Reign of the Eagle, page 98
Eventually, Elwyn managed to get rid of Hildred for a few hours by promising to go dancing at a friend’s party that night in the city. Then, while Hildred went off to “beautify” herself (as she put it), there was another meeting in the disused wing of the palace. This time, Rada and Sir Walter were invited, too.
“Obviously, I would prefer to travel with my dear wife,” said Walter. “But might it not be best if I accompanied the gentlemen to Rawdon and Atherton, and the ladies went to Leornian together?”
“That is very generous,” said Caedmon. “But I think I am more than capable of defending King Edwin’s life, if it comes to that.” As if to prove it, he conjured a little ball of blue flame, which cast its weird, sickly glow around the room before he snapped his fingers, and it disappeared. “And in any case,” he said, smiling at Edwin, “his majesty is an accomplished archer and swordsman himself. Or so I have heard.”
“Damn right he is,” said Elwyn. “I’m the one who needs protection.”
Edwin thought of those glances Lady Hildred had been giving his sister, and he worried that Elwyn was right, but in ways she didn’t even imagine yet.
Chapter 7
The storeroom door swung open, squealing on its ancient hinges, and Kishori struggled up. The chains kept her from standing, but she at least wanted to see what was coming. The hallway outside was nearly as dark, though, and she could only see a dim silhouette.
Then came a blinding flash of blue light, searing through her eyes, and she ducked her head, shaking.
“Don’t worry. I’m not here to hurt you.” It was Lady Jorunn’s voice.
Kishori looked up, squinting into the flame. A free-floating ignition spell, of course. A very basic spell with all manner of practical uses. Kishori couldn’t do it herself—she was no hillichmagnar. But she could have done it with one of her rings, if she had it. Jorunn had taken them away, though.
“What do you want?” Kishori’s voice was dry and rough. She had asked Jorunn that question before, on the boat coming north, but she hadn’t gotten any answer.
“Don’t be afraid,” the hillichmagnar said. “Someone wants to see you. Come with me.”
Jorunn raised a finger, and the chains binding Kishori to the floor vanished. Her wrists were still manacled, though. After a few tries, she managed to get to her knees, and from there, to her feet. She hadn’t been able to stand for a few days, and at first she was a bit unsteady. Jorunn stepped aside, and two guards in Gramiren black came in. They each took an arm and half-carried Kishori out into the hall.
“Where am I?” she asked, her voice still rasping away like sand. She only guessed she was in Formacaster somewhere. Maybe the dungeons of Wealdan Castle. Jorunn had put her to sleep before the boat docked, and Kishori had woken up in the darkness of her cell.
“You are precisely where you need to be,” said Jorunn, leading the way.
“Where is my husband?”
“He is home,” said Jorunn. “Don’t worry, Mrs. Weller. No harm will come to him.”
Somewhere ahead and off to the left, Kishori could hear something hissing and churning now, and fog filtered out into the hall. It sounded like the labored breathing of a dying dragon, and with every step, the noise grew louder. The air grew hotter, too, and moisture trickled down the walls.
They turned a corner, and Kishori found herself in a dreadful place, a pit of noise and steam, like some forgotten corner of the Void come to earth. In the light of Jorunn’s flame, and a constellation of little safety lamps, she saw huge brass tanks—four of them—each one larger than a house. The metal sides gleamed, streaming condensation into channels on the floor. They rose high above her into the darkness, and if there was a vaulted ceiling up there, Kishori couldn’t see it. That could have been the night sky, for all she knew.
At the center of the room, between the tanks, was a strange, infernal machine—some sort of glittering brass tower, with parts rising and falling with the sound of a hundred horses on cobblestones. Jets of steam hissed from its joints, and with each breath, it shuddered, as if on the verge of exploding.
“It’s a pump,” Lady Jorunn explained. “It’s very clever. Friends of mine designed it, you know. I do apologize for the noise, but that’s why we’re here. This is the only place in the castle where absolutely no one can overhear you.”
