The War Within, page 27
“Awaken me!”
She did not see the consternation on Magister Facile’s face. In that instant, only her own fury and desire existed.
“Majesty.” A hand like iron gripped Estie’s shoulder: the devotee of Spirit. “You will be overheard.” The pressure of Lylin’s fingers was too strong to resist. It forced Estie back in her chair. “Speak softly.”
The warning was a different kind of concussion. With her own outcry still in her ears, Estie remembered where she was. Men and women at other tables turned their curiosity toward her. At the far end of the common-room, Captain Rowt shifted in his seat; braced his hands on the table in case he needed to leap to his feet. Too many people had heard her. Some of them might draw conclusions—
Queen Estie leaned back as if she had been slapped. Dismayed at her indiscretion, part of her snapped, Fool. Fool. Another part wailed, Father! You bastard!
Her awareness of the inn’s other guests and customers was like fire in her nerves. She did not move another muscle until the people who had looked at her returned to their food and drink, their companions; until the Captain allowed himself to relax.
As Estie composed herself, the assassin said, whispering, “The shock is great. You feel betrayed. You do not understand yet.” Her tone became more soothing. “But now you have one of King Smegin’s secrets. It may be the greatest of them—and it is yours. Its power is yours. Not the power of its use. The power of its secrecy. At times, the secret itself is more potent than the strength it conceals.”
Studying Estie’s face, Lylin concluded, “It was not Magister Facile’s intention to cause you pain. She has more to say. If you can hear her, she will say it.”
While the devotee intervened, the old woman rubbed at her features again. When she was done, they wore an expression of concern—and perhaps of regret.
Hardly moving her lips, Queen Estie commanded, “Speak.”
“Majesty,” began the Magister hesitantly, “I cannot awaken you. I must not attempt it. But the devotee speaks truly. Knowing that you have a gift is powerful in itself, especially when your awareness is kept hidden. You intend to confront King Smegin. He can see your ability in you while it slumbers. But he will not fear it unless it comes to life. And he will not fear it at all if he believes you are unaware of it. Your secret protects you even when your power does not.”
Slowly, Estie nodded. She could follow Magister Facile’s reasoning. Still, she wanted sorcery. Under other circumstances, she might have wondered why her father had kept her ignorant of herself. He could have raised her to be his ally. But she was too shocked and angry to dwell on that question. She thought she knew the answer. King Smegin had concealed what he knew about her so that he could control her if she ever dared to oppose him.
Now she ached to match him strength for strength; to make him pay for his dishonesty, his selfish cunning. But she did not know which Decimate she would be able to wield. Hers might be useless against his, or simply weaker. Unlike him, she had not spent decades perfecting her mastery of theurgy.
Without moving her head, she scanned the room; reassured herself that no one was studying her, trying to eavesdrop. Then she breathed harshly, “I understand. You must not. Now tell me why you cannot.”
She still needed to know the nature of Magister Facile’s gift.
King Bifalt wants to know if you trust her. —she may not be what you expect.
The old woman squirmed; rearranged her features into lines of pleading. “Because I cannot name it, Majesty. It is too dangerous. I do not know what I would awaken.
“This is imperative, Majesty. I must beg you to understand it. A gift must not be awakened if it is not recognized.
“In Belleger and Amika, only six Decimates are known. They are all you know of sorcery. They can be roused, and roused safely, because they are known. But there is a further restriction. It is that like speaks to like. Like speaks only to like. A Magister of earthquake can recognize the same gift in another, but he can only recognize that gift. For any sorcerer you know, only his own gift can be identified in others. He can awaken that gift safely because he knows it. More, he can teach its uses—and its limits.
“But there are many different forms of sorcery. Surely King Bifalt has spoken of this. Some are Decimates. Some are like Decimates. Some are not. Some only heal. Some are fatal. Some are worse than fatal.” With an ache in her voice, she reminded Estie, “I have told you of Apprentice Travail, who can hear enough to destroy him.” Then she resumed.
