The Queen of Mages Read online



  THE QUEEN OF MAGES

  MINDFIRE

  Book 1

  by

  Benjamin Clayborne

  Copyright © 2012 by Benjamin Clayborne

  All rights reserved.

  Distributed by Foyle Press

  Find the author online:

  https://benjaminclayborne.com

  Twitter: @BenClayborne

  Cover art © 2012 by Melissa Erickson

  https://kreugan.com/

  c:r20120814:rc1

  CONTENTS

  Acknowledgements

  Prologue

  Chapter 1: Amira

  Chapter 2: Dardan

  Chapter 3: Katin

  Chapter 4: Liam

  Chapter 5: Amira

  Chapter 6: Katin

  Chapter 7: Dardan

  Chapter 8: Amira

  Interlude: Viktor

  Chapter 9: Katin

  Chapter 10: Amira

  Chapter 11: Liam

  Chapter 12: Katin

  Chapter 13: Dardan

  Chapter 14: Amira

  Chapter 15: Amira

  Chapter 16: Liam

  Interlude: Taya

  Chapter 17: Katin

  Chapter 18: Dardan

  Chapter 19: Liam

  Chapter 20: Katin

  Chapter 21: Amira

  Chapter 22: Liam

  Chapter 23: Dardan

  Chapter 24: Amira

  Chapter 25: Katin

  Interlude: Mason

  Chapter 26: Amira

  Chapter 27: Dardan

  Chapter 28: Amira

  Chapter 29: Dardan

  Chapter 30: Katin

  Chapter 31: Liam

  Chapter 32: Amira

  Chapter 33: Liam

  Chapter 34: Dardan

  Chapter 35: Katin

  Chapter 36: Amira

  Chapter 37: Dardan

  Chapter 38: Amira

  Epilogue

  Afterword

  About the Author

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  To begin with, I’d like to thank Dave Robison, for some good early feedback and a very well-timed death threat.

  To all the Mythic Scribes, a cacophony of ideas, each more inspiring than the last, with special thanks to (in no particular order, and including but not limited to) Antonio del Drago, Brian DeLeonard, Phil Overby, John Haley, Chris Spatz, Tristan Gregory, Anita Howitt, Garrett Butler, Sam Slappey, Michael J. Sullivan, Kyle Hannan, R. Scott Kimsey, and Derek Bowen, for knowing absolutely everything about everything.

  To Lois McMaster Bujold, for sparking my inspiration.

  To my parents, for getting me through college without a cent of student debt.

  To my children, for being a mirror.

  And last but never least, to my wife, Jean, without whom none of this would be meaningful.

  PROLOGUE

  On the day of his murder, Lord Keller Skarline first attended a most eventful session of the Greater Council.

  Duke Terilin Faroa stood and hunched forward over the council table. “My lords. Your majesty.” He nodded deeply at the king, who watched him with tired blue eyes. “Allow me to present a most disturbing report. A courier arrived this morning, bearing news that the Vaslanders mobilize on the other side of Cold Hills Pass. Their warriors come south from the hinterlands to join a growing army. It is clear that they mean to come across the mountains and strike again into Garova.”

  Keller Skarline watched from a seat along the wall of the council chamber as the dukes of the council muttered and cast dark looks at one another. They ignored Keller; he was but one of many observers, unremarkable.

  Duke Faroa, ever the showman, dramatically held up a chubby finger. “Let us not forget the lesson of two decades past. Vaslanders are a bloodthirsty, ruthless people. They will burn and pillage as they go, as they did when we were young men. The royal army must be sent north at once to meet this threat and throw the savages back into the cold where they belong.”

  A chorus of Hear, hear met his pronouncement. But Duke Loram Arkhail would never let Faroa have the last word, and Keller had his eye on Arkhail even before the younger duke stood to speak.

  “You would break twenty years of peace and prosperity by wasting resources on a folly,” Loram Arkhail said calmly, stroking his pointed beard. “The Vaslander tribes have no strong leader to unite them now, as they had old Gerhard during the war. And our fortresses in the mountain passes are doubly strong, compared to, ahem, two decades past.”

  Terilin Faroa scoffed. “Are you suggesting we wait? I assure you, the Vaslanders will not hesitate. Strong as our fortresses may be, they can be overrun. A full assault on our part is imperative.”

