The Will of the Empress

“But why should I take your place, when you know and love the holdings so much?” Sandry asked. “You know every inch of the ground, and my mother hardly ever even visited. You know those people by name, and you look after them. My uncle Vedris needs me. What will I have to do here? Be a butterfly while you continue to do all the work?”

“You will have a husband to take care of such things,” Ambros replied steadily. “The empress wishes you to be an ornament of the court. No doubt you’ll be given a place there, Mistress of the Imperial Purse, or chief lady-in-waiting—”

“With maids who are far better informed than I am about palace ways to do things,” Sandry told him. “I will be bored silly. And you know the saying, ‘A bored mage is trouble waiting to unfold.’ As for marriage…The man I marry would have to be very unusual, Cousin. I doubt I will meet him at court.”

Ambros sighed, then covered a yawn. “Forgive me,” he apologized.

Sandry got to her feet; Ambros did the same. “Forgive me for keeping you from your bed when you’re obviously worn out,” she said. “Don’t let me keep you up a moment longer. Will you be coming to the palace with us tomorrow?”

The older man smiled thinly. “Her Imperial Majesty does not invite me to intimate court occasions,” he explained. “She once informed my wife that I was as dry as a stick and not nearly so interesting.”

“Then she doesn’t know you at all,” Sandry replied firmly. She dipped a polite curtsy. “Good night, Cousin.”

Ambros put a hand on her shoulder. “Clehame—”

“Sandry,” she told him. “Just Sandry. Lady Sandry, if we’re in public, I suppose. But Sandry the rest of the time.”

“Sandry,” Ambros said, his eyes direct, “the empress can be quite determined.”

Sandry smiled brightly at him. “She seems very reasonable. I’m certain that, when the time comes, I won’t have to insist.”

5

The 29th day of Goose Moon, 1043 K. F.

The Hall of Roses, the imperial palace

Dancruan, Namorn

The next morning, Daja watched her friends as the four of them waited in an outer chamber to be announced to the empress. Sandry busied herself with a last inspection of their clothes, tugging a fold here, smoothing a pleat there—simply fussing, because the clothes adjusted themselves. When she reached for Briar’s round tunic collar, he thrust her hands away. “Enough,” he told Sandry firmly. “We look fine. Besides, she already saw us in our travel clothes. This fancy dress ought to be good enough.”

“Things are different here,” replied Sandry. “Did you see the way that footman looked down his nose at us? We’re not at all fashionable here, and appearances matter more. I don’t want these popinjays sneering at us.”

“Well, things may be different, but we’re the same,” retorted Briar, preening in front of a mirror set there for just that purpose. “We’re still mages, and the only folk that should concern us are mages.”

Daja had to admit, he looked quite trim in his pale green tunic and trousers. Even the moving flower and vine tattoos on his hands seemed to want to match his clothes. Their leaves were the pale green of spring, the tiny blossoms white and yellow and pink, with only the occasional blue rose or black creeper. Still, he needed to remember that not everyone would agree with him. In Trader-talk she told Briar, “Don’t talk nonsense. These people matter to Sandry, so they should matter to you.”

Briar glared at her. When Daja returned his gaze with her own calm one, he rolled his eyes and shook his head. “They’re only mattering to me for the summer, and then I’ll have nothing more to do with them,” he replied, also in Trader-talk. “I’ve had my fill of nobles.”

“Unless they want to buy something from you,” murmured Tris in Trader-talk.

Briar grinned like a wolf, showing all his teeth. “Unless they want to buy,” he said amiably. “Then they’re my new, temporary best friends.”

The gilded doors to the Hall of Roses swept open, propelled by the footman who had guided them to the waiting room. He bowed low to Sandry, and indicated they could enter the room beyond.

Sandry gave him her brightest smile and swept by him, a confection of airy pink and white clothes and silver embroidery. Briar followed Sandry. Tris, respectable in a sleeveless peacock blue gown over a white undergown with full sleeves and tight cuffs, pressed a coin into the footman’s hand as she passed him, accepting his murmured blessing with a nod. She had spent long hours on the road with Daja discussing the proper amounts for tips in Namorn. Daja, dressed in Trader-style in a coppery brown tunic and leggings, carrying her staff, accompanied Tris into the larger hall.

“Clehame Sandrilene fa Toren,” announced a herald. “Viynain Briar Moss. Viymeses Daja Kisubo and Trisana Chandler.”

Daja, Briar, and Tris exchanged a quick grimace. Someone at court had decided to ignore the plainer titles of Ravvotki and Ravvikki they had used when they first met the empress and openly address them as mages. Reluctantly Daja reached inside her tunic and fished out the snake-like living metal string on which she kept her mage’s medallion. Briar took out his, dangling from a green silk cord, and Tris hers, hung on black silk. Quickly, as they approached the empress, they arranged the medallions properly on their chests. Daja knew that Sandry wouldn’t bother. Sandry understood that showing her medallion would not change how anyone saw her.