by Melanie Rawn
She left by one of them—a side door from what had been a kitchen but was now used for storage—and drew a heavy cloak around her against the evening chill off Brochwell Bay. No one saw her as she glided through the back garden toward the gate that let into an alley. She walked for some distance behind the homes of wealthy merchants and court functionaries, then cut through a park and strode quickly to the portside section of the city. Her destination was an undistinguished dwelling halfway down a foul-smelling back street. The house had been rented for her by her old nurse Afina, and the man who opened the door had been told to expect her.
“Milady,” he acknowledged in a voice as salt-rough as his skin. He made an awkward bow and ushered her in. “He’s upstairs. Not liking it a bit, milady.”
She shrugged, averting her gaze from him, the squalid room, and especially the greasy-haired woman who sat by the hearth ostentatiously counting gold coins. Kiele crossed the filthy floor to the stairs. The man escorted her, and their combined weight on the half-rotted wood sent creaks and groans shivering all along the steps. Heat and smoke from the fireplace intensified the stink; she held her handkerchief to her nose, inhaling its heavy perfume.
“In here, milady.” He shouldered open a large door. Kiele pulled in a deep breath to steady her nerves and regretted it as she got a lungful of the man’s sweat smell even through the silk held to her nose. “He doesn’t know you’re coming,” he added.
“Good. Leave us. I’ll be perfectly safe, I assure you.” Her gaze fixed on the tall, lean figure standing in the shadows beyond the candlelight, his back to the door. Rusting iron hinges creaked, and Kiele was shut in the room, alone with a man who might or might not be her brother.
“He’s right. I didn’t know you’d be here. But it’s about damned time!”
She stiffened with fury, then made herself laugh, wadding the handkerchief in her fist. “Impressive! Almost my father’s tones. You’ve got the arrogance down very well. Let’s see if you’ve the looks to match. Come into the light.”
“Our father,” he corrected, and turned, and stepped forward. The feeble glow of the candle on the table struck a face of high bones and sensuous lips. His eyes were like green crystal frosted with ice. Kiele caught her breath and groped for a chair. He grinned without humor and let her find her own support while he took another few steps and loomed over her. She fought back childhood memories of her father doing the same thing, and the terror his rages always provoked. She was not a child anymore, she was a woman grown—and she held the power of this man’s success or failure.
“What do you think, sister dear?”
Rallying, she scowled at him and ordered, “Sit down and listen to me. You may be who you claim to be—and then again, you may not. But, by the Goddess, you’re going to listen to what I say and follow my instructions. If, that is, you hope to achieve your goal.”
He laughed. “Another thing we have in common.” He pulled the second chair out from the table and sat down, sprawling long legs.
“Sit up straighter. Legs crossed with the left ankle on the right knee.”
He obeyed, still grinning. Kiele unwound her fingers from the silk square and folded her hands on the table. A shrug dropped the cloak from her shoulders, alleviating a little of the oppressive heat. She inspected the young man for some time in silence, hiding her growing excitement. Now that she had recovered from the icy green of his eyes, the resemblance was not quite so shocking. Something about the chin was wrong, and the mouth was too wide. There were other discrepancies. But the height was correct, and the leanness corresponded with descriptions of Roelstra in his youth.
“You’ll pass,” she said curtly. “With schooling, of course, and with a rinse to bring out red highlights in your hair. Palila’s hair was auburn. Yours is too dark.”
“Like our father’s,” he shot back.
“A reddish tint will arouse memories of her—and that’s the immediate point, you’ll agree. Now explain to me why it took you so long to get here.”
“I set out as planned, and on time—according to instructions from some woman who seems to think she’s my aunt.” He grinned. “She’s the daughter of the people who claim to be my grandparents, but I don’t own the relationship. Was it her money or yours that was sent to persuade me?”
“Impudence will get you precisely nowhere,” she snapped. “Tell me why you’re late!”
“There were riders following me.”
