So the twins entered Caldan's household, raised much the same as his own daughter. Olkor had conceived the idea of playing the manservant--a part he played too well--and soon his granddaughters took on the roles of Castandra's handmaids.
But time changes little girls into women, and the twins matured more quickly than the highland norm. What seemed a modest price for life when they were tiny infants did not, now, seem so small. How did one justify to two young women that they may never be mates or mothers, not to Kyr, not to lowlander. What would they think of the bargain he had struck?
Grief after grief. Now his daughter had been ravished, and even though she lived, he feared that she might be as lost to him as Korcha was to Olkor. So, too, his son, for whom there could be but one choice.
He returned to Olkor, who had risen as the councilor paced, and who now waited, silent and solemn as stone.
"Olkor. Will you honor him? My son, Andor?"
For once, there was no trace of bitterness in the old man's eyes, just a terrible sadness.
"Your trust honors me."
o0o
Elzin sat alone beside the small fireplace, curled comfortably in a soft, stuffed chair. The innkeeper and his wife made their home here, but they had insisted she stay, for it was the best they had to offer. A fire had been lit, more for cheer than for warmth, but its glow did little to soothe her unease.
She placed her hand upon the gentle swell below her ribs and felt her child quicken beneath it. Life in her--life! The child's movement felt strong and vital. Surely she had not harmed it on that awful night with Andor. She would keep it safe from now on, she promised herself, for the other months inside her and then until it was grown.
Castandra's threat no longer frightened her; this afternoon, for better or worse, had set her beyond the rules of mortal women. But she did still fear the Queen. Here, beyond the castle walls, the Saireflute's miracles had brought her love and worship. But she did not forget that any confrontation with the Queen would be within the walls of Castle Sheldwinn, and there, so far at least, Her Majesty's power remained unchallenged.
In two days they would reach the city. She frowned and closed her eyes. Whatever her reasons for calling them back, surely the Queen would not dare to hurt her, not now, after hearing of the vast multitude which had followed her halfway across Lhant. Even Her Majesty would not risk the provocation of so many. Would she? But the harder Elzin tried to reassure herself, the less certain she became. Hulgmal was mad. She might do anything.
She wrung her hands and wished that someone would interrupt to offer her spiced tea, though she need go no farther than the door to ask. She hoped Kezwann would return from her errand to arrange a meal for Castandra and to find the girl a dress. Not anything too pretty, the Saire had told her handmaid slyly, just something to get by with.
It had seemed funny to her then, as she joked with Kezwann. But alone now, her aside came back to her as spiteful. Castandra had insulted her, even threatened her, but she had been cruelly hurt; if Elzin needed a reminder of how badly, she need only think of her own hurt, back at Hawkshold.
Her slow tears made the fire's light kaleidoscopic. Why should she feel this way? With her it had not been rape. She had not resisted Andor. There had even been pleasure--Goddess, forgive her--such joy when she thought that she lay with Caldan…
Gods, how she had been deceived! Lied to and used--never again!
By Telriss, no one would use her, ever again.
o0o
Castandra's hair was almost dry when Talisman returned, yet again bearing a message in her father's hand.
'Castandra,' it read. 'I must speak with you before we reach Sheldwinn. I beg you to come to me now.'
She stared at the note, astonished. Her father never begged anything of anyone, least of all her. And hadn't she made it plain to him that she would not protest this "marriage" to Everfast provided that Lowinn did not lay a hand on her again without her leave? Surely her father felt confident that he could arrange that with the duke, and her sire could have what he wanted, Talvni.
I begged you for something once, Father, she thought. In the stable, do you remember? The sorceress drew her legs up onto the bed and hugged her knees. She could send that as her reply. She had it in her power to hurt him that way. And yet, the reference to Sheldwinn alarmed her. That he should make his commanded return to the castle his deadline was an ominous sign. What if she did not speak to him now, and after his arrival it turned out to be forever too late?
