28. A HINT OF BETRAYAL

Galen’s story

The Soaring Halls, the Upper Circle of the Capital City of Quur

After finding a washroom

Galen’s return to his in-laws’ suite of rooms was delayed inasmuch as Tave insisted that he was a big boy and could walk all by himself. Galen noted that the “boy” part of that had turned out to be correct, not that it particularly mattered at that age.

On the walk over, Galen hadn’t been able to help but wonder at details no one had yet taken the time to explain. Had Caless and Varik evacuated everyone at the Rose Palace? Had the D’Talus servants been bundled up for safety, or were they still there, keeping the doors barred and the windows barred against a siege they could only pray never made its way inside? Or was it much worse than that, and they’d already been dragged out into the streets?

Caless and Varik could come and go as they liked. They were powerful enough to be able to teleport directly. All the people who worked for them were a different story.

Halfway back, Tave decided he was tired after all and had begun crying until Galen picked him up. By the time Galen finally managed to make it back to the rooms, Tave was fast asleep and Sheloran was in the D’Talus rooms alone. She had a cup of tea in her hand and a faraway expression on her face Galen couldn’t quite interpret. He saw no sign of Qown.

He set the boy on one of the beds and tucked a blanket around him. Tave promptly curled up like a cat wrapping itself in its own tail. If the gods were kind, perhaps the child might manage to stay asleep for a few hours. Galen thought the kid was adorable, but that suggestion Caless had made about finding the Milligreests was sounding better and better.

He pulled a chair over to his wife and sat down. “Are you all right?”

Sheloran sipped her tea without answering, staring at the bed where Tave was already asleep. She didn’t answer, which made Galen frown, but he decided against pressing her. Instead, he made his own cup of tea and sat down with some of the leftovers from the earlier meal.

“No,” she said, so long after he’d asked the question that it took him a moment to connect the answer to his query. “I had hoped—” Sheloran shook her head. “It’s all falling apart, Blue. The empire’s falling apart right in front of our eyes. The irony is that after all that talk about wanting my parents—my mother, in particular—to do something, to change something, she is. And I don’t know how I feel about it. I feel weirdly betrayed. And angry.” She frowned. “I feel so angry.”

Galen scooted closer and wrapped his arm around her. “I think that’s perfectly reasonable. Something weird’s going on here, don’t deny it. I’ve never seen your father act like that. Not ever.”

“No. Never. And as far as I can tell, the two of them are alive because they helped set up the other high lords. That’s … a lot.” Sheloran grimaced and drank a healthy gulp of her tea.

“Yes, well.” Galen sighed. “I suppose one can argue that both of your parents were doing what they had to in order to survive.”

“I sense a ‘but,’” Sheloran said.

Galen nodded. “But I heard some gossip while I was out. Did you know they’re calling the dinner where the empress assassinated all the high lords ‘the Glittering Feast’? Sounds romantic, doesn’t it?”

Sheloran’s face went blank. “Do I want to know why they’re calling it that?”

“No,” Galen said.

She hesitated.

Galen simply waited.

“Fine!” She waved her fan frantically. “Tell me anyway.”

“On the surface, it sounds like the Glittering Feast is just what everyone’s said. Tyentso held a party, invited all the high lords, made it sound like a nice ‘let’s put our differences aside and pretend to be friends until the crisis is over’ sort of diplomatic gesture. And then the glitter started to fall.”

Sheloran squinted. “I thought that was just poetic license. Glitter? Actual glitter?” Her voice hitched in a mild expression of horror, probably thinking about finding pieces of the damn stuff in her clothing for the next five years.

Galen smiled. “You act like that’s unusual. Remember the year House D’Jorax rained down rose petals in all the royal colors?”

“Oh, that was so tacky.”

“Or the year House D’Kaje had colored mage-lights spelling out blessings?”

“Well, yes, but—”

“House D’Mon. Those oversize Manol Jungle plants.”

Sheloran cleared her throat and glared at Galen. “Yes, I understand your point. Everyone assumed this was more of the same. An overwrought royal conceit.”

“But it wasn’t. Because it seems there’s a metal out there that burns when heated? Not just melts the way most metal does but burns extremely hot.”

Sheloran’s eyes widened. “Ataras? You’re referring to ataras?”

“I don’t know what it’s called. I imagine you would, though. So picture it: tiny flakes of this special metal floating down in graceful little spirals all over the entire feast hall. Then Tyentso erects a magical field of energy surrounding the place and just”—he made a motion with his fingers—“lights it on fire.”

“It’s not that easy to set alight,” Sheloran said, but then immediately rebutted her own protest. “I suppose if you gave it more surface area. Reduced it to a powder … or flakes … it would be easier. Powdered platinum melts at a lower temperature than ingots. But in that state? Burning ataras would have caused a massive explosion. The ataras flakes would have burned up all the air in a fire so bright and hot it would blind anyone watching with the naked eye.” She made a strangled sound. “I begin to understand why my father was involved, and how.”

