32: LADY MIYA

(Talon’s story)

The vané took Kihrin to a four-story building nestled amongst other tall buildings. Nothing identified it as a Blue House except the number of men in physicker’s robes who came and went through its doors. All seemed to know Miya, gave her plenty of room and deferential bows, and addressed her as “Lady.” No one asked about Kihrin or how he’d come by his injuries until they chanced to cross paths with Master Lorgrin.

The healer grimaced. “I see the happy reunion went about as well as could be expected.”

Lady Miya’s look was disapproving. “Indeed.”

“I assume you’ll want to handle this yourself. The apothecary’s all yours.” He hooked a thumb toward a door behind him.

She nodded. “Thank you, Master Lorgrin.”

“Uh-huh.” He shook his head at Kihrin as they passed.

Inside, small drawers recessed into the walls filled the room from floor to ceiling. The air had a funny, herbal smell. Several tables took up the center, covered with scales, mortars, pestles, and large thick books opened to drawings of plants.

“Sit down,” she told him with a stern voice.

Kihrin did, feeling sullen and sorry for himself while the vané woman opened drawers and pulled out bottles, flasks, and bundles of herbs.

She slammed the ingredients down on the table, making everything jump.

“What did I do to you?” Kihrin said. “Upset I killed that guard? Or because I spilled coffee all over your precious Lord Heir?”

She picked up a heavy stone mortar and pestle and slammed it down on the table in front of him. “These are for you: mugwort, goldensheaf, blood of varius, carella, and white lotus.”

“No thanks, I just ate.”

Her upper lip started to curl. “You would not want the wounds to become infected and you do not know what diseases that woman may have sheltered in her body. Your wounds are most assuredly contaminated with her blood, lingering on the lash. Do you not wish to make a salve for your back?”

“Very funny. I don’t know how to do that.”

“Oh? You do not?” Her voice dripped sarcasm. “But you must want to heal. So heal yourself.”

“I already told you I don’t know how.” He stood.

“Ah.” She crossed her arms as if she’d won the argument.

Kihrin blinked. “Ah? What do you mean ‘ah’?”

“Wanting something is not enough. Talent and desire is meaningless without skill and training.”

Kihrin glared. “Is that a riddle?”

“This is not a game, young man. I am making a point. Are you understanding it?”

“Since I’m apparently an idiot, why don’t you just explain it to me?”

Her nostrils flared white as she grabbed back the mortar. “My meaning is that you do not have the training to deal with a man like Darzin D’Mon, so provoking him is much the same as walking into a tiger’s den after smearing yourself with fresh blood. You may wish to kill Darzin, but desire is not enough.”

“He killed my father! He killed Morea.”

“So? Does that make you more capable of besting him? Do you think fortune will favor you because your cause is just and your heart is full of vengeance? As you said yourself, he is a monster. One does not slay a monster with good intentions.”

“He has to sleep sometime.”

Lady Miya sighed. “My, and are you so young and yet already a professional assassin? A member of the Black Brotherhood? Or perhaps you have come to us much disguised, and are in truth Nikali Milligreest, famous throughout the Empire as the most skilled of swordsmen?”

Kihrin swallowed and looked away. The fear and hate of the earlier encounter began to ebb, leaving him weak and trembling.

“He makes me so angry,” Kihrin whispered.

“He makes me angry too,” Miya said. “But you must learn to control yourself. You will not live long in this House if you continue with this foolish behavior.” She added the ingredients to the bowl, measuring out portions by quick handfuls. “Darzin has enough choleric in him for both of you. You push him and he will respond in the nastiest, most vicious way he can imagine—and he’s made himself something of an expert in this area. This House has enough problems without you provoking him to do something the rest of us will all regret.”

“Provoking him? I didn’t—”

“Protest your innocence to someone who did not hear the entire conversation,” she said matter-of-factly. “I have known Darzin twenty years longer than you, and I tell you now he spoke true: he was on his best behavior this morning. That he treated you with kindness was an insult beyond your forbearance, and so, you lost your temper. As a result, he lost his. And because of that, two people died.”

“Don’t blame this on me. If you were listening the whole time you could have stepped in sooner. That woman would still be alive.”

