The King's Sons (The Herezoth Trilogy) (34 page)

Vane
replied, “I’ll see August off in an hour or so. Before then, Kansten, can I ask
a favor of you?”

And
here it was: stay with the duchess, a woman older than Kansten who had no need
of Kansten’s companionship. Help her with the children so well behaved they
could probably have watched themselves. Keep out of trouble while everyone else
does something useful, can you manage that like a good little girl?

“Of
course, Vane.”

“I’m
about to take Francie to Teena’s. There’s no other place for her. The Palace is
teeming with servants, and Francie must be believed dead.” Kansten nodded.
“Teena’s here with her now, and they both need to leave. My aunt’s not as young
as she was, and she could use some help caring for Francie, especially if the
transport’s as hard on them as I anticipate. Would you go with them?”

That
was not what Kansten expected him to ask. This was something worthwhile,
something needed. No trace of bitterness was in her voice, or her heart, as she
responded, “I’d be honored to care for Francie. But Vane, will we be safe, with
your aunt? She’s
your
aunt, after
all. If Linstrom would attack you here….”

Kansten’s
freckled face heated, but Vane took no offense at her question. He knew her
concern was legitimate, and so, she hoped, did the prince. She dared not look
at Hune with Vane present. Oakdowns’s master said, “I did have to reveal my
history a few years back. I saw Teena resettled when that happened, and she
goes by a different name now. Lives in Crescenton. No one can associate her with
me.”

Such
subterfuge, all for Teena’s protection, because Herezoth’s sorcerer-duke had
grown up in her care. Because some monster like Linstrom, or some prejudiced
fool lacking magic but just as dangerous, could threaten her. The thought
nearly set Kansten to crying again, but she managed a dry face. She had no
tears left as Vane hurried her to Francie’s room, where Teena was waiting.

Kansten
knew Teena well. She had grown up with Kora’s mother, Kansten’s Grams, and the
two still were friends. Teena moved lightly on her feet, almost as though floating
despite her age and full frame, when she rushed to give Kansten a motherly hug.
The scent of her rose perfume was strong.

Francie
slept, and Vane refused to wake her before he transported the conscious women
to Teena’s house, a cottage near the Podra River. Kansten brought a bowl of a
sticky, sweet-smelling salve with her for Francie’s injuries. Then Vane went
back for Francie.

The
duke had seen his aunt provided for. Kansten supposed he’d placed her in the Crescenton
region of Podrar because its duke, Hayden Grissner, had fought beside the king
in the Crimson League and would be as sure a guardian to Teena as the woman’s
nephew. Her home was small—Teena would have preferred that—but
luxuriously furnished. The settee and chairs looked newly upholstered, their
cushions stuffed near to burst for Teena’s comfort. A number of small, oaken
tables held porcelain vases. Kansten could see a levee from the parlor window.

Vane
soon returned holding Francie in his arms. Her braided blonde hair hung over
his elbow; he had wrapped her in the sheet from her bed and now laid her on the
settee, which was plusher than most mattresses.

The
slumber to take Francie must have been enchanted, because she never stirred.
Vane woke her with a spell, and her eyes fluttered open. When she raised a
shaky hand to her head, he knelt beside her. After explaining where she was,
and why, and apologizing for moving her yet again, he took his leave of
everyone. Teena excused herself to go to the nearest well, for water to keep
Francie’s forehead cool. That left Kansten alone with the councilor, who asked,
her voice scratchy, “You’re Zacry Porteg’s niece?”

Kansten
responded as she pulled curtains shut, in an attempt to keep the summer heat at
bay. “He speaks so highly of you, Miss Rafe. My name’s Kansten, by the way. I’m
so sorry you….”

“Vane
says I’ll be fine, in time. I imagine he’s right, with Teena looking after me.”
Francie smiled. “That blessing of a woman. I’ve always known her.”

“You
knew Vane as a kid, didn’t you?”

“And
you knew him in Traigland,” said Francie. Kansten reached the last set of
windows, one set to peer into an alley. She glimpsed a dirty, floppy-eared
puppy sleeping in the house’s shadow. Poor thing…. Kansten hardly heard her charge’s
question.

