The White Mists of Power (24 page)

Chapter 20

The palace grounds seemed darker, older, more careworn. A serving woman walked by, her feet bare, the edges of her skirt ragged. Adric had never noticed poverty at the palace before. He scurried along the cobblestones, almost skipping. Milo had to run to keep up.

The guard, Butante, had shown them to their quarters, leaving his dirty clothing and sword behind. Then he had gone on to a meeting, and Adric had grabbed Milo’s sleeve, forcing him out onto the palace grounds. If he didn’t go to his father immediately, everyone would wonder why he had waited and might even use that against him.

He stopped in front of the west wing door and glanced around before trying it. The door was locked.

“I don’t like this,” Milo whispered.

“We have to try,” Adric said. He led Milo across the courtyard, past the bench on which Adric had sat that long last morning. He touched the stones, barely able to remember their coldness and his own anticipation. He had so much to tell his mother–and he hoped his father would do something about Rogren. He knew that they would help Milo’s family. Anyone who had saved a member of the royal family had to be rewarded.

They reached the main doors, which stood open. The palace interior smelled musty. A guard standing just inside the door put a hand on Adric’s shoulder as he entered.

“What’s your business, lad?”

By now he had learned. He understood that he no longer looked like the prince and that people would not recognize him. His lie was ready. “We’re Butante’s new valets. He sent us to get something he had left in the audience room.”

“The king is in the audience room. You can’t go in there.”

“All right,” Adric said. “At least let me tell Butante. He’s waiting in the west wing. I’d like to show my brother so he knows how to find his way there later.”

The guard grunted his assent. Adric circled in the great room, staring at the marble floor, the high, vaulted ceiling. He was home! He hurried down the corridor to the west wing, then veered down a side corridor that he knew lead to the audience chamber. The corridor was narrow, filled with paintings Adric had never looked at, and performers’ closets that he used to hide in. Milo struggled beside him.

“Do you know where you’re going?” Milo asked.

Adric nodded. “I lived here my whole life.”

He glanced at Milo, saw how his friend seemed to look smaller here, almost faded. He put his arm around Milo. “Don’t worry,” Adric said. “Once I tell my father what happened, he’ll let me treat you like my brother, like I want to.”

Milo bit his lower lip. His shoulders were tense.

They rounded a corner and Adric saw the edge of a stairway. He took a deep breath. He was almost there.

Footsteps rang in the hall above and voices murmured softly. Adric started up the stairs before recognizing whom he heard. Lord Ewehl, the man who had left him. The lord stood at the top of the stairs, talking with a retainer. Then the lord started down the steps, his dark robes flowing behind him. Adric turned his face and tried to run past.

“Just a minute, lad.” The lord grabbed Adric’s shoulder. “Where are you going?”

“I have a message, sir,” Adric said, his head still lowered. The lord put a bony finger beneath Adric’s chin and forced his head up. When their eyes met, the lord gasped.

He turned to the retainer at the top of the stairs. “Get the guards. Tell them there are intruders in the place. Hurry!”

The retainer ran down the corridor. Adric wrenched himself from Lord Ewehl’s grasp and tried to pass him, but the lord reached out. His arm hit Adric and pushed the boy backward. Milo grabbed Adric’s shirt, trying to prevent his fall, but Adric couldn’t get his balance. They tumbled down the stone stairway, Adric protecting his head with his arms. The sharp edges of the stairs opened the remaining scabs on Adric’s back. He sprawled at the staircase bottom, unable to get his breath.

Lord Ewehl hurried toward him, his dagger drawn. Adric pushed away along the floor, but the lord grabbed his shirt and pulled him to his feet. Milo leapt on the lord from behind. The lord let go of Adric. Adric took two steps toward Ewehl as the lord swung Milo off his back. Adric reached for Ewehl’s arm and missed. The lord’s dagger swung past, followed by a thud and a groan. Adric turned, saw Milo stumble forward, the dagger in his back.