Suddenly, all indecision vanished. She had to see him. Now. Immediately. Castandra dashed into the hall. Or rather, into Prince Heratinn. They both stumbled, instinctively grabbing onto one another for balance, but Castandra let go quickly, as if she had been scalded.
"Oh, Your Highness, I'm so sorry. I--I--" The sorceress stammered at the strange look on the prince's face, then flushed as she realized that he stared at the shift she still used as a blouse.
Heratinn smiled kindly and released her. "Might I be of service, Lady Val Torska?"
The girl looked as if she might bolt, but then she seemed to come to herself and her distraught expression gave way to an embarrassed and apologetic smile. "Since Your Highness has so graciously offered, I wonder if I might borrow your horse?"
He looked at her intently, as if he had difficulty comprehending her request. "Yes, of course," he answered. "I'm glad to see that you have rejoined our party, Lady Val Torska, but I'm a bit concerned about the circumstances. I hope you'll forgive me for asking if you are well."
"I am in excellent health, thank you, Your Highness."
She stared over his shoulder at the door again, as if something awful and irresistible called her name from beyond it.
"I think you know that wasn't what I meant."
Had she even heard his gentle admonishment? Heratinn wondered as she ran for the inn's small barn, her impossible hair seeming to undulate with a life of its own in the late spring breeze. She did not bother to saddle the mare, she simply vaulted aboard the animal as if it were the most natural thing in the world for her to do. Strange to see how brown his horse looked beneath the sorceress's midnight tresses.
Was this wild-looking creature the same woman who in her cultured, modulated voice had spoken to him of politics and history, economics and military tactics as she rode beside him sidesaddle in her elegant attire? He had been attracted to that refined young noblewoman, but he also found himself curiously captivated by the exotic savage who even now called to her dogs and whirled away like storm-blown leaves. What had driven her here? To whom did she ride now with such urgency?
If she rode to me like that, I would never let her go. What a peculiar thought! And yet, she was lovely and intelligent and of noble blood. Highland blood, he reminded himself. It occurred to him that he had never heard of anyone taking a Tarskan as a spouse. How could it be that two cultures in such close proximity should never intermarry? Why?
She was so different. But he, too, had always been different. The quiet, bookish boy left to his own devices as his older brother was groomed for the throne. Few of the noble maidens chose to seek him out, electing instead to vie over Stantinn and the crown. No matter; he had preferred his books to the blandishments of the women who had tried to capture his attention anyway. So obvious, what they wanted. He was the means to a title to them, nothing more.
Of course, he was nothing to Castandra either. He had been secretly delighted when she ran into him in the hall. Exciting to have been so close to her, to have held her even under such pretenses. She had smelled of cinnamon and soap, and the enticing, modest swell of her breasts beneath that shift had turned his knees to jelly.
He would like to hold her like that again, to touch that dark waterfall of her hair, so soft where it had brushed the back of his hands. But he did not know how to approach her, what to say to her. And then he remembered the Saire's strange command, that no one was to even so much as speak to the girl, that the sorceress was under her protection. Pr
otection from what?
If only she had come to him! He would have protected her--why couldn't she have seen that? And then, with dismay, he asked himself how. With his pen for a sword and his book for a shield? Only those instruments felt natural to his hands. He was a prince, true, but only a younger son with his mother still on the throne and his brother next in line, and he held the favor of neither of his royal kin.
Still, he wanted to help her, to care for her. Castandra had somehow convinced the Saire to give her protection, but perhaps he could offer her something that Elzin did not. The Saire still despised the sorceress--that was plain. Castandra might remain safe within the Great Lady's sphere of influence, but where did she take her troubles?
Probably to whomever she rode now, he thought dismally. But to give up without even once trying… He would be just the weak and cowardly bookworm of Stantinn's cruel taunts. She would come back. And he would not give up.
o0o
She rode; her black hair, never touched by scissors or knife, a billowing cloak of shimmering strands, a dark comet's tail. Like something out of his imagination she rode. Like his wife. Like her mother. Like Lyrvahn.
