The Exiled Queen (12 page)

“There, now,” Karn said, wresting his knife from him. “Guess that cider was stronger than you thought. We’d better help you two home.”

“Leave go. We’re staying here,” Han mumbled in protest. His lips felt numb.

Karn thrust his meaty hand under Han’s shirt and grasped the serpent amulet.

“Aaaaagh!” he shrieked, letting go of it and slapping his hand against his thigh.

Han curled protectively around the flashpiece. “Leave it be, you angling lully prigger, or I’ll —” He trailed off, unable to remember what he meant to do.

Karn made no further attempt on the amulet. Instead, he and one of the other soldiers hauled Han to his feet. Two other soldiers dragged Dancer out the door.

What is this? Han thought, clutching his amulet and ineffectually scuffing his feet against the floor. What do they want from us?

And then he didn’t think anything anymore.

Han awoke to a crashing turtleweed headache and a sick stomach. Sign of poor-quality product. He’d never dealt in that kind of stuff. He lay on a straw pallet on a stone floor, covered with a filthy wool blanket. Once his head stopped spinning, he gingerly sat up. It wasn’t easy—his hands were bound tightly together behind his back, his ankles bound also. He tested the knots, trying to slide his hands free or rub the cords loose on the stone floor. He got nowhere, ending with bruised and skinned wrists. His wrists were wrapped so tightly his fingers felt like fat, clumsy sausages. He was all dressed up like a warm mark on Temple Day. Dancer lay facedown a few feet away, similarly bound, still sound asleep. They lay in a dark room, faintly illuminated by the moonlight that sieved through the tightly shuttered windows and under the door. Cool night air leaked through imperfections in the wall and ran along the floor, chilling Han. There was no stink of the city in the air. The rattle of branches overhead and chirp of crickets said they were out in the country. Han’s flashpiece was gone. Somehow they’d found a way to get it off him. He felt a profound sense of loss—as though someone had ripped out his heart. All the power he’d stored away was now in somebody else’s hands.

Dancer stirred, groaning feebly. Probably had the same head on him that Han did.

Han scooted up next to Dancer. “Dancer!” he said. “Wake up!”

Dancer’s eyes flew open, though it took a few moments for him to focus on Han’s face. Then, in that way he had, he settled into calm awareness. “What’s going on?” he whispered through cracked lips. “My amulet’s gone.”

“It was those soldiers in the common room. They wanted our flashpieces. I don’t know how they knew we had them.”

“One of them was gifted,” Dancer mumbled. “That Karn.” He closed his eyes again. “I feel awful.”

“They drugged us with turtleweed,” Han said.

“If all they wanted was our amulets, why are we here?” Dancer’s tongue seemed thick in his mouth, his speech still slurred from the drug.

Han shrugged, sending tingling pain through his arms. “Can you get free at all?”

Dancer tested his bonds, and shook his head. Whoever’d dressed them knew what he was doing.

Han scanned the room for anything sharp, anything he could use to fray at the rope. A stone hearth along one wall had possibilities. The hearth was cold, but there might be an iron grate or rough stones he could use to cut himself free.

Han had begun scooting toward the fireplace, when he heard footsteps and voices drawing nearer. A key rattled in the lock, the door slammed open, and three men entered.

One was Marin Karn, the gifted soldier that had drugged and kidnapped them. Karn carried a large lantern, which he set on the mantel, shedding a buttery light over everything. A leather saddlebag was slung over his shoulder, and Han knew immediately that their amulets were inside. He glanced over at Dancer, who nodded, his eyes also fixed on the bag.

The second man was slender, of medium height, with light brown hair and faded blue eyes, dressed for blueblood soldiering. The brooch pinned to his cape bore the device of a red hawk, and his clothing was tailored from the finest fabrics. The sword at his hip was made for business, though, and looked well used.

A few years older than they, he moved with the dangerous grace of a fellscat.

The third man was the Malthusian priest who’d confronted them in the common room. He came and stood, looking down at Han and Dancer as if they were evil and dangerous—fascinating but helpless predators. He reminded Han of some at the market that paid a copper to see a ratty old bear chained to a stump.

Up close, the priest stank of old sweat and fanaticism.

The blueblood pulled off his expensive gloves and slapped them against his palm as he looked down at Han and Dancer, his handsome face pinched with contempt.

