Inheritance

SIMON BROWN

DAW BOOKS, INC.

Copyright © 2000, Simon Brown

All rights reserved

DAW Book Collectors No. 1272.

All characters and events in this book are fictitious.

Any resemblance to persons living or dead is strictly coincidental.

ISBN 0-7564-0162-3

This book is dedicated with much love to my nephews and nieces—Alice, Amy, Andrew, Ben, Bennett, Billy, Caleb, Christopher, Daniel, James, Jane, Kea, Kylie, Lachlan, Louise, Nate, Phillip, Rebecca, Tara and Thomas.

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

I would like to thank Alison Tokley, Sean Williams, Jack Dann and Sara Douglass for all their advice and support during the writing of this book. I would also like to thank the wonderful work done on my behalf by Stephanie Smith, Julia Stiles, Garth Nix, Russ Galen, Betsy Wollheim and Debra Euler.

Kingdoms are but cares,

State is devoid of stay, Riches are ready snares,

And hasten to decay.

Pleasure is a privy prick

Which vice doth still provoke;

Pomp, imprompt; and fame, a flame; Power, a smouldering smoke.

Who meanth to remove the rock

Owt of the slimy mud, Shall mire himself, and hardly scape

The swelling of the flood.

—King Henry VI of England (1421-1471)

Chapter 1

Ager, still not forty, crippled by war and itinerant by nature, had sat down for a quiet drink in the visitor’s room in the Lost Sailor Tavern. He fidgeted in his seat, trying to ease the pain in his crookback but without avail; the ax blow that had cut tendons and bone all those years ago had been too deep to ever fully repair. He took a sip of his drink, a strange, sweet, and warm brew that tickled all the way down his gullet, and took in his surroundings.

The room was busy, but not crowded. Aproned staff wandered between tables, taking orders and delivering drinks. The guests were a mixed lot of merchants, sailors, off-duty soldiers, local dock workers, and a handful of whores. A couple of the women had thrown him glances when he first entered the room, but on seeing his misshapen back and his one eye had quickly turned away. He did not care. He had not slept with a woman for fifteen years, and sex was more a memory than a desire these days.

Suddenly the seat opposite his was taken. He looked up and saw a youth dressed in farming gear of woolen pants and shirt and a dirt-stained coat; his round face was arse-smooth, his eyes brown, his gaze intent. The youth nodded a greeting and Ager returned the favor, noting there were plenty of vacant tables around.

“You were a soldier,” the youth said bluntly. “I can tell. I have seen wounds like those before.”

“There’s nothing special about losing an eye,” Ager replied calmly, “and many are born with a crookback.”

“The injuries are rarely seen together. An arrow in the eye, perhaps? And a halberd or spear in the back?”

“Right about the eye, wrong about the back.”

“Judging from your age, sir, I would guess these happened during the Slaver War.”

Ager found himself increasingly curious about this strange young man. “And what would you know about the Slaver War?”

“I’m interested in everything about it,” the youth replied with surprising earnestness. “In what battle did you receive your wounds? Or were they inflicted in different battles?”

“The battle at Deep River,” Ager told him.

The youth’s reaction surprised him. His eyes seem to light up like lanterns, and he said in a subdued voice, “I have searched for you for many years.”

“Me?”

The youth shook his head. “No, no. I mean, someone who was at Deep River.”

Ager leaned forward across the wooden table, moving aside the cup he had been drinking from, and said, “What did you say your name was?”

“I didn’t,” the youth replied levelly. “It’s Pirem.”

Ager nodded, trying to recall whether he knew the name. A distant memory sparked. “I knew a Pirem once,” he said quietly. “A long time ago.”

“There are many Pirems in Theare,” the youth said reasonably.

“This one was a soldier. He was in my company during the Slaver War.”

“He fought with you in the battle at Deep River?”

The man shook his head, then looked away. His single eye, as gray as a winter sky, looked as if it was searching for a memory in the drifting blue smoke that wafted from the kitchen through the common room.

“No; he died before then. Caught a sniffle that traveled to his lungs. He died in a delirium, thinking he was back with his wife and children.”

He returned his gaze to the youth. “Most of our losses during the war were to disease and not battle. Did you know that?”

Pirem blinked. “I remember reading something about it.”

“You read?” Ager asked loudly, clearly impressed. The skill of reading was rare enough to hint there was more to this boy than suggested by his farmer’s clothes. He tried to study the youth’s hands, but there was not enough light to catch that much detail.

“No more difficult a skill than ploughing,” Pirem said, keeping his voice low. The veteran’s exclamation had drawn attention to their table. “And talking of names, I don’t know yours yet.”

“Ah, now, names are not things you should pass on so easily.” He smiled easily. “Pirem.”

“I trust you.”

The statement was made with such direct simplicity that Ager was flattered. “Ager, and don’t worry about my last name. Why are you so interested in the Slaver War?”

“My father fought in the war.”

“Many fathers fought in the war.” Ager’s eye bunked. “And sons and brothers.” He rested back in his chair and a brief spasm of pain flickered across his face. Pirem looked concerned, but Ager waved a hand in dismissal.

“My father died while I was still a baby,” Pirem added.

“He fought at Deep River?”

“Yes. He fought in almost every battle of the war.”

Ager heard something like anger in Pirem’s voice. “He didn’t survive?” Pirem shook his head. “What was his name?” Pirem hesitated. “If you trust me with your name, you can trust me with that of your dead father’s. Maybe I knew him.”

Pirem opened his mouth to speak but closed it quickly. Ager waited, emptying his cup and catching the attention of one of the tavern’s bustling staff to indicate he wanted a refill.

“His name was Pirem, too.”

“God, the world is truly filled with your namesakes, isn’t it?”

Before Pirem could reply, a thin boy wearing a white apron streaked with dirty handprints was by their table and filling Ager’s cup with a warm brew, smelling of clove, different than his first drink. He tried an experimental sip and decided he liked it even more.

“An‘ who’s payin’ for it?” the boy demanded, holding out his hand. Pirem handed over a coin before Ager could dig out any coppers from his purse.

“Bugger me!” the boy cried. “That’s a whole penny! I can’t change that, sir. I’ve only got three eighths on me…”

“Keep his cup filled during the night,” Pirem ordered, clearly concerned at the attention their table was getting once again.

The boy disappeared with a smile as wide as the city walls; there was no way the cripple would ever drink through a whole penny in one night, and he would pocket the remainder.

“You don’t have to ply me with drink to talk,” Ager said gruffly. “I’m no pisspot babbler. If you really want to know about the war, I’ll talk until winter.” His face darkened. “No one wants to remember it anymore.”

“I want to know about Deep River,” Pirem said. “None of the books I’ve read can tell me much about it, and there weren’t that many… many…”

“Survivors?” Ager laughed harshly. “No, there weren’t many of us. But there were none left of the other side. None at all.”

“Was it an ambush? The histories say different things, as if no one can make up their minds about it.”

“That’s because no one will ever know, now that Elynd Chisal is dead.” Ager’s voice caught, and he gulped quickly from his cup. “Only General Chisal knew what was really happening during that bloody war. He was the best soldier Kendra ever produced.”

Pirem leaned forward eagerly. “Please. Tell me everything you can.”

Ager settled in on himself and closed his good eye; the empty socket, a shallow bowl of skin furrowed with scars, stared vacantly at Pirem.

“The general had learned of a Slaver camp on the other side of Deep River. He decided to go after it before they got news of us. He was always like that, taking the battle to them. It was hot, dry as a priest’s mouth. My section was in the vanguard. We scrambled down the ravine and waited for the rest of the division to catch up. General Chisal himself was with the second regiment, his own Red Shields, followed by a squadron of dismounted Hume cavalry, pissed off at having to leave their mounts behind; but they were horse archers and it never hurts to have a few bows around to sweep the enemy’s ranks before you hit him with sword and spear. Last in the line was a militia regiment, all huff and bluff, but green as baby shit through and through. When we were all down, we started up the other side. We hadn’t gone more than a hundred steps when it started.”

“The Slavers attacked?”

Ager nodded. “Oh, yes. First arrows, and then boulders. Their shooting wasn’t that accurate, and the boulders were easy enough to dodge, but with so many of us stuck on the slope some had to be unlucky.”

“So the general was caught by surprise? It was an ambush?”

Ager shook his head. “No, I don’t think so. He knew the enemy scouts would have to be asleep to miss us scrambling down the ravine, and would have plenty of time to organize some kind of defense. I think he counted on them not being able to shift their whole force to the river in time to stop us getting up the other side.” He smiled grimly. “And he was right.”

“What happened then?” Pirem urged.

“The general ordered the archers to keep down the Slavers while the rest of us scrambled up as quickly as we could. We had almost reached level ground, but then two companies of Slaver mercenaries charged down slope. That shook us, I can tell you. We were exhausted, and the archers had to stop shooting because we were hand-to-hand. It was hard fighting them back up the slope, but we outnumbered them.” Ager grinned then. “And my company beat the Red Shields to the top.”

“But that wasn’t the end of it, was it?”

Ager’s grin melted away. He shook his head. “No. That’s when the real battle started, and when I got my wounds.” He drank another mouthful and opened his mouth to resume when a shadow fell across the table. He glanced up to see who it was, and then all thought froze in his brain.

Pirem turned as well, and let out a low groan. “Oh, God, not again,” he muttered.

A giant of a man glared down at the pair. His flat blonde hair, starting to gray, was cut close to his scalp, a short salt-and-pepper beard covered most of his face, and his eyes were narrowed to slits. He wore a long cloak, but there was no disguising the shape of the long sword that hung from his waist.

“Damn,” Ager said, but softly and without anger.

The stranger placed his large hands on Pirem’s shoulders. “You’d better come back with me.”

“But, Kumul, I’ve finally found someone who fought at Deep River!”

The one called Kumul briefly lifted his gaze to Ager. “You’re being fed chicken shit by someone desperate for company and a night’s drinking. Only a handful survived that battle, and you’ll find none of them in this place.”

Pirem turned back to Ager, his eyes pleading for him to refute the words, but the look was lost on him. The crookback could not take his own eyes off the giant man. “It is you, isn’t it?”

Kumul frowned. “Now that’s an asinine question.”

“Captain Alarn,” Ager said. “Captain Kumul Alarn, of the Red Shields.”

Kumul flinched, and Pirem took one of his hands. “You see? This man knows you! He must have fought during the war!”

“Many men know me,” Kumul said levelly, “and how do you know which side he fought on?” He stared accusingly at Ager, but the man could say no more for the moment—his skin had gone the color of limestone. Kumul grabbed the youth’s coat in both hands and lifted him to his feet. “Let’s not waste any more time here,” he said.

Ager stirred suddenly. “No! Wait!” But Kumul ignored him, half-dragging and half-carrying Pirem along with him. Bundling the youth past one of the servants, he exchanged a nod with her. Pirem caught the signal.

“One of your informers, Kumul?” Pirem demanded. “Or one of your whores?”

Kumul grunted, gave another tug that almost had the youth in the air. They had reached the exit when Ager, struggling hard against his crookback, caught up with them.

“Captain Alarn! Wait!”

Again, Kumul ignored him. He used a shoulder to barge open the heavy wooden door and pulled Pirem after him. Ager was not put off and followed them onto the crowded street. He bumped into a passerby, mumbled an apology, lurched forward, and managed to catch the tail of Kumul’s cloak.

“Oh, for God’s sake!” Kumul cried, and spun around, one hand still on Pirem and the other pulling free his cloak from Ager’s grasp, showing the design on his jerkin and exposing his sword. “Do you recognize the livery, man? I am no longer Captain Alarn of the Red Shields. They are gone and forgotten! I am Kumul Alarn, Constable of the Royal Guards. Now leave us alone or I’ll arrest you!”

“And I am no longer Captain Ager Parmer of the Kendra Spears,” Ager shouted back defiantly. “I am now Ager Crookback or Ager One-Eye, or just plain Ager the Cripple. Look at me, Kumul! Look at my face!”

Kumul stopped short, pulling Pirem back with him, and put his face close to Ager’s. “Ager Parmer?”

Ager slouched, the effect of his rush finally catching up with him. The slouch turned into a slump, his left shoulder lifting to be level with his neck. He nodded wearily.

“I thought you were dead,” Kumul said quietly.

“No, not dead, but as good as. It took two years for the wound in my back to stop weeping.”

“But that was fifteen years ago. Why didn’t you find me?”

“The war was over, my friend. I wanted peace and quiet.” Ager swallowed. “But I could never find it. No one at home wanted me around. I’ve been wandering ever since, picking up work where I could find it.”

“What kind of work?” Pirem asked, then blushed. “I didn’t mean…”

“I’m not offended,” Ager said quickly. “I have some learning. I can read and write, and know my numbers. Officers in Kendra’s army must know these things. I work as a clerk, usually for merchants, who care little one way or the other about my deformities. I earn some spending money and my passage from port to port. As with you, Pirem, there is more to me than shows.”

Kumul looked at the youth, raising his eyebrows. “Pirem?” The youth shrugged.

“Your name isn’t Pirem?”

“No,” Kumul answered before the youth could open his mouth. “Pirem is the name of his servant.”

“Servant? Then what is your name?”

Kumul laughed. “Since I could not recognize you, I should not be surprised that you cannot recognize this one.”

Ager peered closer at the youth’s face. After a moment he pulled back as if something had stung him on the nose. “He couldn’t be,” he said to Kumul.

“He is,” Kumul replied smugly.

Before the conversation could continue, there was a scuffle among the crowd of passersby and someone cried out. All three turned to see what the commotion was about. A tall, thin woman was bent over picking up fruit that had spilled from a basket and was at the same time cursing the clumsy dolt who had tripped over her long legs. The offender, still scrabbling to his feet, his face red with anger, ignored her. As he stood, there was a glint of steel in his hand. He looked up to see he was being observed by the giant man and his two companions, one a cripple, and the other…

He cursed and charged toward them, now holding his long knife out in front of him.

Kumul pushed the youth behind him with his left hand and with his right drew out his sword. He smiled tightly, silently thankful their assailant’s clumsiness had given him away. What he did not see was a second man behind him, stepping quickly and silently toward the youth, a knife raised above his head for a single killing blow. The crowd around him fell into frightened silence.

Something in the sudden stillness made Ager turn. Seeing the new threat, he moved without thinking to sandwich the youth between himself and Kumul. The second attacker shook his head—the cripple would slow him down but never stop him. He waited until he was three steps from the crookback before playing the trick that in so many vicious street fights had given him victory. He threw the knife from his right hand to his left and lunged. He was so sure of his advantage that the sudden rasp of metal against scabbard barely registered in his mind, nor the flash of a bright short sword swinging up to impale itself in his body.

Out of the corner of his eye, Kumul had seen Ager shift position and knew what it must mean, but only had time to hope that Ager’s injuries had not ruined his skill with a sword before his own attacker was upon him, slashing wildly with his weapon. Kumul easily deflected it downward with his blade and then flickered the tip up and into the man’s throat, the man’s own impetus driving the point a finger’s length through muscle and artery and into his spine.

The assailant spasmed once and dropped to the ground, dead. Kumul tugged his sword free and spun around, using his left arm to keep his charge behind him. Relief flooded through him when he saw the second assailant on the ground, Ager on top of him, blade sunk deep into his heart and lungs.

“Well done, old friend,” Kumul said, then noticed how still the crookback was. He moved forward and placed a hand on Ager’s twisted shoulder. “Are you all right?”

Ager coughed, turning his head so he could see Kumul with his one eye. “The bastard shifted his knife to his left hand,” he said weakly. “Too late for me to change my grip.” His head slumped and his eye closed as he lost consciousness.

Kumul bent down and saw that a knife had been driven into Ager’s right side to a third of its length. Blood was flowing freely. The youth knelt down next to Kumul.

“That is a serious wound,” he said. “We must get him to the palace.”

Kumul nodded. “I’ll carry him. You take his sword.” Leaving the blade in for fear of doing more damage, Kumul lifted Ager gently as if he weighed no more than a child.

The youth jerked the short sword out of the dead man. “I’ll run ahead to wake Dr. Trion.”

“God!” shouted Kumul. “Behind you, boy!”

The youth spun on his heel and saw a third attacker almost upon him. Obviously undeterred by the fate of his two companions, he had seen his chance to strike when the giant had taken up his burden.

“My friend,” the youth said quietly, “that was a mistake.”

The assassin saw his target move forward to meet him. Surprised, he had no time to slow his charge. Instinctively, he raised the knife’s point to deflect as best as possible any swing toward his neck or head. It was the last mistake he would ever make. He saw the youth take a step sideways and crouch. Before he could react, a sword sliced upward into his belly and ripped out as he stumbled forward. He gasped in pain, felt the earth rise to smash against his head, and lost consciousness before the blade fell against his neck, almost severing it through.

