by Janny Wurts
Elienne shivered, unable to speak of the uneasiness she had felt since the day of the Seeress’s murder. “Ielond discovered the secrets of Time through meditation.”
“Ielond had League training, and the accumulated wisdom of a very long life.” Darion chafed her wrists. “You’re chilled. And you spend too much time alone, which does you no good. If my company causes you discomfort, try to confide in Mirette. She has a gentle heart and is trustworthy. I chose her for discretion, and Ielond never intended you to be without friends.”
He released her hands and rose. “This is your home now. I want you to be happy. Will you try?”
Shamed, Elienne summoned a smile. “I’ve been rotten.” She would plainly have to shoulder her doubts by herself, and the Prince needed no added burden of concern. “Can you forget?”
“About what?” Darion made a droll face and left her, still grinning, in the seat by the fire.
A few minutes later, Mirette appeared with dry clothing. She made no comment on the waterstained brocade. “My Lady, there’s hot tea waiting.”
Elienne stirred, and noticed an unfamiliar glitter on her finger. With a small gasp of surprise, she lifted her hand and saw the topaz and gold of the Consort’s betrothal ring she had lost during transfer to Torkal. The band this time fit perfectly; Darion must have left it on her finger, and through her confusion, she had not noticed. She felt, suddenly, as though she had been knifed. “Ma’Diere, how can I support this?” She raised a face stamped with feelings she could not curb, and saw sympathy on Mirette’s pretty features.
“I’m glad to see you don’t hate him.” The statement was one of observation rather than malice.
“No.” Elienne thrust her hand into the soggy sleeve of her riding habit. “No. I never hated him.” And she permitted Mirette to fuss over her without stiffening in distaste.
* * *
The following afternoon, the Grand Justice sentenced Faisix, Earl of Torkal, to life imprisonment under wardenship of the Sorcerers’ League. In response, Elienne lengthened her rides into the hills above the castle. She slept poorly at night. Within a fortnight, her exhaustion had advanced to the point where Mirette sought Darion’s counsel. She met him seated at breakfast.
His reply was immediate, and mercilessly direct. “Have Kennaird escort Elienne down to the cell for a visit.”
Mirette flinched in anticipation of Elienne’s response. “She won’t like it.”
The Prince set his knife carefully aside. Morning sunlight fell through the diamond panes of the casement, spotlighting his hands as he laced them together and leaned forward. “Be easy on her. Elienne has good reason to be nervous. The man tried to kill her, twice.”
Mirette’s elegant features paled. “Your Grace, she never told me.”
Darion stared at his plate. “I didn’t expect she had.” He said nothing more. Mirette curtsied, though he never looked up, and silently left him.
* * *
“I won’t go!” said Elienne explosively, when told why Kennaird awaited her in the anteroom. Her knuckles tightened against the comb with which she had been straightening Minksa’s hair. “What possessed him, that he thought I would wish to see Faisix?”
“He acts under his Grace’s orders.” Mirette braced herself, expecting sharp language in reply. Even now she did not regret her interference. The Lady Elienne was lately consumed from within by restlessness that nothing seemed to assauge. The Prince had been the only one who could reason with her at all.
Yet instead of her usual oaths, Elienne became suddenly still. Too still, Mirette thought.
“I suppose you informed the Prince I haven’t slept,” she said softly. “I wish you had spared him. If I go quietly, will you promise the next time to keep your mouth shut?”
Startled speechless by a reaction she could not possibly have anticipated, Mirette nodded.
Elienne handed her comb to Minksa. “I’ll finish your hair later, Missy.”
Minksa dumped a fistful of ribbons on the dresser. “I want to come.”
“No.” Elienne was adamant. “Absolutely not. One of us is too many.”
* * *
Though the corridor which led to Faisix’s cell was nothing like the dank stone passages of Trathmere’s dungeon, Elienne felt as though she had just been immersed in ice water. No good would come of this visit. A chill of foreboding preoccupied her as she followed Kennaird down a carpeted stair into a chamber unnaturally lit by harsh, blue-white light.
