TWO
MAKING PEACE
Princess Estie of Amika was a young woman of fifteen when she met her first Bellegerin.
Her father, King Smegin, had filled her with his ambition for dominance, his ready fury at Belleger’s resistance. She had spent her life thinking what he wanted her to think, feeling as he instructed her, desiring what he told her to desire. But he had also protected her. He had kept her swaddled in the many luxuries of his hard fortress, which his ancestors had named Amika’s Desire. The war did not touch her, except as he and his generals talked about it, or as he explained it to her. He and her tutors had taught her to understand his attempts and dreams. But in her whole life, she had never set foot outside the precincts of Amika’s Desire. Certainly, she had never wandered the streets of Maloresse, Amika’s only city, or seen how its people lived. She was her father’s favored, pampered daughter, and she was proud of who and what she had become. Her life was blessed.
Being young, she did not understand Belleger’s fatal refusal to be conquered. Her father had a natural right to those lands. He had told her so. They should have been his. Belleger had started the war by killing Malorie, King Fastule’s bride-to-be. And King Smegin foresaw a time—or said that he foresaw it—when he or his descendants would need everything Belleger offered. Once a year, representatives of the Nuuri in the north met with Amikan merchants to discuss trade and boundaries. From gossip at those meetings, King Smegin knew that there were more people in the world than Amikans, Bellegerins, and Nuuri: other realms, other rulers, other ambitions. If the greed of those rulers turned southward, they would eventually cross the inhospitable steppes of the Nuuri to reach the fertile fields and hills and forests of Amika. King Smegin needed to conquer Belleger so that Amika would become a larger, stronger people, better able to turn back any potential invasion.
But instead of submitting to their necessary defeat, the Bellegerins had devised rifles. When the news of what had happened in the last battle had been brought to King Smegin, Princess Estie had shared his consternation as well as his fury. Belleger was a foul land inhabited by foul desires. Only foulness could have hit upon the way of making weapons as evil as rifles, weapons that could kill faster and more accurately at greater distances than any archer.
That development was a calamity. Neither King Smegin nor his generals knew how to counter it. But there was worse to come. Between one evening and the next dawn, every Amikan Magister lost the ability to wield the Decimates. The whole realm was deprived of sorcery. Despite his pride in his gift, and his eagerness to use it, even King Smegin was made powerless.
During that time, Princess Estie—like her father—was an overheated stew of rage and fretting. Her distress boiled over incessantly; and it did not begin to ease until the King’s spies reported that Belleger also had no sorcery. Apparently, the same force which had struck Amika had left Belleger impotent as well.
Still, Belleger remained poised for victory. Amika’s enemy had rifles. Estie feared that her father’s people stood on the brink of slaughter. Shaken by unimaginable disasters, she did not begin to hope until after King Smegin had dispatched Commander Forguile to the Last Repository.
Of course, previous kings had sent emissaries to the library for their own reasons; but they had obtained little satisfaction. The sorcerers of the Repository had been polite rather than helpful. They kept their secrets for themselves. However, Commander Forguile’s mission was of another kind. After all, he could not ask those Magisters to restore Amikan sorcery. How could he? Belleger would be restored at the same time—and Amika could not withstand both theurgy and rifles.
But King Smegin had reasoned that theurgists who withheld their understanding of the Decimates might feel less protective of other kinds of knowledge. He sent the Commander to learn what he could about new weapons. And eventually a messenger, Forguile’s only companion, came home to report that the Commander had read about the existence and uses of cannon. Somewhere in the library, there was a book that taught the making of guns bigger and more destructive than rifles.
Then King Smegin and Princess Estie were able to hope again. Even an army of riflemen could be scattered by the heavier shots of cannon. The Open Hand and Belleger’s Fist could be reduced to rubble, given enough big guns, enough powder, enough iron.
While Commander Forguile was away, Princess Estie slowly taught herself to believe that she would feel secure, finally at peace, when he returned to Maloresse with the knowledge to cause Belleger’s destruction. King Smegin gnawed his knuckles and fumed while he waited.
But when the Commander came back to face his King, he brought a Bellegerin with him.
At that moment, Princess Estie’s future changed. It became a place she had not been taught to recognize.
Commander Forguile brought Prince Bifalt.
He was not simply the first Bellegerin she had ever seen. He was the first Bellegerin to enter the ceremonial hall of her fathers since the terrible day when Fastule, the first King of Amika, had stood there, helpless, while Malorie, the love of his life, had been murdered during their wedding.
The hall had seldom been used in recent generations. Like his fathers, King Smegin had no foreign dignitaries to honor, no definitive victories to celebrate, and few significant marriages to commemorate, apart from his own. But word of Commander Forguile’s return had run ahead of him. All Maloresse and Amika’s Desire knew that he was coming—and that he was not coming alone, although the identity of his companion was kept hidden. Who could it be? A representative of the Last Repository? A Magister with some unguessed Decimate? A smith who knew how to fashion cannon? For that reason, King Smegin had ordered the hall opened and aired, swept and polished. The tapestries gleamed in the high stained-glass windows, and the mighty statues of the King’s forebears shone like promised victories. Displays of weapons glittered as if their edges and points were still keen. His daughters—all three of them—had never seen the place look so majestic.
