White Blood (17 page)

“Sorry, brother,” Carlich said, with no trace of remorse in his voice. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the edge of the goblet with a flourish. “Here. It’s a very nice vintage; Father spared no expense for our nephew’s feast. Too bad Barilan can’t enjoy it.”

“I swear, Carlich, someday you’re going to learn some manners.” Marolan accepted his goblet and took a long draught.

Maryn, watching from behind, noticed something change in the set of Carlich’s shoulders, and was puzzled for a moment. But when nothing further happened, she shrugged off her suspicion. Barilan stirred and whimpered, and she shifted her attention to him, swaying and murmuring soothing words to try to lull him into deeper sleep. It worked; he squirmed, resettled his weight, and sank again into stillness.

Carlich returned to his seat. Servants brought in a large, fanciful pastry, a precise replica of the palace baked in savory bread flecked with herbs and stuffed with cheese. The main construction was placed before the king and cut and parceled out among the occupants of the high table; the guests at the long tables each had individual little towers. Maryn’s stomach rumbled. She breathed in the warm, salty scent of the cheese longingly. It would be at least an hour yet, probably longer, before she could retire to the nursery and enjoy her own repast. She eyed the remains of the demolished palace, speculating on whether she might be able to sneak a piece unnoticed if she made some pretext to approach Voerell with a question or comment on Barilan’s well being.

An odd choking sound cut through the rumble of conversation. Though soft, there was something in the sound that immediately caught the attention. Maryn looked up, seeking its source. She followed the turned heads and shocked eyes of the crowd to the point where they focused. Marolan leaned over his plate, his face deathly pale, retching as if to vomit, but nothing emerged from his open mouth but that soft, strangled cough.

For a shocked instant no one reacted. Then Dolia’s scream pierced the stunned silence. Carlich leaped to Marolan’s side. “He’s choking!” he cried. “Get Rogelan!”

Maryn watched in horror as Carlich whipped out the little jeweled knife he used for sorcery and slashed open his palm. Blood splattered on Marolan. Carlich waved his hands about frantically, and the blood burst into a brilliant display of flashing blue sparks and swirling lights of all colors.

Despite Carlich’s efforts, Marolan continued to strangle. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he swayed. Froethych seemed frozen in his chair, staring at his eldest son’s distress. But Voerell and Whirter sprang forward. “Stand back!” Voerell cried to the rapidly converging throngs that pushed toward Marolan. “Carlich can help him! Give him space!”

Marolan slumped sideways in his chair. It overturned, spilling him to the floor. His long limbs thrashed about. Carlich crouched over him, never ceasing his urgent gestures.

But it was no use. As the minutes stretched long, Marolan’s movements grew slower, and weaker, and ceased altogether. The choking noises faded to a faint rasp, and then nothing.

Maryn stood paralyzed, horrified, staring. She clutched Barilan to her chest, so tight he woke and squirmed in protest.

Rogelan burst through the main doors into the hall and pushed his way through the crowd. “Let me by!” People pressed aside to let him through.

When he reached Marolan, Carlich was hunched over his brother’s still form. He raised a pale face to Rogelan. “There was nothing I could do. Something was blocking his lungs, but I couldn’t find any food or other obstruction. His throat just swelled shut.”

His voice was ragged, distraught, but somehow it seemed off to Maryn, just a little too glib, his words a bit too fast. She wasn’t the only one who noticed; Voerell’s brow furrowed, and Whirter frowned.

Rogelan looked at King Froethych grimly. “It sounds like poison.” He put a hand to Marolan’s neck, holding it there for several long moments before shaking his head. His voice was gentle. “I’m afraid he’s gone, your Majesty. If Carlich wasn’t able to save him, I could not have, either. But if he was poisoned, perhaps I can discover the source. If blood was used to create a magic poison, the traces will remain to be revealed.”

Voerell sank to her knees beside Marolan’s body, weeping. Dolia sat frozen in her chair, looking back and forth between Marolan’s still form and the faces surrounding him, an expression of deep confusion on her face, as if she must strain to understand every word spoken. The Ambassador put his hand on her arm and murmured rapidly in her ear.

Froethych rose to his feet, thunderous anger in every line of his body, his face a dangerous, dispassionate mask. “Do so.”

