The White Mists of Power Read online

  “Milady.” Vonda’s voice was smooth. “After you had sex with the bard, you told him you were going to be the king’s consort. What deeper betrayal is that?”

  Alma clenched the fist nearest the window. Vonda had been watching. And now she would try to blackmail Alma to keep the information quiet. Geoffry wouldn’t talk–if the king knew that Geoffry had slept with his future consort, Geoffry would die. Alma wouldn’t have to pay the spider lady anything. And Alma wouldn’t let the woman know how much she had angered her. “If he was going to kill me, he would have done it then.”

  “And leave you in his chambers? I doubt it. He’s too intelligent for that. There has already been an attempt on your life. He could simple stage a successful one, and the attention would fall on lords Boton and Ewehl. The king is already using Dasvid for an adviser; Dasvid would rise in the ranks. By killing you, lady, he would increase his position in the palace.”

  The argument made a crazy sort of sense. Alma turned back to Vonda. The woman sat on the chair, looking as if she belonged. “Why are you telling me this?” Alma asked.

  Vonda’s bright eyes glowed. “Because, milady, I want you to help us catch him.”

  iii

  To the Lady Kerry:

  We may have a possible ally in the Lady Jelwra. I will set up a meeting between the two of you after the king’s festival. I believe she will be consort then and will have enough power to help us get rid of Dasvid.

  Vonda

  iv

  Alma had spent the last three hours dressing. She had never taken so long on her looks before. But if the king planned to name her consort, she planned to look the part. She wanted the council to think her feminine and pretty, and forget her scheming in the past. She wanted everyone to believe that she would be a puppet, little Alma content to raise the royal brats.

  She would surprise the kingdom later.

  Her hands shook as she buttoned the remaining seed pearls on the front of her gown. She had added some color to her dusky cheeks and some kohl around her eyes. She had wrapped her hair around the top of her head, letting small strands curl around her face. She wore a small cap around her topknot, and inside, she stuck the small dagger she had used to defend herself the day she had been with the king. She tied another dagger to the inside of her thigh. Most of the gentry, hundreds of unrecognizable servants and performers would be at the festival. She needed to be prepared for anything.

  A rap on the door startled her. She let herself out of the small dressing room into the sitting room. “Yes?” she called.

  “Milady, the king would like you downstairs before the dancing begins.”

  So much for her grand entrance. He probably wanted to choose her for the first dance. “Thank you,” she said. “Tell his majesty that I will be there shortly.”

  She went back into the dressing room and looked in the full-length mirror. Her long, heavy white skirt hid the dagger. And as she moved her head from side to side, she couldn’t see the smaller dagger hidden in her hair. She was ready.

  Three servants accompanied her down the hallway to the ballroom. The rumble of voices greeted her, along with the smell of wine and baked bread. The room was full. Servants lined the walls. Lords wore their house colors and their women did the same. The available ladies huddled in a corner. Lady Kerry stood to one side, holding a fluted glass filled with wine. She was older than Alma remembered, and smaller. Toward the back of the room, three string players and a harpsichordist consulted about music. The bard–she could no longer think of him as Geoffry–his lute across his back, stood beside the king. Both wore black, and both watched as she stood in the door.

  Alma made the servants open the doors wider. She opened her fan and held it in front of her face. The page announced her: the Lady Almathea Jelwra, and the room grew silent. The young ladies in the corner seemed to eye her with jealousy, and the lords with approval. Lady Kerry’s expression was cool. Alma did not look at either the bard or the king.

  She curtsied, extending a hand. Someone took it, and she stood, finding herself face-to-face with the king. He waved at the musicians to begin and slid an arm around her waist. He led her onto the floor. His steps were tired and slightly off; within a moment she was leading. No one else danced. Everyone else watched them. As she whirled, she saw the bard’s eyes dark and sad, oversized in his pale face.

  “It’s a good crowd,” Alma said.

