The Hand of Chaos

21

King Stephen’s castle on the Isle of Providence was far different in appearance from his elven counterpart’s on Aristagon. The Imperanon was a vast collection of gracefully designed and elegant buildings, with spiraling towers and minarets decorated with tile mosaics, painted furbelows, and carved curlicues. King Stephen’s fortress was solid, massive, constructed on square lines; its grim, tooth-edged towers rose dark and unlovely into the smoke-colored sky. The difference in the stone could be seen in the flesh, so the saying went.

Night on the Imperanon was ablaze with flambeaux and candelabra. On Volkaran, lambent light from the Firmament glittered on the scaled skin of guard-dragons, perched atop the towers. Watch fires shone red in the twilight, lighting the way for returning dragon marauders and providing warmth for the human watchers, whose eyes ceaselessly scanned the skies for elven dragonships.

The fact that no elven dragonship had dared fly Volkaran’s skies for a long while did not make the watchers less vigilant. There were some, living in the town of Firstfall, which crowded close to the castle walls, who whispered that Stephen did not watch for elven dragonships. No, he watched for enemies closer to home, flying the kiratrack,[44] not the kanatrack. Alfred, who lived among the humans for a time, wrote the following discourse on the race. The title is A Baffling History.[45] Alfred wrote the history in the human language, undoubtedly with the intent of using it to instruct the humans in their own folly. True to his vacillating nature, the Sartan could never bring himself to show the book to the king, but placed it in the library, apparently in the forlorn hope that Stephen or Anne might stumble across it. The elves in Arianus would not have grown strong and powerful if the humans had been able to unite. United as a race, the humans could have formed a wall through which the elves could not have penetrated. The humans could have easily taken advantage of the various elven clan wars to have established strong footholds on Aristagon (or, at the very least, keep from being pushed off!).

But the humans, who consider elves foppish and weak, made the mistake of discounting them. The various human factions, with their long history of blood feuds, were far more interested in battling each other than in fending off elven attacks. The humans, in essence, defeated themselves, leaving themselves so weak that all the powerful Paxar had to do was stamp their feet and shout, “Boo!” and the humans fled in terror.

The humans were driven off Aristagon. They flew to the Volkaran Isles and the larger continent of Ulyndia, and here they might have regrouped, united. During the Brotherblood War that raged among the elves, the humans could have easily recaptured all the territory they had lost. It is altogether possible that they might have taken the Imperanon, for the humans had among them then the mysteriarchs, whose skills in magic are far greater than those attained by the elves, with the exception of the Kenkari. And the Kenkari were, in this war, supposedly neutral.

But their own race’s internecine wars offended and sickened the powerful mysteriarchs. Finding that their efforts to bring peace to the warring factions were in vain, the mysteriarchs left the Mid Realm, traveled up to the High Realm, to the cities built by the Sartan, where the mysteriarchs hoped to live in peace. Their departure left the humans vulnerable to attack by the Tribus elves, who, having defeated and forcibly united the elven clans, turned their attention to the human raiders, who had been attacking and pirating elven water shipments from Drevlin.

The Tribus elves conquered many human realms on Volkaran, using bribes and betrayal as well as the sword to divide and conquer. The humans saw their sons and daughters taken into slavery; they saw most of their food going into elven mouths; they saw elf lords slaughter dragons for sport. Eventually, the humans came to the conclusion that they hated elves more than they hated each other. The two most powerful human clans, working in secret, formed an alliance, sealed by the marriage of Stephen of Volkaran with Anne of Ulyndia. The humans began to push the occupying forces off Volkaran, culminating in the famous Battle of Seven Fields, a battle remarkable for the fact that the loser ended up the victor.[46] The subsequent rebellion among the elves, led by the Prince Rees’ahn, forced the withdrawal of elven occupying forces.

Alfred’s history concludes on a sad note:

Ulyndia and Volkaran are once again under human control. But now, once the elven threat is removed, the humans have decided it is safe to start hating each other again. Factions howl war and snap at each other’s throats. Powerful barons on both sides mutter darkly that the alliance of Stephen and Anne has outlived its usefulness. The king and queen are forced to play a dangerous game.

These two, in truth, love each other dearly. A marriage of convenience, planted in the muck of years of hatred, has blossomed into mutual respect and affection. But each knows that the flower will wither and die untimely, unless they can keep control of their followers.