The youth stood, washed in blood, his eyes alight for a moment and then suddenly as dull as coal. His sword hand dropped limply to his side. The crowd started talking excitedly as if the fight had been put on for their benefit.

“Quickly, Lynan! We have to go. There may be others!”

Roused by the use of his real name, Lynan looked up at Kumul. “It’s… it’s not what I thought it would be like.”

“Later! We have to go. Now!”

The two hurried off. Ager, still unconscious in Kumul’s arms, moaned in pain.

“I fear we will be too late,” Kumul said grimly.

“He will live,” Lynan replied fiercely.

“If God is calling him, no one can hold back his ghost.”

“He will live,” Lynan insisted. He looked up at Kumul, tears welling in his eyes. “He knew my father.”

Chapter 2

Ager slipped in and out of consciousness, at times the feeling in his side a gnawing pain and then nothing more than a dull, persistent throbbing. At one point he thought he was floating in air, but he managed to open his eye and realized Kumul was carrying him. He had a vague memory of Kumul doing this once before, but then remembered the memory was of Kumul carrying a friend of his from the battlefield. Dimly it occurred to him that his friend had died, and he wondered whether that would be his fate, though whether he died or not did not seem terribly important to him this moment. Another time he caught a glimpse of a figure of a man floating in the air beside him, his face young and then surprisingly older, and he knew that face, knew it almost as well as his own. It’s his ghost, he thought. He’s come back to take me with him. But then the face was young again, and none of it made any sense to him.

After a while, the feeling in Ager’s side was gnawing more than throbbing, and in his clearer moments he understood it meant he was still alive and unfortunately coming out of whatever delirium had held him. He tried to say something, but Kumul told him to shut up. On reflection, that seemed like a good idea, so he did. Then, just as the pain was becoming too much for him, he was carried through a huge gate. Kumul shouted orders and soldiers scurried away to do the constable’s bidding. He knew he was coming to the end of his journey, and knew that meant some bastard with small hooks and cutters would soon be slicing into him to dig out whatever it was that was causing the hurt.

Kumul was carrying him up a flight of stairs now, and the man’s jolting stride sent spasms of pain through his body and, absurdly, made his empty eye socket itch. He moaned involuntarily, and felt humiliated. He tried apologizing, but Kumul again told him to shut up. Eventually they entered the most luxurious room Ager had ever seen. One wall was hidden by a tapestry of dazzling color. Opposite, a hearth was aglow with a blazing fire. Kumul finally laid him down on something he assumed must have been a proper woolen mattress, for it made him feel as if he was floating. He could hear Kumul and the young man talking earnestly with each other, but for some reason he could make out only a few words, and they made no sense at all.

Despite the warmth from the fire, Ager was beginning to shake. He concentrated on trying to keep his limbs and jaw still, but to no avail. To make things worse, the pain in his side was almost unbearable. He wanted to cry out, but the only sound he could make was another moan. He reached for the source of the pain, but felt something hard there instead of his own flesh. Perhaps he was shaking so much Kumul had had to pin him to the bed. The thought made him want to laugh.

And then Ager was aware of a new presence—a short, bearded man with a clipped monotone of a voice that only added to the room’s background hum. What distinguished him from the other two was a smell that was strangely comforting, and after a moment he realized it was the smell of the sword bush. The realization alarmed him.

Oh, no, he thought. It’s a surgeon. I’m going to hate this man, I know it.

The doctor placed a gentle hand against his forehead. Kind brown eyes looked down into his single gray one, then the hand moved to his side and took hold of the thing sticking into him. The doctor did not move it, as Ager had been afraid he would do, but he retreated and talked to the other two again. A second later he was back. Ager heard him say, “This will hurt like nothing you’ve ever felt before.”

“I’ve had a fucking ax in my back,” Ager tried to say, but could make only a hissing sound. “Nothing can hurt more that.”

Then Kumul was leaning over him. The giant gave a lopsided smile and held Ager by the shoulders, pinning him down. He felt the young one doing the same with his knees.

And then agony. The surgeon was right. It did hurt more than anything he had ever felt before. He screamed. His body arched into the air. He screamed again. A great, swallowing abyss opened beneath him and he fell away from the earth.

The surgeon Trion left the room shaking his head. “I don’t know, Kumul. I just don’t know.”

“He saved my life,” Lynan told Kumul.

“He saved both our lives,” Kumul replied, not lifting his gaze from the crookback. “You were lucky tonight.” Lynan said nothing. “You must not do this again.”

“Do what?”

Kumul turned to face him. “You know my meaning,” he said, anger creeping into his voice.

“I’ve been leaving the palace—”

“Sneaking out of the palace,” Kumul corrected him.

“—sneaking out of the palace most nights for over a year now. Nothing like this has happened before.”

“You know I put up with these expeditions because I think you deserve some leeway—you’re a young man now—but I warned you to stop last month.”

“For no reason.”

“No reason!” Kumul barked, then glanced anxiously at Ager, guilty about raising his voice. “You know as well as I do the reason.” He grabbed Lynan by the shoulders and looked him straight in the eye. “Your mother the queen is dying. Her ghost may stay with her for another week, or another month, or even another year, but it may just as easily flee her body tonight. Things are starting to happen in Kendra. Forces are aligning themselves for the succession, including the Twenty Houses.”

“The Twenty Houses have no reason to hate me,” Lynan said weakly, knowing the lie even as he spoke it. “My mother is Usharna, Queen of Kendra. I am one of them.”

“And your father was a commoner made general, and his mother was a Chett slave. The Twenty Houses have every reason to want to see you put out of the way before the queen dies.”

Lynan turned away, not wanting to hear. Kumul sighed heavily and leaned over Ager to check his bandages.

“He is still bleeding a little. And that fire is dying. I will get more wood.”

“I hope this wound doesn’t weep for two years like his last one,” Lynan said. As soon as he had spoken the words, he regretted them. He had not meant to sound so callous. But it was too late. Kumul stared angrily at him.

“Have the courtesy to watch him for me while I’m gone,” he ordered, and left.

Unreasonably angry himself, Lynan tried standing on his royal dignity, but alone and with no one to be arrogant with, he slipped back to reality. What did he think he was doing? Kumul deserved better than that from him. And who did he think he was fooling? He had all the royal dignity of a midden, unlike his older half-siblings, all true bloods and sired from Usharna’s first two noble-born husbands. Kumul was right: he had the form but not the substance of the court’s respect. His own mother, the queen herself, did her best to ignore him. He knew, too, that this was why he so desperately wanted to know more about his father, whose blood apparently flowed thicker through his veins than his mother’s. But General Elynd Chisal was not even a memory for him. He was made up of tales and anecdotes, history lessons and hearsay. “Kendra’s greatest soldier,” Ager had said of him.

Lynan remembered the crookback then with a strange mixture of gratitude and unexpected affection. He checked Ager’s breathing—shallow but blessedly regular—and laid the palm of his hand on the man’s forehead to test his fever. He heard someone come in the room, and turned, expecting to see Kumul.

“That was quick…” he began, but stopped when he saw a small, slightly built young man with a mop of hair on his round head that did not seem to know which way to sit.

“Olio!”

“Good evening, b—b—brother,” said Olio, and hesitantly approached the bed. “Is this the one?”

“The one?”

“I met Kumul rushing down the p-p-passageway. I asked him where he was going and he shouted something about a wounded m-m-man.” Olio looked with real concern at the hapless Ager. Of all Lynan’s siblings, Olio was the only one who had ever had time for him, and his gentle nature made it easy for Lynan to like him despite his noble father. Even when he was a child, it had been only Olio among the royal family who seemed to acknowledge him as a member.

“Yes. He saved my… I mean… Kumul’s life tonight.” Lynan did not want the whole court to know he had been out of the palace. The last thing he needed was to be kept under close supervision by a nervous Royal Guard. Being tagged by its constable was bad enough.

Olio’s eyes widened in surprise. “And he is wounded b-b-badly?”

Lynan nodded. “Trion seemed doubtful he would live,” he said, but added quickly, “I think he will.”

“He is a friend of yours?”

“No. Yes. I mean, I hope so.” He groaned inside.

Olio simply nodded, as if he understood exactly what Lynan was trying to say, and of what he was trying not to say. Olio was eerily empathic like that. “Then I will p-p-pray for him.” He turned to leave.

“You would pray for him if he was your worst enemy,” Lynan said without sarcasm.

Olio inclined his head as if he was seriously considering the remark. “P-p-probably,” he admitted. “And b-b-by the way, I would change your clothing if I were you.”

Lynan looked down at himself. His clothes were covered in dried blood.

Before Olio reached the door, Kumul returned, followed by a male servant carrying a basket filled with firewood. They both bowed briefly to Olio, who waved an informal dismissal and moved out of their way.

As the servant started stacking the firewood by the hearth, Kumul mumbled to Lynan, “Prepare yourself.”

“What are you muttering—?”

Lynan never got to finish his question. He heard the sound of heavy feet coming from the corridor and Dejanus appeared, dressed in the full regalia of the queen’s own Life Guard, his mace of office held erect in one hand. He was an even bigger man than Kumul, and filled the doorway. He saw Lynan and offered one of the quizzical smiles he was famous for, then stepped aside. Behind him, standing with what seemed impatient frustration, was Usharna, the queen herself.

She was fully dressed for office, with a heavy linen gown bejeweled with emeralds and rubies, and a black velvet cloak sweeping behind her that shone in the firelight like still water under a full moon. Around her neck hung the four Keys of Power, the ultimate symbols of royal authority in the kingdom of Grenda Lear and all its subject realms. Their weight seemed to drag her head down, and the muscles of her neck and shoulders were taut with the strain of carrying them. Already small in size, the tangible burden of office, together with her illness, made her appear like a frail clay doll. Her white hair was pulled up on top of her head and kept down with a gold tiara decorated with an engraving of her family crest, the black silhouette of a kestrel against a gold field. Fine hands like china nested together under her heart, and her pale brown eyes tiredly surveyed those before her.

“Your Majesty!” Lynan called out in surprise. All in the room bowed stiffly from the waist.

Usharna snorted her satisfaction and allowed Olio and Lynan to come forward and each kiss a cheek. “Well, it’s nice to see you at home, however late,” she said to Lynan, looking disapprovingly at his bloody dress. Without waiting for a reply, she went to Ager and peered at him closely. “This is the one?” The question was directed to Kumul.

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Where is my physician?” she called out, and Trion seemed to appear from thin air. Lynan caught a glimpse of the crowd waiting in the corridor; it looked as if the queen’s entire entourage had followed her down.

“Your assessment?” she asked Trion.

“He is seriously wounded, your Majesty. If he survives the night, he may live, but I do not think he will see another dawn.”

The queen stood deep in thought for a long time. Lynan had never seen her looking so frail. He wanted to go to her and hold her arm, take some of her burden on himself, but he stayed where he was, made immobile by her aloofness. Always so far from me, Lynan thought.

“I wish to be alone with this man,” she said at last, but Lynan thought her expression suggested she would rather be anywhere else than alone with Ager.

Dejanus looked as if he was about to object, but Usharna raised one hand and he bowed deferentially. Everyone filed out obediently, Dejanus shutting the door behind him and standing guard over it. Lynan, squeezed between Kumul and a courtier whose violet scent made him feel queasy, wondered why Usharna should worry about a cripple injured in a street fight—he looked at Kumul out of the corner of his eye—unless someone was indiscreet enough to let on about the night’s events and their role in them.

Was she going to wake up the poor man and interrogate him? The hair on the nape of his neck started to rise and he tried to ignore it. Trion was saying something to one of his aides, an attractive young woman dressed in the latest fashion of fine linen layered with strips of colored felt. She was only recently attached to the court from one of the outlying realms, and her dark golden skin told Lynan she was either a Chett or an Amanite. Probably the latter; by all accounts the Chetts did not take well to lots of clothing. The thought made him smile. The woman saw it and thought he was smiling at her. Appealingly, she returned the favor. Lynan’s heart skipped a beat. Most of Usharna’s courtiers, while making some show of bowing to him if cornered, would not look at him sideways under normal circumstances. They haven’t gotten to her yet, he decided, and the thought saddened him.

He was aware that the hairs on his arms were starting to rise, and the skin on his face seemed tight and irritated. He saw the blond hairs on Kumul’s massive forearms beginning to stand as well, and realized that whatever was affecting him was affecting everybody in the corridor. Some of the courtiers were starting to look distressed.

“What’s going on?” he asked Kumul in a hushed voice. Kumul refused to answer him, his blue eyes locked forward and his body rigid as a board.

One of the courtiers fainted. Lynan recognized the very round Edaytor Fanhow, Kendra’s magicker prelate, his ceremonial robes folding around him like the wings of a giant moth. Someone knelt down to make sure he was all right. Lynan felt sorry for the prelate, then decided his time would be better spent feeling sorry for himself. His stomach had started roiling, and he was afraid he would pass out as well. And then it occurred to him that the prelate was by no means the largest or oldest in Usharna’s entourage. So why did he pass out so quickly?

The answer shook him. He stiffened, his breathing became shallow, and a cold wave passed through his body despite the close, hot confines. Edaytor fainted because among those present he was the most sensitive to magic. Usharna was using one of the Keys of Power. It must be the Key of the Heart, the one sometimes called the Healing Key. He had never, in all his years, seen Usharna employ the power inherent in the royal symbols. He had been told stories about their strength, but he had cynically believed they were nothing but legends created to give the throne more authority through their possession, just like King Thebald’s Sword of State, an overly ornate and utterly impractical weapon held by new monarchs during their crowning. It was not that he doubted the existence of magic—he had seen members of the five Theurgia employ it—but the fact that his own mother could wield it disturbed him greatly. And to wield magic of such strength!

Lynan’s chest was tightening; he let out his breath in a long hiss, but it did not seem to ease the pressure at all. Now other people started to pass out. First, an old dame who was lucky enough to be caught by her son, and then—of all people!—Trion. Just when Lynan thought he could no longer hold on, and that he, too, would faint, he found himself taking in air in great, heavy gasps. The pressure around his chest had simply disappeared as if it had never been, and so had the queasiness in his stomach.

“It’s over?” he asked Kumul, his own voice sounding distant to him.

Kumul, himself as pale as a sheet, nodded once and immediately approached the door. Dejanus, still recovering himself, made a vague effort to block his way.

“The queen has finished whatever she was doing,” Kumul told him. “Let me in.”

“Not until she opens the door herself,” the Life Guard wheezed.

Kumul lowered his mouth to the guard’s ear. Lynan heard him say, “And what if she is unconscious? You felt the energy emanating from that room. You know better than anyone how frail she is.”

Dejanus still hesitated. Lynan did not know what made him step up at that moment, but the same concern, the same sudden anger, must have struck Olio as well. They stood on either side of Kumul and together ordered the door be opened, Olio even managing not to stutter. Against the commands of two princes, and with no sign from Usharna, even Dejanus had to give way.

They rushed into the room, but the sight that greeted them stopped them in their tracks. The room’s sandstone walls seemed to be aglow; even the fire in the hearth seemed dim in comparison. Shimmering blue threads coruscated in the air and then died, leaving behind trails of ash that hung suspended before slowly drifting to the floor. By the bed, standing more erect than anyone had seen her for years, was Usharna, arms wide, surrounded by a soft halo of white energy that pulsed with her rapid breathing. More people crowded into the room, their mouths open in surprise. Trion and Edaytor, the latter flushed and moist with perspiration, came up beside Lynan.

“I never imagined…” Edaytor began, but ran out of words to describe his astonishment.

Even as they watched, the energy in the room dissipated like mist burned away by the morning sun, and the halo around Usharna faded away into nothing. The fire flared once, brilliantly, and then settled down to produce a steady, warming flame. Usharna looked at her court, the merest hint of a smile on her face, then slumped forward.

Kumul and Dejanus were there before she reached the hard floor and together supported her weight.

Trion hurried over and quickly checked her pulse and breathing. “She is all right. Her heart still beats strongly.” He turned to the crowd. “She is exhausted, nothing more.” The collective sigh of relief sounded like a prayer.

Kumul helped Dejanus scoop up the queen into his arms. Then the Life Guard hurried out of the room to take her to her own chambers, Trion and most of the courtiers following close behind. Kumul closed the door and went to Ager.

Edaytor Fanhow joined him, moving like a supplicant approaching a holy relic, his hands held out before him.

“There is a great deal of magic residue,” he said, more to himself than the others. He touched one of the walls, gingerly at first, but then placed his palm flat against a single sandstone block. “Still warm,” he muttered. “Utterly incredible.”

