Daughter of Regals (3 page)

I showed him my choice.
Bypassing the wealth of beribboned and revealing and ornamental gowns which I
had been given to mask my obvious shortcomings, I took from the wardrobe a
simple white muslin dress, almost a shift, and held it for his inspection.

His exasperation came
back with a snarl. “Paugh! Chrysalis,” he rasped. “You are already the plainest
woman in the Three Kingdoms. Do not seek to flaunt what you should disguise.
You must at least appear that you are fit for Ascension.”

There he hurt me. It was
fortunate that I had been well-taught for self-command. With great care and
coldness, I replied, “Mage, I will not conceal what I am.”

Twisting his Scepter in
his rough hands, he gave me a glare, then turned and strode from my chambers.
But at the last he did not slam the door; he did not wish to give any public
hint of his distress.

And when I joined him to
watch the coming of the guests, his manner toward me had become the proper
bearing of a Mage toward a woman who would soon Ascend to take her place among
the Regals.

Below us, the three
rulers entered together. Then they separated, moved with their Mages and
courtiers to opposing places in the large hall—as far as they could be from
each other. Count Thornden’s retinue was unmistakably military in character,
obviously armed. By contrast, King Thone had come accompanied by sophistication
and gaiety—by style-setters and known wits of every description. But Queen
Damia had surrounded herself with the most beautiful maids she could glean from
the comely people of Lodan, showing by the way she outshone her entourage that
her own loveliness was astonishing.

Doubtless that accounted
for Count Thornden’s loathing of her. Doubtless he had once made advances
toward her, driven by one of his many outsize lusts—and she had laughed in his
face. But the antipathy of these two altered nothing: the one thing I did not
need to fear this night was that any two of the three rulers would league
together against the third—or against me.

When the arrival was
finished, the great doors were
closed, and the musicians
struck up a lively air of welcome. The sounds of talk began to rise toward my
window. The rulers stirred where they stood without changing their positions;
and the other guests flowed in conflicting directions around the walls, seeking
safety, favourites, or excitement. Not raising his eyes from the scene, Mage
Ryzel murmured, “It is time, my lady.”

Is it,
forsooth? I responded to myself. From the moment when I joined that gathering,
my future would rest squarely in my open hands, exposed to every conceivable
assault—and preserved by no power or beauty or love, but only by my own
resources. An altogether fragile estate, as Ryzel had often deigned to inform
me. Yet I had found that I did not envy those who were not in my place. When
the Mage at last looked to me for my answer I discovered myself able to smile.

“Time
indeed,” I said. “Let us go.”

Glowering
because he did not approve—perhaps of me, perhaps of himself—he turned and
strode along the passage toward the head of the formal stair, which stretched
from this level down into the ballroom.

I
followed at a little distance, so that I would not be seen from below before he
had announced me.

His
appearance cast an instant silence over the assemblage. The music stopped; all
conversation ended; every eye was raised toward him. He was beyond question an
unprepossessing figure, yet his influence was felt in every corner of the Three
Kingdoms. And the Sceptre he held would have compelled respect in the grasp of
a child. He did not need to lift his voice to make himself heard down the
length of the stair and across the expanse of the hall.

“Monarchs
and Mages” he said in a dry, almost acerbic tone. “Lords and ladies. All true
friends of the Regals—and of the realm. This is the night of Ascension, when
old things become new. I give you the lady Chrysalis, daughter of the
Phoenix-Regal and by his command heir to the rule of the Three Kingdoms.”

A brave
speech: one calculated to fan the doubts of my ill-wishers. It was not a
flourish of trumpets, but it pleased me nonetheless. When Ryzel began to make
his lone way down the long stair, I waited where I could not be seen in order
to reinforce those doubts—waited until the Mage had descended into the
ballroom, walked out into the centre of the hall, and turned to present his
Sceptre toward my coming. Only then did I go to stand at the head of the stair.

The
guests reacted with a sudden murmur—muffled expressions of surprise, approval,
disapproval, perhaps of my person or dress, perhaps of myself. But it was
quickly stilled. And in the silence I found that I could not say the words of
welcome and confidence, which I had prepared for the occasion. Hidden by white
muslin, my knees were trembling; and I knew that my voice would betray me.
Mutely, I remained motionless while I promised the memory of my father that I
would not stumble as I descended the stair.

