The King's Sons (The Herezoth Trilogy) (10 page)

Appeased,
Vane dropped into his chair without being invited. Howar followed suit, and
said, “Gratton and my brother told me to expect you. Said you’d have
instructions. I’ve been biding time, but we haven’t much time left.”

This
man thought he had instructions? Would be informed?

“I
have no more idea of what I’m doing than you could describe to me. Oh, I’ve met
with Linstrom, and it couldn’t have gone better. I’ll go with his men to the
Hall of Sorcery tonight, but I…. The man has two hundred accomplices. All
magicked. There’s precious little I can do on my own. Why didn’t Gratton
assassinate the man? Walk into his shop with a dagger, pretend to need shoe
repairs, and….”

“Because
Linstrom’s nineteen sorcerer supporters, Ingleton. Kill Linstrom and they’re
swarming upon Partsvale in the blink of an eye. We have to take them down at
once, all together. That requires the king’s army. Requires you.”

Vane
swore. “I’m one blasted man. Beyond transporting between here and Podrar to
keep the king informed, what bloody difference can I…?”

“Well,
we sure as hell have to do something. We’ve two weeks.”

“I’m
aware of that. Listen, the king only learned of this mess last night. I’m sure
he’s been consulting with people all day. When I meet with him next, I’m hoping
he has some strategy developed, or at the least developing. He only has three
sorcerers to aid him, though. That’s the problem: me, Zacry Porteg, and my
instructor at the school. Maybe one or two of her past students as well, but
we’ll need the army, like you said. We’ll need the bloody army, and the army
isn’t here. Won’t get here in time. Three people can’t handle transporting
hundreds the distance we’re discussing. It’s impossible. There won’t be a quiet
end to this.”

Howar
let out a dejected breath. “You’re certain, Ingleton?”

“Damn
certain. I wish I weren’t, but we learned of the plot too late. The authorities
here, you, Gratton…. We’re all too late. We can try to contain the damage and
the aftermath to follow, but there’ll be a fair amount of both.”

“But
your magic! There must be….”

“Sorcery
has limitations. Real ones, damn it. I’ll tell the king tonight that as many
women and children as we can quietly move from Partsvale should be moved. We’ll
alert the guard to have armed shelters ready for those who remain, for when the
trouble starts. The Shrine will be safe, at least. People can gather there.”

Howar
nodded. “Linstrom’s got the fear of God in him. About the only thing he fears,
I’d wager.”

“I’ll
take it, if it’ll keep people safe when he attacks the village.”

“He’ll
leave the Shrine alone, I knew that before. Your Grace, the Shrine’s not much.”

“We’ll
make sure it’s enough, though. We’ve time for that.”

Vane’s
turn had come to sigh. He alerted his fellow spy to the rest of the backstory
he’d given Linstrom, and asked if Howar had any guess of what Terrance’s
“surprise” for the evening could be, as it was nothing that boded well for
those loyal to the king.

The
baker said, “Linstrom sent him to the capital, for some kind of diversion. A
small one. Just to make sure the king has no reason to set his attention here.”

“Well,
I left Podrar this morning. After speaking with the king, and he mentioned
nothing that fits what you’re describing. Terrance spoke as though it’s done,
completed, whatever he referred to.”

A
small
diversion…. That meant Vane’s
family was in the clear, thank the Giver. Assaulting the only sorcerer-duke’s
loved ones would threaten to bring Linstrom, and his men, too much to the
crown’s notice.

Howar
shrugged. “Guess we’ll be surprised with the rest of them, and soon enough. Too
soon, I reckon.”

Vane
asked, “How did you get involved in this? How did the army get involved in the
first place?”

