The Lord-Protector's Daughter (10 page)

“Because they can.”

“That's not what I meant. How can they…just…forget that I'm as good as Jeraxylt is?”

“It's easier to ignore than to accept,” Mykella replied, “especially for men.”

Salyna looked hard at her sister. Then she laughed, if ruefully. “Oh…Mykella…”

Mykella understood.

On Londi morning, Mykella was
awake early and the first in the washroom before breakfast, but the water in the pitchers was still barely lukewarm. She washed up quickly and had just pulled her robe around her when Salyna appeared.

“You didn't use all the warm water, did you?” Salyna's blond hair barely looked disarrayed, for all that she'd clearly just left her bed.

Mykella knew that, had she not already dampened and smoothed her own heavy black hair, half would have been standing on end, and the other half twisted into unruly shapes that neither comb nor brush would have turned into anything presentable.

“Just my pitcher. It's not all that warm, though.” Mykella tried not to stare at Salyna as she realized that she could see the faintest of darkish brown lines running from Salyna slightly to the west and downward.

“What is it?” asked Salyna.

“Nothing.” Mykella shook her head. “I was thinking of something else.” She offered a crooked smile as she left and returned to her chamber to dress in her nightsilk garments.

Once she was alone in her chamber, she tried to sense her own line…or thread, whatever it was. Salyna's had been a dark brown, but it had held no black or green. Somehow, she could sense that the threads connected people to the world. But…how…and of what use was sensing such a link? Or did the colors mean something that could tell her about people?

She took a deep breath. As if she didn't have enough to worry about.

After dressing, she brushed her hair until it was smooth and at least presentable. She paused to study herself in the dressing mirror. Comparatively short as it was, her hair was getting longer than she liked. Sometime in the next few days…

She shook her head. That could wait.

She was looking forward to seeing Jeraxylt, if only to ask him about the hunting, but when she walked into the breakfast room, his place was empty. She seated herself and waited, while Muergya poured her tea.

Salyna appeared, wearing her scuffed and scraped leather arms vest over her tunic and trousers, attired for working with weapons. Behind her came Rachylana, in a dress clearly thrown on for breakfast, because it was beige, older, and loose-fitting, and Rachylana never appeared in public in anything that did not show her at her best. Mykella noted that Rachylana's thread was a light, almost golden brown.

Jeraxylt did not follow his sisters, and Mykella wondered why he was so late in getting to the table, since he was usually ravenous in the morning.

Feranyt appeared within moments, settling into his place at the head of the table. “Good morning, daughters.”

“Good morning,” Mykella replied, studying her father's thread, a darker brown, like Salyna's. Did it have a hint of black? She wasn't certain.

Rachylana's greeting was more mumbled and trailed Mykella's. Salyna's mouth was full, and she nodded.

After Feranyt had taken several swallows of his spiced tea, Mykella looked at the empty place across from her. “Father…have you seen Jeraxylt?”

“Oh…I sent him off on maneuvers with Second Company. They left well before dawn. I thought he needed to get away from Tempre for a time.”

“And from his sisters?” Mykella kept her tone light.

“Hardly. He can keep away from you through his own initiative,” her father bantered back. “No…Second Company will be working in Viencet, and Jeraxylt needs to see what life is like away from Tempre.”

“Viencet?” asked Mykella.

“It's a lazy little town half a day's ride southwest, where the high roads split, the one west toward Salcer and the one southwest to Zalt and Southgate.” Feranyt chuckled. “Do you know where its name came from?”

Mykella had no idea.

“The story is that it was named after Mykel the Great's younger brother, because Mykel said the people there were even more indolent than Viencet.”

“I didn't know he had a brother.”

“The legend is that Mykel threw him out because he wouldn't work.”

“That's awful,” said Rachylana.

“Was Mykel really that cruel?” asked Salyna.

Feranyt shrugged. “It's only a story. Most of them aren't true, you know. Not the old ones or the humorous ones. People make them up to show things, and what really happened is usually changed or lost.” He paused for a moment. “There might be some truth in that one, though. Mykel actually exiled one of his sons. They didn't call it that, but he sent him south to bring Soupat and the southlands into Lanachrona. After he did, Mykel then left him there as his personal representative. The son died there, even before Mykel did.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Rachylana.

