The Magic Council (The Herezoth Trilogy) (5 page)

Valkin
sighed. He hated the basement, hated everything about it. He wanted to go home
so badly….

“Right,”
he said.

“I
trust August,” Neslan told him. “If there were some way to escape from here,
she’d help us. I know she’d help us. Don’t you see that?”

“I
hadn’t thought of it that way,” said Valkin. “Maybe you’re right.”

Hune
said, “August wouldn’t keep us trapped here if she didn’t have to. She just
doesn’t want the bear to eat us.”

Valkin
replied, “To be fair, the bear would eat one of us at most. It could kill us
all easily enough, though. That’s a point, Hune.”

Hune’s
voice turned pleading. “Val, don’t make her give us the key. Please don’t do
it. I can see Ursa making the bear eat August to pay her back.”

“Ursa’s
not that evil,” protested Valkin.

“Val,
please!”

The
oldest brother’s forehead creased in thought. “I still say Ursa wouldn’t feed
her to the bear. But Ursa would be angry. Quite angry, and as Neslan said,
that’s no good. She can hurt August other ways. Listen, I want to get away from
here more than both of you….”

“I
doubt that,” Neslan grumbled to the floor.

“…but
I don’t want to leave August in trouble. It doesn’t seem right somehow. Dorane
and Ursa are using us, right? To get something from Father. Would we be any
better if we used August to get free, and she was hurt in the process?”

Neslan
said, “All I know is my stomach aches when I think about it. And that’s
generally what happens when I’m being wicked.”

“So
we agree?” piped Hune. He finally sat up, letting his blanket settle about his
waist. “We all agree? None of us will take that key from August?”

“Not
me,” said Neslan.

“Nor
I,” added Valkin.

“Me
neither,” said Hune, though without magic he would have found it next to
impossible to steal the key. He felt comforted by his brothers’ being in league
with him. His heart stopped beating quite so hard, and the tremors that had
been shaking him diminished.

“Do
you think Dorane will come tomorrow?” Neslan asked. “It’s been a week since he
was here.”

“Nine
days,” Valkin corrected him. “He comes every nine days. He should have been
here yesterday, but I doubt he’ll return, not after last time.”

“How’d
he know about our magic?” Neslan asked. “Did he find out with a spell?”

Valkin
said, “If that’s the case, we never saw him cast it.”

Rexson
had taught the older boys that concealing their telekinesis was something
serious. Too young to understand the matter’s true importance, the princes were
moved by their father’s rare severity, his hard insistence, and did as Rexson
instructed. Even when Dorane and Ursa set their ambush, Valkin and Neslan knew
better than to set off a magic display. Somehow, though, Dorane had discovered
the princes’ power. He talked about it the day of the abduction, during his
first chat with them. He told all three their telekinesis made them special,
and they should have the right to use it; that they were part of a small but
respectable community, a community that could flourish if others would listen
to its problems. Those people who had magic to any degree, Dorane told them,
were suffering, suffering when their powers could work so much good in the
kingdom…. He always spoke that way, while his captive audience shared
uncomfortable looks in silence. To the boys’ relief, their confusion did not
provoke the sorcerer. He asked no questions and demanded no reply.

In
the children’s eyes, Dorane had little but his magic to leave a lasting
impression. His hair was oily and mud-colored. His eyes were that same shade of
brown, like murky water. He had entered his mid-twenties and still suffered
acne on his chin. Not particularly tall, neither was he short, and while his
muscles far from sagged, they could have been tighter. Besides Dorane’s
appearance and his sharp, intense air, the boys knew little about the man
except his esteem for a magic he was unafraid to use. During the ambush, the
sorcerer had bound the princes and their guards with an incantation.

Valkin,
Neslan, and Hune were ignorant of their protectors’ ultimate fate—leaving
the men tied up, Dorane had transported the princes to Ursa’s mansion, wherever
that was, and the boys had formed an unspoken pact not to mention the soldiers,
of whom they had been fond—but they had long since lost hope of seeing
their escort again. When Dorane came to the basement he always came alone, and
the last time he paid the three brothers a visit, poor Hune could no longer
stand the implications of his message about magic entitlement. Staring at the
wall, hardly audible, the boy protested, “My brothers aren’t more special than
I am.”

