The Element of Fire, Martha Wells [books for new readers .txt] 📗

and pulled her smock on over her head, then watched him quietly. When he sat down on the bed to get his boots on she said, “Leave with me.”

One boot halfway on, Thomas stopped. The words “all right” were on the tip of his tongue. “I can’t.”

“Ravenna’s gone. There’s nothing left for you here.”

“I have that lovely offer from Falaise.”

She grimaced. “Listen to yourself. You know she’s afraid of you.”

He finished pulling his boots on. “That makes the situation perfect then, doesn’t it.”

“That’s not what you want.”

He couldn’t ask her how she knew what he wanted, when it was all too obvious that she did know.

After a moment, Kade said, “I don’t know exactly what I’m going to do, after giving up Knockma. I have other places and my household—well, you met Boliver; they’re all mostly like that, except some of them are human. We argue sometimes but we never try to kill each other and no one’s terribly ambitious, which is why they live with me, I suppose. What I’m trying to say is it wouldn’t be like here at all, if you’re as sick of this place as I think you are, and I hope you are, because I think I’m going to have some difficulty living without you.”

“I’m not going to make any promises I can’t keep.” There was a muffled crash from the next room. Thomas grabbed the scabbarded rapier hanging over the bedpost and went to the door. He opened it a crack and saw Berham and Phaistus looking out the far door onto the landing. Thomas stepped out. “What is it?”

“Nothing, nothing.” Berham looked back. “One of the Albons thought he should deliver his message in person, Sir, but some of the men pointed out that he was mistaken.”

“Did they throw him down the stairs?”

“A little, yes.”

Thomas shook his head, stepping back into the bedroom. Kade was gone, and one of the high windows was open, the morning breeze stirring the curtains.

*

The court was held in a hall on the ground floor of the King’s Bastion. It was relatively undamaged, except for marks of smoke and water where the walls joined the high sculpted ceiling. Massive paneled paintings hung on the walls, views of the canal city of Chaire. Standing in the center of the room was like standing on the Mont Chappelle and looking down at the beautiful ancient city.

The audience was small: Villon’s officers, and men from the city troops that had come out of hiding, the courtiers who had returned from Bel Garde with Roland. Thomas was glad to see the Count of Duncanny in attendance. His party had not been able to make it out of the city, but had taken refuge in one of the fortresslike great houses and survived almost intact.

Albon knights lined the walls and were posted next to the doors. Thomas went to join Villon. Without looking at him, the old General said, “Don’t expect much.”

A worn and haggard Aviler was pacing in front of the chair prepared for Roland. Falaise was already present, seated in an armchair near the front of the room but to one side, so the focus was on the tapestry-draped chair waiting for the King. That was Aviler’s touch, Thomas was sure. Renier would not have thought of it.

Gideon and Martin and several other Queen’s guards stood around the Queen’s chair. Thomas knew from the way Gideon kept trying to catch his eye that they were wondering why he didn’t join them, but he was not going to unless Falaise ordered it.

The door at the front of the room opened and Roland and Renier entered, followed by more Albons. Thomas was surprised to see Ravenna’s gentlewoman Elaine in the King’s entourage, but only for a moment. She had learned survival from the best.

As Roland took his seat Aviler stepped back to the side, waiting with folded arms. At the King’s nod, he motioned to one of the knights.

Roland’s eyes were dark hollows in his drawn face. He held his cloak pulled around him tightly, though the hall was almost warm.

There was a stirring at the back of the room, then the crowd parted for a group of Albons. Thomas felt his nerves go taut.

The knights were escorting Denzil, of course.

They crossed the room in silence except for the click of their boots on the parquet floor, stopping before Roland’s chair. The Duke of Alsene wore a court doublet in somber colors, and his arm was no longer in a sling. He looked less weary than Roland, but then, after his capture, Denzil had probably been able to sleep through the night.

Surprisingly, Roland spoke first. He said, “It was all true.” His voice was soft, but clearly audible in the room so silent a loud heartbeat could have been heard.

Denzil said, “My lord—”

“I did not give you permission to speak.”

Denzil waited, watching Roland.

“You plotted with the sorcerer Urbain Grandier.” Roland closed his eyes. “Against me.”

The gesture might have looked theatrical, to someone who didn’t know the actors. Roland was in real pain. He looked up suddenly. “My mother was killed.”

For the first time there was a response from the crowd, a low whisper of comment that was hardly more audible than a wind stirring summer leaves. Thomas knew they were thinking that it had broken Roland. Aviler swayed as if to move forward, then stopped himself. It was a curiously moving gesture of restraint; the High Minister was going to trust that Roland hadn’t gone mad, and would not attempt to control what the King said in an open audience.

Roland fingered the carved chair arm, and his eyes went to Denzil. “Many people were killed. Someone should die for that.”

Thomas realized he was holding his breath.

