The Lord-Protector's Daughter (20 page)

Nealtyr was seated at his table-desk. He also bowed his head as Mykella departed.

As she stepped out of the antechamber into the main lower corridor, Mykella understood two things. First, others saw what she saw, and at least some of them wanted her to know. Second, unfortunately, they also had neither proof nor the ability to bring matters before her father…or they feared the consequences of doing so.

Much as she dreaded going up to the Finance study, Mykella turned toward the main staircase to the upper level of the palace. The accounts would be in perfect shape, of course, but they would remain that way only so long as she was able to keep reviewing them.

Mykella made her way up to the upper level of the palace and then to the Finance study. When she closed the door behind her, Maxymt looked up. “Good morning, Mistress Mykella.”

“Good morning, Maxymt.” Mykella glanced to the long table where Maxymt was reviewing another set of ledgers. “Those look to be the accounts of the Minister of Highways and Rivers.”

“Indeed they are, and very well kept.”

“Lord Porofyr's clerks have always been most assiduous.” She paused. “How is the search coming for a replacement for Shenyl?”

“Lord Joramyl has been involved in other matters, as you may know, but he assures me that he will look into that in the weeks ahead.”

In short, Joramyl hadn't done anything and didn't plan to anytime soon. “If he has said so, then I'm most certain it will happen.” Mykella slipped the master ledger off the end of the long table. “While you're checking those, I'll be going over this.”

The acting chief clerk looked up and offered an oily smile. “Before long there will be no need for you to review these, and that is well, I would think.”

“Oh?”

“I am close to mastering all of the accounts, and Lord Joramyl and I will no longer need your assistance. In turn, that will leave you free to pursue what is proper for a Lord-Protector's daughter.”

“And what might that be?” Mykella kept her tone light.

“A most proper marriage. It is said that you may be matched to one of the highest in all of Corus.”

“I don't believe that's been decided yet.” For all the humor and lightness in her voice, Mykella felt heavy-hearted within herself. Maxymt's words confirmed that she had made a favorable impression on the Landarch's envoy…or the least unfavorable impression of her father's three daughters. Or…Joramyl had prevailed on the envoy in order to assure that Mykella would be removed from overseeing the Lord-Protector's accounts.

At the moment, Mykella told herself, there was little she could do. At the moment.

After a long day, during
which she had found no obvious additional diversions of golds or questionable bookkeeping entries, Mykella sat through a quiet dinner with her father, Eranya, Jeraxylt, and her sisters, during which no further mention, thankfully, was made of envoys or matching. Rachylana looked tired by day's end, but the grayness had vanished from her, or from Mykella's ability to sense it. Mykella excused herself from joining Salyna and Rachylana in the family parlor by saying she was tired. Then she retreated to her chamber.

Once there, she did not slide the door bolt closed, because, if her sisters knocked and no one answered, they might well force the door, and that would lead to questions she could not answer. If they opened the door and did not see her, Mykella could always claim she had slipped away to be by herself. While they might wonder about it, she had done just that long before she had discovered her Talent.

She drew the window hangings, then stepped up to the window and its stone casement, where she concentrated on the stone and the greenish blackness beneath. This time she was able to reach the blackness almost instantly. She slipped into the stone and then let herself slide downward. When she emerged from the stones of the palace foundation, Mykella inadvertently looked down, and found her feet a good third of a yard above the stone floor. Was that how Mykel had “walked on air”? Had he only been able to do so in places where there was the darkness beneath? How could she discover where those places were?

Abruptly, she realized she had no shields—and raised them even before she checked the Table for the presence of the Ifrit. But there was no sign of his purple-pink presence in or through the Table. She took a deep breath, then let herself settle and her boots touch the stone beside the Table.

Immediately, she concentrated on the Table, seeking out Joramyl. When the mists cleared, she found her uncle sitting with her father in separate armchairs in front of the hearth in the Lord-Protector's personal and private study in the palace. Both men held goblets half full of what looked to be a red wine. Joramyl said something, then laughed.

Feranyt smiled and nodded.

