The Thirteenth House (Twelve Houses) (72 page)

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Authors: Sharon Shinn

BOOK: The Thirteenth House (Twelve Houses)
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She nodded. “I do.”
 
“Is that good?”
 
How could he have changed shapes, altering himself just enough so that she did not recognize his face? He used to have only the slightest magic in him, barely enough to erase the freckles on his skin, and even that he had lost with age. Or so he had told her, just a few weeks ago. Clearly, that had been a lie—clearly, he had lived a lie all these years. It turned out he
was
a mystic, with a significant amount of power, and he had always concealed his true strength. Kirra remembered all the summers she had spent at his house, chattering away about everything she had been taught, the spells she had learned from Senneth and her other tutors, the discipline, all the tricks she had developed to channel and heighten her ability. He had learned right along with her. He might have had very little magic, a scrap, a sparkle, but he had made the most of it, thanks to her tutelage.
 
“Kirra?”
 
He had
lied
to her, lied to everybody, sat out on that lovely, peaceful farm and devised strategies for bringing down the king. No doubt he was plotting against Danalustrous as well, trying to foment rebellion among the lesser lords, pretending it was for his dead sister’s sake but really because he was power-hungry himself. He was not the man she had thought he was, the one who showered her with gifts and called her his favorite niece and taught her the dance steps she was too stubborn to learn from Jannis but that she had to know, every serra did. He was not the man who had saved a kitten from the barn litter so that she could name it, who had taken her riding through his own estates and explained crop rotation and good husbandry. He was not the man she had thought loved her. Not the man she had thought she loved.
 
Now Cammon pinched her so hard on the forearm that she almost yelped. “Kirra? What’s wrong? You know him?”
 
“He’s my uncle.”
 
“And he shouldn’t be here?”
 
“He shouldn’t be here in disguise. He’s the same one who wanted to kill Romar around the bonfire back in Nocklyn.”
 
“I thought a lot of people wanted to kill Romar that night.”
 
“Yes, but he’s the one who really tried. And he was—I’m not sure—I think it’s possible he was in Tilt. One of the men who was responsible for kidnapping the regent. He didn’t look exactly like this, but he—I don’t think he has a lot of power. Just enough to shift his features and alter his shape a little. There was a fair, heavyset man in Tilt. I think it might have been him.”
 
“I suppose it’s good that we know this,” Cammon said cautiously.
 
“I suppose it is.”
 
“Do you want me to get Tayse?”
 
“No. But if something happens—if there’s trouble—look for this man. I think he’ll be in the middle of it.”
 
A small silence from Cammon. “I will, but—what does he look like? To everybody else?”
 
She closed her eyes briefly. Really, sometimes it was almost more trouble than it was worth to get Cam’s help on anything. “Sort of like you see him now, but his hair is darker and he’s wearing a black jacket with gold braid. He’s pretending he’s from Storian.”
 
“Maybe we don’t have to wait for trouble,” Cammon said. “Now that you know. Maybe you can leave.”
 
“I don’t want to leave. I want to see if he talks to me.”
 
“I’m getting Tayse,” Cammon said. “We’ll stand right outside the door. Right here.”
 
He dropped his hand and her vision blurred. She had to put her palm out to the wall to keep her balance. When she looked inside the room again, her uncle was gone, and in his place was a stout, sneering, swaggering stranger. “Give me back my lioness,” she said, and Cam restored it. It made a very small but infinitely comforting weight in her pocket. “This trip just keeps getting stranger by the day,” she said.
 
Cammon grinned at her. “That describes every trip I’ve ever taken.”
 
She strolled back into the dining hall and reseated herself just in time to accept a plate of cobbler from a servant. “More wine, my lord?”
 
“No, thank you. I’d appreciate some water.”
 
“Very good.”
 
She ate the cobbler without tasting it, audited the conversation without hearing it, answered questions without having any idea if her replies made sense. Her father had always hated Berric, never bothering to explain why. She had supposed it was because Berric so obviously despised Malcolm, and Malcolm never felt the need to accept criticism graciously. But now she guessed that her father had some inkling of the depths of Berric’s animosity—that her father distrusted her uncle, probably purely on instinct. But Malcolm’s instincts were generally good.
 
Kirra felt like such a fool.
 
It was worse than that. She felt like a child suddenly abandoned. For so many years, the Fanns had been her refuge, her place of safety. They had been the people who loved her no matter what she did. Was Beatrice aware of Berric and his deceptions? Did she, too, possess hidden magic and aspirations to higher status? Had all their protestations of affection been false? Had they welcomed her and made a fuss over her and treated her like a favored daughter not because they loved her, but because they thought they could use her in a bid for more land and power?
 
First Donnal had left her. Now the very memories of her aunt and uncle had been blackened and destroyed. Everything she had believed defined her, everything that had ever secured her, had frayed apart and left her drifting in a hostile wind. It was very hard to sit at this table, feel the chair against her back, the glass in her hand, and keep herself from disintegrating. She felt her own magic flicker through her fingers. Without much effort, without even conscious volition, she could undergo a disastrous change right here, dissolving into component parts of muscle, hair, and bone.
 