  “They love a party.” The king sounded tired. The black suited him, and his mood.

  “Is the Lady Constance here?”

  He shook his head. “She thought it best to wait in our rooms. She didn’t want to detract from the new consort.”

  It sounded as if the Lady Constance would cause no trouble at all. Alma was pleased. Her position as consort would be an easy one.

  The music finally ended. The king bowed before her and kissed her hand. She curtsied once again, and as she stood, he cried, “Let the dancing begin!”

  Then he let go of Alma’s hand and found Lord Seritz’s daughter, leading her to the floor. Alma walked to the side, ignoring the couples who walked past her, hand in hand. A single man leaning against the wall watched her. A jagged scar ran down one side of his face, making him look as if he were perpetually smiling. Alma felt the dagger against her leg, reassured by its weight. She walked up to the man. His body didn’t move as she approached, but his eyes did.

  “Who are you with?” Alma asked.

  “My name is Corvo, lady.” His voice was raspy, barely audible above the music.

  “That, sir, is not the answer to my question. I want to know who you’re with.”

  A tall, slender man wearing black had stepped beside her. She turned, thinking it was the bard. Lord Kensington smiled down at her. “May I have this dance, milady?”

  “In a minute,” she said. The scarred man bothered her, and she would get rid of him if she didn’t discover who he was.

  “I don’t want to wait, Alma,” Lord Kensington said. “This might be my only chance this evening.” The lord slipped her into his arms and danced her out onto the floor. “The king let the entire crowd know of his interest in you.”

  “Nonsense, milord. He wanted to start the dances with a woman he knew. The Lady Constance refuses to attend the ceremonies, saying that they belong to the new consort.” The music blurred in her head and she was getting dizzy. She saw the bard sitting on a stool near the musicians. “What is the bard doing here?”

  Kensington glanced at the bard and frowned. “Bards always record their liege’s triumphs.”

  Something in his voice made Alma look at him. “A triumph for the king would not be a triumph for you, would it, milord? If he dies without issue, you’re next in line.”

  “Alma, your forthrightness has always astonished me.” He tightened his grip on her back. “I don’t want to be king. I don’t relish being a puppet.”

  “But you could change the system.”

  “Changing the system is like trying to stop Lord Boton’s schemes. It’s impossible. I would remember that when you become consort.”

  “I don’t think you give up as easily as you make it sound,” Alma said. The music stopped and she pulled away from him. “Thank you for the dance, milord.”

  “Always a pleasure, milady.”

  She turned and found herself facing Lord Dakin. His lady, looking heavy and tired, clung to his arm. He didn’t see Alma. He walked toward the king. Alma followed. She wanted to let Dakin know that she hadn’t forgotten him.

  A hand grabbed her arm. She wrenched herself free. Lord Lafa swayed before her, his clothing rumpled, smelling of ale. “You look pretty, lady. Did you use the money from my lands to buy all those clothes?”

  “Let me by, milord,” Alma said, pushing past him. She went around a number of people and reached the king just as Lord Dakin reached him. The lord did not acknowledge her presence, and she realized then that he was ignoring her. The king took Alma’s arm and tucked it in his. Lord Dakin turned to say someth
ing to his lady, froze, and then turned red. Alma followed his gaze. He was staring at the bard.

  “What’s he doing here?” Dakin cried. “I ordered him killed!”

  The lord’s words echoed throughout the ballroom. Conversation stopped and everyone turned. The bard stood up and nodded at Lord Dakin. The lord let go of his lady, pushed past a throng of young lords, and stopped in front of the bard.

  “How did you avoid my hounds? What sort of sorcery do you practice?”

  “Good evening, milord.” The bard clutched his lute to his side. His voice was calm. “It’s nice to see you looking fit.”

  Alma glanced around the room. Most of the gentry were watching. Seymour, the bard’s toady magician friend, stood near the door, his face white and his eyes wide.

  “I ordered this man put to death!” Dakin’s voice rose. “Guards, arrest him!”