Joramyl began to speak again, and even through the Table's mirror, his falsity leapt out at Mykella. Yet what could she do? Anything that she might say would be immediately rejected by her father.

After a time watching a conversation she could not decipher, she decided to see what Berenyt might be doing. The mists cleared to reveal her cousin seated at the table in the small study in Joramyl's mansion. Across from him were Arms-Commander Nephryt and Commander Demyl. Although the two were in fact Berenyt's superiors—at least in terms of the Southern Guards—seeing the three of them together left her feeling even more uneasy.

Her last attempt was to see what Lord Gharyk was doing.

She was relieved to find him and his wife in a small sitting room, also before a hearth, although the coals were red and low, as if the two had been talking for a time. Both Gharyk and Jylara looked concerned. At one point, Jylara said something emphatically, to which Gharyk nodded, then replied. He finished his statement with a shrug that suggested he was helpless in whatever circumstance she had brought up. His wife nodded, then offered a few words and a sad smile.

Mykella wished, not for the first time, that she could hear as well as see through the Table.

She stood there, letting the image fade from the Table and thinking about what Mykel the Great had been reputed to do, such as walking on air and water, and appearing from nowhere. Could she do the same, or at least what she'd seen the Ancient do? Could she follow the blackness through the depths for a distance around Tempre? How far?

Once more she slipped into the greenish darkness, trying to sense her way, trying to go westward. She thought she could sense the avenue to her left, and she eased herself through the dark depths that way until she felt that she was directly beneath the eternastone pavement that led to the Great Piers. Then, before long, not only did the chill creep through her nightsilks, but she could feel, before her and above her, a grayish purpleness, a long block of something that reminded her of the Table, if not exactly. She decided to let herself rise out of the depths, and in only moments she was hovering above the avenue just short of the Great Piers, surrounded by a cold and icy mist.

She immediately raised her concealment shield and tried to move herself above and across the piers toward the River Vedra, although she sensed that the ice-mist followed her. Soon she was moving over the stone, which lay less than a full yard beneath her boots.

Did she want to try “walking on water,” really try? Mykella smiled and eased herself westward along one of the short river piers. Once she was clear of the stone, she felt herself sinking toward the water, slowly, but inexorably. She dropped the concealment shield, and her descent halted, a mere yard or so above the water. Something about the water weakened her hold on the blackness. She directed herself back over the eternastone of the Great Piers. Once she was over stone and not water, she raised the concealment shield. She had the feeling that the deeper the water, the more it would have weakened her Talent, at least for holding her above the water. So much for walking on water.

Another thought occurred to her. She really needed to find out just how wide the swath of greenish blackness was. It certainly hadn't extended as far to the southeast as Joramyl's mansion. She didn't want to try to use it in places where it wasn't, and it would be helpful to discover from what distance she could link and draw upon its power.

She let herself drop to the ground. Still concealed, she held her link to the blackness but began to walk southward along the avenue. She kept walking, ignoring the residual soreness in her upper leg. She had walked almost a vingt when she became aware that the blackness was no longer beneath her, but behind her. She attempted to strengthen that link and lift herself above the avenue. For a moment, she succeeded. Then she could feel herself—or the link—weakening, and she released the concealment shield so that she didn't fall heavily to the pavement.

Even so, her boots hit with a thud, and she winced at the pain in her injured leg. She stood there for a moment before she heard voices.

“Do you see that?”

“…woman out of nowhere…”

“…green moon is out…”

“…wouldn't have believed…Asterta…”

Mykella raised her concealment shield. Only then did she see the two Southern Guards riding southward in her direction. She stepped to the side of the avenue and began to walk quickly back northward.

“…gone…”

“She was there…saw her and so did you…”

“…curse of Asterta…”

She couldn't help but wonder why the lesser green moon was associated with the Ancients and the unexplained, but it always had been. That she knew.

Once she was certain that she stood clearly above the greenish blackness, she extended a link, then dropped into the darkness and reached for the Table…and the palace. She did not enter the Table chamber, chilled and tired as she was, but emerged from the stone in her own chamber.

