Color Mage (Book 1) (3 page)

She bowed again to Lord Alkiran, said something polite, and left the study. In the hall a manservant awaited. She followed him down wood-paneled corridors that merged into older stone halls with foot-hollowed troughs in the center. The servant announced her at a plain wooden door.

The door opened, and nothing else was plain. Gold and red hangings draped the window, which was shuttered against the storm. A trailing plant hung from a hook in the ceiling, its long branches adorned with bright green leaves of an almost circular shape. A bed took up most of the middle of the room, but there was a side table covered with many small glass jars and pots, some with jeweled brushes stuck into them. The concubine’s cosmetics and perfumes, no doubt. Kirian turned to ask the manservant where the woman was, but he had vanished.

“Hon Healer, I am here.” A low voice spoke from the curtained alcove. “I am Shala Si, the Lord Forell’s concubine.”

Kirian saw a young woman of middle height, with dark hair and eyes and the golden skin of the southern provinces. Instead of the revealing costume that Kirian had expected, Shala Si was completely covered in several colorful robes of a very thin, shimmering fabric. The effect was exotic and brightened the room even further.

The woman raised her hand in a gesture of welcome, and Kirian saw the thin golden chain that circled Shala Si’s wrist, connected by fragile links to the concubine’s necklace. Kirian realized this woman was a slave, and the decorative chain, fashioned to be similar to chains worn by slave laborers, was an unsubtle reminder of the fact. Kirian wondered who had given her the chain; it was someone with a nasty sense of humor, no doubt—her noble master, perhaps.

“I am pleased to meet you, Shala Si,” Kirian said. “I am Kirian from the Healer’s College, Hon Ruthan’s new assistant. How can I help you?”

Shala Si leaned very close to Kirian, so close that her flowery fragrance enveloped Kirian. “I am glad you have come, and not that old bitch. She would not do as I asked. She gave me an herb to prevent me from conceiving a child. I stopped taking it months ago, but still there is no sign of a child!”

Kirian said, “Shala Si, you must know I cannot give you any herbs for fertility without the consent of Lord Forell.”

“Because I am a slave! Yes, that is so. But you can tell me what to do, can you not, to make it happen? My lord is with me almost every night; indeed, he thinks highly of me. Still I bleed every month and there is no child!”

Kirian sighed. The young slave seemed desperate. If this were any other person seeking her aid, she would tell them the best time to conceive. She might even make up for them some of the powdered herbs that would – no, not ensure pregnancy, but make the womb softer, safer, more ready to nurture any child that might be ordained by the Unknown God. But not this woman. In fact, by the Healer’s code she ought to inform Lord Forell immediately of his concubine’s attempt to get fertility herbs.

“I cannot do it,” she said. “Not without your master’s consent, Shala Si. Indeed I sympathize, but I am new here, and to do this without Lord Forell’s consent—well, I would lose my posting at the least.”

Shala Si picked up one of her cosmetic pots with her delicate chained hands and flung it at Kirian. It struck Kirian on the shoulder. The lid flew off, leaving a smear of some honey-colored cream on Kirian’s tunic.

Kirian said, “I am sorry, Shala Si. Is there anything else?”

“No, there is nothing else!” Shala Si hissed. “I will tell my lord that I am ill and you refused to help me. He will tell Lord Alkiran to send you back where you came from. Now get out of my room!”

The concubine reached for another bottle, this one of glass. Kirian bowed, grabbed her bag, and left the room, feeling wretched.

A servant led Kirian to the stone arch where Ruthan awaited her. The old woman looked at Kirian’s downcast expression and the smear of cream on her tunic.

“You needn’t fear,” Ruthan said. “She won’t do what she says.”

“How do you know?”

The coach drew up to the arch. Tabe sat on the box again, the horses much calmer now. The storm had subsided to a steady rain that would have been relaxing if Kirian had been in her own room back in the College. Now, its chill seemed to soak through her skin into her heart.

“She’s threatened me before,” Ruthan said. “The silly chit. She thinks she can scare us into doing as she asks. When she calms down, she’ll remember that Forell may not ask questions, but Lord Alkiran will.”

“What questions?”

“Like why she called for us in the first place. Mikati is a color mage, Kirian—cruel, but sharp as a tack. If he found that his son’s slave mistress—who has no mage talent either—was plotting to have an illegitimate child . . .” Ruthan snorted. “Well, I wouldn’t give a fishtail for her chances of living until the next caravan came by.”