The guards chained her to the base of the pump and then left. Lady Jorunn went away, too, though Kishori could still see her silhouette, pacing back and forth in the hall. Maybe she was waiting for someone—this person who wanted to talk to Kishori.
The vibrations of the machine ran through her body, but she found she didn’t fear the thing quite so much when she didn’t have to look at it. In spite of the noise, she could finally think. “The castle,” she whispered, half to herself. Jorunn had said, “the castle.” That meant Wealdan Castle, of course. Kishori had read of the marvels of the place—the waterfalls, the indoor garden, the vast glass dome. It had all been built by hillichmagnars centuries before.
“I suppose it makes sense,” she thought. “If there are indoor gardens and waterfalls, there have to be pumps somewhere.”
She was excited by this discovery for a few minutes, until it occurred to her that if she was at the castle, then she was in very big trouble, indeed. She almost wished she was being kidnapped and held for ransom. How many people even knew where she was? How many people would ever know? What did her husband know?
“Oh, poor Jon,” she thought. He had to be frantic by now. Had he gone to the mayor? To the baron? To the Earl of Montgomery, who owned the land Kishori’s tavern stood on? Perhaps he had, and again, this was a heartening thought, until she remembered that if she was in the castle, then she was in the hands of people who didn’t have to care what the Earl of Montgomery thought.
The pump slowed, and its tremendous clatter settled down into a low, rhythmic hum. Kishori’s ears rang, and then she heard voices. Low voices, at the edge of hearing, from out in the hall.
“She won’t be harmed? I have your word on that?” It was Jorunn speaking.
“Of course not.” This was another woman, low and sweet. “I simply need her help. That’s all. If you are so concerned, you could always accept my offer.”
“I...well, that is to say that we hillichmagnars are officially neutral.”
“I know. That is why I asked you to find someone like our dear guest.” There was a low chuckle that made the hair stand up on Kishori’s neck. “And having done so, you are dismissed, Jorunn.”
“I’m doing this to help you make peace,” said the hillichmagnar, a bit sterner now. “I hope you’re serious about that.”
“Oh, I am entirely serious,” said the other woman, in a voice full of dark laughter. “Farewell. If I need you, I know where to find you.”
There was silence again, and then slow footsteps. Another figure, hooded and cloaked, appeared in silhouette, and then came closer, into the dull orange light of the safety lamps. She was tall and thin, but the cloak hid any details of her figure, and the hood obscured her face.
“I wish I could apologize for the way you’ve been treated, Mrs. Weller,” said the woman. “But you are a difficult girl to find.”
“Why were you looking for me?” asked Kishori, though she was pretty sure she knew the answer.
“Because I need someone who can use magy, and the hillichmagnars, sadly, are too squeamish to get their hands dirty. Except for the ones on the other side, I regret to say. My husband and I need you, Mrs. Weller.”
The woman was now only a few yards away, and she tossed back her hood, revealing a hard, haughty face and flowing blonde hair. She was beautiful at first glance, though at second, there was something cold and dangerous in the icy blue eyes, and the nose was a bit too large. But the overall impression was one of grace and poise. Kishori wondered who the woman was, before she remembered pictures she had seen—official portraits hung in the town hall and a tapestry made by the Ladies’ Sewing Circle for the last Solstice. A face like this one, but with a silver crown. A woman in furs and velvet standing next to the king.
“Your majesty,” murmured Kishori, bowing her head.
“Both talented and smart,” said Queen Muriel Gramiren. “I like that. You should be proud, Mrs. Weller. You’re about to do your adopted country a great service.”
“My...my adopted country?” Kishori’s mouth went dry. “Your majesty, I was born in Keneburg, and I moved to Montgomery when I was—”
“Don’t lie. I know who you are. I have a source in the Vizierate of Magy, and he’s the one who passed along your name. They’ve always known you were in Myrcia, you know. You didn’t really think they would forget, did you?”
“I had hoped,” said Kishori softly.
“You were no threat, so they never bothered to chase you down. I hope you didn’t imagine you had outsmarted them. You were...what’s the Sahasran word now? A ‘Yotha.’ Is that right?”
“Y-yes ma’am.”
