The Black Queen (Book 6) (30 page)

“How do you know that?” Annabella asked softly.

“A great ruler’s mind,” Seger said, clasping her hands behind her back and pacing forward, “the mind of a man who has lived for ninety-two years, in the body of a young female Shifter. The physical power would be immense.”

“Won’t we lose our Visionary leader?” Drucilla asked. “I mean, can a construct have Vision?”

Seger turned to her. She didn’t know the answer to that. Strong constructs were a mystery because they were so rare.

“Arianna will still have her Vision,” Comfort said.

“But she’ll be trapped inside her own mind,” Seger said. “She might not be willing—or able—to share what she sees.”

“So if the construct takes her over, he runs the risk of ruling without Vision,” Drucilla said.

“Perhaps,” Uhce said. “But we are taught that Visions are gifts from the Powers and Mysteries. Do they send that gift to a particular body, or to a particular soul?”

“Body,” Comfort said. “Magick all originates in the body.”

“You sound so certain,” Seger said. “Yet when we treat magick we treat it throughout the person, not as if it were lodged in a single spot, like the heart.”

“But some magicks are specific to the body,” Comfort said. “Shifting is, for example. The body has to be able to make that transition. The same applies to Bird and Beast Riders, and Wisps.”

“Yes,” Seger said. “But did they train their bodies into that ability because their personality had the gift for that kind of magick or did the body give them that magick?”

“The question is beyond us,” Sistance said. “And not something we can answer.” He stood too, placing his hand on the edge of the cot, as if for support. “Here’s what I believe. I believe we need to act fast. I believe we need to do what we can, and if we fail, we ask for outside help.”

“No,” Seger said. “We send for the help. We send for Coulter, we send for the nearest Shaman. We should probably send for Gift.”

“I don’t think that’s wise,” Uhce said, her voice somber.

“Why not?”

“Because if you’re right, and Arianna has been overtaken by her great-grandfather, the man her father—who was not of Black Blood—killed, then how will Gift react?” Uhce took a deep breath. “He will make it his goal to get rid of Rugad and to bring his sister back.”

“It could accidentally spark Blood against Blood,” Galerno said, as if he hadn’t thought of it before.

“Yes,” Uhce said, “and Gift would believe he was in the right. If we fail now, all that will happen will be that we will once again live beneath Rugad’s rule. We did that for years. We can survive it.”

“If the Powers allow it,” Lero said.

Seger nodded. “I had forgotten that. If the Powers feel this is a perversion of all that we are, they might help us.”

“Or they might let us flounder,” said Galerno. “The old stories are not clear on how much the Powers interfere and how much they simply watch.”

Seger clasped her hands behind her back and looked at the others. They didn’t know Arianna, at least not well. She did. She had to make one final plea.

“Arianna is a good woman,” Seger said. “She has kept a fragile peace among a warrior people through the sheer strength of her personality. She has made the Empire richer, not by conquering another country, but by improving and concentrating on the lands we already have. If Rugad takes over, we go back to conquering. Most of us here will go back to trying to save lives that are, in some way, ruined by violence and death. The Empire will grow richer not because we are growing things, and making things better, but because we are acquiring. Someday that fragile thread, the thread between holdings, will break. It almost did when Rugad died. It might if he goes on to Leut.”

“Do you think he would?” Drucilla asked softly.

Galerno looked at her. “The third Place of Power lies in the lands we have not yet seen.”

Annabella closed her eyes. Uhce let out a small hiss of breath. Clearly none of them had thought of that.

Seger watched them, realizing that they were now feeling the same fears, the same frustrations, that she was. “Uhce’s right. We act now, and we do the best we can. At the same time, we send for Coulter, and not one but all the Shaman we can think of. Some may not yet have the talent we need, and if we fail, we will need a lot of talent.”

“If the construct takes over Arianna, and we try to dislodge him,” Uhce said, “he will see that as treason.”

Seger shuddered. She had seen what Rugad had done to those he felt had disobeyed him. Some he slaughtered. Others he left alive, so gravely damaged that they would have rather died.

The entire room was silent for a moment. They were all watching her. Some of the other Domestics, the non-Healers, hadn’t said a word. They looked frightened and out of their depth, and now that Uhce had reminded them what Rugad was like when crossed, they seemed almost paralyzed.

Seger swallowed hard. She was the one who had worked as Rugad’s personal Healer. She was the one who knew the inner workings of the Black Family better than any of them. The others would listen to her because of that authority alone.

“We work to support life,” she said. “As Domestics, that is our mandate. To heal, to grow, to move forward. Rugad died fifteen years ago. His life has ended. Arianna’s continues. It seems to me that we continue our work. We support life.”

“And if we fail?” Comfort asked softly.

“Then we go to those more powerful than we are, the Shaman and the Enchanters, just as we planned.”

“And if they fail?”

Seger closed her eyes. “It becomes a matter for the Mysteries and Powers.”

“If they’ll interfere,” Galerno said.

Seger nodded. She opened her eyes. “You do not have to help me with this. Any of you who wants to back out, can do so now, as long as you say nothing about this meeting.”

No one moved. No one spoke. They would all stand behind her. That, at least, was good. Saving Arianna would have been impossible alone.

FIFTEEN

IT WAS BARELY DAWN when Gift slipped out of his bed. He dressed in the chill silence, pulling on his apprentice robes even though he no longer held that position. He made the bed, as all apprentices had to, with such precision that an inspection later would find the sheet crisp, the blanket folded, the pillow fluffed. He doubted he would sleep here again, but he saw no reason not to adhere to the rules.

