The guests had long since retired to their rooms in the castle or had drunk themselves senseless. Sounds of snoring ruffled the silence in the great hall below the queen’s apartments. In the pale light of a guttering candle, Lysienthe paced before her canopied bed, hands clasped under her chin, her thoughts boiling.
Inid, her longtime attendant, watched with growing agitation from the window seat in the long shadows cast over the small chamber by a waning moon.
“I must….” The queen whispered as though to herself and paused, casting a lingering gaze on the leather covered chest at the foot of her bed.
Inid cringed. “But you swore an oath.”
Lysienthe shook her head once. “That no longer matters.” Her gold-flecked eyes fixed on the chest the queen knelt before the ornately carved box and skimmed her trembling fingertips over its lid. She considered the latch—shining brass on the front of the cover—which seemed to attract her finger. She snapped it open. “My father has awakened his corrath…after all these years.” She paused before creaking the box open, releasing the scent of lavender and ellathanea. “I commanded him to do it. I commanded him. Not as his daughter or as his queen…but as a ghalthwen. There was no way he could refuse.” She shuddered. “Nirmanath alone knows if I can still claim that right…or if my gifts remain strong enough to….”
In ancient times, such a directive was unheard of, blasphemous, even when decreed by the highest ruler in the land. It was for the ghalthwena to issue commands regarding the use of denanth, to appoint kings and clan chieftains, which even the most hardened war lord was bound by oath and honor to obey.
She had relinquished that right when she left Morolath to marry. But in the intervening years so much had changed. Too much in the twenty years since she took her place as Wolthar’s queen. After he assumed his father’s throne, the world of her people had been dying, repressed under the iron fist of hundreds years of Nortlunde domination. Wolthar, in attempting to reverse these strictures, had implemented laws and edicts, little by little returning to the Lothrian people a semblance of the old ways. Yet, even her husband had drawn a line when he forbade the use of old magic. She had yielded to his authority, and for twenty years had kept her promise.
“Now it is my time…before all is lost.”
“What of your husband…? The king has forbidden—”
“It is for his sake I will take the risk.” Lysienthe trembled from a cold foreboding deep inside her. “For our children. And for the land and our people. We were prepared for this, Inid…you and I…since we were little girls.”
“You mustn’t take this burden on yourself, my lady. Nothing can stop what has been set in motion. Not even you.”
“I must know… even though I can’t stop it.” Tears gathered in Lysienthe’s eyes, her mind running with the memory of her promise to Wolthar to renounce her denanth, her gifts. If her husband yet lived, she reasoned, he would find it in his heart to forgive her. Fighting back her tears, she rose to her knees and plunged her hands though the linen shifts and silk gowns, through the neatly folded soft woolen kirtles, cloaks and fine knit stockings…straight to the bottom, where her hands hit upon another box in the left-hand corner, small and cool to the touch.
“You will assist me. Perhaps we can find a way to…” She wouldn’t allow herself to finish the thought. What was done could not be over-turned. Yet she could not abandon the hope that perhaps she might prevent those behind the events from achieving their end. She would find a way to issue a warning, to explain to someone—anyone who would listen—of the deeds that had been done and the terrors that would follow. For if the Imperon were to succeed, he would further subjugate her people, and all would suffer.
Lysienthe settled back on her heels and set the plain copper box in her lap. After a moment’s hesitation, she pried open its lid. She closed her eyes and grazed her fingertips over the odorless wax cylinders contained within. She took one in her hands and gazed upon it through half open eyes. “There are only five of them. All of them sixes.” Without looking, she slid a finger down its length, noting the grooves encircling the candle and the distance between each groove. “Each will burn for six hours. I must make good use of them.”
“But the danger, my queen.” Inid rose from the window seat, her hands working at her skirt of her kirtle. “Besides, it’s been—”
“Nearly too long to remember.” Lysienthe flashed a flickering smile at her servant, then sighed, clutching the waxen shape to her breast. “I expect I’ve forgotten much, and yet there is so little time.”
Her attendant squatted beside her, eyes settling on the stumpy green candle in Lysienthe’s hands. She laid a comforting hand over the queen’s. “Has it been so long?”
“It’s been even longer since….” Lysienthe’s uneasy smile blossomed fully, and she let out a short little laugh. “How young we were!”
Inid’s eyes sparkled as she chuckled to herself. “And foolish!”
