Chapter Fifteen
Halithe glared at the nappy in her hand as if her will alone would straighten the hem. The lace of her dress scratched her skin; the sleeves were too short and it smelled of mothbane. She shifted in her chair, trying hard not to make it squeak.
The solar was over-warm, the women around her quiet and subdued. All heads were bent over baby clothes, swaddling cloths, blankets, tiny booties the babe wouldn’t wear more than twice. Normally, there’d be the titter of talk, but lately the only sound was the quiet clack of knitting needles.
Well, that and the noise of Queen Satia heaving in the other room. Halithe was glad the inner door was closed. It sounded like the woman was trying to rid herself of her lungs.
With a sigh, Halithe turned her attention back to the offending fabric and twisted it, thinking that might even out the hem. She plunged the needle in and the thread promptly twisted and snarled.
“It’s not an enemy, you know.” Long, cool, pale fingers came into view and covered her own.
Halithe stilled, suddenly surrounded by the faint scent of fruit and spice. It was Caris, the Queen’s lovely Bondmaiden, of the rich, red-brown hair and brown eyes flecked with amber. She was everything Halithe wanted to be and wasn’t.
“It might as well be,” Halithe grumbled to cover her flustered confusion. A quick glance showed that the other Bondmaidens were not in the room and the women around them were focused on their sewing.
Caris knelt beside her and took the wretched nappy from her hands. “You are glaring at it like a hawk after prey,” she chided softly.
Halithe snorted under her breath. “A bat, maybe,” she muttered. “Never a hawk.”
To her joy, Caris chuckled. “Here, let me help.”
Halithe risked a breath then, taking in that wonderful scent, and rested her hands in her lap. She watched as those long, lovely fingers worked magic. Threads untangled and the hem straightened before her eyes. Halithe looked at the result with both admiration and dismay. “You have a gift,” she said grudgingly, knowing it was one she’d never learn.
“This is no gift,” Caris said. “This is just practice. It will come to you, as it came to me.” There was the slightest hesitation. “I have other gifts.”
Halithe raised her eyes to find Caris’s brown ones focused on her intently. She felt hot and cold at the same time. She opened her mouth to dare a question, but before she could draw breath, a crash of breaking pottery and a shout erupted from the other chamber.
“No more of that damnable ginger tea!”
The ladies froze, waited, and then relaxed when no more shouts were heard.
The moment was gone and Halithe’s courage, fled. She dropped her gaze back to the nappy. “The Queen is in a foul mood,” Halithe said.
“The Queen is finding bearing difficult,” Caris agreed.
Halithe snorted, twisting her lips.
Those perfect, cool fingers clamped on her wrist. Halithe’s heart beat faster. She stared at them, their paleness such a contrast to her olive skin, the blond wisps so unlike the darker hairs on her arm. She could see the brand on the inside of Caris’s wrist. The pattern floated in front of her eyes, burning itself into her brain.
“Have a care,” Caris’s voice was the barest whisper. “Have a care, little hawk, that you do not offend, do not stand too far out among the chicks. Her temper is foul and it does not bode well to have her attention.”
The door to the inner chamber creaked as it started to open. It was enough warning for Caris to be up and gone to her position by the main door before the Queen swept into the room, followed by the three other Bondmaidens.
Halithe rose with the others and curtseyed low as the Queen made her way to her seat. The chair had been replaced with a cushioned couch so that the pregnant woman could sprawl in comfort.
The Queen’s face was screwed into a scowl. “You said it would stop,” she snapped.
Mira was close behind her, carrying a chamber pot. “Majesty, I said that for most women it stopped. But sometimes these things linger and must be borne.”
Satia sank down on the couch, one hand pressed to her stomach. “Rise,” she commanded, but there was a weakness in her voice.
Halithe rose and reseated herself, making sure to focus on her stitching. The room that had been over-warm and silent moments before was now chill and tense. A brief glimpse of the Queen’s face was enough. She might sound weak and deserving of sympathy, but her expression was…petulant. The hairs on the back of Halithe’s neck rose. It felt like the Queen was seeking a target, if only to distract herself from her misery.
A knock, then. “The King, majesty,” Caris announced. “With Lord Tarwain and Steward Paulin.”
The door opened wide as the men strode in. The King was his golden, sunny self, smiling as he strode among the chairs. Lord Tarwain, Halithe’s father, followed close behind. The olive skin and dark hair she’d inherited looked handsome on him.
Halithe rose once again, with a sense of relief and dread. Sure enough, the Queen focused on the King and the tension eased from the room. Sure enough, her father’s eyes found her and glared his disapproval.
Halithe flushed with resentment and shame.
“My Queen,” Xyrath walked forward, smiling, but in an instant, his face filled with concern. “How fare you?” he asked, sinking down on the couch next to the Queen, making sure his sword was out of the way. He gestured for everyone to sit.
