Fire in the Blood, page 10
“First,” Mehen said, “where I go is no matter. You have all three made it clear that you’ll do as you want no matter what I say, and come out more or less fine. You don’t need me.”
“That’s not true.”
“Don’t patronize me, boy. All our worlds are changing. Seventeen years, and they were my whole world. Seven and a half years, and the grief, the hope, that was my whole world.” He shook his head. “I don’t even know what I’m for anymore.”
When they’d first met, Mehen had had no use for Brin at all. When the dragonborn first suspected there might be something happening between this runaway acolyte and his daughter, he’d been glad to leave Brin behind. And when Brin had arrived in Cormyr where Mehen had been imprisoned—on charges of kidnapping Brin, it had to be said—bearing news that the twins had disappeared, there had been a moment where Brin had been sure that Mehen was going to murder him with his bare hands.
But only for a moment, and after that, the dragonborn had become one of his closest allies and dearest friends—and at times, something like a father.
“Please don’t leave,” Brin said. “Please don’t take her.”
“And that’s number two,” Mehen said, shaking a clawed finger at Brin. “She’s not a child any more than you are. She’ll go where she wants, do as she likes, and having you tell her she ought to go to bed isn’t helping your case. You’ve caged her—she’s caged herself. But sooner or later, the cage won’t hold. Which of you is going to open the door?”
Brin bit back a protest—he wasn’t trying to hold Havilar back, just keep her safe. He knew the ins and outs of Suzail and she didn’t, that was all.
And she’s always been the one to save you, he thought. Now you’re putting her in dresses and making her practice in secret.
“I’m going to go talk to her,” he said. “If Vescaras and Dahl haven’t left, tell them they can chastise me another time.” He went back into the bedroom.
Havilar had fallen asleep again, snoring softly as her horns twisted her head forward. She stirred, though, as Brin climbed in beside her and resettled her head against his shoulder.
“We could just run,” he said, and a rush of guilt and longing came with it. As a lad, he’d fled Suzail, fled all these machinations for the throne and his great-aunt’s scheming ways, and found Havilar. He could run again.
Though it would mean leaving the Harpers in the lurch. It would mean leaving Cormyr’s vulnerable grasping for aid. It would mean the war wizards could always come hunting for him.
Havilar didn’t answer, pulled down once more by the poison’s lingering effects. Brin tucked his head against hers, listening to her breathe and thinking of all the ways this moment might come to ruin.
THE EVENING FOLLOWED with more questions than Farideh could count, more rude intrusions of magic meant to feel out her lies or weaknesses, her strengths or her truths. If she wasn’t forthcoming, the question often came again, just a little changed, and more than once she felt the baby-spider shiver of the spell meant to ferret out evil connections. Every time her heart wanted to beat itself inside out, waiting for Ilstan to realize that Asmodeus had laid his mark upon her. Twice she had to stop to vomit. At some point Brin left, at another Mehen returned. And the tests kept coming.
But whether it was the protection spell’s effect or whether Asmodeus’s mark didn’t count against her, the war wizards left well after the lamps were lit—Ilstan and Devora satisfied, and Drannon annoyed that nothing had come of it.
Farideh stood stiffly and made her way to the entry, where Mehen stood, watching the war wizards go. “You all right?” he asked.
“Fine,” Farideh said automatically. “How’s Havi?”
“Probably asleep again,” Mehen said. “Brin’s with her.”
Farideh nodded, not trusting herself to say the right thing.
“You look as though you could use something to eat and some of His Lordship’s good wine,” Mehen said, putting an arm around her and steering her toward the kitchen. There was a roast going cold on the table, pottage and beets besides. Only the kitchen maid was left to keep the fire up. She scurried out when Mehen sat down at the rough table. Farideh watched her go.
“Did you grow up with servants?” Farideh asked.
Mehen gave her a curious look. They didn’t often talk about his childhood. “They never seem to bother you,” Farideh pointed out. “I’m never sure if asking them to sit down is rude or polite or confusing.”
