by Janny Wurts
Elienne stirred. Blood rang in her ears, as though she might faint. She clung to consciousness. Like a living presence of evil, the ring lay just beyond reach, unnoticed by the guardsmen. Fear caught like ice in her throat.
“Ma’Diere, he was mad!” said a shocked voice, threaded by a wail as the baby began to cry. “He killed himself, I’ll swear by Eternity.”
“Send for Taroith, at once.” A booted step approached the crib. “The child is untouched. Girl, see to your mistress. Is she hurt?”
Elienne felt a trembling touch on her shoulder. Minksa bent over her, dark hair tangled against the white lace collar of her shift. “Lady?” She sounded as though she was weeping. “Lady, are you all right?”
Elienne’s senses blurred and dimmed. Shadows pressed her vision, dense as water, and Ielond’s lusty cries thinned with distance. “My baby,” she whispered.
Minksa moved in response. Elienne shivered in the grip of pain. Sound tumbled against her ears, blended voices uttering words she could not understand. Pushed to the extreme edge of awareness, she forced her eyes open, determined to remain conscious at least until Minksa returned with the child.
But the girl had paused with her task incomplete. Elienne saw her bend and reach for a gleam of gold in the shadows.
“No.” Too quiet to be heard, her warning went unregarded. Minksa’s small fingers closed over Kennaird’s ring.
As though the touch opened contact, Elienne felt the cold sting of sorcery lance her mind. She gasped. Vertigo claimed her and the room violently upended, tumbling her downward into night. The alien chill followed.
Her last, desperate protest was barely audible, undermined by ebbing strength. No!
Sorcery straddled the thought. You will remember nothing of my presence said Faisix’s voice within her.
Willfully, Elienne struggled. She punished fading thoughts back, forced recollection. She saw Minksa’s hand reach down and pick up ... what? She searched, frantically, aware the missing object jeopardized her existence. Yet her efforts yielded nothing but a void that rose up and enfolded her in darkness....
* * *
Only half-clothed, Darion entered his Consort’s chambers at a full run. His steward trailed him with a harried expression, arms clutched about a shirt and a pair of boots.
The Prince skirted the bloody cloak-draped bundle on the carpet, eyes drawn to where Taroith bent over the supine body of his lady.
“Elienne,” he said, and knelt. Nearby, Ielond wailed loudly in the gingerly grasp of a guardsman.
Taroith lifted his hands from her brow and looked up. “She’s suffered no more than a bruise on the head. But she’ll not waken until morning.”
Darion touched the pale curve of her cheek. “You made her sleep, then. Is that wise?”
“Do you wish her to see the aftermath of this?” Taroith gestured pointedly at the naked sword that lay, dulled and sticky, beside the covered form on the rug. “She is exhausted beyond her strength, and terrified.” The Sorcerer noticed the Prince’s face and gentled his voice at once. “Ma’Diere, I know, your Grace. Your Guardian chose her for strength, but an attack on a child is a horror she will never forget. Let her rest, at least until she has recovered resource enough to master her emotions.”
“Then let me get her to bed.” Darion lifted Elienne’s slight body into his arms. Long, dark hair tumbled warmly over his skin as he cradled her against his chest. Relaxed in sleep, her head rolled against his shoulder. The brief peace Taroith’s healing had granted lay on the soft curves of her features.
The sight wrenched Darion from within. He wanted that contentment for her, always, but Pendaire had rewarded her generosity of spirit with nothing but violence, distrust, and cruelty.
Taroith stood by as Darion laid Elienne on the bed. The sheets were a twisted ruin. Annoyed, Darion snapped at the steward who hovered, still, at his elbow. “Can you do anything about this mess?”
The man bowed and dropped a boot. “Your Grace, your garment—”
Darion swore and, cued by the steward’s gaze, glanced downward. He tightened the laces of his hose with unabashed dispatch and accepted the shirt without complaint. “Sheets,” he said, voice muffled by cloth. “And fetch Mirette.” His head emerged, disheveled, from the white lawn collar. Impatiently he jabbed an arm into a sleeve, while the servant stared. “Well? Don’t stand there while I dress, man. Go at once!”
