Shadowheart

by Laura Kinsale

  "Will you be my conscience, hell-cat?" He sounded amused.

  "I don’t jest," she said.

  He held back her hair and traced his forefinger along her temple. "Nor I. I’m in dire need of one."

  No doubt the priest at Savernake would have despaired—if not laughed—at the idea of Elayne set to guard anyone’s conscience. She thought of all her small trespasses and sins, and how she had never been repentant for them, never in truth.

  She thought of the steamy lake, the water dripping from his face, his head bent before her in submission...

  "What could I hope to tell you of conscience?" she said in a painful voice. "It’s like asking an imp to tutor a demon in virtue."

  He kissed her throat. She tilted her head back and closed her eyes, feeling his warmth amid the cool fall of her hair.

  "I would listen," he said softly. "I would try."

  She lifted her hands and spread her palms over his, slid her fingers down to his wrists and held them, pressed them to her jaw and her cheeks. "It can’t be stopped now, can it?" she said. "There’s no way to withdraw from what you plan."

  "No," he said quietly. "It’s set in motion."

  She shook her head within the compass of his fingers. "Then there’s no question, is there? We can only go forward, and carry it through without fail."

  He released a harsh breath at her ear. "I will not fail. Not this time." He pulled her back down onto the bed, her tangled hair around her. She stared up at him, the dim golden light on his bare arms, the black queue of his hair falling down over his neck, her marks on his skin.

  He kissed her mouth, her chin, the line of her throat, so gently that she could have wept.

  "I will not fail you," he whispered.

  She lifted her lips and opened them against his kiss, spreading her fingers in his hair and dragging him hard and close, refusing his gentleness, seizing his mouth greedily. She drew his tongue between her teeth, raking the tip and the sides of it. A deep vibration hovered in his chest. He gave a low laugh and broke away sharply, his face flushed.

  "You think to master me that way," he said, breathing deeply.

  She wet her lips, looking up aside at him under her lashes, tasting the flavor of him on her skin. She lifted his hand clasped in hers and held it to her cheek. Then she could not help herself; she nipped hard on his thumb and his fingers, and watched the heat in his black eyes, the little twitch of reaction with each bite. "I own you," she said, her breath on his open palm.

  He laughed and blinked, searching the room as if he awakened from a sleep. "Yes, you do," he said, shaking his head slightly. "The Devil give me strength, Elena. In this you do."

  * * *

  She did not own him at chess, though, or in any other way. With a guarded amusement, he didn’t quite come near enough for her to touch him, but prowled the chamber until she had set up the pieces that he had found in his father’s coffer. At Savernake, Elena had been the leading mistress of the game. But she was no match for the Raven. She sat on the stool, her damp loose hair brushing the carpet at her feet, frowning at her position. For the fifth game in succession, he held her king mated in check within the space of a dozen moves.

  She tossed her hair back and looked up at him. "Dice?" she asked, pressing her hands between her knees.

  He smiled. "You prefer chance to cunning?"

  "Verily, what choice have I? I didn’t know I was so poor a player."

  "I learned to play against my father," he said. "I never won." He sat back in the chair, draping one leg over the carved wooden arm. "But I could take Franco Pietro in five games of seven."

  She looked up. In the glow of the small lamp he looked like a great black cat resting across the chair, watching her. "You’ve played him?"

  "Many times, before he exiled me."

  "You were friends once?"

  "We were never friends. My father let the Riata have me in hostage when I was seven. Franco was a few years older. And he wasn’t fond of a slinking Navona bastard." He looked into the darkness and smiled. "When I wouldn’t attend confession with his puling priest, who wanted more than confession from me, he had me stripped before his whole family—the women, too—and led about like a dog on a leash. So I took out his left eye with my blade."

  She drew a breath between her teeth. "God save."

  He looked at her steadily, the shadows carving his face in ebony and gold. "One of us will kill the other, Elena. It is certain."

  She shook her head with a small, sad laugh. "I suppose that as your new-appointed conscience, I can’t hope to persuade you against it."

