The Oracle's Queen (15 page)

“I understand you spent some time at our old home,” Ki added. He shot Arkoniel a grin. “I hope you didn't find it too dreary there?”

“Oh no!” Rala said at once. “Cook makes the best cakes and mince tarts.”

Ki pulled a comical stricken face. “You're right. Now I'm homesick.”

The children laughed at that, and it set the tone for the evening. Most of the older wizards seemed quite fond of the children and had them demonstrate their little tricks for the other guests after supper. It was mostly colored lights and bird calling, but Wythnir made a dish of hazelnuts fly about the room like a swarm of bees.

Iya's wizards were quick to welcome the newcomers, too, and she and Arkoniel exchanged a happy look. Thirty-three
wizards, counting themselves, plus a handful of newcomers who'd straggled in; it was a good start.

After they had the children settled in their new rooms, Arkoniel walked with her on the walls.

“Can you imagine it?” he'd said to her, eyes shining. “The children have made such tremendous progress, with only a few minor wizards for teachers. Think what they'll learn from these powerful ones you've gathered! Oh, some of them don't have the talent to be more than healers or charm makers, I know, but a few may grow to be great.”

“Especially that boy you've taken on, eh?”

Arkoniel's face glowed with affection and pride. “Yes, Wythnir will be great.”

Iya said nothing, recalling how she'd thought the same of all her early pupils. Wythnir was certainly brighter than the others, but she knew from long experience that disappointment was as likely as success with one so young, even those who seemed promising.

More important than any single apprentice or wizard was the memory of the vision she'd had all those years ago: Arkoniel an old, wise man in a great house of wizards, with a different child by his side. She'd passed the vision on to him, and she sensed it taking hold ever more strongly, now that he'd had a small taste of success.

And Arkoniel loved children. That had come as something of a surprise to Iya, who had no use at all for ordinary ones, and rarely considered wizard-born as anything more than potential apprentices. She'd loved her own students, as much as she was capable of loving anyone, but knowing that each one would leave her and go their own way eventually, it didn't do to get overly attached. Perhaps Arkoniel would come to understand that in time, but for now, he was seeing that shining palace, full of life and learning. It showed in his eyes, and Iya knew better than to stand in the way of Illior's will. Arkoniel was fated for a different path than the one she and her predecessors had trodden.

He still carried the cursed bowl, too, and guarded it well. Perhaps he was fated to find a safe place for it. That was on the knees of the gods, too. Iya had no regrets, and new challenges to face.

D
ylias and the Ero wizards had some experience at unity, having banded together to protect themselves from the Harriers. Iya would have been happy to leave the demands of leadership to him, but everyone seemed determined to defer to her.

“The Oracle gave the vision to you,” Arkoniel laughingly reminded her when she grumbled in the days that followed. It seemed someone was always coming to her with some question of magic, and there were always children underfoot. “You are Tamír's protector. Naturally they look to you.”

“Protector, eh?” Iya muttered. “She still hardly speaks to me.”

“She's better with me now, but there's still a wariness there. Do you think she's guessed at the truth?”

“No, and we must put her off as long as we can, Arkoniel. She cannot have any distractions now and she still needs us. Perhaps she'll never ask. It would be better so.”

W
ith Dylias' help, they kept watch as best they could across the sea toward Plenimar. Others stayed near Tamír by turns, ready to protect her from any threat. This had to be done discreetly, with so many of Tamír's new allies openly distrustful of their kind.

Iya was equally distrustful of many of them, these nobles and warriors. Eyoli was recovered from his wounds and had already proven his worth. The young mind-clouder could walk into any encampment and move about freely, virtually unnoticed, listening and watching. Coupled with Arkoniel's strange new blood spell and Tharin's long
memory for loyalties and intrigues, Iya judged Tamír to be as well guarded as could be managed.