“It was certainly a p-p-performance,” Olio said in a hushed tone.

“Did you know our mother could do that?” Lynan asked him.

Olio shook his head. “Well, in theory, of course, b-b-but I’ve never seen the Keys used b-b-before, except as decoration around the queen’s throat.” His brow furrowed in thought. “I wonder what the other Keys m—m-might be capable of.”

“How is Ager?” Lynan asked Kumul.

“His breathing is almost normal,” Kumul said with obvious relief. “And see, the bleeding has stopped altogether.”

“It is a wondrous thing the queen has done,” Edaytor said.

“The queen would do anything for Kumul,” Lynan said.

“Which shows how little you know about your own mother,” Kumul replied sharply.

Chapter 3

Kumul woke with a start, almost falling off his stool. He had fallen asleep with his head resting at an odd angle against the wall and now had a painful crick in his neck. Standing up, he went to Ager’s bed. The man was still asleep, but it seemed to be the sleep of the peaceful and not of the dying. The crookback’s face seemed very old and careworn for someone who could not have been older than forty years of age, and his long hair, mostly gray, was lanky and thin.

Although the fire in the hearth had long gone out and the room was cool, Kumul felt the need for fresh air. He went to the room’s only window and eased open the wooden shutters. The city of Kendra slept in the darkness. A faint light broached its eastern walls. He could make out on the water just beyond the harbor entrance the phosphorescent glimmer of the wakes of fishing boats returning to the city’s wharves, although the boats themselves, and even their sails, were still lost against the black expanse of sea.

He returned to Ager and, once again, carefully studied the man’s face, trying to remember what it had been like all those years ago when they were both comparatively young, filled with an energy that had long since been dissipated by war and injury and the loss of their beloved general.

Kumul had not seen Ager for over fifteen years and had assumed he was dead; but last night, against all expectation, they had met again, only for Ager almost to die in his arms. He felt bitter at that last twist of fate.

The sharpness of his feelings surprised him. He had lost friends before, and his friendship with Ager during the Slaver War largely had been largely professional, not personal. Yet now it seemed to him that the friendship, stretched across a war with as many defeats as victories, had inherited the weight of years of vacant peace during which Kumul had slowly learned he had few real friends left in this world.

A sound rose from the great courtyard outside, the clattering of hooves on cobblestone, the challenge of the guards. He heard the sentries stamp to attention, something they only did for members of the royal family. It must be Berayma, Usharna’s eldest child, returning from his mission to Queen Charion of Hume, one of Usharna’s less predictable and more outspoken subjects. The mission had been a sensitive one, and Kumul prayed that Berayma, severe as a winter wind, had been up to it.

Kumul looked again at Ager’s face, calm in sleep but carrying with it all the scars of war earned in the service of Queen Usharna. He had a premonition then, a warning of some danger, distant but closing in. He tried to wish it away, but it hung at the back of his mind, formless and brooding.

Gasping, Areava broke away from the shreds of her sleep. She looked around wildly, pulling the sheets about her. It took her a few seconds to recognize her own chambers, and when she did, she collapsed back against the bedhead, shivering in the predawn stillness.

The black wings of the nightmare that had roused her still beat in her memory. She had dreamed of the sea rising up over Kendra and the peninsula it was built upon, washing over the great defensive walls, flooding through its narrow streets, surging against the palace itself, and still rising. She had seen her mother Usharna struggling against the waters, the weight of her clothes and the Keys of Power dragging her down relentlessly, and then her half-brother Berayma had appeared, holding out his hand to the queen, their fingers locking. For a moment it had seemed that Berayma would drag her free of the flood, but the pull of the sea was too great and his grip weakened. Areava saw the strain on her brother’s face as he tried to hold on to the queen’s hand, and then her fingers, and then the tearing sleeve of her gown…

“Oh, God.” Areava wrapped her arms around her knees, hugging herself tightly. A sob broke from her and she could not help the tears that came. She felt ashamed of her weakness, but the dream had been so terrible, so frightening.

She steadied her breathing, made herself stop crying, then slipped out of bed. She stirred the dying embers in the hearth, added a few small logs. Slowly the fire restarted; with the increasing warmth the last shreds of the dream seemed to evaporate from her mind, leaving behind nothing but a vague disquiet about the future. But Princess Areava of Kendra did not believe in premonitions or prophecies. Putting aside the uneasiness, she started dressing, wondering what had woken her. She remembered the sound of riders cantering into the forecourt. Had it been part of the dream? She went to the narrow door that led to her balcony and opened it. She looked over the railing to the forecourt below and saw several horses being led to the stables. So that part was real. A thought, unbidden, came to her that perhaps all of it had been real, and a shiver went down her spine.

The sun was already well above the horizon when Lynan was roused by Pirem. His servant gave no greeting, simply held out his clothes for him as he dressed and helped put on his belt with its small dress knife.

Lynan checked himself in the mirror. He liked what he saw. If not as tall as his siblings, he was as wide, and he did not object to a face which, if not handsome, was not so bad it would scare the ghosts out of children. His focus shifted and he smiled at the reflection of Pirem, whose face would scare the ghost out of a seasoned warrior. He was as short as Lynan, thin as a fencing blade, with a head made up of more sharp points than a knife box. Pirem’s lips were sealed tight.

“Not talking this morning, Pirem?”

“No.”

“Did you have a particularly heavy night on the drink?”

“Not as heavy as you, your Highness,” Pirem said pointedly.

“Ah. I see. You are angry with me.”

“Angry with you, your Highness? Me? What right has a lowly servant to be angry with the boy he has raised almost singlehandedly when that boy goes off an‘ almost gets hisself skewered by the likes of street thugs? I ask you, Your Highness, what right do I have?”

“You’ve been talking with Kumul.”

“Someone had to carry fresh water and sheets up to the room where that poor man who got hisself skewered on your behalf now lies on his deathbed.”

“Don’t exaggerate, Pirem. Ager is not on his deathbed.”

“Pirem, is it?” He cocked his head as if listening to the sound of his own name. “I thought that was a moniker used by a certain lad who’s got not enough sense to do as he’s told when what he’s told is for his own health and happiness.”

“Oh, for God’s sake, Pirem, give your tongue a rest.”

“An‘ here I was thinkin’ you were concerned ‘cause I wasn’t sayin’ enough. Silly me.”

Lynan turned away from the mirror and confronted the servant. “All right, Pirem, have it out. Give me your lecture.”

“Oh, far be it from me to lecture your Highness, who knows so much already about the ways of the world he doesn’t bother listenin‘ to the advice of his seniors…”

“Forget it!” Lynan said abruptly, his irritation turning to anger. “I’ve had enough, Pirem. I had all the lectures I needed last night from Kumul, and I don’t need any more from you.”

Pirem could take no more. His voice broke as he cried out: “God’s sake, lad, you almost got yourself killed straight dead!”

Lynan’s anger melted away. Pirem was almost in tears. “Really, I was in no danger. Kumul was there—”

“Kumul? Kumul’s lucky to be alive, too. He should’ve taken me. Someone’s gotta watch his back. It’s too damned big for hisself to watch it. You’re both careless, you both think blades will turn on your hide, and you’re both as ox-headed as the general…”

Pirem stopped suddenly and turned away, but not before Lynan saw the tears start to flow. Lynan felt ashamed. There were few certainties in his life, but one of them was the love he knew Pirem held for him, and the love Pirem had held for his father, General Chisal. Pirem had never recovered from failing to stop the assassin’s knife that struck down Elynd Chisal. The fact that he was able to slay the assassin before he could get away had never been any comfort for him.

Lynan reached out to put his hands on his servant’s shin shoulders, but pulled back. “I am sorry,” he said quietly. “I promise to be more careful.”

Pirem, his face still averted, nodded. “Being careful may not be enough anymore.”

Lynan sighed. “I will not leave the palace again. At least, not by myself.”

Pirem looked at Lynan over his shoulders. “You’ll take Kumul with you?”

“I’ll even take you along, as well.”

Pirem sniffed and straightened. “Well, good enough is good enough,” he said, his voice still subdued, and carefully examined his charge. “Pretty enough to frighten the queen’s horse. Get on, then. You’re expected in court this morning.”

“Me?”

“Your brother’s back from Hume. The queen wants the rest of the family to welcome him.”

Lynan groaned. “I hate these sorts of things.”

“Berayma’s your brother, like it or not. You’ve got to stick with him. He’ll be king one day. One day soon, maybe.”

“Not much difference to me. Though at least Berayma will be no worse than my own mother.”

Pirem glared at him. “You’ve got no sense, sometimes. You don’t know when people are doin‘ you good or evil. Her Majesty may have her faults, but not as many as you. Keep that in mind. An’ keep in mind your father loved her above all else, and he was no fool. An‘ keep in mind that you are her son, an’ that she’s never forgotten it, even if you have.”

Lynan was taken aback by Pirem’s fierceness. “When has she ever shown me a kindness?”

Pirem shook his head. “It would take all day and the next night to tell you, and you’re in no mood to listen right now. So go or you’ll be late, an‘ there’s no point in makin’ her even more angry with you than she already is.”

Usharna gripped the armrests of her chair as exhaustion overcame her. She tried to force away the nausea by concentrating on the words being spoken by Orkid Gravespear, chancellor of the realm of Grenda Lear, as he strode about the queen’s study like a tamed bear. One of her ladies-in-waiting approached, but she waved her away.

She had known last night when she had used the Keys of Power to save the life of that poor cripple how exhausted it would make her. The Keys held great magic but the cost of using them was also great. She was barely sixty years of age, yet she felt as if she inhabited the body of someone twenty years older again, thanks to the number of times she’d used the Keys during the Slaver War. Until last night she had not used them since the end of that terrible conflict, but she could not let the man die after he had so valiantly saved the life of her son.

Oh, Lynan, she thought, despite everything I have done to protect you, my enemies still get through.

Or maybe, she conceded, not her enemies but those of her last husband, Lynan’s father. Elynd Chisal had been a great man and a great soldier, but common born. His skills as a general had earned him the enmity of the Slavers and their backers, and her marriage to him had earned him the enmity of the noble houses.

Usharna had tried to keep Lynan safe by keeping him out of the court as much as possible, by feigning indifference to him, by not letting him hold those minor offices her other children used to practice their royal responsibilities. But all to no avail. Her enemies and Elynd Chisal’s enemies were now her son’s enemies as well. She thought it bitterly ironic that the offspring between her and the only husband she had ever truly loved should have so many in the kingdom set against him, that her love should generate so much hate.

Her thoughts were interrupted by the chancellor’s rumbling voice.

“And as you predicted, your Majesty, Queen Charion of Hume has agreed to allow Berayma to tour her lands in an official capacity early in the new year.” The chancellor grinned inside his thick, dark beard. “And in so doing has once again conceded your son’s right as your successor to be her overlord.”

He glanced at Usharna, noticed how white she had suddenly become. “Your Majesty… ?”

Usharna waved one hand. “Just more of the same, Orkid. Don’t concern yourself.” She smiled at him with genuine affection. “I try not to,” she added dryly.

Orkid, unconvinced, nodded anyway, and continued. “The gift that accompanied our proposal gave her a way to accept the tour without losing face.”

“Always best to let them think they have the better of you.”

“Charion is too proud.”

“Which knowledge we work to our advantage. Hume is a border realm, traditionally independent and aligned with the kingdom of Haxus, our oldest foe. Charion, and her father before her, are the only rulers from Hume to have ever owed allegiance to another crown. Hume must be treated with patience and every courtesy.”

“She takes advantage of you.”

“And we own her, Orkid, her and her kingdom. Never mistake the fortress for its stones.” She closed her eyes, conserving the little energy she had left. “When did you see Berayma?”

“Early this morning, as soon as he arrived. He gave his report—succinctly—handed over his papers, and went to get a couple of hours’ sleep before coming to see you. He should be here any moment.”

“When I am gone—”

“You shouldn’t say such things, your Majesty.”

“When I am gone,” Usharna persisted, “Berayma will look to you for wise counsel. Serve him as you’ve served me.”

Orkid bowed stiffly, a concession lost on Usharna, whose eyes were still closed. “Yes, of course, your Majesty.”

“You did not tell me how he took to reporting to you in the first instance. Did it rankle his pride?”

Orkid allowed himself a smile. “Stirred it a little, I think.”

“He must learn to trust you and take your advice.” Orkid returned the compliment with another unseen bow. “And you must learn to flatter and cajole him, as you flatter and cajole me.”

The chancellor was genuinely shocked. “Your Majesty!”

“Oh, Orkid, you have been my chancellor now for fifteen years. You are my right arm, so do not dress up our relationship in clothes that do not fit it. You needle, old black-beard, until you have your way.”

“Or until you tell me to leave well enough alone,” he rebutted.

Usharna actually laughed. “As you say. We make a fine pair, you and I, and Grenda Lear should be grateful to us for its prosperity and peace. I want you to forge the same relationship with my son. There is nothing in creation as dangerous as a new king ready to try his wings for the first time.”

“Nothing so dangerous?” Orkid teased. “Not even a new queen?”

Usharna laughed for the second time that morning, a rarity even on her best days. Orkid felt absurdly pleased with himself. “Well, in my day, new queens had a great deal to prove. New kings will only repeat the mistakes of their predecessors because they are taught to emulate them.”

“He could do worse than emulate you.”

“Now you’re buttering me up, and I don’t like it. He will be his own man, but he must also be king of Grenda Lear, and the two may not always sit easily together. It will be your job to ensure his throne is big enough to fit, but not so big he slips off.”

“I will do my best,” Orkid said humbly.

“I know. You always do your best.” She breathed deeply, telling herself she should go to bed as soon as the morning’s official functions were over, then admitted to herself that she would do no such thing; no successful monarch ever ruled from the bedchamber.

There was a knock, and the double doors to the Usharna’s study opened wide. Dejanus announced Berayma, then stepped out and closed the doors behind him.

Berayma went to the queen’s side and gently placed a hand on one of hers. He looked at Orkid. “Is she asleep?”

“The ruler of Grenda Lear never sleeps,” Usharna said, opening her eyes. “That is another trick you must learn, Berayma.”

“There is time—”

“Not much more.”

“I don’t want you to go,” Berayma said fiercely.

“Die, you mean.” Usharna shook her head. “You can’t even say the word.”

“I don’t want the throne, mother.”

Usharna looked at him in astonishment. “You think I wanted it when my turn had come? To lose my freedom, and in return gain nothing but a life of drudgery, problems, and sleepless nights, with no release except through death?” She looked at him carefully. “You have been coddled and protected all your life, and now it is time you faced your responsibilities.”

Berayma looked hurt. “I already help administer the kingdom for you.”

Usharna looked sternly at her son. “The Kingdom of Grenda Lear and all its realms comprises eleven states, six million people, and a host of lesser kings and queens, princes, and dukes. It spans almost the entire continent, contains forest and jungle, plain and mountain; half of the kingdom can be in drought while the other half is in flood.

“Over the last year, you have spoken for me—on instruction—on some councils, acted as my representative when meeting the odd dignitary or two, delivered a speech in my name at the occasional official banquet, and you have just completed your first ambassadorial mission. This is not administration. I still rule this kingdom and its people.”

Berayma looked abashed. “Is that all I have been? Your mouthpiece?”

Usharna sighed. “No. You are training to be king. But never think you have learned all the lessons. The time will come, soon enough, when you truly will be administering the kingdom and will have to make decisions on behalf of Grenda Lear by yourself.” She glanced quickly at Orkid. “In consultation with your court, of course.”

“I will face my responsibilities, you know that.”

“Yes, I know you will. But don’t worry needlessly. The task before you will not be as great as you think.”

“What do you mean?”

“You will see soon enough.” She waved Orkid closer. “Now, my chancellor and I have things to discuss before we all meet in the throne room.”

“Perhaps I should stay,” he ventured in a whisper, glancing at Orkid warily.

“You are not king yet, my son. Leave us. I will see you again later this morning.”

“What is left to discuss, your Majesty?” Orkid asked after Berayma had left. “My report is finished.”

“The Keys of Power. You still disagree with my intentions.”

“A foolhardy tradition is not worth following. ”

“Foolhardy or not, it is the only way,” she said wearily.

Orkid forbore arguing. The queen was tired, and that would make her more stubborn.

The official court reception for Berayma was held at mid-morning in the throne room. It was a court event, and anybody who had or sought influence there was present.

In her simple basalt throne, balanced on a cushion, sat Usharna herself, her robes of state flowing down the royal dais. On her left hand side stood Chancellor Orkid Gravespear, and behind her stood Dejanus with his ceremonial mace. On the dais’ first step, to the right, was the royal family, presently Areava, Olio, and Lynan. To the left were the kingdom’s senior officials and members of the queen’s executive council, together with Usharna’s ladies-in-waiting.

