Agnith's Promise: The Vildecaz Talents, Book 3 (8 page)

“If you say so,” Zhanf said dubiously – subservience was rare for Van.

“I am sure you will have many things to do now that the Imperial messenger has come.” The arch of his brow contradicted his acquiescent manner.

This was more like the Van Zhanf knew. “Right you are,” he said, moving farther away from the smaller Reception Hall. “Along with Heijot Merinex here, I need to speak with General Rocazin, with Senijer ae-Miratdien, and the current captain of the day guard as well. That would be Galiaj Darnoz this month, wouldn’t it?” He clutched the letter tightly. “We need to agree on how to deal with our situation. Oh, and Neilach Drux, too. He should be included in our discussion. In Duz Nimuar’s library in half an hour, if you would.”

“So soon?” Van asked.

“Blue sealing wax,” he said, lifting the parchment and pointing to the broken seals.

“Oh, all right,” said Van, and went off in search of the five individuals Zhanf had requested he summon.

Zhanf went up the stairs quickly, and made for Duz Nimuar’s library, striving to order his thoughts. Hoftstan Ruch was loss enough, but now this – the news of the conjure-storm and Erianthee detention. He hoped he would be able to get a spell-message to Ninianee, perhaps one specific enough to bring her home without going against the instructions the messenger had issued. He would make that attempt before nightfall, and keep trying until he had some confirmation that she was aware of what had transpired in the Porzalk Empire. It would be better than she get her information from him, no matter how flimsy the form, for to learn of it as rumor or reported catastrophe would cause her needless anguish. He had no assurance of success, but he was prepared to continuing his efforts, for it was his duty to have to try to reach her, and he would have to notify Erianthee that her sister was still on her quest to find Duz Nimuar. He continued down the long corridor, his thoughts darkening as the afternoon shadows gathered.

* * *

“Two more serinels and a gaunel have been delivered, Duzeon” said Rygnee as she held up a package that had been delivered to the four-room cabin that was serving as the personal quarters of the Dowager Empress Godrienee. “The new serinel that was brought to you yesterday should have its last details done by tomorrow. The weavers and seamstresses are busy as swarming hornets, trying to clothe the Court. Another few days and you should have clothes for a week.”

“And then you can burn this,” she said, pulling on the gaunel she had worn since the day of the conjure-storm. “I have come to hate this garment.” She went to open the package, and spread out the first serinel on the dressing-table. It was a lovely garment of deep-amber Udugan patterned velvet with a standing collar embellished with pearls and tourmalines. The large square sleeves were edged in pale gold with detailing in pearls and embroidery done in golden thread. The guin was of pale wisp-cotton. “This has to be saved for an official occasion. The gaunel will have to do for now.” She set the serinel aside and reached for the gaunel beneath it. “I’d like to change into this at once.”

Rygnee ducked her head. “I don’t blame you. I’m sick to death of what I’m wearing. But perhaps you should wait until evening? They’re still cutting stone on the floor above us.

“Dust. I see what you mean,” said Erianthee, moving her new clothes to the top of the chest that stood near the door.

“I’m tired of what I have on, too, Duzeon.”

“You could have one of the Court magicians conjure you something,” suggested Erianthee as she pulled the gaunel out of the package. This was a beautiful, simple garment of heavy-ply Fahnine-silk the color of lantern-fruit, with a guin of soft coral. She quailed at the cost, but realized that it was unavoidable, and one that Ninianee would understand when she learned of it.

“And have it come apart in a week? No thank you. You declined such an offer, didn’t you?” Rygnee asked, coming to take the new clothes from Erianthee. “I’ll put them in the wardrobe for now, and I’ll help you change clothes in half an hour.”

“Why so long?” Erianthee asked.

“Because the Emperor will be here shortly, and you know he wants to see you alone.” Rygnee went to the second room of their apartment, where she bestowed the three garments in the splendidly carved wardrobe, saying over her shoulder as she did, “The second serinel is magnificent. You should come and see it.”

