The Lord-Protector's Daughter (27 page)

Mykella had waited a glass
before trying to find Rachylana, hoping that her sister had calmed down, but Rachylana was nowhere to be found, and when she returned late that evening, she immediately locked herself in her room.

Disturbing dreams and thoughts had kept Mykella from sleeping well or long. When she woke on Londi morning, the warmth and sunshine of Novdi and Decdi had vanished. Outside was dark and gloomy under heavy gray clouds. After she washed up and as she dressed, the soarer's words about others bearing the cost of her Talent kept running through her mind. Why should she or others have to pay for gaining an ability or power? But had Jeraxylt's death really come from her Talent? Her discoveries of the golds stolen from the Lord-Protector's accounts had begun even before the soarer had appeared to her, and that meant Joramyl's plotting had as well.

So why had the Ancient warned her about the cost of Talent? Was the growing distance between her and Rachylana because Mykella's Talent allowed her to see more? But wouldn't that have been true as well if she'd been perceptive in the ways in which her mother had been? If this…if that…and what about that over there?

She wanted to scream.

Instead, she waited several moments to let herself settle, then walked calmly—outwardly, at least—from her chamber to the family breakfast room. Salyna was already there.

No sooner had Mykella seated herself than Rachylana appeared and sat down. “Good morning, Salyna.”

“Good morning,” replied Salyna.

“Good morning, Rachylana,” Mykella said warmly.

“I don't know that I'm speaking to you,” Rachylana said, archly.

“You might as well. There aren't too many others around. Besides, whatever I've said has been because I love you. I also care what happens to you. You can fault me for saying what I believe, but it isn't because I don't care, and I've said nothing to anyone but Salyna, and I won't.”

“I know that.” Rachylana paused as Muergya appeared with a large teapot, from which she filled the three mugs.

“Good morning, daughters.”

Even without Talent, Mykella could have told that the cheer of her father's greeting was forced. With it, the pain behind it was almost agonizing—and that bothered her. But she also knew that, had she or one of her sisters died, their father's grief would not have been nearly so deep.

How do you know that?
she asked herself. But the answer was obvious, because Feranyt had not shown nearly as much grief when their mother had died six years previous. He had grieved, and he had refused to remarry, but he had not seemed so inconsolable.
Could it be the loss of both of them?
Mykella didn't know, and she might never know, but she
knew
his grief over losing a daughter would not have been nearly so great.

Jeraxylt's place at the breakfast table remained vacant. Neither Rachylana nor Salyna wished to take it, and Feranyt had said nothing. His occasional looks to the empty chair had been more than enough to keep it vacant.

“I do have some good news.” Feranyt forced a smile.

The three waited.

“Joramyl has informed me that we should expect an envoy from Midcoast later this week. He could arrive as soon as Quattri.”

“An envoy?” pressed Mykella. While her father might be grieving, sending for another envoy or even agreeing to see one who had already set out from Hafin, so soon after Jeraxylt's death, was anything but caring, even though he knew nothing about Rachylana's feelings for Berenyt.

“To consider a match, of course.” A faint irritation entered the Lord-Protector's voice. “I won't live forever, and you all need to be provided for.”

Rachylana's face paled, and her smile was faint.

Salyna's hand reached out under the table, as if to Rachylana, but dropped away. The table was too wide.

Mykella wanted to ask exactly why one of them couldn't provide for the others…or even become Lady-Protector of Tempre, but she could sense the combination of anger and irritation behind her father's words. And if she brought up Mykel's proclamation, he'd claim it was a legend without substance—unless she could produce it…and she couldn't. There was only the one mention of it, so far as she could tell.

“Anyway…that's that,” Feranyt announced.

“As usual…” murmured Rachylana.

“What did you say?”

Rachylana smiled brightly. “I said ‘another formal dinner.' Isn't that so?”

“How else will the envoy know how you appear in such a setting?”

“Yes, Father.”

Feranyt sighed, then pushed back his chair and stood. “I need to get ready to meet with Joramyl and Lord Porofyr.”

Mykella glanced back at her father. He had eaten sparingly, leaving almost half the omelet on his plate, and he had not even finished his second mug of spiced tea. More important, Mykella had been so distracted and irritated that she hadn't noticed that the grayness had returned to her father's frame…and that breakfast had not reduced it, or not much.

