The Oracle’s Queen

The thought of a great round belly pushing out the front of her tunic was still disturbing, nonetheless.

Baldus stirred on his bed, whimpering softly in his sleep. She went and drew the blanket up around the boy’s shoulders, then stood gazing down at his sleeping face, so soft and innocent in sleep. What must it be like, she wondered, to look at a child of your own? Would it have her blue eyes?

Or brown?

“Damnation!” she muttered, going for more wine.

Ki’s borrowed horse shied as a gust of damp breeze scooped a cloud of acrid smoke up from a blackened foundation just inside the remains of the north gate. Beside him, Lynx tightened the reins of his own mount, nervously scanning the dark square they were presently patrolling.

“Easy, there.” Ki rubbed his horse’s neck to calm him, then adjusted the vinegar-soaked cloth tied over his mouth and nose. Everyone who ventured into the ruins had to wear them, to fend off disease. Ki knew he was taking a pointless risk, coming here. He claimed to be helping hunt down looters, and he’d killed a few, but in truth, he was drawn back time and again, looking for familiar places. When he came upon them, though—inns, theaters, and taverns they’d frequented with Korin—it only made the ache in his heart worse.

The smell of vinegar was rank, but better than the reek that still lurked in the streets and alleys. Foul humors and the stench of rotting flesh and burnt buildings mingled with the night mists in a cloying miasma.

They rode for nearly an hour without meeting another living person. Lynx kept his sword drawn, and above his mask his eyes darted ceaselessly, scanning for danger.

There were still too many corpses lying about. The few Scavengers left were kept busy day and night, carting away the now-putrid bodies to the burning grounds. They were bloated and black, and many had been cruelly torn up by hungry dogs, pigs, or ravens. Ki’s horse shied again as a huge rat darted across a nearby alley with what looked like a child’s hand in its mouth.

The fires had burned fiercely, and even after almost two weeks, smoldering pockets of coals remained beneath the ruins, deadly traps for looters or unlucky householders seeking to salvage what they could. Up on the Palatine, broken black stonework loomed against the stars, marking where the great palaces and fine houses had once stood. It was a lonely place, but it suited Ki’s mood these past weeks.

“We should head back,” Lynx murmured at last, plucking at the rag across his face. “I don’t know why you keep coming here. It’s depressing.”

“Go on back. I didn’t ask you to come.” Ki nudged his horse into a walk.

Lynx followed. “You haven’t slept in days, Ki.”

“I sleep.”

He looked around and realized they’d come out in the theater ward. The once-familiar neighborhood looked like the landscape of a bad dream. Ki felt as much a ghost here as Brother himself. But better this than tossing on that lonely cot, he thought bitterly.

It was easier during the day. Tamír still resisted wearing women’s garb much of the time, and there were moments when Ki could pretend to see Tobin. When he let himself sleep, he dreamed of Tobin’s sad eyes lost in a stranger’s face.

So instead, he settled for stolen naps and rode down his dreams here at night. Lynx had taken to coming with him uninvited. He didn’t know if Tamír had sent him to keep an eye on him, or if he’d simply taken it upon himself to keep watch over him. Maybe it was habit, from his days as a squire. Whatever the case, Ki hadn’t been able to shake him off these past few nights. Not that Lynx wasn’t a decent companion. He said little and left Ki to the dark thoughts that continued to plague him, no matter how hard he tried to keep them at bay.

How could I not have known, all those years? How could Tobin have kept such a secret from me?

Those two questions still burned at the edges of his soul, though it would have shamed him to voice them. It was Tobin who’d suffered the most. She’d carried the burden of that secret alone, to protect them all. Arkoniel had made that very clear.

Everyone else, even Tharin, had accepted it readily enough. Only Lynx seemed to understand. Ki saw it there now as he glanced over at his silent friend. In a way, they’d both lost their lords.

Tamír was still awake when Ki stole in. He thought she was asleep, and she stayed quiet under the quilts, studying his face in the faint light of the night lamp as he crossed to the dressing room. He looked tired, and sad in a way that she never saw during the day. She was tempted to call out to him, invite him into the too-big bed. It wasn’t right that Ki should suffer for his constancy. But before she could gather her courage, or master her discomfort over the wet rag tied between her thighs, he was already gone. She heard the sound of him undressing, and the creak of bed ropes.