Mykella could easily see how that might happen. If Berenyt were a brother, rather than a cousin, the most sensible thing to do would be to send him far, far away.

“It was a harder time,” Feranyt temporized, then took refuge in the omelet that appeared on his platter.

“Do you know when Jeraxylt will be back?” Mykella finally asked.

“Not for several days,” mumbled her father.

Several days? Mykella wanted to shake her head. Her brother's absence couldn't have come at a more inopportune time, but there was no help for that.

Her omelet appeared next, and she ate methodically. That was the best she could do, because the omelet was warm but had the texture of almost-congealed glue, if a better taste. The apricot preserves on the cool toast helped.

She wasn't happy about waiting, but how could a few days matter when the thefts had been going on for seasons, if not longer?

The remainder of Londi didn't
bring any more surprises, but neither did anything occur to reassure Mykella. She had learned that everyone had one of the threads, even Eranya, whose thread was such a light brown that it was more like tan. That amused her, because to Mykella, that suggested that her father's mistress was not exactly the most mentally gifted. Still, from what she had observed, she'd decided that the strands were some form of life-thread. That did not reassure her, either, and by the time she left the dinner table, her stomach was churning because she knew what she had to do, and she was not looking forward to it in the slightest.

Especially since she didn't know when Jeraxylt might return, Mykella knew she needed to follow the soarer's advice about the darkness beneath the Table. Despite her fears, she did need to learn more. So, after it seemed quiet in the family quarters that night, she slipped out of her room once more, using her Talent to conceal herself.

This time, she merely waited until the guard stationed near the staircase to the lower level moved before slipping behind him and quietly unlocking the door, then opening it and relocking it behind her.

The emptiness of the staircase and the long lower corridor reminded her, if in a different way, just how alone she was in what she was attempting. She pushed that thought aside as she entered the ancient chamber. The Table remained as it had been before, nearly quiescent, but the darkness beneath seemed stronger and closer. Given her father's lack of concern about Joramyl, she might indeed need to escape Tempre, but did she really want to do it by trying to travel those dark webs?

For a time, she just looked at the Table, feeling the unseen purpleness. Finally, she stepped up and onto the Table, seeking the green blackness once more. Nothing happened. She concentrated on becoming one with the green, and, this time, she once more found herself sinking through and beneath the Table and into the depths beneath. She could not move, and a chill filled her from her bones outward.

Chill? What was so cold?

She tried to reach for an even more distant greenish blackness. Slowly, she began to sense movement, but it was as though she remained suspended and frozen in place while the greenish darkness sweep by her. The motion ended. She willed herself to rise upward, and she found herself in a different darkness—a mere absence of light—and the biting cold of a raging winter. Somewhere above her, the wind howled. She exhaled, and she did not so much see as hear and feel it as ice crystals fell from the steam of her instantly frozen breath.

Her entire body was so cold, so tired…

She shook her head. Wherever she was, if she didn't leave, she would likely freeze to death in the darkness where she stood. Trying to reach the darkness beneath her was far harder than it had been before. Her eyes watered, and her tears began to freeze on her cheeks. Even sliding downward seemed to take forever. While she had thought the depths would be warmer, she remained cold, immobile, icy tears frozen in place on her cheeks in the silent depths.

Tempre! She had to reach Tempre. This time, she called up an image of the Table chamber, with her standing before the Table, its purple mist just faintly sensed.

At last, she felt movement, as though walls of blackness swept by and around her while she stood, frozen like a statue of ice, with tears on her cheeks, ice upon ice.

Later, how much later, she could not tell, she found herself standing on the Tempre Table for a long moment. She tried to make her legs move, to carry her off the cold stone, but as her boots touched the stone of the floor, her legs collapsed, and another darkness enfolded her.

When she woke again, beside the Table, she knew it had to be close to dawn. It took every bit of strength she had to hold the sight-shield as she started the return to her chamber. Each step was an effort, and opening and closing the door to the lower staircase seemed to take an entire glass in itself.

