Lightborn (10 page)

To Floria’s surprise, her wait was over almost before it had begun. The new prince’s secretary emerged from the door of lesser privilege and crossed with hushed step to invite her to be received. He was another southerner, but one who had found his natural home and loyalties here; he wore full mourning, and his face was haggard with grief.

As they approached the lesser door, the door of greater privilege suddenly burst wide, to expel Helenja herself, a heavy woman dressed in the textured earth color of southern habit, and four of her vigilants. That the dowager consort made the barest concession to mourning, in the form of the crimson ribbons decorating arms and waist, did not surprise Floria in the least. Helenja would not offend her supporters by mourning her husband openly, whatever her private feelings.

Though her slab of a face was crimson enough. “You’re making a mistake!” she hurled back over her shoulder—the gesture was rendered faintly absurd by being thrown into the face of the vigilant trailing her. Seeing Floria, she glared. “If anything happens to my son—”

Floria dipped a bow, inferring what had happened: Fejelis had turned the dowager consort out of his private councils. “Your son, Highness? I rather think that is a prince in there.”

Whether true, or wisely said, it was satisfying to see the woman vexed. If Helenja had had any part in Isidore’s death, Floria would claim the right to see to her righteous—and to Floria’s mind overdue—deposition.

She slipped through the door oflesser privilege as Helenja demanded of Orlanjis, “What are
you
doing here?” Oh, she was ruffled, to publicly rebuke her favorite so.

Then Floria halted, guard up. Fejelis was alone in the room. That, she had not expected. She stepped aside from the door, setting a wall that she knew to be solid at her back. Was that it—the dowager consort’s words, his being here, alone—part of a plan? She was to make a move, and then to be brought down, by a dagger or a dart, attempting revenge. She need not even make the move. His word would stand against her silent corpse.

“It will work but once,” Floria said, calmly. “You might not want to waste it on me.”

The young prince regarded her steadily, showing neither comprehension nor confusion. His face was composed but pale, made even more so by its contrast with his full crimson mourning. He had a northern complexion, which she had always thought fortunate, and his eyes were his father’s, silvery and as unrevealing of his thought as mirrors. His head was bare of the princely caul, his light hair slightly disarrayed. He had a southerner’s height, though had yet to fill out his spidery frame, and his habitual hesitation of speech and manner left one constantly expecting a stumble, and not noticing when it did not happen. How many people knew how he had worked at training hesitation out of himself in the
salle
?

Time, she thought, might yet lend him distinction, if he lived. He was already a sound blade, with a deadly advantage in reach, and around his neck he wore the talisman that turned aside bullets. What remained to be seen was whether he could command loyalty where it mattered. What remained to be seen was who his real allies were.

He said, mindful of the ears outside, “. . . The first thing I want to say to you is my father’s death was not my doing.”

More direct than she expected. An experienced courtier, she responded in kind. “Was it your mother’s?”

“. . . I do not know. She says not. You are,” he reminded her, “my servant.” The statement was not entirely free of question.

“I am a member of the Prince’s Vigilance,” she said. “With all that implies.”

“. . . How long do I have to prove myself?” To whom, he did not specify.

“As the inheritor of an unrighteous deposition,” she said quietly, “you have very little time.”

His eyes closed briefly, although she could have told him no more than he knew. “. . . I did not kill Isidore. I did not conspire for his death. I’m not ready, and I know that.” He did not protest that he would
never
have conspired to kill his father, or wished him dead, though Orlanjis, in such a position, would have protested—and believed it of himself. Fejelis said, “. . . Will you give me a chance to convince you that I am not stupid enough to do this?”

“. . . I am your brilliance’s servant,” she said.
For now
remained implied.

“Of all vigilants, he kept you closest.”

“That,” Floria pointed out, “was because of your mother’s exercises in poison.”

To give him credit, he did not flinch or evade the implication. “. . . If this is Helenja’s or the southerners’ doing, why should they not wait until Orlanjis came of age?”