She turned over and watched the way the light of his candle made the shadows in the doorway dance. She wondered if he was lying there, sleepless as she was, watching them, too?

The next morning she watched Ki yawn over his breakfast, looking uncommonly pale and tired. When the meal was finished she gathered her courage and drew him aside.

“Would you rather I had Una take your place at night?” she asked.

Ki looked genuinely surprised. “No, of course not!”

“But you’re not sleeping! You won’t be much good to me exhausted. What’s wrong?”

He just shrugged and gave her a smile. “Uneasy dreams. I’ll be happier when you’re settled at Atyion, that’s all.”

“Are you sure?”

She waited, giving him the chance to say more. She wished with all her heart that he would, even if she didn’t want to hear what he might say, but he just smiled and clapped her on the shoulder and they both left their true thoughts unsaid.

Chapter 10

Niryn stood on the battlements, enjoying the damp night air. Korin had gone up to Nalia’s tower again. As he watched, the light there was extinguished.

“Labor well, my king,” Niryn whispered.

He’d removed the blighting spell from Korin; the boy would father no monsters on Nalia. It was time at last, the time of Niryn’s choosing, for an heir of Skala to be conceived.

“My lord?” Moriel appeared at his elbow, stealthy as always. “You look pleased about something.”

“I am, dear boy.” This lad was proving useful, as well. For all his faults, that odious pederast, Orun, had groomed Muriel well, to sneak and spy and sell his loyalty. Niryn could well afford it, and knew better than to trust him too far. No, he had spells around young Moriel for that, and the boy would do well not to cross him.

“Have you been keeping an eye on that new lord for me? The one who rode in yesterday?”

“Duke Orman. Yes, my lord. He seems quite taken with the king. But Duke Syrus was complaining again, about how Korin shows no sign of marching on the usurper.”

Moriel never referred to Tobin by name. There was bad blood there, and Tobin wasn’t the only Companion against whom Moriel harbored a grudge. “How is Lord Lutha faring?”

“Sullen, and hanging about Lord Caliel, as usual. I caught them whispering together on the battlements again tonight. They don’t much like the way things are right now. They think you’ve led King Korin astray.”

“I’m quite aware of that. What I need from you is proof of treason. Solid proof. Korin will not act on anything less.”

The boy looked crestfallen. “Everyone has retired. Is there anything else I can do for you, my lord?”

“No, you may go to bed. Oh, and Moriel?”

The boy paused, his pale, harelike face uncertain.

“You are proving most valuable. I depend on you, you know.”

Moriel brightened noticeably. “Thank you. Good night, my lord.”

Well, well, Niryn thought, watching him go. It seems you do have a heart to win. I thought Orun crushed that out of you long ago. How very useful.

Niryn returned to his enjoyment of the night. The sky was clear, and the stars were so bright they turned the dark sky a deep indigo.

The men he passed on guard greeted him respectfully. Many of them were his own Guard, and those who weren’t had the good sense to show him proper courtesy. Niryn had touched the minds of the various captains, and found most of them fertile ground, well sown with doubts and fears for him to manipulate. Even Master Porion’s had been surprisingly easy to slip into; his own stolid sense of duty to Korin did Niryn’s work for him. There was no need to meddle there.

Niryn’s own master, Kandin, had taught him that the greatest talent of wizards of Niryn’s sort lay in their ability to see into lesser men’s hearts and prey on the weaknesses there. Korin’s flaws had been an open door to him, despite his burning dislike for the wizard. Niryn had simply bided his time, waiting for the seasons to turn. He took his first careful steps in the last year of the old king’s life, when Korin had already led himself astray with doubt, drink, and drabs.

In the days after the old king’s death, when the prince was lost and foundering, Niryn seized the advantage and wormed his way just as securely into the heart of the boy as he had his father.

Erius had not been so easy. The king had been an honorable man, and a strong one. Only when the madness began to eat away at his mind did Niryn find a foothold there.

