The White Mists of Power (35 page)

Kensington took a deep breath and walked down the stairs. When he was across from Byron, Byron stopped him. “Milord, I answered your questions. Now answer mine. Why do you want to rule Kilot?”

Kensington frowned, glanced at the chair, but did not move. “For years,” he said, “the system has been falling apart. It worked for a long time. The council made the decisions and the king enacted them with his seal. Then, a few generations ago, council members stopped caring for Kilot. They figured out that they could gain themselves. They revised documents and land surveys, and increased their own holdings. They redistributed funds to injure the gentry not in power. My own father took lands from Lord Styler’s mother when she failed to keep her seat on the council. I plan to change the system, become a strong ruler and abolish the Council of Lords until things are under control.”

“I know.” Byron slipped his lute across his back. “But you knew my mother was having difficult pregnancies and that my brother was dying of a wasting disease. Everyone with access to the royal doctors knew that. I’ve thought about it for a long time, and all I know is this: you were at Kerry when Lady Kerry banished me. You were in three cities that I was in, and in all three I narrowly escaped a murder attempt. You were on Dakin’s land a few weeks before the hunt. And you were at the palace during the two attempts on my life. We are going to fight each other, cousin. I will not arrest you here because that would not ensure my throne. I simply want to know how you knew who I was and why you decided to kill me.”

Kensington had turned pale. “I–it started after the Ladylee Diana’s death. The Lady Kerry wanted you dead and I agreed to help. When I learned who you were, that didn’t change things. A murderer shouldn’t sit on Kilot’s throne.”

“Then you don’t qualify either,” Byron said. He looked at his hands. The calluses on his fingertips were flat. “I could have used you. We want some of the same things. But I can’t trust you, milord. Not now.”

“My offer still stands.”

“I’m sorry.” Byron stood. “The audience is over.”

Kensington stared at him for a moment, then turned, and left the room. Byron stood in the silence, clenching his fists and wondering why he felt as if the fire along the bier had gone out.

iv

Ikaner walked on the patterned stone, hands shaking, head bent. She had never been on human land. She couldn’t feel the earth. The stone covering the grass was dead, as was the stone forming the walls. Her feet had no contact. She felt completely alone.

Off to her side, men with weapons shot at trees. As the arrows pierced the trees, she felt little thuds of pain that echoed even through the dead stone. The white mists was not like that, she reminded herself. The white mists respected her land, respected her bluff. He had affection for the people around him.

People stared at her as they passed. She should ask one of them where she could find the white mists, but she could not remember the human word for him. She had planned on following the land, but the dead stones blocked most feeling. She had followed the feeling to the dead stones and then felt nothing.

She glanced around at the stone walls, the stone benches, the dead stone surrounding her, and she hesitated. She had to warn the white mists. The only way he could save himself and save the land was to know what he risked. Her trees had seemed alien with the bloodlust. She had felt them looking toward her, smelling her fluids, searching for blood. She had almost forgotten that feeling until the meetings. Until the talk of blood-filled land began again.

A hand touched her arm. She jumped. No one had ever snuck up on her before. She had always listened through the ground. She turned and saw herself facing Zcava.

The white mists can solve this himself.
Zcava’s expression was stern, her grip on Ikaner’s arm tight.

He doesn’t know about the prophecy. If he knew, he would not fight.

He has a prophecy of his own. The final test is tonight. If he fails that, he doesn’t need to know about the blood on the land. His destiny is sealed.
Zcava pulled on Ikaner’s arm.
Come with me.

I must see him.

Zcava let go of Ikaner.
If you see him, you shall die and your bluff will burn and fall into the river.

You threaten me.

I speak the truth. The Enos may not interfere in the lives of humans.

You prophesied to the white mists. You blocked his mind.

Zcava nodded.
With permission of the Old Ones. The Old Ones do not want you to interfere.

Why not?
Ikaner was motionless. The humans walked around them as if they did not exist.

Because you are a bluff Enos and your place is on a piece of land overlooking the river.
Zcava bowed her head. Her hood hid her face.
Come back with me.

Ikaner felt blind on the dead stone. She could not find the white mists on her own, and she did not know if she wanted to lose her bluff. Suffering the bloodlust might be better than having no bluff at all. She glanced around one final time, hoping to see the white mists enshrouding a human shape. But she saw human shapes with faded colors, prancing and sparking, and that was all.

Zcava had started back to the Cache. Ikaner followed.

v

Byron leaned against a fence post, feeling the cold stone dig into his back and buttocks. He wore a simple linen shirt and black trousers, the most comfortable outfit that the tailor had made him so far. The other clothes were too formal, too regal for him.

A group of archers huddled on the patch of grass just ahead of him, shooting arrows at targets drawn on the trees. Ile instructed them, setting up different formations, demanding that the archers shoot while moving.

Byron rested an elbow on his knee. Something about these practice maneuvers made him uneasy. The entire situation made him uneasy. Something was wrong. He felt as if an old ballad was nagging at the back of his brain, but he couldn’t remember the melody. He had forgotten an important piece of information, and the more he concentrated on it, the more it eluded him.

A rider broke through the trees. His horse was lathered, and his clothes were ripped and dirt-covered. He stopped and spoke briefly to Ile, who pointed to Byron.

The rider nodded and rode toward the fence. Byron stood. The rider reined up, and Byron caught the scents of sweat, leather, and horseflesh.