Her head felt as though it were floating away from her body as she climbed the main staircase, slowly putting one boot in front of the other, one step at a time.

Finally, she reached her chamber, where, once inside, she released the sight-shield and slumped onto the bed, her entire body shuddering and shivering with the chill that remained from her attempt to travel the Tables. Her last conscious effort was to drag the quilts around her in an attempt to get warm.

Duadi morning came all too
soon, and Mykella did not even hear the mild
thrap
of Uleana's first knock on her door. The second knock was louder, far louder.

“Mistress Mykella, it's almost time for breakfast.”

“It can't be,” Mykella muttered to herself before she slowly pulled herself into a sitting position on the side of the bed. “It can't be.”

She realized that she was still dressed, except for her boots. So she pulled them on and tried as best she could with the brush to smooth her unruly hair into place. Then she hurried out of her chamber to the washroom, where she quickly did her face and smoothed her hair.

For all her rush, she reached the breakfast room just as Salyna did. The two were seated when Rachylana arrived. The redhead wore a deep blue day dress, not quite so form-fitting as one of her ball gowns, but a garment definitely designed to show her charms.

Mykella refrained from asking whether Rachylana intended to see Berenyt, but she did glance sideways to Salyna. The blonde, who wore trousers and a riding jacket, rolled her eyes for a moment. Mykella swallowed a grin.

“Good morning, daughters,” announced Feranyt.

“Good morning,” replied the three, not quite simultaneously.

“It's blustery out, but the clouds have yet to show,” said the Lord-Protector as he seated himself. “It might be a few days more before we get snow.”

“I hope not, or if it does snow, I hope it melts before the season-turn parade,” said Rachylana. “What's the point of standing up there on the reviewing stand all wrapped in wool and nightsilk so that no one can see you when we're supposed to be seen.”

“Rachylana,” replied Feranyt firmly, “
that
is precisely the point. The Lord-Protector and his family are meant to be there, in fair weather and in foul. It matters little to the people whether we are in heavy cloaks or jackets or in finery, but it does matter that we are seen. A Lord-Protector cannot be seen only when times and weather are good.”

Mykella had to agree with her father on that. She also wondered if being seen in finery regarded as too ostentatious might also be unwise, particularly when times were hard.

“Yes, sir,” replied Rachylana demurely.

Even though Rachylana smiled, Mykella could sense her resentment at being corrected. That aspect of her Talent might be useful, if only to avoid upsetting people. For the remainder of breakfast, she ate quietly, finishing the egg toast and ham strips with two full mugs of strong tea.

Then she sat, waiting for her father to finish.

When he stood, he motioned to her. “You're finished, I see. I'd like a moment with you.”

“Yes, sir.” Mykella rose and followed him from the breakfast room and out into the main upstairs corridor. He was concerned about something, but she couldn't tell what.

Feranyt turned and waited until Mykella halted less than a yard from him. “I heard that you rejected an offer of a dress from Lady Cheleyza.” The Lord-Protector's green eyes fixed on his daughter.

“It was most kind of her, Father, but the dress would not have suited me.” That was true enough. “I attempted to convey that neither the colors nor the cut would reflect well on me or you.”

“Rather too forcefully, I would judge,” Feranyt said gently. “According to Joramyl, Cheleyza was rather upset.”

Mykella could see the writing appearing on the slate. “I wouldn't want her to think that. Perhaps I should ride over to see her and to convey my apologies for any inadvertent misunderstanding.”

“Perhaps you should. Today.”

“I'll dress and leave immediately.”

“It's best not to let unintended slights go unaddressed, especially with family.” Feranyt smiled. “I'll let the duty guards know.”

“Thank you.” Mykella smiled as warmly as she could manage.

The expression seemed enough, because her father returned the smile, then nodded and turned toward his official study.

