empress of storms (8 page)

“Aye, our healers know of those, as well. But there’s nothing like that in milord’s chambers.” The commander sounded frustrated, trying to defend his king against an enemy no one could see. “Have you been in there yet, majesty?”

The abrupt conversation turn flummoxed her. “I … no. The king has always come to my rooms,” she admitted. “He said they were more comfortable than his own. I’d assumed they were Queen Hanne’s chambers.”

Bardahlson shook his shaggy head. “No. Queen Hanne always shared the king’s bed.”

Hurt shot through her, echoed by a cramp in her lower belly. She tried to ignore both pains. “Well, I haven’t seen them, in any case,” she said stiffly.

“As I suspected.”

Bardahlson’s casual dismissiveness grated on her already sore nerves. “In which case, I don’t see how I can help you,” she said through her teeth. “Now, if you’ll excuse me—”

“Can’t or won’t?”

“What?”

“You do seem to be hard of hearing this afternoon, majesty,” Bardahlson observed. His tone was polite enough, but beneath it lay a veneer of suspicion that rankled. “It can’t have been easy for a young woman to accept someone of his majesty’s age as a husband. Perhaps you think it wouldn’t be all that much of a tragedy if he succumbed to his headaches. That leaves you as the ruler of not one but two countries, a rich bounty that will give you your pick of handsome young suitors—”

“Enough!” Over the years Danaë had struggled to keep a grip on her temper, one so fierce that her father had tagged her “Empress of Storms” after a memorable tantrum. Once she had reached puberty and her mage talents appeared along with the blue lock in her hair, she’d worked even harder to regulate her feelings; an out of control mage was a mortal danger to herself and those around her. But here in this small room the combination of her courses, a poor night’s sleep, the specter of jealousy that wore Hanne’s face and Bardahlson’s insulting words combined to batter at her shields. 

To her dismay she felt the first trickles of gathering energy oozing over her skin, making the hairs rise on her arms. She could already feel the moisture of the room gathering, waiting to act on her will.
You have no idea what I could do to you, lord commander. Even an adept could cause you to drown in the middle of a bone-dry room.

With an intense effort she regained control of her talent, pushing it back into that space where it resided. “I have no desire whatsoever for the king’s death, as he himself would confirm if you asked him,” she said, giving Bardahlson an icy look. “And you may keep your disgusting opinions about suitors and betrotheds to yourself.”

Bardahlson drew himself up. “Is that so? Then you’ll come and look at his rooms?”

“For what?”

“I don’t know!” The words were barked at her, the first real loss of control she’d seen from the commander. “Evil wishes, a curse, something that I’ve missed. Examine his rooms and tell me there’s nothing amiss, and I’ll have naught but praise for you.”

“And what’s the king to think if he finds us alone in his chambers?” she bit out.

“Bring your maid as chaperone,” Bardahlson snapped back. “Bring a troop of them, I don’t care. But I ask that you put my mind at ease. Majesty.”

She weighed his request. It was far more likely that Matthias suffered from
hemikrania
and his commander didn’t want to acknowledge a weakness in his king. But if there was a chance that someone had sent something magical against Matthias and she didn’t investigate…

She nodded once. “Lead on, commander.”

They headed for the wing reserved for the royal family. After a brief stop at Danaë’s chambers to collect a puzzled Flavia, Bardahlson led them to the end of the corridor, stopping in front of a large carved door. He knocked, waited, then knocked again.

“The foolish man is still in his damned meetings,” he muttered, grabbing the brass handle and jerking the door open. “I suppose I should be grateful for his pigheadedness this once.”

Danaë stalked past him into the king’s chambers. The room was much the same temperature as her own, and the air held the scent of soap, wood polish, and the faint, warm scent that belonged to Matthias alone. His chamber was half again as large as hers, and had been divided into two changing areas and a sleeping area proper. The massive royal bed lay against the far wall, its burgundy velvet curtains drawn back and tied to dark-stained oak uprights with heavy gold ropes. The nearer changing area belonged to Matthias’s, judging by the masculine furniture and well-tended look of everything. The other changing area, ostensibly the late Queen Hanne’s, lay in the far corner of the room. All the furniture there had been covered by drop cloths, looking like nothing so much as shrouds. For some reason Danaë shivered at the sight. 