  “An assault?” Loram smiled. “You would compound your folly by trying to send our men across the Black Mountains?” The high passes were difficult to negotiate even when not blocked at either end by fortresses: Vaslander at the north, Garovan at the south. Undisciplined savages the Vaslanders might be, but Garovan armies had broken themselves on those bulwarks before. Keller had even seen them with his own eyes, once. Faroa was a fool if he was suggesting an invasion.

  The king broke in. “If I wanted endless debate, I would bring a Steward in here.” Everyone laughed politely, even Duke Faroa. “I will look at the reports myself.”

  Terilin Faroa nodded and sat down abruptly, glaring at Loram Arkhail while the council moved on to other business. Keller watched Duke Faroa for a while. The man was an inveterate schemer, always transparently jockeying for position and favor. He thought he was clever, but didn’t seem to realize that the king found him tedious.

  The meeting ground slowly to its end, and the king departed posthaste, vanishing through the rear doors, escorted by his retinue of bodyguards and servants. Keller stood up, stretched, and took a moment to examine which dukes and counts and other lords clustered together in gossiping little groups. He saw only the usual patterns, and so sauntered out, his cloak swishing around his boots.

  His valo, Rory, lurked outside in the antechamber, along with two dozen others. Valai were not permitted into the Greater Council meetings, to avoid doubling the number of people in the already crowded council chamber. “M’lord,” Rory muttered to Keller, falling in beside him.

  “War is perhaps delayed for the moment,” Keller said as they walked.

  “Prince Edon will not be pleased.” Rory’s eyes darted around, watching for eavesdroppers.

  “When is Edon ever pleased? I need you to go to the Citadel and check with Sir Edvan about an army courier. Faroa claims to have reports showing Vaslanders massing at the border.”

  Rory nodded. “Will you be safe alone?”

  “No one is ever safe,” Keller murmured as they came to a cross-corridor. Banners hung at each corner, all depicting the sigil of the royal house, the silver eagle with flaming talons on a checked field of purple and blue. The eagle’s watchful eye stared out at them.

  Keller watched Rory move off down the corridor. He was loyal, and obedient, and best of all, he kept Keller’s secrets close. He was as good a valo as Keller could want.

  It was not far to the king’s chambers, not the way Keller went. The servants’ ways within the royal palace Elibarran were well-lit, narrow passages that connected all the newer parts of the palace. He would not be seen by other nobles as he moved about, but the servants who infested the ways could not be avoided. They ducked their heads and muttered “M’lord” as they passed. No doubt some of them reported to the likes of Faroa and Arkhail. Keller often wondered how many of his own spies whispered into more than one ear.

  He came out a narrow door in the corner of a wide hallway, near the king’s study. The guards recognized him and let him pass. Inside he found his majesty, Kin
g Viktor of Garova, standing over a map of the northern border, sipping a glass of wine.

  His chief bodyguard, Sir Mirlind, lurked in the corner, still as a statue. The man had absolutely no patience for intrigues. Keller did not waste effort trying to deceive or subvert him.

  “Your majesty,” Keller said, bowing low.

  “Mm,” the king said, not looking up.

  Keller cleared his throat. “Your majesty will be unsurprised to learn that I agree with Duke Arkhail. I have heard nothing of an impending Vaslander invasion. I am looking into whether Duke Faroa’s report is accurate. It would be unkind to accuse him of fabricating the story, though it cannot be discounted.”

  King Viktor drained his wineglass and poured some more. “If the treasury had a copper for every time someone swore the Vaslanders were going to invade again, we could simply buy Vasland outright.” He laughed, but Keller heard a note of despair in it.

  “Do you believe there’s cause for concern, sire? The realm is strong, our treasury healthy, our people prosperous. Twenty years of peace have been good to us. Even the Vaslanders cannot be so foolish as to think they can successfully invade unimpeded. Especially not when we have advance warning, and more defenses in place.”

  The king wandered over to the window and peered down into the gardens. “The Vaslanders do not bother me. I crushed them before, and I’ll do it again if they ever present a real threat.” He swirled the wine around, some golden vintage, and eyed Keller. “But the northern dukes all seem convinced that Vasland is about to boil over the mountains again. They’ll continue to agitate for war if I do not make a gesture to appease them.”

