Sorcerer's Legacy (10 page)

Darion’s cousin blinked pale eyes and broke an awkward silence. “My Lady, you’ll feel better if you sit down. There. Darion is indisposed. He’ll recover after a while, I assure you. He took Ielond’s death rather hard. That’s understandable. He lost his mother at a very early age, you must be aware. His Guardian was all the family he had.”

Elienne regarded the Prince. Taroith evidently had not had time to reverse the drug. Though another present held a Master’s powers, no one had troubled to act in Darion’s behalf. The opposite had been the case. The Prince’s person reeked of spirits, a detail so crude it lit her temper.

“This man belongs in bed with a healer to attend him.” Elienne turned a withering glare upon the courtier. “As his cousin, you should be ashamed to allow a public exhibition of him in such condition.”

Light fingers settled on Elienne’s shoulder. She started, and found Faisix behind her. “Come,” he admonished with a smile. “Would the Lady argue before being introduced?” Elienne stiffened under his touch, suspicious he might try her mind with sorcery; but if the Regent had plotted the move, he exhibited only courtly courtesy. “Lady Elienne, meet Lord Jieles, brother of Darion’s late father, Duke of Liend, and present heir of this realm.”

Elienne found courtesy impossible. She stared in flat distaste at Jieles and said succinctly, “I’d rather not. I find him unworthy of his ancestry.”

Faisix chuckled and removed his hand, settling himself into the seat on the Prince’s immediate right. “I think the Lady won’t be demanding much in the way of dinner conversation,” he said to Jieles. “She likes her words sharp and quick. And she has shown an astonishing knack for tripping up men who are larger than she.”

Jieles laid a patronizing arm across Darion’s back. “We might have guessed wrong. Perhaps word of Ielond’s choice drove his Grace to drink.”

Elienne ignored the insult, her initial flare of temper controlled. If Darion was incapable, she would see him through the ordeal of the banquet with as much dignity as she could. With two unresponsive victims, Jieles soon saw further antagonism was wasted breath. He left the Prince and sat, just as the Regent rose to address the gathering.

Elienne heard little of his speech. She slid her heavy chair closer to Darion and worked to straighten the rumpled tabard. The slick silk of the stag blazon resisted her efforts. Elienne tugged the cloth over limp shoulders, conscious the flesh beneath was lean and well muscled; this Prince Darion was not a man who spent himself in decadence. Elienne recognized the same hard fitness Cinndel had acquired when the Khadrach had forced him from peacetime pursuits into daily training with arms.

The comparison shocked her. Cinndel was beyond need. And in Faisix’s presence, even her husband’s memory endangered her. Though grief roughened her throat, Elienne moved her hands briskly on.

Darion’s hair lay matted across a fevered, dry forehead. The fine chestnut strands resisted Elienne’s fingers. In the end she contented herself with smoothing the stubbornest tangles beneath the fillet.

At last she turned to Jieles. “Help me get him upright.”

Jieles grinned. “I rather thought his ear would make a fine trencher for the roast.”

“You’re unpleasant.” Elienne returned his smile with venomous annoyance. “I’m not above trying out that suggestion on your own anatomy.”

Heads turned in their direction, decked with frowns of disapproval. Garend furiously gestured for silence.

“What a fool I was, to call you ‘Lady,’ ” Jieles murmured, but he moved to lend a hand.

Together they raised the Prince like a puppet from the table and propped him against the chairback. Elienne sent the table page for cold water and, the moment the ewer arrived, began to blot Darion’s face with her napkin.

Faisix completed his speech. Jieles filled the expectant hush that followed with a barbed excuse for his cousin’s ineptness. Forced, uneasy laughter swept the tables below the dais. Elienne endured in tight-lipped silence. When Jieles tried to prolong the issue with pleasantries, she stepped hard on his instep beneath the table.

Jieles sat precipitously and turned a wide, furious gaze upon her. “You could face the headsman for striking a descendant of Halgarid,” he whispered sharply.

“It would shame your manhood to put me to trial,” Elienne replied without lowering her voice. “And you’re the second man who’s threatened that in a single evening. I find the repetition dull.”

A page arrived with a covered dish. Jieles seized upon the diversion, red under the interested stares of his neighbors across the table. An uneasy meal commenced. Even the conversation below the dais seemed dampened by tension. Elienne studied the exquisitely prepared food and pitied the Master of the Revels. Though she had forgotten when she had last eaten, her plate went largely untouched. The others around her fared little better. The drug caused Darion to be violently ill at the table. Elienne struggled to support him in an upright position as his body was wracked time and again with spasms.