What a creature you are that you could ride to me like this, after all that I have done to you, Caldan thought. And what a creature I am, that I could dare to ask that you do so. But he did ask her. And, being what he was, he would ask for even more.
He stood to meet her. She slid Heratinn's mare to a stop and they froze awkward for a time like a tableau--horses, hounds, father, daughter. And then, just that suddenly, she was in his arms.
She felt bird-bone fragile, and for one irrational moment he feared that he might crush her, like a child too clumsily trapping a delicate moth. But the arms that encircled him were strong, strong! It was enough, for a long while, that they simply stand together, her chin on his shoulder. He could feel her heart beat, and he listened to it and his own as slowly and without effort their rhythms found one another and merged.
It was she who finally broke their embrace. Still, no words. He searched her face, the diversity and depth of emotion displayed there: pain, fear, sorrow, confusion, joy, love. Yes, love; that too, still there, somehow. It was a moment before he realized that she did precisely the same as he. He tensed, a stag scenting danger, and she gripped his wrist fiercely.
"No. Don't," she said.
"Too late," he replied without thinking.
o0o
Castandra glared and dropped his arm, furious in her hurt at the way he had so effectively closed himself off.
"What do you want from me?"
"I want you to go home."
Scowling, she turned her back on him, hands on elbows. "Why did I bother to come here? You haven't changed. You want to push me here or send me there. Whatever it is that you want from me has only to do with some scheme of yours, some scheme that you cannot even trust me enough to tell me of."
"True enough."
The sorceress tightened her grip on her elbows. "Do it yourself, then."
"That will not be possible."
She turned around to face him again, her throat so suddenly constricted that she did not think she would be able to force the words past it. "It is the Queen, then, isn't it? You think "--she swallowed painfully, and he touched a finger to her lips.
"I think many things. I think that I will not go down without a fight. But I also think that I am not immortal. Tarska must not fall into the hands of a lowlander."
"What are you saying?" She explored his features, looking for the answer, looking for anything real or honest in that closed and expressionless landscape. "Tarska would go to Andor."
He took hold of her shoulders. "Castandra, there will be no Andor."
Horror wrote itself across her features as at last she understood, and she squeezed her eyelids shut in anguish. "No! Not because of me!"
"Stop!" He shook her once, enough to make her open her eyes. "No, do not ever think that. Never, never think that. You were just the victim of something that had been allowed to continue for too long."
Her brother. His son. "Father," she said. She might as well have embraced stone.
"It is done."
She stepped back, hugging herself for comfort, which she needed even if he pretended he did not. Andor. Gone. Culled. She forced herself to look beyond her emotions, to see only the consequences. Without Andor, her father had no heirs to assume Tarska. If something happened to her sire now, the highlands would pass through her to Lowinn. Benign enough; Lowinn would not meddle. However, when Lowinn died without heirs, Tarska would pass to the Queen, and from her, to whatever crony suited her fancy. The Kyr would not tolerate interference; they would kill any lowlander that set foot within their borders. There would be war. The final war. Her people would fight until the last of them had been wiped out.
"What can I do?" she asked aloud; about Andor, about her father, about her homeland.
He chose only to address the latter--if, single-minded as he was, he had even guessed at the others.
"Go home. If the worst happens, you will hear of it. Andor has not been to court since he was a very small child, and even those who came into Tarska with us saw him only briefly." Bitterly, he almost smiled. "Find me a son, Castandra. We all look alike to these lowlanders anyway. Olkor and Tyrmiskai already return. They will begin that search, but you would understand even better our needs. Find one among us who is quick to adapt, who can survive here. Stand by that one, because until he learns all that you have to teach, you will have to be the true power."
"But the Saire! She would protect you."
