Her worst fears had been realized. Her father had not been summoned to counsel the Queen on Stantinn's death any more than he had been called upon to be blamed for allowing Elzin's popularity to get so out of hand, or for any of the other explanations she had so hopefully dreamed up. Elzin had said that the Queen had attacked her personally. Such a direct assault left no room for doubt. The Saire's foolishness would cost her father his life, just as the sorceress had warned.
"Please, Castandra, don't cry."
Castandra glared at the blonde. If her father died, as surely he must, was it not Elzin's fault? How could she have helped Heratinn coax her to remain here in safety? Why? Why should the foolish slut be safe? It would serve her right to finally pay the natural consequence of her reckless stupidity. The highlander's long fingers twined tightly in Talisman's satin fur. Might she still be able to rekindle Elzin's frantic urgency, might she be able to convince the Saire to resume the attempt to rescue her sire?
Elzin retreated before her hostile scrutiny, and Castandra's mind was crowded once more with images of her father, her father with the Queen. Every thought of anger and revenge subsided, replaced by sickening dread.
This time, Elzin did not interrupt her weeping.
o0o
Her guards ushered him into her perfumed bedchamber, then left him there alone. No, not alone. The Queen stepped out from behind her dressing curtains.
He had never seen her hair down. It tumbled in lank, black strings over her shoulders, a match for the coarse, dark hair of her armpits. She posed, an obscene parody of beauty, one dewlapped arm, more repulsive than Elzin's snake, wrapped about a bedpost. A red gown of transparent lace strained across her bulk, accenting the thick folds of her stomach, the sagging sacks of her breasts, the thousand dimples of her thighs. Atop her head, her gold crown sparkled dully in the candlelight. Her face wore an unfathomable mix of lust and something blacker. Like himself, she was without her ever-present dogs.
"Caldan, let me give you a proper welcome," she implored.
He had believed himself to be prepared for anything. He had not been prepared for this.
"And what might that be, my Queen?"
"Don't play the fool. The role ill suits you, Councilor," she said harshly. Her voice sweetened. "Now come to me before I grow impatient."
How much did she know? Dangerous, to waste this precious opportunity, but he must know how much she, and perhaps others, surmised. Press, but not too far. He did not want the guards.
"Majesty, it has long been my observation that anticipation sharpens the appetite."
The Queen's smile twisted like a worm. "Anticipation, Caldan? Just what is it you anticipate? Yet another frolic between Saire Elzin's breasts? Could you think I would not know? How many years have you eluded me, Caldan? How many years have I waited, only to find that you have bedded some brainless village whore? Was it only lust, Lord Councilor, or did you think to woo the child into supporting your bid for my crown? Is she in love with you? We will see how much she loves you when I send her your testicles on a tray beside her dinner! We will see how much she craves the touch of your hands when I present them to her sewn up in a pouch made of your own skin! And I, I will have your skull for a drinking cup, Caldan!"
He turned his back to her, though he knew she meant every word. She paused triumphantly for his reaction.
"Really?" he said. "And I thought I was the barbarian."
A soft humming arose. He turned to face her, and the hum stopped just that quickly as she felt a tiny twinge on the side of her neck. She raised her hand to touch it even as her eyes rolled backward and she toppled gracelessly to the floor. With a hollow clunk her heavy crown fell on its edge and began to roll away, but Caldan stopped it with one foot before he bent over to retrieve the narrow thorn from her neck. The tiny red mark it left was lost amid the moles and discolored veins of her throat.
"The Buktoz certainly do know their poison," he remarked conversationally. On the marble floor of her opulent bedchamber he ground the thorn to powder beneath his heel, then scuffed his boot to scatter it. The thin reed he had used for a blowpipe he broke into splinters and dropped into his pocket. A thorn and a straw. Weapons for but one brief moment.
The councilor looked down on the grotesque body of his half-naked sovereign. "So, my name is touched by scandal at last."