By no
shift of his hands or flicker of his face did Ryzel express anything other than
certainty. He almost seemed to dare the gathering to utter one breath of
impatience. Grateful for that, I summoned my courage and started downward.

With
such slow dignity as I could muster, I went to meet those who wished me dead.

When I
saw that in fact I was not about to stumble, I smiled.

As I
gained the foot of the stair, a man concealed at the rear of the crowd called, “Hail
the coming Regal!” But no one seconded his shout.

Then
Mage Ryzel’s expression did change. Frowning dangerously, he lowered his
Sceptre, folded it to his chest, and began to clap applause for me.

At
first tentatively, then with more strength, the guests echoed his welcome.
Unsure as they were of me—and of their own future standing—the consequential
people of the Three Kingdoms feared to insult me directly in Ryzel’s presence.

As the
applause faded, I looked to him, letting him see in my eyes that, whatever
transpired later, much would be forgiven him for what he had done here. Then,
before the assemblage, I said, “Mage, I thank you. The Phoenix-Regal held you
to be the one true man in the Three Kingdoms. I am gladdened to learn that
there are others like you here.” I spoke brightly, so that no one would miss
the threat I implied toward those who did not support me.

Bearing
my smile and my plain white dress in the place of Magic, I moved to greet King
Thone and his party, choosing him because he stood nearer to me than the other
rulers.

Around
the hall, another murmuring arose and subsided. Everyone wanted to hear what
would pass between me and my principal enemies.

Thone considered
himself a sophisticate, and he bowed over my hand in a courtly and suave
manner, kissing the backs of my fingers—the only public display of which the
Regals had ever required of the three rulers. Yet his eyes disturbed me as much
as ever. They appeared milky, opaque, as though he were nearly blind. And their
colour concealed the character of his thoughts. As a result, the simple quality
of his gaze seemed to give everything he said another meaning, a hidden intent.

Like
several of his adherents, he wore at his side a slim sword as if it were merely
decorative, a part of his apparel.

Nevertheless,
I greeted him with an air of frankness, pretending that I had nothing to fear.
And likewise I greeted his Mage, Cashon of Canna, though that man perplexed me.
He was tall and straight; and until the passing of the Phoenix-Regal his repute
had matched his stature, for both strength and probity—and perhaps also for a
certain simplicity. Though his home was in Lodan—and though his arts would have
been highly prized in Nabal, for the smelting and refining of ores—he contented
himself with Canna, where the most arduous work asked of him was the clearing
of stubbled fields, or perhaps the protection of frost-threatened orchards.
This he did because he had wedded a woman of Canna. Doting on her extremely, he
had set aside numerous opportunities to stand among the foremost folk of the
realm. So I had been surprised—and Ryzel astonished—when Cashon had suddenly
declared his allegiance to King Thone, displacing the monarch’s lesser
dependents. We had not thought that this Mage would have stomach for Thone’s
invidious pursuits.

He
greeted me at his chosen lord’s right hand and kept his gaze shrouded, hiding
his thoughts. But he could not conceal the lines, which marked his face. Some
acid of sorrow or futility had cut into his visage, wakening his mouth, causing
the flesh to sag from the line of his jaw. He had an aspect of secret suffering
which both moved and alarmed me.

“My
lord Thone,” I said, still smiling, “I have not yet had opportunity to
congratulate you on winning such a man as the Mage Cashon to your service. You
are indeed fortunate.”

“Thank
you, my lady,” Thone replied in a negligent tone, as if he were bored. “I have
great need of him. He has made himself a master of Fire, as you know.”

By this
he meant, of course, that Cashon cast images of the Real flame that melted and
flowed deep under the mountains of Nabal. There was much debate in the realm as
to which form of magery was most powerful. The images of the great Creatures
were certainly potent, but many argued that in practical application either
Wind or Fire was the sovereign strength. No one comprehended the uses of
Wood—no one except Ryzel, who said nothing on the subject—and Stone appeared
too passive to be considered. King Thone’s milky eyes gave the impression that
he had offered me a hint, which I was too obtuse to follow.