Servants descended like a swarm of insects. While they labored to clear the mess, the guests continued their toasts to the Prince’s health as though nothing were amiss. But Darion’s apparent drunken stupor cast doubt like blight over his integrity. That was inevitable, Elienne knew. Little dignity could be gained from the Prince’s present condition, and even the table pages found difficulty showing his Grace the deference due an heir of Halgarid.

The evening dragged through endless ceremonies. Tongues loosened with the wine. By the time dessert was served, the toasts had turned ribald, and a few were maliciously barbed at the Prince’s expense. Elienne never so much as blushed, but she did request leave to retire with the Prince. Jieles overheard, and laughed.

“You can’t go, Missy, until after the Seeress of Ma’Diere’s Order of the Seed and Scythe delivers the Trinity of Fortune.”

“I’m foreign,” said Elienne flatly. “Explain.”

Jieles did, with a self-important display of mock courtesy. At a betrothal banquet, tradition required a Seeress to deliver three prophecies, one for the Consort, one for the Prince, and one for the realm. Not even the guests might depart until after the custom had been met.

“If the Seeress’s words are unfortunate, the celebration will end early, but I don’t see much cause for impatience.” Jieles glanced deferentially at the Prince’s still form. “]ust now my cousin doesn’t seem a particularly rousing bedfellow.”

Elienne braced herself to endure. Servants cleared the plates away and returned with cordials and baskets containing comfits and sugared nuts. For the thousandth time, Elienne peered beneath the stag’s glossy belly and searched the diners below. She failed to locate Kennaird.

A bard, a troupe of jugglers, and a knife dancer all performed and were applauded. The candles in the chandeliers overhead burned slowly lower. Elienne waited anxiously for the next of the revels, but sudden quiet settled over the long hall. A bent figure swathed in black and yellow waited, motionless, on the stair at the entry.

“Ma’Diere’s Seeress,” announced the Master of Revels. “Archmistress of the Holy Order of the Seed and Scythe.”

The Seeress’s lame step carried her down the stair and, slowly, the length of the white carpet that led past the table to the dais. As she approached, Elienne saw she was aged beyond estimate. The slice of face visible over her shroud of veils was as brown and creased as a dead leaf.

Elienne felt sweat dampen her palms.

The hour was well past midnight. Most of the candles had burned out. Those left alight guttered, couched in pools of wax, and long shadows flickered over a crowd of expectant, upturned faces. Silence reigned as the Seeress shuffled to a stop by Elienne’s seat. The woman’s eyes were milky, all but blind. The hands that caught the chairback for balance were crabbed claws of age, and the heavy robes reeked strongly of herbs and moth poison. The smell made Elienne dizzy.

“Lower your head, Missy,” the Archmistress commanded.

Elienne obeyed. A dry, bony finger rested against the crown of her head. The silence deepened until it seemed to pound against her eardrums between heartbeats. After a pause the crone leaned forward. Her breath brushed hot as a desert wind against the skin of Elienne’s neck as she delivered the required prophecy in a dry, quavering whisper.

“Foreign one, you will die truthful.”

Sudden gooseflesh prickled Elienne’s back. Numbed through with shock, she watched the Archmistress move on to Darion. Could she be destined to fail? For Cinndel’s child to become Darion’s heir was itself a falsehood, one upon which her life depended. Elienne felt faint.

“You know,” Jieles said softly to her, “the prophecy always comes to pass.”

Elienne buried her distress as the seeress delivered Darion’s third of the Trinity of Fortune into an ear that surely heard nothing. Then she limped to the table and rested bent hands on the back of the golden stag. Eternity’s stillness claimed the packed hall below. Servants and nobles alike froze, motionless. The crone spoke.

“The true blood of Halgarid will inherit the throne of Pendaire, and there shall be a son to stand fifteenth in succession from that seed.”

Faisix rose and repeated the prophecy loud enough for all to hear. Cheers erupted across the breadth of the hall and speech became impossible. Hundreds of glasses raised in toast. Ignorant of Darion’s curse, the court believed the Seeress had spoken of his own inheritance. Even the steward who poured the wine offered Elienne congratulations and a wide smile.

