White Blood (13 page)

Maryn’s heart raced. Her homeland, destroyed? But she swallowed and shook off her reflexive horror. It couldn’t be as bad as Carlich said. If Milecha no longer had its own royalty and was ruled by the king of Wonora, would it even matter to most people? Serfs didn’t care which king their lord owed fealty to, as long as he didn’t go to war too often. And townsfolk didn’t care which treasury their taxes filled, as long as the laws that governed their lives weren’t unduly restrictive.

Whirter pulled his hand away from Barilan’s grasp and took the page of the treaty. He scanned it. “Even if you’re right, how likely is that to happen? As you pointed out, you and Barilan are Marolan’s heirs.”

“What would our lives be worth?” Carlich’s voice was low and urgent. “With Wonora’s history of conspiracy and assassination? They’ve hungered to swallow Milecha for generations. It wouldn’t be hard to make it look accidental. If Marolan and I go off to war, we might very well not come back. And children’s lives are fragile; no one would question if Barilan were to conveniently sicken and die.”

Fear twisted Maryn’s gut and rushed in her ears. She had to clench her hands together to keep from reaching to snatch Barilan from his father’s arms. Suddenly he seemed so vulnerable. She’d never considered before that his position as heir might make him a target for Milecha’s enemies. But of course Carlich was right. Maryn ached to gather Barilan to her breast and shelter him from danger. But what good could she do, powerless as she was?

Carlich turned to Voerell, who met his gaze squarely, only a slight quickening of her breath betraying that his words had affected her. “I’m willing to wager that if this treaty goes forward as written, Milecha’s Kingship will be lost within three generations, and we will become one small province of Wonora.”

Whirter’s arms tightened around Barilan. “Have you told the king about this?”

Carlich slumped back in his chair and rubbed at his temple. “Of course I have. I went to him as soon as I realized. But he refused to take me seriously. Father is so ridiculously proud of that treaty; he sees it as the greatest accomplishment of his reign. He won’t hear a word against it.”

Whirter sank back in his seat. Barilan squirmed; Maryn stepped forward, but Whirter shook his head. He stood the baby in his lap and supported him under the arms while he bounced.

Voerell chewed her lower lip. “What can we do, if Father refuses to listen?”

“Maybe if we went to him together…but you know Father. Once he sets his mind on a course, nothing can sway him.”

“You’re right.” Voerell glanced at her husband and son. “But if Barilan is in danger…” Her face grew hard.

“I fear he is.” Carlich spread his hands.

Voerell nodded, fixing Carlich with steady eyes. “You have to figure out some way to stop it.”

Carlich shook his head, looking down at the papers. “I don’t know. I have spies in Wonora; they tell me some factions oppose the treaty. There are those who reject the idea of any but one of pure Wonoran blood on the throne.” He hesitated, and licked his lips. His gaze flicked up to meet Voerell’s. “There are even rumors that the princess herself shares those sentiments.”

“Dolia?” Voerell’s brow wrinkled. “That hardly seems likely.”

Carlich shrugged. “Nevertheless, that’s what my spies report. Perhaps she can be persuaded to appeal to her father to end the betrothal. Supposedly he gives her whatever she asks; if he thought she didn’t want this marriage, he might be willing to cancel the treaty.”

Voerell looked troubled. “That would break Marolan’s heart.”

“He’d get over it.” Carlich did not seem worried by the prospect. “Or, if that approach bears no fruit, there are those in Hampsia who might be willing to aid us—”

Whirter jerked his head up. “You would conspire with our enemies?”

“No, of course not. And they’re not our enemies at the moment. We’d just ask for help in pressuring Father to renegotiate the treaty. Or Marolan, in due course. Even after the wedding it might be done.”

Whirter still looked doubtful, but he did not renew his objection. Voerell twisted her hands in her lap. “I suppose Marolan sides with Father?”

“In this, as in all things.”

“If he ever finds out we’ve been talking about this, he’ll be furious.”

“That’s because he cares more about himself and his position than the welfare of Milecha.” Carlich grimaced. “If only our laws weren’t so idiotic. Either you or I would make a far better ruler than Marolan, yet because of some ancient decree, neither of us will get the opportunity. Did you know the king of Hampsia chooses among his sons which one will succeed him, without regard to their order of birth?”