“Who?”
“I didn’t leave them alive to conduct a conversation,” he retorted. “They came on me at night, four of them with drawn knives.”
“What did they look like?”
“Peasants. One of them babbled something about someone who’d help me challenge the princeling. There was talk of power more potent than the faradh’im.” He shrugged. “I don’t need anyone’s help. I’m ready to take my inheritance now.”
“You should have questioned them!”
“What was I supposed to do—ask for information while they cut me to ribbons? I heard them approach and pretended to drowse over my fire, and when they were close enough I started killing them before they could kill me. If that doesn’t suit you, sweet sister, then too damned bad.”
“Stop calling me that. It’s yet to be proved that you’re my father’s son. And to do that, you need me. You know that, or you wouldn’t be here. Who taught you proper speech?”
“Do you want me to use my rustic mountain accent?” he sneered. “Would that help the illusion? I don’t need any tricks! I’m the son of High Prince Roelstra and his mistress Lady Palila, born nearly twenty-one years ago just a few measures from here on the Faolain River. Anyone who doubts it—”
“Don’t threaten me, boy,” she told him. “I don’t have to believe in you—all I have to do is decide whether or not to support you. How far do you think you’d get without the backing of one of Roelstra’s daughters? Now, how did you learn gentle speech?”
Sullenly, he replied, “A couple of the men at Dasan Manor had been servants at Castle Crag in their young days. They taught me.”
“Good. We can say they recognized the highborn in you and tutored you. We can work on your appearance and various mannerisms I can show you. Get up and walk around the room.”
He did so, eyes smoldering with resentment. “Do I walk well enough for you?”
She ignored the question, not wanting to admit how his strong movements distressed her. There was power in that lean, tough body, wedded to a temper that would make him dangerous if crossed. “Lean against the wall. Fold your arms over your chest—no, higher. Good. Now brush your hair from your forehead. Use your fingers like a comb. That’s right. Can you hold your own in a sword fight?”
“I’ve had training. Dasan belongs to a knight retired from service, and he says I’m a natural fighter. I’m good with horses, too. And knives. As I proved on the way here.” He gestured to the dagger at his belt. “No worries about that.”
“What I’m worried about is your arrogance and your anger. You’ll have to control both if this is going to work. You can’t just storm into the princes’ conference and demand your rights. Let my husband handle that part of it, and keep your mouth shut except to say what we’ll tell you to say. Oh, stop glaring at me, Masul! You not only have to prove your claim to Princemarch, but you also have to prove you’ll be a prince the others can work with! They’d had quite enough of my father’s ways before he died, I can tell you that!”
This was obviously a new concept. He subsided into his chair and blew out a long sigh. “Very well. But you have to understand something first. All my life I’ve been stuck in that swine-run of a manor at the back end of nothing. Everybody sneaking glances at me, whispering that I couldn’t possibly be my supposed father’s son, not with my height and coloring, and especially my eyes.”
He rose and began to pace. Kiele schooled her expression to coolness. Her father had stalked rooms in just this fashion. But, even more than her memories, Masul’s bar
ely leashed strength impressed her again like a physical blow. His pacing made the candle flame flicker as he passed, the light throwing odd shadows onto his face.
“The rumors started when I was about fifteen. Could he be, what if he is, surely he’s not, remember the old prince, what really happened that night—”
“That is something very few people ever knew,” Kiele interrupted. “Palila, Roelstra, Ianthe, Pandsala, Andrade. Of those five, the first three are dead.”
“And the two survivors won’t welcome me with open arms,” he added.
“Pandsala won’t give up her power without a terrible struggle,” she agreed. “She’ll throw her own honor into the dirt before making the slightest slip that could prove you’re Roelstra’s son. As for Andrade—she’s blood-bound to the Desert and she hated Roelstra with a passion bordering on obsession. I don’t think she’d lie, no matter what the need, but she’s clever as a roomful of silk merchants and won’t tell any part of the truth that might support your claim.”
