TWELVE
KING’S SECRET
When Queen Estie rode to the Flower of Amika at dawn to collect her companions, the sight of Magister Facile relieved one of her many anxieties. The sorceress looked less frail. She must have slept longer than her usual few hours, or perhaps she had slept repeatedly. And the inn had fed her well, as Estie had known it would.
Seeing Amika’s Queen, Magister Facile arranged her face in a dour scowl. Like Estie, she knew what was at stake. Unlike Estie, she knew why she had determined to travel with the Queen. When she assayed the Queen, her eyes were gimlet and probing. Then she shook her head as if she could name Estie’s shortcomings and found them distasteful.
In contrast, the devotee of Spirit seemed unchanged. As she often did, she kept most of her face hidden by the hood of her white cloak; but the glimpses Queen Estie caught were of a wry smile and an air of eagerness. Lylin, too, knew her own intentions, if Estie did not. Unlike Magister Facile, the assassin had already demonstrated her worth.
Estie assumed that she herself looked worn-out, fretted with worry. She had spent a restless night after her talk with her mother. Queen Rubia’s view of King Smegin dismayed her. It also confused her. Clearly, he hated the Magisters of the library. But how would a war with the Nuuri speed his approach to the Last Repository? How would his daughter’s death help him get revenge?
Was it possible that he believed killing her would prevent King Bifalt from learning of his intentions?
No part of her father’s plotting made sense to her.
But she did not let her concerns—or Magister Facile’s expression—slow her. She needed to hurry. For all she knew, she was already too late. Dismissing even the most common pleasantries, she led her companions out of the inn.
Outside, Commander Crayn and Estie’s familiar escort were waiting for her. Their presence gave the Queen a measure of reassurance. Over the years, they had spent long days together. Crayn and his men remained respectful and diligent; but they were able to relax in her company. And none of them were old enough to know what their lives would have been under King Smegin’s rule. None of them had cause to fear her father.
Under the circumstances, Estie wanted soldiers who were loyal to her personally. In general, her honor guard served her because she was Amika’s Queen. Confronted with a choice between her and King Smegin, those men might hesitate. Even the ones Commander Soulcess trusted most might hesitate. Her father could threaten them with the Decimate of lightning. But Commander Crayn and his company would not falter.
Smiling her gratitude, Estie vaulted from the porch of the inn into the saddle of her mount. She waited impatiently while the devotee of Spirit helped Magister Facile onto a horse. Then, trusting Lylin to join her, she wheeled away. With Commander Crayn at her side and five of his men ranging ahead, she went at a brisk canter toward the parade ground in front of Amika’s Desire.
There she was reassured again. In the open field, she saw only Commander Soulcess and the men she had called out by name awaiting her, armed, armored, and mounted. Sub-Commander Hellick and his troop had already left to ride her road eastward, rushing to rescue enslaved Nuuri. And sub-Commander Waysel’s company had no reason to be present. He could not depart until the cannon and shot were gathered from their several forges and storage sheds, loaded onto wagons, and secured for travel. His train might not depart for Belleger and the Bay of Lights until the next day.
But when Estie surveyed the gathered men and their horses more closely, she felt an unexpected pang of alarm. Apparently, Commander Soulcess had decided to exceed his orders. On his own initiative? She doubted that. It was more likely that Chancellor Sikthorn had made the suggestion. But the result was not what she wanted. It was too dangerous.
In a clutch off to one side, keeping their distance from common guardsmen, were three Magisters. Their fine horses demonstrated their intention to accompany her.
Estie swore under her breath. Those three were all that she had allowed to remain in Maloresse. Their Decimates were fire, drought, and pestilence: the city might need them. But she had sent every other Amikan Magister elsewhere, either to distant regions of the realm that required aid, or to Belleger.
“Majesty!” said Magister Facile tensely. “Your Magisters. They cannot come with us.”
I know, snorted Estie to herself. Snapping her reins, she urged her mount toward Commander Soulcess.
Full of self-esteem and doubt, the first officer sat his horse at the head of his guardsmen. He may have been proud of himself for doing more than his Queen had asked; but he was also painfully aware that he had never commanded soldiers in battle, or fought for his life. When he saw the expression on Estie’s face, he flinched, realizing suddenly that he had made a mistake, but unable to guess what it was.
Without greeting or preamble, the Queen snapped, “Deliver my thanks to those Magisters. Tell them to remain in Maloresse. By my command, they must not leave their duties.”
Then she grabbed more self-control out of her vexation. “I value your forethought, sir,” she added. “But I will not expose any Magister to our foe. I cannot refuse Magister Facile. I lack the authority to command her. My theurgists must obey me.
“See to it, Commander.”
She did not explain that she also had another reason for leaving her Magisters behind. If the massing Nuuri had not already begun their march into Amika, they had surely sent scouts to watch her father’s movements; and she did not want them to think that she intended an attack on them. From the perspective of the Nuuri, her soldiers were enough to pose a threat. A cadre of Magisters—even a cadre as small as three—would confirm the impression that she meant war.
The first officer gulped. “As you say, Majesty.” His face showed a mixture of consternation and relief as he turned his mount and cantered away to dismiss the Magisters.
While Queen Estie watched Soulcess, Crayn brought his mount to her side. In a low voice, he asked, “A foe, Majesty? One that can threaten sorcerers? Where will we go to find such a foe?”
She did not glance at him. Commander Soulcess was approaching her Magisters. She wanted to watch their reactions. And she knew that she did not need to be cautious with Crayn.
“Where did you think we would go?” she murmured. “Before you heard me speak of a foe?”
“East, Majesty?” ventured her escort commander. “Pursuing deserters?”
Absently, Estie nodded. The first officer was speaking to the theurgists, but she could not hear him. At this distance, the faces of the Magisters were illegible. However, he had not dismounted: an act which he probably intended to emphasize her command, but which they would interpret as discourtesy.
Almost whispering, Crayn asked, “Will you punish them, Majesty? They belong to your honor guard. They took the oath. Do you mean to execute them?”
Like men crippled in battle, deserters had been summarily put to death during King Smegin’s reign, often by the King himself.
Intent on the Magisters, Queen Estie answered, “Of course not.” Now one of them was shouting at Soulcess. The other two turned away. In their postures astride their mounts, she saw disgust. But were they angry because she had refused their protection? Because she had denied them a chance to join King Smegin? Or merely because they resented the first officer’s manner?
Her nerves were too raw. Fearing treachery, she looked for hints of it everywhere when in fact most Amikans had good reason to value their Queen. Certainly, none of her Magisters—with the obvious exception of Magister Flense—had resisted her reign.
Sighing, she turned her attention to Commander Crayn.
“Why would I execute them? I mean to bring them back.” Later, she would make up her mind about the thugs and estate guards Sikthorn had mentioned; about King Smegin’s retinue of soldiers. “They are Amikan. I want their lives, not their deaths. And the great war for the library is coming. We will need as many men as we can muster. Men and women.”
Studying her escort commander, she saw approval in his sandstone gaze. “As you say, Majesty.” He may have been smiling.
Queen Estie sighed again. She had encouraged Crayn to underestimate her intentions. Perhaps she had succeeded. Nevertheless she had told him the truth—or part of it. For that matter, she had told Commander Soulcess the same. If she could do it, she was not going to expose any Amikan lives to her father’s sorcery. Magister Facile and the devotee of Spirit had chosen to accompany her. They knew what was at stake. The first officer’s contingent of her honor guard did not. She wanted them with her, but not to fight. Instead, she hoped that Commander Soulcess and his men by their mere presence would daunt King Smegin’s forces. Dishearten or shame them; sway them somehow. Convince them to stand aside. She meant to approach her father without bloodshed.
