Chapter Five
In the Palace of Xy,
After the Spring Equinox
Even after all this time, Halithe still wanted to weep, not that it was permitted. Hers were probably the only real tears shed for the death of her teacher, Ritathan the Chained-mage.
Certainly her father had shed none. Nor would he tolerate further tears in his presence.
So the water trembled under her eyelids while she sat quietly, as a fine young lady of noble blood should, and listened to his rant, as he paced back and forth in the privacy of their chambers.
“Queen Satia is up to something,” her father, Lord Marshal Tarwain said, as his boots rang out against the stone hearth. “I don’t like it.”
Halithe blinked, trying to clear her eyes. The ache in her chest made it hard to breathe, as if the air had been pulled away. Still, she sat quiet on her chair, back straight, hands folded in her lap, eyes down, broken and numb.
Trapped.
Fine young ladies of noble blood did not weep for dead mages, did not mourn the loss of lessons, did not defy their fathers. Fine young ladies of noble blood obeyed their fathers, married the men they were ordered to, produced heirs, and sewed their damned nappies.
The apprentice bracelet on her wrist was cold and hard. She had hoped to find freedom in her lessons, but Ritathan’s death had crushed that dream. His heart had given out, so they said.
Grief swelled in her chest, dark and cold. Not just because of his passing, but the loss of all her hopes. Even so, her heart still beat, like a bird’s wings against the bars. Frantic, hopeless, yet hopeful.
Her Father ignored her pain, if he even saw it. “She claims to be cautious, careful, easing into exercise of authority.”
Halithe didn’t need to ask who “she” was. Her father always had that odd tone in his voice when he spoke of Queen Satia.
Tarwain stopped and stared into the fire, leaning on the mantel. “Fair enough, but promises were made.”
“Yes, Father,” Halithe made a soft murmur of agreement, as she’d been schooled. Long experience had taught her to always be attentive and never offer her own thoughts. They were not wanted.
“Now she’s acting odd, staring off into the distance at times, almost distracted. And that Bondmaiden that she claims is on an ‘errand,’ hmph.” Father shook his head.
Ah, that secret that no one was supposed to know, yet everyone whispered about.
“I’m not the only one dissatisfied,” Father continued. “Many gave their support to the Wyvern Blood on the promise of reward.” He resumed his pacing. “Those promises are not being met, instead it seems more promises are being made, piled on the prior.”
Halithe watched as his boots trod back and forth.
Her father was right, something odd was happening.
The flurry of activity in the wee hours of the morning.
The Queen, closeted with her Bondmaidens, pleading grief and her pregnancy.
Courtiers and nobles filled the corridors with soft whispers and anxious glances.
There was a new tension in the air since the new Lord High Baron had been sent to his barony and Ritathan had… died.
Almost as if others had discovered that anyone…everyone…could be singled out to be “honored” in such a way.
“She’s risking much, ignoring her supporters, postponing decisions. Appointing a woman as a Guildmaster.” Tarwain snorted.
“A midwife,” Halithe murmured, but he ignored her. Halithe avoided twisting her lip at his hypocrisy; he’d only lost two wives in childbirth, after all.
What need for a Guild of midwives?
“The Queen has managed to use that mage’s death to avoid a Council meeting,” Father turned on his heel. “She’s avoided all discussion of lands and grants, appointments and titles.”
Halithe would have nodded her understanding if her input had been welcome. Instead she kept her thoughts to herself.
“The only way that brainless idiot came to power is Her,” Tarwain said, making no effort to lower his voice. Halithe glanced carefully around. They were alone, but this was the Royal Palace of Xy, where one never knew who watched and listened. Did Father think himself immune?
“I’ve strived to bring our family to the forefront, allying it with the Wyvern House of Xy,” Tarwain groused. “Done everything I could to bring us to a position of power and influence within the Court. And what have you done, girl?”
Halithe tried very hard not to sigh at this repetition of her faults. She knew them by heart.
“Those ‘magic’ lessons were nonsense; all they did was cause talk. There’s no power for you other than what a woman has through marriage.
A good marriage, one that brings wealth and more influence into our family.
And it’s what, two or three years since you became a woman? Well past time you were wed.”
