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  usual. His eyes were swollen, his mouth turned down. “With the state of the treaty in such a shamble, and the threat of war looming over us once again — if only we could have prevented the messenger from declaiming to the town, we might have stopped the rumors in their tracks.”

  “Which rumors are you referring to, Sir Merundi? The rumors that I am a completely incompetent ruler, or the rumors that my uncle will soon return to take over the throne?”

  “Now, you know that no one has any idea of what really happened to your uncle.”

  “I know that. I don’t worry that they might find out, either.”

  “No?” He nodded a little. “Perhaps you should.”

  She tilted her head at him. “Why? I trust everyone who knows about it. They have

  proven themselves worthy of that.”

  He looked doubtful, but would say no more, changing the subject instead.

  “As far as your competence as a ruler, that is only based on what they say about your resemblance to your father, and how different you are from your uncle.”

  She snorted. “I should hope I am different from my uncle!”

  “Ah, yes, pride compels you to hope such a thing. But there is no dishonor that may not

  be shined up into honor once a king has come and gone, and the timing here could not possibly be worse. They say, at least Lev managed to brook peace between Ainsea and Elgodon.”

  “A peace based on loss, entirely on our side! There was no compromise at all!”

  He spread his arms wide. “I know, I know,” he placated her. “But that’s what they say. After all this time, Your Majesty, do you still not know that the people aren’t entirely logical when it comes to who sits on the throne and what they choose to do? Or —” His hands flailed momentarily. “Or anything, really! Logic is not the possession of all people, my child. Still, given time, we could recover from this.” He sighed heavily. “But, I fear, we have no time.”

  “Can it really be so bad?” Irae looked out the window. From up here in the castle, the town looked peaceful, quiet, as though everything was going on as usual. She knew the town so well, knew every corner, every street, every shop — she had grown up here in the castle, and every day had looked out on the bustle within the walls.

  “You know,” she said, quietly, “my father insisted that I go out into Balfour every week when I was young. He wouldn’t go with me; he wanted me to be incognito, I suppose, wanted no one to know who I was. Wanted me to be treated just like anyone else.” She laughed a little. “That part didn’t last long. No girl who is just like anyone else travels with a guard. But the people were respectful to me, and kind. I never knew if it was because of me, or because of my father.”

  “Or in spite of him,” said Sir Merundi, his voice matching hers for quietness, calm and gentle. “Your father was a man to be feared and respected — he wasn’t interested in just giving the people what they wanted. He wanted the best for them, I believe, but he was not easy.”

  “No,” she agreed softly. Her eyes were trained on the city visible through the window, lost in memory. “He wasn’t.” She shook herself and sat up straight and turned a direct glance on her councilman. “Is that what I am going to be, do you think? Is it better to be feared and respected, or is it better to be loved? And how am I to know how to choose one or the other?”

  He spoke slowly, obviously choosing his words with care.

  “To be respected, to hold on tight to your throne,” he said, “you will need to be firm. Firm and strong. Betray no weakness; give no hint of uncertainty. And with the groups that are causing distress and rioting, asking for the return of the December King —” He shrugged, as though he were helpless to give her any good news. “You must be ready to take decisive action against them.”

  “Decisive action such as what?” Her lips were numb, but she did her best to question this as though it were a normal, everyday sort of discussion.

  “To rebel is treason,” said her councilman. “To show too much leniency is to show weakness and give wings to the rumors and speculation that you are ill-fitted for reigning. The people may demand one thing, but truly need another. Don’t forget that they are not the regent — you are.”

  No leniency — no mercy. Irae’s stomach churned and she shivered a little and clasped her hands together to keep them from shaking too obviously.

  “Bring some of them in,” she commanded him. “I want to talk to them face to face.”

  He bowed his head respectfully.

  “Just as my lady wishes,” he said, and then he was gone.

  “I would like it to be known,” said Berren, “that I think this an absolutely terrible idea.”

  Thorn sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose. “I know it is,” he said. “I said it was, didn’t I?” He gestured to the prone figure on the bed, who looked at them now and again but didn’t move apart from that — well, and the almost ceaseless motions of fingers and goes, ever seeking for something firm to root in. It had been a few hours now, and there was no change in Elseth’s condition. The village doctor had come and gone, just long enough to eye Thorn sideways and give a gruff greeting to Berren— he had checked on his arrow wound two days before, and there was apparently no reason to check it again — just long enough to look the girl over and declare that there was nothing apparently wrong with her, and just long enough to take the news back with him and spread it among the people. The very presence of the man had made Thorn want to grind his teeth. His absence had much the same effect.

  And so there seemed nothing left to do except what Thorn very, very much did not want to do.

  He explained it to Berren as best as he could. Braeve was well known, if not by name, then by reputation. It was she who had given the December King his immortality, a gift which she refused to repeat with anyone else. It was she who had tried to murder the princess Irae when she was younger, and it was she who, in the end, Irae had turned to for help with Karyl when he was badly wounded.

  “And Karyl got better, did he?” said Berren.