If her coming caused a battle, Amikan against Amikan, she might never get a chance to forestall the greater threat: the prospect of an invasion from the north.
With that bitter prospect souring her thoughts, she waited for Commander Soulcess to rejoin her. Then she led him and his company, her escort, and her companions off the parade ground to the nearest street heading eastward through Maloresse.
By the measure of Magister Facile’s stamina, the Queen and her small army made better progress than she had expected. During the first day, they passed through a town large enough to refresh and resupply them. Pausing there gave the sorceress an hour of rest. And that night, they reached a village where Estie and everyone with her could unpack their bedding in various barns and stables. Apart from the men on watch, they were able to sleep in comparative comfort.
The next day was more difficult. They had gone beyond the fields and farms that clustered around Maloresse; the orchards and vineyards; the wide pastures of the horse-breeders; the many woods that had been reduced to copses by the city’s appetite for timber and fuel. Their way took them into more rugged terrain, hills that discouraged grazing, stony flats that were not worth cultivating. Here there was no true road. Instead, the Queen’s force rode along wagon-tracks with deep ruts, or on paths trampled flat by sheep, cattle, and horses. Occasional hamlets punctuated the landscape, habitations for folk who preferred isolation and could subsist on their gardens, their pigs, and their scavenging for veins of ores beneath the shallow topsoil; but Estie bypassed them. They had nothing to spare for a company as large as hers. Turning aside to visit them would have made her journey longer.
Pushing Magister Facile as hard as she dared until sunset, the Queen brought her force to the edge of the only substantial obstacle in her path: the place where King Smegin’s spies would keep watch, and she might be attacked.
It was a vast forest of cedar, dense and deep, so crowded with trees that they blocked daylight, stunting most of the undergrowth. From the moment when she had first seen it, more than a year after she became Queen, Estie had loved it. Its trees were glorious in sunshine, its shadows thronged with hints of mystery, and the rich fragrance of its oils and needles was balm to her nerves. She had always meant to have it surveyed to determine its full extent, but more immediate concerns consistently demanded her attention. Early in her reign, she had worried that the wood would be harvested; that the forest would be gradually gnawed away. Now she knew better.
During the generations of the old wars, the forest had been called Solace Wood. In her studies of Amika’s geography as a girl, Estie had learned that the Wood was known to hold a large glade near its center, a place of wild grasses where streams came together and ran south to join the Line River. But now the woodland had a new name: King’s Secret. No one cut trees there because King Smegin had claimed the forest. He protected it.
His sanctuary was there, in the heart of the glade.
She had only visited him once, and only then at his invitation. A season after her coronation, he had sent a message asking her to come and see how he lived. At that time, she was still enough of her father’s daughter to be pleased by the request. And she had wondered how long he would be content in his isolation. But the same message forbade her to bring her husband: a prohibition that cast her excursion in a more anxious light. Apparently, King Smegin still felt outplayed by his Bellegerin rival—and still resented his defeat.
Arriving in the glade, Queen Estie had found that his self-imposed exile was a polite fiction. He had a score of retainers with nothing to do except serve and entertain him, carry messages and spy for him. In addition, at least twice that many soldiers attended him as his personal guard. During the two days that she spent in his company, she had learned almost nothing about him; certainly nothing that explained his decision to isolate himself. He had obviously not lost interest in Amika. He asked questions by the dozens. And if she asked one herself, he used it as a pretext to hear more about how she ruled Amika; how she dealt with King Bifalt; how Amika and Belleger managed each other. When she finally forced herself to insist, he told her only what he had told her before, that he had withdrawn so she could rule over a clear field, one free of conflicting loyalties.
After that occasion, she had promised herself that she would not visit again. His interest in her doings had not flattered her. It had kept her at a distance. And she felt more than a little irate that he distrusted her husband, the man who had given Amika peace. During the years that followed, she found that promise easier and easier to keep.
But no longer. Now, while her company made camp at sunset on the edge of King’s Secret, she wanted nothing more than to ride through the night until she reached the glade and the manor-house with its outbuildings that her father called his sanctuary. She wanted to face him and be done with it. To demand an explanation for his actions—and to compel his help in undoing them.
The track inward was plain enough. It had been kept clear by the passing of horses and wagons in both directions, many of them. All she needed was moonlight, and she could ride—
—until one of King Smegin’s guardians objected to her presence. Or until she inadvertently surprised a band of Nuuri scouts. That could happen. The track wore a thick carpet of cedar needles. Even galloping, her mount’s hooves would be almost silent.
Still, the trees called to her. Lit by the westering sun, they seemed to glow with invitations. They held answers. In their depths, she might discover what lay behind King Smegin’s actions. She might even learn something about her purported gift for sorcery.
She did not notice Commander Crayn’s approach. When he spoke, he startled her.
“Do not think it, Majesty,” he warned. Her hunger to go on must have shown in her eyes, her manner. “There will surely be guards. If they cannot see who you are, you will end your journey with a clutch of arrows in your chest.”
Because she trusted him, she said softly, grimly, “The risk is greater than you know. But the risk of delay is great as well.” Then she shook her head. “Still, I hear you. I will avoid as many dangers as I can.”
Crayn might have said more, but while he considered his response, Magister Facile came closer. Without Lylin’s help, she might have fallen when she had dismounted. On her feet, she looked more than ever like a failing crone. Nevertheless she hurried toward Estie, leaning heavily on her cane.
“Majesty!” she called: a gasp intended to sound peremptory. “I must speak.” Glancing at the Commander, she added, “Alone.”
With a nod to Crayn, Queen Estie lowered herself from her horse; wavered a moment until she remembered the feeling of solid ground. Then she handed her reins to one of Crayn’s soldiers and faced the sorceress.
With a bemused expression, Crayn rode away to settle his command. The soldier followed him with Estie’s horse.
But when Magister Facile reached the Queen, she said nothing. Instead, she gripped Estie’s arm with her free hand and drew Estie farther away from the slow seethe and confusion of more than fifty men dismounting, setting pickets, starting campfires, arranging their bedrolls. The older woman did not stop until there was no chance of being overheard.
Panting to catch her breath, she stood with her back to the rest of the company. By degrees, she eased her hold on Estie’s arm.
Over the Magister’s shoulder, Queen Estie saw the devotee of Spirit accost Commander Crayn. He dismounted to greet her.
“Majesty,” began the sorceress, “understand this. It is vital. I must be nearby when you meet King Smegin. But I cannot enter his presence.”
Almost at once, Lylin and Crayn began an earnest conversation. At first, they seemed to be arguing; trying to persuade each other. But soon their discussion changed. Clearly, the Commander was asking questions. With her usual ease, the devotee answered them.
“When we enter the forest,” insisted the old woman, “I must not be known as a Magister. Until you reach your father, the solution is simple enough. I will put aside my robe. A servant’s garb will disguise me. His men will not know me.”
While Estie watched, the assassin and Commander Crayn reached an agreement. Together, they walked toward Commander Soulcess.
“But he will know me,” said Magister Facile harshly. “He will see that I have power.
“Majesty, I must be nearby—and King Smegin must not catch sight of me.”
The Queen could see that Soulcess did not like what Crayn and Lylin were saying. His first retorts were imperious. Then he began shouting. But the general clamor of the men and their animals masked his voice.
With an effort, Estie forced herself to give the sorceress her attention. In King Bifalt’s name, Prince Jaspid had asked her if she trusted Magister Facile. Estie could not think of a reason why she should.