Only then did he call for the guards and her physicians.
o0o
All four dogs jumped to their feet, as did their mistress. The guards had announced no one, but to her alarm the door to the Saire's apartments began to open. They have come for me! Could she yet reach Elzin's bedchamber, her secret path to safety? They have come, and I have been too slow!
Dagger and Arrow deserted her already. Did they attack? But, no one had touched her. She had given no commands. Why?
And then she knew why. Only his hounds were more swift as she thrust aside the Saire to throw herself into the arms of her father. Caught between laughter and tears, she said the word over and over again: "Alive! Alive!"
He gave her an exuberant hug that lifted her right off her feet. "I thought you held supper for me, and yet, here you are," he said.
o0o
Fingering the collar of her robe, Elzin caught Caldan's eye hopefully. It was as if he read her mind.
"You must return to our apartments and wait," he told his daughter with a final squeeze. "I will tell you all then."
The sorceress obliged him happily, too relieved at his return to notice Elzin take possession of her father's arm. The Saire smiled and bumped the door shut with a foot, then passionately embraced the count.
"I was so scared," she said without releasing him. "But Prince Heratinn warned me to stay here; he told me I would hurt you if I went."
She felt his chin nod against her shoulder. "Heratinn was right. And now, we need fear nothing."
"But the Queen -- what did she say?"
He sighed. "I feared you would ask so soon, but you had better hear it, first hand, from me now. I shudder to think what retelling will cause the final tale to be."
He eased her tenderly onto a sofa and tilted her head to the light. Sadly, he ran one finger below the faint bruise on her cheek.
"She struck you very hard," he said. "But she will never strike at anyone again."
"What are you saying? Please tell me, Caldan! You're scaring me!"
"The Queen is dead, Elzin."
"Dead?" she whispered, scarcely believing what he'd told her. She grasped his fingers tightly. "How? What happened?"
"You were betrayed by one of your own elite. He told Hulgmal we were lovers. She sent four of her guard for me.
"They escorted me to her bedchamber. From her attire, of which you will no doubt hear in no small detail, I imagine she meant to seduce me. But she meant to kill me as well. She enjoyed her description of that too much, I think. The physicians believe it was her heart that failed her."
Elzin cried out and threw her arms around him. "I would have come to stop her if I'd known! Heratinn told me that Prince Stantinn had been killed, and he thought you were in no danger. I should have known! I should have guessed!"
"No more, Elzin," he said softly as he stroked her hair. "All is well now. Please do not cry on my account."
Elzin released her hold and drew back to wipe her eyes.
Surely this was Elzin. Yes, it had to be. Elzin: her hair, pale as the moon, her eyes the color of a clear, mid-summer sky. Yet, did she seem taller? Finer now in face and feature? Why did he find it suddenly so difficult to look at her directly?
"Caldan, were you never taught it's impolite to stare?" She laughed suggestively. Her tears abruptly vanished. Perhaps his own eyes watered in their stead. A glow, a glare obscured his vision.
He looked away, suspecting the silver flute, but he saw neither it nor the necklace.
"You are awfully quiet," Elzin chastened, "for a man with such uncanny luck. Never have I seen you at a loss for words before. What troubles you?"
How he wished he had not turned to look.
Elzin, he reminded himself. She could be no one else. It was only by some cruel whim of the Saireflute that he beheld his long-dead wife, Lyrvahn.
And yet, she was so real. The timbre of her voice, the cadence of her words, the way that she canted her head, just so, when she asked him a question--all Lyrvahn's. Overwhelming, his desire; to touch her, to speak with her just one more time, to tell her how very, very much she had meant to him. He had thought that he had locked that part of himself where she dwelled away from his mind forever, walled up or sealed like the doors to her room, but this image seemed to split those barriers asunder.
'Image!' some detached part of his brain warned. 'Image only! She is dead. Lyrvahn is no more. It is only the magic. Fight it. Fight it now or go utterly mad. It is Elzin, Elzin--'
"Elzin," he said. He bowed his head and placed one hand over his eyes as if they pained him.