She raised an eyebrow. “And what possible reason could I give for interfering with a D’Mon ordering one of his own slaves whipped? With you, I could intercede. I could do nothing to save that girl.”

“All you vané are supposed to know magic. You could have—”

“I may not allow harm to come to a D’Mon if it is in my power to stop it without the loss of my own life.” She picked up the pestle and began mashing the herbs and flowers.

Kihrin’s eyes widened. “You’re gaeshed.”

“Of course, I am gaeshed. I certainly would not be here of my own free will. I am the High Lord’s seneschal, and highest ranked of the serving staff of the palace. I am also the High Lord’s gaeshed slave. Darzin was hurting you, so I could intervene.”

“You could intervene? But you—?” He sat down again. “But I’m not a D’Mon. At best, I’m Ogenra.”

She looked oddly at him. “Who said you are Ogenra?”

“Well I—” He blinked. “I have to be. He said my mother was a slave. What else could I be?”

“Darzin claims he married Lyrilyn. He has even produced documents to that effect—and witnesses. You are not Ogenra. You are legally Darzin D’Mon’s firstborn son, second in line to the D’Mon seat.”

He stared at her while all the blood drained from his face. “He—what?” The information refused to sink in. He didn’t understand. He’d always dreamed of being Ogenra, as had every orphan in the Lower Circle, but that was as far as the dream had ever gone. He never dared imagine he might be an actual member of royalty. And here he was, being told he was a prince? In line to one day become High Lord himself?

The whole world tilted on its axis.

Miya didn’t notice his shock. “Truthfully, it would not have mattered. I know it is common perception that Ogenra are illegitimate House bastards, but the reality is more complicated. Any child, even a bastard, can be part of a House if they are formally recognized—as you have been.”

“He really is my father?” He spoke in a whisper.

She looked away. “I can’t say.^* Regardless, it is his claim. And High Lord Therin was quick to publicly substantiate those claims—he’s been less than pleased that Darzin’s son Galen might one day inherit.”

“Gods, why?”

“Ruling a Royal House requires a certain ruthlessness of character. Galen is a sweet boy. I do not think High Lord Therin believes the house fortunes will prosper under the care of a ‘sweet boy.’”

“But I’m street trash. A throw away from Velvet Town!”

She set down the mortar and pestle and turned to Kihrin, staring at him with angry blue eyes. “You are never to refer to yourself that way again. I will not stand for it. You are Kihrin D’Mon, Royal Prince and second-ranked heir to House D’Mon. You are descended from a hundred generations of magi, including three Emperors. You are royalty, and you are born to rule.^* You are not, and you will NEVER be, street trash.”

“But I just—can’t be. This is some kind of game. He’s evil.”

“Truth and evil are not opposed concepts. Let me demonstrate: this will sting.” He felt wetness on his back that flared into vivid red pain he recognized as alcohol on an open wound.

Kihrin gasped. “OW! Thaena’s teats.”

“Watch your tongue.”

“The whipping didn’t hurt this bad.”

“Oh? Darzin must be losing his touch. But better a little pain now than an infection later.” She smoothed the mash of herbs over the whip marks. The herbs were soothing and cold and, after the astringent, rather nice.

He felt her fingertips on his back, and heard her say something he couldn’t understand in a light, rolling tongue. A pleasant warmth spread out over his skin.

“Couldn’t you have just used magic to heal all of it?”

“I could,” she admitted, “but it runs the risk of complications.” She walked in front of Kihrin, pulled out a chair, and sat down. “What do you know of magic? Can you see past the First Veil yet?”

He nodded. “As long as I can remember. How did you know I could?”

“I didn’t. That’s why I asked. But you are a D’Mon: it seemed a safe assumption. What of talismans? Have you learned what they are? How to construct them?”

He swallowed and shook his head. “Mages use them. I know how to check if someone’s wearing them—mostly to stay away from that person.”

“I’m sure that was wise when you lived in Velvet Town, but now you’re going to have to learn to make them yourself.” She began putting away the herbs. “So consider this your first lesson. Do you understand the material requirements for magic?”

