chair. Then he stripped, staring for a moment at his body.

The last time he had lived here as a member of the royal family, he had been fat and out of shape. He was trim now, almost too lean, with more scars than a man ought to have. Once he had been frightened of being like his father; in appearance at least, he had nothing to fear.

He did, however, have to watch his back. The gentry were frightened of an active monarch in Kilot. This afternoon they would discover that he had already consolidated some power by making Alma his consort. He should have waited until the mourning period for his father had ended, but Byron had to move quickly. Most of the gentry would be at the services. Byron had to use the time well.

He slipped on his clothes and brushed his hair, making sure he took as much time as he could. Alma and his mother were to ride around the grounds in the black carriage as part of the mourning ritual. He should have gone with them, but he couldn’t bring himself to climb into that carriage again. He would wait and say good-bye to his father in the mausoleum itself.

He glanced around the room and saw his lute. He touched it, wishing he could bring it. But this afternoon he had to be a monarch, not a bard. Moving without the lute on his back made him feel naked somehow.

He let himself out of the dressing room. The suite smelled of Alma’s perfume and when he looked in her dressing room, he noted that she had left. She was a good choice for him. Her strength would help him, and maybe, after a time, the attraction they felt for each other would grow into something. He smiled, feeling a sadness. The Enos had said to him in another life, in another time: You came to find out if you would be loved. Then he had said no. Now he would probably say yes.

He opened the door and let himself into the hallway. Two guards stood beside the door and nodded at him as he passed. He walked down the stairs and felt the jitters grow in his stomach.

A ruler is loved differently, Highness.

And right now he wasn’t loved at all. He would go into that chamber and participate in a ritual before people who hated and mistrusted him. And some who had tried to kill him.

He pushed open the double doors out of the north wing and stepped outside. The air was chill and fresh. A slight wind made the whistle-woods moan. He blinked at the brightness of the sunshine. To his right, carriages lined up in the courtyard. He recognized Lord Lafa’s and Lord Dakin’s. Everyone had come to see what Byron’s future would bring. He shivered once. He wasn’t sure he wanted to find out.

The mausoleum was a gray stone building half hidden by the palace walls. It was long and rectangular. The roof rose in spirals around the edges. A large round chimney stood in the center of the roof, to release the smoke from the bier.

The guards outside the mausoleum bowed when they saw him, then pushed the door open wide to admit him.

The mausoleum smelled damp. Thousands of candles burned along the walls and beside the pews. A hundred people faced forward staring at the bier and the large crypt beyond. Gentry that Byron had met and some that he hadn’t waited for the ceremonies to begin. The stone floor was cold, and each movement echoed in the stillness. His mother and Alma stood to the side, waiting for him.

His father’s body rested on the bier. He looked smaller, as if death had diminished him. Three large circles, one inside the other, enclosed the bier. Each circle represented an Old One, and each contained symbolic significance. The circles predicted the next monarch’s future.

Alma handed Byron a burnstick and took his arm. Her hands were cold. Her hair shone and her gown was simple and chaste, no low-cut bodice, no lace on the collars. Byron glanced at his mother. She was hunched and she trembled as she moved. Her face was hidden by a thick veil, but occasionally the candlelight would reflect her tears. She leaned on Alma for a moment, then stood and led the procession down to the bier.

The crowd stood as his mother passed. Byron waited until she had almost reached the Flame of Life, then he and Alma started down. He clutched his burnstick tightly. The gentry watched them, and he heard a ripple of whispers as people realized what Alma’s presence meant. He could sense the shock, feel the discomfort. It did not please him like he thought it would. He just wanted the ceremony to end.

His mother dipped her burnstick into the Flame of Life. The flame turned blue as the burnstick caught. His mother then brought the flame to the center of her consort’s bier, lighting the Circle of Remembrance. As the flame encircled the bier, she leaned over and kissed her husband for the last time. Then she took her place behind the bier, standing to the side of the door to the crypt.

