The Eunuch's Heir (22 page)

LYSSA SLOWED
Fenervon to a canter as they approached the little brook. The bundle of bracelets at her waist clinked together. Frowning, she eyed the ground, then the once-concealed entrance to the path. The branches they’d ducked around were bent and broken, the ground disturbed by hoof-prints. Lyssa twitched the horse to a standstill and listened, making out a murmur of Hemijrani voices. Bury it—they’d been found somehow. Might as well see—then she noticed the stream, and caught her breath. The water ran dark.

A nudge of her knees sent the huge dappled horse plunging into the woods while Lyssa clung low over his neck, feeling a growing panic.

Fenervon’s ears pressed back, and he snorted his own concern, barely soothed by her hand upon his neck.

They burst into the clearing, the horse sliding to a halt, and Lyssa already off his back, sword in hand. A Hemijrani bent over a bloody form on the ground, while Deishima stood nearby, unwrapping her layers of silken scarves. The man rose, a knife in his hand, turning toward Lyssa even as she sprang to the offensive. She caught his throat with one hand and spun him, pinning him against the nearest tree.

“What have you done?” she shouted. “Where’s Wolfram?”

Choking, the man pulled a parchment from his belt, sputtering something unintelligible. Lyssa grabbed the page with two fingers of her sword hand, flicking her gaze over it. Hesitating, she read it again more slowly: it was a note of safe
passage written in Wolfram’s own hand. On the back, the same hand had drawn a map to this very place.

“Bury it!” Lyssa dropped him and swung back to the clearing. Wolfram lay, barely recognizable, pressed against the belly of a huge dead cat. White silk bound his face, leaving only his nose and chin visible. “Holy Mother protect us,” she breathed, sheathing the sword.

The Hemijrani man crossed to the stream and cut a handful of grasses there. Blood from his hands and arms colored the stream as he worked. He returned to kneel beside Wolfram.

“Is he alive?” Lyssa knelt as well, feeling the prince’s throat.

Deishima retreated a few steps. “He is, Ambassador, but only just.”

“Who’s this?” she asked, then switched to Hemijrani, catching the man’s hands as he reached out with his bundle of grasses. “What are you doing?”

“These stop the blood,” he said, not looking at her, his arm straining against her grip. He dropped the knife to take a length of cloth from Deishima. Although blood spattered the cloth, the girl herself appeared unharmed.

“We have to do something!” Lyssa muttered, annoyed at the man’s deliberate movements. “Get that thing away from him, at least.” She rose to push at the tiger’s body, but the man stopped her with a quick gesture.

“It is warm,” he said. “The Highness is not. Have you another sash, Holiest of Royal Ladies?” He kept his head bowed as he spoke, holding out a hand. “Will you raise him, Ambassador?”

Confused, Lyssa looked from one to the other. The touch of Wolfram’s chilly flesh jolted her at last from her bewilderment as she put her arms around him, raising his chest to allow the first of many wrappings. Lyssa recalled too well their last embrace, with the mingled shame and humiliation. She held him, praying he would not die—praying the Goddess could not sense the mixed emotions that tangled her thoughts.

When Deishima had no more to offer, she stood trembling in a tiny chemise that barely concealed her childlike body. Still, she looked somehow older, with the tracks of tears still streaking her cheeks and blood on her bedraggled braids.

Somehow both reluctant and relieved, Lyssa lowered Wolfram’s torso, nudging him closer to the cooling tiger.

The Hemijrani man crossed over the brook to a pair of fine-boned horses tethered on the other side. From one, he untied a bundle and shook it out to reveal a light cloak. This he brought back with him, and, head lowered, offered to the shivering princess.

Lyssa reached out to snatch it before the girl could respond. “Don’t you think Wolfram should have whatever help we can give?” She looked from the man’s dark head to the slender girl, and the flare of her anger died away. Wearing only her chemise and one thick sandal, her breath coming in puffs of white, Deishima had no power to deny her anything. A fresh course of tears began upon her cheeks, and Lyssa wordlessly handed over the garment, Wolfram’s voice ringing in her ears.
We have no right to abuse her.
“This thing came hunting him, and he killed it with that stupid little knife.”

Deishima clutched the cloak to her chest, hunching over it as she shook.

“At least put it on,” Lyssa snapped, and turned back to the man. “Who are you?”

“I am a groom of horses, Ambassador,” he told her. “Dawsiir is my name, and the Highness is my friend.”

