Blackveil (95 page)
“GIVE ME THE MASK.” All pretension fell away. Yates’ posture changed, an inferno burned in his eyes. His cheeks flushed.
Karigan fought the compulsion, fought with herself to stand still. She heard swords drawn from sheaths.
“No,” she told the others “Attacking him will not work.”
“That is correct,” Mornhavon said in Yates’ voice, but without his inflection. There was no humor, no lightness. Only cruelty. “I will give this Green Rider back to you if you give me the mask.”
“Don’t do it,” Lynx said. “Yates wouldn’t want you to.”
“It would not be wise,” Ealdaen added.
“THE MASK. GIVE IT TO ME.”
Karigan closed her eyes. Tears ran down her face. She recalled what she had seen when she’d looked through the faceplate of the mask—all the stars, like the lights of celestial cities. She’d seen millions of threads, as the Eletians called them, some as fleeting as the glowing tails of comets, others solid, luminous chains. They were the possibilities and variables of individuals, of entire worlds, far too much for her to take in. If she’d the control, she could tinker with the threads, change outcomes, change whole worlds, past, present, future.
It was the realm of the gods, and she could not wear the mask. Too much power, too much influence and responsibility, a path to madness.
Mornhavon must have known what the mask was the moment he saw it, and now he coveted it. She knew he’d use the mask like a puppet master, pulling strings and rearranging the workings of the universe to his own liking.
Mornhavon as a god. She shuddered.
He hadn’t tried to force it from her. Perhaps it must be freely given, as it had been to her. Maybe Yates resisted him from somewhere deep inside. She opened her eyes. He stood before her. The semblance of her friend was only on the surface. Sweat poured down his face.
What remained of Yates? Her friend the jester, the pursuer of women, the skilled artist and cartographer? The Rider whose courage had not faltered even when he was blind and stumbling in Blackveil? She had seen threads when she peered through the mask.
Yates . . .
Mornhavon as a god.
Herself as a god. She held the power in her hand.
“You want this?” Karigan said, holding the mask above her head. She knew the Eletians were poised to strike her with their swords should she try to hand the mask over to Mornhavon.
“Yes, yes. GIVE IT TO ME.”
Through the mask, Karigan had seen endless possibilities for this one moment, the weaving and unweaving of infinite luminous strands. The decision was hers, and hers alone. Everything came down to what she did next.
“Here it is,” she replied.
With every ounce of strength remaining to her, she slammed the mask onto the floor at Mornhavon’s feet. It shattered into thousands of silver pieces. Threads snapped and unraveled, and the universe rushed out.
AN AWKWARD SITUATION
R
ichmont was surprised by the summons borne to him by the Green Foot runner. His cousin had done what she could to keep her distance from him since the night he had witnessed the rite of consummation. It mattered not, for he was still solidifying his position among the nobles. Most were grateful to make his acquaintance, knowing he had the ear of the new queen and could grant favors or deny them.
ichmont was surprised by the summons borne to him by the Green Foot runner. His cousin had done what she could to keep her distance from him since the night he had witnessed the rite of consummation. It mattered not, for he was still solidifying his position among the nobles. Most were grateful to make his acquaintance, knowing he had the ear of the new queen and could grant favors or deny them.
And now the lord-governors were beginning to arrive, having learned of the sudden wedding. They demanded audiences with Estora and Zachary. Formal requests had been refused, and Richmont knew Zachary had not fully reawakened. The assassination attempt was not discussed, and no one was led to believe Zachary was in anything but good health. Mostly Colin Dovekey dealt with the lord-governors, but Richmont insinuated himself into their good graces by promising to mention their wishes personally to the king and queen.
He’d been speaking with Lord-Governor Adolind and making his promise when the runner arrived with the summons.
“You see?” Richmont said to Adolind. “I can give the queen your request straightaway.”
Adolind half-bowed, deeply gratified. That was how Richmont wanted it—Sacoridia’s powerful indebted and bowing to him. He strolled through the castle corridors at his ease, not hastening his steps, though he was curious to know what Estora wanted with him. He would not give her the satisfaction, however, of answering her summons like an eager dog.
When finally he reached the royal apartments he was ushered directly into Zachary’s chamber. He absently took in a mender touching Zachary’s forehead and a servant on her knees sweeping up ashes at the hearth.
A Weapon stood just within the door, and another on the balcony outside the glass doors looking for trouble from without. Estora stood at the foot of the bed, hands clasped in front of her, attired in a creamy gown and resembling one of the classical sculptures decorating the more important rooms in the castle, even with the mourning shawl she still wore over her shoulders. She gave the slightest nod of dismissal and the mender removed himself from the room. The Weapon stepped just outside the door.
Interesting,
Richmont thought. It was to be a private meeting.
Richmont thought. It was to be a private meeting.
“You sent for me?” Richmont asked.
“I did.”
“Is it the king? Is he failing?” Richmont could not conceal the eagerness in his voice.
“He is holding his own.”
Richmont stepped closer, a smile curling his lips. “No more reenactments of the rite of consummation?”
“That is between my husband and myself.”
Richmont took yet another step closer, closer than propriety permitted. “Anything,” he said very quietly, but distinctly, “that pertains to you and your royal marriage shall be known to me. All the intimate details, everything, should I wish it. As you know, I can acquire anything I like whether you tell me or not.”
