The Will of the Empress

15

Briar slumped to the base of the wall, taking out two of his knives in case someone arrived who felt he did not belong there. We have a bit of a wait, he told Sandry. He felt their connection shudder, and knew that her fear of the dark was returning. It had always been a marvel to Briar. Sandry was the least fearful girl he knew, and yet the dousing of a lantern could leave her trembling if no other light was available. It was the reason that he, Daja, and Tris had made Sandry’s night-light crystal in the first place.

I never really talked to you about Yanjing, did I? he asked, pretending not to notice her fear. They call it the Empire of Silk for a reason, you know. They have this cloth they call the Rain God’s Veil, just a hair thick, almost. They dye it colors they call by names like Green Tea, Almond Milk, and Lotus Pollen. If you don’t pin it down, it just drifts away, like invisible creatures are carrying it. The imperial concubines wear it for veils, and they all have a little girl servant whose only job is to catch the veils if they slide away.

He could feel Sandry take a deep, shuddering breath and lick her lips. Briar promised himself that Fin would pay for frightening her so badly. He couldn’t have scared her more if he had planned it deliberately. Only terror of the unknown could have made Sandry as strident as she had been when she called for him.

You know that penchi silk you were so curious about? They get it from silk made by worms they find in wild trees, not ones on farms. The country people make it, so its threads aren’t so smooth, but the thing is, they could be. One old thread mage told me her family has made penchi silk for ten generations and could do as fine a thread as the fancy houses. But the little imperfections, the “slubs”, you called them? Every family that does it does them in a pattern. Back home in my notes I copied down some of them for you. She says it’s how they used to send messages under the emperor’s nose, and sometimes they still do.

Sandry’s mind filled with wonder and excitement. Lark and I thought so, but Vetiver told us that was silly, she replied, her mind on silk now and not her captivity. She said who would be desperate enough to send messages in tiny slubs like that!

Well, it’s the slubs and the weave, Briar explained, delighted to have her attention. And they don’t always do it, so it’s not every piece of cloth.

He had exhausted penchi silk and was describing the butter sculptures of Gyongxe when he felt a roiling storm of power approach. He got to his feet. “That would be Tris.”

Down the hall, he heard a door slam. It was indeed Tris who came down the hall. She had put on a gown again, though it was hard to see it under the lightning that crawled over her head and dress. It glittered on the onyx buttons of her shoes and sparked on the rims of her spectacles. Chime stood on her shoulder, one tiny forepaw gripping a braid, lightning sparking from her eyes, claws, and wingtips.

Briar opened the door and bowed. “After you, Viymese,” he said. It’s not that I mind a good fight, he told himself as he followed her down the long, curved stairwell that lay beyond the door. Still, why wear myself out when she can wind things up in a hurry?

A draft blew into his face as he descended. She’s pulling the air up past us, so they may not hear us coming, he realized. You’re wasted, not being a thief, he told her.

So funny, I forgot to laugh. Her retort fizzed in his mind. She was very angry.

He was impressed. Back at Discipline, you got this mad, you’d scorch the top off the thatch, he reminded her. Or at least, you did before me and Rosethorn protected it.

I won’t lose control, if that’s what worries you!

Worry? No, I’m hoping for it, he replied.

The round shoulders ahead of him slumped briefly. I’m not. Her reply was much less crackly. Then it surged again. Though I’ll probably change my mind when I see Fin next!

The stair seemed to descend forever. The walls around them were carved stone, cut from the living rock under the palace. They were also old. The two mages passed through sections that had been braced with heavy wooden beams to keep the passage from collapsing. Fin must have had fun carrying a knocked-out girl down here, Briar told both Sandry and Tris.

Too bad he didn’t fall and break his neck! Sandry retorted.

Well, then he might have also broken yours, Briar pointed out. Excuse me for saying as much, but I wouldn’t dare show my face to your uncle if I’d let that idiot kill you and himself. The only way His Grace wouldn’t keelhaul me is if I could give him Fin.

At last they reached the bottom and a door. Tris listened at the keyhole for a moment, tugged at an unraveling braid she had pulled from its net, and flung a fistful of hard air at the door as she thrust it open. The air exploded into the room, knocking over the table that stood between two men, scattering cards, mugs, their unsheathed swords, and a bottle on the floor.

As Tris and Briar came in, the men jumped to their feet, cursing, and grabbed for their fallen weapons. Tris loosed hair-thin bolts of lightning at the blades, forcing their owners to drop them with a yelp. Briar went over to collect the swords and strip the guards of their daggers and any other weapons. Once he was done, Tris set a ring of lightning around the throats of each guard. They dared not move a hair for fear of touching those fiery collars.

