Sword of Jashan (Book 2) (15 page)

“I will so relay your intentions, Your Majesty.” The emissary twisted his hands together.

“I am sure you will, at the same time you are confirming our intentions to wed our nephew, Lord Ander Alghasi Monteni, to your Princess as we have previously discussed. To seal our previous contract regarding defenses, and regardless of any gossip about the succession. Is it not so?”

“Yes, your Majesty.” The emissary’s voice quavered and perspiration shone on his forehead. Ander thought he knew well what danger he stood in. Everyone else in the chamber sat in absolute silence, unmoving except for their breathing.

Sharpeyes still appeared relaxed, but his eyes were narrowed. “Lord Dionar. Proceed with your news then, so I may go my way sooner rather than later.”

“Sire.” Dionar straightened. He looked around with eyes that drooped slightly at the corners, making him look even more like the King’s Bitch he was named behind his back. “Ha’las becomes a danger to both of our nations, Hon Emissary. The people are starving while the ku’an mages are focused on nothing other than their own pleasures.”

“I beg your pardon, my lord, but what is new in this?” the emissary said.

“The last ship to dock—illegally, as His Majesty has said—in Las’ash City was stormed and boarded at the docks, her crew slain, and her cargo of Smoke, fruit, and grain stolen by the dregs of the dock district.

“My intelligence says further that when a ku’an mage came to find and punish the evildoers, even his psychic magery could not save him from being beheaded. The rioters stuffed his mouth with Smoke, and sent his head to Las’ash Castle as a present to King Ar’ok.”

Ander drew in a shocked breath. A mob had managed to overcome the psychic influence of a ku’an long enough to kill him?

“The rains that usually come to Ha’las in midsummer have failed, as they do from time to time. The crops are dust in the fields. King Ar’ok stays locked in his castle, playing with wine and Smoke and his women, and pays no attention. Outside the walls of the Castle, there is no commerce since there is no protection from the desperate. The military forces of the ku’an have grown to despise their masters, and those who are not forcibly influenced by ku’an magery have grown into gangs that take whatever they can from the common people.”

“What of Lord Si’lan, the ku’an’an?” Ander asked. “Has he done nothing?”

“I have heard naught of Lord Si’lan, other than that he has left the Castle, and gone to his own lands.”

The King sat back in his carved chair. “It will not be long before the starving people of Ha’las—or their desperate ku’an rulers, seeking refuge—look across the narrow sea between us and remember the riches we have. Already there has been another attempt at a Black Tide, an attack meant to disable us. It was turned by the diligence of the Collared Lords at Seagard Castle.”

Lord Arias had been one of those Collared Lords, until Sharpeyes slew him. Ander remembered Callo’s horrified grief after the news of Arias’ death. He was sure Callo had not really meant his oath to slay Sharpeyes in revenge.

“We must prepare,” King Martan said. “Leyland and Righar both.”

“I will so inform King Therey, your Majesty,” the emissary said.

“Do that. Bid him, as graciously as I would wish to convey, to set aside rumors and fulfill our plans.” He waved at Ander. “This boy will be in a position of power, regardless what happens to the succession to the throne.”

“Lord Callo may well die before then, anyway,” Dria said carelessly. “The man is ill from too much power.”

“Yhallin will cure him,” the King said, dismissing the subject.
 

Chapter Nine

Callo began pacing. It took him five strides to get from one wall to the other. In spite of its size, the room was furnished according to Callo’s rank, with comfort and even a touch of heavyhanded style. There were gold-threaded coverlets and a ceramic pitcher with nude females dancing around it. A rather bloody battle scene adorned one wall.

There was nothing, of course, that he could use to escape. He had already looked. No sharp objects, nothing that could be used as a weapon against the guarded servants who brought his food and drink. The window had a graceful view of a garden courtyard, but was barred; there would be no escape that way.

Yhallin’s poison, offered to him like a sweet on a stick as an enticement to allow him partial freedom, ensured he did not use his mage abilities to escape either. The stuff smelled like a courtesan’s lair, heavy and sweet, in spite of the fact that Kirian said it was diluted so much it was safe to drink. He took it grudgingly; they would not allow him the brief freedom he had been granted if he did not drink the stuff.

