The Last Page (18 page)

“I didn’t want to disturb you . . .” Sena’s voice trailed off.

Megan leaned forward, face melting from the gloom. Her night-blue robe was trimmed with black. Setting her apart however was the slender coronet of tunsia that marked her as Coven Mother.

“What is it, Sienae?”

Sena could feel her own clouded emotions passing through the muscles of her face. Megan was reading them. For a moment they might have been real mother and daughter.

Sena fought it. She unclenched her jaw, tried to relax, forced a faint smile. “Thank you for taking care of me, Mother.”

Megan’s stern expression splintered.
Into what? Compassion? The smudge of insoluble guilt?
The Coven Mother reached out, tentatively, visibly aching in her core. Sena felt a surge of nausea. She envisioned Megan’s heart as a zombie lab of barely lurching emotions; the final resting place of matriarchal instinct strangled so long ago.

Sena didn’t pull away. She closed her eyes and submitted to Megan’s caress.

It didn’t last. Sena heard her sigh after only a few moments and opened her eyes to see Megan scowling at the wound. The old woman touched it lightly. It was swollen, blackish-purple, crusted and awful in the light.

Megan drew a bowl of steaming antiseptic from the top of the thermal crank. “There’s been an incident,” she said. “Three Sisters murdered in the Highlands of Tue. Shot by Stonehavian troops.”

Sena’s mind reeled. “Three? Why three?”

“Shh. It wasn’t a qloin.
⁷
I sent them to fetch some of your things. But tell me, what was the future King of Stonehold doing at your cottage?”

“What? Why? What happened?”

“You don’t know? It’s right here.” Megan nudged a neatly folded newspaper on the nightstand like bait.

Grabbing for it would be a mistake. Sena forced herself to reply coolly, “I knew him at school.”

“And you didn’t tell me?
Sienae
. . .”

Sena closed her eyes.

“We only made one attempt at school,” Megan said softly. “It was too difficult. He was surrounded by secret police. Almost every cook and gardener at Desdae was a bodyguard. We didn’t assign you to him because of your inexperience. And now I find out he went looking for you?”

“It was his idea.”

“There’s no mention of you in the papers. No one knows why he was in Tue. Only that he was found, quote, in the company of witches.” Megan put the antiseptic back on the thermal crank. “Difficult headlines for a new king I’m sure . . . but if it’s still possible . . . I want you in his bed, Sienae. I want you in Stonehold right away.”

Sena wanted to ask
why
but could only nod her head softly. Her cheeks felt hot and seemed to throb. Great droplets of sweat welled up between her breasts and across her face. She felt sick. Truly, suddenly sick. “Mother . . . ?”

The room whirled around her, spinning out like a vomit-inducing centrifuge of purest black.

The morning after his Council meeting, the High Seneschal brought Caliph breakfast and his itinerary for the day.

Caliph sat up in bed and looked at the concise schedule, bemused.

P
sh 16th, 561

4:40 Breakfast

5:00 Zane Vhortghast (tour of the city)

That was it.

Gadriel seemed to sense Caliph’s puzzlement.

“From my experience, your majesty, you will be spending several long days in Mr. Vhortghast’s company, touring different locations. Although I have never been, it is my understanding that the High King’s tour is extensive and . . . unusual.”

Caliph laid the sheet of paper aside, greatly interested and eager for five o’clock to arrive. “Who is this Mr. Vhortghast?”

“The spymaster of Isca,” Gadriel said somberly. He glanced at Caliph above his glasses as he poured tea.

The High Seneschal was an immaculate man, poised and fastidious to a fault.

“I heard nothing of him in Desdae.”

Gadriel clucked. “Of course not. He used to be a knight. Now he ensures that the business of the burgomasters falls in line with your wishes. There is little that Zane Vhortghast does not know.”

“My wishes? How does he know what my wishes are?”

“I’m sure he knows quite a bit already,” said Gadriel. “Saergaeth made several attempts on your life while you were at college.”

Caliph scowled. “How could I not have known—”

Gadriel smiled reassuringly. “Discretion of that caliber is his job and the reason I’m afraid his salary is considerably higher than mine.”

Caliph thought about the implications. It felt strange knowing that he was about to meet someone who had supposedly saved his life. “How did the Council hire him?”

Gadriel shrugged. “I wish I could tell you.”

The forty-minute half-hour between four-forty and five o’clock passed torturously slow. Caliph read part of the
Iscan Herald.
It had been toasted in the oven. It was crisp and still slightly warm. One of the front-page articles caught his eye.