“Please, Viymese, don’t kill us,” babbled one rogue. “He’s our master, we had to obey!”

“Shut up,” Tris ordered softly as her fistful of wind dropped a coil of rope in her outstretched hand. “You annoy me.”

Briar opened the other closed door in the room. The scent of salt and drops of spray struck his face. He looked back at Tris. “It’s a cove tucked under the cliff.”

Tris set about binding one guard’s hands. “So that was the plan? Escape with her by boat?” When he said nothing, she gave the rope a hard yank. “We don’t need both of you,” she pointed out.

Would you really? Sandry asked. She could see all this through her friends’ eyes. Would you really kill one, when it’s Fin who’s to blame?

They don’t know that, snapped Tris. She took away his lightning collar and shoved the man onto a chair. As she tied his legs, Chime flew to his shoulder. To make sure he didn’t kick, the dragon gripped his shirt collar with her hind paws and his nose with her forepaws. She leaned into his face and silently hissed, her curved glass fangs within an inch of his eye.

“Yes—by boat,” said the talkative man. He stood perfectly still, sweat dotting his forehead in large beads. “Up the coast to a place where my lord has a cart and household troops waiting.”

“They’ve got a long wait, then,” Briar said, shutting the door to the cove. “Now, let’s see about this box.” He went over to it, running his hands over the iron straps that held the top in place.

“You can’t open it,” said the talkative guard as Tris tied his arms, then removed the lightning collar. “Bidis Finlach has the key!”

“Locks are for the unimaginative,” said Briar, placing his hands on the wood of the box. “Unless they’re artists, of course. Normally I’m all for art ....” He fed himself into the wooden boards. They were new, as they had to be to take the magic that had been placed inside them, all relatively young and plump boards, not long off the tree. Briar called that green life to him, yanking it from the wood, leaving them dry, wizened, and shrunken. The box fell to pieces. Briar caught the iron straps to keep them from hitting Sandry. Once they were safely put aside, Briar helped her to her feet.

She stood, her eyes watering in the sudden light. Once her vision cleared, she lunged for the open stairway door and nearly toppled. Briar held her as her legs cramped and her wounded feet refused to take her weight. He looked around for more linen to use as bandages. Not finding any, he took off his belt knife and swiftly cut off the surly guard’s coat. Raising his knife, he was about to remove the man’s shirt when it simply dropped off his body in pieces, the seams unraveling in the blink of an eye. Briar looked at Sandry, whose eyes blazed with fury.

“Thanks,” he said casually. He smiled pleasantly at the guard, who was now shirtless in the chilly room. “Hope you don’t catch cold.” He gathered up the pieces of shirt and began to tend to Sandry’s feet.

Tris was calmly undoing two thick braids. “I am not climbing those stairs back up. None of us are.”

Briar looked at her, astounded. “What did you think we’d do, Coppercurls, fly?”

She smiled evilly at him as the sea door blew open. “It’s a trick I learned in Tharios. And it’s much quicker than climbing.”

Sandry hugged herself. She was a tangled, rumpled mess, but now that she was in the light, she was ready to do battle. “What if I don’t want to go back to my room like a good little clehame?” she demanded, her voice shaking with her rage. “What if I would rather talk to my dear cousin Berenene about the behavior of one of her male subjects?”

Tris nodded. “I can take us to the imperial wing easily enough. It’s like standing on a moving platform, the way I shape the winds, only you can’t see the platform.”

“Do it.” Sandry stumbled out through the sea door.

Tris looked at Briar as Chime flew over to her shoulder. “You two have to hold on to me, and promise not to squeak.”

Briar shook his head. “The things I do for my sisters,” he said with a sigh. He waved at the two captives. “We’ll try and remember to send someone for you boys, don’t you worry!”

Berenene looked out at her court, deeply dissatisfied with this night. True, her lumpish cousin from Lairan had been suitably awed by her splendor, and would report to his king that Namorn was, as ever, glorious and overpowering in its generosity. He was disappointed not to meet Clehame Sandrilene fa Toren, but understood that even the best healers in the empire could not erase the damage of a fever in an afternoon. Berenene had assured him that she would invite him to a private dinner: “just our family,” she had told him, “when Clehame Sandry is herself again.” It was beautifully done, with Isha to confirm the lie. No one but Ishabal, Fin, and the servants who had gone to find the girl knew the truth, that she had vanished. Fin had said, with a casualness that made Berenene want to slap his handsome face, that he assumed Sandry had gone to the ball with other friends.