The group looked out over the palace’s single largest enclosed space, considered quite a wonder in the world when first built some centuries before, and still a matter of some awe for strangers to Kendra. Two rows each of thirty twisting stone pillars, painted gold and black, divided the space into three long sections. The middle section formed the concourse, and a thin gold carpet stretched along it from the dais to the throne room’s entrance. The areas on either side were used by the members of the court to survey any visitors as they made the long and intimidating walk along the concourse, or to wait in silence as the queen delivered speeches, passed judgments, and made declarations.

A hundred arched, stained-glass windows set in polished granite walls let in so much light that it was almost possible to believe the throne room had no roof, but high above the court curved headseed beams supporting thousands of sharrok pine shingles set in patterns that suggested waves lapping against a calm shore. Standing to attention before each of the pillars was one of the Royal Guards, under the eye of their constable standing only a few steps from the dais; next to Kumul was Usharna’s private secretary, Harnan Beresard, sitting behind his small writing desk.

Lynan always felt out of place among the august group occupying the dais. Shorter than most, dressed less finely, and without the haughty demeanor that usually came with rank or blood, he thought of himself as an interloper who at any moment would be exposed and escorted out of the palace. The rest of the court, bigger now than it had ever been before, peered up at them with eager, envious, and often spiteful eyes. The back of Lynan’s neck ached with all the long stares boring through it. He risked turning his head to look behind him, but the faces there were all directed toward Usharna herself, looking splendid and pale on her black throne. Of course no one would bother noticing him. He was only the fourth son of the monarch, half noble and half commoner, and since it was the half-commoner part that obviously counted in the palace, why should anyone pay him any attention at all?

Because I am Elynd Chisal’s son, that’s why! he roared at them in his mind. Because I am the son of the best soldier who ever came from Kendra, the soldier who saved the queen from defeat during the Slaver War, because…

He ran out of reasons, embarrassed by his own anger. There were many more reasons, he was sure, but here and now they did not seem to matter. At least not to the court. He looked over his shoulder again, got some idea of just how many there were behind him, and then did the same for those along the opposite wall. Kumul was right. The crows were gathering for the feast, all hoping it would come sooner rather than later. He wondered how many of them sided with the Twenty Houses, and how many of them with Usharna. How far would the aristocracy go to reclaim the power it had lost to the queen? The only certainty was that no move would be made against the queen herself, such was the love and respect held for her by the common people. But after her death? Where would Lynan stand then, and what chance would he have against the scavengers?

There was a great metal clanging from the other end of the throne room. The wide bronze doors swung open and the court sergeant stood there with his heavy black spear. With great solemnity and grace he made his way up the concourse to the foot of the dais.

“Berayma Kolls, son of Queen Usharna Rosetheme, son of her consort Milgrom Kolls, Prince of the Kingdom of Kendra and all its Realms, returns from an embassy to he Majesty’s realm of Hume.”

“Then let him come to me,” Usharna answered formally The sergeant returned to the entrance and called out Berayma’s name and title. Usharna’s eldest son appeared at the entrance. Tall and wide-shouldered, dark-haired, stern-faced, and erect, he looked splendid in his fine woolen clothes and fur coat. He started the long walk, led by the sergeant and followed by the small retinue he had taken with him to Hume. When he reached the dais, he and his followers bowed low.

“Your Majesty, I bring word from your loyal subject. Queen Charion of Hume. She sends her greetings and devotion.”

“I am much pleased to hear it,” Usharna replied. “Anc much pleased to see you safely returned. Take your place, my son.”

Berayma bowed again and mounted the dais, taking a position on the queen’s right-hand side, above his siblings. His retinue dispersed.

“Court Sergeant, do I have any other visitors?”

“Two applicants, your Majesty, awaiting your pleasure.”

“Then let them come to me.”

For the next hour, the queen and her court listened to the appeals of two applicants, the first a minor nobleman asking for the return of some land taken from his father during the Slaver War for taking sides against the throne. The queen asked what else his father had lost.

“His head, your Majesty,” the son replied.

“And who holds this land?” she asked.

“Yourself, your Majesty.”

The queen asked Harnan the secretary if any wrongs had been recorded against the son, and being told there were none, announced that the nobleman should not inherit the crimes of his father, and returned the land. Harnan officially recorded the decision. The nobleman thanked the queen for her wisdom and generosity, and quickly departed.

The second applicant was a merchant from Aman, who declared in a longwinded speech that some of Ushama’s officials were blocking his trade from reaching the city of Kendra.

“On what grounds?” Usharna asked.

“On the grounds that I am an Amanite, your Majesty,” he replied.

The queen looked sideways at her Amanite chancellor, but Orkid was stonefaced. The queen promised that she would look into the matter, declaring that every member of the kingdom, whether from Kendra or Aman or distant Hume, had equal access to the capital’s markets, and again nodded to Harnan Beresard.

The queen ended the session by rising from the throne. The formalities over, everyone visibly relaxed and started to mingle and talk. The throne room was instantly filled with the low and incessant babble of a hundred, gossiping voices.

Berayma approached the queen and said in a low, urgent voice: “I have been told that you used one of the Keys of Power last night.”

“You are well informed,” Usharna said.

“Everyone is talking about it!” Berayma declared.

“I was being gently sarcastic, my son. I wish to God you would develop a sense of humor.”

“There is nothing funny about what happened, your Majesty. You are old and weak and—”

Usharna glared at him. “Too old and weak to rule, you mean?”

There was a hush among those on the dais. All eyes were on Berayma. His face flushed. “No! That is not what I meant at all, but that if you use the Keys, you will exhaust yourself—”

“Enough, Berayma,” Usharna said harshly. “I am the queen, and the Keys of Power are my instruments, to be used at the right time and in the right place and for the right purpose. If I did not use them thus, I would not deserve to wear my crown.”

“But, mother, to save the life of a drunk cripple!”

It was Usharna’s turn to flush, but in anger. “This man you speak of was captain of the Kendra Spears during the Slaver War. He served me faithfully and paid dearly for it. He was dying from a wound inflicted on him by doing me another great service…”

Berayma turned on Lynan. “By saving him from petty bandits—”

“By saving your brother’s life, and that of my constable.”

Berayma said no more; he recognized the tone in his mother’s voice, that sharp edge of righteous anger that always made nobles, courtiers, soldiers, husbands, and children shut their mouths against any argument with their queen.

Usharna looked around at the others gathered by the dais, including Orkid and Dejanus. “Any one else volunteering to comment on my actions last night?” Some shook their heads, most just dropped their gaze. “Then the day’s business is over.” She beckoned to Harnan. “Meet me in my sitting room. We have correspondence to complete.”

The secretary, a thin reedy man who looked barely strong enough to support his own weight, nodded, packed up his papers and pens, and followed Usharna and her ladies-in-waiting as they left the throne room. Dejanus brought up the rear. All talk stopped as the court, acting as one, bowed out the queen.

When she was gone, Berayma strode to Kumul. “It is your fault, Constable. I have been told that you allowed my brother to leave the palace at night and stroll around taverns and hotels at his own discretion, inviting the very sort of attack visited on him last night!”

Kumul said nothing. He knew better than to answer back to one of the royal family, especially Berayma who was such a stickler for court protocol.

“How can we trust the man in charge of the Royal Guards to protect the palace if he cannot even protect one small, irresponsible youth?” Berayma pressed.

Kumul, impassive, stared straight ahead.

Lynan, who was almost as afraid of Berayma as he was of the queen, wanted to speak up in Kumul’s defense, but his tongue seemed glued to the roof of his mouth.

Berayma, however, had finished his public dressing down of the constable and stalked off to join a group of his friends from the Twenty Houses who were loitering nearby and enjoying the show. Lynan thought they looked ridiculous in their silk tights and decorated codpieces, a fashion only lately come to the court from Haxus in the north.

Lynan was about to move to Kumul, to apologize, when he was confronted by his sister Areava. “Is this true?” she demanded.

“Sister?”

“Don’t feign ignorance, Lynan, I know you far too well.” Almost as tall as Berayma, but with the golden hair their mother had once possessed, Areava made an imposing spectacle, and when her face was pinched in fury as it was now, she reminded Lynan of stories of the beautiful mountain witches who ate the faces of lost travelers.

Before he could answer, Olio joined them and said to his sister: “It is unfair to b—b-blame Lynan for the actions of thieves, Areava. It was not his fault. And as our m-m-mother said, the cripple she helped last night was owed something b—b-by this family for p—p-previous service.”

“I do not question our mother’s actions, but Lynan’s,” she said to Olio, but not harshly, since she loved him above all others. She glared again at Lynan. “Well?” she insisted.

“I did not mean to place anyone in danger, least of all the queen,” he said meekly.

“You are a thoughtless boy, Lynan. One day someone will pay for your self-centeredness.”

“I am sure you are right.” Lynan could not help himself; before he could catch the words, they were out.

Areava acted as if she had been slapped across the face. She looked at her half-brother almost with distaste. “You assume too much from your position,” she said tightly and stormed off.

“What did she mean by that?” Lynan asked Olio.

Olio shrugged. “I had b-b-better follow her and calm her down b-b-before she insults some visiting dignitary.”

Left alone, Lynan felt he had come off badly from the morning’s events, not unusual in his experience of court life. He remembered Kumul and went to him.

“I’m sorry for what Berayma said to you. It was all my fault, not yours or Ager’s or the queen’s.”

“Berayma was only demonstrating his concern for Her Majesty,” Kumul replied, his face as impassive as it had been when he was being publicly berated. He looked around the room. “Do you see them all, Lynan?”

“See all the what?”

“All the newcomers. See, over there, new staff for Aman’s commission in Kendra.” Lynan saw a trio of heavily bearded gentlemen wearing long hide coats. They looked like smaller versions of Orkid. “And over there, old Duke Petra, back from his retirement on the Lurisia coast. Next to him are representatives of Hume’s merchant navy; they came with Berayma.” Kumul pointed to a group of men and women dressed in leather jerkins and breeches. “Mercenary commanders, from all over the kingdom, come to sell then-services as bodyguards, or worse.”

“This is what you were talking about last night,” Lynan said. “About the scavengers gathering for the feast.”

Kumul nodded. “They can hardly wait for the queen to pass on so that they can press their claims with a new and untried king.”

“Berayma will not be so easily swayed, I think.”

“No. He has made his friends within the Twenty Houses. The old aristocracy welcomes him with open arms. Milgrom Kolls was, after all, one of them, and pushed on the queen in exchange for their support in the early days of her reign.”

As the son of the man the members of the Twenty Houses hated so much, and now a victim of their spite as well, Lynan sympathized with Kumul’s concerns. “They would have applauded last night if those thieves had been successful.”

“Thieves?” Kumul looked at him in wonder. “Even you could not be so naive.”

Lynan felt a twinge of anger. Surely no one, not even among those in the Twenty Houses who hated him the most, would arrange for him to be killed. The risks of being found out would be too great. He looked around the room again. Perhaps the risk might be worth it if there would soon be a succession.

“Are you certain?” Lynan could not help the tingle that traveled down his spine, and he glanced nervously over one shoulder and then the other.

“Not yet. I have my people working on it. But there are others who would see you out of the way, even if they hold no personal animosity toward you. Assassinating a prince, even a prince as lowly as yourself, must unsettle your mother, and that would serve to unsettle the kingdom. This is why you must not leave the palace at night by yourself. Whoever tried to have you killed last evening may try again.”

As soon as the throne room had cleared, the members of the court returning to their offices, guild halls, or commissions, Kumul returned to his quarters to check on Ager’s progress.

The crookback was sitting up in bed and gulping broth from a huge mug. Kumul was surprised to see how well his friend looked. Ager put down the mug and offered him a huge smile, his single gray eye twinkling.

“I did not expect to see you awake so soon,” Kumul said.

“And last night I did not expect to ever wake up again,” Ager replied. He turned aside and lifted the nightshirt to show Kumul his wound. It was nothing more than a raised white scar. “How did this happen?”

“The queen herself performed this service for you.”

Ager swallowed. “Usharna? Here, in this room with me?” Kumul nodded. “What did she do?”

“She used the Key of the Heart,” Kumul said, his voice subdued.

“On me? But why?”

“Have you already forgotten the youth who was the cause of all our trouble last night?”

Ager frowned in thought. “Of course I remember him. He was asking all those questions about the battle of Deep River…” His voice faded away, and his gaze lifted to Kumul. “There was something about him… I dreamed it last night in my fever. His face turned into the general’s face, and I thought…”

“You still haven’t put it together, have you?”

Ager’s frown grew deeper. “I thought I had, but I can barely remember all that happened after I was knifed. The youth was called Pirem—no, that was his servant’s name. I heard you call him Lynan, and… my God, that was the name of the general’s son!”

Kumul nodded. “So now you understand the queen’s interest.”

Ager’s mouth dropped. “A prince of the realm bought me a drink? Chatted to me like a young soldier talking to an old sergeant?”

“Is all the pain gone?”

Ager laughed. “Gone? Not only do I not feel the wound, but it is the first time in fifteen years I’ve felt no pain at all, not even in my back. And my empty eye socket doesn’t itch anymore. I feel like a new man.”

“Well, your shoulder is still raised, I’m afraid. It would take more than even the queen’s power to rid you of that.”

Ager shrugged. “I got used to being a one-eyed crookback, but I never got used to the pain.”

“I’ve been thinking about what to do with you.”

Ager looked suspiciously at Kumul. “Do with me? I’m no beggar, Kumul. I can make my own way in the world.”

“I’ve no doubt about that. But I need your services.”

Ager still looked suspicious. “My services? You need my experience as a bookkeeper?”

Kumul smiled. “No. I need your experience as a soldier. Most of my troops are too young to have fought in the Slaver War. Since then, Kendra has been at peace, thank God and the wise head of Queen Usharna. But I need old blood as well as new in the Royal Guards. I’d like you to take over my training duties.”

“What’s the pay like?”

“Captain’s pay. Keep and board, and tenpence a day.”

Ager looked impressed. “Better than I ever got in the Kendra Spears.”

“You’ll work for it, mind. The Royal Guards are the best Kendra has.”

“As good as the Red Shields?”

Kumul snorted. “No regiment will ever be as good as the Red Shields. We had the general back then. Well, what do you say?”

“I’ll need time to think about it, Kumul. I’ve been a wanderer for thirteen years. It will be hard to give that up.”

“How much time?”

The crookback paused in thought. After a minute he said: “That was plenty of time. I actually hate the roving life. Do you think you can get a uniform to fit over my hump?”

Chapter 4

The summer dragged on in Kendra like a slow ox ploughing a field of clay. On the hottest days the city entered a great torpor. Sailors rested over hawsers and stared at the blue waters of the harbor, dock workers lounged in the shade of unmoved bales of hay and kegs of grain, soldiers drooped over their spears, and craft workers and stall owners did their best to ply their trade with minimum effort. Stray dogs lay in whatever shade they could find and panted desperately. Even in the palace, where work only became more urgent the longer it was left unattended, members of the court moved with sullen obstinacy, and the queen and her bureaucracy struggled through the mountain of appeals and offers, trading licenses and administrative minutiae. And on those few days that were relatively cool, the people spent their time recovering their energy and enthusiasm, and then husbanding it against the next heat wave.

Just after midday on one of the hottest days of the year, tucked into the corner of the second floor in a low stone building not far from the docks, Jenrosa Alucar slammed shut the book she had been reading—ignoring the clump of dust that geysered into the air—and stood up from her desk.

The Magister Instruction of the Theurgia of Stars, a long strip of a man wizened by age and alcohol, looked up in surprise. The other four students in the room kept their noses down but their ears pricked open.

“Student Alucar? Is there a problem?”

Jenrosa actually seemed to consider the question, an event rare in the Magister’s experience, and finally nodded. “Yes.”

“Is it something I can help you with?”

“I doubt it,” she said flatly.

“I see. Is it something, perhaps, that the maleficum himself could help you with?”

“I do not think either you or the head of our order can help me.”

It was the magister’s turn to pause in consideration. With something like exasperation he regarded the young woman with the sandy hair and spray of freckles across her too-short nose. She stood with legs apart as if steadying herself in expectation of trouble. She looked as pugnacious as she really was.

A bad sign, the magister told himself. Always a bad sign. And she possessed such a promising mind…

“If it is the text you are presently studying, we could rearrange your schedule,” he offered.

“You mean give me yet another book on interpreting the movement of the stars,” she said, her hazel eyes seeming to spark with frustration.