Everyone shrank back, cowed by the king’s implacable authority. Maryn backed as far as she could from the still form on the floor, but the wall behind and the press of bodies hemmed her in. She wrapped her arms tight around Barilan, heedless of his flailing arms and kicking legs. Heartbeats hammered in her ears, and she couldn’t seem to draw a deep enough breath. She longed to flee, to run until she found some safe dark hiding place where she could cower with her helpless charge, but she was trapped. Guards converged from every direction, their weapons drawn, casting about in confusion for someone to apprehend. But they were no comfort. They had failed to protect one prince; how could she expect them to keep another safe?

Rogelan knelt by Marolan’s body. His voice rose in the incantation to the Holy One, shaky at first, but steadying as he fell into the rhythm of the familiar words. He drew his knife and cut the pad of his finger, a generous slice that immediately began to bleed.

Energy buzzed in Maryn’s feet and up to her jaw. Blue lightning flashed from Rogelan’s hands. Marolan’s body began to steam, much as Maryn’s milk had when Rogelan tested it. The vapor rose into a cloud, mounting higher and higher toward the ceiling, until it was large enough to be seen by everyone in the hall. Portions thickened, others thinned. The billowing white clouds settled into the distinct shape of a face, the mirror of one that looked up at the mist in horror.

Slanted oval eyes, slim elegant cheekbones, long flowing unbound hair. Dolia’s lovely countenance floated over her betrothed’s body.

Carlich jumped up, lunging. “You!” he cried, as Whirter grabbed him and held him back. Guards surged in and seized Dolia, wrenching her to her feet, twisting her arms behind her. Ambassador Honro leaped to her assistance, but he, too, was seized.

Carlich continued blurting furious, hoarse accusations. “You used your blood to poison him! You never intended to marry him! Was the betrothal a plot all along, to assassinate him? Or was this the only way you knew to escape an unwanted marriage? Wonora will pay for this in blood! Blood, I swear—”

“Silence.” King Froethych’s voice was not loud, but it cut off Carlich’s tirade in midstream. “Sorcerer. Your spell shows that the princess’s blood was found in Prince Marolan’s body, yes?”

Rogelan quailed before the king’s cold voice. Above him, the last shreds of vapor drifted away. “Yes, your Majesty. And not just any blood; I specifically looked for blood transformed by magic into a poison. Princess Dolia’s image could only appear if her blood was what killed the prince.”

Froethych nodded. He looked at the captain of the guards. “You will take the princess to the palace gaol. The Ambassador too, and all their party. Hold them there. In the morning, a trial will be convened, and guilt will be determined. The one responsible for my son’s death will face execution.”

Dolia remained confused for a moment, until Ambassador Honro spoke urgently to her in Wonoran. She blinked, and her face blanched in horror. “No! No, I kill not Marolan! My betrothed, I love him, hate him not! Why kill him I?”

Carlich growled at her, “Be silent, murderess. Save your lies.” His voice rose to a shout as the guards dragged Dolia away. “We’ll show your father what he can expect if he tries to tangle with Milecha. There’ll be no treaty now to let you steal our crown!”

Voerell, still hunched over Marolan’s body, froze. She looked up at Carlich, an expression of profound horror flooding her features. “Carlich,” she whispered. “You didn’t…”

For a moment Maryn didn’t understand. But then cold washed over her, as one by one things she’d seen and heard fell into place.

Voerell looked at Whirter. The same awful realization was dawning in the duke’s face. He took a step sideways that placed him between Carlich and the only clear route of escape.

“F-Father.” Voerell’s voice shook so badly she almost could not form the word. She swallowed and tried again. “Father, I think…Carlich had Dolia’s blood, on his handkerchief. I saw it, this morning. She pricked her finger on a rose thorn, he cleansed the blood for her…but maybe not all of it?” She shut her eyes and shook her head, trying to deny the knowledge. “He was so upset about the treaty, so angry that you wouldn’t try to change it. He asked for our support, because he was going to try something different…” She blanched. “Carlich, how could you? You—Marolan—our
brother…
”

Carlich slowly swiveled to face her. “Voerell, you’re talking nonsense. Of course I would never harm Marolan. Father, she’s out of her mind with grief. You can’t possibly believe that I—”

Froethych motioned him silent. If it were possible, he had grown even more still. He fixed Voerell with his gaze. His voice was bizarrely gentle, coming from that terrible stern countenance. “Did Carlich have an opportunity to put Dolia’s blood in Marolan’s food?”

