The White Mists of Power (21 page)
Read The White Mists of Power Online
Authors: Kristine Kathryn Rusch
Byron paused, and when he spoke, his voice came out small. “Byron, sire.”
“And where are you from, Byron?”
Byron took his hands from the strings and slung the lute over his back. “I’m late of Lord Dakin’s lands.”
“Why didn’t he cling to such an adept bard?”
Seymour put his arm around Colin, glad for the warmth. The ice on his hand sent shivers down his back.
“I am quite outspoken, sire,” Byron said, “and I’m afraid I insulted his pride once too often.”
“Aren’t you afraid of insulting me?”
“No, sire.”
“And why not?”
“You are a greater man than Lord Dakin, and therefore harder to insult.”
The king laughed. The sound echoed in the large room. The diners watched but did not join in. “And you are naive, young man. The greater the man, the quicker his pride is stung. Remember that, Byron of Dakin.”
Byron nodded.
The king helped his lady to her feet. “I have had enough merriment for one evening. Thank you, young man.” He took a sip from his goblet, then led the lady out of the banquet hall, guards trailing them.
When the king had disappeared, the other diners slid their chairs back and relaxed. Conversation hummed throughout the room. Byron got off the stool. Colin moved away from Seymour. Byron passed them without even looking at them.
Seymour hurried out of the hall and caught up to Byron. The corridor outside the banquet hall was emptying. Byron looked haggard, his back bowed as if his lute weighed twice as much as usual.
“Byron, I’m sorry–”
“What do you have to be sorry about?” Byron’s voice sounded older, coarser, with no music in it.
Seymour held out his ice-encrusted hand. “I failed. I’m so sorry.”
Byron touched Seymour’s shoulder. “You did well this evening. Everyone thought you were funny. I was the one who failed.”
“But you couldn’t have known what the king would choose.”
Byron shook his head. “I expected to walk in and amaze them all. I imagined them all silent because of my audacity and my talent. And when I finished, I expected the king to stand up and ask me my name, then tell me that he wanted me as his official bard. The king’s bard. Such dreams I have. Such silly dreams.”
“You did amaze them,” Seymour said. “What happened was not your fault.”
Byron smiled, and there was a sadness to it. “You’re a good friend. I’m sorry that I proposed this scheme in the first place.”
“Propose another, and I’ll go with you.” The words startled Seymour because he knew they were true.
“They’ll probably ask you to stay after tonight. Maybe even be the king’s magician.”
“The king has gone through fifteen magicians in thirty years. I value my life too much. I told you once before, I only have so much luck. I think I used most of it against Lord Dakin’s hounds.”
“Does that mean you wouldn’t stay if they ask?”
“It does.”
Byron shook his head. “You’re a strange one, Seymour.”
“No stranger than you, friend bard,” Seymour said. “No stranger than you.”
vi
Milord:
He keeps himself guarded constantly. Someone is always around him. I will have to attempt an attack when he is surrounded by people. He performed before the king last night, and the king noticed him. If the bard is dismissed after this recognition, I will have no trouble assassinating him. But if the king decides to keep him on, the bard’s death will be noticed. I will send you further communications should events change.
Corvo
vii
Three candles resting on the table sent an orange glow around Seymour’s corner of the room. Byron slept near the wall, on his back, his arms flung above his head. Seymour leaned against the wall. The stone was cool and damp. He hated stone buildings, hated their coldness, their dampness. Wood felt warm and friendly, although wood burned so easily.
Seymour’s hand tingled as it thawed. A small heart-shaped burn had formed on his palm. He sighed, wishing the ice would disappear faster. He had spent so many nights like this, sitting up in his room, waiting for the ice to melt from his hands. He would burn himself often and his father would always yell to him:
Concentrate, Seymour. Concentrate!
His father’s anger always made things worse. Seymour would conjure a fire, his father would yell, Seymour would lose control and the fire would engulf his hand. His father would call his mother, and she would iceheal Seymour. She finally taught Seymour the iceheal spell so that he could do fire spells on his own.
Funny that he hadn’t used the iceheal when the room exploded in Coventon.
He should have known better than to trade spells from those magicians. He had a limited repertoire of spells and he didn’t dare add to them. He was an eighth-level magician and would never be anything more. When Byron woke up, they would talk about Seymour’s abilities and see if together they could find something else for him to do.
The last of the ice chipped away, leaving his palm red and wet. The burn glowed white against the redness. Seymour opened a jar and rubbed some cooling ointment on the burn. He had made the ointment when he started his lessons with Vonda, knowing that he had to be prepared should anything go wrong. The lessons had lulled him; he hadn’t made a single mistake. He should have known that everything would fall apart during the performance.
The ointment soothed the burn, making the whiteness seem less fierce. He should have become a healer instead of a magician. Healing was calming, just as magic was violent.
But he was not a healer. He had almost left the iceheal on too long. The last thing he needed was frostbite. But the ice kept the swelling down and kept the burn from going deeper. In a few hours, when the pain started, he would apply the spell again.
Seymour glanced at Byron. He had rolled onto his side, muttering and tossing his head. He looked haggard in the dim light. Seymour would never have been able to fall asleep after such a disappointing evening. But Byron used sleep as healing. Seymour would wait until he was completely exhausted before trying to sleep. By then Byron’s tossing would end.
A scratching on the door made Seymour sit up. He knocked the table, causing the candles to flicker. He grabbed the holders to steady the flames. Then he held his breath, waiting to see if the scratching would come again. It did, accompanied by a whisper.
“Seymour? You awake?”
“Who is it?” he whispered back.
“Vonda.”