“That wouldn’t help you. Father would never choose you over Marolan.” Voerell shrugged. “And it would still leave me out. I agree you’d make a better king than Marolan, but unless something happens to him, Holy One forbid, you’re out of luck. Our way is written into the magic of the Kingship.”

“Holy One forbid anything should happen to Marolan,” Carlich echoed, irony in his tone. He shot Voerell a sideways glance. “Sorcery created the Kingship, and a good enough sorcerer could modify it. Perhaps someday one of us will get the chance.”

She laughed. “You know I’m not a tenth the sorcerer you are.”

“You could be, if you cared enough to study.” Carlich waved his hand in a grandiose gesture. “I promise, if the Kingship ever comes to me, I’ll change it so that only the best possible candidate can inherit, be that younger son or daughter, general or merchant or beggar in the street.”

“Hah! If the Kingship ever came to you I’d wager you’d never let it slip from your fingers, even to your own son. You’re so stubborn you’d contrive a way never to die. Or else work some spell to let you continue to rule from your grave.”

Carlich raised an eyebrow and grinned at her. “I’ll have to look into that.” He sobered. “In all seriousness, though, if I discover some way to keep the treaty from going into effect, can I count on your support?” He leaned forward, searching Voerell’s face.

Voerell glanced at Barilan in Whirter’s lap. She met Carlich’s eyes. “I’ll want to study the treaty for myself. But if I find you are correct, and there is danger to Barilan in its provisions, I will support you.”

Maryn breathed a little easier. Surely Barilan’s mother and uncle together would be able to keep him safe.

“Thank you.” Carlich settled back in his seat, his tense shoulders relaxing.

Whirter looked back and forth between his wife and her brother, frowning. Maryn could tell Barilan was growing impatient with his father’s distraction. He bounced insistently; when that was ignored he grabbed at Whirter’s beard, his pudgy fingers catching in the strands and yanking them. Whirter turned back to his son and forced his features into a silly grimace. Barilan crowed in laughter.

Carlich rose, went over and reached for Barilan. “Here, let me hold my nephew for a bit.”

For a moment Barilan looked apprehensive, but Carlich grinned at him and swung him up over his head. Mixed emotions played across the baby’s face, but pleasure won, and he laughed. Carlich swung him down, then up again, eliciting more excited squeals.

“Be careful!” Voerell half;-;frowned, half;-;laughed at Carlich’s antics. Maryn bit her lip to keep from echoing her sentiments.

“He’s fine. Look, he loves it.” Barilan’s eyes were bright and his mouth open in excitement.

At length Carlich tired of the game and collapsed with an exaggerated sigh into his chair. Barilan wiggled and squirmed in his lap. After a few moments, when no more entertainment was forthcoming, he burst into wails.

“Look what you’ve done. Give him to me.” Voerell snatched Barilan from Carlich and tried unsuccessfully to quiet him. She glanced over her shoulder at Maryn. “Nurse—”

Maryn stepped forward, reaching for the baby, but Carlich waved her away.

“He’s not hungry, just disappointed I stopped playing with him. Here, Barilan, watch this.” Carlich pulled a jewel;-;encrusted ceremonial knife from his belt and nicked his finger. With a quick gesture, blue fire erupted in his hand, fountaining up in a shower of sparks. Maryn jumped; she’d never seen magic summoned so fast. Barilan left off crying and stared, fascinated. Carlich waved his hand under Barilan’s nose, and the baby grabbed at the swarming blue fireflies.

“Carlich!” Voerell pulled Barilan away. His face clouded, until Carlich leaned closer and again passed his hand near his nephew’s face. “Be careful! Not to invoke the Holy One at all, not even a quick word…”

“There’s nothing to worry about.” Twitches of Carlich’s fingers turned the sparks red and green and purple in turn.

“Rogelan says it’s foolhardy to not at least begin with an incantation. I don’t want you flaunting uncontrolled sorcery around my son!” But the fire showed no sign of escaping Carlich’s control, and Barilan was so obviously entranced by it that Voerell hesitated.

Maryn edged closer, ready to snatch Barilan if the sparks threatened to harm him. She agreed with Voerell. Blood sorcery was dangerous. The priests constantly stressed how vital it was to always invoke the protection of the Holy One with the full ritual, even for the simple everyday task of cleansing a few accidentally spilled drops.