Thus each pretends to hate what each most dearly values—the other. They quarrel loudly in public, cling to each other most fondly in private. Thinking the marriage and therefore the alliance is crumbling, the members of each opposing faction whisper their intrigues to king and queen openly, not realizing that these two are—in reality—one. Thus Stephen and Anne have been able to control and put out blazes that might have consumed their kingdom. But now there is a new problem—Bane. And what we are to do about him is beyond me to figure out. I am afraid for the mensch, though. Afraid for them all. The problem had been solved.[47] Bane had disappeared, purportedly carried off to a faraway realm by a man with blue skin—at least such had been the vague report given King Stephen by Bane’s real mother, Iridal of the High Realms.

Queen Anne became pregnant again, and was safely delivered of a baby girl. The child was princess of Ulyndia and, though the crown of Volkaran could not now, by law, be given into female hands, laws had a way of changing over the years, especially if Stephen did not father any sons. King and queen both adored their daughter. Magi of the Third House were hired to stand guard day and night to make certain that this time no strange, fey changeling appeared in the cradle.

Also, during this momentous year, the rebellion of the Gegs of the Lower Realms further weakened the elves, depleted their forces. Stephen’s armies had managed to push the elves from their last toehold on the outlying islands of Volkaran.

An elven dragonship loaded with water had just fallen into human hands. The water harvest had been good this year. Stephen had been able to call off water rationing, which pleased the people. The quarreling factions—for the most part—thought well of each other, and the fights that broke out among them now were of the good-natured variety, resulting in bloody noses, not bloody knives.

“I am even beginning to think seriously, my dear, of telling the world that I love you,” said Stephen, leaning over his wife’s shoulder to make faces at the baby.

“Don’t go too far,” said Anne. “I’ve rather come to enjoy our public bickering. I think it’s good for us. Whenever I do get truly mad at you, I put all my anger into the next mock battle, and I feel much better. Oh, Stephen, what a dreadful face! You’ll frighten her.”

The baby, however, laughed in delight and reached out a hand to try to grab the king’s graying beard.

“So, all these years, you’ve actually meant those terrible things you said to me!” Stephen teased.

“I hope your face freezes like that. It would serve you right! Isn’t he an ugly papa?” Anne said to the baby. “Why don’t you fly up and attack such an ugly papa. There, my little dragon. Fly to Papa.”

Lifting the baby, Anne “flew” the child at Stephen, who caught hold of his daughter and tossed her lightly in the air. The baby laughed and crowed and tried again to grasp hold of the man’s beard.

The three were in the nursery, enjoying a brief and precious time together. Such moments were all too rare for the royal family, and the man who stood in the doorway stopped to watch, a sad and regretful smile on his lips. The moment would end. He, himself, would end it. But he paused to enjoy the extra few seconds of unclouded happiness that he must snatch away. Perhaps Stephen felt the shadow of the cloud pass over him. The visitor had made no sound, but the king was aware of his presence. Trian—king’s magus—and Trian alone had permission to open doors without knocking, without being announced. Stephen looked up, saw the wizard standing in the doorway. The king smiled at the sight and started to make some jest, but the expression on Trian’s face was more frightening than those Stephen had been making to entertain his tiny daughter. The king’s smile faded and grew cold. Anne, who had been fondly watching her husband and child play together, saw his brow darken, glanced over her shoulder in alarm. At the sight of Trian, the queen rose to her feet.

“What is it? What’s wrong?”

Trian cast a swift glance from beneath lowered lashes back into the hallway, made a slight gesture with his hand to indicate that people were in earshot.

“A messenger has arrived from Baron Fitzwarren, Your Majesty,” the magus said loudly. “A minor skirmish with the elves at Kurinandistai, I believe, I am truly sorry to draw Your Majesties away from more pleasant pursuits, but you both know the baron.”

They both did indeed know the baron, having received a report from him only that morning stating that he hadn’t seen an elf for weeks, complaining bitterly about the inaction—which was bad for discipline—and asking for permission to go chasing elven dragonships.

“Fitzwarren is a hothead,” said Stephen, taking his cue. He handed his daughter to the nursemaid, who had entered at a summons from Trian. “One of your cousins, my Queen. A Ulyndian.” This said with a sneer.

