The Silvered Read online

  “Stop dawdling, Kollin, I want to be seated before the Pack enters so we can see who’s attending.”

  Mirian dropped back behind her parents, smiled at a truncated greeting from a friend hurrying past, and paused between the wings of the huge glass-and-wrought-iron doors. The sky over the city was clear, but, as much as she hated to admit it, her mother had been right.

  She could hear the bass rumble of thunder in the distance.

  The tragic love story of Onnesmina was the gem of the Bercarit Opera Company and they hauled it out for polishing every other season. Mirian had seen it half a dozen times and not even Emilohi Okafor, the visiting soprano—lauded in the program for her beauty of tone and dramatic acuity—could capture her complete attention.

  Lord and Lady Hagen were in Lord Berin’s great box, across the theater and a tier lower from the much smaller box that came with her parents’ subscription. Lord and Lady Berin, who had grandsons with the Hunt Pack, were the height of Bercarit society, and Mirian’s mother had fought to get the box with the best line of sight. It looked as though the Pack Leader and his wife had been accompanied by every member of the Pack currently in Bercarit.

  “If there were only a way of telling which of the men were unattached,” her mother muttered, peering at the box through her opera glasses. “Do you feel an attraction to any of them, Mirian?”

  “I don’t…”

  “Well, you won’t if you keep staring at the stage!”

  Catching a sigh behind her teeth, Mirian directed her own glasses away from the stage to Lord Berin’s box. With the glasses, the blur her own eyes would have offered at that distance resolved itself into individual faces all staring enthralled at Okafor whose performance was definitely giving those who’d never seen Onnesmina before an amazing introduction to the opera.

  “Well?”

  “No, Mother.”

  “Try harder.”

  A second glance showed they weren’t all staring enthralled. Lord Berin appeared to be dozing and Lord Hagen seemed distracted. All things considered, Mirian found that unsettling and watched the Pack Leader with an intensity that made even her mother happy.

  At the first intermission Lord Hagen was up and out of his seat almost before the curtain had closed. The male members of the Pack charged out of the box after him, leaving the women to follow more sedately.

  Mirian found herself nearly lifted out of her seat and dragged onto the upper concourse, her mother’s hand like a steel band around her wrist.

  “The Pack will, of course, have gone to the café in the lower lobby,” she said, moving purposefully toward the stairs.

  Wishing for the courage to dig her heels in, Mirian lifted her skirt in her other hand, trying not to step on her small train and end up taking the stairs headfirst. “Your subscription doesn’t allow you into the café,” she pointed out a little breathlessly as they reached the lower level.

  “We don’t need to go in. We’ll just walk by so they can get your scent.”

  “Mother!” Feeling the blood rush to her face, Mirian began to wish she had taken the stairs headfirst. A fall would have been significantly less embarrassing. It didn’t help that the makeup of the crowd swirling about the wrought-iron barrier between the café and the lobby suggested the idea was not her mother’s alone.

  * * *

  “You mark my words, Annalyse. In your lifetime there will be a Pack member on the stage.”

  Danika kept half her attention on the discussion going on across the small table between Lady Berin and her granddaughter-in-law—the Pack loved opera and many of them had amazing voices, but not even the youngest and most rebellious would do anything so vulgar as take to the stage—and half her attention on her husband standing over by the far wall. He was deep in conversation with Neils Yervick—his wife had sent her excuses and Danika had to admit she was just as glad not to have her attention split by Kirstin’s sharp tongue. While their verbal fencing often made her more boring social obligations bearable, tonight the Imperial army was at the border and Danika neither wanted nor needed the distraction.

  Among the uniformed men surrounding Ryder and Neils, she could see General Narvine of the 2nd, Colonels Greer and Aryat of the 2/2 and 2/4, and a number of younger officers she didn’t recognize. To a man, their expressions whether talking or listening were so completely neutral, she shivered. She could almost hear Ryder instructing them to hide their reactions from the surrounding civilians.

