Inheritance (28 page)

Amemun pursed his lips. “There is one other matter Marin has asked me to report on. The Keys of Power. I do not think he was aware they were to be divided between the heirs. You should have warned him.”

Orkid grunted. “I had hoped to convince Usharna not to proceed with her plan, and for a long time thought I was succeeding. Given another day or two, I might have won her around, but…”

“But now they are apart. They have lost their power. If Areava and Sendarus have issue, we will want the Keys brought together again.”

“You forget, Amemun, that Lynan was wearing one of the Keys. They can never be together again. Their power is broken.”

Amemun’s face clouded. “This is dark news.”

“The individual Keys hold some energy, I’m sure. They may work still, though not as effectively as in the past. Other rulers have survived without such tokens. So will Areava’s heirs.”

“Other rulers haven’t had such a large kingdom to administer,” Amemun pointed out. “And power or no, they still have an influence over the people. We must work to unite the surviving Keys.”

Orkid held up his hand. “Patience! There is more than enough for us to deal with at the moment. The Keys can wait.”

Amemun nodded reluctantly. “I hope Marin sees it the same way.”

“He will forget all about the Keys when Sendarus and Areava are engaged,” Orkid said.

“Oh, aye, there’s no doubt about that.” Amemun raised his glass. “For Aman!”

“For Grenda Lear,” Orkid replied.

Olio left the palace as surreptitiously as possible, not wishing to be seen by his sister or any member of the Royal Guards. Under present circumstances they would have insisted on providing him with an escort, but Olio needed time alone, time to think, time away from the palace itself and everything it represented.

He wandered for a while along the wide avenues of the higher, richer districts, but gravity and inclination slowly drew him down into the old city, the heart of Kendra. He was dressed plainly, and the Key of Healing was hidden beneath his jerkin. In the crowded streets no one looked closely enough to identify him.

Olio reveled in the anonymity. No one fawned over him, no one expected him to respond to a salute or greeting. He was no more than a citizen of the city, and this meant more to him than his official rank. Like Areava, he believed heart and soul in the kingdom, in the good it had achieved, in its civilizing influence and the peace it had brought its many millions of inhabitants. But he was also aware of how much more it could achieve, given the will and determination. Around him were signs of poverty: people living in the streets, poor sanitation, children laboring away at a hundred different crafts from cobbling to sail making. He walked carefully along rises and curbs to avoid stepping in human and animal excrement.

In time, he found himself in a short alley darkened by the leaning roofs of the old timber houses that lined it. Garbage and filth clogged the worn, shallow drains on either side of the cobbled paving. Two children dressed in little more than rags ran past him, squealing with laughter as they went. An old man sat in a doorway, trying to mend a tattered shirt with a bone needle and coarse twine.

Olio paused. He looked up and around, counting the houses. Twelve along one side, eleven on the other. He wondered how many families lived in each. One or two, maybe more? Say three to six members for each family. In a space no longer than fifty paces or wider than thirty, there probably lived between a hundred and two hundred people, many of them children, and many of them would not live long enough to reach adulthood.

This is also Kendra
, Olio thought.
This is also the kingdom
.

He started to walk on when he caught sight of a familiar cloak. Its round owner was just stepping out of one of the old houses the prince had been considering.

“Well, well,” Olio said loudly, “M-M-Magicker P-P-Prelate Edaytor Fanhow.”

The prelate turned, obviously not expecting to meet anyone who knew him. His expression showed twice as much surprise when he recognized the prince. He bowed uncertainly, still not quite believing his eyes.

“Your Highness! What are
you
doing down here?” He looked around curiously. “And where is your escort?”

“I am walking, sir, taking in the sights. And as for escort, why, I have n—n-none.”

“No escort?” Edaytor scurried to the prince’s side, and took his arm. “Then, your Highness, stay close by me. I will see that you come to no harm.”

Olio laughed lightly. “Why should any harm come to m-m-me?” He looked up and down the alley. “I see no thieves or scoundrels. We are quite safe, I think. At any rate, you yourself have no escort.”

“They know me around here, Prince. They know I carry nothing on my person worth stealing except my cloak, and no one would buy that from a thief, for it is generally believed to protected by magic.”

