White Blood (37 page)

Princess Voerell and her retinue entered the square from the far side. Voerell, in the lead, was dressed in a regal scarlet robe, heavy with gold embroidery, over ornate skirts. She wore a smaller, less elaborate copy of the crown of Milecha. Maryn saw her head move restlessly back and forth, scanning Carlich’s group, until her eyes found the baby in Maryn’s arms. Voerell froze, staring at Barilan.

Maryn hoisted Barilan high so the princess could see him clearly. Barilan kicked his feet and babbled, his eyes tracking a bird that broke from the cover of the grass at their feet and soared skyward. Maryn tried to catch Voerell’s gaze.
See, I kept your son safe for you. I’ve made it so Carlich can’t take his crown, so he’ll die trying. I’m on your side; you can trust me.

But Voerell never spared so much as a glance for Maryn. Even the sight of her son didn’t lighten the grim stoniness of her face nor soften the harsh lines that hadn’t been there the last time Maryn had seen her.

Prelate Kiellan laid a hand on the princess’s arm and murmured to her. Voerell shook herself and proceeded forward, but her eyes kept going back to Barilan as she took her place. Kiellan and Rogelan took up stations on either side, and her guards arranged themselves in a semicircle behind her.

Carlich positioned himself facing Voerell, a few feet away. He beckoned Maryn to stand beside him. Vinhor and Tennelan stood on his far side, and the guards spread out behind. Maryn couldn’t tell where in the arc Tior was stationed, and she didn’t dare look around to see.

The two heralds raised their trumpets to their lips. In unison a bright fanfare rang out. At the first blast Barilan jerked and screeched in protest. Maryn cupped her hand over one of his ears and pressed the other to her chest to muffle the sound, but he wailed in strident discord with the music while the heralds completed their tune. In the quiet that followed, his cries continued. Maryn fumbled with her shift. The heralds snapped their trumpets down, bowed to the delegation on each side, and turned on their heels to exit on opposite sides of the square. Maryn ducked her head over Barilan, her face hot, certain everyone was looking at her, until finally she managed to get Barilan latched on and his shrieks abruptly cut off. A hush fell over the square.

Rogelan cleared his throat and stepped forward. “As was agreed, the square will now be warded. No one may enter nor exit until the parley is over and the wards are broken. All weapons will be excluded, save that each side may choose two who may retain their sorcery knives. I will be performing the magic for the regent. I will keep one knife, as will Prelate Kiellan. Who will do so for you, Prince Carlich?”

Carlich nodded to him. “I’ll perform the spell myself, Rogelan. Priest Vinhor and I will retain our knives. Come, let us begin.” He moved to the left edge of the square, midway between the two corner flags. Rogelan glanced at Voerell, and at her nod he stepped to stand beside Carlich. In unison the two sorcerers drew their knives, pricked their fingers, and spoke the opening words of the spell. Maryn noticed that Carlich performed this spell verbally, speaking the ancient language with just as much skill and confidence as Rogelan. They moved apart, each circling behind the other’s delegation, stooping every few steps to smudge a bit of blood on the ground. Where they passed, a subtle blue shimmer hazed the air, growing until it walled in the entire square and arched overhead. When they met at the far side they spoke the closing words together, then each returned to his place. A murmur rose from the observing armies on both sides of the hill. Maryn could hear it clearly, though the ward spell blurred her view so that colors ran together as if viewed through thick glass.

The voices fell silent as Prelate Kiellan stepped forward. “As was further agreed, I will conduct a ritual of blessing before we begin the negotiations, that the Holy One may guide us in all our dealings today. Would Priest Vinhor like to assist me?” His voice was cordial, betraying no hint of displeasure at finding his rival among the enemy’s close associates.

Vinhor was somewhat less adroit at concealing his hostility, though it manifested only as excessive precision in his motions and an exaggerated clarity in the way he enunciated his words. “I would.” He stepped forward. The two clergymen inclined their heads to each other and in unison began to chant the invocation to the Holy One. The ritual proceeded in perfect harmony, the two men’s voices blending pleasantly, the blue sparks of their blood fountaining upward from their open palms. Maryn closed her eyes and added her own silent pleas for the Holy One’s guidance. When Vinhor and Kiellan finished, they bowed to each other and stepped back to join their respective parties.

