Part 8

Moya Tilmitt had gotten into the habit of wearing a sword nowadays.

It wasn't unknown, by any means; many men who lived in the Silver City had served in the Silver Guardsmen or the army at one point or another--which, in Eretria, was synonymous with having been to the Spring Lands--and they sometimes wore their weapons as a badge of honor. Others, mostly young men, wore them as a sign of defiance, as if daring some unwary passerby to challenge them to combat. And others wore them for reasons no one dared ask about.

Kenneth Tilmitt thought he might be one of those people.

In the five days since Jordan's nameday celebration he had walked the streets incessantly. Almost all of the other mages in the Silver City had left, heading out to Belgedrine or Temistoclelen or even Mortraveil, though it was on the other side of Gruenveldt; and those who remained wanted nothing to do with his search.

So he walked alone.

They still didn't have a face for this strange murderer, this intruder who had shattered the peace of the castle. They had only a glimpse into his heart... And the strange, gritty feeling of his holding of the Flow.

"Mage-every," he had explained to the Queen, "has their own footprint-magical-unique. It can be sensed most easily when the mage is holding the Flow, but if you know what to look for, it is evident at times-all."

"Meaning..." Queen Meralina had asked.

"Meaning," he had answered, "that, now, I can find man-this for you. Right now."

They had not answered.

"By listening to the eddies of the Flow, I can trace signature-his-particular and find him. The waves of the Flow, when used, linger for days-several, and they will have signature-his. I can find them, and lead you to him."

"How long will it take," Doland Basingame had asked.

"That... I do not know. Please understand, this is not something we do often. Many of us live in--" No, no slips of the tongue. It would not do to reveal that secret yet. "--in proximity-close to other mages, so there are Flow-tracks around constantly, and sorting them out would be... Difficult. To say the least. That will not be a problem here, but I am... Out of practice."

"We understand," Queen Meralina had said. "And we trust you, Master Tilmitt. We believe you will not fail us."

But it had been five days--five days of wandering slowly up and down the streets of the Silver City, holding the Flow, feeling the echoes and waves and rebounds from the delicate traceries of old Flowpaths that still hung in the air. Five days... And nothing. Almost totally... Nothing. A few vagrant echoes, here and there... Nothing conclusive. Any lead he had found had melted away by the next day.

But he had promised.

And this was more important than his aching legs.

So he walked. And he wandered. And though he wore a sword at his belt, and was the hunter, he felt no hurry to find his prey. For he felt, strangely, that it, too, was hunting him.

Though Princess Gabriele and her First Lance, Marcus Demitri, had visited the Stelmarine estate every day, they had not yet seen Mistress Hester since the attack in the Palace. She was hiding, claimed the Lady Stelmarine; she did not want anyone to see her. The Lady Stelmarine had been distracted as she said this; she twisted a handkerchief throughout their conversations and seemed transfixed by a spot just above their right shoulders. More than once both Jordan and Catheryne caught themselves glancing behind them, wondering just what Davina's mother had seen. Lord Stelmarine had gone out to his manufacturies in the south of the city, leaving and returning when it was dark.

Now it was the fifth day, and Mistress Hester had finally consented to be seen by those who were considered her best friends.

"I warn you," Lady Stelmarine said, "It's not... It is... Discomforting."

"We understand," said Catheryne.

"We were there when the injuries were inflicted," Jordan said. "We have seen her at worse."

"Yes..." said Lady Stelmarine. "Yes. This is... True."

She knocked on the door. "Hester. They're here."

"I changed my mind," came the answer, muffled by the door. "Tell them to go away."

"They've been here every morning for the past five days, dear," said Lady Stelmarine. "I don't think that will work."

"If I may, Lady Stelmarine," Catheryne said. "Davina! Do you remember when we were eleven, and we both got strung out on Jakob Purlaye, and there were a few days when we couldn't talk to each other?"

There was a pause. "Yes."

"And then we decided that nothing was going to get in the way of our friendship."

There was a pause, as if Davina could see where this was going. "Yes."

"I meant it then," Catheryne said. "And I mean it now."

