“Why? Because they won’t work, that’s why,” Pterocles answered.
“How can you say that without trying them?”
“If I walk out into the sea, I’ll drown. I don’t need to try it to be sure of that. I know beforehand,” Pterocles said. “I may not be quite what I was, but I’m not the worst wizard around, either. And I know some things I didn’t used to know, too.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?” Grus demanded.
“I’ve already told you.” Pterocles sounded impatient. “I know what it’s like to be emptied out. I ought to. It’s happened to me. Your Alca’s a good enough witch, but she doesn’t know.” Again, he spoke with absolute conviction.
If only he spoke that way when he really has to do something, Grus thought unhappily. But he was the one who turned away. Pterocles at least thought he knew what he was doing. Grus had a pretty good idea of how far he could push a man. If he pushed Pterocles any further here, he’d put the wizard’s back up, but he wouldn’t get him to change his mind.
At his impatient gesture, Pterocles ambled back down the hall. Grus wondered whether the wizard would bump into the bucket that caught the drips from the roof, but he didn’t. Grus also wondered whether he ought to pension Pterocles off, or just send him away. If he did, though, would whomever he picked as a replacement prove any better?
Alca would. How many times had he had that thought? But, for one thing, no matter how true it was, Estrilda would make his life not worth living if he tried it. And was it as true as he thought it was? Pterocles had a different opinion. What if he was right? Grus muttered under his breath. He wasn’t sure he could rely on Pterocles to remember his name twice running, let alone anything more.
And yet Pterocles had warned of the storm the Banished One raised, out there on the Azanian Sea. Grus had listened to him then, and the fleet had come back to shore without taking much harm.
Yes, and the Chernagor ships got away, the king thought. But that wasn’t Pterocles’ fault. Was it? Surely blame there belonged to the Banished One? Grus didn’t know what to believe. He ended up doing nothing, and wondering every day whether he was making a mistake and how big a mistake it was.
If only I hadn’t taken Alca to bed. If only her husband hadn’t found out. If only my wife hadn’t found out. If only, if only, if only…
Lanius threw a snowball at Crex. He didn’t come close to hitting his son. Crex scooped up snow in his little mittened hands. He launched a snowball at Lanius, whose vision suddenly turned white. “Got you!” Crex squealed, laughing gleefully.
“Yes, you did.” Lanius wiped snow off his face. “Bet you can’t do it again.” A moment later, Crex proved him wrong.
After taking three more snowballs in the face—and managing to hit his son once—Lanius had had enough. He himself had never been accused of grace. There were good reasons why not, too. Grus, on the other hand, made a perfectly respectable soldier—perhaps not among the very best, but more than able to hold his own. Through Sosia, Crex looked to have inherited that blood.
The boy didn’t want the sport to end; he was having fun pelting his father with snow. But Lanius couldn’t stand being beaten at a game by a boy who barely came up to his navel. “Not fair!” Crex squalled, and burst into tears.
That tempted Lanius to leave him out in the snow. But no, it wouldn’t do. Losing a game wasn’t excuse enough for freezing his son. If I were a great and terrible tyrant, I could get away with it, Lanius thought. But he wasn’t, and he never would be, and so Crex, quite unfrozen even if still loudly discontented, went back into the palace with him.
A handful of apricots preserved in honey made Crex forget about the game. Lanius paid the bribe for the sake of peace and quiet. Sosia probably wouldn’t have approved, but Sosia probably had too much sense to get into a snowball fight with their son. If she didn’t, she probably could throw well enough to give as good as she got. Lanius couldn’t.
I’m no good with the bow, either, he thought glumly. The only time he’d ever thrown something when it really counted, though, he’d managed to pitch a moncat into the face of the knife-wielding thrall who intended to murder him. Remembering that made the king feel a little better—not much, but a little.
Feeling better must not have shown on his face, for several servants asked him what was wrong when he walked through the palace corridors. “Nothing,” he said, over and over, hoping he would start to believe it before long. He didn’t, but kept saying it anyhow.
Most of the servants nodded and went on their way. They weren’t about to contradict the king. When he said, “Nothing,” to Cristata, though, she shook her head and said, “I don’t believe you, Your Majesty. You look too gloomy for it to be nothing.”
Lanius needed serious thought to realize Cristata spoke to him as a worried friend might. He couldn’t remember the last time anyone had spoken to him like that. Kings didn’t have friends, as far as he could see. They had cronies. Or maybe they had lovers.
That thought had crossed his mind before. Of course, Cristata had had Prince Ortalis for a lover. If that wasn’t enough to put her off royalty for life, what would be? But she still sounded… friendly as she asked, “What is wrong, Your Majesty?”
Because she sounded as though she really cared, Lanius found himself telling her the truth. When he was done, he waited for her to laugh at him.
Only later did he realize how foolish that was. A maidservant didn’t laugh at a King of Avornis, even at one without much power. But friendship left him oddly vulnerable to her. If she had laughed, he wouldn’t have punished her and he would have been wounded.
But she didn’t. All she said was, “Oh, dear. That must seem very strange to you.” She sounded sympathetic. Lanius needed longer than he might have to recognize that, too. He wasn’t used to sympathy from anybody except, sometimes, Sosia.
He didn’t want to think about Sosia right this minute, not while he savored Cristata’s sympathy. Grus probably didn’t want to think about Sosia’s mother while he was with Alca, either, Lanius thought. Looking at the way Cristata’s eyes sparkled, at how very inviting her lips were, Lanius understood what had happened to his fellow king much better than he ever had before.
When he leaned forward and kissed her, he waited for her to scream or to run away or to bite him. After Ortalis, why wouldn’t she? But she didn’t. Her eyes widened in surprise, then slid shut. Her arms tightened around him as his did around her. “I wondered if you’d do that,” she murmured.
“Did you?” Now Lanius was the one who wondered if he ought to run away.
But Cristata nodded seriously. “You don’t think I’m ugly.”
“Ugly? By the gods, no!” Lanius exclaimed.
“Well, then,” Cristata said. She looked up and down the corridor. Lanius did the same thing. No one in sight. He didn’t think anyone had seen them kiss. But someone might come down the hallway at any time. His heart pounded with nerves—and with excitement.
Now, for once, he didn’t want to think. He opened the closest door. It was one of the dozens of nearly identical storerooms in the palace, this one half full of rolled carpets. He went inside, still wondering if Cristata would flee. She didn’t. She stepped in beside him. He closed the door.
It was gloomy in the storeroom; the air smelled of wool and dust. Lanius kissed the serving girl again. She clung to him. “I knew you were sweet, Your Majesty,” she whispered.