“Now
that’s a story. One of Linstrom’s supporters who lives in Fontferry and
transports in for meetings, his wife heard him mumbling strange things in his
sleep a couple nights in a row. Things about arson and magic, revenge and
Partsvale. A tyrant king. The good woman was spooked, and went to Jonson
Peare.” Fontferry’s mayor. He’d been mayor when Vane was growing up and still
held the post, though he must be ancient now. “He had no proof of any plot, so
Peare didn’t notify the king. He did, at least, send the garrison here a
report. My brother’s a soldier, and he and Gratton began some discreet
investigations.” Howar shook his head. “They wanted to be sure of a problem
before they bothered the crown, or even our duke. Seems now they should have
told the king straightaway, but….”

“Rexson
knows now, and it might not be too late. What did the soldiers find?”

“Nothing
concrete, but enough to throw Linstrom under suspicion. Call it a hunch on
Gratton’s part, awoken by inexplicably soundproof walls.”

Vane
nodded. “He’s too familiar with me not to have suspected a sound barrier. Some
kind of sorcery.”

“That
woman in Fontferry, she’d mentioned magic. When Gratton grew wary of Linstrom,
my brother involved me because of my power.”

Howar
stared intently at a rag thrown in the corner, and it broke into scraps that
flew in all directions. After his demonstration, he said, “The cobbler and I,
we’ve always been friendly. He appreciates that I send business his way when I
notice pilgrims who could make use of him. It took a month before he opened up,
but I started visiting him more often. I went off what we knew—his man’s
mutterings about a tyrant king—and dropped some comments that hinted I
wasn’t fond of Rexson Phinnean.”

Vane
nodded, not wanting to speak and distract Howar.

“My
brother and I had a falling out over who should care for our sick mother. We
made it a public brawl.” The baker grimaced. “My ribs still ache, but it was
necessary. The fight had to look real, so neither of us held back. Word of it
got to Linstrom. When I figured he and I were good enough friends that it made
sense for me to reveal my magic to him, I blew up some sticks to frighten off a
rat we found in his storeroom. He immediately asked me to join him. He knew I
had no emotional ties to Partsvale.”

Vane
said, “At least he trusts you. I’m more surprised Gratton trusts you, to tell
the truth. He’s wary of everyone until he’s cause not to be.”

“Gratton’s
something, that’s for sure,” Howar agreed. “For now, you should come down to
the bakery. Help me work. I hate to propose such a thing, Your Grace….”

“Don’t
go there. I’m Rickard. Always Rickard, understood?”

Howar
nodded. “It’s like this: a cousin of mine, makes sense he would make himself
useful. ‘Specially if he’s lodging with me, which I imagine Rickard would,
being from Podrar and used to throngs. Tight spaces.”

“We
should spend the day together,” Vane agreed. “I’ll help in the bakery, that’s
fine. And don’t feel awkward about it, either. I was raised by an innkeeper.
I’ve baked my share of loaves and chased my share of chickens.” Most times, he
had chased his aunt’s chickens with his best friend, Francie Rafe, a girl his
age who had ended up with him on the Magic Council.

The
nausea Vane had controlled all day spiked as he remembered Francie, and then
Francie’s council interview. That interview had been the first time they’d
spoken since the days of chicken chases. Should Linstrom have been in that room
instead of the woman with an inactive power?

“Linstrom,”
Vane said, “and his sorcerers…. Did the king ignore their council
applications?”

“Reckon
he must’ve. A foolish thing to do, hoping to paint himself the magicked’s ally
at the same time, but there you go. A foolish act and a scoundrel’s deed to
boot, if you want my opinion.”

Vane’s
voice turned hard. “I didn’t ask for it.”

“Anyways,
it doesn’t justify Linstrom. It doesn’t justify destroying the town, which from
the sound of things we might be helpless to prevent.”

“An
unfortunate truth. Well, come, Howar.”

Vane
started for the door, and Howar told him, “A cousin would call me Ryne.”

“So he
would. The bakery calls, Ryne.”

CHAPTER FIVE

Saving Francie

Ancient
magic still insulated the Hall of Sorcery’s ruins, maintaining a comfortable
temperature. Though built high in the mountains, with a gaping ceiling and a
collapsed section in one of its walls, the space provided a haven from the
gales and snow without.