Korin, on the other hand, had always been weak and full of fears. Niryn used magic on the boy, but lately a few carefully chosen words and skillful flattery worked just as well. His beloved cousin’s betrayal could not have been better timed.

Looking around the dark fortress, Niryn savored a swell of pride. This was his doing, just as the burning of the Illiorans and the banishing of countless headstrong nobles had been his work. He especially enjoyed bringing highborn lords and ladies down into the dust. He enjoyed being feared and cared not one whit how many hated him. Their hatred was the hallmark of his success.

Niryn had not been born a nobleman. He was the only child of two palace servants. During his early days at court, certain people who’d considered themselves his betters had been anxious not to let him forget that, but once he’d caught favor with the king they’d soon learned not to cross the soft-spoken wizard. He took no direct action against them, of course, but Erius had been quick to show his displeasure. Some of Niryn’s early detractors now found themselves without title or lands—many of the latter having been since given to Niryn himself.

Niryn did not regret his lowly birth; quite the opposite, in fact. Those early years had left an indelible mark on him and taught him some valuable lessons about how the world worked.

His father had been a simple, taciturn man who’d married above himself. Born to a family of tanners, his marriage had allowed him to leave behind that malodorous trade and become one of Queen Agnalain’s gardeners. His mother had been a chambermaid in the Old Palace, often working in the rooms of the queen before Agnalain went mad.

His parents lived in a tiny thatch-roofed cottage by the north gate. Each day his mother woke him while the stars were still out and they set off with his father up the long, steep road to the Palatine. They left their own humble quarter in darkness, and he could see the sky brightening as they ascended the steep streets. The houses grew larger and grander, the higher you went, and once inside the Palatine itself, it was like a great, magical garden. Elegant villas clustered around the walls and ringed the dark bulk of the Old Palace. There had been only one, back then, and it had been a lively place, filled with color and courtiers and good smells; it didn’t fall into disrepair until Erius had left it behind, after his mother’s death. The young prince could not abide the place after that, fearing his mother’s mad, vengeful ghost would come after him in the night. Years later, when Niryn had gained the young king’s trust and access to his inner thoughts, he learned why. Erius had killed his mother, smothering the mad old woman with a cushion after he learned that she’d signed an order for his own execution and that of her infant daughter, having decided they were both conspiring against her.

But when Niryn was a child, the Old Palace was still a wondrous place, with fine tapestries on the walls of the rooms and hallways, and fancy patterns of colored stone on the floor. Some of the corridors even had long, narrow pools, filled with flowering water plants and darting silver-and-red fish, set into the floors. One of the understewards had taken a liking to the red-haired boy and let him give crumbs to the fish. He was also taken with the palace guards. They were all tall, and wore rich red tabards, with handsome swords at their hip. Niryn secretly wished he might grow up to be a guard so he could carry a sword like that and stand watching the fish all day.

He often saw Queen Agnalain, a gaunt, pale woman with hard blue eyes, who strode like a man in her fine gowns and always seemed to have a group of handsome young men around her. Sometimes she had the young prince with her, too, a boy a bit older than Niryn. Erius, he was called, and he had curly black hair and laughing black eyes and his own pack of playmates called the Royal Companions. Niryn envied him, not for his fine clothes or even his title, but for those friends. Niryn didn’t have time to play, and no one to play with if he had.

He sometimes went in with his mother very early in the morning to bring the queen the ale and black bread she broke her fast with each day. Soldier’s food, his mother called it, disapproving. Niryn didn’t see why it wasn’t a proper breakfast for a queen. She sometimes gave him the crusts the queen didn’t eat and he liked it very much; it was dense and moist, rich with salt and black syrup; much nicer than the thin oatcakes the cooks gave him to eat.

“That sort of food might be good enough on the battlefield, maybe, when she was still a warrior!” his mother sniffed, as if the great queen disappointed her.

She got the same look on her face at the way there was often a young lord in the queen’s bed in the morning. Niryn never saw the same one twice. His mother didn’t approve of this, either, but she never said a word, and cuffed him on the ear when he asked if they were all the queen’s husbands.