Before her, etched out by the glare of an enchanter’s wards, was a steel-barred enclosure similar to the one that had imprisoned Taroith. The structure had no visible door. A Sorcerer stood watch to one side.
Elienne’s eyes adjusted to the dazzling brilliance slowly. After an interval, she made out the image of a figure beyond.
“I have brought the royal Consort to see Faisix, at his Grace’s request,” said Kennaird.
The attendant Sorcerer dimmed the wards, allowing a clear view of the prisoner. The former Regent sat comfortably in a stuffed chair, profile toward them. He was thinner, Elienne noted. With his eyes closed in meditation, she saw beyond distractions of character and finely proportioned bone structure to an abiding harmony with life, which momentarily defied thought. The effect terrified her, as nothing had before. Elienne stepped clumsily backward into Kennaird.
He caught her in startled embarrassment, just as Faisix stirred and raised opened eyes to his warden.
“I see I have distinguished visitors.” His honey-colored hair glanced in the light as he rose and bowed respectfully to Elienne. “My Lady, I’m glad to see you are well.”
Elienne shook off Kennaird’s hands. “It wasn’t my idea to come here.”
‘‘That’s understandable.” The expression of peace on Faisix’s features remained imperturbed. He seated himself smoothly. “They tell me you will give birth to a healthy son five months from now.” His gaze touched the green velvet that girdled her thickened waistline. “I see this is so, and wish you joy upon the occasion.”
Unsettled by his reference to the child, Elienne wanted to leave at once. Her reply came out edged with mistrust. “I won’t forget.”
“Neither will I.” Faisix returned the hostility with frank acceptance. “I felt an apology would be worse than useless, even insulting. I want no more injury between us. And I think the Prince would understand if you go without belaboring the point. I’m not proud of reminders, either.”
Elienne could not bring herself to answer. Inexplicably uneasy, she addressed the League Master who safeguarded the cell. “Gifted, I’ve seen enough.”
The Sorcerer stepped forward to restore the potency of the wards. Though he worked with unerring efliciency, Elienne had a sudden, overwhelming premonition that all was not well. She looked up, just before the sorcery flared active, and saw that Faisix watched her still. His yellow eyes scarred her like a brand. Sudden dizziness spun her vision out of focus. In the blue-white deluge of light that followed, she thought she saw Ielond against the desolate emptiness of Ceroth. Memory of his words surfaced to haunt her. “We’re going to change history, my Lady, and send Faisix to his Damnation.”
She wanted to cry out, to warn that the man in the cell was evil and still capable of inflicting great harm. But no words came. She swayed on her feet, caught by a firm pair of hands.
The face of the Master Sorcerer wavered above her. “... strength of the wards,” he was saying. “The efiects of close proximity have disoriented her. She’ll recover quickly enough. Just take her out.”
Elienne felt herself transferred to Kennaird, who guided her stumbling steps back the way they had come. Once she was clear of the cell, the vertigo passed almost at once. Elienne caught the railing of the stair, sweat cold on her skin. “I hope his Grace is satisfied,” she said tartly to Kennaird. “I won’t repeat that experience.”
The appr
entice regarded her with sympathy. “I doubt he would ask again. Are you all right?”
Elienne nodded, though her heart raced still. She climbed the stair unassisted, preoccupied by the remembered statement of Ielond’s. Her fear was justified. But not even the wisest masters in Pendaire perceived Faisix as a threat, secure as they were in the powers of their sorcery.
* * *
“Lady, the hook won’t fasten.” The maid leaned to one side, hands clutching the waistband of Elienne’s dress. “Do you want me to call the seamstress, or shall I fetch the blue skirt you wore yesterday?”
Elienne touched her swollen middle with a resigned sigh. “The blue will be fine. I don’t expect the Prince’s healers will let me ride much longer, anyway.”
