Lightborn Page 7

  There was an uneasy, shifting silence. “I know,” the archduke said, “you find mention of magic distasteful. You do not believe it exists; it offends your piety and your sense of the order of things; it seems too much like wish fulfillment, bringing a man too easily things he should achieve only with effort or not at all. It is an invitation to corruption and a childish gratification of whim.”

  Telmaine realized she was hearing Sejanus’s own convictions. That might be said of her, whose power came so easily, but Ishmael di Studier’s magic had taken everything he had. “But there is another aspect of magic, a part that we prefer not to acknowledge: it is potentially very dangerous. An attempt—two attempts have been made on my brother’s life. And a little while ago, Vladimer received word that an attempt was made on the Lightborn prince’s life, and was successful. Isidore is dead.”

  Not a man spoke. Lightborn or no, the prince was a ruler, and the rulers had their own fraternity. What struck at one struck at all. Sejanus seemed the calmest man in the room, including Vladimer, whose knuckles sonned like bone on the head of his cane and whose expression, turned toward his brother, was stark.

  “How?” said Kalamay.

  “The light in his chambers failed during the night. Dissolution was, as burning is for us, near instantaneous. As these lights are enspelled to create light, their failure is unlikely to be either by chance or nature.”

  “Then that puts the southern bitch’s son in his place,” said Baron Rutgegard grimly, and not a man rebuked him for language in the presence of a lady. The new prince’s great-grandfather, named Odon the Breaker in Darkborn histories, had set out to rid his lands of Darkborn. The Borders in particular had never forgotten, or forgiven, that year and a half of genocidal slaughter. “They’ve won at last.”

  “Barbarians,” said Kalamay. Thwarted in his religious calling by his elder brother’s death, Xerxes Kalamay had quarreled even with members of his own church over interpretations of doctrine that suffered mages and Lightborn in their midst.

  “Perhaps,” the archduke said mildly. “Young Fejelis may surprise more than the southern factions, I suspect. But that is outwith our powers to decide. My lords,” he said, formally, “aside from my brother’s concerns, on the other side of sunrise there are powers we do not understand, powers that may exceed anything that we can match, and whose motives are unclear. Furthermore, whatever the logic of their protocols of succession, Isidore’s assassination will result in turmoil, during which the southern factions are certain to make a renewed bid for power. If Fejelis does not survive that turmoil, the succession is liable to pass over to his younger brother, who is a creature of the southern factions.

  “Whether the greater threat proves to be Lightborn or Shadowborn, as Vladimer believes, we must prepare. I have sent a ducal order to the Borders to permit the raising of forces to resist a Shadowborn invasion. I was weighing a ducal order to yourselves, to permit the raising of forces within the city to meet any associated crisis—”

  Vladimer’s cane rattled against the chair, startling sonn from her. He was leaning forward, the tendons of his neck sharp, his hand clenched on his cane. “No, Janus,” he whispered.

  The warning went unheard, or was ignored. “The documents will be in your hands within the hour.”

  She felt a surge of triumph from the Duke of Mycene, though not a muscle moved in that raptor’s face. The Duke of Kalamay bowed coldly. Imbré leaned over and briefly laid a time-gnarled hand on Sejanus’s knee. Vladimer lowered his head.

  “This will not be used as an excuse for persecution of those—Lightborn or mageborn—who have committed no crime.” This, Telmaine knew, was directed at Kalamay. “We have lived in peace if not in amity with the Lightborn for nearly three hundred years, and I can revoke these orders as readily as I grant them. Now I will ask you to leave me; it is late, and we are all tired, and we will no doubt make an early start tomorrow evening. Please consider my household your own.” He stood, and set his hand on the back of his chair while the other men rose and filed out, Mycene and Kalamay shoulder to shoulder, already conferring. Telmaine remained as she was, half in determination, half in paralysis.

  “Well, Dimi,” the archduke breathed. “Say it.”

  “What is there to say?” Vladimer said huskily. “As you have but lately reminded me, you are archduke. I hope you can as successfully persuade Mycene and Kalamay of that.”

