“But it’s something your grandmother would wear!” Betteny giggled, smoothing her own softly draped bodice across her generously curved breasts. “It won’t show anything of your figure!”
Taniquel sighed inwardly. “It is both costly and dignified. Entirely suitable to honor the new King.” And you can have both of them together if you want them!
The last few days had seen the sitting room transformed. A huge, age-worn carpet replaced the runners which had showed the pale stone Padrik loved. Taniquel didn’t recognize the furniture; it must have come from one of the rooms in the old, disused wing. As before, a table, this one even more richly set, had been laid out for three.
King Damian, no longer in soldier’s gear but a robe of midnight-blue velvet trimmed with patterned black-and-white marlet fur, sat in the huge chair before the fire. Belisar stood leaning on the mantlepiece, a goblet in one hand. His eyes gleamed in the firelight. The laranzu glided in from one of the smaller rooms to stand behind them.
Taniquel tried not to look at the gray-robed figure, though she felt his attention upon her. The pressure of his mind on hers was slight, but relentless.
I must appear confused with grief and the suddenness of events, but not unwilling.
Damian greeted her without rising. With an effort, she kept her features composed. She bowed deeply, then allowed Belisar to seat her at the table.
As if they had been waiting in the corridor for his signal, a quartet of servants rushed into the room, setting out covered dishes, trenchers of fine white bread, and two bottles of wine still powdery with dust from the cellars. As they seated themselves and the servants removed the covers, Taniquel recognized the artistry of her cooks. A joint of spring lamb, crusted with herbs and tiny garlands of garlic cloves, nestled among piles of honey-glazed root vegetables. Tiny roasted fowl spread wings whose feathers had been replaced by layers of wafer-thin redroot slices. One of the servants opened the wine, an older vintage that always smelled to Taniquel like sunshine mixed with ripe plums and smoke.
At the table, Damian lifted his goblet, swirling the wine to intensify the aroma, and sniffed deeply. Taniquel watched, a bit surprised that an outlander should know how to approach the proper tasting of wine. The savory smell of the meats and the pungency of the herbs sent her senses whirling.
He sipped, his expression one of inner concentration, and swallowed. Then he smiled with such evident pleasure that she thought he might have conquered Acosta simply for its wines. Few areas on Darkover grew suitable grapes, and fruit wines tended to be too sweet for Taniquel’s taste, but cold-tolerant vines flourished in the Acosta valleys and brought forth drier, more complex flavors.
The officer filled her goblet and then Belisar’s.
“To the future of Acosta,” Damian said. “To its new King and its beautiful Queen, who in three days’ time will join as one to bring prosperity as rich as this wine.”
“And to the sons who will rule after us,” Belisar added. He drank his wine in a gulp, not pausing to savor it.
Sons! Taniquel lowered her eyes, bending over her goblet to hide her startlement. Surely he couldn’t know, not yet! No, he meant the sons he would sire upon her.
“Sir,” she said, once she had collected herself, “let us not hurry things. A royal courtship must be conducted with dignity. I am but newly a widow.”
Damian began carving a slab from the haunch of lamb. Dark juices oozed from the slash, dark as living blood. He placed a sliver on her plate, the inside still faintly pink.
“Please, drink. Eat something.” Belisar lifted her goblet and held it out to her. “Or are you still being stubborn?”
She took the goblet. The smell, so evocative of happier times, blended with the savory smell of the roasted meat, the pungency of the herbs, the aroma of the freshly baked bread. A pulse beat sent little lightnings of pain through her temples. How easy it would be to take a sip—she could taste it already on her tongue, slipping down her throat like ruby heat.
Never had she felt so terribly, so dangerously alone. She glanced from one face to the other—father and son, mirrored in their happy certainty—and there, in the corner, shrouded against the light, the unmoving figure in gray. She could not see the man’s face, but with that fragmentary laran, she felt him probing her in earnest—
Instead of the ice of their first contact, fire now bloomed behind her eyes, lancing through her skull. Her vision swam. His mind pressed against hers, searching for a way past her barriers.
