The King's Sons (The Herezoth Trilogy) (24 page)

Despite
how she longed to see Zacry’s reaction, Francie didn’t open her eyes. He told
her, his tone reassuring, “I’d be honored to do that, if you want to move
there.”

“I
need to move. Need to leave the council. I….”

“Save
your energy,” Zacry told her, cutting off her explanations. “You don’t need to
excuse your decision. You’ve served on that council since its founding, and
you’ve every right to move on.”

“I’ll
be the first to leave,” she noted.

“After
ten years, Francie. Ten years of exhaustion, opposition, and triumph in the
face of it. You don’t owe the likes of me justification. My wife and I will be
happy to help you find a job, a place to live.” He paused. “Think I’ll suggest
Rexson replace you with two people, though. We’ll need two people to fill the
void.”

That
validation meant more to Francie than Zacry could have realized. Her lips
stretched in a painful smile. It should never hurt to smile…. The thought
sobered her, as did her next wondering, which she voiced. She looked to her
colleague, despite how blurry his face appeared. “Does the rest of the council
know what happened to me? What the king’s facing?”

Zacry
assured her, “Only Vane and I. We’re the only ones he’s confided in.”

“His
go-to sorcerers.” Francie tried to give her voice a steely edge, and failed.
The effort cost too much. “His only sorcerers. If he’d more, I’d never have
suffered this.”

Zacry’s
voice was kind, but diplomatic. “This isn’t Rexson’s fault.”

“No,
it’s his queen’s. His bloody wife’s. Vane told me what she did, because I
deserved the truth. He said she feels awful, but that doesn’t change what that
man….”

She
fell quiet when Zacry moved a steadying hand to her shoulder. “You’ve a right
to loathe Gracia. I won’t deny you that, but don’t get worked up about the
woman, not now. You’ll only prolong your healing if you fill yourself with
anger. Don’t think on the queen until you’re walking about and eating.” He
paused. “She meant you no harm, you know. Her Highness respects you. She always
has.”

Francie
shot, “And that’s made a fat lot of difference, hasn’t it?” Then she winced, as
every muscle in her face seared in protest at her animation. More sedately, she
observed, “Wish the woman thought I was dead like everyone else.”

Zacry
must have judged it best to change the subject. If he hoped to comfort Francie
by that, he chose his words poorly. “I can go to your mother, if you’d like.
Tell her you’ll live.”

“Don’t,”
said Francie. “The bitch is probably celebrating. Wouldn’t want to ruin her
joy.”

“It
wouldn’t be any trouble.”

“I’m
not trying to save you a trip,” Francie said. “The woman and I…. We don’t get
along. Not since she separated me and Vane as kids. I had to join the council
just to find him again. No, let her think me dead. I’ve been dead to her for
years anyway.”

Some
people would have blamed Francie for speaking so bluntly, but not Zacry. He
would deem the situation none of his concern, and sure enough, he said, “It’s
your call. I won’t bring it up again, so if you change your mind, tell me.”
Francie said she would, and Zacry let go of her shoulder to fluff her pillow.

“Sleep,”
he directed. “You’re safe here. Vane would have brought you here at the start,
but you were in no state to transport that distance. The fire left him no
choice. We fixed you up as best we could, and you’ll recover in time, as long
as you take it easy. So sleep.”

“Too
much pain,” she protested.

“I
know a spell to help you sleep, if you’ll let me cast it.”

“Dreamless
sleep?” She dared not describe the nightmares that had plagued her every time
she’d drowsed since her abduction.

“Dreamless,”
he specified. “I’ll cast it as soon as you meet the woman who’s to care for
you.”

Francie
sighed. One of Vane’s servants. The thought of a nurse humiliated her, but she
couldn’t deny she needed one. She let Zacry step out, and shut her eyes while
her mind wandered.

How
much had her mother aged in ten years? That was the last time they’d spoken:
ten years ago. The woman’s hair had been starting to gray, and her chin to sag.
She was vigorous, but her face belied her fifty years, especially around the
eyes. She’d slammed a door in Francie’s face when Francie refused to step down
from the Magic Council, even after a group of teenagers, to convince her to do
just that, had tried to burn her aunt’s store.