“He’s a man who won’t run away from a fight, which is more than I can say for the men of Volkaran,” answered Anne with spirit, though her face was pale. Trian gave the gentle and long-suffering sigh of one who would like to administer a good caning to spoiled children, but who is not permitted to do so. “If Your Majesties would both be so good as to hear the messenger’s report. He is in my study. Fitzwarren has asked for a charm to protect against frostbite. I will prepare it, while Your Majesties interview the messenger. That will save time.”

A meeting in Trian’s study. The king and queen exchanged unhappy glances. Anne pressed her lips together tightly, placed chill fingers in her husband’s hand. Stephen frowned, escorted his wife down the hallway.

Trian’s study was the only room in the castle where the three could meet in private, be certain that their conversation would not be overheard. The castle was a breeding ground for intrigue and gossip. Half the servants were in the pay of one baron or another. The other half passed on their information for free.

Located in a light and airy turret room, the wizard’s study was far removed from the noise and rowdiness of the boisterous castle life. Trian was fond of revels himself. His youthful good looks and charming manner ensured that, though unmarried, he rarely spent a night in bed alone, unless he wanted. No one in the kingdom could dance with such grace, and many a noble would have given untold sums to know the magus’s secret for imbibing large quantities of wine and never showing the slightest ill effect.

But though Trian might revel through the night, he was serious and intent on the business of assisting to run the kingdom during the day. He was completely, totally, devotedly loyal to his king and queen, loved them both as friends, respected them as his rulers. He knew their every secret and could have made his fortune ten times over by selling out one or the other. He would have as soon jumped into the Maelstrom. And though he was twenty years younger than Stephen, Trian was councillor, adviser, minister, and mentor to the older man.

Entering the wizard’s study, king and queen discovered two people waiting for them there. One—a man—they did not know, though he seemed vaguely familiar. The other—a woman—they knew by sight, and, at the sight of her, the cloud that had covered them grew thicker and darker.

The woman rose and made respectful reverence to Their Majesties. Stephen and Anne returned the bow with respect on their side, for though the woman and her followers had acknowledged the two as king and queen, the bond forged was an uneasy one. It is difficult ruling those who are far more powerful than oneself and who could, with a whispered word, bring one’s castle tumbling down about one’s ears.

“You know the Lady Iridal, I believe, Your Majesty,” said Trian unnecessarily, gently endeavoring to set everyone at ease before he let loose the blast that would shatter their lives.

Polite pleasantries were exchanged, everyone mouthing words learned by rote, none of them thinking about what they said. Thus “How nice to see you again” and “It’s been far too long” and “Thank you for the sweet baby gift” died away swiftly. Especially when the baby was mentioned. Anne turned deathly white and sank down in a chair. Iridal clasped her hands together tightly, looked down, unseeing, at her fingers. Stephen coughed, cleared his throat, and frowned at the stranger in the room, trying to recall where he’d seen the man.

“Well, what is it, Trian?” the king demanded. “Why have you summoned us here? I assume it has nothing to do with Fitzwarren,” he added with heavy irony, his gaze shifting to the Lady Iridal, for though she lived near the palace, she rarely ventured to visit, well aware that she brought back unwelcome and painful memories to this couple, as they revived such memories in her.

“Will it please Your Majesty to take a seat?” asked Trian. No one in the room could sit down unless the king sat first.

Stephen frowned, then threw himself into a chair. “Get on with it.”

“Half a moment, if you please, Your Majesty,” said Trian. He raised his hands, fluttered his fingers in the air, and imitated the sound of a piping of birds.

“There. Now we may speak safely.”

Anyone listening outside the door, outside the circle of the spell, would overhear only what sounded like twittering bird calls. Those within the compass of the spell itself could hear and understand each other perfectly. Trian cast a deprecating glance at the Lady Iridal. A mysteriarch, she ranked Seventh House, while Trian could attain no higher than Three. Iridal could have changed them all to singing birds, if she’d desired.

Iridal smiled reassuringly. “Very well done, Magicka,” she said. Trian flushed in pleasure, not immune to praise for his art. He had serious business at hand, though, and moved to it swiftly.

He laid a hand on the arm of the stranger, who had risen when his king entered, then resumed his seat near the wizard’s desk. Stephen had been staring at the stranger as if he knew him, but could not place from where.