As Mykella walked back to her quarters, she considered matters. Riding over to tender what amounted to an apology to Joramyl's wife would take a good part of another day, or at least of the morning, but she might as well rebuild the stones in that wall because she really couldn't go any further in gathering proof about what Joramyl was doing until Jeraxylt returned. It also might deflect attention from what she was investigating, and, if she were careful, she might even learn something. For all that, she was worried. She definitely hadn't planned on Jeraxylt being away from the palace for so long.

She wasn't about to change into the split skirts used by Rachylana for riding. Trousers suited her far better, but she did wash up more thoroughly and changed into her best set of nightsilk blacks, along with her better nightsilk riding jacket. As a concession to her father and fashion, she searched until she found a brilliant green scarf that would soften the severity of her otherwise all black ensemble. Then she left her chamber and made her way down the main staircase, past the guards, and onto the main level. It was early enough that the lower level of the palace had not yet been opened to those who had business there,

She took the east door and crossed the courtyard to the stables. There she groomed and then saddled the gray gelding. Just as she was about to lead him from the stall and out into the courtyard, she paused. She sensed that even the gelding had a form of life-thread, more grayish, and thinner. Did everything?

For a moment, she felt as though her entire world had turned somehow under her and that while it all looked the same, nothing was quite as it had been. She forced her thoughts back to dealing with Cheleyza and led the gray out of the stable and into the courtyard, where six Southern Guards, already mounted, awaited her. At the front was an older squad leader. All of them had life-threads of various shades of brown.

“You'll be riding to Lord Joramyl's, Mistress Mykella?” asked the squad leader.

“I am,” she replied, searching for the guard's name amid her momentary confusion at sensing so many threads and finally recalling it, “Jekardyn.” She could sense a combination of satisfaction and concern when she pronounced his name, as if he were glad to be recognized, and yet worried about it as well.

She mounted quickly, then nodded to Jekardyn.

“Forward!” ordered the squad leader.

Mykella rode in the middle, with a pair of guards before her, Jekardyn beside her, and the other three behind her. The iron gates on the south side of the courtyard swung wide as the first guards neared. Once past the gates, the guards and Mykella rode down the paved entry road and then turned eastward onto the avenue that led to the main compound for the Southern Guards.

With the chill gusts of wind that came and went, but were always out of the north, Mykella was glad for the nightsilk riding jacket and trousers, since the white light of the winter sun coming out of the silver-green sky of the east afforded little warmth.

Mykella had always been vaguely amused that the Southern Guard building had been built exactly 2,000 yards—one vingt precisely—from the center entrance to the Lord-Protector's Palace. Had the Alectors even used the same measurements? Or had people just kept using them? She supposed it was the latter, but no one had ever really said, and there was nothing about that in the histories.

The gray stone structure—a square building a good two hundred yards on a side with a huge paved center courtyard—was even more massive than the palace. Behind it, separated by a good fifty yards of ancient gray pavement, were the stables for the Southern Guards.

As they rode past the Guard building, Mykella couldn't help but hear the low words from the trio riding behind her.

“…younger and older ones ride better than his heirness…”

“…redhead does, too, for all her airs…”

“…this one…different…”

She glanced at the squad leader, but he was scanning the avenue ahead. Couldn't he hear what she did? She didn't sense any concern from him, and a squad leader should have been concerned about what his men were saying, even if he said nothing to them until later. Or was the acute hearing part of her Talent, something she hadn't fully recognized before?

Another half-glass passed as they followed the eternastone avenue, which was also the high road that eventually ran south out of Tempre. Then, on the east side of the road appeared Joramyl's estate. The dwelling itself, standing back a good three hundred yards from the road at the end of a paved drive that curved through low gardens, was not exactly either a mansion or a villa, Mykella decided, but something of each, a two-story structure constructed as a V, with the open area between the two wings forming the entry courtyard. But the entry portico was on the north wing, and a walled garden filled the innermost section of the vertex of the V. At one time, it had been a family dwelling for Feranyt's grandfather, but Feranyt had allowed Joramyl to use it as his own, although it did belong to the Lord-Protector.