The
Hall was crafted of stone, with pillars down two of its sides. Visible through
a fallen corner stood the Hall’s library, with windows of stained glass and
thousands of spellbooks Linstrom and his men had likely been studying for
months. Both buildings glowed with the light of numerous lanterns, thanks to
Linstrom’s powers.

The
Sorcerer’s Court—a self-governing council for the magicked
population—had met here in centuries past, and the space was larger than
Vane had envisioned before he arrived. Six hundred could have fit inside the
Hall, but to Vane’s relief, only some thirty individuals attended Linstrom’s
meeting, a fair number of them women. No more than the handful who needed aid
to travel had gathered beforehand at the Dancing Drake, a tavern of ill fame
outside Partsvale’s eastern border. Linstrom’s most avid non-sorcerer
supporters had moved to Partsvale in the past weeks, making their group
transport to the mountains a simple affair, while any sorcerer who had been to
the Hall once could return with ease from anywhere in Herezoth.

Linstrom’s
followers appeared, one by one, in the span of about ten minutes. Vane
appreciated the wait, for he needed a moment to adjust to the thin air, which froze
his lungs with every breath.

Howar
attended the meeting. He was deeper in Linstrom’s good graces than Vane had
ever hoped; so much the better. Vane himself said little as more and more
sorcerers transported in, and few people approached him. One of the first was a
woman younger than the duke. Tall for her sex, she couldn’t have been
twenty-five. She had free-flowing auburn hair and Terrance’s elegant nose. It
came to a point that on her looked dainty.

“I’m
Terrance’s cousin,” she introduced herself, offering Vane a hand. “Gertrude.
Hate the name, but I didn’t choose it, did I? Your name’s Rickard?”

Had
Terrance mentioned him? If so, Vane wondered what he’d said. “Yes, Rickard
Holler. I’m the baker’s cousin.”

Gertrude
smiled. She seemed a decent enough sort; what was she doing here?

“I’m
not a sorceress,” she explained, “though you might think so, with the family
connection. I know the future. That’s my talent.”

That
was bad news for any spy. Very bad. If she could see what Vane’s eventual plans
were…. He tried not to appear disconcerted. “You’re a seer?”

“Not
a true seer. I don’t use a crystal ball or read cards. I know what I’ll see
around a minute in advance, though. I was at my parents’ deathbeds when a fever
took them both, and I realized then I can’t foresee death, but most other
things…. It comes as an intuition.”

“You
knew what my name was?”

“You
repeated it after me, didn’t you?”

A
minute in advance, she knew what would happen. She foresaw what would grab her
attention. Well, that wasn’t so dangerous. Vane kept her talking about herself.

Terrance
was protective of his cousin, and Gertrude loved him for it. She hadn’t applied
to the Magic Council herself. She had been too young, but to think of Terrance
with a seat there thrilled her, and she took the king’s supposed snub of him
personally. The man was a brother to her, and that meant danger; Vane
considered how a powerful Kansten might react if someone harmed Walten, or
Wilhem.

“I
felt so honored when Terrance asked me to help with what we’re doing here. He
said that with my magic and my bow, he needed me. Brought it up when we were
hunting rabbits, right after I nailed one he’d missed. Maybe that showed him
what skills I have. Anyway, I was proud to think he’d trust me with something
this important. I swore not to let him down. So far so good.”

She
started to flirt with Vane, and he feared to rebuke her for it, feared
antagonizing Terrance on her account. He referenced a fiancée in the
capital—hardly an insulting reason to discourage his new acquaintance—and
that proved enough to check her advances. He’d gotten the impression she
favored Rickard’s noble blood over his personality anyway; the Duke of
Yangerton, Rickard’s father, was descended from one of Herezoth’s most famous
warlords.

Vane
and the seer were still talking when the meeting began. Linstrom opened by
asking Howar to introduce “Rickard.” Then Linstrom instructed the newcomer to
return here tomorrow and pass the day in the library, studying ancient magic
and strengthening his repertoire of incantations. Howar could run his bloody
bakery on his own.