Mykella found herself tottering beside her bed, surrounded by an icy mist, her legs shaking and her eyes blurring. Her entire body was racked with shivers. She dropped into a sitting position on the edge of the bed and pulled the comforter around her.

For a long time she just sat there, huddled in the comforter. Slowly, she warmed, and the shivers lessened until they were no more. After a while, how long she could not tell, she glanced toward the bedside table. Uleana or Wyandra had put a fresh pitcher of water and a glass on the bedside table. She frowned. A tiny touch of something greenish blue was on the curved handle of the pitcher. She squinted, and the color vanished, then reappeared, clearly a dab of something she could only sense with her Talent, rather than actually see.

She eased herself to her feet and walked around the bed, the sound of her boots muffled by the old blue rug at the foot of her bed. She suspected it had once graced the family parlor, what with the crest in the center, but it was still thick in most places. When she reached the bedside table, she looked down at the pitcher, then bent over. Even with her eyes almost touching the handle, all she could see was the faintest smudge.

After a moment, she straightened, then concentrated on the water in the pitcher. She sensed nothing. Still…she decided against drinking it.

A long and involuntary yawn convinced her that she needed sleep, but she did force herself to walk back to the door and slide the bolt into place before she began to disrobe.

During the day on Duadi,
Mykella went through her usual routine, except that she was careful to be polite at breakfast and quiet in reviewing finance ledgers for most of the remainder of the day, after which she returned to her chambers to dress for the formal dinner with the envoy from Southgate. She did not even ask whether the new green dress was ready, but instead chose to wear the same deep blue dress she had worn to the dinner with Envoy Sheorak. She did add a cream-colored shimmersilk shawl.

Then she made her way to the family parlor, where Salyna was already waiting, attired in a pale pink gown with a gauzy white scarf. Mykella studied her blond sister before smiling. “It might work.”

“What else can I do? I'd rather go anywhere besides Southgate, even to those semi-barbarians of Northcoast.”

“Our dearest aunt Cheleyza is from there.”

“Ah, yes…dear Cheleyza.” Salyna glanced toward the parlor door—still closed. “She won't let Berenyt marry Rachylana, not while there's the slightest chance she might bear an heir. You know that.”

“What we know doesn't appear to matter much,” Mykella pointed out.

At that moment, the parlor door opened, and Rachylana entered, wearing a high-necked dress of a deep rose that not only disguised her figure to a degree but, combined with a darker face powder, managed to create the illusion that her skin and complexion were darker than they were. “What doesn't matter?”

“What we think,” replied Salyna. “We're just women.”

“It's not that bad,” said Rachylana.

“You don't think so? If it had been Jeraxylt who had suffered from bad food, both Father and Treghyt would have stood by his bed all night.” Salyna's voice was flat.

“We can't change that.” Rachylana raised her eyebrows and looked directly at Mykella. “The same dress as last week?”

“I wouldn't want to give one envoy an advantage over another,” Mykella replied dryly.

“The shawl changes it enough that the men who were at the last dinner won't notice,” Salyna added, turning to Rachylana, “unless you happen to mention it. Of course, that might enhance your chances of going to Southgate.”

“They also like redheads there,” Mykella commented blandly.

“I wouldn't think of saying a word.” Rachylana drew herself up, if ever so slightly.

“That would be good.” Salyna's words were syrupy.

A long moment of silence ensued. Then Wyandra eased the parlor door open. “The Lord-Protector awaits you, Mistresses.”

Mykella immediately stepped out into the corridor and strode to the top of the main staircase, coming to a halt beside Jeraxylt in his dress uniform.

“If you had a saber, you could run it through someone.”

Mykella offered a charming smile. “You do look superb this evening, dear brother. It's too bad that you aren't the one being inspected for a match.” Her tone was as sickeningly sweet as she could make it, except that she couldn't put nearly as much false syrup into her words as could either of her sisters.

“That much confectionery in speech always disguises poison,” he replied. “Good poisoners are those who don't change the taste or the flavor.”

“I'll never be a good poisoner. Not in speech or anything.”
Nor do I wish to be.
She paused.
Why did he mention poison?
Yet his feelings held nothing but affection and humor.
You're too touchy,
she told herself. But how could she not be?