But only Princess Estie was instructed to join her father; to sit at King Smegin’s side when he welcomed Commander Forguile.
As for the Queen, Estie’s mother, she had of course seen the hall clean and bright for her own wedding. But she was too empty-headed to wish that her husband made a place for her on important occasions. Or perhaps the Queen simply did not much like her husband. Her only apparent interest was in what her daughters wore. For that reason, and only to please her mother, Princess Estie was dressed to dazzle, with jewels in her hair, subtle tints on her face to emphasize the perfection of her features, and a rich gown designed to be both demure and womanly. She was a delight to everyone who saw her when her mother, blessedly ignorant of what was at stake, sent her to meet Commander Forguile and his unknown companion.
Entering the hall, Estie did not care how she looked. She had no desire to impress, much less attract, any man she knew. She was blessedly ignorant herself when she took her place at King Smegin’s side. It was sitting with her father that mattered to her, not her jewels and tints and gown. She only knew who her first Bellegerin was because the seneschal of Amika’s Desire announced him after speaking Commander Forguile’s name.
Prince Bifalt, the eldest son and heir of Belleger’s King Abbator.
Her immediate reaction was revulsion, indignation: a reaction shared by the few courtiers, functionaries, and honor guardsmen whom King Smegin had gathered for the occasion. She felt outrage that any Bellegerin dared, or had been permitted, to enter this hall. And outrage was too small a word to convey her horror and disgust that the Bellegerin proved to be a descendant of despised King Brigin, who had planned and carried out the murder of Malorie, Amika’s intended Queen.
King Smegin rose as Commander Forguile and the Prince approached him. Amika’s monarch was not a large man, but he dominated every room he entered, even one as high and deep as the ceremonial hall. He was a master of hauteur and waspish sarcasm, quick to anger, and not slow to punish those who angered him. He was also cunning. Princess Estie had learned in her private hours with him that he was capable of profound insights, thoughts so swift and deep that she had to exercise her whole mind in order to ride their currents. In manner, if not in body, he towered over the commander of his honor guard and the son of his bitter enemy.
Commander Forguile’s face was strictly controlled, as blank as an unused slate. But in his eyes, Princess Estie saw a seethe of emotions: fear, anger, shame, even guilt—and, perhaps, a desperate hope. He had taken the time to make himself presentable for his King, washing away the grime and stains of hard traveling, changing into clean garments. His freshly waxed goatee and moustache, like his orange headband, accentuated the sallow hue of his skin, the heritage of his blood. In its leather scabbard dyed the precise hue of his headband, his sword hung ready at his hip. Over one shoulder, he carried a satchel that had seen rough use.
Entering the hall, Prince Bifalt had discarded the disguise of his hooded cloak. At Commander Forguile’s side, he came forward, comporting himself as if he were the Commander’s equal in King Smegin’s presence. As he drew near, Estie saw that he, too, had made himself presentable. In particular, she noticed the cut lines of his visage, the tight trim of his beard. She knew from her studies that he was not more than eight years older than she was; but where she had been pampered, his life had been one of hardship, familiar with privation, defined by scars. He looked a decade older than his years.
In addition, Princess Estie recognized the image of the beleaguered eagle on his breastplate, the emblem of a Bellegerin soldier. Seeing it quickened her breathing, her pulse. Her revulsion. That symbol and his face assured her that he had fought and killed in battle. Amikans had died at his hands.
Yet his breastplate was his only accoutrement of war. He had come weaponless into the hall, without his sword and dagger, without his bow and arrows. Without even his rifle.
His rifle—
Seeing the Prince unarmed, Estie did not need Commander Forguile’s reputation for courage, loyalty, and intelligence to convince her that Prince Bifalt had not come to attack King Smegin. No, not even to threaten him. Belleger had no more sorcery than Amika. The son of King Abbator was as helpless as a man could be in the hall of his foes.
He was not here for blood. He had other intentions.
King Smegin’s daughter could not imagine what they might be.
So far, the Prince had not deigned to glance at her. Standing beside Commander Forguile twenty paces from her father, he held his gaze fixed on his enemy; on King Smegin, who more than any other Amikan craved Belleger’s eradication.
The King ignored the Prince. With his fists clenched in front of him, he regarded Commander Forguile as if the man had approached him alone. Until the Commander gave him an Amikan bow, touching the heels of both palms to his forehead, then spreading his arms wide, King Smegin did not speak; and the men he had gathered to witness this meeting did not breathe. Then he said, “Commander Ennis Forguile.” His voice buzzed dangerously. “Why have you not butchered this Bellegerin brat?”
Prince Bifalt did not bow. He kept whatever he felt to himself.
“Majesty,” replied the Commander with admirable steadiness, “I gave him my word.”
“Your word?” snapped King Smegin at once. “Your word? It is not yours to give. It is mine.”
Without any visible tremor, Commander Forguile repeated his bow. “Then, Majesty,” he said, “I have given your word. And I did not give it to Prince Bifalt privately. I gave it in the full presence of the Magisters of the Last Repository. I gave it in the hearing of a hundred or more onlookers. Also I gave it to King Abbator in front of his counselors and lead commanders. He welcomed me for it, thanked me for it, and urged me to keep it.