  “There’s no need to be sarcastic,” said Thorn sharply. “No, of course he didn’t, and you know it as well as I do. But that was because her talent lies in illusions, not in physical healing. So, she gave the illusion that he was healed, and he was able to carry on for a little while longer rather than dying outright. That in itself is better than it could have been.”

  “I heard that the wound was horrendous. That she turned to uncanny means to try to draw it closed, and that it didn’t work.”

  Thorn bit his tongue, trying to put the vivid memory out of his mind.

  “Illusions, Berren. Elseth is healthy — you heard the doctor yourself. She’s under an illusion, her mind is playing tricks on itself, and we cannot change it. We cannot fix it. We need someone who knows what they’re going, and Braeve is the only one I can think of. The only one I’ve ever heard of who might be able to help.”

  Berren looked at him for a long moment, then nodded at last.

  “Very well,” he said. “I can manage well enough with my leg the way it is. We’ll take the horse and go for Braeve, if you know where she might be found.”

  “No!” yelped Thorn, his voice so close to a shout that it startled everyone in the room, including himself. Even Elseth seemed to respond, her eyes fluttering wildly. He stopped and cleared his throat and started again. “I mean, no. I’ll go alone. It’s safer that way.”

  “Safer for you to be on your own?” said Berren, eyebrows raised. “I hate to argue with you, son, but I think you’re a bit rattled in the head after your last adventure with her. From what I heard, she isn’t easy to reason with.”

  “Yes, safer,” Thorn argued freely, since he didn’t mind it. “She knows me. She seems to like me. It’s far more likely that I’ll bring her back alone than taking someone with me.”

  All protests to the contrary, Berren seemed quite ready to continue arguing, so Thorn stomped his foot.

  “Look,” he
said, angrily, “I came here because Irae ordered me to. I gave a message to the damned rogues because Lisca’s father asked me to. I keep doing things I don’t want to do because people tell me to do them; that’s basically the entirety of my life, since I met Irae at least. But now, here is something which no one has told me to do — no one has had to tell me to do. I am choosing to do this thing which I don’t want to do all on my own, with no orders from anyone. And so, the last thing I am going to do is let someone else tell me how it should be done. Are we quite clear on that?”

  Berren shook his head and gave a slow chuckle.

  “I wasn’t sure you had it in you,” he said, “but it looks as though you’ve put your foot down. Literally, in fact. Very well. How long is it likely to take, this journey?”

  “Braeve’s woods are far to the north, two days journey down from the lower pass of Rindor,” Thorn rattled off, as though by rote; in fact, he was rather surprised with his own ability to remember the places. Of course, it hadn’t been long since he was there, but it felt like forever.

  Berren sucked in a breath through his teeth. “That’s going to take days. Days which we may not have, not knowing what condition her mind is in.”

  “I’ll go as quickly as I can,” Thorn promised. “I’ll take the horse. I’ll ride all night.” He spared a glance in Elseth’s direction, quickly; it hurt to look at her, as though he was looking at a corpse laid out for a funeral. It was Elseth’s body, but Elseth herself was not at home.

  Berren followed his glance, but his gaze lingered a moment longer on the girl.

  “You can scarcely bear to look at her,” he noted quietly.

  “Each time,” said Thorn, looking towards the door instead, “it’s a reminder. I did this. I carved her out from where she belonged and put something silent and hollow inside.”

  Berren clapped a hand on his shoulder; he seemed to do this a lot. It made Thorn a little bit uncomfortable, particularly when Berren accompanied the gesture with calling him son.

  “Listen, son,” he said now, “you did what you could to save her. And now you’re going to do even more. So, set your sadness aside, go out and get on that horse, and get down to business. I’d be more patient with your moping, but I’ve got more important things to do, like take care of this young woman here.” He nodded to Elseth. “I’ll see that nothing happens to her while you’re gone. Just you be as quick as you can.”

  Thorn nodded at him, risked one glance more at Elseth, and made for the door. He carried the image of Elseth with him as he went: eyes open but looking at nothing, chest rising and falling as she breathed, fingers and toes curling in and down — a misery. But alive.

  Alive.

  With the horse bearing only Thorn himself and a small pack with light provisions, he made the edge of the village in record time. He pulled up just beside the clearing where Elseth had spent the last seven years and got down from the horse.

  The orange-furred fox sat in front of him, tail wrapped around her feet, eyes half shut in quiet contemplation. Thorn approached her and got to his knees.

  “Berren is right,” he said. “I mean — I don’t know if you heard any of that. If you understood it. If you’re even capable of — I just don’t know. But he’s right, and it will take too long. It will take time which we probably don’t have. If you can get to her faster — if you can ask her to come to me. I need her help.” He looked at the fox and the fox looked back at him, impassively. “Braeve, I mean,” he clarified, in case she truly hadn’t been party to what had been going on in the village. Somehow, he felt that she must know; how could she not? She had been Forged herself, and in his mind, this gave her access to knowledge that normal people would not have. “I don’t know why I think you know everything that’s been happening, but I do. We need Braeve. She needs to remove an illusion. We need her now.” He waited a moment longer, but the fox was just looking at a firefly that appeared near them, with all signs of polite disinterest. “Lisca,” said Thorn, “please.”