“…could have fooled me…” murmured Rachylana under her breath as she and Salyna halted behind their older siblings.

The four waited for a time until Feranyt and Eranya strolled down the upper level corridor to stand behind them. The trumpet fanfare provided the signal for the entry procession, and Mykella matched her steps to those of Jeraxylt, down the stairs past the Southern Guards and the trumpeters, along the lower corridor and through the open double doors of the small receiving room.

From what Mykella could see, for the most part, those waiting were the same thirty or so functionaries that had been at the last reception, except for the two men in the white shimmersilks of Southgate. Joramyl and Cheleyza stood well back, as did Arms-Commander Nephryt and Seltyr Porofyr. Berenyt was also present, but close to the serving table, as if he were waiting to obtain a goblet of wine as soon as possible.

Once Feranyt and Eranya completed their entry, another trumpet fanfare echoed from the corridor outside, then died away.

“Welcome,” called out Feranyt. “Please return to what you were doing.”

Jeraxylt inclined his head to Mykella. “Try to be polite to the envoy.”

“I'll be most polite,” she said quietly.

Jeraxylt slipped away, toward the servers and his cousin.

Mykella turned toward her father and the heavy-set and round-faced older man in white, noting that his golden belt seemed tarnished in places.

“Envoy Malaryk, this is my eldest daughter, Mykella,” said the Lord-Protector heartily.

Mykella could sense that her father was far less enthused with the envoy from Southgate, at least compared to Sheorak, but she inclined her head. “I'm pleased to meet you, Envoy Malaryk.” Mykella kept her words coolly formal, but polite. If she had to make any choice, it would be Dereka over Southgate.

As had occurred at the last reception, her father eased away to leave her momentarily alone with Malaryk.

“Ah…you are the one who knows the coins and the accounts, a most useful trait for the consort and chatelaine of a High Seltyr…” Malaryk's words were gentle, but his black eyes were hard as he studied Mykella.

“I had heard, Most Honorable Envoy, that the High Seltyrs have little need to count their coins. All the riches of Corus are said to flow through Southgate.”

“Not all, Mistress, not all.”

The lilting accent of Malaryk's words was both true and false to Mykella, and she disliked the hint of sibilance they held. “But many, do they not?”

“Ah, yes, but we are traders, and we always have been. Even the best of your traders can trace their heritage back to Southgate.”

“And Dramuria,” Mykella added with a smile.

“Ah, yes. That is indeed so.”

Mykella could sense a certain displeasure behind the honeyed words. “Please tell me about the Seltyr for whom I am being considered as a match, if you would?”

“Gheortyn is a Seltyr, not a High Seltyr, and he will not be one for many years, as his father is close in age to your sire, but he is handsome, most intelligent, and a horseman without peer.”

That's what any envoy would say.
“A few particulars about him would be nice, if you might indulge me.”

“But, of course.” Malaryk smiled insincerely. “His hair is shining black, as black as that of the Alectors from whom sprang the forebears of Southgate, and his eyes are equally so. He is long of limb, yet sinewy, and strong, and a quarter head taller than your brother, I would judge. His eyesight is that of a hawk, and he can ride any mount.”

Mykella concealed a wince at the overtones and feelings behind the envoy's last phrase. “You said that he was most intelligent. In what fashion?”

“He knows all the verses of Elharyd, and most of those of Sheidahk. He has also studied the works of the great military strategist Gebyet.”

A poetry-spouting stud whose father is looking for an intelligent woman so that his grandchildren won't be complete idiots. And who hopes to rule until those grandchildren are old enough to succeed him. Wonderful.
“He sounds most handsome and athletic.”

“That he is, Mistress. That he is.” Malaryk looked slightly past Mykella.

She smiled and stepped away, letting her father escort an appropriately pallid Salyna to meet Malaryk. She had taken but three steps before Lady Jylara appeared, inclining her head respectfully.

“Mistress Mykella…”

“Mykella, please, Jylara.” Mykella had no trouble being pleasant, especially as she sensed the friendliness and concern behind the words of the older woman. She also had no doubt that Jylara had more to convey.

