Closer to the Chest (31 page)

“'Xactly,” he agreed. “Now, you wanta sit down an' try an' talk to it yerself, or, shall we get upstairs again?”

She contemplated the shining globe for a moment. “Maybe later, when we aren't up to our necks in other things.”

“Well, that'll be never,” he said wryly, but closed and locked the door.

They went back upstairs, and were enveloped in heat. “What now?” she asked.

“Well, now I go talk to the best Farseer in the Heralds, and tell 'er what the rock tol' me,” he replied, taking and squeezing her hand. “Feel like bein' bored, ye kin come along.”

“I'm King's Own. The more I learn about other people's Gifts, the better,” she replied.

It wasn't quite as boring as Mags had threatened, although she did lose the thread of conversation a time or two, since what Mags had learned from the stone covered a great deal more than just how to block Farsight. But Herald Lora certainly was appreciative of the information, even effusive. And she came away with a much greater understanding of what a Farseer could and could not do.

“I wanted to talk to you about something else,” she said, when Herald Lora had gone, and they were alone. “About what Jorthun said—that if this worked—”

“He's gonna escalate.” Mags nodded.

“Do you think there is any chance that Lydia might be in danger?” she asked urgently. “I didn't want to say anything around Father and Jorthun, or they might have decided
not
to let you act. I talked to Lydia myself, and she's absolutely adamant that we do everything we can to stop this fiend, especially after what he did to Katlie. But if you think she's at any risk, I'll persuade her to go somewhere else for her confinement. Now, while she can still travel.”

Mags sucked on his lower lip and considered her words thoughtfully. “Well,” he said, “Le's look at this the way Lord Jorthun put it. Would ye say so far as ev'body outside the family's concerned, Lydia's a real womanly woman?”

Amily giggled a little, her ears going red. “Well, she's certainly . . . uh . . . doing her dynastic duty.”

“An' she does all sorta good works, while Sedric goes out and Princes about. So, honest an' true, I'd'a have t'say
you're
in more danger than Lydia or th' Queen.” He eyed her with a touch of worry. “But mebbe he ain't seen ye actually doin' things.”

She snorted. “If he's been watching me, he's been seeing Father acting as King's Own, not me.”

He relaxed a trifle. “Aight then. 'E ain't gonna like female Heralds, but you're jest one of a bunch. But I wantcha to watch yer back. I'm gonna be down in Haven; I wanta see if there's any sign anybody in th' Sethorites is havin' a major fit.”

“We both think it's the Sethorites, don't we,” she said, slowly. “Why are Father and Lord Jorthun resisting?”

“'Cause it's too easy an answer,” he snorted. “An' when hev our answers ever been easy?”

“Never.” She sighed, stood on tiptoe and kissed him. “I need to go do some things for that blasted fete that the King
wants to hold for all the High Priests and Abbesses and Grand Whatevers. You keep yourself safe. If you get even a
hint
there might be trouble, take Teo.”

“I will,” he promised, and kissed her back. She stood in the door of the Collegium and watched him swing up on Dallen, trot off to the Gate, and head down into
Haven.

L
ocking any Farseers out of being able to view the Palace complex did change one thing. Not a single letter arrived from the Poison Pen by means of being pushed under a door or thrown through a window. Letters delivered by that means had already been cut off to the Collegia; now not even the ladies of the Court nor the Blues were getting them.

They were still arriving by regular post, although there were not as many of them. Now what
that
meant, not even Lord Jorthun could deduce. “If he were using his Farsight to avoid being caught in the act, he would still be able to do so within the Palace shields,” his Lordship had pointed out. “So the only thing safe to assume is that he is, for some reason, prevented from delivering anything by hand.”

“And that could just be the increased vigilance, and nothing more,” Nikolas had agreed. Which left them with putting everyone on the Hill to Truth Spell; Nikolas had consulted with everyone who could invoke it, and no one objected to
anything but the amount of time it was going to take, and that was more of a complaint than an objection.

“But not until after the Evening of Concordance,” the King had insisted—which was the rather ostentatious name for that annual (dull!) fete at which he hosted the heads of every religious organization, major and minor, in Haven. The one Amily and Nikolas, and even Prince Sedric, really wished he was
not
going to hold, and which he was insisting on anyway.

Mags, declaring that there was absolutely nothing he could contribute to the evening until the Concordance itself, was spending most of his time down in Haven, sniffing around the skirts of the Sethorites, still not able to get past the Outer Temple where anyone could go. Even women, although such were few and far between, and in Mags' estimation more timid than rabbits, were allowed that far. But he was determined to keep grinding at it, telling Amily that they probably wouldn't take him seriously without steady persistence. And he might even have been right.