“It’s up to me, then. I have to look enough like him and Palila, say what you and Lyell tell me, and behave as if I’ll be a good, biddable prince once I’m installed at Castle Crag.” He grinned again, like a wolf.
She had intended bidding him herself, but it appeared he had a mind of his own. That would help in the process of convincing others, of course, but she suspected that his gratitude for her help would last only as long as it took him to walk inside Castle Crag.
“I’m ready to be educated, sister dear,” he said, and sat down once more.
She stared at him for a long time over the candle flame. “Masul, have you ever grown a beard?”
“No.”
“Do so, for three reasons. First, many men with dark hair have reddish beards and it would help if that were the case with you. Second, we have to hide you until the Rialla, and a beard would do that, make you look older.”
“And third?”
She laughed, pleased with her inspiration. “Imagine it! You appear for the first time at the Rialla, bearded. All anyone will see is your eyes. They are very like my father’s, you know. That night we’ll shave off the beard—and because they’re already primed to see Roelstra in your face, they’ll find the resemblance even greater than it is!”
Masul looked startled for a moment, then laughed aloud. “Father of Storms! Brilliant, sister—brilliant!”
“I’ve not yet decided that I am your sister,” she reminded him. The words had the intended effect; he looked murderous, then resentful, then determined to win her over to real belief. She rose, satisfied. He would work harder at his lessons in order to prove his identity—and her eventual acquiescence would be all the sweeter to him for having been hard-won. This would give him added confidence in his ability to convince others. Not that he would need much more confidence, she reflected as she settled her cloak around her again. Still, she had established the beginnings of dominance over him through her doubts and her instructions. He would be willing to do as she told him.
“Is this where you’re going to keep me until the Rialla?” Masul asked.
She smiled, pleased by the phrasing that confirmed her ascendancy. “It won’t be too bad after it’s cleaned up. But when the city begins to fill later in the summer, I’ll have you moved to a little manor we own outside the gates.”
“The place you meet your lovers?” he suggested.
She drew back her hand to slap him and he caught her wrist, laughing. “How dare you!” she spat. “Let me go!”
“A woman as beautiful as you must have plenty of lovers—that’s the way of things with you highborns, and especially Roelstra’s offspring! How many did Ianthe take before she died? I must say it’s a pity you’re my sister, sister dear!”
She wrenched away from him. “Don’t you ever touch me again!” His grin infuriated her, and his mocking parody of a bow. She yanked the door open and slammed it behind her, descending the stairs at a run. Pausing only to order that the house be thoroughly cleaned before her next visit—and tossing another pouch of gold at the woman to pay for it—she left the stifling place for the cool night air outside. It hit her burning cheeks like an ice storm.
As she walked, she calmed down a little and realized that part of her anger was really shock. His suggestion about her lovers and his intimation that he wouldn’t mind being one was impudence of the worst sort—he was half her age and possibly her brother into the bargain. Yet something deeper troubled her; she had seen lust in men’s eyes before, but recognition of it in Masul’s green gaze brought memories flooding back. Roelstra had looked at Palila that way, and at many other lovely women. Boldly, speculatively, arrogant with the assurance that he had but to beckon and they would be instantly in his bed. Not because he was High Prince; because he was a man who enjoyed women’s bodies. More than anything else she had seen or heard tonight, the look in Masul’s eyes began to convince her that he might indeed be Roelstra’s son.
Kiele paused for a few moments in the cool darkness of her garden, looking up at the windows where lights shone blue or red or green behind thin curtains. Shadows moved behind some, and all at once white-gold candlelight stabbed out from a fourth-floor window as silk was pulled aside. Kiele froze, then scurried to the shelter of a tree. She gasped for breath, then tried to quiet her racing heart. Why should she not take a stroll in her own gardens if she chose? Still, she stayed where she was until the spill of light was again covered by green curtains. When she could breathe normally, she slipped back into the house.