He must not find out about my son! I must think of something else—anything else!
With an expression she hoped looked like resignation, Taniquel began to eat. Taking one slow mouthful after another, she tried to concentrate only on the taste of the food. It wasn’t hard. The crust of the bread broke between her teeth. She tasted its soft yeasty interior. Savory meat juices swirled over her tongue. A tiny piece of gristle crunched. She focused on each sensation, as if building a wall of placid gluttony. Slowly, the fiery pressure receded, leaving a deep ache in her temples.
“What did I tell you?” Damian said to his son. “She is not only beautiful but reasonable. A fitting bride, and one you will not have to wait for until she grows up to be truly yours.”
Damian and his son smiled and went on with the conversation, small pleasantries about the food, the wine, the rain, something about one of their horses. Taniquel murmured empty comments when it seemed expected of her. Watching them from under lowered lashes, she saw the shift in their expressions. For now, they clearly believed they had won her cooperation.
The headache eased a bit by the time she fled back to her quarters, but did not dissipate. She dismissed her ladies, barred the door behind them, and went to the chest where her old, everyday clothes were stored. Her hands shook and her stomach roiled with tension and wine, but she could not afford to rest. Not yet.
She did not know how completely she had been able to fool the laranzu. But she knew with bone-chilling certainty that she could not continue to do so much longer. She had run out of time. To delay the inevitable search, she must make them think she was still within the castle. This meant taking nothing whose absence would be noted.
There! Crumpled in a corner was the amber-colored wool she had worn the day of the battle. Dark stains ran along the hemline. It was cut loose to a dropped waistline, with a skirt that was full enough to move easily in, which was why she had worn it. She pulled it on and rolled up the tunic and underdress of undyed chervine wool, along with extra underthings and heavy socks. Quickly she assembled the rest, a small purse of silver coins from the last market fair, a couple of old, bent copper hair ornaments, the cloak she had worn at the funeral. Dressed in the stained, rumpled amber wool, covered with an equally stained cloak, her hair tucked in an old kerchief, she looked more like a servant girl in her mistress’ cast-offs than a young Queen.
One more thing. Her lips curved as she took the gown of peacock-colored silk and stuffed it between the flower box and the balcony wall. It was raining again, harder this time, turning the silk into a dark, sodden mess. Betteny would immediately notice its disappearance and conclude Taniquel was wearing it.
Slipping behind the headboard of the canopied bed, she pressed the stumpy brick which unlocked the narrow door. Beyond lay the warren of passageways where she and Padrik had played at brigands and spies, once or twice eavesdropping on their elders, slipping out of the room when a stern tutor was on his way. Perhaps every generation of Acosta children had used them, she didn’t know. Now she would never know what her son might make of them.
The passageway was chill and shadowed, but dry. She had already decided not to take a candle, lest the light, gleaming through one of the many peepholes and crannies, attract the eyes of some watchful Ambervale guard. Her fingers, lightly skimming the familiar walls, were guide enough.
Voices filtered through from the main corridor, growing louder as the speakers approached. The accents were those of Ambervale soldiers. Taniquel froze,
her heart racing. She strained to catch the conversation, something about extra requisitions of food from the village below.
“Peasants are the same everywhere,” one said. “They always complain they have nothing left, when you know they’re hoarding sacks of grain in the usual places.”
“Aye, that’s the truth,” the other laughed, his voice already receding in the distance. “. . . teach them a lesson . . . like those ombredin in Verdanta . . . remember that time . . .”
Slowly Taniquel let her breath out. She tightened her grip on her bundle and went on. The slither-hush-slither of soft boots over stone rang in her ears. The passageway narrowed and twisted so that sometimes she was forced to turn sideways. As a child she had not minded the closeness of the space, but now the walls closed in upon her, compressing the very air. Twice she brushed away cobwebs from her face and hair, and once a many-legged creature which scurried along her hand. She was glad she couldn’t see what it was.