“You are in your third year of study, Student Alucar, and interpreting the movement of the stars is the prescribed course. Without it, how could you go on in your fourth year to study interpreting the movement of the planets?”

Jenrosa picked up the book she had been reading and waved it at the magister. “But the summaries of interpretations included here directly contradict many of the summaries in the book we had to read last term.”

The magister shrugged. “That, regrettably, is one of the great conundrums of our art. We hope, through constant observation and analysis, to explain away those very contradictions. And yet, without being aware of those contradictions, how would we know where to direct our efforts?”

Jenrosa nodded wearily. “I know the argument, Magister. I just do not see the sense in it. We have been observing and analyzing now for hundreds of years but have managed to do no more than collate even more contradictions. We now have more contradictions than there are stars in the sky. Why don’t they have these problems in any of the other theurgia?”

“Dealing with the vagaries of the soil and of metals, even of rain and the sea, are straightforward compared to the vastness of the Continuum. If it takes a magicker in the Theurgia of Fire, for example, a decade to discover that certain chants and routines produce a harder steel, then how much more time is needed to discover the secrets of those bodies that traverse the night sky and their influence on our lives?”

“But I don’t…” Jenrosa bit off the sentence.

“But you don’t have centuries in which to make great discoveries?” the magister guessed.

Jenrosa blushed, making her freckles stand out more brightly. “I am sorry. I know that reveals abominable pride on my part.”

The magister sighed deeply. “Perhaps it is the heat as much as your frustration that irks you so. But the frustration is something you will have to learn to deal with. As for the heat, even those in the Theurgia of Air have little control over it in summer. You may go. Take the rest of the day off. Do not read any more summaries. Clear your head and come back tomorrow, refreshed.” The other students now looked up eagerly. “Jenrosa alone,” he continued. “The rest of you, obviously less befuddled by contradiction, may continue with your study.”

Jenrosa left the school and found herself on an almost empty street. A woman carrying a basket of bread on her head walked by, the sun’s heat adding to her burden. A dozen steps away a street vendor, sweating and swearing at the lack of customers, was packing away his stall. Air shimmered above buildings and stone pavings, and the harbor was aflame with reflected light.

Jenrosa put her hand in her tunic pocket and jingled a few loose farthings. She decided to make for a local tavern that promised shade and a beer, but when she got there, she discovered the tavern was filled with other refugees from the summer sun. After buying her drink, she ended up sitting on the street under the shade of the tavern’s eaves.

She had intended not to dwell on the incident at the school and instead think about the cooling swim she would have in the local baths west of the docks once the sun was down, but her frustration at having lost her temper thwarted her intentions. She knew the magister had let her off easily this time, but another outburst could see her brought before the maleficum, and that could result in her dismissal from the Theurgia of Stars. And where would she be then? The theurgia gave her a place to sleep at night, fed her twice a day, trained her for a lucrative career, and paid her a modest stipend that allowed her to buy the occasional beer and go out with her friends every few days.

She took a swig of her drink and promised to do better. She would work harder at study, work harder at trying to comprehend the conflicting paradigms nesting within the Theurgia. She must not lose her position. The theurgia was home… and more. She never regretted the time and effort spent actually learning as opposed to simply memorizing. She yearned to discover new ways of doing things, to find links between the magic of the different theurgia. But the magic guilds were increasingly stratified and stultified, increasingly separated from each other.

She dribbled some of the beer from her mug onto the ground and concentrated. The puddle divided into droplets that started moving around one another. She saw a tuft of grass growing out of a crack in the tavern’s wall, pulled out some of its shoots, and carefully placed them vertically in the droplets. They whirled around like skinny dancers. She muttered a few words and the tips of the shoots changed color.

Jenrosa laughed at the absurd spectacle. No, she told herself, not absurd. No one else could perform magic so easily from different disciplines and make it work together, and only as a student within the theurgia would she have the opportunity to learn all that she wanted.

And, she reminded herself again, she had no other home. She had been six when the magicker with his entourage of students and guards had come to her village. She had been outside the house she shared with four siblings and a mother who cared more about getting her next flagon of wine than looking after her children, when she had noticed the procession of strangers. She was feeding scraps to the pig—her family’s only asset—when she saw the man who led the way was wearing the stiff-collared tunic of a magicker. As Jenrosa watched, he made his way through the village, looking neither right nor left, but walking with determined precision as if he was following someone else’s footsteps. When he finally came abreast of Jenrosa he stopped and turned to stare at her with eyes as blue as the sky.

“What is your name?” he asked gently.

Jenrosa was not used to being spoken to by adults, and she hesitated. The magicker smiled at her and made a sign in the air. A white mist seemed to follow his finger, forming a sign that raised goosebumps on her skin. Without knowing how or why she did it, she copied the sign, and the mist disappeared. The magicker was watching her keenly now, and came closer. He bent over and drew a second sign, this time on the ground. There was no mist or magic this time, except that again she was compelled to copy him. As soon as she had finished it, a small whirl of air formed above them, spraying dust into her eyes. She blinked the dust away and saw that both signs had gone. The magicker pulled a bracelet off his wrist and said something in a language she did not understand. The bracelet seemed to melt and reform before her eyes, taking on the shape of a silvery snake. She touched it and the snake immediately reformed into the bracelet. The members of the magicker’s entourage started talking excitedly among themselves. One of them came forward and handed the magicker a simple wooden drinking bowl, poured water into it from a flask, and stepped back. The magicker made a sign again, tracing it in the water. Before Jenrosa’s eyes, the water seemed to change, become greener and deeper somehow. She thought she saw fish swimming in it, and other creatures she did not recognize; it seemed to her she was looking down into an ocean from a great height. She placed her palm over the bowl, closed her eyes, then took her palm away. The bowl held just normal well water again, clear and untroubled. The magicker stood up. He looked ready to laugh out loud.

“One more test,” he told her in his gentle voice, and pointed above his head. Without any control over her own actions she looked up, and even though it was a clear day she saw a group of stars set against the blue sky. She stared at them for a long time before anything happened, but then they started to whirl about a central point, like dancers around a spring tree. Some of the entourage clapped at the performance. Jenrosa pointed at the stars and they blazed briefly in a glorious light and then disappeared.

“What is your name?” the magicker asked again, but before she could reply, her mother appeared, curious about the eruption of noise on the street. When her mother saw the magicker, she took a step back into the house.

“I hope my daughter’s done nothing to offend you, sir?” she asked in a whining voice.

The magicker shook his head. “What is her name?”

“Jenrosa.”

“Jenrosa is to come with me.”

Her mother considered the words for a moment, and then a smile creased her face. “That would come with a fee, sir?”

The magicker nodded. “Of course. You will receive an annual award as determined by the queen. What is her family name?”

“My husband is dead, sir, and so she inherits mine. Alucar.”

Jenrosa tried to let go of the memory, and returned her attention to her beer, but not before acknowledging with some bitterness that her name was the only thing her mother had ever given her, and she would do anything to avoid returning to her.

And what if there were contradictions in her studies? she asked herself. Magic itself was a contradiction, a way of viewing and manipulating the world that broached common sense and was out of reach of the vast majority of people. Some were lucky enough to be born with the ability to take advantage of that contradiction, to influence the way clouds formed and rain fell, or the way metal changed in a furnace, or the way water ran down a hill, or the way crops grew.

Or the way the stars influenced the lives of all the mere mortals trudging the common earth beneath their gaze. Maybe.

Jenrosa shook her head. She knew all the other theurgia—those of Air, Fire, Water and Earth—performed real magic, but she was yet to discover anything magical at all about the stars. Or rather, she had not learned a single magical thing. What she did know was what she had picked up from observation, and from questioning sailors in taverns just like the one she was now outside. She knew that if you kept the prow of a ship in line with the star Leurtas, the last point of the constellation known as the Bow Wave, you would eventually reach the pack ice that lay far south of Theare; or, conversely, if you kept the constellation dead on the stem, you would head north into the Sea Between, eventually hitting the reefs and shoals that guarded the waters around Haxus. She knew that all the constellations spun around the very point of Leurtas, moving in a slow graceful dance, and that, as you sailed north, new constellations came into view even as the familiar ones disappeared behind you. And yet, as far as anyone in the Theurgia of Stars knew, there was no formula, no sign, that could make the stars bend to human will or human desire. Jenrosa knew there had been great sages in the past who could use the stars to predict momentous events, but the last of those had died decades ago, and no one alive today could replicate their achievements, although many within the theurgia tried. As far as Jenrosa could tell, the real stars obeyed only their own rules. She sighed heavily and finished off her beer. Despite her misgivings, if she wished eventually to earn her own keep, to gain even a modest independence, she would have to keep her doubts to herself and accept—contradictions and summaries and conundrums included—what the theurgia instructed her to accept, and in that way survive.

The problem, as Lynan told himself afterward, was the sun. Or rather, his position in relation to it. When he was sent sprawling by the guard’s side-stepping maneuver and sweeping foot, he found himself staring straight up into the glaring orb.

So he never saw the point coming.

Lynan felt a sudden jarring impact just below his throat’s hollow that sent his head crashing again into the dirt. Kumul called out “Kill!” so loudly that everyone in Kendra, let alone the palace, must have heard.

Cursing under his breath, Lynan stood up a little groggily, massaging the point where the head of the guard’s wooden spear had marked him. He knew there would be a bruise there as wide as a bread plate before nightfall, and that it would trouble him for days.

The guard helped steady Lynan, and he mumbled some thanks.

Kumul appeared in front of him. “You’re lucky Jemma didn’t aim higher, Your Highness, or the palace surgeon would now be on his way to straighten out your larynx.”

“I was lucky to catch him like that, Constable,” Jemma said generously.

“Nonsense. You were too quick for him.” Kumul glared at Lynan. “Or he was too slow for you. Either way, the prince loses the bout.” Kumul’s tone became theatrically deferential. “Does his Highness have anything to say in his defense?”

“Well, the sun—” Lynan began.

“Other than the fact he fell for one of the oldest feints in the book.”

Lynan blushed. “No, nothing.”

Kumul nodded. “Well, at least you’ve learned something from this fiasco. Let’s see another round…” Kumul bent closer to Lynan’s ear “… and for God’s sake, boy, this time watch your feet.”

Lynan nodded, raising his wooden sword as Kumul withdrew. The guard raised his spear and they resumed their training.

In the shadow of the arena’s entrance stood two figures, paid due deference by those nearby but unseen by the dueling pair not forty steps from them.

The Lord Galen Amptra, son of Duke Holo Amptra, had watched Lynan’s humbling with keen interest. “Your half-brother quite happily prepares to make a fool of himself a second time,” he observed to his cousin, Prince Berayma.

“Even you would have to admit that takes courage,” Berayma said.

“Arrogance, rather. The arrogance of his commoner father.” Galen sighed deeply. “He shames us all. Your mother’s blood runs diluted in his veins.”

Berayma eyed Galen warily, but said nothing.

Galen licked his lips, continuing cautiously. “Everyone accepts that new monarchs must make their mark on the world, it’s a sign of their authority. No one will be sorry to see you rid Kendra of Lynan. I hear the merchants of Lurisia have been pleading for the queen to appoint a representative from the royal family to attend permanently their Great Council Hall in Arkort.”

Berayma’s voice betrayed his rising anger. “Don’t speak so lightly of my ascension to the throne. That cannot be achieved before my mother’s death—”

“For God’s sake, Berayma, she’s at death’s door now! You have to consider the future.”

“This is not the time or place. You should know better.”

Galen bit back a reply. He understood his cousin’s ire, yet felt frustrated that Berayma would not acknowledge reality as he and other members of the Twenty Houses had learned to do. His devotion to the queen, if not as strong as Berayma’s, was genuine, but he recognized that the time for planning for the succession was overdue. Berayma, however, would countenance no talk about his ascension, and there were some who found this attitude not only unwise but also an unsettling portent for his reign.

Nevertheless, Berayma was his cousin, and he cared for him a great deal. He sighed in resignation and gently placed a hand on Berayma’s shoulder. “As you say. Not here, and not now.”

*

Stung by Kumul’s sarcasm and his own loss of face, Lynan fought much harder the second time. He attacked at every opportunity instead of waiting for the guard to come to him, slowly forcing his opponent back until he was ready for a killing stroke. He rested on the heel of his back foot for a split second as if he was about to lunge. His opponent spread his feet and brought round his spear to parry the expected thrust, but Lynan moved one step sideways and then quickly brought forward his back foot. As the guard shifted the position of his spear to counter the new angle of attack, Lynan struck, the tip of his sword pushing deep into the flesh just beneath the guard’s rib cage. If the tip had been steel instead of wood, it would have ruptured blood vessels and a lung.

Lynan started to smile, but just then he heard the sound of someone running toward him from behind. He spun around and saw a second guard bearing a wooden trident bearing down on him. Lynan charged his new attacker, diving low and tackling him below the knees. The pair rolled once in the dust of the arena. The moment Lynan was on top, he used one knee to stop himself from turning while he rammed the other into the side of his opponent. The man gasped as the air was driven from his lungs, then wheezed in pain when Lynan brought down his sword on the back of the hand carrying the trident. The guard let go his weapon and rolled away, holding up his good hand to concede defeat.

Lynan remembered the first guard. He turned just in time to deflect a thrusting spear. His attacker had been too confident of success and his momentum carried him forward. Lynan’s foot stuck out and his opponent went flying. The prince stood over him, sword pointed at his throat.

“Enough, your Highness,” Kumul said.

Lynan stood back and lowered his weapon. “Was this one of your tricks, Constable?”

“You have made up in part for your earlier mistakes.”

Kumul was being sarcastic. Lynan’s last maneuver had been similar to the one that had brought him low in the first bout. Kumul waved his hand, and the two guards picked themselves up and hobbled away. As Lynan watched them leave, he saw two shadows lurking in the entrance and recognized them immediately.

“I had an audience,” he said to Kumul matter-of-factly.

“You are a prince of the royal blood, Lynan. Do you think there is ever a time when you are not watched?”

“That attack was unusually ruthless, even for Kumul,” Berayma observed.

“We’ve had as tough,” Galen said, somewhat subdued.

“You think so?” Berayma turned to leave. He wanted to see his mother. Since her use of one of the Keys of Power earlier in the summer, her illness had grown worse. Every day was filled with anxiety for his mother and the fear that he would soon inherit the job he had been groomed for since childhood.

She’d made sure he was well trained. He could outride and outfight virtually anyone in the empire—or outside it. He had been given the best teachers and instructors, all in preparation for a job he didn’t even want.

But his sister and brothers? What purpose lay behind their training? What had his mother planned for them?

His thoughts turned to Lynan as he left the arena. He had no particular affection for his half-brother, but he certainly felt no malice toward him. His disinterest stemmed largely from his mother’s own. She had barely spent any time with Lynan since his birth, and afforded him no great courtesy or allowance beyond the bare minimum demanded by his rank as a royal prince.

Galen ran his fingers through his thinning hair and watched him leave, wishing he could find the words that would make him come to terms with the future they both knew was imminent and yet which Berayma refused to accept. The queen was in death’s grip, and nothing could free her from it. The ship of state that was Kendra needed a firm hand to keep it on an even keel, to balance the competing demands of its member states. The last thing Berayma should do was defer a decision about what was to be done with his half-brother Lynan. A new king could not afford to offend the most powerful families in his kingdom for the sake of a wastrel.

Galen shook his head. This was a problem with many solutions but no prince ready to implement them.

From a balcony above the arena, Areava also had been watching Lynan at practice. She did not know it, but her thoughts, mixed with the feeling of shame she felt about her half-brother, mirrored those of Galen. The fact that the queen had imperiled her life for Lynan’s injured acquaintance had only confirmed for her Lynan’s ignorant selfishness, proof of the tainted blood that ran in his veins. She, Berayma, and Olio, true and pure scions of the Twenty Houses, understood it was selflessness, not selfishness, that marked the nobility. They were born to rule for their people, not to take advantage of their position. Anger boiled within her. What could be done about him?

She left the balcony for her own quarters. She was so absorbed in her thoughts she did not hear or see the greetings and salutations offered her by passersby. Most of them shrugged and continued on, used to her fierce concentration. One, however, turned on his heel and pursued her, tugging playfully on her elbow as he caught up.

“Who in God’s name… !” she started, but swallowed her anger as soon as she saw Olio striding beside her, a grin on his face that stretched from one ear to the other.

“Hello, sister! You’re looking p-p-particularly formidable this m-m-morning.”

Areava frowned. “I am?”

“Oh, yes. You’re m-m-moving north through the p-p-palace like a storm front. Black clouds p-p-precede you, lightning illuminates the roof. Very formidable.”

Areava snorted, then smiled. “I don’t mean to come across so threatening.”