“Not well, my husband,” Satia leaned against him, putting her head on his shoulder, making such a pretty picture. “Not well.”
“Ah, my sweet,” Xyrath wrapped his arm around her shoulders. “We should consult other healers. Perhaps our Chained Mage might have some ideas, eh?”
“Him.” Satia scowled. “All I ever hear from him is ‘no.’ It’s always ‘I do not serve you; you do not hold my key.’”
Xyrath chuckled warmly. “Well, you do keep trying to have him cast for you, dear heart.”
“I sent for the Mage Guildmaster, too,” Satia sulked. “He would not come.”
Xyrath’s eyebrows climbed. The Steward cleared his throat. “Mage Guildmaster Forterran suffers from gout, Your Majesty. He has episodes. He did send word that as soon as the pain abides, he will attend the Queen.”
“I want that key,” Satia pouted. Her eyes filled with tears. “I want this nausea to stop,” she added in a faint, childish voice.
Xyrath nodded. “Well, then, I’ll just ask our Chained Mage for suggestions, eh? I am sure he will wish to ease your suffering, as we all do.” He kissed her temple. “What you suffer is for the sake of this Kingdom.”
Satia put both hands over her stomach. “For the Kingdom,” she intoned.
Halithe bit her cheek and kept her face expressionless. The rest of the women were uttering soft murmurs of sympathy and support.
Xyrath smiled at everyone, then took Satia’s hands. “We had thought to discuss the outer baronies with you but perhaps—”
“It’s my belly that’s ill, not my brain,” Satia snapped. “What has happened?”
“It’s the Black Hills, majesty,” Lord Tarwain started. “They are in rebellion; the messengers we sent have been found dead at the border. I don’t know if you are aware of the history between the Black Hills and the Crown, but—”
“I am not interested in history,” Queen Satia said sharply. “I am interested in obedience. We must—” she cut herself off, looking around the room. “Ladies, leave us,” she commanded. “Matters of state. Go flirt with the young men of the court, you are all released from your duties for a time. Leave your work and go.”
Halithe rose hastily, dropping her hemming on the chair, and willingly fled the room with the rest. There was only one man she wished to speak to, and it had nothing to do with flirting.
Halithe settled in the chair in front of Ritathan’s desk and looked at him expectantly. She loved his chambers, with its dark curtains, its massive maze of shelves, filled with scrolls, tomes, and papers. It always smelled faintly of incense and burnt wax.
“Today’s lesson is based in history,” Ritathan started.
Halithe slumped in her chair, staring at the candle sitting on the desk before her. “But I thought—”
“How are you to know what is to come, without knowing what has been?” Ritathan chided her. “What do you know of the history of magic?”
Halithe heaved a sigh.
Ritathan lifted an eyebrow and gave no sign of relenting.
“Fine,” Halithe said, lifting her chin. “There was a time when magic flowed like water. Everyone could use it and everyone did. Great cities were constructed and many wonderful and marvelous things were created with it. Thus the Empire of Xy grew, and in its golden age all the surrounding Kingdoms were absorbed or acknowledged Xy as suzerain and all paid homage to the Heart.
“But then came the Mage Wars, where mage turned on mage. The force that once created was used to lay waste to all that was good and fair. Magic turned on itself and on its users and all that was perfect and lovely was utterly destroyed.”
“I see that you have memorized your lessons,” Ritathan said. “But have you learned from them?”
Halithe let all her frustrations boil over. “I have learned to wait in this drafty old castle for what might happen to me. Wait for the war to resolve, wait for my father to arrange my marriage. I am always waiting for things to happen.” She drew a deep breath. “I want control, I want freedom, and I see it in your chains.”
“Few are those that can muster the will, the drive.” Ritathan said. “Yes, we have power, but it is restrained and constrained.” Ritathan shook his head. “I am not sure you have sufficient mastery of your temper, Halithe. You have one, and a fiery one at that.”
“I want this,” she gestured at the candle. “And if that means reciting history at you for hours on end, so be it.”
To her surprise, Ritathan laughed, his face open for the first time, relaxed and to her surprise, younger. “Well do I remember my frustration with the history, until I became fascinated by it. Very well, then,” he mimicked her gesture at the candle, and the wick sparked and flamed. “Let us begin.”
Halithe leaned forward in her chair.
“We project meaning upon the world,” Ritathan said softly. “It is up to each of us to manipulate the forces, impose our will upon the world. When we do, we create order from the chaos. Concentrate on the candle flame. See it for what it is. Impose your will. Extinguish it.”
Halithe frowned. “How?”
Ritathan raised an eyebrow. “How do you breathe?” he said. “What is the nature of the flame?”
Well, that was not helpful. Halithe stared at the flame, concentrating. Maybe it was like a riddle? Impose her will on it? She could just reach out with her fingers and douse the flame. But that wasn’t magical. Or was it?
