Shadowmarch

him.”

“It seems strange,” Chert said, unable to hide his disbelief completely, “that a woman would keep her mirror sewed up so tightly in a bag.”

“She wouldn’t! She sewed it up so that he wouldn’t lose it.”

“So you’re saying that a noblewoman with only moments left to spend with her little son—perhaps with her castle under siege and on fire, like in one of those big-folk ballads that you like to listen to when we go to the market upground—took the time to sew this bag shut with these careful little stitches?'

“You’re just trying to make trouble about it.” Opal sounded amused, not irritated. She could afford to be magnanimous, since she had obviously won the day. It was only a mirror, not a ring with a family crest or a letter detailing Flint’s heritage or confessing a dreadful crime Just to make sure, Chert pulled the rest of the dried leaves and flowers out onto the tabletop while Opal made little tutting sounds, but there was nothing else in the sack.

“If you are quite finished making a mess, give all that to me.” The glow of triumph was unmistakable now. “I have a lot of work to do to make that right again before the boy wakes up. You might as well go back to bed, old man.”

And he did. But he still did not sleep, although it was not the quiet sounds Opal made as she plied her needle that kept Chert awake. What was in the sack had not turned out to be something terrible. Nothing would change, at least not for the moment. But that was part of the problem.

I will tell Chaven about it when next I get the chance. He was tired, so tired, and desperate for sleep. He was even more desperate to believe that Opal was right, that there was nothing to worry about, but something still nagged at him. Yes, Chaven, if he’ll see me. He didn’t seem very pleased with my company the last time. But there is no one else to ask. Yes, Chaven is versed in such things. Perhaps he can tell me what it might signify —whether a mirror could be anything more than simply a mirror.

* * *

Briony had been carrying it for hours, looking at the familiar handwriting again and again, as though it were her father’s actual face and not merely words he had written. She had not realized how much she missed him until she had read it, and in reading it she had heard his dear voice speaking to her as though he were in the room with her instead of hundreds of miles away and half a year gone. Could such a homely, intimate thing have possibly been the cause of Kendrick’s murder?

But for an object so freighted with family sorrow, its meaning was somewhat opaque. It did speak of the Autarch, as Brone had said, and of King Olin’s concerns about the southern conqueror.

“Here we come to the meat of your father’s concern, Kendrick, my son,” she read for the sixth or seventh time, “which is that all the talk of the Autarch’s spreading empire that has come north to us is not exaggerated. All the continent of Xand above the great White Desert has fallen under the sway of Xis, and while his father and grandfather were content merely to conquer and exact tribute, this newest Autarch is not a gentle ruler to these subjects. It is said that he considers himself not just king but god, and that all these subject lands must worship him as the true child of the sun itself—yes, the sun that shines in the sky! He has not yet pressed such harsh demands on our cities and states of Eion that have fallen to his influence, but I cannot doubt he will want the same from them when his grip has become adequately tight.

“Do not think, however, that because he is mad he is also foolish. This Autarch was forged of hot metal indeed. He was born Sulepis, third youngest of twenty-six brothers in the royal family of Xis—a nest of vipers that became legendary even in troubled Xis, which has never had any shortage of savagery and murder among its ruling clans. The stories say that only one of his brothers, the youngest of the family, was still alive when Sulepis finally ascended to the throne a year after their father’s death. After this younger brother set the crown on Sulepis’head at the coronation, the poor wretch was taken away and dipped into molten bronze. After the tortured figure cooled, the Autarch had it set in front of the royal palace. A traveler told me that the Autarch likes to tell horrified visitors this ornament is meant to represent. The Importance of Family.

“His grip on Xand is nearly complete, but although he has made conquests in Eion, they are all small states with poor harbors or no harbor at all. He knows that none of them will provide him a suitable base for an invasion, and that without a secure foothold his conscripted army, no matter how large, will not defeat determined men fighting for their own lands, especially if Syan and Jellon and the March Kingdoms stand together…”

* * *

Briony put the letter down, as angry as the first time she read it. Jellon— that swamp of treachery! How like her father, to continue to believe even as he languished in prison because of Jellon’s greed, that he could convince that pig King Hesper to do the right thing, to make common cause against a greater enemy.

And he probably will convince him, given enough time, Briony thought. Then what will I do? What if we do make common cause and they send that oily Count Angelos back here, and I must treat him as an ally instead of sticking my sword in his heart as I would rather? She promised herself she would go to the armory this afternoon and practice with the blade for a while. If Barrick still felt too ill to trade blows, she could always spend an hour pretending that the sawdust-stuffed dummy was Angelos or his master Hesper. It would be good to hit something.

As for the letter’s missing section, she couldn’t guess what might have drawn someone to steal it. From what she could make of the beginning and the end, it seemed only to have been a general and workaday conversation about maintaining the castle walls and gates. Could some spy of the Autarch’s, or some nearer enemy, have taken it because they thought Olin might mention some weakness in Southmarch’s defenses? How could they think her father would be foolish enough to trust information that might endanger his family and home to the hands of Ludis Drakava’s envoy? They didn’t know him. As Brone had said, Olin Eddon was a man who took nothing for granted.

She skipped down to the bottom of the letter, although she knew it would make her cry again to read his farewell.

“And give my best love to Briony, too, tell her that I am sorry I am detained and cannot be there for the birthday she and Barrick share. There is a cat here in this rather drafty old castle who has taken to sleeping at the foot of my bed, and by the way she has grown stout, I suspect soon she will become a mother. Tell Briony that not only will I come back to my family presently, I will bring with me a small surprise, and that she may spoil it all she likes, because unlike dogs or most children, a cat cannot be ruined by too much affection.”

She was pleased with herself. She didn’t cry. Or at least, only a few drops, and they were easily wiped away before Rose or Moina returned.

* * *

Despite his useless arm, Barrick’s greater strength ordinarily made him more than her equal at swordplay, but her brother was still feeling the effects of his illness: his face quickly grew flushed, and before very long he was breathing harshly. Slower than usual, he took several blows to the body from Briony’s padded sword and managed to touch her only once in return. After a much shorter span than Briony would have liked, he stepped away and threw his falchion down with a muffled clatter.

“It’s not fair,” he said. “You know I’m not well enough yet.”

“All the more reason to build up your strength again. Come on, gloomy, let’s try just once more. You can use a shield this time if you want.”

“No. You’re as bad as Shaso. Now that he’s not here to plague me, do you think I’m going to let you take his place?”

There was something more than ordinary anger in his tone, and Briony fought down her own resentment. She was resdess, full of fury and unhap-piness like storm clouds. All she wanted after days of sitting and listening to people talk at her was to move her limbs, to swing the sword, to be something other than a princess, but she knew trying to force Barrick to do anything was useless. “Very well. Perhaps we should talk instead. I read Father’s letter again.”

“I don’t want to talk. Perin’s Hammer, Briony, I’ve done enough talking lately! Plots and intrigues. It makes me weary. I’m going to go have a nap.”

“But we’ve hardly spoken about all the things Brone told us—about Gailon Tolly, and the letter, and the