“Because of your informants,” Estora said, “because of those you’ve bribed or threatened.”
Richmont had expected the coldness in her voice, but the rest of her remained composed, oddly relaxed. He felt a warming in his loins at her defiance, rather a surprise since he had not entertained fantasies about using her body for his pleasure since she was a child. Perhaps he was seduced by the power Estora had married into and aroused by the thought of breaking that defiant streak in her, of breaking
her.
He’d stayed away from her and her sisters to retain his good standing with Lord Coutre, but Lord Coutre was dead and gone and of no use to him now.
her.
He’d stayed away from her and her sisters to retain his good standing with Lord Coutre, but Lord Coutre was dead and gone and of no use to him now.
Swiftly he calculated the advantages and disadvantages of various possibilities.
“I asked you here,” Estora said, “hoping you would recant all that you said to me that night, and that you would gracefully resign yourself from your self-ascribed position as my advisor. I wish you removed from my court.”
Richmont laughed. How courageously, how naively she spoke. How he would enjoy the breaking of her, savor it. “After all I told you about what I could do to your reign, how I could bring down your sister in Coutre and ruin your father’s name? After all my work you expect me to gracefully bow away without my due reward?”
He grabbed her wrist and drew her close. She did not fight him. He wished she would. “You are no more than a whore,” he told her in a harsh whisper, “used to breed the new king. You shall not be rid of me. In fact, I see an even greater future for myself. For instance, if the king’s condition should take a change for the worse.”
“What are you saying?”
“It would be easy enough to arrange, and with whom would you replace him? Oh yes, the queen would need a suitable husband.”
“Are you suggesting—”
“Suggesting? No, my dear, I’m telling you that I would be your husband. I would be king.”
“I’ve heard enough,” came a voice from the bed.
Richmont’s heart thudded. He dropped Estora’s wrist and stepped away. “W-what? My lord? Did you speak?”
Zachary rose up onto his elbows, his cheeks hollow, but his gaze stern. “You heard me.” His voice was not at all weak.
Blood drained from Richmont’s face as he thought furiously of what to say, what to do. How much had Zachary heard? How long had he been awake? Estora did not look the least bit surprised by his wakefulness. She must have known and kept his true condition a secret from him. But how was this managed? It was a trap, yes, a trap.
“This is a most wonderful surprise, Your Majesty,” Richmont said. “To see you looking so well.”
“An unhappy surprise for you since you were indicating you’d prefer my demise,” the king said. “I heard every word, and have been told even more.”
“Then you know what will happen if you do anything to me. It’ll be the downfall of your reign.”
“What I know,” Zachary said forcefully, “is that I hereby strip you of all titles and privileges, and that shall be the least of my judgments upon you.”
Rage, blinding as a stroke of lightning, surged through Richmont. He would tear Zachary down, Estora would become his slave, and all of Sacoridia his plaything. He drew a dagger from beneath his cloak. He would show them, but before he could more than imagine plunging the blade into Zachary’s gut, someone grabbed his wrist and his fingers went numb. The dagger dropped to the carpet. Gray ash dust drifted from the hand that held him.
The servant? His mind reeled. He’d dismissed her existence, forgotten her presence as one always did with servants, but this one did not have the meek demeanor of a serving woman. She wrenched his arm behind his back.
“No!” Richmont roared. “You can’t do this! I’ve plans in place that will bring you down! My valet stands ready with letters he shall distribute the moment he knows something has happened to me. The information in them will destroy you. Is that what you wish? Your reign torn down in disgrace?”
“Richmont,” Estora said calmly, almost kindly, which surely meant she mocked him. “Meet Green Rider, and swordmaster initiate, Beryl Spencer. Formerly Major Spencer, aide to Lord-Governor Tomas Mirwell.”
Richmont shuddered. He’d heard of her, known what she’d done to Tomas Mirwell, but the rest was all rumor. Her secrets lay even deeper than Richmont could dig. Now he identified that tone in Estora’s voice—pity.
“Were these the letters you were speaking of?” Beryl Spencer asked from behind him. She shoved a bundle of letters beneath his nose.
Spane gasped, recognizing his own seal on them.
She drew him close against her and whispered in his ear, “Your valet proved most cooperative. You and I shall have much to discuss.”
“I’ve nothing to say to you.”
“How disappointing.” But Beryl’s tone indicated she was not disappointed at all. “I’ve already unraveled a good many of your schemes, picked apart your connections and networks, questioned those whom you believed loyal. I received many answers. Far fewer than you thought were truly loyal. People, it may surprise you to know, generally dislike being threatened and extorted, and most are more sympathetic to Queen Estora than, say,
you
.”
you
.”
Her voice was soft, lovely, almost melodic. She terrified him.
“By the time we finish our interview,” Beryl added, “you will reveal everything I wish of you, and there will be a reckoning for the murder you arranged for one of my fellow Riders. Your desires, your plans, and any status you once enjoyed are perfectly meaningless while you are in my hands. And finally, when I’m done with you, the king and queen shall have you for judgment.”
Richmont was handed over to the iron grip of a Weapon. Before he was led away, he cast one more glance into the chamber. Estora stood by Zachary’s bedside, neither of the two paying him the least attention, but gazing at one another and talking quietly. Beryl Spencer walked beside him, smiling pleasantly.
Richmont Spane wanted to cry.
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