“You get used to it,” Mehen said, without answering her question. He poured her a glass of ruby-colored wine. “If I ask you what Helindra said to Havilar, will you tell me?”
Farideh put a little food on her plate. “She offered to pay Havilar a lot of coin to go away, and threatened a lot of trouble if she didn’t.”
“Did she scare you?”
“A bit.”
“Good. Lady Crownsilver’s canny as a blue wyrm. Never drop your guard with her.”
Farideh took a swallow of wine. “Do you think she’s the one who sent the kidnappers?”
Mehen shook his head. “Helindra comes at you with coin and contracts. Not assassins.” He blew out a breath. “No one would blame you if you wanted to leave Suzail,” he said, watching her carefully.
Farideh thought of the desert under the moon. “Not if Havi’s staying.” But then she thought of Brin, upstairs, and wondered how long that reason would hold.
Mehen regarded her sadly. “Something will change soon,” he promised. “Nothing stands still forever.”
ON A HUNT, Irvel had always thought of his companions as his brothers, linked in a shared goal, a shared excitement, a shared prize.
I have eight thousand brothers and sisters this day, he thought, throwing up his shield to ward off a blow. His horse was lost, somewhere in the chaos, his guardsmen fighting hard against the Sembians that had broken around their rear guard and attacked the royal command.
Spells flashed around him, steel scraped against shields, against armor. Sembian, Cormyrean, there was no dividing which soldier was shouting, screaming, dying. Irvel could only keep his concentration on the men before him, the blades seeking his throat, and the officers close by and guarding both him and Baerovus.
He ran the Sembian through and risked a glance at his son—still on horseback, his dun gelding prancing under him, still shooting arrow after arrow into the enemy line. At his side Vainrence and a trio of war wizards summoned terrible storms of magic, powerful enough to make the air thicken and crackle with energy. In the valley beyond, the Sembian army would regret allying with Risen Netheril.
Baerovus reached for another arrow, found Irvel’s eyes—
A globe of shadow struck Baerovus’s head, rocking him out of the saddle as it passed, hardly slowing. Baerovus’s eyes rolled back in his skull. One foot still tangled in the stirrup, he fell into the churning mud, boneless and slack.
Irvel shouted. Another soldier broke through the ranks of the Cormyrean defenders and struck him hard with a pike—missed his head, bruised and bloodied his shoulder through the mail shirt. Irvel turned to throw the fellow off—Baerovus, Baerovus, he had to get to his son. Lord Darclant Illance stood between them, catching the pike on his sword and thrusting it away.
“This way, Irvel,” he bellowed. “I’ll keep—”
A dagger to the throat cut him off—Irvel shouted a war cry and ran the soldier through, seeing his dark eyes widen as the blade breached him. He was younger even than Baerovus. He caught Darclant, who grasped his own throat, blood spilling through his fingers. A healing potion, Irvel thought, but there was no quiet place to administer it—and Baerovus might need it more.
“Back to the palace!” Vainrence shouted, his voice carrying through the chaos. Irvel spun—like an island in a storm of clashing bodies and rearing horses, the Lord Warder stood holding Baerovus’s slack body. “The bootstick!” he shouted.
Still holding Darclant, Irvel reached down and slid the flat wooden stick from the edge of his boot with two fingers, just far enough to take hold of the top and snap it sharply down. The air around him and Lord Illance vanished as the Weave whined like the overdrawn strings of a fiddle about to break, drowning out the clash of swords, the shouts of soldiers, the folly of Cormyr.
5
24 Flamerule, the Year of the Nether Mountain Scrolls (1486 DR)
Suzail, Cormyr
RAEDRA STOOD PERFECTLY STILL BEFORE THE MIRROR, STUDYING THE purple silk gown with a dispassionate eye. She couldn’t help but imagine the murmurs of the nobles at the strings of amber beads trimming the flounces, the lace of gold around the bodice—didn’t she know this was her second wedding?
“It’s splendid!” her mother, Princess Ospra Goldfeather, said. Half a dozen ladies-in-waiting surrounded her, including Varauna and her mother, Lady Adenia Goldfeather. “You look like a true princess of Cormyr.”
