Lightborn (28 page)

Was it more yellow? The color change that indicated impending extinction progressed over several hours. But if they did not open the skylight above her, the lights would fail by tomorrow’s sunset.

She pushed herself out of her crouch and began to circle the refuge that had become a prison. Tested the grille over the paper wall, but that seemed entirely solid, and even if she could break through, it would simply move her deeper into the darkness. She returned to the door by which she had entered, like all Darkborn doors finished but not stained, its woods matched for texture but not color. Its closed blankness was a reproach to her lack of foresight. If she did not find a way out, she would die in the same manner as her prince.

For the second time that night, Fejelis jerked awake, sweating, at the shock of the blow beneath his shoulder blade. This time, he did not shout out, and the taste of peach and blood was faint and easily swallowed. He carefully lifted his head to favor his attendants with his best effort at a drowsy smile. Two palace vigilants, armed men in loose crimson tunics and trousers, stood on either side of the door. A mage vigilant occupied a chair several yards to his right, her eyes closed, her strained face indicating she was attending to her other senses.

Tam sat at the end of the bed, a letter in his hand, green gray eyes staring into an unseen distance.

Fejelis threw off sleep and sat up. When he had awakened before, Tam had been the first to reach him, the first to speak to him, the first to recognize his need for a basin as the taste of blood and peach sickened him. Now the mage slowly turned an ashen face toward him. Fejelis’s heart jumped as he thought of Tammorn’s small children, of Beatrice, of the artisans—all the people whom Tammorn passionately cared about. If any of their enemies wished to strike at him—“. . . Trouble?”

At the mage’s incomprehension, Fejelis indicated the letter. Tam went to thrust it out of sight. Then his hunched shoulders sagged, and he pushed it toward Fejelis. “Read it.”

Fejelis took it, noticing that the paper was stiff and smooth to the touch and blemished to the eye, of Darkborn rather than Lightborn manufacture. But the script was Lightborn, a spare cursive hand devoid of the flourishes fashionable in court circles. He flipped it over to read the signature: Floria.

“I have done,” Tam said, in low voice, “a great deal of harm. I intended ill to one person, but what I have done . . .” His voice shook and broke off as Fejelis lowered the letter. “Read it. It . . . starts to explain.”

In terse summary the letter told of attacks on the Darkborn, of fires and assassinations, of the attempted ensorcellment of Vladimer Plantageter . . . and of the speculations of Vladimer Plantageter and this Darkborn lady, Telmaine, that the reason the Lightborn Temple had not reacted to these abuses was that they could not sense the magic used. He lifted his eyes. “. . . Do you believe this?”

“I have no reason to doubt,” Tam said, heavily.

“. . . Explain,” Fejelis said, after a long silence of disbelief.

Tam glanced toward the mage vigilant, met her eyes, gave a wan and apologetic smile, and traced a small loop in the air, trapping sound. “When . . . I visited your father’s rooms, I found a box of Darkborn design that was imbued with an unfamiliar form of magic—at least, I had only sensed its like recently. Its aura was extremely unpleasant, yet the Temple mages behaved as though they were unaware of it. I palmed the box and took it to Magister Lukfer.”

So that explained the theft. Fejelis kept a studied neutral attentiveness in his expression, wanting no omissions.

“Lukfer identified the box as a talisman to annul magic. Specifically, of ensorcelled lights.”

Fejelis strove to keep all emotion off his face, hard as it was.

“Another talisman of that same magic nearly killed you last night. The crossbow bolt was ensorcelled to annul
life
.”

Fejelis flinched, the reaction unavoidable, and rebuked himself for doing so, for Tam fell silent. “. . . Whose magic is it?” he asked, what was to him the most salient question.

“Lukfer believes it is Shadowborn.”

“Lukfer visited the Borders some years ago; he sensed it there. He corresponded with a Darkborn mage who identified it as Shadowborn.”

“. . . A
Darkborn
mage? . . . Then why does Lukfer believe it is Shadowborn magic, and not a variant of magic as practiced by Darkborn?”

“To a mage, the nature of the vitality behind a magic reveals itself.” His eyes shifted away, as if recoiling from that thought.

Fejelis noted the reaction for a later question. “. . . I was under the impression,” he said, slowly, “that the Shadowborn were entirely animal.”