“I see Your Majesty recognizes this man. He has changed much in appearance. Slavery does that. He is Peter Hamish of Pitrin’s Exile, once royal footman.”

“By the ancestors! You’re right!” stated Stephen, banging his hand on the arm of the chair. “You went for a squire to my lord Gwenned, didn’t you, Peter?”

“That I did, sire,” said the man, smiling broadly, his face red with pleasure at the king’s remembrance. “I was with him at the Battle of Tom’s Peak. The elves had us surrounded. My lord was struck down, and I was made prisoner. It wasn’t my lord’s fault, sire. The elves come upon us unexpected—”

“Yes, Peter, His Majesty is fully aware of the truth of the matter,” interposed Trian smoothly. “If you could proceed on to the rest of your story. Don’t be nervous. Tell it to Their Majesties and the Lady Iridal as you told it to me.”

Trian saw the man cast a longing glance at the empty glass near his hand. The wizard immediately filled it with wine. Peter made a thankful grab for it, then, realizing he was drinking in the presence of his king, paused with the glass halfway to his mouth.

“Please, go ahead,” said Stephen kindly. “You’ve obviously been through a terrible ordeal.”

“Wine is good for strengthening the blood,” added Anne, outwardly composed, inwardly quaking.

Peter swallowed a grateful gulp, sending the sweet wine to join another glassful, given him by the wizard, already strengthening the blood.

“I was took prisoner, sire. The elves made most of the others oarsmen in those devil dragonships of theirs. But somehow or other they found out I’d once served in the royal household. They hauls me off and asks me all sorts of questions about you, sire. They beat me till the whites of my ribs showed, Your Majesty, but I never told them fiends nothin’.”

“I commend your bravery,” said Stephen gravely, knowing full well that Peter had probably poured out his soul at the first touch of the lash, just as he’d told the elves he was a member of the royal household to save himself from the galleys.

“When it was clear to them fiends that they couldn’t get nothin’ from me, Your Majesty, they set me up in their own royal castle, what they calls the ‘Imp-er-non.’” Peter was obviously proud of his ability to speak elven. “I figured they wanted me to show ’em how things should be done in a royal household, but they only set me to scrubbin’ floors and talkin’ to other prisoners.”

“What other—” Stephen began, but Trian shook his head, and the king fell silent.

“Please tell His Majesty about the latest prisoner you saw in the elven palace.”

“He warn’t no prisoner,” Peter objected, on his fourth glass of wine. “More like an honored guest, he was. The elves are treating him real good, sire. You needn’t be worried.”

“Tell us who it was you saw,” urged Trian gently.

“Your son, sire,” said Peter, growing a bit maudlin. “Prince Bane. I’m happy to bring you news that he is alive. He spoke to me. I woulda brought him along, when me and the others was plannin’ to escape, but he said he was too well guarded. He’d only hinder us. A true little hero, your son, sire.

“He gave that there to me.” The footman pointed to an object lying on Trian’s desk. “Said I was to bring it to his mother. She’d know, then, that it was him as sent it. He made it for her.”

Peter raised the glass in an unsteady hand. Tears came to his eyes. “A toast to His Highness and to Your Majesties.”

Peter’s bleary attention was focused on the wine in his hand, as much as his attention could focus on anything by now. Thus he missed the fact that the joy fill news of Bane’s return caused Stephen to go rigid, as if struck by a poleax. Anne stared at the man in horror, sagged in her chair, her face ashen. Lady Iridal’s eyes flamed with sudden hope.

“Thank you, Peter, that will be all for now,” said Trian. He took hold of Peter’s arm, hoisted the man from his chair, led him—bowing and staggering—past king and queen and mysteriarch.

“I’ll see to it that he has no memory of this, Your Majesty,” Trian promised in a low voice. “Oh, may I suggest that Your Majesties do not drink the wine.” He left the room with Peter, shutting the door behind them.

The wizard was gone a long time. His Majesty’s guards did not accompany the king to the wizard’s study, but took up positions at a discreet distance, about thirty paces away, at the far end of the hall. Trian accompanied Peter down the hall, relinquished the inebriated footman to the guards, with orders that the man be taken somewhere to sleep off his intoxication. Such was the effect of the wizard’s sweet wine mat when the befuddled Peter awoke, he would have no memory of having ever been in the Imp-er-non.