“Be plain with me, Magister.” She held the old woman’s black-currant gaze until Facile looked away. “I have heard that one sorcerer can sense another’s power. Surely my father will feel your presence?”
The old woman replied with a hiss of scorn. “One sorcerer can sense another’s power—when that power is used. When that power is withheld, no sorcerer can recognize another, except by sight. If he does not see me, he will not know what I am.”
Estie had expected some such explanation. She accepted it with a nod. “Then tell me. Are you able to counter my father’s Decimate?”
“If we are fortunate,” snapped Magister Facile, “we will never know.” But then she appeared to relent. “We have spoken of this, Majesty,” she said like a sigh. “At times, a truth hidden has more power than a truth revealed.”
Remembering the Magister’s uselessness during the attempt on her life, Estie demanded, “Is that your answer? Do you expect it to content me? Magister, I have spent my life grieving because I have no gift. You tell me that I do. Then you give me nothing. Instead, you hide behind obscure utterances about the power of secrets. Do you imagine that I am able to trust you?”
In a flash of vehemence, the theurgist met Estie’s gaze again. Her face twisted itself into lines that matched her ire. “Majesty,” she said harshly, “you will trust me because I have chosen to accompany you for this sole purpose. You will trust me because King Bifalt does. You will accept my answers because he does. My secret will remain mine until I choose to reveal it. Your secret is beyond me. I will not touch it.
“I must be near when you meet with King Smegin. He must not see me.”
Without Queen Estie’s assent or comprehension, Magister Facile turned sharply and stamped away, jabbing at the ground with her cane as if she sought to pierce it to the heart.
Estie stared after her. It is my life! she wanted to shout. You are risking my life! I want my inheritance!
But that was unfair. She was risking her own life. She had come here because she was the Queen of Amika, not because of anything that Magister Facile had said or done. With or without the Magister’s support, she would have accepted the challenge of her father’s treachery. The old woman’s only role had been to slow her. Even the Magister’s claims about an unawakened talent for sorcery were little more than taunts. They changed nothing. Certainly, they did not make King Smegin any more dangerous—or any less.
Still, Estie was furious. She was almost relieved to see Commander Soulcess storming toward her. Indirectly, he might give her an outlet for what she felt.
“Majesty!” he called as soon as he was near enough to address her without shouting. “Do I command your honor guard? Do I not?”
Old reflexes came to the Queen’s aid. Instead of matching the first officer’s tone, she replied evenly, “You do, sir. Who questions it?”
“That woman—!” He gestured uselessly behind him: Lylin was gone, although Estie had not seen her leave. “She dares to instruct me. She instructs me. As if I were a novice too ignorant to care for the Queen of Amika. She—!”
Fortunately, Commander Crayn had followed Soulcess. He stood at the first officer’s shoulder. If he had not intervened, Estie might have snarled in the older man’s face.
“With respect, Commander,” offered Crayn diffidently. “Queen Estie has known the devotee of Spirit longer than we have. She knows better than we do that the devotee is easily misunderstood.”
“Misunderstood?” huffed Soulcess. “What have I misunderstood? Did she not instruct me? Did she not assume command of my men?”
“Her manner is strange, Commander,” replied Crayn. “That I grant.” Estie saw amusement in Crayn’s eyes, but his tone was soothing. “She is blunt and sure. The fault of misunderstanding is hers. She assumes that we are familiar with devotees of Spirit. If we knew her, we might hear what she says as counsel, not commands.”
Soulcess turned on the escort commander. “Then explain her, sir. Tell me why I should hear any word or insult from her.”
“Commander Soulcess.” Estie kept what she felt out of her voice. Nothing good would come of it if she inflicted her ire at Magister Facile on him. “I owe my life to the devotee. She is a skilled scout. She is also a trained killer. It may be that she knows more of our peril than we do.
“But she does not command your men. Who would obey her? They do not know her. And she does not command you. I do.
“Sir, you will accept her instructions as counsel. If you are wise, you will be grateful for them. She is adept in matters that lie outside our experience. You and Commander Crayn will allow her counsel to guide you.”
The first officer struggled visibly to regain his composure. In a congested tone, he answered, “As you say, Majesty. Of course.” He tugged on his beard, trying to pull his expression into a more respectful shape. “But if I may ask. How do you know—?” He may have wanted to understand why Estie considered the devotee of Spirit trustworthy. If so, he changed his mind. “Do you know what she has told us to do?”
The Queen offered him a rueful smile. “I do not. Her manner is strange with me as well. She expects blind compliance. Perhaps all devotees of Spirit do the same.
“But she has proven herself to me, Commander.”
Another man might have countered, But not to me, Majesty. Soulcess did not trust himself that far. He had dedicated his life to obeying his monarch’s orders, and to making sure that his men obeyed as well. He did not challenge those orders. If he had, he might not have survived King Smegin’s reign.
When Estie dismissed him, the first officer left at once, taking Crayn with him. But she did not follow them. She stayed where she was, studying the trail into King’s Secret. At that moment, she did not care what Lylin had told Commander Soulcess to do. She was satisfied to know that the devotee had convinced Commander Crayn. Her thoughts were knotted around the dilemma of Magister Facile, and she wished to be alone with them.
King Bifalt wants to know if you trust her. How was she, Estie, supposed to do that? Magister Facile claimed that Belleger’s King did trust her; but as far as Estie knew, her husband had never trusted any Magister.
A truth hidden has more power— The power to do what?
Estie had no answers. The trees told her nothing. When one of her escort came to say that her supper was ready, she went back to the camp because her efforts to understand led nowhere. Nothing would be made clear until she faced her father.
Deep in the night, she was roused by Commander Crayn’s touch on her shoulder. “It is time, Majesty. We will enter the forest soon.”
Time? As she rolled out of her bedding and stood, she found herself in the midst of turmoil. Time for what? By slivers of moonlight and the dull glow of embers, she saw men hurrying in all directions, packing their bedrolls, adjusting their headbands and weapons, seeing to their horses, snatching bites of food and gulps of water from the evening’s meal. Her escort and half of the guardsmen were ready to mount. The rest would join them soon.
A short distance away, Magister Facile floundered out of her blankets, cursing to herself. In the confusion of the moon’s faint silver, the ruddy emanation of dying fires, and the abrupt movements of the men, Queen Estie found no sign of Lylin. The hinted suggestions of the stars were not answers.
“Time for what?” repeated Estie, this time aloud. Her voice was a croak clogged with sleep.
“The devotee’s instructions,” answered Crayn. “She told us to rest until we could see the moon above the trees. Then we are to enter the forest at a canter. When she has made sure of the scouts and spies, she will rejoin us. She will tell us whether we can go on safely.”
If he had been talking about anybody else, Queen Estie would have questioned him. But she knew what Lylin could do. Her only response was a curt nod of acquiescence.
While one of her escort brought her horse, she peered up at the night, the trees; the moon. The silvery crescent seemed to be cradled among the highest branches above her. The night was half gone. At a gallop, she could hope to reach her father’s retreat by sunrise. She might be able to surprise him.
She allowed herself a moment to consider the idea of obeying her own desires. Then she discarded it. Her escort would be able to keep up with her: Magister Facile could not.
Like Lylin with Commander Soulcess, the sorceress had given Estie counsel in the form of instructions. Her father was a Magister. Only a fool would challenge him without the support of another Magister, even a Magister who had not proven her worth.
As soon as the Queen stepped up into her saddle, her escort arranged its formation around her.