Adric attacked the lord, pounding him and forcing him against the stairs. The lord raised his hands to protect his face. Adric kicked him in the stomach. The lord’s feet snagged on the stairs and he fell backward, his head smacking against the stone.

Milo leaned against the wall. Above them, Adric heard footsteps. He put his arm around Milo’s waist and dragged him into a nearby performers’ closet, slamming the door behind them.

The closet was dark and smelled of greasepaint. The light filtering through the cracks in the door illuminated a lute, juggling clubs, and a magician’s robe. Adric spread the robe out like a pallet and helped Milo onto it. Milo grabbed his wrist.

Adric pried his wrist free from Milo’s fingers as the doorknob rattled. Adric backed away until he cringed against the damp stone wall. The door swung open. A tall, slender man dressed in black filled the doorway. The light against his back hid his face in shadows.

The man closed the door. Adric decided to take a chance. He stepped forward. “Please,” he whispered. “Help me. My friend is dying.”

The man knelt beside Milo and placed his hand over Milo’s face.

“I’m sorry.” The man’s voice was deep and melodic. “But I’m afraid that your friend is already dead.”

PART THREE

Chapter 21

i

To the Lady Kerry:

I had difficulty tapping Dasvid’s mind. He has a forceful brain, perhaps trained to resist probes by an Enos. I attempted the tap during the king’s announcement banquet. My tap did not reveal the mental picture which Dasvid carries of himself, but I did learn that he refers to himself as Byron. He struggled against me through most of the tap, but I was able to get a brief picture just after the king’s announcement.

In that flash I learned that Dasvid feared for a young boy who appeared half starved and abused. The fear had a direct relationship to the announcement. The child’s identity and relationship to Dasvid are unknown.

The Lady Jelwra’s unannounced appearance at the banquet also disturbed Dasvid. She appeared startled by his presence as well. She hinted that his name might not be Byron, and she made references to the last Lord of Kinsmail. The reference disturbed Dasvid’s companion, Seymour.

Dasvid has become a favorite of the king’s. The relationship seems quite strong. No direct attack on Dasvid is possible at this time.

You might not be the only one who wants the bard dead, milady. Corvo, the assassin whom Lord Ewehl paid to kill Lord Demythos a decade ago, is here at the palace. He won’t tell me who he’s working for and, of course, I can’t tap him. I will keep an eye on him, though.

Please obtain information relating to the last Lord of Kinsmail. I will attempt another tap and maintain surveillance. I suggest no action be taken against Dasvid at this time.

Vonda

ii

Almathea removed the diamonds from her ears, set them on her dressing table, and inserted pearls. She glanced in the mirror: her face looked fat in the wavy glass. The dressing room was too small and claustrophobic. The edges of her skirt hit the wardrobe as she moved.

She glanced into the sitting room. The overstuffed furniture scattered around the walls looked uncomfortable, but no more uncomfortable than Vonda. She still waited, her hands folded in her lap. She looked like a spider, fat and contented, waiting for the kill. Alma had been wondering why Vonda was there. Alma had no designs on Kerry land, and she had never spoken with the Lady Kerry.

Alma sighed and returned to her mirror. She had already kept Vonda waiting almost an hour. The message had to be important for Vonda to wait that long. Alma brushed her long, dark hair and pulled it away from her face. Then she wound a strand of pearls among the curls and stepped back, surveying herself. It would have to do. She had only so much to work with–her hair was coarse and too thick, her face dark and plain–and too little time. The king’s announcement had surprised her, as it had surprised the other gentry, and she wanted to make sure the king saw no one else at his festival.

She smoothed her hair one more time and pulled the door open. Vonda glanced up. Her skin formed little webs around her eyes and the corners of her mouth.

“Well, Vonda,” Alma said, “what is this thing that is so important?” She continued standing so that Vonda had to look up. Upstart servants had to be kept at a disadvantage.