“You are very casual about the fate of a woman who could make you rich and powerful,” she had accused. He had begged her pardon, with such polished innocence that she had half-wondered if he had not arranged to kidnap Sandry tonight. She immediately dismissed the idea. Fin was not fool enough to stage such a thing within the walls of the palace, which was sacrosanct. No one would risk that.

At least Sandry was not with Shan. Berenene had seen to that, and had kept him at her right hand all night. He’s spent too much time out of my view lately, and too much of it has been in Sandry’s company, she told herself now, eying his muscled body sidelong as he watched the dancers. I like a man with spirit, as long as it isn’t too much spirit. Quen never gave me so much trouble when he was my official lover.

She glanced at Quen, who had taken Isha’s place on her right. The older mage had insisted that Sandry would turn up—the ball was large enough that she might be in one of the other rooms, or in the gardens, being romanced. No real inquiry could be made until morning without causing the kind of gossip Her Imperial Majesty wanted to avoid, so Isha was going to bed. Many of the older, more staid courtiers were also making their farewells. The younger members of the court were known to dance until dawn, with the empress joining them.

Sipping a goblet of wine, Berenene inspected the crowd. If Daja knew Sandry was missing, she showed no sign of concern. She and Rizu were surrounded by Rizu’s friends. They made a lively group, and Daja and Rizu practically glowed as they smiled at each other. That worked out quite well, thought Berenene with satisfaction. My Rizu is happier than I have seen her in months, something I had not anticipated. And I shall have a strong smith mage to serve me by the time autumn closes the mountain passes to the south.

The empress looked for Tris, but the redhead was nowhere in view. I hadn’t expected to see her, Berenene reminded herself. I will leave Tris to Ishabal. Oh, my. It looks as if Briar and Caidy have had a tiff. He is nowhere to be seen, and Caidy is flirting with every personable young man at court.

Berenene was about to ask Shan to fetch her a glass of wine when she saw that Ishabal had returned. The mage still wore her ball gown, and she carried a folded document in her hand. What business is so urgent that it could not wait until morning? the empress wondered.

Quen and Shan stepped aside as Ishabal approached the dais. The mage took his spot, offered the document to Berenene and whispered, “They wait in your personal audience chamber.”

Berenene raised an eyebrow and opened the note. It read:

I beg the favor of an immediate audience with Your Imperial Majesty. I have been insulted tonight in the most vile fashion and wish to inform you immediately of what was done to me under your roof.

The signature was that of her missing guest: Sandrilene, Clehame fa Landreg, Saghad fa Toren.

Berenene looked up. Something had gone amiss, it seemed. “Isha, I think I will need both you and Quen. You should be prepared for any ... mishaps. Who is with her?”

“Briar and Tris,” replied Ishabal softly. “Majesty, Sandry looks battered. Her hands and feet are bandaged, her clothing torn. Trisana is throwing off sparks.”

The empress bit her lip. This could be even worse than the note had implied. “Then I suggest you and Quen arm yourselves with defensive magics before we enter that room.” Berenene beckoned to the captain of the guard as Isha whispered to Quen. When her guard approached and knelt beside her chair, she bent down to murmur, “Get one of your mages and a couple of guards to watch over Viymese Kisubo, subtly. Do not let her go anywhere but to her own rooms or to Rizu’s.”

The man nodded. Berenene got to her feet. As the dancers stopped and the conversation came to a halt, she smiled. “Amuse yourselves, friends. Imperial business calls me away, but there is no reason for you to interrupt your evening.” She left by the rear entrance rather than have her departure slowed by farewells. “Did you read this?” she asked Ishabal as she strode along, the older woman at her side and Quen rushing to keep up.

“I would not presume,” Ishabal replied stiffly.

Berenene slowed down and handed over Sandry’s note. Ishabal read it, twice, closed her eyes briefly as if in prayer, then passed it to Quen.

“Who would be fool enough to assault a noblewoman in the imperial palace?” Quen wanted to know. “And how would such an idiot think he could do it and escape?”

“We’ll learn soon enough,” retorted Berenene, stopping to collect herself. “After which I shall decide what to do with that fool, and with anyone idiot enough to assist him. But first, I would like the two of you to be ready. I would hate to learn the hard way that their teachers had overestimated our guests’ control over themselves when they granted them their medallions so young.”

Taking a breath, Berenene smoothed her gold skirts. Then, as leisurely as if she walked in her gardens, she led her mages to her private audience chamber.

A guardsman stood outside. Years of service kept his face blank, though confusion showed in his eyes: Most visitors to the private audience chamber arrived during the day. When the empress stopped in front of him, he bowed and held the door open for her and her companions.