“A user of magysk artifacts. Not a hillichmagnar, but an ordinary person trained to use weapons imbued with magy. A marvelous idea. Too bad we here in Myrcia have never adopted it. We wouldn’t be quite so dependent on those pious old.... But that’s neither here nor there, Mrs. Weller. You were trained by the Vizierate of Magy, and then you were sent to Loshadnarod. Is that correct? Please do answer, I like to know if our source is giving good value for money.”
“Yes. I was in Loshadnarod. Ten years ago, ma’am.”
“During our stupid and ill-fated war with that land. My husband was the Captain General of Myrcia back then. It might please you to know that he thought that war was a damned bloody waste. I think you might have agreed with him, because you deserted, didn’t you?”
“I did.” Her commander had been murdered, half their team was dead, and the hillichmagnar who had crafted their weapons—that damned Ratnam woman—had disappeared. What else was Kishori supposed to do? Go back to Roshan to face an inquiry? It had been the most shameful thing she had ever done, but also the best and bravest. It had been the turning point in her life, the moment when she started clawing her way up from darkness toward the light.
“And then you came to Myrcia. No one seems quite sure how you made your way to the town of Montgomery, in Keneshire.” The queen’s full lips twisted up into an unpleasant smile. “I certainly don’t judge you for anything you might have done to keep food in your belly. But eventually you made a home. And I suppose you thought you were safe, didn’t you?”
She had, and it broke her heart to think of how careless she had been. She had kept her real first name, for Earstien’s sake! How stupid.
The queen continued. “Between my source’s information, and Lady Jorunn’s powers, it wasn’t that hard to track you down. I’ve heard stories of a bar wench in Montgomery who had an extraordinary ability to subdue drunken brawlers.” She reached into her cloak and pulled out one of Kishori’s rings. “If you really hadn’t wanted to be found, Mrs. Weller, you would have dropped this in a pond somewhere.”
In retrospect, Kishori wished she had done exactly that. Maybe there really had been some small traitorous part of her that wanted one more mission.
“What do you want from me?” Kishori said.
The queen patted her cheek. “No, my dear girl. The first question is what you want from me.”
“I...I want to go home, ma’am. I want to see my husband.”
“Good. You can go home. But first, you need to do exactly what I tell you to do. No more, no less.” Queen Muriel chuckled. “That’s a fair trade, isn’t it?”
Chapter 8
“You’ll want more socks than that.” Elwyn reached over and pulled three more pairs off the pile. Then she tossed them into Edwin’s knapsack.
“I’ve already got socks,” he grumbled.
“Yes, but you need more. I hunt more often than you do, and you have no idea how long it takes for clothes to dry when it’s cold and wet outside. Trust me; you can’t take too many pairs of socks.” She was pleased that he bowed to her wisdom and let her stuff the socks into his bag, so she maintained that momentum and chose his shirts (wool only, no cotton) for him as well. Sadly, he drew the line when she wanted to look through his underwear.
“Finster’s balls!” he cried, grabbing the unmentionables from her hands. “You’re not supposed to see those!”
“Edwin, darling, I’ve seen a lot more men’s underclothes than you have.” She managed to keep a straight face while saying the words, but then his whole face went red like a radish, and she couldn’t help bursting out laughing.
He forgave her when she brought out the mint tea and candied walnuts, and they sat in the window seat of his room, his feet resting on her knees, while they had their last midnight snack. Usually, they had servants to bring them their treats at the end of a long day, but no one outside their little circle of family and trusted advisors even knew Edwin and Caedmon were leaving in the morning. Since no one could disturb their packing, Elwyn had given the servants the night off.
When Edwin started nodding, he tried manfully to fight it, but failed, the way he always did. Elwyn woke him up—she couldn’t lift him anymore—and tucked him in. She could have gone back to her room, but she found a spare blanket and settled in on the window seat, instead, watching her brother sleep as her eyelids grew heavier and heavier.
