“Your Dynast still has allies,” Mariil was saying. “She’ll have sent Idri to Oz, with a strong escort from some friendly king, probably Gurtho of Tekalos. With a request to hold you, if you showed up. But not to Ferny Cove; that would be too dangerous.”
Mariil’s expression was bleak, grim. “Then Idri would go through the Oz Gate with three or four guardsmen to hunt you, and if you’d gotten through, you’d be taken, you and your Curtis. Unless he fought. Then he’d be killed.”
Unless he fought. And he would. But he wasn’t trained to it; and probably they’d catch him with no weapon. Varia felt herself taut, vibrating like a fiddle string.
“The Cyncaidh could take me there,” she said. The words tumbled out of her more rapidly than she’d intended. “With a company of soldiers. Let me get Curtis and bring him through. Then we could live here—you could let us have a servant’s cottage—and produce sons and daughters for you. You could choose one of them to adopt. Or more than one.”
Mariil shook her head slowly. The discussion and emotions had taxed her strength. “It wouldn’t work,” she said. “Not for the Cyncaidh, and not for you. It was possible for him to slip around in the Rude Lands with a few half-ylver who could pass as locals. But to ride in with a company—they’d hardly come back alive, certainly not from Ferny Cove. Your captured Sisters weren’t the only ones savaged there. The fighting was fierce, and Quaie took no prisoners. Vertorus was quartered, and his body thrown to the dogs. His sole surviving son, Keltorus, has sworn his enmity forever, though being an ill-tongued drunkard of a short-lived family, his forever might be shorter than he thinks. He’s ordered that no Sister be allowed within the borders of Kormehr, and any trespass be referred to him for punishment. I can guess what it would be—death, but not quick.”
Frowning, Varia gnawed a lip. “And you want me for a brood mare, for Cyncaidh himself to sire his sons on.”
“We want you to be Lady Cyncaidh.”
Varia stared. “His wife?”
“His wife. I’m in the process of dying, as you see. And he needs more than heirs. To have a blood heir is desirable, but Raien wants and deserves more than that, believe me.”
She paused, seeming to gather strength. “Besides, my dear, he loves you.” Again she paused. “I’m an old soul, Varia, with many earlier lifetimes whispering to me. Wisps of wisdom, when I manage to hear and recognize them. And I have no doubt you were born to this. I’ll be dead within months. I’ve been declining for more than seven years now, and am very near the end. The Cyncaidh, on the other hand, is fifty-three, and his line tends to longer lives than most.”
She paused, looking piercingly at Varia. “Not that I’m useless yet; certainly not to you. I’m a healer of the spirit, and yours has cruel wounds, not healed, just scarred over.” She waved a hand as if impatient with herself. “Back to the issue. Like myself, the Emperor’s Chief Counselor has reached his decline, though he may continue in office for another year or three. And the Cyncaidh is likeliest to replace him, for when Paedhrig was Chief Counselor, and Raien his aide, they were haft and blade, two parts of one instrument.
“Our Emperor is eighty-four himself now, and the Diet most often elects the Chief Counselor to the throne, if he’s served well. But meanwhile, as Chief Counselor, Raien would start a healing. More than a healing: the spread of trade and learning and peace in the Rude Lands—something made more difficult by that lunatic Quaie. Peace even with the Sisterhood; Sarkia can’t live forever. And closer at hand, he’d promote civility within the empire.”
Varia shook her head, not disagreeing but overwhelmed—this was too much too fast.
“Meanwhile he’s taken no mistress during my decline, though I’ve suggested it to him. Until he knew you, there was none he wanted.” Mariil got laboriously to her feet. “Come, Varia. I’m tired. Even talking tires me these days. And a go-between should take such matters only so far. Let him ask you himself.”