Halithe’s anger flared, but she kept her eyes down and reminded herself that fine young ladies of noble blood did not imagine their father’s hair bursting into flame. The thought was fleeting, but it sparked a raucous joy in her heart that surged up and—
Her apprentice bracelet shivered on her wrist and the spark was gone as quickly as it had flared. Her mentor might be gone, but the restrictions placed upon her were not. Halithe shifted her hands slightly, pulling at her sleeve, concealing the bracelet.
Father hadn’t noticed. “Your marriage will benefit your brothers—”
“Half-brothers,” Halithe blurted, and regretted it. The toddlers were adorable, and this wasn’t their fault.
“Family,” Father corrected her. “You do not share a birth-mother, but you share my blood.” He resumed his pacing. “Unfortunately, you inherited your mother’s looks.”
Resentment and memory flared, of a short, plump woman with a smile like the sun and a hearty laugh. Halithe bit her lip at the mix of joy and pain.
“But unlike her, you do not have an attractive fortune as a dower,” Father continued. “Therefore we must use our political connections to get you a wealthy husband. With the Queen’s influence we can attract the right sort of marriage.”
Father paused in front of her and she felt the heat of his anger.
“Once the gossip about those damned lessons dies down, we can assess the possibilities. In the meantime, you will comport yourself as a fine young lady of noble blood should. You will—”
Tarwain’s lecture continued, bringing old, oh-so-familiar, pain. Halithe didn’t sigh, didn’t shift in her seat, didn’t show her resentment, just settled in for the duration as he paced, hurling barbed words at her.
The chapel bells started to ring and she seized the excuse. She rose, cutting off his tirade.
“We are to gather in the Chapel,” she reminded him. “To recite prayers for the health of the Queen and the pending birth of her child.”
“Again?” Father huffed.
“Yes, Father,” Halithe reminded him, trying not to keep her resentment out of her voice. “Much rides on the birth of a healthy heir.”
“True,” he snorted, and waved her away.
Halithe curtsied, as fine young ladies of noble blood do, and left their chambers quietly. Down the hall, and the stairs, quiet and reserved, as was proper. Head down, demure and modest.
Ritathan had not walked that way. He’d glided smoothly and quietly, head high, no boots ringing on stone. Just quiet assurance, an aura of power, and maybe the smallest clink of his chains. As if to say, “I can kill you in an instant.”
She’d loved that.
Halithe paused and consciously lifted her head and put her shoulders back. She might not have her master’s height or his power, but her slippered feet were quiet on the floor and she could try. She slowed her steps, trying to look mysterious and regal. Or at the very least, confident.
A flash of fear struck even as she walked. She was desperate not to lose the small amount of knowledge she had gained from his teachings. Yet even as she despaired, memory came clear.
“Perceive.” He spoke that single word and a tingle of power ran through her.
The world had shifted.
Ritathan nodded in sympathy. “You must learn to invoke this for yourself, and you have my permission to do so. You must focus, concentrate on summoning it and controlling it.” His mouth quirked. “Perhaps while you are at your sewing.”
She’d laughed at the time. He’d known her hatred of sewing, hemming endless nappies for the expected royal babe under the watchful eye of the pregnant Queen.
Her grief rose again and she stepped into one of the curtained alcoves, pressed herself to the wall, and drew a ragged breath. All her hopes and dreams for the future.
And not just hers.
Caris, the Queen’s Bondmaiden, beautiful, lovely, intoxicating Caris, enslaved at birth.
Halithe burned in anguish and shame. She pressed her chest, feeling her keepsake, the handkerchief she had wrapped around one precious strand of Caris’s hair. She’d told Caris to hope, to dream, that she would find a way to break that Bond and now—
They would remove the bracelet, and she’d be denied any further teaching. Any who practiced magic outside of the Guild were hunted down and killed.
She could flee, but she’d no real skill, no funds of her own. She’d been raised to be an ornament, and had failed miserably at that so far, according to everyone around her.
The lump in her chest grew as heavy as lead, pressing her down. She couldn’t swallow, couldn’t breathe, couldn’t see any way out of the life planned for her.
The chapel bells brought her back to the moment.
Halithe wiped her face and blotted her tears on her sleeve.
If she wasn’t in the chapel, her father would learn of it, the Queen would know of it, and there would be consequences.
She put her head back against the wall, then straightened, pushed aside the curtain and made herself start walking.
One of the servants coming down the opposite way gave her a startled look as she appeared, then stepped back with a bow.
Halithe walked on.