Byron approached the Flame of Life. It generated little heat, but he could smell a wisp of smoke. He stuck his burnstick into the flame and watched as it turned blue. Through the fire, he saw Lord Lafa. The lord appeared sober, and seemed as majestic as he had when Byron first met him. The lord was watching Alma, and his gaze was filled with hatred. Byron made himself look away. He carried his burnstick to the bier and lit the Circle of Power, canonizing his father’s past and establishing his own control. As the flames engulfed the circle, he took his place beside his mother.

Lord Kensington sat in the first row. He showed no surprise at Alma’s presence, and did not seem to resent Byron’s participation in the ceremony. The lord’s lack of emotion made Byron tense. He had believed that even Kensington would have enough respect for the dead to wait until last rites had ended before challenging the new monarch.

Alma carried the flaming burnstick to the last circle, the Circle of Future. She as consort guarded the future of the kingdom in her womb. If Byron had had a child, that child would have been lighting the circle. As she lowered her burnstick to it, a small draft caught the flame and it flickered. The gentry gasped. Byron twisted his ring. If the last circle didn’t burn, custom decreed that he had no future. He would die before his rule truly began.

Alma’s burnstick went out. Small sparks flew in all directions. She was forbidden by law to return to the Flame of Life. Her gaze caught Byron’s, and he thought he saw fear in her eyes. He wished he could go to her. Whether or not the superstitions of the bier were true, they would affect his support among the gentry. A small smile made its way across Kensington’s face, and Byron felt a chill run down his back. He should have checked the burnsticks before the ceremony. Kensington could have had his magician treat the sticks.

Alma waited for the circle to light. As she stepped away, a whoosh echoed, and the far corner of the circle erupted into blue flame. Byron felt some of the tension flow from him. The bier had sent a sign: he and his descendants had a chance to continue ruling in Kilot, but the chance, like the flame that spread around the circle, was slim.

Alma took her place beside Byron and slipped her hand through his arm. She was trembling. She too knew that the sign boded ill for their future. Fear flashed through Byron. If Alma thought she had no chance of surviving with him, she might turn against him. He slid his hand over hers, wishing that he could reassure her.

His mother bowed to the figure on the bier, then walked into the crypt itself. Byron bowed and followed, as did Alma. The crypt seemed even colder than the outer room had, and had a damp, musty odor. They stopped at the cornerstone on which his father would lie and placed the burnsticks into the small circular holes carved for them. Byron looked past the monarchs into the side reserved for the royal family and noted that one crypt near the end was empty. He squinted to read the inscription and started when he realized that it had been his. He wondered who had rested on the bier in his place.

The three of them left the crypt and returned to the great room. They again bowed to the dead monarch, circled the flames, and walked up the aisle. Byron could hear the rumbling as the first row of gentry made their respects to the bier.

He followed his mother out of the mausoleum and into the dying sunlight. They would have a half hour before the death banquet. His mother continued toward the palace, Alma behind her. Byron stopped and gazed at the mausoleum. Smoke rose from the curved chimney on the roof. He would see that smoke for another month or more, until the flames completed their circles and his father was laid to rest with his ancestors.

For weeks people in the palace had watched the smoke rise from a burial that was supposed to have been his. Byron shuddered. No wonder so many of them found it hard to accept him.

He entered the palace as he had left it, through the north entrance. He hurried up the stairs and pulled open the door to his chamber, half expecting Alma to be waiting for him. The outer room was empty. He opened all the doors in the inner chambers. The musty odor had returned and dampened the smell of Alma’s perfume. All of the rooms were empty. For a moment he thought of trying to find her, then rejected the idea. He would see her at the banquet. They could talk after that.

He grabbed his lute and walked to a chair in the main room. The instrument felt warm to his touch, like a living thing. He tuned it, then played a random series of chords. The sounds filled the chamber, made the empty feeling disappear. He hadn’t realized until he heard that most of his chords were in a minor key how much the lighting of the Circle of the Future had frightened him.

His fingers found the melody of a lullaby and he let the notes echo. He rocked back and forth, feeling himself gather strength. Soon he would have to face the gentry in the banquet hall. Afeno was angry at him for going ahead with the death banquet in traditional form.

