Chapter Twenty-Two
In the Palace of Xy
Riven woke in his new feather bed and stared at the velvet canopy. He blinked away the last vestige of sleep and took a breath, expecting a wave of anguish and self-loathing and found…determination.
He wasn’t going to cast that damnable spell. Wasn’t going to do it. Six lives, one obliterated, five enslaved, to add to his count?
No.
He threw back the covers and sat up, his toes hitting the thick carpet. Yawning, he stretched and shuffled to the privy.
No. There was no way he was going to do it.
And there was no way he was going to let anyone know that, since he would be dead in a heartbeat. He wasn’t going to get killed, and he wasn’t going to cast the spell.
“Master,” Witless called from outside the door. “Breakfast, Master?”
“Yes, please.” Riven called, heading to the clothes press. He could hear Witless chuckling as he walked away from the door, repeating the word ‘please’.
Riven dressed in the simple tunic and trous they’d provided. Nothing fancy, just solid cloth in muted colors. He had everything he needed.
Everything except any real idea of how to achieve his goals.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him of more immediate needs.
Riven went into the main room, where sunlight danced through the bubbled glass of the windows, warming the wood floors.
At one point this space had probably been a receiving room for a great lord, but now it was empty of fancy furnishings and thick rugs.
There was a roughness to the wood under his feet.
Empty shelves lined the far wall, with large work tables set between. A few stools were scattered about. All were worn with age and showed signs of hard use.
The main doors opened as a guard let Witless back into the room. Witless’s face lit up as he shuffled across the chamber. “Breakfast, Master,” he said proudly, setting the tray down with a rattle on the nearest table. The baby doll was tucked carefully in the crook of his arm.
Riven pulled over one of the stools and sat, unsurprised when it rocked slightly beneath him. Breakfast was bread and cheese and cold chicken. At least the kavage was warm.
“Good morning,” Avice stepped into the room, carrying the scroll box. “How do you fare this morning?” The guard closed the door behind her.
Riven hurried to swallow. “Better.” He brushed crumbs from his tunic, starting to rise, but Avice waved him back down.
“Finish your food,” she said, settling onto one of the other stools.
Riven nodded, but couldn’t help but eye the box. Perhaps Avice thought he was just eager, but he was truly dreading looking at the scroll.
“Food,” she said gently. “This will wait.”
Riven turned back to his plate, but the next bite of bread was dry in his throat. What if the blood magic pulled him in again, and he lost himself in its lure? Just like a bottle of letheon. His hand shook as he reached for the kavage.
Witless was by one of the windows, his face turned toward the sun. “Warm,” he said, rocking the baby doll.
“Be about your work, moon-child,” Avice snapped.
Witless cringed, hunched slightly, and hurried to the door. “Yes, yes,” he simpered as he fled.,
With a sniff, Avice pulled a shuttle, needles and a ball of silken cord from her bag and set to work. Focused. Patient.
Riven chewed a bite of chicken slowly, thinking, suddenly curious. “Do you enjoy knitting?” he asked, invoking his mage sight.
“It’s tatting, not knitting.” Avice shrugged and didn’t look up. “I am commanded.” She spoke absently, in a dull voice, as if it was of no matter whether she liked it or not.
But Riven saw, beneath the constraints, behind that golden webbing, a flicker of some small…resistance. No. More like an opinion suppressed by the bond.
He opened his mouth to ask more, then stuffed in some bread instead. Too dangerous to ask too many questions too fast.
“Finished,” he said, getting up and taking the tray over to one of the empty shelves. “Why don’t you sit here,” he said, gesturing to the end of the table. “You can sit and work and still watch me.”
Avice nodded and let him place a stool where he wanted her. Where he could study both woman and scroll at the same time. The written words and the living example.
Avice opened the box. He heard the rattle as she reached inside. There were other things in that box.
Another part of this puzzle.
She pulled out the scroll and held it out to him.
Riven took the scroll and shivered slightly as he unrolled it to the binding spell. The use marks were there, the imprints of other hands, the wear spots where weights had been used to hold it open. Not that those were needed now. The scroll lay quiet, acquiescent.
Avice’s hands started to dance in an intricate pattern, weaving the cord into a pattern of knots.
Riven let his gaze fall on the handwriting, black and thin and just as spidery as the day before.