“I would think the weather would stop you,” said Mirette from the window seat. “The sentries on the north gate came in complaining of frostbite.”
Elienne shrugged out of the dress that no longer fit. “It rained only yesterday.”
“After it snowed.” Mirette set her sewing aside and flung back the curtain. A cold draft spilled across the room from the uncovered casement. “It’s turned bitter.”
Yet not even the sight of fields leaden-gray under a mantle of new ice prevented Elienne from making her usual trip to the stable. The Horse Master greeted her with a lighted pipe, a sure sign that he had not been overseeing the saddling of her horse.
“What’s wrong?” Elienne knew a moment of apprehension. “Is Abette lame?”
The Horse Master puffed his reddened cheeks until his whiskers bristled. “She’s at her hay, and well sound. But she won’t stay so if ye go out. Ice’ll cut her legs. Best to wait. There’ll be a thaw.”
Elienne returned to her chambers, disconsolate. The healer had granted her no more than one more week of liberty, and with a freeze as deep as the one currently gripping Pendaire, a quick thaw was unlikely. She had watched Mirette amuse herself with an endless succession of sewing projects, aware such activities would do little to maintain her spirits through the weary months to come.
“You could always start on things for the baby,” Mirette suggested, and wondered afterward why Elienne requested books, her gaze fixed morosely on the ice-glazed gardens beyond the casement.
An oppressive silence lasted until Minksa burst in from the anteroom in boisterous high spirits. “Elienne!” Her skirt knocked Mirette’s thread basket, and spools bounced helter-skelter across the carpet.
“Child, will your manners never improve?” Mirette rose, watching her feet. “And that was no proper address for a Lady who might become Queen of the Realm.”
“I’m sorry.” Minksa curtsied precariously among the spools and in the same motion bent to pick them up. “Lady,” she said from her hands and knees on the rug. “The Prince has come to see you.”
Caught unprepared, Elienne left the window. She directed a suspicious glare at Mirette. “Was this your doing?” But the Lady-in-waiting’s startled expression was genuine. Why, Elienne wondered, and sat hastily in the chair farthest from the door.
A moment later, Darion entered, arms loaded with books and a small wooden chest inlaid with mother-of-pearl. He spotted Elienne by the fire and smiled. “I thought I’d find you sulking.” With the controlled grace of perfect fitness he crossed the room and deposited his burden on the side table next to her. He sat down.
Elienne shut her eyes, unwilling to respond for fear loneliness would betray her.
“Please,” she said softly. “I don’t want company.”
Darion opened the box, which contained chess pieces. “You play, don’t you?”
“I’m insufferably out of practice.” Elienne felt her palms break into sweat. He had known what loss of her daily ride had meant; his kindness besieged the integrity of her decision to remain separate, and left no avenue for graceful retreat. Tormented by desire to reach out and use what he offered, Elienne watched his hands as he laid out the board. Yet even that proved a mistake.
The beautiful, long fingers were roughened from weather, and calloused like a mercenary’s. Elienne caught her breath. Even Cinndel’s knuckles had not chapped that severely on campaign against the Khadrach.
Distressed, Elienne looked further, and saw wrists grown sinewy from long hours in the tiltyard. She understood, suddenly, what brought Darion to her chambers with chessmen. Exercise had been his outlet, also. Weather had deprived them both, and he had resolved to confront the source of his pain, perhaps to overcome it if he could.
His determination cut her. And Ielond’s diabolical thoroughness had ensured she was a fanatical devotee of chess. Conscious of failing strength, and resolved not to let the Prince guess, she fought back. “You must have better things to occupy you.”
Darion set the last piece in place with barely a pause. “I’ll take black, for having nothing better. The council chamber offers little other than glorified scrapping among old men. Your move.”
Elienne bit her lip, momentarily defeated by his charm. Intending to discourage him with dull strategy, she reached for a pawn.