Elienne nodded in response, her features stiff as paint on a child’s doll. Darion was the fourteenth heir of Halgarid. Cinndel’s unborn son, key to his succession, was a stranger’s get, an impostor. If the prophecies held true, logic demanded that Jieles claim the crown. He was the only other genuine blood descendant, and no curse would bar his conception of a natural son. Shaken, Elienne raised her goblet. The wine ran bitter on her tongue. She would make that succession difficult, she decided. And before fear could destroy her resolve, she drained her wine in toast to that end.

Chapter
6

Interface by Mirrowstone

THE SEERESS
of Ma’Diere’s Order of the Seed and Scythe was ushered out amid a wild pandemonium of celebration. There followed no more ribald comments on Darion’s apparent lapse of morals; Pendaire’s court rejoiced in the heat of restored faith. But at the royal table, the atmosphere remained subdued. Though Elienne felt emotionally bereft, she still managed to maintain a polite facade.

Jieles called for more wine and saw her goblet refilled. “Drink to Darion’s fortune with me. It would seem I am to remain forever a Duke. Or did your own prophecy say differently?”

Elienne clenched her teeth. A graceful reply was going to be difficult. But Garend spared her the effort.

“You would think someone would notice, despite the felicity yonder, that the Seeress’s words implied more than one alternative. You, my lord Duke, are equally descended from Halgarid. And you possess already two fine boys, one almost old enough to be declared for heirship.”

Elienne had had enough, suddenly, of intrigue. Aware her temper might shortly triumph over manners, she searched the crowd beneath the dais with growing desperation, and at last spotted Kennaird shoving between the packed mass of guests. She rose at once, impatient, but careful not to show the uncertainty the prophecy had inspired. She smiled sweetly at Garend. “My Lord, it would be less offensive if you could withhold your list of alternative heirs until they are lawfully necessary. Don’t obligate me to prove you a fool. Of the remaining prophecies, one left no space at all for discrepancy.”

Rewarded by a flush of anger on the withered cheeks, Elienne turned with perfect timing and greeted Kennaird. She spoke quickly. “I wish to retire at once with his Grace.”

The apprentice needed no urging. After one brief appraisal, he hefted the unconscious Prince from the chair and made at once for the stair. Elienne followed, Aisa and Denji on her heels.

“Ma’Diere’s mercy, my poor back,” murmured Kennaird as he threaded a path between jumbled ranks of tables and guests grown raucous with drink. A wave of raised goblets toasted the Prince’s departure, undignified though it was. Elienne felt as if the room would extend to Eternity, and the staircase before the door loomed like a mountain.

“Can I be of assistance?” said a kindly voice.

Elienne looked up. The Master of Revels stood before her with offered hands, but Kennaird responded before she could reply.

“Just help me get his Grace up onto my shoulders. Beyond that, I can manage.”

Both men labored to lift the Prince. Shortly, Darion lay slung across Kennaird’s back exactly as Elienne had seen him earlier in the mirrowstone. Chestnut hair curtained pale features, and strong, well-shaped hands dangled limply from shirt cuffs stiff with embroidery. From the apprentice’s bowed stance, it was evident the Prince wasn’t light. Elienne wondered, with a twist of uneasiness, how he had come to be overpowered.

Kennaird shifted his load, and something fell, glittering, from the Prince’s person. The Master of Revels caught the object before it struck the floor. He had barely identified what he held before his face registered distress. “My Lady, this belongs with you.”

Elienne reluctantly extended her hand. The possibiity of a gift from a man she had never known rankled, and Cinndel’s memory rose, unbidden at the thought. But instead of placing the object in her palm, the Master of Revels slipped it onto her finger. Startled, Elienne pulled back from his touch and stared at a thin gold band set with a topaz. Slightly large, it circled her flesh like a snare, cold reminder of an alien destiny.

“That is the Consort’s betrothal ring,” said the Master of Revels softly. Tears lined his wise hound’s eyes. “His Grace was to have presented it to you this evening.”

“Then I thank you in his stead.” Elienne hoped the shake in her voice would pass unnoticed. “I won’t forget your kindness.” Whatever happens, she added to herself, and taking her leave, she followed Kennaird from the banquet hall.

The return to the suite in the keep was a long walk. Except for Aisa and Denji, and the occasional palace guard on sentry duty at the arched entrances of corridor and portal, Elienne was alone with Kennaird.

