The White Mists of Power (11 page)

Usci sighed, his arms filled with white skirts. He shook out the dress and hung it in the wardrobe. “You are here on business, lady. You shouldn’t be distracted.”

“Business.” Alma sat on the bed. Its softness gave way under her slight weight. Someone of the king’s girth would sink to the floor. “Lord Dakin doesn’t seem to care about those lands his family fought for. If I were here on business, I wouldn’t have time to look at Sir Geoffry of Kinsmail. But right now I can look and wonder–”

A knock echoed in the room. Usci closed the wardrobe and walked to the door. Alma put her feet on the bed, tucking them under the folds of her dressing gown. Usci opened the door. In the light flickering from the hallway, she saw a man. But he was too short and broad to be Sir Geoffry.

“And he owes me the courtesy of appearing on time. Hunting men with dogs taking precedence over my meeting with him.” She swept to the door, conscious of her bearing and the commanding tone of her voice. The retainer was young, his skin pockmarked, his eyes wide at seeing a lady in her dressing gown. “Tell your master that I will see him in fifteen minutes, no more. If he does not appear then, I will leave this place in the morning, heading for the palace, and I will not give him an audience. Is that clear?”

Alma sighed. That was almost too easy. She hoped that the confrontation with Lord Dakin would take more energy. Three years ago, when her mother had died on Alma’s eighteenth birthday, Alma had decided to increase the size of her estate. She hoped that by the time she was twenty-five, she would be the largest landowner in Kilot, someone whose power and prestige the king could not ignore. She had already acquired two modest holdings, a parcel from Lord Stilez, and most of Lord Lafa’s land. She was controlling the river access throughout the center of the country, and the king was already taking notice of her. When she left here, she would go to the palace for another audience, and perhaps some surreptitious advising.

“Go downstairs,” she said to Usci, “and make sure that Sir Geoffry is not there. I want him out of my way. And keep Lord Dakin busy until I arrive.”

“Yes, milady.” Usci let himself out the door.

Alma opened the wardrobe and stared at the gowns she had brought. She didn’t know if she should dress seductively or matronly, be subdued or flamboyant. She almost opted for kittenish, but then decided that her reputation had probably preceded her. She took out a gown that had a high collar, long sleeves, and no lace. Attractive but modest. She smiled to herself, feeling heat flush her cheeks. The battle was about to begin.

ii

Seymour knelt on the floor, his arms resting on the windowsill. The shutters were pushed back, and moonlight flooded the room. Byron slept in the bed beside him. Seymour envied him his ability to rest even amid all the noise. They had come upstairs soon after the Lady Jelwra, and Byron had fallen asleep almost immediately. Seymour had lain on his back, listening to the murmur of voices from the common room downstairs, the laugher of drunks outside his window. He hated the noise, the crowds, and the confinement. He wanted to go back to the country, where things were quiet and moved slower.

If he leaned forward, he could barely see the street below. Two cats started fighting, their screams and hisses rising above the other noise. A drunk kicked them, and they turned on him, crying out as they launched themselves at his legs.

Seymour glanced at Byron. The noise hadn’t awakened him. Byron sprawled across the pallet, his arms flung over his head. He snored softly, and occasionally one of his muscles world twitch. Seymour had examined Byron’s knees earlier, and except for the aging scabs, the knees had healed.

Byron should have talked to Seymour about the Kinsmail heritage. Seymour would have understood. Perhaps Byron felt that a peasant could only relate to one of his own kind. But to make up the elaborate story about barding, about Rury–Seymour shook his head. He didn’t know what to believe. If Byron were truly a Kinsmail, it made no sense to tell the Lady Jelwra. She had no scruples. She would probably tell Lord Dakin about Byron right away because Byron’s claim threatened them both. Then Byron would be in even more trouble.

Seymour sighed. He wished he were home, on his soft bed, away from everyone. He could practice his little magicks, take care of himself, and talk to no one. Life had been good there. He wished he had never heard the hounds, had never helped Byron. But Lord Dakin would still have discovered the hut, and Seymour would have had nowhere to go. If he hadn’t come into the city with Byron, he wouldn’t have known how to take care of himself.

The drunk sat in a doorway, his head against the door jamb, probably passed out. The sounds from the common room had grown stronger. He thought he heard the Lady Jelwra’s voice, answered by a man’s. Something about that other voice sounded familiar. The hair rose on the back of Seymour’s neck. He stood up and went to the door, opening it a crack. Below, a man laughed, a thick, gruff chortle. Seymour recognized it. Lord Dakin’s laugh.

Seymour’s heart beat in his throat. He closed the door quietly and tiptoed to the bed, grabbing Byron’s shoulders and shaking him.

Seymour grabbed his boots. He was not going to stay here, not if there was even a slight possibility that Lord Dakin was downstairs. This time Byron could save himself from the lord. Byron sighed deeply. Then another wave of laughter rose from the room below. Byron sat up so quickly that Seymour almost dropped his boots.

“Don’t apologize.” Seymour winced as he pulled on his boots. He grabbed his shirt and slid his arms into it. The material felt sharp and scratchy–new. “We’ve got to get out of here. I don’t want to see Lord Dakin.”