  Tucked behind her own mask of polite interest, she noted that while facial expressions might be under control, some Pack members were visibly agitated, shifting their weight and pulling at their clothing. Jaspyr, usually among the most levelheaded of Ryder’s cousins, worried the three pewter buttons on his jacket in and out of their holes, his fingers in constant motion. What news had they heard that…?

  “Lady Hagen?”

  Danika turned toward the soft touch on her arm to find Annalyse had shifted her attention from Lady Berin—now arguing the lack of vigor in recent hunts with the equally elderly Lady Evanjylan. When Annalyse inclined her head toward the front of the café, Danika followed the younger woman’s line of sight and suddenly understood Jaspyr’s problem.

  The mass of people passing back and forth in the lobby outside the café was almost entirely made up of mothers and mages of a marriageable age. A quick glance around the café confirmed the unmated Pack members were most affected by the scents rising from the crowd.

  A word to one of the officers of the Opera House and Danika could have the crowd dispersed, but that hardly seemed fair as she, herself, had caught Ryder’s attention as part of a similar promenade. Here and now, however, the Pack needed to remain focused on the security of Aydori. Reaching out with power, she combed through the air currents and redirected them so that they flowed from the café to the lobby.

  After a moment, she glanced back at the men surrounding her husband in time to see Jaspyr move his hand away from the front of his jacket, the buttons now securely fastened. When she shifted her gaze to Ryder, he caught and held it long enough to nod his thanks before returning to his conversation with General Narvine. The general nodded in agreement when Ryder stopped speaking and, although Danika couldn’t see the general’s face, must have said something in turn as the lieutenant beside him snapped to attention, pivoted on one heel, and all but ran from the café.

  That didn’t look good.

  Behind her, Annalyse drew in a sharp breath, and Danika remembered the younger woman’s husband was with the Hunt Pack and the Hunt Pack had met the Imperial army some hours before.

  The Pack healed so quickly they were very hard to kill. Silver poisoned them, but they’d been careful to keep that knowledge from their enemies.

  Still, only three months married and hours without news…

  Reassurance would be meaningless as Danika knew no more than Annalyse did, so it would have to be distraction. Tugging on the cuff of her lace mitten as she turned, she waggled the fingers of her right hand and said softly, “Forced by circumstance to a public display of mage-craft, how very vulgar.”

  Annalyse’s green-flecked eyes widened, then she smiled. A polite smile, a society smile, but it lifted a little of her distress. “As the Alpha Female, Lady Hagen, you set the fashion. At least, that’s what Geoffrey told me when I joined the Pack.”

  “So I cannot, therefore, be vulgar?” Danika lifted her cup and grinned over the rim. “That could come in handy.”

  This smile reached Annalyse’s eyes, crinkling them at the corners. “My much more vulgar solution would have involved washing the scent from the air.”

  Sixth level Water at least, Danika realized, setting her cup down, and she clearly had a more delicate touch than most Water-mages managed. “You could actually make it rain inside the building?”

  “If there’s moisture enough. With so many people and the ceilings so high…” She waved off her ability to perform an impressive bit of mage-craft, her gaze sliding past Danika’s
shoulder, back to the men around the Pack Leader. “Do you think something has happened? Something bad?”

  “Of course something bad has happened,” Lady Berin growled. “To the Imperials. The Hunt Pack will have sent them howling home with their tails between their legs.” She reached across the table and gripped her granddaughter-in-law’s wrist, the back of her hand grown hairy with age. “Our Geoffrey will be back in no time. Isn’t that right, Lady Hagen?”

  If she’d been born Pack, Danika would have bared teeth at Lady Berin’s tone even as she was aware she was demanding reassurance, not challenging. Instead, she smiled carefully and said, “The Hunt Pack is the best Aydori has to offer.”

  Lady Berin nodded in satisfaction, but Danika could see that Annalyse knew her words meant nothing at all.

