The King's Blood tdatc-2 Read online

  Her smile was fast and bright.

  “My father is hosting the opening of the season, and I wanted to bring the invitation to you especially. You don’t think I’m too forward, do you?”

  “No,” Geder said. “No, not at all. No. I’m delighted you could stop by.”

  She squeezed his fingers gently and he realized he was still holding her hand. He let it drop.

  “We’ve only just returned to Camnipol,” she said. “How did you find your new holdings?”

  Geder crossed his arms, trying to affect an ease he didn’t feel.

  “With a map and a guide for the most part,” he said. “Maas never invited me out. We didn’t travel in the same circles. I spent most of the winter just trying to find out where he’d put everything.”

  She laughed and sat on a red silk divan. It occurred to Geder that she wasn’t leaving. The combination of unease and excitement was slightly nauseating. He was talking to a woman in his own house with her chaperone present. There was no transgression against etiquette or propriety, but his blood raced through his veins a little faster all the same. Geder licked his lips nervously.

  “So what are his plans for the season’s opening. The usual feast, I assume.”

  “A fireshow,” Sanna Daskellin said. “He’s found this marvelous cunning man from Borja who can build structures to channel flame and make it burn in all different sorts of colors. I’ve seen him practicing.” She leaned toward him, a small shift of weight that indicated a shared secret. “It’s beautiful, but it smells of sulfur.”

  Geder laughed. Behind the girl, the Tralgu chaperone remained impassive as a guard at a counting house. Geder moved toward a leather chair, but the girl slid to one side of her divan and tapped gently against the abandoned half, inviting him. Geder hesitated, then sat at her side, careful not to touch her. Her smile was made of sun and shadows, and it left Geder feeling both uncomfortably aroused and subtly mocked.

  “Isn’t it awkward sharing a courtyard with Curtin Issandrian?” she asked.

  “Not particularly,” Geder said. “Of course, he hasn’t even returned yet. I suppose it could be once he’s back. He might be a bit unpleasant to be near. Could be some conflict.”

  “I wouldn’t think so,” Sanna said. “Issandrian may be ignorant enough to keep company with traitors, but he knows a lion when it looks at him.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t know about that,” Geder said. Sanna’s expression invited him to smile along, and he found it very difficult not to. “I mean… I suppose he would.” He made a claw of his fingers and scratched at the air. “Grrr,” he said.

  Sanna’s laughter brought her a degree nearer to him. She smelled of rosewater and musk. When her fingers brushed his arm, Geder’s throat felt oddly thick.

  “Oh, I’m terribly thirsty. Aren’t you?” she asked.

  “I am,” Geder said almost before he understood the question.

  “Seribina?”

  “Ma’am?” the Tralgu woman asked.

  “Could you go fetch us some water?”

  “Of course, ma’am.”

  But she’s your chaperone, Geder thought, then bit back before he could say it. He was going to be alone with a woman. A woman of high blood was clearly arranging things so that she could spend a few minutes alone in his house with him. He felt the first insistent stirrings of an erection and ground his lip hard between his teeth to check it. The Tralgu woman moved for the door, as calm and stately as a ship in the ocean. Geder was torn between the impulse to let her leave and the one to call her back.

  The issue was taken out of his hands.

  “My lord,” the master of house said, appearing at the door just before the Tralgu reached it. “I am sorry to interrupt. Sir Darin Ashford has arrived and requests a moment of your time.”

  “Ashford?” Sanna asked. The surprise in her voice made her sound like a different woman, and a more serious one. She looked at Geder with less coquetry and greater respect. “I didn’t know you were entertaining the ambassador.”

  “Favor,” Geder said. Words seemed difficult to come by. “For a friend.”

  The perfect skin went smooth. Geder had the sense—possibly accurate or possibly imagined—that some complex calculation was happening behind her deep black eyes.

  “Well,” she said. “I can’t keep you from affairs of state. But say again that you’ll come to Father’s party?”

  “I will,” Geder said, rising to his feet as she did. “I promise. I’ll be there.”

