Lynn Flewelling - The Bone Doll's Twin

A hearth shrine stood at the center of the grove; Tobin found a wooden carving in his belt pouch and cast it and a few homesick tears into the flames with a prayer to be at his home hearth soon.

Lamps were being lit around the citadel when Tobin happened past the royal tomb. He hadn’t come here since the night of his arrival. Chilled and footsore, he went inside to warm himself at the altar flame.

“Father, I miss you!” he whispered, staring into the flame. Had it really only been a few months since he’d died? It didn’t seem possible. Tobin felt like he’d been here for years already.

He pulled the chain from his neck and held the seal and his mother’s ring in his hand. Tears blurred his eyes as he looked down at the dual profiles on the ring. He missed both of them. Right now he knew he’d even be glad to see his mama in one of her bad spells, if only he could be home again and everything as it had been.

He had no desire to visit the dead below. Instead, he said a long prayer for their spirits. When he was finished he felt a little better.

It was raining harder now. He turned and studied the effigies of the Skalan queens as he waited for it to pass, wondering if he could recognize the ghost that he’d seen in the throne room.

As an artist, he noted with interest the differing styles of the statues. The earliest, Ghërilain the Founder, was a stiff, lifeless figure with a flat face and all her clothes and accounterments molded close to her body, as if the sculptor hadn’t had the skill to quite free her from the stone. All the same, he recognized the Sword of Ghërilain clutched in her gauntleted hands—the same sword that all the other statues held. His uncle carried that sword now.

Was it the same sword, perhaps, that the ghost had held out to him? He turned slowly where he stood, studying the stone faces. Which one had she been? For she had certainly been a queen. And if it had been this sword she’d held, why would she offer it to him?

He checked quickly to make certain that the altar priest was nowhere around, then whispered, “Blood my blood, flesh my flesh, bone my bone.”

Brother appeared, looking transparent in the firelight. How long had it been since he’d last called him, Tobin wondered guiltily. Three days? A week? Perhaps longer. There had been feasts and dances and practices, then all the fuss with Ki. What would Lhel say? He didn’t like to think of that.

“I’m sorry I forgot,” he whispered. “Look, here are the great queens. You remember the ones in the box at home? This is their tomb. I saw one of them—her ghost. Do you know who it was?”

Brother began circling the effigies, looking up at each one in turn. He came to rest at last in front of one and seemed content to remain there.

“Is that her? Is she the one I saw at the Old Palace?”

“I beg your pardon, Prince Tobin?”

Tobin turned to find the king’s wizard standing beside the altar. “Lord Niryn! You startled me.”

Niryn bowed. “I might say the same, my prince. I heard you speak, yet I see no one here to listen.”

“I—I thought I saw a ghost in the Old Palace once, and I was wondering if it could have been one of the queens.”

“But you spoke aloud.”

If Niryn could see Brother, he gave no sign. Tobin was careful not to look at the ghost as he answered. “Don’t you ever talk to yourself, my lord?”

Niryn stepped closer. “Perhaps. So, do you recognize your ghost here?”

“I’m not sure. They aren’t very good for faces, are they? Perhaps that one.” He pointed to the one where Brother stood. “Do you know who she is?”

“Queen Tamír, daughter of Queen Ghërilain the First, I believe.”

“Then I guess she’d have reason to haunt,” Tobin said, trying to make light of it all. “She was murdered by her brother,” he went on, nervously rattling off the lesson out of habit. “Pelis contested the Oracle and seized the throne, but Illior Lightbearer punished the land and killed him.”

“Hush, child!” Niryn exclaimed, making some sign on the air. “King Pelis did not murder his sister. She died and he was the only heir. No queen has ever been murdered in Skala, my prince. It’s most unlucky to even suggest such a thing. And assassins killed him, not the gods. Your teachers were most misinformed. Perhaps a new tutor is in order.”

“My apologies, Wizard,” Tobin said quickly, taken aback by this unexpected outburst. “I meant no offense in this holy place.”

The wizard’s stern expression softened. “I’m certain the shades of your ancestors would make allowances for their youngest descendent. You are, after all, the next in line for their throne after Prince Korin.”

“Me?” This was even more surprising.

“But of course. The king’s brothers and sisters are dead, and their issue with them. There is no one else of such close blood tie.”

“But Korin will have heirs of his own.” Tobin had never once imagined sitting on the throne of Skala, only that he would serve it.

“No doubt. But he is a young spark yet, and none of his paramours have kindled. Until then, you are next in the line of succession. Your parents never spoke to you of such things?”

Niryn smiled in a way that did not reach his eyes, and Tobin felt a strange, crawling feeling deep inside, like someone was stirring around in his guts with a bony finger.

“No, my lord. Father only said that I would be a great warrior and serve my cousin as he served the king.”

“An admirable aspiration. You should always beware of anyone who tries to draw you from the path ordained for you by Sakor.”

“My lord?”

“We live in uncertain times, my dear prince. There are forces at work disloyal to the royal house, factions who would have someone other than Agnalain’s son rule. If anyone of that ilk should approach you, I hope you will do your duty and speak to me at once. Such disloyalty cannot be tolerated.”

“Is that what you and the Harriers do, my lord?” Tobin asked. “Hunt down traitors?”

“Yes, Prince Tobin.” The wizard’s voice seemed to take on a darker timbre and fill the open space of the tomb. “As a servant of the Lightbearer, I have sworn to see the children of Thelátimos safe on the throne of Skala. Every true Skalan must serve. All falsehood must be purged with the Flame of Sakor.”

Niryn reached into the altar fire and drew out a handful of flame. It rested in his palm like water.

Tobin fell back a step, disliking the reflection of this unnatural fire in the man’s jasper-colored eyes.

Niryn let the flame run away to nothingness through his fingers. “Forgive me, Your Highness. I had forgotten that you do not enjoy displays of magic. But I hope that you will remember my words. As I said, we live in uncertain times and too often foul appears fair. It is difficult for one so young as you to discern the difference. I pray that the mark you bear on your arm proves a true sign, and that you will always count me among your good councilors. Good night to you, my prince.”

The crawling, stirring feeling rippled through Tobin again, less strong this time, then disappeared as Niryn left the tomb.

Tobin waited until the man was out of sight, then sat down at the foot of the altar and wrapped his arms around his knees to fight the fresh chill that had overtaken him.

The wizard’s veiled allusions to traitors frightened him. It was as if he was being accused of doing something, yet he knew that he’d done nothing that the wizard could disapprove of. He was loyal to Korin and the king with all his heart.

Brother squatted beside him. There is no Pelis here.

Tobin looked around at the effigies. After taking count and looking carefully into their faces he saw that Brother was right. No effigy of King Pelis stood among the royal dead. Niryn was wrong; the lessons his father and Arkoniel had taught him were the truth. But why would the wizard be so insistent?