Or he might have been doing his level best to avoid the stew of nerves that everyone involved with the preparations was in. Including her.

She really could not blame him. While in the absence of the frequent letters things were calming down a little among the courtiers, and the three Collegia had gotten practically back to normal, those who were aware of the whole of the situation were on edge, fully expecting some fresh outrage to erupt at the Concordance. What better place to arrange an outburst than there? There would be roughly three dozen dignified ecclesiastics there, easy to shock, and some of them would be women—the Poison Pen's particular victims.

But the afternoon of the Concordance, she found herself without anything to actually
do.
There were going to be people watching the food and its accoutrements from the moment it entered the kitchen to the moment it entered the dignified mouths for which it was destined. There were going to be
people watching the dignitaries themselves. There were going to be people in the gardens,
all
the gardens, and all over the grounds, making sure no one burned any more effigies. The Companions were going to be patrolling Companions' Field, and the Trainees of all three Collegia and the Blues had been given notice that after supper there was to be
no
straying out of their buildings (or in the case of the Blues, their rooms) the entire night. The penalty for doing so would be to be forbidden to attend the Midsummer Fair, the Harvest Fair,
and
the Midwinter Fair in Haven. Missing one would have been bad enough, but all three? The thought instilled enough horror in every single one of the Trainees that Amily and Nikolas were satisfied there would be no straying. Not after supper, anyway. A gentle hint was dropped that no one would be penalized for entertaining guests overnight, so long as they arrived at their destination within the candlemark after supper that had been appointed for everyone to get into place.

Amily had the distinct feeling that this would be used as an excuse to hold several parties, but that was none of her affair.

:Ah but you won't be one of the long-suffering Trainees who is trying to sleep next-door to a room full of rambunctious younglings,:
Rolan pointed out.

:And I
will
have my hands full making sure an obscene note about the Votaries of Betane doesn't flutter out of someone's napkin,:
she responded.
:The Heralds and Healers and Bards who teach these youngsters can surely figure out some way to keep them from disturbing others for one single night.

It was still too early to dress for the Concordance, so she headed for Companion's Field, and Rolan. She hadn't gotten much chance to physically
be
with him for the last several days—he was always “with” her, of course, but she missed grooming him, missed the comfort of his physical
solidity.

:And I will never, ever turn down a brushing,:
she heard teasingly.
:Bring that nice boar-bristle one I like so much, and meet me at the bent elm.:
One of the trees in the Field not far
from the stables had a low branch coming off a fork very near to the ground that had been bent some immense time in the past, so that it formed a sort of sitting bench before shooting straight up again. Amily went to Rolan's stall, got the brush he wanted from his gear-bag hanging on the post nearest the stall door, and went looking for him.

She understood at once why he wanted her to come to that particular spot. The temperature was considerably cooler here, possibly because of a spring nearby that ran into the river. He was waiting patiently for her, standing hip-shot, right by the sitting-branch. Which would, of course, allow her to reach his back in much greater comfort by standing on it.

“You think of everything,” she said fondly.

He switched his tail.
:Of course I do. It's my job.:

She felt all her tense muscles relax. Of course, she knew she would tense up all over again as soon as she left the Field, but at the moment, everything that
could
be taken care of had been. There was nothing she could do right now that would make any difference, so she might as well just . . . not think about it until supper.

Another way in which brushing a horse was very different from brushing a Companion—a poor horse would be pestered with flies. There wasn't a fly to be seen in the area around Rolan. In fact, the only signs of life were a few sparrows in the tree above her head, sleepily drowsing in the heat and occasionally letting out a soft chirp.

:Mags does that much better than you do,:
Rolan observed, as she began giving him a good, firm brushing. He must have been having a dust-bath; she was brushing out clouds of the stuff from his coat. No wonder he wanted her to groom him.

“Let things go, you mean?” she asked, leaning into the strokes. Rolan always looked
good,
but a proper brushing would make him shine like satin. “I think it's something he got from Bey, or that bout with the Sleepgiver drug. I expect assassins spend a lot of time waiting, and it's easier if you just
learn how to relax and not think about much while you're waiting, I suppose.”

:I could ask Dallen, but you're probably right. A valuable lesson, but an unpleasantly harsh way to learn it.:
He moved a little, so she didn't have to, bringing his haunches into reach.

“It strikes me that almost everything a Sleepgiver learns is by a harsh method,” she mused. “I hope Bey can change that a bit for the better.”