“If you command me to kill the Prince now, I will do it. If you command it, I will kill myself. But the Magisters of the Last Repository will know you have broken your word. All of our world will know.”
While he spoke, Commander Forguile’s audacity held Estie’s attention, and her pulse beat in her throat. She knew her father’s mounting fury—and his willingness to accept any dare. In some sense, she shared it. King Smegin’s word was not a coin that any soldier could spend on a whim. But Prince Bifalt interrupted her, and the King.
“You will be forsworn, King of Amika.” His voice was raw, strangely hoarse. He sounded like a man who was done with shouting: a man who had already shouted enough to last him until he died. “And you will never hear what occurred in the Last Repository. You will never understand why Commander Forguile gave his word, or what the Magisters of the library want from you, or what gift we have brought to show that I have come in good faith. You will never know what promises the Magisters and Belleger are prepared to offer.”
Princess Estie felt his assertions as if he had insulted her rather than her father. “You dare?” barked King Smegin. “In my hall?” A moment ago, she had been amazed at Commander Forguile’s audacity. Prince Bifalt’s insolence was worse. The Bellegerin had only heartbeats left to live.
But then she realized that his attention had shifted. He was looking now, not at King Smegin, but at her.
Formally, as if she rather than her father ruled here, Prince Bifalt bowed. “My lady,” he said in the same raw, hoarse voice, “you are enough. You will be worth what you cost.”
His expression had not changed. His features might have been stone, too rigid to alter their own lines. But when she faced him, the dark smolder of his gaze seemed to scorch her. A flush rose in her cheeks. The skin of her whole body felt the same heat. In an instant, her revulsion and disgust became a passion like hate. She hated him—oh, she hated him—because he was Bellegerin.
And because he was not hers.
As soon as he turned his attention back to her father, she understood how it happened that men and women fainted. All the blood seemed to rush out of her. She had to grip the arms of her chair to hold herself upright.
Somehow, King Abbator’s son had given her a reason to be afraid.
King Smegin must have been as amazed as his daughter. He did not give the command that would have ended Prince Bifalt’s life.
“Then tell me, braggart,” he snarled. “Whelp. Insignificant son of a petty dotard. Butcher. Tell me all these things that I will not understand or know if you do not live to speak.”
The corner of Prince Bifalt’s mouth clenched at the word butcher. He betrayed no other reaction. For the first time, however, he addressed the King in a tone of careful courtesy.
“Majesty,” he said, “my coming shocks you. It must. What I have said offends you. It must. I understand your ire. I share it. But I hope you will believe me when I say that you will prefer to hear my tidings alone. You will not want witnesses until you have had time to consider my explanations. My gifts. My promises.”
“Please, Majesty,” put in Commander Forguile. “Grant us a private audience. I will be there”—abruptly, he drew his sword—“to ensure that Prince Bifalt speaks only the truth.”
The Prince opened his arms. “And I have no weapon, as you see. I cannot harm you. More than that, I do not wish to harm you. Our history of battle and bloodshed has become—” He hesitated for an instant. “I will not say it has become meaningless to me. That you will not believe. My own losses are too severe—and too recent. But our history has lost its poison in my heart. I have tasted too many other venoms. I have come to you because I have new concerns.”
Almost whispering, the Commander repeated, “Please, Majesty.”
New concerns. Other intentions. As Princess Estie had guessed. But still she could not imagine them.
She was not conscious of caring what answer her father would give. She only hoped that Prince Bifalt would not look at her again.
Or that he would.
If she had glanced at the King, she would have seen that he was torn. He was quick to anger, yes, and quick to punish insults. And his repeated failures to defeat Belleger had abraded his nerves until they cried out at any provocation. But he was not a fool. Any reference to the Magisters of the Last Repository was not a subject he could ignore. His dismay at what had been taken from him was too great.
Temporizing, he demanded, “Tell me, Commander. Are you persuaded by this Bellegerin brat’s absurd protestations of ‘good faith’?”
Commander Forguile had resumed his blank mask. Without pause or qualm, he answered, “I am, Majesty.”
He did not return his blade to its scabbard.
“And when you gave him my word,” continued the King, “were you confident that you were doing what I would have asked of you?”
Again, the captain showed no reluctance. “At first, Majesty, I was not. Now I am.”
“A long journey,” sneered King Smegin, “the Last Repository to Maloresse. Especially considering that you went first to Belleger’s Fist. We will speak of that disloyalty later. But you have had time enough for Abbator’s whelp to fill your ears with every kind of nonsense. No doubt that is why you are now confident.”
In response, Commander Forguile surprised Princess Estie by letting a hint of iron into his tone. “No, Majesty. I am not so foolish—and Prince Bifalt is not so dishonorable. I have reason for my confidence. Your word gives him reason to trust me.”
As if he were losing patience, the Prince said, “You know the power of secrets, Majesty. No doubt you believe I will use mine to do you or Amika some hurt. In your place, I would think as you do. But when you know my secrets—and Commander Forguile has vouched for them—the power will be yours. In your place, any ruler must study my secrets before he shares them.”
“Brigin!” rasped King Smegin: a common Amikan expletive. “Brigin and pestilence, boy! Do you suppose I need your counsel? Will you advise me how to rule? My father died young. I was King in Amika before you were born. Your life is already forfeit. I will do what I please with your secrets.”
