Inheritance (3 page)

“That was quick…” he began, but stopped when he saw a small, slightly built young man with a mop of hair on his round head that did not seem to know which way to sit.

“Olio!”

“Good evening, b—b—brother,” said Olio, and hesitantly approached the bed. “Is this the one?”

“The one?”

“I met Kumul rushing down the p-p-passageway. I asked him where he was going and he shouted something about a wounded m-m-man.” Olio looked with real concern at the hapless Ager. Of all Lynan’s siblings, Olio was the only one who had ever had time for him, and his gentle nature made it easy for Lynan to like him despite his noble father. Even when he was a child, it had been only Olio among the royal family who seemed to acknowledge him as a member.

“Yes. He saved my… I mean… Kumul’s life tonight.” Lynan did not want the whole court to know he had been out of the palace. The last thing he needed was to be kept under close supervision by a nervous Royal Guard. Being tagged by its constable was bad enough.

Olio’s eyes widened in surprise. “And he is wounded b-b-badly?”

Lynan nodded. “Trion seemed doubtful he would live,” he said, but added quickly, “I think he will.”

“He is a friend of yours?”

“No. Yes. I mean, I hope so.” He groaned inside.

Olio simply nodded, as if he understood exactly what Lynan was trying to say, and of what he was trying not to say. Olio was eerily empathic like that. “Then I will p-p-pray for him.” He turned to leave.

“You would pray for him if he was your worst enemy,” Lynan said without sarcasm.

Olio inclined his head as if he was seriously considering the remark. “P-p-probably,” he admitted. “And b-b-by the way, I would change your clothing if I were you.”

Lynan looked down at himself. His clothes were covered in dried blood.

Before Olio reached the door, Kumul returned, followed by a male servant carrying a basket filled with firewood. They both bowed briefly to Olio, who waved an informal dismissal and moved out of their way.

As the servant started stacking the firewood by the hearth, Kumul mumbled to Lynan, “Prepare yourself.”

“What are you muttering—?”

Lynan never got to finish his question. He heard the sound of heavy feet coming from the corridor and Dejanus appeared, dressed in the full regalia of the queen’s own Life Guard, his mace of office held erect in one hand. He was an even bigger man than Kumul, and filled the doorway. He saw Lynan and offered one of the quizzical smiles he was famous for, then stepped aside. Behind him, standing with what seemed impatient frustration, was Usharna, the queen herself.

She was fully dressed for office, with a heavy linen gown bejeweled with emeralds and rubies, and a black velvet cloak sweeping behind her that shone in the firelight like still water under a full moon. Around her neck hung the four Keys of Power, the ultimate symbols of royal authority in the kingdom of Grenda Lear and all its subject realms. Their weight seemed to drag her head down, and the muscles of her neck and shoulders were taut with the strain of carrying them. Already small in size, the tangible burden of office, together with her illness, made her appear like a frail clay doll. Her white hair was pulled up on top of her head and kept down with a gold tiara decorated with an engraving of her family crest, the black silhouette of a kestrel against a gold field. Fine hands like china nested together under her heart, and her pale brown eyes tiredly surveyed those before her.

“Your Majesty!” Lynan called out in surprise. All in the room bowed stiffly from the waist.

Usharna snorted her satisfaction and allowed Olio and Lynan to come forward and each kiss a cheek. “Well, it’s nice to see you at home, however late,” she said to Lynan, looking disapprovingly at his bloody dress. Without waiting for a reply, she went to Ager and peered at him closely. “This is the one?” The question was directed to Kumul.

“Yes, your Majesty.”

“Where is my physician?” she called out, and Trion seemed to appear from thin air. Lynan caught a glimpse of the crowd waiting in the corridor; it looked as if the queen’s entire entourage had followed her down.

“Your assessment?” she asked Trion.

“He is seriously wounded, your Majesty. If he survives the night, he may live, but I do not think he will see another dawn.”

The queen stood deep in thought for a long time. Lynan had never seen her looking so frail. He wanted to go to her and hold her arm, take some of her burden on himself, but he stayed where he was, made immobile by her aloofness.
Always so far from me
, Lynan thought.

“I wish to be alone with this man,” she said at last, but Lynan thought her expression suggested she would rather be anywhere else than alone with Ager.