The traditional form followed the pattern of the bier: the monarch and his family sat in the center, with the past council members in the inner ring, present council members in the middle ring, and the rest of the guests in the outer ring. Guards were stationed outside the room, so as not to hear any state secrets that could emerge in impromptu eulogies. Afeno had pointed out that Byron was trapped and a single dagger could find him easily. But Byron was gambling that Lord Kensington was too smart to attempt that assassination. If Byron did die, the lord would first have to be tried for treason before he could take over.

A knock on the door made his heart leap. He knew it wasn’t Alma–she would have come in–but he found himself hoping for her anyway. He set down his lute and pulled the door open. A page stood in the doorway. “The guests are ready, sire,” he said.

He thanked the child and closed the door behind him. Then, flanked by two guards, he walked down the long, narrow hallway leading to the banquet room. Alma stood outside, her back to Byron. She was talking with a retainer wearing blue and gold. Kensington’s colors. Byron closed his eyes. Already it had begun.

The retainer looked over Alma’s shoulders and saw Byron. The retainer made a quick bow to Alma and disappeared before Byron reached them. He extended his arm to Alma. “What was that?” he asked.

“Lord Kensington wanted to express his regrets,” she said, “but did not think he should approach you. I told his retainer that I would pass on the words.”

Byron nodded. The conversation had seemed too involved for that. And if Kensington had felt that way, he could have told Alma himself. Byron would investigate further when he was alone with her. “Ready?” he asked.

The guards pulled the doors open, and Byron and Alma made their entrance. They eased their way through the openings in the circles, greeting the gentry as they passed. Lord Dakin refused to return the greeting. Lord Kensington and Lady Kerry sat on opposite sides of the circle and ignored Byron’s nod.

Byron and Alma took their seats beside Byron’s mother. Dishes of cold soup were already in place. No one spoke, according to custom, and the hall filled with the sound of clanking dishes. Byron’s shoulders were tense. He could feel a headache building along his neck. He wanted to turn, to survey the guests, but knew that he couldn’t show any signs of nervousness. He ate the vegetable stew and mutton and dessert slowly, concentrating on his food. The hair on the back of his neck rose. He heard a movement behind him, and then his mother stood.

For a moment he didn’t understand what was happening. Then he realized that she was about to give her eulogy–tradition demanded that she go first. Byron was not allowed to speak about his predecessor, a way of preventing the new king from defining the old. Only the old king’s friends, relatives, staff, and council members could eulogize him.

His mother lifted the veil from her face. Her eyes seemed dull, as if the tears had washed the color away. “I have lost five sons and four daughters.” She spoke softly. Some of the gentry in the back circle leaned forward in order to hear. “And as one son returns to me from the dead, I lose the person who helped me go on living. I don’t plan to die soon, but I know I no longer have a life. Yet I will not speak of the past, but of the future–my son’s future and my future through him.

“When Adric was a child, his free-thinking ways frightened most of us. It’s clear that he continues to act for himself, that his survival has depended upon his quick mind. My son has survived against great odds, and I believe that he is the stronger for it.

“I have never spoken out on policy before, but it is my right as consort and as the new ruler’s mother to do so now. Kilot has not seen a war for hundreds of years. Our land’s island status has protected us from invaders, and we have had peace within. Emotions flared the night my consort died and Adric surprised all of us. That night could be forgotten and forgiven. If this split between the royal house is not mended, Kilot could be divided. The outer island circles will break off from us and we’ll lose our protection. I will urge now, while my consort’s body lies encircled on the bier, that you support this man who is my son.”

His mother pulled her veil over her face and sat down. Byron did not look at her. He stared straight ahead and listened to the silence that engulfed them. He had his mother’s support, and yet he felt the undercurrent of blame in her words. If he had kept silent about his identity, the kingdom would have remained at peace.