The three young mages seated there got to their feet as Berenene came in. All three, including Sandry, wore their medallions outside their clothes. Tris looked disheveled, two fat, kinked hanks of hair hanging loose from her usual netted bundle. Her face was pale and glistening with sweat, but her gray eyes were ice cold. The glass dragon sat on her shoulder with one paw in her hair, like a guardian statue.

Briar, too, was sweating. His face was unreadable as he looked at the empress.

Ishabal’s description of Sandrilene’s looks was about right. Sandry’s hair was a tumbled mess, tangled and knotted. Her clothes at least were unrumpled, a testament to her power over thread, but her hands and feet were masses of rag bandages. Her face was dust-streaked and bruised. The look in her cornflower blue eyes was pure steel.

“My dearest Sandrilene,” the empress said, striding toward her with her hands out. “Whatever happened to you?”

Sandry’s eyes caught and held hers. “Finlach fer Hurich happened to me,” she said, her voice an alien croak. “Fin, and that disgusting kidnap custom you let thrive in this country.” She began to cough, wincing as she did. Tears of pain streamed down her face. She dashed them away angrily.

Berenene halted and blinked at the girl. “What?” she asked, baffled. “Fin—Finlach—is in the ballroom at this moment.” Her brain worked swiftly, as it always did in a crisis. As she had trained it to. “What happened to your voice?”

“Screaming does that to a person,” Briar said coldly. “May I go to my quarters to get something for her throat?”

“Quen, see to it, please,” Berenene ordered.

As Quenaill walked over to Sandry, the girl backed away. Briar went to stand next to him. “Be very careful with what you do,” Briar said quietly. “Our patience is just about gone.”

“Understood,” Quen replied. “It’s just a mild healing spell, Clehame.” He leaned forward to place one broad palm on Sandry’s grimy throat. She flinched, then closed her eyes. After a moment, Quen drew away from her.

Am I to understand Finlach did this in my own palace? Berenene wondered, ice closing around her heart. How? Not alone, surely. And how did he think he might escape?

She selected a chair, rather than the throne, and settled onto it. “I think I will understand your meaning so much better if you explain, Sandrilene,” she said coolly. “Sit, everyone, please. If you have a grievance, I am certain it can be resolved.”

“As I am certain,” repeated Sandry, taking a chair. Her voice was rough, but understandable. “Tris, please, sit before you fall down.”

“I’m not some dainty flower, worn out by my own magic,” retorted Tris. “I could lower us to the foot of the cliffs again right now, if you like. Though speaking of the cliffs ...” She took a chair and drew a long braid from its place in the coil.

Berenene saw that Ishabal’s attention was locked on the redhead. From a belt pouch the older woman drew a rope of silk twined with an assortment of powerful charms, each keyed to different protective spells. Her fingers were twined around one charm that the empress knew would throw a magical prison around Tris.

That’s good, Berenene thought. Someone needs to watch Viymese Chandler. “Won’t you sit, Viynain Moss?” Berenene asked with a smile.

His expression didn’t change. “I’ll stand, thank you, Your Imperial Majesty,” he replied politely. He stayed where he was, legs planted, hands clasped before him, his eyes somber. For a moment Berenene feared that she had lost this young man’s regard, or even worse, his friendship. She brushed the idea aside. Of far more importance was learning who had possessed the effrontery to attempt to kidnap her kinswoman in her palace.

“Finlach fer Hurich came to escort me to the ball,” Sandry told the three Namornese, her voice cold and steady. “Instead, he led me down a back passage, claiming I was to stand beside Your Imperial Majesty as you entered the room from the rear.”

“Did anyone see you with Fin?” asked Quenaill.

Berenene shot him a glare for interrupting, but Sandry was shaking her head. “Not after we turned away from the main corridors. I didn’t see anyone else. When we turned a corner back there, someone placed a cloth over my face. It was soaked in a potion that made me unconscious. I woke up in a box.” Her voice trembled slightly. She got it under control. “The inside was filled with spells to cripple a thread mage. Fin was outside. He said his uncle had helped him. He said he was taking me out to a house with the same spells on it. And he said I would leave only when I signed the marriage contract and put my lip print on it in blood, so a mage could use it against me if I tried to break it. He seemed to think you would let him get away with it, Cousin, since you admire bold young men so. Everyone knows you want me to stay in Namorn. And you expect women to escape like you did. Of course, I doubt that you were put in a box.” The huskiness in her voice thickened. “I doubt that the head of the Namornese Mages’ Society put spells on you and guaranteed to keep them there until you signed the contract. It would have been harder to escape under those circumstances, don’t you think?”