By the time Trian returned to his study, he found that the shock of the news had worn off somewhat, though the alarm was, if anything, more intense.

“Can this be true?” Stephen demanded. The king had risen to his feet and was pacing the study. “How can we trust this great idiot?”

“Simply because he is a great idiot, sire,” said Trian, standing, his hands folded before him, his manner deliberately calm and tranquil. “This is one reason I wanted you to hear his story from the man himself. He is certainly not clever enough to have made up such a tale. I have questioned him most extensively and am satisfied that he is not lying. And then there is this.” Trian lifted the object from his desk, the object mat Peter had brought—a present from Bane to his mother. Trian held it out, not to Anne, but to Iridal.

She stared at it, blood mounting her cheeks, then draining, to leave her more pale than before. The object was a hawk feather, decorated with beads, suspended from a leather thong. Innocent in appearance, the gift was such as a child might make under the instructions of his nursemaid, to please any mother’s fond heart. But this feather necklace had been made by a child of magic, son of mysteriarchs. The feather was an amulet and through it, the child could communicate with the mother. His true mother. Iridal reached out a trembling hand, took the feather, and held it tight.

“It is from my son,” she said, though she spoke without a voice. Trian nodded. “Let me assure you all, Your Majesties, Lady Iridal, that I would not have put you through this ordeal if I weren’t absolutely certain that what Peter says is the truth. The child he saw was Bane.” Stephen flushed at the implied rebuke, muttered something beneath his breath that might have been an apology. With a heavy sigh, he slumped into his seat. The king and queen moved nearer each other, leaving Lady Iridal sitting alone, slightly apart.

Trian came to stand before the three. The wizard stated firmly and calmly what they all knew, but perhaps had not, even now, accepted.

“Bane is alive, and he is in elven hands.”

“How is this possible?” Anne demanded in a choked voice, her hand at her throat, as though she were suffocating. She turned to Lady Iridal. “You said they took him away! To another land! You said Alfred took him away!”

“Not Alfred,” Iridal corrected. The initial shock was receding; the mysteriarch was beginning to realize that her dearest wish was coming true.

“The other man. Haplo.”

“The man you described to me, the one with the blue skin,” said Trian.

“Yes.” Iridal’s eyes shone with the brilliance of her hope. “Yes, he was the one. He took my son away...”

“Then he has apparently brought him back,” said Trian dryly. “For he is also in the elven castle. The footman saw a man with blue skin in company with the prince. It was this detail, perhaps more than any other, that convinced me the man’s story was true. Aside from the Lady Iridal, myself, and Your Majesties, none here knows about the man with blue skin or his connection with Bane. Add to this the fact that Peter not only saw Bane, but spoke to him. Bane recognized the footman and called him by name. No, sire. I repeat. There can be no doubt.”

“So the child is held hostage,” said Stephen grimly. “The elves plan, no doubt, to use this threat to force us to stop our attacks on their shipping, perhaps even try to disrupt the negotiations with Rees’ahn. Well, it won’t work. They can do what they like with him. I wouldn’t trade one drop of water—”

“My dear, please!” said Anne quietly, laying her hand on her husband’s arm. She glanced beneath her eyelids at the Lady Iridal, who was sitting, pale and cold, hands clenched in her lap, staring at nothing, pretending not to hear.

“She is his mother!”

“I am well aware that this lady is the child’s mother. May I remind you, my dear, that Bane had a father—a father whose evil very nearly destroyed us all. Forgive me for speaking plainly, Lady Iridal,” said Stephen, undeterred by his wife’s pleading gaze, “but we must face the truth. You have said yourself that your husband wielded a powerful, dark influence over the child.” A faint flush came to Iridal’s ivory cheeks, a shudder shook her slender frame. She did not reply, however, and Stephen looked over at Trian.

“I wonder, even, how much of this is Bane’s doing,” stated the king. “But, be that as it may, I am adamant. The elves will find they have made a bad bargain—”

Iridal’s faint flush of shame had deepened to anger. She seemed about to speak. Trian raised his hand to forestall her.

