Dagnarus lifted the pendant from its velvet nest, strung it on the purple ribbon, and held it to the light. The lady could not take her eyes from it. Now her countenance altered expression, now the rose tinged her cheeks, now her eyes were warm and soft. She spoke to her husband, her voice melodious and low.
“Please express my gratitude to the prince. I hesitate to take such an expensive gift—”
“You must take it, Wife,” her husband said, smiling. “It is from the Queen. Her Highness would be offended otherwise.”
Dagnarus stood watching anxiously, as if he understood her demurs.
“Then,” said the lady, reassured, “tell Her Majesty that I accept the gift with pleasure.”
Lord Mabreton translated. Dagnarus was ecstatic.
“I ask a favor in return, my lord. Would it be unseemly of me to be allowed to place the stone upon the lady, myself?”
“Certainly not, Your Highness. My dear, His Highness wishes to place the pendant around your neck.”
The lady bowed her head. Dagnarus tied the ends of the ribbon together. Moving close to her, somewhat closer than was absolutely necessary, he lowered the ribbon and the pendant over her head. His hands moved slowly, taking care not to disturb her hair. An astute observer might have seen them tremble slightly.
“May the stone’s magic work as its maker intended,” said Dagnarus softly. “May it keep Your Ladyship safe from harm.”
She lifted her head to regard him, and Gareth saw in that moment that the elf woman understood Elderspeak, if she did not speak it. She knew exactly what the prince had said. Dagnarus’s fingers brushed the side of her cheek. The lady’s lips parted, her breath came fast. Her cheek was stained with color as if his touch had drawn blood.
Dagnarus’s own breathing quickened, his eyes burned with an unnatural luster. The intensity of feeling between the two was so strong that Gareth felt the hair of his arms and neck rise, as though a lightning bolt had struck too near. He thought everyone in the room must notice the blinding flash, particularly Lord Mabreton, but the elf had turned away a moment to respond to another well-wisher. When he turned back, the moment had passed, the bolt had vanished, leaving Gareth waiting nervously for the thunder.
The concussive blast would be delayed, but it would come, Gareth knew with gloomy foreboding. The one comfort he had taken in all Dagnarus’s illicit love affairs was that love had never been a part of them. Indeed, Dagnarus often made sport of love and lovers, deriding love as an emotion that overthrew rational minds and weakened a man’s courage, diluted his ambition.
Now Dagnarus looked dazzled and singed. He who had railed so loudly and so often against love had stepped over its edge and fallen into its chasm with never a cry or backward glance.
Lady Mabreton had lowered her eyes. She was admiring her gift by the time her husband turned to look at her. Dagnarus would have gone on staring at her, thunderstruck, but that Gareth gave his friend a hard poke in the ribs.
Recollecting himself, Dagnarus received the lady’s thanks given through her husband with a smile and a polite rejoinder. The summons to table spared the group an awkward moment of what to say next. Lady Mabreton bowed graciously, and, placing her hand upon her husband’s arm, proceeded to a place of honor at the table. She did not look back at the prince.
“She is the most beautiful woman I have ever seen in my life,” Dagnarus said softly, gazing after her. “I had never imagined such beauty existed!”
“I’m certain her husband feels the same,” Gareth said, unhappy, prickly, and sour.
Dagnarus rounded upon his friend. His face pale with fury, his eyes dilated, he struck away Gareth’s remonstrating hand.
“Do not lecture me, Patch!” he said. “Now or ever. Or our friendship is at an end.”
Sweeping his cloak behind him, the prince turned and stalked away from the banquet table, where the guests were just beginning to take their places. At his mother’s shrill inquiry to know where he was going, the prince replied brusquely that he was unwell and begged her leave to be excused. His eyes, when he said this, were fixed upon Lady Mabreton, and the lady was aware of that fact, though she attempted to look unconscious of him. Her hand went to the turquoise pendant. She clasped it tightly, perhaps invoking its protective magic.
Pecwae folk magic was strong, Gareth knew from his studies, but he doubted if it was strong enough, doubted if any magic, even that of the most powerful magus, was strong enough to withstand the potent magic of the heart.