“As soon as the Emperor has gone. I need to keep my thoughts specific and clear.” She felt a twinge of annoyance. For the last twelve days she had met with Riast, and every day he had implored her to perform a Shadowshow for him that would reveal his enemies. She had consistently refused, explaining patiently why she was unable to comply with his demands, and why she couldn’t vouch for any Shadowshow that resulted from her attempt to create one that was prophetic. She had told him repeatedly that she didn’t want to be guilty of putting blame on those undeserving of it while letting those responsible go free because her Shadowshow had not been free of influence and agenda. Today would be more of the same. By now, their discussion had become more ritual than conversation, and she was growing weary of it. If only he would believe her, she thought.

“Why don’t you simply do the Shadowshow? He says he knows you might not accomplish what he wants.” Rygnee pulled out the one of three remaining sets of skin-clothes from the trunk they had brought out of the ruins, and set it out on the bed.

“That’s what he says, but it isn’t what he truly thinks. He is sure that if I have more incentive, I can do it.” She held up her hands to express her frustration. “What’s left for me to do?”

“If you don’t want to try to summon up such a Shadowshow, then perhaps you’d be willing to help someone else try,” said Rygnee.

“Who?” The question was deliberately blunt. “All the Court magicians are as much politicians as they are talented. They all have their allies and causes within the Court, and they all want to cast blame on someone other than their associates.” Erianthee gave a short, hard sigh. “They have all offered to lend their talents to my efforts but I’ve refused, of course.”

“Why should you refuse their help?” Rygnee asked.

“Because that wouldn’t be the end of it, and the results would be tainted. Eventually the Emperor would cease to trust me, and then who knows what would become of us?” Erianthee answered. “Once I had achieved even the semblance of a prophetic Shadowshow, Riast would expect me to try again, to enlarge on anything the Shadowshow had manifested, and to produce better results, and he would act upon what he saw. He has already said he’s asking his Court magicians to help strengthen my visions. I think most of their willingness to offer me their help has
come either directly or indirectly from him.”

Rygnee frowned, stopping her work. “Would that include Yulko Bihn?”

“I assume so,” said Erianthee, her tone expressionless. “He hasn’t spoken to me directly, but given his position here at Court – “

“That would be . . . a shame,” said Rygnee.

“Yes. I want to think no one in my family would be under his influence ever again.” Erianthee appeared in the doorway. “I’ve been hoping that if the Dowager Empress will continue to take my part in this, that in time the Emperor will realize what he demands is beyond my talents to provide. She may convince him where I have failed to do so. He still seems to think that I can will a prophetic Shadowshow to happen.” She was about to go on when there was a rap on the door. Erianthee sighed and called to Rygnee, “I’ll get it,” then went to answer the summons, preparing herself to see the Emperor.

“Erianthee. Please. Let me in.” Kloveon of Fauthsku stood in the doorway, his deep-red Limurgan-satin clothes dusty, one square sleeve rent for half its length. His face was haggard and his knuckles were bleeding and bruised, and there was a new red mark over his left eye that would blacken in a day or two.

Although she was stunned, Erianthee held the door wide for him and tugged him into her sitting-room. “Kloveon!” she exclaimed as though emerging from a disturbing dream. “What by the Six Founder Gods and Goddesses happened?” She realized she was more worried for him than she supposed she could be.

He stumbled to the nearest chair and sank into it without any of his habitual courtesy. “I’m sorry, but I couldn’t think of anyone else who might . . . might take me in. Not anyone I trust, that is. I don’t mean to make things difficult for you.” He dropped his head into his hands. “The last thing I want is to bring my enemies down on you, but – “

”What happened?” Erianthee repeated, then raised her voice. “Rygnee, will you go down to the Empress’ kitchen and ask for a bottle of their best Udugan wine, and a loaf of nut-bread?”

Rygnee appeared in the bedroom door – she took in all she saw without comment. “Just the wine and the bread? Nothing else?”

“Anything else might create comment, and that’s something we should avoid. I think it wisest if Kloveon’s presence here is not bruited about,” said Erianthee, glad that she could rely upon her personal maid to be discreet. “Wouldn’t you agree, Mirkal?”