“I, too. But the fires in the city, the murder of your father, the ensorcellment of Lord Vladimer . . . all these suggest a mind or minds, though what purpose besides chaos, we do not know.”

“. . . And are Lightborn and Darkborn mages incapable of these things—annulling lights, sparking fires?”

“No, but . . . Shadowborn magic is distinct. We
can
use it—Lukfer annulled the magic on the box, learning its structure. He annulled the magic on the bolt, knowing that. He can kindle a fire, in the way they can.”

“. . . I think I must speak to your Magister Lukfer, as soon as possible. . . . What else?”

Tam’s expression seemed to collapse in on itself. He gulped in a breath, like a novice swimmer in choppy water. “Lukfer said that the box had been enspelled by two mages, one skilled and one less so, master and student, he thought. The talisman of the crossbow bolt was a grotesque perversion of healing practice, but not one that requires great strength. I had not even been able to detect it until it struck you. If Lukfer hadn’t . . .” He checked himself. “When I sensed Shadowborn magic being wielded within the archducal palace of the Darkborn, I thought it might be the student. So I made an attempt to bind the mage responsible. She was stronger than I thought; she fought me—”

“She?”

“A woman. Potentially sixth-rank, by her strength, but entirely untrained. She was in the same room as the archduke. She had been experimenting with the Shadowborn magic, and when she resisted me, it—expressed itself. Sejanus Plantageter tried to help her, and was badly—critically—burned.”

Fejelis’s eyes closed. Aside from any compassion due the man, the loss of an experienced and moderate leader on the other side of sunrise would add incalculably to the tensions. The archduke’s heir was still a boy, and the regency council . . . the major dukes who would compose it included Duke Kalamay, whose hatred of Lightborn and mages had been controlled in its expression only by the archduke. If yesterday’s crossbow bolt had been aimed to kill Fejelis and leave Orlanjis prince, with the southern faction behind him—

He had only Tam’s word that Tam’s intent was to bind the Darkborn mage and not kill the archduke. He watched Tam’s eyes, steadily. “. . . They’re trying to start a war between us.”

The mage closed his eyes, in pain. “Oh, Mother of All.”

There had been no surprise, or hostility, or dismay, or satisfaction—none of the reactions Fejelis would have expected in an enemy hearing his intent divined. He knew he should not be overconfident of his interpretation, but he could think of nothing else that fitted. And as for overconfidence in his perceptions—were it not for Tam, he would be twice dead. He had heard the mage vigilant protest her helplessness while he lay in Tam’s arms. The wound itself might have been mortal. Tam had healed it, and wiped the blood from Fejelis’s face, and called him by his dead brother’s name.

If you’ve looked your hardest, trust what you see
, his father had told him, on more than one occasion.

“. . . Was it with the Temple’s leave that you attempted to bind this mage?” Fejelis said.

“No,” Tam said. “It’s not . . . Lukfer thinks it would be dangerous for me, for the other sports, if the Temple mages knew that we knew this magic existed. As best Lukfer can tell, the ability to sense and use it was lost to the lineages about five hundred years ago.”

“. . . Five
hundred
. . .” About the time the Lightborn ceded the Borders entirely to the Darkborn. “But the Darkborn can—you can. Lukfer . . .” He saw, then, the connection. “All sports.”

“Yes.”

“. . . This may—change a great deal,” Fejelis said, a weak expression of possibilities beyond his prosaic imagination. “It may be the basis of a true challenge to the mages’ hegemony. It may also be the spark to tinder of all the resentments.” What he could imagine terrified him.

He drew a deep breath. “. . . We
cannot
let Sejanus Plantageter die,” he said. “We need him, not a regency council run by Kalamay and Mycene. . . . I am putting you under contract—we will have to find language that would stand up to challenge without being too specific—to find a way to prevent his death that does not violate the compact. If at all possible.”

“The Darkborn mage—might,” Tam said. “But I don’t know if she—”

“. . . Be persuasive,” Fejelis said, grimly.

She was aware of nothing outside herself, nothing but the need to tamp her terrible magic down, bind it within her skin. People spoke around and to her and she did not acknowledge them; they touched her and she winced away from their consternation and worry. Intermittently, she felt a hovering awareness, sensed a half-voiced mental whisper, She drew her awareness deeper and deeper within herself, sitting in the wide armchair with a dressing gown wrapped around her, unprotected hands tucked under her arms.

