Paks stared. “No shirt? But—oh, but you had to carry the bones—but—” She shook her head, chuckling.
“It was not,” Dorrin said, laughter replacing tears, “not the dignity of a duke. I did think of that, on the way up, but too late.”
“In terms of undoing your family’s pride—” Paks began, but was laughing too hard to continue.
“My uncle would be mortified,” Dorrin said. Laughter and tears together had left her now, and she felt more relaxed than she had since—since she could not remember. “My mother—well, she disowned me, years ago, but this would leave even her speechless.”
“It was a very good thing,” Paks said. “That is how magery should be used.”
“I hope the Council will see it that way,” Dorrin said. “It is still against Tsaian law, since Gird’s time.”
“I came for more than a visit,” Paks said. “You should go to the Tsaian prince’s coronation … you have had the invitation—?”
Dorrin looked up, startled. “That must be what the courier brought. I had no time; I had to go to what I thought was a judgment, and then I forgot.” She looked around, and saw the courier’s velvet pouch, embroidered with the royal arms of Tsaia lying on a side table. Inside was a scroll tied with rose and silver ribbons. Dorrin unrolled the stiff parchment. In formal flowery language it requested the honor of her presence as a peer of the realm at the coronation of Mikeli Vostan Keriel, rightful heir to the throne of Tsaia, unto whom she, as peer, would pledge fealty. It carried the seals of Tsaia, the signatures of Dukes Marrakai and Mahieran, members of the Regency Council, and the crown prince.
A smaller, thinner paper, rolled into the scroll, bore a personal, less formal message from the prince himself.
If it be that your domain is still too unsettled to permit your attendance, I will forgive your absence and send instead a Marshal to take your vows. Others may interpret your absence differently; for your own sake it would be wise to come if you can.
No word of her family members sent to Vérella, no comment on her rule so far. She pushed both across the table to Paks. “You were right; it is the invitation to the coronation. But I cannot go. I’ve still not found the young men and older boys who were here before I came—evidence of their sudden departure, yes, but by the time I had dealt with those left behind, they were beyond tracing. I expected them to come back, to attack—I still do—but so far, nothing. I have no one here I can trust, yet, to guard it while I’m gone, no one who knows it well enough.”
Paks read intently, her finger moving down the lines. “Why do the peers—that’s lords I suppose—have to swear fealty again? If they aren’t loyal already, why are they on the Council?”
“Didn’t Kieri—the king—have them do that in Lyonya?”
“He was new to them,” Paks said. “That made sense, but this—they’ve known the prince for years—”
“As prince, not as king,” Dorrin said. “Now it will be personal, as yours was to Kieri in the Company.”
“If all are swearing fealty again, you should go,” Paks said. “They must all—all the lords, and the prince—see that you have a personal oath to him. And you should know them, as you are one of them now.”
Dorrin traced the seal of Tsaia lightly with her forefinger. “And leave behind those the prince and Council told me to protect and rule?”
“Others do.”
“Others do not have a domain infested with Verrakai malice to deal with,” Dorrin said. “Come—I will show you.” Taking a lamp, she led the way to her uncle’s office. Along the way, she warned Paks of the many traps and spells. “I disarmed as many as I could. Some are magical, some not—but all are subtle and dangerous. Every piece of furniture, so far, has had its way of killing the unwary, many that I did not know of, since children were brought here only rarely.”
The study was emptier now; Dorrin had removed one item after another, to be dismantled and its traps destroyed outside. “Here’s the record of transfers—the words are hidden unless I unlock them with magery.” She glanced at Paks; Paks nodded. At Dorrin’s command, the hidden pages came into view. “Most give the new host only a single name, no location or occupation. Those within the family have this symbol—” She pointed.
“You use the lamp,” Paks commented, “instead of your own light.”
“I use magery as little as may be,” Dorrin said. “Aside from practice and at need.”
“Does it want to be used?”
Dorrin turned to her. “Every moment. It is like the pressure of a stream; once the Knight-Commander and you released it, it has been harder to contain than to use. When I arrived here, and my relatives used theirs against me, it swelled into a river. You and the Knight-Commander had said you thought I had great power. So it proved, enough power to hold them all motionless, silent, under my will.”
“Was that frightening at first?” Paks asked.
“Yes.” Dorrin shivered at the memory. “Most frightening was how I enjoyed it. I can understand—do not wish to understand but cannot help it—how my ancestors fell into evil, from the sheer joy of having such mastery. So I use lamps, and climb the stairs, and reach for things I might command with a word. Today, with the well, is the first time I have used magery so openly among my people. Those here saw me control my family, of course.”
“That is wise,” Paks said.
“But this is not all I wanted to show you,” Dorrin said. “Not only are there Verrakai abroad in others’ bodies, enemies of the realm, of the prince and king-to-be, but here is something I have not dared explore, when I was the only one here with power I could trust.”
She led Paks to the far end of the study, where the vault door still gaped open a little on the bare patch of wall and the remains of the picture and its frame lay on the floor in front of it. Paks came alight.
“That is blood magery—evil—!”
“Yes. It was a portrait of one of our ancestors. It was there in my childhood; it had been there, I was told, for long ages, since the Verrakaien came north. When I first came into this room, it radiated evil; it called my magery; it threatened me.” She stared at the remnants on the floor. “It bled when I pierced it—bled like a man, Paksenarrion. It was not painted on wood or fabric, like most paintings, but on skin—I believe human skin. And the frame, which looked—you can see the upper part—like carved and painted wood, is actually made of bones, plastered over.”
“That power is not all gone.”
“No. I can feel that. The blood dried and vanished in a mist, and most of the power here went—somewhere. I prayed, Paksenarrion, that it might never return.”
“What’s behind the door?”
“I saw an urn filled with blood; the blood dried and vanished in mist like the rest. A casket of carved wood inlaid with colored patterns. There might be more. I have left it as I found it, the door slightly open so I could watch for new blood.”
“Take it out,” Paks said. Dorrin glanced at her. Her clear paladin’s light filled the room, leaving no shadows. “Whatever it is, I know we must discover it.”
Whatever it was, if a paladin told her to stick her hand in a hole and bring something out—she would. Dorrin opened the vault door wider and light filled the chamber. Paks’s light, like her own magery, revealed the traps she had not seen before. Paks came nearer.
“Your ancestors trusted no one, did they?”
“I can’t speak for all,” Dorrin said, “but no one so steeped in evil as my uncle and his followers trusts.”
“Let me see if I can—” Paks pointed at the traps revealed, and one by one they withered. She turned to grin at Dorrin. “You’re right. It is fun to play with power—not something the gods grant often to paladins.”