Gareth left the hall, as well. No one missed him, and so he was not required to explain himself.
He found Dagnarus where he had guessed he would find him, stretched out on his bed, still in his clothes, his mood dark and lowering. Silwyth moved about the room in silence, folding and putting away Dagnarus’s cloak, which had been tossed on the floor, and directing the placement of a collation of cold meats and fruit and bread and jugs of wine, which the servants carried in, deposited, and left. As usual, Silwyth appeared to know everything that had occurred as if he had witnessed it himself.
Gareth came to stand at the end of the bed.
“That hat makes you look a fool,” said Dagnarus.
“I know.” Gareth plucked it off, stuffed the hat under his arm. “I’m sorry. About what I said.”
“Why?” Dagnarus asked bitterly. “You only spoke the truth. She is an elf, she is of noble blood, she is the wife of a Dominion Lord, she is a guest in my father’s court—how many more reasons can there be for not loving her. Yet I do love her,” he added softly, beneath his breath.
He had taken off his own hat and was absently picking it apart, tearing at the feathers that adorned it and tugging irritably at the delicate stitching.
“Was that the reason you sent for me?” Gareth asked, sitting on the side of the bed.
“Yes,” Dagnarus returned. “I wanted you to see her. I did not expect to be preached at!”
“I said I was sorry,” Gareth replied. “I won’t preach any more.”
“Good.” Dagnarus sat up, tossed aside the maltreated hat. “If you promise me that, you may stay and share this supper with me. And you must sleep in your old room. I suppose the Most Revered High Magus can get along without you for a night?”
His eyes flickered, he cast a sidelong glance at Silwyth. Gareth understood that there was business to be discussed, but not in front of the chamberlain.
“If the Most Revered High Magus needs my advice, he knows where to find me,” Gareth said.
“We will serve ourselves, Silwyth,” said Dagnarus. “You may have the rest of the night to yourself. Oh, by the way, the gift you picked out was perfect. The lady was quite taken with it, wouldn’t you agree, Patch?”
“Quite,” said Gareth dryly.
Silwyth bowed. “I am pleased to have pleased Your Highness.”
“One more thing, Silwyth,” said Dagnarus as the elf was starting to withdraw. “What is Lady Mabreton’s given name?”
“Valura, Your Highness,” said the elf.
“Valura,” Dagnarus repeated, tasting it on his tongue as if it were fine wine. “And what does that mean in elven?”
“Heart’s ease, Your Highness.”
“Heart’s ease.” Dagnarus smiled wryly. “Her parents were sadly mistaken there. That will be all, Silwyth.”
“May I wish you a restful night, Your Highness.”
“You may, though I’m not likely to achieve it,” Dagnarus muttered.
The elf withdrew. The two young men sat down at the table. Gareth ate with hearty appetite, relishing the food which, though certainly not as fine as the feast he might have enjoyed, was much better than the mutton he would have been eating at the Temple. Dagnarus took a few bites, then shoved his plate aside and concentrated on his wine.
“I had one victory today at least,” he said, breaking a long silence. He stared into the wine goblet, swirled the purple liquid in his hand. “You heard about the death of Lord Donnengal?”
“I did.
I wasn’t aware that you liked him.”
“I cared nothing about him one way or the other. That wasn’t what I meant,” Dagnarus said, impatient with his friend’s slowness of thought. “His death leaves a vacancy among the Dominion Lords.”
“Yes, I suppose it would,” Gareth replied, all unsuspecting. “Does your father have someone in mind to fill the post?”
“He does,” said Dagnarus. “Me.”
Gareth had been about to take a sip of wine. He almost dropped the goblet. He stared at his friend.
“You are in earnest.”
“Never more so,” said Dagnarus. “Why are you surprised? We have talked of this before.”
“And I have always stated my objections. I thought, the last time we spoke on the subject, that I had convinced you.”
“I gave the matter thought,” said Dagnarus, “and it occurred to me that if I refuse to proceed with this simply because of the danger, then I am a coward. And if I am a coward, then I do not have the right ever again to order another man into battle or any other equally dangerous situation.”
