The Fifth Sorceress, page 11
Keeping herself barren had also been a simple thing. Producing progeny with one of unendowed blood was not part of her plans, nor would it ever be. No matter, she thought. There had been many younger and more vital men in her bed to amuse her since her wedding day. It always made her laugh to imagine the looks that would have come upon their faces had she told any of them how old she truly was. But that was unimportant. There would always be more, especially since her husband’s existence would soon be coming to an end.
Satisfied with her appearance, she narrowed her eyes, and the hovering mirror obediently folded in midair and slipped itself back into the vanity case. Pointing to the window shades, she watched them roll themselves back up into place.
She laid her head back against the velvet upholstery, closed her eyes, and silently blessed the beloved endowed blood streaming through her veins, at the same time cursing the wizard bastard who had been her father. She then smiled to herself, proud of the part she was about to play, and proud of who she had become.
A sorceress.
The fact that she was the only living sorceress in Eutracia was itself unparalleled. But it was her special talent of changing her appearance upon which she prided herself the most. This chameleonlike ability, as well as the time enchantments that protected her, had been essential in helping her to keep both herself and her secrets alive, time after time, for more than three centuries.
For Natasha of the House of Minaar was a Visage Caster, able to change her appearance to suit any need, or for that matter, any mood.
As the duchess of Ephyra, it was commonplace for her to visit Tammerland as an emissary of her husband. During her frequent visits to the palace she had always taken special care to be as charming as possible, cultivating the friendship of the queen and arranging useful political alliances at court. She was in constant need of any and all information regarding the royals and the Directorate that she could gather, and there were many in and around the court at Tammerland who were only too happy to provide it, assuming that the price was right. And Natasha always paid, and paid handsomely, with either the coin of the realm or with her body, whichever was most useful at the given moment. She had even managed to arrange the occasional audience with the unwitting wizards of the Directorate. It had taken her a long time to master the sorceress’s warp that she had so carefully constructed about herself, the warp that allowed her to hide the quality of her blood from detection by the wizards. That warp had always been an essential part of the masquerade, just as her Sisters had taught her it would be. Despite how much she hated all wizards, she knew it was paramount that they feel comfortable in her presence, and that her secret remain intact.
She thought first of the royal family, and of what would happen to them. It brought a smile to her lips to think that she might save the prince for some pleasure of her own before it all ended. It had been so long since she had lain with a man whose blood quality was the equal of hers. And then her mind turned to each of the six wizards in turn, and to what the future would soon to bring them, as well. To the wizards who had defeated her teachers, who had banished her Sisters from their birthrights. To the infestation that now controlled Eutracia. And especially to Wigg, Lead Wizard, the greatest of the parasites.
It had been especially important to arrange this particular trip to Tammerland correctly, and to make sure that her otherwise useless husband remained at home on their estate in Ephyra. The intestinal bout that poor Duke Baldric had suddenly acquired had been childishly easy for her to conjure, and she had actually enjoyed inflicting it upon him. Not only would the doddering old fool be physically incapacitated, but he would be unable to bear the long carriage ride to the royal inspection ceremony. Indeed, he himself had insisted that traveling to Tammerland in a bumpy carriage to view a simple inspection of the abdication preparations was now completely out of the question.
Which, of course, had suited her purposes perfectly. Natasha needed to be quite alone this evening if she was to accomplish all that was expected of her by her Sisters. Failing was not an option. She needed to be able to move amongst the other guests at the ceremony unescorted and of her own free will, so that she could be in the most advantageous position to observe the members of the royal family and the Directorate of Wizards. Indeed, at some point in the evening it was critically important that she become physically close to each of them. The timing must be perfect. There would be no second chance to try again before the die was finally cast.
As she laid her head lazily against the luxurious upholstery, her mind began to drift back in time to the sequence of events that had led her to this day, and to the even more important days that lay soon enough ahead. The fact that her name was not really Natasha was of no importance. After all, she had acquired and lost so many names over the last 300 years that she wouldn’t be able to remember half of them if she tried. Besides, she wanted nothing from the man who had been her father, including his name. No, names were not important. But what was important was that at the very young age of only five years she alone had been the first one to be able to read the Tome.
The Tome. The great book of all books that had accompanied the discovery of the Paragon. She had simply picked it up and begun reading it even after all of the greatest wizard minds of the realm had tried so hard to do the same thing. Tried and failed.
She would never forget the look upon the face of her bastard wizard father as he had come into that secret room, only to see his little girl perched in a huge chair with the very Paragon itself around her neck, reading calmly from the great Tome as though she had been speaking and writing its strange language all her life. Nor would she ever forget the rejected feeling of being pushed aside by all of the other wizards in their great haste to try again to read the book – to read the book and therefore help themselves to victory in their struggle against the ones they had called the sorceresses. She had read the book first. The book that before that day had always been gibberish, even to the most brilliant of wizards, including Wigg.
She had also been only five years old when the pretty ladies had first come to her. The pretty ladies who never aged. They had taken her with them to live, and she was happy about it because she had already been angry with her father and the other wizards. She sneaked away with them gladly, and had never returned.