Denzil was as still as a statue, and almost as pale, but he didn’t look away from Roland’s hollow eyes. Thomas knew that people were remembering the two had grown up together, though Denzil was older.

Roland shifted in his chair suddenly, looking away. “The sorcerer Grandier is dead. Most of the traitors are dead. The charter of the troop of the Duchy of Alsene is to be torn up, the survivors disbanded, their arms taken, and they will not be allowed to form again under those colors on pain of death. The men who hold Officers’ commissions in the Troop of Alsene will be ordered executed as traitors, for the act of treason against the crown and the Ministry. Any of the lords of Alsene found in the palace taking part in the conspiracy will be ordered executed as traitors, on the same charge. Denzil Fontainon Alsene, Duke of Alsene, is…is ordered…” Roland did not look at Denzil, or anyone else. His gaze was locked on the pastel haze in a painting of a harbor skyline. The silence stretched, but no one in the crowd made the slightest sound of inattention. Roland closed his eyes to shut out some vision other than the painting. “Is ordered banished from our borders—” He hesitated again, as if he heard himself speaking and wondered at it. Then he continued, “Forever. On pain of death.”

Thomas realized that Villon had moved to his other side and was now companionably holding his sword arm. It wasn’t necessary. He didn’t move.

Roland stood and left the room in a flurry of robes, his attendants closing in around him. The crowd began to talk and mill around, speaking softly at first and then more loudly as tension began to ease. Villon said, “For a moment I thought—” He shook his head, wry bitterness in his eyes. “My days of service won’t last much longer, and I can’t say that I’m sorry.”

Villon had released of Thomas’s arm, so he started making his way up toward the front of the hall. Halfway there Aviler met him. The High Minister looked haggard but also energized. He had probably done more of his life’s work in the past day than he ever had since first taking office. He said quietly, “Denzil has three days to leave the city. That’s not much time. We need to talk.”

“No,” Thomas said.

Aviler looked blank. “You mean, not here?”

“I mean, not at all.” Before he could move on, he saw Renier coming toward them, using his bulk to part the milling crowd.

He reached them and said, “The King wants a private audience with you, Thomas.”

“Good.” He followed Renier to the front of the room, conscious of Aviler and Villon watching him.

The door at the back of the hall led to a short maze of old council rooms, all crowded with Albon knights, servants, and court functionaries. Thomas recognized no one, conscious of them only as blurs of color and noise. Eventually they reached a chamber with wide double-panel doors standing open and another contingent of knights guarding it.

Thomas followed Renier inside. It was a large parlor with arabesque wallpapers, thick carpets, and heavy brocaded furniture. There was a fire in a hearth with a mantel supported by two carved-marble nymphs, and all the candles were lit. Roland sat in one of the armchairs, staring unseeing at the far wall.

Renier said, “My lord.”

Roland looked up, his eyes focusing. “Thank you. Everyone else go.”

Some of the knights stepped out immediately, but the others lingered, looking to Renier for direction. Thomas knew they were not easy with the idea of leaving him alone with Roland, and was almost amused to see that Renier apparently shared their opinion. What surprised him was that Roland realized it as well.

As Renier started to speak, Roland stood suddenly and shouted, “Get out!”

The other men moved reluctantly, and Roland crossed the room and flung the heavy carved doors shut after them. The sudden movement seemed to almost exhaust him, and he dropped into the nearest chair and buried his face in his hands.

Thomas simply stood there, not discomfited by the display, and waited for Roland to recover himself. He looked around the room and was startled to notice a portrait of Fulstan in the far corner. It was a good likeness of Roland’s father in his early middle age, and it had probably been moved from some other more prominent location and buried away here, as all the portraits of Fulstan were eventually buried away somewhere.

Roland looked up and noticed what had caught Thomas’ attention. He stared at the portrait for a long moment himself, then said, “He hated you.”

“He hated everyone,” Thomas answered.

Roland sat very still for a time, then looked away. He said, “My Queen has given me to know that she wishes you to remain as Captain of her guard. I agree.”

Roland would allow Denzil to return. Not today, or this month, but perhaps before the year was out. If Denzil had killed Ravenna with his own hands, if Roland had actually seen him casually ordering the destruction of Villon’s troops, then it might have been different. But the ties between them were too strong, Denzil was too seasoned a manipulator, and Roland was still too enmeshed in self-hatred to break the link for good. The boy had proved that to himself and everyone else in the audience hall. But now he knew what his lifelong friend was capable of, and in time he might manage to break free.

But Roland was a King, and could not be allowed the time.

“That won’t be necessary, Your Majesty,” Thomas said. “I’m resigning my commission.”

Roland’s head jerked up. His hands trembling on the arms of the chair, he asked sharply, “Why?”

Thomas needed to get away now, before Roland changed his mind. He said, “Your mother would have wanted it this way,” bowed, and went out, closing the door behind him. Roland