Excerpt: White Blood

Now it was their turn. Voerell went first, Whirter beside her. Maryn, holding Barilan high before her, followed. Behind them came Madam Semprell and all the ladies-in-waiting.

The crowed erupted into ecstatic noise. It washed over Maryn like a flood. She boosted Barilan higher in her arms, and shrank down behind him. It was the Prince everyone greeted with such fervor. She was merely the vehicle for his conveyance, as invisible as the horse he would ride when he was grown to manhood and paraded before his adoring subjects. It was galling to be ignored that way, but at the same time Maryn was glad to take refuge from all those staring eyes in her anonymity.

They arrived at the front. Madame Semprell led the ladies-in-waiting to their seats at the low tables. Maryn watched her step carefully that she might not stumble as she ascended the steps. She followed Voerell and Whirter around the table. After Princess Voerell took her place to the immediate right of the King’s chair, Whirter beside her, Maryn passed Barilan into her arms. The Prince fussed a little, and clung to Maryn, but Voerell pried him from her arms and caught his attention with a shiny silver spoon. Mollified, Barilan grabbed at it, banged it on the table and waved it about before stuffing it into his mouth. Maryn stepped back and took up her place with the other servants, standing at attention behind the table. She would not get to participate in the feast, but Semprell had assured her a generous portion of the rich food would be set aside for her to enjoy in the privacy of the nursery afterwards. Her only duty now was to keep a close watch on Barilan and Voerell, helping the Princess with her son in any way she might need.

A trumpet fanfare sounded through the hall. As one, everyone rose and faced the rear. Maryn could not see well for the line of tall bodies before her, but she leaned from side to side until she could peer between Whirter and Carlich. King Froethych paraded down the center aisle, graciously nodding to the assembled nobles, occasionally stopping to take a hand and exchanged a few words with a favored guest. It took him a long time to advance all the way through the room to the dais. Maryn was not the only one shifting from foot to foot by the time he arrived. Voerell bounced Barilan to try to keep him happy. At last Froethych squeezed his large, rotund form around the back of the table and into the grand, ornate chair at the center. As he sat, the music came to an exultant climax and halted. Everyone else sank gratefully into their seats.

A new, more reverent piece of music began. A delegation of priests from the cathedral paced slowly down the aisle, chanting a solemn hymn in the ancient tongue. Prelate Kiellen brought up the rear. Maryn had seen him a few times before, when she accompanied Voerell and Barilan to the Sabbath services at the cathedral. He was an elderly man, but still hale, a full head of thick white hair beneath the red and gold cap of his office. He had seemed kindly to Maryn in the way he laid his gentle hand of blessing on her head as well as Voerell’s and Barilan’s, his voice the same musical flow of unintelligible words for each of the three of them in turn.

Kiellen led the assembly in a series of prayers and responsive liturgies. For the most part it was the same as any Sabbath service; Maryn echoed back the ritual phrases automatically, along with everyone else. At one point, while Kiellen read a long passage from the Holy Scriptures regarding the duty a King held toward his people, Barilan seemed about to erupt into loud, disruptive wails. Maryn was ready to swoop in and take him from Voerell to sooth him, but Carlich beat her to it. He waved into existence a fountain of the blue sparks Barilan loved so much, hiding them from the crowd below the edge of the table. Whirter pushed his chair back to allow Carlich to extend the bright magical display past him. Barilan grabbed at the swarming blue fireflies excitedly, completely distracted from whatever discomfort had bothered him. Voerell bit her lip, but did not protest.

After a very long time, the preliminary rituals were complete, and the main portion of the ceremony arrived. Prelate Kiellen summoned the King, Voerell, and Barilan to come forward. They made their way around the long table and took up their places in front of it, the Prelate in the center, Froethych on his right, Voerell holding Barilan on his left.