Voerell wrapped her arms around her body and rocked. “I don’t know…I don’t think so…Wait.” She looked up at her father, despair in her eyes. “He did. I saw. He used his handkerchief to wipe—”

“Father, don’t listen to her!” Carlich took a step toward Voerell. His hand rose as if to strike her, but he clenched his fist and drew it back down, turning to the king. “I don’t know why she’s accusing me, but I swear, I did nothing!”

Froethych remained silent. He stared at his son as if his gaze could drill into Carlich’s eyes and suck out the truth.

Carlich stepped toward the king, spreading his hands before him. “Believe me, Father, I would never do such a thing.” He spoke faster, his voice rising in pitch and volume. “It’s true I opposed the treaty. I told Voerell of my fears. Maybe
she
decided to act! Maybe she conspired with Dolia to murder Marolan!”

Voerell scrambled to her feet. “Father, he lies! It had to be him—”

Confusion swept Maryn. She couldn’t believe Voerell capable of murder. But it was nearly as difficult to believe it of Carlich. If the princess truly feared for her son’s life, what might she do to protect him? Maryn didn’t know what to think. She only knew she had to get Barilan away from there.

She tried again to elbow through the throng that packed the narrow space between the table and the back wall, but guards blocked every exit from the dais and refused to let anyone pass. The guards stared back and forth between Carlich and Voerell, poised to seize either or both at the least indication from the king.

Rogelan stepped between Carlich and Voerell, holding up his hands for quiet. “My king, I can settle this matter. Where is the handkerchief in question? I can scry it easily enough and reveal the truth.”

Froethych closed his eyes and nodded. “Carlich, give him your handkerchief.”

Carlich backed slowly away from Rogelan, edging around Marolan’s body. His hand rose toward his breast pocket. “I…I…Of course, Father. Of course I’ll give it to him. Only…I must have dropped it…” He groped around the pocket without ever reaching into it. Sweat;-;darkened strands of hair fell into his eyes.

Voerell pointed. “He’s got it right there, Father! Quick, or he’ll find a way to destroy it. Whirter!”

Whirter grabbed Carlich from behind, reaching for his pocket. Carlich slammed his elbows into Whirter’s ribs and twisted, but Whirter threw a strangling arm around Carlich’s neck. Carlich clawed at Whirter’s arm. Whirter’s free hand plunged into Carlich’s pocket and emerged clutching the incriminating bit of fabric. He waved it high. “Here it is, your Majest—”

Carlich snatched his knife from his belt and drove it behind him into Whirter’s gut. He tore free as Whirter doubled over and waved the bloody knife in a meaningful gesture. The handkerchief exploded in a burst of blue flames.

Voerell screamed and lunged to her husband’s side as Whirter collapsed. Blood poured from his wound and pooled around his body. Voerell tried vainly to staunch the flow.

Guards rushed Carlich. He whirled, brandishing his knife. A wave of lightning poured from the point and swept into the guards, blasting them backwards into the high table. The heavy carved wood teetered and overturned; table and guards together crashed from the dais to the floor below. People shrieked and scattered. Chaos filled the hall as half the assembled guests tried to flee, while the rest surged forward.

Voerell rose from Whirter’s side, her face white and terrible. She raised hands scarlet with her husband’s blood toward Carlich and began to shout the incantation to the Holy One. Carlich twisted his knife through a complex pattern in the air and sent more crackling blue flames arcing toward his sister.

They crashed into an invisible shield and splashed aside. Voerell fell back, staring without understanding at the sparks flashing inches from her face. Carlich repeated his gesture, stepping toward her, a furious light in his eyes, but the magic only reflected from the impermeable barrier. “What are you doing?” he cried.

Voerell shook her head. Her gaze traveled behind Carlich. He whirled, bloody knife rising before him in defense.

King Froethych stood, blood pouring from a gash across one palm. Blue lightning flickered around him. He moved his arms in a grand, sweeping arc. “You will not…harm…your sister,” he gasped, between great indrawn breaths. Blood gushed from his hand, far more than such a small wound should produce. “You will not…harm…your brother…your blood kin…. ”

Blood fountained upward, exploding into streamers of blue fire that flashed out, filling the hall, passing through the walls as if they weren’t there, arcing up through the ceiling into the sky. Maryn clutched Barilan as the light washed over them. He was screaming, but she could barely hear his wails above the furiously crackling lightning and the intense buzz that felt as if it would shake her bones apart.