  The archduke’s expression was a warning. “I could not issue a ducal order to the barons without issuing one to the dukes, not after this. Do I have your backing?”

  “Always,” Vladimer said. “And at least you have them mewed up for the day.”

  A sketch of a grin of appreciation. “Do what you have to, and get some rest, or you’re going to pay for this. Lady Telmaine,” he acknowledged her, belatedly, not lingering as she rustled to her feet to bob a curtsy. The footmen carefully closed the door behind themselves and the archduke, leaving her alone with Vladimer.

  “Ferdenzil Mycene should not be hunting Ishmael,” Telmaine said, in a suffused voice.

  Her sonn caught the movement of Vladimer’s left hand toward his right arm. He let the hand fall. “Lady Telmaine,” he said, bitingly, “some things are under my control and others are not, as you have heard. And we have worse problems, which you should also have heard.” He lifted his head and snapped a burst of sonn at her. “Have you been able to warn him?”

  Telmaine hesitated, caught between anger and inhibition.

  “Talk to me, woman,” Vladimer said. “We won’t be interrupted.”

  “I can reach him, yes,” Telmaine said, equally sharply. “But it’s no use. The damage to his—to his magic is worse than he told us. If I try again, it might kill him.”

  Vladimer’s jaw clenched. His fisted hand thumped the chair arm once, and braced itself there. Less harshly, for he was genuinely affected, she said, “He did seem to think he could stay ahead of pursuit.”

  Vladimer nodded, stiff necked. “It seems so. I’ve had word your husband arrived at Strumheller Station alone. The archduke’s agent thinks Ishmael is making his way cross-country for Stranhorne. I think it’s likely: next to Strumheller, Stranhorne would bear the brunt of any invasion. And Stranhorne and his family are no friends to Mycene.”

  “And what about Balthasar?”

  Vladimer rubbed his temple. “Ah, finally some wifely concern.”

  “Stop needling me,” she snapped. “I promised Ishmael and Balthasar I would protect you, despite you, if need be.”

  Vladimer smiled thinly. “I cannot tell you how much it reassures me not to have you cozen me.”

  “You mean if I were bent on harm, I’d speak sweetly to you?”

  “She did,” he said, his voice going hollow.

  Hearing that change, she wished intensely that Bal were there. All those years she had spent striving not to know the inner thoughts of others, he had spent in avid study of the mind.

  She thought what Bal might say. “Lord Vladimer, that wasn’t a woman. That was an enemy out to destroy you and taking pleasure in causing you all the pain and humiliation it could.”

  His sonn raked her. “How did you know that?” he said, harshly.

  “Balthasar,” she said, her heart jumping. “Bal guessed.”

  He swallowed, and for a moment she thought he would be sick. “Can these—creatures—touch-read?” he said, thickly.

  “It and I—communicated—as mages do,” she said. “But—whether they could touch-read an—a normal person—I don’t know.”

  “You and it communicated?”

  “Vladimer, stop—lashing at me. It was a horrible experience. It told me—called me Magistra, and then said I wasn’t a mage, but an ill-taught apprentice, and it—it—” The sense came back to her, of the foul, chill aura of the Shadowborn, of its power welling up around her and its voice insinuating itself into her thoughts. Let me show you, it had said, and then it had begun to press into her mind the structure of its own magic,
like a seed meant to grow monstrous and consuming.

  “It, what?” snapped Vladimer. “Please restrain your hysteria, Lady Telmaine. It merely tries my patience.”

  She drew a shuddering breath, stinging at the rebuke. She would be light-struck to confide in him. “When Ishmael shot it, I felt it die. I felt as though I were dying, too.”

  “That is an experience,” he said, “I do not envy you.”

  Sweet Imogene, but she missed Bal. She missed Ishmael. She missed men who did not treat a woman’s feelings as weapons slung at them. “Have you ever loved a woman, Vladimer?” she demanded, intemperately.

  There was a long silence. She resisted sonning him, to reveal the expression on his face. Indeed, she was rather appalled at her own temerity.

