She should be tired as a blacksmith by high summer sunset, but, somehow, she could not bear to sit still. There was too much to see, to investigate. To wonder at.
"And just a few steps away, my father's." Andor had said it too pointedly for the nearness of Caldan's room to be a coincidence. He knew about Caldan and herself. Had Andor's father sent ahead word? Had Caldan arranged all of this? Why?
She could only think of one reason. Of course, how fitting--his home!
She must have a mirror. Against one wall stood a strange sort of wardrobe, but long and short instead of tall and narrow, and with drawers instead of a door. The wooden handles were shaped like the faces of animals, and the sides deeply carved with mountains and trees. The smooth, polished top held all sorts of curiosities. The head of a unicorn, carved in relief, reversed to reveal a hand glass.
Goddess! How wonderful to finally see her hair! Well, maybe not. Her curls were every bit as ratty as she had imagined. A flip of the other unicorn, however, rewarded her with the tool she sought--a brush. She set to work at once on her tangles.
That done, a tiny casket captured her fancy. Inlaid in carved, colored woods on the lid, a pair of wolves kept vigil while two cubs tussled over a stick. Within, combs of wood and bone made a nest for a single bracelet that blended them both.
She picked up a book and put it to her nose, relishing the aroma of fine leather. It fell open easily at its ribbon marker, but the writing was foreign, the characters indecipherable. She returned it to the bureau, feeling oddly as if she had intruded.
Two stylized stags warded the bed, their horns branched to hold metal braziers. On tiptoe, Elzin smoothed away the cobwebs caught in the elegant racks, then traced her fingers down the bucks' polished flanks, savoring the satin finish of wood dark as burgundy. So strange, the style. And who would carve statues in wood?
A cedar chest sat at the end of the bed. It was perfectly functional, perfectly plain, just the safe sort of place where a woman might store her more fragile attire. Soft things. Bed things. "… just a few steps away…" Smiling dreamily, Elzin knelt and lifted the latch.
Then dropped it guiltily when someone pounded on the door.
"Great Lady," came the officious announcement of her elite, "it is Andor Val Torska."
Her elite. "Barnacles and shells," she cursed under her breath. Couldn't they just knock like normal folk, instead of bashing the wood until it pulled off the hinges? Still, she was glad for the warning, and quickly stepped across the room so Andor would find her doing nothing more noteworthy than hanging her damp cloak on the back of a chair.
"Let him in."
He was burdened with logs and a bucket of coal, and went to her fireplace immediately.
He said nothing. The vacuum made her so nervous she ached to fill it. "This room. It's so… interesting," she said. "I mean, it's lovely." She sat down on the bed and wrapped its furs around her like a tent.
"You will feel more at home when you're warmed," Andor assured her. He was really very nice; why did she feel so uneasy? Why couldn't she think of anything to say?
With both fireplace and braziers alight, he knelt before her. "Here, now; give me your hands."
Curious, Elzin held them out upturned, and he began to massage away their stiffness and chill. She sensed more than politeness, but his expression gave her no clue. He was young, she recalled, younger than Castandra.
It felt all wrong. It felt like an advance.
She knew the ways of young men. She was well acquainted with their hesitancy, then a certain endearing clumsiness, and finally their unbridled enthusiasm when it seemed she might be willing. This boy seemed as cool and self-assured as his father. He had not hesitated to take her hands, though he well knew of her position, and how she felt about his father.
Goddess, what was the matter with her? He was just his father's son, was all--somewhat direct, but well intentioned. Maybe boys were different in the highlands, and anyway, they were only her hands, after all. She only imagined some impropriety. Besides, who was she to pass judgment on proper behavior? Had the Saireflute made her into a stuffy old prude after all?
Still, her voice quavered a bit when she spoke. "Thank you, Andor. I feel much better now. And, more than anything, I think I'd like to be alone, to rest."