  * * *

  Mirian spotted an acquaintance from school and maneuvered her mother alongside. Given that Bertryn wouldn’t be competing for the same attention from the Pack, her mother settled in beside his mother, leaving the two of them to follow obediently behind.

  “Better odds for me than you,” Bertryn murmured, as the four of them reinserted themselves into the slow moving promenade.

  “True enough.” Behind the wrought-iron barrier, the café’s small, round tables were surrounded by women, born Pack and Mage-pack. The male Pack members stood together by the rear wall, talking with men in uniform. Probably officers of the 2nd. Mirian wished she could see their expressions, but distance made that impossible. Judging by their posture, they weren’t happy. And why would they be? Seventeen miles from the border…

  Air currents shifted.

  “Did you feel that?”

  “Feel what?” Bertryn glanced down at her, irises dominated by rich brown flecks. He’d had five levels at the end of first year, and the Earth-master had practically refused to allow him out of her sight. Rumor had it that she’d cried when he left at the end of the session. All things considered, asking if he’d felt Air move had been a stupid question.

  “Never mind.” Mirian waited until they’d turned and started back again before saying, “What are you even doing here? I thought after graduation you were going to return to the university to teach?”

  He shrugged. “I’m the eldest of eight and the only one with any power; teaching won’t help situate them, but getting into the Pack will. With so many of the Pack in Bercarit, this is an opportunity. Given your…”

  Mirian frowned into the pause.

  “…difficulties,” he continued diplomatically, “I’m a little surprised to see you.”

  “My mother wants invitations to better parties.” His brows rose at her tone, and she sighed. “Sorry. Being a part of this is just…”

  “Frustrating because it’s futile?”

  “Entirely.” More than he knew. The air currents now blew the mage scent away from the Pack. Glancing into the café past a couple of giggling girls who couldn’t have been more than sixteen, their eyelids stained Healer gold, Mirian found herself looking into a pair of very blue eyes. It only lasted for a moment and the movement of the promenade broke the connection before Mirian realized that the eyes were Lady Hagen’s.

  Lady Hagen was said to be the most powerful Air-mage in Aydori.

  If she hadn’t shifted the scent, she’d approved it being done.

  Why would…?

  Because she hadn’t wanted the Pack distracted.

  That couldn’t be good.

  “Mother.” Pulling her hand from Bertryn’s elbow, she touched her mother’s shoulder. “We should…”

  The gong for the end of intermission rang out on the upper level, amplified by a low level Air-mage in the employ of the Opera House.

  “We should take our seats, yes, Mirian.”

  “No, Mother, Lady Hagen…”

  But the rest was lost in the chaos created by just under a thousand people returning to their seats. Back in the box, Mirian tried again.

  “You’re being ridiculous,” her mother hissed under the sound of the orchestra, nodding toward Lord Berin’s box. “Would Lord Hagen be at the opera if there were any danger?”

  “If he didn’t want people to panic.”

  “There is nothing for anyone to panic about. Now be quiet!”

  Teeth clenched, Mirian watched the curtain rise for the second act and wondered if she were the only person in the Opera House putting two and two together and actually arriving at four.

  When Onnesmina finally ended, with the lovers reunited and a final aria sung, Mirian found herself with her hand firmly tucked into the angle of her father’s elbow and her mother close up on her other side as they made their way down the stairs to the reception in the lower lobby. Their clear concern that she might make a run for it was almost funny, and Mirian amused herself during the descent by imagining the dash through dark streets, her hair spilling down, her satin slippers worn through, one glove lost and abandoned in the gutter. She’d reach the house, push past Barrow, who’d be so astonished to see her an emotion might spill past his perfect butler facade, then she’d lock herself in her room and…

  And what?

  Might as well stay here.

  Her stomach growled.

  At least there’d be food.

  During the last act, the wrought-iron barriers that had previously separated the café from the lobby had been moved to create a corridor those not attending the reception could use to exit the building. At the entrance for the favored, an employee of the Opera House checked their invitations, then stepped back and bowed.

  Mirian thought her mother might have enjoyed the bow just a little too much.