Before Prince Bifalt could attempt a reply, the King whirled away. Over his shoulder, he snapped to Commander Forguile, “Bring him.” Then he strode from the hall, leaving his daughter still seated in her chair.
The Commander allowed his mouth to twist ruefully. Saying nothing, he gestured for Prince Bifalt to precede him. His bared blade hung loose in his hand with its tip pointing aimlessly at the stone of the floor.
Instead of obeying, King Abbator’s son took a moment to look at Princess Estie again.
His gaze was brief, but its heat touched her nonetheless. She might have been sitting too close to a bonfire. Sensations like flames spread down her body from her face. She could feel them in her feet. Her lips parted, unbidden, as if she were on the verge of some involuntary utterance: an expression of disgust, perhaps, or a demand to know his intentions. My lady, you are enough. But she could not find the words she wanted, or they caught in her throat. Or she was afraid to hear what he might say.
Prince Bifalt answered her silence with a nod like a shrug. He, too, did not speak. Instead, he turned back to Commander Forguile and murmured his acquiescence. Like a man who had come to the end of fear when he was done shouting, he followed after King Smegin with his companion, the Commander, at his back.
Although her father’s courtiers, functionaries, and guards remained around her, shocked motionless, Princess Estie was alone.
Despite the anxious hovering of her maids and attendants, the half-interested queries of her mother, and the curiosity of her flighty sisters, Princess Estie stayed alone in her apartments, or in herself, throughout that long day and its interminable evening. Her father did not send for her until after midnight.
No doubt she could have distracted herself with her studies, or with one of the activities that was supposed to interest young, highborn women: dances, music, designs for elaborate or seductive gowns. But her thoughts were full of other things, subjects that compelled her emotions, and therefore her attention—although she could hardly explain them to herself. She despised Bellegerins. Why did she care how Prince Bifalt looked at her, or what he said, or how he said it? Why did she fear his gaze? Why was she so interested in the precise cut of his mouth, or the scarred shapes of his hands? Why did the memory of his raw voice affect her like a fever?
You will be worth what you cost.
No! she told herself. No. I will not think about him. I will not wonder why he is here, or why he has put himself in such peril, or what he wants from me. I will not.
But she was her father’s daughter. He had taught her much; but he had not taught her to rule her mind and heart. He was Amika’s King: he did not trouble to practice self-rule. His daughter did not know how to find an inward quiet.
Brigin! she swore to herself as if the curse were an explanation. Brigin and pestilence! Brigin and treachery. The man was Bellegerin. Her enemy. Reviled. A nightmare for children. How was it possible that he had so much power over her?
In desperation, she tried to think about Commander Forguile instead. The Bellegerin’s unwitting companion, surely? Ennis Forguile was more than the commander of King Smegin’s honor guard. He was the most proven man in Amika. At times, Estie had suspected that her father intended her to marry the man when he returned from his mission to the Last Repository. That was unfortunate, as far as it went—she was not drawn to him—but it was less distasteful than a sour marriage with any son of Amika’s older families. She supposed that she could accept it, if her father insisted.
However, she had known from the first that Commander Forguile’s mission would be a long and challenging one. A trek across the eastern desert was not a task to be undertaken lightly, even by a man who knew the way. He would need courage, fortitude, and an abundance of supplies. He would need time. And then he would have to face the many pitfalls of the library itself. Its Magisters were known to be prickly men, sure of their stature, indirect in their intentions. They had stubbornly refused to share their knowledge of theurgy. And their stored knowledge on every other conceivable subject was vast. If they declined to help Commander Forguile themselves, he would have to search through a mountain of books to find what King Smegin wanted.
But whether he succeeded or failed, the Princess had known that he would be gone for a long time. Perhaps a very long time.
Much might change before the Commander returned. Especially if he brought with him the secrets of making cannon. Then King Smegin’s mind would be consumed by preparations for Belleger’s absolute defeat. His daughter might by spared the prospect of an unsatisfied marriage almost indefinitely.
Meanwhile, spies brought news from Belleger. A season or more after Commander Forguile’s departure, Prince Bifalt and a squad of riflemen left the Open Hand to search for the Last Repository.
For generations, Belleger’s ignorance of the library’s existence had been a source of comfort and pride in Amika. King Abbator’s realm was primitive indeed if it did not know the Last Repository. But then Amika’s superiority was threatened by more than rifles. Inspired by desperation, perhaps, or by a spy who had somehow slipped through King Smegin’s nets, Prince Bifalt set out on a mission of his own. Princess Estie understood perfectly when her father declared that it was imperative to stop the Prince. The Magisters who had refused Amika might choose to help Belleger instead.
In haste, an ambush was prepared, a combination of soldiers to strike and destitute, starving villagers to serve as bait. Their orders were to get well ahead of Prince Bifalt, then to find their way into Belleger through the gorge. Once there, the villagers would locate abandoned huts or hamlets and live there as Bellegerins until Bifalt’s company passed that way. When the Prince had been seen often enough to confirm his position and heading, the soldiers would attack. By King Smegin’s command, they would leave neither Bifalt nor his escort alive.
Estie considered it a good plan, likely to succeed. Yet it failed. The villagers were scattered, and only three of the soldiers returned to Maloresse. Surprise had not enabled them to defeat Bellegerin rifles.
