The War With The Mein (6 page)

“Guess what he did about it,” Maeander urged. “Have you any idea?”

Rialus did not, although it took him some moments to convince Maeander of this.

“I’ll have to tell you, then,” the Mein went on. “Gridulan conspired with one of his companions. At the king’s bidding, this companion acquired a rare poison, the kind used by leaguemen. Deadly stuff. He personally saw to it that Dorling consumed a dose of it in her tea. Her child—still nursing—was poisoned through his mother’s milk. Both died.”

“They were killed at the king’s order?” Rialus asked.

“Just so.”

At the time nobody knew what to make of the deaths. Some suspected murder, but no fingers were pointed—not in the right direction, at least. Gridulan was the first to offer Thaddeus condolences. Leodan was beside himself with grief. Thaddeus himself bore his suffering admirably, but he was never the same man afterward. Gridulan had chosen well. He managed to snuff out Thaddeus’s ambition while leaving the man alive to aid his son. Leodan did not find out about the murders until some years later, after his father died and he read his private logs. But what was he to do with the knowledge that his own father had killed his best friend’s wife and child all in order to protect him?

“Perhaps a strong man would have confessed everything to his friend,” Maeander said, shrugging, for he did not seem certain of this point. “Perhaps. In any event, Leodan kept his mouth shut. He told nobody, only meting out punishment against his father’s companion, the one who had administered the poison. Have you any idea who this person was?”

Maeander did not wait for Rialus to answer this time. “That’s right,” he said. “Your beloved father, Rethus, set the poison into play! That is why you are here before me now, a miserable governor of a miserable province. You are being punished—as was your father before you—for loyalty to Gridulan. Family secrets run deep, Rialus. I can tell by the perplexity on your face that I have both delivered surprises to you and answered old questions at the same time.”

It took Rialus a moment to gather his wits enough to ask, “How do you know all this?”

Maeander looked to one side and spit out an olive pit. “My brother has a great many friends in positions to know such things. The league, for example, watches all of this with interest, glad to offer bits and pieces of information to help us stir the pot. Believe me, Rialus, the story I just told you is true. A few months ago my brother shared the information with Thaddeus Clegg himself. The news made quite an impression on him. Because of it I think it fair to say he is no longer entirely on Leodan’s side. Think of the life Thaddeus has led since Dorling and his son died. Think of the love he showered on Leodan’s children instead. Think of how he supported the king when he faced the death—by natural causes, of course—of his own wife. Think how it would feel to discover that all of it was based on a lie, on murder, on betrayal. In his place, would you not want to see the Akarans punished? Revenge is the easiest of emotions to understand and to manipulate. Don’t you agree?”

Rialus did, although he desperately wanted time and solitude to digest all that Maeander had just revealed.

“In any event,” Maeander said, returning to the issue that had started the digression, “I will not kill you for your blunders, but I am afraid you will have to pay for them. I have promised Cathgergen to the Numrek. When they arrive, you will hand the fortress over to them. I trust you will not anger their chieftain, Calrach; from what I have seen of him he is not of a forgiving nature.”

“You do not mean…”

Maeander looked affronted. “Are you protesting? You would not have me give them Tahalian, would you? There is no other way. The fortress is theirs to rest and regroup in. If you like, you can let the army put up a defense, and then afterward you may escape to whatever fate awaits you. Do not look at me like that. Neptos, I have never known a man to so resemble a rat and in so many different ways.” For a moment actual anger flared in Maeander’s voice, but he harnessed it and spoke coolly. “You may now go on breathing, but true rewards come to those who serve us more effectively.”

“You have doomed me,” Rialus said.

“I have not doomed you. If you are doomed, the seeds of it were planted before ever I knew you. That is how it is with us all. That is all I have for you.”

Rialus managed to speak only after Maeander turned to leave. “You forget that I—I am the governor of this fortress.” Maeander fixed a bemused stare on him. Rialus changed tack, moving away from the suggestion of threat inherent in that declaration. “Perhaps I can yet prove myself.”

“Ah, are you as treacherous as your father? How would you prove yourself?”