“This is them?” The blueblood nudged Han with his booted foot. “These are the northern mages you told me about?”

“Mages!” Karn shouted at Han and Dancer in Common, like a barker hoping his menagerie would make a better show. “Bow before Gerard Montaigne, King of Arden.”

Han obediently bent his neck while his mind raced furiously. The king of Arden? Han didn’t know much about the nobility, but he had to think the king of Arden didn’t sleep in a falling-down farmhouse.

“Are you certain no one knows about this?” Montaigne said to Karn. He spoke the southern tongue, but it was close enough to Common that Han could make it out. “What about your men? Soldiers cannot keep their mouths shut.”

“They think these two are northern spies,” Karn said. “I said I wanted to question ’em in private. They’re out on patrol, so they won’t have seen you come in.”

“I still don’t like this,” Montaigne said, his voice brittle and cold. “I told you I wanted nothing to do with sorcery.” He shifted his gaze to the priest. “I’m surprised you would be involved in this, Father, given the church’s position on magic users.”

Father Fossnaught fingered the keys at his waist. “I have made a study of mages and their ways. They are evil, disgusting creatures, yes, but I believe that, properly restrained, they can be put to use.”

“We give ’em a choice,” Karn put in. “They can repent and use their sorcery for the greater glory of Saint Malthus. Or burn.”

Han’s skin prickled as if flames were already licking at his flesh.

“The principia doesn’t share that view,” Montaigne said.

Fossnaught twitched. “True, there is a diversity of opinion on whether sorcerers can be saved through any means but the flame. I happen to believe Father Broussard’s view is rather — shortsighted.” He paused, then rolled his eyes heavenward. “Then again, His Holiness also believes Prince Geoff should be crowned at Ardenscourt, as the eldest surviving son of our late king. The principia is committed to succession by birth order. I, however, happen to believe that the Maker’s hand is in this war. Should you win, and I believe you will, then it must be the Maker’s will that you be crowned king.”

Montaigne rubbed his chin, nodding. Han could tell the young prince liked this line of thinking. “If I’m going to take this kind of risk, I want to do it with some likelihood of success,” Montaigne said. “Yet you bring me a pair of scruffy-looking boys. If they had any magical skill, you’d never have taken them.”

Karn cleared his throat. “They don’t look like much, aye, but as you said, it’s unlikely we could capture a fully schooled mage. These ones’ll be more tractable. Don’t know how much training they’ve had, but their amulets are packed with power.”

“What do you know of such things?” Montaigne glared at Karn, and Karn shifted his eyes away.

This prince of Arden doesn’t know his captain is gifted, Han thought. Karn’s kept it from him. With good reason, it seemed.

“If we use a weapon we don’t understand, it’s likely to explode in our faces,” Montaigne went on. “Remember what happened with the fire powder?”

Karn said nothing. He likely knew when to speak and when not to. Han wondered how much the captain really knew about magic and mages, as he called them. Could he have received any training in a place like Arden, where magic was forbidden?

Montaigne chewed on his lower lip. “If the jinxpieces are so powerful, couldn’t we just use the amulets and dispose of these two?” he asked, as if Han and Dancer were merely magical wrappings to be thrown away. The prince of Arden either assumed they couldn’t understand the flatland speech, or didn’t care.

Fossnaught shook his head. “Mages and amulets work together, Your Grace. One’s no good without the other.”

“Anyway, these mages must have safeguarded their amulets against use by anyone else,” Karn added. “The fair-haired boy’s jinxpiece blistered my hand when I tried to pick it up.” Karn held up his hand. It was wrapped in bandages.

Han didn’t look at Dancer, but he knew they were both thinking the same thing—they had no clue how to safeguard their amulets from anyone. He didn’t know why Karn couldn’t touch his flash, unless Han’s stored power was incompatible with Karn’s.

Unless it was demon-cursed.

All he knew was that the loss of his amulet had left him with an empty, sick feeling. He felt hollowed out and hungry for the magic he’d lost. How could he have become so linked to it in such a short time? He desperately wanted it back.

“The magelings will turn on us at the first opportunity,” Montaigne argued. “We’ll never be able to trust them.”