And then had come her training.
She was special because of her blood, the four of them had said. Special and very pretty. And one day, if she worked very hard, she could grow up to be just like them. Just like them. How those words had so wonderfully swollen her heart, and how hard she had worked at everything the pretty ladies had taught her to do. And she had learned, beyond even the expectations of the four women whom she had taken to her heart as her Sisters. As her family.
But then, twenty years later, the dark days of the war had come. Because of the wizards’ discovery of Paragon, her Sisters were losing their struggle. And it was decided that, instead of joining them in the conflict and revealing her identity, she would be left behind, in case all was lost. The cruel wizards had forgotten about her existence, her Sisters had said, and it was best that it remain that way. Even her father, they had told her, had forgotten about her. And thus her additional training as a Visage Caster had begun: so that she could be safely left behind, alone if need be, to keep their version of the craft alive and to serve her teachers should the need ever arise. Behind the veil of a thousand faces.
From the safety of her newly altered first change of appearance, she had watched in horror as her Sisters were first tried and then banished from their birthrights, convicted as common criminals to be set adrift upon the Sea of Whispers. For many weeks afterward she had remained hidden from the population of Eutracia, beside herself with grief, mourning her Sisters’ deaths. After that, she constantly moved from place to place as they had instructed her, changing her appearance as necessary to keep the secret of her identity, unsure of what to do. And then, at last, the first message had come to her mind, the first of many such mental joinings that would follow. She could still remember the joy she felt the first time the voice of her eldest Sister had suddenly rung in her ears from somewhere far away. We live, the voice said. Wait and become stronger. There shall be need of you, and you must watch for the Chosen Ones to come. Watch so that we may know, also.
And the Chosen Ones had come, almost thirty years ago, just as the Tome had predicted.
And now her Sisters knew also.
Smiling, Natasha of the House of Minaar slipped on her white silk elbow gloves and listened casually as her driver presented her papers of transit to the Royal Guard manning the gate just outside the moat of the royal palace at Tammerland. Her smile widened as she heard the driver finally urge the stallions ahead, over the bridge to the palace.
A sorceress of the Coven had just passed through the palace gates.
The castle was coming alive with visitors and workers, he thought. There must have been 200 people in this room alone. And here I sit in my dirty clothes, for all of them to see.
Tristan sat glumly in one of the ornate chairs that stood in several rows just outside the anteroom to the royal chambers. Physically, he still felt marvelous after his visit to the falls, but he was very worried about the discussions that he guessed were now taking place on the other side of the huge double mahogany doors. Without being told, he knew that the Directorate of Wizards were in closed chambers with his father, no doubt discussing his behavior of today. Upon reaching the palace Wigg had immediately stomped away, gray robes flying as he went down the palace halls, the look on his face granting him a wide berth in all of the hubbub. And Shailiha, after giving Tristan a stern but thoughtful look, had also left, presumably to retire to her own chambers to prepare for the ceremony and report the events of her equally amazing day to her husband, Frederick.
Tristan had great admiration for Frederick, not only as his brother-in-law, but also as the commander of the Royal Guard. In truth, they owed each other much. It had been Tristan who had first introduced him to his sister. And it had been Frederick who had personally given the young prince much of his training at the war college. Sadly, Tristan supposed that even Frederick would be angry with him this time, since Shailiha had been involved. Frederick loved her more than life.
Bored, the prince slowly looked around at the plush decorations that adorned this area of the royal residence. It was customary for a new king, upon taking the throne, to redecorate the palace to suit his taste. King Nicholas had given this responsibility to Morganna, and it was the unanimous opinion of Tammerland’s citizens that the queen had done an exquisite job. The palace contained over 600 rooms, some of which Tristan had never even visited. Amazingly, the queen had personally overseen the decoration of each of them. Marble of every possible color from the quarries at Ilendium could be seen everywhere, and ornate and colorful stained-glass windows and skylights had been used extensively to give the previously foreboding structure a lighter and more welcoming air. Oversized tapestries and paintings hung in virtually every room, and it had also been Morganna’s idea to add a great library to one wing of the palace and to make its use available to everyone in the city. Even though he had lived here his entire life, Tristan never ceased to be amazed at the castle’s sheer size. In addition to the spacious living quarters of the royal family, there were also various rooms of government administration and the headquarters and war rooms of the Royal Guard. Looking again at the double doors, he reminded himself that the living quarters, libraries, and other private rooms of the wizards of the Directorate were also contained within these walls, off-limits to everyone except the king.
The great room in which Tristan now sat anxiously waiting was called the Chamber of Supplication, usually reserved for the dozens of assorted citizens who arrived almost daily at the palace, asking for this favor or that from the king or, occasionally, even from the Directorate of Wizards. Sometimes the supplicants received audiences, and sometimes they did not. Either way, this room was a place of waiting and therefore, to Tristan, a place of boredom, despite its magnificent decor. The prince knew he was in trouble, but he couldn’t imagine what the wizards and his father had been discussing for so long. Wigg had told him curtly to sit here until he was called, and despite the fact that the inspection ceremony was to begin shortly, he had as yet seen no sign that might indicate he would be summoned before the king and Directorate anytime soon.