“Lady Iridal, if I may,” he said quietly. “Matters are not this simple, sire. The elves are clever. The wretched Peter did not escape. He was permitted to escape, intentionally. The elves knew he would bring you this information, probably subtly encouraged him to do so. The elves made his ‘escape’ look very real and convincing. Just as they did all the others.”

“Others?” Stephen looked up vaguely, frowning.

Trian sighed. He had been putting off bad news. “I am afraid, sire, that Peter was not the only one to return bearing news that His Highness, Prince Bane, is alive. More than twenty other slaves ‘escaped’ that night. All have returned to their various homelands, all carrying the same tale. I’ve erased Peter’s memory, but I might just as well have left him alone. Within a very few cycles, the news mat Bane is alive and in elven hands will be the talk of every tavern from Pitrin’s Exile to Winsher.”

“Blessed ancestors protect us,” murmured Anne.

“I am certain you are aware of the vicious rumors that have been spread concerning Bane’s illegitimacy, sire,” continued Trian gently. “If you cast the boy to the wolves, so to speak, people will believe these rumors to be the truth. They will say that you rid yourself of a bastard. Our queen’s reputation will be irreparably damaged. The barons of Volkaran will demand that you divorce her, marry one of their own. The barons of Ulyndia will take Queen Anne’s part and rise against you. The alliance we’ve worked hard and long to build will crumble into dust. It could lead to civil war.” Stephen huddled in his chair, his face gray and haggard. Ordinarily he did not look his fifty years. His body was firm and muscular. He could hold his own with any of the younger knights in tourney competition, frequently beat the best. Yet now his shoulders sagged, his frame had collapsed. His head bowed, he was suddenly an old man.

“We could tell the people the truth,” said Lady Iridal. Trian turned to her, smiled. “A magnanimous offer, my lady. I know how painful that would be for you. But it would only make matters worse. Your people have wisely kept out of public view, since their return from the High Realms. The mysteriarchs have lived quietly, aiding us in secret. Would you want Sinistrad’s evil designs upon us made known? People would suspect and turn against you all. Who knows what terrible persecution might follow?”

“We are doomed,” said Stephen heavily. “We must give in.”

“No,” responded Iridal, voice and demeanor cool. “There is another alternative. Bane is my responsibility. He is my son. I want him back. I will rescue my child from the elves.”

“Go into the elven kingdom alone and snatch away your son?” Stephen lifted his hand from his brow, looked up at his wizard.

The king needed the mysteriarchs’ powerful magic. No use offending the magus. He made a slight motion with his head, asking Trian to urge Iridal to depart. They had serious business to discuss, alone. “The woman’s gone mad,” he mouthed, though, of course, he did not say this aloud.

Trian shook his own head slightly. “Listen to what she has to offer,” he advised the king silently. Aloud, he said, “Yes, my lady? Please continue.”

“Once I’ve recovered him, I will take my son to the High Realms. Our dwelling is livable, for a short time, at least.[48] Alone with me, without anyone else to influence him, Bane will draw back from the dark path he walks, the path his father taught him to walk.” She turned to Stephen. “You must let me try, Your Majesty. You must!”

“Faith, Lady, you don’t need my sanction,” said Stephen bluntly. “You may fly off the top parapet of this castle, if you’re so minded. What could I do to stop you? But you’re talking about traveling into elven lands, a human woman, alone! Walking into an elven dungeon and back out again. Perhaps you mysteriarchs have discovered some means of turning yourselves invisible—” Both Anne and Trian endeavored to stem the king’s tirade, but it was Iridal who brought Stephen up short.

“You are right, Your Majesty,” she said, with a faint, apologetic smile, “I will go, whether you grant me permission or not. I ask only out of courtesy, for the sake of maintaining good relations between all parties. I am well aware of the danger and the difficulty. I have never been in elven lands. I have no means of journeying there—yet. But I will. I do not intend to go alone, Your Majesty.”

Anne reached out her hand impulsively, took hold of Iridal’s and clasped it fast. “I would go any distance, face any danger to find my child, if she were lost to me! I know how you feel. I understand. But, dear lady, you must listen to reason—”

“Indeed, Lady Iridal,” said Stephen gruffly. “Forgive me if I spoke harshly at first. It is the weight of this burden, bearing down on me—when it seemed that at last all burdens had been lifted from my shoulders—that caused me to lose my temper. You say that you will not go alone.” The king shrugged. “Lady, a legion would not benefit you—”

“I do not want a legion. I want one man, one man who is worth a legion. He is the best. You said so yourself. If I am not mistaken, you scoured the kingdom in search of him. You saved him from the executioner’s block. You know his mettle better than anyone else, for you hired him to do a job dangerous and delicate.”