“He doesn’t know we’re here.”

“The Lady Jelwra’s bound to tell him about you,
Sir Geoffry
. I just want to be out of here before he decides to come up and get rid of the last Lord of Kinsmail.”

“She wouldn’t say–”

“You don’t know that. And it’s my neck you’re risking. Now get dressed and let’s go.” Seymour was amazed to hear his father’s voice come out of his mouth. He had never been commanding before. But then, he had only been this frightened one other time in his life. “I’ll go down first. Then you toss me the valise and follow.”

Seymour pushed the shutters open farther. He didn’t care about the boys. If Byron wanted to risk his life for those children, he could, but this time Seymour was going to look after himself. He straddled the windowsill. “Just toss me the valise.”

He didn’t wait for a reply. He gripped the windowsill tightly and swung his legs outside. The sudden pull on his arms made his shoulders crack. He glanced down. He would have to fall about six feet. He swallowed once, took a deep breath, and let go.

The wind fluttered through his hair and past his face as he fell. His feet hit first, sending a jolt through his body that ran up his spine and caused him to lose his balance. He sat ungraciously in the dust. The cats scattered, but the drunk didn’t wake up. The valise landed beside him with a soft thud. Seymour looked up. Byron hung from the window, his cape flapping in the wind. Byron dropped to the ground like a large bird, landed on his feet, and turned to Seymour.

“We’re getting those boys,” Byron said.

Seymour stood up, wiping the dust from his new trousers. He picked up the valise. “Lord Dakin probably has a horse in the stable.”

Byron nodded once, then turned, and walked toward the stable. Seymour followed. The anger and fear made him giddy, and his back ached from the fall. The valise felt heavy in his hands.

The stable stood next to the inn. The stable was an old building; it leaned slightly to one side. As Byron pushed open the door, a horse nickered. Inside, the stable was warm. The smells of hay and leather overlay the animal scents.

Seymour slipped around Byron and looked for the boys. They huddled together on a pile of hay, a stable blanket over them to keep out the night’s chill. Byron bent over them to wake them, when Afeno’s eyes snapped open.

“We’re leaving,” Byron said.

“It’s the middle of the night.” Afeno’s voice was wary.

Seymour glanced at the door. He could see nothing out there. Supposed Lord Dakin was looking for them already. He would go with the innkeeper to their rooms, find them empty, and come to the stables.

“We had some trouble,” Byron said.

“And you’re running from it?”

Seymour turned. The boy would have run, too, if he were facing a similar threat. “Look, we didn’t have to come get you, but Byron insisted. Now get up and come with us. Every minute you waste hurts us.”

Colin stirred and sat up. He brushed hay from his clothes and his hair. The fear Seymour felt was reflected in the younger boy’s face.

A loud crash outside the stable made them freeze. Seymour thought his heart was going to jump through his chest. Dakin was out there. They wouldn’t be able to escape.

Afeno crouched and ran for the door. Byron grabbed at him but missed. Afeno slipped outside. Seymour started to follow, but Byron put a hand on his arm.

“He knows what he’s doing,” Byron whispered.

Seymour held his breath. He silently reviewed all the spells he knew. He could draw moisture from the air to make water; he could create a fire by rubbing his hands together; he could make one object appear to be another, but he couldn’t make people disappear. His father could do almost anything with his magic. He had a strong luck web and knew how to call the correct spirits. He had been able to memorize anything immediately and would use the spell perfectly each time. But Seymour only knew fifteen spells–and most of them didn’t work.

Something cracked outside, and then someone moaned. There was a loud thud. Byron took a step forward, but Seymour shook his head. They didn’t dare go out there, not if Lord Dakin was waiting.

Then Afeno peeked his head in the door and beckoned to them. Byron took Colin’s arm and led him outside. Seymour followed. The drunk Seymour had seen earlier lay next to his doorway. A stick rested by his side.

“Will he be all right?” Seymour whispered.

Afeno nodded, then turned to Byron, apparently waiting for direction.

“We need to get out of the city as fast as we can,” Byron said. “And we’re heading southeast, away from Lord Dakin’s land. You know the way?”

Afeno nodded. He looked both ways before stepping into the road, then signaled that all was clear. Seymour stepped away from the inn, glad to be moving. He could never be far enough away from Lord Dakin.

iii

The houses in the wealthy section of Nadaluci had wide, fenced-in yards. Trees, flowers, and shrubs hid the buildings from view. No one was stirring except Afeno and his three companions.

The street curved and ran uphill. The air smelled of lilacs. Afeno hated the calmness. Cities were supposed to live after dark. But he didn’t want to see anyone, and he knew no one would be on the streets in this section of town. Magic had taught him that. “You tough a rich one in the day,” he used to say, “because they disappear with the light.”

At the top of the hill, the houses grew more expansive, the lawns lush with greenery. Byron walked solemnly beside Afeno, taking in everything. Seymour stared straight ahead. And Colin kept his head down, as if he weren’t worthy of seeing such impressive homes. Their feet shuffled in the dirt, a familiar sound, but Afeno thought he heard something else.