Kloveon nodded, muttering, “Don’t want you exposed to it.”

“And if the Emperor should come?” Rygnee asked.

“I’ll manage something,” said Erianthee.

Kloveon looked up. “The Emperor – coming here?”

“Sometime this afternoon, as he does most days.” Erianthee saw Kloveon’s face darken and went on quickly. “He’s still trying to persuade me to perform a prophetic Shadowshow, as if I have command over such things.”

“You won’t do it, will you?” He sounded worried.

Rygnee slipped out of the door, taking care to close and lock it before picking her way through the rubble to the kitchen stairs. She had become inured to the sounds of masons working on stone, and so paid little attention to the noise, and might have missed the sound of stealthy footfalls behind her, but for the hushed “Bontaj!” that marked the man’s stubbing his toe. Rygnee decided to try to find out who was behind her, and why, as she went on to the kitchen.

Once Rygnee left the room, Kloveon reached out for Erianthee, wrapping his arms around her waist and pressing his head to the rise of her breasts. “By Agnith, the Preternatural, I think I would despair without you.” There was relief colored by desperation in his voice, and his hands strained to pull her more tightly against him.

Erianthee mussed his already messy hair, unable to think of anything to say beyond, “What’s happened to you?”

Kloveon remained as he was for more than a hundred heartbeats, then lifted his head to see her face. “Someone has told one of the Councillors that I am working with Bozidar to bring down his father. Nothing has been offered in proof, but I found two personal guards of Councillor Foreon Pruferaj waiting in my temporary quarters. They said they were there to take me captive, but I could see they had daggers and death-needles. We fought and while they were recovering, I eluded them.” He held up one hand. “They’re not doing any better than I am.”

“You actually fought them?” She was truly startled, for it was such a violent, desperate thing for the usually diplomatic Kloveon to do.

“I wasn’t going to let them kill me,” he said, looking up at her face and trying his utmost to smile.

“Then you’re hiding from them?”

“Let’s say I’m avoiding them for the present.” His smile cracked and the corners of his mouth turned down.

She dropped down on her knees beside him. “Oh, Kloveon. How did we ever end up in such a mess?” She was able to keep from asking how they were going to extricate themselves from their current difficulties. “You didn’t ask for it, and I didn’t ask for it, yet here we are.”

He smoothed back her honey-colored hair. “I know, Erianthee. I know.”

“They’ll be expecting me back in Vildecaz in a month. Ordinarily, I would be packing to leave by now. I’m usually home by the end of the Thirteenth Month. But this year – “ She stopped.

“This year nothing is going the way anyone expected,” he said for her.

“Not for any of us,” she said, making another attempt at a rueful smile.

“Don’t,” Kloveon whispered. “You don’t have to try to cheer me, Erianthee. Just being with you is better for me than anything but the grace of Bandikrion, the Destinizer.”

This threw her already precarious emotions into tumult. Erianthee felt all her doubts return, and then, immediately after, her love for Kloveon rushed through her, and left her breathing unsteadily. “
Oh, why do I like you better than anyone I know?”

His smile was worn, and all the more genuine for it. “So long as you like me, does it matter why?”

“It shouldn’t,” she said, sounding forlorn. “But it does. You and I both know that.” She used all her will to steady herself. “It isn’t just Kloveon and Erianthee, it’s Fauthsku and Vildecaz.”

He nodded slowly. “Neither of us can forget that, can we?”

“No.” She stared into the middle distance. “And all that’s happening at Court makes it more difficult for us both.”

“You mean because of Bozidar?” Kloveon glared at the half-open window.

“And the conjure-storm. Between them, the Court has become filled with unseen hazards, and everyone is frightened.” She pressed her lips together, then said, “You think they’re connected, don’t you? – the conjure-storm and Bozidar?”

“I’m afraid they are. I don’t know it for a fact, but I believe there has to be. The Emperor thinks so, too.” He stroked her hair again. “That’s why he wants you to perform that Shadowshow for him – so he won’t have to make the accusation of treason to his son himself.”