“What happened to Taroith?” Elienne spoke urgently, aware this might be her only opportunity to find out.

“He’s been confined to a warded cell.” Kennaird grunted as he stumped up a decorative staircase. Exertion made his next words raggedly breathless. “Accused of conspiracy against the Prince.”

“The charge is false.” Grateful her wardens were both deaf and mute, Elienne briefly related Nairgen’s attack.

“That was bold, for the Regent.” Kennaird sounded more thoughtful than upset. “He usually acts with more subtlety. Perhaps, for once, we’ve caught him on the defensive.”

“But what does that matter? So far we’ve gained nothing but a muddle of prophecy that points toward failure.”

As they reached the courtyard at the foot of the keep, Elienne stopped abruptly and faced Kennaird. Darkness hid his expression. “The Trinity of Fortune?” Kennaird walked stoically past her. “You’d better tell me.”

Elienne softly repeated the Seeress’s prophecy, eyes caught by the rumpled blazon on the Prince’s tabard. The leaping stag shone dull gold by starlight, but an unlucky fold shadowed the animal’s neck, rendering it headless as a sacrifice. Trapped by a sudden sense of foreboding, Elienne could not keep her voice steady.

Kennaird was strangely silent when she had finished. Elienne waited through an uncomfortable interval as, oblivious to the din of chain and bolt, Aisa unbarred the keep door. Kennaird followed her inside, the faint gleam of Darion’s finery marking his progress up the stair. He spoke at last, words half-smothered in echoes. “Incomplete, the Trinity of Fortune is invalid. The King’s prophecy often provides the key to its meaning. Ask Darion, when he wakens. If his third also spells ruin, we must then disbar Jieles from inheritance by exposing Faisix; Ielond’s instructions, Mistress. It will be easiest for all of us if you keep Darion alive. His execution would discredit us all.”

Elienne felt despair. If Darion’s prophecy held the key, the Trinity’s meaning was irrevocably obscured; at the time of the Seeress’s appearance, the Prince had been been senseless, beyond reach of any spoken word. And even if, by some miracle, Darion was able to achieve his heirship, Elienne saw no future for herself or her unborn child in the court of Pendaire.
“You may confide in my apprentice, Kennaird,”
Ielond had said. But the man had not inspired her trust. Unable to voice her fears, Elienne set feet like numbed weights on the stairs. A misstep earned an impatient shove from Denji. Absorbed in her own misery, Elienne let the indignity pass.

A sharp, metallic clink and a heated expletive from Kennaird disturbed a tangle of echoes. Startled, Elienne looked up. Kennaird stood at the head of the stair, sweating in the spill of light from the open door beyond. Bright as new flame, Aisa’s shortsword rested against his breast. Each labored breath transmitted an orange flash of reflection.

“Godless bitch!” Slowly Kennaird bent. Darion slid, uncontrolled from his shoulders, and sprawled awkwardly on cold stone. One wrist tumbled over the lip of the top step and dangled. Aisa gestured curtly with her blade. “Father killers!” the apprentice shouted over his shoulder. A backhanded blow from Denji sent him stumbling down another stair. “Elienne, look after his Grace!”

Denji unslung her ax. With a rising sense of helplessness, Elienne watched as Kennaird was driven from the keep. Though the mute’s unguarded back invited a swift push from behind, Darion was her first responsibility. Elienne turned back in time to see Aisa’s booted foot roll the Prince, coarsely as a hunter’s kill, over the threshold of his own chambers.

Anger left no breath for insult. Elienne launched herself at Aisa, hands grasping recklessly for the knife that swung from the studded belt. Warned by movement, the mute whirled. Elienne’s knuckles bashed into an armored hip. Mailed hands caught her shoulder, sent her reeling sideways through the door. Her foot caught on Darion’s inert bulk. She fell clumsily across his chest. Above her, Aisa smiled. Elienne caught the oaken door and hurled it shut with all her strength. The bar fell with a dissonant clank, shutting the guardswoman out.

Elienne discovered herself shouting Cinndel’s name, and her rage suddenly broke before terrible, wrenching grief. Bruised, exhausted, and overwhelmed by all she had experienced since her arrival, the despair that had stalked her since the prophecy at last overcame her. Ielond had been a fool to believe she could be effective against Pendaire’s entrenched palace intrigue. Stripped of allies, she was left no defense, and no guide. Tears slipped unnoticed down her face, glittering like jewels on the gilt embroidery of Darion’s tabard. A faint sound echoed in the passage without; Denji bolting the outer door after Kennaird. His last shouts sounded distant, futile and thin as a child’s protest.