The steward departed, still clutching footwear. As he scuttled into the hall, Darion set Elienne’s rumpled nightrobe straight and smoothed her hair across the pillows with gentle hands. Taroith relieved the guardsman of Ielond. The baby’s crying trailed into silence.
“They told me the child was untouched.” Darion sat with Elienne’s head rested against his thigh. He settled a blanket over her shoulders to keep off the chill until Mirette arrived.
Taroith laid the infant by her side. “The boy was wakened by the noise. He frets now because he is hungry.” As Darion made to rise, he touched the Prince’s wrist. “I’ve already sent for the midwife. Leave Ielond’s difficulties to her.”
Darion lifted an anguished face from the still form of his Consort. “Ma’Diere! She trusted Kennaird. We all did. And Faisix is confined under ward. How in Eternity can this have happened?”
“I don’t know.” Taroith stood, gray robes clenched around bowed shoulders. He paced the floor. “I soul-searched the man only this morning. He showed no such motivation then. If he acted under influence of possession, I could find no trace, though I reached here only minutes after he died.” The Sorcerer paused with his hand on the table by the bed. The candle illuminated troubled features. “Control could have originated from an object. If so, it is no longer on Kennaird’s person. I shall search the room, of course. And the League will summon Faisix back from trance for truthsearch, though I know of no method he could have initiated to bring about this assault.”
“We should have had him executed,” said Darion abruptly. His dark brows bunched into a frown. Somehow Elienne had known this attack might happen. Repeatedly she had asked his protection. With a stab of guilt, the Prince remembered that he had granted her guardsmen as an indulgence of a whim. And her son had almost been murdered. The ugly fact sparked rage he could not curb. “Eternity! Is there no limit to the intrigue in my court? Who would kill a baby? Jieles?”
“Your Grace!” Taroith left the table, aged features set like granite. He gripped the royal shoulders forcefully with both hands. “Ielond taught you better than that!”
Darion flung off the Sorcerer’s grasp and rose. “Ielond taught me compassion.” He shoved the reddened swordgrip with his toe, his eyes intense with anger. “Show me the compassion in this, Master. If it was Jieles, I shall condemn him to the block.”
Taroith bent his head and said nothing. Brittle silence stretched between Prince and Sorcerer, while the guardsman fidgeted uncomfortably to one side. After a time, Darion stirred and raked fingers through his disordered hair, ill temper gone from him.
“I’m sorry.” He rubbed his hands across his sleeves as though chilled. “I think precautions are necessary, at least until we discover what caused Kennaird’s defection. Let Elienne be moved to my own apartments. I want guardsmen in the chamber with her at all times.”
“That’s a wise decision, your Grace,” said Taroith. “I’ll grant you the services of a League Sorcerer as well, after Faisix has been interrogated.”
A soft knock at the door heralded the arrival of Mirette. At the Prince’s request, she sent for additional servants and a litter to remove Elienne and the royal heir to the family rooms. Darion rewarded her stoic patience with a tired smile. “I might be engaged through the morning with Taroith. If my Lady wakens, before I return, please tell her I shall do my utmost for her safety, and the child’s.”
Mirette’s pretty features tightened, as though with disapproval. She said nothing.
“What’s wrong?” Darion laid a hand protectively against Elienne’s cheek. “Can’t you tell her I care?”
“Lord, I’ll tell her,” said a girl’s voice from the far side of the chamber.
Darion turned, startled, and saw Minksa seated in the shadows. “Have you been there the whole time, Missy?”
Minksa nodded and crossed the room, reddened eyes large in her white face. She had been crying.
The events of the night must have been gruesome for a child her age; and Jieles, Darion remembered, was her father. At once he regretted his angered threats of execution. He tried to amend the damage. “Look after your mistress, child. Stay close to her. You’re possibly the only friend she has.”