"Of course," he replied. "And if there is anything else I can do for you…"
"No," she answered as she pushed her hair nervously from her forehead. And then remembered. "Wait! Yes, there's one thing, Andor. It probably sounds silly, but, could you get me a hand mirror--one I could keep when I leave? It's been awful, doing without one."
"It would be my pleasure," he said, rising. "And, if you would explain my errand to your guards, they won't have to announce me. I can place it here on your dresser without having to disturb your rest."
o0o
How easy it was! How simple! No mistaking the Saire's feelings towards his sire, and now, thanks to her, he would soon know for certain just how far his father had gone.
Very far, he hoped. In so deep there could be no return.
o0o
Heratinn sat across from the count, the Queen's message unrolled in his hands. Such a fragile thing; the paper so thin it was nearly transparent, so small that flat it would not cover the palm of his hand. A puff of a breeze would blow it away; the flame of a candle consume it in moments. Yet, the thing held such power, a count, a prince, and even a Saire must surrender before it.
"How could my mother have gotten elite to the end of the Royal Highway so swiftly?" Heratinn wondered aloud.
"I imagine," said the councilor, "a contingent was already close to hand."
"Oh. Yes. Of course," the prince stammered, embarrassed that he hadn't thought of the obvious. "You had told her of the Saire's disappearance. She would have sent a Retrib—er—ah--"
"Retribution Squad," Caldan said mildly. "The townsfolk call them the Carrion Crows; one marks the dead by watching where they roost. Yes, she would have sent Mizboril, and now he will be our 'escort'. But why?"
"I can't say for certain what my mother has in mind," said Heratinn. He passed the curled sheaf back to Caldan. "But she doesn't mean to be cordial. This is addressed to Castle Hawkshold as a royal decree and not as a personal message. My mother," he grimaced, "is careful about such things. I would guess, but that's all I can do, that stories continue to spread about the Saire. Perhaps my mother perceives her as a threat."
"Unfortunately, Her Majesty often perceives a threat where there is none. Saire Elzin has no more ambition than a rabbit; surely you see that?"
Quick on the heels of his exasperated question, the count strangely broke into a smile. Why--he looked almost sheepish!
"Forgive me, Your Highness. It seems I grow bold in my own place and forget myself. It is simply I see Elzin as such a lamb to our great den of wolves."
Heratinn wondered at the reaction of the normally unflappable count. Could the rumors he had heard be true? Could Val Torska have "forgotten" himself in yet another fashion? With the Chosen of the Saireflute? Now that would be ironic.
Still, weren't the chronicles full of even stranger tales?
"Yes, she's nothing if not innocent," he answered. Then he gestured toward the note. "Will you tell her?"
"If I could, I would spare her from seeing this. But since she is certain to ask why we must return with such haste, I cannot see how we can keep it from her." The highlander tucked the fragile slip of paper, delicate and ominous as the web of a spider, into a pocket. "Bitter medicine is best swallowed quickly. I will tell her now."
o0o
Alarm lengthened his stride to see that no Royal Elite stood guard before Elzin's door. Caldan knocked once, then, quickly, again. He entered. The room was prepared: water, food, the bed made, a fire laid in the hearth. But it was unoccupied.
Perhaps Andor had taken her to the kitchens. Perplexed, Caldan returned to the hall, just in time to encounter his son at the stairs.
"Andor."
The boy turned to him, smiling. His coursers, Bone and Smoke, executed a flawless about-face. "Father! I was just looking for you."
He was too preoccupied to return the smile. "Andor, where is Saire Elzin?"
o0o
Andor watched his sire closely. So hard, to catch the wary man unguarded. You had to shock, to shake him to his very foundation to get the tiniest glimpse of what was truly on his mind. He needed to plumb the depths of his father's feelings for Elzin. This could well be his last chance before he must act.
"That is what I wanted to see you about, Father. I gave the Great Lady Mother's room."
"Why?"
Restraint. That was all he read. His father did not like being defied; he knew that. And yet, his reaction was more mild than he expected. Could Elzin be the reason. Could it be because she was given the room?