  "And wait until he comes for me?" He gestured toward the board with a faint smile. "It’s no wonder that you lose at chess, Princess."

  Elayne rose. She pushed her hair back over her shoulder. "You said the Riata kept me, also. I marvel that I survived it."

  "Yes. But you had a use. You were surety that Cara would kill Melanthe for them." He lifted his lashes, looking up from the chair as she stood frozen above him.

  He meant to shock her, she could see. She felt helpless, still unable to fathom such things. Her sister—her sister, to kill Lady Melanthe? To kill anyone. It seemed absurd. And yet Elayne turned away, as if by squeezing her eyes closed she could blot out the sound of Cara’s begging, the frantic look upon her sister’s face, the cold flat calm in Lady Melanthe’s voice as she said that Elayne must wed the Riata and there was nothing she could do.

  "Cara tried," he said. His voice held a softer note. "But she was hopeless. She hadn’t the skill for it, or the heart."

  "Thank God for that, then." Elayne bowed her head. "I wouldn’t have had her commit murder for me."

  "No? But you’ve just sworn to kill me on Matteo’s behalf, if you must."

  She looked aside at him. She frowned.

  He returned a half-smile. "But that’s different, I suppose."

  Elayne pressed her lips together. She lifted her eyebrows. "What thorny questions you do pose your conscience."

  "I have a lifetime’s hoard of them," he said, "set aside for your deliberation."

  "I used to read of such things." She thought of the long texts in Latin, the dilemmas and careful weighing of reasons in the documents that Lady Melanthe had sent to her. "Of the jurymen and the advocates and assizes. I would read the writs and decisions, and think of what I would do if I were to judge."

  She thought he would laugh and dismiss her as a foolish woman. But he said seriously, "I never thought to study such." He leaned on his fist, as if considering, and then made a dismissive gesture with his hand. "I’d have supposed all the judges bought and paid for. Did the decisions seem just to you?"

  It had never occurred to her that the ecclesiastical judges and the king’s justices would be anything but honest as they struggled to find the truth. But she could easily recall cases that had not seemed to end equitably at all. He leaned his head back on his chair, challenging her. She made a rueful face. How green she had been. Of course the judges could be bribed or coerced.

  "Often they seemed fair," she said slowly. "Not always." She pulled her hair back into a tail and drew it over her shoulder, shaking her head. "But in truth, even when the choice was difficult, I believe they were mostly honest men, and wise. Sometimes—what I was certain of before I began to read, I understood differently by the end. They asked questions. They made me think." She lifted her chin. "If you believe that a woman can think for herself."

  He laughed aloud. "I served in Melanthe’s chamber for enough years of my life, sweeting. Do you suppose I could believe otherwise?"

  Another shock, to find he had been so close to her godmother. But she feigned to ignore it. "Some men do not."

  "Some men are fools. As are some women. I shouldn’t like to have been in your position, for example, and have my life depend on your sister’s cunning."

  "I seem to have survived," she said, a little offended by the implication that her sister was a fool, though indeed Cara’s mind wasn’t overly
given to sharp wit.

  He watched her, tilting his head. "I wonder what you’d have done in your sister’s place."

  She turned full toward him, her loose hair swirling around her. "Tell me this," she said. "Why was I with the Riata at all, and not with my sister and Lady Melanthe?"

  "We thought you in safekeeping," he said. "Prince Ligurio knew he was dying—we all knew it, for months ahead. There was time to prepare. You were too important to be unprotected and too young to be usefully wed, so he saw that you were dedicated to the holy sisters at his abbey; the one he provisioned in Tuscany, where he meant Melanthe to go after she buried him. You set off before he died with an escort of ten knights, and word came back that you had arrived. Do you have any memory of it?"

  She blinked, and shook her head. "No—of a nunnery?"

  "No memory of a seizure, of a fight?"

  She shook her head. "No."