  “I have witnesses,” Sanna said with a laugh and gestured to the servants. She gave her hand to him again, and Geder kissed it gently.

  “Let me see you out,” he said.

  “Why thank you, Baron Ebbingbaugh,” she said, offering her arm.

  They walked together from the back of the mansion to the wide stone stairs that led down to her carriage, an old-fashioned design drawn by horses instead of slaves. Geder gave her up to the care of the footmen with a bone-deep regret and also relief. Sanna stepped up and let herself be seated behind a cascade of lace. The smell of rose and musk returned to him, but it was only an illusion or a particularly visceral memory. The horses clattered out to the courtyard. He looked past them to Curtin Issandrian’s empty mansion and a sense of unease trickled down his spine.

  “You play a dangerous game, my lord,” an unfamiliar voice behind him said.

  The man was a Firstblood with pale brown hair and an open, guileless expression. He wore riding leathers and a wool cloak entirely covered in patterned embroidery that seemed understated until Geder looked at it closely, and then seemed like a boast. Geder didn’t need to be told who he was. Sir Darin Ashford was his own introduction.

  “My Lord Ambassador,” Geder said.

  Ashford nodded, but his gaze was set farther out. To the courtyard.

  “Lord Daskellin’s girl, isn’t she? Beautiful woman. I remember when she first entered society. She was all knees and elbows back then. Amazing the difference three years will make.”

  “She was here to deliver her father’s invitation,” Geder said, defensive without knowing precisely what he was defending against.

  “I’m sure she was, and she won’t be the last. A baron without a baroness is a rare and precious thing, and protector of the prince carries as much prestige as a wardenship. Maybe more. You’ll have to step clever or you’ll find yourself married before you know who you’re married to.” Ashford’s smile was charming. “Is the prince here, by the way?”

  “He’s not,” Geder said. “I thought it was poor form to have him too close to hand when you were here.”

  Something like chagrin passed over the ambassador’s face.

  “Well, that doesn’t bode well for me. It’s hard to ask for your help when you already think I’m an assassin.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Geder said.

  “No, you acted on it,” Ashford said. “And that, Lord Protector, very much matches your reputation. Should we retire inside?”

  Geder didn’t take him back to the same room. Having the voice and face of Asterilhold in the same room where Sanna Daskellin had been felt like dirtying something Geder didn’t want soiled. Instead, they went to the private study where Feldin Maas had killed his wife Phelia and all his elaborate, clandestine plans to join Antea and Asterilhold with her. The significance was lost on Ashford, but Geder knew.

  Geder sat on a wide-set chair, leaving an upholstered bench for Ashford. A servant boy brought in a carafe of watered wine and two glasses, poured one into the others, and retreated without speaking or being spoken to. Ashford sipped the wine first.

  “Thank you for seeing me, Lord Palliako,” he said. “I’d have understood if you’d refused me.”

  “Jorey Kalliam spoke for you.”

  “Yes. I’d heard you two were friends. Served in Vanai under Alan Klin, didn’t you?”

  “We did,” Geder said.

  “Klin, Issandrian, Maas. The triad, and Feldin Maas the only one who didn�
�t get thrown out of Camnipol that summer. King Simeon sent Dawson Kalliam away instead.”

  “Your point?”

  Ashford looked pained and sat forward, the glass of wine cradled between his fingertips.

  “King Simeon is a good man,” Ashford said. “No one doubts that. King Lechan is too. But no king can be better than his advisors. If he’d known then what he does now, Dawson Kalliam wouldn’t have been exiled and Feldin Maas wouldn’t have been let stay. Simeon needs good men to guide him. Men like you and Kalliam.”

  Geder crossed his arms.

  “Go on,” he said.

  “His son was threatened. Go to any man, peasant or priest or high noble, hold a knife to his child’s throat, and he’ll kill you to keep his own safe. It’s nature. You saved the prince, and Simeon saw justice done when he finished Maas. But it has to stop now. Give Lechan a season—a year—to root out what parts of the conspiracy were in Asterilhold, and there’ll be justice done there too. Bring swords to the border, and a few men’s follies become a tragedy for thousands. And for no reason.”

