Authors: Margaret Weis
She made a sad, bleak gesture with her hands. “But I lost him anyway. Maybe
because I didn’t do what I had promised. And now your mother is disappointed in
me and in your father. For the same reason. He, too, is afraid.”
She lifted her gaze, met the eyes that pierced her heart. “I must make
amends.”
Marcus was silent, absorbing. She expected him to protest, to ask where,
who, how. But all he said was, “You talk of my mother as if she were alive. She
isn’t, is she.”
Bellona shook her head and he nodded his slowly, sadly.
“I didn’t think so. But I always hoped . . .”
He let the words trail into silence. He met her gaze, his own steady and
unwavering. “You want me to go somewhere with you. To do this thing you left
undone.”
“And your father,” Bellona insisted belligerently, determined not to let
Edward off blame’s hook. “You father is at fault, too.”
“Very well,” said Marcus. He turned to lift the torch from the sconce. “Let’s
go.”
His sudden decision caught Bellona completely by surprise, although it
shouldn’t have. Melisande had the same capacity to make swift decisions, to act
without hesitation, so that it often appeared as if she were impulsive,
behaving recklessly or rashly. The truth was, as Bellona had come to learn,
that Melisande had the ability to access a situation swiftly, think it through,
reach a decision, and act on that decision immediately—a trait her son had
apparently inherited.
Bellona saw him about to bellow for the jailer and she grabbed hold of his
arm.
“Wait! I doubt the queen’s command or the queen’s gold can free me from this
prison cell.”
“That’s true,” Marcus admitted, looking back at her in a thoughtful manner.
He suddenly smiled and his smile was his father’s—ingenuous, infectious. “That
won’t be a problem, however.”
He glanced around the cell, considering. “My mother told me your name is
Bellona.” He paused, added gently, “My other mother. The one who told me to
trust you.” He pointed at something. “Sit over there, will you? On that straw
pallet by the wall.”
“What are you—”
Marcus raised his hand. “I didn’t ask you questions,” he reminded her.
Shrugging, Bellona sat down on the pallet.
Marcus studied her intently, as if committing her to memory. He raised his
hand and smoothed it over the air between her and him. The air shimmered in
front of Bellona like a wave of heat rising from the ground.
Marcus gestured. “You can stand up now. Come over here, beside me.”
Mystified, Bellona did as he told her.
“Look there,” he said, gesturing.
Bellona standing stared at Bellona sitting.
She gasped and fell back, bumping into him and nearly knocking him down. He
held on to her, steadying them both. The seated Bellona did not move.
“I’m sorry I startled you,” he said.
“No, you’re not,” Bellona retorted. “You enjoy startling people with your
magic.”
“Ah, you know about it then?” Marcus sounded disappointed.
“I’ve seen in before,” she said coolly. “There is one called Draconas who
can do the same.”
Now it was Marcus who gave the start.
“You and I have a lot to talk about” was all he said.
Bellona looked back at the illusion of herself. She had not seen her
reflection for a long time and she was surprised to see how old she was, how
much she had changed since the days when the leader of the warrior women of
Seth had regarded her face with pride in the bright metal of her shield. She
had not cared about how she looked, not cared since the day Melisande had died
in her arms. Time had marched on with Bellona’s body, carrying her, wounded,
from the field of battle. But time had left her soul behind in a ditch,
forgotten.
“I’m afraid I can’t do more than make you just sit there like that,” Marcus
apologized, thinking that was why she was staring so long at the illusion. “If
I were here with it, I could manipulate the magic, make you stand up or lie
down, for example. But once I leave, I have no control over the illusion. It
will remain static.”
“Won’t the jailer see through it?”
“Oh, Burt will figure it out eventually.” Marcus grinned. “The third or
fourth time he looks through the grate and sees that you haven’t moved, the
cobwebs in his brain will part and he’ll enter the cell to check. He’ll let out
a yell and people will come running and my parents will know what I’ve done. We’ll
be well on the road to wherever it is we’re going by then.”
He mused, scratched his jaw, deep in thought. “Spiriting you out of the cell
and away from the palace is going to be a bit trickier.”