And then jumped as a short, neatly dressed man burst through the doorway. “What in the world—how dare you invade the king’s chambers!” he bleated.

Bardahlson held up a massive hand. “Calm yourself, Mohrs. Her majesty is looking for something.”

Mohrs—the king’s valet, Danaë remembered—spluttered on until the commander dragged him off to a corner and had a short whispered conversation. Now pale, the valet came over to Danaë, tugging at his vest. “Can I assist you in any way, your majesty?” he asked.

“Yes. Why is that furniture covered?”

The valet frowned at the shrouded shapes. “It belonged to Queen Hanne. His majesty couldn’t bring himself to get rid of it, so he had it covered.”

Danaë moved through the room, passing the king’s dressing area. Something hummed at the edge of her consciousness.

“Well?” Bardahlson demanded.

She held up a hand to silence him, concentrating. “I can hear something. It sounds like the buzzing of flies,” she murmured.

Mohrs and Flavia joined the commander. “I can’t hear anything, mistress,” Flavia said.

Danaë didn’t know how to explain a sound that couldn’t be heard with your ears. She stopped at the bed, running her fingers along the top edge of the footboard. The dim buzzing had grown stronger, but it wasn’t coming from the bed.

Finally, she went to the largest of the shrouded pieces in the queen’s dressing area and pulled off the dusty sheet. It turned out to be a tall armoire in the same wood as Matthias’s but with delicate fretwork of leaves and vines around the edges. “Queen Hanne’s?”

Mohrs bobbed his head. “Yes, your majesty. As far as I know it hasn’t been opened since her funeral.”

Cautious, Danaë touched the fretwork, extending her senses. The armoire wasn’t the source of the buzzing, either. She moved to the next shape, pulling its drop cloth free. A beautiful changing table was revealed, its inlaid top still holding cut glass bottles of perfume and silver-backed brushes. The elegant mirror featured beautiful engraving along the edges, but was dull from lack of polishing. Danaë ran her fingertips through the fine layer of dust that had settled underneath the drop cloth, imagining the fine wood clean and glowing as the late queen sat before her mirror.

But it still wasn’t the source of that infernal buzzing. Turning away, Danaë went to the last covered piece. As her hand touched the drop cloth a chill went through her. The buzzing rose to a hungry crescendo. If she hadn’t known better she would have sworn that the cloth covered a bloated carcass serving as a feast for carrion flies

She yanked the cloth free. An oval cheval mirror stood there, its elongated glass gleaming and spotless. The difference to the mirror at the changing table was like day and night.

Danaë slammed her mage shields up, flinching back from what she could hear in the mirror. The buzz had turned into sibilant whispers.
You killed your father. You know you did. Your fault, your fault.

She swallowed past sudden nausea. “This is it,” she forced out. “This is what’s poisoning the king.”

The commander joined her, glowering at the mirror. “How? I can’t hear anything.”

“You wouldn’t. But if you slept in this room you would hear something in the night, something horrible.” She gritted her teeth. “I need a mage, the strongest Aqua in the city.”

“I know the one you want,” Flavia blurted. “I’ll go myself.”

Danaë nodded, unwilling to turn away as her maid left. All of her attention was focused on keeping her shields up against the swirling horror she could sense on the other side of the mirror. 

Bardahlson fingered the sword at his hip. “Should we break it?”

“No!” Danaë ordered. “All that will do is open a gate between their world and ours.”

“Their world?”

“A place of demons, dark and foul.” She shuddered. “A very skilled mage bespelled this mirror and turned it into a conduit between our worlds. The demons wait on the other side until the room is dark. Then they start whispering, sinking hooks into their victim’s mind. They call forth a person’s deepest guilts and terrors, turning them against their victim until he or she dies in terror. Then they feast on the life force.”

“My gods!” Mohrs stumbled back. “But it’s been in here for years!” the little valet said, horrified. “The king—”

“Is still alive and sane because he had it covered. If the demons cannot see their victim, they can’t kill them. But they can still whisper.” Still focusing on the mirror, she waved at the door. “Both of you go. I don’t want you anywhere near this thing until the conduit spell is broken.”