Francie
had last seen her mother in that store, after closing, while Francie’s guards
waited outside for her. The only light came from a lantern above the threshold,
so the women stood near the entrance.

Francie
said, “If I resign, the lunatics who tried to burn us out get what they want.”

“What
does that matter?” her mother demanded. “How does that matter in the slightest?
Have you any idea what you’re putting your family through with your insanity?
Or do you just not care?”

It
had taken all Francie’s strength not to strike the woman. “You think I’m doing
this for glory? I’m far from the people’s hero. Good Giver, you’ve seen the
threats. You honestly think I can shrug off arson like it never happened? You
don’t know me at all!”

“Oh,
I know you. Do I know you, Francie Ilea Rafe. You’re as stubborn and
self-centered as your runaway father. Not a thought in your head for the rest
of us. I’ve begged you for years not to use your magic.”

“And
I’ve told you, for years, I can’t control it. I can’t stop it.”

“Makes
all of us damn uneasy.”

“I
didn’t choose to have this power, Mother!”

 
“You chose to make friends with that sorcerer
boy, didn’t you? Chose to hate me when I did the only decent thing and made
sure the village and you—
YOU
,
Little Miss—would be protected from him. You chose to read and read,
study and study some more about magic, when I forbade you. You applied for that
council without even the decency to tell me until you got appointed, God knows
how! Mad, the king’s gone. Bloody mad.”

“That
man saved Herezoth. If you can even say what you suggested with a straight
face, you’re the mad one.”

“Well,
Missie, if that’s the way you feel, your choice will come easy. It’s your
beloved, mad monarch or me. If you walk out that door without telling me you’re
going home to write a letter of resignation, don’t you dare come back here.
Take your Palace, and your acclaim, and your title of councilor until they kill
you over it. I’m done with you.”

“I
thought you were leaving the choice to me?”

“What’s
it to be, then?”

Francie
eased the door open and prayed she kept her rage from showing in her gait as
she ambled through, then turned to stare at her mother with the smuggest
expression she could manage. That was the last time she’d set eyes on the
woman. Francie didn’t jolt when her mother slammed the door in her face, then
drew the bolts.

The
councilor’s eyes flew open when she heard Zacry return to her room in Oakdowns.
Francie’s brief rest had cleared her vision, though her eyes still itched, and
she watched as a short, plump woman, light on her feet, followed him in. Her
bright red hair was speckled with much gray, but her full face was barely
wrinkled despite her sixty years. She rushed as though on wings to start a full
examination of the invalid, starting with her blotchy, damaged face.

It
hurt daggers to smile, but Francie couldn’t help it. She had to smile. She knew
this woman’s airy step, her full frame. She had always known her: Vane’s aunt,
Fontferry’s most popular innkeeper in years past and caretaker of the chickens
of solemn oath.

“Teena,”
Francie rasped. She placed a hand on the old woman’s, and Teena’s resolve
broke. Her eyes filled with tears.

Zacry
said, “I went for her before you came to. Vane’s request.”

Bless
Vane. Francie had told him she needed a mother; Teena was the closest thing to
that either of them had known.

“You
poor dear! You poor, brave….”

“I’ll
live, Teena.”

“So
you will, and be stronger for it. I’ve seen this before, great loss of blood.
You’re no weaker than Vane was when that madman stabbed him, and Vane made a
full recovery. He had no smoke in his system, now….”

Zacry
assured the nurse, “We’ve done all anyone can for that. I don’t think any
complications from the fire will prove permanent. We’ll have to wait and see.”

“You
should drink,” Teena insisted.

Francie
said, “My throat’s in tatters from the fumes.”

“It
won’t be pleasant, dear, but you must have water. You must. A moment of pain,
and after, it’ll do you a world of good. It must be hours since you’ve drunk a
thing.”

“It
has,” Francie admitted.

Teena
poured a glass of water from the pitcher on the second bedside table; the first
had a bowl filled with black liquid and soiled towels. Francie hadn’t noticed
that before: someone had cleaned her before she’d come to, and braided her
hair, she realized. To keep her cool. Zacry explained, “My niece. She wanted to
do you a kindness. A great admirer of yours.”

