The Exiled Queen (30 page)

Han heard a flapping sound overhead, and clouds of bats dropped from the highest reaches of the belfry, soaring down toward him, opening triangular mouths, exposing needle-sharp teeth.

“Aaah!” Reflexively, Han threw up his left arm to protect his head and face. Leathery skin brushed over him. Bats smacked into him and dropped to the floor, straightening their wings, looking bewildered.

Dancer seized hold of the lantern and swung it in a wide arc, forcing the rodents back. Han joined him in his corner, and they put their backs to the walls.

Rats and mice slipped past Dancer’s lantern, swarming over Han’s feet, sinking their razor-sharp teeth into his ankles. The magic was real. The magic had crossed over. And it was anchored to him.

Han danced from one foot to the other, trying to shake off the rodents climbing his breeches. He extended his hand, meaning to channel power into the teeming hordes. Then he remembered he was in the wood-and-stone bell tower of Mystwerk Hall and risked setting it aflame in the process.

Taking hold of the amulet again, Han spoke the thorn-hedge charm, spinning in a circle. A thicket of thorns arose all around them, so tight and impenetrable that the rats impaled themselves on the thorns. Dancer stomped the few rats that had slipped through while Han swatted at the bats that still spiraled down from above.

“Good job,” Crow said in Han’s ear, his voice low and amused. “Very creative. Now make them go away.” He followed up with the charm, spoken through Han’s lips.

The heaving sea of rodents drained away into the walls, as though someone had pulled a stopper plug. Moments later, Han and Dancer were alone in the bell tower, surrounded on three sides by a thorn hedge, ringed by rat corpses.

Han’s heart pounded, his shirt soaked with sweat. He slid down the wall until his backside hit the stone floor.

Crow whispered in his ear again. “Tomorrow night. Midnight. Same place. And, please — build up a little more power in your amulet next time. We have lots to do and we need to work fast.”

And then he was gone.

“Hunts Alone?” Dancer knelt next to him. “What in the name of Hanalea’s blood and bones was that all about?”

Han scraped his damp hair off his forehead and sat thinking until his breathing steadied and his heart slowed. He looked up at Dancer and smiled. “I think I know how to solve our burglar problem,” he said.

ABELARD’S

CREW

Abelard’s crew of exceptional students met in the dean’s office, familiar to Han from his previous visit. Chairs ringed a polished wood table in a plush meeting room with a view of the river. Refreshments were set out under the window.

Han made it a point to arrive early. Master Gryphon came early also, so he could get into the room and settled before everyone else arrived. Han was surprised to see Gryphon, since he and Abelard didn’t seem to get on. Maybe his family had clout too.

Timis Hadron, the proficient who’d greeted Han the day he arrived, circled the table, arranging writing materials and books in front of each seat.

Mordra arrived soon after. Han was relieved when she took a seat next to Master Gryphon instead of him. He didn’t care to be lectured in manners again in front of a crowd.

The Bayars walked in with Abelard. The dean must have briefed them on their new classmate. Micah pretended to ignore Han as he found a seat on the opposite side of the table, by the door. Fiona’s eyes brushed over Han like icy fingers, making his skin pebble up.

He wondered what Abelard had said to them. Don’t worry, he’s my hired bravo?

Fiona and Mordra exchanged daggery glances, then ignored each other.

“Good evening,” Abelard said, taking the empty seat at the head of the table. “I’ve invited Hanson Alister to join our gatherings. Although Alister is a newling, I think you will find that he brings a special range of skills to share with us.”

Resting a proprietary hand on Han’s shoulder, Abelard pointed out each of the members in turn. “Timis Hadron is a proficient, though he’ll soon take his master’s examinations. You know Master Gryphon. You met Proficient deVilliers at dinner, and, of course, you already know Micah and Fiona Bayar.”

Abelard walked to her seat at the head of the table. “Alister, each week, one of our members presents on a topic in advanced charmcasting, and leads the others through a practical demonstration, if possible. Of course, some types of magic are impossible to trial safely. Others we cannot master because we no longer have the tools that were used when the techniques were developed.”

Han nodded.

“Some of these techniques are, in fact, forbidden by the N´æming. For that reason, it is imperative that nothing of what we do here is discussed outside our small circle. Do you understand?”