Loneliness encircled him like the flames encircled the bier. He wished Seymour could give him a potion to heal the melancholy that was filling him. But there were no herb-witch cures for his ailments. He had to struggle and fight on his own, alone, for a cause no one else seemed to believe in. He watched as a lord stood in the back to speak. All his life Byron had wanted to come back here, to sit in his rightful place, and to use the knowledge he had learned during the years of hardship. But nothing was as he had imagined it, and he wondered if happiness was as much a myth as the tale-tellers said Gerusha was.

 

 

ii

 

A whisper of smoke carried in the breeze. The whistle-woods moaned. Each cry was different, distinctive: one had a bass tone, another a touch of treble. Ikaner stood in the grove, reaching for the souls of the Old Ones. She was finding nothing against the ground except for a strange sense of nostalgia. She had seeded here, and in the caves the Enos had brought her to flower, before wiping her mind and tying her soul to her bluff. The training had settled well. She wanted to go home, to sit on the bluff, and feel the river wind touch her face, without hearing her ancestors cry from the trees that imprisoned them.

Yes? The voice rose with the cry of the trees, and at first Ikaner wasn’t sure she heard it.

I have come to ask a question. Her thoughts felt as if they echoed in silence, as if no one heard. She couldn’t project into a mind as she was used to, and the ground felt as if it forced the thoughts to bounce back, into the wind. Strands of her thinning hair brushed across her face, and she pushed them back.

Speak.

I have met the white mists. He has strengths.

He threatens the land with blood.

No. Ikaner glanced around her. The trees appeared to be glowing, as if from an internal heat. Humans have fought before. We threaten the land.

If the humans pollute the land with blood, we destroy the humans. It is our agreement from long past.

The winds rose, making the shrieks louder. Ikaner could barely hear her own thoughts. But if we add human blood to the land, we too pollute the land.

We follow the prophecy.

She whirled in the wind, seeing if another Enos stood near her. She was alone in the trees. She shivered. The wind had become chill. You make the prophecy.

She heard no response. The trees wailed and then the wind died. The silence pushed against her ears, making her feel as if a great pressure had left her body. She felt strange here. She wanted to go home to her bluff, and think about growing trees and directing sunlight. She wanted to be the bluff Enos again instead of Ikaner, one of many.

You make the prophecy, she thought again, but the thoughts seemed to echo in her mind, trapped, as she imagined human thoughts to be. She stepped out of the grove into the sunlight, and knew she was alone.

 

 

iii

 

The laces on Byron’s shirt flapped against his chest. Seymour stood inside the door to the royal apartments as if he could go no farther. Byron leaned against a chair and rubbed a hand against his face. His skin smelled of Alma.

“I will do what I want,” he said, “and that’s the end of it.”

Seymour glanced at the door leading to the bedchamber where Alma still slept. “That’s not the end of it, Byron. When you die, we all die for supporting you. It’s not your life anymore, don’t you understand that?”

Byron grabbed the laces and finished threading them. “It never was my life,” he said.

“Kensington will kill you if you meet alone. At least put a guard in there with you.”

“Afeno will be behind the panel.” Byron had discovered the listening panel in the audience chamber, a place he suspected that Boton and Ewehl had used often.

The bedroom door opened and Alma leaned against it. Her long black hair flowed down her back. She had put on a white dressing gown that seemed to reveal more than it covered. “You’ll wake the entire kingdom.”

Seymour looked at her, then away. She crossed her arms over her chest. Byron smiled at her with a warmth he didn’t feel. “Good morning, Alma.”

“He asked for the meeting, and I’m going to give him another chance. The last thing I want to do is fight him.” Byron could feel the strain in his back and shoulders. If only he could relax. “I think fighting him would be worse than my death.”

“Well, I don’t,” Seymour said. “You’ll leave the kingdom to Kensington, who obviously cares for no one but himself–or it’ll go to the lady over here, who has shown her potential for abusing power as well. Or have you forgotten, now that you’re her lover, that she stole land from Lafa using the king’s seal?”

Alma stepped into the room. Her skirts swayed and she seemed to be taller. “What I did is none of your business.”