“Yes. He made the empress a whole mess of tiny little glittery metal flakes, and by doing so won House D’Talus an exemption from whatever punishments Tyentso decided to hand down.”

“At least their deaths were quick.”

“Not everyone’s,” Galen said. “My grandfather survived it.” He couldn’t begin to imagine how Havar D’Aramarin had done so, but he’d found a way.

Which meant Havar had to be a god-king too. But which one? Galen wasn’t sure he wanted to know.

Sheloran examined the small boy as if he might wake with nightmares from what they were whispering to each other. When she’d collected herself, she returned her attention to Galen. “Ataras can melt through shanathá in seconds, Blue. It can melt through drussian. It would have charred those people to ashes before they even realized they were dead.”

He shrugged. “And yet. The whole ‘invading Marakor and cutting off the food supply to the Capital’ suggests he survived. And that he’s been planning something like this for a long time.”

Sheloran had nothing to say to that. Galen could hardly blame her. He didn’t want to think about it himself, except he suddenly had more sympathy toward Sheloran’s shock at discovering her mother was a god-queen.

Several hours later, they were still there, brooding. Galen was starting to fidget, wondering what had happened to Qown. He would have expected him back already.

The little boy made an unhappy, distressed sound in his sleep. “What are we going to do about that one? Find his family?” Sheloran made a moue.

“How? His real name can’t be Tave,” Galen said.1

“One would hope not,” Sheloran said, “but he’s three at best, and I assume that such was his caretaker’s nickname for him. There’s no way to know whether or not he’s a royal—”

“His eyes,” Galen started to protest.

“D’Jorax, D’Moló, D’Kard, and D’Knofra are all born with normal eye colors because they were not among the original eight. He could easily come from one of those houses. I’m not sure what to do with him. We haven’t checked in with any of the orphanages.”

“I’ll be surprised if any of those are still in the city. We told our people to get out if there was trouble. There’s been a lot of trouble.”

They both watched the sleeping child. This was also “not their problem” right now. At least, Galen was all too aware that such is how his father would have framed the situation. His grandfather. Sheloran’s parents too, probably. Not their problem. Everyone needed help. Everyone’s situation was dire. They weren’t in any position to provide charity.

Sheloran wouldn’t care. Galen knew her well enough to know she’d help, anyway. Kihrin probably would have done the same. Which way Qown would lean was obvious.

Galen’s father would have mocked them all.

“Your mother had a good idea about seeing if the Milligreests would let him be a playmate for their youngest,” Galen said. “I’d suggest he stay with us, but that’s not safe, is it?”

Sheloran squeezed his hand. “No, it’s not.”

“We’ll just have to see—”

Qown threw open the door and all but ran into the room. He looked spooked, so much so that he barely glanced at Galen.

“Is something the matter?” Sheloran asked him.

“No, I—” Qown looked back toward the door, then visibly shook himself. “No, I mean, yes. Would you … would you mind coming with me? There’s something I need to show you.”

Galen stood up. Qown was skittish—and in this place, that might mean any number of things. It wasn’t directed at Galen personally; that would have involved more blushing.

“Did something happen?” Galen asked.

“I just—please. We have to hurry.” Qown’s eyes scanned the room as though he expected someone—Caless, perhaps—to pop up behind one of the chairs and shout, “Surprise!” His stare stopped cold on Tave, still asleep. He grimaced, although Galen couldn’t tell if it was annoyance, concern, or some other emotion.

Galen grabbed his sword. “All right, then. Let’s go.”

“Both of you,” Qown said, when Sheloran seemed more inclined to stay with the baby. “I want you to see this too.”

“Oh, but we can’t leave him.” Sheloran gestured toward the sleeping child.

“Then don’t,” Qown said. “Please, we have to hurry.”

Galen stared helplessly at Sheloran, who shrugged her confusion in turn. Tave stirred when Sheloran bundled him up then immediately settled into a more comfortable position and fell right back to sleep again.

“Quickly!”

Galen scowled at the healer’s back. He’d barely even looked at Galen since entering the room. And even without that personal failing, it just seemed off that he wouldn’t give them more information before taking them … wherever it was that he was taking them.

The sense of wrongness spiraled as Galen noticed Qown acting too familiar with the corridors and turns of the Soaring Halls; Qown had never been to the imperial palace before. Galen found the place almost impossible to navigate after having been there several times.

Then Galen heard the chimes.

Sheloran hesitated for a fraction of a second. “Is this something to do with the Lash?” Sheloran asked as they hurried. She cradled the back of the boy’s head as she looked at Galen out of the corner of her eye.

She’d heard it too.