“The guardsman told me that you could help me, sir,” the man said.

‘Sir’ not ‘sire.’ Byron frowned. “What did he tell you?”

“That you were in charge here, sir, and I need your help. I need to find the Lady Jelwra immediately.” The rider reached into his breast pocket and removed a packet. His fingers partly covered the seal, but Byron recognized Lord Kensington’s colors embedded in the wax.

“What business do you have with the Lady Jelwra?” Byron asked. His heart pounded against his chest.

“I have to deliver this to her.”

“I’ll take it.” Byron extended his hand for the packet and smiled slightly. He tried to keep the sarcasm from his voice. “I’m her bard.”

“I’m sorry, sir bard,” the rider said, “but I’m to put this in her hands and no one else’s.”

“She is in the palace garden.” Byron pointed the way. The rider thanked him, clucked at his horse, and rode off. Byron turned and followed. He walked slowly, hoping that the rider would leave before he arrived. Part of him didn’t want to know what the rest of him was certain of. Perhaps if he had told the rider that he was king–

But no. The rider would probably have galloped off, leaving everyone even more suspicious. Byron’s feet clanged on the flagstones. He let himself in the north wing and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Then he hurried down the twisting hallway to the second-floor library, which overlooked the gardens.

The books smelled musty and old. Dust covered the floor. No one had been in the room for years. Byron walked through the stacks to the rays of light at the far end. He used to love this room, used to spend hours here when he should have been learning to ride, or learning sword play. Lord Demythos had had a library, but it hadn’t compared with this one.

Byron stopped in front of the windows, put his hand on the edge, and looked down. Alma sat on a bench and thumbed through the papers. She was smiling at the rider, who stood before her. A servant stood behind her and she turned to him. He handed her a sheet of parchment, and a pen and inkwell. Alma scrawled on the parchment, then sealed the letter, and handed it to the rider. He slipped the parchment into his breast pocket, nodded at something she said, something that Byron could not hear, and mounted the horse. Alma watched as the rider rode away. Then she too left the garden.

Byron gripped the edge of the windowsill until his fingers went numb. He had hoped that he could trust Alma. He had thought that she cared about him enough to work with him instead of against him. But everyone he had ever trusted had failed him in some way. Diana must have told Kensington about him. Lord Boton had sent him to his death. His father had never cared, and his mother no longer wanted him.

Rulers are loved differently,
the Enos had said.

Byron’s smile was thin. Rulers weren’t loved at all.

Chapter 26

i

The land screamed. Ikaner sat up. The cavern was dark; the fire stones had gone out. Her hands felt hot, as if something were burning her palms. She lifted her hands from the earth and the feeling disappeared. But the land screams, the churning, the pain continued. And through it she could feel the drip-drip-drip of blood.

The other Enos awoke, their thoughts crowding her mind.
What is it?–My land! My land–Stop her. She cannot leave.–The blood is necessary. We must use the blood–

Ikaner shut out their voices and huddled. Outside, the whistle-woods moaned, but the moans rose and sounded almost like human laughter. The young trees beside her swayed in an imaginary breeze. The blood seemed to flow underground on a path to the new trees. The whistle-wood moans felt more underground than aboveground.

Ikaner felt through the earth, found the blood flow, and traced it back to a field not far from her bluff. More blood drip-drip-dripped into the land, and human cries mingled with all of the others. She could feel death, the moment that the blood stopped flowing in a number of different places. But the fresh blood carried the pain beneath the whistle-woods and the whistle-woods grew excited. Beside her, the young trees swayed. The warmth of their bark radiated at her like a fire.

Then the human screaming stopped. The blood stopped dripping into the land. The flow continued, and the land touched its pollution, encircled it as if it were something to be explored.

Ikaner shivered. The bloodlust had begun.

ii

The dawn was golden. Byron watched the morning-touched rays illuminate the green leaves in the garden. He shivered. The night had been cool and his clothes were damp. A wind rose with the sun, ruffling his hair and sending a chill through him. In the distance the whistle-woods began their moans again.

The whistle-woods had cried all night, although he had not, until this point, felt a breeze. The sound had frightened him, but he hadn’t gone inside. He couldn’t face Alma, couldn’t bear to question her about her messenger. And he couldn’t sleep next to her without touching her. She would have touched him back, and the passion would have flowed between them, and he would have hated her for using her body to lie to him, and hated himself for letting her.

He stood and stretched. The bones in his back cracked with stiffness. The guard who had also spent the night in the garden smiled wearily. Byron nodded to him and then walked toward the palace’s east wing.

He hadn’t planned to see Seymour, at least not consciously. But he found himself in front of Seymour’s door before even considering where he had gone. Byron knocked once. The sound echoed in the stillness, and then he remembered that it was just dawn. He turned to leave, hoping he hadn’t awakened anyone. The door swung open, and Seymour faced him, his hair tousled and his eyes sleep-filled. He wore a pair of breeches loosely tied at the waist.

Byron nodded. He leaned against the wall. He was tired. It would have been nice to go into the room and sit while Seymour dressed. The door opened again and Seymour came out. As the door closed, Byron caught a glimpse of another figure on the pallet. Vonda.

Byron glanced around the corridor. The doors looked thinner here, as if the oak were less solid in the east wing than they were in the north wing. “Let’s walk,” he said.