  Geder chewed absently at his thumbnail. Ashford’s sincerity was persuasive, but something bothered him. He started to speak, then stopped.

  “Both our courts had rot in them,” Ashford said. “You’ve cut it out of yours. All I’m asking is the time to do the same.” “Maas wanted unification,” Geder said. “The plan was to unite the kingdoms.”

  “Maas wanted power, and he made up any story he needed to justify it. If Lechan had gotten word of this, he’d have ended it in the same breath.”

  Geder frowned.

  “Your king didn’t know?” he asked, annoyed at his own voice for sounding so querulous. The ambassador looked directly into his eyes, his expression was sober. Solemn.

  “He didn’t.”

  Geder nodded, but he didn’t mean anything by it. It was only a gesture, a thing to fill the silence. If it was true and the king of Asterilhold would have acted against Maas just as much as King Simeon had, then helping to keep peace would be in everyone’s best interests. It would absolutely be the right thing to do. If, on the other hand, the ambassador was only a good actor playing his part on a series of very small stages, taking his side was collaborating against the throne. The good or ill of the kingdom—and more than that, of Aster—rested on Geder’s judgment. He frowned seriously, trying to match gravity with gravity.

  The fact was, Geder didn’t know what to think. He felt he might just as well spin a coin.

  “I will think on it,” he said carefully.

  The long months of winter, Geder’s patronage, and a dozen lesser priests from the temple in the mountains past the Keshet had made the temple grander and more polished. Where the grit and grime of centuries had blacked the walls, the tilework glowed now. Most of the traditional religious images and icons had been taken apart and the original material reused to make different images. Most had the eightfold symmetry of the great red silk banner that fluttered over the main entrance. The air was thick with the scent of the nettle oil that burned in the lamps.

  In the center of the sacred space, a half dozen priests stood in a circle, laughing and playing a game that seemed to involve pitching hard, uncooked beans into one another’s opened mouths. A half dozen priests and one prince of the realm. Aster’s pale skin and round features stood out in that company. All the priests shared long faces and wiry hair, like members of the same extended family. Their brown robes looked dusty beside Aster’s bright silks and brocade: a songbird among sparrows.

  “Geder!” Aster shouted, and Geder waved. It was good to see the prince laughing. Though Aster hadn’t complained, the winter had been hard for him. Especially the weeks after the end of the King’s Hunt and the return to Camnipol for the opening of the season. This was the first time of any significance that Aster had spent away from his father, and the darkness of the holding at Ebbingbaugh had taken its toll. Geder had done what he could, but he’d never had a brother and few enough friends among his peers. They’d played cards together in the dark nights. It was the nearest thing to comfort he could offer.

  Basrahip, the high priest, was in his private room. The huge man sat on a low cushion, his eyes closed in meditation. For a moment it was hard to think why the room seemed bare. It had its bed, its desk, a tall cabinet with carved rosewood and inlays of ivory and jet. The fire grate had unlit logs and tinder ready for the spark. The carpet was a deep red with a pattern of gold that seemed to undulate in the lamp’s light. But it wasn’t littered with books and scrolls. So that was the difference.

  When Geder, in the doorway, cleared his throat the big man smiled.

  “Prince Geder,” Basrahip said.

  “Lord Palliako. I’m Lord Palliako. Or Baron Ebbing-baugh. Prince means something very particular here. It’s not like in the east.”

  “Of course, of course,” Basrahip said. “My apologies.”

  Geder waved the comment away even though the man’s eyes were still closed. Geder waited, shifting from foot to foot, until it became clear that Basrahip was neither likely to open them nor send Geder away.

  “Thank you for keeping Aster for the day. The ambassador’s come and gone.”

  “We are always pleased to see the young prince,” Basrahip said.

  “Good. Anyway. Thank you.”

  “Is there more?”

  “What? No, nothing else.”

  The priest’s eyes opened, and his dark eyes locked on Geder.