She fed it to him, hard. “Because you will take all the blame and anger for Isidore’s death to your own darkening, clearing the way for your brother.”

His self-control was not quite equal to hearing so stark an assessment. But, impressively, the wavering was only momentary. “. . . Until and unless I am deemed deserving of righteous deposition, will you continue to serve me as you did my father?”

“On one condition,” she said. “Please, go sparingly on the spices.”

He smiled. “That will be a pleasure. I’ve lost count of the number of times I left my parents’ table with my stomach burning. Now”—the smile fell away—“tell me what you know about my father’s death.”

“The prince—” He did not react to that petty impropriety. “Your father,” she allowed, “retired to his rooms last night as usual. The magical checks were carried out on the wards, and the usual inspections. We left him wine, water, and food that I had tested myself.

“And we all missed something,” she said, though she doubted he would have insisted on the admission. “As far as we can tell, sometime shortly after your father retired, the light in his chambers failed.”

He glanced at the blazing lights arrayed across the white and silver ceiling. “. . . How could that happen?” he said, his voice hushed.

“Here are my thoughts so far,” she said. “The lights are enspelled to absorb daylight during the day and release it through the night. The light normally lasts two, three days without being recharged. A light that is nearly discharged changes color, conspicuously. Anyone in the room would have noticed.

“Next, the magic. Magic dispels when the mage dies. For that reason, quality lights are enspelled by at least two mages. The prince’s were enspelled by no less than four. In the rare event that the enspelling itself is flawed, the light fails within minutes of its first use.

“So the magic did not naturally dispel, and did not fail; therefore, it was annulled. The manner of the prince’s death prompted immediate inquiry into any unusual magic exercised in or around the palace. The mages have admitted no such activity.

“There are assets against certain kinds of magic, although the pricing is prohibitive. For an individual with an asset to use that asset, he or she would have to be in the room, and would die with his victims. Not necessarily a deterrent to some, but there was no evidence that anyone else was in the room, except for your father, the captain of vigilants, and two of the staff. And the Temple has a record of all living assets.

“A talisman, though, could have been created years or decades ago. Lights are talismans themselves. One need only be given to an individual—mage or nonmage—with access to the prince’s quarters. And its action could be delayed.

“The weakness in all those theories is that the members of the Temple Vigilance contracted to the palace should have sensed that magic.”

“. . . And what about the Darkborn?” he said.

“Darkborn law and policy does not countenance assassination,” she said. “Or they’d have dealt with your great-grandfather, or with your mother before she even bore you.” Privately she doubted that chance alone had led Odon the Breaker to his end in the claws of a Shadowborn that normally hunted at night, while he was chasing refugees into the Borders. The baronies made their own laws. “And the only way for a Darkborn to have reached your father’s rooms would have been from the outside, at night.”

She weighed telling Fejelis the strange tale of Tercelle Amberley. She still thought it more likely the children had been born of an ordinary dalliance of the kind that so offended Darkborn morality, yet on its account, Balthasar Hearne had been nearly battered to death and his daughter kidnapped from his doorstep.

“. . . And the mages amongst the Darkborn?”

“Perhaps fifty able to dispel midrank magic, but again, the Temple Vigilance would know.”

“. . . So, once again, it comes back to the Temple Vigilance. Whom can we trust?”

She smiled, very thinly. “Your father once said that trust was irrelevant now.”

She watched him for his reaction. Isidore had been careful to maintain equal distance from all his children, marking none out for favor—a care that had become even more scrupulous after Fejelis had nearly died. But it was obvious that he and his father had grown closer, and last night’s conversation—
last night’s only
—suggested that Isidore considered Fejelis a political player with his own mature agenda, and an ally.

“Why should they cause trouble?” Floria concluded. “They have everything they want.”

“. . . Is there any one of them we can trust?”

For the first time she paused, to weigh her reply. “I believe we could trust Magister Tammorn.”

“. . . I’ve heard that name,” said the prince, after a longer pause than usual. “He is not contracted to the palace.”