“I’m pleased that you agreed to see me, milady.” Vonda’s voice was soft, like the rustle of parchment. “I have come to discuss the king’s bard.”

Alma moved her head slightly. The pearls in her hair clicked. Vonda had been watching the night before; Alma remembered that. Time to put the spider lady on the defensive. “Is he your lover?” Alma asked.

Vonda smiled. The look was cold. “Of course not, milady. I’m here on business.”

“Indeed.” Alma walked to the sideboard and poured herself a glass of water. She did not offer Vonda one.

“The Lady Kerry believes that the bard is not who he claims to be. You too seem to know something about the man. I was wondering if you would like to share your information.”

Alma swirled the water in the glass as if it were full of wine. Then she took a sip, savoring the taste, and leaned against the chair across from Vonda. “What interest does the Lady Kerry have in this?”

“A personal one.”

Alma sighed, as if she were bored. In fact, she was even more interested. She loved secrets and gossip. Her power had its base in the kind of knowledge she picked up from others. Now that she knew Lady Kerry also had suspicions and an involvement with Sir Geoffry, Alma would search for the information on her own.

“I’m afraid I can’t help you,” Alma said. “The man looks familiar, but I don’t know where I have seen him before.”

“Beg pardon.” Vonda bowed her head a little, keeping her gaze on Alma. “But I do not believe you, milady.”

“The Lady Kerry lets you talk like that? Interesting the manner of different gentry.” Alma took another sip of her water and stood. “You may leave.”

Vonda bowed her head again and scurried around the chairs. When she reached the door, she stopped. “I hope you consider the request, lady.”

Alma smiled and waited until the door closed before setting the glass down carefully. Impertinent witch, calling Alma a liar and asking for help in the same meeting. Alma adjusted her skirts, checked the mirror once more, and let herself out of her suite.

The corridor was cool. A retainer standing near her door bowed his head at her. She ignored him. Sir Geoffry was a puzzle. She hadn’t expected him at the palace and she certainly hadn’t expected to see him performing for the king. Perhaps Geoffry believed that once he had the king’s favor, he could petition for his lands. Bad plan, of course. The king now saw Geoffry as lower class, and no amount of history could change that.

She turned down the corridor to the audience chamber, lifting her skirts as she climbed the small flight of stairs. The doors to the chamber were open. Retainers stood against the walls like statues, swords and banners crossed above their heads. Strange decorations; she did not like them. The king sat on a large chair on the dais, and Geoffry stood before him, hands clasped behind his back. Geoffry wore a linen shirt and breeches instead of his usual black. The clothing accented his slender frame and made him look younger.

Alma stepped inside and curtsied, making certain her attention was on the king. The man was too fat and smelled of sweat and ale. She supposed that if she became the new consort, she would have to do all of the work, with the king on his back and his stomach in the way. She frowned, wishing there was another way to become part of the royal family in Kilot.

“Alma!” The king sounded pleased. He stood up and extended his hand to her. She rose, nodded once at Geoffry, and climbed the stairs to the dais.

Lunch did not sound excellent. Alma wanted to know why Geoffry was talking to the king, and she didn’t dare ask. She didn’t want the king to know how curious she was about things. He knew that she was intelligent and that she could be difficult, but he didn’t have to know that she was determined to make her own power base in the kingdom. “I’ll just take a chair and wait until you’re through,” she said.

She walked to the back of the dais and sat on one of the wood chairs near some velvet curtains. They brushed against her back and the chair seemed stiff, uncomfortable. From her vantage point, she could see Geoffry’s face, but not the king’s.

The king sighed and sat back in his chair. “Finish, bard,” he said.

“I have told you about the conditions in the countryside,” the bard said. He leaned on one knee, the other leg straight down the stairs. He was as close to the king as he could be without being disrespectful. “I’m worried about an uprising. The wheat crop failures are costing many peasants their livelihood. People are starving, and the gentry is doing nothing. On Lord Dakin’s land–”