“For that reason—hear me, Majesty—even the most foolish theurgist would not awaken a gift he cannot name. He cannot guess the outcome. What he rouses may be a holocaust that destroys him and all those with him, a power like the final Decimate. Or it may be a small talent with few uses, such as the ability to grow or prevent beards.
“For the same reason, no sane sorcerer speaks of a sleeping gift he sees but cannot recognize. None of your Magisters have told you that you have a gift. None of King Bifalt’s Magisters have told you. They do not dare.”
Magister Facile rubbed her face again. Now she made her expression severe. “It is far better for you, Majesty,” she concluded, “that your gift and your awareness of it are kept secret until you know what it is. You would not thank me if I sent you to face King Smegin armed only with the sorcery to make him bald.”
Queen Estie stared. She felt shaken to the core. She could not think—or she had too many thoughts at once. Her conceptions of herself seemed to crumble. Whom could she trust? Every Magister she had ever met knew that she had a gift? And had said nothing? Because she was too dangerous?
Some are fatal. Some are worse—
Before she knew what she was going to say, she asked, “Does King Bifalt know? Did you tell him?”
Was that why he could not love her?
“No!” retorted Magister Facile at once. “No. I did not. Others would not. His distrust is too well known. Only a sorcerer who hopes to end the alliance would whisper your secret. That is why I have remained with you when my heart aches for the Last Repository. To protect you—and him.”
That small reassurance steadied the Queen. Her husband did not know. She was safe from his clenched loathing, the revulsion he kept to himself because he could not afford to act on it. She took a shuddering breath and began to calm herself. As soon as she mastered her turmoil, she intended to ask more questions.
If my secret is so dangerous, why did you speak of it?
But before she could be clear, she was distracted by the sight of two men descending the stairs from the inn’s bedchambers.
Judging by their garb, they were Bellegerin. And laborers by the same measure: boots cracked by hard use, stained canvas trousers torn in places, stiff leather jerkins made stiffer by mud or ordure. One was beardless, young. The face of the other, the older, was covered from the eyes down by an unkempt tangle of greying whiskers. If Estie had not been alarmed by her own outburst earlier, she might not have noticed them at all. She certainly would not have noticed that their hands and necks were clean, or that their skin was too smooth to belong to laborers.
As indirectly as she could, she studied them. If they were not laborers, they must be travelers. But if they could afford to travel, why did they wear those clothes?
Both men seemed to feel her gaze. At once, the bearded one turned his face away. But the younger one looked straight at her. She saw boldness in his smile, and daring. She saw cunning.
For an instant, Magister Facile followed Estie’s glance. Then she went rigid. She sat with her back to the stairs; made no effort to watch the men behind her.
Prompted by an instinct of her own, Lylin looked aside, hiding her face with the edge of her hood.
A moment later, the men reached the foot of the stair. Without pausing, they crossed the room toward the door.
“Majesty?” whispered the devotee, a question so soft that Estie barely heard it.
The Queen waited until the two men reached the door; until she was sure that they were leaving. Over the pounding of her heart, she breathed, “I know those men. They are not Bellegerin.”
Magister Facile muttered a curse. Quiet as a breeze, Lylin observed, “They wear Bellegerin raiment.”
“I recognize them,” said Estie more firmly as the door closed. “The younger one is—” Her memory refused to release his name. Grimacing, she said, “He is a lesser son of one of my father’s courtiers. I dismissed the father when I took my throne. I did not like him. He looked only at my form, never my face. But I have forgotten the names of his sons.
“The other is a Magister.”
Magister Facile nodded once, viciously. She had seen—
“His name is Flense,” explained Estie. “A crawling sycophant with a craven air. I find him unpleasant. But I cannot dismiss him. Amika needs its sorcerers. Instead, I give him tasks that remove him from Maloresse. He has no cause to be here.