There was no answer for several seconds.

"All right," said Davina. "Hold on."

Jordan looked at Catheryne. "Jakob Purlaye," he said.

Catheryne blushed. "We were eleven," she protested. "People change. He didn't seem like the kind of person to have children out of wedlock... With three different women."

"My lady..." Jordan said. "You have terrible taste in men."

"Ugh," she said, thinking of Paitr, "don't remind me."

The Lady Stelmarine stifled a smile with her hand.

"Okay," said Davina, her voice closer to the other side of the door. "I'm coming out... Are you sure about this?"

"Davina, I came here to talk to my friend, not to a door," said Catheryne.

"Oh all right," said Davina.

The door opened.

Catheryne had seen her friend's face bleeding and twisted, laid open by the claws of some magic they could not understand. And in the five days when Davina refused to see them, her imagination had brought up countless death's-head possibilities for what might have happened. A lot of them were the stuff of nightmares, more ghastly than was really realistic. And yet when the door opened, it took all her effort to control her expression.

A thousand nightmares could be dispelled with the wave of a hand. Reality was not so easily dismissed.

Her face was a mass of scar tissue. It twisted her lip, cut across the bridge of her nose, raked across her cheeks and forehead. Half of one eyebrow was quite a bit higher than the other half. Davina had been charitably called 'handsome' and maliciously a lot worse. Now there was no question about which side of the line she fell on.

"There," said Davina saidly. She squeezed her eyes shut, and tears glimmered. "I bet you rather talk to a door."

Before Catheryne could respond, Jordan said, "It could be worse. At least you have a face."

Catheryne stared at him, appalled.

"It's the truth," he said. "Some lose noses or ears. Some lose limbs. Some lose life. It could have been worse."

"I'd rather be dead," Davina muttered. "What am I going to do now. I'm ruined. No one wants to look at me, much less marry me."

Jordan frowned. "There's more to life than that, you know."

"But it's what I want, okay," Davina retorted. "That's all I want. That's all I ever wanted. A nice husband and some grandchildren for my dad. Now I'll never have that. And what else was there for me."

What scared Catheryne most was not really that Davina was being so pessimistic. Considering the situation, that was to be expected. What scared Catheryne was Davina's anger. She had known this girl practically since infancy, but had only seen her get angry, really angry, once, perhaps twice, in her entire life. Davina's anger was disturbing. And frightening.

She gave Lady Stelmarine a look. She nodded and left them in private.

Davina's bedroom was not really meant for receiving guests; there were no chairs, or much of anything for that matter. Jordan stood near the door and the girls sat on the bed. Catheryne was glad she'd chosen to wear a light skirt.

"I hate being a woman," Davina said. "Our lives are dictated for us. Go here. Do this. Think that. Say this. Marry this man. Don't marry that one. Have kids. What do we have to look forward to?"

Catheryne opened her mouth... And closed it again. There wasn't a lot she could say, really. Hadn't she felt the shackles of her sex around her her entire life? Bad enough that Queen Meralina had failed to bear any children: now her First Lance's offspring was a girl! Girls couldn't do anything. They sat at home and embroidered while men went off and did the real work. And now one of them would be sitting on the throne. Never mind that she'd been chosen by the Queen; never mind that she'd been smarter and better than almost all of them during classes and lectures. There was still the matter of her breasts, and her eyes, and her long hair, and the flare of her hips and the narrows of her waist, and all the things those represented.

"Now I'm depressed," Catheryne said.

"Don't give me that kazrec," Davina snapped. "You're the princess. You've got nothing to worry about. You're-- You're bloody Ella of the Ashes, happy ending and everything. Whereas I've got this--" Her hands wormed over her face. "This--"

"Me kazrec," Catheryne exclaimed. "Being a princess is not about kisses and rainbows! Who do I get to marry? Maybe Prince Telathandros from Cymerin. Or Lord MeGrevin, I hear he's looking for a new wife. My hand is a political asset and I have to use it as such. Happy ending? Not very likely!

