The King's Sons (The Herezoth Trilogy) (13 page)

Those who
praised the Giver held he rewarded his servants, his Instruments, in the afterlife
and punished those who refused to open their hearts to his call for service. As
such, swearing by the Giver’s “instruments” was common in Herezoth. Hune
interrupted his brother.

“Mother
feels right guilty, as she should. She couldn’t even look at Father. She
couldn’t meet anyone’s eye. Think what you will of what she did ten years ago, but
there’s no need to speak to her of this. To chastise her. She understands the
breadth of the disaster she’s caused. This one act aside, she’s in no small
part responsible for Father’s successes, and she needs our support, not our
judgment.”

Neslan
said, “She burned applications for the Magic Council? Every sorcerer’s
application? What was she thinking to…?”

“She
acted out of love for us. Her love for
you
,
Neslan. She couldn’t forget the sorcerers who had kidnapped us and held us for
over a month. Her actions were wrong, and their result unfortunate….”

Valkin
spat, “Unfortunate? That’s all you think to call this?”

Hune
said, “This situation’s unfortunate, and more, but Mother never suspected this
mess would arise. Let’s not lose sight of the true villains here; that’s all
I’m proposing.”

“All
right,” said Valkin. His temper was starting to flare, which relieved Hune.
Valkin in a temper was a Valkin Hune knew how to handle. That silent one…. “All
right, then. Let’s focus on the true villains. According to you, Father has two
options: ambush them quietly at the Hall of Sorcery, or stop them at the
Partsvale guardhouse. People’s lives are at stake here. People we care about.
What the hell am I supposed to tell Father when asks me how I’d handle this?”

Hune
eyes grew wide. “You think Father would ask…?”

“I
know
he’ll ask. And he’ll give my
words weight, so I’m asking you, what in the Giver’s name am I…?”

Neslan
began to talk, but Hune held up a hand to stop him. “I’ll speak first. I was
the one at Vane’s briefing, and Valkin addressed me.” Neslan, thin-lipped, let
Hune continue. “This is not the kind of decision I’m comfortable making, and I
won’t tell you how to advise the crown. I will, however, talk through the
points that concern me in regards to each option. The ambush at the Hall would
be a perfect strategy, if we could take down all of Linstrom’s men and keep the
fact silent. Unfortunately, neither of those things is likely. Vane specified
that about one tenth of Linstrom’s men met at the Hall tonight, no more. Then,
to think that Linstrom’s cohorts number in the hundreds…. We can’t kill two
hundred men and women, each magicked, without it being noticed. Valkin, I wish
we could keep news of Linstrom’s plot in the Palace. Herezoth’s peace depends
on public ignorance, but that’s a dream.

“That
leaves us, then, with publicly confronting Linstrom’s assault. A different kind
of ambush. We could attack in greater numbers in Partsvale. The Partsvale guard
would know their battlefield, and to my mind, that’s no small advantage. While
the public would see Linstrom’s ferocity, they would also see the bravery of
our magicians: Vane, Zacry, Jane Trand. That’s another factor to weigh. Of
course, if we allow a public battle, there’s a chance that panic would spread
so quickly nothing our sorcerers do would matter.”

Neslan
said, “Father’s reign becomes unstable no matter how we confront this. Hune’s
assessment is astute, Val. Attacking the Hall becomes the better option if, and
only if, we keep the entire operation confidential. That’s a child’s fantasy.
Suggest Father defend Partsvale.”

Hune
determined not to scowl. Typical Neslan: since Hune would not direct Valkin how
to take men’s lives in his hands, he would. What right did Neslan have to
speak, always, with such confidence? On matters of life and death?

“It’s
Partsvale I’ll speak for, then,” said Valkin. “Thank you. Thank you both.”

And
then there was Valkin. The oldest son would never let his father suspect the
reticence he’d displayed to his brothers. He would never show that weakness,
never give Hune the credit he deserved for his part in informing the crown
prince’s decision. That was Hune’s place, though. He lived at Valkin’s beck and
call, no matter the recognition he did or did not receive for his service. At
least Valkin had thanked him.

Neslan’s
confidence, the crown’s high opinion of the heir apparent: Kansten Cason wasn’t
the only one jealous of powerful siblings, Hune thought.

What exactly do I envy,
though? I’d never want to be king. Never want Father coming to me for the
counsel he’s seeking from Valkin. Counsel? No, it’s not for Father’s benefit.
It’s for Val’s. It’s preparation; that much is obvious. I’d never want to make
those kinds of decisions. Kansten might be jealous, but me….

Blast
it, Hune couldn’t get the woman out his head. Their paths had crossed two
times, in as many days. They had spoken for a grand total of less than forty
minutes. Kora Porteg’s eldest daughter…. Absurd, to think she was no sorceress.
Absurd that Hune found himself obsessing over what she thought of him, whether
she judged him for lounging in the library while Valkin had need of him.