“We have come today to witness the investiture of Prince Barilan Sompirla-Rottolla as heir to the kingdom of Milecha.” Kiellen had to had to pause to allow the crowd’s response to die down. “King Froethych, do you hereby acknowledge Barilan as a true-born heir of your body, rightful member of the Sompirla dynasty through your daughter Voerell? Do you purpose to grant him a place in the line of succession to the Kingship of Milecha, after yourself, your son Prince Marolan Sompirla, and your son Prince Carlich Sompirla?”

“I do.” The King accompanied his words with a decisive nod.

“And do you, Princess Voerell, speaking for your son Prince Barilan, acknowledge and accept his responsibility to take up the crown of Milecha, should it pass to him in turn?”

“I do.”

“And if the crown should come to Prince Barilan before he reaches the age of sixteen years, do you, Princess Voerell Sompirla-Rottolla, agree to serve as Regent, acting in all respects as his representative, governing Milecha in his name, and surrendering your position when Prince Barilan comes of age?”

Voerell looked from Prelate Kiellen to King Froethych, astonished. “Father…?”

Froethych beamed at her, pleased with the effect of his surprise. He leaned forward. Just loud enough for Maryn to catch it above the excited buzz of the crowd, he murmured, “The law might not allow me to formally make you my heir, but you deserve the honor every bit as much as your brothers. This was the best way open to me to acknowledge that. Likely it will only ever be a formality, but I trust you to fulfill the responsibility admirably, if, may the Holy One forbid, the need should ever arise.”

Voerell blushed and stammered. “Father, I… I don’t know what to say…”

He jerked his head toward Kiellen, smiling. “Answer the Prelate.”

Voerell collected herself and drew herself up to her full height. Proudly, her voice ringing through the hall, she proclaimed, “I do.”

Kiellen nodded in acknowledgement, smiling a little. With measured, dramatic movements, he withdrew a small gold knife from its sheath at his waist. “Give me your hand, my King. Princess, your son’s hand.”

Froethych extended his hand, palm up. Voerell grabbed Barilan’s wrist and placed his hand into his grandfather’s. Barilan squirmed and fought her, but she hung on tight and refused to let him wrench his arm free. Barilan began to shriek in protest.

Above the baby’s screams, Kiellen’s voice rose in the incantation to the Holy One. He did not rush, but it rolled swiftly from his tongue, and within a few moments he proceeded into the specific part of the spell. His knife flicked, opening a small cut in the King’s palm, and a tiny prick on Barilan’s finger.

Blue lightning crackled around the King and the Prince. A soft halo of light formed around each of their heads. Froethych’s outlined and illumined the crown on his head, the same that had rested on the head of each of the Kings of Milecha, since long before the beginning of the Sompirla dynasty. A faint shadow of that crown shone briefly over Barilan’s spiky dark hair. Even fainter, but still distinct, another copy appeared above Voerell’s head. Barilan’s cries, which had spiked loud with the pain of the knife’s touch, died away. His eyes and mouth grew round as he gazed at the glowing apparitions.

The residual power of the shed blood burned up in a burst of sparkles as Kiellen spoke the concluding words. Froethych beamed. As Kiellen stepped back, polishing his knife on the soft cloth that hung from his sash as part of his vestments, Froethych flung his arms wide and engulfed Voerell and Barilan in a great embrace. Cheers erupted from the watching assembly.

Maryn applauded with the rest. To her surprise, she found tears stinging her eyes. Froethych’s love for his daughter and grandson was so evident. She blinked them away.

At length the commotion died down. Froethych and Voerell came back around the table and resumed their seats. Barilan, tired and hungry and aware once again of the pain in his hand now that the entrancing lights were gone, began to bawl. Voerell passed him thankfully to Maryn, who settled him in to nurse. She checked his diaper with a practiced finger. Slightly damp, but not messy; nothing that could not wait until later.

