The Queen of Mages (3 page)

Amira’s chef, a heavyset, mustachioed
Parilian named Fortino, came wheezing out of the manse bearing a
pair of baskets stuffed full of cheese, bread, apples, grapes,
figs, and smoked oysters imported at great expense from the coast.
Amira thanked him for his foresight, while Katin clucked at the
excess. “A basket for each of us? Is there a famine coming?” she
muttered when Fortino had his back turned.

Huffman and Fortino, being the only men
present, heaved the two enormous trunks onto the coach, lashing
them to the luggage rack. Huffman bowed to Amira and held out his
hand to help her up.

As she settled onto the cushions, a
squeaking noise drew her attention. She looked out the open door of
the coach and saw a rotund woman, dress askew, striding toward her
and calling out Amira’s name. A gaggle of maids trailed behind,
making futile attempts to finish dressing her. The Lady Besiana
Tarian, Countess of Hedenham, and Amira’s neighbor, ground to a
halt at the coach door, blocking Katin from climbing aboard. The
vala
glared at the countess’s expansive back.

“Amira, dear! Surely you are not going on a
journey, today of all days?” The countess eyed the trunk perched
above her as if it might somehow be to blame.

Amira bowed her head, a necessary token of
respect. Amira was no countess, not even a baroness, just an
unlanded lady, the lowest rank of the nobility, but it annoyed her
to have to bow to this nag of a noblewoman. “Ah, yes, I’m afraid I
am, my lady,” she said, pursing her lips. “I just need some time to
clear my head before the summer ball. I’ve been having the most
awful headaches, you see.”

“How dreadful,” Besiana said, slapping away
the hand of a maid who tried to straighten her sleeve. “Dreadfully
unfortunate, that is. You see, my son has sent word—he is arriving
in the city this very day!”

The countess had been plotting for months to
introduce Amira to her son. Apparently he preferred to stay in
Hedenham with his father, and only came to Callaston rarely, on
business of their house. Amira’s social calendar had, by some
unfathomable coincidence, been completely full during his last
several visits.

“Oh, my, that is unfortunate,” Amira said,
knitting her brow in feigned distress. “But I simply cannot wait if
I’m to feel well for the ball.”

“Oh, of course,” Besiana said, chuckling
lightly. “Ah, the ball! He’ll stay for the ball, I’m sure of it.
I’ll see to it! You two should attend together. You’d make the most
elegant couple.”

Amira gave a bright smile. “It would not be
an impossible thing!”

While the countess worked out the meaning of
that, Katin impatiently slipped past her and up into the coach,
clutching the snack baskets in either hand. “Pardon me, m’lady, we
must be going.” She pulled the door shut and pounded on the roof.
Huffman snapped the reins briskly, apparently as eager to escape
the countess’s grasp as Amira was.

“Do let me know when you return, dear!” the
countess shouted after them as the coach pulled away. “I shall tell
my son that…” Her voice faded as the coach picked up speed.

Katin frowned out the window. “I’m going to
find out which of our servants gossiped to
her
servants
about this trip, and have them flogged.”

“Oh, hush,” Amira said. “Servants
gossip.”

“I don’t,” Katin grumped, plucking a grape
from one of the baskets and gnashing at it.

———

Willbury Street curved so that its ends both
met the same road, a wide avenue named the Grainway, populated by
shops and businesses with apartments stacked atop them. The coach
joined the traffic on that road, passing by the little grocer where
Fortino went twice a week to purchase fruits and vegetables, and
other local shops that Amira had come to know.

Barely a block later, Amira realized they’d
pass right by the local temple. “I want to stop there,” she told
Katin.

“What? Why?”

“For a blessing.”

Katin rolled her eyes. “I suppose we left
early enough. Please be quick.” She hammered on the roof and
shouted to Huffman. “Stop at the temple!”

He complied, bringing the coach to a halt
squarely before the temple’s door. Three stone steps led up to it,
and Amira knocked on the doorframe three times in rapid ritual
before entering. Katin stayed in the coach, which suited Amira
fine. Katin never wanted to pray, or receive blessings, or even set
foot in a temple if she could avoid it.