When I
simply nodded, he changed his topic without discernible awkwardness or obvious
relevance.

“Have
you heard,” he said in that same tone, “that Kodar and his rebels intend to
commemorate this night with another attack? My spies are positive. They report
that he means to put Lodan’s largest warehouse to the torch. An entire season’s
timber will be lost.” His fleshy lips smiled slightly. “Would it be wise, do
you think, my lady, if I were to warn Queen Damia of her danger?”

^“
It would be useless, my lord of Canna,” I replied. “I am certain
that she has received the same report.” Indeed, I suspected that every spy in
the realm knew Kodar’s plans and movements as well as Thone did.

‘Have
you observed,” I went on, seeking to turn this king’s hints and gambits another
way, “that Kodar’s many attacks are strangely ineffective? He challenges the
Three Kingdoms often, but to little purpose. Word of his intent precedes him
everywhere. Is it possible, do you think”— I mimed his tone as exactly as I
could—’that his purpose against Lodan is a feint?”

His
eyes revealed nothing; but one eyebrow twitched involuntarily. The storages of
Canna were certainly as vulnerable as Queen Damia’s warehouses.

Before
he could reply, I bowed to him and moved away to give my greetings to Count
Thornden. At the edge of my sight, I glimpsed Mage Ryzel. He looked like a man
who frowned so that he would not smile.

But
Count Thornden was more obviously a threat to me than either of the other
rulers, and he demanded my full attention. He styled himself “Count” because he
proclaimed that he would not be “King” until all the realm acknowledged him.
But I considered that position to be the subtlest he had ever taken; he was not
a subtle man. He stood head-and-shoulders over me and scowled as if I affronted
him. When he spoke, his lips bared his teeth, which were as sharp and ragged as
fangs. Pointedly, he refused to take my hand.

That
insolence spread a stirring and stiffening of tension among the onlookers; but
I ignored the lesser people who watched me, in hope or dread. Straightening my
back, I met Thornden’s stare. “My lord of Nabal,” I said quietly, “I bid you
welcome, though you offer me no good greeting. This night is the time of my
Ascension, and many things will change. I suspect that before tomorrow’s sun
you will be content to name yourself King.”

For a
moment, I watched him grin at what he took to be my meaning. Then I had the
satisfaction of seeing his brows knot as other possibilities disturbed his
single-minded wits. His only retort was a growl deep in his throat.

For the
sake of good manners—and good ruler-craft— I saluted Thornden’s Mage as I had
Thone’s. Brodwick of Nabal was a shaggy lump of a man, large and mis-shaped,
whose fawning was exceeded only by his known prowess. He appeared oddly
dependent, perhaps because he shared appetites with Count Thornden which only
the lord of Nabal could satisfy. Following his master’s example, he refused my
hand.

I
dismissed the slight. Whatever motivations ruled Brodwick, he was still
dangerous. Deliberately, I resumed my progress around the ballroom, nodding to
those people who looked at me honestly, gauging those who did not— and moving
toward the encounter I could not shun with Queen Damia.

Perhaps
I had unconsciously left her to the last, hoping foolishly to avoid her
altogether. In all truth, she daunted me—she and that quick ferret who served
her, the Mage Scour. Perhaps I could have borne it that her loveliness and
grace gave me the aspect of a scullion by comparison. Or that her finery would
have made the grandest gown I might have worn appear frumpish and shabby. Or
that even Ryzel was unable to speak of her without an undercurrent of longing
in his voice. I envied such things, but they were not necessary to me. To those
strengths, however, was added another, which made my blood run cold in my chest
because I was not equal to it. I could play games of implication and inference
with King Thone and not lose my way. Count Thornden was obvious; therefore he
could be thwarted. But Queen Damia’s cunning ran far deeper than theirs—deeper
and more dangerously. And I feared that I lacked the wit to fathom her.
Certainly I lacked the experience to walk unscathed through the mazes she built
for the bafflement of her antagonists.