Vane
agreed to the idea, and even found himself intrigued by Herezoth’s most famous
collection of spells. He did manage, though, to hint he’d prefer to take books
elsewhere rather than stay at the Hall, and met no objections.

“Do
you have weapons training?” Linstrom asked. While Vane Unsten did, a baker like
Rickard Holler would not, and Rickard declared himself unskilled. That being
the case, Linstrom told him to concentrate on magic to confound their enemies.
He’d leave books out for him.

With
only two weeks before the assault on Partsvale, Linstrom’s plot had reached the
final stages of development. Vane mostly listened while the conspirators
polished details. They were agreed that, after the first assault, some of their
group would sweep east toward the Podra River and Vane’s home village of
Fontferry. How the attack on Partsvale should unfold was the larger question.

Half
the group, or just about, wanted to begin the assault on the high street. The
rest proposed beginning with the guardhouse, near the prison a good three miles
away, to take the king’s soldiers unawares before they could defend themselves.
Vane and Howar supported the latter faction, because they knew the guard would,
in fact, be forewarned.

The
final choice was Linstrom’s. To Vane’s relief, he saw the guardhouse’s merit as
a target, and after an hour of listening to arguments, decided the assault
would end with the high street as its apex. Only after settling that business
did Linstrom allow Terrance—his second in command, by all
appearances—to report on his personal assignment.

“You’ve
claimed you have good news. It had best be related to that diversion I told you
to create in Podrar, because you’ve given me no briefing.”

Terrance
smiled. “Calm yourself. I’m not one to forsake my duties.”

Linstrom
was growing impatient. “I’m all ears.”

Terrance
began, directing himself to the group at large, “We’re a motley enough band, I
think we can agree. There are two things that bind us: our respect for magic,
and how we loathe the king. When Linstrom ordered me to cause a stir in the
capital, my first thought was to vandalize a shop or two, something along those
lines. Then I realized Podrar’s the seat of the court and that council the king
judged too good for us. Perhaps I could fulfill my orders and grieve his Magic
Council at the same time. After all, most people who oppose it are prejudiced
pigs who want to see the magicked put in their place. If the council was
attacked, no one would blame a group of sorcerers.”

Linstrom
smirked, clearly pleased, though he rolled his eyes in impatience. “Have you
slain a council member? We haven’t all night, Terrance.”

Vane
surely didn’t. He had to be at the Palace by midnight, or the king would
believe him dead. Vane had to get back to Podrar and report—report what?
What had Terrance done? Would the king already know? Vane fought the impulse to
vomit as Linstrom prompted his subordinate to continue; he could not be sick,
not here.

“No
one’s been slain yet. I abducted Francie Rafe from her home last night. Thought
you’d appreciate the honor of finishing her off. She’s tied in the library.”

Vane’s
oldest friend. The council’s most devoted member. Vane’s heart was beating so
hard and fast his chest felt on fire now, a far cry from the icy pain the lack
of air had caused before.

Without
a word, Linstrom led the way out the Hall. What could Vane do? How could he
save Francie? He could try to grab her quickly, transport her away, but
Gertrude’s foresight would expose him. Even if he succeeded, he’d leave Howar
to the mercy of Linstrom’s band, and he couldn’t abandon his ally that way. Nor
could he let Linstrom kill Francie. How…?

The
burst of mountain chill when Vane stepped in open air froze his thoughts.
Thankfully, it also numbed his stomach. He rushed to the library and its
stained glass windows. As he stepped inside he saw Francie, and he tried to
think.

Terrance
had bound her to a wooden pole he must have driven in the floor in the
library’s center. All around Francie, twisted, levitating shelves made of metal
would impede access to her, unless Vane were to transport to her side. Her limp
blonde hair, longer now than when she’d joined the Magic Council ten years
before, was bound in a bun that had mostly fallen since her abduction. Terrance
had bruised her large eyes, and her swollen upper lip bled. An inflamed scratch
marred her cheek. One sleeve of her cotton house frock was torn, and her skirt
had been ripped at the side. Vane knew Francie well enough to tell she
struggled to project an air of bravery, but her panicked, dry gulps were
visible, as were her winces of pain.