What did that even mean? Lovely, Raedra thought. Strong. Quiet. Supportive. Willing to waste funds on frills and frippery.
“Is there a crown?” her aunt Adenia asked.
“Oh, there must be a crown,” Varauna said. “You won’t look like a bride at all if you have no jewels.” She reached out and straightened the full and flowing skirt ahead of the seamstress’s assistant with her pins. “And it should stay long—a train. You must have a train.”
All Raedra could think of was the sheer weight of that much fabric. Already it felt as if it would smother her—even before the jewels. Her first wedding gown had been so heavy—silk and wool for a winter wedding, so crusted with pearls she could hardly move. But how she’d shone! And how happy she’d been …
Idiot, she thought unkindly.
“Raedra?” her mother said. “You’re being quiet. Don’t you like it?”
“It could have a more daring collar,” Varauna offered. “A little more …” She gestured at Raedra’s décolleté.
Her mother pursed her mouth. “I don’t think that portrays the right image.”
“Varauna, don’t be vulgar,” Adenia said, fluttering her fan. “This is her wedding day, not her wedding night.”
“Who’s pretending you’re a virgin?” Varauna muttered in Raedra’s ear. Raedra smiled, though she didn’t feel it.
Raedra’s mother sighed. “What is it you want changed dear?”
I don’t know, Raedra thought, watching herself in the mirror. Everything, somehow.
“It doesn’t seem to be the best use of the Crown’s coin,” she said. “Not for a second wedding.”
Ospra Goldfeather pursed her mouth. “Raedra, unlike the last one, this wedding is not only about you and your happiness. We are a nation at war, and people want to see that the Dragon Throne will persist. They want to see that the Obarskyrs are still here, still expecting to hold Cormyr. They want to know that we will outlast Shade, and the swiftest, happiest way for you to remind them of that is to put on this lovely gown, smile, and marry Aubrin Crownsilver for all to see.” She sat back, smiling politely. “And in nine months, make sure there’s something else to make them rejoice.”
“Do you think the war will still be going on in nine months?” Raedra asked.
Ospra kept her smile, but her eyes were so tired. “I’m sure it won’t be. But you know well there is always something to tilt the scales. Unhappy nobles. Belligerent goblins. Not enough of this or that.” She folded her hands. “Your grandfather is not getting any younger. He would surely like to meet his great-grandchild.”
Raedra studied the dress again, keeping her thoughts to herself. At least her parents had given up on the notion of Baerovus meeting the right girl and snapping out of everything that made him Baerovus. Her brother would be king. Raedra would be the mother of the next king. And someone would make a painting of her in this lovely dress, holding the infant king beside her poor odd brother, to hang for all eternity in some forgotten hallway of the royal palace.
“May I see it with the crown?” she asked the seamstress. If she was going to do this, she might as well go all the way.
“Of course, Your Highness.” The woman had no more than set the gold coronet upon Raedra’s head, but one of the doorguards stepped in, announcing yet another visitor.
“Lord Aubrin Crownsilver,” the guard intoned, and Raedra felt a rush of blood she seldom got outside fencing practice. The young lord bowed to Princess Ospra, Lady Adenia—all the proper people, to all the proper degrees in the most proper order.
“Well met,” he said to Raedra, with a smile that didn’t reach his eyes. “I was hoping I could talk to you.”
Raedra stared at Aubrin’s reflection in the tall mirror, but there was nothing in his expression that said what he intended. If he tried to end it, here, now, in front of everyone—
“Isn’t she lovely, Aubrin?” Adenia asked.
“A true princess of Cormyr,” Aubrin said.
Raedra stared at him. “A fortunate thing that we were able to track down the silk.”
“Very fortunate,” Brin said without blinking.
“What is it you want?” she asked.
“I can’t come to see my bride?”
“Of course you can,” Raedra said, hearing the steel in his voice and matching it with her own. “Though there are many hours in the day—why this one in particular?”
“Raedra,” her mother scolded.