“His Decimate is fire.”
Lylin let her smile show. “A tidy plot, Majesty,” she remarked. “Those men were here to confirm your presence. There will be an attempt on your life.”
An instant flush heated Estie’s face. “What do you mean?” Her voice was a croak. “That is impossible.” Unthinkable. “We are in Belleger. Some of my father’s adherents hate me. I know that. But if they want my death, they will wait until I reach Amika, where King Bifalt cannot hunt for them.”
“No, Majesty.” The assassin was sure. “I will explain. But you must not alert your captain. Knowing that you are in peril is an advantage. We must seem oblivious until we are ready to act.”
Before Estie could challenge Lylin, Magister Facile urged, “Heed her, Majesty. She has skills that we do not.”
Staring, Queen Estie took a deep breath; held it to contain the tumult of her heart.
“Consider it, Majesty,” began the cloaked woman. “If the Queen of Amika is killed in Belleger by seeming Bellegerins, the alliance will break. Even King Bifalt’s resolve will not hold it together. And with your death, Amika will have no choice but to plead for King Smegin’s return.
“Consider that outcome, Majesty. With sorcery and cannon, he will renew his war against the land that murdered his daughter. He will call it his duty to claim the rule of both realms. If you die in Amika, he will lack any excuse for war. No one will believe you were killed by Belleger.”
“But how—?” Estie tried to ask. She meant, How can they threaten me? They are only two. I have riflemen. Magisters can be shot as easily as other men. But her throat closed on the question.
“First,” said Lylin, “your Magister Flense will set fire to the inn.”
Those words seemed to stop the blood in Estie’s veins. She felt a rush of weakness. Set fire— Of course. Brigin and pestilence! Gods! Of course.
Traitors who wanted her dead would not care that the inn was full of people.
Abruptly, Magister Facile rapped the floor with her cane. “He will not,” she asserted.
Her certainty started Estie’s heart pounding. It startled her out of her weakness. Helpless to close her mouth, she gaped at the old woman.
More awkwardly, the sorceress justified herself. “You called him craven. No doubt he intended to fire the inn. No doubt he was sincere. But his courage will fail.”
That did not sound like the truth. The devotee appeared to accept it, however. At once, Lylin continued what she had been saying.
“And firing the inn will be only the first threat. It is an uncertain tactic. You might escape the flames. To ensure your death, there will be a force of arms waiting.” She shrugged delicately. “But not openly. They cannot risk capture. Any one of them might be known as Amikan.
“They will strike from ambush.”
Finally, Queen Estie managed to protest, “Captain Rowt. He needs to know.”
Lylin’s smile suggested relish. “He will. I will speak to him.
“If Magister Facile says there will be no fire, Majesty, there will be no fire. I will instruct your captain. And he will instruct me. I do not know the terrain along our road.
“When I leave the inn, I will use a door at the back. Begin your own departure then. But do not hurry it. Mask your alarm. Exchange a word or two with the innkeeper. Acknowledge a few guests. Smile. Nod.”
Estie started to protest again, but the devotee stopped her. “For their protection, Majesty. If the folk here do not know of your peril, they cannot then be accused by Amikan traitors of warning you—or by the King’s soldiers of failing to warn you.”
Too stunned to think, Queen Estie simply stared at the tall woman. Lylin sounded sure of herself. But there were flaws or gaps somewhere. They pressed on Estie like panic.
How could the assassin know so much about a danger that had never threatened her before, not once in scores of journeys between the Open Hand and Maloresse? Still, the danger must be real. Why else were Magister Flense and that lesser son dressed like Bellegerin laborers? Why were they here now?
With quiet intensity, as if she had usurped Estie’s command, Magister Facile said, “Go, devotee. We understand.”
Her tone said, Time is against us. Delay serves our enemies.