THINK! Good God, I have
to do something. How do I…?

THE LIFESTONE.

Vane
reached his hand into his pocket, enclosed his enchanted ruby in his fist: a
transfer spell. When the time was right, he could transfer the Lifestone to
Francie, hope she wouldn’t react, and then pray Linstrom would accept his offer
to dispose of her corpse. The strategy was risky, horribly risky, and Francie
would suffer much. Vane paled to consider what horrors she might endure, what
horrors she already had—rape, by the state of her garments—but the
woman would live. If Vane’s plan worked, she would live, and so would he and
Howar.

Linstrom’s
followers held back while their leader approached Terrance’s captive. The woman
bit her bottom lip. “Are you Councilor Francie Rafe?”

Francie
answered in the negative with a shake of her head. Terrance said, “She’s a
liar, and she can’t speak. I had to silence her with a spell because I couldn’t
gag her. She kept vomiting, kept saying the bonds made her ill, the emotions
her power filtered out from them. She begged me to bind her with magic instead
of rope. The rope remains, and I assure you, this is Francie Rafe. No one else
in Podrar can touch an object and know what the last person to handle it was
feeling.”

Francie’s
forehead glistened with sweat. A few wet strands of hair lay plastered to her
face. Linstrom slapped her unscratched cheek. “You’ll regret it if you lie to
me again. Are you Councilor Rafe?”

Francie
squeezed her bruised eyelids shut, and nodded. She shook all the way down to
her slippered feet: closed toe slippers. Vane could send the Lifestone to her
shoe, beneath her instep, and pray his spell worked. He had used it once or
twice, to practice it, but never had mastered the incantation. The transfer
didn’t work for him one hundred percent of the time; sometimes the object to be
relocated fell short of its intended placement.

Linstrom
asked, “Do you know why you’re here?”

Francie
shook her head again.

“You’re
here because your king’s as great a liar as you are. Because your council’s
mission is a masquerade. Were the king truly interested in a Magic Council,
he’d have powerful councilors. Sorcerers. People with real magic, not the
talent for vomiting.”

A
woman behind Vane chuckled, but Vane hardly noticed. He was staring at
Francie’s right foot. Envisioning it. Remembering the thin white scar on her
big toe where a chicken had pecked her at the age of nine. As a sorcerer at
Vane’s side laughed softly to himself, a delayed reaction, sycophantic, Vane
used the sound as cover to whisper “
Cambway
Seetyo
.”

The
smooth, hard texture of the stone against his fingers vanished. He clutched
air. He studied the floor between where he stood and Francie, yards away, and
caught no sign of glinting red. As far as Vane could tell, the spell had
worked. Francie stood upon the Lifestone, her attention so monopolized by
Linstrom that she took no note of the gem in her shoe.

A
woman toward the front, one with cropped blonde hair, walked up with a
determined gait and pulled Linstrom away from the cowering councilor. She was
around Vane’s age, near thirty by her looks, for her face was unlined and not
at all plain of feature, though neither was she a great beauty. Her cheeks were
too thick for that. She clenched her jaw, and her eyes smoldered with ire. Her
dress was most becoming, of the latest fashion, and her skirt settled back in
place as she told her superior, “I must protest this.”

Linstrom
tried to wave her off. “Not now, Lottie.”

Lottie
grabbed his arm. “I protest this, as a sorceress and a woman. Rafe’s the enemy,
and she has to die, now Terrance brought her here. I understand that, Evant.
You need to understand she’s suffered enough. Terrance clearly had his way with
her. I’ve called him a cur to his back, and I charge him a sadist after this.
We’ll not torment this creature further. You will kill her, and mercifully, or
I shall. It only takes a word.”