Hoard

It did not matter how somber the mood in the palace or the city of Boisverd was—it mattered even less how the Queen suffered. There was work to be done, there was a nation dependent upon her. To be royal was to be responsible.

This view was not universally held among the household, but that was fine. What mattered was that she held it, that she would not forsake her duty to the people for any reason. If her ministers and servants were redoubling their efforts to smooth her duties and head off any additional stress… Well, for that she was grateful. She could not let them keep it up forever, or for long, but for a while at least she would accept the kindness.

Henrietta von Holtzmann’s eyes were reddened, but her expression was steely. Her only outward concession to circumstance was her lack of jewelry and choice of traditional mourning dress of coarse black fabric in place of her customary formal gown. As the day drew to a close, she was still on her feet, carrying out her duties.

These, blessedly, were finally tapering off; she was in fact conducting her final interviews of the day on foot, while on the move through the palace’s lower halls on the way to her own suite.

“And the rest is boilerplate,” Chancellor Rochefort concluded, tucking his overburdened clipboard to his side in the customary signal that he was done actively dealing with business. “All remaining petitioners would not be perforce entitled to your Majesty’s direct attention even under normal circumstances, much less…as things are. I believe it would have been your Majesty’s custom to grant these audiences in most cases, but I would advise against it in this case. I, your ministers, and my secretaries are well qualified to address all these issues. I will of course have reports for your Majesty’s perusal forthwith.”

“I am not incapacitated, Chancellor,” Henrietta stated. “Nor will I falter in the execution of my responsibilities. I am certain I have made myself unmistakably clear on this.”

“My queen, had you a broken leg, I would bring paperwork to your chamber,” he rejoined, unfazed as always by the bite in her tone. “To make reasonable accommodation for terrible events is simply best practice. I do not permit my subordinates to work through illness, injury, or bereavement because it slows the pace and lowers the quality of their work precipitously, and imperils their ability to continue executing their obligations in the future.”

“Claude,” she warned.

“I assure your Majesty,” he continued with a faint, cold smile, “I am still ruthless enough to exploit your pain for political advantage. Unless the mood of the citizens has changed in the last hours…?”

“It has not,” said Clarent, who was striding along on Henrietta’s other side. “The populace is overwhelmingly sympathetic.”

Rochefort nodded. “We have expressions of support from the temples as well. Most of these annoying dabblers possess the sense to test the wind before putting themselves forward and will refrain from being pests for the time being, but some few have presumed to express impatience. It is my intention to eviscerate their political capital for that presumption, and thus spare us future headaches.”

“Only tell me what words to whisper,” Clarent promised, “and I will see they reach the right ears.”

“I appreciate you on even the best days, gentlemen, but never more so than at times such as these.” Henrietta did not smile—it felt it would be a long time before she did again—but she permitted her expression to soften.

They rounded a corner, and her eyes snapped instantly to the face of her spouse, approaching up another corridor alongside the Court Mage. Etienne was drawn and tense as she felt; the Princess-Consort was not so self-contained as her wife, but given her tendency to transmute pain into anger, no one dared think her weaker for it.

“Your Majesty, good,” Cora d’Acron said, brusque as usual. “I’m glad we caught you before you retire for the evening.”

“Is this urgent, Mademoiselle d’Acron?” Rochefort asked pointedly.

“Yes. It should also be brief. Your Majesty, I am about to depart for Dragonvale.”

To judge by the sharp look she gave the Court Mage, this was news to Etienne too. Cora barreled on before anyone could interrupt her with a question.

“I apologize for having to drop these matters on you at the last minute, your Majesty; it is due to my failure to make arrangements in advance, as I was not expecting to be called upon for anything so hazardous, so soon. I have no successor nominated at this time, but my recommendation is that you approach the wizarding guild called the Sons of Saremath to put forward the next Court Mage candidate, on the grounds that they are both competent and disconnected from Verdi politics.”

“Cora,” Henrietta said firmly.

“Nothing in my chambers will be hazardous to a skilled practitioner, though I advise against letting a layperson attempt to sort through my effects. Any of the local wizarding guilds in the city will be competent enough to clean out my rooms at need. They will want to claim my research as payment, which is a normal arrangement I would advise you to agree to. They might also want a portion of my materials or tools; that is not customary and they should be advised that all those objects are paid for by and thus property of the Crown, and should be reserved for the next Court Mage.”

