William King - Shadowblood

“I do not know. It has been some time since I have seen him,” she said.

“I trust his…diplomacy… is going well.” Ryzarde was a member of the same cult as her father and Xephan. He knew what Malkior had been trying to do. “A terrible scandal about poor Jaderac, is it not?”

“I do not think this is the time or place to discuss that,” said Tamara.

“Quite. Quite. Your discretion is an example for us all.”

“Gossip is the curse of the Terrarchy.”

“True but it is also our main amusement. For the sake of your delicate sensibilities I will try and limit myself to neutral topics of conversation as we stroll arm in arm through the Palace.”

Gallantly he offered her his arm. Tamara did not take it. Instead she fell in beside him and increased her pace slightly. She knew that Xephan had taken her father’s old ministerial office and she knew where it was. She did not need a guide and Ryzarde needed to be reminded of that.

He talked as they walked, filling her in on the latest Court gossip; which of their old friends were having affairs, who had fought a duel over a human whore, which tailors were fashionable and which simply were not talked about. It was the standard stuff of courtier’s conversation and she was grateful for it. At least he had not quoted any of his execrable poetry to her. Without any further embarrassing incidents she was delivered to the outer chambers of her father’s one time office.

It came as a surprise to her how crowded with petitioners they were. A number of older Terrarch matrons were there, doubtless come to use their influence on behalf of their sons, to seek the Prime Minister’s aid in finding them a place in a fashionable regiment, or under a famous commander. All of them glared at her as she entered, sensing a potential rival. She smiled sweetly back at them and composed herself to wait. She was quite surprised when Xephan’s secretary stepped from the chamber and called her name.

Now some of the matrons smiled back at her. After all, she might have some power herself, or be a personage of some importance to the Prime Minister, a lover or a mistress perhaps. She nodded to one or two of them in a friendly fashion just to encourage their hopes and illusions, and then she stepped into the office and was face to face with the most powerful male Terrarch in the Empire.

“Tamara,” Xephan said. “It is a pleasure to see you.”

“And it is a pleasure to look upon you as well,” she replied, quite honestly. There was no denying that he was worth looking at. He was a Terrarch of quite astonishing beauty, his hair long and dark and glossy, his features sharp and masculine. Tamara could appreciate his looks with an unbiased eye. She preferred a somewhat rougher type herself but she could certainly see what the Empress was said to see in him. His good looks made up for the comparative poverty of his House, and the rustic upbringing he had spent the past century distancing himself from.

He strode across to the door and made sure it was closed, then returned to his desk and uncovered the warding globe there. A few passes and an incantation and it glowed brilliantly, letting them know they could not be overheard by sorcery.

“Your father was indiscreet,” he said, and she was surprised by the amount of anger in his voice. “The Empress is very unhappy. Killing Kathea has upset her greatly. I do not need to remind you, surely, of how any reminder of Royal mortality does that to her.”

“How do you know my father was behind the killing?”

“I have my agents. They saw his body by the way. Asea had him killed and dissected. Our Lady of the West is quite the anatomist.”

So Xephan knew about her father’s death. A stony feeling settled in the pit of her stomach. It was confirmation, if she needed it, of what Rik had said.

“Are you sure your agents are reliable?”

“Indeed I am, sweet Tamara. I had one of them recover his head from where they buried it. Would you like to see it? I have it kept in preservative fluid to remind me of the cost of failure.”

It was all she could do to keep her jaw from dropping. She would not have believed it was possible to get from Halim any faster than she had, and yet, if he was to be believed, Xephan has managed to have her father’s head shipped here. His reach had grown very long indeed.

“I don’t think that will be necessary,” she said calmly.

“Your father’s incompetence, and his protege Jaderac’s, has brought us all to the attention of the Inquisition. Joran is in Halim, making inquiries. There are matters afoot that the Brotherhood did not want brought to their attention for as long as possible.” There had been a time, not so long ago as Terrarchs measured time, when Xephan had been her father’s protege too. He seemed quite determined to forget that.

“Your spies have been busy,” she said, letting a note of amusement show in her voice.

“I am the Empress’s first minister. It is my duty to know that such things are going on. It is your duty to let me know.” She studied him closely.

There was something different about the way he talked to her, about his whole manner. He was more assured, more confident. It was as if he had stepped out of the shadow of her father and become wholly his own person. And there was something else, something she could not quite put her finger on, a subtle difference in the way he carried himself. He was more poised and graceful, seemed to have achieved the control of a dancer or a master swordsman.

“Are you talking about my duty to the Empress or to the Brotherhood?”

“Both.”

“So you speak for the Brotherhood as well as Arachne now?”

“The Council met when news of what had happened to your father reached us. It was decided that I would lead.”

“I should have been there.”

“Alas, you were not here, but do not worry, the meeting was quorate.”

“It’s nice to know that you still consider yourself bound by the same petty rules as others.”

“Do not be foolish, Tamara. We both know the Council’s decision merely reflects the realities of power. They support me because I am the best Terrarch for the job and because I have the most power.”

“And if I disagree?”

“Then you disagree, but your father is dead, killed by some half-breed apprentice, and I do not think you wish to set yourself against the Council.”

In this he was right. The Council contained some of the most potent sorcerers in the Brotherhood as well as some of its richest and most influential members. She felt a growing sense of resentment. Xephan was taking too much for granted, and so were the others. Her father had founded the Brotherhood, and she was his heir. She should at least be consulted. Xephan took her by the arm, gently, as if seeking to mollify her. His grip was surprisingly strong.

“Do not worry,” he said. “Your father did a most excellent job until his regrettable madness set in. We will see that his work is completed and the Enlightened Ones come to rule here.”

There was a total and frightening assurance in his voice, and for a moment, it seemed to her as if something else looked out at her from behind his eyes, something ancient and wicked and not entirely mortal. She was reminded of Rik and what had happened to him, but whatever was in Xephan was both more Terrarch and less innocent than the half-breed youth had been.

“How can you be so certain?” she asked, to see if she could goad him into speaking.

“Because I am their messenger. I have looked into the Black Mirror and seen what lies beyond.”

So that was what had happened, she thought. The Mirror had been centuries in the making, and now they had finally found the courage to use it. Had her father known about this, she wondered? And if so why had he not told her? The Black Mirror was the Brotherhood’s greatest artefact, a device intended to allow communication with Al’Terra.