The
small, shaking voice took Dorane aback. “Of course they’re not more special
than you. I know your secret, Hune, the secret none of you should have to hide.
All three of you can make objects move without touching them.”

“No,”
said Hune. He looked at the sorcerer’s sandals now, still unsure of himself.
“They can move things, the two of them. I can’t, but that doesn’t mean I’m
worth less.” The boy raised his eyes, finding courage as he spoke. “Mother says
it doesn’t matter whether I have magic, and she’s right. You listen to me,
she’s right! My brothers don’t matter more than me. I ride a pony better than
they can, and the governess says I’m better with sums than Valkin was when he
was eight. I’m good at other things.”

Hune
could say nothing more; he had started to cry. In a minute he was shaking all
over, with tears streaming down his face in two unbroken lines. Neslan threw an
arm around him while Valkin rose, also trembling, but with anger instead of
sadness. Dorane tried to salvage the situation. “I never said people without
magic have less value. I never once said that.”

Valkin’s
face had turned as red as his youngest brother’s, the brother still sobbing on
Neslan’s shoulder. “Go away!” Valkin yelled. “Won’t you just go away? Haven’t
you done enough? Don’t you see you’ve upset him?” And the sorcerer had left:
left nine days ago, per Valkin’s tally.

“I
hope Dorane doesn’t come today,” said Hune. “I hope he never comes back.” He
lay back down, settling himself as comfortably as possible beneath his blanket.
His mattress wasn’t quite plush enough to take the hardness out of the stone
floor, or to flatten its bumps and grooves.

Neslan
yawned. Then he said, “If he does come, he won’t speak as he used to. He didn’t
mean to make you cry, you know.”

The
middle child yawned again, and the yawn spread to Valkin, who said, “I don’t
care if he meant to make Hune cry. He’s a beast for keeping us here. I hate
him, I hate him worse than Ursa. Ursa couldn’t have kidnapped us by herself.
Hang them both! I’m tired. We’re all tired. Don’t worry about the bear, Hune. I
know the thing’s a monster, but it can’t get in here.”

Hune
knew the bear could not get in. He closed his eyes, stretched his legs, and, to
ignore the sound of the creature’s growls, started thinking about his pets,
especially Moon, his pony. Valkin, and even Neslan to a point, made fun of
their brother for choosing a name that rhymed with his, but what else could
Hune have called the animal after seeing the crescent-shaped white spot on top
his long nose? The mark looked exactly like the moon, especially against the
pony’s black fur. Hune missed Moon. He missed brushing him, and he missed the
way Moon would brush against his shoulder after he fed him a carrot.

Hune
missed Rock as well, the stable hand’s son. Hune would climb on his pony and
Rock would take Neslan’s—Neslan never complained because he never caught
them—and they would lead their mounts to the open field behind the
stables, and break off low-hanging branches to use as swords, and pretend to be
knights from the old days fighting dragons. Funny, how the dragons always felt
real to Hune. He could picture them, thirty times his size; the sun’s
reflection off their hard, red scales dazzled him. Hune could see the powerful,
thick tails arching over their backs, smell the smoke on their breath, see
their fangs long and sharp as daggers, but the dragons never frightened him
like Ursa’s bear did.

Neslan
was pondering the question neither of his brothers could answer: what would
happen to them if their parents could not arrange their safe return? They had
already spent a month in this basement. Was it possible to stay here, trapped,
for years? Would Ursa move them to proper lodgings? How long before Valkin did
something idiotic out of pure frustration and got himself hurt, or killed, and
maybe his brothers with him? Valkin’s restlessness frightened Neslan more than
anything else. He knew his brother would never in a million years harm August,
but just to think the idea had occurred to him made Neslan’s hair stand on end.
The situation proved just how deeply the crown prince felt the injustice he was
suffering. How much longer could Neslan keep Valkin’s anger in check? “Someone
better get us out of here soon,” he thought. “Soon, or something bad will
happen, something worse than just being stuck in this place.”