“Admirer?”

“For
your work on the council. All you’ve done for Herezoth. She’s always looked up
to you, Francie. You should meet her at some point when you’re conscious.”

“Thank
her for me.”

Zacry
said, “You can thank her by drinking some water.”

Francie
gave in, and let Teena raise the glass to her lips. She tilted her head back,
so the water would slide down her searing throat without too strong a swallow.
She drank the whole glass that way, then settled down to rest. Teena said she
would have some cooled porridge for her when she woke up. Zacry cast his
sleeping spell, and Francie slipped into sweet, painless, thoughtless oblivion.

CHAPTER
ELEVEN

First Kiss

After
a successful meeting with his brothers, the Foreign Affairs Council, and the
Traiglanders, Valkin was working in his father’s office. He hadn’t been there
ten minutes when the Count of Fontferry barged in, barely allowing Rexson’s
secretary to announce his arrival. He demanded to speak with the king. Valkin told
the count his father was indisposed, but had given him authority to speak for
the crown. That appeased the noble, who had traveled days on horseback from his
county farther north, at the foot of the Pearl Mountains.

The
roads outside Fontferry were falling in disrepair. The village needed funds as
well as men to get them in order, before they became impassable. Valkin ignored
his aching head and granted the count’s request. Those roads were highly
traveled by pilgrims on their way to the Shrine of the Giver in Partsvale; the
crown had a responsibility to maintain them, and there was, technically, a
surplus in the treasury, though heaven knew how much would remain after a
military action and the possible need to rebuild Partsvale from the ground. If
Linstrom brought about the destruction he sought….

Linstrom,
Valkin reminded himself, was his father’s problem. The roads were Valkin’s.
Concentrate on that. He pushed his glasses up the bridge of his nose and
redoubled his efforts to get rid of the count. That objective met, Valkin
returned to preparing for that evening’s business, but only for a scant half
hour before his mother appeared.

The
queen was not herself. A forced aspect to her posture—tension in her neck
and arms—ruined the image of poise she had always presented. Other than
that, the great difference lay in her brown eyes, which looked lightless. Hune
had been right: she felt her misdeeds to the full, felt them to a degree of
which Valkin would not have judged her capable. The sight of the woman unnerved
him, and he forced himself to smile at her, to hide any demonstration of his
unease. She seated herself in a chair before her husband’s desk. Valkin sat
behind it.

“How
went negotiations with the Traiglanders?”

“Well,
I’d say. Quite well. At least, we agreed to the deal Father wanted.”

“I’m
proud of you, taking over for him this way. Your brothers are aiding you?”

“With
no grumbling to speak of.”

The
queen nodded. “I’d expect nothing less from sons of mine. Of your father. And
you: from what I understand, your success is the talk of the servants’
quarters.”

Valkin
nodded his thanks, a thanks he did not feel. Oh, he needed to succeed in this
venture of running his father’s realm. Of playing at being king. Each victory
felt hollow, though. He could not help but judge that with each triumph, fate
was driving him more and more inextricably into this role he could fulfill but
would never relish.

“You
look very like your father sitting there. Just remove the spectacles….” The
queen did so, reaching over the desk. “You’re every bit his son, and will make
every bit the king he’s proven. Promise you’ll make a wiser choice of wife than
he.”

“Mother,
I….”

“One
who won’t cause you the grief I’ve brought upon him and his kingdom. I know
Hune’s told you of what I did. Promise me.”

Valkin
did so, to appease the distraught woman.

“You’re
very like him,” she repeated, “in so many ways more significant than
appearance. Don’t repeat his one mistake.”

Valkin
bit back the condemnation he felt toward the queen. He put his glasses on and
told her, “You’re not a mistake. You’re a human being, Mother. All people err.”

“I
suppose that’s true,” Gracia muttered. She kept her son’s eye. “Can I help you
in something? Anything at all?”

The
prince nodded. She needed a part in her family’s efforts to keep the damage she
had caused to a minimum; she needed that, and he could provide it.