A line of dignitaries formed and began to process up the center aisle. Representatives of all the districts and landholdings and towns in Milecha filed forward and presented their gifts to the infant heir. A great variety of precious goods and fine workmanship was displayed to the crowd, before servants bore them away. Furs and gems and silver and gold. Weapons of every sort; swords, spears, shields, bows and arrows. Examples of every type of craft; wrought metal, carved wood, glass, pottery, embroidery, weaving. Maryn sniffed when Ralo’s gift, a rather generic tapestry in no way comparable to Enrich’s masterpiece, was presented. The woodland scene and band of hunters pursuing a stag was pleasant enough, but her experienced eye easily picked up the flawed, hasty workmanship. They must have commissioned it from one of the weavers who had resided outside the burned sector where most of the best weavers had lived. Her scorn helped Maryn bury the grief that welled up inside her when she remembered what this day should have meant for her and Enrich and Frilan. She concentrated on her disdain for the stiff, unnatural position of the stag’s legs and the asymmetrical spread of his antlers until the urge to break down weeping had passed.

After that it was just a matter of enduring the long, boring procession. Barilan fell asleep in her arms. She slipped him off her breast and adjusted her clothing, but Voerell was engaged in animated conversation with the King and her husband and brothers, so Maryn kept Barilan, propping him on her shoulder, swaying back and forth a little to ease the pressure on her back and feet.

At long last the presentations were complete. Servants cleared away the last of the gifts and began, to everyone’s pleasure, to bring out the first course of the feast. Servants bore tall gold goblets of wine to the high table, served the King first, and moved down the line of the table.

Carlich leaned over from where he was standing behind Marolan’s chair, chatting with Dolia. He snagged Marolan’s cup and took an exaggerated swig. “Ah, I’ve been waiting far too long for that.” He wiped the back of his hand across his mouth.

“Hey!” Marolan was obviously deeply annoyed, but he forced a genial laugh. “Get your own!” He waved toward Carlich’s seat, beyond the King, where Carlich’s goblet waited.

“Sorry, brother,” Carlich said, with no trace of remorse in his voice. He pulled out his handkerchief and wiped the edge of the goblet with a flourish. “Here. It’s very nice; Father spared no expense for our nephew’s feast. Too bad he can’t enjoy it.”

“I swear, Carlich, someday you’re going to learn some manners.” Marolan accepted his goblet back and took a long draught.

Something changed in the set of Carlich’s shoulders. Maryn, watching him from behind, thought it was as if one sort of tension was released, and another sort took its place. She was puzzled for a moment, but Barilan shifted and whimpered, and she focused on him, swaying and murmuring soothing words to try to lull him back into deeper sleep. It worked; he squirmed for a moment, resettled his weight, and sank back into stillness.

Carlich returned to his seat. Servants bore in a large, fanciful pastry, a precise replica of the palace baked in savory bread flecked with herbs and stuffed with cheese. The main construction was placed before the King, and cut and parceled out among the occupants of the high table; the guests at the long tables each had individual little towers. Maryn’s stomach rumbled. She breathed in the warm, salty scent of the cheese longingly. It would be at least an hour yet, probably longer, before she could retire to the nursery and enjoy her own repast. By that time it would all be cold. She eyed the remains of the demolished palace, speculating on whether she might be able to sneak a piece unnoticed if she made some pretext to approach Voerell with a question or comment on Barilan’s well being.

An odd, choking sound cut through the rumble of conversation. Though soft, there was something in the sound that immediately caught the attention. Maryn looked up from Barilan’s sleeping face and searched for its source. Only when she followed the turned heads and shocked eyes to the point where they were all focused did she see. Marolan leaned over his plate, his face deathly pale, retching as if to vomit, but nothing emerged from his open mouth but that soft, strangled cough.

For a frozen instant no one reacted. Then Dolia’s scream pierced the stunned silence. Carlich leaped to Marolan’s side. “He’s choking!” he cried. “Call Rogelyn!”

Carlich whipped out the little jeweled knife he used for sorcery, and slashed open his palm. Blood splattered all over Marolan. Carlich waved his hands about frantically, and the blood burst into a brilliant display of flashing blue sparks and swirling lights of all colors.