And without the candlemarks in the courtyard or in the ring, he thought he would in truth go mad.

Yhallin watched him. “You are restless. Are you having more difficulty containing your magery today?”

“No. I just want out of here. A turn in the ring, a ride. Jashan’s eyes, even a stroll in the garden like a damned debutante would ease me greatly. Is there nothing you can do?”

“You were in the ring with Hon Drale yesterday. You will be permitted time in the castle ring again today, and dinner in the courtyard if you wish it.”

“Time in public, so I may pretend I am not in fact a prisoner.”

“That will not last long.” Yhallin still gave back no expression, nothing for him to work with to know what the woman was feeling. The Mage Healer looked odd, with her shaved head and humble messenger’s clothing. Her voice was calm as if nothing he said could reach her. He was tempted to blaze out in a storm of magery, just to see if he could provoke some reaction from her.

But, of course, he could not. The last dose of phodian made him blind to the magery he had lived with his entire life; he felt blank and dull. He wondered if this was what it was like to be ungifted.

“How do you feel?” Yhallin asked.

“Like I’m behind bars!” he snapped.

“Confinement does make active people irritable,” Yhallin said. “But you are doing well, and it does not appear the phodian has reached its limit of toxicity yet. Only a few days until the caravan goes to Deephold, and then you will be free of all this.”

Callo had agreed to go to Deephold, the place in the mountains that had been gifted to Mage Yhallin when she had pledged her considerable talents to the King. Sharpeyes had known how to bind to him what he needed to bolster his power; he had spared nothing to reward this unlikely mage in such a way she would be tethered to him. Callo had seen the look in her eyes when she mentioned King Martan. There was more than gratitude there, more than the allegiance a rescued halfbreed owed to her savior. The light in Yhallin’s eyes was fervid.

He regarded her with a pained wariness. He had been waiting for her to decide he was a threat to Sharpeyes, and then turn on him. So far he had been fortunate. She knew nothing of his vow, or else she thought it merely the flamboyant words of new grief, and did not believe it.

She took her leave of him. He waited until his guardsmen came to escort him to the ring.

It was a hot afternoon, but the interior walls that surrounded the courtyard still held the chill of the previous night’s air. There were people there, clustered in the cool of the shadowed walls, talking and avoiding the heat of the day.

Callo had practiced here before, but not often; he had never been favored in Sugetre Castle. As Sharpeyes’ bastard nephew, he had been relegated to modest quarters outside the walls of the main castle, and had practiced in the warriors’ ring near the stable yards.

He did not want to practice here today. There were too many eyes.

“I would prefer one of the stable rings,” he told the guard. “Can we not go there?”

“We are here now, where there are others who can help subdue you if you cause trouble,” the man said. “I was told to bring you here, my lord. If it is not acceptable, I’ll return you to your cell.”

Callo’s eyes went to the windows above, on the second and third floors, behind which anyone could sit and watch, even Sharpeyes were he so inclined. It was a mistake to do the worship ritual here, he knew; yet he dared not protest. The privilege might be taken away, and he did not think his slight control could weather that. He shed his cloak and picked up one of the wooden swords that leaned against the wall, testing it with a turn of his wrist. A familiar face smiled at him from across the ring, and he felt better. It was Chiss, in the middle of a varied group of upper servants and city guard.

He smiled back at Chiss, then looked around for others he might know. The grassy area outside the ring was empty of other groups, but there were people on the stone-railed balcony on the facing second floor; they were courtiers, mostly, curious about him no doubt. He caught a glimpse of a red-lined cloak and dark hair and recognized Lord Ander, looking at him unsmiling.

Callo bowed toward Ander and proceeded into the ring. This was unnatural, conducting this ritual with an audience, with his nerves dampened by the drug. But he was a prisoner and must take what he could. Closing his eyes, he lifted the sword in the ritual salute and began the first slow turns of Jashan’s form.