“And how comes it that the m-m—magicker p-p-prelate is so well known in this desperate slum?”

Edaytor’s expression became guarded. “My duties carry me to every part of the city, your Highness.”

“There is no theurgia hall here.”

Edaytor said nothing, but tried to guide Olio out of the alley. The prince pretended to go along, but stopped suddenly when they came to the house Edaytor had appeared from.

“Definitely no theurgia hall.”

Even as he spoke, the door to the house opened and an old woman came out carrying an empty basket. She saw the prelate, came over quickly and kissed his hand, then scurried off in the opposite direction.

“Who was that?” Olio asked mildly.

“I… I don’t know her name,” Edaytor admitted.

“She certainly seemed to know you.”

“Only in the last hour. Her son was a student magicker in the Theurgia of Fire. He died last week in an accident at the armory foundry. She had no money coming in at all, so I gave her some coins.”

Olio absorbed this information, but said nothing. Edaytor misinterpreted the silence, and blurted, “But I used my own money, your Highness, no theurgia funds.”

“Oh, I wasn’t thinking that.” Olio patted Edaytor’s hand still resting protectively on his arm. “One day, P-P-Prelate, I think you and I should sit down and have a long talk.”

“About what?”

“Why, sir, about the kingdom.”

Left alone in her bedroom, her ladies-in-waiting gone at last, Areava slumped in a chair. She was exhausted and wide awake all at the same time. The sheer emotional and physical load of the last few days pressed down on her like a heavy weight, but a thousand thoughts were racing through her brain, all competing for her attention. Details about the Twenty Houses and their allies, Orkid’s list of possible traitors, the missing corpses of her youngest brother and his co-conspirators, the hiring and billeting of mercenaries, the impatient demands of the trade guilds for their protective tariffs to be kept in place, the impatient demands of merchants for the tariffs to be lifted, the invitation list for the coronation… The urgent, the sublime, the foolish, and the unnecessary all combined, and it was all new to her.

She had no way of knowing how to cope with the sudden flood of details and facts overwhelming her, and which was added to every morning by Orkid with his heavy solemnity and bearded, brooding face. Olio and Harnan helped where they could, but Olio was as new to administration as she was and Harnan had his duties as private secretary to keep him busy without having to answer all her foolish questions. She found herself constantly being given information she did not want to know about, applications she did not want to read, appeals she did not want to judge, and blandishments she did not want to hear.

She stood up angrily. The night was still warm—the last hurrah of summer before autumn’s cold sou’westerlies began and brought with them the icy winds up from the lands of snow far south of Theare—but she still felt the need to stoke up the fire; anything to help fill up the vacant space in her room. And the vacant spaces in her life left by the deaths of her mother and brother.

She lay on her bed and closed her eyes in an attempt to find sleep, but it was futile. Restless, she left her room, startling the two guards on post at her door. Ignoring their concerned expressions as they trailed behind her, she soon reached the south gallery. She headed over to the balcony and stopped short. There was a figure on the balcony, looking out over the city and the waters beyond. For a terrible moment she thought it was the ghost of Lynan come back to haunt her at the very place they had last spoken. The figure turned, and Areava recognized the tall and slender profile of Prince Sendarus. Her breath gushed out in relief.

“Your Majesty!” Sendarus exclaimed, and bowed deeply. “I did not know you were there!”

“I have just arrived. I am sorry to have disturbed you. I came to get away from my rooms.”

“I understand. You wish to be alone. I will leave now.”

“What were you looking for?” she asked.

“Your Majesty?”

“Can you see Aman from there? Are you homesick?”

Sendarus laughed lightly. “No, it is too dark for that, and I am not homesick.”

“I thought you might miss your father.”

“I did at first. But I have found my attention quite diverted.”

“The city has that effect on people seeing it for the first time.”

“That is not what I meant,” he said seriously.

Areava joined him at the balcony and felt a breeze on her face. She closed her eyes and pretended she was not queen and that her mother still reigned, and that all was right with the world.

Sendarus watched her carefully, watched her hair blown by the breeze, watched a small pulse in the curve of her throat, but said nothing.

