The Dragon of Despair (33 page)

Doc, however, seemed to bear no similar burden. Kneeling without regard for what Elise knew must be one of his few pairs of good trousers, he tilted Citrine’s chin so that she must meet his calm grey gaze.

“Now why do you say that?” he asked steadily. “Are you trying to make Lady Archer and me feel bad?”

Citrine wrinkled up her nose and jerked back a step, but she neither ran and hid, nor fell to screaming, nor withdrew into one of those impenetrable silences.

“I just said it,” the girl replied sulkily.

“You must have had a reason,” Doc pressed.

“I just said it,” she repeated stubbornly.

“Well,” Doc said, straightening. “I think you should think about why you said it. Your sister is almost a queen now. That makes you—no matter what titles you don’t have—almost a duchess. People will expect more of you than when you were the youngest and least useful daughter of Rolfston Redbriar and Melina Shield.”

Citrine looked shocked. She rolled her wide blue eyes and for a moment Elise thought she was about to crumple into one of her fits. Elise stepped forward, ready to catch or restrain the child as needed, but a small motion of Doc’s hand halted her in mid-motion.

There was a moment of tense silence so absolute that Elise could hear the settling of the ice in the pitcher on the tray. Then Citrine gave a great, shuddering sigh and sobbed:

“I want my mama! I want my daddy!”

These had been her two high cards, the exclamations certain to elicit sympathy from whoever heard them. Doc, however, merely brushed a bit of dog hair off his trouser legs.

“Do you really? I can understand wanting your father. Rolfston was a nice enough man, even if your mother did crush his spirit. But why would you want your mother, especially after what she did to you?”

Citrine gulped silent in mid-sob.

“Well?” Doc prompted.

Elise had never seen Sir Jared so coolly critical, not even with patients who were clearly feigning illness to gain a few days’ holiday. Citrine screwed up her face for another sob.

“I don’t have a daddy or a mama!”

“You and lots of other people,” Doc said bluntly. “It happens to all of us. That’s why we honor our ancestors.”

Elise couldn’t bear it. She knelt and squashed Citrine to her, glowering up at Doc.

“How can you be so cold! The child has suffered so much!”

“And is likely to suffer more,” Doc said, pouring fruit juice into three glasses, “unless she accepts that all this sobbing and whining and making people feel guilty and miserable on her behalf isn’t going to change a thing.”

With Citrine pressed against her, Elise felt the girl tense, then push away from her comforting embrace. The nine-year-old looked up at Doc and stamped her foot angrily.

“What do you know?” she said cruelly. “Your parents are still alive. You just came from seeing them. Your biggest sister isn’t someone else’s family now. Your brother isn’t all taken with being an almost lord. Your other sisters haven’t left you and run off to a foreign court!”

“No,” Doc replied. “That’s true. In fact, I doubt there’s anyone else in the entire world who shares exactly your burden. Does that make you so special?”

Citrine pouted with her lower lip outthrust. She didn’t reply, so Doc went on.

“You can’t change any of those things. No matter how you fuss, your father will not return from the dead. Ruby and Opal will still be in Bright Bay. Sapphire will still be crown princess.

“Your mother is another matter. I notice you didn’t include her in your lament of woes. Or is it you like to think of her as dead? I have news for you, Citrine Shield, Melina isn’t dead. She is an exile by her own will. She abandoned you. She knew what Baron Endbrook had done to you and didn’t come to your rescue.”

“My mama is a queen,” Citrine replied with perverse pride.

“Is she?” Doc shrugged. “That’s one of the things we are going to New Kelvin to learn.”

“She married a king!” Citrine protested.

“Is that excuse enough for what she did to you?” Doc asked. “Is that why you still wear so proudly the stone she put on you? Do you think that she’ll have you back? Maybe that she’ll make you a princess as King Tedric has made Sapphire a princess?”

Citrine said nothing, but there was a fierce, guarded look in her eyes that reminded Elise of when a falcon was prepared to bolt to freedom, to refuse the fowler’s glove.

Elise held her breath, wondering if Doc was close to the truth. Certainly, at least in her hearing, no one had spoken so harshly to the child, no one had done anything but offer her pity and sympathy.

The silence stretched, became impenetrable, but this time Citrine was clearly willing it. There was no emptiness behind the girl’s eyes. She was refusing to reply, trembling with the effort. Doc studied her for a moment more, then offered Elise the tray holding the chilled juice.

“Lady Archer?” he queried and, after Elise had accepted the tall glass nearest her, he offered one to Citrine, “Mistress Citrine?”

His emphasis, ever so slight on the courtesy title with its denial of any nobility at all, was too much for the girl. With a shrill, almost soundless, shriek she dashed from the room, slamming the heavy door behind her. Elise made as if to follow, but Doc restrained her with a hand on her arm.

“Let her go,” he said. “She can’t do herself any more harm than has been done already.”

“She might injure herself—jump from a window or something.”

“She won’t,” Doc said, letting his hand drop, “or if she does, she will make certain that what harm she does to herself is treatable, though I, for one, would be tempted to refuse my aid.”

Elise’s eyes widened in shock, and Doc laughed dryly.

“Not really, but Citrine is clever enough to calculate my presence and my talent into her actions.”

Elise sipped from her juice, taking the moment to think how to phrase her question.

“You were so harsh with her.”

“Everything else had been tried,” Doc said. “You must remember, I saw her this winter. I saw how she was coddled and pitied. Such indulgence would turn the head of a much less wronged child.”

“Then you do think Citrine has suffered?” Elise asked, obscurely relieved.

“I do, but we all suffer. Sometimes I think the pity we offer a suffering child is really the pity we wish someone would lavish on us when we’re hurt. Not every child who loses a father receives such attention. Many a widow or widower has remarried, leaving his or her children to wonder just where they fit into the new family.”