Lylin responded with a quick grin that vanished as quickly. Shielding her face with her hood, she rose to her feet. Her back to the common-room, the other guests and customers, she said distinctly enough to be heard nearby, “We part here, friends. I have duties elsewhere. Travel safely.”
With the easy grace of a panther, she disappeared into the back of the inn; into the chambers and passages she had explored earlier.
Speechless with confusion, Estie blinked several times; swallowed at the pressure of questions and fears rising in her throat. Somehow, when she had come down the stairs a short time ago, she had entered a world with only a superficial resemblance to the one she knew. She was the Queen of Amika, the Queen-Consort of Belleger: she had been here many times: she was accustomed to attention and respect: she had servants that she sometimes took for granted. King Bifalt himself treated her as an equal, argued with her as an equal. And he honored her rule of her own realm. Yet now she felt like a child being led by the hand; a child in a thicket who would have torn herself to shreds without an experienced guide who knew the path. She almost flinched when Magister Facile spoke.
“Come, friend,” said the old woman. “We must depart as well. We have far to go. We should collect our horses.”
Bracing herself on her cane, the sorceress pushed herself upright. Her expression had reshaped itself again. Now she wore the face of a tired woman who had resigned herself to more riding.
That signal, at least, both the Queen and her escort understood. While Estie pushed back her chair unsteadily and stood, the Captain and his men left the inn by the front door, pretending that they had nothing to do with the Magister and her companion at the far table.
Moving at Magister Facile’s pace, Estie accompanied her among the tables to collect Anina and Blurn. Then they went to the bar, where the Queen thanked the innkeeper and his wife, taking her time. To main-tain the charade that she was someone they did not know, she pretended to offer them coins, which they pretended to accept. To every guest and customer who glanced at her, she gave a crisp nod. Studiously, the sorceress ignored everyone: behavior that was common among Magisters.
When Queen Estie and her companions reached the porch, she received another jolt. Their escort was gone. There was no sign of the riflemen anywhere.
And Magister Flense and his young partner had vanished. They had hidden themselves or ridden away.
An attack could come from the woods behind Beds, Food, Ale.
No. The distance was too great for archers among the trees. It looked too great for a Magister wielding fire. If traitors disguised as Bellegerins wanted a chance to kill the Queen, they would have to come out into the open. They would have to take the risk of being seen; of being recognized as Amikans.
“The stables,” commanded Magister Facile brusquely.
Numbly, Estie accompanied her toward the horse barn.
With its many stalls, its hay-loft, its collection of saddles and tack, its abundance of straw and droppings, it would burn more readily than the inn. If the sorceress had judged Magister Flense wrongly—
At the Queen’s back, Anina hissed, “Bellegerins. They have abandoned us.”
Blurn snorted. “Nonsense, woman.” For a homespun man who never tired, his voice was unexpectedly light. “The King would flay them alive. Or the First Captain would.”
Estie had to fight an impulse to hunch her shoulders, cover her head with her arms. Instinctively, she held her breath. She was exposed between the inn and the stables. The men who wanted her dead might be desperate enough for recklessness. Fire might fall out of the sky at any moment.
But as the Queen and Magister Facile approached the barn, its wide doors appeared to open by themselves. Inside them waited her escort. All of the horses were saddled and ready.
In a moment, Estie entered the gloom of the stables. With an effort, she forced herself to breathe again.
“Majesty,” began Captain Rowt when she was near enough to hear his whisper. “That woman.” He was obviously flustered. “The stranger. She asked questions. She gave us orders. I would have refused. I do not know her. We have seen no sign of an attack. But she said—” He choked on his uncertainty. “She said her orders were yours.”
“They were,” snapped Magister Facile.
The Captain ignored the theurgist. His eyes searched Queen Estie’s face. “Majesty, I told her what she asked. We have obeyed her this far. We will continue to obey her, if that is your wish. But if we did wrong, the fault is mine. I accept your displeasure.”
He did not need to add, And King Bifalt’s.