Han nodded again, knowing that his life would hang by a thread once Abelard found out that he was working for the clans.

“We will expect you to contribute to our series eventually,” Abelard said. “Alister has special expertise in the area of travel to Aediion,” she said to the others. “He has agreed to share it with the rest of us.”

I don’t really remember agreeing to that, Han thought, but he kept shut.

“Now, let’s continue our discussion from last week,” Abelard said. She nodded to Timis Hadron. “Proficient Hadron, if you would, please.”

Hadron spread out some notes on the table. “As most of you know, I’ve been researching evidence for the existence of the Armory of the Gifted Kings,” he said.

“Excuse me,” Han said, wondering whether he should raise his hand. “Armory of the Gifted Kings?”

Fiona straightened, twisting a lock of her hair between her thumb and forefinger. Micah glared up at the ceiling.

“The Gifted Kings of the Fells accumulated a vast collection of magical pieces and weapons,” Hadron said. “It disappeared around the time of the Breaking. The weapons may have been destroyed by the Spirit clans to keep them out of wizard hands. Some say the Demon King hid them away, meaning to retrieve them later. A third theory is that they were confiscated by one of the wizard houses that laid siege to the Demon King’s stronghold on Gray Lady.”

Did Han imagine it, or did Hadron glance at Micah and Fiona when he said that?

“We’ve been searching for the armory since the N´æming and the restoration of the Gray Wolf line,” Abelard said.

Hmmm, Han thought. If anyone held the keys to the magical storeroom, it’d be the Bayars. They’d owned at least one forbidden amulet—the one Han now wore.

Hadron went on to review the sketchy evidence he had collected. “So I think we can say with confidence that the armory existed at one time,” he concluded. “The question is, does it still exist, and if so, where is it? Here we need to dig deeper.”

As Hadron continued, Han looked up from his note-taking to see Fiona, head down, hand flying across the page. Micah, too, seemed transfixed, his black eyes focused on Hadron, his face pale and intent.

Were they worried that Hadron might uncover its location? Did they plan to report back to Papa? Or was it possible that they didn’t know where it was, either? Maybe they were as eager as anyone to find it.

Maybe Han could beat them to it. He scribbled faster, splattering ink across the page.

“Most of the focus to date has been on libraries and temple records in Fellsmarch,” Hadron said. “But evidence suggests that many records that predated the Breaking were carried here to Oden’s Ford for safekeeping. So there could be materials archived in the Bayar Library that would help us locate the armory.”

“That would be like finding a flea on a dog,” Gryphon said. “Have you seen what’s up there?”

“What would you suggest we do, then?” Abelard asked Hadron, ignoring Gryphon.

“Mordra and I will be here over the summer,” Hadron said. “We could begin a methodical search of the stacks in Bayar Library.”

Mordra wrinkled her nose at that suggestion, but Hadron didn’t see. “Any of you who are staying on are welcome to help,” he said. No one volunteered. He cleared his throat. “Think about it, and let me know.”

“Thank you, Hadron,” Abelard said. “Given the constant litany of complaints about the lack of powerful weapons at our disposal, it is my expectation that those of you who stay on for the summer will join Proficients Hadron and deVilliers in their research.” She swept her gaze over her crew. When no one objected, she continued. “Now deVilliers will report on the topic of magical possession.” The dean nodded at Mordra.

Mordra tapped her finger on the stack of pages in front of her. “Possession is a magical technique that first achieved prominence during the War of the Conquest, when the mainland was invaded by wizards from the Northern Islands. It also proved useful during the Reign of the Gifted Kings, both for keeping the peace, and in counterespionage activities.”

Mordra looked around the table, as if to make sure she was the focus of everyone’s undivided attention. Han’s eyes fixed on the tattoos on her arms. They wriggled and swam against her skin. He looked away.

“Eventually, the Spirit clans developed talismans to defend against possession, which limited its effectiveness. Still, it was commonly used up until the time of the Breaking, when the tactic was forbidden by the N´æming. The Demon King was said to have used it to eliminate pairs of rivals. He would possess one, then induce him to murder the other. Thereafter, the first would be executed for the crime.”

