near the bed. “What have you been doing in the Highlands of Tue?”
“What day is it?” Sena tried to divert the conversation to anything else.
“Black Moon, the fourteenth of Psh. You’ve been sleeping for sixteen days. You were lucky to catch us in Eloth. We were planning to leave the next day because of weather.”
“I didn’t want to disturb you . . .” Sena’s voice trailed off.
Megan leaned forward, face melting from the gloom. Her night-blue robe was trimmed with black. Setting her apart however was the slender coronet of tunsia that marked her as Coven Mother.
“What is it, Sienae?”
Sena could feel her own clouded emotions passing through the muscles of her face. Megan was reading them. For a moment they might have been real mother and daughter.
Sena fought it. She unclenched her jaw, tried to relax, forced a faint smile. “Thank you for taking care of me, Mother.”
Megan’s stern expression splintered. Into what? Compassion? The smudge of insoluble guilt? The Coven Mother reached out, tentatively, visibly aching in her core. Sena felt a surge of nausea. She envisioned Megan’s heart as a zombie lab of barely lurching emotions; the final resting place of matriarchal instinct strangled so long ago.
Sena didn’t pull away. She closed her eyes and submitted to Megan’s caress.
It didn’t last. Sena heard her sigh after only a few moments and opened her eyes to see Megan scowling at the wound. The old woman touched it lightly. It was swollen, blackish-purple, crusted and awful in the light.
Megan drew a bowl of steaming antiseptic from the top of the thermal crank. “There’s been an incident,” she said. “Three Sisters murdered in the Highlands of Tue. Shot by Stonehavian troops.”
Sena’s mind reeled. “Three? Why three?”
“Shh. It wasn’t a qloin.7 I sent them to fetch some of your things. But tell me, what was the future King of Stonehold doing at your cottage?”
“What? Why? What happened?”
“You don’t know? It’s right here.” Megan nudged a neatly folded newspaper on the nightstand like bait.
Grabbing for it would be a mistake. Sena forced herself to reply coolly, “I knew him at school.”
“And you didn’t tell me? Sienae . . .”
Sena closed her eyes.
“We only made one attempt at school,” Megan said softly. “It was too difficult. He was surrounded by secret police. Almost every cook and gardener at Desdae was a bodyguard. We didn’t assign you to him because of your inexperience. And now I find out he went looking for you?”
“It was his idea.”
“There’s no mention of you in the papers. No one knows why he was in Tue. Only that he was found, quote, in the company of witches.” Megan put the antiseptic back on the thermal crank. “Difficult headlines for a new king I’m sure . . . but if it’s still possible . . . I want you in his bed, Sienae. I want you in Stonehold right away.”
Sena wanted to ask why but could only nod her head softly. Her cheeks felt hot and seemed to throb. Great droplets of sweat welled up between her breasts and across her face. She felt sick. Truly, suddenly sick. “Mother . . . ?”
The room whirled around her, spinning out like a vomit-inducing centrifuge of purest black.
The morning after his Council meeting, the High Seneschal brought Caliph breakfast and his itinerary for the day.
Caliph sat up in bed and looked at the concise schedule, bemused.
Psh 16th, 561
4:40 Breakfast
5:00 Zane Vhortghast (tour of the city)
That was it.
Gadriel seemed to sense Caliph’s puzzlement.
“From my experience, your majesty, you will be spending several long days in Mr. Vhortghast’s company, touring different locations. Although I have never been, it is my understanding that the High King’s tour is extensive and . . . unusual.”
Caliph laid the sheet of paper aside, greatly interested and eager for five o’clock to arrive. “Who is this Mr. Vhortghast?”
“The spymaster of Isca,” Gadriel said somberly. He glanced at Caliph above his glasses as he poured tea.
The High Seneschal was an immaculate man, poised and fastidious to a fault.
“I heard nothing of him in Desdae.”
Gadriel clucked. “Of course not. He used to be a knight. Now he ensures that the business of the burgomasters falls in line with your wishes. There is little that Zane Vhortghast does not know.”
“My wishes? How does he know what my wishes are?”
“I’m sure he knows quite a bit already,” said Gadriel. “Saergaeth made several attempts on your life while you were at college.”
Caliph scowled. “How could I not have known—”
Gadriel smiled reassuringly. “Discretion of that