The hands that caressed his face were Lyrvahn's, gentle, soothing despite the familiar calluses on her fingers from the reins of unruly horses and countless hours of writing. So close, he could smell the warm, sweet scent of her skin, dusted with the spicy odor of her own brace of coursers, and her voice was Lyrvahn's voice. "Do not fear my gift. You have done well today, Lord Councilor. Accept this small reward."
He pulled away. "No! Not reward--torture! An abomination!"
Only the long, long silence that followed lured him to look once more. The Saire lay on the sofa, fast asleep.
Her necklace hissed then clicked metallically as it slithered from one curled hand to the floor.
o0o
Heratinn stood beside the massive parapet that overlooked the bay. A morning star glittered coldly against the water in the predawn twilight; the air was fresh and clear. Perhaps it would revive him, for he had not yet slept, and he needed all his wits about him to further contemplate his new position.
He had much to consider. First, the news of Stantinn's death, and then, before he could even begin to enumerate his new responsibilities as prince royal, his mother's heart attack. Caldan assured him that her passing had been swift. It hardly mattered. He felt not grief, but anger. Anger that she had gone so quickly, to abandon him so woefully unprepared.
Such an ignominious demise. Such a pathetic, wasted life. He wondered if there had ever been bright hopes for Princess Hulgmal, or if she had never been seen as more than a means of linking some lord to the House of Sheldwinn. By fourteen she had been wed against her wishes to Trewinn in an attempt to assuage his discontent. By eighteen, she had borne two sons. It was her brother, Nazril, who had been groomed for the throne, and it had only been his death at the hands of rebellious Tarskans that had set Hulgmal in his place. Even then, she had been forced to fight for what was hers, and her husband had usurped her quickly. Quickly, but not for long.
Heratinn had been nine the year his father died and his mother claimed the throne. She had changed that year. Before, she had merely been inattentive like his father; almost overnight, she grew venomous and brutal. He learned quickly to avoid her, but he long hoped, with a child's nearly infinite capacity for forgiveness of a parent, that someday his mother would get better, that someday she would love him.
Love him. He nearly laughed aloud. Even childish hopes could die, and he had given up that fantasy many years ago.
How could he think of his mother's death as anything but a boon? Her insanity had grown exponentially in the last few years. In light of her disgraceful attire, he could not bear to ask the count what had transpired between them. His mother's madness sickened him, shamed him.
Perhaps that had been his shortcoming, he realized as the eastern sky flushed crimson. He had been too sickened by it all, too afraid to acknowledge her madness, to see the pain that it had caused so many others. Could anything he did have stopped the Queen of Lhant? He hadn't thought so then, but now, he wondered. He would wonder all his life.
He could do nothing to change the past, but he could make up for his inaction. He could atone for Hulgmal. He would be a better king than Stantinn, and he would reclaim the honor of a family that had, for the most part, served the island well.
On the afternoon of Saire, he would be crowned king. Ironically, it was the person his mother hated most who would preside at his hastily arranged coronation. Saire Elzin had been sympathetic when they spoke. She, perhaps more than anyone, could understand his reluctance to accept this sudden power.
He chuckled wryly at the memory of her clumsy attempts to console him for his loss. He could not blame the girl had she uncorked a bottle of her finest vintage the moment that he left her quarters. Elzin's transparency was a large part of her charm, and his mother's threats had been even more obvious than the Saire's relief. Still, he hoped that she could feign solemnity during the Queen's funeral procession.
Although the Queen's physicians had been quick to pronounce her death the result of natural causes, his mother's elite voiced a few suspicions. Heratinn waved them off. There was no evidence to suggest foul play. The superior of the Queen's guard had hardly been insistent. In fact, he seemed relieved.
"Are you well?"
Heratinn started, then smiled at her jest--their private version of 'a copper for your thoughts'.
"So the tales are true, then; all the highland folk move soundlessly as shadows."
"That is nothing," said Castandra "I can turn invisible."