Yet he caught her drift early in the game and managed to maneuver his own king into peril first. He sat back in his chair and watched her search in smothered dismay for a move that would not place him in check without sacrifice. There was none. The situation became suddenly comic. Elienne tried to choke back a grin.
“You must like stomachaches,” said Darion, red-faced himself. A moment later, he doubled helplessly over the board, scattering chess pieces like smallshot. His laughter mingled with hers.
The irresistible rapport of shared amusement sobered Elienne first. Events seemed to conspire against her, displaying always the charm, the wit, and the high spirit of the man whose destiny Ielond had joined with hers; the Sorcerer had intended the attraction. Yet poisoned by the uncertainty of her future, Elienne still held back. This discomfort was surely kinder than the grief she had known upon Cinndel’s death.
Conscious of her silence, Darion caught his breath. “We’ll play again.” He ducked beneath the table to rescue the fallen game pieces. His voice emerged, muffled. “This time, to the bitter death, with no bowing out.”
With far more at stake than a chess game, Elienne chose not to put his challenge to the test. She rose quickly, while he was occupied and disadvantaged, and retreated to the bay of casements which overlooked the sea. Leaden combers battered the shoreline, carved into spray by black rocks and the wracked debris of winter storms. A dirtied wall of snow bounded the sand above the tidemark, seaweed piled like war dead beneath.
She heard the chair creak as he straightened. Wooden counters clattered in a cascade onto maple inlay. A few rolled onto the carpet.
His booted step approached her. She stared rigidly at the horizon’s gray line, sensitized to the desolation she inflicted on the man at her back. He had stopped with his hands poised, but not touching her shoulders. His arms lowered after a moment, with a soft rustle of velvet and lawn. His ring clicked against his poniard as he hooked his thumb in his belt.
“Lady, will you forgive me?”
“What is there to forgive?” said Elienne, knowing the painful barb of her own self-reproach would strike like a whip of antagonism. The wintery landscape before her shattered, viewed through a prism of tears.
With her features open to anguish, she faced him. “There is nothing between us to forgive, your Grace. But I find no peace in your presence. How long, before you learn mercy and leave me alone?”
The scope of his response caught her like tide, left her dizzied with pain. Unable to speak or see, she caught the paneled wall for support. Nothing reached her except the clink of the door latch that signaled Darion’s departure. Caught by an ugly, wrenching sob, Elienne laid her cheek against the cold panes of the window and watched the beach blur and fade beyond a white cloud of condensation. She felt, inwardly, as though someone had put the candles out.
“I hate you,” said Mirette suddenly, out of the dark.
Elienne stirred and slowly leaned her back against the wall. “I’m sorry.” The apology seemed to flounder on the stillness.
“Sorry!” Mirette rose, furious, and confronted her with loathing evident in every line of her pose. “Ma’Diere’s infinite mercy, you abuse him! He gives you the best of himself, and you fling it back in his face.”
Cornered and raw with exposed nerves, Elienne frantically sought escape. “Stop. Mirette, you don’t know. I have a reason.”
“No reason known to man would be enough to justify what you just did.” The artfully painted lines around Mirette’s eyes blurred, and tears spilled over her lashes.
Elienne watched the streaks glide down perfectly tinted cheeks. Understanding imprisoned her like a trap: Mirette’s suffering was caused by frustrated love of the Prince. The assault of yet another person’s pain was more than she could bear, with her own feelings vulnerable to exposure. Out of need for survival, she deadened her own response. “The Prince will find another woman. I won’t be jealous.”
Mirette seemed not to hear. “You’re cold as Eternity. If I were Consort to such a Prince, I’d count myself blessed.” And that suddenly pushed the situation beyond constraint.
Elienne knew white-hot anger. “Go to him, then, if that’s where your sympathies lie!”
Mirette gasped, pale beneath her rouge. She answered with vicious honesty. “I’ve tried. Once we were lovers. But since Ielond sent you, his Grace has eyes for no other. I curse that day. And I curse you for your cruelty.”