In brief scraps of illumination, Estie watched Magister Facile. The theurgist was not ready. She had packed away the grey robe that announced her talent for sorcery. Now she was struggling into the garments of a camp-follower: clothes that she must have brought with her for this purpose. Her full skirts and open bodice looked ridiculous on her plump form; and the effect was not improved by her bangles and earrings, certainly not by her riding moccasins. But Estie doubted that anybody would notice, apart from the guardsmen immediately around her.
At last, the Magister climbed onto her horse, helped by one of Crayn’s men.
From the head of his company, Commander Soulcess called his guardsmen to attention. To Estie’s ears, his voice was too loud. Clearly, he was accustomed to addressing larger groups in larger spaces. “We will ride at a canter, men. We will ride in silence.
“Blissin. Swaleman.” They were two of the guardsmen he had chosen on his Queen’s behalf. “Take eight comrades. Ride ahead of the Queen and her escort. Halt at once if you catch sight of that woman”—resentment lingered in his tone—“the one in white who came with us. Speak only if you judge that Queen Estie is threatened.
“The rest of us, all of us, will say nothing. We will show the Queen that we can follow without a sound.”
As if to prove that he could obey his own orders, he turned his mount away without telling his men to move out.
A few of them were still rushing around, putting out the last embers of the fires, cinching their horses. Ten took their places in front of Estie and her escort. The rest formed ranks behind the first officer.
Silent as a cortege, they approached Queen Estie and the trail into King’s Secret. In rows of three and four, they entered among the trees and seemed to disappear, swallowed by shadows.
Estie could have ridden the trail alone, although it was only visible as a vague streak directly in front of her. Her horse would recognize a clear path even when the thick canopy of branches and leaves reduced her to blindness. And the way to King Smegin’s retreat was wide enough for wagons. Several men could ride abreast. If her mount veered to avoid an obstacle, she would not lose her seat or strike a tree. Still, she was glad to have her escort around her. Dangers seemed to crouch among the cedars as she moved. King’s Secret felt more threatening in darkness than it did when she had studied it at sunset.
In the lead, Blissin and Swaleman held the whole company to a steady pace, an easy canter that the horses could sustain for hours. Commander Crayn’s men had positioned Magister Facile behind the Queen. Two of his soldiers rode at the Magister’s sides, crowding close to catch her if her balance or her strength faltered. The rest ranged more widely around Estie, ready to intercept any unexpected attack before it reached her.
Estie tried to prepare herself to meet her father, but the trees drew her attention. They concealed everything they contained. What was the devotee of Spirit doing? Killing King Smegin’s watchmen? Killing Nuuri scouts? Their deaths might be necessary, if they intended harm. But killing them might also prove ruinous. If the King’s watchmen did not report at their assigned intervals, he would assume that his daughter meant to strike at him. And if Nuuri scouts did not return, their people would have proof that Amika’s purpose was hostile.
Random instants of moonlight made the riders ahead of Estie real, then swept away, leaving them in darkness. So many cantering hooves on the dense carpet of cedar needles raised a soughing like the whisper of breezes in the high branches. She had no way to measure time or distance. They were quicksand. She sank into them and left no trace. She had become unreal herself, a figure in a dream. When the whole company slowed to a halt, she hardly noticed that she was no longer moving.
Then the tension of her escort swept over her like a breaking wave, and she understood. She was almost alert, almost herself, when Lylin reached her side.
The devotee of Spirit was on foot, but she was tall: her head came to the level of Estie’s waist. Resting a hand on the Queen’s knee, the assassin said mildly, “I hope, Majesty, that you thought to bring my horse.”
In a gruff whisper, Commander Crayn answered, “We did.” At once, one of his men approached with the devotee’s mount.
“And you, Magister?” asked Lylin. “You are well enough?”
“Enough,” croaked the sorceress at Estie’s back. Clearing her throat, she added, “My lady Queen doubts me. I am too stiff-necked to fail her now.”
Lylin chuckled softly. For a moment, she was gone. Then she returned astride her horse. At Estie’s side, she called, “Walk on, guardsmen.”
No one moved until Crayn referred the decision to Commander Soulcess. Fortunately, Lylin’s instructions had prepared the first officer. “Walk on, men,” he answered: a muted command that still sounded too loud. “We will go at the Queen’s pace.”
By increments, the small army shrugged itself back into motion.
Although she peered until her forehead throbbed, Queen Estie could not make out the assassin’s features. Lylin resembled a shadow, an image cast by the cedars. She must have set aside her white cloak—or its fabric had the strange gift of blending with trees and darkness.
Keeping her voice low, Estie asked, “What have you done?”
“As you instructed, Majesty.” The devotee chuckled again. “Or as you would have instructed, if you were more familiar with women of my kind.”
Speaking so that only Estie would hear her, Lylin said, “I found a band of three Nuuri. There were several such bands. But they lack stealth in forests. They would be easy prey for King Smegin’s watchmen if they ventured closer. I sent them back to their people with a message in your name. I told them, ‘You do not need to advance. I will come to you, when I have ended the crimes committed against you.’”
Then the assassin shrugged. “The Nuuri I addressed were sick with rage. Their people will not wait for you. But your message will give their scouts a reason to escape these trees.”
Estie listened with her mouth hanging open. If she could have thought of something to say, she might not have been able to say it. She had imagined the possibility of Nuuri scouts, but she never imagined that they might be in danger—or that she might benefit by their presence. She did not know how to think in those terms. Everything that she had done since hearing Chancellor Postern’s confession was new to her.
Lylin’s actions filled her with a kind of awe.
When Queen Estie did not respond, the devotee of Spirit continued.
“King Smegin’s spies are more skillful. They are also more numerous. And they watch singly. It would have been an arduous task to gather them all. Fortunately, they can signal each other. They use a nicely judged code of whistles. When I had captured two of them, they agreed to warn the King of your coming. You ride with a force of arms to protect you, I told them, but your desire is peace. You wish to save Amikan lives, not lose them. Your only purpose is to speak with King Smegin.
“Also, I mentioned that I would kill any man who raises his hand against you.” Lylin’s tone implied a grin. “I believe that the ease with which I captured them was persuasive.”
With an effort, Estie closed her mouth. The devotee amazed her. For a moment, she was faint with gratitude. She wanted to bless Elgart for the inspiration that had asked Lylin to travel with her. He had seen the dangers more clearly than she could.
But Elgart was not here. Queen Estie had to be content with thanking the assassin. Loud enough to be heard by everyone nearby, she proclaimed, “Most holy devotee of Spirit, I am in your debt. In more ways than I can count, I am in your debt. You have done more than save my life. Your forethought gives me hope.”
Then she turned in her saddle and called for Commander Soulcess. When the first officer and Commander Crayn joined her, she gave them her orders. She explained her intentions, answered their objections. When she was done, she instructed her escort and honor guard to resume their easy canter.
At that pace, they would not reach the glade of her father’s retreat until midmorning or later. But now Queen Estie did not want speed. She wanted to arouse her father’s curiosity. If she did not come at him like an enemy, he might be interested in hearing what she had to say.
The glade was larger than Estie’s memory of it. A strong archer with a longbow might not have been able to land an arrow among the cedars on the far side. It formed a tilted basin deep enough to draw three distinct streams into its bottom and then spill them southward as a small river. The whole place was surrounded by the thick walls of the forest, but the expanse between them was open to the sky and sunshine.
At the time of Queen Estie’s visit long ago, the slopes on all sides had been covered with a lush riot of wildflowers and grasses. Now most of the glade’s bottom had been beaten down to bare dirt by the hard use of boots and hooves.
