Sandry nodded graciously to indicate that she had indeed heard the name, but the truth was that she remembered little else. Their teachers were forever talking about great mages, so the names did stick after a time. Apart from her own specialties, Sandry had very little interest in the practice of magic by the better known professionals. She was far more curious about the latest fashions and weaving patterns by those who excelled in those fields.
The mage Quenaill shifted his mount so Berenene had a clear view of the four, but he remained on his guard. As he lowered his hand, his protective magic vanished into his body.
“Now I’m really impressed,” Briar murmured to Daja. “I couldn’t do it that fast.”
“You don’t do shields at all,” Daja whispered in reply.
“But if I did, I wouldn’t be that fast,” Briar said.
Sandry sighed. “It is a long story about Chime, Your Imperial Majesty,” she said, pretending she couldn’t hear the soft dialogue to her left. “I am sorry that your hunting was interrupted.”
“At least I know you are here at last. And you are expected in Dancruan,” Berenene replied. Even while Quenaill had rushed to protect her, she had not moved as she casually leaned on her saddle horn. “For weeks, Ambros fer Landreg has spoken of little but preparing the town house for you.”
“The caravan will let the saghad know we are on our way, thank you,” Sandry replied, using Ambros’s Namornese title.
Berenene smiled. “You will need to rest, no doubt, after your long journey. You may call on me the day after tomorrow—shall we say, at ten in the Hall of Roses? It is more intimate than is the throne room. And of course your ... friends are invited to attend with you. In fact, I insist on it.” Her brown eyes caught and held Sandry’s blue ones. She nodded, smiled, then turned her horse. Quenaill and the guards followed her with the ease of a well-oiled clock. She slowed when they came abreast of the first of her companions, the handsome young man who had yelled at the four earlier, and extended her hand. Without hesitation the man got his horse moving so that he could catch and kiss the hand, riding up on Berenene’s free side. Once he was level with her, she leaned closer and caressed his cheek, then urged her horse into a gallop. Quenaill and the man kept up with her as if they had read her mind, while the rest of her court and her guards spurred their own horses into motion. The group followed Berenene as if they were one creature at the end of her leash.
Only after the hunting party had ridden out of view beyond the ridge did Briar say, “Did you notice that none of her friends so much as twitched when Chime came out? They were all boiling when they came chasing our glass friend over that ridge, but once Her Empressness was talking to us, they sat there like so many well-trained dogs. They didn’t even show fang at Chime.”
“I hope you’re more diplomatic than this when we get to court,” Daja told him. “Nobles dislike being compared to dogs.”
“Whether they dislike it or no, I’ll name them for what they are, and I’ll be ready for them,” Briar snapped. “Don’t you go letting the pretty clothes fool you, Daja. If you’d ever been hunted by a pack of nobles, you wouldn’t be so nice about what you call them.”
The reminder was like an itch Sandry couldn’t scratch. I’m getting so tired of this! she thought. “More experiences you’ve had that you won’t explain, Briar,” she said irritably. “Talk about something pleasant or don’t talk.” She swung herself into her mare’s saddle.
Briar took a drink of water before he said thoughtfully, “There were some uncommonly pretty ladies with that pack, Her Imperialness not the least of them. I look forward to time spent in their company.”
“You’re disgusting,” said Tris, beckoning to Chime. The dragon rubbed her head against Tris’s and slid down to the girl’s lap.
“Can I help it I like the ladies?” Briar demanded, needling her with innocence on his face. “There are so many delightful ones in the world, each beautiful in her own way. Even you, Coppercurls.”
“Briar!” cried his sisters.
“I didn’t mean that I’d gratify her with my attention,” Briar said impatiently. “Kissing one of you would be like kissing Rosethorn.”
Daja chuckled. “Kissing Rosethorn would be safer than kissing Tris,” she pointed out. “Mildly, anyway. Minutely.”
“Cursed right,” Tris said. “I’m not kissing anyone. I’m going to Lightsbridge.”
“You won’t be safe there,” replied Daja as she mounted her horse once more. “Frostpine and I went to the university after we left Namorn. I think kissing’s all those students think about. Well ... that, and drinking. And throwing up.”
“I’ll bet the mage students don’t drink that much,” Briar said as he swung back into his saddle. “Elsewise, Lightsbridge would prob’ly be a smoking hole in the ground.” He shuddered along with the three girls. None of them had liked their first attempts at drinking, or cleaning up the wreckage of the abandoned barn they had chosen to do it in.
“Well,” Sandry remarked as Tris mounted her horse, “we may not want to drink, but in just twelve more miles, we can unpack and laze in hot Namornese baths.”
All of them groaned with longing as they took to the road once more. Daja had described the Namornese baths with such eloquence that, after weeks of travel, the four could hardly wait to give them a try.
Sandry listened to them with the tiniest of smiles. So who we were together before, it’s not entirely gone, she thought. A common threat, and we’re closer than ever. And we all want hot baths.
It’s a start.
Berenene, empress of Namorn, allowed her maids to take away her hunting dress and let Rizu, her Mistress of the Wardrobe, replace it with clothes more suitable for afternoon wear. Once her hair was set in order again, she told Rizu and the maids to tidy up and left her bedchamber for her most private workroom.
It was small compared with her other rooms, its walls lined with bookshelves and maps. The chairs, particularly her own, were designed for comfort. The desk met Berenene’s exact requirements, its drawers and furnishings within her reach. Beside it was a window that looked out onto any part of the palace she wished it to, needing only the proper word to change what it showed her. At the moment it was filled with views of her favorite gardens. Berenene loved springtime. Winters in Dancruan, or anywhere else on the shores of the vast lake called the Syth, were long and iron hard. She bore them with the help of her precious greenhouses, but she reveled in the arrival of spring and the wild growth outdoors.
A leather folder sat on her desk. She sat in her cushioned chair and kissed the lock that kept its contents safe. The lock, like so many of the men at the court, responded eagerly to her lips. It popped open.
Inside were sheets of parchment, condensed notes of reports that she had been assembling for more than seventeen years. Its contents dealt with all things that touched on her young cousin Sandrilene. The girl had been foremost in her mind since the mages of the Living Circle communications chain had sent word that she was on her way from Emelan. Now that Berenene had actual faces to put with the notes—the sketches and portraits her spies had made were well enough, but she trusted her own judgment most—she wanted to review the file one last time.
She lifted a painting on vellum. It was a very good portrait of Sandry, all things considered. She’s added more curves since my agent in Emelan painted her, Berenene mused, but the likeness is nearly perfect, right down to her posture and expression—I didn’t really need Sandry’s resemblance to her mother to tell me who she was.
Berenene skimmed the written notes until she reached the all-important summary.
The lady Sandrilene appeared to be a stitch witch on her arrival at Winding Circle temple. Following the earthquake in which she and her friends were trapped, they linked their magics together somehow. All of their powers, including hers, increased by magnitudes. Since that time she has woven magic like thread, created healing bandages and clothing that disguises the wearer, and turned her opponents’ garments against their wearers. At thirteen she was granted her mage’s credential by the governing council at Winding Circle, an honor normally reserved for those at least twenty years of age or older. At fourteen, she took over the running of her paternal great-uncle Vedris of Emelan’s household and lands. Vedris is known to respect her advice in matters such as trade, magecraft, and diplomacy. At present she seems to be at odds with her Winding Circle friends. They do not appear to act in magical concert as they did before the other three departed on journeys with their teachers. Should they reforge that old link, there is no way to estimate what works of magic they might create. Certainly they will be able to communicate over distance once again: The limit of that distance was once judged to be approximately a few hundred miles.