“And she has been like this since—”

“Since we brought her back from the ballroom.”

Sonn stroked her, a harsh intrusive touch. Her fingers sought a veil that was not there, found only tangled and uncombed hair.

“Mrs. Hearne”—Sachevar Mycene’s voice—“do you know who was responsible for what happened in the ballroom?”

I was
, tried to start out of her mouth. Her hand slid down her cheek and found her lips, sealing them.

“If you please, my lord duke”—that was Merivan—“my sister is Lady Telmaine Stott by birth.”

“Madam, I am trying to get answers.”

“My lord, my sister is in deep shock. Her closest friend was killed in front of her; we brought her back here with her clothes soaked in Lady Sylvide’s blood.”

The words evoked the sticky warmth of it, the iron stink. Telmaine retched into her hands, though there was little to bring up but bile. Mycene swiftly stood and stepped away, and the maid bent over her. Her touch was unsettling, the tumble of arcane symbols replaced by suspicion and fear of the men, protectiveness of Telmaine, worry for herself.

“Please,” Merivan said, “leave my poor sister to rest.”

The intruders retreated, their voices withdrawing into the next room. “My lady, Lord Vladimer accuses Lady Telmaine of being responsible for this catastrophe. He claims he was aiming at
her
, not Lady Sylvide.”

“How utterly extraordinary,” Merivan said, in fluting skepticism. “Why ever should Lord Vladimer do that?”

Another voice, Malachi Plantageter’s. “Lady Erskane, someone or some
thing
caused materials in that room to ignite, causing injuries to over two dozen people, including the archduke.”

I’m so sorry
, Telmaine’s lips shaped.

“I am
well
aware of that, gentlemen, as my own burns attest. If you have an actual accusation to make, do so, and let me deny it on my sister’s behalf.”

Malachi Plantageter said wearily, “Lady Merivan, several days ago, a part of the Rivermarch burned down in daylight, killing hundreds. Three days ago, four men died in a warehouse blaze that started so suddenly and burned so fiercely that they had no chance to escape. Lady Telmaine admits to having been on the scene at the time the fire began, rescuing her daughter. Lord Vladimer and Lady Telmaine arrived in Bolingbroke Station two evenings ago, and the train they had arrived in burst into flame. This evening the archduke and others were injured by fire. Immediately prior to that, Lady Telmaine showed signs of great distress. She was heard to cry out, ‘No,’ and ‘Leave me alone.’ When I examined the damage, it was apparent that the damage and the injury centered around herself and the unfortunate Lady Sylvide, who were the only people in that part of the room completely untouched.”

“Your sister”—that was Kalamay—“was also keeping company with Ishmael di Studier.”

“My lords,” Merivan said, coolly, “you cannot persuade me that my poor sister has been guilty of anything other than ill-chosen company and being the victim of her husband’s ill-considered decisions.”

Telmaine made a low sound in her throat, too low to carry.

“But as soon as Lady Telmaine becomes capable of talking, I will ensure she speaks to you. In the meantime, I wish you well in finding those
truly
responsible.”

“Lady Erskane,” Mycene said, “what is your sister’s relationship with—” The sound was abruptly pinched off. Telmaine’s head came up; her sonn caught the maid with her hand on the door. The maid snatched her hand away from the door handle. She tiptoed back to Telmaine, bending to breathe, “M’lady?” Telmaine ignored her, listening with her skin.

Merivan was saying, “. . . no more of a relationship with the Lightborn than you or I.”

“Mistress White Hand, a member of the Lightborn court, is in custody here in the archducal palace. She was granted sanctuary last night by Lord Vladimer, as she was being hunted by the Palace Vigilance under suspicion of having had a part in the death of the prince.”

“And what,” Merivan said, “has that to do with Telmaine?”

“Mistress White Hand is a known acquaintance of Balthasar Hearne. Lady Telmaine visited her twice last night, once in the company of Lord Vladimer, and once alone.”

“My sister—,” Merivan said, with feeling, stopped herself, and said, with a calculation Telmaine at least could hear, “My lords, certainly Telmaine has never confided in
me
—but a woman may be driven to confront a presumed rival for her husband’s affections.”