"And you-- What, you have to run the manufacturies? More likely your husband will do that. You watch after the children. I have to think about taxes and keeping the army fed and making sure Hope isn't overrun by the Summers and holding feasts for the public and a hundred other things. I'll have responsibilities over my head until the day I die."

She sighed. "And what I want... Doesn't matter a whole lot. Because what others need... Is more important. I am the Queen of Eretria, both first and last."

Davina looked at her. "It sounds like you don't want to be queen."

"Who would," Catheryne said. "Only madwomen." Temaile Daravon, maybe. Oh, Kyrei's Light, it'd be so nice if she was just mad.

"I have heard it said," Jordan said, his voice startling her, "that the person who most seeks power is the one who least ought to have it... And that, conversely, she who avoids it away would use it best."

Catheryne gave him a rueful look. "Oh, well, that's reassuring. Condemned to a life of doing something I hate."

"And that is why monarchs have First Lances," Jordan said. "To keep them in good spirits and with a positive mindset."

"They can't do that if they're dead," Catheryne snapped.

Jordan's face turned instantly cold. "Let's not start that."

"What?" said Davina.

"Oh, nothing," Catheryne said. "It's just my First Lance, who--"

"Let's not start that, " Jordan said.

"Oh, is this the death wish thing?" said Davina.

There was a moment's pause.

"I think that's a really good way of phrasing it," said Catheryne finally.

"But who's going to replace you," Davina asked Jordan. "There's no one in the kingdom who's really qualified. At least, that we know of."

"He picked Paitr Domenicos," Catheryne said.

"He did," Davina said, her eyes widening. "He... Jordan, that was not a very smart to do."

"I don't want to talk about it!" Jordan said.

Catheryne flopped back on the bed with a theatrical sigh, letting one of her arms fall to cover her eyes. "Oh, whyever not. Jordan, you can't go on pretending you never make mistakes and that you're some sort of... Some magical answer-person who always knows what to do or say. You made a mistake. You're human. That's not--"

"Catheryne," Davina said.

"That's not exactly an uncommon occurrence. Even for you. When are you going to be ready to--"

"Catheryne," Davina said again, and this time Catheryne looked. Davina was pointing at Jordan.

Jordan stood with head bowed, fists clenched, shaking. She couldn't see his face, but she didn't think he was angry. In fact, if she had to guess, she'd say he was... In pain.

It was such a startling sight that she relented immediately. "I'm sorry. I-- I didn't mean to-- If you don't want to talk about it, we won't talk about it. I shouldn't--"

"Catheryne," Davina murmured. "Leave him alone."

Jordan ducked his head and tried to control the welter of emotions crashing over him. Rage, yes--rage at making such a mistake, at not realizing that Catheryne's feelings towards Paitr had cooled. It was a stupid thing to have done and he had no patience with stupidity in himself. But beyond that was... Confusion. Ambiguity. For the first time ever, he had something resembling a future in front of him. Was he being a fool, to throw it away?

In that environment, Catheryne's goading, even unmalicious, was still dangerous.

"Where were we?" Davina said.

"... I don't know," Catheryne said.

"Something about queens having a thousand responsibilities, and not liking the job at all, except for the opportunities it gives to annoy your First Lance," Jordan said.

Catheryne rolled her eyes at him. Of course she liked to annoy him. Who wouldn't?

"If this enlightening discussion is complete, milady, we do need to leave by four'o'clock," Jordan said.

"He has an appointment," Catheryne explained to Davina.

"Of the list of servants given to me," said Jordan, "I have succeeded in contacting two of them. One has moved away, another is dead, and the last I plan to catch today. And I believe that she will have the answers I seek."

"Well," Davina sighed, "I suppose I can't stand in the way of justice." She stood.

She followed them out to the foyer, where they checked the grandfather clock and confirmed that, yes, it was getting quite near to four in the afternoon. With Catheryne's apologies, they made ready to go.

"How do I look," Davina asked suddenly. She smoothed her skirts self-consciously, squeezed her eyes closed, opened them again. "Tell me. Truthfully. How do I look?"

They looked at her.