Hmmm, Han thought. Great-grandfather Alger was rum clever. I wonder how Great-grandmother Hanalea got the best of him.

“You see before you three common variations on the spellwork used to activate the possession charm,” Mordra went on. “These represent degrees of possession. In some cases, the possessor merely precipitates actions the possessee would not undertake on his own. In others, possession is complete, and the possessing wizard has total control of the—ah—subject. Once possession has taken place, it is easier to subsequently accomplish. The possessor must be in close proximity to the subject. It is most successfully used on an unwitting target, who can therefore raise little defense.

“We are reasonably confident of the authenticity of the spell lines we’ve unearthed from the archives.” Mordra went on to demonstrate the spoken charms and gestures used in casting the spell. “You should know that no one has used these incantations successfully since the Breaking. Modern amulets don’t seem to support this kind of magic.” Her shoulders slumped, and when Han scanned those around the table, they wore matching glum expressions.

“No offense meant,” Gryphon said, “but does it make sense to spend so much time on spellwork we are unlikely to be able to use?”

“Why don’t we try it?” Han said. “What have we got to lose?”

Heads turned, all around the table.

“Master Gryphon is right,” Han said. “It’s like passing out warm sugar cakes and telling us not to take a bite.”

“What do you suggest, Alister?” Abelard said dryly.

“Let’s pair off,” Han said. “See if anybody can make it work.” He paused, then added, “I’ll go with Micah.” Lacing his fingers across his chest, he cradled the serpent amulet and slid a smile across the table to Bayar.

For a long moment no one said anything. Abelard looked from Han to Micah, as if trying to divine Han’s intentions.

“All right,” the dean said, shrugging. “Why not?”

“I choose Hadron,” Mordra said. Han wasn’t sure if she was aiming to stay away from Fiona or cozy up to an almost-master.

“No!” Micah said, pressing both hands flat against the tabletop. “I will not team up with Alister. He can work with someone else.”

Abelard’s lips tightened. “Newling Bayar, we discussed this, and —”

“Maybe you have your reasons for inviting a street thug to our gatherings,” Micah said, his face bone white and furious, “but you should remember that this gutter-whelped thief attacked my father and nearly killed him.”

Eyes widened all around the table. Some shifted away from Han.

“What’s the matter, Micah?” Han said, tilting his head back and looking down his nose at the High Wizard’s son. “Are you afraid?” He fingered the Demon King’s amulet.

Micah stood. “I merely believe that if one associates with filth, eventually the stench rubs off.” He inclined his head to Abelard. “Dean Abelard, if you will excuse me.” Turning on his heel, he walked out. Fiona stared after her brother, then looked back at Han, eyes narrowed in appraisal. She looked almost — impressed.

The others also sat frozen, sliding wary looks at Han. He guessed that no one else would be eager to pair up with him, either.

Abelard looked up at the clock on the wall. “Our time is up,” she said as if she were glad of it. “Too bad. Next week, Master Gryphon will lead a discussion of glamours and their use in warfare.”

Chairs scraped back as Abelard’s crew beat a hasty retreat.

CAUGHT IN

THE ACT

The spidery diagram swam on the page, and Raisa’s eyes practically crossed as she forced herself to focus. Earthwork fortifications used against pirates along the Indio after the Breaking. She faced yet another test in history of warfare.

At least the term is almost over, she thought.

Pushing her book aside, she glanced around. It was almost dinnertime, but the common room was empty save for her. This was Amon’s only night free of obligations. Raisa meant to intercept him and have an actual conversation. He’d been less available than ever these past few weeks. Almost furtive.

Speaking of furtive. Lifting the blotter, Raisa pulled a few scribbled pages from underneath and reviewed what was left there.

Mother,

Please know that I am well and safe, and I hope this finds you well also.

I know you were under considerable pressure in the days leading up to my name day, and that you truly believed that a marriage to Micah Bayar was the best way to keep me safe.

After reading it over, Raisa scratched through a marriage to Micah Bayar and substituted the marriage you had planned for me.

That way, if the letter fell into the wrong hands, it might have been from any daughter or son who had fled an unwanted marriage.

I beg you to consider that what seems safest may turn out to be most dangerous. It may be that the danger you saw coming was the marriage itself—a danger to me, and a danger to you as well.