“Beyond foolish.” She shook her head at the recollection. “How many sixes did we squander? Do you remember? That night of the Summer Radiance in the Virneryth…so long ago. We’d celebrated our coming of age that spring and were entered in the lottery for the first time, and you—”
Inid closed her eyes in dreamy remembrance. “I thought Rolward Rhanthir so handsome, and he’d been overly kind to me that day. I prayed to Nirmanath and—”
“You begged me—”
“I asked if you would use one of your sixes to—”
“You asked me to spy for you.” In spite of her preoccupation, Lysienthe let forth a hearty burst of laughter.
“Not spy!” Inid’s pale face flushed red.
“You asked me to find out who had been chosen—”
“—and who would be his that night.” Inid’s eyes sparkled with the memory then her expression dropped. “Rienna, of all people.”
Lysienthe quickly controlled her merriment and turned a loving look on her maid. “How you wept. I felt your sadness.”
An impish smile crept over Inid’s eyes, as she swiped away her years. She shifted her position closer to the queen. “The things you saw….”
Lysienthe’s cheeks burned, even now, at the memory. “No one ever told me what goes on between a man and a woman.”
“You watched them!”
“How clumsy they were, groping in their nakedness, giggling like children.”
“Nothing came of their joining.” Inid hung her head. “And poor Rolward…dead before the first autumn moon.”
They both lapsed into silence as the last of the moonlight gave way to the light of the sputtering candle and the red glow of the braziers.
Lysienthe patted Inid’s hand and pushed herself to her feet with an effort. “They were the last hope.”
“No, my lady, they were not. You have two fine children.”
A pang shot through her heart.
Earlier that day, three of Loknar’s men returned to Ishlonna leading two horses with the bloody corpses of their dead masters slung over their backs. From the parapet encircling her tower, eyes strained, pulses thrumming with apprehension, she watched them draw nigh on the highway from the west a few moments before the guard at the gate announced their approach. Relief poured through her, buckling her knees, when she determined that her son’s horse was not among them. She retreated into her solar, tears flooding her eyes.
Despite a sunny morning, the fickle spring air bore a winter chill. Four women sat sewing, huddled around the braziers. It was as if she had disturbed a private conversation. Their murmured chatter fading into silence, the women, overly tense, pretended engrossment in their work.
Why would they not be anxious? Only yesterday she had had six attendants, and the captain of her Queen’s Guard failed to report for the first time in the eight years since he’d been elevated to that position. She later heard that Bonaden, a loyal servant and loving father of four young children, had been accused of treason and arrested. The rest of her guard had since been replaced by Nortlunders, two of whom at four hour intervals stood like statues at the door to her apartments, preventing any and all from coming or going.
Each night the queen had been requested to show herself in her husband’s hall, where she suffered the indignation of endless slights and contemptuous glances. Sitting in her accustomed place beside her husband’s empty chair, she observed with a quiver of dread how nightly the faces grew stranger, with benches formerly occupied by officers of the garrison, well-born guests, wealthy merchants from town, local chieftains and lords, now taken up by their bearded Nortlunde counterparts, their round, red-cheeked women at their sides.
At least they had the propriety not to install Othred in the king’s place at the table. At least not yet.
Nightly, amid feasting and music, there were speeches attesting to the greatness of the Imperon, and of Wolthar’s mission and what its success would mean to the great ruler. She cringed at the insincerity in the speakers’ voices and the hollow sound of polite applause. Success meant only one thing to them: the Imperon would have rid himself of Wolthar and his reforms; he would no longer lose sleep over a descendent of Nortlunde who had embraced his Lothrian subjects…and had been accepted as their king in return. The Imperon and his minions simply bided their time. Sooner, rather than later, Othreld or some other boot-licking countryman would sit in the king’s chair in Wolthar’s great hall. Not long after that he’d be given her husband’s crown. How tidily they had wrapped up their scheme.
Still, no word had come of Wolthar’s fate. The arrival that morning of Loknar’s henchmen sustained what little hope remained that her husband and son remained in the land of living.
Now, as Lysienthe focused on the squat little green candle in her hands, the darkness in her thoughts gave way to light.
She turned to Inid and, squaring her shoulders, set her jaw. “Fetch a taper. We will do it now.”