“I have guests, Mother,” Raedra pointed out, with a smile. “And the seamstress. Lord Crownsilver knows well—”
“ ‘Lord Crownsilver,’ ” Lady Adenia scoffed. “What sweet pet names you have for each other.” Raedra stared daggers at Brin’s reflection.
“Might we talk in private?” Brin asked.
Raedra set her jaw—not here, not now. Not with everyone watching and waiting. “I can hardly move, Aubrin. The pins.”
“Come sit with us and admire your bride,” Adenia said. “She’ll be through soon enough.” She gave Raedra a significant look. “And then you can have some private time. No one says it must be nine.”
Raedra’s thoughts raced to think of a suitably polite response to that and a suitable excuse to get Aubrin away from her—at least until she could guarantee she had the time to think about whatever it was he thought he was going to say.
And then a war wizard appeared in their midst, and Raedra regretted wishing for everything to change.
“You must come,” the wizard cried over Adenia’s little screech of surprise. Ospra was on her feet immediately. “The prince—the crown prince—there’s been an attack. Your pardon, Highnesses, you must come now.”
Raedra felt her blood drain away, and she stepped down from the pedestal as if she were in a dream. “Where?”
“What’s happened?” Ospra nearly shouted.
“Lord Warder Vainrence returned with Baerovus,” the war wizard said. “The princes were attacked—a force that slipped by the rear guard. The crown prince teleported back with His Highness’s bootstick—but they’ve not arrived. Something’s gone wrong.”
Pins or no pins, Raedra ran after them. “Where was the bootstick supposed to send him?” Ospra said.
“The Hippogriff Chamber—right to the Hippogriff Chamber.”
“Are they searching?” Ospra demanded. “You can find him, can’t you?”
“Princess, they’re doing what they can.”
“Where is Baerovus?” Raedra said. “Is he all right?”
The wizard looked back at her. “He’s … injured. They’re seeing to him.”
As they approached the Hall of the Battlebanners, the war wizard suddenly turned, leading the princesses through a narrow space lined with tapestries. Pulling one aside, he gestured them into the secret passageways of the royal palace. “There’s a crowd in the halls, I’m afraid,” he said. “They may not know what’s happened, but they know something’s wrong.”
Raedra hitched up the too-long skirts as she squeezed after her mother … and felt the weight of the fabric ease. She glanced over her shoulder—Aubrin held her train bunched in both fists, his face as pale as a sheet of parchment.
“They told me I had to come too,” he said, voice tight.
Which made Raedra’s heart pull all the harder down to her stomach. They slipped through the dark and dusty corridors, single-file, emerging into the Hippogriff Chamber at last. The curtains were all drawn wide to let in what little light the clouds allowed. Her grandfather, King Foril, struggled to his feet as Ospra rushed to him. Until a few months ago, the king had been surprisingly hearty as he approached his eightieth birthday. But a brainstorm one cold winter morning had sapped the Dragon King’s vitality and clouded his thoughts. The princess embraced her father-in-law gently, as if his birdlike bones would shatter, but Foril clutched her close.
“An ambush,” he said. “They got Baerovus out. Still waiting for Irvel.”
“What’s happened to him?”
“Foul magic.” Raedra nearly jumped at the new voice. The Royal Magician, Ganrahast, stood unmoving, against the wall where the secret passage emerged. “He will not die. But it may be some time before we can properly dispel it.”
“Thank you, Ganrahast,” Ospra said, her voice shaking. “May we see him?”
The red-haired wizard hesitated, pulling his long beard. “His Highness has some unpleasant injuries. Let them be healed first.”
A fat line of tears welled up in Ospra’s eyes. “I would see my son.”
“You will,” Ganrahast assured her. “But please, Highness, let the clerics do their work.”
“It’s Shadovar magic isn’t it?” Aubrin said.
“We aren’t certain.”
“We are certain,” a new voice said. Lord Vainrence, bloodied and scorched himself, slipped in through another of the secret passages. “Now,” he added. “They’ve sent their arcanists in.”
“How many war wizards are there with the army?” Raedra asked. Vainrence raised his brow.
“Plenty, Highness.”
“Enough to fend off Shadovar arcanists?”