King Smegin’s manor-house and its immediate outbuildings stood on the near side of the confluence of streams. The house itself was as splendid as Estie remembered it. In size, it was comparatively modest, only large enough for a monarch, his family, and his courtiers and functionaries. But in sunlight, its opulence seemed to glow with significance. Its porch and portico, its high doors, its bright windows: all spoke of ambition and anticipation, of ready eagerness.
During the intervening years, the adjacent servants’ quarters had not been expanded. It was a plain structure, sturdy rather than luxurious. But the barracks for the King’s men-at-arms was new to Estie—and it was substantial. It did not rise to three stories like the manor-house, or connect to the King’s residence like the servants’ quarters; but its length and depth occupied more ground.
If King Smegin needed that much space for his soldiers, he must have been gathering men for a long time.
The huge barn and long stables were on the far side of the river, laid out where they had plenty of space while remaining close to water: a precaution against fire. And beyond them were the fenced enclosure of the paddock and the wide stretch of the training-field where King Smegin’s men could practice horsemanship, archery, and combat drills.
Altogether, the King’s sanctuary looked like a place where an army larger than Estie’s company could live and grow; prepare in secret. And perhaps ride out on raids. Other trails leading out of the glade to the north and south gave King Smegin’s forces paths toward Nuuri lands on one side, the Line River and Estie’s road on the other. The condition of those trails showed hard use over an extended time.
But when Queen Estie and her company emerged from the forest late in the morning, there was no one in sight anywhere. No one. Not on the polished porch of the manor-house. Not coming or going from the servants’ quarters. Not watching from the barracks. Not near the barn or the stables, not in the paddock or on the field. Every window in every building was shuttered. Smoke curling from the chimneys of the main house and the servants’ quarters insisted that those dwellings were occupied. But whoever was inside betrayed no awareness of the Queen of Amika’s arrival.
The emptiness of the glade troubled Estie, but she was prepared for it. Obeying the orders she had given during the night, her escort and honor guard did not ride down into the glade. Instead, they fanned out along the edges of King’s Secret until the last of them had left the trail. Then, like men who were just passing through and did not mean to intrude, they dismounted and began making camp. They strung picket-lines for their horses where the grasses were thickest; watered their mounts from their own waterskins; set out their bedrolls in no particular order. Some of them shared food from their packs. Others simply sprawled on the ground to stretch the kinks out of their muscles.
As much as they could, they all pretended that the manor-house and everything with it did not exist. At the same time, feigning indifference, they made excuses to draw their swords, unlimber their bows. They kept their quivers handy.
If King Smegin hoped the Queen’s men would ride down into the basin so that his soldiers could surround them, he was going to be disappointed.
But Estie’s precautions had another purpose as well: to avoid a show of hostility. If her father meant to risk killing the Queen of Amika on her own lands, he was going to need a better excuse than a visit that did not threaten him.
Dismounting herself, Estie studied the approach to the manor-house. She remembered a brief avenue of cherry trees, four on each side, apparently planted to welcome visitors. In springtime, they had worn their pink-and-white blossoms like promises of gladness and comfort: one of her few pleasant memories of her visit here.
Now they were dead. Their trunks looked burned, and their boughs formed a black and brittle tangle where there had once been twigs, leaves, flowers, fruit. Silhouetted against the richness of the house, they conveyed an impression of stark agony. Estie’s first thought was that they had caught fire somehow. But no ordinary blaze would have killed them all equally. It would not have left so many of the thickest branches in place. And if they had been killed by fire, why had they not been cut down? King Smegin could have planted new trees to restore his welcome.
Then she noticed the heavy shapes hanging from some of the limbs. As soon as she recognized those dark burdens, she spotted at least one in each tree. Three of the trees supported two.
“Majesty!” hissed Magister Facile: a warning. She did not need to explain it.
The shapes were human. Men? Women? Burned alive? After they were hung?
Unaware of what she was doing, Estie started down toward the trees. She began to run. She forgot to breathe.
Voices called after her, but she did not hear them. Lylin joined her. Commander Crayn caught up with her, his sword in his hand. Magister Facile followed more slowly. Crayn shouted something that kept the first officer and everyone else back.
Among the dead trees, Queen Estie saw the truth. The shapes were human. Men or women, she could not tell: their bodies had been burned until nothing remained except black crusts of flesh clinging to charred bones. But they had not been killed by hanging. Leather straps too stubborn to burn were knotted around their chests. They had been hauled up into the trees by those straps, suspended from the boughs, and then set on fire.
Oh, Father! moaned Estie to herself. What have you done?
Is this your legacy? Have I inherited this?
When she began to breathe again, every inhalation hurt, but she did not feel it. Burned by—? She could not finish the question. She feared that she knew the answer. It sickened her. Burned by—?
In a voice of gall, Magister Facile declared, “They are Nuuri, Majesty. King Smegin has used them to practice his Decimate. He desires precision. He craves the ability to inflict savagery without killing. These Nuuri have died to perfect his skill.
“He leaves them hanging so that other Nuuri will see them and fear him.”
A moment later, one of the bodies appalled Estie by opening its eyes. The pain in them struck her like a blow.
Still alive? Gods! Still alive?
Snarling a curse, Crayn sprang forward. Before Estie could react—before she could think—he swung his sword, severed the living head from its body. When the head hit the ground, its eyes stayed open, staring its horror at the gnarled branches where its friends and kinfolk had died.
With her usual husky mildness, the devotee remarked, “I would have questioned him.”
Crayn wheeled on her. He looked like he wanted to sob. “Questioned him?” he cried. “For what purpose? To prolong his torment?”
Lylin shrugged. “To determine if his mind still lived. If it did, I would have given him a gentler death. He would not have seen my blade. He would have known only that he was released.
“He has no use for mercy now.”
Estie could not get past her questions. Burned by lightning? And still alive? So her father could learn—?
She had never expected to know of a crime worse than enslaving Nuuri and working them to death.
He believes that his gift for sorcery serves him.
What kind of monster—?
It does not.
But some response was expected of her. She was supposed to confront her father. Why else had she come? Her responsibility was not made less by the scale of this atrocity, or by her father’s cruelty, or by her own nausea.
He has been enslaved by his own power.
Queen Estie did not weep. In spite of everything, she did not. But when she found her voice, it was congested with tears.
“You keep saying ‘he.’”
The devotee nodded. “Yes, Majesty. If these are Nuuri, they are men. The women are bigger. And fiercer. If King Smegin had captured one of them, the Nuuri would have gone to war at once.”
“Then we are fortunate to that extent.” Queen Estie did not need to make decisions: she had already made them. I know your questions, she had promised her husband. When I return, I will answer them. A storm of fire arrows would be answer enough. Her men could burn the manor-house and all its buildings to the ground.
But then there would be fighting. Amikan lives would be lost. Her father would end many of them before he fell himself. If he fell. And she would not get a chance to understand him.
“I have seen enough.” She turned to face the house. “I will not wait to be noticed.” With every word, she braided horror and outrage into a strand of strength. “Commander Crayn, go back. Hold the men where they are. Show no alarm. If you are needed”—she meant, When you are needed—“you will see it.
“Send the first officer to me.”
Without glancing at the sorceress, she added, “Choose where you will make your stand.” She did not believe that Magister Facile could do anything to counter the Decimate of lightning. “Go there when you think the time is right.”
Then the Queen of Amika began walking down the slope toward King Smegin’s sanctuary. Lylin accompanied her. By an act of will, Estie forced herself to move slowly so that Commander Soulcess could catch up with her. That was her only concession to her own powerlessness.
When the first officer reached bare dirt, she heard him hurrying after her. A moment later, he came to her side. He did not speak. He was breathing too hard, and he already had his orders. But he allowed himself to take her arm and stop her so that he could look into her eyes.