The noise hadn’t been random. It was one of the precautions that they’d set up before leaving the Lighthouse at Shadrag Gor. Senera’s last actions with the Name of All Things had been a furious bout of researching sigils that might prove useful. Several of the sigils did little more than send a noise to specific people, but they’d assigned meaning to those sounds. Two such had just played.

First, report back. Second, one of us is in danger.

The first wasn’t possible at the moment. The second Galen had figured out all on his own.

Qown stopped at a door and began to fiddle with the latch. “Just let me—”

“Please allow me,” Sheloran said. The metal turned into a swarm of metallic ants, which all scurried away from where the locking mechanism had once been. “Now about the Lash?”

“Oh!” Qown took a deep breath and rushed to enter the room. “Yes,” he said as he turned back toward them. “I was looking for more information on him since he escaped with Grimward and—”

Galen unsheathed his sword and aimed its point at the other man’s throat.

“Hmm.” Qown looked down at the drawn weapon. The corner of his mouth twitched. He slowly raised his hands. “What gave me away?” he inquired.

“The Lash isn’t a man,” Sheloran said. “She isn’t even human.”

The person (presumably cloaked in an excellent illusion) laughed. “You mean that little shit lied to me? I didn’t think he had it in him.”

Galen felt a flash of dread shiver through him. He nudged the sword under the man’s chin. “What have you done with Qown?”

Before the man could answer, he looked over Galen’s shoulder and smiled.

Galen rolled his eyes. “Do you honestly think that’s going to work?”

“Um, Blue—” The nervous twinge in Sheloran’s voice was far more effective than any amount of smirking “look behind you” pantomime.

Then a voice Galen loathed spoke.

“I believe in this case,” Relos Var said, “it will work because it’s not a bluff. Now would you mind stepping inside? This isn’t a coversation for the hallway.”

Tave woke and started to make fidgety noises. Sheloran shushed him, unsuccessfully.

Relos Var made a shooing motion with his hands toward the doorway. “And please don’t try anything rash, Lady D’Mon. You may not be expendable in my plans, but your husband is a different story. And you so thoughtfully brought me a spare.”

Anger flashed through Galen. He meant the child. Relos Var was talking about hurting the child. Galen knew—knew down to his sinews and marrow—that Var wasn’t bluffing either. He’d no more hesitate to kill a baby than Gadrith the Twisted would have.²

“Come on, Red.” He sheathed his sword.

Sheloran seemed to be weighing the odds, but Galen didn’t have to try hard to know which way she’d decided. She bounced the increasingly unhappy little boy on her hip while she gave Relos Var a glare that promised centuries of pain, and walked inside. Var clearly thought her implied threat adorable.

Relos Var followed them into the room and closed the door behind them.

The room was some sort of parlor, not so much packed away as covered with tarps and cloths and then forgotten. The fake-Qown walked over to a bundle of linens, which was shifting around suspiciously for something supposedly inanimate. He removed the top sheet.

Qown lay underneath, gagged and struggling.

Galen immediately darted forward. Qown had been beaten. He had a nasty purple bruise around one eye and a cheekbone, blood still trickling from the corner of his mouth. His hands … Galen clenched his jaw so hard he thought he might crack a tooth.

They’d broken Qown’s fingers.

He supposed that answered the question of whether or not Qown had willingly betrayed them. Torture wouldn’t have been required if Qown had been loyal and cooperative.

Relos Var gazed at his former student without expression. Then he turned to the other man. “Anlyr, was that necessary?”

Galen whipped around to glare at the fake-Qown, because he recognized the name of the man who’d once pretended to be a House D’Mon guard.

Anlyr made a gesture with his fingers and dropped the illusion. “Apparently, no. I guess it really is true what they say about torture not working, but I figured it was worth a shot.”

Tave began openly crying. Galen had no idea why. It could have been anything.

“Well, somebody’s hungry,” Anlyr commented, apparently more willing to make assumptions.

Relos Var stared at the child, like it was something inexplicable, something beyond his comprehension. The question in his eyes was clear, but he didn’t ask it. Instead, the wizard did something elegant and complicated with one hand, which opened up a small portal not much larger than a dinner plate. He reached through the opening, pulled back a skewer of sugar-dipped fruit, and handed it to the boy.

Galen found himself wondering how Relos Var had managed that. Did he have a secret stash of candy somewhere, or was there a very confused shopkeeper who’d just seen a hand appear out of thin air and grab his wares?

Tave, no fool, didn’t care how the wizard had managed it. The small boy reached for it without hesitation. He promptly stopped crying in favor of chewing on the candy.

“Is that supposed to impress me?” Sheloran sounded rather bored. She cast a level eye around the room and sniffed as if smelling something off. That gaze landed on Qown and then slid right off him again, as if his welfare didn’t matter at all.

