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It was a miracle they ever made it out of Pinburg. Andras was naturally outgoing and friendly, and Rada couldn’t seem to make him understand they were in terrible danger. She would explain it to him, and he would nod his head, and then he’d go back to behaving like he always did. She found it infuriating and exhausting. Worse, it was humiliating. When had she become this angry, snappish person who grumbled and groused about everything?
“People used to tell me I was too upbeat and cheerful,” she thought sadly.
She was worried about Elwyn; that was the problem. She wanted Andras to be a better man than he was, because she didn’t want to be responsible for bringing Elwyn a husband who made her miserable. The princess deserved someone who could finally make her happy.
But that was a problem for the future. At the present, they still had to get over the border and up to Briddobad. The passage through the forest on the Myrcian side of the River Bewerian was the most dangerous part. The hills around Jilsby, northeast of Pinburg, were full of bandits and smugglers. Travel in that region resembled a very complicated, treacherous dance—moving only at certain times of day, taking only certain roads, leaving little “offerings” of gold or liquor in certain hollow trees as they passed.
The detailed instructions from her superiors took up three sheets of parchment, and when Andras saw them, he could hardly stop laughing. “You know, if the Vizierate of Magy is supplying these people,” he said, “you ought to have better control over them.” Much as she didn’t like to admit it, he had a good point, and there were plenty of people at the Vizierate who had said the same thing.
In the middle of the night, they reached Darrasford on the Bewerian, the last town in Myrcia on the Briddobad road. It was a little hillside hamlet, nestled in among the trees, clustered around a mill and the stone bridge marking the official border crossing.
Andras, spotting the banners of the Myrcian guards in the light of their watchfires, said, “Hey, those are Captain Rawling’s men. I know those guys.”
He might have actually walked out of the woods to say hello to them, if she hadn’t put a hand on his arm and reminded him that, since those men served the Gramiren king, and his family were now trying to ally themselves to the Sigors, it might not be wise to let them know who he was.
“Oh, yes. Of course,” was all he said.
He followed her upstream half a mile, where they were able to wade across the river, leading their horses. They had to hide from a Sahasran army patrol for a few minutes, but then they mounted back up and rode to the edge of the little border town of Lalakash, where they stopped for the night at a low, anonymous-looking house of red sandstone and gray tile.
“What is this place?” Andras asked, as they rode up the drive between huge honeysuckle bushes.
“Someplace safe.”
He didn’t need to know it, but this was the local headquarters of the Vizierate of Magy—a sort of advanced outpost for those aiding the Sigor rebels in Pinshire and the Losianbeorg Mountains. She had hoped someone might be around to greet them, and in fact two of her superiors were there, having made a special trip to meet Andras.
In the low, soot-blackened kitchen, among pots and pans and racks of spices, Rada introduced them. The first was a tall, blond-haired man with slate gray eyes and shoulders too wide for his slim body. His name was Vikker Sarassen, and he had been born in Krigadam, though he now served the Sahasran king.
The other person there to greet them was Pallavi Ratnam, Rada’s friend and mentor in the Vizierate. Pallavi was a small woman, no taller than Rada herself, with a ready smile and dark, intelligent eyes. It turned out Andras had heard of her, though that was hardly a surprise. She was rather famous.
“You were at the Battle of Yusipova’s Fields!” he cried. He seemed delighted, even though Myrcia had been on the other side of that war.
“Yes, I have to admit I was there,” she said, with a modest little grin. Rada had been there, too, along with her dear friends Misha and Daryna Olekovna. But this was not a subject she wanted to dwell on.
Luckily the conversation moved on quickly. Pallavi made tea while Andras narrated his journey so far, though he stopped and stared when she levitated the teapot over to the table.
“So you’re all sorcerers?” he asked.
It took him some time before he could understand the difference between Yothas like Rada and genuine hillichmagnars like Pallavi and Vikker. The two of them carried magy in their own bodies, and needed no ring or locket to work a spell. Neither of them looked much over 20, though Pallavi was nearly a hundred and Vikker even older. True sorcerers aged differently from ordinary folk.
Until a few years earlier, Yothas had outranked hillichmagnars at the Vizierate—something Rada could hardly comprehend. Fortunately, a group including Pallavi had led a movement for reform, and now things were arranged much more sensibly, at least to Rada’s mind.
In the theology of the Ivich churches, hillichmagnars were angels of Earstien, sent to guide and protect mankind. Rada had been privileged to befriend two of these awesome beings: first Daryna, and then Pallavi. And now she served the Vizierate and worked alongside others, like Vikker or the great Lord Maninder. But even she couldn’t help being a little in awe of them.
So it was hardly surprising that Andras acted like a child who had been given a puppy for Seefest. He pestered them with questions about spells and potions and the history of magy. He mentioned two hillichmagnars who had been at the Myrcian court in his youth, Caedmon Aldred and Jorunn Unset, “But you couldn’t really talk to them, if you know what I mean,” he said with a frightened shudder.
Pallavi smiled and said she knew Caedmon quite well, and she showed a good deal more patience than Vikker did answering all Andras’s questions. When everyone had finished their tea, Andras asked if he could have a look around the house, and Pallavi agreed, even though that was probably some sort of violation of protocol.