I long to come home and present my case in person if we can find a way to
do that safely. I will get this letter into my father’s hands somehow, and hope that he will get it to you. If that should happen, please keep it among us three. There has been one attempt on his life already.

If we begin a dialogue, perhaps we can work out a way for me to come home, which is what I want most in the world. Though it may be selfish, I can’t help but hope that you are missing me, as I am missing you. Please know that I love you, and while love may not be sufficient to heal the breach between us, it is a place to start.

Hallie and Talia came stomping down the stairs, and Raisa pushed the letter into her carry bag.

“You coming to dinner?” Hallie asked. “I hear it’s ham and cabbage.”

“I’ll wait for Corporal Byrne,” Raisa said. “And walk over with him.”

Hallie and Talia looked at each other. “I’m not sure he’s coming to dinner,” Hallie said, rubbing the side of her nose with her forefinger. “I think he has plans.”

Plans?

“Come with us,” Talia urged. “We’ll go out somewhere after. Don’t be a hermit.”

Some undercurrent in their speech set Raisa’s teeth on edge.

“I’ll be over in a few minutes,” she said lightly. “Save me some ham.”

They walked out the door with many backward looks, their faces set and anxious.

A few minutes later, Amon descended the stairs. He wore his dress blues, with creases in his trousers and his hair neatly combed off his forehead. He nearly stumbled when he saw Raisa, but kept his feet and continued to the bottom.

“Hello, Amon,” Raisa said. “You’re looking handsome.”

He looked down at himself, then tugged at the hem of his uniform jacket to straighten it. “Right. Well. Thank you.”

Raisa pushed up out of her chair and went and stood in front of him. “I hoped we could go to dinner together, maybe have a chance to talk. I never see you anymore.”

He stood frozen, like a schoolboy caught out in a prank, his gray eyes fixed on her face. “We’re both busy, Rai. It stands to reason that we wouldn’t—”

“Let’s go to dinner, then,” Raisa said, taking his hands in hers.

He swallowed hard, the long column of his throat jumping. “I can’t. I — have something I need to do.”

Raisa’s instincts screamed that persistence would lead to heartbreak. But she couldn’t help herself. “I’ll come with you, then. And, after, maybe we—”

“No,” he said. “Not tonight. I—we can’t.” He looked as miserable as she’d ever seen him.

“But it’s your only night off.” Raisa knew she sounded desperate, and didn’t care.

He nodded. “I know. I’m — sorry,” he whispered, his face pale and strained.

Raisa cast about for something—anything—that might change his mind. That might make him stay. “Well,” she said, swallowing down the dull ache of longing. “Then take this with you, and think of me.” She kissed her first two fingers, then, standing on tiptoes, reached up and pressed them against his lips.

Seizing her wrist, he pressed her hand against his cheek, smooth from recent shaving. He closed his eyes, took two shuddering breaths, and let her go.

“Good-bye, Raisa,” he said, his voice thick and unfamiliar. “Go on to dinner. I’ll be back late.” And he was gone.

Raisa stood frozen for a heartbeat, then grabbed her cloak and slipped out the door, following after him.

Fortunately, the streets were crowded, packed with cadets heading back to the dining halls for dinner, or walking toward Bridge Street and the eateries there. Amon walked fast, so Raisa had to trot to keep up. Once, he swung around and looked back, but she managed to duck into a doorway.

Raisa soon realized that he was heading for Bridge Street, and when he started across, she hesitated briefly to tug her hood over her head before stepping onto the bridge. It was the first time she’d crossed it since the day she’d arrived.

Amon made one stop, at the flower seller’s on the bridge, where he bought a small bouquet of mixed flowers.

Raisa forced down despair. A voice in her head whispered, Go back!

But she didn’t.

Amon hurried on as if he knew the way, turning onto the quad that separated Mystwerk Hall and the Temple School. The winter-seared lawn bloomed with a mixture of red Mystwerk robes and white Temple garments. Raisa pulled her head back into her cowl like a turtle into its shell.

What if he goes into Mystwerk? Raisa thought. Crossing the bridge is risky enough. I can’t follow him in there.