“Yes.” He nodded. “No object can be affected by magic, unless the wizard casting the spell understands the true nature of the materials that make up the object.”

“Very good. You’ve had formal training?” She seemed surprised.

“I was learning from someone but, uh . . . she died.”

“I feel sorrow for your loss.”

“Thanks.” He didn’t really know what else to say.

After a moment’s pause, she asked: “And what else?”

Kihrin blinked at her. “What else?”

“Yes, what else can you tell me about material requirements and magic?”

“I—” He frowned. “Uh, if you do understand the true nature of an object, you can affect it?”

“Rewording your original response does not make it a different answer.”

“Uh . . .” He fought the urge to throw up his arms in frustration. “I don’t know. Different objects have different auras. So do different people. If you put two people right next to each other, their auras won’t look the same. Iron has a different aura than copper, which is different than a wooden coin that’s just painted copper.”

“So taking that observation into consideration, what is a talisman?”

Kihrin floundered as he tried to come up with a suitable response. How would he have any idea what that made a talisman? All he really knew about talismans was that they echoed the aura of the person who wore them, so it was like seeing a stamp slapped down multiple times, each time a shade off from its correct position. Then he blinked.

“Wait, a talisman has to have an aura that’s different than its intrinsic nature, doesn’t it? If it’s a coin or a piece of jewelry or whatever it is, the aura isn’t metal or whatever it should normally be—the aura is the same as the person wearing it. How is that even possible?”

“One may change the aura of an object into something it should not be,” Miya explained. Her tone was gentle and proud. Her smile suggested she was pleased at his response. “And if one does it just a little, the object might still look like a coin or a piece of jewelry, the way a mirror can show your image but not be you.”

He stared at her and then narrowed his eyes. “Why? Why would someone want that?”

“Because if I presented myself and attempted to change your aura in order to harm you, and you wore four talismans, then in effect I have to change your aura five times rather than once. So it is a protection, you see, from other wizards.” Miya held up a finger then. “But there’s always a price. For every talisman you wear, your own magic and ability to affect the auras of others is weakened. A witchhunter is nothing more than a wizard who wears as many talismans as they can maintain. In doing so, they make themselves almost completely immune to magic—but they may never cast a single spell.”

“So, it’s a balancing act?”

She nodded. “Exactly so. And the talisman rule applies to healing as much as harm—if you cannot change someone’s aura, that also means you cannot cure them.”

“I wouldn’t mind,” he said, with a somewhat wistful expression. “Learning how to heal people, I mean. That seems like it would be a fine thing to know.”

She studied his face for a moment, then nodded. “All right.” She crossed to the far side of the table, returning a moment later with a large book. She handed it to the young man.

He opened the book. It contained page after page of neat, perfectly drawn pictures of the human body, in separate pieces and the whole together.^* “You want me to read this?”

“I want you to memorize it.”

“Memorize?” His voice went a little squeaky.

“I’m willing to train you at your own pace, but you must have a foundation of knowledge to build upon. One cannot fix a thing if you do not understand how it is broken, and you will not be able to recognize how it is broken if you do not know how it should normally function. So yes, memorize. When you are done, we’ll move on to body chemistry and cellular composition.”

“Move on to what?”

She smiled. “You’ll see.” Miya picked up the mortar of crushed herbs and scooped the rest of the mixture into a small glass jar. “Put this on any other bruised areas, such as your jaw. When you run out, return to me or any of the House physickers and we’ll replenish your supply.”

“Thanks, I appreciate—” He paused. “Why am I going to need a steady supply?”

Her expression turned grim. “Darzin’s son Galen does. And he is a sweet boy.”

Kihrin gave her a startled look. “Great,” he murmured. “That’s just great. Does he beat his wife too? I assume Galen’s mother wasn’t a slave girl.”

“I do not believe you need me to provide you that answer.”

He sighed. For just a moment, talking to Miya about learning magic, he’d forgotten where he was. “No. No, I guess I don’t. Of course he beats his wife, and then he sends her here to be patched up good as new when he’s done. Isn’t it great when all the healers work for you? You can get away with almost anything.”

She started to say something, then stopped and shook her head. “Come along, Your Highness. It is time I showed you to your rooms.”