Telmaine

“That’d be a first,” whispered Balthasar, breath stirring Telmaine’s hair.

She turned her head toward his voice, sensing even as she did the presence of magic encasing that familiar vitality. What was Balthasar? “Bal?”

His answer was to draw her to him, bedcovers and all, tucking her head against his neck, mind open to her in utter abandonment and an incontinence of thought uncharacteristic of him. She mumbled protest, both at that and the force of his embrace.

“I shall tell Mother that she appears to be awake,” Merivan said over their heads. “Assuming,” she added, “you do not smother her in the meantime, and add to the scandal the two of you have visited on our family.”

She left in haste. Merivan never liked to be around people when she cried.

“Bal,” Telmaine mumbled, “I have to breathe.”

His grip eased, and she abruptly changed her mind and put her arms around him. “I thought you were gone,” he whispered against her neck. Through her touch-sense, like a spill of gaming chips, came the memories: that ghastly boy insisting she was dead, the archduke failing to contradict it, crossing to the other side of sunrise, Floria . . . She caught her breath in jealous shock. “Why didn’t the archduke tell you?” she demanded. “Vladimer said he was acting on his orders. Wasn’t he? ”

“He was. He simply did too thorough a job of making it appear you had died, using the ash, having you leave your jewelry—”

“Oh, do you have it?” It seemed of paramount importance that his silver love knot once more be resting in the hollow of her throat, that his rings be circling her fingers, all recovered from the ash of her false death. He produced all from his breast pocket and silently fastened the chain around her neck, and slid the rings onto her fingers. She remembered how cold his hands had been during their wedding ceremony, the high-society wedding an ordeal for the shy, young physician. They seemed little warmer now. They also reeked of Lightborn inks. His thoughts were troubled and complex and scarcely coherent—but she did sense his joy and profound relief at having her back. “What have you been doing, Balthasar, and why do you have that ensorcellment on you? ”

“Acting as the archduke’s personal envoy to the Lightborn court. It’s likely to become a long-term position—”

Before she could question the thoughts behind his words, the doors swung open on a chorus of “Mama, mama, mama! ” Balthasar intercepted their daughters’ charge long enough to rescue Amerdale’s kitten before Florilinde, with Amerdale two hands and a knee behind, threw herself on Telmaine.

Amerdale got the first words in. “Mama, you slept through my birthday ! ”

Florilinde corrected, with all the authority of her year’s seniority, “She wasn’t sleeping; she was very ill.”

“Did you have a baby? ”

“Amerdale! ” That was Merivan, shocked.

Telmaine abandoned her maternal responsibility to correct and guide, and forgot her concerns about her husband, and simply shook with laughter. Balthasar remained straight-faced, cradling the kitten in one hand and stroking it with the other. Its tiny mouth opened and closed, mewling unheard over the rumpus. The room filled: Merivan; the dowager Duchess Stott, who had last sonned her daughter being led to her execution; her stodgy elder brother, the current Duke Stott; her flighty younger sister, Anarysinde; her other brothers . . .

“I haven’t the stamina to be an invalid,” Telmaine complained, after the dowager had finally shooed them all out—knowing her family, just before celebration turned to recrimination. “I couldn’t entertain all these visitors.” Getting out of bed was easier announced than achieved; she was shocked to find how much support she needed simply to reach the armchair. Balthasar succeeded in tucking in the corners of his smile at her affront, but not the smile itself.

“And how many kittens did Amerdale cozen you into allowing into the household? ” she said, once settled.

“Only three. One for her, one for Flori, and one for me.” The rhythm was that of a six-year-old piously enumerating fair-shares. “There’ll be one for you, if you want it. Of course, if we take that one, we’ll not be able to leave the last of the litter behind.”

“Mother of All, we’ll be overrun with cats.” She put her hands out, decently gloved again, and he took them tightly in his. “There were times I never thought we’d . . . Bal, what happened? After I . . . after—”

He released a hand to touch her lips, gently; behind the touch was the memory of retrieving her from the Borders and bringing her home. “You’ve been unconscious for nearly three weeks; that’s why you’re so weak, in part. Olivede thinks your magical strength will come back, given time. I must let her know. You mustn’t try to use it yet, and you shouldn’t try at all unless there are one or more other mages around.”

“I would be happy never to use it again,” she said, with feeling. “Oh, Balthasar, who ? ”

She hated that guarded professional expression that told her he was weighing how much to tell her. “Balthasar, please. I know people died. Just tell me who.” Ishmael . . .

