Sulwyn wasn’t in Seedmarket. Though she didn’t say anything, Meg could see Janat was vexed.
Blodwyn had flown into a rage at the suggestion the band go to that village, and in the end, fled westward alone rather than accompany them.
The village of Seedmarket bore the scars of recent fighting: scorch marks and burnt thatch, broken fences, and trampled fields and gardens. Only a handful of villagers remained, toiling to repair the damage. The town had no food to share, no coin to purchase the refugees’ booty and no pay to hire their labor. Many of their number had left, refugees themselves. Sulwyn might—or might not—have been among them. When the small band stayed the night, the exhausted townspeople didn’t even compel the magiels to camp separately.
In the morning, they pushed their cart down the road to the next town. And the next, and the next.
When they reached Silvermeadow, a remote village untouched by war in what might have been the kingdom of Gramarye, Tonore’s father got work cutting trees. Meg and Janat built a shanty, and helped Sieura Barcley and Gweddien work spells into sachets of feverfew, while Rennika explored the streets, begging.
Cursed cough. The warming days of spring were no time to be shuffling from one room to another in the great hall, wearing a shawl, trying to avoid that daft healer and his potions.
Wenid Col allowed his man to help him into a formal—if plain—surcoat, and give him his cane. Ten days ago, he’d slipped on the marble stairs and twisted his knee. Blasted nuisance.
He approached the king’s chambers and the guard admitted him immediately. Artem had come to Coldridge from the ongoing Orumon campaign for a council with his dukes’ emissaries. Rebels had begun attacking forts and lesser strongholds in a random patchwork campaign, and from Meadowhill to Three Rivers to Seedmarket, partisan attacks had left swathes of the country in chaos. The generals needed their king. He would ride out again within the week, but Wenid would be in no shape to accompany him.
Artem—lean and grizzled and somehow out of place in his fine brocade doublet surrounded by embroidered draperies and richly dyed wool carpets, small touches Wenid had imported to the stark castle—sat on a spindly-legged chair, leaning forward with his elbows on his knees, deep in conversation with a young soldier.
Uther Tangel.
The boy seemed to have filled out in the past year. Well, he was no boy, now. A courier, by his dress.
Wenid hesitated in the doorway. “I apologize, Your Majesty. I was told you wanted to see me?”
Father and son stood.
“I should go,” Uther said. “We returned late last night. I have not yet even seen the barber.” He bowed to both of them and took his leave.
The king sat once more, tea and fruit tarts on a low table before him. He waved at the buffet, and Wenid perused the dainties with disdain.
“I see you’re not getting any healthier.”
“Your point?” Wenid poured himself a cup of herb tea, his hand shaking and spilling half. Where was the maid servant?
“When we spoke at the camp at Archwood, you were to select a magiel woman to mother a child.” Artem leaned back in his chair. “What progress?”
Wenid was not one to sidestep difficult issues, but this one gave him pause. His king—his life’s work, his God—hung by his petition to have magiels hunted. He fumbled for a napkin and mopped up the spilled tea as best he could, spreading the mess. “Several attempts were made,” he said as matter-of-factly as he could, blotting at the stain. His throat was dry, tight. “None...” He groped for words. “None was successful.”
Artem’s lips twisted in a suppressed smile.
“The women were unsuitable.” No. This was what Wenid had told the women. It was not the truth. He put his napkin on the table but could not meet Artem’s gaze. “I...was unsuitable.”
Artem rubbed his thumb along the arm of his chair. He did not speak for a long moment. “Then, we are left with a problem that is unsolved. A serious problem.”
Wenid extended his hand to select a biscuit. It fell back into his lap.
“A male magiel,” the king concluded.
To perform what Wenid Col could not. Obviously. The logical inference.
“Of one of the Great Houses, plainly,” Artem said quietly.
Of course.
As if the Great Houses had not been accounted for. The magiels of the Emerald and the Azurite were women, and neither had sons. The magiel of the Amethyst and his sons had been put to the executioner in Coldridge. The magiel of the Citrine and his family had committed suicide before the fall of Midell. Kraae Elder, Wenid’s predecessor, had been hunted down and killed in a remote valley, and his children belonged to the magiel of the Amber, Talanda Falkyn, who hid in Archwood; they had only daughters. The magiel of the Chrysocolla had died of a curse in prison but his son—a boy, but old enough—had left Holderford in the middle of the night last fall and disappeared into the masses of refugees roaming in displaced bands across the countryside.
“And, there is the issue of compliance,” Artem continued. “With two unwilling participants, getting your successor becomes more and more difficult.”
A male heir to one of the great magiel houses. There was only one.
“You said once you had a spell that could compel any magiel. I suggest you use it.”
Son of the magiel of the Chrysocolla in Gramarye. Still alive? Unless he had met with accident or disease. Somewhere in Shangril. Likely posing as a village magiel or half-born.
“Wenid.”
Wenid reached for a biscuit. The prisoners. One would know him, or would know someone who knew him. What was the boy’s name?
“Wenid.”
Wenid had a weakness for jam. He spread a thick glob on his biscuit, and the name came to him. “Gweddien Barcley.” Wenid’s biscuit paused before reaching his lips. If the boy hadn’t changed it. He bit into his biscuit. It was worth a try.
“Who?”
“Give me four weeks.” Wenid smiled to himself and added honey to his tea. “I may be able to find such a magiel.”
“Gweddien Barcley,” Artem Delarcan mused. “Of the Chrysocolla?”
“The same.” Wenid sipped his tea.
“You know where he is?”
“No. But I think I can find him. I’ll want spies and money for bribes.” His mind worked. How best to winnow out information from unsuspecting dupes. The challenge piqued his interest.
“Very well.” Artem rose. “Keep me informed.”
Wenid rose as well. “One last thing, Sire. I’ve been meaning to bring this up.”
“Yes?”
“With the term, ‘magiel’ out of favor, you might wish to change my title.”
Artem hesitated. “Oh? To what?”
Wenid shrugged. “Chancellor.”
“Ah.” The ghost of a cynical smile touched the king’s lips. “The ascetic exemplar desires something worldly. We shall discuss it. When you present me with your child.”