“Out of uniform, sire,” Thadro said. “But we’d seen him wear that once before.”
“Had you?” still another aristo butted in. “It was a hodgepodge of clothes, whatever it was. He also had the Faena cat’s, the doyen’s, and his staff all bundled together.”
“Yeah,” Ranulf said. “He stood at the edge of the lake and crashed the staves down into the water—”
“Freeing us—” a townsman piped up.
Jusson remained silent as he listened to everyone interrupt each other as they described what it was like to flow up out of the lake and into the sea, before crashing down in the wave that sent them back into their bodies.
“I could see me lying there,” Alderman Geram said, “the blood soaking my clothes from my death wound.” He touched a rent in his shirt, the fabric around it still tinged a faint red. ‘Then, next I knew, I was sitting up and looking around, my wound gone. Lord Bainswyr is right, Your Majesty. It was a miracle.”
“Was it?” Jusson asked, turning his head to look at Dyfrig, sitting on the other side of Laurel. “Was it truly, Your Reverence?”
“I don’t know, Your Majesty,” Dyfrig said, the troubled expression back on his face. “There are so many things that I don’t know, things that I was once so sure of.”
“I think I died,” Rosea whispered. “I was in the charnel house, lying on one of the slabs when the Lady and the White Stag woke me—” She raised her head from her contemplation of her hands, a puzzled expression on her face. “Though how they fit inside such a small space, and then walking with me out the door without the Lady dismounting…”
“Magic has returned to Iversterre,” Thadro said. “With a vengeance.”
“It had never left,” Jusson said back. “It just went underground.” He turned his head to Beollan. “Like you, Fellmark. If I remember correctly, the last marriage between your House and Ranulf’s was just before the last conflict with the Border, when a daughter of Fellmark wed the heir of Bainswyr. You three should be rather distant cousins. Yet Rosea called you ‘Uncle.’”
“Dragons do live a long time, honored king,” Laurel put in.
A faint smile passed over Beollan’s thin face. “Do they? Well, it must be true as it was my sister who married Dougan the Younger of Bainswyr.” His smile faded. “And it was I who brought Dougie’s body home to my sister after our defeat in the Border war—only to see the devastation wrought on those who remained behind. Those who were innocent.” He rubbed his mouth, his silver eyes distant. “My sister was the first to go mad, her insanity a creeping, deepening darkness that drained all light until she was nothing but shadow. At the end she killed herself.”
There was a shifting about as folks made surreptitious warding signs at Beollan’s sister’s suicide.
“I fortunately did not have a wife or children at the time,” Beollan said, “so I was spared at least the horror of seeing my own succumb. But I also dared not marry, not knowing what would happen to my spouse or what we’d birth.”
“I know,” murmured a pale-haired, fair-skinned northern lord. “Dear God, how I know that one. The head of our House also refused to marry—only to have what he sought to avoid show up in the collateral line. Mine.”
“So I’ve seen and so I’ve heard,” Beollan said. “However, it didn’t matter that I didn’t produce an heir as I did not age—which meant that I was able to watch the sufferings of the House of Bainswyr increase, watch each attempt to break the curse fail.” He turned to Wyln, his eyes over-large in his thin face. “I remember you, elf. From the war. And how you smiled as you directed flaming bolts down on what remained of my men—after the Faena and their damned rune were finished with them.”
“I remember you too, Beollan Wulfgar’son,” Wyln said. “As I remember many of the Houses here, not only from that battle, but from previous ones as well. Perhaps one day I’ll tell you about the first battle between fae and human— and what kind of mercy Iver Bloody-Hand showed my wife, children, and all the other women and children taking refuge in the palace seraglio.”
In the silence I could hear the fireplace flames. They had regained their voice, but instead of the usual merry crackle, they were soft and subdued.
“A discussion for another time,” Jusson said tiredly into the quiet. “Right now we have another issue at hand.” He settled back again in his chair, turning his head to the former player. “I asked you a question, Lady Rosea. Notwithstanding your kinsmen’s claims of madness, I think you can distinguish right from wrong, if only as an academic exercise. Yet you have contravened the laws of both the kingdom and the Church on sorcery. You have attacked my cousin and heir. You have conspired with the enemies of my throne. And even with the miracles of curses lifting and folks coming back to life, there are those who are still dead—Menck, Keeve and Tyle, Rodolfo, my groomers and guardsmen slain in the town hall, to feed a demon you willingly invited in. Why should I spare you?”
“There is no reason, Majesty,” Rosea whispered.
“No,” Jusson agreed. “There is not.”
“Mercy, sire,” Ranulf pleaded. “Please.”
“Mercy,” Jusson repeated. He looked at me. “What do you say, cousin? Most of the harm done by and through Rosea was aimed at you. Should there be mercy?”
I jumped, startled at Jusson seeking my opinion. Despite the new uniform, as far as I was concerned I was still just a farm boy turned horse soldier. Besides, except for Slevoic, everything that had been aimed at me was not because of who I was, but because of who claimed me as kin—King Jusson of Iversterre. Even Rosea’s seduction assault had been impersonal, like she’d been reading lines from a play. The former player was back to watching her fingers twist in her lap. Beollan and Ranulf were looking at me—and though the Lord of Bainswyr had claimed innocence, I remembered the brooding malevolence of my cousin Teram’s poisonous masque where I had to fight against five assassins while Lord Esclaur lay crumpled in a heap behind me. I also remembered Ranulf’s hostility when we met again here in Freston, and his attempts to drive a wedge between me and Jusson, between me and the Church, between me and my home.
However, in the middle of my remembering, I became aware of the susurration of the sea—and other images arose: of Ranulf wrapped tightly in the caltrops-strung wire, the spikes digging deep into his flesh. Of the lines of pain that scored his face and the agony of his translation. And how he looked when his House’s curse had been lifted, How he looked now with his eyes full of light, even as he fought not to show worry.
And a different thought crossed my mind on the nature of second chances in all their guises. I also thought that my water aspect was going to be more trouble than my truth rune.
I let out a hard sigh. “Have Rosea go through purification and then have Dyfrig and Laurel examine her. If His Reverence finds no part of hell, she can go home. And if Laurel finds no madness, she can go home without chains.”
Everyone stirred: Suiden turning to me in surprise, Thadro and Dyfrig blinking, and Laurel’s ears shifting back, his beads softly clacking. Wyln, though, remained as he was.
“The judge,” Wyln began.
“I know,” Jusson interrupted. “Another characteristic of some poxy aspect.” He eyed me. “Are you going to do that from now on? Pop out profoundly simple solutions to complex problems without any warning?”
“I—” I broke off, just stopping myself from shrugging, feeling color flood my face. “It just occurred to me, sire.”
“And more reasoned than much of the advice I’ve received during the course of my rule,” Jusson said. He waved a hand. “Yes, well. What my cousin said, I so decree.”