He sighed. “We lost Farquhar Broome. The Lightborn archmage and two of the high masters. Magister Tammorn. Neill of the Shadowborn. Between the six of them, they managed to shield the rest of you, to some extent. Magistra Phoebe is still unconscious—she was most closely linked to her father. I’d have been dead, too, but for Floria. She realized what would happen to the ensorcellment on me if anything happened to the high masters. She got me into a dark room just in time.”

“I will thank her for that.” She breathed into her hands. “But Ishmael. Is he . . . ? Where is he? ”

“My brother, who turned up in Isolde’s service, told me that Ishmael simply disappeared. Lifted, to where, we don’t know. Olivede tells me that she thinks both Magister Broome and the archmage of the Darkborn gifted him—as Ishmael did you—with as much of their knowledge of magic as they could. This was in the last moments of their lives, and quite possibly a sacrificial move. It may have helped him regain control. In any case, none of the surviving mages have been able to sense him. As far as I know—and I think I am close enough to both the archduke and the prince now that I would be told—no one else knows where he is, either.”

“He could be dead,” she whispered.

“I don’t think so. If he were, and assuming we understand the situation correctly, the Curse would have failed. We are still Lightborn and Darkborn, and still alive.”

“Still . . . alive? ”

“A rather chilling speculation that came up in the aftermath: given Imogene’s nature, would she permit release of her curse without consequences?”

“You’ve been spending far too much time around Vladimer.”

He gave a rueful smile and a slight headshake. “Not Vladimer; Lysander. He was captured outside Stranhorne, searching for his son.”

“And the boy? ” she said, tight-lipped.

“He lived,” Balthasar said. “In poor shape, but expected to recover eventually. He’s with the Temple. They’ll be able to train and discipline him; they’ve still got enough mages of sufficient strength to control him. And he’s safer under Lightborn law. His twins are with the Broomes still, which is where I’d sooner they stay.”

She sat straighter in her chair, the better to give force to her assertion. “If either that boy or your brother does the least thing to hurt you—”

“Lysander went south—to Isolde’s stronghold—as soon as he was certain the Temple would look after the boy. I think his Shadowborn lady—Ariadne, the boy’s mother—came through, but I don’t know how well. I offered to help, if he needed it, but I don’t believe he will take me up on that. It was a strange meeting. I suspect he might try to come to an arrangement with Vladimer. I think they might understand each other quite well.”

“Vladimer,” Telmaine said, suspiciously. “Why Vladimer? ”

“The archduke signed an order of exile on Lord Vladimer four days ago.”

“That’s not fair! ”

Balthasar smiled at her swift reversal. “Political necessity, given the mood in the Lightborn court. And Sylvide’s death.” She chewed her fingertip. How could she have neglected Sylvide? Yet Vladimer’s public trial and punishment—possibly even execution—would achieve . . . what?

Politics, she thought. When had affairs she disdained as not seemly for a lady’s attention come to define the fates of people she cared for? Despite herself, in some cases.

Balthasar continued, thoughtfully, “I also suspect that Sejanus is using this to place Vladimer in Atholaya. Ferdenzil Mycene will surely take an interest in the choice parts, though the archduke may regard that as preferable to his interest in the Islands. Though I think his relationship with the Stranhornes will not be the same as before, which is all to the good.”

“Might Mycene marry Lavender? They seemed to be getting . . . on in Stranhorne Crosstracks.” He’d laugh at her if she had to admit that she’d concluded it from an argument and Lavender’s concern for Mycene’s bereavement. At least, she hoped he would laugh at her. She hoped he was still capable of laughter.

“Too early to say,” Balthasar said. “Mycene came back to the city only a week ago to settle his father’s affairs; he’d been helping the Stranhornes deal with the survivors of the Shadowborn’s army.” His expression was suddenly stark, haunted—remembering what? She thought of what she had sensed from him when he said he had gone to the Borders to find her. Find her amongst the dead and senseless, the dead and the hideously mutated.

She swallowed. “I . . . Could they be changed back? ”

“Not and live,” Balthasar said bleakly.

He drew a breath and resumed, with a self-possession she was beginning to find eerie. “The mages are interested in those territories as well, though Prince Fejelis is working hard to try to prevent the Temple from moving out of Minhorne. They’re feeling vulnerable, I think, and—” He checked himself and left that thought unspoken—for the moment, she resolved. “Long-term, I think Sejanus would rather like Vladimer for governor of the Darkborn aspect of the territory.”

“You’re very free with the archduke’s name, all of a sudden,” she observed.

“I’ve got to know him better. He’s a good man. He asked me to offer you his apology for what he put you through, and his thanks for everything you have done. He will, of course, offer you his thanks in person and in public, when you are fit.”

“I’ll forgive him what he did to me, but not what he did to you. He should have told you immediately that he hadn’t had me executed.”