One could find temples of the Niderium in
every city, town, and village in Garova. There were dozens in
Callaston alone. Amira sought them out often; she liked praying to
the Caretaker and the Aspects. It made her feel safe and calm. The
Elibanders, who had come to this land centuries ago, had brought
their religion with them. They worshipped a god called the
Guardian, who rewarded control, conquest, and strength. But the
native Caelanders’ spirit-worship had been too hard to wrest away,
too ingrained in the rituals and patterns of their daily lives.

Some dusty old scholar had claimed a vision
of the true god, whom he called the Caretaker, and founded a
religious order that merged the Elibanders’ monotheism with the
spirit-worship of the Caelander natives. The
Devoshim
Niderium
, as he’d named it, had expanded over the centuries to
nearly blanket the realm in temples, administered from its
headquarters compound in Callaston. Virtually all Garovans
worshipped the Caretaker, although Amira had heard tales of
backwaters where people still prayed to spirits in the water, air,
and earth.

Like most Niderine temples, this one was
long and narrow, with a high, arched ceiling. A clear glass window
at the far end admitted some light, but mostly the temple was lit
by candles in wall sconces. Amira strode past the eight altars
where a few folk prayed, and found the temple’s steward reading
something atop his lectern. He looked up and smiled. “Good morning,
Lady Amira,” he said quietly, closing a large, leather-bound book
of real paper. It must have cost a fortune; parchment was cheaper,
but the Niderium could afford the finer things.

“Good morning, Stew—er,
Sendraj
Alfin.” Amira grimaced, hoping no one else had noticed her flub.
Proper nobles used the Elibander title, not the commoner’s
“Steward.” “If it please you, I’d like a blessing. I’m starting a
journey today and I wish it to be safe and enjoyable.”

“Indeed, m’lady? That sounds most pleasant.
Although I notice you say ‘I’ as opposed to ‘we.’ I assume your
vala
will be attending you on your journey, as is proper, so
that is a curious turn of phrase.” He peered over her shoulder.
“M’lady really ought to encourage her
vala
to visit the
temple. We can hardly see to her spiritual welfare if—”

“Yes,
Sendraj
,” Amira blurted, not
feeling at all bad about cutting him off. Stewards would ramble at
the slightest provocation. She wondered if they learned it at
Ulisharran, or if the Niderium simply sought out men who loved the
sound of their own voice. Besides, there was no way to get Katin
into a temple short of dragging her. “But I am in rather a rush, so
if you would…?”

“Ah. Of course. Please step into the
Eye.”

Alfin’s little wooden lectern sat at the
edge of the Eye of Sanctuary, a circle set down into the floor by
three shallow steps. Amira descended to its center and stood with
her hands clasped as Alfin straightened up and hefted his
shepherd’s crook.

“By the Caretaker and his thousand names,”
the steward began, addressing no one in particular. “I call for a
blessing on this lady, as she begins a journey. Her path is known
and unknown. I invoke the Aspect of Courage, to help her take the
next step. Her benefit is known and unknown. I invoke the Aspect of
Joy, to help her prosper in its light. Her destiny is known and
unknown. I invoke the Aspect of Chaos, to help her face the mystery
to come.” He reached out with the crook and lightly tapped Amira on
the top of her head.

Amira smiled. Stewards might ramble in
conversation, but the rituals of the Niderium were tidily
efficient. She dropped a silver into the donation urn, whispered
her thanks, and departed.

Katin tapped her foot impatiently as Huffman
helped Amira climb back into the coach. “Properly consecrated?”

“I made him put a curse on you,” Amira
teased. Katin rolled her eyes and thumped on the roof.

They followed the Grainway for half a mile,
then turned north along the Way of Trade, two broad avenues that
flanked a grass parkway that was used for the annual Wintergift
feast. Soon they reached the Great Square. Hundreds of vendors,
shoppers, beggars, and supplicants crowded the square, and it took
several minutes for Huffman to thread his way through, shouting and
cursing at the pedestrians obstructing their way. Amira glimpsed
the high stone walls of the great castle Elibarran, seat of the
crown of Garova. From what she’d heard, it was more palace now than
fortification, though the walls looked impressive enough. She was
of too low station to have been invited in by the royal family or
others at court, but when the royal summer ball came, all the
nobles in the city would be allowed to enter. She tingled with
excitement at the prospect.