Chapter 14
The Demon of Hellsgap
RAIN hammered the slate roof of Pendaire’s royal palace long after dawn soaked gray, chilly light through a thick mantle of fog. Though Mirette bundled the drapes back from the casement only at Elienne’s insistence, she tried to be kind. “There’s been a thaw. The weather will be good for riding by the time your strength returns.”
Elienne blinked as her eyes adjusted. Sore abdominal muscles blunted her desire to ride, and the deep maternal bond she had experienced since Ielond’s birth overruled the restless impatience with the indoors she had known during pregnancy. She glanced sleepily at the crib by the bedside. Ielond kicked contentedly among the sheets. The sight of his tiny red face reawakened memory of Kennaird, and violence. Elienne sat up, alarmed. She lay in a changed room. Two men-at-arms stood guard at her bedside, burly, weathered features out of place amid the ornate delicacy of the furnishings.
“Mirette.” Elienne looked more carefully, and recognized the small chamber that normally housed Darion’s squire. “Did the Prince ... ”
The Lady-in-waiting left the window. “Beyond all else, his Grace wished you safe.” She settled into a chair and arranged her skirts with stiff ceremony, as though she expected argument.
But Elienne’s concern for her child overshadowed any emotional pressures imposed by Darion. Though relations with Mirette had been ruinously strained since the morning of Darion’s chess game, she tried to reassure. “Mistress, I’m not displeased.”
Mirette picked a wisp of lint from her sleeve and said nothing. Elienne read exhaustion in the smudges beneath her eyes. “Were you up all night in my behalf?”
“Not quite.” Mirette’s tone was courteously neutral. “The midwife saw to the baby.”
“And you saw to me,” Elienne smiled. “Why don’t you retire? Your staff can summon the midwife, if I need her, and Minksa will be back with breakfast shortly.”
Mirette rose and curtsied with flawless formality. Peach-colored silk rustled as she straightened. “Ancinne is in the anteroom if you need her. The Prince wished you to know he will visit when his official affairs permit.”
Elienne smiled. “I’ll manage.”
She watched Mirette’s departure with relief. The Lady-in-waiting’s strict adherence to duty rasped her nerves unbearably. The woman adopted ceremonial politeness like armor. “By Ma’Diere’s everlasting backside, someone should teach her to swear,” Elienne said aloud.
One of the guardsmen gasped in unprofessional surprise. He muffled a shout of laughter behind his sleeve, while the other, with more control, bit his lip and purpled slowly beneath his crested helm.
Elienne sank back against the pillows, conscious of tangled hair and puffy eyes. Inevitably, Ancinne would send after a maid to straighten her appearance, if the Prince was to visit. Elienne hoped the woman’s innate laziness would delay the interruption. She wanted a chance to think, undisturbed by servants or Minksa’s friendly chatter. Something unsettled her about the attempt upon Ielond’s life the night before. But when she searched her memory, the feeling eluded her grasp like water.
Restlessly, Elienne rolled onto her side. Swollen breasts brought a twinge of discomfort. Annoyed that she had neglected to ask Mirette when the child had last been fed, she sighed. Ielond seemed quiet. His tiny hand thrashed the air with contented abandon.
Elienne closed her eyes. Reluctant to expose herself before the guardsmen without another woman present, she decided to wait at least until the baby became fretful. Uneasiness returned to nag her. Irritated, she sorted again through her recollection of the past evening’s events.
A loud rattle of porcelain disturbed her thoughts. Minksa entered with a breakfast tray, Ancinne’s stout bulk on her heels.
“Missy, have a care, you’ll spill something.”
“I didn’t.” The girl set the tray on the table by the bed with a precarious crash and thrust her hand in her apron pocket. She turned an excited face to Elienne. “Lady, the cooks are making tarts with icing for the banquet tomorrow.”
Ancinne fussed with the pillows while Minksa removed the covers from a bewildering array of dishes.
Elienne sat up, dismayed. “I can’t eat half that amount.”
“You’ll have more appetite than you think, Lady. You’ve a child to feed.” Ancinne frowned at Minksa. “Missy, don’t serve royalty with your hand in your pocket, ever.”
Minksa set a pitcher down with a bump.