What he saw must have reassured him. Or perhaps it merely reminded him that he had built his life on obedience. After a few breaths, he turned to the barracks and did what she had asked of him.
In a stentorian bellow, he shouted, “Pulltrop! Anderfall, come out!”
He knew every deserter by name. He knew their parents, their homes, their pleasures. If he could awaken their fidelity or their pride—if he could make them remember the men they had once been—King Smegin’s authority might begin to crack. Even thugs and estate guards might start to question themselves.
But the Queen saw no sign that anyone had heard the Commander, not in the barracks or the servants’ quarters or the house.
“You are deserters!” yelled Soulcess at the mute walls. “You and your comrades! I have come for you. Estie Queen of Amika is with me. She has come to reclaim you!
“Pulltrop, you have given six years to her service. Anderfall, you have given nine. Now she needs you! More than any Amikan monarch, she needs her honor guard. By her command, there is no punishment for desertion. She needs you. Amika needs you!”
Only silence answered him.
Briefly, he panted for air. A dangerous flush darkened his cheeks. His eyes bulged in their sockets.
“Brigin and pestilence!” he roared. “Come out! I am Commander Thren Soulcess, first officer of the Queen’s honor guard! Estie of Amika stands with me! I order you to come out!”
She expected him to fail. She had always thought of him as ineffectual. But she had underestimated him. He was stringent with himself and demanded the same from his men. For some of his soldiers, if not for all of them, his right to command ran deep.
The nearest door of the barracks opened. A man stepped out into the sunlight. He still wore the livery of the honor guard.
“Anderfall!” called Soulcess, peremptory with rage. “Come! Explain yourself!”
After a few steps, the man stopped. “Commander Soulcess.” He made himself heard without shouting. “You do not rule here. We serve King Smegin. Go back. Your presence will not be tolerated. You will all die.”
Before the first officer could retort, Estie put herself in front of him. “But I rule, sir,” she told Anderfall. “I am Amika’s Queen. I rule wherever I go. Wherever I go, I am obeyed.”
Anderfall flinched. As if reflexively, he bowed. “Majesty,” he began, “I—”
She cut him off. “Say nothing, sir. I will not listen to your justifications until you answer one question. Do you like what you do in my father’s name? Does his service please you? Does it protect your family, or your comrades, or those you love?”
The man tried again. “Majesty, I—” But what he would have said was too much for him. Abruptly, he turned; hurried back into the barracks and closed the door.
His manner said as plainly as words, I fear to defy the King.
Commander Soulcess drew breath to shout again; but the Queen stopped him. “Do not order them again, sir,” she said softly. “And do not beg. They know their duty. They will do it, or they will not.
“Call them by name, all of them. Ask them if they remain Amikan. Ask them if they prefer to enslave and burn Nuuri while Amika is threatened. Use what you know of their lives in Maloresse. Remind them of what they sacrifice here.
“If your efforts seem fruitless, do not stop. You may accomplish more than you know.”
The first officer gathered himself. The flush in his cheeks eased slightly, but the glare of ire in his gaze hardened. “As you say, Majesty. No man who has obeyed me once can refuse to hear me.”
Stiff with indignation, he moved a few strides closer to the barracks. Then he began yelling names.
Through the shouts, Estie said to Lylin, “Now, Devotee, we will gain admittance to the house.”
Leaving Soulcess behind, the Queen and the assassin walked toward the portico and the high doors of the manor-house.
Estie imagined pounding on the doors and hearing no response; but as soon as she and Lylin entered the shade of the portico, one door opened. In the gap stood an elderly man she recognized.
He was one of her father’s oldest retainers. In fact, she had considered him old when she was a girl. Now she was inclined to call him ancient. His head wobbled on his neck, and his hands shook. Scraps of white hair fluttered from his scalp. He was clad in fustian dyed the purple hue King Smegin preferred, but he lacked the strength of frame to give it dignity. In a scabbard belted at his waist, he wore a heavy sword. On him, it looked more like a hindrance than a weapon.
In a tremulous voice, he demanded, “Tell that man to stop shouting. He disturbs the King.”
“Sir.” Estie supposed that her appearance had no more dignity than the retainer’s; but she kept her voice steady nonetheless. “Perhaps you do not recognize me. I am Queen Estie of Amika. I wish to speak with my father. Admit us, if you please. Then inform the King that I am here.”
Behind her, Thren Soulcess continued to blare names and demand answers. She did not hear any replies.
“Estie.” The retainer’s tone was querulous. “A slip of a girl. I remember. The King expects you.” Then he addressed the devotee. “You are not welcome. Stay here. Silence that shouting fool while you wait.”
“Sir,” returned the Queen sternly, “she is more than my companion. She is a most holy devotee of Spirit, honored wherever she is known. My father would do well to make her acquaintance. She will enter with me.”
“Will she?” snorted the old man. “Against the King’s wishes? Ha!”
Trembling in every limb, he gripped his sword and tried to drag it from its scabbard.
Lylin stopped him by pinching his hand between her thumb and forefinger, then twisting his wrist. As far as Estie could tell, the assassin used no force at all. Nevertheless the surprise of the pain—if not the pain itself—dropped the retainer to his knees. His sword clattered on the floor.
“Majesty!” gasped the old man weakly. “Guards! Help!”
Estie stared at the devotee. Past the edge of her hood, Lylin met her gaze and grinned.
Softly, Estie suggested, “Let him stand. He will have the whole house in arms.” Then she raised her voice. “Father! You know your daughter. You know I cannot harm you.” That particular source of resentment made her stronger. “But I must speak with you. Do you truly mean to refuse me one companion?”
Behind the retainer, a dark hall led into the manor-house. From an open doorway a few strides beyond the entrance, the Queen heard a snarl that took the place of laughter when King Smegin wanted to hide his amusement. Like a swarm of wasps, he replied, “You are impetuous, Daughter. I have enemies. I could have killed you.” As if he were making a great concession, he added, “The first chamber on the right. Bring your companion.”
Staggering to his feet, the old man let Queen Estie and the assassin enter. He did not look at either of them again. As he began to close the door, Estie glimpsed a small squad trotting down the slope to support Commander Soulcess: ten of the men she had chosen. They would help him appeal to the deserters. If necessary, they would defend him.
Then the door was shut, and the first officer’s shouting was reduced to a distant cry like the forlorn call of a tern.
For a moment, Estie hesitated. King Smegin had consented to Lylin’s presence too easily. He knew nothing about her. How could he? Who could have told him? Yet he believed that she could not harm him. That she was not a Magister. Any flicker of doubt might have prompted him to forbid the devotee. Perhaps Estie should ask the assassin to wait outside after all? So that the King would not be able to exercise his Decimate against her?
Lylin’s abilities were astonishing. She could throw a knife faster than her target could blink. But she was not a sorceress. She could not feel theurgy gathering in the instants before it was unleashed. If King Smegin decided to kill the devotee, she would have no warning. Neither would Estie.
But before the Queen reached a decision, Lylin resolved the question by moving toward the doorway King Smegin had indicated. “Come, Majesty,” said the devotee in her unfamiliar accent. Despite its huskiness, her tone had acquired a lilt like a hint of excitement. “This must be done. You are not alone.”
As Queen Estie swallowed her doubts and approached the chamber, Lylin ushered her into her father’s presence.
The room they entered was a large one, longer than it was wide. Down one side ran a number of west-facing windows. Under other circumstances, they would have admitted plenty of light; but they were shuttered now, leaving the room trapped in its own gloom. Opposite them stood a long row of shapes that almost resembled men in the dimness, although Estie suspected they were something else. An old odor of charred wood and burned fabric lingered in the air: a smell like garments tossed onto a bonfire. She supposed that her father sat or stood at the far end of the chamber, but she could not be sure without better light.
