The White Mists of Power (18 page)

“I’ll get it,” he said. He made himself sit up and eased the shirt from his shoulders. The fire rekindled in his back. He tossed the shirt aside and lay down again.

“These aren’t healing properly,” the woman said. Her finger was light upon Adric’s back. “See the pus? Someone placed salt in the wounds and then used a water treatment. Salt and water together stop the healing.”

The woman nodded. “It will take all day and you will have scars. I have to remove the water and salt, apply some ointment, remove that, and reapply the water treatment. It will be an ugly process.” She turned to Milo. “You can leave if you want.”

Adric clenched the pallet. He was used to pain. Nothing could be worse than the whipping.

Milo took his hand. “I’ll stay.

Chapter 15

The road to the palace was empty. They had walked for miles without seeing another person or a single carriage. Seymour gripped the valise tightly. His hands still ached a little, but the pain from his burns was gone. His skin was soft and pink, new as a baby’s. He wished he had seen the Enos to thank her.

The road curved under a canopy of trees, threading the light through the leaves. Ahead, he caught glimpses of a long stone wall and behind it, buildings. Byron had said nothing since they reached the forest. He carried his lute against his chest like a shield. His face was white, his lips pursed. Colin and Afeno also walked quietly. It felt as if the group had lost its unity under the bluff near the river.

Seymour switched the valise to his other hand. He wasn’t sure he wanted to go to the palace. Ever since they had entered the woods, since he got his first glimpse of the palace walls, he felt as if his heart would pound through his chest. He was a bad magician. His father, one of the best wizards ever, had been banished from this place. Seymour couldn’t even cast a spell to protect himself and his friends. The explosion still echoed in his ears, reverberated through his head. Beneath the new pink skin the sensation of fire remained. He had always burned himself with fire spells as a child. He should have realized that his fate as an adult would be no different.

He didn’t want to be the king’s magician–or anyone’s magician–ever again, and he wanted to talk to Byron about that, but Byron had sunk inside himself and didn’t seem to hear anything.

The forest smelled of pine mixed with the bitter scent of whistle-wood. Somewhere near here, Seymour remembered, stood the only whistle-wood trees in Kilot. He would like to see them before he left, since most of an upper-level magician’s power was based in whistle-wood.

A plan had been forming in his head ever since he had awakened beside the bluff, with the pain gone and Byron’s face smiling over his. Seymour would see the group safely to the palace, and then he would go his own way. Where he would go from there he did not know. He only knew that he would leave.

They rounded another corner and the palace wall stood before them. The wall was made of large gray stones, packed with mortar set in an almost circular pattern. A small wood door stood to one side of a large wood gate. Byron stopped and stared as if he had never seen anything like it before. Colin and Afeno stopped beside him.

“What now, sir?” Colin said.

Byron didn’t look at him. He walked to the wall, ran his fingers down it, and rested his cheek against the stone. His expression seemed frightened and a little lost. Seymour wondered what it was like to have dream that would frighten him upon reaching it. He touched Byron’s arm.

Seymour’s hands tingled. Some people cared, but probably not those inside the palace. “You’ll be fine here. You’re good enough to play for the king.”

“You’ve never heard me perform.”

“But I have heard you practice.”

Byron nodded, grabbed his lute, and slung it around his back. Then he knocked on the door. The knock sounded small against the backdrop of the forest. A wind kicked up and danced around them, shaking the trees, and sending a chill down Seymour’s back. In the distance he thought he heard singing.

“The whistle-woods,” Byron said. He knocked again.

This time the door opened. An older, heavyset man wearing a gold uniform stared at them. “Don’t need more entertainers,” he said. “Go ply your wares in town.”

“I don’t care,” the man said. “We have several other performing troupes here, and the king is in no mood for entertainment. Go away.”

Seymour’s hand trembled. This had been their goal, Byron’s goal, and he was saying nothing. All these weeks of preparation, and nothing was coming of it. He couldn’t believe Byron’s mood or his silence. “No, we won’t leave,” Seymour said. “I am Seymour, son of Dysik the Great, one of the greatest wizards to perform for the king. His highness unjustly banished my father, and I have come to restore my father’s name.”

The guard looked Seymour over, then smiled crookedly. “I remember your father. He used to give me sweets when I watched the performances.”

“We have many reasons for wanting to see the king,” Byron said. “We have traveled a long way. We would like to at least spend some time on the grounds.”

The guard sighed, then stood away from the door. “I am doing this because of your father’s kindnesses,” he said to Seymour. “I expect that you will tell no one when you arrived or who let you in.”

“Thank you,” Seymour said. Byron took a few gold pieces from his pocket and set them in the guard’s hand as they passed.