Valkin
was thinking about Dorane and how he had made Hune cry. Having Hune here made
Valkin sick; he felt physically ill to see his youngest brother shake at night,
to watch him bite his lip each time Dorane claimed magic made them all unique.
More than anything, Valkin wished Hune had stayed home the day they had been
kidnapped. Neslan was made of tougher stuff. Hune himself was tough for being
so small, but he was only eight….

I hate Dorane. I hate
him. He has no right to do this, especially not to Hune. I hate him, HATE him!
I wish Ursa’s bear would eat him, I really do. I wouldn’t care at all if that
happened.

CHAPTER
FOUR

The
King’s Spy

Vane
slept that first night in the guest room he always used at the Palace, a room
small but luxurious, with the most comfortable mattress he had ever lain upon.
Though it was late when he turned back the sheets, a beam of light shot through
the eastern window soon after dawn and fell across the bed to wake him. He
stretched his arms and rolled over, deciding to sleep for as long as possible,
until the king summoned him. What else could Vane do? He was stuck in the room,
could not let anyone see him.

Then
he told himself no, time was of the essence and he should be ready to leave
when someone came for him. Vane put his feet on the carpeted floor and grabbed
a change of clothes from the sack in which he had thrown little else besides
two or three pairs of pants and some tunic-style shirts.

A
knock came at the door soon after Vane had dressed. When he opened to see no
one, he realized Zacry was there. “We’re eating next door. In my room,” said
Vane’s teacher. “Too many people come in and out of the king’s parlor. Come by
when you can.”

“I’m
ready now,” said Vane. He did not bother to turn invisible; the hallway was
deserted. He followed Zacry—or assumed he had followed when the next door
over opened of its own accord—to a room identical to his own. There was a
wardrobe, a nightstand with a half-consumed candle, and a desk on which someone
had put a tray with bread, apples, a platter of eggs, and pitchers of milk and
grape juice. Zacry materialized near the window.

“Rexson
just brought this down,” he said. “He’ll be back in a moment with the others.”

Vane
poured himself a glass of juice and took a seat on the bed, which Zacry had
made inexpertly before fetching him. Neither man spoke, but the king was not
long in shepherding a group of three through the door. The first was a soldier,
a guardsman, probably the one who had let the sorcerers in the night before.
His hair, a premature deep gray—he could not be older than
thirty-five—was cropped close to his head, and the only word for his
step, air, and posture would be military. Vane did not distrust the man, but he
made no welcoming figure, and the hardness of his eyes, the way they darted
from object to object with suspicion, invited no confidence.

The
second man had large ears and hair as fair as the king’s, but thicker. The
upper strands fell across his forehead when he smiled, as he did when he saw
Zacry. He looked older than the sorcerer, but not by more than four or five
years. He carried no bow but had slung a quiver of arrows across his back, a
quiver he laid against the wall to better ignore Zacry’s outstretched hand and
embrace him like a brother. Vane had never met this person, but had heard
enough stories to imagine he was Hayden Grissner, one of the surviving Crimson
League.

The
last of the king’s party was a woman with red hair vivid and long, tied at her
neck to fall halfway down her back. She was young, perhaps thirty, clad in a
cotton frock and threaded vest, and tapped her foot in impatience to get at the
elder of the sorcerers. “Zac!” she squealed as Hayden let him go, and flew into
him with such force he fell back against the wall.

“Geez,
Bennie!” Zacry said. But he was smiling. She released him with a ruffle of his
ungroomed hair.

“How
are you? How are things? Kora told me the news in one of her letters. Congratulations
on….” Zacry shook his head, glancing at Rexson, who had fallen into whispered
conversation with his guardsman. Vane realized the king would feel horrible if
he found out Zacry had an infant daughter at home. “…on the wedding,” Bendelof
extemporized. “It was ages ago, I know that, but I haven’t seen you in…. Over
ten years, it’s been. Has it really? More than ten years, man alive! Look at
you!” Then Bendelof Esper turned her eyes on Vane. “You must be….”

“Laskenay’s
son,” Vane told her. He would not have thought her eyes could brighten any more
than they already had when she flung herself at Zacry, but they managed it. She
put a hand on Vane’s shoulder.

“Of
course you are. I’m honored to meet you, though I, I saw you once before, when
you were two or three. That’s what the king tells me. I didn’t realize who you
were, because your mother kept quiet for your safety. I doubt you remember that
night at all.”