“Stop it,” Byron said. “I’m going to see Kensington, and that’s all there is to it.” He pushed past Seymour and let himself into the hallway, slamming the door behind him. The guards looked straight ahead, as if pretending that they heard nothing. Byron walked down the hall, hearing his footsteps ring out against the stone floor.

They were right. He was taking a risk by meeting Kensington alone in the audience chamber. But Byron wanted to see if he could prevent the kingdom from splitting further.

He passed the performer’s closets, passed the portraits of his ancestors, and climbed the stairs where Milo had died. The door to the audience chamber stood open, and inside, he saw Kensington sitting on the king’s chair. A little chill ran through Byron. Kensington was going to play power games.

The best way to win was to do the unexpected. Byron bounded down the stairs to a performer’s closet and grabbed a stool. Then he carried it into the audience chamber, and set the stool on the floor near the stairs. He swung his lute around from his back. The instrument made him feel whole. He tuned it, watching Kensington from the corner of his eyes.

The lord looked haggard. His face seemed even thinner and shadows dwelt beneath his eyes. He templed his fingers and tapped them against his chin. “We have a meeting,” he said.

Byron ignored him and finished the ballad that he had been playing. Then he rested one arm on his knee and the other on his lute. “Lord Kensington,” he said as if he were sitting on the royal chair instead of Kensington. “You wished to see me?”

“I’ve come to make a deal with you, bard.”

“A deal, milord?”

Kensington leaned back in the chair, trying to appear relaxed. “You know that your support from the gentry is weak. If I win even one battle, they will gather around me. I sense that neither of us wants a war. The Lady Constance made it clear that she didn’t either. And I think I know a way to prevent one.”

Byron did not move. “Go on.”

“Since the Enos confirmed you, there is no doubt that you have a right to the throne. But being an heir does not make you a good ruler. You have not been trained in the art of leading; your past makes you almost unworthy to deal in the courts of Kilot. The gentry know this and that is why their support of you is weak.”

Kensington’s analysis of the gentry was accurate. Most of them perceived Byron as Kensington did, a peasant who by accident of birth now ruled the kingdom. None of them knew about all the years of preparation under Lord Demythos.

“I propose this,” Kensington said. “I shall become regent–not king–and all of the affairs of state shall be in my hands. You will sit on the Council of Lords and retain your honorary title. Keep the Lady Jelwra as consort. She’s a good choice for you. Then when your eldest child comes of age, I will step aside. Although you will not rule, your child will. This plan will ensure gentry support and keep Kilot from dividing.”

Byron clutched the neck of the lute. The plan sounded good and if Byron and Kensington had had a different history, Byron might have considered it. But Kensington had tried to kill him, and none of Byron’s brothers and sisters had lived. He had no guarantees that his own children would live either.

But if he agreed to the plan, Kilot would remain at peace. He thought of the blue flame guttering out, and the sparks that flew, finally igniting the last circle. Alma was the key. And Seymour was right. She craved power as much as Kensington did. With Alma as his consort and Kensington as regent, Byron would probably die. Alma would do anything to ensure her position of power–even murder.

Kensington gripped the arms of the chair. He looked diminished there, as if the office were too big for him. “You aren’t going to agree, are you?”

“No.” Byron spoke softly, not taking his gaze from Kensington’s. “There are too many factors against me. I don’t know if Alma will remain my consort should I agree or if my children will live or whether I will live, for that matter.”

“And if I gave you my word?”

Byron twisted his ring, wondering if it had ever brought anyone luck. “You are right. The gentry is worried about my lack of experience. But I’m worried about yours.”

“Mine?” Kensington stood and walked around the chair. “I’ve been at the palace most of my life. I run a huge estate. I know more about these things than you ever could.”

“Perhaps,” Byron smiled. “But have you ever gone without food? Been beaten because you were unable to perform a simple task? Have you ever lived in a miserable one-room hovel full of lice and ticks and disease?”

“No.” Kensington grimaced. “And I can’t see that it matters.”