She hurried down three floors, along twisting narrow stairs and a ladder which creaked maddeningly under her weight, to emerge into a corridor by the pantries. Fortunately, the area was mostly deserted at this hour, since the cooks and their helpers had already finished the last of the scouring and gone to bed. They would rise well before dawn to get the day’s baking started. She took a quarter-round of cheese still in its sealant wax, a double handful of honeyed dried peaches, and what was left of a loaf of brown bread, all wrapped up in a dish towel that looked as if it had escaped last month’s laundry.
Durraman’s own luck was with her, for the outer kitchen door was unlocked and unguarded. No one challenged her as she crossed the courtyard, head lowered against the rain.
The Ambervale forces had set up tents in the open space, with all the attendant equipment and stench. One of the gates stood open, with more encamped men and picket lines beyond. Sentries looked outward, clearly still awake and alert.
Taniquel tiptoed through the gate, hugging the wall, trying to look as inconspicuous as possible.
“Hey, you! Girl!” one of the guards called out. “Get back inside!”
What would a woman of the village do? Keep going, make a break for it? Obediently creep back, hoping for a better time? Taniquel had no idea.
“Let her be,” said one of the others. “Can’t you see how scared she is? She’s just a little village tart who got caught inside when the fightin’ started. Goin’ back to her own people, most likely. Why else would she be out in this muck?”
“Or maybe she’s out to have some fun,” the first said, laughing coarsely. “Come here, girl.”
“Vai dom . . . please. . . .” Taniquel pulled the folds of her hood tighter around her face as she shrank away.
“Give us a kiss.” Hands like huge steel paws tightened on her shoulders and pulled her close. Before she could draw breath, the sentry planted his lips on hers. His clipped beard prickled her face, his skin cold and damp with rain. He pushed his tongue between her slack lips. For a long moment, Taniquel hung in his grip, unable to move. She felt a curious nothing, neither pleasure nor, surprisingly, any sense of revulsion. The man’s breath was sweet enough, nor had he been drinking. She simply waited until it was over.
He released her so suddenly she staggered backward. “No juice there. I’d as soon kiss a frozen prune.” The others laughed. He spun her around and pushed her stumbling toward the village. “Go on home to mama, girl. Come on back when you’re ready for a real man.”
Taniquel scurried away, half-unbelieving of her good luck. It wasn’t until she was well past the camp that she wiped the wetness from her mouth.
Mud dampened Taniquel’s boots by the time she reached the village. Droplets beaded on her wool cloak and hood. The rain had let up slightly, the clouds thinning so that two of the four moons shone with diffuse, multi-hued light. She kept to the outskirts, heading for one cottage which stood, with its paddocks of sheep and ponies, isolated from the rest. Like the others, it was silent and dark except for the faint glow of a banked fire.
Three brindled hounds bounded from the yard at her approach. One, the younger bitch who did not know her, yipped once and then subsided. The oldest dog thrust his muzzle into her hand, searching for remembered treats. She stroked their ears and scratched the itchy places at the base of their tails, whispering that she had no food for them.
It was an easy enough matter to catch the old horse with a handful of oats. The beast came to her readily, as if it also remembered her from happier days, and rubbed its bony head against her shoulder. Padrik had left it here at pasturage, the sedate half-cart horse which had been his first mount after he’d outgrown ponies.
Taniquel grasped a handful of forelock and led the horse to the shed where the gear was stored. Moonlight shone through the opened door, gleaming on the lovingly polished saddle which had been Padrik’s. As much by feel as by sight, she put it on the horse along with the second bridle, then tied on her bundles.
Behind the almost-empty grain bin, she found sacks which she identified by smell as barley and more oats. These were seed stock for the second planting or in case the first should fail, as sometimes happened with late ice-storms. She hesitated, one hand on the smallest barley sack. The food from the kitchen would not last long and she had no bow for hunting. If Deslucido’s men had found the store, they would have thought nothing of taking it all.
That was no excuse. They might not find it. They might not find all of it.