“Everyone knows that, which is why they p-p-put up with it. What p-p-particular ache is souring you this m-m-morning?”

“The usual.”

Olio sighed. “Let m-m-me guess. Lynan.”

“As always. There was no guessing involved on your part.”

Olio stopped Areava with a hand on her sleeve. “Slow down, sister. It is impossible to talk with you at this speed.” Areava faced her brother, her hands on her hips. “And don’t come high and m-m-mighty with me. You m-m-may be m-m-my senior, but not b-b-by enough to warrant your anger.”

Areava drew in a deep breath. “Say your piece, then.”

“What happens after our m-m-mother dies is B-B-Berayma’s affair, not yours. He will be king, we will remain p—p-princess and p—p—prince. If he needs us to do any worrying for him, he’ll let us know. Do not take on responsibilities that are not yours.”

“We are members of the royal family, Olio, the first of the Twenty Houses. We are responsible for the good administration and safety of this kingdom, whether we like it or not. It is our duty to worry.”

“Not without the m-m-monarch’s leave. And remember, Lynan shares our inheritance.”

Areava’s face pinched. “He knows nothing about being a prince of the blood. He has spent his whole life as a wagging tail. His father’s blood and his natural laziness makes him unsuitable to rule his own life, let alone any part of Kendra.”

“You do not know him as well as you think.”

“I see people for who they really are.”

“Do you hate him so m-m-much?”

Areava seemed shocked. “I don’t hate Lynan! I don’t even dislike him.”

“Are you sure? Have you ever forgiven Lynan for b-b-being the son of the m—m—man who replaced our father as the queen’s consort?”

Areava shook off her brother’s hand and walked away from him. “You go too far, brother!” she cried, her voice filling the hallway. “You go too far!”

Lynan wiped the sweat from his forehead and adjusted the quilt padding around his body. Under the heavy, lead-lined roof of the fencing stalls, part of the palace armory, he felt twice as hot as he had in the open arena. He nodded to Dejanus, his opponent in this session of real weapon fencing. Lynan enjoyed his practice sessions against the Life Guard; the man was as fast as a whip, and Lynan was already two points down.

“Ready, your Highness?”

In reply, Lynan pulled down his visor. Dejanus did the same. Kumul, standing on the sideline, called “Start!” Lynan flicked his blade against that of Dejanus, who brought his own weapon across to defend his body. Before the Life Guard could react, Lynan swept the blade underneath and over, and lunged. His sword point sank into the padding over Dejanus’ chest.

“Wound!” Kumul shouted. “That’s two counts for the prince, three for Dejanus.” The pair separated. “Start!” Kumul said.

Lynan tried the same maneuver, but Dejanus foiled it simply by stepping back as he brought his sword across. Lynan lunged, but his point was short of the target by a finger’s length. His opponent overreached, Dejanus quickly took one step forward and lunged in return. Lynan knew he was in trouble halfway through his attack, and brought his sword down and perpendicular to the line of his body, catching Dejanus’ thrust just in time. He brought his sword up, forcing Dejanus’ weapon across from his right to his left and lunged a second time. Dejanus parried easily by copying Lynan’s tactic, and the two blades slid against each other. Both men stood erect and each retreated a step, their weapons held out in guard, their tips touching ever so lightly. Lynan tapped, Dejanus held steady. Dejanus feinted to Lynan’s right, but the prince moved his sword only enough to parry it. They carefully watched each other’s eyes, not the weapons. Lynan smiled slightly, Dejanus responded. Lynan stamped his foot, lunged, but kept his blade in guard. Dejanus hastily retreated a step and parried the strike that never came. Lynan used his back leg to send him into a second lunge and this time sent his point in to the padding over Dejanus’ heart.

“Kill!” Kumul shouted.

Dejanus slung his sword under his arm so its hilt was showing to the prince. “Excellent point, your Highness.”

“Don’t feed his pride,” Kumul said lightly, but he, too, had been impressed by the maneuver. It was not one he had taught the prince.

Dejanus laughed and held out his left hand. Lynan took it and thanked him for the exercise. “You are at the point now when you could take on the constable himself.”

Lynan blushed. Coming from such an experienced swordsman as Dejanus, it was high praise indeed.

“That would be an interesting bout,” said Ager, entering the stalls. The crookback, who was now a captain in the Royal Guards and spent his days training the troops, often watched the young royals at their own training, which was still personally supervised by Kumul. He paid special attention to Lynan.

“Even more interesting would be a bout between you and the prince,” Kumul said to Ager.

“Now that would be something to see!” Dejanus declared. He had trained several times with Ager and had learned to respect the crookback’s fighting skills. Since joining the Royal Guards, he had seemed to grow in stature. Partly that was due to the better diet combined with the real exercise he now enjoyed while training recruits, the latter something the crookback would have found impossible before Usharna had worked her magic on his wounds. Mostly, though, it was his renewed pride that most changed him and his appearance. His hair was close-cropped to a gray fuzz and his manner had become more confident. Ager Parmer was a new man.

“I’m willing to try my hand against the captain,” Lynan said, eager to show off his skills to Ager.

Ager glanced at Kumul, who nodded back. “Very well. But my choice of weapons.”

“Of course,” Lynan agreed readily, confident after his win against Dejanus.

Ager went to a basket of blades standing in one corner. He withdrew a short sword and hefted it for weight. Lynan groaned inside. The short sword was one weapon he did not enjoy using, and his skill with it did not match his skill with the long sword or knife, or even the bow.

Ager saw Lynan’s expression. “Don’t worry, your Highness. You can keep your longer blade.”

Lynan blinked in astonishment. “But I outreach you already, Ager.”

The crookback smiled at Lynan, cutting air with his sword. “I worked my way up the ranks of the Kendra Spears, Your Highness. I became captain through years of hard work and surviving battles.” His eye seemed to look far away, seeing memories. “What hard work and how did I survive so many battles?” he asked rhetorically.

Lynan shook his head.

“One of the first things I learned as a new soldier in the queen’s employ all those many years ago is that a spearman without a spear is as useful as a prick without a bladder. Unless, of course, the spearman actually knows how to use the short sword he is issued with. All us recruits trained with it but barely enough to know which end to grasp. But I really trained with it. I practiced every day until I knew the weapon like my own mother, God bless her gentle ghost, and it saved my life on more than a dozen occasions. I reckon I use the short sword with more skill than anyone I have ever met. Indeed, I reckon I use it with more skill than you use your long sword.”

Ager took up the ready position.

“What about padding?” Lynan asked.

“None fits me,” Ager answered. “And I’ll not need any.”

Lynan shrugged and raised the point of his sword. He took a step forward and made half an effort to thrust, afraid of hurting his opponent. Ager suddenly leaped forward, and the next thing Lynan knew he was on his back with the tip of Ager’s short sword resting over his heart. He heard Kumul and Dejanus laughing.

“Foolish move, your Highness,” Ager said. “Take advantage of your reach if you’ve a long sword. Don’t approach any closer than you have to.” He put out a hand and helped the prince to his feet. “Let’s try that again.”

Lynan, still with the breath knocked out of him, retreated a few steps and went to guard. Ager stood back, seeming to consider his position. “Well?” Lynan urged.

“Well what, your Highness? You don’t think I’m going to come at you with that bloody great thing pointing at me, do you?”

“But you told me to take advantage of my reach…”

“True, but now you’re so far away you could use a bow. I thought you knew how to use that thing.”

Embarrassment and anger made Lynan blush. “Right,” he said determinedly, and carefully edged forward three steps, holding his sword in front of him.

“Right,” Ager said, and took three steps back.

“Oh, this is ridiculous!” Lynan cried, turning to Kumul in appeal. Out of the corner of his eye he saw the crookback move faster than he would have believed possible. Before he could do anything, he was on his back again, the tip of the short sword once more resting over his heart.

“You’re used to fencing with those who follow the same rules as you, your Highness,” Ager said. “But those rules don’t apply in a real battle.”

Lynan scrambled to his feet. “Again!” he ordered fiercely, and attacked before Ager was ready, forcing him back at the very first. Lynan’s attack was furious, but Ager had the skill to deflect every strike and blow. Nevertheless, the crookback gave ground until his back was against a wall and he could retreat no farther. Lynan redoubled his efforts, again and again almost finding an opening for his point. Though Ager kept up with him at first, eventually he started to tire.

“Your Highness!” Kumul called. “Enough!”

Lynan felt as if cold water had been poured over him. He dropped his point and stood back, his face white as a sheet. “Ager… I… I…”

Ager was actually grinning. “Don’t apologize. I as good as told you not to play by the rules. I’ve rarely met an attack with such ferocity behind it.”

Lynan nodded numbly. That his anger had so overwhelmed him made him feel nauseous. “Nevertheless, Kumul has always told me never to lose control of my emotions in a fight.”

Ager nodded, glanced at Kumul. “Good advice, but sometimes—just sometimes—it pays to forget that rule as well.” He returned his short sword to the basket and asked to see Lynan’s. Lynan handed it over, and Ager inspected it carefully. “I thought I’d seen this blade before. Most wonderful work.” Ager handed it back.

“It is all my father left me,” Lynan said simply.

“You are very skilled with it.”

“It is the only skill at the prince’s command,” Kumul said. “He has no time for any study except that of killing and war.”

Lynan looked offended. “I am fair at geography.”

“Like I’m fair at making pots,” Kumul replied. “You will be late for your other lessons if you don’t hurry.”

Lynan sighed and handed the sword together with its belt and matching dagger to Dejanus, who took it to the special cabinets reserved for the war gear of Usharna’s children and returned with Lynan’s dress knife.

Before he left, Lynan turned to Ager and said, “I’d appreciate a lesson with the short sword sometime.”

Ager seemed flattered. “I would be honored.”

Chapter 5

Orkid Gravespear was leaving the daily meeting of the queen’s executive council when he was intercepted by a messenger boy with the news that two visitors were waiting for him in his office. He thanked the boy and gave him a small coin for his trouble.

Instead of heading directly to greet his visitors, he paused in the hallway and looked out over the palace’s main courtyard. He was deeply troubled. It seemed to him that day by day the queen was losing her grip on life. The skin on her face was taut around her bony cheeks and high forehead, and her hands trembled so much she had trouble signing any document placed before her. He had served Usharna for almost half of his life and had grown to love and respect her. More than that, he knew that on her death certain events, long planned, would start almost of their own accord and with such momentum that nothing would divert their course. Plans he had been putting in place for over twenty years; plans the Twenty Houses had been putting in place for even longer. As chancellor, he enjoyed almost more power in the kingdom than any other mortal except the queen herself, and yet in the face of such momentous change he knew his authority—even his own life—could be cut short as easily as a rope severed by a sword.

He remembered he had visitors and shook his head to clear it. He entered his rooms, passed by his secretaries without a word, mumbled apologies to the two men waiting in his office, then stopped short. His mouth dropped open, and he went to one knee.

“Your Highness! I’m sorry I kept you waiting. I wasn’t expecting—”

“Stand up, Orkid,” said a gentle voice, and the chancellor obeyed. “There was never any such formality between us before, Uncle, and I do not expect it to start now.”

Orkid looked in wonder at the young man standing before him, as tall as himself, slender with youth, cleanshaven, wide-eyed and grinning. “You’ve grown, Prince Sendarus.”

“It happens, Uncle. And my father sends his wannest greetings.”

“How is the King of Aman?”

“Well when I last saw him, but looking forward to the day when he may see his brother once again.”

The two men looked at one another for another moment and then embraced suddenly and fiercely. When they parted, Orkid held him by the shoulders. “I was not expecting you for another month, but I am glad you are here,” he said.

“And no greeting for his mentor?” asked the second man.

Orkid glanced at the second visitor and received his second shock of the morning. “Lord of the Mountain! Amemun, you old vulture!”

Amemun, round and red-faced, his mound of hair and beard white with age, frowned at Orkid. “Must you always take the Lord’s name so lightly?”

“Only in your presence, faithful teacher,” Orkid replied, raising a smile in the old man. They clasped hands warmly.

“Now, sit down, both of you,” Orkid told them. “You must be exhausted after your journey.”

“True. These bones are not used to such a long expedition,” Amemun said, easing himself into a seat, “although the voyage from Nunwa was uneventful.”

“Unlike the last time you made it,” Orkid added. “I remember it like yesterday when you first brought me to Kendra as part of Aman’s tribute.”

“A terrible day for me,” Amemun admitted. “I felt like I was losing a son.”

“And I a father,” Orkid added.

“Well, I could have done with a little adventure on this trip,” Sendarus said. “I was bored from the moment we left Pila. I couldn’t wait to leave my father’s palace and see more of the world. Instead, all I saw was the highway to Nunwa, and then leagues of empty ocean until last night when we could make out Kendra’s lights on the shore.”

“How is your new pupil shaping up?” Orkid asked Amemun.

“New? It’s been ten years since the king placed his Highness under my tutelage.” He regarded the prince with a skeptical gaze. “Impetuous, perhaps, but a quick learner. His head is filled with romantic notions and what he calls ‘noble’ ideals. Other than that, he makes a passable student.”

“Passable?” Sendarus exclaimed. “The Lord of the Mountain himself would struggle to meet your standards.”

Amemun’s eyes rolled in his head. “You are here less than five minutes and already you blaspheme as readily as your uncle.”

“Just as well,” Orkid said, suddenly serious. “You are in the heart of the kingdom, now, and the Kendrans do not like being reminded other gods are worshiped in their realms. They are so certain in their power they believe their own deity is the single, true creator.”

“They do not let you pray to the Lord of the Mountain?” Amemun asked.

“As long as I refer to him as God, and by no other title, they are pleased to turn a blind eye to my worship, pretending that I have conformed.”

Amemun nodded, but his expression showed his displeasure. He had little time for such self-righteousness. “Then you must learn the trick,” he told Sendarus.

“Surely we will not be staying long enough for it to matter,” Sendarus said lightly, making nothing of the glance exchanged between Orkid and Amemun.

“You must be tired,” Orkid told the prince. “My secretary will show you to a room where you can rest, and in the meantime I will arrange for proper chambers to be prepared and notify the queen’s private secretary that you have arrived.”

Sendarus was about to object, not feeling the slightest bit tired and eager to see something of the kingdom’s capital, the greatest city in the world, but he saw Amemun looking at him with his grave brown eyes and knew the sights and sounds of Kendra would have to wait.

“As you say, Uncle.”

“Where are your servants and baggage?”

“Still with our ship.”

Orkid called in his secretaries and gave instructions. Two of them bustled out to collect his guests’ retinue and belongings. The third led Sendarus to Orkid’s own chambers to rest.

“So Marin had decided that his own son should be unaware of his part in Kendra’s future?” Orkid asked Amemun after all had left.

Amemun refused to meet Orkid’s gaze. “The future is so uncertain, Orkid. The king did not want Sendarus’ hopes raised.”

Orkid sighed deeply. “Old friend, I know when you are lying. You cannot meet me in the eye, and you sound apologetic.”

“I never sound apologetic!” Amemun declared hotly, and having declared it lost all his huff in an instant. “Well, when I’m apologizing for others, perhaps I do,” he conceded.

“So what is the truth?”

“When I said earlier that the prince’s head is full of foolish notions, I was not being sarcastic. Marin is afraid his son would refuse a role he felt was dishonorable in any fashion.”

“We can’t let nature take its course. If Aman’s dreams are to be realized, we must all take our part whether or not it brings us honor.”

“The king has no intention of letting nature take its course. He wants you to dig a furrow for it.”

“Ah.” Orkid stood up and went to his window. He beckoned Amemun to join him. “Do you see the size of this palace? Its population almost equals that of Pila itself. I can dig a hundred furrows, but in Usharna’s court they would be no more than scratches on the surface.”

“Nevertheless, the king does not want Sendarus told of his part in our plans.”

“Then the sooner we introduce him to the queen and her family the better,” Orkid said.

“How much time do we have?”

“Before the queen dies? It could be tonight or next week, or next month. She is the strongest person I have ever known, but she is very ill.”

“And how long after her death before the first part of the plan is put into effect?”

“As soon as possible.”

“The pieces are all in place?”

Orkid nodded. “Assuming nothing unexpected happens between now and then.”

Amemun looked alarmed. “What do you mean? Surely the opposition would not move before the queen’s death?”

“Against the queen herself? Of course not. But against us or those perceived as our allies? It has already happened. Disaster was averted only by good fortune, and that none of my doing. You must understand, Axnemun, now is the most dangerous time for the plan, not what comes after the queen’s death—that is only when it is most dangerous to us.”