But Amon stepped onto the stone walk that led to the Temple School, turning off to the entrance at the far right. In front of the heavy wooden door, he paused long enough to take a swipe at his hair, then raised the knocker and let it fall with a clatter.

Raisa had remained on the main walk, off at an angle, so she couldn’t see who came to the door. But Amon bowed at the waist and extended the flowers. Then he stepped inside, closing the door behind him.

For a long moment Raisa stood frozen on the walk, unsure what to do next. The broad porch was crowded with dedicates and students, so she couldn’t very well go up and listen at the door. But perhaps if she circled around —

Fortunately, the ground floor was lined with tall windows and glass doors, spilling light into every room. Raisa crept along the perimeter of the building, between the shrubbery and the foundation, peering into every window. Though some were probably at dinner, Raisa saw dedicates and students reading, relaxing, doing stitchery, painting, playing instruments, and the like.

This is what everyone had intended for me, Raisa thought, fingering her dun-colored uniform tunic.

In the rear was a parlor, a cheerful fire in the fireplace and trays of cookies and sandwiches set out on tables. Amon was there, sitting in a chair by the fireplace, his back very straight, his hands on his knees. Across from him sat a girl in temple dress, dark-skinned and pretty, with masses of long curly hair—a Southern Islander. She clutched the nosegay in one hand, and every so often she raised it to her nose and took a sniff.

Two other couples shared the room, and a rosy-faced dedicate sat in a far corner, keeping an eye on the young lovers.

Amon’s face was in profile, but Raisa could see the girl’s shy smile and her large dark eyes, and hear the murmur of their conversation.

Any fool could see that the girl was in love with Amon Byrne.

Raisa’s eyes burned with hot tears. Was this possible? Honest, straightforward Amon Byrne was — cheating on her? She tried to ignore the voice in her head that said it wasn’t cheating if there hadn’t been a relationship to begin with.

You don’t lie to your friends, Raisa said to herself defensively. He’d gone out of his way to hide this from her.

And then, as if in a bad dream that turns into a nightmare, she saw Amon stiffen, squaring his shoulders under the blue wool. He slowly turned his head so that he was looking right at Raisa. For a long moment she was petrified, unable to move, and they stared at each other. Then, cheeks flaming, she dropped below the windowsill and scrambled backward like a crab, out of the shrubbery.

She stood upright and fled toward the front of the building. She’d gone only a few yards when a hand closed tightly around her upper arm, jerking her sideways.

Raisa twisted around to face another Southern Islander in temple dress, this one as unlikely a candidate as she’d ever seen. The multiple piercings in her nose and ears were pegged with silver. She clutched a wicked-looking knife in her free hand.

Even worse, she looked oddly familiar.

“Who you spying on, dirtback?” The girl gave Raisa a little shake.

“N—nobody,” Raisa said, trying to pull free. “Let go, that hurts!”

“I want to know who you are and what you —” The blade-wielding Temple student’s eyes narrowed in recognition. “I know you,” she said. “I seen you someplace.”

“That’s not surprising. I go to school here, too,” Raisa said, grabbing at dignity with both hands. “I just wanted to see what it’s like in the Temple.”

“You’re from the Fells,” the dedicate said, avidly studying Raisa’s face. Then her eyes widened in astonishment. “You was the girlie with Cuffs Alister. You the one walked into Southbridge Guardhouse after the Raggers.”

It was Cat. Cat Tyburn, the streetlord who had replaced Cuffs as leader of the Raggers. Alister’s former girlfriend.

It was no wonder Raisa hadn’t recognized her at first. Cat looked different—almost cared-for—like a weedy, thorny garden that some gifted gardener had taken on. Her eyes were brilliantly clear, not cloudy like before, and she’d put on weight.

What was she doing at Oden’s Ford?

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” Raisa said. Her mind flashed to her sighting of Cuffs Alister by the stables. Could there be a connection? It didn’t matter. She had to get away.

In desperation, she rammed her fist into Cat’s middle, hoping she wouldn’t get her own throat cut in the process.

Fortunately, Cat was distracted and hadn’t seen the blow coming. She crumpled, dropping the knife. Raisa took off running again, this time clearing the Temple close and the quad, and turning onto Bridge Street. She ran like she was being pursued by demons.