She also found a sound ally in the Oracle's high priest, Imonus. The man had stayed on all this time and showed no signs of leaving. He and the two others who'd come with him, Lain and Porteon, spent their days tending the makeshift Temple of the Stele, as it was called now. People came every day to see it, and to hear from the high priest's own lips that their new queen was indeed Illior's chosen one.

I
monus had gathered the surviving Illioran priests from Ero and counseled them to set up makeshift temples in the camps. He and his own priests established the largest of these, setting up the golden stele and offering braziers under a canopy in the courtyard of Illardi's estate, just inside the gates. Anyone coming to see Tamír had to pass it and be reminded by the prophecy of her right to rule.

Imonus spoke with the authority of the Lightbearer, and the devout believed. They left small offerings of flowers and coins in the baskets at the foot of the great tablet and touched it for luck. Destitute as most of them were, people nonetheless found food to bring to the priests, placing wizened apples and chunks of bread in the covered baskets. Then they cast their wax votives and feathers onto the ornate bronze braziers, rescued from some temple in Ero. These burned night and day, filling the air with the scent of the Illiorans' pungent incense and the acrid undertone of burned feathers. Imonus and his brethren were always there, tending the fires, bestowing blessings, interpreting dreams, and offering hope.

Iya approached most priests with certain skepticism. She'd seen too many of them profit from false promises and false prophecies. But Imonus was honest, and devoted to Tamír.

“Our daughter of Thelátimos is strong,” he remarked as he and Iya sat together in the great hall after the evening
meal. “She's well-spoken and I see how she lifts the hearts of those she talks to.”

“Yes, I've noticed that. Perhaps she had a touch of Illior's inspiration?”

“More than a touch,” Imonus said. “She believes more in building than power. This will be both a blessing and a burden to her.”

“Is that a prophecy?” asked Iya, raising an eyebrow at him over her mazer.

He just smiled.

A
s the sunnier days of Nythin lengthened across the land and the roads dried, Tamír discovered that the news of the destruction of Ero and her own transformation had not always traveled in tandem. Confused emissaries were still arriving from distant holdings. Some came with belated replies to the war summons sent out by King Erius, expecting to find the king still on the throne. Others came looking for word of the miraculously transformed princess. A few brave souls carried terse missives frankly denouncing her as a sham.

It was from these newcomers that they heard rumors that Korin was at Cirna and building up an army there.

“That means we're cut off from the nobles in the territories north of there, except by sea,” Tharin noted.

“And we still don't have enough ships to matter,” Illardi added. New keels were being laid down at boatyards from Volchi to Erind, but not all of those ports had declared for the new queen. Even if they had, it took time to build ships of that size.

“Well, at least we know where he is,” said Ki.

Arkoniel and Iya tried to verify this, using the wizard eye and window spells, but to no avail.

“You can't see into the fortress at all?” Tamír asked in disbelief.

“Whenever I try, it feels as if someone is sticking knives in my eyes,” Arkoniel told her. “Niryn has thrown up some sort of protection around the entire fortress.”

“Did he catch you trying to peek?”

“Perhaps, but we've been very careful,” Iya said. “He'd know to guard against such magic.”

“Is Niryn stronger than you?”

“It's not such a difficult sort of ward. The Harriers were powerful in their way, and there are at least four of them left besides Niryn. It won't do to underestimate them. We only saw them at work, burning wizards. We don't know what else they're capable of,” Iya warned. “You've seen what our little band can do when we put our heads together, after only a few months. Niryn has had years to explore and test the powers of his own people. I suspect they are still a force to be reckoned with, even diminished as they are.”

“What can we do, then?”

“Send more scouts,” Arkoniel suggested.

F
or now, that seemed to be her only option, and she did so and returned to learning how to rule.

She spent each morning holding court in the makeshift throne room they'd made of Illardi's hall, sitting on the canopied dais, attended by Illardi, Tharin, her Companions, and a few of Iya's wizards.