“In the circumstances, he didn’t know that Vladimer had, in fact, carried out his orders. So what could he say—that he’d tried to save you, and failed? ”

There was obviously no use arguing, but she would have the matter out with Sejanus Plantageter. “This envoy post,” she prompted. “That’s why you have that ensorcellment on you.”

“Yes,” he said. “By contract with the Lightborn Temple, the first ever arranged between Darkborn and Lightborn. How much do you know about what happened in Stranhorne, about Sebastien—”

“I know you beat him,” she said, fiercely. “I know you freed yourself and saved the archduke. That’s all I need to know.” Which was ridiculous of her, she knew, because as they shared a bed, she would have no choice but to know everything, but she would not let him condemn himself for weakness. “And then you went over to the Lightborn side, to prove—” A sudden, frightening thought came to her. “Are you staying there? Is that what you’re trying to tell me? ”

“No,” Balthasar said, emphatically. He took her hand, turned it up, cradled it between his hands. “I did not want to get to this until you were stronger, but I suppose it is inevitable . . . given that you can’t help knowing what I think. Telmaine, we—Darkborn and Lightborn, earthborn and mage—came closer to disaster over this than I ever want us to come again. Without Ishmael and you and Vladimer and the Stranhornes, the Shadowborn would have overrun us all.”

And without you as well, she thought.

“Without the mages, Ishmael’s magic might have destroyed dozens, if not hundreds, more, and perhaps even himself. If Ishmael had died, the Curse would have failed, and we have no idea what the consequences would have been. The best outcome may have been for us to survive, but in a state of civil war.”

“What has Ishmael to do with the Curse? ”

“As best I understand it, from Olivede and others, Ishmael has inherited the sustaining of the Curse. Which means it lives as long as he does, if he cannot find a means of either sharing or releasing it. I believe we must work to bring our people to a point at which we can release the Curse. Which won’t happen overnight; I don’t expect it to happen in my own lifetime, but it is what I will be working toward.”

“But you’re not a diplomat, Balthasar. You’re a physician.”

He started to say something; stopped. The animation left his face. “Gil di Maurier died.”

Who ? The young Borders nobleman whom Balthasar had been treating for his addictions, and whom Ishmael had set to finding out where the kidnappers had taken Florilinde. He had succeeded, too, but in doing so had been badly wounded. She had done what she could to tip his chances toward survival, but covertly and timidly, still trying to protect her social position. Which she had probably lost. And Gil di Maurier was dead. “Balthasar, I’m so sorry. If I had done more—”

“I’m told he just gave up,” Balthasar said, his voice clear with pain. “A version of recent events made its way into the broadsheets, of course, and no one would have thought to restrain their tongues around him. I’m sure he heard his survival being called a miracle. He wasn’t a stupid man. He might have thought it was you; equally, he might have thought it was me. I’d been having some success, after all, when others had given up on him. He had a pathological aversion to magic and mages. In his weakened condition, it was too much for him to suspect that magic had kept him alive.”

Telmaine began to cry. “I meant to help him.”

He drew her against him, tucking her head against his cheek. “I know. So did I. But the wound and the cure were equally mortal.” She could feel his grief, read his memories of the laying-out service. When everyone else had taken shelter at the tolling of the sun bell, he had waited outside by the bier as the sun came up and turned the body of Gil di Maurier to ash.

He seemed to have momentarily forgotten she knew what lay behind his words as he said, “Unfortunately, others feel and will feel as he did. I have already had letters declining my services. So I will think of this envoy post as an extension of my work with the Intercalatory Council—which it is—and know it is something that desperately needs doing. . . . And, Telmaine.” He rested his forehead against hers. “Others lost far more.”

She wanted to cry out the protest that he would not give up so readily, but she sensed, too clearly, that he did not want that. He had changed. He had always been dutiful and intensely civic-minded, but there was a new hardness and purpose to him.

“What will they do to Ishmael if they find him? ” she whispered. “Try him for murder and sorcery?” She heard the edge to her voice as she named the charges, false when they had been laid, but now, in a cruel, twisted way, true.

“Shh,” Balthasar said. “We’ll find a way. The archduke signed a formal pardon for the original charges, and we’re working on preventing any more from being laid. When it’s safe, we’ll find him. Vladimer’s started working on it already.” He kissed her, a light brush of the lips, and she was not displeased to sense the claim in it. “I could use your help with the Lightborn Temple. You’ve at least had some contact with them, and your being a mage is more than a convenient fiction. They regard women differently on the Lightborn side.”

And he had been spending entirely too much time in their company. “I am not a Lightborn woman,” she reminded him, dangerously.