“It does matter. Although the gentry have the money in this kingdom, they do not have the numbers. Have you thought, milord, that for the third season the wheat crop has failed? The soothsayers predict another drought. People are starving. Healthy people will allow a ruler to ignore them. Dying people have nothing to lose. They will overthrow our system and throw the land into chaos. I think I could prevent an uprising and protect Kilot, while making the peasantry feel as if they are part of the government. Could you?”

Kensington took a deep breath and walked down the stairs. When he was across from Byron, Byron stopped him. “Milord, I answered your questions. Now answer mine. Why do you want to rule Kilot?”

Kensington frowned, glanced at the chair, but did not move. “For years,” he said, “the system has been falling apart. It worked for a long time. The council made the decisions and the king enacted them with his seal. Then, a few generations ago, council members stopped caring for Kilot. They figured out that they could gain themselves. They revised documents and land surveys, and increased their own holdings. They redistributed funds to injure the gentry not in power. My own father took lands from Lord Styler’s mother when she failed to keep her seat on the council. I plan to change the system, become a strong ruler and abolish the Council of Lords until things are under control.”

“I know.” Byron slipped his lute across his back. “But you knew my mother was having difficult pregnancies and that my brother was dying of a wasting disease. Everyone with access to the royal doctors knew that. I’ve thought about it for a long time, and all I know is this: you were at Kerry when Lady Kerry banished me. You were in three cities that I was in, and in all three I narrowly escaped a murder attempt. You were on Dakin’s land a few weeks before the hunt. And you were at the palace during the two attempts on my life. We are going to fight each other, cousin. I will not arrest you here because that would not ensure my throne. I simply want to know how you knew who I was and why you decided to kill me.”

Kensington had turned pale. “I–it started after the Ladylee Diana’s death. The Lady Kerry wanted you dead and I agreed to help. When I learned who you were, that didn’t change things. A murderer shouldn’t sit on Kilot’s throne.”

“Then you don’t qualify either,” Byron said. He looked at his hands. The calluses on his fingertips were flat. “I could have used you. We want some of the same things. But I can’t trust you, milord. Not now.”

“My offer still stands.”

“I’m sorry.” Byron stood. “The audience is over.”

Kensington stared at him for a moment, then turned, and left the room. Byron stood in the silence, clenching his fists and wondering why he felt as if the fire along the bier had gone out.

 

 

iv

 

Ikaner walked on the patterned stone, hands shaking, head bent. She had never been on human land. She couldn’t feel the earth. The stone covering the grass was dead, as was the stone forming the walls. Her feet had no contact. She felt completely alone.

Off to her side, men with weapons shot at trees. As the arrows pierced the trees, she felt little thuds of pain that echoed even through the dead stone. The white mists was not like that, she reminded herself. The white mists respected her land, respected her bluff. He had affection for the people around him.

People stared at her as they passed. She should ask one of them where she could find the white mists, but she could not remember the human word for him. She had planned on following the land, but the dead stones blocked most feeling. She had followed the feeling to the dead stones and then felt nothing.

She glanced around at the stone walls, the stone benches, the dead stone surrounding her, and she hesitated. She had to warn the white mists. The only way he could save himself and save the land was to know what he risked. Her trees had seemed alien with the bloodlust. She had felt them looking toward her, smelling her fluids, searching for blood. She had almost forgotten that feeling until the meetings. Until the talk of blood-filled land began again.

A hand touched her arm. She jumped. No one had ever snuck up on her before. She had always listened through the ground. She turned and saw herself facing Zcava.

The white mists can solve this himself. Zcava’s expression was stern, her grip on Ikaner’s arm tight.

He doesn’t know about the prophecy. If he knew, he would not fight.

He has a prophecy of his own. The final test is tonight. If he fails that, he doesn’t need to know about the blood on the land. His destiny is sealed. Zcava pulled on Ikaner’s arm. Come with me.

I must see him.

Zcava let go of Ikaner. If you see him, you shall die and your bluff will burn and fall into the river.

You threaten me.

I speak the truth. The Enos may not interfere in the lives of humans.

You prophesied to the white mists. You blocked his mind.