“Dawsiir, fine. How bad is it?”

He swallowed, and his eyes traced the form of the huge cat and the dwarfed figure of Wolfram lying beside it.

“Goddess’s Tears,” Lyssa sighed, her own eyes burning. How would they ever forgive her, to have brought him so far, only to leave him alone when he needed her most? She searched the stars. If ever she needed guidance, now was the time. By everything holy, there had to be a way. Suddenly, she grinned. “Get your horses, Dawsiir—I know a healer, but we’ll have to ride fast.”

“I cannot ride,” Deishima whispered.

“He’ll help you.” Lyssa turned to Fenervon, rearranging her gear so that the saddle could take two.

“I cannot touch her, Ambassador.”

“Don’t be an—” She had no word for it in their language. “This is more important than your stupid taboos.”

Shaking his head violently, Dawsiir retreated a few steps, his voice pleading. “I cannot touch her—there is no way upon this earth that I am worthy to do so.”

“Get the horses,” she snapped, and he jumped to obey her, bringing the skittish animals across the stream. “Princess,” she said, turning to Deishima, who now huddled in her blanket. “You sit here—” she slapped the cloth saddle—“and you hang on to the horse’s hair.” She put out her hands, and Deishima backed away. Grinning again, Lyssa grabbed the girl’s waist and swung her easily into the saddle, forcing her to get hold of the horse’s mane while Dawsiir held its reins.

“I cannot do this, Ambassador, please believe—”

“Don’t fall off, because I’m not stopping for you. Dawsiir”—she swung herself up into the saddle—“lift him up to me.”

Gathering the fallen prince, Dawsiir carefully passed him up to Lyssa.

She stared down from the great height of Fenervon’s back, eyeing the small, light horses, and the terrified girl clinging to one of them. They’d never keep up. She sighed, then pointed toward the road. “Follow me if you will, Dawsiir. Right on the road, then left over the river. If not, tell your masters that I’ll be coming for them.” She turned the horse’s head for the road and set out, one hand on the reins and Wolfram’s body slumped against her.

When she had won free of the trees, she kicked Fenervon to a gallop, and aimed his head for Bernholt. She had no idea how far it was to Gamel’s Grove—at least half a day, it must be—but they must get there or die trying: the oath she had made deserved no less. She had not gotten far when more hoofbeats joined hers, and she glanced aside to find the two delicate Hemijrani steeds easily keeping pace with her war
horse. Dawsiir nodded acknowledgment, then returned his focus to his companion.

Deishima lay forward on the horse’s neck, both arms wrapped around it. Her lips moved fervently, and the occasional word of desperate prayer reached Lyssa’s ears.

She hardened her mind against this pathetic act. She’d found the bracelets, yes, but the tiger had still found Wolfram. Why had the girl bothered with such a gambit if she knew the tiger was coming anyhow? Of course, she had to get rid of Lyssa somehow, couldn’t have her showing up again in the nick of time, sword in hand. Lyssa growled over Fenervon’s neck, and he snorted in recognition of her mood. No wonder Deishima looked so scared—she was probably waiting for her rescuers to retrieve her when Wolfram’s friend had arrived. Now she was forced to ride with them, farther and farther from her protectors. When they got to Gamel’s Grove, Lyssa would show her something to fear.

Dawn’s light grew before them as they rode, turning to full day by the time the octagonal tower of the keep rose up against it. The little village of Earl Orie’s time had grown into a thriving town with its own stone wall instead of a wooden palisade. Banners flew from the ramparts—a pair of crossed swords in a field of nine stars—symbol of the keep’s new masters. In the last decade, the town had become known as haven for wizards. Despite King Gerrod’s antipathy for magic, he dared not confront the Wizard of Nine Stars, who ruled here, the one who had once brought him so low with sickness that he thought he must die. Nor would he anger her companion, Jordan, the legendary Liren-sha, the Wizard’s Bane. Lyssa used to wonder why wizards would choose to settle in the shadow of the one man whose presence prevented their magic from working, but Nine Stars had explained how relaxing it could be to feel free from the magic for a while, to feel that they could live like normal men. Of course, after she had healed the Liren-sha those many years ago, his power had ceased to have any effect on her own magic, or, apparently, that of her children. And that’s what Lyssa was counting on.

She laughed with relief when they drew close enough to see the banner on the topmost tower—the banner that showed that the lady was home. Nine Stars had once brought Jordan back from the brink of death. Surely she could do it again; she had to.

