The Queen of Lies (12 page)

“Of course you know why I’m here.” Heath slid the picture of Milk Eyes across Daphne’s desk. “What
haven’t
you told the Invocari about this man?”

“You won’t find him unless he wants to be found,” Daphne said, glancing at the parchment. “I told the Invocari the same thing when they asked
us
to go on this wild-goose chase they have you going on.”

Heath shoved the paper in her face. “Who is he?”

She rolled her eyes and swatted the paper away. “He’s called the Harbinger. He’s a like vulture circling above a cow as it crawls to its death in the desert. He appears whenever chaos or destruction is imminent. He doesn’t interfere; he just watches. He’s been around as long as we’ve kept records: plagues, wars, upheavals. He’s a symptom, not the cause.”

“What is he?” Heath demanded.

Daphne shook her head. “We don’t really know. For lack of a better term, we call him a Traveler, although sometimes the Cantos refer to them as saints; the Prophet James seems to be loosely based on him.”

Sword scratched his head. “You mean the First Mages? That’s what we used to call them back in the old days, Second Era and whatnot. Mostly they kept to themselves and their own crazy hobbies, like collecting one of every kind of bug or teaching squirrels witchcraft. Last time I saw one was in the Shadow War—when they got off their arses and helped us. The Long Night wouldn’t have ended without their help.”

“Indeed,” Daphne said. “They’re Creation’s defense against forces of cosmic potency. If the Harbinger is here, it could be a sign that they’re taking interest. And until he deigns to make contact with us, his investigation is above our pay grade.”

“But he does know something about the killings,” Heath said.

“I’m sure he knows everything”—Daphne gestured to the air—“but he’s not going to tell you anything useful. These people trade in impossibly cryptic half-truths about the future that are only made clear in retrospect. It’s worse than useless. But you’re welcome to try.”

Sword nodded. “Getting a straight answer out of one of those blokes is like trying to eat your own teeth.”

“I wish I could be more help, old friend.” She took a folio of papers from her desk and slid them over to Heath. “But while we’re engaging in the friendly exchange of information, I did come across something unusual. Do you still talk to your ‘friend,’ Maddox Baeland?”

“Ancient history,” Heath said. “Why?”

“Fucking barmy tosspot.” Sword got ready to spit on the ground to emphasize his distaste, but a sharp glance from Daphne stopped him cold. He covered his mouth and gulped.

Daphne slid the bundle of parchments over to Heath. “According to the Lyceum, he has a flawed Seal of Vitae that’s not reacting as expected. The new dean claims Maddox died and came back to life, and they have four confirmations of multiple witnesses under the Veritas Seal. He’s floating out there, and I’d like to have a conversation with him.”

“Four?” Heath asked. The seal wasn’t as infallible as the mages wanted to believe, but beating it took a rare talent for deception.

“You can imagine my concern if this is true,” Daphne said bluntly.

“If I see him, I’ll tell him you’re looking.” Heath smiled.

She laughed. “I doubt he’d come see me willingly.”

Sword asked, “What’s the bounty then? The little bastard is a telekinetic ball of needy rage.”

“We’re not doing this, Sword!” Heath shouted as he threw the papers off the desk. This is what Daphne did—reasonable requests but always pushing the limits of what he was willing to do. Pushing and pushing until he broke, and there was always just a little bit less of the person he used to be. Not this time.

“He fucking subverted the fucking natural order,” Sword insisted. “Now you may not have much experience with immortal psychopaths, but trust me, if ever there was a wizard to lose his shit, it’s that boy, and you don’t want to see what he becomes in a thousand years. And might I further add that it’s awful convenient timing that he does this thing and people start ending up in the river, if you get my drift.”

Heath glared murderously at Sword, who looked back at him and flashed his eyes emphatically.

“We used to be friends, Heath.” Daphne’s voice dripped with false pleasantness. “I trained you to use your Light, to be a killer. I had high hopes for you. But when you asked to leave, I allowed you to have your freedom. I don’t hold you to your vows. And when I ask you to do a favor, you’re free to decline. But I’m not asking this time.

“You’ll always be a member of this Order, and I’m sorry the terrible things we have to do to preserve the lives of millions keeps you up at night. You know why it must be done. You’ve seen the darkness behind the Light, and that isn’t something you get to walk away from when you want to
pretend
you have principles.”

Sword interjected, “He does have some principles, actually…sometimes.”

“If I see him”—Heath mastered his emotions—“I’ll take care of it…out of respect for the deep kindness you’ve shown to me. I wouldn’t be who I am without you, and if this is important, I can set aside my feelings.”

“I also trained you to lie, remember?” Daphne smirked. “Send his body to the Invocari. They have a secure cell in their tower that’s warded with old magic. It’s the best we have.”

Sword nodded. “Just to be clear, that’s ten thousand
each
.”

Daphne leaned back in her chair and steepled her fingers. “Of course it is. Just bring him to me.”

C
HERISHED OLDER SISTER
Satryn,

You were missed terribly at the gala; even Nasara admitted your absence was regrettable. It was the event of the season, to be certain. I had Mssr. Pisclatet craft me a bodice of living crabs that was utterly stunning. It was all any of the ladies could talk about for weeks.

Boromond even challenged Glasyr to a duel over my affections. It was quite the spectacle, if you can imagine portly Boromond trying to hit Glasyr over the head with his rapier like it was a piece of driftwood. You or I could have handled both of them with one arm, sister. I hope you’ve stayed in practice—I imagine being the queen’s regent leaves little time for amusement.

How is Amhaven, by the way? I was worried the food there might ruin your appetite, but you looked very healthy during your last visit. I only wonder when I’ll finally get to lay eyes on my niece. Even here in Thelassus, people say Jessa’s grown more beautiful than her mother. You must be so proud—remember when you used to receive such attention all those many years ago?