  “Fine,” Geder said. He’d tested the arcane powers of the Sinir Kushku often enough. He’d known the lie wouldn’t pass. In a way, he’d been counting on it. “May I come in?”

  Basrahip gestured toward the little desk with a broad-palmed hand. Geder sat. He felt a bit like a schoolboy answering to his tutor, except that his tutors hadn’t ever sat cross-legged on the floor.

  “Last year?” Geder began. “When we were in court, and you would tell me if someone was lying? That was very useful to me. When the ambassador came, it was a thing where if you had been there and could have told me what he meant, it would have… it would have helped.”

  “The power of the Righteous Servant burns through the lies of this fallen world,” Basrahip said, as if he were agreeing.

  “I know that the temple is your work, and I don’t want to take you from it… I mean I do, but I don’t.”

  “You wish the aid of the goddess,” Basrahip said.

  “I do. But I’m not comfortable asking. Do you see how that is?”

  Basrahip laughed. It was a rich sound, and filled the air like a thunderstorm. The high priest rose from the floor with the strength and grace of a dancer.

  “Prince Geder, you ask for what is already yours. You gave this temple to her. You brought her out of the wild and returned her to the world. For all this you are beloved in her sight.”

  “So it wouldn’t be too great a favor to ask?” Geder said, hope blooming in his breast.

  “It is already yours. I am your Righteous Servant. I will attend you at any time, or at all times. You need only keep the promise you made to her.”

  “Ah,” Geder said. “And which promise is that?”

  “In each city that comes beneath the power of your will, grant her a temple. It need not be so great as this. Do this for her, and I will never leave your side.”

  The relief was like putting cold water on a burn. Geder smiled.

  “I can’t tell you how glad I am to hear that,” he said. “Really. I’m really not cut out for court life.”

  The priest laid a huge hand on his shoulder and smiled gently.

  “You are, Prince Geder. So long as your Righteous Servant is with you, you are.”

  Clara Kalliam, Baroness of Osterling Fells

  Winter was a different thing for men. She’d seen it for years. Decades now, and there was a thought. Decades. With autumn came the close of court, the ending of all the season’s intrigues and duels and political wrestling. The great houses folded up their belongings, put
cloths over their furniture to keep the dust away, and returned to the lands that supported them. For a month or two, the lords worked their holdings. The tribute of the farmers and potters and tanners accepted in their name and absence were accounted. The magistrates they’d appointed would consult on whatever issues they’d felt the lord should decide. Justice would be dispensed, tours made of the villages and farms, and a plan drawn up for the management of the holding over the next year. And all of it as quickly as possible so that it could all be finished when the King’s Hunt began, and they all rushed off to one holding or another—or, if they were unlucky, prepared their own homes to act as host to king and royal hunters—and ran down boars and deer until first thaw.

  There was no time to rest, and Clara didn’t know how they managed it. How her husband managed it.

  For her, the short days and long nights were the time of year when she could rest. Recuperate. For weeks before and after Longest Night, Clara slept long and deep. She spent her days sitting before a fire, her fingers busy with their embroidering and her mind at rest. The stillness of winter was her refuge, and the thought of a year without it inspired the same dread as contemplating a night without sleep. She was an older woman now, the grey in her hair no longer sparse enough to bother plucking out. Her daughter was married and with a child of her own. But even when she’d been young, Clara had known that winter was her season away from the world.

  And spring was her return to it.

  “There have always been religious cults,” she said. “Lady Ternigan was brought up in the Avish mysteries, and it never seemed to do her any particular harm.”

  “I’m just concerned that there won’t be any silver left for the real priests,” Lady Casta Kiriellin, Duchess of Lachloren, said. “Your son’s in training for the priesthood, isn’t he, Clara?”

  “Vicarian,” Clara agreed. “But he’s always said there are as many ways to worship as there are worshippers. I’m sure if something new comes along, he’s quite prepared to learn those rites as well.”

  Lady Joen Mallian, the youngest of the group, leaned forward. Her skin was pale as daisies and showed every drop of blood in her cheeks. There was a vicious rumor that she had a Cinnae grandmother.