The King in Black
by Willis Bothshine, Journalist

Nearly two decades after the short inglorious reign of Nathaniel Howl, Caliph Browning Howl assumed the Iscan High Throne on a blustery thirteenth of P
sh.

The last of the family bloodline, King Howl arrived in Isca fresh from Desdae where he graduated with distinction. Though following in his uncle’s footsteps may be the last thing Caliph Howl wants to do, both monarchs did hail from the prestigious Greymoorian academy prior to being crowned.

Now at twenty-six, Caliph Howl faces a multitude of political challenges not unrelated to his uncle’s reign.

Dr. Yewl, professor of Stonehavian Politics at Shaerzac University says this Howl will face more challenges than any other High King since Raymond VII.

“Unlike [Raymond], who survived the Purple War when tensions between the Pplar and Stonehold peaked, Caliph Howl will have to earn the people’s respect,” said Yewl. “He will have to secure his authority while everyone is thinking he’s the nephew of a categorical tyrant. On top of that, he’s the youngest High King in the Duchy’s 668 years of independence.”

Though opinions polled in Three Cats show a majority favor the Council’s dissolution and the reinstatement of the Office of the High King, fears persist that memories of Nathaniel Howl may darken the new king’s reign.

Another omen is Caliph Howl’s mysterious disappearance immediately following his graduation, an event that has troubled many Stonehavians. New information from an unnamed source in Isca Castle goes
so far as to claim the High King was found only days ago in the company of witches somewhere in the Highlands of Tue.

And while critics assert this means we are in for another dubious kingship, supporters pass the accusations off as laughable.

“I don’t think King Howl was within a hundred miles of Tue. He wasn’t [messing about] with witches any more than Councilor Deuad
n was walking on the moon,” said Jeff Tibbs.

Tibbs, an experienced castle historian is conducting a poll on Stonehavian sentiment toward the aging monarchy.

His findings will be published in a subsequent edition of the
Herald
.

“I’m gathering a lot of fascinating data,” said Tibbs.

“One anonymous man from Candleshine heard that Caliph Howl had been crowned and I think his exact words were, ‘Kings are for storybooks. Get the Council back’s a better choice. That way there’s no throne to fight over.’ ”

Unfortunately, for Stonehavians like this man, the High Throne continues to cause turmoil. And with the High King’s alleged secret trip to Tue and rumors of a “witch pact” spreading through every pub and bistro, tension seems inevitable.

Certainly Isca’s free-tongued assayers are already arguing.

“Whatever the truth is, we’re not likely to hear it from King Howl’s mouth. At least not for the first few weeks of his reign,” said Tibbs, who expects the coming month to be relatively quiet as Caliph Howl meets with various advisors and familiarizes himself with the routines of his new office.

“Certainly he’ll be out and about, touring the city discreetly and making appearances at important events. Namely the rededication of Hullmallow Cathedral in Grue Hill and probably the opening night of
Er Krue Alteirz
at the Murkbell Opera House.

“With tensions growing between Isca and Miskatoll few things are certain except that Caliph Howl has his work cut out for him.

“On a lighter note,” Tibbs laughs, “one thing I can’t figure out. [The High King] apparently refuses to wear clothing befitting his office. I guess [he] prefers stuff that’s simply black.”

So what can we expect from our king in black? War? Witchcraft? Only the summer of 561 will tell.

Caliph had eaten his eggs and strudel while he read. He set the tray and the rest of the paper aside.

Obviously in the sixteen years since his uncle’s death, the voice of the
press had blossomed under a democratic Council. Caliph didn’t mind. It was time people started thinking. And who could blame them for wondering? It was his fault. Running away from responsibility.

He got up and washed in an enameled basin fixed in a washstand in the corner. The pipes in the wall hammered at him as air worked itself out.

Light from the west was creeping in, a great golden blaze that seared the cold gray skies above the Greencap Mountains and ignited the cherry wood moldings and furnishings with exquisite luster. The white floor turned to gold.

Caliph’s bedroom was situated so that it looked west and north over the cliffs and walls of the Hold and down on the farmlands and hills and rocky moors. Despite the warming season, mornings in Stonehold remained chilly and damp.

Caliph dawdled. Finally, Gadriel returned.

“Mr. Vhortghast is here, your majesty. He’s waiting in the royal study.”

“Oh good . . . uh—”

“I’ll show you the way,” Gadriel said in a warm tone that indicated Caliph’s fumbling ignorance would not be faulted. “We will, of course, have it redone to suit your tastes. If you have any particular requests simply mention them to me and I will ensure they are taken care of. Your book buyer is already combing the shops for—”