He hadn’t really slept here the night before. He had tried. But his door had opened countless times: Shaman coming in to report things they didn’t feel they could say in the meeting. Some had Visions of Kerde dying at the hands of a Fey with dark hair trailing down his back; others had Visions of the Triangle of Might forming across the land; and still others had Visions of Blood against Blood, instigated when Gift again set foot on Blue Isle.

But those Visions were somehow expected. They didn’t disturb him like some of the legends did, the legends no one wanted to speak of before the other Shaman.

Those who reported the legends insisted he not get out of bed, he not look at them. Many of them wanted to pretend as if they were speaking to someone who wasn’t really there. He let them. He wanted to hear what they had to say, not know who felt they had to hide their identity while speaking.

So the whispers came to him, like Warnings:

“…the Throne consumes its standard…”

“…the Black Ruler is the opposite of Shaman…”

“…Anyone who touches the Throne loses his heart…”

Gift heard those over and over, but they weren’t the one that chilled him. The one that chilled him was just as simple, but even more terrifying:

“…The Throne feeds on blood…”

He heard variations of that all night:

“…The Throne was created by blood…”

“…The Throne constantly seeks new blood…”

“…The Throne will not be satisfied until the land is covered in blood…”

And the one that made him wonder about all the others:

“…The Throne strives for Blood against Blood…”

After that, he hadn’t been able to sleep, even though most of his visitors appeared in the early part of the night. When he did close his eyes, he saw the floor of the cavern, Blue Isle’s Place of Power, the floor that had once been white, and which had turned the color of blood. In his father’s hand was a shiny black stone, created by the joining of his hand with the hand of his enemy, created when the dripping power from their joint magick changed the floor to the color of blood.

Gift hadn’t seen the magick—he and Arianna had hidden from it, afraid that its effects might kill them as well—but he had been told the story and he had seen the floor. He knew that there was power in this world that he did not understand, power that the Fey, for all their mastery of magick, did not understand either.

He hoped to gain some understanding that day.

He pulled on boots despite the discomfort. He was no longer an apprentice, and he didn’t have to follow Shamanic practices any more. Then he left his room.

He walked through the kitchen, took some bread left by the Domestics the night before, and drank water until he felt bloated. He didn’t know when he would get a chance to drink again.

When he was done, he let himself out into the growing light.

The sun hadn’t risen over the mountains yet, but glowed behind them, coloring the sky a pale orange. It would be a beautiful day.

He hurried through the Village and saw no one. Not even the master gardeners were out this early. The individual huts looked as if their occupants were still asleep. Only the joint quarters for the Shaman still too young to go off on their own looked as if anyone were moving inside. He avoided the windows and jogged toward the mountain.

When he reached the stairs, he hesitated. He had been forbidden to go up here alone. But that had been when he was an apprentice, when he swore he would let the Shaman control his life. As an apprentice, he was the lowliest of the low, and he had allowed that. He had been true to his promise, even if the Shaman hadn’t been true to theirs. They had never seen him as an apprentice, probably always afraid he would usurp their authority as a member of the Black Family.

Doing so, however, hadn’t crossed his mind. Until yesterday. He would leave here, as they wanted him to do, but he would do so on his own terms.

He started up the stairs. They felt the same as they had the week before, making each step he took seem easy and light. He had been afraid that some sort of magick would block him, would prevent him from climbing at all. Perhaps prevention magick was built into the stairs, but it didn’t affect him. In fact, he didn’t have to regulate his pace this time. He wasn’t with Madot, and she wasn’t trying to slow him down. This time, he was alone, and the faster he reached the top the better.

The shimmer from the Place of Power drew him like the Place of Power on Blue Isle had. It was a pull that seemed to wrap itself around him and lift him. He let it. He jogged up the steps, feeling no sense of exertion at all.

The sun rose and broke through the mountain peaks, shedding golden light on the stairs, making them gleam. Grass was poking through the dirt where there had been none a week before, and the air had a fresh scent to it.

It seemed to take him only a few moments to reach the first plateau, although he knew it had taken him longer than that. The sun was past the peaks now, and when he turned and looked down, he saw Shaman like small ants moving through the Village, going about their daily tasks. None of them seemed to notice him. None of them seemed to know that he was breaking all of their rules.

They would figure it out soon enough.

He made himself eat part of the bread on the platform, and take some deep breaths there too, even though he didn’t want to do either. What he really wanted to do was to push everything and everyone aside so that he could get to the Place of Power, so that he could answer the call of that shimmer.

Part of the reason he took his time here was to make sure that he was in control of himself. After his speech the day before, the last thing he wanted was to have the magick control him.

A slight wind had picked up. It was cool. He felt it ruffle his hair, blow some of the crumbs from his hand. He pocketed the rest of the bread and started up the stairs again.

He was getting warm, despite the breeze. He still ran these last few steps, but he paced himself, making sure that he didn’t go too fast, so that he was exhausted when he reached the top. When he got there, he knew, he would have to face the Shaman Protectors. And he might have to do things to get past them that he hadn’t considered doing in years.

The idea made his breath come a little shorter. He didn’t want to think about what might happen at the top. He only wanted to get there. He needed advice, and the Place of Power was the only place he could get it.

He made himself slow down as he got closer to the top. The sun had risen even higher now, and shadows fell across his path. The long trek had seemed as if it had only taken a heartbeat, but he had spent time at it. The steep steps helped him breathe, rest, keep a measured pace.

When he neared, a staff hit the polished stone platform in front of his face. He looked up. He wasn’t entirely to the top; he still had a few feet to go.