Voerell stepped forward into the clear space vacated by Priest and Prelate. Tearing her eyes away from the nursing Barilan, she fixed a fierce glare on Carlich. Everyone hushed to hear what she would say.

Her voice rang out harsh and clear in the silence. “My brother, I have agreed to meet with you only so that I may tell you directly what I think of your actions. How dare you raise an army against your lawful sovereign? You have incited those who follow you into treason against their sworn king and his regent. You have kidnapped my son, the rightful king of Milecha. For these crimes, along with the foul murders of our brother Prince Marolan and my husband Duke Whirter, you have earned the most severe penalty.” Voerell’s voice betrayed her strain, but she managed to get the words out without breaking her smooth rhythm. “But if you surrender immediately and unconditionally, and dismiss all your followers back to their homes, I may be persuaded to show mercy. I will not hold them culpable for consenting to follow you as long as they all depart at once, for I know you to be most persuasive. But I will accept nothing less from you than your surrender to royal justice, and the return of King Barilan to me unharmed.”

Carlich listened to Voerell’s speech with a slight, amused smile. When she finished, he nodded graciously. “Thank you for your welcome, my sister. If you show somewhat less warmth than I might desire, I’m willing to let that pass. You misunderstand my purpose here. Treason? I assure you, nothing is farther from my intent. I wish only the good of Milecha, and to see our land’s rule restored to its true king. Will you allow me to put forth my case?”

Voerell’s lips twisted into a snarl, but her voice remained controlled. “Speak your piece.”

Carlich inclined his head. “In our distress following our brother’s death, we both seem to have made a number of false assumptions. You jumped to the conclusion that I had murdered Marolan, while I assumed that you had conspired with Dolia of Wonora to carry it out. I now believe we were both wrong, and that Dolia committed the deed herself, perhaps with the aid of the Wonoran ambassador. In our haste to accuse each other, we each made grave mistakes. In the struggle I slew your husband, for which transgression I deeply apologize.” He bowed low to her, though Voerell’s expression didn’t soften from its hard scowl. “And you persuaded our father to disinherit me. When his spell ran out of control and killed him, there was no opportunity for him to correct that error, and the Kingship did not pass to me upon his death as it should have.”

“I made no mistake.” Voerell started to step forward, but Prelate Kiellan restrained her with a light touch to her arm. She balled her hands into fists. “We all saw you destroy the evidence that would have proven your guilt.”

Carlich waved dismissively. “Because I feared Dolia—or you, though as I said I no longer suspect that—had contaminated it so I would be falsely convicted. But that’s irrelevant.”

Voerell began a hot retort, but Carlich held up a hand and raised his voice to drown her out. “We both assumed that the Kingship had settled on Barilan. Yet now I know that was not the case. Perhaps the heirship ceremony was not performed properly, or maybe my unjust disinheritance disrupted the magic. But whatever the reason, Priest Vinhor and I have examined Prince Barilan, and the Kingship does not presently reside in his soul.”

A murmur of surprise ran through all those assembled on both sides of the hill. As heralds transmitted Carlich’s words throughout both waiting armies, a clamor arose. Carlich let it run for a few minutes. Voerell turned and spoke with quiet urgency to Prelate Kiellan and Sorcerer Rogelan, who drew close and murmured in reply. At length Carlich raised his hand again, and the outburst gradually faded.

“I don’t expect you to believe me without proof. Therefore, my sister, I’m willing to allow whichever priest or sorcerer you choose to examine Barilan right now, here in full view of everyone, and ascertain that what I say is true.”

Voerell consulted with her advisors again. After they spoke for a moment, she faced Carlich and raised her voice. “You’re right, brother. I don’t believe you. I will certainly examine Barilan. But first, let us say that you are correct, and Barilan does not hold the Kingship, and therefore I do not hold the Regency. What do you propose should then be done?”

Carlich spread his hands. “Why, in that case, my sister, the Kingship will be unclaimed, available to whoever wins the support of the people. All I ask is that it be returned to the one our father chose as his heir, in the proper line of succession, before the chaos surrounding his death disrupted it.” He turned to face his assembled troops. “Who will you acclaim as your king?” he shouted.

“Carlich!” came the return shout. As word of his question spread to those who were too far away to have heard it, more and more joined in, until the rhythmic chant thundered across the plain. “Carlich! Carlich! Carlich!”

