The signature was that of her missing guest: Sandrilene, Clehame fa Landreg, Saghad fa Toren.
Berenene looked up. Something had gone amiss, it seemed. “Isha, I think I will need both you and Quen. You should be prepared for any ... mishaps. Who is with her?”
“Briar and Tris,” replied Ishabal softly. “Majesty, Sandry looks battered. Her hands and feet are bandaged, her clothing torn. Trisana is throwing off sparks.”
The empress bit her lip. This could be even worse than the note had implied. “Then I suggest you and Quen arm yourselves with defensive magics before we enter that room.” Berenene beckoned to the captain of the guard as Isha whispered to Quen. When her guard approached and knelt beside her chair, she bent down to murmur, “Get one of your mages and a couple of guards to watch over Viymese Kisubo, subtly. Do not let her go anywhere but to her own rooms or to Rizu’s.”
The man nodded. Berenene got to her feet. As the dancers stopped and the conversation came to a halt, she smiled. “Amuse yourselves, friends. Imperial business calls me away, but there is no reason for you to interrupt your evening.” She left by the rear entrance rather than have her departure slowed by farewells. “Did you read this?” she asked Ishabal as she strode along, the older woman at her side and Quen rushing to keep up.
“I would not presume,” Ishabal replied stiffly.
Berenene slowed down and handed over Sandry’s note. Ishabal read it, twice, closed her eyes briefly as if in prayer, then passed it to Quen.
“Who would be fool enough to assault a noblewoman in the imperial palace?” Quen wanted to know. “And how would such an idiot think he could do it and escape?”
“We’ll learn soon enough,” retorted Berenene, stopping to collect herself. “After which I shall decide what to do with that fool, and with anyone idiot enough to assist him. But first, I would like the two of you to be ready. I would hate to learn the hard way that their teachers had overestimated our guests’ control over themselves when they granted them their medallions so young.”
Taking a breath, Berenene smoothed her gold skirts. Then, as leisurely as if she walked in her gardens, she led her mages to her private audience chamber.
A guardsman stood outside. Years of service kept his face blank, though confusion showed in his eyes: Most visitors to the private audience chamber arrived during the day. When the empress stopped in front of him, he bowed and held the door open for her and her companions.
The three young mages seated there got to their feet as Berenene came in. All three, including Sandry, wore their medallions outside their clothes. Tris looked disheveled, two fat, kinked hanks of hair hanging loose from her usual netted bundle. Her face was pale and glistening with sweat, but her gray eyes were ice cold. The glass dragon sat on her shoulder with one paw in her hair, like a guardian statue.
Briar, too, was sweating. His face was unreadable as he looked at the empress.
Ishabal’s description of Sandrilene’s looks was about right. Sandry’s hair was a tumbled mess, tangled and knotted. Her clothes at least were unrumpled, a testament to her power over thread, but her hands and feet were masses of rag bandages. Her face was dust-streaked and bruised. The look in her cornflower blue eyes was pure steel.
“My dearest Sandrilene,” the empress said, striding toward her with her hands out. “Whatever happened to you?”
Sandry’s eyes caught and held hers. “Finlach fer Hurich happened to me,” she said, her voice an alien croak. “Fin, and that disgusting kidnap custom you let thrive in this country.” She began to cough, wincing as she did. Tears of pain streamed down her face. She dashed them away angrily.
Berenene halted and blinked at the girl. “What?” she asked, baffled. “Fin—Finlach—is in the ballroom at this moment.” Her brain worked swiftly, as it always did in a crisis. As she had trained it to. “What happened to your voice?”
“Screaming does that to a person,” Briar said coldly. “May I go to my quarters to get something for her throat?”
“Quen, see to it, please,” Berenene ordered.
As Quenaill walked over to Sandry, the girl backed away. Briar went to stand next to him. “Be very careful with what you do,” Briar said quietly. “Our patience is just about gone.”
“Understood,” Quen replied. “It’s just a mild healing spell, Clehame.” He leaned forward to place one broad palm on Sandry’s grimy throat. She flinched, then closed her eyes. After a moment, Quen drew away from her.
Am I to understand Finlach did this in my own palace? Berenene wondered, ice closing around her heart. How? Not alone, surely. And how did he think he might escape?
She selected a chair, rather than the throne, and settled onto it. “I think I will understand your meaning so much better if you explain, Sandrilene,” she said coolly. “Sit, everyone, please. If you have a grievance, I am certain it can be resolved.”
“As I am certain,” repeated Sandry, taking a chair. Her voice was rough, but understandable. “Tris, please, sit before you fall down.”
“I’m not some dainty flower, worn out by my own magic,” retorted Tris. “I could lower us to the foot of the cliffs again right now, if you like. Though speaking of the cliffs ...” She took a chair and drew a long braid from its place in the coil.
Berenene saw that Ishabal’s attention was locked on the redhead. From a belt pouch the older woman drew a rope of silk twined with an assortment of powerful charms, each keyed to different protective spells. Her fingers were twined around one charm that the empress knew would throw a magical prison around Tris.
That’s good, Berenene thought. Someone needs to watch Viymese Chandler. “Won’t you sit, Viynain Moss?” Berenene asked with a smile.
His expression didn’t change. “I’ll stand, thank you, Your Imperial Majesty,” he replied politely. He stayed where he was, legs planted, hands clasped before him, his eyes somber. For a moment Berenene feared that she had lost this young man’s regard, or even worse, his friendship. She brushed the idea aside. Of far more importance was learning who had possessed the effrontery to attempt to kidnap her kinswoman in her palace.
“Finlach fer Hurich came to escort me to the ball,” Sandry told the three Namornese, her voice cold and steady. “Instead, he led me down a back passage, claiming I was to stand beside Your Imperial Majesty as you entered the room from the rear.”
“Did anyone see you with Fin?” asked Quenaill.
Berenene shot him a glare for interrupting, but Sandry was shaking her head. “Not after we turned away from the main corridors. I didn’t see anyone else. When we turned a corner back there, someone placed a cloth over my face. It was soaked in a potion that made me unconscious. I woke up in a box.” Her voice trembled slightly. She got it under control. “The inside was filled with spells to cripple a thread mage. Fin was outside. He said his uncle had helped him. He said he was taking me out to a house with the same spells on it. And he said I would leave only when I signed the marriage contract and put my lip print on it in blood, so a mage could use it against me if I tried to break it. He seemed to think you would let him get away with it, Cousin, since you admire bold young men so. Everyone knows you want me to stay in Namorn. And you expect women to escape like you did. Of course, I doubt that you were put in a box.” The huskiness in her voice thickened. “I doubt that the head of the Namornese Mages’ Society put spells on you and guaranteed to keep them there until you signed the contract. It would have been harder to escape under those circumstances, don’t you think?”
“Then how did you escape?” Berenene asked coolly. The beginnings of a headache pounded in her temples.