The Eunuch's Heir (34 page)

Stooping to the bottom shelf of his bookcase, Fionvar brought out a cask he stuck under his arm, picking up his goblet with his other hand. “Then follow me,” he told Wolfram. “And bring your cup.”

WITH WOLFRAM
wondering at his heels, Fionvar led the way to the trophy room, a long hall filled with mounts of exotic animals along with swords and helmets taken from their various enemies, including both King Rhys’s sword that had belonged to his father, and the sword the Usurper had carried, a near replica of the other. The windows down one side showed a magnificent sunset, bands of red and gold behind the mountains lighting the room with eerie crimson highlights. Red—the color of death. Wolfram shook himself and padded after Fionvar to the far end. Here stood a few old chests that held various bits deemed too valuable for open viewing. Fionvar stopped and turned to Wolfram, holding out his hand.

Hesitating, Wolfram stared at one of the chests, where he caught a whiff of the tiger pelt. After being cleaned and cured two weeks ago, it still smelled rank to him.

He noticed Fionvar watching then and untied the key to hand it over.

“You really do smell it, don’t you,” Fionvar mused, bending to the chest.

“Can’t you?”

He shrugged. “A little, but it’s not strong. I have to really pay attention.”

“In the mountains, you have to smell your prey before it smells you.”

“You must be an excellent tracker.” The lock clicked, and he lifted the lid.

Wolfram laughed. “Not by their standards.”

“Here.” Fionvar handed over the cask he had carried, and pulled the heap of fur into his arms. With his goblet in hand, he set out again. “In the princess’s room, you said you smelled monkeys.”

“I said that, yes.”

“It’s not like you to mince words.” Sticking the stem of his goblet under his belt, Fionvar took a torch from a wall mount and brought them to a door by the temple. Inside, they could hear the singing of evening prayer. The small door took them into a narrow, triangular courtyard with a well, and to another door opposite. This one required Fionvar to put down the tiger and work a series of locks.

“I did smell monkeys,” Wolfram replied at last, “but you didn’t believe me.”

In the darkness, Fionvar faced him, holding up the torch. “I didn’t know any better.” He frowned down at Wolfram’s feet. “You have no shoes.”

“I’ve gotten used to the dirt.”

Making no comment, Fionvar led the way out, shutting the door behind them.

On a small flat plain uphill from the temple, overlooking the refugee encampment, he flung the tiger skin on the ground. In the camp, fires leapt high, and Hemijrani voices sang out with drink and joy. Their strange stringed instruments whined into the growing night, and Wolfram wondered what their dances might look like. Men and women would not dance together—perhaps women did not dance at all, as in the Hurim culture. On the edge of the camp, they were busily erecting more tents. The spices of their roasts tantalized him from a distance. Putting them from his mind, he turned to Fionvar.

Fionvar planted the torch in the earth. “Cask?”

Wolfram handed it over.

“Are you sure you don’t want this thing as a rug or an archery target or anything?”

“Quite.”

Fionvar’s teeth gleamed briefly. He struggled to pull the
cork from the cask and doused the skin with a long splash of dark liquid. Placing the cask on the ground, he took up the torch, and offered it to Wolfram.

Glancing at the skin, then at Fionvar, Wolfram accepted. He leaned over and touched the flames to the fiery stripes. After a moment, they singed and caught, crackling and hissing and giving off an even more foul odor. Wolfram coughed sharply, wincing at the pain in his side.

Fionvar stuck the torch back in the ground and motioned for Wolfram to come to that side of the fire, upwind. He poured them each a draught from the cask and held up his goblet. “I’ve been saving this for a special occasion. Goddess walk with you.”

“And with you,” Wolfram replied, and both tossed back their drinks. The stuff was thick and sweet and warm. Wolfram grinned. “What’s the occasion?”

Swirling the goblet, Fionvar considered, then said, “We are both overcoming our fears, in spite of the cost.”