They escaped the Great Square and soon
passed through the city’s western gate, called the Trade Gate in
the typically practical fashion of Garovan commoners. It had a
fancy official name she’d forgotten, some confusing phrase from the
old Elibander tongue.

“So, where are we bound?” Amira asked as the
road turned from stone to dirt beneath them. Callaston had not been
attacked by any army in decades, and it had long since overflowed
its walls. Cottages, shops, fields, and farms dotted the landscape
around them.

“West.” Katin smirked at her.
“Surprise!”

Amira pursed her lips. “I find myself less
exhilarated than I had hoped.”

“You wanted to get out of the city. Well,
here we are. What were you expecting on a half day’s notice? It
took all the time I had just to get packed and arrange the coach.”
Katin sniffed. “There are a few noble estates we could call at.
Countess Isilian, for instance—”

“No, no. We’ll stay at wayfarers’ inns. I
may as well have stayed cooped up at home if we’re simply going to
camp out at some lady’s estate. I want to visit the
country
.”

———

The plains west of Callaston soon gave way
to low hills threaded with gentle streams. Occasionally Amira could
glimpse the silver ribbon of the River Brinemoor running parallel
to the road a mile or so to the south. As the sun slipped behind
the western hills, Huffman called out from atop the coach. “Inn
ahead, m’lady, and it’s getting on toward dark. Should we stop for
the night?”

Amira’s headache had returned with
reinforcements, and the jostling of the coach had not helped one
bit. She stopped rubbing at her temple long enough to push the
curtain aside and spy a cozy inn beside the road. She nudged Katin,
who had drifted off, slumped over one of the baskets. The
vala
twitched and woke, smoothing her dull brown hair back
and rubbing the sleep from her eyes. Katin called out for Huffman
to stop once Amira pointed out the inn to her. Amira would gladly
have done the shouting herself, but she was a proper lady now, and
ladies were supposed to refrain from raising their voices.

Huffman helped her down from the coach. When
her foot struck the ground, a cascade of agony erupted in her head.
She turned away from Huffman for a moment, gritting her teeth
against the pain, and forced out a “Thank you, sir,” before he
could think her unbearably rude. A gawky young boy came hopping out
of the inn to help with the trunks.

The Inn of the Western Well followed the
same plan as most Garovan inns: a common room taking up most of the
ground floor, with the kitchen behind it, and a winding stairwell
leading up to the bedrooms. Through the arch to her right Amira saw
a handful of guests at dinner. Food was the furthest thing from her
mind as she tried to ignore the growing pain. She felt as if a
white-hot dagger was being slowly and inexorably driven through the
top of her skull.

The innkeeper, a fat old man who smiled at
everything, bowed and gave them the guest register to sign. Amira
scratched in
Lady Amira Estaile
, a lone Elibander-style name
beneath a sea of common Caelan names. There were no other nobles
staying here at the moment, it seemed. Her
vala
put in her
own name beneath it,
Katin Berisha
.

The innkeeper led them to their room at the
end of the upstairs corridor. Katin slipped the man a few coppers
and he bowed and smiled his way out, shutting the door. Amira felt
hot. She threw open the windows, which looked out behind the inn
onto a grassy yard where a few guests strolled.

The cool evening air didn’t help. What she
needed was privacy. And to get the damned corset off. “Help me
undress, would you,” she said as evenly as she could. Katin did,
while Amira took deep breaths, trying to steady herself. “I’m
famished,” she lied. “I don’t suppose you’d see if the kitchen can
spare a plate or two for us.” She smiled tightly at her
vala
, trying not to wince.

Katin eyed her for a moment, but nodded and
went out. When the door snicked shut, Amira collapsed onto the bed,
buried her face in the coverlet, and released a keening wail. The
pain was worse than ever, as if a blazing ember scorched her from
within. She couldn’t picture anything else in her mind’s eye, no
matter how hard she willed it. All she saw was a scorching,
blistering sun, filling every corner of her being.

She slid down to the floor, her shift
crumpling up against the bed. The pain ebbed for a moment, and it
was then that Amira realized she could actually
see
the
ember. It was a steady orange glow, easily visible when she shut
her eyes. Which she did, allowing the ember to occupy all her
attention.