The Twelve Kingdoms (11 page)

I couldn't help it—a laugh bubbled from deep within. “No, Captain. If there ever was a time that anyone fretted over my virtue, it has long since passed. What are your Dasnarian women like, that they don't fight and they can't be trusted on their own?”

“Not like you, Your Highness,” he said with a wry smile, casting his gaze over the unruly piles of scrolls and books on my desk. “You're doing paperwork? Don't you employ scribes for such things?”

“I'm not much for hired help.”

“Or trusting anyone else.”

“That, too,” I agreed easily. “Certainly not blindly.”

“And yet you won't give me the opportunity to prove myself.”

“Why should you care what my opinion is? I have no need to rely on you. It's not my name on this contract.” I nudged the parchment with my quill.

“You did read it.”

“Of course.”

“And your conclusions?” His expression dared me to express doubts, knowing full well I'd found nothing untoward. Except the raw fact that Uorsin had never hired mercenaries before.

“I concluded that this Illyria, Mistress of Deyrr, is not mentioned.”

“
Deyrr
,” he corrected, rolling the r. “In your tongue it means ‘death,' after a fashion.”

Not news to relieve my worries. “What can you tell me about her?”

“What can you tell me about the Star of Annfwn?” he shot back.

“I told you I don't know what it is.”

Harlan made a growling sound, a rumble of growing impatience. “Your problem, Your Highness, is that you put faith in all the wrong people.”

“I don't recall soliciting your opinion on the matter.”

“Well, you get it. If Illyria wants it, whatever it is, that can't be good. She won't give up.”

“Why don't you give me a reason to put faith in you by telling me what you know?”

He looked grim, gestured at the wine goblet on my desk. “It's not a comfortable tale. Have any of that to share?”

I
contemplated him a moment. It had been some time since I'd indulged in a late-night conversation over wine. Since before Andi left. Perhaps he'd have something useful on this Illyria. “Why not? Make yourself comfortable in the sitting room. I'll fetch the wine.”

He chose one of the chairs by the fire—not my favorite chair, which made me wonder if he'd noticed the signs and made the choice out of consideration—and accepted the goblet I handed him. I settled into my chair, stretching my feet to the fire. Though the days stayed high-summer warm, at night the snow-cooled air slid down from the mountain peaks, adding a chill. The blaze felt welcome.

“I've served a number of royal families in my career.” The mercenary likewise made himself comfortable. “I have never known a princess who keeps no attendants and pours her own wine.”

“I like my privacy, when I can have it. And there's not much luxury in the field.”

“I expected grander chambers, also.”

I shrugged a little. “They've been mine since I left the nursery. I had no interest in moving.”

“Shouldn't you have taken over the queen's rooms?”

“You've been quite busy, watching and drawing conclusions.”

“You like to imply that I'm a spy. Understanding the politics in a given situation can be crucial to being on good working terms with a client. One disadvantage of being a mercenary is coming into conflicts with many unknown parameters. I like to know what I can.”

I mulled that over. A legal scholar's brain inside that thick skull. He probably had written that contract, after all. Besides, anyone could—and likely would—give him the answers he sought. “Fair enough. Yes, I could have taken Salena's rooms. I chose not to. They're Amelia's when she visits now—appropriate for her rank as regent mother.”

“Queen Andromeda would outrank her, would she not?”

“Yes. But that presupposes Andi would ever return to Ordnung, which she won't. And, if she did, she'd prefer her traditional chambers, as I do. Ami will have the throne of Avonlidgh soon enough, regardless, as Old Erich can't have many years left.” Particularly if he persisted in stirring up civil war.

“And when you ascend to the High Throne?”

“That's not something I contemplate and neither should you. Uorsin is High King and I'll do everything in my power to ensure that remains the case.”

He didn't comment on that. Rather he took a swallow of wine, studying me. “You're not what I expected.”

“You have the advantage of me in that I didn't expect you at all.”

“No, you couldn't have. I advised the High King against secrecy, but he seemed quite determined.” He shrugged over the vagaries of clients. “You read the contract, so you know we agreed to it. I would have thought he would have communicated our presence to his heir, however.”