Hune
hadn’t explained about August. He and Ingleton’s duchess had been close since
he was eight-years-old and she had formed a habit of reading his favorite books
to him. He had gone to the library to see August: to let her know she was not
alone, though she found herself unexpectedly deprived of Vane. Hune hadn’t gone
there to piddle around while his brothers prepared to run the kingdom. Kansten,
though, would think just that.

What difference does it
make what Kansten thinks? Is how she judges me going to affect Vane’s mission?
Success in Partsvale? The doubt that’s plaguing Valkin?

Valkin’s
problems provided something else to think about. Hune asked his brother, “Did
dinner with the Traiglanders run smoothly?”

Neslan
took it upon himself to answer. “Hardly. They drank so much wine they won’t
remember a word of the speech you wrote, and that’s unfortunate. It was worth
remembering, Hune.”

“Thanks,”
said the youngest prince. Neslan never lavished praise lightly.

Valkin
said, “If they won’t remember the speech, maybe their heads will be pounding
too hard tomorrow to argue in those treaty sessions.”

Neslan
told him, “There’ll be no problem getting those men to agree to Father’s terms.
They’re Traiglanders. Everyone knows how Traiglanders are.”

Everyone
knew, though no one at court ever voiced the appropriate terms. Weak, would be
one. Cowardly. Pushovers, as Hune’s friend Rock, who worked in the stables,
would describe the foreigners. Herezoth’s regular political turmoil was at
least good for hardening diplomats to take a stand for the kingdom’s benefit.
Traigland, through centuries of peace and prosperity, had grown soft.
Malleable. Kansten, Hune realized, had noticed that about the realm of her
birth. No daughter of Kora Porteg, magicless or not, who had the heart and the
strength to long for Herezoth belonged in a place like Traigland. Hune felt
guilty for thinking it, but Kansten was
better
than Traigland. She was made for bigger places.

I’m at it again,
thinking of her. Good Giver, this is ridiculous!

Hune
returned his attention to his brothers. He asked Valkin, “Would you like me to
attend those meetings with the Traiglanders?”

“I
would, actually. It would be nice to have you there. Father threw all this upon
me suddenly, and….”

“I’ll
be there,” Hune assured the crown prince.

Neslan
told Valkin, “I know this turn of events was unexpected. Unwelcome, even.” Then
he smiled. “You’re doing fine. I wish Hune could have seen you deliver that
speech tonight.”

“I’m
sorry I had to miss it,” said Hune. He normally loathed state dinners, but
would have liked to hear the speech, if nothing else. Seeing Valkin in their
father’s chair at the head of the dining chamber would have been surreal. “I’ll
be at the treaty talks, at least. Right now, I need to sleep.”

“We
all do,” said Neslan.

Hune
said, “I’m going to bed.” He made sure to give Valkin a supportive slap on the
back on his way out the room. He hoped the crown prince would manage to rest
that night. In Valkin’s place, Hune would not have slept a wink.

CHAPTER
SIX

The Queen and the Sorceress

When
the sun rose some hours after Vane’s midnight meeting with the royals, Queen
Gracia sat before a full-length, claw-footed mirror in her dressing chamber.
She had not tried to sleep, had not even put on her nightdress, so she wore the
same gown as the previous day. She was trying to find the strength to let her
brown curls down, to brush them, but kept thinking of Francie Rafe.

She
remembered the first time she had seen Francie. Rexson had arranged a dinner
for the newly appointed members of the Magic Council to meet his queen and
Chief Adviser. Her first thoughts about the woman had been: this girl? This
child, to undertake such an enterprise? Thus came Gracia’s first twinge of
guilt for interfering with the council interviews.

Francie
could not have been twenty. She had been as young as Vane, with large eyes,
though not as large as his. Being from a small village and unaccustomed to
grandeur, she’d stared at everything in the dining hall with awe. Then Gracia
had spoken with her, and she came to understand the king’s appointment. Francie
was a quick thinker, and well read in political matters. She understood her
post’s responsibilities, as well as the risk involved.

Gracia
had ruined Francie, and she feared Francie was only the first. What life could
the woman have, presumed dead by all? How many more would lose their lives, not
symbolically but truly? The queen knew only one thing for sure: she could never
face Francie Rafe again.

She
was reflecting on her wretchedness, on how her head ached and dark circles
framed her eyes, when her husband came in.

The
king had slept some hours by sheer force of will, if Gracia knew him at all.
And Gracia knew him, by the Giver’s lyre. She knew he had always been fond of
her, in his way. Appreciated her devotion to their children. She also knew she
had lost his respect by betraying him.

“Please,”
she begged, “just go. Don’t waste your time with me. You’ve a brimming disaster
to confront, and I don’t deserve your attention.”