* * *
Only once in twenty years did she disobey his command to abstain from drawing on the power her denanth. Early in the first year of her marriage to Wolthar, misgivings about him and his plans for a united Lothria plagued her. Kind and well-intentioned as he seemed, she could not find it in her heart trust him. Even though he’d been born and raised in Lothria, he was of Nortlunde descent. Her people had suffered greatly under a succession of repressive rulers, descendants of their conquerors. Equally, suspicions about his professed feelings of love for her affected her in all ways and places, including their marriage bed. Torn between duty to her people and her own peace of mind, she resolved to probe his heart and his thoughts in search of the truth. But only that once, when the confidence in her gift was still strong.
Later she chastised herself for having so little faith in her good husband.
A ripple of fear seized her as she stretched out supine on her bed while Inid prepared the candle, setting it on the silver disk from the box, and placing it on her lady’s breast. Lysienthe’s hands trembled as she wrapped them around the cylinder.
“Do you remember the charm?” Lysienthe closed her eyes and delved deep into her memory for the words that proved evasive.
“Aye.” Inid’s voice wavered.
“That’s good.” Lysienthe shivered, then banished the queasy clenching in her stomach with a soft chuckle. “Because I’m not at all certain.”
“Perhaps this is not a good idea, my lady.” Inid made a move to reach for the sixes but Lysienthe clenched it tighter.
“Light your taper.”
Hands shaking, Inid lit the narrow candle from the flaring coals of the brazier. “But what if you don’t—”
“I have the deepest confidence in you. You will bring me back.” She sucked in a breath. When Inid hesitated, Lysienthe opened her eyes and shot Inid a reassuring smile. “Say it with me. It will help us both.”
The women exchanged uneasy glances, then Inid knelt at her lady’s bedside and lit the wick of the sixes.
Together they recited the charm, slowly, tentatively at first, their voices mingling, gaining in conviction. Then the flame of the sixes flared brightly over the room with a greenish cast, throwing elongated shadows trembling up the whitewashed walls, before settling into a warm glow.
Release came on a sudden burst of wind that lifted Inid’s hair and fluttered her clothes. It rustled hers as well, but she felt nothing, as all physical feeling was swept away, and she hovered formless, insensate over her reclining body, the candle flickering in her lifeless hands, its flame bending on the surge.
It all came back to her on a rush of sensation that transcended feeling. For years she’d been schooled in its powers, warned of its dangers, and taught to control its force. Just as it was that first time under guidance of the high priestess, she struggled now to maintain concentration lest she dissipate on the gust that blew the essence from her physical form. In that first instant, she didn’t care at all if every particle of her being dispersed into the all-encompassing everything. What comfort would be hers were she to allow herself to be swept away, cleansed of fear and grief and worry. No more substantial than smoke, she fought back the urge to become one with the ether.
Think of Wolthar! she told herself.
As a girl in training at Morolath, she would have simply conjured in her mind an image—a place, a face, a memory—and with the freeing of her spirit, she would be there in an instant, across distances, beyond time. Now, as she fought to control all outward urgings, the realization overcame her that time had greatly eroded her abilities. She had hoped that by concentrating her will on her husband, her energy would find him…wherever he resided. Even into Glothras, Land of the Dead.
Rather it was Othreld who lured her spirit, Othreld whose dreams she would attempt to penetrate.
She had hoped Othreld would have been asleep. Her task would have been far simpler were she to have met him on the Plain of Dreams. As if to stoke her uneasiness, he sat slumped at the small table in the center of the room, cheek a-twitch, his slender body shivering in his night clothes, stark white in the feeble red glow of the brazier’s light. A pitcher of wine and a half-filled goblet stood for the moment untouched on the table. Tears dampened his red-rimmed eyes. A blonde, with the ample figure of many a Nortlunde noblewoman, slept soundly in his bed under rumpled covers, her soft, whiffling breath competing with the silence.
For once his thoughts were so clearly discernible, he might have been speaking aloud.
Not dead…. He sighed and rubbed his eyes. Thank the gods. Othreld snatched up the goblet and drained its contents. He drew the backs of his long tapering fingers across his mouth.
He lives? Had she maintained her physical form, surely she would have jumped out of her skin. Who? Does Wolthar live? Where is he?
Othreld glanced around the room, anguish stamped on his face. Had her startled thoughts mingled with those of his reverie, or was his tortured reaction the result of his own stricken conscience? He lives…. The breath drained silently from his lungs as he turned his eyes heavenward. “Hedoban! Father of the gods!” His voice, forced and cracked, escaped from his throat as a whimper, “Forgive me!”
You are beyond forgiveness.