Could he remember? She had taken a risk—for all three of them—in putting that name before Fejelis. But surely after ten years . . .

“Your father may have mentioned him, or you heard some gossip,” she spoke lightly of that. “He hasn’t been around the palace much. Tammorn is not of the lineages; he was born up in the northwest. His magic came in late and unrecognized, and brought him all kinds of trouble. He was a petty criminal when he crossed paths with my father, who used to advise for the city watch. My father recognized him for what he was, had a word with the prince, and brought Tam to the Temple’s attention.”

Without Isidore’s patronage, the high masters might have elected then to burn out Tam’s magic, for all his past offenses—including his great impertinence of being born with power outside their carefully tended lineages. “Tam will be one mage who’ll be wearing full mourning, and meaning it.”

Fejelis blinked, but otherwise betrayed nothing. “. . . His rank?”

Might Fejelis actually
remember
? A nine-year-old child, fatally poisoned, muscles spasming uncontrollably, face mottled slate gray with asphyxia. Chance—in the form of a desultory flirtation—had put Floria in the orchard with Tam at her side when they heard the sounds of what they thought at first was a small animal in distress. Tam had acted before either of them thought of the compact and the law, and the contracted mages who should, rightfully, be summoned. Even the saving of a child’s life was a grave violation of the compact.

“Fifth, by Temple reckoning. Were he not a sport, it might be higher.” Even after five years with his magic bound, the Temple had not forgiven Tam.

“Ask him,” the prince said, without hesitation—the effect almost one of blurted words. “. . . Have him come to the
salle
, at the end of my regular practice time.”

“And may I tell him why?”

Fejelis nodded slowly, light sliding on his hair. “. . . Yes,” he said, at last. “Tell him why.”

Unlike most high-ranked mages, who lived in the Temple or in its immediate vicinity, Tammorn lived in Minhorne New Town, across the river from palace, Temple, and indeed any destination of any account. Which meant that the brisk mage wind that cleared the lingering smell of the burned Rivermarch bore it toward the New Town. All the way across the bridge, the smell of ash followed her.

Yet almost as soon as she reached the far bank, the breeze abruptly changed direction, and leaves, litter, and scorched scraps whirled suddenly skyward. The wind tugged her tunic, lifted her hair. Ten yards on, the air was sweet, still, and flowing lightly from the north, as the clouds indicated. Somebody with power enough to deflect winds cared about the place. She thought she knew who.

The New Town was home to artisans, merchants, and craftsmen who had failed, through lack of luck, industry, or skill, to establish themselves in the city proper. It was also the gathering place of an unruly collection of self-styled revolutionaries and idealists who preached liberation from dependence on magic, and enthusiastically adopted Darkborn inventions. An unlikely place to find a high-ranked mage—but then, Tam was an unusual mage.

He was sitting on a bench in his front garden, gently jiggling the infant draped over his thigh and gumming on a double fistful of his scarlet trousers. That particular red was one of the new chemical dyes, a by-product, ironically, of the blind Darkborn’s experiments with tar. Its touch made Floria’s asset-imbued skin itch. She had been meaning to take the matter up with Balthasar when his next term on the Intercalatory Council came around: there were poisons enough in the world without creating more.

“Tam, you can wear that color; just don’t let her chew on it.” Tam’s expression took on a momentary expression of focus as he used his magical senses, and then he nodded and righted the baby, setting her so that she straddled his knee. Thwarted, she promptly turned puce—she had her father’s complexion—glared at Floria with tearing eyes, and began to screech.

Tam glanced toward the door of the house behind them. A tall, fair-haired woman in a potter’s smock emerged and came to retrieve her daughter with a wary glance at Floria and a reproachful frown at Tam. She was Beatrice, Tam’s lover of some six years. She was not mageborn, but an artisan, and to the Temple she would never be other than a concubine, for all the Temple had also shown little interest in Tam as a contributor to their own precious bloodlines. Tam’s eyes followed her warmly as she carried the child into the house, arriving at the door just in time to thwart the escape of their venturesome three-year-old son.