“This is not the same as doing battle,” Gareth cried hotly. “It is not the same as taking a spear through the heart—a moment’s terrible pain and then merciful death. This is Holy Transfiguration, Dagnarus. This could mean your death, yes, but it could mean much worse.”
Dagnarus was scornful. “I saw the ceremony. I saw my brother undergo it, and it looked unpleasant, true, but nothing I can’t endure. I am stronger than he is. The gods made him Lord of Sorrows. They can’t do worse than that to me and may do much better.”
Gareth paused before he spoke. The two were alone in the room. With everyone attending the banquet, there should be no one within this part of the castle. Still, Gareth leaned near, so that the breath of his words could be felt upon the prince’s cheek, as well as in his ear.
“Helmos had not looked into the Void, Your Highness.”
“So? What of it?” Dagnarus drew back, impatient.
“Helmos had not embraced the Void, my lord,” Gareth continued urgently. “You have!”
“And so have you, Patch,” Dagnarus said, his voice cold.
“I know,” said Gareth. “The gods help me, I know.”
“Well, then, explain to me the problem. And why is this the first I’ve heard of it?”
“Because I have only just entered into studies along these lines, Your Highness. And because I thought you had given up the idea of becoming a Dominion Lord. I saw no need to mention it.”
“Well, and what will happen? Will I sprout horns and a tail?”
“I do not know, my lord,” Gareth said, ignoring the sarcasm. “I cannot be sure. Nothing like this has ever transpired.”
“Then find out! Meanwhile, I will pursue my course.”
“I will do what I can, Your Highness, but you must remember that I am leading a double life. No one knows I am working in Void magic. I must pursue my studies in the Temple, which are hard enough. These leave me only a limited amount of time in which I may sneak off to study the forbidden texts.”
“Then give up your studies at the Temple! You have said that your magical abilities are far beyond those they are teaching you anyway.”
“I must keep up the pretense or else they would become suspicious. As you say, my masters would be amazed at the magic I can perform.”
Gareth undid the buttons at his neck and breast, spread wide the fabric, laying bare his chest and abdomen.
At the sight, Dagnarus recoiled. Snatching up a handkerchief, he hastily covered his nose and mouth.
“Zounds, Patch! What foul disease have you contracted? And how dare you spread your contagion to me?”
Gareth’s skin was covered with boils and pustules, some of them dried, others fresh and oozing, bound with cloth to prevent the pus from seeping through his outer clothing. His expression grim, he peeled back the cloth, biting his lips against the pain as the cloth stuck to the lips of the ulcerations.
“I do not have the plague, Your Highness,” Gareth said. “Nor am I contagious. You need have no fears on that score.”
“Then what ails you?” Dagnarus demanded, cautiously lowering the handkerchief, yet keeping his distance.
“Void magic,” said Gareth. “Unlike magic that comes from the gods as a blessing, Void magic comes from the dark parts within us. These pustules are the physical manifestation of my spell-casting. No one knows quite why this occurs. I personally think it is the body’s means of rebelling against the Void, of trying to convince my spirit to turn away from the darkness.”
“Cover it back up!” Dagnarus looked away, repulsed. “The sight makes my skin crawl. I’ve seen limbs hacked off and never blenched, but I hate disease. You know that. What possessed you to show me?”
“I suffer only what is required of me by the Void,” said Gareth, buttoning his clothes. “These are the sacrifices I must make to gain my magic.”
“And what is all this supposed to be telling me?” Dagnarus demanded, hurriedly quaffing his wine and refilling the goblet. “You’re not saying I’ll break out in pox like that?”
Gareth did not immediately respond. Instead he asked, “If you are nominated for the post of Dominion Lord, you must take the Seven Preparations. How do you propose to pass them?”
“I don’t know.” Dagnarus shrugged. “I don’t know what they entail. Surely they cannot be too difficult. My brother passed them.”
“I have studied them and I know this much—you will not be able to pass them, Your Highness. Not without recourse to the Void,” Gareth concluded.
“Do you have so little faith in me?” Dagnarus asked, with a dangerous glint in his green eyes.
“Will you bind the sores of lepers?” Gareth countered. “Sores like these I bear?”