Stephen was staring at the woman in horror, Trian in troubled perplexity. Anne let loose Iridal’s hand. Stricken with guilt, the queen shrank back in her chair.

Iridal rose to her feet, tall and majestic, proud and imperious.

“You hired this man to kill my son.”

“Gracious ancestors forfend!” cried Stephen hoarsely. “Have you mysteriarchs discovered the power to raise the dead?”

“Not us,” said Iridal softly. “Not us. For which I am grateful. It is a terrible gift.”

For long moments, she was silent, then, sighing, she lifted her head, brisk and business-minded. “Do I have Your Majesty’s permission to try? You have nothing to lose. If I fail, none will be the wiser. I will tell my people I am traveling back to the High Realms. You may tell them that I died there. No blame will come to you. Grant me a fortnight, Your Majesty.” Stephen stood up, clasped his hands behind his back, began to pace the room. He paused, glanced at Trian. “Well, what say you, Magicka? Is there no other way?”

“None that has half the chance of succeeding, slim though this chance might be. The Lady Iridal speaks truly, sire. We have nothing to lose and much to gain. If she is willing to take the risk?...”

“I am, Your Majesty,” said Iridal.

“Then I say, yes, sire,” said Trian.

“My queen?” Stephen looked to his wife. “What do you say?”

“We have no choice,” said Anne, her head bowed. “We have no choice. And after what we did...” She covered her eyes with her hand.

“If you refer to hiring an assassin to kill the boy, we did that because we had no choice,” said Stephen, grim and stern. “Very well, Lady Iridal. I grant you a fortnight. At the end of that time, we meet with Prince Rees’ahn at Seven Fields, there to make final plans for the alliance of our three armies and the eventual overthrow of the Tribus empire. If Bane is still in elven hands by that time...”

He sighed, shook his head.

“Do not worry, Your Majesty!” said Iridal. “I will not fail you. This time, I will not fail my son.” She made a low reverence, to both king and queen.

“I will escort you out, my lady,” offered Trian. “It would be best if you left the way you entered. The fewer who know you were here, the better. If Your Majesties—”

“Yes, yes. Dismissed.” Stephen waved his hand abruptly. He cast a meaningful glance at the magus as Trian left. Trian lowered his eyes, indicating he understood.

Magus and mysteriarch left the room. Stephen sat down to await his wizard’s return.

The Lords of Night spread their cloaks over the sky. The glitter of the Firmament faded. The room in which king and queen waited together, silent and unmoving, grew dark. Neither moved to strike a light. Their dark thoughts were suited to night’s shadows.

A door opened softly—not the door by which the magus and Lady Iridal had left but another door, a secret door, located in the back of the study and concealed by a wall painting. Trian emerged, carrying an iron glowlamp to light his way.

Stephen blinked in the light, lifted his hand to shield his eyes. “Douse that thing,” he ordered.

Trian did as he was told.

“She told us herself Hugh the Hand was dead. She described his death to us.”

“Obviously, she lied, sire. Either that, or she is insane. And I do not believe she is insane. I think rather she foresaw the day when this knowledge would be of use to her.”

Stephen grunted, was silent again. Then he said, slowly, heavily, “You know what must be done. I presume that was why you brought her here.”

“Yes, sire. Although I must confess I had not dreamed she would offer to go fetch the child herself. I had hoped only that she might establish contact with him. This makes matters much simpler, of course.”

Queen Anne rose to her feet. “Is that necessary, Stephen? Couldn’t we let her try?...”

“So long as that boy lives—whether in High Realm, Low Realm, this realm, any realm—he is a danger to us... and to our daughter.”

Anne lowered her head, said nothing more. Stephen looked at Trian, nodded. The magus bowed, glided out of the room, leaving by the secret door. King and queen waited a moment longer in the darkness to compose themselves, to put on the false smiles, to summon carefree laughter, to play at plotting and at intrigue, while, beneath the supper table, where no one could see, their cold hands would join, clasp together tightly.