I elected not to respond to that. Of course he should have told me. I hated how much it pained and concerned me that he hadn't. “I also know that there are omissions in the contract. Glaring ones. As I mentioned earlier.”

“Not so much. Illyria is not one of mine, nor did she travel with us.”

“Then how did she come to be here?”

He caught my gaze with his. “I don't know. She was here when we arrived. That's one of the concerns I wished to bring to your attention.”

I waited for him to say more, but the moment stretched out. The mercenary regarded me calmly. Maintaining his defense against my next move.

“Have you shared this concern with anyone else?”

He shook his head, a slow silent swivel that reinforced how unusual this move was for him. Telling me without saying that there had been no one else before this to speak of it with. What did he intend by telling me?

“I've heard tell that she has been closeted with the High King.”

“Even as we speak.”

“He's had many lovers. More than can be counted. It's his right.”

“She is no simple lover.”

“What does it mean, then, ‘Mistress of Death'?”

He sat forward, elbows on knees, the empty goblet dangling from his hands between them. I refilled it and he gave me a nod of thanks. “The translation isn't quite accurate, which is why I use our word
deyrr
. It means more the impermanence of life. The fragility of it in the face of a world that falls into decomposition and decay.”

“A cheerful lot, you Dasnarians.”

“You have no idea. The Practitioners of Deyrr are a . . . sect, if you will, that honors an old religion. They worship a god long since shunned by decent folk.”

“A god? Not one of the three goddesses?”

“No. Though Dasnaria acknowledges Glorianna, Danu, and Moranu, they are considered minor deities.” He glanced at me, a bit of a mischievous twinkle in his eyes. I didn't bite. “The practices of this group go far back, with roots before King Orsk established the Dasnarian throne, when our ancestors lived in warring nomadic tribes. He is the god of the hunt and also of hunger, of death through starvation. He rules over the transmutation of the living animal into death and death recycling back into life through consumption of the meat.”

“I suppose I see the logic there. But that's a fact of life. Hardly dire.”

“In most instances, this is true. The Practitioners of Deyrr, however, take his dominion over transmutation to a terrifying place—if the stories can be believed.”

Something in his deep voice sent a shiver down my spine that recalled the way I'd felt when Illyria looked at me with her coal-dark eyes. Captain Harlan seemed a most practical man. Though most warriors carried a healthy respect for the whims of fate and the blessings and curses of the goddesses—or gods, in his case—most had a strong grip on the real and relevant.

“Do you believe the stories?” I asked.

“I do. I have reason to. Though the rites are kept secret, tales have leaked from the temples. Blood sacrifices. Torture. Vile arts based in dark magics that muddle the line between life and death.”

“I take it we're not talking about hunting deer anymore?”

“The higher the being, the more magic it carries. We're talking human beings.”

“And this worship is legal in Dasnaria?”

He sipped his wine, contemplating me. “First, our governance is different. Our king does not hold absolute power. We have a number of ruling bodies that must debate and agree upon the laws. Second, though not precisely legal—kidnapping, murder, and torture of human beings are not—what cannot be proved cannot be prosecuted. The Temple of Deyrr is powerful. As long as they prey on those without consequence and support the ambitions of the ones with it, they are left alone.”

“I cannot find that admirable about Dasnaria.”

His even stare reminded me that not all in the Twelve Kingdoms went admirably at the moment. But we endured a time of trial that would soon be resolved. The High King would see that and take action soon. I had to have faith in that. If he didn't, I didn't know what I could do.

“I don't disagree,” the mercenary finally replied, yanking my thoughts back. “You'll note I am not living in Dasnaria.”

“So what are you telling me? That this Illyria is a priestess of this practice and she is here to attempt to start her religion? Glorianna's temple won't sit idly by.”

“That's not what I'm saying. The rites gain the priests and priestesses the magic they wield. She seeks to use her power to gain more.” And Uorsin made a fine path, he didn't say out loud. His meaning, however, hung in the air.

“How?”

“It's theoretically within her abilities to raise an army by animating the dead.”

He returned my incredulous stare, not giving any sign of teasing. In fact, he looked dead serious.