The
king’s voice was firm. “You didn’t sleep.”

“After
what I’ve done you’re struggling not to hate me, and I can’t bear to see that
in your face. In the Giver’s name, leave me to my peace!”

He
refused. The shock and the judgment in his expression, in his eyes, was too
much for her, and she spat, “Don’t you dare throw this all on me! All the
blame…. You know we should have killed the magicked blackguards who stole our
children, and you wouldn’t. You wouldn’t listen to reason, wouldn’t listen to
my counsel. You should have ordered the prison guards to take them to the woods
and dispose of them. If you’d treated those maniacs as they deserved, I
wouldn’t have panicked as I did. I wouldn’t have been so frightened you’d trust
other sorcerers too much. You gave me cause to fear you’d appoint a dangerous
man with great cunning to the Magic Council. You did. That’s why I….”

A
wooden stand near the door held a vase. Gracia had daisies that morning, two
days old and beginning to wither. In response to her verbal attack, Rexson
upended the piece of furniture and let the vase crash to the floor, where it
broke in three large pieces and soaked his wife’s rug. The queen jumped up with
a gasp.

Rexson
said, “You had no warrant to burn applications. The Giver’s bloody harp,
Gracia! You should have brought those fears to me. Should have approached me.”

“Yes,
because you took my concerns so much in account when the boys were missing. You
were so considerate of….”

“I
know I overlooked you then. We discussed that ten years ago, and you heard my
apologies. I won’t apologize again, and I’ll tell you right now, nothing I did
or didn’t do gave you reason to…. You will not name me culpable for this.”

The
queen felt her resolve breaking. She could not burst into tears before him.
“Go!” she cried. “Just go, hang you!”

“Not
on your life. Not before we discuss this.”

There
would be no sending the man away, and with that realization, Gracia mastered
herself. Her voice sounded quiet when she spoke; she hoped Rexson would judge
her tone contrite. “I know you’re not responsible for my actions. I do. I was
wrong to insinuate…. I’m not sure yet how to respond to this, but I’ll learn. I
swear I will, and we’ll carry on somehow. Rexson, you really should go tend to
other matters. I only need one thing, and that’s your word you’ll summon me if
there’s some task for which you could use my aid.”

“You
have it, Gracia.”

“Please,
go now.”

He
glanced at the broken glass and drenched rug, at the stand on its side. “I
apologize for….”

“The
vase doesn’t matter. It was no heirloom.”

“Not
for that,” he told her. “Not only for that, at least. I’m sorry I brought you
into this…. Into this miserable building. Into my life here. You’re a good
woman, and you’ve always deserved a better husband than I’ve proved.”

Gracia
wouldn’t permit herself to look away from him, though to watch his tormented
face seared her. She couldn’t say how she found the strength to stand. She
would have been mortified to find her legs buckling, but somehow, they
continued to support her.

“I
should never have taken a wife. I think I’ve always known that, and tried to
deny it. I didn’t want to admit that no woman in Herezoth could….”

“Could
ever earn your love? Please, don’t do this to yourself. Don’t lend any credence
to my lashing. I spoke from frustration, I…. We both know you had to marry. You
were the sole member of your family to survive Zalski Forzythe. Who was that
man, besides a sorcerer?”

“Lanceton’s
son.”

“The
Duke of Lanceton’s son,” Gracia agreed. “And Vane’s uncle. He orphaned his own
nephew to steal the crown. Well, he was far from the only ambitious noble. I
watched them court his favor, Rexson. My mother tried to shelter me, but when
she couldn’t find an excuse to keep me home, I watched dukes and counts flatter
that murderous lout. I saw them fawn over his wife, and it destroyed my
childhood illusions about the good of humanity. Zalski killed my father the
same as yours. The nobles had known and loved his victims, and still they
sought to advance themselves by charming that monstrous…. I promise, were you
to die heirless, there’d be no shortage of people willing to force civil war to
take the throne.”

The
queen approached her husband. The wetness of the rug seeped through her
slipper, but she paid that no mind. She put her hands on his shoulders and
said, “I married you willingly. My mother would have forced the match, would
have guilted me into marriage on my dead father’s account, but she had no need.
It’s strange to think, but I feel like I knew you better at the beginning than
I do now. Our first years, they had their share of good moments. The bottle of
wine we drank after settling that first trade dispute with Traigland…. The
night that followed…. Valkin was conceived that night. The sheer fright on your
face the first time you held him, I’ll never forget it. You said….”

“I
said resisting Zalski had been one thing. Being a father was something else
entirely.”

