“Magic,” Ambrose finally said, with some impatience, when Sondra and I stared at him blankly.
Sondra glanced at me, sharing my bemusement. “Or that old ledger has some nasty shit on it. I’ve seen what Merle eats.”
Ambrose sighed heavily, tossing the ledger on the desk. “Thickheaded fools,” he said, throwing up his hands at Merle, who echoed the gesture, spreading his wings as if he felt the same. “We are surrounded by ignorance.” The raven croaked, bobbing his head.
“Fools you sought out,” I remarked and Sondra snickered. I checked the cloth. Still bright red, so no stopping yet. I reapplied the cloth, clamping down on the bridge of my nose.
With another dramatic sigh, Ambrose placed palms on the desk and leaned straight-armed on it. “Listen to me, then, King of Fools. The presence of magic evokes a physiological reaction in sensitive beings. Merle knows it when he smells it. You inhaled the residual magic of the Abiding Ring and reacted by oozing blood. You’re sensitive to it. That’s a very important sign.”
I didn’t know about that. I could make anyone ooze blood with my rock hammer. No magic required. But I didn’t say so. The wizard could debate anyone into the ground, ending with all of us agreeing that the sky wasn’t actually blue. I could use up a lot of my voice arguing about whether I could sense magic—and how a king isn’t like a raven—and I’d only lose. Better to keep it simple. “I don’t understand.”
“The prophecy says you need to claim the hand that wears the Abiding Ring,” Ambrose explained in a tone of exaggerated patience, “mention of which comes directly after the information about taking the Tower of the Sun.”
I nodded, curtly. I knew that.
“Here is a picture of an orchid ring, worn by the monarchs of Calanthe, which I found here in what has to be the Tower of the Sun—even you thought so, Conrí—and the ring in the illustration possesses so much magic that even an image of it gives you a nosebleed.”
“Everything gives us nosebleeds,” Sondra objected in staunch solidarity. “It’s a painting. In a book.” She gave me a cagey glance, assessing how much more of this I could take, no doubt. “Even if the flower ring is magic, an image of it wouldn’t have magic.”
Ambrose gave Sondra a look of disgusted impatience. “And you’re supposed to be the smart one. Obviously an image—properly rendered, of course—of a magical object will mirror the powers of the original.” He nodded at Merle, who croaked what sounded like agreement. “This one was correctly done. My predecessor in this tower collected only the best.”
“Why aren’t you bleeding then?” Sondra shot back, raising her brows in anticipation of scoring the point.
But Ambrose shook his head in sorrow for her ignorance. “I’m an experienced and powerful mage, my lovely lady. Some of us possess weapons and defenses other than big hammers and bags of rocks.”
I glared at him, which slid right off, as he beamed at me impishly. “Is there a point?” I asked.
“Yes!” Ambrose jabbed a triumphant finger in the air. “This must be the Abiding Ring spoken of in the prophecy. Whoever holds the throne of Calanthe wears it as part of the badge of office. It’s passed from one ruler to the next on their deathbed.”
“Or it’s just a flower,” Sondra argued. “The Isle of Flowers would obviously have no shortage of blossoms. Every kingdom and ruler has a bit of mythology to shore up the royal right to the throne.”
“Not every one, surely,” Ambrose returned cheerfully. “This nosebleed confirms what I’ve seen in the tides of the future all this time. Conrí will marry Queen Euthalia.”
I choked. “Marry her?”
“With her at your side, Conrí, and the magic of Calanthe to aid you, you will triumph.” He finished that absurd statement with a grand flourish that had Merle flapping wings and dancing from foot to foot.
I stared at him, contemplating the many possible replies to that outrageous series of statements. When I’d been a young prince I’d been aware I’d one day make a marriage of state. You’d think no longer having an actual kingdom should free me of that particular onus. Never mind that I could hardly be allowed to touch a woman, much less consummate a marriage.
“Why must I marry her?” I ground out.
Ambrose rolled his eyes. “Were you not listening to the part about it never coming off her finger while she lives? You can’t take it from her.”
“Then I’ll take her prisoner and make her wield it for me.”
Ambrose actually laughed in my face. “Magic doesn’t work that way, Conrí.”
“All right, then I’ll kill her and take it once she’s dead.”
Ambrose gave me a look of the long-suffering. “You can’t smash everything with your hammer or blow it up with your stinking rock. You must seduce, not coerce. Marry the queen, marry the ring, work in concert to bring down Anure.”
“To kill her fiancé. She won’t be happy about that.”
“She’ll change her mind once you win her heart.”
I snorted out a laugh at the impossibility of the likes of me winning any woman’s heart, much less a beautiful one, a queen of a land known for its sensual excesses and erudition.
Sondra studied Ambrose a moment longer, then seemed to come to a decision, because she shrugged and turned to me with a sardonic grin. “Well, we always knew you would have to marry for the sake of duty someday. Looks like we know who it is now. At least you’ll finally get laid.”
I nearly snarled at her, which only made her grin spread. At least someone was amused by this turn of events. Laying hands on the opposite side of the desk, I leaned in nearly nose-to-nose with Ambrose, who—to his credit—didn’t flinch.
“How am I supposed to do this?” I attempted to keep the tone mild, but loaded the question with all my doubt at this patently ridiculous idea.
Ambrose only beamed. “I have faith in you, Conrí. You’ll find a way. It’s what you do.”
I didn’t bother to point out that I’d never done anything like this.
11
“Thank you, all, for attending Me upon such short notice.” The men and women ringed around my private walled garden nodded back, expressions ranging from wary interest to avid curiosity. I’d planted the seeds to evoke their excitement via invitations hand-delivered by my ladies. The notes had been prettily done, discreetly worded—and the folded shapes of the missives conveyed much more to the discerning eye. A little intrigue never hurt to stimulate intellect in types like these, and I preferred to keep as much of my plans secret as possible, including that this meeting occurred at all.
Leuthar should be thoroughly occupied. Lady Delilah had been more than pleased at the extra infusion of royal coin to make her already elaborate party—with the emissary her guest of honor—a carnival of sensual entertainment. With Delilah’s devotion to monopolizing Leuthar’s attention, he shouldn’t happen upon this gathering.
Even if he did, it would look like another of my chaste, and therefore boring, salons. Delilah’s wasn’t the only party going on in the palace, but naturally I attended none of them, not even the tamer ones. Even if I had the inclination, I wouldn’t go. It wouldn’t do to show favor to any single hostess or host, and besides, I had my everlasting virginal reputation to maintain. The habit allowed me the occasional quiet gathering of my own choosing with a select few.