Seymour felt a flush rise in his cheeks. He didn’t want her to see him, didn’t want her comments about his performance. But he had already acknowledged his wakefulness, and he couldn’t very well turn her away. He got up. The stones were cold against his bare feet. He pulled the heavy oak door open. “What are you doing here? It’s almost dawn.”
“I couldn’t get away any sooner.” Vonda slipped inside, her blue robes glimmering gold in the candlelight. Seymour closed the door behind her. “I came to see how your hand is.”
He put a finger to his lips and nodded toward Byron. She glanced at the sleeping man, then stared. Seymour couldn’t see the expression on her face, but he could feel the fascination. He sighed and sat down. He didn’t blame her. Byron was the interesting one. He was good-looking and flamboyant, and very much alone. Seymour was alone too, but his features were plain and his manner dull. Now that he had shown what a fool he was to the entire entertainment wing, he didn’t blame Vonda for turning her attention to Byron.
“Well?” Vonda whispered.
Seymour looked up, surprised that she was speaking to him. She held out her hand, and it took him a moment to remember what she wanted. He finally turned his hand palm up. She moved a candle closer and crouched, running her finger along the edge of the burn. “It’s not as bad as I suspected,” she said. “It almost looks like someone icehealed it.”
“I did.”
“Really?” She looked younger in the darkness. The webs around her eyes had disappeared. He wanted to touch her to make sure they were still there.
“My mother taught me how. I used to burn myself a lot.”
“And the ointment that’s on there?”
“I made it.”
“Oh.” Her laugh sounded funny. “Then you don’t need this.” She pulled a jar or ointment from her robes. Seymour could smell the mallow leaves, part of a simple child’s potion.
He took the jar from her and set it beside him. “I appreciate it,” he said. “I’ll need it as this heals.”
Her smile was uncertain. She knew as well as he did that her ointment only soothed. The water-based liquid he had placed on his burn would heal it.
“Seymour, I–”
“Shhh,” he muttered. He cupped her elbow with one hand and brought her closer. Her eyes were wide and dark, the silver glow in the center almost gone. He put a finger beneath her chin and tilted her face toward his. Her breath caressed his skin. He leaned forward and brushed her lips with his own, then waited. She did not pull away. Instead she wrapped her arms around his neck and drew him closer. Her body was warm and soft against his. He let his hands slide down her back, and he kissed her again, this time tasting her.
Byron screamed. His cry was high and desperate and ragged. He thrashed on the pallet, striking out against the wall.
Seymour let go of Vonda and hurried to the pallet. He crouched beside Byron, grabbed his shoulders, and eased him away from the wall. Byron grabbed Seymour’s wrists so tightly that he cut off the circulation. Byron screamed again, then the scream broke off, and he sat up, his eyes wild and frightened.
“You all right?” Seymour asked. His heart was pounding heavily. Byron had had dreams before, but never like this.
Byron blinked and slowly the fear left his face. He took a deep breath. His entire body was shaking. He let go of Seymour’s wrists and the blood came back, making the wrists ache.
“I haven’t had that nightmare for years.”
Seymour sat on the edge of the pallet. “You want to tell me about it? Sometimes they seem less real if you talk about them.”
Byron grabbed a corner of the blanket and rubbed his cheek. The shaking eased. “I can’t.”
Then he looked up and saw Vonda. A mask fell across his face. “I’m sorry,” he said. “You have company.”
“Vonda’s been training me,” Seymour said. “Vonda, my friend Byron.”
Vonda approached the pallet. She looked down, her expression as cold and empty as Byron’s. “They say recurring dreams are brought on by past sins.”
“They’re probably right.” Byron hadn’t moved. “Vonda of Kerry?”
“The same. And you’re Byron now?”
Something flickered across his face, but the expression disappeared too quickly for Seymour to catch. “That’s what I’m called.”
“I thought it was Dasvid.”
“Your memory plays tricks on you, Vonda.” Byron smoothed his blanket, then reclined, resting on one elbow.
“My memory is quite sharp, Byron. I’ve been watching you since you arrived, wondering what you’re doing here. You’ve learned a lot since you were in Kerry. Even your humility is gone.”
Seymour moved away from them. The air had turned cold, and shivers ran up and down his spine.
Byron smiled, but his eyes held no warmth. “The humility is bound to return after last night.”
“Ah, yes.” Vonda clenched her small hands in her lap, as if that were the only way she could control them. “When did you get such an extensive repertoire? And when did you start taking such great risks?”
“Why attack me, Vonda? I never did anything to you.”
Vonda leaned closer, her face almost touching his. “No. But you nearly killed the Lady Kerry.”
Seymour held his breath.
“I did nothing of the sort.”
“Her daughter died the night you disappeared.”
“Diana?” Byron’s mask fell away. “I had heard she was dead, but I didn’t know. I–”
“You what?”
Seymour winced at Vonda’s tone. The light hit half of her face, extending her features, making her almost ugly.
“You think I killed her?”
“Who else could it have been?”
Byron’s fists were clenched around the blanket. “I never touched her. She was a friend of mine.”
“She died with your name on her lips.”
“Why didn’t you contact me?”
“Because we couldn’t find you. You had disappeared.”
“I had to leave.” Byron pulled the blanket tighter. “If you remember, you were one of the ones who drove me out.”
Vonda brushed her hair away from her face. “You were dangerous. You still are. I can feel it in the air around you. No one is safe as long as you’re alive.”
“So that’s why you befriended Seymour? To spy on me?”
Seymour looked away. He called an iceheal, cradled his hand to his chest. He knew it. Vonda being just his friend was too much to ask. Byron was the only person who liked Seymour for himself.
