Limits of Power (16 page)

The first elf, as it happened, was not Amrothlin but a woman who arrived shortly after breakfast, when they had gone upstairs to change. A Squire brought word that the elf had asked an audience with Arian alone, but Kieri shook his head. “On this day of joy, I cannot be parted from my wife,” he said. “Tell her that, and we will receive her in my office.” When the servant had left, he turned to Arian. “I do not want you meeting any elves without protection, including the women.”

“But Amrothlin—”

“Amrothlin may be true as gold, but he does not control them all. I still think it possible—no, likely—that one of them killed Orlith and may have invited in the iynisin who killed the Lady.”

Arian and Kieri came into his office to find the elf standing quietly, a Squire nearby. The elf made a courtesy as graceful as a leaf in the wind. “My lord king,” she said. “My lady queen. All the taig sings of your joy, and I bring a gift—” She held out a crystal bottle stoppered with a pale green stone. “This potion combines rare and precious herbs; its action is to cleanse and cool the blood. Should the queen take a fever, a few drops in a cup of wine will ease it and save harm to the babes within.” She smiled at them. “I would rejoice to see the grandchildren of my friend,” she said.

“So … you are not one of those who wish to leave?” Kieri asked.

“Oh, no,” the elf said. “I will not leave this land, though others may.” She handed the bottle to the Squire, bowed, and withdrew.

“You are not drinking that,” Kieri said.

“No,” Arian said. “But we may as well see if it smells of the poison we know.”

The liquid had only a sharp herbal smell. “It may be harmless,” Kieri said, sniffing again.

“But I take no chances,” Arian said. “We will pour it out.” She frowned. “I have no reason,” she said, “and perhaps it is only a form of jealousy for her beauty, but I have no warm feelings for her.”

Kieri chuckled. “Perhaps you are remembering my feelings when she suggested we might marry. Yes—this was the same one. A friend of my mother's, she said, and my mother was no elf-child when I was born.”

Amrothlin was surprised to hear of the elf woman's visit when he arrived. “But then,” he said, “she was your mother's friend, and she would want to congratulate you.”

“I have another task for you,” Kieri said. “Orlith's murder—his wounds were not made by crossbow bolts or longbow arrows. It is possible he was killed by another elf, and if so—we may yet have enemies among the elves in Lyonya.”

“Iynisin use the same bows and arrows as elves,” Amrothlin said. “That is more likely than that anyone I know would kill someone so respected—”

“I hope that will prove true,” Kieri said. “But I would know for certain. Consider the possibility, at least. If you hear anything, tell me.”

Amrothlin nodded. He left after a few minutes, and the rest of the day was a constant stream of visitors come to congratulate the king and queen. Arian was glad she had already readied her clothes and equipment for the trip, because she had no chance to supervise the last-minute packing. She made sure, however, to see the bottle the elf had brought emptied out down one of the kitchen sinks.

Vérella

S
leeping later in the morning helped Camwyn stay awake during his lessons, and extra exercise seemed to keep his hand from lighting up every night. One mug of sib at midday kept him alert through his lessons and supper with Mikeli when that was required. His brother treated him more as an ally, less as a child, as if discussing a maturing body and marriage made him older. Mikeli even brought up the problem of the old regalia and his own difficult dreams. “It's talking to me every night now. Telling me to let it go. I tell you, Camwyn, I do not know what to do or whom to ask for advice. It wants to be with Duke Verrakai, and it wants her to put it on. Should I release her from her oath? Even command her to take it? But then who would take over in her place? Beclan is too young and not yet in control of his magery, according to her letters.”

At that last, Camwyn twitched. Mikeli glanced at him, one eyebrow raised. “Can he learn that, do you think?” Camwyn asked, doing his best to feign only mild interest.

“He had better,” Mikeli said, in what Camwyn thought of as his king voice. “We cannot have a magelord in Tsaia who is not both master of his magery and committed to the Crown and to Gird's law.” His voice softened once more from king to brother. “Duke Verrakai thinks he can, and she learned to, so I suppose it can be done.”

Camwyn wondered if he could learn to control his own magery before anyone found out about it. If only there were someone he could ask … but Duke Verrakai was an inconvenient distance away.

“Do you think it's … sort of … leaking magery?” he asked instead.

“Leaking? What do you mean?”

“Well…” Inspiration struck. “Beclan had been where it was, in Verrakai House, when he showed magery. And it's talking to you, you say. What if, because it's old and was a magelord thing, it's so full of magery that it leaks out? And it can seep into people, making them mages when they weren't.”

Mikeli looked thoughtful for a few moments, then shook his head. “I don't think that's how magery works, Cam. Not the magery in people. I think that's different from the magic in magical items like a sword.”

“Are you sure? How would you know?”

Mikeli shook his head again. “I don't know for certain. How could I? But it just seems like they ought to be different. Do magical items have a will?”

“Magic swords can light up when they are near something dangerous. Didn't Duke Verrakai's magic sword make a light—?”

“She was holding it, and she's a mage,” Mikeli said.

“But it was magic before she owned it. Gwenno Marrakai wrote Aris that Duke Verrakai said she saw it light up when another soldier had it.”

“I suppose,” Mikeli said. “But it still needed a person to wield it. Making a light isn't the same as making magic … I don't think. Though magelords can make light. I saw Duke Verrakai…”

Camwyn did not want to pursue that thought. “Do magelords make magic things like swords, or can other people?” he asked. “Can wizards make a sword or a dagger magic?”

“Not that I know of,” Mikeli said. “The only magic swords I've heard about were dwarf-wrought or elf-wrought.”