“Cora!” Henrietta barked. “I appreciate your diligence, but this is no time for you to go haring off on a quest!”

“Your Majesty,” d’Acron said, finally moderating her customarily strident tone somewhat. “I know how this sounds, but I promise I intend and fully expect to be back in a week, as hale as I am now. I value the already-strained stability of this nation and my own life—not necessarily in that order—too much to take needless risks. When a risk is needful, however, some basic measures are called for. Again, I’m sorry I haven’t set all this up in advance. I will get to work on that as soon as I’m back.”

“And what exactly do you mean to accomplish in Dragonvale?” the Queen asked, ruthlessly clamping down on the sudden surge of hope that tried to rise in her chest. “Do you actually believe you can retrieve…”

“I…strongly doubt it, your Majesty.” Even the normally curt and dismissive Court Mage looked regretful. “I rather doubt I am a match for any of the drakes, definitely none of the consorts. For the Dread…surely I don’t even need to say it. It is my intention to gather information. And due to the caution this will require, I am regrettably unable to promise results. But the attempt must be made.”

“I am betraying my own biases,” Clarent murmured, “but I agree. Information is always vital, and…painful as this is for me to admit…neither I nor my department is equipped to obtain anything of value from Dragonvale. Court Mage d’Acron is our best option.”

“Whatever else they are,” Cora added, “dragons are predictable. Their habits outlive our dynasties. This sudden rash of out-of-character actions tells me that something has changed with those beasts, and they clearly intend to make it our problem. I dare not risk provoking Emeralaphine—or any of them, for that matter—by getting too close, but if there is a chance of learning what has happened in Dragonvale, I must try.”

“I understand,” Henrietta said evenly. “That being the case…your point is well taken. Very well, I approve your mission. Be cautious, Cora. We can ill afford to lose anyone else, much less incite any retaliation from them.”

“My word on that, your Majesty.”

“A week,” Clarent added in a deceptively mild tone. “That is an impossibly tight timetable, accounting for travel. You are a conjurer by specialization, I understand? Surely you have not acquired the ability to teleport within the last year.”

“It is the nature of wizards to hoard resources and artifacts against future needs,” she said tersely. “Far too many take these treasures to their graves; I am planning to expend some assets because I consider this worth it. Don’t expect me to be able to do this regularly. Possibly not ever again.”

“Disposable items that enable long-distance teleportation are among the most priceless rarities,” Clarent said innocently. “Surely for such a cost, you would be eligible for some compensation from the Crown—”

“Monsieur Clarent,” she snapped, “I do not pry into your innumerable secrets. I expect the same courtesy in return.”

“Now, that is as fair a criticism as I have ever heard,” he agreed, bowing. “Be safe, Court Mage, and may every god to whom you pray look kindly upon your mission.”

She nodded curtly to him, then bowed deeply to the queen. “By your leave, then, your Majesty.”

“It is given. Take no more risks than you must, Cora. We need you.”

“It’s a promise.”

She turned and strode away at a rapid clip, rounding the next corner in seconds.

“Then I believe we shall take our leave as well,” Rochefort said, bowing. Clarent did likewise. “Rest well, your Majesty, your Highness. I shall have the morning reports for you as always.”

“Thank you, gentlemen,” said the Queen, inclining her head. Both of them retreated back up the hallway, and only when they were gone did she let her shoulders slump.

Etienne stepped up alongside her, slipping an arm through Henrietta’s. They were alone, but this was still a public hallway. That was the most she allowed, for now.

“How is he?” Henrietta asked quietly as they resumed walking toward their rooms.

“Asleep, finally.” Etienne’s face collapsed into a pained scowl. “I eventually had to give him something for it.”

“One of Cora’s tinctures?”

“The cheapest brandy the sommelier had; he’s in no fit state to appreciate quality. More to the point, he’ll wake with a pounding headache that I dare to hope will momentarily minimize more important concerns, and teach him not to reach for chemical solutions to heartache. I… Henrietta, I do not like the feel of drugging our son to sleep. I just…ran out of better ideas. Nothing I said would stop him from torturing himself.”