Catheryne opened her mouth... And then closed it again, lost in a whirl of emotions. Poor Davina--to have this happen to her. Such a sweet, wonderful girl, whom nobody ever noticed because she didn't have the face and figure women wanted to have. And then some insane mage cast a spell and twisted her face forever. It should have happened to me. Men would've married me if I'd looked like a toad. It's not fair, not to her. It should've happened to me.

Jordan stepped into the gap. "You're not exactly a painting by DeForeau, but it's not like you were before. And though face is different, the you inside is still the same--and if you think people called you 'friend' for your ravishing beauty instead of the kindness of your heart, then you're dumber than you look. So, in the end, I don't think much has changed for you at all."

Davina's eyes closed again. Catheryne looked at Jordan with a sort of appalled respect. Blunt though he might be--very blunt--he had said everything that needed saying.

"How do you feel?" Catheryne asked Davina.

Davina was silent.

"I don't know," she said. "But I don't feel like hiding in my room anymore."

Catheryne reached over and hugged her. "You have a friend," she said. "Maybe only a princess, and maybe not a very good one, but you'll always have a friend in me."

"And me as well," Jordan said behind her.

They both stared at him in shock.

"What," Jordan said. "Is it inappropriate somehow for me to make friends?"

They stared at him again.

Jordan gave them an exasperated shake of the head and went out the door.

Catheryne sat alone in her room, thinking on the events of the day. Jordan was somewhere out in the Indistrict, hunting down the last of those five servants. He had insisted on going alone, so she had stayed at the Palace while he set off on foot. She had urged him to take a coach, or at least a horse, but he had stoutly resisted, maintaining that his own two feet were good enough. Now she was alone for the first time in what was getting close to a year--totally alone, with no one near, not even her First Lance, who was often near, out of sight but not out of mind.

Alarmingly, she found herself feeling naked and rather vulnerable.

Was this what it was going to be like, she asked herself in a moment of sudden lucidity. Would she find herself sitting here in this chair tomorrow, in a month, in five years--feeling that strange emptiness just over her shoulder, waiting for someone to return... And then Paitr would walk in, her replacement First Lance, nominated and confirmed by the original... He'd walk in, and somehow she knew that the emptiness would not be filled by his presence.

It had been a rocky five days, to be certain. There were things they just didn't discuss. Jordan's impending death, and the passing of the Lancehood to Paitr, was one of them. The feelings between them were another. She wanted to be his friend, that was certain--maybe even more, maybe to be his closest friend, to thank him somehow for the steadiness of the past year, for the little courtesies she hadn't noticed because she was too busy thinking of him as some sort of cruel, heartless intruder--Heavens above, how had he managed? She had been awful to him in the beginning. It was a wonder he didn't hate her. At least she didn't hate him anymore. Far from it. Jordan might say whatever he wanted to, deny whatever he wanted to, but she knew, just knew, that he felt about her what she felt about him. Come to think of it, he hadn't exactly denied anything to her at all; he just hadn't confirmed it either. Hadn't said anything, one way or the other.

Almost all their lessons had been suspended--Moya Tilmitt was out walking the streets, trying to find their mystery killer, and they'd spent hours every day at the Stelmarine residence, trying to get Davina to see them. And Jordan had dedicated the remainder of his time to hunting down those servants. The entire Palace was in an uproar about his announcement, with people denouncing him left and right, and others stepping up to defend him or to venerate Master Domenicos, and a few simply applying themselves to Catheryne herself, evidently in the hope of gaining her favor and getting a chance at her hand, or Lancehood, or both.

A small but vocal segment of the population was clamoring for another Time of Trials. Jordan clearly wasn't trustworthy, they claimed, and any suggestions he made towards the passing-on of the Lancehood were just as suspect. Father was coming down hard on those ones. "Do they have any idea of the expense? The reason there's only one Trials every twenty or thirty years is because it practically takes that long to refill the coffers!"

To which Catheryne had said, "So, tell them that if they want to sponsor the Time of Trials financially, you'll agree." Which made Father laugh, which was good; and he may have even taken her suggestion, too, because he was complaining about it less and less.