“If what I have to offer pleases you, I must have your guarantee that I’ll be rewarded. I can give you the royal family—their heads, I mean.”

“I already have agents prepared to pounce on the king. They might have killed him already. Word of it may already be on the way to Hanish.”

“No, no…I know that,” Rialus said. He almost felt like smiling, knowing that in all likelihood he had thrown himself just the lifeline he needed. “I do not mean the king. The line of Akaran does not begin and end with Leodan.”

Corinn Akaran understood that there was much she did not know about the world, many names and family lineages and historical events that refused to stick in her memory. No matter. Very little of it had any bearing on her everyday life. What she believed was of significance was that she was King Leodan’s eldest daughter, the beautiful one at that. She did not stand to inherit control of her father’s realm—that went to Aliver—but this suited her as well. She found nothing enticing about the prospect of juggling such a complicated array of concerns. Better to stand just to the side and wield her influence within the sphere of courtly intrigue. She was sure that this would prove more interesting. The world might have been a large thing in fact, but the part of it she occupied was smaller, and in that smaller world few people were better placed than she to look toward the future with sublime optimism.

She did, however, harbor a secret that none of those close to her would have guessed at. Though by nature a jovial person with an affinity for fine clothes, gossip, and youthful romantic musings, she bore an awareness of death with her. It was a cloud that hung in the back of her mind, always near, there to threaten when she raised her eyes to take in larger things. Her mother had died when she was ten. Since then the curse of mortality had never been far from her mind. Aleera Akaran had faded from life as the spring gave way to summer. She was eaten from the inside by an illness that began as a backache and became an insatiable leech sucking the life from her.

Corinn remembered the last moments she spent with her mother in excruciating detail. In dreams she often sat beside her bed again, her palms clasped around the wan skin and bones of the woman’s hands. Her body was so ravaged it seemed to have half melted into her mattress. Because the weather had been warm, she had often lain uncovered, her bare legs stretching out from beneath her frock, her feet and toes seeming unnaturally large now that they were the first thing Corinn saw on entering the room. Her weeks being bed bound made Aleera so feeble that she could not reach her window stool without her daughter’s help. Her feet no longer knew how to find the floor. Corinn would stand supporting her mother’s frail weight as with each step her heel drew circles in the air, as might a child who was taking her first steps.

All of this converging on the young girl struck her with the realization that the world held more frightening things in reality than it did in her darkest imaginings. Where in this picture was the all-powerful mother who always knew her daughter’s mind before she spoke it, who laughed at Corinn’s fears of dragons, giant snakes, and monsters? Where was the hero who chased such creatures away just by entering the room, just by smiling, just by calling her name? Where was the beauty at whose elbow Corinn had sat as she was groomed for official functions, the woman against whom all others had been measured? It still amazed her that things had changed so rapidly, without even a veiled suggestion that there was meaning to it all.

As painful as this was, it was compounded by the fact that she saw herself in each portion of her mother’s dying body. Her mother had given her the shape of her face, the character of her lips, the pattern of lines across her forehead. They had the same hands: the same rate of taper and length, the same character to the knuckles, the same thin fingernails, the same off-kilter slant to the small finger. The girl of ten had held between her palms an aged, decaying, fading grip on herself, like some strange conflation of the past with the present or the present with the future.

Though she often schemed the days away with youthful optimism, part of her was nagged by the fear that she would not live out the year. Or if she did it would be only so that she would first gain everything, then lose it all, then die. She had felt this way when she was ten, and then eleven and twelve and so on, but still the feeling was as strong as ever. The fact that she balanced these morbid thoughts with an otherwise effervescent nature was as confusing to her as it would have been to those who viewed her from the outside. She hid her darker musings as best she could, both alarmed by and ashamed of them. She often reminded herself that every living being faced death; few of them were offered a life of such rich potential as she. And perhaps she was wrong. Maybe she would live a long and joyful existence; maybe she would even find a way to live forever, ageless and untouched by illness.