Henrietta closed her eyes for a moment, reaching an arm across to squeeze Etienne’s hand. “He was right there. He had to see…it happen. Our son is more than sensible enough to recognize there was not a thing he could have done against a dragon. But the pain will have to recede somewhat before his sense reasserts himself. You remember being that age.”

“Barely.”

Etienne held the door of their rooms open for her, eyes full of concern.

“He will pull through,” Henrietta said quietly. “He will. Franz has absorbed the best traits of both of us, on top of inheriting his father’s compassion. This is not his fault, any of it, and in time he’ll make what peace can be made.”

“How well are you enduring, love?” Etienne asked quietly, shutting the door and stepping over to her.

For the moment, Henrietta simply stood in the middle of her parlor, staring vacantly at nothing.

“It’s not his fault,” she repeated after a long pause. “No, we all know whose fault it was.”

“Henrietta, no.” Etienne gathered her into a hug.

“I sent them there,” she whispered, slumping forward into her wife’s strong frame. “I sent her there!”

“Love, don’t do this.”

“So she would be safe!”

Etienne squeezed her close, rocking them gently as Henrietta’s reserve and control finally shattered under the pressure. Staring into the distance over her wife’s shaking head, the Princess-Consort’s expression promised murder to someone.

Verdi architecture was thick, the walls of the royal bedchambers as defensible as a fortress in their own right—both for the purpose of actual defense, and because of their cultural esteem of privacy. It was all the more important at times like this. The people of this city could not be allowed to hear their Queen sobbing in broken anguish.

The apartments of the Court Mage were lit at all times by everburning candles, the very simple enchantment providing enough light to walk through without stubbing her toe and a spooky ambiance that she would never admit enjoying; the more powerful magical lights she only activated when working.

In the open central platform reserved for ritual casting, a gleaming speck appeared in midair, expanding rapidly to settle into the shape of Cora d’Acron herself. She gasped, staggering forward and clutching herself as she collided hip-first with her own desk, jostling it and knocking pens and a letter opener to the floor. Cora hunched against it, barely catching her weight on both hands. Face twisted in pain, she let her head hang between shoulders screwed up with agonized tension.

“Shut up. Stop it.”

Her whisper was almost drowned out by the others, by susurrations lingering just at the outer boundaries of human hearing, the breathy voices like dead twigs rustling in winter. Their words inscrutable, their messages clear only to the recipient.

“Stop! Go away!”

“All right, enough. Shoo, shoo, all of you. She’s not for you! Go on, get outta here. Back where you belong, pests.”

On the vague shape of her shadow cast across the floor behind her, movements that did not match her own took the form of her hands brushing around her head as if dispelling cobwebs. The soft whispering heightened in pitch, turning angry…then fell silent as the voices from between the planes retreated from a power they did not dare cross.

Cora breathed more easily in the silence, but was still hunched in pain. Limping, she stumbled over to her potion cabinet, knocking over bottles as she fumbled for a vial of standard healing potion.

Her shadow remained stretched across the ground behind her exactly where she’d left it, folding its arms disapprovingly.

“Young lady, what exactly are you trying to do to yourself? You know not to do that so lightly. You just saved, what, five minutes of walking? Right here in the palace! How exactly was that worth it?”

Her throat moved convulsively as she downed the potion, and only then did she finally relax and straighten her posture.

“Clarent went so far as to openly express suspicion of me,” she said. Then had to pause and clear her throat before she could continue without the pained rasp in her voice. “That means things have changed. I need to train him not to bother having me followed around.”

“Cora, ol’ buddy, when the problem is that the spymaster has his eyeballs on you, showing off powers he knows you shouldn’t have is only going to make things worse. C’mon, you know better than this; it’s basic sense. Impaired judgment is a warning sign. Time to slow down, if anything.”

“I know what I am about!” she snapped. “Trust me, I know Clarent. He doesn’t think in terms of sense. Anyway, I have a week away to recuperate. I told them about Dragonvale. You think you can learn what I need to know in that time?”

“Oh, please,” the shadow said merrily, “I already know the broad strokes! What details can be gleaned, I’ll get much faster than that. Not my first day at the races.”