But the lure, the call he expected, was not there.
He let out a slow breath, hopefully hiding his relief.
Riven set to work. No spell was perfect. There had to be a way.
A sigh from Avice brought him out of his contemplation.
The Bondmaiden was standing and stretching. “I must go,” she said. “It’s almost the nooning.”
“So soon?” Riven frowned. “I’d hoped—”
“We are needed elsewhere, this day.” Avice held out a hand for the scroll. “One of us will return, later.”
“This won’t do,” Riven frowned at her, daring to push. “I need a set schedule,” he said firmly. “I can’t just study this when you and the others are available. I need time to memorize the chants.”
Avice stared at him.
“I must be ready,” Riven stood, drawing himself to his full height. “The spell must be cast at the right time, and I must be ready well before that.”
She gave him a grudging nod, which made him bolder. “I also need supplies,” he said. “Boxes of colored chalk, bags of sand. I’ll need to practice laying out the matrix, and it needs to be precise.”
“I will tell—”
“Candles and lanterns for working into the night,” he gestured to the windows. “Heavy curtains for those windows. Sandstones, to prepare the floor. All must be ready, and perfect, before the spell can be cast.”
She blinked at him appraisingly. “Make a list,” Avice said.
“I don’t even have paper and ink,” Riven pointed out.
That brought her up short and she looked around, taking in the space for the first time. “I will see to that,” Avice said. “But our first duties are to the Bonded.”
Riven acknowledged that with a tilt of his head. “But we are commanded,” he said gently.
Avice’s eyes became unfocused. “We are commanded.” Her gaze sharpened. “I will see what can be done,” she said.
“Prepare your sisters,” Riven said as she turned away. “I may need to ask questions, about the Bond.”
Her back stiffened.
“To learn more,” he said. “About the spell.”
“As you say,” she acknowledged, heading for the door, taking the scroll box and her bag of tatting with her.
Riven plopped back onto his stool, feeling shaky, and he couldn’t say if it was from exhaustion or fear. But she hadn’t lashed out with a tatting needle, so all good.
So far.
They acquiesced to everything without so much as a murmur. The space filled with all the ordinary supplies he could ask for.
Well, the jar of candied horseradish wasn’t actually a spell component. Riven grinned as he sucked on a small piece.
He had paper and supplies and time, to study the scroll.
Because he’d placed their stool well, he didn’t even have to turn his head to see the women.
See the bond that held them. He kept track of the days by the rotation of the Bondmaidens.
They’d each appear in turn, with scroll box and some busy work, usually some sort of crafting.
Except Nora—she was always sharpening something.
What he learned confused him. Magic of all kinds required balance; it was one of the first basic lessons. For a spell to create a permanent structure, it had to have power, to be powered. Like the ward spells that needed to be renewed.
But this binding was permanent, with no outside source that he could see. Certainly the Queen had no magical abilities that he could detect.
How did it sustain itself?
It took him a while to figure it out. Whoever designed this spell was a real rat-bastard, and that was the truth. It used the life force of the babes themselves, building on their strength as they aged.
It was disgusting and yet, brilliant. But what would happen if one of the bound ones died?
And there was the brilliance again. Nothing flowed to the Bonded; the Queen would not be affected. But the others?
Riven chewed his lip raw, trying to find that answer.
He’d tried asking questions directly, about their bond, their emotions, and each time their eyes would grow dull and they would reply woodenly, “I am commanded.” The Bond clamped down, allowing no chance for them to worm free. As if the Bond felt Riven’s interest and acted to protect itself.
That thought chilled him to the bone.
He decided to take another approach and began asking other questions of his captive audience during the study sessions. He started with something simple and innocent.
“Kavage?” he’d offer the jug. “How do you like it?”
Each and every one of them stared at him and shrugged. Which was wrong; everyone had a preference when it came to drinking kavage. Or they didn’t drink it.
So he’d fix a mug in different ways, and hand it to them, and they would drink it.
But underneath? Below that golden-red web? The smallest twitch of dissonance.
It took three rotations before he figured out that deep within, they all had different personalities. Mira held a deep kindness that somehow shone through. She was kinder to Witless than all the rest.
Caris had a driving curiosity. He’d often see her staring at him out of the corner of his eye, as if she had burning questions. But she never asked him a thing.