Areava felt listless. She wandered about the palace like a ghost, through its great halls and rooms, its balconies and towers, its gardens and enclosures. At every window she paused to look out, seeing the great city spread out before the palace like a tapestry, catching glimpses of the harbor or Kestrel Bay beyond it, or seeing the craggy heights of Ebrius Ridge or even sometimes seeing the mountains of distant Aman.

Of their own accord, her feet led her eventually to the courtyard, and from there to the palace’s west wing, now the priory for the Church of the Righteous God. Priests bowed to her as she walked by, but knew from her expression not to talk to her. She passed sleeping cells and the royal chapel, confessionals and the refectory. Eventually her journey ended in the church library.

This place and not the chapel is closest to God, Areava thought. She was surrounded by ranks of books and manuscripts, old wooden shelves and reading desks, the smell of ancient dust and earnest study. Here she felt a part of the quest for knowledge, a quest more holy than any other she could imagine because it implied a quest for truth irrespective of its beauty or desirability. She could feel peace in the chapel, contentment in the palace gardens, but here, among all this gathered learning, she felt most alive and in the presence of something sacred.

Areava selected a tall, thin book from a shelf and sat down in one of the study cubicles to read it. It was an atlas and geographical commentary compiled over a hundred years before by Brother Agostin, one of the church’s most famous missionaries. Her finger traced the outline of the continent of Theare, from its northern shores around the nation of Haxus, and then along the east coast past Hume and Chandra and the Horn of Lear—where sat Kendra—down to the swollen belly of Lurisia in the south, and then west along the desert plains of the Southern Chetts before heading north past the Oceans of Grass—the home of the Northern Chetts—and back to Haxus. In the top right corner of the page was the unfinished outline of the Far Kingdom, a place of mystery and danger, never visited by any from Grenda Lear. The Sea Between was too wild and unknown for anyone to cross it, and any who were foolish enough to try disappeared without a trace. The coastline in the atlas was conjecture only, shaped by rumor and legend.

She wished she could absorb all the knowledge of the book by touching it like this, and so in her own lifetime read every volume within the library. She sighed. The things she wanted most were never possible.

“I thought I would find you here,” said a light voice behind her.

Areava did not turn, but smiled and said: “You have never had any trouble finding me, even when I did not know where I was myself. You know me better than I do.”

Father Giros Northam, Primate of the Church of the Righteous God, pulled over a chair and sat down next to the princess. He craned his long, wattled neck to see what book she had out. “Agostin! How wonderful! I read him often. I have always hoped that one of my brethren would fancy taking up his walking staff and traveling his road. The map could do with more detail, and the commentary undoubtedly needs updating. Alas, these days the brethren are all too spiritual for such a mundane and secular task. They prefer chanting in the chapel and preaching in the pulpit.”

“I wish I could take up the task,” Areava said. She touched the map again, imagining herself on the road without responsibility or care.

“Perhaps one day you will,” Father Northam said gently. He was a large man, big-boned, with the largest feet and hands Areava had ever seen on any man. Grey eyes regarded her affectionately.

Areava shook her head. “No. No, I don’t think so.”

“I suppose every book you read takes you on a journey of some kind.” Areava said nothing. “Why are you here now?”

“To read your books, Father.”

“Perhaps. But sometimes you come here because you are troubled. This is your refuge and your confessional. What is troubling you?” Areava shook her head. “If you do not tell me, I cannot help you.”

“I cannot lie to you.”

“That is not an answer.”

Areava stood up and replaced the atlas on its shelf. “It’s the only one I can give you.”

Before she could leave, Father Northam caught her arm. “When you were only five years old, I found you here. Your father had died, and instead of mourning with the rest of your family you came here to hide away from the world, and you looked as if you carried all its troubles on your young shoulders. I look at you now and see that five-year-old girl again. You know you can tell me what is wrong. I have always been your friend, Areava, and never your confessor.”

“Perhaps it is a confessor I need. But Father Powl would not understand either.”

“My secretary is a very understanding man, Areava. That is why I assigned him to you.”

“You know more about me than you do about your own secretary. Father Powl is a great scholar, but as a confessor he listens too little and holds forth too much.”

The priest looked bemused. “For God’s sake, child, what is it you think you have done?”

“It is what I have not done, and am afraid to do, that is my sin.”

“You cannot sin through omission. God the Righteous understands us well enough to forgive our desires and condemn only our actions.”

Areava gently eased the priest’s hand from her arm. “It is a sin I may still commit. We who are born to rule must sometimes carry out mean actions to achieve great things. It is our privilege and our curse.”

“That was glib coming from you.” Areava breathed in sharply. He had never spoken so hard to her before. “Forgive me, your Highness, but we read many of the same books. Those were not your words, but those of your grandfather. Old Duke Amptra held convenient opinions about right and wrong but thankfully was never in a position to put them into practice. Do not make the mistake of thinking that his noble rank gave him a noble mind. Look instead to your mother, the queen, for your model.”

Areava blanched, as if she had been slapped. The priest’s words struck deeper than he knew. Her grandfather may never have had an opportunity to put his ideas into practice, but his son Tafe—her father—did. No one ever talked to her or Olio about their father except in the most general and cautious terms, but through the books she had read, through the gossip and careless remarks she had overheard and by diligently applying her intelligence to the mystery, she had slowly discovered the dark truth. In that terrible civil war between the throne and the Slavers, her father had played one side against the other to further the interests of his family. When his duplicity was discovered, Usharna confronted him and forced his confession using the Keys of Power. By the time she had finished with him, he was nothing more than a smoking, burned-out hulk. Two immediate results had been the dramatic reduction in the influence of the Twenty Houses, which the Amptra family led, and soon after Usharna’s marriage to Lynan’s father, Elynd Chisal.

“Ah, I see now.” Father Northam’s words broke her reverie. He smiled sadly. “You are afraid of losing Usharna. That is why you have come to the library today. Here you can enter all the worlds in these books, all the histories and all the legends, and in none of them must you ever confront the mortality of your own mother.”

Areava laughed bitterly. “Her mortality? It is her heritage that makes me afraid, Father. She leaves behind a kingdom that is entirely loyal to her but not to the throne.”

Father Northam looked at her blankly. Areava shook her head in frustration. “When she dies, she takes with her all the goodwill owed her, Father. The merchants and generals and magickers and even the church will not know where they stand when Berayma becomes king. Nor will any of the kings and queens who come under Kendra. Only the Twenty Houses will be sure of their position, for Berayma has made clear where at least some of his sympathies lie.”

“But, Areava, why should anyone want things to change? There is peace in the kingdom now, and there will be peace in the kingdom after Usharna. Berayma will not change the good administration she established. You know he will rule fairly.”

Areava shook her head. “For the kingdom’s wisest man, you understand so little of the real world. With a new ruler, everyone will try to maneuver closer to the throne, to benefit themselves and their friends. Queen Charion will try to take trade from King Tomar, the merchant guilds will try and reduce the influence of the theurgia, Haxus will try and take a bite from our northern territory…”

“Your mother went through the same turmoil when she first ascended the throne, and came through it,” Father Northam argued. “So will Berayma. The people will not want to destroy the prosperity they enjoy.”

“There will always be those disgruntled with the share they receive. When my mother became queen, she was forced to marry into the Twenty Houses. There was no center of resistance, no rallying point. But this time there will be. This time there will be Lynan.”

“Lynan?” Father Northam said, obviously surprised. “This is about Lynan?”

“Am I the only one who can see how destabilizing it will be for Berayma to have Lynan at a loose end, an heir to the throne whose father was a commoner and a soldier? Lynan will become the focus of every disgruntled citizen and every conspiracy.”

“He is so young, so… so uninterested in being the center of anything, let alone a conspiracy against the throne.”

“It does not need his compliance. His very existence is enough.”

“But, Areava, you said yourself that his father was a commoner. The people won’t follow him, or pay attention to anyone else trying to raise him up.”

Areava sighed deeply. “Do you know what will happen to the Keys of Power on Berayma’s succession?”

“He will inherit them with the throne—”

Areava shook her head. “Your Father Powl could tell you. He understands the politics of the palace far better than you.”

“I am not Prelate because I understand politics—” he started to reply.

“Exactly. That is why my mother allows you to hold the office. She does not want a prelate who plays at politics as well as religion.”

Father Northam opened his mouth to object, but stopped himself before he made the lie. Of course that was why Usharna had given him her support. He had known this ever since the queen had allowed the church to base itself within the palace walls, but it was a truth he hid behind what he believed was the greater worth of his faith, their work among the poorest of Kendra’s people, and their quest for knowledge from all corners of the queen’s kingdom.

“My confessor would tell you that Usharna was an only child—”

“I knew that, Areava—”

“Which is why she inherited all the Keys.”

The primate’s eyes widened with sudden understanding that came from a memory from his own youth. “Only the ruler inherits the Key of the Scepter, the ‘Monarch’s Key.’ The ruler’s siblings inherit the other, lesser Keys.”

“And this time the queen has four children, so each will receive one,” Areava said.

“You mean Lynan will possess one of the Keys of Power?” He was genuinely surprised. “Which one?”

Areava shrugged. “That is for the queen to decide, and if she dies before she makes known her will it will be for Berayma to decide.”

“But surely the tradition can be changed?”

“The queen could do so, but only at the risk of destabilizing the kingdom just as Berayma is about to inherit it. The Twenty Houses were the queen’s opponents for so long because she received all the Keys. That is why they twice forced her to marry within their ranks. It was only after she had been ruler for nearly twenty years that she could marry without their blessing, and when my father died, she chose that trooper-made-general, Chisal. Usharna would not risk alienating the Twenty Houses now when she is too weak to isolate them. And if the decision is Berayma’s, who is a friend of the Twenty Houses, Lynan will still get his Key. Now do you understand why I am afraid of him? Common blood or not, as a holder of one of the Keys he becomes a symbol beyond his own birthright.”

Chapter 6

Captain Ager Partner of the Royal Guards studied himself in the reflection of one of the tall windows that illuminated the Long Walk, the palace’s chief promenade, connecting the throne room to the queen’s private rooms and offices. He could not believe how well the uniform had been made to fit. That dark, wire-haired woman Kumul had found to measure up Ager and then sew and stitch the blue jerkin and pants was a miracle worker. He spun on his heel and admired himself in left profile, but his high shoulder spoiled the view. Ah, well, he told himself, not everyone can be Kumul’s size and shape.

The wide double doors to the throne room opened wide. The queen appeared, followed by her entourage and a bustle of guests. Ager shouted a command, and his own detachment of guards formed in front of the party and led the way down the Long Walk to the official dining room, a long space filled with the biggest table Ager had ever seen. Despite the room’s name, the queen herself ate there only if she had a large number of guests, preferring her own sitting room for most meals. Ager and his men spaced themselves evenly along the wall and stood at attention, the blades of their long spears glistening a foot above their heads.

Ager watched Usharna sweep by, looking frail but still regal and completely in charge. She was followed by her family and chief officials, then her special guests—some nobleman and his party from one of the provinces, Ager had gathered—and finally by representatives of Kendra itself, such as the mayor and heads of the major merchant guilds. Attendants, polite and bowing, made sure everyone sat exactly where they were supposed to and then brought in large platters and bowls which they set on the table between the guests.

The nobleman, Ager could now see from his long formal coat, was from Aman. Seated between his countryman, Orkid Gravespear, and the Princess Areava, Ager thought he was a pleasant-looking youth with a quick smile and an open face. He noticed that several of the guests, relatives of the royal family from the Twenty Houses and including Berayma’s cousin and friend Galen Amptra and his father the duke, were looking with some displeasure at the visitor and the easy familiarity he was showing toward Areava. The princess, for her part, seemed to enjoy the attention of the foreign prince, talking with him animatedly and occasionally even laughing softly, something Ager had never heard her do before.

Perhaps she is just a good actress, Ager thought. Kumul had told him that, unlike Berayma, Areava held a great antipathy toward the Twenty Houses; so, knowing their dislike of commoners, provincials of any class, and clerics, she might be paying special attention to the Amanite prince simply to irk them. If that was the case, it was working. And good for you, Your Highness, he thought. Anything to put a burr under the seat of a nobleman.

As the meal progressed, Ager noticed that some of the Twenty House nobles were glancing at him and whispering comments to one another. The queen noticed it as well. She gently tapped the table with a knife and immediately got everyone’s attention.

“I notice, Duke Amptra, that you and your accomplices are whispering between yourselves. Is it something we should know about?”

The duke, an overweight man who suffered from gout and, Ager would bet, a few varieties of pox, looked in surprise at the queen. He was not used to being addressed like a schoolboy, and the word “accomplices” suggested the matter was something decidedly underhanded.

“Your Majesty, merely small talk, chitchat, asides of no consequence…” His voice trailed off and his double chin wobbled.

His son leaped into the breach. “Your Majesty, we were merely discussing the splendid uniforms of your Royal Guards.”

“Really?” She took time to survey the uniforms herself. “I notice nothing different about them, my Lord Galen; as far as I can tell, they are the same uniform worn by the guards in my father’s time.”

Galen swallowed hard. “True, but it is often the way with everyday things that suddenly you will notice their special… umm… qualities?” He ended his statement as a question, and knew it was a mistake.

“Qualities,” the queen said, carefully chewing over the word. “Such as?”

“The color, your Majesty,” Galen said quickly.

“Like the sea that surrounds Kendra,” his father added.

“Ah, the color.” The queen nodded.

Then, satisfied that a lesson had been taught, she turned to the visiting prince from Aman to ask a question when another voice, sniggering, said: “And their shape!”

There was the sound of muffled laughter. Usharna’s head snapped up, and her angry gaze returned to the representatives from the Twenty Houses. She noticed that Duke Holo Amptra and his son looked hideously embarrassed. Next to them, Minan Protas, who had only recently succeeded to his family’s dukedom, was desperately trying to swallow a giggle.

“Duke Protas, you are referring to something in particular?” Usharna asked, her voice so cold that Berayma and Orkid, sitting on either side of her, edged away.

Protas was counted a bluff, arrogant fool even among his own kind. He pointed to Ager, who was standing as erect as possible and looking straight ahead at an invisible point on the opposite wall, and said: “Not something, Your Majesty, but someone.” No longer able to contain his mirth, Protas broke out in a strangled guffaw.

No laughter joined the duke’s. The queen silently waited for him to finish. Finally, Protas realized no one else was enjoying the joke and brought himself up with a wheeze.

“Duke Protas, how old are you?” Usharna asked solicitously.

“How old, your Majesty? Let me see. I would be over forty. Yes, I would own to that.” He smiled at the queen.

“Shall we say forty-five?”

Protas considered the number for a moment and nodded. “Close enough.”

“Then you would have been thirty when the Slaver War ended.”

Everyone watched Protas do the math in his head. After a long pause he nodded again. “Yes, your Majesty, that’s about right.”

“With what regiment did you fight?”

Where there was silence before, there was now a dread and expectant hush.

“Umm, no regiment, your Majesty. I had onerous duties to perform under my father, the late duke.”

“Tending the vineyards in your estates in Chandra?”

“My father’s estates, your Majesty. Well, mine now, of course—”

“So while men of Kendra such as Captain Parmer over there risked their lives in ridding Grenda Lear of the vile curse of slavery, you watched grapes grow?”

Protas blinked and the color drained from his face. Even he realized his patriotism and manliness had just been brought publicly into question by his queen. He felt the mixed emotions of shame and rage. He opened his mouth to curse the woman, but something in the look of the crookback Captain Parmer—who now stared at him directly—and the restraining hand of Duke Amptra on his arm, told him to leave well enough alone. He had been ambushed. In shock, he settled back in his seat and bowed his head.

Usharna turned again to Prince Sendarus and, as if on cue, everyone else resumed their conversations as well.

Ager, staring straight ahead again, could not help swelling his chest just that extra bit further, filling up his blue guard’s uniform, and almost forgetting he was a crookback at all.

Sendarus had watched the public humiliation of one of the kingdom’s premier nobles with amazement. His own father, the first among equals among the Amanite aristocracy, would never have dared even to attempt such a thing. In Aman, kings could still be challenged to combat for a personal slight. Apparently, things were different here in Kendra. He wondered whether or not that was a good thing.

When it was all over, Usharna had turned to him and asked if he enjoyed hunting. For an instant, Sendarus thought she was alluding to her humiliation of the duke, but he gathered his senses in time to reply: “In the mountains around Pila, your Majesty, I often hunt the great bear. I have two heads hanging from the walls of my father’s meeting hall.”

Usharna was impressed. She realized she had underestimated the strength and skill of this young man. In many ways, in his build, in his manner of speech, and in his readiness to smile, he reminded her of Olio. She decided she liked him. “Did you know that many years ago, in the time of your grandfather, Aman sent several great bear to Kendra. We released them in the woods of the Ebrius Ridge just north of here, and now hunt them ourselves. They provide a greater challenge than the boar and wild dog my ancestors used to hunt.”