Inside the wall, the chill grew. The palace stood in the distance, a great stone structure that curved in several directions. Beyond it stood a small forest and a hill. Other buildings stood nearby, some made of stone and some of wood. Seymour had been expecting a stink like that in the city, but the air was fresh here. The pine scent had disappeared, but the tang of the whistle-woods filled the breeze. The ground was covered with cobblestones. Thin blades of grass grew beneath the stone. And it was quiet. Retainers crossed the courtyard, intent upon their business. Maidservants ran back and forth, carrying buckets of water or bags of flour. Seymour watched, wondering if the gentry came in a different way, wondering if they saw a different world than he did.

Byron walked around the courtyard, looking up at the buildings and down the narrow corridors that ran between them. Finally he turned around. His cheeks were flushed and his eyes bright. “We’re here, Seymour,” he said. “We’re really here.”

PART TWO

Chapter 16

Firelight danced across the room’s smoke-stained walls. Adric sat at the bench, resting his elbows on the table’s rough surface. His back itched and he longed to scratch it, but he didn’t, knowing that Milo would slap him if he tried.

“Now watch,” Milo said. He tossed a round on the table. The coin spun, catching and reflecting the light. Finally the coin lost its spin, clattered against the table, and stopped. Milo scooped up the coin and put it in his pocket. He sat next to Adric.

The round, resting flat on the tabletop, no longer seemed sparkly and fresh. It looked worn, the engraving rubbed off by the touch of a thousand hands. Adric remembered the feel of the robber’s breath against his face, the fear he had felt as the man held him against the wall.

Milo took the round and twirled it under his fingers. “Let me explain something to you,” he said. “We have to eat, and we don’t have much money. Where else will we get food if we don’t take it ourselves?”

“People will feed us.”

“Even after Rogren, you believe that people will just take us in?” Milo shook his head and took his fingers from the coin. “Most of the people who would help us are starving. They can barely feed themselves.”

“But your family–”

“My family is luckier than most. But we still have to leave here soon. You’ve already eaten twice your share, and they’re not used to feeding me either.”

Adric blushed. He glanced around the room, saw again the pallets scattered on the floor, the slop jars against the wall, the precious wood near the fireplace. He had grown used to the place, no longer saw how small and barren it was. “No one has said anything.”

“You were sick. You needed the food.” Milo picked up the coin and tossed it, then let it clatter on the table. “We can’t expect everyone to be so generous. Nimble fingers are surer.”

The itch on Adric’s back seemed to intensify. He longed to rub the skin against the edge of the table, but he knew that would only make the itch worse. He eyed the coin once, then glanced at Milo. He appeared to be looking elsewhere. Adric reached out and Milo grabbed Adric’s wrist.

Milo smiled. “Nice try. But let me tell you something. Stealing is like a bad magician’s magic. You need quick fingers and the ability to divert the other person’s attention. If you pretend to be doing something else while you’re stealing, you won’t get caught. Now, try again.”

Milo released his wrist. Adric leaned against the table and watched the flames flicker against the stone of the hearth. He sat like that for a long time, long enough for his shoulders to grow stiff. Out of the corner of his eyes he saw the coin, balanced on a crack in the table. Finally he reached, but his fingers closed on nothing. Milo extended his hand. The coin rested on his palm.

“See?” he said. “You were watching the coin, not me. And you thought I was watching you. You didn’t expect me to take it. Diversion is what it is all about. Diversion and quickness.”

Adric sighed. “So which do I have to learn first?”

Milo flipped the coin into the air, his smile widening into a grin. “You’ll learn them both together.”

Chapter 17

i

Seymour leaned against the wall behind the entertainers’ wing of the servants’ quarters. The stone was cool against his back, and the cobblestone dug into his bottom, but the sun was hot. He took another bite of a chicken leg, savoring the warm meat. He hadn’t eaten in his entire adult life as well as he had in the past two weeks. He licked his fingers, feeling stuffed, and set the half-eaten leg on the ground beside him.

He leaned back and closed his eyes. The sun warmed his face. He had been sleeping a lot too. If only the luxury would last. But he knew that at some point he would be called to perform for the king as the son of Dysik the Great, and then the sham would end.

He did mind, in a distant sort of way. But the voice was female and deep, husky, almost seductive. Women rarely showed an interest in him. They all wanted to meet Byron. Seymour supposed he could open his eyes and answer her question.

She was small, dressed in a blue magician’s robe and a woven gold belt that accented her tiny waist. She had braided her long black hair and wrapped it around her head. At first glance she seemed no more than eighteen, but when she smiled, lines crept into the niches around her eyes. She was nearer his own age, thirty or more, although her movements had the vibrancy of youth.

She apparently took his stare for an affirmative, for she sat beside him. The faint odors of musk and incense rose from her. She picked up the leg, ate the remaining flesh off it, and tossed the bone aside. Two dogs sleeping near the doorway woke when the bone clattered against the stone. They ran for it, each grabbing an end, snarling as they tugged. A dainty white cat walked beneath them, as if they didn’t exist.