But enough with pleasantries. The wheels are in motion on our end. Regardless of what everyone says, I have every confidence in you. I tell Nasara it’s such a simple task that even an idiot could be trusted to perform it, but you know what a bitch she can be.

Thinking of you always brings me laughter,

Sireen

“A
RE THESE MANACLES
really necessary?” Satryn rattled her chains impatiently as the metal cage rose through the gloomy stone shaft toward the peak of the Invocari tower. Two cloaked Invocari and a female magister in brown rode with her, their shadowed gaze facing the doorway to the clanging metal box as it raised them. The woman’s black hair was short, her expression severe.

“That depends on you, Your Majesty. Did you have knowledge of the assassination of Torin Silverbrook and the attempted assassination of Princess Jessa?”

“Think for a moment—how would that make
any
sense?” Satryn laughed. “You should question Duke Rothburn’s relations. They have more to lose from this union than I do.”

“We have.” The magister turned to her. “And they were exonerated under the Veritas Seal. If you would do the same, none of this would be necessary.”

“I’m a sovereign ruler and duly appointed emissary negotiating a matter of national importance on commission from the Coral Throne to your Assembly. You know I can’t testify before a seal, per your own article of legislation, article thirty, subsection 4-A.”

“Your daughter waived her rights under that article and was cleared of suspicion,” the magister said. “It’s a simple question, not a matter of state security.”

“Jessa knows nothing useful, so that’s hardly surprising.”

“And you do?”

“I won’t answer that one way or the other.”

The metal cage ground to a halt, and the doors slid open. The entire center of the tower was taken up with a glass cylinder etched with runes that glowed slightly green. It reminded Satryn of a vivarium in the Sunken Palace, a pocket of protected air that allowed air breathers to access the submerged portions of the castle. It even had a small vestibule that could serve as an airlock. It was sparsely furnished and spacious, with enough room for her jailors to watch her every movement from any direction.

The airlock hissed open. “It will open to refresh the air once a day. If you find it difficult to breathe, signal one of the Invocari by pressing on the glass. The wards are soundproofed and proof against all theurgy. Please…step inside.” The magister waved her hand, and Satryn’s mostly decorative manacles opened and flew off her wrists.

One of the Invocari escorted her into the cage.

“Marvelous.” Satryn admired the mechanical intricacy of the airlock. The door behind her hissed closed, and the vault door before her slowly retracted.

She ran her fingers along the battered wooden dresser as she paced the confines of her new accommodations. It was simply furnished with a bed and a privy behind a tattered changing curtain. The Invocari were far more generous in appointing their dungeons than the Stormlords.

“Are you going to watch me constantly?” She glanced over her shoulder at the dark hooded Invocari who floated in front of the iron door to her cell. Beneath the shadow of his hood, she made out the strong jaw of a young man in his prime.

“It’s for your safety as well as ours,” he said.

“Good.” She smiled. “I feel more secure already.” Satryn faced the wall and unbuttoned her blouse. She let the white silk slide sensuously off her shoulders and turned to her guard, bearing her naked breasts to him. She ran her fingers down her abdomen and unfastened her belt with a flick of the hand.

“I don’t like to wear clothing in my private chambers.” She wiggled her hips and let her breeches fall to the floor. She stepped out and sauntered over to the bed, where she slid her buttocks onto the comforter and leaned her head back, letting her silver hair spill behind her.

The Invocari watched but said nothing.

“I should also warn you that I like to pleasure myself,” she said, as she sucked on her fingers and ran them across the lips of her cunt, “several times a day. And loudly.” She let out a moan as she inserted her fingers.

Her jailor flinched. She imagined him blushing under that shroud, his manhood pressing against him, insistently aching to fuck her. She licked her lips and watched as his folded hands rubbed ever so slightly against his waist.
So it is possible to get a reaction out of you.

She leaned back on the bed and imagined her first lover, Jeran. He wasn’t an attractive man, but he was skilled with his hands. Jeran had taught her about her body and how to use it as a weapon—and for pleasure. He had taught her how to caress herself, how to arrange her body in the most pleasing configurations. Under his ministrations she had learned to maintain the pleasure of climax for hours.

And she had little else to do right now. She let her mind drift and felt the presence of sky and water all around her. The ephemeral building around her faded, replaced by the voluminous whirling of clouds and the steady plunge of the river below. She let her mind become one with the current, drifting out toward the ocean.

A loud series of raps came from the door. The Invocari jumped.

“Enter,” Satryn called languidly as she sat up on the bed.
No, I won’t need to make myself decent.

The Invocari floated aside as a clanking locking mechanism ponderously slid in the heavy iron door. It opened, and she saw her mortified, judgmental daughter in a frumpy black smock that passed for Rivern fashion. “Mother!”

“My darling dear.” Still she couldn’t help feel a surge of pride. Jessa, her daughter, had survived her first assassination attempt. “Have you come to share my cell?”

“Nothing of the sort.” Jessa angrily retrieved Satryn’s blouse and threw it at her. “Please cover yourself. This is undignified…even for you.”

Satryn tossed the blouse on the floor. “There is power in the naked form, Jessa. Even with your…modest endowments, you would be amazed at the effect it can have. Just ask our warder over there how he’s enjoying himself.”

“I am well and truly sorry for her behavior,” Jessa told the Invocari. “Thrycean nobility consider modesty a sign of weakness. Mother, however, often confuses modesty with embarrassment.”

Satryn laughed. Poor, dreary, little Jessa. What was she wearing? It was too big for her up top and cinched around the waist. It was matronly and morbidly plain. It had the countess’s fingerprints all over it. “I seriously hope you’re attending a funeral if you’re going out in public dressed like that.”