“I’m
to meet with Tanya Greller tomorrow,” he said, “about redistricting Yangerton.
I’m at a loss how to handle the woman. You know her far better than I. I can’t
offer the help such a project requires, and I fear she’ll go over my head and
seek out Father.”

“Don’t
allow her the opportunity. Make sure she understands she’s to accept your
decision as from your father’s lips, and he won’t take kindly to any childish
attempts to run around the authority both he and your birth bestow on you.
Valkin, remember she’s a duchess. As such, her focus is upon her duchy, which
is what should be. She hasn’t the insights you possess into the kingdom as a
whole, into the crown’s responsibility to balance its resources throughout the
realm.”

Valkin
nodded, and the queen said, “You could also mildly flatter, to remove the sting
from your ruling.”

“Flatter?”
Flatter that old horse-faced…?

“Not
her looks. Thank her for the passion she brings in representing her duchy. Say
her thoroughness aids the king in no small manner, and the king will know of
it. But make this plain, the crown must consider all of Herezoth, not merely
Tanya’s lands. Is that helpful?”

“Very
much so.”

“You
should speak with August, you know. She’s handled a fair amount of tension with
Tanya, and with adeptness, ever since Tanya’s brother almost slaughtered Vane
and wound up dead himself.”

“August
has enough to worry about without me bringing my trivialities….”

The
prince was relieved to see his mother’s eyes liven. Brighten. The graceful
energy he had always associated with her reappeared in a flash. “Valkin
Phinnean, you gaining the respect and cooperation of the Duchess of Yangerton
is no triviality. There’s a not a woman in Herezoth, save myself, with more
sway than Tanya Greller. You had best understand that, and understand it to the
full.”

“Of
course I do! But compared with August’s troubles right now….”

“You’ll
furnish her a welcome distraction. Have you any idea how out of place, how
unsettled, August still feels around Vane’s peers? She’ll cherish this rare
opportunity to counsel you, cherish it. Vane will thank you for that, and you
know how vital it is to make Vane understand that you respect his good opinion.

“Speak
with August. I’m not suggesting you send her a summons, dear. Go to Oakdowns.
Allow Neslan to handle your documentation while you’re gone. You’ve already
given Hune a fair portion of it…. I’ll send for Neslan and explain what he’s to
do in your absence.”

If
he left now, Valkin would just have time to visit Oakdowns before heading to
City Hall to deal with the tavernkeepers and the brewers’ guild. The prince
kissed his mother’s cheek and left for the stables.

* * *

Kansten
gained admittance to the royal stables, and to the Palace, by showing a special
coin with the Phinnean crest; Vane had provided it, so she could prove herself
an official messenger. The guardsman who opened the servants’ door called a
butler, who led her to the king. When her guide said they would find him in the
library with his son, she assumed that meant the crown prince.

It
meant Hune. Three ornate but small tables had been moved into the room since
the last time Kansten had been there; Rexson’s youngest son sat at one of these
with a quill, an inkwell, and a small mound of documents. The king, wearing a
sapphire-hued robe, had been writing on the opposite side of the room, and rose
when Kansten entered. Hune went on with his work as though he hadn’t marked her.

“Your
mother sent you?”

Kansten
spoke of Vane’s return to Oakdowns. Of Francie’s presence there and the fire in
Partsvale. She said that Kora had something else to report that seemed urgent.
“She wouldn’t give me a description. Won’t tell me anything.”

Kansten’s
tone came out bitter, and the king told her, “She means only to protect you,
and your brothers, as much as she finds it’s in her power to do so. You should
have seen her mother Zacry in the old days.”

“She’d
have mothered him,” Kansten agreed. “He was a child when she fought with the
Crimson League. I see the way she still treats me, and I’m grown.”

“I
don’t imagine you need her shelter,” the king offered. Kansten knew she had
sounded petulant, and she flushed at his words. That always made her horrid
freckles stand out. “You’re her daughter, though. An infant or an adult, you’re
her daughter. Never doubt she wishes you naught but blessings.”

“I’m
well aware, Sir,” Kansten responded.