It still felt odd, sitting in the place of honor, but everyone else treated her like she was already queen. The arrangements for the displaced and incoming lords and warriors still took up much of her attention. There were endless needs to be addressed, disputes to be heard. Fights broke out and the whole camp was placed under military tribunal. The citizens were growing impatient with their situation. The miracle of their new queen was old news now; they were hungry and dirty and wanted more than the promises of their priests that life would improve.

Hundreds who'd been judged healthy by the drysians had already been allowed to leave. Some went to Atyion. Others had family in other cities. But there were still over a thousand left in the encampment and even with supplies
from Atyion and other towns, careful rationing was necessary, which made for short tempers.

Some of those left were too sick to move, many had nowhere to go; but most still wanted to return to the city and try to rebuild or reclaim what they could, despite warnings about tainted water and cursed ground. Day after day, they appeared before Tamír, cajoling, begging, and complaining.

Worse yet, the lords who'd come to join her were growing restless. Tamír had made it quite clear that she was in no hurry to precipitate a civil war, especially since she'd had no word from Korin yet. All her generals and advisors insisted that her cousin's continued silence had to be taken as a bad sign, and in her heart, she suspected they were right.

Bored warriors were a danger to all. There were fights between rival factions, murders, rapes, and pilfering. She left the disciplining of the culprits to the nobles they answered to, but knew she either had to use them or send them home.

“Work parties,” Tharin advised. “Most of them are yeomen and farmers when they're at home. Put them to work and keep them out of trouble!”

Most of her nobles had been amenable to the idea, and so she had a sizable force to work the fields and carry on with the cleansing of the city.

It was exhausting and discouraging work, trying to keep order. Tamír wasn't trained for this and felt the weight of it all as a personal responsibility.

“If I'm to be the queen that saves them, then why doesn't the Lightbearer show me how?” she complained to Imonus.

“There has not been one report of plague,” the priest pointed out.

That didn't put bread in anyone's mouth, as far as she could tell.

She was not without help, however. Duke Illardi had
experience in such matters and vetted many of the supplicants for her. He was well respected and better versed in the ways of court than her warlords. Soon he was acting as her unofficial chancellor.

Nikides was proving invaluable, as well. He'd learned firsthand about matters of court protocol from his illustrious grandfather. Tactful, deeply knowledgeable in history and court procedures, and wise beyond his years, he quickly earned respect even from the older country lords.

Tamír kept the two of them by her at all audiences and they guided her when necessary.

It was during this time, too, that Tamír saw a different side of Tharin. She'd always known him as a steady and fair-minded man, a staunch warrior and friend. Now she discovered shrewdness in him, born of years at her father's side at court and on the battlefield. He had never sought to lead, but he was a good judge of character and had a long memory. Thanks to her father's power and influence at court, there were few among the higher nobles whom Tharin had not met at one time or another.

O
ne morning a young knight appeared with a message from Duke Ursaris of Raven Tor. The duke had arrived the previous day, with a force of five hundred riders and men-at-arms, but had not yet come to pay his respects.

Tharin knew Ursaris from their days in Mycena and privately expressed his distrust to Tamír. “He's a staunch Sakoran, and owes your uncle both his title and his lands, which were seized from a lord who maintained his allegiance to Ariani after Erius took the throne.”

The duke's messenger shifted nervously until Tamír took notice of him, then bowed low, looking like a man with a distasteful duty to perform. “I am Sir Tomas, and I bring greetings from his grace, Duke Ursaris, son of Melandir, to—” He swallowed uneasily. “To Prince Tobin of Ero.”

Tharin caught Tamír's eye and lifted one eyebrow
slightly. She acknowledged the caution with a slight nod and gave the young man a stern look. “You may tell your lord that I am Tobin no longer. If he wishes parley with me, he can come himself and greet me by my proper name.”

“You may also tell your lord that in the future if he wishes to spy out the situation, he should not send a known cat's-paw under the honorable banner of a herald,” added Tharin, glowering down at the startled fellow.