  In a room filled to capacity, with everyone wearing the same loose, easy to remove clothing dictated by Pack fashion, it still wasn’t hard to identify the visiting members of the Pack. Like those of the Pack who lived in Bercarit, the visitors were so much more present. Those not in the Pack outnumbered the Pack about ten to one, but the latter dominated the room with a vitality and an assurance no one else could match.

  Although the four women and three men who were Mage-pack came close. Mirian suspected she could actually see the power surrounding them if she squinted a little.

  They had the power—mage and otherwise—to actually accomplish things, to not waste their lives on clothes and card parties and social positioning. She objected to the way her parents felt they could use her to solve all their problems and she objected to time wasted on futility—as she was clearly not suitable—but she had no actual objection to being a part of the Mage-pack. Who would?

  “Miri. Stop squinting!” The accompanying pinch was more to ensure her attention than to cause pain, but it hurt nevertheless. “And keep your head down, so they can’t see the lack of color in your eyes. Kollin, isn’t that Regin Fortryn, from the Council? He knows Lord Berin, and he’s certainly borrowed money enough from the bank. We shall have him introduce us.”

  Fortryn seemed pleased to see her father—not always a given when someone had “certainly borrowed enough from the bank”—and the two were soon happily deconstructing the city’s finances.

  Her mother waited, more or less patiently, until it became obvious no introduction to the Pack would be immediately forthcoming, then she tugged Mirian aside and murmured, “You must be hungry.”

  Most of both Pack and Mage-pack had gathered around Emilohi Okafor—as beautiful and charismatic offstage as on—but there were four young men—three members of the Pack and a lieutenant from the 2nd—standing at one end of the buffet table. As it was nearly midnight and she was hungry, Mirian didn’t bother pointing out that, given how close they were standing to each other, it was unlikely two of the young men would be interested in her.

  And besides, there was always the chance she’d meet the lieutenant’s gaze and they’d fall desperately in love. The thought of her mother’s reaction to a match with a junior officer who was neither Pack nor mage kept her amused all the way across the room and she was still smiling when she accepted a white china
plate and a linen napkin from the server stationed at one end of the tables.

  Given the number of Pack at the reception, the dishes were heavily skewed toward small pieces of meat on sticks, nearly all of it cooked. There were also tiny meat pies, a plate of cold tongue, several varieties of cracker, and three platters of tiny cakes made to look like sleeping lambs, chicks, and piglets. Mirian picked up three sticks of chicken and two of beef, added a puddle of sauce to dip them in and moved out of the way, her back against one of the lobby’s marble pillars.

  Ignoring the young men her mother had sent her to attract as well the trio of giggling girls suddenly surrounding them, Mirian searched the crowd for Lord Hagen. He couldn’t have gone to the border; there were still far too many officers of the 2nd around, but where…?

  “Lord Hagen, is it true? Is it true that the Imperials are at the border?”

  Mirian stiffened. The young woman’s worried voice came from the other side of the pillar. She swallowed a mouthful of chicken and began to inch sideways.

  “I think that’s a given.” Lord Hagen’s reply lifted the hair on the back of Mirian’s neck. “Or we wouldn’t have been able to hear their artillery.”

  Not thunder, then, as they’d arrived at the opera. Cannon.

  “But that,” the Pack leader continued firmly, “is all we know.”

  Another step brought her far enough around the pillar to see Lady Hagen link arms with a mage no older than Mirian and draw her away, speaking quietly. She thought it might be the youngest Lord Berin’s new wife, but as she’d only ever seen her pass in a moving carriage, she couldn’t tell for certain. Lord Hagen watched them go, eyes locked on his wife as though he were memorizing her in this place and time.

  Dark eyes under a mass of thick, dark hair—in spite of the scar that twisted the corner of his mouth, he was handsome enough, Mirian allowed, but it was the sense of barely contained energy that drew her attention. He was like a thunderstorm just before it broke, the potential for danger barely harnessed.

  “And who do we have here?”