This news made Commander Forguile’s mission more than merely arduous and complicated: it was now endangered. Suddenly, King Smegin and Princess Estie and Amika had to hope that Prince Bifalt would fail to find the library. Or that Commander Forguile would kill the Bellegerin on sight.
But now— Ah, now. Commander Forguile had certainly been away longer than anyone had expected. But finally he had come back. Bringing with him Amika’s most dangerous enemy: a man who had clearly found the Last Repository, and had gained what he wanted from the Magisters. And now, of all times, the outcome of Commander Forguile’s purpose, and of King Smegin’s hopes, was kept from Princess Estie.
Worse, the Bellegerin’s intentions were kept from her. She had spent half of the morning, all of the afternoon, and a long evening waiting; and still she did not know what Prince Bifalt had said to her father, or shared with him, or given him. She did not know if or when her father had ordered the Prince’s death. She did not know what had been, or would be, done with his body. Burned among the crippled and impoverished on the charnel-field outside Maloresse? Sent back to King Abbator to show Amika’s contempt? Left for the crows along some roadside?
She felt unspeakably galled that King Smegin had chosen now to exclude her from his thoughts and decisions. At unexpected moments, the image of Prince Bifalt with his eyes dulled, his mouth stopped, his body ruined by Commander Forguile’s blade, almost brought her to tears.
She did not shed them. Unlike her mother, she was not a woman who wept. She took pride in that.
But when the summons to attend her father finally knocked on her door, long after the hour when she would normally have been in bed, she came close to fainting for the second time in her life.
Instantly, what she feared changed. Now it was not that Prince Bifalt had been killed. It was that he was still alive. That she would be forced to meet with him, and endure his gaze again, and hear the worn-out sound of his voice. That she would be expected to speak with him—
Nevertheless she hurried to answer the summons. She was more afraid of being left in ignorance than she was of any life or death she might be asked to face.
King Smegin’s apartments were not as luxurious as hers. He saw no reason to impress anyone who attended him there. And he was proud of the years he had spent as a soldier when his father was still alive. His rooms looked like a soldier’s. But his first room was far larger than hers. Where hers served as a sitting room, a place where she could entertain guests or herself, his was his council chamber. It held an abundance of sturdy chairs and a long table strewn with maps, letters, and tomes. But there was no desk. When he wrote something himself, he did so in a more private room.
One thick tallow candle with a tall flame gave the only light in the chamber. It stood on the table. There were shadows and darkness everywhere outside its reach, lurking like bad omens.
By candlelight, Princess Estie found the King sitting in an armchair beside the table. He was alone—and obviously very drunk. There were four empty wine jugs lying on their sides on the table, he had his fist wrapped around the neck of another, and two more waited nearby. His greying hair stood up from his head as if he had spent hours trying to pull it out. A few droplets of wine hung in the disarray of his beard. When he turned his head to regard his daughter, his eyes seemed unwilling to focus.
Seeing him like this, his wife would have turned and left, shutting the door softly behind her. His younger daughters might have fled, letting the door slam to mask their squeals of laughter. Princess Estie closed the door, bolted it to ensure that no one intruded on the King in his condition, then crossed the room to stand in front of her father.
She had been alone with him on similar occasions in the past; but he had not been this drunk. Perhaps those earlier occasions were not similar at all. Perhaps his excess now was unprecedented.
Feeling simultaneously relieved and appalled, she scanned the floor for signs of blood. But there were none.
So. The Bellegerin was not here. She would not be expected to face him. And he had not been killed here. He might still be alive.
Unless King Smegin had ordered him killed elsewhere. Or Commander Forguile had slain the Prince hours ago, giving the servants time to clean the floor. Or the stains were hidden in shadows.
Almost at once, Estie dismissed those possibilities. The Commander was obviously Prince Bifalt’s ally. They had a shared purpose. Ennis Forguile had promised to kill the Bellegerin on command, but Estie did not believe that he would obey without protest. She could imagine him protesting at length, especially when he and Prince Bifalt were alone with the King; when no one else would hear him present arguments that sounded disloyal.
Standing in front of her father with her hands on her hips, Princess Estie spoke in a voice that no other person still living dared to use with King Smegin.
“Did you kill him?”
The King rolled his eyes. His head lolled on his neck. “Kill him?” he asked. In a drunken attempt to sound crafty, he countered, “Who?”
Estie stamped her foot. Her father would tolerate a display of impatience from her, if from no one else. “You know who. You are the King of Amika. Answer me like the King. Did you kill King Abbator’s son? The inheriting Prince of Belleger?”
Her tone and manner had the effect she wanted. They made her father marginally more sober. Peering up at her, his gaze came into focus briefly. Then it wandered away.
“Him?” he muttered. “That arrogant puppy? He was rude to me. His people are butchers. His father is a dying goat. Why do you care?”
She did not relent. “I do not care about him.” She tried to believe that was the truth. “I want an answer.”
King Smegin belched indecorously. Then he sighed. “Did I kill him? No. He and Forguile went off together. By now, they are probably as drunk as I am.” Sighing again, he shuddered. “Celebrating.”