Despite all his efforts, Marolan continued to strangle. His eyes rolled back in his head, and he swayed. Froethych seemed frozen in his chair, staring at his eldest son’s distress. But Voerell and Whirter had sprung forward. “Stand back!” Voerell cried to the rapidly converging throngs that pushed toward Marolan. “Carlich is a skilled sorcerer. He can help him! Give him space!”

Marolan slumped sideways in his chair. It overturned, spilling him to the floor. His long limbs thrashed about. Carlich crouched over him, never ceasing his urgent gestures.
But it was no use. As the minutes stretched long, Marolan’s movements grew slower, and weaker, and ceased altogether. The choking noises faded to a faint rasp, and then nothing.

Maryn stood frozen, horrified, staring. She clutched Barilan to her chest, so tight he began to squirm in protest.

Rogelan pushed his way through the crowd from where he had been seated at one of the lower tables. “Let me by!” People gradually parted to let him through.

When he reached Marolan, Carlich was hunched over his still form. He raised a pale face to Rogelan. “There was nothing I could do. Something was blocking his lungs, but I couldn’t find any food or other obstruction. It’s like his throat just swelled shut.”
His voice was ragged, distraught, but something in it seemed off to Maryn, just a little too glib, his words a little too rehearsed. She wasn’t the only one who noticed; Voerell looked at Carlich sharply, and Whirter's brow creased.

Rogelan looked at King Froethych grimly. “It sounds like poison.” He put a hand to Marolan’s neck, holding it there for a long instant before shaking his head. “If Carlich could not save him, there’s nothing further I can do. But if he was poisoned, your Majesty, perhaps I can discover the source. If blood was used to create a magic poison, the traces will remain to be revealed.”

Voerell sank to her knees beside Marolan’s body, weeping. Dolia sat frozen in her chair, looking back and forth between Marolan’s still form and the faces surrounding him, an expression of deep puzzlement on her face, as if she must strain to understand every word spoken. The Ambassador put his hand on her arm and murmured rapidly in her ear.

Froethych rose to his feet, thunderous anger in every line of his body, his face a dangerous, dispassionate mask. “Do so.”

Everyone drew back, cowed by the King’s implacable authority. Rogelan knelt by Marolan’s body. His voice rose in the incantation to the Holy One, shaky at first, but steadying as he fell into the rhythm of the familiar words. He drew his knife and nicked the pad of his finger, a generous slice, that immediately began to bleed.

Energy buzzed in Maryn’s feet and up to her jaw. Blue lightning flashed out. Marolan’s body began to steam, much as her milk had when Rogelan tested it. The vapor rose into a cloud, mounting higher and higher toward the ceiling, until it was large enough to be seen by everyone in the hall. Portions thickened, others thinned, until the billowing white clouds formed the distinct shape of a face, the mirror of one that looked up at the mist in horror.

Slanted oval eyes, slim elegant cheekbones, long flowing unbound hair. Dolia’s lovely countenance floated over her betrothed’s body.

Carlich jumped up, lunging. “You!” he cried, as Whirter grabbed him and held him back. Guards surged in and grabbed Dolia, wrenching her to her feet, twisting her arms behind her. Ambassador Honro leaped to her assistance, but he too was seized. Carlich continued, blurting furious, hoarse accusations. “You used your blood to poison him! You never intended to marry him! Was the betrothal a plot, all along, to assassinate him? Or was it the only way you knew to escape an unwanted marriage? Wonora will pay for this in blood! Blood, I swear—”

“Silence.” King Froethych’s voice was not loud, but it cut off Carlich’s tirade in midstream. “Sorcerer. Your spell shows that the Princess’s blood was found in Prince Marolan’s body, yes?”

Rogelan quailed before the King’s cold voice. Above him, the last shreds of vapor drifted away. “Yes, your Majesty. And not just any blood; I specifically looked for blood transformed by magic into a poison. Princess Dolia’s visage could only appear if her blood was what killed the Prince.”

