It was Briar who answered. “If this is what Namorn offers, yes. It is only as a courtesy to you that I don’t address Fin myself. It’s my sister he tried to kidnap, and our magic is plenty thicker than blood. Or maybe I should just give him to Sandry when he doesn’t have drugs and spells to make him the big man.” His voice was heavy with contempt. “You think a strong woman can always beat this? I call it rape, in any country.”
Berenene did not want to meet his eyes any longer. Something in them made her feel an emotion she had not faced in years: guilt. She didn’t like it. Instead, she turned her gaze to Sandry. “And so like your mother, you abandon your lands and your duty to your people.”
Sandry’s chin thrust forward like a mule’s. “My people are very well cared for by someone who knows them,” she snapped. “How dare you speak to me that way, as if I’d gone roistering and left my tenants to beg? Instead, I am to remain here, where I am nothing more than money bags and acreage? Where I am a thing, to occupy a niche in some household shrine, except when my lord husband wants to polish me up a little?”
She doesn’t even realize she’s crying, the empress thought, feeling a quiver of pity which she dismissed right away. I managed well enough, she thought irritably, escaping two oafs who thought they had the better of me. Namorn is a hard country. It requires strong women, strong men, and strong children to survive and make it prosper. I learned that from my father, even as he signed my second kidnapper’s execution papers.
Sandry shook her head and dashed her tears away. “I’m going home. I’ve made arrangements so Cousin Ambros will never be strapped for money again. My friends may stay or go as they will, but I’m going back to Emelan, where I am a person, not an heiress.” She spat the word as if it were a curse, stood, curtsied briefly, and limped from the chamber. When Quen raised a hand to stop her with one spell or another, Berenene shook her head. There are other ways to bring a haughty young clehame to see things reasonably, she told herself.
She looked at the other two and realized they watched her, eyes intent.
What would they have done if I hadn’t stopped Quen? Berenene wondered. For a moment, she was almost afraid. Those bright pairs of eyes, one gray-green, one gray, were fixed on her with the same unblinking attention with which her falcons watched prey.
You may have power, she silently told them, but I am older and far more experienced. I have true great mages at my side, not accomplished children. She held their eyes for a moment, before she looked at Briar alone. “You may stay,” she told him, thickening the honey in her voice. “I still offer you the empire for your garden. Imagine it, Briar, spice trees from Qidao and Aliput, medicine ferns from Mbau, incense bushes from Gyonxe…”
His head snapped back as if she had slapped him. “And turn a blind eye to this? Wonder what woman scuttling by is with her husband of her free will? Here I was thinking only street rats got treated like roach dung. I’m honored you think so well of me, Imperial Majesty, but I’m leaving with Sandry.” He bowed to the empress briefly and looked at Tris.
“Coming,” she said, getting to her feet. “The rat hole’s plugged,” she informed Berenene. She fought a yawn. When it passed, she added, “Thank you for the offer of a position, but I’m with Briar and Sandry.” She bobbed a curtsy, took the arm Briar offered, and walked out with him.
The door closed silently.
Berenene sat back in her chair and closed her eyes. She could feel her two great mages waiting for her to speak. In my own palace, she thought, furious. My own palace! When dozens of nobles trust their daughters to me, to serve as ornaments to my household!
“Quen,” she said, forcing her voice to be calm. “Send orders down. I want Finlach fer Hurich arrested immediately. Put him in the dampest pit we have. In chains. Throw his servants in with him, also in chains. Check the end of the tunnel Tris blocked, in case any of them are hiding there. I will deal with them tomorrow. Then take a contingent of mages as well as a company of guards and arrest Viynain Notalos fer Hurich on the charge of high treason.”
“The head of the Mages’ Society?” murmured Quen nervously.
Berenene opened her eyes to glare at him. “Do you mean to tell me you can’t take a sniveling political games-player like Notalos?” she snapped. “Have you let your skills and those of your people go slack?”
“He means no such thing, Imperial Majesty,” Isha announced smoothly. “It is easily done, my boy. And he has betrayed a trust. Use the jar of ghosts spell.” Isha rested a hand on Berenene’s shoulder. “It will be done as you require.”
The empress closed her eyes. “Then go do it, Quen. I want him in the mage’s cells here by sunset. If the Society whines, send them to Isha.” She listened as Quen’s footsteps receded, and waited for the sound of the door as it opened and shut behind him. Only when he was gone did she say, “Do something about Trisana Chandler, Isha. They will be so much less cocky—Sandrilene will be far less cocky—without their little weather mage to safeguard them.”
Ishabal nodded. “I will see to it,” she replied softly. “It is easy enough.”
“Subtly.” Berenene knew it was insulting to imply that Isha did not know how to wield a proper curse, but she no longer cared. “I want her for our service even more now. When she swears to us, you will bind her so she knows who is her mistress, Isha.”