“What
brings you to Herezoth, in the midst of all of this?”

Kansten
mentioned her apprenticeship. Francie seemed impressed to hear Cline Dagner, of
all people, would be the girl’s teacher. She told her nurse, with a kindness in
her voice her face couldn’t show, “I do believe I’m jealous. I’ve had some
worthy achievements with the council, but I’ll never be able to say the most
famous architect of the age saw fit to train me. I taught myself what I know.
Read a lot when I was younger.”

Kansten
smiled. “Me too. Raided my uncle’s library on a regular basis.”

“Zacry
said he’d help me make a life in Traigland. I think I’ll try that.”

This
moment was wrong, in every way. Francie Rafe wasn’t supposed to be lying with a
blue and battered face when Kansten met her. She certainly wasn’t to discuss
leaving Herezoth for dainty, dull Traigland. Kansten spoke token words of
encouragement.

“I
hear Traigland’s very green,” Francie said. “If you go inland, you find some
low mountains not unlike the terrain near Fontferry. I’d like that. I’ve been
in the city too long.”

“Podrar’s
not so bad,” said Kansten. “Not what I’ve seen of it, at least. The Palace is
beautiful. I can’t imagine working there like you did. Do you know the princes
at all?”

Kansten
dared not mention Hune by his lonesome. Francie told her, “I’ve worked with all
three, at some time or other. The king’s raised them well. They’re competent
and assertive, and if the elder two are a bit condescending, it’s nothing to
blame them for. You know of the Carphead Academy, my council’s school?” Kansten
nodded.

“Neslan
reworked the curriculum last year. Made some vast improvements. Only took
credit because the royal family must be seen supporting the project. He’s
serious, but that’s hardly a fault for a man in his situation. He’s a solid
head on his shoulders, Kansten. So does the crown prince.

“Hune
Phinnean, he personally chose ponies for the school stables. His only condition
was that the students, in arranged groups, would help care for the animals to learn
the value of working together. Vane brings Hune twice a year to Carphead, so he
can give the youngest students riding lessons. They adore him. He’s got a way
with the people, does Hune. You’d hardly know he was born royal, to talk with
him: not by his attitude, at least.”

Kansten
sighed. Why did Hune have to be so… so bloody
normal?
Have an interest as common as caring for animals? Why
couldn’t he be a wine connoisseur, or frequent the opera house? A substantial
part of Kansten wished she’d found Hune an insufferable cad, but then she
remembered the touch of his hand against her head, his offer of one of his
hounds to protect her brothers, and that killed her desire at its height.

The
councilor snuggled down into the settee: trying to find a position that least
bothered her bruises, she said. The feat accomplished, she told Kansten, “I’m
only just realizing I’ll never work with them again, the princes. Or their
father. It’s sad to think, but what else can I do? I can’t go back to the life
I had, and that council
was
my life.”

Francie
shut her eyes, rubbed her forehead. Kansten knew she would listen, that she was
only in some pain, so she told the battered woman, hoping to distract her, “You
have my family. My uncle. What will you do in Traigland?”

“I
don’t know yet. The king would give me a diplomatic post, but I can’t face him
after this. Once I walk away from the council….” Francie shook her head. “Ten
years of pouring my soul out for this kingdom, and they came to worse than
nothing.”

Kansten
stared at Francie, open-mouthed. “How can you say that? That school’s not
nothing. It….”

“It
could have happened without me. With someone else in my place. All I did was
bring this upon myself, and for no reason. In all my life I was happiest in
Fontferry, and I’d return there, if I weren’t so well known. Herezoth must
think me dead, so I’m left with Traigland. I can’t say I’m excited at the
prospect, but I’ll manage. People there, they’re friendly enough from what I
hear.”

“Very
much so,” Kansten assured her. “If it’s tranquility you want, you’ll find it
there.” She hoped her tone was supportive. Francie needed a caretaker after
what she’d been through, not a needy admirer begging her to show strength,
repair her broken will, and carry on in Podrar.