“Then how did you escape?” Berenene asked coolly. The beginnings of a headache pounded in her temples.

“I found her,” Briar said flatly.

“But how?” insisted Berenene. What she really wanted to know was, Did you use that magical connection my spies told me was closed? She could not ask that, of course. They trusted her little as it was. Adults understood that people spied on one another, but these young people were idealists, not realists. She doubted that they would understand that everyone spied on everyone who might be important.

“I ... forget,” Briar said coldly. “I have a terrible memory when it comes to secrets I don’t wish to tell.”

Berenene glanced at Tris. The redhead had undone a third of the braid she had pulled from her hairstyle. Now Tris ran her fingers through the loose hairs over and over, her attention locked on them.

“She’s working magic,” Ishabal said. “I cannot tell what kind, but she is cloaked in power.”

“Then stop her,” ordered Berenene.

Tris looked up, gray eyes glinting through her loose tresses. “I wouldn’t do that.”

“Tris, you’ll never be a success as a diplomat,” announced Briar. “You may as well put that right out of your mind.” He turned his own bright green eyes on Ishabal and Berenene. “We all swear on our medallions, this isn’t something that would affect Your Imperial Majesty in any way,” he said, his voice as bland as cream. “In fact, Tris here is actually doing you and your devoted servants a favor.”

“And if they stop me now, I can’t promise the cliff under the palace wall won’t drop into the Syth,” muttered Tris.

“Pay her no mind,” Briar continued as Sandry glared at Tris. “It’s not a threat she’s making, just a warning. You know how it is with mages and interruptions. Anyway, I suppose you didn’t know it, or you’d have seen for yourself, but your palace has rats. Big ones. Doesn’t it, Clehame fa Landreg?”

“Big ones,” Sandry replied. “I don’t know how she missed them, but anything is possible.”

“She’s an empress,” Briar told her, his tone pure conciliation. “You can’t expect her to know every rathole that opens up.” To the empress and her mages, he explained: “This one is a real beauty. It opens in a northeast wing of the palace—I don’t think anyone’s dusted in there in months. And it tunnels all the way down through the cliff. Through solid stone, even under the curtain wall, can you believe it? Down at the bottom, it opens onto a cove of the Syth.”

Berenene’s veins filled with ice. The Julih Tunnel, she realized, horrified. How in Vrohain’s name did Fin—his uncle. Notalos dung-grubbing fer Hurich. The Mages’ Society is said to have the plans of the palace from its first construction—and I shall have his skin.

Briar continued, “Energetic little nalizes, rats, aren’t they? To dig all that way. We stumbled on their hole purely by chance. Well, Sandry didn’t stumble entirely by chance. So Tris here got all alarmed, because she hates rats, so she’s stopping up that hole at the foot of the cliff. She’s getting the lake to help. Some of the stones she’s using are pretty big.”

Tris looked up, her face relaxed and at ease. “It really is in your interest, Your Imperial Majesty. Who could sleep, knowing rats could get in at will? With that rathole closed, Your Imperial Majesty may sleep easily.”

Berenene clenched her hands against her skirts. If the wench is doing what she claimed to do, she is trying to close the secret exit that saved my life in that assassination attempt years ago. Of course, it’s no good to me now if Viynain fer Hurich has decided he need not obey his vow to keep those plans secret. “Can she do it?” she asked Ishabal. There were magical wards on the tunnel.

Ishabal watched Tris for a long moment. Finally, she nodded. “She is doing it.” She asked Tris, “What if anyone is in the chamber at the base of the cliff?”

“I won’t weep a tear if they drown,” Sandry snapped, her voice rough. “But they could always climb. Tris is just stopping up the exit. You ought to put maids with brooms at the other end of the hole, to beat the rats when they come out.”

The skin at the back of Berenene’s neck crawled. She sighed lightly, as if she’d asked for a glass of wine only to be told there was no more. One of the hardest parts of being imperial was learning when to back off from a fight. “Quen, be a dear and send a message to the captain of my guard. Harm no one who comes out, please. I wish to have anyone who appears questioned.” Quen bowed and went to give the message to the guard at the door. As he did so, the empress said, “Please continue, Trisana. Ishabal will watch all that you do.” Berenene looked at Sandry once more. “So, Briar found you in a way he does not remember.”

“Tris joined us,” said Briar, his eyes cold. “We got Sandry out of the crate.”

