Chapter Twelve
In the Palace of Xy
Riven discovered that you can only be terrified for so long before it becomes weirdly normal. Also, learning to eat again and building back your strength was horribly boring. Dull. Stupefying.
Not to mention the whole “get your bowels working again” aspect.
He was very careful to obey all the Bondmaidens’ orders, doing what he was told to do: exercise, meals, sleep, all carefully measured out.
But during the silences between activities, with nothing before him but four stone walls and the contemplation of his worthlessness, it was an effort to even breathe.
He had to focus on something, lest the craving swell up and make him claw at his eyes to drive out the desperate need within.
When she was there, he focused on Nora. Beautiful, dangerous, caustic-tongued Nora.
Not that she was much for talking. She usually sat sharpening a blade as she kept an eye on him. He watched her in return, laying on his side, hugging a pillow, ribs aching from yet another bout of pain.
“How many of those do you have?” he managed to whisper at one point.
“Enough to kill you,” she said with a gleam in her eye. After a pause, she shrugged. “This is Avice’s. I offered to sharpen them for her while I clean up your messes.”
“You don’t seem like the type,” he stared at her fingers, long and elegant as she worked the blade with steady strokes. “For messes, I mean.”
“I am commanded,” she said. There was a dullness in the words, in her eyes, that struck him as odd. It roused his curiosity, like a scab that needed picking at.
He very carefully opened his mage sight and studied her.
The golden web of netting still danced on her skin, the gold-red cords pulsing off behind her. He focused a bit, holding his breath against the headache that was starting to form.
“How do you like your kavage?” he asked.
Nora rolled her eyes and sighed. “Are you feverish again?” She tucked the blade and whet stone in a pocket as she rose.
“Sweet?” he persisted. “Dark?”
“However it comes,” she shrugged, putting a hand on his forehead. “Doesn’t matter.”
But in those golden bonds, he saw a flicker of resistance? No…more like a choice, suppressed by the bond. Fascinating.
The headache hit then, and he leaned over the side of the bed to find her waiting with the bucket.
He’d learned that his “guest room” was in fact a storage area, with a door to a large room where the Bondmaidens slept. The first few times he’d been escorted to a privy, the only thing he could think on was putting one foot in front of the other. Just being able to do that was a victory.
As he grew stronger, he took notice that the women’s simple beds weren’t much more elaborate than his own. It took him longer to realize what was really odd. There were no small personal things in their room.
No pretty ribbons, no dried flowers, not even a whiff of perfume. Just plain beds and bedding, all very tidy. While there were combs and brushes and clothing laid out, it was all neat, and all placed exactly the same.
The effects of their bond, he supposed. Did it remove all choices? All preferences? He itched to know more.
It had gotten easier to invoke mage senses. He’d finally enough focus and strength to experiment, to risk a look at his surroundings.
When he finally felt safe enough, he pretended to sleep one night, curled on his cot, and extended his sight.
It was clear that he was in the Palace, and he assumed he was in Edenrich. Mage sight didn’t give much conventional information, and as Riven expected, he got only vague impressions of structures and people.
But he could see magic.
Thick outer walls surrounded him, laced with old wards that pulsed with recent use.
They were being maintained, that was certain.
All very traditional, except one that seemed to keep a guard from falling asleep.
Riven paused over that one, studying it for a bit before moving on.
Useful, that. He wondered who had crafted it.
He let his sight drift, seeking magic in any form. The Bondmaidens, all four, clustered in one room. The golden cords with bits of red floated around and between them, anchored in…nothing.
Riven blinked.
Not ‘nothing’, more like a blank, a void. That had to be the Queen, yet she hadn’t any presence in magesight. The golden cords were linked, but she wasn’t…constrained? Restricted?
Curious.
One gold-red cord ran off and out of sight. The missing Bondmaiden, it had to be.
Other than the Bondmaidens and the spells in the walls, he didn’t see much evidence of magic. Usually, especially among the nobility, there were charms and whatnot, little bits of sparkling power. He saw none.
Until he drifted toward a tower filled with apartments and chambers, one of which glittered like a hard star.
The dead Chained Mage’s quarters. Had to be, the wards were not old and were deadly. With his death, they had started to fade, but they were still deadly. Riven pulled his sight back. Mage sight was a passive thing, not easily detected, but he would take no chances.
Nothing else stood out. The normal, sanctified glow of the chapel, he ignored, drifting past, ready to turn over and get some sleep. Until a pulse caught his attention.
Hate. Rage. Pulsing like a beating heart.
What could that be? He narrowed his focus, concentrating. Not the chapel. Below the chapel. The crypts? Riven moved closer, feeling the beginnings of a headache, but curious enough that the pain didn’t stop him.
A great seething hand of anger smacked him back with a blow that made his head ring.
Head pounding, Riven snapped his eyes open and cut his mage sight. His temples throbbed and he hesitated to breathe, fearing that he’d been discovered, or worse, was now pursued.