Celebrating? Princess Estie raised a slim eyebrow. His reply told her much and nothing. It told her that her father had been swayed, but it did not reveal what he had accepted, or why he had accepted it. What had he given away? And how had Commander Forguile been persuaded to support Prince Bifalt?
Moving slowly, she pulled a chair closer so that she could sit facing him. Her knees almost touched his as she gently took hold of his wine jug, urged his fingers to let it go, then put it down on the table. Wrapping his hands in hers, she stroked them tenderly.
“What do they have to celebrate, Father?”
Without looking at her, he snorted sourly. “Success. What else?”
“Success?” She made her voice as sweet as she could, as musical. “What did they gain?”
“Gain?” For a moment, he tried to meet her gaze; but his sight was blurred with tears, and he had to turn away. “Gain?”
Abruptly, he jerked his hands free, lurched to his feet. Snatching up his wine jug, he took a sloppy drink, then walked out into the center of the room, catching himself on the backs of chairs when he staggered; putting distance between himself and his favorite daughter. Beyond the light of the candle, he appeared to move furtively from one place of concealment to another.
“That arrogant. Arrogant.” He made a visible effort to shout, but he did not have the strength for it. “Arrogant. Son of a diseased bitch.” His voice sank to a whisper. “Has humbled me. I am his pawn. He does what he wants with me.”
Princess Estie did not move. She watched her father with concern and love and something like terror in her eyes. Restraining herself, she waited until he drank again. Then she said as firmly as she could, “I do not believe you. You are the King of Amika. No one does what they want with you.”
Clearly, King Smegin had been shaken to his foundations. Prince Bifalt had that much power over him. Where had a prince of Belleger acquired so much force? How had he acquired it?
“That Bellegerin does,” answered the King more strongly. “I should have seen it. Ennis Forguile is not a man who gives his loyalty to the first foe he meets. But I was too angry to think—”
While her father drained his wine jug and tossed it aside, the Princess composed herself. “Then tell me,” she said when he was done. “What did the Bellegerin reveal? What did he give you? What did he promise?”
She did not ask, What did you give him in return? That question she held in reserve.
Bracing both arms on the back of a chair, King Smegin faced her across the room. Shadows masked his features. She could not read his expression. But despite his inebriation, his tone was terrible in its clarity and venom.
Behind it, she heard an ache of fear—and a strangely abased hope.
“There is a war coming,” he said. “It will not come soon, but it is certain.” Each word was distinct. “And when it comes, it will trample both Belleger and Amika, if we do not stand together.
“Prince Bifalt believes that. He learned it from the Magisters of the Last Repository. It is not our war. It is aimed at them. At the library. A great army with unimaginable numbers and unimaginable sorceries will come to attack the Last Repository. It will not be content until every book is burned and the whole stronghold is rubble. But it will come through us. We will be destroyed because we are in the way.
“The Prince believes this so strongly that he does not fear me. He does not even fear to sacrifice his people. And he does not choose to crush us, although he was offered the means. Instead, he hopes we will not crush Belleger. He wants to unite our realms. But if I refuse, he will give me the power to defeat him. He has given it. To show his ‘good faith.’ When the real war comes, the enemy must face two realms that fight as one.
“And he believes all this so strongly that his father believes it as well. Abbator is a failing dotard, worn down by a war he cannot win even with rifles, but he believes his son. And he has the courage to risk what I will do with his son’s gift.”
Sitting motionless in her chair, Princess Estie trembled deep within herself. Her own foundations were no longer sure. She did not know how to understand what she heard.
With an effort of will, she made herself sound calm. Softly, she asked, “How did you answer him, Father?”
He wants to unite—?
In response, King Smegin’s voice slipped into exasperated slurring. “I laughed at him. What did you expect? I am the King of Amika. I laughed in his face.”
She knew her father too well. She could hardly see his features, but she could interpret every flick and snarl of his tone. His sudden slurring was a mask. She heard venom, yes—but she heard other emotions as well, hints of ideas and desires that he did not want to acknowledge, even to her.
She surprised herself by refusing to believe that he had laughed at the Prince.
Still calmly, she asked, “And what has King Abbator’s son given you, Father?”
Braced on a chair-back, he seemed to crouch at the farthest edge of the candlelight. She watched him release the chair while he turned his back on her. She thought she saw him cover his face with his hands.
Muffled and distant, he said like a plea, “Can you not guess? It must be obvious. Why else does Ennis Forguile stand with him? Why else is that arrogant puppy so fearless?” With one arm, he made an obscure gesture. “It is on the table.”
Princess Estie did not glance aside. She kept her gaze fixed on her father. Despite his drunkenness, she was not inclined to spare him the burden of telling her the truth.
“What is it?” she insisted. “There is too little light. How will I know it when I see it?”
A wrenching movement of King Smegin’s shape made him look like he was clawing at his hair. “It is a book,” he snapped, absurdly furious. “A heavy book. The writer is Sylan Estervault.” Then he appeared to sag. “It is A Treatise on the Fabrication of Cannon Using Primitive Means.”
Commander Forguile’s mission.
“The Magisters surrendered it”—for a moment, Estie’s father sounded almost broken—“but not to Forguile. They gave it to that cursed Prince. He gave it to Forguile. And he gave his word that he would not take it back. Forguile vouches for him.”