Berenene shook her head as Quen returned to them. “Cousin, what can I say?” she asked helplessly. “Finlach has committed a serious offense against you, without my knowledge or approval.” Her voice hardened despite her struggle for an appearance of calm. “He forgot his duty to me. I assure you, he will be arrested and punished. You will see how quickly justice is done here.”

“Cousin, justice should be done very quickly,” Sandry replied, her face hard. “We are returning to Emelan as soon as we can pack.”

Isha flinched despite her years at court. Quen halted rather than come closer. Slowly, Berenene replied, trying to think, “But the summer is only half done.”

“I don’t want to see how I will feel after an entire summer,” Sandry retorted. “That a custom that permits such things against the women in this realm continues under a monarch who is female herself—”

“I am not the empress of weaklings,” said Berenene. “A strong woman would find a way to escape, as I did. As you have. They have families to help them, if their families are strong.”

Sandry shook her head. Her hands trembled as they lay folded in her lap. “Not all women or families are strong in the same way. They are entitled to your protection. I will not remain in a country that withholds that protection. And it’s been made clear to me that I cannot even count myself safe in your own palace, Cousin.”

Berenene felt as if the chit had slapped her. “You dare ...,” she began to say, furious, then met Sandry’s eyes. Of course she dares, thought Berenene. And she is right. I was so secure in my power that I did not realize spirited young animals, like my courtiers, are forever testing the leash and the rein. I relaxed my vigilance and she was offered an intolerable insult. The custom is supposed to apply only to women taken in the open, not when they are under the protection of their liege lords. In shattering my protection, Fin destroyed my credit with every parent who entrusts an unmarried daughter to my care.

She smoothed her skirts. “You are hurt and recovering from a bad fright,” she said in her most soothing voice. “In the morning, you will feel differently. Would you really turn your back on all Namorn has to offer?” She met Briar’s eyes when she said this.

It was Briar who answered. “If this is what Namorn offers, yes. It is only as a courtesy to you that I don’t address Fin myself. It’s my sister he tried to kidnap, and our magic is plenty thicker than blood. Or maybe I should just give him to Sandry when he doesn’t have drugs and spells to make him the big man.” His voice was heavy with contempt. “You think a strong woman can always beat this? I call it rape, in any country.”

Berenene did not want to meet his eyes any longer. Something in them made her feel an emotion she had not faced in years: guilt. She didn’t like it. Instead, she turned her gaze to Sandry. “And so like your mother, you abandon your lands and your duty to your people.”

Sandry’s chin thrust forward like a mule’s. “My people are very well cared for by someone who knows them,” she snapped. “How dare you speak to me that way, as if I’d gone roistering and left my tenants to beg? Instead, I am to remain here, where I am nothing more than money bags and acreage? Where I am a thing, to occupy a niche in some household shrine, except when my lord husband wants to polish me up a little?”

She doesn’t even realize she’s crying, the empress thought, feeling a quiver of pity which she dismissed right away. I managed well enough, she thought irritably, escaping two oafs who thought they had the better of me. Namorn is a hard country. It requires strong women, strong men, and strong children to survive and make it prosper. I learned that from my father, even as he signed my second kidnapper’s execution papers.

Sandry shook her head and dashed her tears away. “I’m going home. I’ve made arrangements so Cousin Ambros will never be strapped for money again. My friends may stay or go as they will, but I’m going back to Emelan, where I am a person, not an heiress.” She spat the world as if it were a curse, stood, curtsied briefly, and limped from the chamber. When Quen raised a hand to stop her with one spell or another, Berenene shook her head. There are other ways to bring a haughty young clehame to see things reasonably, she told herself.

She looked at the other two and realized they watched her, eyes intent.

What would they have done if I hadn’t stopped Quen? Berenene wondered. For a moment, she was almost afraid. Those bright pairs of eyes, one gray-green, one gray, were fixed on her with the same unblinking attention with which her falcons watched prey.

You may have power, she silently told them, but I am older and far more experienced. I have true great mages at my side, not accomplished children. She held their eyes for a moment, before she looked at Briar alone. “You may stay,” she told him, thickening the honey in her voice. “I still offer you the empire for your garden. Imagine it, Briar, spice trees from Qidlao and Aliput, medicine ferns from Mbau, incense bushes from Gyonxe ...”

His head snapped back as if she had slapped him. “And turn a blind eye to this? Wonder what woman scuttling by is with her husband of her free will? Here I was thinking only street rats got treated like roach dung. I’m honored you think so well of me, Imperial Majesty, but I’m leaving with Sandry.” He bowed to the empress briefly and looked at Tris.