It took Lynan and his companions six days to reach the outskirts of the Forest of Silona. The encounter with the mercenaries had made them all jumpy, and they could ill afford further trouble now that Kumul was temporarily incapable of wielding a sword; though much better, Jenrosa still lacked stamina. Besides, the open farm land they were passing through encouraged caution.

They walked from dusk to dawn, keeping to side trails where possible, and rested during the day, taking turns to keep watch. They ate whatever food they could scrounge on their journey—berries, nuts, once a runaway chicken—and used ground leaves from whip trees and sword bushes to harden the skin on their heels and toes and reduce the risk of infection from the blisters that blossomed on their feet.

They had one more close encounter with mercenaries before reaching the forest, another troop of cavalry, but they had heard the horses from a distance and were able to hide in time.

The Forest of Silona was made up of towering wideoaks, summer trees, and headseeds, packed more closely together than any such trees had any right to be. Their branches blocked most of the sunlight from reaching the forest floor, and a sad wind passed between them, making a sound like wooden pipes playing a dirge. The air smelled rich and loamy and left a musty taste on the back of their tongues. There was something forbidding about the place, about the wood green darkness, which made all four travelers hesitate before entering its cover.

“It’ll be safer for us in the forest than out here in the open,” Ager said reassuringly, his voice hiding a quaver. He grunted, squared his shoulders as best he could, and strode, lopsided, in among the trees.

“There. It’s done, and I haven’t dropped dead. Come on, the sun’s already up. The sooner we start, the sooner we’ll be out the other side.”

“Is nowhere safe anymore?” Lynan asked forlornly, of no one in particular. He followed Ager. Once under the heavy shade of the trees his feeling of dread eased somewhat. It was like jumping into a cold river—after a few seconds it did not seem nearly so cold.

“It’s all right,” he said encouragingly to Jenrosa and Kumul. “It’s… safe.”

Jenrosa stood with her fists on her hips for a moment as if she was about to dispute the fact with Lynan, then sighed and crossed the boundary into the forest.

Kumul still hesitated. “I cannot forget the stories I have heard about this place.”

“We’ve all heard stories,” Ager muttered. “Soldiers make them up about every forest or river or city. You haven’t paid them any heed before.”

“I haven’t been
here
before,” Kumul countered.

The muscles in Lynan’s back started to tighten. Kumul’s words were frightening him. Instinctively, he drew closer to the other two, fighting the urge to leave the forest and let pure sunlight bathe his skin again.

Kumul looked back the way they had come and watched as a breeze calmly ruffled the stalks of ripening wheat and barley which filled the fields stretching north to the horizon. Then he looked at the trees, scowled into his beard, and followed the others in. Immediately, some of the tension left his body, but his expression remained grim. “Let’s get on with it, then,” he grumbled, and led the way deeper into the gloom.

“That’s curious,” Lynan thought aloud.

“What’s that?” Ager asked.

“I don’t hear any birds.”

It was true. There was not the slightest sound made by a bird, not even a raven’s desolate cawing. Except for the companions, everything was still and silent. The trees closed about them like a silent escort, shepherding them north and into the forest’s heart.

They used trails when they found them and stayed with them as long as they led north. Most of the tracks had not been in use for many years and were difficult to follow, but some had been abandoned only recently and undergrowth had not yet made the way difficult. Occasionally they come across small, abandoned huts, their open doorways and windows making them leer like skulls, their wooden floors covered in cobwebs and dust. At night the huts provided welcome refuge from the damp leafy ground outside and some protection from the creatures they assumed roamed the forest as soon as evening settled on the trees, although the only spore they saw belonged to rabbits or hares and the occasional badger. When forced to sleep outdoors, the companions would take turns on watch, guarding a tiny, precious fire and listening anxiously for any sound. Even the snuffling and pawing of a wandering bear in the blackness just beyond the circle of flickering light would have provided some measure of comfort and reassurance, for, in fact, there were few signs of any life apart from the creaking of timber, the sighing of the canopy far above, scattered spoor in the morning, and the half-ruins of deserted human habitation.