Princess Estie was stunned. At first, she could not think at all. Then she could only think, Cannon. Victory. Cannon could defeat rifles. Not easily, perhaps. Not quickly. But with enough of them—
The Magisters had put the book in Belleger’s hands. Belleger would have rifles and cannon. That meant victory. The enemy could cut through Amika like a scythe through wheat.
But Prince Bifalt had made a different choice. And he had convinced his father to support him. He had given—
What manner of man was he, this Bellegerin Prince? How could he—?
Estie sounded small to herself as she asked, “Do you credit his tale, Father? A great army. A war against the library. Amika and Belleger destroyed. Do you believe him?”
“I must!” cried the man whom she had trusted for all of her short life. “He learned of it from the Magisters of the Last Repository. The Magisters! Commander Forguile did not. He learned nothing. He was given nothing. It was all that rude whelp. He learned. He was given. And then he gave. With the book and his new knowledge, he persuaded my best soldier. Brigin, Daughter! He persuaded his father! Of all men living, Abbator has more cause to hate me, yet he put his life and his people and his realm in his son’s hands. How could I doubt that Prince?
“Could you?” demanded the King as if she had challenged his authority. “I saw how he looked at you.” As if she had turned against him. “Could you doubt him?”
She had no answer. She did not think about Prince Bifalt at all now. Her father’s fear had come out of hiding, emerged from its concealment of distance and wine. It scattered her thoughts in unbidden directions. For the first time in her life, she wondered whether he had truly foreseen an invasion from the north. Had that been nothing more than an excuse? A way to justify his desire for Belleger’s destruction? If he had prepared himself for a larger war, why was he frightened to hear that it was aimed, not at Amika, but at the Last Repository?
And why did she hear a note of abject hope mingled with his fear and fury?
His distress, like his explanations, raised as many questions as they answered. Instead of answering his demand, as a dutiful daughter should, she pursued her earlier queries. Summoning her composure, she spoke like a woman who knew her own mind.
“You told me what he knows, Father. You told me what he gives.” She nodded at the table. “The book is here. We can make cannon. Now tell me what he promised.”
When she knew that, she would know what the King of Amika had given away.
He replied with a strangled curse. It rose into an inarticulate yell of frustration. Then he cut it off. At the edge of the chamber’s darkness, he seemed to shake himself as if he were casting off his drunkenness. A moment later, he came back into the candle’s wan light.
He moved stiffly, like a man who had been beaten with clubs, but he did not lurch or stagger between the chairs. His mouth was clenched with anger, yet his eyes were full of plain dread. When he reached the place beside the table where his daughter sat, he did not meet her gaze. Instead he sat down in front of her, where he had been sitting earlier. Tentatively, as if he expected a rebuff, he took both of her hands, folded them in his.
“He wants peace,” said the King in a low growl. “He has already come far to win it. He has promised to do more.
“If I will make peace with him—if I will agree to his terms—he will restore sorcery.” Her father’s clasp tightened momentarily. “I mean he will provide for its restoration. And not only in Belleger. It was the Magisters of the library who made us impotent.” Just for an instant, his tone was hot enough to raise blisters. “They made me impotent.” Then he subsided. “But if that Prince can arrange peace between us, they will reawaken sorcery in both realms. They will do so themselves, or they will teach their pet Prince how it is done.
“Commander Forguile confirms this. He was present when the Prince and the Magisters struck their bargain. He was included in it by the Prince.”
None of this shocked the Princess. It was too much for her to comprehend in an instant: it had too many ramifications. But it fit with what she had heard in her father’s voice, the fear and the hope. It fit the man he was becoming in her eyes. And it told her what he would say next.
Suppressing a small shudder, she asked the top of his head, “What answer did you give him?”
Without looking up, he replied like a man who had knots in his throat, “We will have peace. I gave my word. I will not take it back. My fathers in their graves will curse me, but I will not take it back. How can I refuse a Bellegerin who would rather see his homeland destroyed than face his future without Amika? A man who knows so much more than I do, and is not afraid? A man who has promised to restore me?
“I must have my gift.” He was barely whispering, yet his voice held his oldest passions. “I am not whole without it.”
She understood him now. He had made himself clear. He was not afraid for Amika. He was afraid for himself. He did not grasp at hope for his people. Prince Bifalt had given him hope for his own needs.
His gift was the Decimate of lightning. She had seen him use it more than once, when he was furious at one or another of his subjects. The sight had made her wonder about herself. She still wondered. What had she inherited from him? Did she, too, have a gift? If so, what was it? How could she wield it?
But she understood other things as well. She should have realized long ago that he was not primarily concerned for Amika. He did not resemble Prince Bifalt, who was not afraid to face death or risk his own people. King Smegin’s first thoughts were for himself.
She wished that he would look at her, but he did not. Instead, he seemed interested only in her hands. He held them, stroked them, as if they had the power to give him what he wanted. What he needed.
Unable to see his face, Princess Estie studied the tangled mess of his hair. It resembled her confusion. She did not know how to name what she felt. Was it dismay? Could she feel disgust for the man who had made her his favorite while he scorned his wife and ridiculed his younger daughters? Was she able to imagine that he had sent his men to fight and die against Belleger—sent them over and over again—for no better reason than personal pride? What had their deaths cost him, apart from frustration and a sense of diminishment?