"Father, she is the Saire. The Great Lady should have the finest we have to offer."
"Andor, you do not tell me everything."
Well, he had known his father would not accept so transparent an excuse. Would he accept this next?
"No," he answered, meeting his father's stern gaze with his own, carefully crafted to appear ill at ease. "I do not tell you everything, but I ought to. I suppose that is why I have forced this confrontation.
"Father, people talk, and I cannot help but listen. Mother is dead. In sixteen years you have not taken another mate. You know the lowlanders consider only the males of a noble line. What if something ill befell me? What would happen to Tarska? What would happen to us?"
"And what does that have to do with Lyrvahn's room?"
"Perhaps everything! For sixteen years it has remained untouched. Some say you still grieve, and that is why--"
"--that," he interrupted, "is nonsense. I require neither you nor anyone to point out my obligations to Tarska, Andor. I will deal with them soon enough."
"Forgive me, Father; I should never have doubted. Still, it is difficult not to, when I never see you, when I know you only by rumor, only by the news of the drums or by whatever the wagging tongues tell. It has been two years…"
It was an accusation, and not even a subtle one. So Andor delighted when his father yielded to it.
"Two years," said his father. "Too long. And here we are, not even two hours, and already we have exchanged hard words. Why is that?"
"My fault," said Andor. "I know I'm clumsy and rash. I should leave these things to better hands. So many are better. Everyone, it seems sometimes."
His father embraced him. But did he deny his only son's harsh self-appraisal? No, of course not. Fraud, thought Andor, you don't fool me. A huntress would hug a rabid cur with more affection than you would ever give to me.
"Patience," said his father. "You are young."
"So were you," Andor countered. "Yet you always managed. I try, I truly do, but I am never good enough. I disappoint everyone. I'm sorry--"
"No, Andor. I am the one who is sorry. You meant well, and you are right to consider duty first. Duty always should be considered first. But I have many duties, and they are often in conflict. It is hard to weigh each one against the others. But soon, I think, everything will be resolved, and with luck I will be able to discharge all obligations."
"You will take Chahiri, then?" Andor broke the embrace, too quickly, perhaps, but he needed to see his father's face. It told him nothing that he wished to know.
"You are rash at times, my son. At the proper hour, you will be told."
And then he left him. Left him! How he must have looked--lips parted, one hand upturned, staring at that cold, straight back--foolish as a beggar with the door slammed in his face. Judged unworthy and abandoned. Not for the first time, oh no, but yet another one of many.
"Bastard," Andor hissed as he clenched his fists in rage. It would be the last of many!
Clumsy, was he? Rash? Oh, how his father would pay for his contempt. And that spoiled bitch, Castandra, always so smug in the affection his father chose instead to lavish on her. She would pay, too. They would all pay. They would pay dearly.
o0o
The elite stepped smartly aside before him. Elzin had long ago insisted that Caldan be allowed to announce himself.
So he meant to knock. After sixteen years, he should have. He did pause. He even raised his hand. But, somehow, old ghosts abducted him; the motion incomplete, he let himself into the chamber without so much as a tap.
Fire, braziers, and a single lamp struggled resolutely, but the black stone of Hawkshold seemed to feed upon their light. It sucked away their vigor, turned their fire pale and feeble, until they become the casters of shadow rather than the banishers.
Lyrvahn, too, had warred against those joyless walls. Late in her second pregnancy, too consumed by her work to abandon the archives below, she had threatened to shave her long, raven tresses and sell them to a lowland wig maker to buy whitewash against their gloom. They had both laughed at the idea, for she would never touch her glorious hair, and he would find a way to indulge her after she was delivered. But there had been no after, and the walls remained black stone.
Someone stirred in the bed, and for half a heartbeat he was sixteen years in the past. But, the tresses spilled across the pillows were gold, not jet, and they yanked him ruthlessly back to the present.
Elzin yawned and smiled sleepily. "I was having such a lovely dream." She curled her fingers beneath her chin like a stirring child. "I dreamed that I was singing for my mother."