“We could go on a hunt tomorrow!” Areava said excitedly, her brown eyes sparkling.

Sendarus greeted the idea enthusiastically. The queen agreed, and promised she would arrange a party to accompany them.

“Your Majesty, do you think it wise to let them hunt at this time of the year?” Orkid asked, clearly concerned. “The great bear is most dangerous at the end of summer when the males are fighting for a sow.”

“But it is also the most exciting time to hunt the beast!” Areava countered.

The queen nodded. “Indeed, and I wish I had the strength to come with you. If you are so concerned, Orkid, you can pull yourself away from your duties for a day and accompany them. I know you used to enjoy the sport as much as me.”

“I will gladly go with them,” Orkid conceded. “But I should warn the prince that hunting the great bear here is different from hunting it back home. In Aman, the beast has learned to retreat into the heights when harried, but here they have learned to use the woods to keep themselves hidden. They enjoy ambushing unwary hunters and travelers, and have acquired a taste for horse meat.”

“The greater the challenge, the greater the victory,” Sendarus said without conceit.

“Ah, the courage of youth,” Usharna said. “But Orkid is right, this is a dangerous time of the year for hunting the bear. I will send some of the guards with you.”

“What a magnificent woman!” Amemun said for the third time in an hour.

Orkid, riding by his side, smiled to himself and nodded. There were some things he despised about Kendra and its suzerainty over his homeland, but Usharna made up for almost all of it. Twenty years ago, when he had been Sendarus’ age and the younger brother of Aman’s new king, he had been sent to Kendra as part of his home’s tribute. More hostage than guest, he had hated everything about the city then, but he worked hard—and according to the plan he and Marin had worked out together—to place himself in a position of trust with the kingdom’s new ruler. Back then, Usharna was not only a sole child but a woman, and her ascension to the throne had not been a sure thing. The fact that her father had himself passed on to her the Keys of Power, and the fact that in Kendra’s dim past it had been ruled by another queen, gave her the opportunity to prove herself. And prove herself she did. And Orkid had helped her, first as a minor court official and then as chancellor. But, brutally honest with himself, he knew she would have flourished with or without his assistance. She had the ability to choose good men and women for positions of power, either on her executive council or as leaders of the various organizations tied to her, such as the church, the merchant guilds and the theurgia. Regrettably, she had been less fortunate with her husbands.

“I never thought I’d live to see a monarch—a woman, no less!—thrash a nobleman like that,” Amemun continued. “I can see why you are so devoted to her, my friend.”

Orkid heard something crash through the brush up ahead, and looked around anxiously for any sign of danger. It turned out only to be an outrider rejoining the hunt trail. He exhaled in relief and relaxed the grip on his bear spear. It had been a long time since he had been on a hunt, and the tension was getting to him.

“Are you equally devoted to the daughter?” Amemun asked suddenly.

“What do you mean by that?” Orkid asked.

“I mean, do you see Usharna in Areava?”

Orkid frowned. He was not sure he liked the line of questioning. It sounded like something Marin would ask, not his old tutor. He laughed aloud then. Of course, it was Marin asking him. Amemun was acting as messenger again.

“I see Areava as the key to our plans in Kendra.”

Amemun nodded, apparently satisfied with the answer.

There was a “Haroo!” from up ahead, and the sounds of horses being kicked into a canter.

“That’s it!” Orkid cried to Amemun. “They’ve found our quarry! Hurry, or we’ll be left behind!”

The two men dug in their heels and their mounts surged up the trail. The low brush gave way to scattered conifers that towered over them, reaching for the sky. They caught up with the main group, now scattering among the trees to take up flanking positions on either side of the royal party. Somewhere ahead, one of the outriders had seen or smelled one of the great bears and given the call.

Orkid and Amemun reined in their horses to a walk and hefted their spears under their arms, the blades pointed toward the ground in front of them. They eased up next to Sendarus and Areava. Orkid stole a glance at the princess, and had to admit she reminded him of the young Usharna. In her youth, the queen had possessed the same long hair the color of summer corn and the wiry frame that held surprising strength and speed. Areava was taller, more angular, but he knew as she got older she would lose height and become rounder, and so be the mirror image of her mother.

Perhaps Marin had been right to worry about Orkid’s feelings toward Areava. He shook his head. No, that would never happen. His devotion to Aman came above all else, including the queen’s children.

The woods became more dense, and low branches slapped the riders’ faces. They reached a shallow, fast-flowing stream along a narrow ford that continued the trail. Areava gave the order to dismount. Two of the guards remained behind to hold the reins; the rest held their spears in two hands and went on. They crossed the stream and continued up the slope, now so steep it was getting difficult for the hunters to keep their weapons steady.

They climbed for several minutes before there was another “Haroo!” from up ahead, closer this time, and more frantic. The party heard something coming toward them, thrashing the underbrush, but there was no sign of any beast. The conifers now crowded around them.

“It could be anywhere,” one of the guards said.

Areava ordered him to keep quiet. Everyone was listening so intently for any sound that would give away the position of their prey that when it actually came they all jumped. They heard the voice of an outrider cry “It’s here! It’s here!” and then the words were cut off with a scream.

“God’s death,” Areava breathed, and rushed up the slope with such agility that all but Sendarus had trouble keeping up with her. The scream died to an agonized whimper and a sound of breaking bone, then silence. A moment later the party burst into a small clearing. At first, they thought the clearing was empty, then Sendarus saw and pointed to the head of the outrider in a silver leaf bush. A long trail of blood led them to the rest of the man, his body gutted.

Areava was the first to pick up its spore. “Here.”

“Lord of the Mountain!” Sendarus cried. “It’s heading downslope, toward the horses!”

Areava ordered four of the guards to follow the beast’s trail, then the rest of the party headed directly back toward the horses, shouting warnings to the guards left behind with their mounts. But they were too late. They all heard the screams of the horses and men, the sounds echoing around in the woods like the calls of lost ghosts. Areava shouted her family’s war cry, a long ululating shout, and rushed down the slope, heedless of branches and jutting roots. Sendarus kept up with her, his blood rushing in his ears.

Orkid called for them to wait for the rest of the party, but his cautioning words went unheeded. He ran as quickly as he could, but he was too stiff and too old to make any more speed. Amemun, puffing like a woman giving birth, was falling farther and farther behind.

Areava and Sendarus reached the stream to find the bear on its hind legs, the claws on its forelegs sunk deep into the chest of one of the horses, its terrible jaws clamped around the horse’s neck. Another horse lay dead on the ground, its throat slashed open, its blood pouring into the stream and turning it red. One of the guards was dead, opened up from neck to crotch, and the other lay in a heap nearby, his head bleeding heavily from a deep gash. They could hear the other horses galloping away down the ridge, heedless of falling, frantic to escape.

Areava leaped across the stream and charged the bear, using all her strength to drive her spear into the hollow between its shoulders. The beast spun around with such force that the head of the horse was tom loose, its body collapsing. Blood fountained over Areava. She tried to retreat, but her feet slipped and she crashed to the ground. The bear swiped the air where Areava had just been, overbalanced, and dropped to all fours, Areava’s spear wobbling in its back.

Before it could turn around to finish her off, Sendarus was by the princess’ side. He drove upward with his spear, catching the bear in its open maw. The beast made a horrible gargling sound and lurched up and back, its front paws scrabbling at the blade impaled in the roof of its mouth. Sendarus grabbed Areava by the arm and pulled her to her feet. They retreated, keeping the bear in sight as it thrashed on the ground. Both spear hafts snapped, but the blades remained embedded.

A guard appeared. He saw his princess covered in blood. Shouting in anger, he jumped the stream and lunged at the bear, but the animal’s movements were so frantic, he only caught it a glancing blow on one shoulder. The bear dug into the ground with the claws of its rear feet and swung around to meet the challenge, knocking the guard’s spear out of his hands. It lurched forward and cuffed the guard with one paw, raking him across the skull. The man screamed, falling to his knees. The bear stood to its full height, roared in anger and pain, and picked up the guard between its front legs.

“No!” Areava screamed. Before Sendarus could stop her, she rushed forward, retrieved the guard’s spear, and slashed at the bear’s face.

The bear dropped the guard and twisted around to face this new threat. For one instant it exposed its throat, and Areava did not hesitate. With a great shout, she hurled the spear into the exposed muscles and tendons, severing the animal’s jugular. Its forelegs pinwheeled uselessly in the air as it fell backward to the ground. There was a sickening crunch as the blade of Areava’s first spear was driven into the bear’s spine and snapped.

The rest of the party arrived in time to watch the creature thrash around one last time and then fall still.

Orkid saw Areava and gasped in horror. He rushed to her, but she fended him off gently. “I am all right. It is not my blood.”

“My God, what were you thinking?”

“I was thinking of saving the guards!” she replied angrily, but then her eyes dimmed. “We were too slow for some.” Shock was setting in; her limbs were trembling.

Amemun appeared, saw what must be done, and tore a strip of cloth from his cloak. He wet it in the stream and started cleaning Areava’s face and hands. The guard whose life she had saved knelt down before her and thanked her.

Areava put her hand on his shoulder. “You tried to save mine. How could I do less for you?”

“This one is still alive!” Sendarus cried. He was bending over the body of one of the men left behind with the horses. “The head wound is horrendous, but he still breathes.”

While some of the guards left to recover the surviving horses and Orkid directed the others to making a stretcher from tree limbs and his own coat, Areava went to the stream to clean off the rest of the blood.

“If I don’t get this off before I return to the palace, I’ll give my mother a terrible fright,” Areava told Sendarus. He sat on the edge of the stream and watched her. “We killed a male, you realize. Maybe one of the biggest ever taken. Would you like a new prize for your father’s meeting hall?”

Sendarus shook his head. “It is your kill, Your Highness. Besides, it would put my other trophies to shame. Our bears are kept small by the harsh terrain, but here they seem to flourish. You were magnificent, by the way.”

Areava stopped her washing and looked up, surprised. Compliments were common enough from members of the court who thought they could curry favor through flattery, but Sendarus sounded so genuine she was embarrassed and did not know what to say.

Some guards returned with the horses they had managed to catch, including Areava’s. She retrieved a long coat from one of the saddle packs and pulled it over her. “There, that should stop the queen from thinking I’ve been disemboweled.”

Sendarus cupped his hands to help her mount, but she shook her head. “We’ve only recovered four horses, and we’ll need two of them to pull the stretchers for our wounded. One can carry the bodies of the two we lost, and the last can carry the head of our bear.”

“You are very generous toward your guards,” Sendarus remarked.

“I am a princess of Grenda Lear, Prince Sendarus,” she said. “My duty lies with serving my people.”

Amemun and Orkid were close enough to hear her. “She takes her responsibilities that seriously?” Orkid nodded in reply. “And I thought Sendarus was an idealist.”

“She is generous to all but her half-brother.”

“Berayma?”

“Oh, no. She loves Berayma dearly. It’s Lynan she has little time for.”

“Why is that?”

“Because of the accidents of prejudice and history. Her father, Usharna’s second husband, betrayed Kendra—”

“I know all that,” Amemun said impatiently.

“Leaving Usharna free to marry Elynd Chisal. The queen was over forty years old. No one expected her to fall pregnant a fourth time.”

Orkid fell silent a moment, reliving the past.

“Go on,” Amemun urged. “What has this to do with Areava’s dislike for Lynan?”

“Areava discovered what her father had done. I was there when she confronted Usharna over the matter. Not only was she distressed that her father had betrayed the kingdom, but also that the fact of it had been kept secret from her. Areava felt that meant no one trusted her because of her father’s sins. It was a terrible time between the queen and her daughter, and it took many years for the two to become reconciled.”

Amemun shook his head in frustration. “What has all of this to do with Lynan?”

“Don’t you see? Her father had destroyed the natural order by betraying his queen, his wife, the mother of their two children. He had betrayed his own country and his own nobility. Then Usharna compounded the act by marrying a commoner, by raising to royal status someone who was basely born. The product of all these tumultuous events was Lynan. He exists only because the natural order was destroyed by her own father, and while Lynan lives, that natural order can never be restored. Tafe Amptra and Lynan Rosetheme give lie to the universe she believes in.”

“Which explains her hatred of the Twenty Houses,” Amemun said, almost to himself. He looked at Orkid. “But does she actually hate Lynan?”

Orkid shrugged. “She claims not to, and probably believes that is true, but it is hard to credit when you hear her mention his name.”

Amemun asked no more questions. It seemed ironic to him that Usharna’s family was the kingdom’s greatest strength and at the same time its greatest weakness, a weakness his own people would soon exploit. The knowledge gave him a grim satisfaction, but no joy.

The sun had been down for two hours and Queen Usharna’s maids-in-waiting had finished dressing her for bed. She was exhausted, and the pain in her chest was worse than it had been this morning. She stood before her bedroom’s single large window, which gave her a view out over great Kendra and the placid expanse of Kestrel Bay, wondering if she would see another dawn. She angrily closed off the thought. In her reign of nearly a quarter of a century she had worked diligently on behalf of her kingdom and its people, allowing herself no time for self-pity or the enjoyment of those luxuries that were hers by right, and she would not start indulging in them now.

But still, I could do with more time. There is so much left to be done. Usharna laughed softly at herself. There will never be enough time, you old fool. Kendra is far too harsh and demanding a mistress.

She told herself that no one was indispensable, and even a ruler could be replaced as easily as an old gown. Then the truth awoke in her again that she was being dangerously immodest. After a quarter century of stable, prosperous and, with the exception of the Slaver War, relatively peaceful rule, she did not know if Grenda Lear was ready for her successor. For that matter, she wondered if he was ready for Grenda Lear.

Perhaps, she told herself, Berayma would never be ready.

Thinking of him filled Usharna with sadness. Nearly thirty years of age, a large and powerful man with a generous heart and a disciplined mind, he was a hard-working king-in-waiting; but also he was stern, too slow to make up his mind, too inflexible once his mind was made up and, worst of all, he was an ally of the Twenty Houses. The nobility had been the queen’s most steadfast foe in all the years of her reign, and it had taken her more than half of that to build up the support she needed to keep their demands and strictures at bay, to keep the Twenty Houses under her control. Usharna loved Berayma dearly, but she was afraid he would never rule with the decisiveness and agility Grenda Lear required. Her greatest fear was that he would allow the Twenty Houses to destroy the kingdom, unless the kingdom destroyed him first.

A sharp pain stabbed into her heart and her breathing stopped. “Not now!” she cried. “Not now!” She clutched the four Keys of Power that hung around her neck, and felt new strength surge through her. With immense relief she felt the pain disappear as quickly as it had come, and her lungs sucked in air.

Tonight, she thought. It must be done tonight.

Usharna raised her head slowly and again looked out the bedroom window. South of the bay, in the distance, she could just make out the coastline of the subject kingdom of Lurisia, the empire’s wealthiest and most economically important domain, and the first conquered by the armies and navies of Kendra all those centuries ago. Keeping Lurisia’s merchant captains happy was one of her most arduous tasks, and one example of how the Twenty Houses could trip up her son with their stupid prejudices and petty hatreds.

A sound from below distracted her. She looked down at the palace’s main courtyard and saw Areava returning with her hunting party. Seeing that horses carried wounded and dead, she desperately searched for her daughter. At first, she could not see her in the poor light, but to her great relief recognized the coat she was wearing. The party was bedraggled, without enough mounts to carry them, but they carried with them a trophy, a head so large Usharna could see it even in the dark. And she saw, too, that Areava was deep in conversation with the visiting Amanite prince.

Hmm, not a bad thing, she thought. He is an intelligent and likable fellow. Areava could do worse. She laughed bitterly. God, she herself had done worse twice over, not finding true love and a worthy companion for her endeavors until she married Elynd Chisal. Tears came to her eyes as she remembered her third husband, a man who was frank to the point of rudeness, with a vocabulary that scandalized the court, and a propensity to wear the plainest of clothes. But she had loved him more than she had loved anyone except her own children. Thinking of Elynd made her think of Lynan.

A son she never thought she would have. She grimaced. A son to whom she should have shown more kindness, but for his own good and for his own protection she had kept him distant and apart not only from herself but from his siblings as well. It had been, she realized now so late in her life, a wrong decision, and she desperately wished there was someway she could make up for it.

But there was not enough time, and now upon Lynan’s young shoulders would fall an unexpected and unfair burden. She closed her eyes briefly, automatically murmured a prayer to a God she had never been sure she believed in, and grasped the Keys even tighter.

The pain in her chest started again, and this time would not go away.