“I know that. But you’re also one of the strongest surviving Darkborn mages. If the Darkborn mages had a representative in the courts—”

“I’d rather have a baby,” she muttered. I’d rather have my ordinary life back. Unlike Merivan, she enjoyed the months in confinement, when it was not proper to be in society—assuming, of course, that society would ever admit her again. It was cowardice—she knew it was cowardice—but she could long. . . . Abruptly, through the touch of his skin on hers, she read his thought and reared back. “Floria?”

His expression was far less penitent than it ought to have been. Alas, surging to her feet and stalking out of the room needed more energy and muscle tone than she had. She started to rise and fell back. “Balthasar,” she protested, detesting the waver in her voice.

“I did hope to wait until later, but yes. Floria has made a request of me, which I am considering honoring.” She snatched her hands pointedly away from his touch; he was lucky her magic was spent. “I love you, Telmaine,” he said. “It tore the heart out of me finding you in Stranhorne, and hearing what you and Ishmael had done. I don’t want you ever to go through that again.”

She pushed down the thought of her and Ishmael’s intimacy. Nagging conscience refuted her argument that it was not the same. “What does your being unfaithful to me have to do with that? ”

That made him flinch, as he deserved. “Perhaps it doesn’t, but a child born across sunrise will be one more tie between Darkborn and Lightborn. I owe her my life, three times over, already. I . . . We’ll have to talk about this. . . . I don’t love Floria, not as I love you; I am sure of that now, but I am, and probably always will be, her friend.” He paused. “You’ll know that I’m telling the truth.”

And you’re still a rat bastard, Balthasar Hearne, she thought. “And what about when we find Ishmael?” she flung back at him. “What if he still loves me? ”

“Telmaine,” he began, and stopped, and for the first time since she had awakened, that composure of his wavered and she realized how tired he was. How much rest had he had, as envoy between Darkborn and Lightborn courts, and then worrying about her? “You know how I feel about you,” he said in a low voice.

Which was true, curse him.

“I will take you on any terms,” he said, softly. “Because, even without magic, I know you. I know that, angry as you are, you wouldn’t do anything that would truly break my heart.”

“But you would break mine.” She growled.

“No . . .”

There was a long silence. “Do you realize,” he said, slowly, “that as a sixth-rank mage you might outlive me by one or two centuries? And Ishmael by even more. Isolde and Emeya were eight hundred years old when they died.”

“I don’t care about centuries.” What mattered was the here and now. If she could learn how to turn him into a—a cat, then she need never worry about Floria White Hand again. But what use would he be as a husband then? If she could turn Floria into a lizard, now . . . Poor Farquhar Broome would have been appalled. Or maybe not, if he had all the experience he claimed.

“Telmaine? ” he said, sounding uncertain.

She didn’t have to explain what she was thinking, or what she felt, or why she had stifled a giggle, or why she was now starting to cry. She did not want to think about living without Balthasar. When he gathered her against him, she let him.

Eventually he said, “That young man who was working for you and Vladimer, Kip—”

“Kingsley,” she muttered, rubbing her cheek against his collar. She would not permit the ex–prison apothecary to flaunt his dubious birth in her service.

“I think I can use him as a secretary. He’s very sharp.”

He was that. And impertinent, telling her that the Rivermarch would receive her, if society turned her out. “He’s not trained as a secretary.”

“I’m not trained as an envoy,” Balthasar pointed out. “And I do need someone who is, even if they won’t take the ensorcellment. I thought about speaking to Daniver di Reuther—I know he has been looking for a post—but given the circumstances of Sylvide’s death, I don’t know.”

She would have to visit Sylvide’s widower, express her regrets, try to explain if she could, let him hate her if he must. She remembered Sylvide at the archduke’s breakfast, talking about visiting an aviary with her young son, spending the day there, to the horror of Daniver’s dictatorial mother. She remembered Sylvide throwing her arms around her, understanding nothing except that Vladimer was threatening her dearest friend.

Others had lost more, Balthasar said. Sylvide, Gil di Maurier, Farquhar Broome, Tammorn, the Lightborn high masters she had never met, Tercelle Amberley . . . Ishmael. She had her life and her magic, and the loss of her reputation was a much smaller thing than she had ever imagined it would be, when she was desperately trying to protect it. She had her children and her husband. As he said, she could be sure of that, even if he was no longer as entirely hers as he had been. She would learn how to maintain that ensorcellment on him herself; she was not leaving it to the Lightborn. She would help him with the Lightborn mages. And she probably wouldn’t turn Floria White Hand into a lizard, no matter the temptation.

But she wouldn’t tell Balthasar that quite yet.