The attacks on Catheryne herself were a little less easier to deal with. The monarch was linked to the land, and because Catheryne was coming into the heights of her power, many of the things that happened nowadays were laid at her feet. A banker, having made a good investment, might praise her; a farmer whose crops had been lost to an early freeze might profane her. Of course she had nothing to do with any of it whatsoever, but she knew that part of her fate as the future Queen was to be praised and blamed for every tiny thing that ever happened in her realm.

But a traitorous First Lance was hardly tiny. Nor was the unprecedented rampage of a crazed murderer who, by chance, also happened to be a mage.

There were whispers--she hadn't heard any of them herself but she knew they were there--that she was an unsuitable Princess-Heir, that a replacement ought to be found. Temaile Daravon, as the nearest blood relative, was the obvious choice. Catheryne was fairly sure that Temaile had not started these whispers and rumors herself; she was fairly sure she hadn't needed to. This sort of thing could bring down any monarch, even the most beloved President in Seneca, where, it was said, the Summers actually chose their leaders themselves. Catheryne didn't see how that would work. How did you know who was eligible to be chosen? What if someone said he wanted to try to be President but everybody ignored him? How did they find out what everyone wanted--did they send people around to ask them all individually? That could take months! But the Senecans made it work somehow, and more power to them, as far as Catheryne was concerned. She had other worries. Like these random threats that were shaking her future out from under her.

Hadn't she just been saying how much she'd give not to be Princess?

But the alternative was Temaile, wasn't it. And that was really all the answer she needed. Catheryne wasn't at all sure she'd make a good ruler, but she was sure Temaile wouldn't. And there was no way she could sit back and let her people be ruined by an overinflated bint with no sense of obligation.

... Hold on a second.

" 'My' people," she wondered aloud. "They're not 'my' people. They don't want me, that's for certain. What makes them 'my' people?" Who, exactly, had staked a claim on whom?

She had, she realized. It was she who wanted them.

The Queen's voice drifted up out of the depths of memory. "Those who love the people," she had said, "will always find themselves prominent eventually, whether it be as king or as the mayer of the meanest village. Because the people know when someone will look out for them, will put their interests first. And if you are one of those people, they will love you in return."

So, that was the answer then. Temaile loved... What? Power? Herself? But not the people, that was certain. She was looking for Ella of the ashes, she was looking for her happy ending. Whereas Catheryne herself...

"Well," she said. "I wouldn't mind a happy ending either. But I know it won't come from the throne."

"You are being trained in the ways of violence," Jordan had told her once about the silte. "But you have almost reached the point where you are dangerous, where you can fight and protect yourself. Now, you must begin to learn the opposite. Any fool can kill another human being. It happens all the time. Babies drown in bathtubs. Wives accidentally push their husbands down flights of stairs. Children find their father's knives, and before you know it, one of them is dead. What is difficult is to not kill, to take yourself and the other just to the brink of that point--and then hold back. You have learned the powers of death; now you must learn the powers of life."

It was almost certain that Temaile didn't know that. Maybe she never would.

So, that's my mission, then, she thought to herself. To take the throne... Not because I want it, but because others do, and they must not be allowed to have it.

She felt a sense of peace, then, as if some long-forgotten question deep within her had finally been answered.

There was a knocking at the door. "Jordan?" she said.

"It's Paitr," came the muffled reply.

Kazrec. She didn't want to see him. She didn't feel particularly safe around him anymore. But something had to be done. She needed to come clean about what had happened between them. About what had not happened between them. About what would not happen between them. About... All that stuff. She needed to face all of it and maybe now was as good a time as ever.

I hope this doesn't turn out to be a mistake.

Paitr came in. His clothing was strangely faded and wrinkled, as if he might have slept in it, and he was unshaven. She had never seen him look anything but immaculate. The wild look in his eyes didn't much help.

"Gabriele," he said. "I'm... I'm here."

"... Yes," she said, "I can see that."

"I've... I've been waiting for your summons," he said. "But then I thought... But then I thought, Maybe she's too busy, and I had better come myself. So I, I did. Isn't it-- Isn't it the job of the First Lance to be prepared?"

