She said baldly, “Mystes Halliwell sent me here to find out what
you’re searching for, and if you have any idea where it is. I understand that
revealing all this is the point of the Assembly of Knights. But since we are
not knights, we are not invited. Mystes Halliwell is convinced that the lost
vessel belongs to Calluna, not to Severen. Where should we—acolytes of the
goddess—look for it? If, on the off chance, we do?”
“Intriguing, yes,” the magus admitted, “that argument. Lady Seabrook
brought it up to me as well. Oh, while I’m thinking about it, would you mind?
” He pulled a bag out of a drawer and shook pieces of candy-coated licorice
into an envelope. “She is the king’s aunt, his own father’s sister; she
could ask for a tower full of sweets and get it. For some reason she prefers
mine. If you would be so kind as to pretend you pilfered them?” Wordlessly,
Perdita took the packet he made and slid it into a pocket. “Thank you,
Princess. Now. As to your questions: What is it, where is it, and to whom does
it belong?”
There followed a bewildering weave of scholarly references, lines of poetry,
each older than the last, a briar patch of arguments about a badly translated
word, a foray into the book Tavis Malory had written five centuries before,
then into other older works the writer had used as reference points. By the
time Lord Skelton came to a barely comprehensible conclusion, open books were
strewn all over the desk and the couch, and decades of disturbed dust motes
floated in the shafts of light from the lowering sun.
“So there you have it,” the magus finished. “I would never call Mystes
Halliwell wrong about her conclusions. I can only say that what fragments I
have seen for that argument tend to be either fairly modern, or, if very old,
imprecise and speculative, with only the weakest of scholarly underpinnings.”
He paused, reached again for the licorice. “As far as where it is, that’s a
completely different thicket of argument, and every bit as dense.” He
proffered the bag, then took a piece himself. Chewing, they looked at one
another, startled, suddenly, at the angle of light through the tower windows.
Perdita glanced quickly at her watch. “I’m due at the sanctum in five
minutes. Luckily, it’s just the guardian’s watch, keeping the peace and
discouraging men and other such strangers from entering. Thank you, Lord
Skelton. I’m not sure exactly what you said, but I’m fascinated by it
anyway.”
“Thank you, Princess,” Sylvester said, looking pleased. “It’s high time I
put my ideas in order; I’ll have to explain all this at the Assembly. Mystes
Ruxley can deal with the practicalities of sending the knights across the
realm searching for an ancient mystery. He’s best at mundane details, despite
his calling. But then, Severen himself was never a subtle god. Just rich.”
Crossing the yard from the keep to the sanctum tower, Perdita was surprised to
see her half brother wheeling his electric bike along the sward.
“Daimon?” she called, and he started, then glanced back at her and
reluctantly waited. “What are you doing? You look as though you’re sneaking
out of here.”
“I am,” he said. “Or I was.”
“You look strange,” she said, frowning at him. “All awry, somehow. I’ve
hardly seen you for days. Not that I would anyway since you’re busy doing
knightly things. Like creeping through the sanctum gardens to the back roads
beyond the practice field. Are you all right?”
He started to speak, shook his head a little, and started again. “Yes. I
think so. And, yes, I am trying to slip away.”
“Affairs of the heart?”
“Oh, yes. Very much so.”
“Is she married?” He stared at her. “Well, you don’t seem entirely happy.
Whatever it is—”
“She’s not married,” he said shortly. “You’re prying.”
“Of course I’m prying. I’m your sister.”
“Half. Half sister.”
Something in the emphasis tossed her a clue; her eyes widened. “You know
something,” she breathed. “You found out something. About the other half.
Daimon—”
He shifted edgily, began to walk his bike again, quickly. “Don’t be
ridiculous. There’s nothing—” He seemed to feel her eyes boring into his
head as she kept up with him; he stopped, said without looking at her, “I’m
thinking something through. Just let it go. It’s mine to figure out.”
“Are you—”
“No,” he said, with an odd, sharp urgency. “No more.”
She took a step away, swallowing; he moved again, doggedly, his eyes on the
route he would use to escape to or from whatever troubled him.
“Let me know,” she said, too softly for him to hear except with his heart,
“if you want to talk.”
She hurried up the sanctum-tower steps to the royal chamber; she had pulled
the long guardian’s robe over her head and was putting on her sandals, when
the door opened abruptly. Both the queen and Mystes Halliwell stood in the
doorway, the mystes emitting incandescence like a burning stove. The queen’s
face wore a familiar, guarded expression. Perdita assumed that the fuel that
stoked the mystes’ ire was either Leith or Lord Skelton.
“Sorry I’m late,” Perdita said; she saw the book in Holly’s hand, then,
and guessed Lord Skelton.