There were crates of swords and crossbows in the front parlor, among the battered end tables and threadbare couches. Pallavi didn’t tell him the weapons were intended for the rebels across the river, but she didn’t have to, and even Andras must have been able to figure that out. In the pantry and the spare rooms, there were stacks of warm winter cloaks and boots, and one bedroom upstairs was crammed nearly to bursting with salt pork and sacks of ground coffee.
“Holy Finster,” said Andras. “It’s like a fortress.”
“A bit like one, yes,” agreed Pallavi.
The last door on the hall stood slightly ajar, and Andras had to take a peek. This was the smallest of the bedrooms, though almost all the space now was taken up with workbenches and little racks of glittering gemstones. Jeweler’s tools sat on one of the tables, arranged in perfect, obsessive order.
“So what’s this, then?” asked Andras. “The treasury?”
“My workshop,” said Pallavi, smiling and pulling the door shut. “Just a little hobby of mine.”
It wasn’t just a hobby. This room was where she made weapons like the ring Rada was wearing. But Andras didn’t need to know about that. Sometimes a little curiosity about magy, like the Earl of Hyrne’s interest in love potions, could be a dangerous thing.
With the tour over, they went back down to the kitchen for a nightcap of rice wine, and then Andras retired to one of the downstairs storerooms, where a few simple army cots had been set up for riders passing through. Pallavi said, “good night,” as well, heading back up to her workroom, and then Rada was left alone by the glowing embers of the fire with Vikker Sarassen.
She didn’t necessarily dislike Vikker, but he had never been one of her friends, either. He was part of a little clique of sorcerers—both hillichmagnars and Yothas—who drank a lot and partied a good deal more than Rada thought proper. When Pallavi had first brought Rada to work at the Vizierate, Vikker and his friends had invited her to join in their orgies. She had been shocked, but she had also worried about giving offense, and she had begged Pallavi for advice on what to do.
“Oh, go to the parties if you want,” Pallavi had said. “Or don’t. I’ve been to a few, and they’re terribly exhausting. Don’t let them pressure you to do anything you’ll feel ashamed of.”
So Rada had declined the invitations to debauchery, and her relations with Vikker had remained on a purely professional level. Even so, she couldn’t help but notice the looks he sometimes gave her.
So she was actually about to excuse herself and go find another cot, when he said, “I wonder if you’d like to join me for a little stroll about the garden?”
She felt uneasy about saying “Yes,” but then again, he was her superior officer, so she went outside with him, out into the surprisingly damp and chilly evening air. A mist was rising from the river, and it wasn’t long before they were past the flower beds and out of sight of the house among the thick trunks of great cedar trees.
“What do you think of this plan to marry Andras Byrne to the princess?” Vikker asked at last.
“It’s the best way to get the Sigors back on the throne,” she said, echoing what Pallavi had told her.
He rolled his eyes. “Is that really what we want? I mean, yes, it’s our policy at the moment, but is it wise?”
“What do you mean?”
“Come now. You’re from Loshadnarod. The Sigors invaded your country, didn’t they? Do we actually want them back in power? Say what you like about King Broderick Gramiren, but he hasn’t attacked any of his neighbors, has he?”
“I suppose that’s true,” she said, shuffling her feet.
“Look, I know we have to follow the policy set by the Vizier and by people in favor in Roshan.” He frowned, and his eyes turned in the direction of the house. “But look for any opportunities to help the Gramirens. Or at least keep things even-handed.”
“What exactly do you want me to do?” she asked, crossing her arms. Even if he had a point, she didn’t like the idea of doing anything behind Pallavi’s back.
Before he could answer, though, a small bird—a thrush of some sort—fluttered down through the branches and landed at Vikker’s feet. “It’s Pallavi,” he said instantly. “A messenger has come in, and she wants us back at the house.”
They turned and sprinted up through the garden, though at the door, he paused and whispered, “Remember what I said.”
In the kitchen, Pallavi was sitting with a young cavalryman in mud-splattered clothes. The fellow must have arrived moments after Rada and Vikker had left the house. Pallavi was studying a little message scroll with a frown. Then she levitated it and it burst into flames, raining ash on the table.
“There you two are,” she said, turning to Vikker and Rada. “I hope I don’t seem rude, but I’ve got to go.”
“What’s happened? What’s wrong?” It was Andras’s voice, and they all turned to see him wandering in from the hallway, still pulling his undershirt over his head.
“Oh, it’s nothing,” said Pallavi, in a breezy tone. “Our friends across the river need some help. Maybe they don’t know they need it yet, but they do.”
“I think I’ll come with you,” said Vikker.
He and Pallavi stared at each other. Both were still smiling, but there was a definite air of tension. Rada was sure Pallavi would object openly. But after a moment or two, she shrugged and said, “Suit yourself.” Then she looked at Rada and Andras. “You two feel free to stay as long as you like. But I imagine you’ll want to get started at first light.”
“Yes,” said Vikker. “Mustn’t keep the princess waiting.”