  The guards didn’t move. The king squeezed Alma’s hand and led her over to the two men. He smiled at them, and Alma thought he seemed more amused than alarmed by Lord Dakin’s outburst. “Lord Dakin,” the king said, “I would like you to meet my bard, Byron.”

  Lord Dakin’s flush grew darker. “Sire, this man is dangerous. Lafa expelled him from his lands, and I ordered his execution. You are not safe with him here.”

  “What did he do?” the king asked.

  “He started a peasant uprising.”

  A low murmur ran through the room. “He squelched one here,” the king said. “And I believe he said that your actions caused the uprising on your lands.”

  “He lies!” Dakin said.

  The bard watched the two men. Alma watched the bard. He had lied to her about Geoffry of Kinsmail. He had stolen the clothing he wore. And yet he had seemed passionate when he had spoken to the king. Bards were great actors, the bard had said, but what goal would he have achieved by forcing the king to feed his peasants?

  “He has been honest with me,” the king said. “And he is now a member of my household, under my protection. If you have a quarrel with him, you may petition me. Tonight we are having a celebration. Byron, since you have become the center of such controversy, why don’t you play for us?”

  The bard smiled. He picked up his lute, nodded once to the king. He began a light ballad, and worked his way through the gentry, flirting slightly with the ladies, encouraging the lords to dance to his melody. The music had toe-tapping lilt and seemed almost richer than the dance music the musicians had played. A few of the bolder lordlings swung a lady into their arms, and the bard left a circle of dancers in his wake.

  He passed the king again, but did not look at Alma. She felt that if she let go of the king, the bard would stop playing and take her into his arms, dance with her before the entire crowd.

  Someone screamed behind her. The bard whirled, catching the blade of a dagger in his lute. Alma dropped the king’s arm and reached into her hair, searching for the assassin. A knife glinted as it whizzed toward her. As she dove away, she heard a grunt.

  A woman screamed and then another, and soon the entire hall was filled with shouts and cries.

  The king fell onto the dance floor. He clutched at the knife in his breast. Alma gripped her own dagger tightly and waited. The lords toward the back had encircled someone. The bard dropped his lute and hurried toward the king. Alma waited another minute, then crouched beside the king.

  His eyes were open and empty. His hands, which had been moving a moment before, had fallen to his sides. The bard touched the king’s face, his fingers shaking. The bard felt for breath and then closed the king’s eyes.

  Alma took the king’s hand and clutched it against her breast. His skin was still warm. She shouldn’t have been holding him. The Lady Constance should have been beside him in his final moments; his final thoughts should have been of her.

  “Calm down!” Lord Kensington’s voice rose above the din. “Calm down! We must remain calm! Someone, close the doors!”

  The doors slammed as the guards obeyed. The screaming had died down, and everyone turned toward Lord Kensington. Guards dragged the assassin to him. A chill ran down Alma’s back. She had spoken to the assassin earlier. The man Corvo who had refused to answer her questions. The scar running along the side of his face was livid.

  Lord Kensington ignored the assassin. “How is he?” he asked Alma.

  “He’s dead,” she said. The words didn’t seem real. He had promised her a world she wanted. He had danced with her only a moment before. Her mother had died slowly–and her father had killed himself with drink for years. Death happened slowly, not in the space of a heartbeat.

  Kensington nodded. He bowed his head for a moment, and everyone else in the room did as well. Alma glanced through her eyelashes at the bard. He had stood up. Kensington sighed. “As the king’s closest relative, I will have to take his duties. Unless there is any objection, I will act as king until the council officially approves my claim.”

  The bard snapped his fingers. His young companions, Colin and Afeno, flanked him. Seymour hurried forward from the other side of the room. “There is an objection,” the bard said.

  Alma let the king’s hand go, and she stood. The bard looked as tall as Kensington, and more powerful.

  “What do you dispute, bard?” Kensington asked, his tone barely civil.