Someone looked at her oddly, and she wondered if she had made a noise or, more probably, failed to answer a pointed question.
Concentrate.
She was not Kirra Danalustrous, lost and left behind. She was Romar Brendyn, regent of Gillengaria, proud man and property owner, and some of the people in this room were not her friends.
 
“Sorry,” she said. “I’ve received startling news.”
 
“Nothing too bad, I hope,” one of her dinner companions said.
 
“I don’t have all the details yet. But please forgive my rudeness! What were we talking about?”
 
Gradually she eased herself back into the conversation, even managed to laugh once or twice. She offered her opinion on the merits of the wine, agreed that last winter had been a bad one, and hoped that the harvest was good. Like the rest of her companions, she rose to her feet when her host did and followed the whole group into a sparsely furnished room down the hall.
 
This part of the evening, she quickly surmised, was designed to allow informal conversation between clusters of visitors who might not have had a chance to talk over dinner. More wine was available, and a half dozen lords pulled out pipes and tobacco. The women unfurled their fans to blow the smoke away. A fire burned in a great hearth even though the windows were open to admit the warm night air. The walls were lined with hunting trophies—bear heads and deer antlers—as well as crossed swords and a display of daggers. This was the sort of room where deals were made and plans were formulated and individuals hammered out the details of governing the kingdom.
 
For this particular interlude, no doubt, Romar had truly been invited to the dinner.
 
Indeed, over the next hour, Kirra was approached by vassals in ones and twos, airing quiet grievances or expressing hope for future projects. Most of them seemed prosperous and content, willing to work within the existing system as long as their own needs could be attended to. Indeed, Kirra found most of their requests quite reasonable and hoped she sounded passably intelligent as she discussed road construction and possible dam sites. These were the lesser lords and ladies as she had always believed them to be—honest, outspoken, ambitious, and sensible. The sorts of people any marlord would be pleased to have as vassals.
 
It was a little past midnight when Berric Fann approached her.
 
She had just said warm farewells to a couple from Rappengrass who were interested in expanding their fishing ventures, so she was standing alone for the first time all evening. She was wondering if she should ingratiate herself into an existing conversation or wait till someone else approached her with a question when she made a half-turn to find Berric almost upon her. He was smiling. He held a glass of wine in each hand.
 
“Thirsty work, talking all night,” he said in the most amiable voice he’d used so far. “Red wine or white? I brought you some of each.”
 
“Red, thank you,” she said, accepting the glass from his hand. All her senses had grown miraculously sharp. She felt as if someone had poured vinegar into her veins. “I’m sorry, I didn’t catch your name. Storian was all I picked up out of Domenic’s introduction.”
 
“Mobry. Francis Mobry,” he said, saluting her with the other glass.
 
“You have strong views, Lord Francis,” she said.
 
He sipped his wine and watched her. “Do you object to them?”
 
“I believe a man is entitled to any opinion he chooses as long as he doesn’t force that opinion on others through violence.”
 
“Sometimes violence is the only way to get other men to respect your opinion.”
 
“And are you intending to engage in violence anytime soon?”
 
His smile was decidedly unpleasant. “I am hoping your support will make drastic measures unnecessary.”
 
He didn’t appear to have a sword or even a knife anywhere on his body. It was hard to believe he intended to cut her down here in Domenic Ayr’s house, in front of all these people. “And if I find myself unable to offer the support you crave?”
 
He shrugged his broad shoulders. “Then I—and like-minded men—will have to find ways to work around you.”
 
“I think it would be a mistake to count me out of the game,” she said, and took a mouthful of her own wine.
 
He watched her. “You don’t even know what the game is.”
 
Only when she swallowed did she register the bitter aftertaste. Only then did she realize Berric Fann really wanted to murder Romar Brendyn, but not even a full suit of armor would have shielded her from his malice. Berric employed more subtle weapons than swords and daggers. The wine had been poisoned.
 
CHAPTER
37
 
O
NE swallow. Would that be enough to kill her? Probably not, for Berric still watched her with a predatory attention. She held the goblet in her hand and altered the composition of the liquid inside it. From wine to grape juice; from toxin to harmless herbs. She drank again, more deeply this time. Surely she had to down the whole measure of poison before she would fall dead.
 
“Then explain the game to me, Lord Francis,” she said.
 
He had already finished most of his own wine. How had he known which color she would choose? Had both glasses been doctored? Had he already ingested an antidote? That was the most likely, she decided. She did not think he had enough shiftling power to modify the poison as she had done.
 
He relaxed a little, now that her glass was almost empty. He even smiled again. “Some of us are willing to see a weak princess on the throne. We are less eager to see a strong regent beside her,” he said. “A young girl can be more easily controlled by a determined coalition than can a man with some battle experience and years of political maneuvering behind him.”
 
“You don’t know Amalie if you think she is easily manipulated,” Kirra said, amused.
 
“Nonetheless. There is a faction who believes the regent must go. Another faction believes he is our only hope for peaceful realignment of property, and they would like to see him standing one step behind the throne when Amalie comes to power.”
 
“You keep assuming that Baryn will not rule much longer.”
 
Berric made a dismissive motion. “His time is over. He will not be king another year.”
 
She drained her glass and set it down. If he thought she was about to die, perhaps he would give her more details. Her stomach was starting to roil with protest and her hands were a little shaky. She might have less leeway than she’d thought. “You and your friends are contemplating assassination?”

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