Kansten
felt so weak that she sought the nearest armchair; she worried her knees might
buckle before she reached it. Wanting to weep, she told Francie, “I’m sorry
I’ve made you talk so much. Rest in quiet ‘til Teena’s back with some water, or
some tea.”

Francie,
instead, asked for her salve. Kansten helped her sit up, folded her sheet, and
then brought the wooden bowl she had taken from Oakdowns. A sweet-smelling
paste sat inside; wine, it held, and a fair bit of mint. Kansten wasn’t sure
what the thickening agent was. Using two fingers, Francie spread some of the
ointment on her bruised face and arm. That done, instead of reaching inside for
more, she laid a hand across the outside of the bowl, with a curious expression
on her face. She sat that way for some seconds before motioning Kansten to sit
beside her. The girl did so.

“I’m
frightened too,” Francie said. “For Vane and Zacry, for everyone at Oakdowns.
They’ll band together, and they’ll make it through. You’re not the only one who
resents how unjust….”

Kansten
willed herself not to shrink away in embarrassment, from a sense of violation.
She knew all about Francie’s power.

“You
picked up on all of that? From the bowl?”

“Well,
the fear. And the resentment. What they pertained to, that was guesswork, but
simple enough. What’s less certain” —Francie touched the bowl
again— “is why you’re feeling guilty.”

“I
should be standing with them, but well, I’m not. I can’t, not without magic.
And besides that, there’s the fact that I….” Kansten swallowed, mortified, but
forced herself to continue. “I’m fairly certain I’m in love with Hune Phinnean,
or soon will be. If nothing else, we’ve kissed. We’ve kissed three times, and
I’m about to tear my hair out.”

“Don’t,”
Francie advised. If she was surprised, alarmed, judgmental, she showed none of
that. Her facial injuries called for stoicism, at least where her countenance
was concerned. “Your hair’s lovely. It’s got a sheen mine’s never had.”

“Francie,
I’m serious.” Kansten might as well speak informally, given what she had
admitted.

“So
am I. Love’s not a crime, you know. You can’t control what you feel.”

“I
can control whether I see him again, at least in private. Of course, this
dilemma might work itself out. That’s another thing I can’t stop thinking
about: that Linstrom maniac might solve my problem for me and….”

Francie
took a deep breath, a shuddering one; her ribs must have taken as much damage
as the rest of her. “Hune’s fighting at Oakdowns?”

“He
brought his hounds with him.”

“Good,”
said Francie. “Good. I hope one of them rips Linstrom’s throat out.”

Kansten
was feeling desperate now. “Francie, Hune is….”

“Much
braver than I realized. You don’t give your heart away to just anyone, do you?”
Kansten was shocked to find empathy in Francie’s gaze. “Hune will have swarms
of soldiers with him. The prince will be fine. He will. As for after the
battle….”

“Hune
seems to think we could have a future.”

“You
can’t. Not Kora Porteg’s daughter and Rexson Phinnean’s son, not after people
learn what’s happening at Oakdowns. Linstrom could undo all the progress my
council’s made. Those with magic, at least the young women, they’ll speak
against you out of jealousy. Those without power won’t just forget centuries of
hatred. It’s burned into them.”

“But
what if Hune’s right? What if…?”

“He
isn’t. Let him go: that’s my advice, though you never asked it. You don’t want
to waste your life pining after someone who can never be yours. You’ll end up
bitter, and lonely, with almost no one to turn to and never time to rest,
because every time you have a spare moment, you’ll think of him. You won’t want
to think of him, so you’ll occupy your hours with anything you can. If you’re
lucky, that’ll mean worthwhile work of some kind, perhaps your architecture,
but even then you’ll spend hour after hour, day after day hardly sleeping,
hardly wanting to eat a crust of bread. Your legitimate accomplishments,
they’ll mean nothing to you because you can’t share them with him. That’s no
kind of life. I swear to you, that’s no life at all.”

Kansten’s
breath caught in her chest. Her voice was so quiet she doubted Francie would
have heard her, had the two not sat side by side.

“Is
that
your
life?” she asked. “Is it
Vane?”