Bellona quit looking at herself. The image disturbed her. She focused
instead on Marcus, tried to find something of Ven in him.
That was difficult, because he wasn’t a monster.
Marcus was handsome, well groomed, well fed, well educated, well mannered,
well spoken. Everything -was well with him. The world was well with him.
Bellona felt a stirring of jealousy for Ven.
If she had known of Marcus’s past history, she might not have been so
bitter, so vindictive. But she knew nothing of the locked room, the tormented
dreams. She saw only that he was beautiful and that his beauty had gained him
everything he had ever wanted.
Yet, his beauty is Melisande’s. How can I hate him?
she asked
herself.
Why do I feel I want to drag my nails across that perfect face and
leave it ruined? Yet, I do. And I do not understand.
“I have an idea,” Marcus said, interrupting her tangled logic. “But you must
do exactly as I tell you. Will you?”
“That depends,” she growled, not in a mood to grant his every wish.
Marcus smoothed his hand over the air in front of her. He walked around her,
shaping the air as if it were clay. When he finished, he eyed her critically.
“That’s good. Not perfect, so you’ll have to be careful. But it’s good. I
can’t see you and yet I know you’re there.”
“What do you mean? You can’t see me?”
“I have used the magic to make you one with the darkness,” said Marcus
proudly.
Bellona looked back at the illusion of herself.
You’re not as clever as you think you are,
she told the young man
silently.
It doesn’t take magic to do that.
“And keep out of the light,” he cautioned her. To give emphasis to his
words, he doused his torch in the slop bucket. “Stay in the shadows. Not
because people will be able to see you if you step into the light. They can’t,
even then. But if they expect to see something and suddenly they can’t see it,
then they start to get suspicious. Do you understand?”
“No,” she said, impatient to be gone. “But I will keep out of the light and
I will not talk and I will move quietly and not bump into anything. Summon the
jailer!”
He began to yell for Burt.
The jailer opened the door. “I was starting to get worried, Your Highness.
What happened to your light?”
“Dropped my torch,” Marcus explained.
“You should have called me, Your Highness,” Burt said, rebuking. “No telling
what that savage might’ve done to you in the darkness.”
“I did call, Burt,” said Marcus lightly. “And here you are. No need to
worry. All well, as you can see.”
He pointed to the seated Bellona.
Burt stood aside, his back against the door, allowing just enough room for
the prince to squeeze pass the jailer’s pudgy gut. Marcus walked out the cell
and into the corridor. Burt cast a perfunctory glance at his prisoner. Seeing
that she wasn’t going anywhere, he started to shut the cell door. Bellona could
have made a mad dash, but she would bump into the jailer and she did not need
any of Marcus’s patronizing explanations to know that this would be disastrous.
She experienced a moment’s panic that was swiftly consumed in anger. Marcus
had played her for a fool. He was using this means to escape her.
She was about to take matters into her own hands, grapple with Burt, brain
him if necessary, when Marcus said, “Oh, wait a moment, will you, before you
shut the door? I seemed to have dropped my gloves.”
He brushed past the jailer and stepped back into the cell, where he peered
down at the floor, searching all around.
“I can’t see in this confounded murk, Burt. Hold the light for me.”
Burt obeyed, lifting the torch high. Marcus moved deliberately near the
wall, forcing Burt to shift the torch and his protruding gut away from the
door. Bellona slipped past the jailer, moving as quietly as she could. The
slight rustle of straw was covered by Marcus, rummaging around in the search
for his gloves.
“Ah, here they are.” He held them up in triumph, slipped them into his belt.
Burt grunted. Marcus walked back out into the corridor. He cast an oblique
glance around for Bellona and it was then, for the first time, that she felt as
if he must have truly caused her to blend in with the shadows, for his gaze
passed over her twice before he found her. He flashed her a conspiratorial grin
and she saw what she should have seen earlier, if she had not been so
preoccupied. This was a game for him. He was enjoying this— the daring, the
intrigue, the secrecy, the ability to use his magic, show it off. This was a
break from the dull routine of being prince.