  She was about to apologize for the question when Vladimer said, “Do you think, Lady Telmaine, you can learn how to quench these fires?” He paused, and, receiving no answer, said, “Because so far they have deployed two weapons against us, and the latter is by far the more devastating.”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “I know—I can turn back the fire against one, but I took him by surprise.”

  “Yes,” Vladimer said. “I have set my agents to follow up on the descriptions that you and others have given. I wish I’d been able to do so sooner. At what range can you sense Shadowborn? Ishmael’s sense was so limited that he found it more distraction than advantage, but yours seems broader.”

  “I’m not—certain. But I do not have to be in the same room. The Shadowborn in the summerhouse, I sensed as soon as we entered. But, Lord Vladimer, it may be only the workings of their magic I sense. I only felt the one at the train station as he started the fire.”

  “You were distracted,” he granted. “But despite my inconvenient weakness when we arrived, I have not been idle. I doubt anyone will be able to circumvent my precautions for the safety of my brother’s household without using magic.”

  She had only a vague sense of what those precautions might entail, yet Ishmael had been convinced of Vladimer’s effectiveness. She must take comfort in that. “Lord Vladimer, would you extend your precautions to Lord Erskane’s household, and my children?”

  His lips compressed briefly, and then he said, “Inasmuch as I can do so without provoking inconvenient questions, consider it done.”

  “Thank you,” she said softly.

  Mere chance allowed her to catch his brief, bitter smile. She wondered at the thought that had provoked it, but dared not ask.

  “I know you cannot stay on guard night and day,” he allowed, “though there are drugs that enable a man to stay alert for stretches of several nights.” He did not, as Balthasar would, qualify that statement with the full risks to constitution and reason—did he even consider them, even for himself? She rejected his veiled suggestion with a firm headshake, a contradiction that could go safely unobserved. He caught the whisper of her veils against her shoulders and tilted his head inquiringly, awaiting her voiced objection.

  “I would prefer you to remain alert until sunset,” he said when she offered none. “It may be pure atavism for me to think the threat is greater during the day, but our vulnerability certainly is.”

  She could not plead desperate tiredness to a man who had dragged himself from his sickbed. “Yes,” she said, in a low voice. “I can do that.”

  “You may sit in the botanical library. I will ensure you are not disturbed. My rooms are behind it, and Sejanus will be using the legal library next door; he will probably allow himself four hours of sleep, if that.” He cast light sonn over her. “I will advise my staff that you have the right to wake me in an emergency. If there is no time, go straight to Sejanus. Those are my orders.”

  Floria

  Floria paused before the prince’s antechamber, bracing herself for what she would find inside. By the sound of it, the antechamber was full, humming like a hive of crimson bees, an impression confirmed as soon as she opened the door. Their brightnesses, who had gathered to celebrate the heir’s coming of age, now crowded the antechamber to petition for a private audience with the new prince.

  There were no chairs, because no one would use them. To show infirmity was to invite righteous deposition; to invite another to show it, an act of contempt. Floria set her back against a wall, and exchanged nods with the other vigilants present, standing as she stood, observing the gathering of their brightnesses.

  Wondering, as she wondered, which one had slain their prince.

  The subtle unease of the minority who wore less than full mourning pleased her, but did not signify. Every brilliant claimed the right to depose a head of lineage who was so senile, corrupt, or incompetent as to risk collective interests. Equally, they defended that right against any who abused it. Only in melodramas did unrighteous usurpers and assassins betray themselves by penitence or trickery and declaim guilt in iambic pentameter.

  Prince Isidore’s father, whom her father had served so long, had been a man of great charisma and recklessness. Any other prince would have been righteously deposed over the decision to bind his ten-year-old son to the sixteen-year-old daughter of a southern barbarian. Prince Benedict had wooed their brightnesses with promises of profit and stability through expansion, and though that program was extremely successful, he had sacrificed his son’s domestic peace, and the later tolerance of his first signs of mental frailty.