Elienne winked at her. “I’m not royalty until the wedding,” she said to Ancinne, certain the girl’s clumsiness was no more than high spirits. She started to ask the Lady-in-waiting to judge Minksa less harshly, but Ielond chose that moment to cry. Little as he was, his yell defeated conversation.
Elienne smiled. “He’ll become a tyrant, I know it.” And since Minksa was closest, she nodded in response to the girl’s request to fetch the child.
Minksa turned with the slow step of a dreamer. She leaned over the crib, right hand eclipsed by her body as she removed it from her apron. Instead of reaching downward, she raised interlocked fists over the child’s small form. Elienne saw gold flash on her finger.
Memory surfaced, deadly as poisoned steel, of the demon ring recovered from the floor. Her scream obliterated thought. She flung herself from the bed as Minksa’s arms descended like a club.
The table rocked under Elienne’s hand, scattering plates. “No!” Her shout mingled with a guardsman’s curse. Too late, she reached her feet.
The bright clash of porcelain masked the impact of Minksa’s blow. Ielond’s cries silenced. Blood flecked the blankets, then flooded in a sudden bright stain across the mattress.
“Oh, Eternity, no!”
Minksa lifted a tear-streaked face and laughed as the guardsmen’s grip closed over her reddened wrists.
* * *
The wards over Faisix’s cell flickered as Taroith stepped through the bars. He paused and rubbed a hand over his face, outlined in light, as the defenses brightened at his back. Of the Sorcerers who had originally accompanied him to question Faisix, six remained within.
Darion straightened stiffly. His back ached from long hours spent leaning against cold stone. “Did you find anything?”
“Nothing.” Taroith lowered his arm and sighed. “You haven’t been here the whole night, I hope. What time is it, your Grace? Mid-morning?”
“Almost.” Darion worked a sore shoulder, still clad in the thin shirt forced upon him by the Steward. At some point he had acquired boots, but his hair was an uncombed tangle in the shadow of the stairway. “Tell me. Something isn’t right, or you wouldn’t have taken so long.”
Taroith buried his fingers in his sleeves and fixed eyes distant with reflection upon the Prince. “We couldn’t rouse him.”
“What?” Darion’s exclamation echoed against granite walls, and he suddenly noticed the chill.
“I said we couldn’t summon Faisix back to consciousness.” The Sorcerer started briskly for the stair. Gray robes rippled over the stone. “We entered his mind and searched. There was neither knowledge nor evidence of instigation in the attempt upon the baby’s life. The only
passion we could resolve at all was an intense desire to follow in Ielond’s footsteps. That much we expected. Perhaps I gave it too little significance.”
“But you couldn’t recall him.” Darion took the stairs effortlessly, two at a time, and caught up.
“No.” Taroith rounded the landing. “They’re still trying. His will seems beyond reach.”
The Prince waited for the Sorcerer to qualify. When Taroith added nothing, he said, “That’s not possible!”
“But it’s happened.” The Sorcerer stopped and caught the Prince’s hazel eyes with a glance keen as a raptor’s. “How did Ielond bring Elienne to Pendaire, your Grace?”
Darion stood with his back to the brass railing. The wall sconce flickered, tracing long, crawling shadows over his cheekbones. “Reveal to no one what I’ve told you,” Ielond had instructed the night of his death. “I shall alter Time in Pendaire only once, to send you a bride. Let fate achieve the rest.”
“Answer, your Grace, or I shall ask Elienne.” Taroith started slowly upward, his step suddenly tired. “For if Ielond left a riddle, I think Faisix has unraveled the key to it.”
Above, a door crashed open. The wall sconce streamed in the draft, and someone descended the stair in reckless haste. “Your Grace!”
A disheveled servant skidded to a stop on the upper landing. “Your Grace, come at once. There’s been violence.”
Darion pushed away from the railing and raced up the steps, Taroith at his side. He caught the servant as he passed, compelling the man to follow at the same pace. “What’s happened?”
“Minksa, my Lord.” The man gasped, breathless from his run. “She’s attacked your son.”