Light footsteps pattered to the door and into the hallway as Mohrs beat a hasty retreat. But Bardahlson remained where he was standing. “I will not leave you alone with this evil thing, majesty,” he said.

The buzzing grew again, invisible fingers scratching at her shields.
Murderer. Patricide.
“You cannot help me, commander,” she said through her teeth. “If you value your king and wish to serve him best, go and guard the door. Don’t let anyone in here, especially his majesty, until the mage arrives.”

He hesitated. The scratching increased, whispered accusations digging runnels into her control. “Go! Please!”

Muttering a curse, Bardahlson stomped to the door. With only herself to protect, Danaë was able to pull her shields in, reinforcing them. The whispers died to a muted buzzing.

With one part of her mind maintaining the shields, she could study the construction of the mirror. It was as well wrought as the other furniture in the king’s chambers, but didn’t quite match the style. The mirror frame was made of mahogany, darker than the stained oak of the armoires and dressing tables, and bore an elaborate carving pattern that appeared to be more geometric than the leaves and vines of the queen’s armoire.

A gift, perhaps, or a much later addition. Must ask Mohrs where it came from.

A shocking thrust stabbed into the center of her shield and she gasped in pain. The demons had decided to test her defenses. Danaë thickened her barriers, wondering where Flavia and the Aqua mage were. With her adept’s band still on her wrist, she couldn’t call upon enough power to break this spell. If they didn’t come soon…

She shied away from that thought.
If I throw the cloth back over the mirror, that should confuse them long enough for the mage to get here.

She bent down to grab for one of the cloths when an agonized voice shouted, “Danaë!”

She glanced back to see a frantic Matthias restrained at the door by Bardahlson. The buzzing swelled and burst into a screaming chorus, defeating her shields.

Terrified, Danaë turned back to the mirror. Its surface was no longer a silvered reflection of the room. Instead it churned with blackened shapes, hoof and horn and rolling eyes, and things her mind refused to recognize. They seethed together in a horrifying mass, hungry for the three souls in the room.

The demons pressed harder against the glass, their buzzing now audible to all. To Danaë’s horror she heard them whisper
You failed your queen, Matthias. She died because of you. Your heir knew it and left you because of it. Because of you, your country will fall to ruin.

Behind her, Matthias groaned.

“Majesty, no!” Bardahlson bellowed.

“Commander, keep him out!” Danaë shouted. Steeling herself, she stepped in front of the elongated reflection, blocking the demons’ view. Power gathered along her skin like drops of water on a pane of glass, coating her in her elemental force. She stretched mental limbs, the good pain of tendon and sinew being put to their proper use again.

“You shall not have him,” she said, settling herself. “He is mine.”

The roiling mass in the mirror focused on her.
Mage.
It was hissed with hatred and a hungry longing.
And not. It does not matter. We shall have you both.

The icy stinging against her shields sharpened, turning into barbed hooks as they hunted for a way inside. Flashes of pain, both emotional and physical, lashed at her and she flinched under the barrage. All the times she made a fool of herself, large and small. All the times her heart had been broken, the thousands of disappointments and hurts that made up every life. The deaths of her parents, and her guilt over them.

She pushed back against the eager little splinters digging at her. “By water were thou summoned,” she called, reaching out for power and channeling it into her words. The adept’s band on her wrist flared to life, burning her skin as it blocked some of that power. She grimaced at the pain but continued. “By water were thou invited. By water were thou given access. That access is now rescinded. Hear my command and be gone.”

The churning in the mirror sped up, amorphous shapes sliding over one another in their eagerness to reach the glass. They were insanity made physical, pain and terror given form and hungry intent.
No, mage. You have no power over us. We shall come through, and we shall feast.

 “Your access is rescinded,” she shouted, pouring more and more power into her command. Fiery agony exploded out from the adept’s band. She screamed from the pain but clung to her concentration. “Hear my command and be gone!”

The demons screamed, lashing out. The adept’s band was a circle of fire, sinking into her skin even as the demons leached past her shields, making her blood burn. She pushed back again but felt the borders of her spell begin to falter and crumble under the double assault.