On the morning that she was to greet a delegation from the nation of Aushenia, Corinn stared for a long time into the mirror of her dressing table, gazing at her reflection. She reached down and plucked up a horsehair brush used for applying face makeup. She dipped it in a powder made of crushed seashells and flicked the bristles over her cheeks. She hoped the sparkles would complement the glint of silvery fibers in her dress, a sleek, sky-blue gown that hugged her figure. Despite her morbid thoughts, she was pleased with the prospects for the next few days. She did not—like Aliver—have to sit through the inane formalities of the official meetings. But unlike Mena and Dariel she was old enough to function in some official capacity. This time she was to serve as host and guide to the Aushenian prince, Igguldan.

Despite her maid’s warning that the day would be chilly she wore only a thin shift beneath her dress. She could put up with cold, she said; she could not stomach looking frumpy. As her single concession to the weather she decided to wear a new item just sent to her from Candovia, a white fur band worn around the neck and fastened snug with clasps. She thought the scarf achieved a sort of elegance. She hoped so, for she was not as adept at dressing for chilly weather as she was at dealing with the three seasons of warmth Acacia offered.

Corinn met the Aushenian prince on the steps of Tinhadin’s hall. She stood surrounded by several attendants, a translator, and a few aides from the chancellor’s office. All of them were framed by the granite pillars of the hall’s façade, rough-hewn and veined with age and weather wear. Of an earlier architectural vintage than most of the city, the hall had been built back when the nation’s leaders seemed to look askance at the smooth lines and arches of cultured cities like those of the Talayan coast, which later generations took inspiration from.

The prince was dressed simply. Corinn might have found this disappointing, but his actions demonstrated such practiced reverence that she had to acknowledge his manners were impeccable. He walked with downturned eyes, his arms pressed tight to his sides and his palms tilted toward her. Both he and his party timed the placement of their feet as they climbed, so that they moved as of one mind. Once the young man reached the step below her he paused. His gaze lifted up, met hers, and held it just slightly longer than appropriate. She found herself inclined to forgive him, both because of the timorous, creased smile that he wore and because she knew that her gown and the white fur ring around her neck and the intricate braidwork of her hair and the sparkling seashell powder that highlighted her cheeks had all combined to impressive effect.

Igguldan’s features were famously Aushenian: his hair like straw dipped in auburn dye, his eyes intensely blue, as if they were flecked glass beads lit from behind. Corinn had once thought pale, freckled skin to be lacking compared to the creamy brown of Acacians or the near black of Talayans, but looking at Igguldan she felt drawn to just this feature. She wanted to reach out and touch him just under the eye and to move her finger from one dot to the next.

She led the group on a tour of the main buildings of the upper tier of the city, past the various wings of the palace, down as far as the training grounds, and around governmental buildings. The Aushenians grew excited at the sight of the golden monkeys that roamed the grounds and even inside the palace. They had nothing like them in their country, they explained. Corinn nodded, unimpressed. She had seen the creatures every day of her life. They were small, the size of cats, really, with puffy coats of hair that ranged from yellow to almost crimson. They had some sacred significance, but Corinn did not remember what and did not mention it.

Eventually, they came to the old ruin that housed the foundation stones from one of Edifus’s first defensive towers. The crumbled remains of this structure were enclosed in a modern building, a sort of pavilion that perched on arching legs and afforded views out in three of the compass’s directions. At its center stood a statue of Elenet in his youth. One of the chancellor’s aides stepped up to recite the first sorcerer’s tale, which in many ways was the Giver’s tale as well.

In the beginning, the aide intoned, a god figure known as the Giver created the world as a physical manifestation of joy. He gave form to all the creatures of the earth, including humans, though he did not set humans apart from other creatures. He walked the earth singing, creating with the power of words. His language was the thread, the needle, the pattern from which the world was woven. Into this bliss, however, came mischief. A human orphan of seven years, Elenet, once saw the god passing through his village. He approached the Giver and offered himself as a servant, so that he might stay near the god’s grace. The Giver, taken with him, obliged. But Elenet was not like the other animals that trailed behind the Giver. Elenet could not help but listen to the god’s song. He learned the words. He came to understand them and recognize their power. He reveled in the possibility of wielding them himself. Once he had learned enough, he ran away.