Elienne wept for a long time.

* * *

The savage thunder of the surf that pounded the reefs below the wall gradually lulled Elienne’s shattered composure. Her sobs quieted. Through swollen eyes, she took stock of her surroundings. The room had transformed since afternoon to a shifting sea of shadow. The candles guttered fretfully in the sea breeze, which slipped through the arrowslits. Ignited by flamelight, gemstones glittered, hot as sparks, from the ornamental gilt of furnishing and hanging, but the air was damp and clammy. Elienne shivered.

Darion’s face lay buried in chestnut hair. The gold fillet, symbol of his royalty, had fallen off. With hesitant fingers, Elienne pushed heavy locks, so like Cinndel’s, away from features inescapably different. The brow beneath was iced with sweat. Elienne froze, afraid. Her lapse into self-pity had been dangerously indulgent. Darion’s life, and her own security, depended upon her clarity of mind. The Prince required immediate care.

The bedchamber door lay beyond a wide expanse of carpet, cluttered still by the trap of obstacles she had contrived earlier. The servants had long since departed. Aching with stiffness, Elienne rose, hooked her arms beneath the Prince’s shoulders, and attempted to raise his torso from the floor. Silken cloth rucked beneath her hands; the royal head lolled back and thumped into the rug. Elienne swore. Gracelessly straining, she hefted the Prince higher and tried to drag him, but the carpet’s thick pile resisted her efforts, and after barely a yard she was forced to stop, panting. Why couldn’t Aisa have left the Prince his dignity and allowed Kennaird to desposit him on the bed? Elienne lowered Darion back onto the rug. Bereft of intelligence, his hard, swordsman’s body became an awkward parody, and she would see herself damned before she allowed those
mervine
who guarded the door the satisfaction of finding the Prince on the floor in the morning.

Elienne left Darion where he lay, and with ferocious energy began to move furniture. Careless of sweaty fingerprints or chipped inlay, she labored until the wall beneath the arrowslits was as untidily stacked as a junk merchant’s stall. Elienne cleared a path up to the bedchamber door, then crumpled the rug and left it heaped by the hearth. Bared and gleaming in the candlelight, a well-oiled expanse of parquet stretched between Darion and the bedchamber door. With quick hands, Elienne plowed sheets, pillows, and coverlet away from the bed. The mattress was horsehair quilted with down, luxuriously costly. She hauled it onto the floor and by the fire fixed a makeshift bed. The delicacy of the silken coverlet was too flimsy for her intentions, and she searched the room for a substitute. A tapestry from the next room, torn from its hanging, better suited her purpose. Elienne bundled the Prince’s senseless body onto an exquisitely stitched falconry scene, then seized one edge and pulled. Darion slid easily on his improvised sled. Callously deaf to the scraping rebuke of the gemstones scratching into wood, Elienne dragged her burden from sitting room to bedchamber. More effort saw Darion transferred onto the mattress.

Elienne removed his heavy jeweled belt and gold-stitched boots. The tabard gave her difficulty. The garment had no fastenings, and the stiff, decorative fabric had been snugly tailored to fit shoulders broader than Cinndel’s. The comparison rose unbidden. Hot and tired, Elienne blinked back fresh tears. She wrestled the tabard over slackened limbs and with renewed gentleness began unlacing the lawn shirt beneath. The Prince lay like a corpse beneath her touch. His skin was gray with pallor, his breathing barely perceptible. Elienne’s own breath caught in her throat; Darion’s condition had worsened considerably since the banquet. The drug might easily kill him. With growing apprehension, she recalled Taroith’s mention of overdose.

Elienne seized a limp wrist, horrified by the touch of flesh as moist and chill as autumn earth. The pulsebeat was weak and erratic. Pity wrung her heart, followed by fear. What could she do for his Grace except try to warm him? Kennaird had offered no advice, and Taroith was imprisoned, beyond reach.

Darion’s chest heaved as Elienne removed the damp shirt. The stag medallion he wore glanced in the flamelight, red as a gate to Hell. Elienne smothered it with her hand, unwilling to face any more omens of death.