“Rogelan is a decent enough sorcerer, but he’s excessively conservative. Gestures can be just as effective for controlling magic as incantations, if you know what you’re doing, and far swifter and stronger. You’d think our family would remember that, considering we only hold the throne because Great;-;great Grandfather Hoenech was a master of gestural magic.” Carlich swirled the flashing sparks, and Barilan watched in fascination.

“I still don’t like it,” Voerell said, drawing in her breath as a stray spark leaped too close to Barilan’s face. “Lord Hoenech’s spell escaped his control and killed him. Carlich, stop that.”

“If you insist.” Carlich made a waving motion with his hand, and the last of the blood’s power evaporated in a burst of sparks. Barilan blinked and his face scrunched, until one flailing fist found his mouth and he began to suck industriously. For a few minutes all was quiet.

Voerell shifted her grip on her son. “Should I speak with Marolan?”

Carlich’s face darkened, but he kept his tone light. “You might as well not bother. He won’t listen.”

“Give him a chance, Carlich,” Voerell said. “Treaty or not, he will be king someday. You’ll be much better off if you get over whatever petty childhood quarrels still bother you, and put some effort into building a better relationship with him.”

“Flattering him, you mean. Currying his favor. Come, Voerell, you know me better than that.” Carlich gave a mocking little laugh. “I decided long ago I’ll never bow to Marolan. The day he becomes king is the day I leave Milecha forever.”

“Then I pray the Holy One will grant Father a very long life indeed, and you greater wisdom with the passage of years. For I would grieve to lose my favorite brother to exile.”

Voerell tried to catch Carlich’s eye, but he turned away from her to gaze into the fire. Maryn was struck by the way the leaping orange light cast deep shadowed lines of pain and anger across his features. They lingered there for only a moment, however, before he composed his expression into its usual lively good humor and turned back to his sister. “Never fear. None of us knows what the future will bring. The Holy One may yet send some unexpected twist of fate to disrupt all our neatly laid plans.”

Voerell gave a little shudder mixed with laughter. “I will accept whatever he may ordain, as long as my family is safe.” She ran a finger through Barilan’s hair.

“Here, let me hold him again while he’s content. I’ll promise to be quieter with him this time.” Carlich reached for Barilan.

“All right. Just no magic!”

Carlich cradled his nephew against his chest. Barilan snuggled there, peacefully alert. Carlich teased Barilan’s fist with a finger; the baby’s hand stretched open and wrapped around the offered digit, grasping tightly.

“Feel that grip! You’re a strong one. Uncle Carlich will teach you to wield a sword whenever you’re ready.”

Whirter and Carlich fell into a long rambling conversation reminiscing about their own earliest experiences with training in the arts of war. Barilan dragged Carlich’s finger to his mouth and sucked on it for a while before drifting off to sleep. Maryn stood and waited on their pleasure, her muscles aching and her eyelids drooping as the hour grew late.

Finally Barilan woke with a sudden cry. Carlich started. Voerell blinked. “I’m sorry, Carlich, I didn’t mean to leave you stuck holding him so long. Give him back to the nurse and let her take him to bed.”

“I don’t mind. It was a pleasure.” Carlich shifted Barilan to his shoulder as he rose. The baby’s cheek was marked with impressions of the embroidery on Carlich’s jerkin. “We heirs to the throne of Milecha have to stick together.”

Carlich carried Barilan over to Maryn. “You might want to check his diaper.”

“Yes, your Highness.” Maryn flushed, deeply embarrassed that the prince would speak to her about such an indelicate part of her job, and offended at the implication that she might not tend to such a basic matter without his prompting. “I’ll be changing him as soon as we return to the nursery.”

“Good.” Carlich passed Barilan into her arms. “I can see you take excellent care of my nephew. Keep up the good work.”

Maryn blushed even hotter and ducked her head. “Yes, sir. Your Highness.” He grinned in amusement at her flustered manner as she backed hastily away and fled the room.

Eight

M
aryn watched with growing impatience as Voerell leaned over the bed and fussed with the dozens of tiny jeweled buttons running down the front of Barilan’s long gold brocade gown. The princess had gotten one into the wrong buttonhole, but not realized her mistake until she reached the end of the row. Now she was obligated to unfasten them all back to the place where the error had occurred and redo them. Barilan wriggled and grabbed for one of the trailing pearl ornaments that dangled from her ear. He succeeded in snagging it, and tugged. Voerell yelped and tried vainly to disentangle his fingers.