Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

63

The emperor looked up at the sound of a knock. He did not glance at the door; instead, he looked at Councilor Yorek, who sat at his right hand.

They were alone. Korvan had no patience for his bevy of usual retainers as of late, but he was almost never without Yorek at his side. The councilor needed no bidding; he rose smoothly from his chair, nodded in deference, then strode to the door to open it.

Korvan gazed down into his cup of tea, expecting Yorek to handle whatever situation had arisen. The familiar cadence of booted feet issued into the room, followed by a mewl of pain and the sound of someone being thrown onto the council chamber floor.

"Your Grace," said a familiar voice.

Korvan turned his head. There stood two imperial guards in their sky blue livery; each of them was already bent in a formal bow. Half a step behind them was the shadowy figure of Jaeron, the archmage. It was he who had spoken. When Korvan's eyes met Jaeron's, the archmage gave a slight nod.

The figure that had been thrown to the floor was a cringing old woman.

The emperor pushed back from the table and stood. He moved a few paces across the floor. As he moved, the sound of a tolling bell rolled through the chamber. Korvan paused, turning his head toward the window, although he could not see the Temple from his vantage point.

He closed his eyes for a moment as the bell sounded, holding their faces in his mind: Kaori's and Mhera's. The bells rang twice as long as they normally would. When they stopped, the last strains hanging in the still air, the archmage spoke. "Your Grace, I think I have found what you need."

Korvan looked down at the filthy creature. Her hair was frazzled, her clothes darkened with soot. "What is this?"

"His Highness Prince Koren discovered, by clever application of force, that the traitor Matei has kin in the city, Your Grace. This woman is the survivor."

The woman reached out a shaking hand. Korvan watched in a detached manner as the hand fell to clutch at his shoe. He took a step back so that her hand would fall away, his lip curled in disgust.

"Your Grace, please," begged the woman. She turned her round, age-lined face up to him, her rheumy eyes red with smoke, tears, or perhaps both. On her cheek was the marke of the lower caste. She went on in a thin, tear-strained voice: "Please, mercy. You may have me, but do not take my boy. Please, Your Grace!"

The archmage, to his credit, did not seem to be affected by the woman's display of emotion. "They call her Rhea u Rhanna, mother of Rhodana. It is her son you seek, Your Grace. No wonder he has sown such disharmony."

Korvan had not known Rhodana had been a mother. Then again, concern for such a thing would never have crossed his mind. "It is clear that treachery runs in the blood," he said.

Rhea wailed. "Please, Your Grace!"

The sound of her crying grated on Korvan's nerves. It was doubly bad because he knew that every emotion displayed by her kind was duplicitous. She would wheedle him for mercy, but she would be the first to plunge the knife into his back. There could be no pity for creatures like her.

"What do you propose, Archmage?" asked the emperor.

"They are kin; her blood may serve."

Korvan recalled the long-ago day when the archmage and others had assembled in this very room. They had determined that day how to deal with his niece's unfortunate problem, and their solution had failed. He pushed away the pain of it, the loss.

That day, Jaeron had suggested that a curse could be wrought upon someone if the right materials were at hand. Hair. Blood. "And?"

"Her blood is the link; what runs in her veins runs in his. Rest assured, Your Grace. I have studied this spellcraft extensively, and I have experimented at length. Through her, we can send a message to the rebel king."

"Good. Take her out of here; her crying is insufferable." Korvan paused while the two guards dragged Rhea, screaming, from the room. There was a smear of blood left behind on the polished floor.

When the emperor looked up to demand it be cleaned away, Yorek had already gone. Korvan knew he would be seeing to the matter of the mess. Yorek was a faithful servant; Korvan hardly ever had to ask for something. It was simply done.

"And how proceeds the search of the city?" Korvan asked the archmage.

"It goes on apace, Your Grace. The prince is—eager to see your wishes done."

A tall figure appeared in the doorway of the council chamber. It was the lorekeeper, Eovin. Uncharacteristically, the man was out of breath. Korvan could hear him panting as he made a deep, formal bow. "Your Grace—forgive me—for disturbing you."

Korvan raised his eyebrows. The lorekeeper was a fixture in the palace, but to cross paths with him was rare, especially in his own council chamber. "Master Eovin. Good day."

"Good day, Your Grace." Standing straight now, the lorekeeper seemed to grasp for words. "I—ah."

"Well?" Korvan gestured at the archmage, who slid a dark stare toward Eovin. "I am engaged in matters of some importance. What is it?"

"I apologize, Your Grace. It is only that, as I walked the hall, I noticed two of your guards with an old woman in tow. I only wished to ... gather the details." He paused. "For the record. So much has happened, you see; I wish to record accurately all the—progress."

Looking at the lorekeeper, Korvan could tell that Eovin was not a man made for war. He was pale just mentioning the recent events in the Holy City.

Neither was Korvan a man of war, in his own consideration. Korvan disliked the violence, the fire, the blood. It was messy. But when control slipped into chaos, certain things became necessary, and if there was one thing the emperor was not, it was a coward. "I regret if the creature disturbed you with her howling, Master Eovin. She is but a prisoner."

"Ah, of course. She must be an important one, to have merited an audience with Your Grace."

"I think she is the key. The key to the end of all this ... trouble," said the emperor. He kept his voice calm and measured, betraying no hint of the pain he felt at the loss of more of his family to rebel hands. "It is too late for Prince Kaori, and I fear it is too late for Sister Mhera, too. But Archmage Jaeron has assured me that the woman will be instrumental in the recovery of the escaped traitor, Matei. At the very least, he will pay for his crimes."

Eovin smiled, but the expression looked tight on his face. He must have run all the way up the hall; Korvan noted a drop of sweat shining on the lorekeeper's temple. "What fortune, Your Grace. Forgive me, archmage," and here the lorekeeper gave another nod of respect, "but I am not a man of such learning as you. How can you hope to recover Matei by way of this weak old woman, my lord?"

Jaeron regarded Eovin calmly. "They are linked by their blood. If we have the old woman's blood, we as good as have Matei's. No bird can find the rebel encampment, and were we to send a soldier or a messenger, it would be a good man wasted. But a message writ large across yon woman's back will be good enough to bring him here. If he cares for her."

Ah. A meddlesome thought. Korvan wondered if the rebel could care, could feel.

No matter. They would soon find out.