Once Feranyt had left, Mykella turned to Rachylana. “I'm sorry…about everything.”

“It's not your fault. We'll all be sent away. It's just who gets sent where.” Rachylana's eyes were bright.

“Father's not himself,” added Salyna. “You know that.”

“Yes, he is. He's always wanted to send us away because we remind him of Mother.”

Mykella frowned. None of them looked exactly like their mother.

“It's true,” protested Rachylana. “He just couldn't do it until we were old enough. Now, he can say it's to protect us.”

Could that be true? Mykella hadn't sensed that in her father, but Rachylana well might be right. Mykella would have to see what she could sense in the days ahead.

Salyna glanced to Mykella, then said quietly. “Father is only doing what he thinks best.”

“I know.”
What he thinks best…but what about what is best?
Mykella did not voice that thought, and, after swallowing the last of her tea, she rose and walked back to her own chambers.

Almost for reassurance that she could do what she'd been doing, she slipped the gold medallion that had been her mother's and Jeraxylt's from its hiding place in the back of her jewelry box. She looked at it for a long time, wondering what had happened to the chain. A rumble of thunder rolled over the palace, and she glanced toward the window, before realizing that she had never opened the hangings. As she turned back, her hand brushed the edge of the dresser, and the medallion went flying, clanking on the stone and vanishing.

She began to search for it, but it was nowhere visible, and her Talent senses were not precise enough, she discovered, to locate a small metal object.

Had it skittered under the bed?

With the dimness in the chamber and the darkness in the narrow space under the bed, she could see nothing. Finally, she took the striker and lit the small lamp, setting it on the floor by the bed, but the lamp flame was too high to cast light far enough under the bed.

Could she use her Talent to help focus the lamplight?

She almost shrugged. She could only try.

After close to a quarter glass, she managed to narrow the light into a beam that she could bend to search under the bed…and a golden glint rewarded her. Once she had replaced the medallion in its hiding place, she was about to blow out the lamp. Then she paused, and carried the lamp with her until she stood before the mirror.

In the end, she managed to concentrate or focus light around herself without making herself less visible. The effect was to heighten her presence, as if she were outlined in light. She smiled. That was another way to stand out, especially for someone who did not have imposing stature—like her. If she were the Lord-Protector, such a skill might be valuable, but for now, it was merely a curiosity.

She blew out the lamp and set it back on the bedside table, behind the water pitcher, then walked back to the mirror and studied her appearance, not that she looked any different from the way she did any other morning in her nightsilk tunic and trousers and black boots.

When she stepped out of her chamber and into the long main corridor, she looked toward the Finance study. At that moment, she saw Maxymt turn eastward from the main staircase and continue his lizardlike waddle-walk toward the Finance study. Even his posture was smug and condescending. She wanted to unsettle him. He deserved it…and more. But how?

Several moments later, she smiled.

When she had ridden from the palace to confront Demyl, she'd done something with her Talent and voice, because she'd felt a certain power. Even the gate had shaken at her Talent-amplified voice. Could she channel that, more subtly, in a more directed fashion, to unsettle Maxymt? Without rage?

She stepped back into one of the regularly spaced alcoves, then Talent-reached along the long corridor. She only clicked her tongue disapprovingly, since Maxymt would recognize her voice.

The clerk stopped and looked around. That Mykella could sense. He resumed walking toward the Finance study door.

She clicked her tongue again.

While Maxymt twitched, he did not look back, but deliberately made his way to the door and unlocked it.

Mykella waited for close to a glass, experimenting with projecting sounds up and down the corridors, before she finally walked to the Finance study and entered.

Maxymt smiled politely. “Good morning, Mistress.”

“Good morning.” Mykella took her place at her table, hoping the day ahead would not be so long as she knew it would be. Still, she was pleased about what else she had discovered about her Talent, even if she wasn't quite sure how she might use either ability.

On Duadi, Mykella woke to
a day that promised to be brighter, with clear skies and early white light flowing across the palace courtyard below her window. Brighter or not outside, she was dreading going to work on the ledgers. That had become more and more of a chore, and yet Mykella felt that, if she did not keep overseeing the accounts, matters would revert to what they had been. She also had discovered traces of another problem, and she knew she needed to investigate, and she feared her father—or Joramyl—would find yet another excuse. In some ways, she wondered why she bothered, because, if her father had his way, she'd end up in Dereka, certainly before the end of summer. Yet…part of her insisted that it was important.