“So that crown must've been made by a dwarf or an elf, whatever they say,” Camwyn said.

“Nooo … I don't think they're lying,” Mikeli said. “Which means that magelords might have such magicks. Some of them. Maybe no one now alive.” He looked hard at Camwyn. “You're asking a lot of questions about magery, Cam. I hope you're not wishing you were like Beclan.”

“I'm not!” That much was true. He had no wish at all to be like Beclan. He sent another silent passionate prayer to Gird to keep his hand from betraying him. “I wouldn't want that. I just—I just can't help being curious. It's like the dragon that came. I want to know things—about dragons, about magic, about … about everything.”

“Except, apparently, about the monetary policy of Tsaia,” Mikeli said, grinning now. “Master Danthur blames it on your being an overindulged prince who's never had to learn the value of money, but he says he's very glad you're not in line to succeed unless I fail of siring an heir.”

“I try,” Camwyn said, feeling sulky all at once. “And I do know the value of money. I know what my allowance covers and how much I can spend, and I haven't overspent in a long time … at least a half-year, and that was only to get presents for my friends.”

“I know you're learning, Cam. I'm not scolding you. But until I do get an heir, the more you know…”

“The better. I know. I'm trying, really I am. But all that about exchange rates … if they stayed the same, I could understand it, but not when it changes. Market law is easier. Fair weights, fair measures: that makes sense. Master Danthur says it's not enough.”

“It's not,” Mikeli said. “But I know you're trying, Cam. I wish it weren't so hard for you. You know the Lyonyan queen is coming to visit; you will meet her. You'll want to impress her, I'm sure.”

Camwyn felt a telltale warmth in his hand, and he was trying more than anything else to keep that hand hidden under the table. Was the finger glowing now? Right here? Where Mikeli might see it? He did not dare look.

“Are you dining with Council tonight?” he asked.

“Yes. Since word got out—and I believe what you said, that you weren't the source—I need to talk it over with them. Some of them. You?”

“I'm fine,” Camwyn said, sticking both hands deep in his pockets as he stood. The right didn't feel any hotter than the left, actually. “I'll try again with the exchange rates. After supper, maybe.”

“Don't stint your sleep,” Mikeli said. “It's not that serious.”

Maybe. Or maybe it was. He could not put thoughts of the strange regalia out of his mind … and as soon as he lay down that night, the image of the crown he'd never seen appeared. Blue stones, white stones … well, clear, but sparkling. It was a beautiful crown … and the ring … the bracelet …

Let
us
go. Let us go home again. Let us free.

The voice—how could a crown have a voice?—seemed to ripple in his mind like water chuckling in a stream. Camwyn felt less frightened than he thought he should. The crown had spoken to Mikeli: why would it not speak to a prince?

Our
sister
is
held
captive
by
evil.

Sister? The crown had a sister? How could a crown have a sister? Another crown, a crown for a queen? Camwyn was puzzling over that when another image came into his mind: not a crown but a necklace, star-bright in the darkness of his chamber.

Torre's necklace, it must be.

No. Our sister, of the same making.

Camwyn wondered if he thought he saw these things only because Mikeli had spoken of them. He'd never seen the regalia himself. Only Mikeli, the Marshal-Judicar, and his uncle Mahieran—and Duke Verrakai, of course—had that he knew of. He lay still, trying to convince himself it was his imagination, that same imagination he'd always been told would get him into trouble. But he knew there was such a crown, a real one. And a necklace, now he thought of it: the one stolen from Fin Panir. So if there could be a real crown, a real necklace … and a dragon in the world, which he knew absolutely to be true …
was
it just imagination?

Without any warning, his entire hand lit up like a candelabra, making the room bright enough to see clearly from end to end.

Such
magic
would
open
the
chest.

He shoved his hand under a pillow, blinking against the afterimage of light, before the words sank in. Open … the chest? The sealed chest that no one but Duke Verrakai had been able to open? That not even the paladin had been able to move?

The voice had not sounded like the crown's voice, but it was clear as if spoken in his ear. He could not have made it up. He would not have made up something like that. He pulled his hand partway from under the pillow. No light. It had gone out. Thank Gird. He put his head down on the pillow and then sat up again. The pillow smelled scorched. He lay awake, sweating and trembling, thinking.

Guards patrolled the palace all night. Someone was stationed at the door of the treasury all the time, day and night. There was no way he could get in there unseen … and he had no legitimate reason to go there at all. He tried to imagine the steward's reaction if he asked to see the treasury. The man would want to know why, and whether his brother the king had sent him, and if he'd asked …

Another thought came unbidden. He was supposed to learn about exchange rates and values of things … perhaps Master Danthur would want him to see … whatever was there. Perhaps if he asked the right questions … the answers would be in the treasury.

On that thought he fell asleep and did not wake until morning.

The Lyonyan queen's coming visit had already begun to upset the usual routine. Even his instructors seemed less alert than usual, and he found he could gain both information and time. Judicious questioning about counterfeiting and the difficulty of distinguishing counterfeit coinage and false jewels led to Master Danthur suggesting a trip to the treasury.

Camwyn approached the treasury doors with vivid curiosity but, once inside, found the great room boring. Windowless now, it had once been a ballroom with a portico overlooking the street far below, catching the cooler breezes. Now it was stuffy and smelled like any storeroom. Soft light filled it; Camwyn looked up and found a skylight far overhead.

“Two full stories up, inside,” the steward said. “Was a gallery up there one time, but they tore it down when they blocked up the windows. Outside now it's a sheer drop, four stories at least, and not a ledge or nub to cling to.”