His return to the city with Wigg and Shailiha had been uneventful, despite the embarrassment at being seen in this dirty and disheveled state when they should have been inside the palace preparing for the ceremony. When they had reached the palace, the Royal Guard had immediately come to attention and ushered them across the moat, motioning aside the many carriages and pedestrians that were trying to cross. Tristan enviously took notice, as he always did, of the soldiers’ numerous weapons and various uniforms. Regardless of his rank, each wore a shiny silver breast-plate etched with the image of a Eutracian broadsword, its blade running from the upper left corner of the chest armor down to the lower opposite right corner and ending there at the sword’s highly decorated gold hilt. Above the beautiful broadsword lay the image of a roaring lion, painted in black. These two images comprised the heraldry that was of the House of Galland. A long, pleated black cape was attached to either shoulder of the breastplate and hung down each soldier’s back. Each time Tristan saw the armor he wished he could spend more time in it instead of tending to his royal duties. Duties that would only increase soon, when he was king.
The palace was already teeming with the guests who were to join in the inspection ceremony and the countless palace workers who were responsible for making sure the ceremony came off smoothly. Everyone hustled by as if in a desperate hurry, off to this task or that, with some if not all of them taking notice that the prince was sitting there alone, in very dirty and, to say the least, unusual clothes. He reflected glumly that he was still even wearing his quiver, with its dirks plain for all to see. To make matters worse, each of the people passing by in the noisy hall apparently felt a civil responsibility to stop and chat. So far he had made polite conversation with visiting dukes and duchesses, noblemen and their ladies, officers of the Royal Guard, and maidservants and cooks, to name a few. He shook his head. There would be hundreds of people at the ceremony tonight, many of whom he would not know and would have to be introduced to. And despite the fact that he did not want to be king, he regretted meeting them for the first time dressed like this. For if the Directorate and the king did not summon him soon, he would have no time to change his clothes for the inspection ceremony.
He looked down in resignation at the strange red stains on his black breeches, and then at the swirling patterns in the rose-colored marble floor. Lost in his memories of the underground falls and his worries about his predicament, he didn’t see or hear the woman approach until the almost obscenely high-heeled and equally polished sapphire shoes were only inches away from his own filthy leather boots.
‘Good evening, Your Highness.’ The soft, velvety voice came from above.
Tristan stood, as he had so often done already this evening, to address yet another of his subjects, and found himself looking into the deep brown eyes of Natasha of the House of Minaar, duchess of Ephyra. She curtsied perfectly and extended her left hand for the customary kiss.
‘How wonderful it is to see you again,’ she said demurely. ‘Tell me, how are your mother and father?’ she asked, her eyes never wavering from his. She seemed to take absolutely no notice of Tristan’s embarrassing appearance. Either she was being polite to one of the royal family, or she actually liked the way he looked tonight. Tristan thought it was the latter.
He had never liked this woman, despite the fact that since her marriage to Duke Baldric she had somehow become a good friend of his mother’s. He reminded himself of the fact that she was obviously much closer to his own age than to that of her husband, and also of the reputation she had slowly garnered since her marriage. It had been whispered in political circles for years that she had taken many lovers, but she was nonetheless received courteously at court due to the importance of the province of Ephyra to the nation as a whole. His mother apparently either did not know of the woman’s indiscretions, or chose to be gracious enough to ignore them. He groaned inwardly. Time to be prince again.
Bowing slightly, Tristan took her left hand in his right but held it there for a time, purposely forcing her to remain uncomfortably bent at the knees just a little longer than was customary. Finally, after taking his time in gently brushing his lips against the smooth white silk of her gloved hand, he smiled into her eyes.
‘Please rise, Duchess,’ he said without pretense. As she rose slowly to her full height, he was reminded of how tall and striking she was. Ignoring the inquiry about his parents, he asked, ‘You are here for the inspection ceremony, no doubt? Tell me, is your husband the duke attending the ceremony with you this evening?’ At the mention of her husband, the prince thought he saw a brief look of tension pass across her eyes, but if it had, it was gone in an instant.
‘No, Your Highness,’ she answered, a somehow unconvincing expression of concern temporarily taking over her countenance and then vanishing as fast as it came. An opened fan had appeared in her right hand, and it began to move the air gracefully across the cleavage that rose above the low neckline of her magnificent blue gown. ‘And if it pleases Your Highness, please call me Natasha. Unfortunately, the duke was suddenly taken ill with some sort of nasty intestinal bout, just before we were to leave Ilendium for the trip to Tammerland.’ She smiled with her eyes over the fan as it continued its seductive path back and forth. Had this woman been anyone else the prince might have been intrigued and only too glad to join her in the beginnings of a flirtation, despite the fact that she was married. But not with her. And not tonight.