“He became the first God Talker,” the aide said. “He taught his knowledge to a few chosen others. When the Giver learned of Elenet’s deception, he was disappointed. He turned his back to the world and went silent. He was never seen to walk the earth again. He did not sing anymore. Because of this we have the world as it is now.”

Judging by the way Igguldan fell to one knee and ran his hands over the fissures in the ancient stone, muttering to himself, the tale was well known to him already and quite affecting. Corinn was inclined to frown at his earnestness, but throughout the next hour or so he proved a pleasant enough companion. He spoke near-perfect Acacian, as did most of the party. Before long the interpreter and the chancellor’s aides fell back into the rear of the group, which broke up into smaller pods like children out on some educational outing.

“I wonder,” Igguldan said, “if it is true that Edifus was one of Elenet’s disciples. He was a sorcerer, I have heard said. That was why he—and Tinhadin after him—triumphed so completely. What do you think, Princess?”

“I have not thought much about it, but I do not see any reason to believe in magic. If my people had such a gift, then why do we not have it still?”

“So you don’t?” Igguldan asked, smiling. “You cannot, for example, cast a spell on me and force me to do your bidding?”

“I hardly need magic to achieve that,” Corinn quipped, the words out of her so casually that she had uttered them before she even knew she thought them. Heat rose across her chest and up her neck. “Maybe we created tales of magic afterward, as a way to explain the things Edifus accomplished. Greatness is hard for lesser persons to believe in.”

“Maybe so…” The prince thrummed the weathered stone with his fingers, stood on his toes a moment, and took in the scene below them to the east. “I guess I am a lesser man, then, because I love the Old Stories as they are. Your lore, in fact, plays a large part in our own legends. In Aushenia we have no doubt that men and women once practiced magic and that your people used it to master the world. There is a wonderful poem about how humans gained this knowledge. I will not recite it now for fear of embarrassing myself, but perhaps later I will get a chance to sing for you.”

“And what of magic now?” Corinn asked. “I see no wizards around here.”

The Aushenian prince smiled but said no more. As they left Edifus’s ruins and followed the back path on its slow ascent toward the King’s Rest, Corinn admitted, “I do not know that much about your people. What are you Aushenians like?”

“You would find Aushenia cold. Not as cold as the Mein—up there they scarcely see the sun in winter and it can snow any day of the year, even in the height of summer. Not so in Aushenia. True, we have a short summer, but it is vibrant. All the creatures and plants make use of the few months they have. In the spring the buds of flowers and new growth push right up from under the snow, as if one day the Giver grants them leave and then nothing can stand in their way. In the summer the weather is quite warm. We swim in the lakes in the north. Some even swim in the sea. At Killintich we have a swimming and foot race on the solstice day each summer. The racers swim from the castle pier to a point across the harbor. Then they run back again. It takes an entire day.”

The two paused for a moment at the foot of the last staircase. The others had fallen some distance behind. Corinn said, “Funny that one minute you say it’s cold and the next you talk of budding flowers and swimming. Which is the truth, Prince?”

“In a place as far north as Aushenia, it is not the cold that has the most effect on you. It is the moments when the cold recedes.” Corinn answered this with a nod, and the two stood for a moment in silence. “But we are like your nation in many ways. My people admire learning, just like yours. Some of our best pupils even train in Alecia. You know this, I am sure. Aushenia was the first northern country to ally with Edifus against the Mein. Unfortunately the alliance did not live on after that conflict was resolved. That is why my father so wishes that your father would honor us with his presence. My father is not well, you see. He cannot travel, but he has spent his entire life working toward coming to an alliance with your people. He believes that we would be stronger together.”

The others had not yet reached them, but Igguldan took a step up and Corinn matched him. They ascended together, preserving their solitude a bit longer. “And we are poets,” the prince said.

“Poets?”

“That is how we keep our history, in epic poems sung by our bards. In our courts, cases must be argued in verse. It is an odd formality, but it draws crowds to the more complicated cases.”