“Good gods, no!” Dagnarus grimaced. “Why should I?”
“To test your compassion. Will you sit for hours with a panel of the Revered Magi, discoursing on the likelihood of the transmogrification of the soul after death?”
“You’re making this up!” Dagnarus protested, laughing and tossing off his wine.
“I am perfectly serious, my lord.”
“Well, then, no, I won’t. I will give them a lecture on battlefield tactics instead.”
“You have failed two already.”
“I will not fail. If need be, I will call upon the Void to assist me,” said Dagnarus carelessly, filling his wine goblet yet again.
“The Void requires payment for its services, Your Highness,” said Gareth, his voice urgent, intense. “The Void requires sacrifice. Give nothing, and you will get nothing.”
“Then I will give,” said Dagnarus, his brows drawn, his eyes flashing.
“Give what?” Gareth pressed him. “What will you be willing to give?”
“Whatever it takes, so long as I’m not disfigured,” said Dagnarus, impatient with the discussion. “I want this, Patch,” he said suddenly, vehemently. “I cannot achieve the crown unless I am the equal of my brother.”
“You cannot achieve the crown at all while your brother still lives,” Gareth said quietly.
“Accidents happen,” Dagnarus returned. “A fall from a horse killed his mother. A slip on a wet paving stone. A tumble from his boat. Or he might catch some plague when he’s out doing his charitable works. The Void wants a sacrifice. Let it be—”
“Don’t say it, Dagnarus!” Gareth sprang to his feet, spilling the wine and knocking his dish from the table. He clapped his hand over the prince’s lips. “For gods’ sake, do not say it!”
“Well, I won’t,” said Dagnarus, irritably shoving aside Gareth’s hand. “And don’t touch me. I’m still not convinced you haven’t got the pox. As to what I said, I didn’t mean it. I have no great love for my brother, but I wish him no ill will. So long as he doesn’t oppose me in becoming a Dominion Lord.”
“If he did,” Gareth replied, “he would do so only out of love for you. As do I.”
“I have doubts abou
t my brother’s affection,” said Dagnarus. “But not yours, Patch.”
“Thank you, Your Highness.” Gareth was drowsy from wine and fatigue. He rubbed his eyes, trying to stop himself from slipping into sleep.
“Go to bed,” Dagnarus ordered, emptying one of the wine jugs and looking for another. “You are dull company.”
“I’m sorry, Your Highness,” Gareth said. “But I have not slept much lately.”
Dagnarus regarded him curiously. “What magic have you been attempting then, to make a leper of yourself.”
Gareth shook his head. “I will tell you in good time, Your Highness. But it is too soon yet. Too soon.”
Dagnarus shrugged, not particularly interested.
Gareth started for his small closet, off the prince’s bedroom.
“She is beautiful, is she not?” Dagnarus said softly, staring into his full goblet.
“Very beautiful,” said Gareth.
Dagnarus smiled into the wine.
Gareth went to his bed with a sigh.
Heart’s Ease
“A visit two days in a row, my son? After ignoring me for a three-month? What I have done to be so deserving?” Emillia complained. Too much food and too much wine the night before had left her cross and shrewish, ill-tempered with everyone, including her adored son. “Especially after disgracing me as you did last night.”
“And for that I have come to make my apologies, Madam,” Dagnarus said humbly. “I was taken extremely unwell. Had I stayed, I would have truly disgraced you, by depositing what I had eaten for dinner upon what we were to eat for supper.”
The Queen was all concern. She gazed up at him anxiously. “You do look pale. I believe that you are running a fever. Your skin burns to the touch. You should go to the Hospitalers at once and take a physic.”
Dagnarus was pale and burning, but his fever did not come from any malady other than love. He had been waiting for hours, looking forward with impatience to the time when his mother held audience, looking forward to seeing again the beautiful Lady Mabreton, to perhaps win from her a smile or at least a look. But he could not find her. She was not among the ladies-in-waiting who curtsied to him, not among those cleaning up the spilt powder, which the queen had thrown down in a temper, not among those picking up the clothes Her Majesty had tossed about in a fit of pique.
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