"Leave it to me to interrupt pleasant dreams with black tidings," he said. "We must ride back to Sheldwinn, and we must depart tomorrow."
o0o
Elzin pulled the furs about herself and swung her bare legs stiffly over the bed. "Why? What's happened? What's wrong?"
"We have been summoned."
She read aloud the paper he offered her.
"The Queen of Lhant, rightful sovereign of the Isle, hereby orders Count Caldan Val Torska, Prince Heratinn, and Saire Elzin to attend her immediately at Castle Sheldwinn, by direct route of the Royal Highway, and under escort of Her Majesty's Royal Elite guard. This is a matter of immense significance, and any delay, Saire Elzin, will not be tolerated."
Castle Sheldwinn. Unwholesome memories assailed her. The Queen's foul smile. Shelvann's pallid face. High pitched screams and the smell of boiling meat.
She had been too bold. She had been found out.
If the people are to love you, Caldan had told her, they must know you. You must get free of Castle Sheldwinn.
She had, but not for long. Not long enough. She'd touched so few, and now she must return to the lair of the bloated old spider herself.
She groaned and buried her face in her hands. "Sweet Telriss preserve me."
"Elzin, you must not fear."
"Not fear!" she wanted to shriek at him. Easy for him to say. He was noble, and she was just a miller's daughter, after all. In her shock and terror she nearly snarled the accusation aloud. And then she remembered. Castandra's warning. "He could die because of your insatiable and grasping lust."
What if the Queen had learned how she and Caldan felt about each other? Castandra had warned her, but, convinced that the sorceress was only jealous, she paid no heed. What if Castandra was right?
"Goddess, Caldan! She wants blood. Mine or yours or maybe both. Do we have to go back?"
"Elzin, nothing is solved by running away."
"We can't just go to her—like--like lambs to the slaughterhouse!"
He sat on his heels before her and removed her hands from her face, holding them very tightly in his own cool, dry ones. "Look at me," he said. His eyes were black and deep as the space between the stars; she could see herself held within them. Held like the night holds the moon.
"I will never let her harm you," he told her. "I will do whatever I must, but I will never allow her to lift a finger to hurt you. I swear it."
Desperate to believe, she slipped forward into his arms. "You mean it?"
"I do," he sa
id softly. "On my life."
She had wanted to believe, and now, she did. How could she fail to when he held her like this? She wished she could stay here forever, safe in his arms, his cheek against her own.
"I love you, Caldan," she said at last. "And--and I won't let her hurt you either. Not even if I have to--" she gulped, "--not even if I have to climb into her lap and call back the fire."
He chuckled, embracing her tightly. "My valiant Elzin. The lioness has come into her own. But," he adjured, "you listen to me. From you there must be no heroics; you have far greater responsibilities than the rescue of aging councilors from wicked queens. I will see to it that no harm comes to you," he gave her a final squeeze and laid a hand on her middle, "and this one must be your charge."
Elzin smiled tearfully. "I don't suppose we could rest a few days? I'm so cold and tired…"
"I wish for your sake we might."
"I know. I knew when I asked that we couldn't." She grinned lamely. "After all, we wouldn't want to be late. Ugh! Let me tell you, it's a bad thing to be late for Her Majesty, and I ought to know."
Elzin slitted her eyes and flared her nostrils, drawing her lips from her teeth in that feral snarl she knew so well. "Elzin!" She spat the name like a curse. "Do you hear me, Elzin? You are late again! Late as usual! Late once more! Endlessly, interminably LATE! Now help me arrange my bosoms into this dress before I have your tanned hide hanging on my walls!"
"Stop." He caught her cheeks in his hands. "She will never speak to you that way again."
She faltered. "You mean it. You really do. You mean things, when you say them."
"I do my best. Now, what else might I do for you?"
Tell me that you love me, she thought. But instead, she answered, "Nothing, I guess. I mean, what more could I ask for?"
"Well, then, I have something to ask of you."
The Night Holds the Moon Page 23