"Err, yes," she said. "Highly commendable."

They blinked at each other for a moment. Catheryne fidgeted with her dress and tried to keep a neutral and pleasant expression on her face, as she had been taught. It was always best to accept people as they were, she had been told, to try to understand what made them the way they were, and help them from there--but, in a moment of unprecedented lucidity, she realized:

... He's gotten really weird.

"I've been practicing my swordsmanship," said Paitr suddenly. "I know I'm-- I'm probably not as good as Master Marcus at handling my sword, but, I, I figured, if I practiced, I could learn." Then he blushed. "I, I'm sorry. I didn't mean to-- Not that I'd know about how he handles his sword, you understand, but, I didn't-- You don't know how he handles his sword, do you?"

Catheryne, who had taken the comment at face value before it had suddenly turned to innuendo, blinked at him. ... I think this was a mistake.

"No," she said, "I have... No idea." Paitr was scowling and it was clear that telling him the truth would have been suicidal. "With his attitude, I doubt anyone has ever gotten close enough to him to find out." Which was, of course, the truth--she was pretty sure he'd never had a lover besides her... And maybe never would.

In that moment she resolved to give herself to him, some time before he left to do his final thing. She didn't know what he'd think of her, but she was fairly sure he wouldn't turn her down. It would be her last gift to him; it would be the last thing she'd take from him. And she'd have one night, just one, with him, before... Paitr.

Who was still talking. "I... I hope I didn't offend," he was saying. He ran a hand through his hair. "I thought I might have, because you, you never contacted me after Marcus's announcement, and, and after... Our time together."

"Yes, that," she said. "Paitr, I--"

"Gabriele, I want you to marry me," he said. "Soon. As soon as I'm invested as your First Lance."

Now that she had no answer to.

"You're the only one for me, Gabriele," he said. "Surely you can see that. I've been... I can't ever sleep, I toss and turn, I dream of you every moment I close my eyes. There's no one for me but you. And I know..." His voice shook with the intensity of his emotion; he seemed almost ready to weep. "I know you feel the same about me."

She mastered her confusion and opened her mouth. "Paitr, I--"

"Gabriele, please." He was begging her, he was actually begging her. "You must see it."

She needed to burst his bubble somehow--he was far off in the clouds, floating on his own little world. But this was not the time or place. He'd gone insane, practically--insane over her. Insane because of her. (Really? I can do that to people? Did I accidentally use the Flow on him while we were... Doing things?) There would be no reasoning with him. So the best thing to do, as far as she was concerned, was to get him out of this room, give him some more distance, let him stop obsessing for a while. There would be no talking to him now, she could see that clearly. The best she could do was hope not to cause any further damage.

This was a mistake. I shouldn't've let him in at all.

"I'll think about it," she said. "Paitr, I promise I'll think about it, but surely you must see how... Sudden this is. I wasn't expecting it. Not at all."

"Gabriele, you must see--"

"I need some time to think, Paitr," she said. I wonder what his private name is. "Please, leave me alone for a while. I'll send you my answer when I'm ready."

"Gabriele, you must see it."

"And I'll try to, Paitr, but I can't--"

"I can't live without you."

"Paitr, what are you--"

"I need you, Gabriele."

"Paitr, please leave the room. You're--"

"I need you."

"Paitr."

"You can't turn me away. Ignoring me, taunting me, flitting away-- Isn't this what you wanted? Give me what you want."

"Paitr."

"I need you." He grabbed her arms.

"Paitr, let go of--"

"Let me show you, Gabriele, let me show you." The rage in his eyes was palpable and she knew, suddenly, with that sinking feeling in her heart, that it had definitely been a mistake.

He ripped her dress; he bruised her arms; his entry was painful and battering; his weight was heavy and savage over her, and she knew she didn't even dare scream.

It was definitely a mistake. Most, very much, definitely... A mistake.

And then, oddly: Jordan, wherever you are, I hope you're having more fun than I am.

She squeezed her eyes closed against the sound of his frienzied grunting and prayed that, soon, it might end.