She was bad with words sometimes, so she could never make it clear how she felt. He was a 13-year-old boy (almost 14 now, Holy Finster!), so she doubted he would understand, even if she could say it. But sometimes, like tonight, she looked at him and remembered how happy she had been to learn she had a little brother. She had been so lonely and hadn’t even realized it until she saw her father’s letter informing her that Edwin had been born, and she knew she would never really be lonely again.
And yet, she had been awful to him for so many years. Never cruel or violent, of course. But she had ignored him, treated him like a minor inconvenience in her life. Both him and poor little Alice, as well. Poor Alice who hung on Elwyn’s every word. Alice, who brightened up like it was Seefest and both Solstices at once if Elwyn condescended to let her come in and watch while she chose her dress for a party. Blast it all! She had been so dreadful to both of them, and if they still bothered to tolerate her, it was more than she deserved. She drifted off to sleep while making vague resolutions to behave better in the future.
She woke with the sun, as it hit the window by her head. That was a skill she had picked up as a hunter, and she was grateful for it now. She left Edwin’s room and went about, ordering the servants here and there, taking a bath, and doing everything possible to make it seem as if nothing was amiss.
Then she went back to Edwin’s room, where she found him still snoring. “Oh, for fuck’s sake,” she said, without malice, pulling the quilts off him. “You need to get up and get going, you twat.”
With her help, he was ready to go in mere minutes. And then came the tricky part. They passed Edwin’s bags off to Sir Walter, who took them down to the stables. He would meet them in town, and if anyone asked, he was going to say he was taking some old clothes to a seamstress to have them mended. Then Edwin and Elwyn had breakfast together, and as they ate, they talked loudly about going hunting outside town. They tried to do this as naturally as possible, and with any luck the servants would overhear and pass on the news to anyone who asked.
A few minutes later, they left the palace and collected Edwin’s bags from Sir Walter. He returned to the castle, and the two siblings rode out of the city. At the first crossroads to the west, they met Caedmon, who had told people he was “visiting friends in the area” and had left before dawn.
Elwyn gave her brother a very long hug, and would have hugged him even longer, except he started to squirm. “Take care of yourself,” she told him.
“Caedmon can do that for me,” he said, with a grin.
“You both need to be very careful,” said the hillichmagnar. “Keep our departure secret for as long as possible, your royal highness. Tell no one where we have gone. And you, your majesty, when we are on the road, tell no one where your sister is, or where she is going. Do not trust anyone, even if they seem sympathetic to our cause.”
Another quick hug, and then Elwyn watched as they rode away. When they were out of sight in the trees, she wiped her eyes, remounted her horse, and went back to town.
It didn’t take long for their absence to be noted. At lunch, Lord Rodger stopped by, and he looked taken aback to see Elwyn sitting by herself. “Where’s his majesty?” he asked. “Where’s Caedmon?”
“Oh, you know hillichmagnars,” said Elwyn, smiling. “They live according to their own schedule, don’t they?”
“Of course. But where’s King Edwin? I was going to ask him if he wanted to shoot with me again this afternoon.”
“I think he was talking about going hunting.” Elwyn scrunched up her face with the pretended effort of remembering. “I can’t recall where he said he was going, exactly.”
“Hunting?” repeated Rodger. “And you didn’t go with him?” He chuckled. “I’ve never heard of you missing an opportunity to hunt.”
“Well, there’s a first time for everything,” said Elwyn. “I’m not feeling especially well today.”
Then he insisted on knowing if there was something he could do to help her, and kept recommending surgeons and physicians in his father’s employ. Eventually Elwyn hinted that her indisposition was only the usual monthly trouble (even though it wasn’t), and at that Rodger finally gave up and went away, apologizing for bothering her.
She felt bad for embarrassing him, and in addition stupid for concealing the plan from someone who couldn’t possibly be an enemy agent. But Caedmon was right—they needed to keep this as quiet as possible, for as long as possible. If there really were Gramiren agents following them, then they needed to put the pursuers off the scent.
Some people were easier to fool than others. The captain of the guard handed over a spare tent to Sir Walter with a shrug and no questions asked. But when Rada requested an extra ration of coffee from the kitchen steward, the man spent twenty minutes quizzing her about why she needed so much.