Play your game, then, Your Highness,
she said silently. So
long as
you plan for us to win, it is all the same to me.
Burt slammed shut the cell door, thrust the large key into the padlock, and
turned it. He led the way down the corridor, the torchlight flaring and
smoking, casting Marcus’s shadow on the wall. Marcus chatted easily with the
jailer, discussing the firing of the famous cannon. His arms and those of the
shadow moved as he talked, indicating with broad, sweeping gestures how far the
cannonball had flown that day, doubling his fist and punching at an imaginary
dragon to indicate the damage it would have done. His shadow glided over the
cold stone walls, surrounded by a halo of light.
Bellona walked after him. She was her own shadow.
Marcus saddled and bridled his horse. The stablehands, sleeping in the loft
above the stalls, slumbered through the entire process. Pulling Bellona up
behind him, he guided the animal quietly over the cobblestones, casting a
nervous glance up at the windows of his parents’ rooms. No light flared. His
father would be asleep, but perhaps his mother stood there in the darkness,
looking down on him. He blanched at the thought of her sorrow. The fun was not
quite so much fun. She was the one who had sent him, however. He looked up at
that dark window, bid her silent farewell, and rode on toward the gate.
The guards were highly amused at Marcus’s earnest tale of riding out alone
to visit a “friend,” especially when he implored them to keep his departure
secret and assured them he would be back before daybreak. Laughing, they let
him pass.
“Boys will be men, it seems,” said the commander with a knowing wink.
“It’s about time he showed some interest in wenches,” stated one of his
troops. “Should we tell Gunderson?”
“Naw, let the lad have his tumble.” The commander grinned. “Like as not, the
Old Man knows all about it anyway and he won’t thank us for waking him.”
The guards went back to their watch, whiling away
the long, dull hours to dawn, which would not be dull—sadly for them— for the
prince -would not return.
Edward had never been so angry. His rage burned in his gut. Hot words
bubbled in his throat, so that he could taste them, bitter, on his tongue. He
kept himself under control, for his father had taught him that a king who
ranted and raved and took out his temper on those who did not dare strike back
was not a true king, nor even a true man. Edward did not give voice to his
anger, but it was plain to see in his livid face, his dilated eyes.
Ermintrude stood before him, her hands clenched tightly over her stomacher,
her own expression resolved and unapolo-getic. She believed she had done right.
He believed she had committed a terrible wrong. It was the worst moment of
their marriage, the worst in their lives.
Their love had never been one of wild passion, such as the poets celebrate.
Politicians, not chubby angels armed with bows and arrows, had manufactured
their romance. They had met each other on the day they were wed and been
whisked into bed almost before they knew each other’s names. If they didn’t
find the love of the ages in each other’s arms, they did find affection,
caring, and mutual respect.
Ermintrude had known deep pain only once in her marriage, and that was the
day Edward confessed, in tears and broken words, his infidelity to her, the
infidelity with Melisande that had resulted in a son. Ermintrude had never been
disloyal to Edward, never given him cause for pain before now. In his own way,
he felt as much betrayed as she had felt then.
“How could you do this?” he demanded, when it was safe to speak, when he was
certain the hot, vile words would not come spewing out like the rainwater from
the mouths of the gargoyles.
“It was right he should know the truth,” Ermintrude answered, quavering a
little, for she was truly grieved to have hurt him, yet steadfast in her
determination.
“No, it was not right!” Edward cried, slamming his clenched fist down onto a
table.
“You
had no right! He is
my
son—”
“And hers,” said Ermintrude, her voice low, throbbing. “His mother.
Melisande’s.”
Edward could find no immediate answer and, making an emphatic gesture
negating the entire argument, he turned his back on her.
“His mother has a claim on him,” Ermintrude went on, advancing. “A claim on
you. She has never made it before now—”
“His mother is dead,” he said impatiently.
“Not to him, Ned! She lives in him. Half his blood is her blood. Half his
heart is her heart. You cannot reach inside him and rip her out. He knows you,
but he doesn’t know her. He needs to know her, Ned. He wonders about her, all
the time—”