The
night the Crimson League defended Teena’s inn against a troll attack. The one
night Laskenay had seen her son again after entrusting him to the innkeeper.

“Parts
of it. I don’t remember you, I don’t think, but leaving home before the trolls
came, yes. And I remember my mother: strong arms, eyes like frosted crystal.”

Bendelof
said, “That was Laskenay all right. She was a fascinating woman.”

Zacry
agreed. “I’ll never forget how she put the fear of God in me when I discovered
I could work magic.”

The
room could barely hold the number of people who squeezed into it, but Vane,
Zacry, and Bendelof made their way to the desk to fix plates. Hayden drank some
juice. As they ate, the king asked Bendelof to brief everyone on what she knew.
Zacry erected another sound barrier, an act that made the guardsman none too
pleased, judging by his tense expression.

Bennie
explained for Zacry and Vane’s benefit, “I broke into the Enchanted Fist’s
headquarters, in Yangerton, when Rexson discovered where they were—or Gratton,
rather.” She indicated the guardsman.

“Broke
in?” said Zacry. “This Arbora hadn’t magically protected the place?”

Bennie
flushed as red as her hair. “I have Ranler’s old pick, and well, it’s not an
ordinary one.”

“Laskenay
enchanted it,” Zacry guessed.

Bennie
turned even redder. “I got in without breaking anything. Without breaking any
locks, I mean, which is useful, because they never knew I was there. I left
everything the way I found it. I made sure of that.

“Headquarters
was a converted apartment, like the one we used as the League, but bigger. With
the information I unearthed, I was able to join their number.”

Zacry
went pale. “You turned spy?”

“Someone
had to. I was the only one who could. I used what I discovered in my raid and
what Hayden knew about Arbora to pass as a seer, a master of the crystal ball.
Rexson told Hayden a lot.”

Vane
said, “That’s lucky.”

Bennie
agreed. “I met up with Arbora as soon as I could. Said I’d discovered my power through
a paperweight my father had, and that I’d learned about the Fist through a
client who was a former member and had parted on bad terms: saw that in the
personnel files. He was barred reentry. I badmouthed him, and she bit my
demonstration of magic hook, line, and sinker, sure as if she was one of Ursa’s
fish and I shared the woman’s power. I joined her little group and met both
Ursa and Dorane, though never together. One of them must have been with the
boys at all times.”

The
thought of so many records struck Vane as odd, until he realized that, with
Ursa’s money, the Fist would have no problems supplying itself with all the
paper and ink it wanted for any documents it wished to draw up.

The
woodlands to the west of both Podrar and Yangerton provided spruce trees for
pulp mills up and down the Podra River. The trees were so plentiful the king
hardly needed to regulate the amount of timber the mills consumed, but he did,
as a precaution against deforestation. Paper was not cheap, but a reliable
supply of wood in conjunction with the good, strong inks pigmented thanks to a
poisonous berry that grew wild and free up north, near the Pearl Mountains,
kept costs reasonable. Dried hawthorn from the same region gave the ink its
base, and as hawthorn was never scarce, ink abounded throughout the kingdom.

Zacry
told Bennie, “I can’t believe you pulled off that charade. How’d you manage?
You never were a spy before.”

“Not
for the League, no…. I’m not sure how I managed, but I didn’t put the boys in
danger giving myself away, so I guess it went all right. I flattered Dorane a
lot and made like I shared his philosophy, in the hopes he might confide the
kidnapping to me, might tell me where the boys were: no luck. Ursa hated me on
sight, but never suspected I was Rexson’s. Where others were concerned, I
passed myself off as a bit of a gossip, one who refused to pull out my crystal
ball except for a fee no one was willing to pay. I wasn’t popular, for sure,
but I got people talking from the get-go about other members, especially the
ones we care about. Last week, Arbora needed someone to go to Podrar to check
out some locations for a meeting place here. I volunteered, because I knew it
was time to get back near the Palace. I knew Zacry’s letter would arrive any
day. Arbora transported me.”