Elthric…. What have I done? He refilled his goblet. Wine sloshed onto the tabletop and dripped into the carpet.
Where is my son?
My dear boy….
He is not yours!
“I loved him like a son…and I betrayed him.”
As you betrayed your brother.
Oton made it difficult for me to refuse his offer. Again he slugged down the contents of his goblet, refilled it, rose on unsteady legs, and staggered across the room to the long, diamond-paned window. The Imperon will not be pleased. He stared out into the darkness, his mind racing with a muddle of thoughts. She could barely keep up with the pace of his introspection. Othreld sighed. “Yet he lives!”
Yet you delivered them both to the Imperon’s will! For what purpose?
Oton…puny little arrogant bastard! “How dare he threaten me!” Othreld thumped his balled fist softly on the wall, a grimace corresponding with a tic of his cheek.
I’ll wager he made you promises.
A mirthless laugh burst from his throat and he tossed down a swig of wine. He promised I’d wear my brother’s crown.
What a pathetic rat you are.
“A rat…” He nodded, a wry smile spreading across his face. Yes, that’s what I am. A spineless, cowardly rat.
Where is Wolthar?
Othreld stroked his ruddy beard with trembling fingers. Where are you, my brother…? Most likely you are dead, and while not by my hand, I might as well have delivered the blow that killed you.
The woman on the bed stirred. “Come to bed, My Lord. It’s cold without you.”
He hurled the goblet against the wall and turned to her, his face distorted with rage. “Get out! Get up and get out of here.” He gathered up her clothes, mingled with his, on the floor.
Half asleep, the poor woman sat up, her sleep-encrusted eyes wide in fear. “Othreld, what has—?”
“Just go. I want no part of you…now or forever. Just get out.” He all but hauled her from the bed in her shift, thrust the jumbled pile of clothing into her unwilling arms and ushered her to the door. “Guard!”
The door squealed open from without. “My Lord…?”
“See Lady Hetegunde to her room.” He turned away and stalked back to the window, where he stood reeling, struggling to hold himself upright.
“Yes, My Lord.” The man bowed stiffly and ushered the gawking Lady Hetegunde, barely moving under own power, from the room.
Before the door closed upon them, Othreld slammed his fist into the wall. “So long as he lives, I….”
Where is Elthric? Where is Wolthar?
To her surprise, a gust of wind blasted her from the room.
* * *
With a wheezing gasp, Lysienthe opened her eyes. Inid was sitting beside her on the bed, a look of anxiety draining her face of color. The sixes had burnt down to a pale flickering flame in a pool of wax. Its astringent smoke brought tears to her eyes. Morning light strained for supremacy against the night.
Inid let out her breath. “You’re back! Thanks be to Nirmanath.”
“How long…?”
Inid nodded at the candle. “Nearly the full six hours.”
Lysienthe attempted sit, but immediately the room began to spin. Inid removed the disk with the remnants of the burnt-out candle, and placed it on the floor by her chair.
“You must lie still, my lady.” She leaned over Lysienthe and smoothed the hair on her brow. “Rest.”
She squeezed her eyes shut, recalling her experience. “Yes…I’d forgotten how it can be so draining.”
“Shall I fetch you something to eat?”
“Water, if you please….” Inid rose, but the queen grasped her wrist before the attendant could move away. “I saw him!” Her voice rasped and barely competed with the song of morning birds outside. “Elthric! I was with him. We walked together on the Plain of Dreams.”
As she dropped into her chair, Inid’s face brightened. “Then he lives?”
“He’d been hurt. I doubt he is in full possession of his senses. I couldn’t be certain, but I believe his mind has been tainted. As soon as he awoke with my name on his lips, all memory of our meeting fled from his mind. There was a woman in the bed beside him. A Milith woman.”
Hanging her head, Inid took her lady’s hand. “But he lives. Concern yourself with nothing else for now.”
“Would that I could.” Lysienthe rolled her head on the pillows. A heaviness had begun to engulf her in a profound weariness. “I must find Wolthar. Othreld…I read his thoughts…. His deeds haunt him. My sister…is dead…murdered.” She clenched her eyes shut. “Elthwen…and my father escaped Morolath, but where they are now, I know not! They’ve traveled too far for me to—”
“Hush, My Queen. You’ve done enough for one night. Rest now. When you regain your strength—”
“Tonight….” she murmured, her mind and body succumbing to the lethargy that pulled her into sleep. “I will find them….”
Wolthar!