His feet were heavy, and the light wooden sword felt almost disconnected from his arm. He knew his usual grace was absent. Three forms into the ritual, he had not felt the presence of the god. Then he focused on the sword, and the muttering of the people around him faded into silence. He forgot the artificiality of the ceremonial ring, the courtiers whispering on the balcony, and the armed guard watching him. Jashan’s strength was suddenly in his arm. His feet were lighter, his movements inspired.

He lifted his head and moved in the ancient purity of the forms, enveloped in the god’s silence.

Then someone shouted. He opened his eyes, almost stumbling as a hand caught hold of his sword arm. His rapport with the god fled. Gold fire wrapped his hands and coated the cheap wooden sword. Looking around in confusion, he saw a haze of color magery that fled as the sword was wrested from his grasp.

“What?” he gasped, yanked back to earth too suddenly. “What are you doing?”

“Stopping you, color mage,” the guard growled.

A booted foot struck him from behind and he fell to his knees. Someone grabbed him by the neck of his tunic.
How dare the man handle me thus?
Color magery flared in the corner of his vision and then vanished. The dead quality he associated with the phodian was gone.

“You may stop, guard,” said a new voice. Callo turned to see a gray-bearded man wearing a mage cloak. “I am here to deal with any errant color magery, though I think he poses no danger.”

“My lord, I was ordered to do whatever was necessary to stop him from using any magery.”

“You have done enough,” Oron said calmly.

The guard released him. On the second floor balcony, there was a babble of voices speaking at once. From the third floor a mage-cloaked man with a circlet around his head made an appearance in the archway. His Majesty Sharpeyes looked down at the confusion and smiled.

“You saw it!” exclaimed someone in the balcony. “He does indeed have the color magery!”

“Sharpeyes has declared him true Monteni by blood,” said another courtier.

“Pfah, he’s no more than a half-blood.”

“Shhhh!” hushed a woman standing next to him. “The King is here.”

“Are you all right?” Mage Oron asked him. “You look a little pale.”

“It is—they gave me drugs,” Callo said. “To control me. I don’t know what happened. Thank you for your intervention.”

“You would have been better off to practice somewhere private,” said the Lord Mage. He looked up at the third floor. The opening where the King had stood was now empty.

Callo handed the sword to his guard and walked out of the ring, Mage Oron beside him. “I don’t understand.”

“The gossip will be all around the castle before nightfall that you are what His Majesty has announced—a color mage, true Monteni by blood—even if illegitimate. Worthy to be recognized, if you can get your heritage under control.”

“Instead of a bastard nothing to be scorned, as I was before.”

“Just so.” Mage Oron put his hand in front of the guard as he attempted to follow them back into the castle. “You need not follow us, man. I have it under control.”

“But Mage Yhallin commanded me.”

“I think you may tell Mage Yhallin that I have other orders for you. Do you have some objection?” The guard paled as Oron’s mild, gray eyes scanned his face. Then the mage smiled as Chiss came running up to them. “Here, I have a younger man to help me should Lord Callo turn violent. Go your way, guard. My respects to Mage Yhallin.”

There was nothing the guard could do. He backed away, scowling. Callo felt an immense relief; though he was still under guard by Mage Oron, this was the first time he had felt relatively free since he had been brought drugged and bound into Sugetre Castle.

“My lord, are you well?” Chiss asked, keeping pace with them as they swept through the corridors.

“I am, and also very glad to see you, Chiss,” Callo said. “Are they treating you well here?”

Chiss shrugged. “I have not been mistreated. I am given no duties, so you will be pleased to know I have been your eyes and ears around this place for the last sennight. I have much to tell you.”

Callo smiled. The presence of his oldest friend brought him comfort. “That is good. But better yet to see you well.”

They stopped in Mage Oron’s spacious outer chamber. The shutters were flung wide. A stained glass pendant hung from one lintel, casting rainbows around the room.

“Now,” Oron said with emphasis, “what possessed you to show your ability in the ceremonial ring, in front of all the chatterboxes in the castle?”

Callo was taken aback. “It should not have happened. The drug failed to work—the one they have been giving me to suppress the mage talent.”

“You have lived here before,” Oron said. “You know what this place is like. Your display—your loss of control—was a mistake. You have advanced your cause if you wish to be next ruler of this land. Otherwise, you have made an enemy of the boy who is the legal heir.”