Zcava nodded. With permission of the Old Ones. The Old Ones do not want you to interfere.

Why not? Ikaner was motionless. The humans walked around them as if they did not exist.

Because you are a bluff Enos and your place is on a piece of land overlooking the river. Zcava bowed her head. Her hood hid her face. Come back with me.

Ikaner felt blind on the dead stone. She could not find the white mists on her own, and she did not know if she wanted to lose her bluff. Suffering the bloodlust might be better than having no bluff at all. She glanced around one final time, hoping to see the white mists enshrouding a human shape. But she saw human shapes with faded colors, prancing and sparking, and that was all.

Zcava had started back to the Cache. Ikaner followed.

 

 

v

 

Byron leaned against a fence post, feeling the cold stone dig into his back and buttocks. He wore a simple linen shirt and black trousers, the most comfortable outfit that the tailor had made him so far. The other clothes were too formal, too regal for him.

A group of archers huddled on the patch of grass just ahead of him, shooting arrows at targets drawn on the trees. Ile instructed them, setting up different formations, demanding that the archers shoot while moving.

Byron rested an elbow on his knee. Something about these practice maneuvers made him uneasy. The entire situation made him uneasy. Something was wrong. He felt as if an old ballad was nagging at the back of his brain, but he couldn’t remember the melody. He had forgotten an important piece of information, and the more he concentrated on it, the more it eluded him.

A rider broke through the trees. His horse was lathered, and his clothes were ripped and dirt-covered. He stopped and spoke briefly to Ile, who pointed to Byron.

The rider nodded and rode toward the fence. Byron stood. The rider reined up, and Byron caught the scents of sweat, leather, and horseflesh.

“The guardsman told me that you could help me, sir,” the man said.

‘Sir’ not ‘sire.’ Byron frowned. “What did he tell you?”

“That you were in charge here, sir, and I need your help. I need to find the Lady Jelwra immediately.” The rider reached into his breast pocket and removed a packet. His fingers partly covered the seal, but Byron recognized Lord Kensington’s colors embedded in the wax.

“What business do you have with the Lady Jelwra?” Byron asked. His heart pounded against his chest.

“I have to deliver this to her.”

“I’ll take it.” Byron extended his hand for the packet and smiled slightly. He tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “I’m her bard.”

“I’m sorry, sir bard,” the rider said, “but I’m to put this in her hands and no one else’s.”

“She is in the palace garden.” Byron pointed the way. The rider thanked him, clucked at his horse, and rode off. Byron turned and followed. He walked slowly, hoping that the rider would leave before he arrived. Part of him didn’t want to know what the rest of him was certain of. Perhaps if he had told the rider that he was king–

But no. The rider would probably have galloped off, leaving everyone even more suspicious. Byron’s feet clanged on the flagstones. He let himself in the north wing and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Then he hurried down the twisting hallway to the second-floor library, which overlooked the gardens.

The books smelled musty and old. Dust covered the floor. No one had been in the room for years. Byron walked through the stacks to the rays of light at the far end. He used to love this room, used to spend hours here when he should have been learning to ride, or learning sword play. Lord Demythos had had a library, but it hadn’t compared with this one.

Byron stopped in front of the windows, put his hand on the edge, and looked down. Alma sat on a bench and thumbed through the papers. She was smiling at the rider, who stood before her. A servant stood behind her and she turned to him. He handed her a sheet of parchment, and a pen and inkwell. Alma scrawled on the parchment, then sealed the letter, and handed it to the rider. He slipped the parchment into his breast pocket, nodded at something she said, something that Byron could not hear, and mounted the horse. Alma watched as the rider rode away. Then she too left the garden.

Byron gripped the edge of the windowsill until his fingers went numb. He had hoped that he could trust Alma. He had thought that she cared about him enough to work with him instead of against him. But everyone he had ever trusted had failed him in some way. Diana must have told Kensington about him. Lord Boton had sent him to his death. His father had never cared, and his mother no longer wanted him.

Rulers are loved differently, the Enos had said.

Byron’s smile was thin. Rulers weren’t loved at all.