Froethych nodded. He looked at the captain of the guards. “You will take the Princess to the palace gaol. The Ambassador too, and all their party. Hold them there. In the morning, a trial will be convened, and guilt will be determined. The one responsible for my son’s death will face execution.”

Dolia’s face remained confused for a moment, until Ambassador Honro spoke urgently to her in Wonoran. She blinked, and her faced blanched in horror. “No! No, I kill not Marolan! My betrothed, I love him, hate him not! Why kill him I?”

Carlich growled at her, “Be silent, murderer. Save your lies. We’ll show your father what he can expect if he tries to tangle with Milecha. There’ll be no treaty now to let you steal our crown in your husband’s sleep!”

Voerell, still hunched over Marolan’s body, froze. She looked up at Carlich, an expression of profound horror flooding her features. “Carlich,” she whispered. “You didn’t…”

She looked at Whirter. The same awful realization was dawning in the Duke’s face. He took a step sideways that placed him between Carlich and the only clear route of escape.

“F-Father.” Voerell’s voice shook so badly she almost could not form the word. She swallowed and tried again. “Father, I think… Carlich had Dolia’s blood, on his handkerchief. I saw it, this morning, she pricked her finger on a rose thorn, he cleansed the blood for her… but maybe not all of it?” She shut her eyes and shook her head, trying to deny the awful knowledge. “He was so upset about the treaty, so angry that you wouldn’t try to change it. He asked for our support, because he was going to try something different…” She blanched. “Carlich, how could you? You… Marolan… our brother…”

Carlich slowly straightened and faced her. “Voerell, you’re talking nonsense. Of course I would never harm Marolan. Father, she’s out of her mind with grief. You can’t possibly believe that I—”

Froethych motioned him silent. If it were possible, he had grown even more still. He fixed Voerell with his gaze. His voice was bizarrely gently, coming from that terrible stern countenance. “Did Carlich have an opportunity to put Dolia’s blood in Marolan’s food?”

Voerell wrapped her arms around her body and rocked. “I don’t know… I don’t think so… Wait.” She looked up at her father, despair in her eyes. “He did. I saw. He used his handkerchief to wipe—”

Carlich lunged forward. Whirter leaped to stop him, but Carlich was ready. His knife flashed, slashing Whirter’s throat. Blood fountained out. Carlich raised the bloody knife and waved it in a meaningful gesture. Blue lightning flashed out, toward Voerell.

It met an invisible shield and splashed aside. Voerell crouched, stricken, staring up with no understanding at the sparks flashing only inches from her face. Carlich repeated his gesture, stepping toward her, a furious light in his eyes, but the magic only reflected from the impermeable barrier. “What are you doing?” he cried, as once again his efforts were frustrated.

Voerell shook her head. Her gaze travelled behind Carlich. He whirled, bloody knife raised before him in defense.

King Froethych stood, blood pouring from a gash across one palm. Blue lightning crackled around him. He moved his arms in a grand, sweeping arc. “You will not… harm… your sister,” he gasped, between great indrawn breaths. More blood gushed from his hand, far more than such a small wound should produce. “You will not… harm… your blood kin…. No more…”

Blood fountained upward, exploding into blue fire that flashed outward, filling the hall, passing through the walls as if they were not there, arcing up into the sky. Maryn clutched Barilan to her. He had woken, and was crying, but she could barely hear his wails above the furiously crackling lightning and the intense buzz that felt as if it would shake her bones apart. It struck her, suddenly, how much King Froethych looked like Enrich’s representation of his ancestor, Lord Hoenech. The same blue lightning, the same sweeping gestures, the same fountain of blood erupting in scarlet and crimson plumes. Enrich would have been pleased, one detached part of her mind noted, to see how accurately he had caught the scene. Lord Hoenech’s spell had been so powerful that the effects had blanketed the whole kingdom, curing victims of the plague for many hundreds of miles around. But of course, his spell had run out of control, and sucked all the blood from Lord Hoenech’s body to feed its insatiable appetite…

Froethych staggered, falling to one knee, but his arms never stopped waving. It was as if some alien force had seized control of them, and they moved without his volition. His eyes remained fixed on Carlich and Voerell. Carlich fell back and dropped his arms, watching in horror as his father poured out his life into the power of his spell. Voerell scrambled to Whirter’s side, and tried vainly to staunch the waning flow of blood from his throat.