  “Agreed, sire,” Keller said.

  “So. I’ll have the Army Council send a regiment to each pass. Have them do exercises, make a show of strength. That should mute Faroa, and not break the treasury.”

  “A wise plan, sire—”

  The door flew open with a crack, and Keller spun around at once, hand going to his dagger. Sir Mirlind tensed and reached for his sword. But then Keller saw the interloper, and he bowed again. “Your royal highness.”

  Prince Edon, heir apparent to the throne of Garova, strode into the room. “Skarline.” It was his usual greeting: blunt hostility laid bare. Prince Edon was tall, broad, muscular, with icy blue eyes and curly chestnut hair that made him look the young image of his father.

  King Viktor stared coldly at his son. “Have you no courtesy, boy? We are engaged in a discussion.”

  Edon stopped near Keller and glared down at him. “Trying to keep my father on the path of peace, coward?”

  Keller ignored the provocation, and forced a smile. “Merely keeping his majesty informed, your highness.”

  Edon turned to face his father. “I heard of the discussion in council. Vasland intends to invade us! Why do we not march at once?”

  “Running headlong into every situation with swords drawn is unwise,” King Viktor chided. “I would hope you’d have learned that by now. We have only reports that some Vaslanders may be gathering, and that from unreliable sources.”

  The prince glared down at Keller. “See how you’ve turned my father into a coward, too, little lord. Perhaps you hired a woods witch to cast a spell and wither his manhood?”

  “Idiot!” Viktor threw his wineglass down, shattering it on the wooden floor. Keller flinched, shielding his eyes.

  The king stalked over to his son, overtopping him by an inch, and stabbed a finger into the boy’s chest. It made a clinking sound. Is the prince wearing mail under his shirt? “If you ever managed to attend a council meeting, you might learn that there is more to ruling a kingdom than warfare.”

  Edon shrank back a bit under this assault, but the fire in his eyes was undiminished. “It is a king’s duty to protect his kingdom! It is plain as day that the Vaslanders are up to no good. Send me at the head of your army, and I will prove it.”

  “I am dispatching regiments to let the Vaslanders see our strength. Your assistance,” he hissed, “is not needed.” He went back to the window.

  “Father, I—”

  “GET OUT!” Viktor roared. Keller did not think that the king desired any further advice this day, and briskly followed Edon out the door.

  Outside, the prince stormed away. His own personal bodyguard, Sir Thoriss, cast a cold glance at Keller, then fell in behind the prince.

  Keller sighed. The position of spymaster was tough and unrewarding. By tradition the spymaster was not a duke of the Greater Council; dukes all had far too much to do. Keller was the third son of a count, with little chance of inheriting his father’s countship. However, he had shown adroitness at gathering information and seeing hidden patterns. He had impressed King Viktor a few years prior when he’d brought news of a conspiracy among several dukes to murder another of their number—Loram Arkhail, in fact. Duke Terilin Faroa had been among the conspirators.

  Viktor had wanted all their heads, but Keller had convinced the king to let him undermine the conspiracy more quietly, in the name of stability. When Duke Arkhail suddenly decamped for his seat at Thorncross, and the leader of the conspiracy died in a fall from a horse, the other dukes lost their nerve and the plot was undone. Keller had told each of them that the king knew of their treason, but had magnanimously chosen not to take their heads, as long as they behaved themselves. It would benefit the realm not at all to lose several dukes at once.

  As a reward, Viktor had made Keller his new spymaster… after the previous one was dismissed for failing to detect the plot.

  Keller had to speak with many people each day to gather all the intelligence he needed, and he had no time to spend dawdling in the halls. He walked briskly along, passing into one of the palace’s old stone fortifications. Viktor’s great-great-grandfather had expanded the palace, adding modern wooden sections between the ancient mortared towers. The castle had become a proper palace, no longer just a vast fortress, but now a structure that truly represented the power and glory of Garovan kings.

  But the stone towers remained cold, drafty places. Someone had hung huge tapestries on all the walls here, trying and failing to hide the bones of the fortress. As well paint flowers on the hide of a bear. He wondered if Rory had found Sir Edvan yet. There was no particular reason to fear for his safety here, but it did not hurt to be cautious.