She still was more than a bit nonplussed by the Sleepgivers. She
liked
Bey; he was an incredibly personable fellow. It was unnerving to think that the charming young man who had helped end his own people's pursuit of Mags, and who had shared their fight, their hardship and their friendship, was also the sort of cold-blooded killer that the rest of the Sleepgivers were. She just didn't want to believe it. And yet, all the evidence pointed to him being exactly that, when the circumstances called for it.

:That young man has an uncommonly strong will, and an uncommon amount of cunning. If anyone can, he can.:
Rolan leaned a little into the brush strokes. And then, because he had certainly sensed her unease at thinking for too long about Bey, he changed the subject.
:Don't forget to save the mane and tail hair for Mags.:

“As if I would forget,” she scoffed, thinking of all the lovely little gifts Mags had made over the years with braided Companion hair. “I wish I could do this all night instead of going to that wretched Concordance. What do
you
think of all this?”

The lovely thing about being linked so closely with your Companion was that you could abruptly change the subject of conversation yourself without anyone getting confused.
:That if all these letters and vandalism were not harming people, it would be funny,:
Rolan confessed.
:When you think of how some of those people who've behaved badly behind closed doors and pretended they were as holy as a Sister of Ardana in public are stewing about how their secrets are coming out,
it's quite comical. But people are being badly hurt by this. Poor Katlie might be the one that was driven all the way to desperation, but there were plenty of others whose health and emotions were badly battered. Not to mention what was done to the Abbey of Ardana and the Temple of Betane.:

Amily nodded, as Rolan turned so she could work on his other side.
:What would you have said if we'd asked you?:

:Well, until Katlie, I would have advised, counter to Jorthun, that we should just let the Poison Pen wear himself out sending letters. In fact, now that Katlie is safe, I would have advised the same. Eventually even the most hysterical ladies in the Court are going to get tired of it. No physical harm is being done, and I think you have found everyone likely to be emotionally harmed. I would drop the Farseeing Shield, be rid of the extra watchers, let him do his worst, and let him discover that he's accomplished absolutely nothing.:

She nodded; much as everything in her screamed to
do something
about all of this, sometimes the best thing to do was not to react at all. Wasn't that what she was doing when people snubbed her in favor of her father? Eventually it would just become too much work to go around her, especially when Nikolas took on tasks that would take him outside of Haven, and they
had
to acknowledge that
she
was King's Own. But why had Rolan not advised this in the first place, while they had all been discussing this?

:Because now that I think about it, it is obvious to me that this man has an agenda that he is cloaking with his Poison Pen letters. And because Jorthun is right; rather than giving up, whether we oppose him or not, he is going to escalate. I believe he is no longer getting the thrill he used to get from sending the letters and tormenting women with them. I think there is grave danger here, because I believe he has a greater goal in mind, and we have no idea what it is . . .:
He turned his head, and regarded her soberly with one blue eye.
:I think that he was surprised by the fact that except in the Court,
rather than being driven apart by his actions, we are pulling together, women
and
men. We are better off forcing his hand, making him reveal his true goal before he is ready. If we allow him to work at his own speed, and strike when he has everything in place . . . I don't know what he intends to do, but I suspect it would be quite bad for the Kingdom. What happens here at Court can have repercussions all the way to the Borders.:

“So we're doing the right thing.” She made it a statement, not a question.

:So I believe.:

Well, will wonders never cease. Clear, concise advice. From a Companion.
She would have smiled, if the discussion hadn't been so serious.

“All right then. The next time we gather, I'll tell them what you said.”

Rolan nodded, then turned the nod into a vigorous headshake.
:And until then—yes. Right there. Harder. Ahhhhh.:

•   •   •

Amily and Mags usually used their wedding outfits as Formal Whites, but even though they'd been married in the summer, it hadn't been as hot as this. The Concordance was being held in the Greater Audience Chamber, every window and door that
could
be opened,
had
been opened, and the number of candles burning was the absolute minimum to avoid adding yet more heat, but it was still too warm for anything that elaborate or heavy. In heat like this, Amily didn't even want to
look
at a corset, much less wear one.

So Amily had improvised. She'd had the Seamstress make a shirt and divided skirt of the lightest linen possible, and a laced-up tunic of the same fine white canvas that painters used for portraits, but brushed all over until it had a nap a little like short velvet, and she'd asked for blue and silver trim
anywhere blue and silver trim could be put. In daylight, it would be obvious that the materials were . . . not the sort of thing that Formal Whites were generally made of. But by this dim candlelight the effect was actually opulent. Lydia—who wisely was skipping this dreadful thing—had loaned Amily her personal maid, so her hair had been piled up on the top of her head, held in place by clever braiding and silver ribbons and an absolute minimum of hair pins, so her head was cool and comfortable. Or, at least, her neck wasn't drenched in sweat under the heavy fall of her hair.