“Good. Perfect.” She paused in the act of straightening up the items she’d just knocked loose, grimacing. “That poor kid, though. Perseverance was a thoroughly useless person, but by no means a bad one. And nobody deserves…that.”

“Aw, aren’t you sweet to be so concerned! But relax, I can almost guarantee she’s fine. Having undoubtedly the most stressful day of her life, but in good health for now. I give it even odds she’ll be back here safe in her own little bed not long after you are.”

Cora paused, turning to stare narrowly at the shadow still stretched across the floor.

“In a way I’ll be able to take credit for?”

“Doubtful. Not unless you want to risk her Highness contradicting your story later, not to mention getting close enough for Emeralaphine to land on you. But you should be back in plenty of time to be the bearer of good news, and that’s not nothing!”

“Right, yes,” she muttered, absently scrubbing her palms on her trousers. “Best not chance that…not yet. I have more preparations to lay before I take on Emeralaphine.”

“Cora, friend, pal…whoah. With the greatest of respect to your skills, there is no situation in which you’re a match for the White Wind. This is exactly the kind of impaired judgment I was talking about.”

“That’s right, keep underestimating me,” she said with a vicious grin, shrugging into her most heavily enchanted coat. “I love it when people do that.”

“I’m just gonna say it: you’re exhibiting all the warning signs. You know you can stop at any time, Cora. I told you up front, the second you decide this isn’t worth it, I’ll get to work on finding you a solution to your problem.”

“As if I’d trust you with that. I will find my own solution, after we both get what we want out of those damn dragons! I am not crazy enough to believe you have my best interests in heart. Not just yet.”

“Y’know,” the shadow said, drifting lazily across the floor while she began sorting through her bags of holding, “even a creature like me has certain…limitations to observe. Do you have any idea how difficult it is to get anything done, under the stricture that nothing I do can create an innocent victim?”

“I honestly can’t imagine it.”

“That’s why I need good folks like you!” The shadow slid across the surfaces of the room, popping up right in front of her on the parchment where she was currently jotting down a note to herself for later. “To score myself a usable catspaw, I need to find someone up to something they definitely should not be, and most frustratingly, I have to offer in good faith to help them with what they actually need, not just what they currently want.”

She snorted and turned away, crossing the room to her weapon rack. The shadow followed, posing on the adjacent wall as if leaning against the rack while Cora glanced between a staff and a rapier.

“And it has to be good faith, is the thing. My utmost sincerity and very best effort, should the offer be taken up. To be clear, Cora ol’ pal, I’m not in a position to do anything directly about your little…problem. But! I have another acquaintance whose three favorite things are hopeless causes, helping people who manifestly don’t deserve it, and knowing a guy who knows a guy. And even if she comes up short, I’ll keep at it. Someone out there can do something for you. It’s just a matter of finding the right ears to whisper in. In other words, my specialty!”

She chose both, buckling the sword at her waist and taking the staff in hand. As she turned her back, the shadow snapped forward, stretching once more across the floor in front of her, arms raised in a shrug.

“You can trust me because I’m not interested in you. You’re a means to an end, Cora, and that means I gotta handle you a lot more carefully than I would one of my actual projects. So whaddaya say? How about we drop this, get you some proper help?”

“Even if that’s true,” she snorted, “it means you chose me because you know I won’t take you up on that. So don’t waste my time.”

“Now, don’t sell yourself short! I swear, every single person I’ve found interesting enough to deal with directly has managed to surprise me. But…yes. I did pick you because I’m reasonably sure you’re going to ride this horse until it bucks you, no matter what good sense I try to tell you along the way.”

“There we are, then. Good luck in Dragonvale. I’ll need you to come with me to Spiders Gorge first.”

“Uh… Sure, buddy, but I gotta tell you, my specific talents aren’t going to help you much if you wanna wrangle colossus spiders.”

“Sweet of you to be concerned, but no. I plan to spend the week setting up my contingency, and I don’t need you for that. Just…the trip.” Scowling in irritation, she took a deep, steadying breath. “Making the transit without you would be…rough.”

“Offer’s on the table, Cora. Say the word and we can stop all of this.”

“We had a deal. I do not intend to alter the terms. Now let’s go.”

The shadow swept an elegant bow. “Your wish is my command.”