So she washed and dressed and had breakfast with her father and sisters, and spoke little, but politely, and learned that the envoy from Midcoast would arrive on Quinti. At that point, Rachylana had excused herself, claiming she felt unwell.

After a more strained end to breakfast, Mykella had made her way to the Finance study, where she resumed her investigation. Late on Londi, she had discovered that the outlays and the paychests sent to the Southern Guard outpost in Syan over the winter had been a fifth larger than in the previous winter, but the number of guards stationed there had not varied, and the pay scales had not changed. But tracking down all the entries was a tedious business, and she needed to make sure that all her figures were correct before she brought them to her father. At least, when she did, he wouldn't be able to accuse Kiedryn.

In mid-afternoon, as she was completing her comparative listing of figures, the door to the Finance chambers slammed open, and Salyna rushed in. “It's Father! He's had a seizure. He's dying, Treghyt says, and he wants you!”

Mykella bolted from her table-desk, not even glancing at Maxymt. She dashed out of the study and down the long upper corridor toward the Lord-Protector's apartments, with Salyna running beside her.

They burst into the Lord-Protector's private quarters, past the pair of duty guards, then came to a stop at the door to the bedchamber. There stood Joramyl. His face wore a concerned look, and there was worry beneath the expression, although Mykella had the feeling that the internal worry was somehow…different.

“What happened?” Mykella asked.

“We were having an afternoon chat in his study, and he began to shake.” Joramyl shook his head. “He tried to stand, and his legs gave out. I helped him here to his bed and summoned the healer…”

“Mykella…he needs you.” Salyna pulled on Mykella's sleeve.

Mykella turned.

Treghyt, the white-haired healer Mykella had known for years, stood at the far side of the wide bed on which Feranyt lay, still in the brilliant blue working tunic of the Lord-Protector, although the neck of the tunic had been opened and loosened. Treghyt had just placed a cold compress on Feranyt's forehead, then had grasped his left wrist, as if checking his pulse.

Mykella stepped into the bedchamber and moved to the nearer side of the bed. She bent over the shuddering figure. “I'm here. I'm here, Father.” She forced the tears back from her eyes.

Salyna stood beside Mykella, silent, but bending over and reaching down to touch her father.

“…Lord-Protector…” gasped Feranyt.

“You're the Lord-Protector,” Mykella insisted quietly, taking her father's hand in hers, aware that his fingers were like ice, even though she could feel the heat radiating from his forehead despite the cool compress there.

His life-thread was fraying as she sensed it. She tried to link with the greenish blackness below and to reinforce that disintegrating thread with her Talent, but the fraying accelerated faster than she could cope with it.

“Joramyl, and…after him…Berenyt…they…must…”

“Berenyt?” blurted Mykella.

“…still of our blood, daughter.” Feranyt took short shallow breaths, each one more labored than the one previous. “Promise me…promise me. The Lord-Protector must…must be of our blood.”

“The ruler of Tempre must be of our blood,” repeated Mykella. She could promise that…somehow.

The faintest smile crossed Feranyt's lips before a last spasm convulsed him.

“He's gone,” said the angular healer, looking toward Joramyl, who remained standing beside the doorway. “It happened so quickly. There was nothing…” Treghyt shook his head. “Nothing.”

Mykella's cheeks were wet, and she hadn't even realized that her tears were flowing.

The healer turned to Joramyl and bowed his head. While he did not say, “Lord-Protector,” he might as well have.

Mykella wanted to protest those unspoken words. She did not, but straightened, looking down at the silent figure of her father. There was an ugly bluish green that suffused his form, fading slowly into gray as his body cooled. Poison? It had to be. She had no doubts about who had been behind it. Yet how could she prove it when the only evidence was what she could sense that no one else could? Treghyt doubtless suspected, but he would say nothing when the only heir was Joramyl.

And if she insisted it had been poison, too many questions would arise as to how and why she knew. Besides, her father was dead. So was Jeraxylt, and Joramyl was Lord-Protector. And…all of it had happened in spite of everything she had tried to do to stop it.

Salyna reached out and put her arms around Mykella, and the two clung to each other.

Joramyl, thankfully, said nothing.