Froethych slumped toward the ground, but struggled to push himself erect. For a moment he wrenched his hands into a different gesture, and his face twisted into a grimace as he forced a portion of the magic momentarily into a new path.“You are no heir of mine… I break the blood bond… disinherit you…”

Above Carlich’s head a phantom crown appeared. It burst into blue flames and disappeared. Carlich cried out, in anger and grief, and groped futilely toward his head where it had been.

His last strength spent, Froethych fell once again under the power of the spell he had begun, that rampaged now beyond his control. His arms returned to their possessed waving, and a ragged chant tore from his throat, barely more than a whisper. “Not harm… your kin… no more… no one… never… you may not touch them….”

His face was white as bleached linen, white as wool, white as snow blanketed hills. The last sputtering drops shot from the gash in his hand and exploded into sparks. The buzz reached an unbearable crescendo and died. Froethych’s great body crashed to the ground, splintering the chair it fell upon and sending fragments flying in every direction.

Carlich made one last lunge toward Voerell, lashing at her with his knife, but it was turned aside just as his magic had been. He turned at bay, seeing guards converging on him from every side.

Maryn clutched the wailing Barilan. For an instant everything else was silent in the wake of the spell’s end, and his cries were the only sound, cutting harsh and shrill across the huge hall. A soft blue glow in the shape of a crown appeared once again over his head, then faded.

Without warning, Carlich whirled and plunged straight at Maryn.

Carlich’s arm went around Maryn’s throat, choking off her startled cry. He dragged her toward the wall at the back of the dais. His knife waved wildly around her; there were still a few spatters of blood on it whose power had not yet been exhausted; blue sparks showered down around them. She desperately needed to drag his choking arm away from her throat, but she dared not loosen her grip on Barilan, whose screams pierced her ears.

“Barilan!” Voerell screamed, lunging after them. Her hands were wet with Whirter’s blood. She made a flinging gesture, and blue lightning flashed out, but splashed harmlessly inches away from Carlich, just as his had failed to reach her.

She shrieked her frustration, but then, shockingly, laughed, high and wild. “You can’t harm him!” she cried. “Guards, seize Carlich! Barilan is in no danger; he cannot harm his blood kin!”

“I can harm her!” Carlich’s knife pressed into Maryn’s throat, just above his strangling arm. “If I kill her, she’ll drop him. Are you willing to risk that?”

Voerell threw out her arms to stop the guards’ advance. “Wait!” Her face was torn with indecision.

Carlich dragged Maryn a few feet further along the wall. He kicked behind them, hard, and a concealed door flew open. Maryn stumbled and nearly fell as he hauled her through into the dark, narrow corridor beyond.

Voerell shouted to the guards. “After him! That door leads to a whole network of passages! Don’t let him escape!”

Carlich shouldered the secret door shut a split second before the first guard could reach it. Releasing Maryn, he waved his knife, cursed when nothing happened, and slashed his palm. The newly shed blood burst into sparks that enveloped the door.

Maryn clutched Barilan to her chest and ran. She had only made it a few steps when Carlich caught up to her and seized a handful of fabric at the back of her chemise, jerking her to a halt. She fought to free herself, but he was far stronger than she, wild with anger and fear, and crackling with the power of the blood that dripped from his hand, smearing the hilt of his knife.