During the day the corridors teemed with men and women in wonderful clothes and glittering jewels, but he and his mother had to turn and face the wall as they passed. They were not allowed to speak to their betters or attract any attention. A servant’s duty was to be invisible as air, his mother told him, and the child soon learned to do just that. And that was just how the lords and ladies treated him, and his mother and all the host of other servants who moved among them, carrying the nobles’ dirty linen and night soil buckets.

The queen had noticed him once, though, when his mother didn’t pull him back in time to avoid her notice. Agnalain loomed over him and bent down for a closer look. She smelled of flowers and leather.

“You have a fox’s coat. Are you a little fox?” she chuckled, running her fingers gently through his red curls. Her voice was hoarse, but kind, and those dark blue eyes wrinkled up at the corners when she smiled. He’d never gotten a smile like that from his own mother.

“And such eyes!” said the queen. “You’ll do great things, with eyes like that. What do you want to do when you’re all grown up?”

Encouraged by her kindly manner, he’d pointed shyly at a nearby guard. “I want to be one of them and carry a sword!”

Queen Agnalain laughed. “Would you now? Would you cut off the heads of all the traitors who creep in to murder me?”

“Yes, Majesty, every one,” he replied at once. “And I’ll feed the fish, too.”

When Niryn was big enough to carry a watering can, his visits inside the palace came to an end. His father took him to work in the gardens. The great lords and ladies treated the gardeners as if they were invisible, too, but his father did the same with them. He cared nothing for people, and was shy and backward even with Niryn’s sharp-tongued mother. Niryn had really never paid the man much mind, but he discovered now that his father was full of secret knowledge.

He was not patient or any less taciturn, but he taught the boy how to tell a flower seedling from a weed sprout, how to bind an espaliered fruit tree into a pleasing shape against a wall, how to spot disease, and when to thin a bed or prune a bush to make it flourish. Niryn missed the fish, but discovered that he had a talent for such things and a child’s ready interest. He especially liked using the big bronze shears to cut away dead branches and wayward shoots.

There was still no time to play or make friends. Instead, he came to love seeing the garden change through the seasons. Some plants died without constant tending, while weeds thrived and spread if you didn’t fight them every day.

No one realized Niryn was wizard-born until he was ten years old. One day several of Erius’ Companions decided to amuse themselves by throwing stones at the gardener’s boy.

Niryn was pruning a rose arbor at the time and tried his best to ignore them. Invisible. He must remain invisible, even when it was perfectly apparent that the sneering young lords could see him very well and had excellent aim. Even if they’d been peasants like him, he wouldn’t have fought back. He didn’t know how.

He’d endured taunts and teasing from them before, but had always ducked his head and looked away, pretending he wasn’t there. Deep down, though, something dark stirred, but he’d been too well trained to his station to acknowledge anything like anger toward his betters.

But this was different. Today they weren’t just taunting him. He kept at his pruning, carefully lifting the suckers away and trying not to let the long thorns pierce his fingers. His father was just beyond the arbor, weeding a flower bed. Niryn saw him glance over, then go back to his work. There was nothing he could do for Niryn.

Stones pattered around the boy, striking his feet and bouncing off the wooden trellis next to his head. It scared him, for they were trained to be warriors and could probably hurt him badly if they wanted to. It made him feel small and helpless, but something else stirred again, deep down in his soul, and this time it was much stronger.

“Hey, gardener’s boy!” one of his tormentors called out. “You make a good target.”

A stone followed the taunt, striking him between the shoulders. Niryn hissed in pain and his fingers tightened on the rose cane he’d been trimming. Thorns pierced his fingers, drawing blood. He kept his head down, biting his lip.

“He didn’t even feel it!” one of the other boys laughed. “Hey, you, what are you? An ox with a thick hide?”

Niryn bit his lip harder. Stay invisible.

“Let’s see if he feels this.”

Another stone struck him on the back of the thigh, just below his tunic. It was a sharp one and it stung. He ignored it, nipping a stray shoot with the shears, but now his heart was pounding in a way he’d never felt before.

“Told you. Just like an ox, stupid and thick!”

Another stone hit him in the back, and another.

“Turn around, little red ox. We need your face for a target!”

A stone hit him in the back of the head, hard enough to make him drop his shears. Unable to help himself, he reached back and felt the stinging place where the stone had hit him. His fingers came away smeared with blood.