But his lungs forced him to take in air, and after long, endless moments, no one and no thing came after him.
Stupid, stupid, stupid. He was helpless, alone, and surrounded by Wyvern warriors, vicious Bondmaidens, possible detection by the Guild, and something lurking in the palace depths, and off he went like an apprentice, poking at things. He was an idiot.
Riven pulled the covers up around his shoulders. Whatever that was, it wanted no part of him.
And he wanted no part of it.
He shivered until exhaustion claimed him.
Days later Riven had his first audience with Queen Satia.
She lay sprawled on a lounge, looking sallow, dull, rather bloated, and very pregnant.
The room smelled of ginger and sick, was empty but for himself and her Bondmaidens.
It was the first time Riven had seen sunlight in some time.
He blinked his eyes against the glare, even as he knelt before her, head down.
The stone floor was cold and hard beneath his knees.
“So, you say your name is Riven.” Her tone was smooth, but it held shadows.
Riven’s skin tingled with goosebumps. Nora was directly behind him, with Caris and Mira to either side, their skirts hemming him in. Avice stood beside the Queen.
He had no doubt that here, now, he had to watch his every move, every word.
“Majesty.” He bowed lower, baring his neck, his tone submissive.
“You are a blood mage.”
An ever-so-familiar chill ran down his spine. “It is death to admit such, Majesty.”
“True.” Her voice was dry and hard. “But I have a need for such…skills. You have nothing to fear from me.”
A glance at the skirts around him said differently, but this was not the time to challenge.
“I have practiced those arts,” he said carefully.
“Hmm,” she mused. He kept his eyes down, but felt her stare. “Were you powerful? Before you fell to the bottle?”
He licked dry lips. “Yes.”
“Good.” Her robes rustled as she settled back. “We have each admitted to the other of our own…vulnerabilities. That is a basis for mutual trust, perhaps.”
Well, that seemed a bit premature—
“Look at me,” Queen Satia commanded.
Riven raised his eyes and met hers full on. He was startled to find them open, honest, and concerned.
She took a breath. “Avice,” she said.
Avice produced a box, wooden and worn, that had once been stained red, though the color had faded significantly with age. She opened the box and held it within Queen Satia’s reach.
After a rustle of paper and a brief clatter, the Queen brought forth a scroll, tied with a fraying black ribbon.
“This scroll has been in my family for generations,” Queen Satia announced, her words sounding memorized.
“Every child born into my blood has had the spell of binding performed on them at six months of age.”
Riven kept his eyes on the scroll.
“You will cast this spell on my heir, six months from the date of his birth.” The Queen rested her hand on her belly.
“Majesty—” he started, but she shook her head.
“You will be well compensated,” she said. “There are other spells on the scroll, powerful charms and curses. I will grant you access to them, to copy them. Gold, as well as our Royal protection, if you succeed in this.” She paused. Riven heard the unspoken threat if he failed.
“It would be mutually beneficial to each of us to support the other.” She frowned. “Can you cast portals?”
“Aye, if I know the location well,” he said cautiously. “It takes a great deal of power—
“Yes, yes,” she said. “That would suit me.”
“Majesty?” Riven asked, confused. Everything he had ever wanted, offered to him by a Wyvern.
“It occurs to me that perhaps I could forgo the services of a chained-mage after all.” Satia said. “But that is for the future, isn’t it?”
“I would have freedom,” he asked carefully. “To practice my arts?”
Her eyes didn’t flicker away from his. “Yes.”
If it was a lie, it was an honest one, meant in the moment. Which confused him. He had no reason to trust her, but perhaps her ruthlessness would make for an…alliance. He drew a breath. “Your Majesty, I can make no promises until I know more about what is required of me.”
“Agreed,” she nodded. “In the meantime, we will be cautious. For your safety and ours.”
“I prefer cautious,” Riven said.
“Yes,” The Queen nodded. “So, out of caution, you must return to your humble quarters for now. No one will disturb you there. You will study the scroll, but only with one of my ladies in attendance.”
Riven nodded and didn’t let himself smile. Cautious indeed.
The Queen virtually purred, seeming satisfied. “We will also provide a servant for you.” She nodded to Caris, who went to a door and admitted a lumbering man with a shuffling gait and an oddly pushed-in face. His head was shaved and he was grinning uncertainly.
“This is Witless,” Caris said, closing the door behind him.
Witless came to stand beside Riven, staring down at him curiously.
Riven stared back. A moon-child, probably with limited understanding.
“Witless, this is your new master,” Caris said.
“Master.” Witless nodded, smiling with wetted lips.
Riven gave him a nod, then looked to the Queen.
“Study well, Riven,” she said in clear dismissal. “We’ve time enough, but none to spare.”
Riven rose, bowed, and let himself be led back to his chambers.
He had much to think on.