  Keller found his way to the palace guards’ command, near the practice yard. He met with the captain of the palace guards, Portio, a man he liked. Portio had been a dashing swordsman in his youth, but middle age had thickened his belly and stolen most of his hair. He was firmly in Edon’s grasp, or so Edon thought. Keller paid the man handsomely for information on Edon’s doings.

  “The prince, he is acting suspicious today,” Portio said, watching several of his men spar in the yard. Portio was from Parilia, a nation off to the northwest of Garova. Friendly, but wary. “Wearing armor in the palace, as you said. Being even more of a grumpy man than usual. I do not like it.”

  Keller snorted. “He accused me of hiring a witch to put a curse on his father. That boy gets strange ideas. Has he asked anything of you today?”

  Portio shrugged. “Just one thing. To keep my men off the east ramparts, over the square.”

  The ramparts? Was Edon meeting secretly with someone? This was quite suspicious. Edon was blunt as a hammer. What intrigue could he be getting up to? “Anything else?”

  “My men’s reports, they are always the same. The prince rides and hunts in the forest. Practices in the yard. Has whores in his chambers. Two or three at a time, I hear.” He sniggered. “Never will there be a man more disappointed by marriage.”

  Keller felt sorry for any woman unfortunate enough to marry Edon. He thanked Portio, slipping him a small purse, and strode away.

  He felt as if half his efforts were keeping tabs on Prince Edon, not for the prince’s own sake, but to protect the royal house. Even the king had hinted a time or two that Keller should focus less on affairs of state and more on keeping Edon from ruining t
he royal family.

  It twisted Keller’s stomach to think that one day, some disaster might befall the royal house of Relindos. Aside from Edon—and, well, Viktor, who was strong and wise but had such a temper—Keller was fond of them all. Queen Alise was nicknamed the Queen of Hearts by the people, for her kindness and gentleness. Princess Taya spent so much time arranging entertainments and frolics for the palace’s guests that the mistress of rooms often joked that she should retire and let Taya run things. Karina, the younger princess, acted as her older sister’s messenger, flitting about the palace and ensuring that everything was properly arranged for whatever game or masque Taya had planned. Karina was sweet as honey, but there was no harsher taskmaster in all the palace. With the royal summer ball fast approaching, the girl would be sterner than ever.

  And little Luka, the apple-cheeked boy who pored over every text in the palace library, day after day, reciting old, dusty facts about which king fortified which wall of which tower, confounding his tutors to no end. The Darling Prince, they called him. It was a second son’s duty to act as chief advisor to his elder brother, and when Edon inevitably took the throne, that job would fall to Luka. The boy would be good at it. Keller prayed that that day would not come for many years. Perhaps Luka’s bookishness would temper Edon’s belligerence.

  That belligerence had never shaded into subtlety before, and that worried Keller. He found his way to a narrow, rarely-used stone stairwell that spiraled up to the ramparts. He went slowly, listening for any noise. If Edon was meeting with someone, he wanted to overhear that conversation.

  No sound came but wind whistling over the ancient stones of the palace wall. Usually, guards patrolled all along here, but not today, as Portio had said. Keller took a few more steps, emerging cautiously into daylight. Still, no one was there. He looked over the parapet, out at the capital city of Callaston itself, which spread toward the River Brinemoor in the distance. A brown haze hovered over the city, the child of chimneys and furnaces.

  He could see the manses of the nobility, closest to the palace, in the neighborhoods just beyond the Great Square, followed by the haunts of the merchants and traders and craftsmen further on: trade halls, shops, markets, smithies. The city got rougher near the docks, where it was full of warehouses and whorehouses, malthouses and gambling dens.

  A scrape of boots on stone sounded behind him, and he spun. Before him stood Edon Relindos, holding a thick quarterstaff in his hands. “Your highness—”

  The staff whipped up, cracking Keller squarely on the temple. He tried to lurch aside, but the staff hit his knee, and he buckled, collapsing against the parapet. Again and again, the staff struck, on his head, chest, arms. Everything was stars and noise and screaming pain. He realized he was hearing words. “No more of your poison, coward.”

  Keller felt himself lifted up, and then the warm afternoon air whistled past his face as the flagstones in the square below rushed up to embrace him.

  CHAPTER 1

  AMIRA