  The fox stood, stretched, yawned, then glanced at him and trotted off into the distance.

  Thorn watched after her for a few moments, then shook himself.

  “Next you’ll believe in fairy tales,” he told himself sternly. “She’s just a fox, now. No matter what Braeve says, there’s no reason to hope that she can understand what was said or asked of her. No reason at all.”

  But Elseth had changed; she was a girl again, against everything. And so perhaps, though there was no reason to hope, there was no reason not to, either.

  Either way, he thought he’d better keep it in mind, just to be on the safe side.

  8

  The Faction

  Sometime in the early hours of the morning, Queen Irae dreamed of her father.

  She dreamed that he was with her in the woods, in Thorn’s woods, searching for the stranger. And Thorn was the stranger — to her father, at any rate, though she was sure that she knew him. They had met, they had eaten together, they had spent time walking along the dusty road together. But her father refused to believe it. No daughter of mine, he said, but he never finished the sentence, and she woke with the conviction that that was all he meant to say.

  You’re no daughter of mine.

  She thought it was quite understandable that she was out of sorts for the morning.

  Nothing seemed to be going the way that she wanted it to, and as the servants went about their business she was certain that she heard whispers about her; about her reign, about her abilities. She hummed nervously through her breakfast and asked for pen and paper.

  “Send Sir Merundi in when he gets here, would you? And has anyone seen Lully yet?”

  The answer to the first was an obsequious Of course, my lady. The answer to the second was a regretful No, my lady.

  She took a bite of her toast and tapped the pen on the page thoughtfully. Of course, Thorn was only doing what she had asked him to do. He must be gathering all the information he could, so that she might have a better idea of what to expect in seven years when her uncle returned to himself. She hoped that Thorn had forgiven her for asking him to go to the village of his birth; she couldn’t get the expression on his face out of her mind.

  She wondered how she had gone so long without even thinking about him.

  Well. She had been distracted. That didn’t mean anything. Thorn was a friend, a loyal and true friend and companion. And it was time for him to come home.

  She wanted him to be at home.

  She scribbled a few lines, quickly, leaving all the pomp and careful wording behind:

  Thorn,

  Please, please do come back as soon as you are able. I am quite sure that you have enough information now, and you are most definitely needed here at Balfour.

  She chewed on the end of the fountain pen, thoughtfully, but decided to leave it at that. Details would only make him worry. He would come back when he could.

  She signed it Jelen and sent it off with a messenger.

  Sir Merundi came to her shortly after she ensconced herself in her study, pouring over papers and reports from Ainsea’s history with Elgodon. He bowed to her and smiled his usual smile, but she noticed at once that he still looked exhausted.

  “My lady, I do hope that you have rested well. I have a feeling that today is going to be somewhat — trying.”

  “More so than usual?” She stacked a few papers and set them aside. “I do wish my father had kept better accounts of his dealings with foreign dignitaries. I can only see that he took a dislike to King Lehan, without really detailing why.”

  “Your Highness —”

  “I know, I know. After all, perhaps there isn’t really anything to like about him. Perhaps my father feared running low on paper if he wrote it all down. But there really needs to be more than just a personal feeling. I’m quite sure that making decisions based on sheer dislike is not in the best interests of the people or the kingdom.”

  “Yes, my lady.”

  She pause
d, now, and looked up at him.

  “Did you stay up all night, Sir Merundi? You look rather the worse for wear.”

  He rubbed at his eyes. “Not all night, my lady, but a considerable portion of it. In an effort to track down those who are subversives and advocating a change in regent, we had to follow an informant to a secret meeting rather late in the evening.”

  “Well, you needn’t have seen to it yourself, I’m sure. Don’t we have men to do that sort of thing?”

  “It was a bit of a delicate operation.”

  “Your zeal does you credit.” She separated another sheaf of papers.

  “My lady,” Merundi went on, hesitantly, “we have found your servant, Lully.”

  “Lully!” She stood up straight and gave him her full attention at last. “Finally. I’ve been asking for days now, and it seemed that no one knew where she was at all, not even her closest friends here in the kitchens. And of course, her family is in Deen, so I haven’t heard whether there were any reports from them. Well, splendid, Sir Merundi, well done. I trust she is all right?”

  “She is perfectly healthy, if that is what you mean,” said Merundi, heavily. “But I fear you will not be happy when you learn where she was found.”

  Irae frowned at him.

  “What? Why not? Where was she? Where has she been?”

  “At the secret meeting with the subversives, rather late in the evening,” said Merundi levelly, and dropped his gaze from her startled eyes. “I thought you would want to be informed as soon as possible.”

  The light in the prisons was not the best; Lully’s skin was pale and washed out, but her eyes were hidden completely behind the tangled mess of her hair. She lifted her head a little when she heard people coming but dropped it again when she saw who it was.

  She was nearly alone in the cells; there were only one or two others being kept, further down the line. Irae’s regime had not yet put much emphasis on arresting wrongdoers; under her reign, the guards had relaxed somewhat. The queen was determined to look on this as a positive sign, that perhaps crime and violence had lessened in the short time she had been on the throne. Realistically, she knew that all it meant was that her guards needed to step up and act.