“You! Be still. Do exactly what I say, or I’ll cut your throat and use your blood to bring down death on all of them!” Carlich stared at the wailing Barilan in Maryn’s arms for a long instant before setting off with quick, determined steps down the hidden passage, propelling her before him. He spoke as he went, half to Maryn, half thinking aloud. “Father is dead. Marolan is dead. Father disinherited me before he died, may the Vulture eat his soul! Barilan’s heirship ceremony was complete, so the Kingship fell on him. Gallows, why couldn’t I have managed to bring it off before that! And it seems now I can’t harm him, because of Father’s spell.” He halted, so suddenly Maryn nearly fell. He whirled on her and swung his hand hard toward Barilan’s head. It jerked to a halt inches before it struck the baby, as if a powerful hand seized it and held it motionless. “Gallows!

He pulled his hand back and slapped Maryn’s face. She reeled, her cheek stinging. “Good,” Carlich spat. “I am not completely powerless, at least.” He grabbed her upper arm and resumed shoving her along with him down the corridor.

“Please! Please, Prince Carlich,” Maryn gasped. “Don’t hurt me. I’ll do whatever you say. Just please, don’t…” Her eyes clouded and her throat closed with terror.

He did not answer for several long minutes. They reached a place where another passage intersected the one they were in. Carlich hesitated a moment before choosing one of the branching paths. This one led to a steep, narrow stair. It was nearly dark, the only illumination a little light leaking through occasional narrow slits high in the wall.
At the foot of the long stair, they came to a slightly wider spot. Carlich turned back and sent a burst of magic up toward the ceiling. A portion buckled and fell with a crash and a billowing cloud of dust, completely blocking the passage behind them.

Barilan screamed and thrashed in Maryn’s arms. Carlich turned to her, gripping her arm painfully tight. “Can’t you get him to shut up? If he keeps up that racket, they’ll find us in no time.”

“Yes, your Highness. Whatever you want.” Maryn fumbled blindly with the tie of her chemise.

Carlich slapped her again. “Don’t call me that! Didn’t you hear? My father cast me out of his house! I’m no longer heir, nor Prince, nor…” He trailed off, panting.

Maryn cowered away and shifted Barilan into position. It took her a moment of murmuring, her voice strained nearly to breaking, until she could calm him enough have any interest in her breast. But once she did, he latched on with frantic need, sucking fiercely until her milk let down with a warm rush and he relaxed in her arms. The silence echoed in her ears.

Carlich took a deep breath. “That’s better.” He stared at Barilan. “You, my nephew, are King now. And your mother is Regent, so she holds all the powers of the Kingship, until you turn sixteen. Curse Father! It wasn’t supposed to happen like this. Curse Voerell! Everyone believed me until she started spouting off…”

He breathed hard for a few moments. Slowly, his face took on a calculating expression. “Barilan is King, and he is in my power. I cannot harm him, at least not directly, but I can keep possession of him. Voerell… she’ll do anything to get him back. I can make her pardon me, make her give me safe passage out of Milecha. Or… If I can get rid of her somehow, I can make them give the Kingship to me. Kiellen wouldn’t do it, but Vinhor would; he’s wanted to be Prelate for years… Father had no right to disinherit me. I should be King now. I am a Sompirla, descended from Lord Hoenech and King Froelian. The throne of Milecha is my birthright!”

He stepped menacingly toward Maryn. She backed away, terrified of the unreasoning passion in his face. She came up short against the wall of the passage behind her. Carlich loomed over her, putting his hands against the wall on either side of her, trapping her. “Girl, you will come with me. I need you to take care of Barilan, feed him, keep him quiet. You will do whatever I say. If I catch you disobeying me, or trying to betray me in any way, I’ll kill you and find some other nurse for Barilan. Do you understand?”

Maryn gulped, and nodded, far too frightened to make any protest. Only Barilan at her breast kept her from collapsing into a weeping huddle.

“Follow me.” Carlich set off again at a rapid pace, and Maryn stumbled after him.