The flame danced on the wick, the colors within varied in hue, but the light was bright and constant. Ritathan didn’t move, or even seem to breathe, as if he was content to wait until the crack of doom for her to—
The flame flickered.
Halithe jerked up. “Did I—”
“My wards,” Ritathan pulled the candle nearer. “Someone comes. Hide. There.” He nodded to the shadows that filled a corner, where the darkness in the shelves seemed deepest.
Halithe fled, whisking her skirts close even as the door to the chamber opened.
“Your Majesty,” Ritathan said, chains clinking as he rose from his chair. “You honor me.”
“No, no, just a bit of a friendly visit.” King Xyrath’s voice boomed. “Sit, sit,” he said, and Halithe heard him take her chair, his scabbard rattling against the wood. “Nice chambers, you have. Lots of books, I see.”
“I study many things, Majesty,” Ritathan’s chair creaked.
Halithe tried to peer through the stacks of books and papers but couldn’t see a thing and didn’t dare try shift anything.
“Good, good,” King Xyrath lowered his voice. “I have some things to ask of you.”
“Majesty, I do not serve you, you do not hold—”
“I know, I know,” Xyrath chuckled as if that wasn’t his concern. “No this is more in the way of advice, really.”
“If I can, Your Majesty, I will aid you.”
“Excellent.” Halithe heard his chair move closer. “Now, I was wondering if the mage guild had access to any spells that might help,” his voice dropped even lower, “with hair loss. Along the hair-line.”
“Ah,” Ritathan said. To Halithe’s surprise, his voice held a note of sympathy. “Majesty, I have colleagues who have worked on this problem, but they have yet to solve it.”
“They can’t make hair grow?” Xyrath asked.
“They can,” Ritathan said. “But they can’t seem to make it stop. Nor can they localize it. When the spell is cast in its current form, the hair grows everywhere, uncontrollably.” Ritathan lowered his voice too. “Everywhere, Your Majesty.”
Halithe covered her mouth to stifle her snicker.
“Well, that is disappointing,” Xyrath said. “They are still working on it, yes?”
“Oh yes,” Ritathan replied. “Have no fear of that, Your Majesty. Many have an interest in such a spell.”
“Well, that’s fine, fine.” Xyrath’s chair creaked again. Halithe peered around piles, trying to see, but not daring to even breathe hard. “There’s another matter, more of history than anything else.” His voice was grown serious, with no trace of his prior humor. “Atira blades.”
“Majesty?” Ritathan seemed startled. “I know that some in the Guild have attempted to make magical weapons, but no one has succeeded that I know of.”
“Not yet,” Xyrath said firmly. “Although I appreciate that they try. No, I want an atira blade, forged in the ancient days.”
“Majesty, they do not exist.” Ritathan was just as firm.
There was a long silence then. The back of Halithe’s neck prickled. This King was not one to be denied.
Xyrath chuckled at last, and when he spoke, the tension in his voice had eased. “Well, if you come across a reference, you’ll let me know?”
“Of course, your Majesty.”
“I’d also ask if you know any who have cures for the morning sickness. My dear Satia is suffering from it terribly and her healers don’t seem to be able to aid her.”
“I do not,” Ritathan said. “I fear that magical healing, both divine and arcane, has been lost to us, Your Majesty. Ever since the Mage Wars.”
“‘As if magic itself lashed out at us and tore those gifts away,’” Xyrath quoted.
“I see you know your Worious,” Ritathan said.
“From his Chronicles,” Xyrath said. “Hated them but had them beat into me in my younger days.” His chair creaked again. “She’s sent for your Guildmaster, you know.”
“Guildmaster Forterran?” Ritathan asked. “I haven’t spoken with him recently.
“He’s got the gout,” Xyrath said.
“Ah,” Ritathan observed. Halithe could have killed to see his face.
“My queen is with child, my heir.” Xyrath rose and his scabbard hit the chair again. “She is a bit ill-tempered, what with bearing and all. You understand.”
“Perfectly,” Ritathan’s chair slid back as he rose.
“Your presence irritates her,” Xyrath said idly.
“Your Majesty, I fear my breathing irritates her.”
“Yes,” Xyrath said agreeably. “Still, she must be indulged during this time. Even in whims and sick fancies.” Xyrath paused. “You understand.” It wasn’t a question. Halithe seethed at the implied threat.
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Ritathan said.
“Good, good,” Xyrath’s boots headed to the door. “You’ll let me know about the other thing, yes? If they advance?”
“Certainly,” Ritathan said. How could he be so calm?
The door opened and closed, but Halithe waited, her anger simmering.
“Come,” Ritathan said.
Halithe stepped out. The candle flame caught her eye. In her fury she looked within and saw its nature. With a clench of her fist, she imposed her will.
The flame rose high, shooting up to the ceiling. The candle melted down, and the flame died as it scorched the table.
“Ah,” Ritathan raised an eyebrow. “Your next lesson will be about control.”