"I'd much rather look at you."
She laughed. "Flatterer."
It was true. Although he missed the thin shift and the tight breeches that had followed every curve of her coltish legs, her severe dress could not conceal her loveliness from him.
"Ah! See how he rides."
"Who?" he asked.
"My father."
Sure enough, three silhouettes raced to the edge of the sea and then turned and sped parallel to the waves. He felt a twinge of jealousy at the open expression of adoration as she watched the count ride swiftly out of sight.
"Why aren't you with him?"
"He needs time to himself," she answered.
"I used to be happiest that way. But now, I don't care to be alone any longer."
"Oh, Heratinn," she said, taking his hand. "You will not have to be alone. This need not be the dreadful trial you make it. Everyone is delighted that you have gained the throne. As king, you will find many too happy to advise you, and certainly no noblewoman would refuse your suit."
"Are you truly certain?"
"Heratinn, you will be king. Who would not wish to be the Queen beside you?"
"Good." He knelt before her, still holding her hand.
"Castandra Val Torska, would you do me the honor of being my bride and my lady wife?"
Her features crumpled. "That was cruel," she said. She twisted her hand from his grasp with ease, but he clutched with both hands at her skirt instead.
"Hear me out, Castandra!"
"No! You know I am already married to Lowinn. Let me go at once."
"Castandra! Please! I honestly meant every word. You were married only according to highland law, not our law. I am king now--the temple of Shador would surely annul your marriage to Everfast for me."
"Release me!"
"No." Instead, he stood and pulled her to him. "You care for me. You know you do." She turned her face away, but he caught her chin and made her meet his eyes. "Go on. Look at me and tell me you don't love me, and I will let you go."
The sorceress closed her eyes. "I can't," she said hopelessly. "I cannot tell you that, and I cannot marry you."
"Why not?" He frowned. "It's your father, isn't it? Castandra, if it is Talvni he wants, I will give it to him. Surely I can give him more for you than Everfast can."
The sorceress's expression went from grief to fury in an instant. "How dare you insult my father that way!"
"What else can it be?"
She had no trouble boring into his eyes now with her own steel-colored ones. "I tell you that he
is not the reason that I must turn down your proposal, Heratinn. And I know that you would do all the things you say."
"Then why, Castandra? What still stands between us?"
"Much more than you guess. Heratinn, I must not tell you."
"Then what am I to do? How can I change what I do not understand?"
"You cannot. But I might. You must give me time. Do nothing yet; tell no one."
He held her close; she was yielding and pliant against him. "Time is the very least of the things that I would give you, Castandra."
She drew back just a little, just so she could see his face. "No, Heratinn. Time is the most important thing that anyone can ever give. You cannot imagine the danger that you put yourself in by asking for my hand. It may be hopeless anyway. Are you certain that you will not change your mind?"
"I would brave anything for you, Castandra. Even the power of darkness itself."
"The darkness, Heratinn" she said, "has more power than you guess."
Chapter Twenty-Three
What but shadow is a man
when he has left your hearth?
What but evil is a man
when he has wrung your heart?
-- “The Maiden's Song”
Elzin cradled her shoes and walked. Behind, her guards kept a respectful distance, while above, seagulls circled and mewed. With every step her feet broke through the gritty, sun-warmed crust of sand; the beach beneath felt damp, chill as well water.
She could no more rise above her troubles than she could walk upon the beach and not disturb its fragile skin. Caldan had killed the Queen; she was certain of it. Her own trusted elite guard had betrayed her, but Caldan had kept his word. 'I will do whatever I must,' he had promised back at Hawkshold, 'but I will never allow her to lift a finger to hurt you. I swear it.' Yesterday, the Queen had struck her. And yesterday, the Queen had died.
Nausea rose, unrelated to the child Elzin carried. Why? What was wrong with her? Hulgmal was a butcher. The killing would have gone on and on had the Queen not been stopped. She should feel only relief, not this misplaced sense of revulsion.
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