Silent, Wolfram considered his own goblet. “Tell me the story, my lord. Maybe it’ll help me get through this night.”

“It’s been a long time coming. Best make yourself comfortable.”

Carefully, Wolfram settled on the ground, his bare feet before him. One night in the garden, Deishima had spread her hair to keep his feet warm. He pressed his hand to his mouth, feeling a sudden burn in his eye. He shuddered with the effort of quelling his emotions.

Sitting close by, Fionvar asked, “What’s wrong?” a note of urgency in his voice.

Shaking his head, Wolfram took a long time to reply. He could not speak of Deishima, not now. “Do you love my mother?” he asked.

Watching him with some concern, Fionvar answered, “I do. I always have. It may surprise you that—contrary to anything you may have been called—you’re no bastard.” He smiled a little, and Wolfram found himself returning it.

Wolfram took a swallow of the liquor to steady himself. “Go on.”

“I hardly know where to start,” he said. “First of all, I should say that I’m no lord, and never have been. I’m peasant stock, farmers, to be precise. Our father died early, and, as the oldest, I was left with the family. During the usurpation of Lochalyn, my brother Orie fought in the battle to win Duchess Elyn’s keep. She and the last of her family escaped, with his help. Orie scaled the wall to let the gate down and let them out at the same time. When the Earl of Gamel’s Grove fell in battle, Orie was given his holdings in return for his act of bravery.” Fionvar shook his head and drained his goblet, pouring another for both of them. “He made it possible for Lyssa to become a sculptor, and set the rest of us up in one business or another. I got to be his steward—I think he enjoyed ordering me around for a change.” He rolled the goblet between his fingers.

“Orie eventually married Melisande?”

“Don’t get ahead of me,” he chided with a smile. “You’ve been to the manor where Elyn and Brianna hid for those twelve years.”

Wolfram nodded. “A long time ago.”

“I used to serve as our liaison. Brianna was away at an academy for most of the time, but she came one day to deliver a message. I was playing violin in the grove, waiting for the messenger.” Smiling ruefully, he watched Wolfram’s reactions.

“I remember now: you played at my bedside when I was down with the fever.”

“I was afraid to leave you.” Fionvar looked toward the smoldering skin. “Anyhow, we knew that we’d never be allowed to marry—she was betrothed to this absent king we were supposed to find or invent if need be. I was a farmer, elevated only by my brother’s service. At that time, she wanted to defy her grandmother and married me anyway, in secret.” He laughed. “Brianna was bold enough to marry me, but not to tell the world. By the time we found King Rhys, she was already with child.” He ran his eyes over Wolfram’s face. “Just as her grandmother wished, by the way.”

“How about Rhys?” Wolfram asked quietly. “Where was he?”

Taking a deep breath, Fionvar plunged on, “The rumors of castration were true. The Usurper cared too much for Rhys, so he killed his elder brothers but sent Rhys to a monastery. Later on, he got worried and burned the monastery to the ground. I was the one who found the records and connected this young court singer, Kattanan DuRhys, with the missing prince. I wanted to be sure—Orie was furious when he found out what I’d suspected. By that time, Kattanan was in Princess Melisande’s household as a courtship gift from a rival suitor.” He seemed about to say more, but took a swig of drink instead. “Kattanan had the misfortune to fall in love with her. Orie realized it about the same time that Kattanan did, I think. Jordan—the Liren-sha—had joined our side, and got Kattanan away before Orie could do something stupid.”

Grief passed over Fionvar’s face as he spoke of his brother, and Wolfram wondered if he knew it and what he was holding back.

“Much of the legend is true. Rhys learned courtly manners from the duchess and her loyal barons. You know the story of your namesake—most of it, anyway. When he was brought before King Rhys, we didn’t think he’d live. The moment that Rhys claimed him for a friend, that was the first time he dared defy his grandmother and take any of his due as king. That was when I became his man. I had been a little reluctant to swear fealty to someone who would steal my beloved.”