“Coming,” she said, getting to her feet. “The rat hole’s plugged,” she informed Berenene. She fought a yawn. When it passed, she added, “Thank you for the offer of a position, but I’m with Briar and Sandry.” She bobbed a curtsy, took the arm Briar offered, and walked out with him.

The door closed silently.

Berenene sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She could feel her two great mages waiting for her to speak. In my own palace, she thought, furious. My own palace! When dozens of nobles trust their daughters to me, to serve as ornaments to my household!

“Quen,” she said, forcing her voice to be calm. “Send orders down. I want Finlach fer Hurich arrested immediately. Put him in the dampest pit we have. In chains. Throw his servants in with him, also in chains. Check the end of the tunnel Tris blocked, in case any of them are hiding there. I will deal with them tomorrow. Then take a contingent of mages as well as a company of guards and arrest Viynain Notalos fer Hurich on the charge of high treason.”

“The head of the Mages’ Society?” murmured Quen nervously.

Berenene opened her eyes to glare at him. “Do you mean to tell me you can’t take a sniveling political games-player like Notalos?” she snapped. “Have you let your skills and those of your people go slack?”

“He means no such thing, Imperial Majesty,” Isha announced smoothly. “It is easily done, my boy. And he has betrayed a trust. Use the jar of ghosts spell.” Isha rested a hand on Berenene’s shoulder. “It will be done as you require.”

The empress closed her eyes. “Then go do it, Quen. I want him in the mage’s cells here by sunset. If the Society whines, send them to Isha.” She listened as Quen’s footsteps receded, and waited for the sound of the door as it opened and shut behind him. Only when he was gone did she say, “Do something about Trisana Chandler, Isha. They will be so much less cocky—Sandrilene will be far less cocky—without their little weather mage to safeguard them.”

Ishabal nodded. “I will see to it,” she replied softly. “It is easy enough.”

“Subtly.” Berenene knew it was insulting to imply that Isha did not know how to wield a proper curse, but she no longer cared. “I want her for our service even more now. When she swears to us, you will bind her so she knows who is her mistress, Isha.”

It took a while to treat Sandry’s hands and feet—she was in such a fury that it was hard to make her sit quietly. Briar had sent Gudruny for mint tea to calm Sandry down, but Sandry threw the cup into the hearth.

Gudruny looked at the mess, her mouth twisted to one side. “You don’t need me if you mean to have a child’s tantrum, my lady,” she said, sounding like the experienced mother that she was. “Wake me when you come to bed and I’ll help you with your nightgown. I’ll clean up whatever else you throw in the morning.”

Briar hid a smile and went back to wrapping clean linen around one of Sandry’s feet.

“I am not a child,” Sandry muttered.

From long experience with his sisters, Rosethorn, and Evvy, Briar knew when to keep silent. Instead, he tried to remember if he had ever known Sandry to be in such a towering rage. Even her anger when pirates had attacked Winding Circle was not the same as this. A lot of it’s fear, he thought, drinking the other cup of tea that Gudruny had poured for him. But she’s just not used to being treated like she’s of no account. I only wish she could see that she’s treating her Landreg people the same way, but I can tell it’s not worth talking to her about it right now.

Tris had left when Gudruny fixed the tea, but Chime stayed behind, chinking at Sandry with worry. It was Chime who finally calmed Sandry down. The dragon simply curled up in Sandry’s lap, chiming in a low, clear tone that penetrated the young noble’s rage. The more Chime sang, the slower Sandry’s hands petted the dragon, until Sandry finally smiled ruefully.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured Chime. “Truly.” Sandry looked up at Briar. “I don’t need nursemaids.”

“Then it’s me for bed,” said Briar with a shrug. “You know Her Imperial Majesty will put obstacles in the way, right? Neither you nor she knows how to leave well enough alone.”

Sandry blew out a windy sigh. “Did I ask you?”

Briar propped a fist on one hip. “Since when do I ever need you or anybody to ask?”

That actually got a thin smile from her. “You’re Rosethorn’s boy, all right. You sound just like her.” She kissed the top of Chime’s head. “I really will be fine,” she whispered.

Chime voiced one last sweet note, then took flight, shooting through an open window. They didn’t have to worry about where she would go: Tris had developed a disconcerting habit of sleeping with all of her windows open.

“Then I’m off, too,” Briar told Sandry. “I hope you know what you’re doing.”

Sandry’s voice stopped him with his hand on the latch. “You don’t have to come. I can’t offer you an empire to garden. And you’re still my brother, even if you choose to stay here.”