  "You were young," he said. "Four years, at best. I don’t know how they stole you, then, perhaps an abduction, or treachery within the abbey itself. But once they had you, they had Cara’s will. She kept it secret—even I didn’t guess, though the devil knows I suspected there was something. By then we were bound for England, while Melanthe played all sides false." He gave a dry laugh. "Even my father. Melanthe was ever daring beyond reason in her dealings. I think that was half of why he loved her."

  Elayne frowned. "My sister told no one?"

  "No one," he said.

  She sat down, gazing at the red and ivory chess pieces, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger.

  "Who would she have told?" he asked. "We knew there was a Riata agent among us. My father had set me to protect Melanthe. Cara well knew that I’d kill her in a heartbeat if I discovered she was their tool to murder his betrothed."

  Elayne looked up quickly. "I thought you loved her."

  "I did."

  She curled her hair around her fist, stroking her thumb against the smooth strands. She gave a short, uneasy laugh, staring at the black-and-white squares on the board, thinking of her sister, of the silence around Monteverde. "Poor Cara."

  He showed his teeth in a sneering smile. "Yes. Poor Cara."

  She took a deep breath. "I don’t know what I’d have done in her place. The same as she did, I must suppose."

  "Make the attempt, but be certain that you bungle it? Spare your own soul at the price of what you love?"

  She raised her eyes and met his dark steady gaze. He tilted his head a little, inquiring.

  "It was murder they asked of her."

  "With your life at stake." He regarded her, resting his cheek in his palm. He smiled so faintly that it was barely visible. "The silly Monteverde rabbit, she never had the steel to commit murder, not even to save you. The Riata’s besetting weakness; they misjudge the temper of their weapons. You were doomed from the moment they took you."

  "I live," she said.

  "Yes," he said, "it’s a miracle worthy of a saint."

  Or worthy of an angel. A dark and potent angel, equal to the task.

  She looked down at the chessboard, where her defenses stood in disarray under his swift attack. She was alive, and it wasn’t Cara’s doing, or Lady Melanthe’s. All her life she had trusted in her guardian, felt him standing in the shadows to protect her. She bowed her head.

  "I thank you," she said, "for what you did for me. For bringing me out of their hands—when no one else could do it."

  He glanced up at her, his dark eyes half-concealed by the lazy black lashes. Then he shrugged and stretched out his leg, looking away. He kept his gaze averted, swinging his foot lightly over the arm of the chair, and gave a soft snort of disdain.

  "You don’t like to be thanked," she said.

  He opened his palm and frowned at it, as if there were some mystery there. "I hardly know. You’re the only person who’s ever done it." He closed his hand and then flicked his fingers wide, and suddenly there was a blossom in his palm, one of the tiny sweet-smelling flowers from the citron trees. He held it out to her between his fingers. "For your hair," he said brusquely.

  Elayne reached for the flower, holding it cupped in her palm. It was slightly bruised, the petals creased, giving off a heady scent.

  "Cara never thanked you?" she asked, taking a breath of the tiny blossom.

  "I didn’t linger to speak to her," he said.

  Elayne had no image of him in that single memory of her arrival at Savernake. Only snow, and Cara big with child. I can’t believe she never once spoke of you, Elayne wanted to say.

  He rose, a move as elegant and sure as a dance step, all of his stiffness vanished. "As well she married her English swineherd after all. I’m sure I’d have killed her eventually, when we required a goose to pluck at Christmastide."

  NINE

  "Have you played morra?" he asked as he returned the chessboard and pieces to the coffer. The room was growing cooler. A night breeze had risen, a low sighing in the shutters.

  For a moment she did not understand him, and then gave a startled laugh. "Morra! Not for years."

  "Nor I. By chance we’d be more evenly matched."

  "At a child’s game!" she said ruefully.

  "No, I’ve seen fortunes won and lost at morra," he said, dropping the chest closed. "Is it only for children in England?"

  Elayne tucked the little sweet-scented flower behind her ear. She saw him watch the move, and felt herself grow warm. "Cara taught us when we were young. I’ve not seen it played since."

  He held out his fist. "Ten rounds, two fingers—and a fist for zero. Call the sum of all fingers. One point for each win."