“I know the Collared Lords are supposed to keep the blood pure, to breed the mage talent true. But he would kill her?”

Ruthan coughed again, and Kirian wished she had a blanket for the old woman. “Mikati is a
Collared Lord
, Kirian. The only ruler in SeagardProvince. Even the King won’t thwart him.”

Kirian looked down at the sea. It had calmed considerably. The sky was dark with rain and with the nearing of night. She hoped Tabe could see his way down the rain-slick path.

She had heard about the supreme powers of the Collared Lords, but somehow she had never thought through what that might mean. The Collared Lords were bound by the King’s magic to Watch endlessly for incursions from Righar’s enemies—in this case, on the western coast, from the island nation of Ha’las and its psychic mages. From the time they were Collared, they could not leave the Watch, but in return they and their families had wealth, influence and real power greater than anyone but the King’s. The
righ
families were raised to consider the Collar a great honor, for which they alone were suited; they had their male children Collared too, as soon as they were old enough, to serve the King.

“I hadn’t thought,” Kirian confessed. “What if Shala Si just happens to conceive? Will they blame me?”

Ruthan coughed. “It cannot happen. She stopped taking the preparation I made for her, but I ordered the cook to add it to her tea. She has tea every morning.”

Kirian felt a vague guilt. Surely the woman should be allowed to have a child if she wanted. Only her slave status and Lord Alkiran prevented her. But Kirian didn’t feel courageous enough to defy her new
righ
Lord. At least, not as a student that arrived less than a month ago at Seagard village.

“Until I found myself here and under his power, I didn’t understand anything about Collared Lords.” Ruthan hesitated. “I must warn you, young one . . .” She broke into a fit of coughing so hard that she bent over, unable to speak.

“Later,” Kirian said. “Are we almost there? Here, I have a sugar drop in my bag; perhaps that will help.”

She felt the coach level off, leaving the path at last. It was dark now, but lamplight shone in the windows of the houses they passed. The smell of fish rose up from someone’s shed as they passed, strong, homey and welcome. Kirian determined to get the old woman a cup of hot tea and then into bed as soon as they arrived. The rest would wait until later.

After she helped Ruthan into bed, she thought again about Mikati. He reminded her most unpleasantly of some of the noble students who had been her bane at College—those who looked down on her because of her common origins. Dramin in particular, the third son of an impoverished lord, had been brutal to the charity students when he was drunk. She did not suspect Lord Mikati Alkiran of getting drunk and beating his servants; the man was too secure in his power for that. But he would not hesitate to punish when he did not get his way.

The rain that followed the first violence of the storm had eased off. She could no longer hear the steady drizzle on the roof of Ruthan’s house. She was comfortable in her shapeless old robe, curled up in her bed, with the sounds of the rain and the sea in the back of her consciousness. She decided she could find a way to work with Lord Mikati. She liked it too well here to fail so soon.

Chapter Two

Callo ran Alkiran entered the palace through a side door and ran down the servants’ stairs, adjusting his gold-trimmed dress tunic as he went. The residential part of the palace was nearly empty; only an occasional lamp cast a glow around the halls, and there was no sign of life at all. Everyone was downstairs at the ball.

As he emerged from the back of the main hall and approached the reception rooms, a murmur that had been registering on his subconscious for some minutes expanded into a roar. Callo grimaced. Most of Sugetre must be here, talking at full volume. He could not even hear the musicians above the racket. The two liveried servants who flanked the reception room looked at him and made no attempt to announce his entrance.

The room was almost unrecognizable in its finery. Rose-colored hangings draped the walls; the Queen’s conceit no doubt. The hangings sometimes shifted in a draft, adding a surreal air to the festivities. The ancient chandelier, a treasure of the royal Monteni house, blazed with candles, dripping wax on the shoulders of the dancers below. The room was jammed with the most prominent nobles and soldiers in Sugetre. Lords and ladies in their evening finery glittered in the light of the amazing chandelier and numerous other candles and lamps, clustered carefully away from the silken wall hangings. Guardsmen dotted the room, immediately visible in their dress surcoats and medals. Sweating slaves squirmed between the guests, trying to offer food and drink without bumping into anyone.