“How is that even possible? I've never heard of such a thing. It sounds like a wild tale to me.”

“You have a history of the Dasnarian kings on your desk. You'll find mention of all I've relayed here in the chapter on the foundations of the Orsk dynasty.”

Sharp eyes on him. Sharp mind behind it. I would not underestimate him again.

“Presupposing this is true—where would she obtain the dead?”

He rolled his shoulders, shrugging off a tension he didn't otherwise reveal. “Tombs, crypts, mausoleums. I don't really know. I'm guessing at her plans—I am far from being in her confidence.”

“Slave trade?”

“Not as far as Dasnaria is officially concerned. The temple does what it may in the shadows. Suffice it to say the dead have little protection from slavery.”

“Mohrayans burn their dead,” I mused to cover my chill. “But not so in some of the other kingdoms. So she has no other unusual powers—shape-shifting, wizardry, anything like that?”

The mercenary narrowed his eyes, set the goblet aside. “Are those stories of the Tala true, then?”

“Some, certainly. It's not easy to sort truth from hysteria. In the thick of a fight, much can seem mystical that isn't.” Except that I'd stood on the opposite side of an invisible barrier that my sister controlled with her mind. “That said, should we battle the Tala again, be prepared for the extraordinary.”

“I would say the same with Illyria. I don't know what powers she possesses, but I would put nothing past her. I believe her to be a great danger.”

“Have you said as much to the High King?”

He tapped the tips of his fingers together, cocked his head, and studied me. “You know I could not.”

“Because?”

“Your father is not receptive to hearing what he does not wish to.” He'd phrased it carefully, but more lurked beneath his words. Frustration. Anger, perhaps. The implication that Uorsin favored her foul plans. Surely not. If I could count on anything in the King's increasingly strange behavior, it would be his hatred of magic. Salena might have given him the edge to win the High Throne, but he'd never let go of the resentment. And of the fear, if I gave it honest thought, that she had possessed a power he could not control.

The alternative, however, that he might be blind to Illyria's true nature—or that she somehow manipulated him—was not pleasant to contemplate. If only because it would mean I could not in good conscience go after Ami. What would it take to send Illyria away?

I poured myself more wine, hoping to dull the sharpening worries I didn't care to ponder. Our conversation could be considered treasonous—certainly by Uorsin, suspicious as he already was—and already I fretted over what I could possibly do to discover more without inciting him further. And yet, for the good of the Twelve, I could hardly ignore such a warning.

“Why are you telling me?”

“She asked you about this Star, and that concerns me. And because, Ursula, you impress me.”

Uncertain how to respond to that and uncomfortable under his intent gaze, I drank from the goblet, the wine warm and rich. I didn't feel impressive. And I had no intention of telling him about the Star.

He read it in my face and laughed a little, looking into the fire. “You know, when I signed on and heard that High King Uorsin's heir was a woman, well—” He broke off, shaking his head. “I've said the Dasnarian women are not like you. When you walked into court, I thought . . .” He paused, glancing at me.

“You thought what?” I both did and didn't want to know. Better to hear it, though. Some odd part of me had gone breathless. Fear, perhaps, of feeling those old wounds. I'd long since stopped caring about the sly jokes and innuendos, but there had been a time when they'd cut me to the quick. Before my skin thickened. Something about this man, though, made me feel thin-skinned again.

“I thought you were the most extraordinary woman I'd ever seen.” The mercenary said it softly, deep voice as smooth as the wine. “The way you faced the High King was amazing to witness. Nobody that I've seen has handled him so well. You're fearless, flawlessly intelligent, and you have the mind, spirit, and reflexes of a warrior. If anyone can save us from this potential disaster, you can.”

I shook myself mentally, the eerie echo of Derodotur's words penetrating the allure of Harlan's flattery.
He's a strategist; of course he knows how to play you. And how to suck up to his royal clients.

“I watched you deal with him and thought, here is an ally. Here is someone with the strength, the guile, to deal with what the presence of the Temple of Deyrr implies. Which brings me to my other concern.” He stared into his goblet, as if seeking an answer there. “About what happened last night.”