Maryn couldn’t be sure, but she thought that even some among Voerell’s troops on the far side of the hill took up the cry. Voerell listened with a white face and lips pinched into a thin line.

Carlich basked in the adulation for a few minutes, then made a great show of waving his hands, attempting to subdue the chanting. After a long time it quieted, though occasional cries of “Carlich!” still broke out. Maryn gulped, recognizing how cleverly Carlich had prepared the crowd. One shout from her, and they all would erupt again into their ardent demand.

He turned to Voerell with a triumphant expression just short of a smirk. “Well, my sister?”

Voerell met Carlich’s eyes, bitter loathing in her gaze. She raised her voice until Maryn was sure it would carry to the farthest reaches of the crowd. “I still believe you guilty of our brother’s murder. Father was right to disinherit you. Even if you’re correct and the Kingship has not yet transferred successfully to Barilan, I will never accede to your claim. The Kingship will not settle on a usurper!”

A roar of approval rose from her troops. Briefly a chant of “Barilan! Barilan! Barilan!” sounded from a few scattered places, but it soon died. Voerell waved behind her without looking, and her forces quieted. Kiellan whispered in her ear; she listened stony;-;faced.

Carlich didn’t appear worried by her rejection. Maybe Tior was wrong, Maryn thought, a sick feeling in her stomach. Maybe it wouldn’t matter that Barilan still held the Kingship. Maybe if enough of the assembled masses wanted Carlich to be king, their desire would tear the magic free from Barilan’s soul and transfer it to Carlich’s without harming him. How could a construction of a few drops of blood and some ancient words prevail, set against the power of so many people’s will? Maybe she should speak out to stop Carlich from making the attempt, after all.

No, she had to believe the magic would perform as it had been designed and act to destroy the usurper. Barilan was the rightful king, and nothing short of death, of either body or soul, could change that. All she had to do was bide her time. Her spell would continue to conceal the truth from Carlich along with everyone else. Voerell wouldn’t be able to stop Carlich from asserting his right to the crown. He would give the signal, Vinhor would work the spell, and Maryn would cry the words that would set the fatal magic in motion.

Barilan’s nursing had slowed to an occasional fluttering suck; he didn’t complain when she slipped her finger into the corner of his mouth and detached him. She adjusted her clothes and shifted him to her shoulder, running her fingers through his silky hair. What if her spell had faded by now? Could even the copious amount of blood the runaway magic had torn from her be enough to conceal Barilan’s Kingship for so long? Or would the phantom crown once again appear over the baby’s head, proving to Carlich that she’d deceived him?

Prelate Kiellan stepped forward. “I am quite sure Barilan’s Heirship ceremony was complete and successful. Let us examine him and resolve this dispute.”

Voerell jumped on his words. “If in fact Barilan holds the Kingship, are you willing to give up this nonsense and accept my rule in his name?”

Carlich hesitated only an instant, his eyes flicking to Barilan, before smoothly inclining his head. “Of course, sister. I’ve never wanted anything but what’s right for Milecha.”

He gestured to Maryn. Prelate Kiellan held out his arms. Maryn reluctantly surrendered Barilan into them. A wave of excited murmurs washed over the gathered troops. Barilan fussed a little, reaching for Maryn, but quieted in Kiellan’s firm, gentle grip. Voerell watched them, her hands clenched at her sides. Maryn moved back to her place beside Carlich. Gradually the noise of the crowd faded into an expectant hush.

Kiellan nodded to Rogelan. “Would you? Your expertise in scrying exceeds my own.”

“Of course, your Holiness.” Rogelan moved to join the Prelate. He drew his knife and cut his finger, then extended his bloody hand over Barilan, intoning the incantation in his rich melodic voice.

Maryn peered at the light that grew into a halo around Barilan’s small form. Was that a trace of brighter mist over his head? No, it was only her imagination. The light over his spiky blond hair remained clear.

Voerell raised shocked eyes to Kiellan, her face white. The Prelate frowned at her, then turned back to study the baby in his arms, his brows drawing together in bafflement.

“Look deeper, Rogelan,” Voerell ordered, hoarse. “This has got to be some sort of trick!”

Beside Maryn, Carlich stepped back and leaned toward Vinhor. “Prepare to begin the spell as soon as I give the word.”