“Gharyk said that you visited him and that you had a chance to see the portrait of Rachyla that hangs in his Justice study. He was quite amazed at the resemblance when you stood before it. Quite amazed indeed.”

“I was surprised myself,” Mykella replied. “I'd never seen that painting before. In fact, no one had ever mentioned it to me. It is quite striking.”

Jylara laughed. “Some men just don't think of those things, especially when they think about rulers and ruling. To them, it's just a painting of a beautiful consort or a wife on a wall, and she was beautiful indeed. But from what Gharyk told me, Rachyla was such a force that Mykel the Great always listened to her. Her father didn't, alas, and that might be why he was killed…”

Mykella managed to keep smiling, even as she understood the meaning behind the words, even as she kept listening.

“He was a High Seltyr of Dramur, you know, and once he was killed, the lands went to one of her cousins, and she was sent to live with another. It would have been better for Dramur had the lands gone to her, but the way things turned out, it was better for her and for us that they didn't.”

“That's true. It's a pity that more men aren't as perceptive as Mykel.” Mykella paused, then added, “But Lord Gharyk seems most perceptive, I must say. I imagine you two have many interesting conversations.”

“That we do, indeed. Of course, he tells me that I see things that aren't even there, and he nods when I insist that they are, as if he must humor me. He does, but I do appreciate that.” Jylara smiled broadly and warmly. “I won't take any more of your time, but it was a pleasure to see you again.”

No sooner had Jylara slipped away than Rachylana appeared, slipping close to her older sister and commenting in a low voice, “She's rather loud, isn't she? Everyone in yards could hear what she had to say. A history lesson to you, no less.”

“She's very cheerful, and, at a time like this, that's helpful.”

“I see that the envoy is still talking to Salyna. He seems taken with her.”

“Your turn will come,” Mykella pointed out.

“I simply cannot wait.”

Mykella smiled and eased away. She really wanted a goblet of wine, but she kept smiling, exchanging pleasantries as she crossed the few yards between her and the nearest sideboard and server.

“The Vyan Grande, please.”

The server poured a goblet, and Mykella let her senses range over the wine and the goblet, but she sensed no sign of the bluish green she had felt on her pitcher or within Rachylana, and nothing seemed amiss.

Then, with the goblet of Vyan Grande in hand, she took tiny sips and continued to make light conversation until the chimes sounded. Once everyone was seated at the long dining table, Feranyt nodded to the envoy seated to his right.

“In the name of the One Who Shall Never Perish, we offer praise and thanks for the poetry of life, for the beauty of sunrises and sunsets, for lands filled with handsome men and fair maids, for the bounty of love and the children that bounty brings, and for all the blessings that cannot be named but should never be forgotten, in the name of the Eternal and Imperishable.”

Mykella was less than impressed with the idea of children as the bounty of love, at least after having listened to Envoy Malaryk wax on about Seltyr Gheortyn. Still, throughout the dinner, Mykella smiled, offered more than a few pleasantries, and listened, using her Talent to concentrate on what the envoy said. One exchange particularly intrigued and concerned her.

“…We of Southgate have always had a great interest in the strength and good will of Lanachrona. We welcome strong leadership in Tempre. Once more the nomads of Illegea and Ongelya are rallying their clans. Unless they are crushed, trade all across Corus will suffer…”

And Southgate wants the Southern Guards to take the casualties so that Southgate's traders can continue to prosper at our expense.
Mykella stifled a snort of disgust, keeping a pleasant smile upon her face.

“…and there have been secret meetings between the advisors of the princes of Midcoast and Northcoast. Should they unite in an effort to increase their territory and power, that would not be in the best interests of either Southgate or Lanachrona.” Malaryk offered a smile meant to be supportive and friendly.

Mykella noted that the smile was directed at Joramyl, who nodded politely, the expression masking intense interest. Yet her father seemed not to notice. At least Mykella could sense nothing other than polite boredom, and the words of Lady Jylara echoed in her thoughts, only reinforcing her own feelings.