  He had also sacrificed the regard of the Darkborn, who had no such expedient reason to forget the genocidal reign of the consort’s grandfather. Since the Darkborn nobility measured blood as carefully as the mages did in their lineages, they would not mark the new prince’s lineage in his favor.

  And fully a quarter of the people in this chamber showed some signs of southern origin or aesthetic. For all their barbarity, southerners were austere in their attire. Their decorations depended more on texture than color, almost as the Darkborn’s did. Floria approved the simplicity and functionality; had the choice been neutral, she might have favored the style herself.

  The consort’s surviving brother and two sisters had deployed themselves on either side of the door of greater privilege, though four impassive vigilants stood between themselves and full possession. Orlanjis stood with them, despite being underage for this gathering. He wore a red vest and sash, and his hair was coiled into a red mesh net at the nape of his neck, a judicious choice. The skin beneath his eyes looked bruised with sleeplessness, and he could not keep his gaze from the lights. Isidore considered Orlanjis the most imaginative of his children, and Fejelis the least, for all the heir’s other virtues—but imagination too easily became a liability.

  To Floria’s surprise, her wait was over almost before it had begun. The new prince’s secretary emerged from the door of lesser privilege and crossed with hushed step to invite her to be received. He was another southerner, but one who had found his natural home and loyalties here; he wore full mourning, and his face was haggard with grief.

  As they approached the lesser door, the door of greater privilege suddenly burst wide, to expel Helenja herself, a heavy woman dressed in the textured earth color of southern habit, and four of her vigilants. That the dowager consort made the barest concession to mourning, in the form of the crimson ribbons decorating arms and waist, did not surprise Floria in the least. Helenja would not offend her supporters by mourning her husband openly, whatever her private feelings.

  Though her slab of a face was crimson enough. “You’re making a mistake!” she hurled back over her shoulder—the gesture was rendered faintly absurd by being thrown into the face of the vigilant trailing her. Seeing Floria, she glared. “If anything happens to my son—”

  Floria dipped a bow, inferring what had happened: Fejelis had turned the dowager consort out of his private councils. “Your son, Highness? I rather think that is a prince in there.”

  Whether true, or wisely said, it was satisfying to see the woman vexed. If Helenja had had any part in Isidore’s death, Floria would claim the right to see to her r
ighteous—and to Floria’s mind overdue—deposition.

  She slipped through the door oflesser privilege as Helenja demanded of Orlanjis, “What are you doing here?” Oh, she was ruffled, to publicly rebuke her favorite so.

  Then Floria halted, guard up. Fejelis was alone in the room. That, she had not expected. She stepped aside from the door, setting a wall that she knew to be solid at her back. Was that it—the dowager consort’s words, his being here, alone—part of a plan? She was to make a move, and then to be brought down, by a dagger or a dart, attempting revenge. She need not even make the move. His word would stand against her silent corpse.

  “It will work but once,” Floria said, calmly. “You might not want to waste it on me.”

  The young prince regarded her steadily, showing neither comprehension nor confusion. His face was composed but pale, made even more so by its contrast with his full crimson mourning. He had a northern complexion, which she had always thought fortunate, and his eyes were his father’s, silvery and as unrevealing of his thought as mirrors. His head was bare of the princely caul, his light hair slightly disarrayed. He had a southerner’s height, though had yet to fill out his spidery frame, and his habitual hesitation of speech and manner left one constantly expecting a stumble, and not noticing when it did not happen. How many people knew how he had worked at training hesitation out of himself in the salle?

  Time, she thought, might yet lend him distinction, if he lived. He was already a sound blade, with a deadly advantage in reach, and around his neck he wore the talisman that turned aside bullets. What remained to be seen was whether he could command loyalty where it mattered. What remained to be seen was who his real allies were.

  He said, mindful of the ears outside, “. . . The first thing I want to say to you is my father’s death was not my doing.”

  More direct than she expected. An experienced courtier, she responded in kind. “Was it your mother’s?”

  “. . . I do not know. She says not. You are,” he reminded her, “my servant.” The statement was not entirely free of question.