The
hour was five o’clock. The king could be at Oakdowns before six if he left the
Palace immediately, and leave he did, draping his outer garment on his chair.
Upon his exit, Hune smiled up at Kansten and came to greet her. He’d been
ignoring her on purpose, she realized. He’d refrained from interrupting her
errand. The king’s time was valuable.

“Valkin
set me to his research,” he explained. “Documents he’s to discuss with the
Duchess of Yangerton.”

Kansten
said, “I don’t mean to disturb you.”

“I
don’t mind a short break. These old political maps, the notes from redistricting
sessions years ago: they’re beyond dull. We should find you a book or two to
take back to Oakdowns, something more interesting than what I’m trudging
through. You can see we’ve quite the collection.”

Kansten’s
mind was not on books. “How did you know?” she asked. Her cheeks flared up
again. “How did you know about me and Herezoth? Know this place would grab at
me?”

Hune
stared at her, slack-jawed. “Has it? Already?”

“Seeing
Francie Rafe…. I’ve always imagined myself following her on the Magic Council.
That’s impossible, of course, but knowing all she’s done, all she’s sacrificed
these ten years…. I only understood what you’d told me about Herezoth when I
saw her.”

Hune
nodded. “How’s she faring?”

“Vane
said she’ll live, but she didn’t look it.”

Feeling
mortified, Kansten blinked to keep tears from her eyes. She couldn’t cry before
a prince. She could curse, she
had
cursed, but not….

Hune
took her hand. Gave it a gentle squeeze. She found herself hoping he wouldn’t
let go, and for some reason, he didn’t. He said, “Magic Council be damned, you
can impact this place as much as she has. You can do so in her honor, if you’d
like.”

“That’s
ludicrous, Your Highness.” She chose to be formal. Her uncle’s warnings were
swarming around her head like a cloud of gnats.

“Hune,”
he corrected her. Kansten swore inwardly.

“That’s
ludicrous, Hune. You know I have no magic, not even the passive power Rafe
boasts. How can you suggest I…?”

“Come
with me,” he told Kansten.

“Your
brother left you work. You have to report to him.”

“The
report can wait. There’s something you need to see.” Hune had never dropped her
hand; he used it to guide her from the room, and she uttered no further
protest. She pulled her fingers back from his only because some servant would
be bound to cross their path.

Hune
led her back through the corridors she had taken to the library. He told the
guardsman at the door he was showing Ingleton’s messenger to the stables; he
must have done such things often, as a mark of respect to the noble houses his
father’s couriers represented, because neither the guardsman nor anyone they
passed in the halls gave them a second glance.

The
prince took Kansten to the garden out back, a garden with a pleasing balance of
birch trees for shade and flowers for beauty: fragrant lilac, yellow roses,
dark-hued snapdragons all had their place. They found the gate unguarded but
locked; Hune had a key. Once inside, the pleasant mix of scents eased Kansten’s
mind, turning her worry about what Hune would show her into a calmer wondering.
She discovered the answer soon enough.

In
a far corner of the garden was a graveyard of sorts, albeit a small one.
Kansten marked it by the headstones of marble that rose from the ground in
regularly spaced increments.

“This
is the Royal Cemetery,” Hune told her. He looked directly at her, trusting that
his feet knew the terrain. Did he come here often? “The name’s deceiving, as
the royal family has a crypt in the Temple. This cemetery’s reserved for those
few of common birth the kings honor with state burial, usually in recompense
for service rendered. To keep that honor from being cheapened, each king’s
granted two or fewer burials here. My father’s allowed one. The first woman.”

Kansten
couldn’t let Hune say more without warning they had company. The prince smiled
to see the gray-haired soldier Kansten had met the night she arrived in
Herezoth, the man who had first brought news of Linstrom’s plot. He looked
different now: he wore a fresh uniform, a spotless one. He had bathed and
shaved his face, and made a striking figure even sitting as he was beside a
gravestone of white marble. He did not look up, but gave no sign of surprise
when Hune touched his shoulder in a gesture of solidarity. The prince remarked,
“I was hoping to find you here. Visiting Bennie?”