Dejanus looked as if he was about to object, but Usharna raised one hand and he bowed deferentially. Everyone filed out obediently, Dejanus shutting the door behind him and standing guard over it. Lynan, squeezed between Kumul and a courtier whose violet scent made him feel queasy, wondered why Usharna should worry about a cripple injured in a street fight—he looked at Kumul out of the corner of his eye—unless someone was indiscreet enough to let on about the night’s events and their role in them.

Was she going to wake up the poor man and interrogate him? The hair on the nape of his neck started to rise and he tried to ignore it. Trion was saying something to one of his aides, an attractive young woman dressed in the latest fashion of fine linen layered with strips of colored felt. She was only recently attached to the court from one of the outlying realms, and her dark golden skin told Lynan she was either a Chett or an Amanite. Probably the latter; by all accounts the Chetts did not take well to lots of clothing. The thought made him smile. The woman saw it and thought he was smiling at her. Appealingly, she returned the favor. Lynan’s heart skipped a beat. Most of Usharna’s courtiers, while making some show of bowing to him if cornered, would not look at him sideways under normal circumstances. They haven’t gotten to her yet, he decided, and the thought saddened him.

He was aware that the hairs on his arms were starting to rise, and the skin on his face seemed tight and irritated. He saw the blond hairs on Kumul’s massive forearms beginning to stand as well, and realized that whatever was affecting him was affecting everybody in the corridor. Some of the courtiers were starting to look distressed.

“What’s going on?” he asked Kumul in a hushed voice. Kumul refused to answer him, his blue eyes locked forward and his body rigid as a board.

One of the courtiers fainted. Lynan recognized the very round Edaytor Fanhow, Kendra’s magicker prelate, his ceremonial robes folding around him like the wings of a giant moth. Someone knelt down to make sure he was all right. Lynan felt sorry for the prelate, then decided his time would be better spent feeling sorry for himself. His stomach had started roiling, and he was afraid he would pass out as well. And then it occurred to him that the prelate was by no means the largest or oldest in Usharna’s entourage. So why did he pass out so quickly?

The answer shook him. He stiffened, his breathing became shallow, and a cold wave passed through his body despite the close, hot confines. Edaytor fainted because among those present he was the most sensitive to magic. Usharna was using one of the Keys of Power. It must be the Key of the Heart, the one sometimes called the Healing Key. He had never, in all his years, seen Usharna employ the power inherent in the royal symbols. He had been told stories about their strength, but he had cynically believed they were nothing but legends created to give the throne more authority through their possession, just like King Thebald’s Sword of State, an overly ornate and utterly impractical weapon held by new monarchs during their crowning. It was not that he doubted the existence of magic—he had seen members of the five Theurgia employ it—but the fact that his own mother could wield it disturbed him greatly. And to wield magic of such strength!

Lynan’s chest was tightening; he let out his breath in a long hiss, but it did not seem to ease the pressure at all. Now other people started to pass out. First, an old dame who was lucky enough to be caught by her son, and then—of all people!—Trion. Just when Lynan thought he could no longer hold on, and that he, too, would faint, he found himself taking in air in great, heavy gasps. The pressure around his chest had simply disappeared as if it had never been, and so had the queasiness in his stomach.

“It’s over?” he asked Kumul, his own voice sounding distant to him.

Kumul, himself as pale as a sheet, nodded once and immediately approached the door. Dejanus, still recovering himself, made a vague effort to block his way.

“The queen has finished whatever she was doing,” Kumul told him. “Let me in.”

“Not until she opens the door herself,” the Life Guard wheezed.

Kumul lowered his mouth to the guard’s ear. Lynan heard him say, “And what if she is unconscious? You felt the energy emanating from that room. You know better than anyone how frail she is.”

Dejanus still hesitated. Lynan did not know what made him step up at that moment, but the same concern, the same sudden anger, must have struck Olio as well. They stood on either side of Kumul and together ordered the door be opened, Olio even managing not to stutter. Against the commands of two princes, and with no sign from Usharna, even Dejanus had to give way.

