Raven's Shadow (Raven #1)(59)

"You are well-educated for your position as well," he said.

"If younger sons have no place in the Empire, their daughters have - " she stopped abruptly and took a step backward. "Why am I telling you this?" Her voice shook in unfeigned fear. "You're not supposed to be able to work magic here. They said that you couldn't."

"I'm working no magic," he said.

"I have to go," she said and left the cell. She didn't, he noticed, forget to shut and bolt the door.

When she was gone, he pulled his legs up on the bed, boots and all, and leaned against the wall.

Whatever the Path was supposed to have been, he doubted that its only purpose was to keep the young nobles occupied. Telleridge didn't strike him as the sort to serve anyone except himself - certainly not the stability of the Empire.

Thinking of Telleridge reminded Tier of what the wizard had done to him. His magic was really gone - not that it was likely to do him much good in a situation like this. Alone, without witnesses, Tier sat on the bed and buried his head in his hands, seeing, once more, Telleridge's hand closing on his arm.

Wizards weren't supposed to be able to cast spells like that. They had to make potions and draw symbols - he'd seen them do it. Only Ravens were able to cast spells with words.

Telleridge had spoken in the Traveler tongue.

Tier straightened up and stared at one of the glowing braziers without seeing it. That ring. He had seen that ring before, the night he'd met Seraph.

Though it had been twenty years, he was certain he was not mistaken. He'd a knack for remembering things, and the ring Telleridge had worn had the same notch on the setting that the ring... what had his name been? Wresen. Wresen had been a wizard, too. A wizard following Seraph.

How had Telleridge known that Tier was Bard? Tier had supposed that his unknown visitor had told the wizard, if it hadn't been the wizard himself. However, it sounded as if Tier being a Bard was the reason they'd taken him in the first place. No one except Seraph knew what he was - though she'd told him that any Raven would know.

They had been watching him. Myrceria had known that he had been a baker and a soldier. Had they been watching him and Seraph for twenty years? Were they watching Seraph now?

He sprang to his feet and paced. He had to get home. When an hour of fruitless thought left him still in the locked cell, he settled back on the bed and took up the lute absently. All he could do was be ready for an opportunity to escape as it presented itself.

He noticed the tune that he'd begun fingering with wry amusement. Almost defiantly he plucked out the chorus with quick-fingered precision.

A year and a day,

A year and a day,

And the beggar'll be king

For a year and a day.

In the song, in order to stop a decade-long drought, desperate priests decided that the ultimate sacrifice had to be made - the most important person in the nation had to be sacrificed: the king. Unwilling to die, the king refused, but proposed the priests take one of the beggars from the street. The king would step down from office for a year and let the beggar be king. The priests argued that a year was not long enough - so they made the beggar king for a year and a day. The drought ended with the final, willing sacrifice of the young man who'd proved more worthy than the real king.

Just as the Secret Path's Traveler king, Tier, would die at the end of his reign.

He thought of one of the bindings Telleridge had put on him. The young men, the Passerines, didn't know he would die - otherwise there would be no reason to forbid him to speak of it with them.

No doubt then his death would serve a purpose greater than mimicking an old song. Would it appease the gods like the beggar king's sacrifice in the story? But then why hide it from the young men? What would a wizard want with his death?

Magic and death, he remembered Seraph telling him once. Magic and death are a very powerful combination. The better the mage knows the victim, the stronger the magic he can work. The mage's pet cat works better than a stray. A friend better than an enemy... a friend for a year and a day.

He had to get word to Seraph. He had to warn her to protect the children.

His fingers picked out the chords to an old war song. Myrceria, he thought, I will work on Myrceria.

Phoran held the bundle of parchment triumphantly as he marched alone through the halls of the palace toward his study. They'd look for him in his rooms first, he thought. No one but the old librarian knew about the study. They'd find him eventually, but not until he was ready for them.

It had been impulse, really. When the old fool, Douver, set down the papers the Council of Septs had for him to sign, Phoran had just picked them up, tucked them under his arm, and announced to the almost empty room that he would take them under advisement.

He'd turned on his heel and walked out, slipping through a complex system of secret passages - some of which were so well known they might be corridors and others he rather thought he might be the only one who knew. He'd given no one a chance to follow him.

For most of his life, he'd signed what they told him to. At least his uncle had done him the courtesy of explaining what he'd signed - though he remembered not caring much about most of it.

But the empty room had been an insult. When the Emperor signed the proposals into law twice a year, there should be people present, and would have been, if anyone thought that the Emperor would do anything but sign what he was told.