Father Fossnaught fished in his carry bag and drew out two pairs of silver manacles and two sets of keys. “These are old magic pieces called magebinders. I bought them off a trader in magical devices. The copperheads made them during the mage wars to control mage prisoners. You put the binders on the mage and you hold the key. If they disobey orders, the key holder can inflict excruciating pain. In time, they’re conditioned to obey.”

The priest paused. His gaze slid over Han, cold as a butcher’s hands in winter, raising gooseflesh on him. “I can demonstrate if you like, Your Majesty.”

You can try, Han thought, hoping they’d have to untie him to put them on. He’d worn magical cuffs all his life until Elena Cennestre of the Demonai clan removed them. He didn’t mean to have any new darbies fastened around his wrists if he could help it.

Montaigne took one of the sets of manacles and examined them as if they were an attractive but dangerous new toy. Without looking up, he said, “That won’t be necessary. Leave us, Father. Go back to town. We will let you know what we decide.”

Father Fossnaught took a quick breath, as if to argue. Then sighed and bowed his head. “Very well, Your Majesty. I’ll be at my lodgings in the cathedral close, awaiting your decision. You can send word the usual way.” The priest stuffed the set of manacles into his carry bag and extended his hand toward the prince. “Your Grace, if you don’t need —”

“I’ll keep these,” the prince of Arden said.

The priest bowed and left, with many backward looks, unhappy to be leaving his torture toys behind. Clearly wanting a seat at the table.

Montaigne continued to stare down at the manacles. “How would you use these two mages against Geoff’s armies, Captain Karn?”

At this, Karn’s muddy brown eyes lit up with enthusiasm. “In the mage wars, wizards could flame dozens of soldiers at a time. They could call down fog so the enemy would wander off a cliff. They’d spread fear and weariness among the enemy soldiers until they’d turn tail and run. They’d talk to birds and use them to spy, and use magical force to interrogate prisoners. They’d break sieges by walking through walls.”

“That’s difficult to believe,” Montaigne said, handing the cuffs to Karn.

“There’s written accounts from reliable eyewitnesses in the church archives,” Karn said. “Father Fossnaught’s made a study of it.”

“If word gets out about this, it could turn some of the more pious thanes against us,” the prince said.

“But Father Fossnaught says—” Karn began.

“Cedric Fossnaught is ambitious,” Montaigne cut in. “And changeable as a woman. He hasn’t forgiven the church for passing him over when he stood for principia. He thinks that a new king in Ardenscourt might lead to his own advancement.”

“Nothing wrong with that,” Karn said. “We need churchmen on our side.”

“It’s too great a risk,” Montaigne said.

“Begging your pardon, but everything’s a risk, Your Majesty,” Karn said, picking over the words like a fire walker over coals. “We’re losing. Duprais and Botetort are still with you, but Matelon’s wavering. Geoff controls the capital and the greater part of the kingdom.”

“Whose fault is that, Captain?” Montaigne fingered an elaborate ring on his left hand. “You are my strategist, you lead my armies, therefore you are responsible for the current situation.” The prince bit off each you like day-old bread.

Karn lifted his hands, palms up. “The thanes are tired. They’ve emptied their treasuries and neglected their crops for ten long years. They just want the war to be over.”

“The war will be over when I sit on the throne of Arden, and not before,” Montaigne said. “If the thanes want peace, they should swear to me.” He paused, fixing his icy gaze on the captain. “Perhaps you’re thinking of going with Geoff as well?”

“No, Your Majesty,” Karn said. “I’m a loyal soldier, you know that. Besides, Geoff would never take me on—not after what happened at Brightstone Keep.” His face twisted. “It offended his sensibilities when I ordered the sacking of the town and the killing of everyone in it. He has his principles. If Geoff has his way, I’ll swing for it.”

Karn’s already tried Geoff, Han thought. And that was the answer he got.

Montaigne gazed at Han and Dancer for a long minute, then shook his head. “No. It’s bad enough I can’t trust the thanes. I’m not going into battle with mages at my back,” he said.

“But, Your Majesty,” Karn protested, “what should I do with these two?”

“Kill them,” Montaigne said, turning away.

“Would you kill us without knowing what we can do?” Han protested in Common. “Don’t you even want to see a show? Give us back our amulets and we’ll give you sorcery like you never saw before.”

Montaigne paused in the doorway and looked back at Han, his face as hard and expressionless as the cliffs along the escarpment. “No doubt,” he said. Then he was gone.