Sighing, she tucked the sack back into its hiding place.
A muffled sound made her jump. She was not alone in the shed.
17
Lamplight struck Taniquel’s eyes, fell on the seamed features of the cottager. She searched her memory for a name. Ruyven. Painfully aware of how it all must appear—her own disheveled dress, the saddled horse, the uncovered cache of seed grain, she got to her feet.
“Lass.” The single word held a paragraph of questions.
“You have not seen me!” she cried. She dug out the small purse and placed it beside the oat bin. “I never left this here. You have no idea where the horse wandered off to.”
He crossed the space between them, lifted out a sack of barley and one of oats, laid them with deliberate care on the dirt floor. “That old horse, always sticking his fool nose into the feed.” The next moment, he was gone.
Taniquel, wasting no time, gathered up the sacks of grain and tied one on either side to the saddle. She swung up on the horse, tucked her skirts around her legs, and spread her cloak over her precious bundles.
The old horse moved off with a spring in its step. Perhaps it remembered other moonlit rides, years ago.
They would look for her on the road, if they looked for her at all. Taniquel did not know how good their trackers were, to pick out the prints of a single unshod farmhorse amid the churned-up muck of many.
She cut across the pastures and then the orchards, heading for higher, rocky ground. When the last moon set, leaving the sloping hills in darkness, she kept going, trusting to the horse’s instinct and the stars. The old beast had lost its first bloom of energy by then, but she could not let it rest, not yet.
Taniquel awoke with a start, half-slumped over the pommel. The first gray tinge of dawn showed nothing familiar; she must have passed the outermost orchards. The horse trudged on, head lowered, ears flopping. It had apparently found its stride, an easy amble broken only by the occasional dip of the head to gather up another mouthful of spring grass. Around her stretched eroded hills strewn with boulders, fit only for goat pastures. Stunted ashleaf trees huddled together, their leaves still softly gray. From afar, a fox barked. Something stirred in the heathery brush—a lone chervine, wild by the way it shook its antlers and bounded off. There was no sign of human habitation.
She pulled the horse to a halt, kicked free of the stirrups, and with some difficulty slid to the ground. The stirrup leathers had rubbed the inside of her knees, her hips ached, her face and hands felt half-frozen, and her nose dripped. Sh
e slipped the bit from the horse’s mouth, leaving it to graze in earnest, and took out the bread and a portion of cheese.
Settling herself on a stony outcrop, Taniquel considered her situation. She had no way to kindle a fire, even if she found dry wood. Although her cloak was still damp, it was wool and would hold her body heat. Worst, she had only the vaguest idea where she was. She had meant to cut across country and join with the main road that led in one direction to Neskaya and the other to the lowlands and Thendara.
Well and enough, she told herself, sniffing and fighting back tears of weariness, you’ve gotten away from Belisar. Almost anything would be better than marrying him.
Using the position of the new-risen sun for her marker, she headed out in the approximate direction of the road. As the sun climbed above the horizon, frost melted on the grasses and rose in waves of mist. She urged the horse into a trot along a smoother stretch of road. She saw no other living thing except for an occasional hawk.
Late in the day, Taniquel stopped again along an eroded cliff face to water the horse at the waterfall which came tumbling over the rock face and into a pool. She debated staying where she was for the night, for the water and the brief shelter of the overhang. The air quivered with the promise of cold. She had, after all, seen no sign of pursuit. That meant nothing. How did she know they would not be waiting for her at the road—no, they would not have traveled that far with no sign of her passage. She was too tired to think clearly, and if she expected the old horse to carry her all the way to Thendara, she had better let it rest. While she made up her mind, she unsaddled the beast, hobbled it, and poured out a measure of grain on the saddle blanket. Her stomach roiled at the idea of eating.
Taniquel wrapped herself in her cloak, her back against the rock face. What an idiot she’d been, to take off with so little forethought. No way to make fire, no weapons, only a little food. But what else could she have done?
The Fall of Neskaya Page 18