They rushed into the room, but the sight that greeted them stopped them in their tracks. The room’s sandstone walls seemed to be aglow; even the fire in the hearth seemed dim in comparison. Shimmering blue threads coruscated in the air and then died, leaving behind trails of ash that hung suspended before slowly drifting to the floor. By the bed, standing more erect than anyone had seen her for years, was Usharna, arms wide, surrounded by a soft halo of white energy that pulsed with her rapid breathing. More people crowded into the room, their mouths open in surprise. Trion and Edaytor, the latter flushed and moist with perspiration, came up beside Lynan.

“I never imagined…” Edaytor began, but ran out of words to describe his astonishment.

Even as they watched, the energy in the room dissipated like mist burned away by the morning sun, and the halo around Usharna faded away into nothing. The fire flared once, brilliantly, and then settled down to produce a steady, warming flame. Usharna looked at her court, the merest hint of a smile on her face, then slumped forward.

Kumul and Dejanus were there before she reached the hard floor and together supported her weight.

Trion hurried over and quickly checked her pulse and breathing. “She is all right. Her heart still beats strongly.” He turned to the crowd. “She is exhausted, nothing more.” The collective sigh of relief sounded like a prayer.

Kumul helped Dejanus scoop up the queen into his arms. Then the Life Guard hurried out of the room to take her to her own chambers, Trion and most of the courtiers following close behind. Kumul closed the door and went to Ager.

Edaytor Fanhow joined him, moving like a supplicant approaching a holy relic, his hands held out before him.

“There is a great deal of magic residue,” he said, more to himself than the others. He touched one of the walls, gingerly at first, but then placed his palm flat against a single sandstone block. “Still warm,” he muttered. “Utterly incredible.”

“It was certainly a p-p-performance,” Olio said in a hushed tone.

“Did you know our mother could do that?” Lynan asked him.

Olio shook his head. “Well, in theory, of course, b-b-but I’ve never seen the Keys used b-b-before, except as decoration around the queen’s throat.” His brow furrowed in thought. “I wonder what the other Keys m—m-might be capable of.”

“How is Ager?” Lynan asked Kumul.

“His breathing is almost normal,” Kumul said with obvious relief. “And see, the bleeding has stopped altogether.”

“It is a wondrous thing the queen has done,” Edaytor said.

“The queen would do anything for Kumul,” Lynan said.

“Which shows how little you know about your own mother,” Kumul replied sharply.

Kumul woke with a start, almost falling off his stool. He had fallen asleep with his head resting at an odd angle against the wall and now had a painful crick in his neck. Standing up, he went to Ager’s bed. The man was still asleep, but it seemed to be the sleep of the peaceful and not of the dying. The crookback’s face seemed very old and careworn for someone who could not have been older than forty years of age, and his long hair, mostly gray, was lanky and thin.

Although the fire in the hearth had long gone out and the room was cool, Kumul felt the need for fresh air. He went to the room’s only window and eased open the wooden shutters. The city of Kendra slept in the darkness. A faint light broached its eastern walls. He could make out on the water just beyond the harbor entrance the phosphorescent glimmer of the wakes of fishing boats returning to the city’s wharves, although the boats themselves, and even their sails, were still lost against the black expanse of sea.

He returned to Ager and, once again, carefully studied the man’s face, trying to remember what it had been like all those years ago when they were both comparatively young, filled with an energy that had long since been dissipated by war and injury and the loss of their beloved general.

Kumul had not seen Ager for over fifteen years and had assumed he was dead; but last night, against all expectation, they had met again, only for Ager almost to die in his arms. He felt bitter at that last twist of fate.

The sharpness of his feelings surprised him. He had lost friends before, and his friendship with Ager during the Slaver War largely had been largely professional, not personal. Yet now it seemed to him that the friendship, stretched across a war with as many defeats as victories, had inherited the weight of years of vacant peace during which Kumul had slowly learned he had few real friends left in this world.

A sound rose from the great courtyard outside, the clattering of hooves on cobblestone, the challenge of the guards. He heard the sentries stamp to attention, something they only did for members of the royal family. It must be Berayma, Usharna’s eldest child, returning from his mission to Queen Charion of Hume, one of Usharna’s less predictable and more outspoken subjects. The mission had been a sensitive one, and Kumul prayed that Berayma, severe as a winter wind, had been up to it.