  Elayne gave a little shrug. It seemed quite a descent from the strategies of courier chess, but he stood before her with a serious look, one hand behind his back. She held out her hand and faced him.

  "Count of three," he said. "One...two...three..."

  "Four!" they said simultaneously, and Elayne looked down at their hands. They each had two fingers extended.

  "A tie," she said.

  He nodded. "One...two...three..."

  Elayne blinked, caught without having considered how many fingers she would show. "One!" she said as he said, "Two!" She looked down and realized she had held out two fingers. He had extended one.

  She rolled her eyes. "Stupid of me." The total sum of their fingers could hardly be one if she held out two of them herself, but that was the challenge, to guess at a sum while at the same time choosing the number to show.

  "Tie again." He frowned downward. "One...two...three..."

  "Zero!" she exclaimed, holding out her closed fist as he flicked out two fingers. "Oh, Mary, you—" She almost said he had won, and then looked up at him. "What did you call?"

  He scowled, and cleared his throat, and then said with an embarrassed look, "I forgot to call."

  She giggled. "It’s more difficult than I remembered."

  "Yes!" he said, with a shake of his head. "Ready?"

  They stood facing. She could see that he was pressing a smile from his lips.

  "One...two...three..."

  "Three!" Elayne exclaimed to his "One!" He held out one finger and she two.

  "I won!" She felt an absurd rush of pleasure to be the first to triumph. "What round is this?"

  He tilted his head. "The fifth?"

  "Avoi, I’m ahead."

  He bowed, his black hair falling across his shoulder. "You’re ahead, my lady."

  She stared down with concentration at their fists, nodding faintly in time with his count. "Three!" she cried, and almost forgot to hold out her fingers. She scrambled to extend two a moment after he made his show of one.

  "Oh ho! Cheating!" he said.

  "No, no—I lost my concentration," she said. "Do not count it."

  "Very well," he said, "but you should know that I have cheaters tossed down that trapdoor."

  She glanced up, but he was grinning. "Loser must carry the chamber vessel down the stairs!" she said, flicking her tongue at him.


  "A cruel fate! Ready?"

  She nodded, tensing, trying to hold her two numbers in her head while he counted. "One!" she cried, thrusting out her closed fist as he snapped out two fingers.

  They both looked down.

  "You forgot to call again!" she said.

  "God’s blood." He shook his head with a startled laugh. "My reason isn’t yet wholly lucid. You start the count."

  Elayne bounced on her toes as she counted. "One...two...three—four! No, three! I meant three!" They were holding out three fingers between them. She looked up. "I did! I swear it!"

  He put his hand under her chin. "You are a cheat, hell-cat. A born cheat."

  Elayne took an excited breath as he leaned over and kissed her mouth. She sucked quickly at his lips and then broke away. "Ready? I’m ahead."

  "I won’t allow you that last point."

  "I’m still ahead. What round is this?"

  "Six. Because you cheated," he said.

  "Ready?" She drew a deep breath, her body taut with anticipation, planning to call three and show two, trying to remember which was which. "One...two...three—five!" she yelled.

  He paused, holding out his two fingers near her two. "Five?" he inquired mildly.

  Elayne blushed. "You confused me!"

  "How?" he demanded.

  "By—standing there." She gave him a wounded look. "And kissing me." She held up both palms, and then pressed them together. "Round six. One more time. We must compose our minds."

  They stood with their fists out, nearly touching. Elayne closed her eyes. For some reason the simple act of choosing two numbers and causing her mouth to produce one and her fingers to show another was quite strenuous, particularly when she seemed to want to laugh every time she met his eyes. She looked at him. He was watching her with a comical expression of inquiry.

  "Are you sufficiently composed, Princess?"

  She made a face at him. "You’re distracting me."

  "You’re beautiful."

  "No, sir, you are beautiful, and know it far too well for any man’s good. One...two...three—three!"’ she cried.

  "One!" he shouted at the same time. She held out two fingers, he held out one.