“For your information, Countess,” he retorted without turning around, “I ain’t going ’cause of you.” As always when he was truly angry, Briar lapsed into the thieves’ cant that was his original language. “I’ve a mind of my own and I can make it up without you sticking your neb in. In case you didn’t notice, if someone of rank like you don’t have safety here, nobody does. Nobody, from the biggest noble to the smallest street rat. If you ain’t safe, where does that leave folk like Gudruny, and Zhegorz? I’ll tell you where—crated up in a secret chamber somewhere. Or just dumped off a cliff.” He slammed the door behind him when he left.

He used the familiar routine of meditation to calm down after he had brushed the dust and dirt from his magic-woven party clothes. Finally he clambered into bed and blew out his candle. Beds on the road won’t be so soft as this, but they’ll be an ocean’s worth of safer, he thought. The night’s weariness swamped him, and he slid into sleep.

Armies moved in his dark dreams, killing and burning. The flames of the towns they had set alight formed bright spots on the mountain horizon. This was the rocky hidden road into the heart of Gyongxe. The villages that burned were as much Yanjingyi as Gyongxian.

They’re burning out their own people! the dreaming Briar thought in panic. He was small and rabbit-like, fleeing the army as if it were a pack of wild dogs, growling and snapping at his heels. With him stumbled Rosethorn and Evvy and Evvy’s friend Luvo, snug in Evvy’s arms.

Trumpets blared. In his dreams the armies were always right over the next ridge, moving rapidly. Briar and his companions always seemed to crawl along the ground. Awake he knew they had made better time, but in sleep they were on the army’s heels, doomed to warn the inland temples too late. The trumpets blared, the hunter dogs of the armies howled, and Briar tried to run.

He stumbled on the bottom of a heap. One hand pressed against a face, another against a naked leg. Now there was light enough to see what he had found: people, grandparents to babies, all stripped naked, all flung together like discarded dolls. There was blood on his hands.

He screamed and woke at the same time, gasping for breath. As always, he had sweated through his sheets. Sweat stung in his eyes. He got up and wiped away the worst of it with a water-soaked sponge, then changed to casual clothes.

No point in going back to sleep, not when I’ll just dream again, he thought as he fumbled with his shirt buttons. Guess I’ll gather up all the stuff and the shakkans I took from her imperial majesty’s greenhouse and carry them back. I don’t want her thinking I’d take so much as a pair of shears.

It was hard to open the imperial greenhouse with a miniature willow in one hand and a basket full of tools and seedlings in the other, but Briar managed it. Once inside, he pocketed the paper that acted as a magical key and returned each item to its proper location. On each of the seedlings he set a good word for growth and immunity to plant problems. He also left the copper wire wrapped around the willow’s new shape.

I don’t have to punish the plants because my mate’s cross with her cousin, he told the willow, which he had spelled for health and proper growth when he’d first taken it into his care. Even if I feel curst irritable with the empress myself, I won’t let you return to the world without all the protection I can give you.

The willow clung until he coaxed it to release him. You’ve all kinds of mates here, he scolded gently. You don’t need one human who’s just going to vanish, anyway. Aren’t I right? he asked the others, the pines and the maples, the fruit trees and the flowering ones. The greenhouse sounded as if a breeze had blown through as they shook their branches in reply.

His good-byes said, Briar took the paper key from his pocket and crossed into the orchid half of the greenhouse. He meant to place his key by that door to the outside, so Berenene would see it. Instead, he found the empress herself, wearing a simple, loose brown linen gown over her blouse, slumbering with her head pillowed on her arms as she sat at an orchid table. She blinked and stirred as Briar came in. His heart twisted in his chest. She was beautiful even with her unveiled coppery hair falling from its pins and a sleeve wrinkle pressed into her cheek. She smiled at him.

It’s like being smiled at by the sun, Briar thought. Being warmed and a little burned at the same time. No. No, she’s Namorn itself, the land folk inhabit. She values the rest of us because we’ll water her, plow and plant her, keep the bugs and the funguses off her, harvest ... but in the end we are as important to her as ants.

She stretched out a hand. “I cannot persuade you?” she asked, her voice husky with sleep. “You know that you would be happy in my service, Briar.”

Briar sighed and rubbed his head. Sandry would argue, trying to convince her to change the way she did things. Daja would put on her Trader face, say polite nothings, and mention schedules where she’s needed someplace else. Tris would refuse in some tactless way and apologize without pretending she meant it. And me? he asked himself. What can I say? I escaped one emperor that wanted to put me in an iron cage, and from where I sit, her gold one looks no better?

He stepped forward and placed the paper key in her beckoning hand, bowed, and walked away.