Bennie
finished, “From what I could tell from conversations and meetings, the
kidnapping was a private job between the two or three who carried it out.
There’s no record of it, and no one mentioned it despite my conversational
leads, which means it’s doubtful the group as a whole knows it even happened.
That
means there’s only a certain number
of places they could be holding the boys. I think the most likely’s Ursa’s
mansion, down in her village on the coast.”

“How
likely?” asked the guardsman. “We should be positive.” Vane would have expected
Gratton to turn up his nose at Bendelof, her being so inexperienced with
spying, or at the least to patronize her. The man did neither. In fact, he had
listened to her with respect, if not great interest, as though he doubted
anyone would find valuable information at the Fist’s headquarters. The
criminals would not be that stupid.

“Well,”
said Bennie, “Dorane’s dirt poor. He hasn’t paid dues in two years, and doesn’t
have the money or space to house three more people.”

The
king interrupted her. “We don’t need to be positive. We need to be sure Ursa’s
home when we call on her, nothing more. If the boys aren’t there, we can force
her to reveal where they are. Her instincts for self-preservation are strong.
You had that impression, and I noticed as much through Arbora’s negotiations.
She’ll comply.”

The
guardsman shook his head sharply, almost angrily. “There’s no
we
where you’re concerned. I told you,
Sire, you shouldn’t involve yourself, not personally.”

The
king countered, “I’m taking part in the rescue. I don’t care how unwise you
judge it, Gratton, not a jot. I’ve had enough of this madness. My parents and
brother died at the hands of a sorcerer, I nearly was killed myself, and now a
second upstart magician has threatened my sons. Like hell will Dorane harm
them, like hell he will! He’ll pay for what he’s done, and Ursa with him,
Arbora too. I’ll personally see my boys returned to safety. That’s not up for
debate.”

“Sire,
I must insist….”

“I
thank you for your input, Gratton.”

The
king’s voice turned cold. Gratton bowed, and said nothing more to the royal;
the guardsman stood next to Vane, though, and Vane heard him mutter, “On your
own head be it,” as he straightened his back. The sorcerer thought:

He’s arrogant, isn’t
he? But he’s here for a reason. Rexson’s a good judge of character, the best
I’ve known. He would have been dead years ago if he weren’t. Three years he was
dispossessed….

Zacry
brought the conversation back around, asking the king, “They tried to
negotiate?”

“I’ve
spent six weeks speaking with Arbora on neutral ground, on her terms, biding
time until you came. Arbora ordered no abduction, and I’ll go so far as to say
she regrets it happened, but that hasn’t stopped her taking advantage of the
situation. We both know Dorane’s a fanatic. If his threats against my sons must
be genuine to get his council, the threats are genuine. He wouldn’t be proud of
killing them, but the act would support the common good, the good of many,
that’s what he tells himself. He’s hoping no word gets out about their
disappearance, but if it does…. That’s why I’ve hushed this over. That’s why
I’ve pretended to negotiate with his mouthpiece, who has a mouth of her own, as
I’ve said. Suddenly, the magicked not only need a council, they need an
official adviser in the Palace. They need an extensive piece of land on the
outskirts of Podrar, so they can live together and protect one another. They’d
need protection all right, if I sanctioned that idiocy.

“I’ve
played my part well. Proposed the adviser be unofficial, that the magic commune
she wants to found would be better placed in Yangerton, farther removed from
court. I said the public would find the sheer audacity of the scheme less
alarming in Yangerton. Yangerton’s too populous, she argued, as I knew she
would. Her people would be too outnumbered. So I proposed Hogarane. Hogarane’s
too small. Arbora wants a city. Specifically, she wants urban amenities to
attract young magicians. I couldn’t care less what she wants. She’s not getting
a thing.”

“Nor
should she,” said Zacry. His facial muscles tensed, like the afternoon before
in Kora’s cottage. “This is a political ploy, and it’s sick.”

“Our
prime objective,” said the king, “is to capture Ursa on the eventuality the
boys aren’t at her mansion, so she can’t scamper off and have Dorane….” Rexson
could not bring himself to finish the thought, but there was no need. “Where
else could the boys be?” Rexson turned to Bendelof. “Has anything you’ve seen
sparked ideas since we last talked? Could they be with Arbora?”