“Welcome, Daughter,” said King Smegin. “It is good to see you.” The harsh buzz of his voice contradicted his words. “But where are my manners? Visitors always want light.” He was mocking her. “I have kept to myself so long, I forget the common courtesies.
“Here is a little trick I have mastered.”
At the end of an alley walled by windows on one side and humanlike shapes on the other, a small silver spark appeared. It lit King Smegin’s fingertips as he touched it to the wick of a lamp. At once, the wick took flame. The lamp began to glow, spreading a buttery light around the King in his chair.
Now Estie could see the glee in his eyes, the secret ecstasy, as he repeated his little trick. Grinning, he produced a second silver spark at the ends of his fingers and used it to light another lamp on the opposite side of his chair. When the spark was no longer needed, it vanished.
In spite of herself, the Queen gaped. Her father was using the Decimate of lightning? To light lamps? She had never heard of a Magister who could exercise his talent with such precision. Such delicacy.
Magister Facile was right. He had used Nuuri for practice.
And not only Nuuri. His lamps left the space behind him shrouded in darkness, but they revealed that the shapes facing the windows were dummies, bundles of canvas stuffed with grasses and straw, and propped on wooden stands to resemble men. To one extent or another, they had all been burned. Some had lost their heads and torsos to King Smegin’s sorcery. Others showed more focused wounds: a damaged shoulder here, a gutted stomach there. A few had been hit by bolts of theurgy so specific and controlled that the marks of fire and charring were no bigger than one of Estie’s hands.
Her father had achieved a degree of mastery that seemed inconceivable.
“Do you wish refreshments, Daughter?” King Smegin did not raise his voice, but his tone implied a shout of delight. “Wine? Ale? Bread and fruit, perhaps? I seem to recall that guests expect to be made welcome with viands. You will get none here.
“No one will bring them. I have servants, enough for my needs. But they will not enter while you are here. They fear to stand in your presence.”
Deep inside Queen Estie lived a little girl, a princess who held her father in awe. Even then, she had feared him; but her fear had hidden behind the pride and pleasure of being his favorite. Now she had many more reasons to be afraid—and no reason at all to feel pride. He had so much power—!
With an effort of will, she swallowed her dismay. “Is it me they fear, Father,” she countered, “or their own shame?” She meant, Is it you they fear? Is it what you will do to me that frightens them? “Are they too timid to stand in front of their rightful Queen and confess that they do not serve her?”
The King gave a humorless laugh. “Or perhaps they fear to stand before you and confess that you no longer rule Amika. They are only servants, after all. Their duties do not require courage.”
Estie wanted the devotee to say something; help her in some way. But Lylin stood silent and motionless, using her hood to hide her face.
As if he knew what Estie desired, King Smegin asked, “Shall I test your companion for you, Daughter? If you are Amika’s Queen, she should be your servant. Shall we discover whether she serves any purpose at your side?”
“No,” said Estie at once. Prompted by his threat, she put her weakness aside. “That will not be necessary. My rule of Amika is not in doubt. Nor is my companion’s worth.
“Do you still imagine that you can resume your throne, Father? You cannot. There is no road to Maloresse that you can travel. Chancellor Postern has been discovered. He is King Bifalt’s prisoner. Chancellor Sikthorn and Commander Soulcess serve only me. The honor guard serves me. When we are at war with the Nuuri—when it becomes known that you have caused them to attack us—there is no one in Amika who will stand with you.”
“No,” snorted King Smegin, “there is not. Not yet. But you have given your whole army to your fool of a husband. Apart from the honor guard, you are defenseless. If there is no one in Amika to stand with me, here you are alone.”
Then a thought appeared to strike him. “Unless you have hidden a squad of Magisters in my forest.” He grinned like a wolf. “If so, I tell you this. I know them all. They will not turn against me. And if they try, they will find themselves in their graves. My power has grown too great for them.”
Forcing herself, Queen Estie made a dismissive gesture. “Calm yourself, Father. I have not risked any of Amika’s sorcerers. My companion is not a Magister. You know that. But I do not need theurgy to demonstrate that I command here.”
“Indeed?” Scowling, King Smegin raised his hand.
Outside the manor-house, the first officer’s shouting had become a muffled clamor of voices. Some of his men had joined him, adding their calls to his. They, too, knew their former comrades. Now Commander Soulcess and his soldiers used every claim they had—friendship, kinship, love of home and homeland—to influence the guardsmen who had been lured away.
Other voices answered: frightened voices urging the first officer to retreat; angry voices threatening slaughter. But Estie did not hear fighting. Apparently, King Smegin’s men were still in the barracks.
When her father raised his hand, an arrow shot out of the shadows behind his seat.
It was too sudden. Estie did not see it in time to react.
It was aimed at the assassin.
With a movement that seemed trivial, Lylin shifted aside. The shaft flashed past her. An instant later, it spent its force and skittered away along the floor.
King Smegin’s eyebrows lifted. “Well.” For a moment, he sounded impressed. “Now I see why you need her, Daughter. She does not deserve death. She is worthy of life. I will not destroy her.”
Then he resumed his scowl. “But my patience wears thin. Do you believe that you command? Then say what you have come to say. You will not sway me, but I will be pleased to point out the flaws in your reasoning.
“The first is this. I do not require the rule of Amika. It will become mine when I deign to claim it. Do you propose to command me? Fine. Do so. Nothing will change. I will see my desires fulfilled, with or without your throne and your crown.”
From outside, Estie heard a quick clash of iron, the thud of an arrow in flesh, a cry. Then silence. The brief struggle was over. Someone was wounded or dead.
There was worse to come. More men were going to fall.
In desperation, the Queen said sharply, “Enough! You have taunted me enough. Now I will speak.
“Father, you must stop.”
The King squinted at her. He feigned incomprehension. “Stop what, Daughter?”
“Do not pretend senility with me,” she snapped. She could not manage hauteur. That was one of her father’s strengths, not hers. But she could draw on a deep well of outrage. “You know what you do. I have seen the corpses of your victims hanging. I know you have enslaved Nuuri and sent them to work on my road. I do not know how many. One would be too many. You must stop.”
“Truly?” Now he mimicked sincerity. “Why?”
Cursing to herself, Queen Estie retorted, “Already, the Nuuri are massing. Soon they will come for you.”
“Ha!” he snorted. “Let them.” His bitter amusement cut like the blade of a saw. “They are no match for me. I have the might now, and the range, and the control. From this house, I can withstand the entire race of the Nuuri.”
“You fool!” Estie’s mother had warned her. Now she knew what Queen Rubia meant. “They will not attack you directly. They know what you can do. They will set fire to the house, the barracks, the stables. And if that fails, they will march against helpless hamlets, villages, towns. They will lay waste—”
King Smegin cut her off. “Is that your argument? You are the fool here, not I.” His contempt lashed at her. “Those hamlets and villages and towns are helpless because you have made them so. You gave your army to Belleger. As for setting fires, well, the Nuuri do not use bows. Or arrows. The best they can manage is spears, which they will have to carry alight across open ground. I will pick them off at my leisure.”
He held Estie’s attention. She needed a moment to notice that she no longer heard voices. Commander Soulcess and his men had fallen silent.
In frustration, she cried, “But why, Father? What do you gain in all this? What purpose drives you? Why did you try to have me killed in Belleger? Why do you want war with the Nuuri? What use is there in Nuuri slaves?”