“But not under quite such spectacular circumstances!” Elise protested.

Doc grinned.

“No, but I’m not sure Citrine would have been so aware of how spectacular the circumstances were if everyone hadn’t gone out of their way to let her know. When you’re that young, loss and grief is a private, intimate thing. Indeed, somewhere deep inside, Citrine probably blames herself for both her father’s death and her mother’s exile.”

“Not really!”

“Oh, yes. If only she’d been a better daughter Rolfston would have taken more care on the battlefield, Melina wouldn’t have left…”

“You’ve become quite wise all of a sudden,” Elise said, regretting instantly the mocking note that underlay the words.

Doc seemed not to hear it.

“Not really. After my trip to the capital I took every opportunity I could to talk to people with children, people who had lost parents when they were young, even those whose parents had divorced. Since the injury to Citrine was no longer organic—I could feel that when I tried to treat her—it must originate in her mind.

“And maybe,” he added sadly, “I know something of assuming guilt. After all, despite my much praised talent for healing, I couldn’t save my wife or our baby.”

There was a quick knock on the door and Ninette, ever faithful to her duties as chaperon, came in without waiting for reply. Evidently, she was relieved to find them so decorously positioned.

“Citrine is in her nursery,” Ninette said, not commenting on what might have driven the child away, “and the second housemaid is going to give her supper there.”

Elise smiled thanks and offered Ninette the remaining glass of juice.

“Has anything been heard from Firekeeper and Derian?” Doc asked, hastening to change the subject.

“Not that I know,” Elise replied, “but it is early days yet. The king did not expect them until the end of Bear Moon. It is only that now.”

“I wonder how he thought he could expect them—or at least Firekeeper—at all,” Doc said, voicing a question over which Elise herself had puzzled a great deal. “I’d have thought we wouldn’t see her until the first snowfall—and maybe not even then.”

Elise raised her hands in a gesture of confusion.

“Who knows how the king knows what he knows? I only hope King Tedric can teach Sapphire and Shad some small portion of his wisdom before he goes to join the ancestors.”

“Or share his spy network with them,” Doc added with a cynicism that surprised Elise, though she knew it shouldn’t.

She considered whether in the half-year or so that had passed since she had last seen Doc she might have idealized him a bit. It was quite possible. Their contacts had been brief and utterly unromantic, mostly the exchange of a few letters containing pamphlets on medical subjects. Once she had sent him pressed and dried samples of a river herb that a local wise woman swore brought down swelling and fever.

The correspondence between them had been so proper and correct Elise would not have hesitated to let her parents see the letters if they had asked. Neither did, though. She wondered if this indicated approval, disapproval, or merely indifference to her friendship with Sir Jared. Or maybe it was none of these things. Maybe they simply trusted her to make the best choice with the barony in mind.

Elise gave herself a mental shake and returned her full attention to Ninette and Doc.

“Sorry,” she apologized somewhat lamely, unable for a moment to recall what they had been conversing about. Then she remembered.

“Another thing I wonder,” she said quickly, “is under what guise the king will have us go into New Kelvin. He promised us some guidance on that matter, but thus far we have heard nothing.”

Doc raised his hand in an involuntary motion toward his forehead.

“I only hope that His Majesty does not expect us to pretend to be New Kelvinese,” he said. “I might manage to pretend to be someone other than myself, but I do not think I could sustain the deception.”

Elise recalled how strange she had felt for those brief hours when she had acted the part. Her hair was finally recovering some from having been shaved after the New Kelvinese fashion. Indeed, making certain it grew quickly and strong had been a matter of much concern that winter. She’d spent more hours than she cared to recall with her head smeared with some odorous paste of artemisia and rosemary, then wrapped in warm cloths, the procedure culminating in a vigorous scalp massage. It would be hard to sacrifice that hard-won golden fringe once more.

“You could if you must,” she scolded with mock severity. “Simply act the part of the silent and somber male, and leave the talking to facile females like Wendee and myself.”

“I usually do,” Doc laughed.

Elise made as if to tap him across the knuckles with an imaginary fan.

“In any case,” she went on, “you are much behind the rest of us in your studies of New Kelvinese. We must ask Grateful Peace to give you intense tutelage.”

“Not that!” Doc said, stretching his accents into those of a country man. “Don’t you know ma’am that I’m just a poor healer from the backwoods?”

The soft ringing of a bell announced that dinner was ready. Elise rose and Doc, with natural courtesy, offered his escort to both her and Ninette.

“I’ve brought some wine,” Doc said, “from my family’s vineyards. It’s a newish vintage, but we’re pleased with it. I understand that Race Forester brought partridges in addition to puppies. I think they shall go well together.”

Elise made some proper answer, but she couldn’t help thinking:
As well as you and me?

XIII

DERIAN SOUGHT
Firekeeper two days after their meeting with the king and his heirs. When Firekeeper emerged from the trees toward which a lazily circling Elation had directed him, Derian found the wolf-woman edgy and tense, but as she was often this way when delayed in her course, he thought nothing much of it.

He did think something of purpling bruises on her throat, but seeing her glower when his gaze rested on them, he decided that it would be wisest not to ask her about them. Doubtless she’d gotten the worse side in one of her wrestling matches with Blind Seer and was still sore—in more ways than one—about it.

“I had a letter today,” Derian began, relaxing onto a rock that bordered one of the streams. “It came under a cover addressed to my mother as if routine business for the stables, but the contents were for me—for both of us.”

Firekeeper looked unsurprised by this evidence of court intrigue, standing with her back against a young oak, tossing her knife restlessly into a log several yards away. Derian was impressed when he realized that she was targeting a knot no bigger than a human eye and hitting it every time.