“That got him! Hit him again, harder, and see if he’ll turn.”

Niryn could see his father, still pretending he didn’t know what was happening to his son. It came to Niryn, then, what the real gulf between commoner and noble was. Niryn had been taught to respect his betters, but he’d never fully appreciated until now that the respect was not returned. These boys knew they had power over him and delighted in using it.

A larger stone hit him on the arm as he bent to retrieve the shears.

“Turn around, red ox! Let’s hear you bellow!”

“Throw another one!”

Something larger hit him in the head, hard enough to daze him. Niryn dropped the shears again and fell to his knees. He wasn’t quite certain what happened after that, until he opened his eyes and found himself lying under the arbor he’d been tending, watching unnatural blue flames devouring the carefully tended vines.

His father did come then, dragging Niryn away from the scorching blaze.

“What’ve you done, boy?” he whispered, more alarmed than Niryn had ever seen the man. “What in the name of the Maker did you do?”

Niryn sat up slowly and looked around. A small crowd was gathering, servants and nobles alike, while others ran for water. The three boys who’d been tormenting him were gone.

Water had no effect on the blue fire. It continued to burn until the arbor was reduced to ash.

Guardsmen came with the water carriers and their captain demanded to know what had happened. Niryn couldn’t answer them because he had no idea. His father remained dumb, as usual. At last a broad-shouldered man pushed through the crowd, dragging one of Niryn’s attackers by the ear. The young lord cringed beside him.

“I understand this young rascal was using you for target practice,” the soldier said to Niryn, still holding the boy almost up on his toes.

Even in such an embarrassing position, the boy was looking daggers at Niryn, letting him know what his fate would be if he told.

“Come on now, lad, find your tongue,” the man demanded. He wasn’t angry with Niryn, it seemed, just impatient to complete an unpleasant task. “I’m Porion, swordmaster to the Royal Companions and I’m responsible for the behavior of the boys. Is he one of them who hurt you?”

Niryn’s father caught his eye, silently warning Niryn to keep silent, stay invisible.

“I don’t know. I had my back to ’em,” Niryn mumbled, staring down at his dirty clogs.

“You sure about that, lad?” Master Porion demanded sternly. “I had it from some of his fellows that he was one of them.”

He could feel Master Porion’s eyes on him, but he kept his head down and saw the young lord’s fine bootheels settle in the grass as the older man released him.

“All right then, Nylus, you get back to the practice yard where you belong. And don’t think I won’t keep an eye on you!” Porion barked. The young lord gave Niryn a last, triumphant smirk and strode away.

Porion remained a moment, staring pensively at the ruined arbor. “Word is you did this, lad. That the truth?”

Niryn shrugged. How could he? He didn’t even have a flint.

Porion turned to his father, who’d been lingering nearby. “He’s your boy?”

“Aye, sir,” his father mumbled, unhappy not to be invisible to this man.

“Any wizard blood in your family?”

“None that I know of, sir.”

“Well, you’d better get him to a proper wizard who can judge, and soon, before he does something worse than a little fire.”

Porion’s face grew sterner still as he glanced back at Niryn. “I don’t want him on the Palatine again. That’s the queen’s law. An unschooled wizard-born is too dangerous. Go on, take him away and get him seen to, before he hurts someone.”

Niryn looked up in disbelief. The other boy had gotten away with hurting him, and now he was to be punished? Throwing caution to the wind, he fell at Master Porion’s feet. “Please, sir, don’t send me off! I’ll work hard and not make any more trouble, I swear by the Maker!”

Porion pointed to the ruined arbor. “Didn’t mean to do that, either, did you?”

“I told you, I couldn’t—!”

Suddenly his father’s broad hand closed over his shoulder, yanking him to his feet. “I’ll take charge of him, sir,” he told Porion. Gripping Niryn’s thin arm, he marched his son like a criminal out of the gardens and away from the palace.

His mother beat him for losing his position and the small pay that went with it. “You’ve shamed the family!” she railed, bringing the belt down across his thin shoulders. “We’ll all go hungry now, without the extra silver you brought home.”