Callo searched the room, but could see no sign of the King or Queen. Perhaps they had not yet entered the room.

“Callo! Here at last, are you?”

Callo turned to see Lord Arias Alkiran, his half-brother and oldest friend, grinning at him. Lord Arias Alkiran was the heir to Lord Mikati Alkiran, who held Seagard castle, but instead of the gold-trimmed tunic of a nobleman, Arias wore the black cloak of a color mage. Swirls of color rose and then dissipated in the cloak, as if sinking into liquid. It was disconcerting; Callo had never liked it.

“I forgot the time,” Callo said.

Arias snorted. “You just didn’t want to come. Well, now that you’re here, I want you to meet someone. Come!”

Arias took Callo’s arm and pulled him through the crowd. His half-brother apologized to those they brushed past, but did not alter his path to wind around and between the shifting groups as Callo would have done. Behind him, the mage’s cloak appeared woven with sinuous bands of color. People made way, sometimes bowing, sometimes grinning. Callo gave a crooked grin; Arias had that effect on people.

Callo nodded his own apology as he was pulled through the throng. His bows met with indifference, and an occasional look of scorn. He could feel his brows tighten into a frown at that reaction, though he should have been well accustomed to it after all these years as King Martan’s bastard—but nevertheless royal—nephew.

At last Arias stopped. Callo saw his brother bow before a vision of beauty in a gown that seemed but lightly dusted onto a voluptuous body. Lady Fiora had been the talk of the young men in the guard for a sennight now. She was the new widow of an ancient lord to whom she had been betrothed by her parents. She had shown no sign, in her short time in the capital city, of mourning his loss.

Lady Fiora paid Callo no attention, but she smiled at Lord Arias.

“My lord!” she said. “I didn’t think to see you again so soon.”

“My lady, I want you to meet my half brother, Lord Callo ran Alkiran” Arias said, drawing Callo forward. “Callo, this is Lady Fiora Eshal.”

“I’m delighted,” Callo said. Arias, looking much younger than his thirty-two years, grinned at him.

Lady Fiora’s smile vanished. She stared at Callo with huge blue eyes and withdrew her hand, which had been extended to greet him. “Lord Arias,” she protested, transferring her gaze to his face.

“What?” Arias turned and saw her expression. The grin dropped away. Arias suddenly bore a strong resemblance to his grim old father. Callo felt his own temper rise; he stifled it.

“Let it go,” Callo said to his brother.

Arias ignored him. “My lady, this is my half brother. If you cannot welcome him, then my presence must not be welcome either.”

Lady Fiora blushed. “But, my lord, I have been told . . .”

“Told what? By what idiot?” Arias’ voice rose. His dark Alkirani eyes glittered in a way that Callo knew well, and wasn’t prepared to deal with here in the middle of the King’s ball. Around them, the curious were turning to look in their direction.

“Arias, let it go,” Callo said again, frustrated.

Lady Fiora stared at Arias for a moment. Callo could almost see the calculations whirling in her head; this one was not as shallow as she pretended to be. Then Lady Fiora smiled at Callo. He knew the smile was false, but it was so sweet that he felt himself smile back.

This one, he thought, is dangerous.

“Lord Callo,” Lady Fiora said. “I beg your pardon. Whoever Lord Arias introduces must be a welcome acquaintance.” She held out her hand.

Arias relaxed as Callo took the lady’s scented fingers and bowed over them. Callo uttered a few meaningless social phrases, an odd premonition of misfortune stirring within him. The crowd returned to its own gossip. In a few seconds a gray-haired woman in a jeweled gown came to draw Lady Fiora away. The intervention was so prompt that Callo wondered if it was really a rescue.

“Isn’t she beautiful?” Arias asked, pleased with life again. He took two glasses of wine from a passing slave’s tray and gave one to Callo.

“They’re all beautiful,” Callo returned. He sipped the wine. It tasted like berries on his tongue, clearly the finest Southern wine available.

“They are,” Arias returned, smiling after Lady Fiora. On the other side of the room, a group of very young men surrounded her, laughing and vying to entertain the lady.

“You’re ten years too old for her, Brother. She’s just a flighty child, let off the hook by Eshal’s death. She wants a young guardsman, or maybe a musician. What would you do with her, haul her off to SeagardCastle and keep her locked away?”