As she rode up the drive toward the entry portico, Mykella straightened in the saddle. She was not looking forward to seeing Cheleyza. Joramyl's first wife had died almost a year after Berenyt had been born, but most believed that she'd never really recovered from the lengthy labor. His second wife had not borne any children, and then had died after a lengthy illness following a miscarriage some three years earlier. Joramyl had married Cheleyza—the youngest daughter of the Prince of Northcoast—almost two years ago. In fact, it would be two years on year-turn day.

The two footmen stationed by the entry doors stiffened as they saw Mykella and the Southern Guards. Then one scurried inside for a moment, before returning to his post.

Mykella dismounted carefully. Even with a mounting block, it was hard to be graceful, short as she was.

“Mistress Mykella…” stammered the graying footman. “No one…”

“I'm here to see Lady Cheleyza. I believe she is here.”

“Yes, Mistress, but she was not expecting…”

“I do understand, but convey to her that I will not require much of her time. I know she has much to do in supervising the house.”

The footman bowed again. “Yes, Mistress Mykella. If you would not mind waiting in the receiving parlor while I inform her…”

Mykella followed him through the oiled and shining golden oak double doors—opened by the junior footman—and across the polished rose marble floor of the high-ceilinged entry hall. Slightly darker rose marble columns framed walls of white marble. Besides a pair of archways, situated on both sides of the hall, there were also two doors of dark oak, both closed.

The footman led her through another archway to a small parlor. There, he bowed again and backed away, before turning and heading across the high-ceilinged hall to the left side of the double staircase that led to the upper level of the mansion.

Mykella settled into a straight-backed armchair that faced the archway. From there, she studied the pictures on the wall of the parlor. One had been recently painted and hung, because it depicted Joramyl and Cheleyza standing on the upper rear balcony, the morning light bathing them and granting them a splendor Mykella hadn't seen in either. But then, she reflected, that was one purpose of portraits.

She forced herself to remain calm while she waited almost a quarter glass. She even managed to remain in the chair until Cheleyza descended the stairs, crossed the entry hall, and stepped into the receiving parlor. Then, and only then, did Mykella stand and step forward to greet her aunt.

Cheleyza was taller than Mykella, almost as tall as Salyna, but slender, with fine black hair that never seemed out of place, and an elegant long neck and an equally elegant, if narrow, face. She wore an ankle-length dress of gray shimmersilk, and a darker gray vest of the same material. Behind her gray eyes was a certain amused sense of satisfaction as she stepped forward. “Mykella…I did not expect you.”

Mykella could sense a certain anger and resentment, in addition to Cheleyza's amusement, but she only smiled and inclined her head politely. “I did not have an opportunity to send a messenger, but I did so wish to convey my appreciation for the dress that you offered. It was in the best of taste, and most thoughtful, but…” Mykella offered a sigh, and tried to project a sense of regret. “You are so tall and beautifully proportioned, and I am not. I just could not do that garment justice, and I fear I will have to make do with something far less elegant. But I had to come to thank you for your kind gesture, and to tell you how much I appreciated it.”

For the slightest instant, Cheleyza seemed taken aback. “Oh, you are
so
kind to come in person. I had heard that you had…chosen not to wear the dress, but at times one does not hear all of what might have been said.”

“That is why I decided to come and tell you myself.” Mykella managed another smile, a winning one, she hoped. “I would not wish there to be a misunderstanding about such a kind gesture, especially not with you. You have made my uncle's life so much more rewarding, when he has endured so much sadness, and I would not wish you to think that I, or my family, are not most grateful for that, and for your many kindnesses.”

“It is so good of you to come and to share that with me, but Joramyl has always been most vocal about how kind your father is. I know you all take after him.”

“You've changed some of the paintings and decorations,” Mykella observed, after a moment. “The changes lighten the feeling.” That much was certainly true, although, for Mykella, the lightness had a certain chill to it.

“Just in the receiving rooms and in the master chambers so far. It is a most tedious affair, dealing with workmen, and having to settle for the guest chambers.”

“I'm certain that it must also have been rather tedious for Lord Joramyl and Berenyt,” suggested Mykella, “with so much chaos within. Still, it looks so much more elegant, more like one might envision a palace.” She paused. “You were raised in one, as I recall.”