babies? As always, she was preoccupied. At the moment that was because of the death of Magden Norath. That could shake the foundations of the world.
The third time past her mind registered the message of the new characters: Mother, we are well, with Aunt Nepanthe. We watch when we can.
Mist froze, transfixed by the multiple levels of meaning.
Her children were wel and evidently happy.
They—and, by extension, Varthlokkur—could look in on her whenever they chose.
Varthlokkur had found a way of reaching into her powerful y protected private quarters to chalk a message on her blackboard.
She had to be afraid.
Not even the Star Rider ought to have that much power.
She col ected herself, erased both messages, took up the chalk and, in elegant cal igraphy, wrote: I love you, Scalza and Ekaterina. And felt just awful when she laid the chalk back down.
She could not be a normal mother while she was Empress of the Dread Empire. It seemed sinful to think she had any real claim on those kids.
She drifted into dark reveries about the horror show that had been her own childhood. She had not had the protection that Scalza and Ekaterina did. It was a miracle that she had survived to become an adult.
A racket drew her to the entrance to her quarters.
Two bodyguards awaited her there. One said, “Lord Ssuma has sent a message saying you should join him in the Karkha Tower. He says it’s urgent.” The other presented a card beautiful y cal igraphed with that message and Shih-ka’i’s sigil.
“Very wel . You wil accompany me. You have ten minutes to prepare yourselves. Meet me in the transfer chamber.”
...
Bragi Ragnarson was sick to the verge of puking of Bragi Ragnarson. Mist should be burned at the stake for wakening this Wild Hunt of introspection.
But there was nothing else to do.
The more he considered the Bragi Ragnarson of recent years the less he liked the man—despite having been the man. Today’s Bragi had serious difficulty understanding choices made by yesterday’s Bragi.
Back in what seemed antediluvian times Derel Prataxis had observed that power could warp and damage the most soundly grounded mind. Power was worse than opium. It twisted the mind and soul even more.
A morning spent contemplating his self-debasement, while watching an orange and blood-red sunrise, fel apart around him. Mist appeared.
He had not expected to see her again. Certainly not so soon, though the soon was an emotional age. It would be just a month or two in objective time
He had not kept track. Counting the hours only sparked a dismal melancholy. What he could see from his windows suggested springtime.
Lord Ssu-ma Shih-ka’i fol owed Mist, then came two behemoths wearing badges identifying them as Imperial lifeguards.
The visitors so startled Ragnarson that, at first, he retreated like a threatened animal. Then, final y, “Mist?”
“Bragi.”
He eyed Shih-ka’i and the bodyguards. The general wore his boar mask. Nothing could be read from his body language.
“What’s going on? I thought I’d be in solitary forever.”
“That was the plan. But things keep happening. I found myself unable to be so cruel as to deny you the news.” Something in Lord Ssu-ma’s stance suggested that he thought leaving the prisoner in ignorance would be the kinder cut.
“Tel me what you think I need to know.” The natural observer inside marveled at his pretended calm.
He had not looked into the eyes of another in so long. His heart pounded. His breathing grew heavier.
The lifeguards moved up beside their mistress.
Not a good sign. Why so much muscle? He was one out-of-shape, middle-aged man.
The circumstances guaranteed that the news would be terrible.
Mist said, “Kavelin has fal en further into chaos. Ingrid has imprisoned her cousin, the Duke. In Itaskia vultures are feeding on the Greyfel s family corpse. Meantime, Inger has been abandoned by most of her Kaveliner supporters. They haven’t turned on her, they’ve just gone home. If she tried to cal up an army it’s unlikely that anyone would show.” He did not care. The man who had loved Kavelin had been a fool who lived in an elder age.
“Your daughter-in-law has lost most of her support, too, because she hasn’t done anything to help those who stood by her. By autumn it wil be every man for himself. There won’t be a pretense of authority outside Vorgreberg.”
“There is no way you can make me feel any worse or any more responsible. And I’m sure that isn’t the news you’ve brought to torment me. A col apse into a lawless Kavelin has been inevitable since I was dim enough to butt heads with Lord Ssu-ma.”
“That was the political update. The real news is that Magden Norath is dead. The man who kil ed him seems to have been your friend Haroun.”
“Haroun is dead.”
“Quite probably true. But an eyewitness insists that the man wielding the knife was bin Yousif.”
“That is a piece of news. If it’s true. It wil rattle the world. But it’s insane. Where has Haroun been? Why? Why show himself now?”
Ragnarson noted a slight adjustment in Lord Ssu-ma’s stance. The Tervola knew something. He would volunteer nothing, though.
Mist said, “He didn’t announce himself. He was recognized.
Maybe. He was one of several dozen derelicts living rough in a remote town. Megelin and Norath went there to meet the Star Rider. Haroun, if it was him, attacked so quickly and violently that the sorcerer had no chance to defend himself.”
Ragnarson gaped. This was unbelievable. There had to be some error, most likely by the witness. Maybe he was the kil er. Passing the blame to Haroun bin Yousif would make a great distraction. But Haroun was dead.
“That feels like old news. In your world. There’s more, isn’t there? Something more personal and dark. Right?” He gestured. Four of them. Proof of his contention.
“You’re right.”
“Out with it, then.”
“An assassin employed by Dane of Greyfel s found your daughter-inlaw’s band in the Tamerice Kapenrungs.” The floor seemed to go out from under Ragnarson.
He could not speak. Too much emotion rose up after so many months of nothing but mild disappointments over his meals.
“How bad was it?”
“There was one casualty.”
Ragnarson reddened. “Tel me!”
The bodyguards stepped forward. The nearest looked eager. Bragi calmed himself. Explosive emotionalism had gotten him into this fix.
These two would pluck him like a dead chicken.
Mist said, “The assassin was supposed to wipe out the whole party.”
Ragnarson’s vision began to go red. He growled. He leaned toward Mist.
The blow came quicker than a blink. He sprawled against the side of a divan, head spinning. His left shoulder was dislocated. That side of his face felt as though it had been branded.
Mist observed, “You are a slow study, Bragi. Let me explain this one more time. You prisoner. Me owner of prison.” Ragnarson groaned, worked himself into a sitting position.
His head began to hurt. “I’m beginning to catch on. Please tel me what happened to my people.”