“You’re
a marvelous father, and more than fair a king. When I think of this trouble I
caused you—because
I
caused it,
I alone—the shame near chokes me. You haven’t been a perfect husband, but
you’ve never deceived me the way I deceived you. Rexson, I knew what duties I
undertook when I married you. I knew what my station was, and I forsook that,
to horrid consequence. I must ask you to leave, and not because I’m angry with
you. I’m angry with no one but myself. I need some time alone right now.”

“I
understand.”

“No,”
she said, “you couldn’t possibly. You have nothing like this weighing on your
conscience, and I pray you never shall.”

Rexson
told her, “You’re Herezoth’s queen. You made me swear I’d inform you if I found
a role for you to play in solving this mess, and I shall.”

“I
know you will. I’ll spend no more than an additional hour with my thoughts, and
then I’ll return to my duties.”

“That’s
good. Yes, that’s good. Just be sure to hold yourself to that resolve.”

“Rexson,
you really must leave. You must.”

He
did. With her head pounding harder than ever, Gracia returned to her chair.

Her
husband was a good man. Someone less would have struck her for the claims she
had made against him, not overturned a flower stand. Why had she blamed him?

She’d
been seeking a companion in her guilt, someone to share the burden, but would
find no such person at the Palace. Gracia should have taken her fears about the
Magic Council to him, as he’d said. She should have kept them locked inside,
should have done anything instead of….

She
had lost his respect, and for good. Oh, he would never speak ill of her before
anyone. He would treat her kindly, uphold her dignity, and allow her to hold
her head as high as possible, but never again would he respect her. The pain of
that knowledge racked her, because she still respected him. She would respect
him always. He had his imperfections, but she felt him entitled to those. His
life had not been easy: overlooked in favor of his brother as a child; betrayed
by Zalski Forzythe, whom his father had trusted; hunted for years, forgotten by
his first love, and then forced to drive away the only woman in his life who
could ever deserve him.

Gracia
had wondered many a time how often her husband compared her to Kora Porteg. Not
frequently, she hoped, for she would never come out the better.

During
Zalski’s rule, Gracia had been young. An adolescent. Her mother had forbidden
her most days to leave the safety of the family estate, and she’d believed the
king’s entire family dead. The royal death that had ached her most to think
about was Rexson’s, for he alone had passed more than mere pleasantries with
her. She had always thought him more affable than his older brother, and a bit
more dashing. At one gala, he’d even had musicians change from a faster-paced
tempo to something slower, so she would feel comfortable dancing with him.

When
the news came, out of nowhere, that Rexson was alive and had killed Zalski
Forzythe to claim the throne rightly his, Gracia dared not believe the blessed
tidings until she witnessed the coronation a month later. The king asked her to
dance at the subsequent feast, and a year after that, to marry him. She had
believed herself in love and the happiest woman in Herezoth.

She
soon learned she could never take the place of Kora Porteg. While Gracia had
hidden herself away for fear of Zalski, the sorceress had been fighting for
survival alongside Rexson. The man owed his very life to her companionship.
Years later, when renegade sorcerers had kidnapped Rexson’s sons, Gracia had
fallen ill from her heartache and her grief. Kora Porteg had risked her life
returning to Herezoth to apprehend the criminals; she had fought, once again,
beside the king. Was there any question which woman was the braver, the more
impressive, the worthier of Rexson? Which of the two would claim his heart?
Though Gracia cursed the situation—she would have given every jewel she
owned to buy Rexson’s love for herself—she never could blame the man for
his attachment to Kora. She held him dear enough that some nights she wished,
sincerely, she could change the past and arrange for him to marry the sorceress
instead.

Rexson
never had treated his wife with contempt. Had never spoken a word to make her
feel inferior to another woman or unworthy of her station before that argument
just passed—and that horrid display on his part had been Gracia’s fault,
like so many other things. She had crossed a line striking out to pin her guilt
on him.

When
next they spoke, they both would act as though nothing had occurred between
them. She had apologized for provoking him, and he would have the grace to
forgive her, to treat her the same as he always had. His life had taught him to
adapt to unpleasantness, and soon he’d be able to look at her without evident
disappointment or disdain. Never again, though, would he respect her.

The
queen sighed, and moved to her desk. The sun was beginning to rise, and she had
promised the Duke of Ingleton to write his duchess. She could—the thought
helped release the tension that made her chest sear—she
must
devote herself to August. That was
the least she could do for Vane, considering the danger she had brought to him.

* * *

As
Kansten ate her second breakfast at Oakdowns with August and August’s
children—bread and cheese, with melon and blackberries from the
garden—a maid came in to deliver the day’s copy of the
Podrar Bugle
, apologizing for the delay
and claiming the newsletter had come out much later than normal that morning.
August nodded her understanding, in perfect control, and the woman left as the
duchess began to read. Kansten watched Vane’s wife and sipped some tea.

I don’t know how August
keeps up appearances this way. I suppose because she must. Her arm’s shaking a
bit, but beyond that….