Which just proved Sheloran was the smart one. Relos Var didn’t seem to think Qown was a bargaining chip. He’d threatened Galen and Tave, but he hadn’t tried to use Qown against her. He hadn’t specifically threatened Qown, the better to make it perfectly clear that violence was very much an option. So it seemed that Relos Var was assuming that although Qown had been ordered to gain Galen’s confidence, he had only succeeded with Galen, if at all.

Galen just didn’t know if that was a good thing. Qown being useful as a hostage also meant Relos Var had a motive for keeping Qown alive. If Relos Var had decided that Qown couldn’t be trusted—which seemed to be the case—then Qown was in incredible danger.

Galen wished he knew what had given Qown away.

“It’s a rare day when candy won’t shut up a child,” Relos Var said. “And why is there a child here?”

No one answered.

Galen kept his expression neutral. He supposed he was lucky—if such was the right word—that he had practice dealing with powerful men who’d respond violently to the slightest hint of disrespect.

“What is it that you want, Var? We can’t give you Grimward. We never pried it out of the Lash’s hands.” He gestured toward Qown. “He must have told you all this.”

“We can’t trust anything he says for some reason,” Anlyr confessed as he ran a finger over one of Qown’s bruises, making him whimper.

Galen was going to kill Anlyr. He didn’t care if it was slow or fast, just as long as it was final.

“Although I know you won’t believe me, I’m not a fan of torture,” Anlyr said. “But funny thing: as you may have noticed, I’m a bit of a wizard too. And one of the, uh—let’s call it a spell—that I know lets me read minds. Now a month ago? Torture wouldn’t have been necessary because I could read Qown’s mind. And your mind. Little Shelly-doll’s mind too. Now? Why, I think the last time I was in a room with this many people immune to that ability I was crashing a witch-hunter chapter house meeting.” He met Relos Var’s eyes. “So Qown lied to us. I can’t even be mad; our little boy’s growing up.”

Ah, so that was it. The irony was laughable.

Their new defenses, courtesy of Senera, were what had given them away.³

Relos Var scoffed. “You’re easy to lie to, Anlyr. You’re so used to reading minds that you’ve forgotten how to read people.” Ignoring the man’s indignation, Var turned back to Galen and Sheloran. “Very well. As I don’t have time for subtlety, we’re going to take a trip. You’ll cooperate with everything I ask. If you do, then there’s a better-than-average chance that no one will be hurt.” He gave Sheloran a stern, parental look. “If you don’t cooperate, I’ll start with Galen. Or rather, Anlyr will. He can be inventive when the occasion calls for it. And if a threat to Galen can’t persuade you…” He gave a pointed look to the toddler.

“Don’t you fucking dare,” Sheloran said.

The corner of Relos Var’s mouth quirked. “That’s your choice, Your Highness.”

“I’ll ask again: What do you want?” Galen dug his nails into his palms to keep from doing something immensely stupid, like going for his sword. But oh, how he wanted to.

“The Stone of Shackles,” Relos Var replied.

Galen glanced at Sheloran, in spite of himself. “You have to know she doesn’t have—” But then his breath stuttered to a halt, as he felt like a fool. Sheloran was the one Relos Var needed because she was the hostage. Everyone else was just collateral damage.

“I’m starting to not like you, old man,” Galen said softly.

At that, Relos Var actually smiled. “Yes, your father felt the same. I imagine pursuing that grudge won’t go any better for you than it did for him. I do find it ironic that I’m in a shockingly similar position to the one Gadrith was in when he was trying to pry that damn rock from my brother’s hands. And as I too don’t feel like taking the time to grab it off its current wearer’s corpse, I’m going to resort to similar tactics. By hurting the people Caless loves until she does the sensible thing.”

Xivan tried that too, Galen thought, but it wouldn’t have been wise to bring that up. The difference between a threat from Relos Var and a threat from Xivan was immeasurable. Relos Var could make it work.

He felt awash in warring emotions: horror, but also relief. He didn’t so much as glance at Qown. He didn’t dare. Because when it came to people the Goddess of Love held close to her heart, Qown wasn’t even in the same room as the piece of paper the list was written on. Assuming neither he nor Sheloran gave it away, Var was unlikely to think threatening Qown was a means of persuading them either.

Veils. He suddenly understood how Kihrin must have felt when Gadrith started killing his way through the D’Mon family.

Except that wasn’t right either. He wasn’t Kihrin in this scenario. He was still Galen—still the hostage and game piece on someone else’s board.

While Galen contemplated his lack of options, Relos Var walked over to one of the tables and opened a small jewelry box. He removed its contents—a single piece of jewelry.

It wasn’t really jewelry, though. Galen recognized the stone well enough. It was the final, irrevocable sign that Relos Var had decided he was done wasting time on his former apprentice, Qown.

He’d reclaimed Worldhearth.