Guards upon the gate made ready to call out to the approaching party, but they waved them on instead, recognizing the dappled horse and the lady who rode it, one arm wrapped around a bloody form. Lyssa rode hard all the way to the side court where the stables stood. When the grooms came up for her reins, she instead handed down Wolfram into their arms. “Find the Countess—now!” She sprang down and accompanied them into the hall, not bothering to aid the pair who followed her.

They laid Wolfram on a table in a room not far away, hurrying to find their lady, as well as water and blankets. Lyssa pressed her fingers to his cheek, crouching level to watch the weak, uneven rise of his chest. “Hurry!” she yelled to no one. Casting her gaze to the ceiling, she murmured, “Dear Lady, let him live—if ever you have heard me, hear me now.”

“What’s happened?” Alswytha, the Wizard of Nine Stars, barked with her usual forthrightness. She brushed past into the room, flinging off her embroidered surcoat. The wizard no longer bothered with magical disguises, instead allowing herself to be seen for the plain, blanched woman that she was. True to form, she wore a ragged gown beneath the surcoat, and pushed the sleeves up as she came. “Holy Mother! This is the prince?” She picked up one limp wrist.

“He was attacked by a tiger.” Lyssa paced at the head of the table.

“A what?” Alswytha started stripping away his bandages and remaining clothing as a few others joined them.

“A tiger—like a catamount, but bigger.”

“He’s lost a lot of blood already,” the wizard commented to one of the newcomers. “We don’t have tigers here, Lyssa, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know!” She stopped her pacing as Deishima came to the door. “Get her out! Out!”

Flustered, the girl froze, her eyes wide. “Ambassador, I have been—”

“I don’t care.” She crossed the floor and towered over the girl. “Get out—get away from my prince.”

Alswytha looked from one to the other. “You’d better go, or I can’t restrain her,” she advised Deishima, who gave a distracted nod and backed away, with Lyssa still menacing her from the doorway.

“Bites or claws?” a new voice asked, and Lyssa faced the wizard’s daughter, Soren, a girl of fourteen with her mother’s yellow eyes and her father’s dark hair.

“Claws, I think. His side may be a bite.”

“Were you there? Was anyone?” Soren continued.

“Only the little bitch who betrayed him.”

A quick nod.

“Too much blood,” Alswytha muttered. “Soren, we need to wake him up.”

Lyssa returned in a flash. “What?”

The wizard gave her queer little smile. “Unless he asks me a question, I can’t do anything for him, remember?”

“You healed Jordan when he was worse off than this.”

“True—he was already dead. So—choice one, I wake up Wolfram, and he asks me a question. Choice two, I wait until he dies. Pick one.”

Lyssa howled her frustration. “Do it,” she said. “Just do it.”

“Maybe you should go.” Alswytha straightened and met her eyes.

“No, I can’t leave him, that’s why this happened in the first place!” She shook her head vehemently.

For a moment, the wizard’s eyes cut to the side, over Lyssa’s shoulder, then she turned back to her patient.

A gentle touch on her shoulder made Lyssa jump and spin. Jordan stood before her, his crippled right hand outstretched. “Lyssa, come away.”

Eighteen years had passed since she made her decision, turning away from this man to the path of the Lady. Eighteen years had redrawn his hairline and added creases to the cor
ners of his sapphire eyes, but it had not dimmed their sparkle. Lyssa hesitated, then nodded, accepting his arm about her shoulders as he drew her away from the room.

“To the chapel?” he asked, already leading her that way.

They passed Deishima in the hall, and she turned her face to the wall, pressing herself against it.

“Odd girl, that one,” Jordan remarked. “I said hello to her, and she nearly died.”

“Good.”

“I’m sensing she’s no friend of yours?”

The warmth of his touch on her shoulder guided her up the broad staircase. Several flights up they had restored the rooftop chapel where Lyssa’s mother used to pray and later had jumped to her death. These thoughts flitted across Lyssa’s consciousness, but she brushed them aside. Any place where the Lady might hear her would be a good place right now. If the Lady would ever hear her again. She shook herself and looked up at Jordan. “The girl’s a Hemijrani princess. We took her hostage to get free of the Hemijrani caravan back in Freeport. Somehow she led the tiger to us. She betrayed him once before and nearly got him killed then. Leopards.” A snort of laughter. “Wolfram’s got bad luck with cats these days—maybe it’s his name.”