‘Damn the parchment!’ snarled the chancellor. ‘It’s the writing that matters. When was it written?’
The chief magian studied the parchment again. A tap of his staff made the writing glow leaf green, then flesh pink and finally indigo.
Rix held his breath. Part of him yearned for it to be authentic, and for the legitimacy that would bring his house. Another part prayed that Lady Ricinus would not get away with so monstrous a lie.
‘This ink flowed from the nib two thousand years ago,’ said the chief magian.
‘My Lady Ricinus,’ said the chancellor with a vulture’s smile. ‘We cannot fault the critical document, therefore House Ricinus’s claim can not be challenged. Welcome to the First Circle, House Ricinus.’
He extended his hand, though from the look on his face the chancellor would sooner have cut it off than shake hers, or Lord Ricinus’s.
Rix had to admire his mother’s cunning. She had neutralised the chancellor’s threat to bring down their house unless they delivered him Tali, for not even he had the power to topple a house of the First Circle for so minor a reason. But why hadn’t he acted on the treason? Because Lady Ricinus was far more use to him alive than dead? Or was this just the first move in a deadly game between them?
‘Lady Ricinus,’ the chancellor continued, ‘before we began the Honouring, you mentioned two matters of moment. What is the other?’
For a second, Lady Ricinus’s poise failed her, and her triumphant smile revealed her lack of breeding. Then the sickening false humility was back.
‘My beloved Lord, Ricinus, is unwell.’ She extended a hand to him. Lord Ricinus lurched across the stage and flopped his pulpy hand into her bony one.
‘He was savagely struck down by the escaped Pale slave just days ago,’ said Lady Ricinus, ‘and our healer fears my lord’s remaining days are few. Lord Ricinus regrets that he is unable to discharge his duties, either as a husband,’ several nobles tittered, ‘or as the head of House Ricinus. Therefore he begs to be released as lord, that he may spend — ’
‘It is customary for the lord of a noble house to be released from his duties only by death,’ said the chancellor.
‘An earlier release is not unheard of,’ said Lady Ricinus. ‘I can cite the precedents.’
‘I’m sure your notaries have documented every instance.’ The chancellor turned to Rix’s father. ‘Lord Ricinus, do you solemnly declare that you are no longer fit to discharge your duties as lord of your house?’
‘I declare it,’ said Rix’s father. ‘Where’s my drink?’
The nobles muttered in outrage. Lady Ricinus ground her heel into Lord Ricinus’s instep.
‘In these extraordinary circumstances,’ scowled the chancellor, ‘I will approve the abdication of the present Lord Ricinus.’ Then he smiled vengefully. ‘And installation of the new lord, Lord Rixium Ricinus.’
Rix nearly fell against the stage. Lady Ricinus staggered and clutched at her lord. Her mouth opened and closed, then she slipped a new mask over the old. Clearly, she had expected that the stewardship of House Ricinus would be given to her for her lifetime. It was a reasonable expectation, since a third of the noble houses were led by women, but her vulgar birth was a fatal flaw.
‘Thank you, Chancellor,’ she said with a cracked smile. ‘I will do my duty as steward until — ’
The chancellor looked down at Rix, who knew he had forgotten nor forgiven nothing. What game was he playing now?
‘Rixium will be installed as lord immediately,’ said the chancellor.
‘But he is not yet of age.’
‘He defeated a caitsthe with his bare hands, did he not?’
Several mature ladies, who must have heard the story, tittered. A trio of young eligibles eyed Rix boldly and inflated their assets.
‘He also took the war to the enemy,’ said the chancellor, ‘and rescued a Pale who has given us priceless intelligence about Cython.’
Lady Ricinus knew when she was defeated. ‘Rixium, Lord of Ricinus, come up.’ She extended her hand towards her son.
‘Not yet he isn’t,’ growled the chancellor. ‘First, we finish the Honouring.’
Rix took his place between his mother and father, barely able to keep his throbbing head upright, and afraid he was going to throw up again. This was monstrous, a travesty.
‘May I see your sword, Lord Rixium?’ said the chancellor politely, as though nothing had ever happened between them.
Rix handed it to him. The chancellor studied it for a moment, then passed it to the chief magian, who ran his little fingers along the worn inscription, causing multi-coloured auras to flicker around it. Momentarily the words stood out, black against the bluish metal — Heroes must fight to preserve the race. The chief magian started, then mimed several words.
The chancellor nodded and took the sword. ‘Search the archives,’ he said softly. ‘Find a test.’
The chief magian resumed his seat. The chancellor’s mouth hardened. He looked Rix up and down, then handed the sword back.
What was that all about? Rix’s restless gaze passed across the audience and he noticed Tobry at the back of the hall. And there, clutching his arm, as Pale as if she’d had the word painted on her forehead, was Tali. She was gazing up into Tobry’s eyes, quivering with suppressed emotion, and his eyes were locked on hers. What was she doing here?
Rix started, then realised that his mother had fixed on the small girl in the blue gown and the mouse mask.
‘Lord Rixium,’ she said softly. ‘You have no idea how sweet my revenge is going to be.’
CHAPTER 91
Can this unexpected boon outweigh the disastrous loss?
Lyf had been floating in the Abysm for a day, evaluating hundreds of possibilities, each a branch of the unknowable future. I have a body! he exulted. I’m free! Or at least, the framework of a body, ugly, misshapen and clumsy though it was. With flesh stripped from the facinore and the power stolen from the gifted child he would soon complete his body, and no longer would he be bound to the place of his death.
Lyf had discovered how to create a body for himself seven hundred years ago, and ever since he had fought and schemed and struggled to glean the power for it. And had failed every time.
Then those foolhardy intruders had brought the Pale child to his caverns, bearing within her a gift neither she nor they understood, one he had not realised he could feed on until the moment she had hurled that golden globe. Truly, fate was unknowable. He had always discounted luck and serendipity, but he should have made allowance for them — chance had given him in a moment what centuries of planning could not. He would not make that mistake again.
But could this prize outweigh the loss of The Consolation of Vengeance?
The balance was poised. If his enemies learned to read the iron book it would reveal almost the entirety of his plan. But could they read it? He had written it in an ancient script that had never been common, and the enemy had burnt most of Cythe’s books at the end of the war. Lyf doubted that any books survived in this script, save in his own library, yet if there were, Hightspall’s scholars might decipher the iron book in time. That would be a dreadful setback, though he could recover from it. Thankfully he had not yet written the ending.
But the theft raised another possibility, one that was terrifying. That they might understand the magery of the book, obtain a measure of alkoyl and write their own ending, one he had no way of knowing about or dealing with.
That possibility could not be allowed. His armies must encircle Caulderon so tightly that a flea could not escape. At the same time, he must set his traps from within.