  “I claim the throne.”

  Alma took a quick breath and heard others around her do the same. Kensington laughed. “By what right?”

  “By right of birth.” The bard pulled open his silk shirt. He had a red tattoo carved over his left nipple. “Send a guard for the Enos.”

  “It’s a false claim,” Kensington said. “All of the king’s children are dead.”

  “Not all,” said the bard. “Send for the Enos.”

  “Guards, arrest the usurper!” The guards took a step toward the bard. Colin and Afeno pulled out their swords.

  Alma frowned. The bard’s claim could be true. It would explain his secretiveness, his unwillingness to discuss himself, and his bitterness when he had learned that she was going to be the king’s next consort. Still gripping her dagger, she stepped between Kensington and the bard.

  “He has the right of law, Lord Kensington,” she said. “Only an Enos can verify a tattoo claim.”

  Kensington’s eyes narrowed. “Send for the Enos,” he said. Two guards left the room. The boys kept out their swords. Alma clutched her dagger. The bard did not move as they all waited.

  Alma glanced at the king. He looked silly on the floor, as if he had fallen asleep and no one had bothered to move him. She had grown fond of him. Then she glanced at the bard. If his claims were true, he would need help running the kingdom. And he was young and attractive, and she was already unable to keep herself from touching him.

  The main doors opened, and the crowd parted to let an Enos pass. She was small and hidden in her robes. She looked like a young child coming down to say good night to her parents. When she reached the center of the room, she knelt before the king and touched the dagger in his breast.

  “The blood,” she whispered. And then she turned to Kensington. “You allowed blood.”

  He was pale. “This man has made a claim to the throne.”

  The Enos stood and faced the bard. She touched her temples. The bard reached out and grabbed Seymour’s shoulder. The bard’s knuckles turned white, and sweat trickled down his face. The Enos put her hands down, and the bard took a step backward and would have fallen if Seymour hadn’t caught his arm.

  “State your name,” the Enos said. Her voice rasped. Alma had to concentrate to understand her.

  “Abington Byron Adric of Kilot,” the bard said.

  Alma studied him, looking for traces of the king in his face. Young Adric had died of some disease when she was a very small girl.

  The Enos took the bard’s hand and faced the crowd. “The tattoo is of the king’s house. It has the proper strokes and aging marks. His claim is valid. Kneel before your next king.”

  Alma glanced a
round the room. Lord Dakin had gone pale. Lady Kerry slapped her fan against her leg. Lord Boton didn’t move, but Lord Ewehl took tiny steps backward, as if he were trying to leave the room.

  “This man is no heir to the throne!” Kensington said. He turned to the crowd. “You would take the word of a simple Enos? The bard probably set this up!”

  “It is the law,” Alma said. Her voice shook. “The Enos makes the determination. You know that, Lord Kensington.”

  “And Lord Ewehl can testify that I did not die of illness, can’t you, milord?” the bard said.

  Ewehl stopped moving.

  “The small scar on his temple is my gift,” said the bard. “It happened months after I ‘died.’ Shall I tell them of the incident, milord? How you discovered that I lived and tried to kill me again? If it weren’t for Lord Demythos, you would have.”

  Ewehl turned and tried to run through the crowd. The guards caught him and brought him forward. His entire body shook. Lord Ewehl’s reaction, more than the Enos’s verification, made Alma believe the bard’s claim.

  “What would you have me do?” Ewehl asked.

  “Tell them what happened.”

  Lord Kensington crossed his arms before his chest. His expression had changed from one of anger to disbelief. Ewehl bowed his head. “The young prince disappeared on a trip to Anda and we waited–”

  “The truth, Ewehl,” the bard said.

  “I’m telling the truth.”

  “I can strip you of your lands and remove you from the council. Unlike my father, I know the laws.”

  Ewehl closed his eyes. “It was determined that young Adric asked too many questions and would not be a good ruler–”

  “By whom?”