"She would like to. Ultimately? No. Elzin fears the Queen; she does not understand her power or its use. You know she has a child to consider--that was how you got her cooperation today, was it not? She would chose her own life and her child's over mine if she were made to feel those were her choices."
"You love her?"
He frowned. "Castandra, you pry. Sit, I have other things to tell you which are your concern."
They talked for a very long time. Or rather, he talked. She did not question him on where he had gained his knowledge; his certainty sufficed for her. Buktoz prepared for war. What should be done. What must be done. How she and "Andor" might accomplish these things. With one part of her mind she committed each of his words to memory, and with the other she mourned. For herself, for her brother as he had once been, for the man who spoke to her so calmly, a million miles away although she even now slipped her hand into his own.
'Don't leave me alone,' she wanted to tell him. 'We could comfort one another yet.' But she could not bear another rejection. Walled up in his own pain, he would let nothing out. But a wall works two ways, and he could let nothing in.
She would do what he asked, but she would not go yet. Not until she must. He argued, but she remained stubborn.
"I am disappointed," he said at last. That stung, but did not sway her. He gave her his cloak against the chill of dusk and helped her aboard the prince's horse, then went to his own mount. Char, his warmare, black as coal. Torovorhn he had left home. "You jeopardize everything if you go with us into Sheldwinn."
"If I need, I'll escape through the tunnel in the Saire's apartments."
"What then?"
"I got here. I will get back. My turn for secrets."
If her rejoinder hurt him, he did not show it. "As you wish. I cannot force you."
"Ride back with me, to the inn?"
"Yes." He stepped into Char's saddle. "I will not stay, though. I need time alone."
Are you not alone already? she thought.
o0o
Her father was gone, into the night. Castandra led Heratinn's mare into the lighted barn, expecting perhaps a stableboy or one of the guards to be the reason for the lantern. Instead, she was surprised to be met by the prince. The sorceress thought that he meant to take the mare's reins from her hand, but instead he took the hand itself.
"My lady. Castandra."
She stared at
her hand as if he had covered it with spiders, and Heratinn dropped it with a look of anguish. "I'm sorry. I will never touch you again if that is your desire. It's only that you look so hurt, Castandra. I wanted to help."
He turned from her. "Oh, what's the use? I've botched it already. Please, just leave the mare. I won't trouble you again."
She almost did. So easy, just to go. But she had wounded him, and she asked herself, did she want to be that way? Did she want to injure someone who had so guilelessly offered her comfort? Hadn't she suffered enough of that herself today?
She stepped around his back and took his hand. "No, it is I who am sorry, Your Highness. I didn't mean to injure you in my own pain."
He raised his head. They met almost nose to nose--she was but a little taller. His brown eyes were soft and warm as a doe's, his hair the dark, rich brown of chestnuts. "I don't want to be 'Your Highness' to you. To you, I'd like to be just Heratinn."
Chapter Twenty-Two
Good daughters, forswear jealousy
In dealing with your men,
For the goddess smites your rivals
And turns your lovers home again.
--itinerant Mother's song
Castle Sheldwinn loomed in Elzin's vision, its blunt stone face turned expectantly seaward, massive and somehow paternal, like strong, sheltering arms. Strong enough to shelter me?
Thousands of people lined the avenue to greet her. Shouts of welcome thundered in her ears. On Caldan's advice, she slipped on the silver necklace, and her sudden incandescence triggered a lingering gasp, like the cool breath of the bay.
The crowd's enthusiasm did little to ease her fears. Let the Queen hear them, she prayed earnestly. Let Hulgmal hear them and think before she tries to hurt me.
This should be a pleasant time for her, a time of coming home. She remembered many sailors from Linden Mill, how she had envied their high spirits when they returned for their brief and boisterous visits. They had always been the center of attention, with their strange tales of the seas and far-off lands and the exotic gifts they brought. And then, before they could bore or be bored with their stories, they set sail again, their families left once more to imagine brave adventures until they reappeared.
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