Abruptly, King Smegin tensed.
The cries and clangor of a melee became audible. Obscured by the walls of the house, they sounded impossibly distant. Estie did not know how many men were fighting, or why. Had Soulcess lost patience; tried to storm the barracks? Were some of the deserters resisting her father’s guards?
King Smegin listened as if he knew what was happening. He raised his other hand.
Another signal.
Expecting a second arrow, Queen Estie flinched. She could not defend herself. She had little skill and no theurgy. She had to trust—
But the man or men hidden in shadows behind her father’s seat did not fire again. Lylin remained still. The devotee seemed sure that she and the Queen were not threatened.
After a few heartbeats, Estie heard a boom like the detonation of a grenade. The explosion was too far away to be interpreted. An attack? A defense? A summons?
Outside, the melee ended as suddenly as it had begun.
The King relaxed as if he had been waiting for that sound.
As he regarded Estie now, his expression changed. She saw relish in his gaze, gratification in the twist of his mouth. When he replied, he sounded less like a swarm of wasps, more like a man who wanted to share his secret with his favorite child.
“Well, Daughter. Since you command it, I will answer.”
Reliving a memory he enjoyed, he told her, “Some few years past, a troupe of men entered my sanctuary from the north. When they accepted my hospitality, they explained their presence in ways that pricked my curiosity. They described themselves as ‘priests’—a strange word—and said they traveled from land to land, spreading the wisdom and peace and faith of their ‘god’—another strange word. They called this being ‘the Great God Rile,’ but the name told me nothing. It was only a name, not an explanation. Their teaching, however—”
King Smegin leaned forward as if he were eager to convince Estie of something. “Daughter, they spoke at length of the war that rules every heart and home, every village and town, every people. They told me that every outer conflict is an expression, a reflection, of the inner struggle tormenting us all. We cannot be at peace in the world because we are not at peace in ourselves. And we are never at peace in ourselves because we are tortured by what we lack, whatever that lack may be. The lack of love, the lack of power, the lack of certainty. Any lack—but especially the lack of sorcery. Then the priests revealed how that lack can be amended.
“They assured me that if I acknowledge the truth of who and what I am, and if I have faith like theirs, I will know peace. And when I am at peace, I will understand that for me all things are permitted.”
Surprised out of her silence, Queen Estie demanded, “The priests told you that? They gave you permission?”
The faint rumble of galloping hooves carried through the house, but she ignored it. She had come too far. Lylin could not save her. Her life was in Magister Facile’s hands. As soon as she discovered the right words to provoke her father—
“Of course not!” he snarled. Throwing himself back in his chair, he crossed his arms over his chest to contain his vexation. “Those self-righteous idiots? Their insistence on their ‘Great God’ was ludicrous. But I drew the obvious conclusion.
“I have told myself the truth. I know who and what I am. I am at peace with myself and my desires. And if I lack, I know how to satisfy it. Whatever I do is right because I do it.”
While Estie stared at him, he said, “If you can understand that I am at peace, Daughter, you may be able to understand that I have no specific interest in war with the Nuuri.” Once again, he made an effort to sound sincere. “It is a means to an end. My only desire there, like my attempt to arrange your death, is to expose the madness of your alliance. Amika and Belleger should be one realm, and it should be ruled by Amika.”
After a moment’s consideration, he added, “But I do have a use for Nuuri slaves.”
Like rising flames, Queen Estie demanded, “What use?”
“Why else?” he asked with false nonchalance. “To speed the completion of your road.” But then his pretense failed him. He gathered himself; forgot his pose of sincerity; gripped the arms of his chair with hands like claws. “To open the way,” he declared harshly.
“When it is ready, I will ride to the Last Repository in triumph”—his voice climbed—“and when I do, I will have a host at my back!”
The sudden nakedness of his malice shocked Estie. He was worse than treacherous: he was insane. But she could not afford to be daunted. “Gods, Father!” she cried. “You have allied yourself with the enemy of the library! You serve him!”
“Serve him?” He glared fury at her. “Paugh! I do not know him. I know only what all men know, that he is coming. If he allies himself with me, I will welcome him.
“But first, Daughter. First I will tear down that library and kill every man or woman or child who upholds it. I will teach those haughty Magisters that they do not know the true meaning of power.”
Later, no doubt, Estie would remember this and be appalled. But not now. Her mother had prepared her. Almost calmly, almost quietly, she replied, “No, Father. They will laugh at you. They scorn you now. When you face them, they will teach you the true meaning of contempt.”
There. Those were the right words. They snatched King Smegin to his feet. His hands held silver lightning as if she had summoned it from the flesh of his palms, his fingers; as if she had ignited it.
“Do you believe that, Daughter? Have you learned nothing from me? You do not know who and what I am!”
Estie had no answer. She could not face her father any longer. Instead, she turned away.
In silence, she prayed, Magister Facile, please! If you were ever my friend, save me now. If you can fight him, do it now!
Aloud, she said to Lylin, “This is intolerable. It must end. Do me the favor of taking him prisoner.”
The devotee raised her head, let Estie see the ferocity of her smile. She started forward.
But they had no time. Lightning crackled between King Smegin’s hands. It spread up his arms. Bleeding tendrils of force, it reached his shoulders, his chest. Faster than Estie could think, he encased himself in lurid sorcery. Serpents of silver ruin writhed around him. From his head to his feet, he became a living bolt that strained for release.
Swift as lightning, Lylin flung a dagger at his throat.
Before the blade touched him, it evaporated in the blazing corona of his theurgy.
“Now, Daughter!” he roared. “Scorn me and DIE!”
From his whole body, sorcery erupted.
But it did not go anywhere. It did not strike and destroy. All of the hair on Estie’s head seemed to stand upright. Ants crawled over her skin. The air vanished from her lungs. Yet she was not touched. Lylin was not.
As King Smegin’s power erupted, it became mist. It dissipated and became nothing.
Just for an instant, he appeared to believe that he had succeeded. Then he saw the truth.
Wild horror filled his face. Waving his arms, he strove to summon his gift again. And again. And again.
Instead, the extremity of his desire made his muscles cramp. Spasms he could not control ran through his frame. Convulsing as if the aftereffects of lightning lingered in his limbs, he collapsed in his chair. His eyes bled anguish. When he opened his mouth to wail, the only sound he could make was a thin whine.
Still convulsing, he struggled out of his chair. In a rush, he stumbled away to bash his head against the wall.
The first impact did not drop him. He tried again. He kept trying.
After that, Estie’s mind went blank. She could not interpret the sequence of what occurred.
Without warning, the room was full of guards. Half a dozen of them. More. Waving their swords, they shouted confusion in all directions.
Estie found herself on the floor in Lylin’s arms. They rolled from side to side, tripping one soldier, avoiding another. She saw the assassin cut a guard’s hamstring. She may have heard him howl.
Then she was on her feet again, half carried by her companion; dragged along. Lylin batted blades aside as if they were meaningless. When the King’s guards stopped shouting, the only sound in the long room was the steady thud of their monarch’s forehead against the wall.
Estie nearly fell when Lylin shoved her through the doorway. There the devotee stopped; faced the room and the guards and the King. “Put up your swords.” She did not need to shout. Her harsh accent gave her authority. “There is no one to fight. King Smegin has no more need of you. His reign is at an end.”
When she was satisfied by what she saw, Lylin closed the door and came to support Queen Estie again.
The devotee did not speak. Estie did not. Her mind was gone, hidden away somewhere. She could not find it.
The beating of her father’s forehead followed her like a knell as the devotee of Spirit helped her leave the house.