Gaining the main part of the building, she found the servants in an uproar. She dropped her cloak on the carpet for one of them to pick up, glancing quickly in a mirror to make sure her hair and gown were tidy before she demanded to know the cause of the disturbance.
“The Princess Chiana, my lady—she’s just arrived, and—”
“Princess? Who told you to call her that?” Kiele snapped. “Never mind, I know who did. Damn her insolence! She is the Lady Chiana in my house, and anyone giving her royal titles in my hearing or out of it will be dismissed on the spot! Where is she?”
“With his lordship, my lady, in the Third Room.”
Kiele started for the main hall, infuriated anew as she saw Chiana’s baggage strewn about the floor. She ordered it put in the rooms made ready for her and told herself that she would have her vengeance on the little bitch soon enough. For now, she would have to be all honey and silk. She smoothed her face accordingly and brought a smile to her lips with the exquisite thought of Chiana’s frantic humiliation at the Rialla.
The Third Room was reserved for receiving the most important guests, being the largest and best furnished. Differences in the houses that made up the residence made short staircases necessary here and there, and the steps leading down into the chamber were perfect for making an entrance. Kiele always enjoyed the chance those five steps gave her to pause, observe, and collect all eyes. But tonight she didn’t bother with her usual entrance to the room where Chiana and Lyell were seated over steaming cups of taze.
Lyell rose; Chiana did not. Kiele hid her irritation that her sister had not given her the usual mark of respect. She smiled sweetly and poured herself something to drink, then sank into a chair near Chiana’s.
“What a precipitous arrival, my dear! But a very welcome one. Was the journey troublesome?”
The two women exchanged polite nothings for some moments, and Kiele’s good humor returned as she imagined Chiana’s reaction to Masul. To have both under her eyes would provide excellent private entertainment during the long summer ahead.
Chiana was definitely and obviously the daughter of Roelstra and Palila. She had the best features of both, which created a beauty that at nearly twenty-one more than fulfilled the promise of her girlhood. Rich, heavy auburn hair curled enticingly around hazel eyes with startlingly long lashes; she did not have her parents’ height but her figure was in perfect proportion and shown to advantage by the tight bodice and waist of her dress. Kiele n
oted that Lyell was having trouble keeping his gaze from the full curves defined by that bodice. She made a mental note to seduce him tonight. She was not quite ready to have him stray from her bed—certainly not into Chiana’s.
As was natural, talk turned to their siblings. “Naydra is plump and pleased with herself,” Chiana said scornfully, “even though she hasn’t been able to provide Narat with a son. I haven’t heard from the others in quite some time. Do you have news of them?”
Kiele ran down the list automatically. “Pandsala sits at Castle Crag, as ever, being wise and bountiful. Moria sits in the dower house Prince Rohan gave her, watching the pine cones fall for all I know—or care. How she can stand the Veresch the whole year is beyond my comprehension. Moswen is visiting Prince Clutha—I think she hopes to snare Halian.”
Chiana giggled. “That tall, thin drip of water with the mistress and daughters? What would she want him for?”
“His inheritance, of course,” Lyell said. “I never met any of Roelstra’s daughters who weren’t ambitious.” He said it fondly, with a proud glance at his wife.
“Practical, my love,” she corrected. “And interested in survival.” Her glance was equally loving, but inwardly she cursed him for his unwonted perception. If, however, he understood and was pleased by her ambition, then it would be that much easier to direct him in the matter of Masul. “Where was I? Ah, yes. Rabia’s death has left Patwin inconsolable, it’s said. But he’ll probably find some charming girl this year and marry again. Danladi is at the Syrene court with Princess Gemma. And that’s the roster, Chiana, except for you and me.” She smiled her most winning smile. “I’m so glad you’ve come to help me with the Rialla this year. Clutha is so demanding—each has to be grander than the last, and I’ve run out of ideas!”