In fact, he had not suffered a personal blow until Amika had been deprived of sorcery. And now he was prepared to forget all of those battles and all of that bloodshed, all of that history, so that he could be whole again?
Had he always been so petty?
How much had she inherited from him?
“Is there more?” She sounded eerily detached. Her thoughts were elsewhere. “Tell me.”
“There are conditions,” he answered more bitterly. “I am required to meet his terms. It is not enough that we put an end to our fighting. We must work together. We must prepare ourselves to face the library’s enemy. We must help each other prepare. And we must combine our armies.”
King Smegin paused to curse. “Under his command, naturally. Amikans must serve with Bellegerins. Bellegerins must serve with Amikans. They will not do it, but they must.” He sighed heavily. “He does not demand the rule of Amika. He does not offer the rule of Belleger. To that extent, he is not deranged. But we must support each other as if we are one people, as we were before.”
Estie knew what he meant. Before Brigin and Fastule divided their father’s realm. Before Brigin murdered Malorie on King Fastule’s wedding day.
Now the Princess herself was frightened. She had heard too much in too short a time. With every word, her King changed her world. He changed its very substance. All of its solid facts had become liquid. She could not hold them: they leaked between her fingers. Her father’s hands seemed to squeeze them away.
The light of the one candle shrank around them until it illuminated only the King bowed forward in his chair and the Princess sitting upright. She still wore the gown her mother had chosen for her meeting with Commander Forguile and the disguised Bellegerin Prince. Her voice trembled as she asked, “Is that all, Father?”
It was already too much. But she knew by King Smegin’s manner that he was not done.
He was not done with her.
His shoulders hunched as if he meant to crush her hands, break the bones so that they could not resist the shape of his desires. But he only held her tightly. He did not hurt her. His voice was soft. It was also harsh. It was tender and cruel.
“Abbator has one further condition. That Prince is content, but if we do not satisfy his father, we will not have peace.
“The King of Belleger insists that you must wed the Prince, his son and heir. He knows nothing about you, except that you are my daughter. And he does not care what his son’s inclinations may be. He cares only that you two are wed.
“Also the ceremony must be held in Belleger’s Fist. According to the fables Bellegerins tell themselves—lies to appease their guilt—that is where King Fastule killed Malorie to prevent her from marrying Brigin. Abbator believes that your wedding there will heal the oldest of our wounds.
“They have rewritten the past.” Estie’s father did not mask his scorn. “We know the truth. We do not need lies to shore up our honor. But truth is not the issue. The issue is Abbator’s condition. His demand.
“If you do not comply, there will be no sorcery. Amika and Belleger will pursue their war with rifles and cannon until the library’s enemy comes to destroy us all.”
Abruptly, King Smegin reached the end of his restraint. He let his anger take flame.
“And that Prince said all this to me—to me—with no flicker on his face. No disdain. No triumph. No desire. No fear. As if he were certain of my answer and could not imagine doubt.
“Do you understand now why I call him an arrogant puppy? Why I say his father is a failing dotard? Why I deride Belleger and its rulers and its people? He dares to demand you from me. He knows I cannot refuse. He knows you will not refuse, if I ask it.”
Raging quietly, he commanded, “Give me your answer, Daughter. State your willingness. Then I can send that Prince away. Let him go back to his father and be proud of his success. We can leave the negotiations to my chancellor and whoever serves Abbator. You will not need to sully your eyes with the sight of any Bellegerin again until the time comes for your wedding.”
Estie quaked in her father’s grasp. She had realized a moment ago that he wanted something from her. Why else had he performed his explanations like an elaborate masque? He could have had her understanding—even her sympathy—without so much effort.
But this? To give herself to a Bellegerin? The inheriting Prince of a people whom he had taught her to despise? A man whose features might have been carved with a knife? A man with scarred hands and such heat in his gaze? A man whose raw, hoarse voice betrayed the cost of his self-control? She would rather she died, or he did. Or her father—
Trembling, she asked, “Will I be killed, Father? In Belleger’s Fist? Where I will be helpless in the hands of my enemies? Is that how they will heal their oldest wound?”
“What?” The King jerked up his head, met her pleading gaze. She accomplished that much, if no more than that. “No. Of course not. Spare me such nonsense. You are not a child. The arrogance of that Prince is beyond endurance, but he believes what he says. He believes that Belleger and Amika must have peace. He will do nothing to endanger it.”
Finally, her father was looking at her; but she found that she could not bear it. She turned her head away as if she were ashamed. She was supposed to be a young woman, old enough to marry, old enough to want marriage. But she felt like a girl threatened with a punishment she did not understand or deserve. She wanted to beg—
The Prince had done this to her, Bifalt of Belleger. Even the memory of his drained voice made her heart quake.
Avoiding her father’s eyes, she stared at the candle flame. There was no air in the chamber, hardly enough to breathe, but the flame danced and hesitated, as uncertain as her future.
“Then will you not kill him?” she asked. “For my sake? To spare me—?”
King Smegin’s answer was a twisted, unconvincing smile. “How can I? He will be your husband.” Then he said more roughly, “And without him, we will not have sorcery. I must have my gift.”
Instead of sighing aloud, or attempting a brave, false response, Princess Estie blew out the candle so that her father would not see the tears running down her cheeks.