“Understandable.” The liquor was starting to take effect, making Wolfram feel light-headed and agreeable.

“Rhys figured out quickly enough whose child Brianna was carrying. She actually tried to put him off by acting the fool, but he saw through that as well. The whole time he swore up and down that he wouldn’t marry her. After that legendary battle—the one where he raised the dead and flew over the heads of the enemy and subdued the Usurper single-handed, all true, by the way—I went to Bernholt to keep track of my brother. Orie had married Melisande in a rush, then came to be sure our battle was going as planned. He
wanted a child of mine on the throne, someone who shared his blood—he was the Wizard of Nine Stars’ apprentice, and I think he had some plan for you.” Fionvar broke off and prowled the darkness for a moment, finding a long stick to prod the fire back into flame.

Waiting quietly, Wolfram started to pick through what he had been told and the way Fionvar seized up every time he came near to his brother’s story. He felt strangely distant from the tale, as if he were not the child in question, heir to a throne, but merely an interested onlooker, learning more about Fionvar than he might have cared to reveal.

“I was there when Orie became a full wizard. He broke his bond with Alswytha after she’d healed Jordan. The other Wolfram had given chase, along with his guard Rolf. Rolf actually had Orie by the throat at one point.” Fionvar stared into the distance. “If I had it to do over,” he murmured, then looked down.

“You let Orie go.”

“Remember what I said earlier about things that we regret?”

Wolfram frowned. “He was your brother.”

“I raised him from the time he was nine; in a way, he was also my son.”

“Even so, you’re not responsible for the things he did, any more than you are responsible for me.”

They stared at each other for a long time.

“That doesn’t stop me from being plagued by doubts, does it? One day, you’ll see what I mean.” Fionvar prodded the fire again.

Studying him, Wolfram allowed himself a little smile. All his life, he had seen this firm, quiet man, his mother’s Lord Protector; it had never occurred to him that Fionvar could have doubts. He pointed out, “You haven’t finished yet.”

“Ah, yes.” His voice seemed subdued as he continued. “I had followed Orie to ask him what he was up to. Prince Wolfram arrived, defending his sister’s honor. Orie used me. He paralyzed me with magic and used my blood to start healing himself, giving himself strength.” Slowly, avoiding
Wolfram’s curious gaze, he rolled up his sleeve. A slender line marked the back of his forearm, a bare stretch where the dark hairs didn’t grow. “It was a magic wound.” He traced the line with a fingertip and gave a grim smile. “Nothing to match any of yours,” he said.

Wolfram looked up. “None of mine went quite so deep.”

Nodding slightly, Fionvar rolled the sleeve back down. “He died to save me; that’s the unforgivable part. Why would he do that? We barely knew each other, but he looked at me, dropped his sword, and let my brother suck the life out of him.” Tears streaked his face, and he crushed them away with one hand. “I’m getting drunk,” he said. “I don’t do this very often.”

Laughing, Wolfram said, “I know all the best places.”

“They all came to Bernholt to force King Gerrod to honor his son and eventually succeeded. Melisande and Rhys were reconciled, Jordan and Alswytha fell in love, Lyssa decided to let go of Jordan for herself, and I—I had to bury my brother.”

Wolfram choked on a swallow of liquor and took a little while to stop sputtering. “You buried him?”

“I couldn’t bring myself to cremate him; I didn’t know what to do, really. I took him to the grove…” He stared into the dying glow of the tiger skin.

“Melody wondered about that, when we passed by Gamel’s Grove.”

“I should tell her, too; she deserves to know the truth. King Rhys came back here and made sure Brianna was still in love with me. He gave her back to me. Before the wedding, he took me aside—in that study where you found me—and asked me to trust him. It worried me, but I did. He named me as his Lord Protector, to guard queen and castle in his stead. The rest I didn’t find out until much later. Lyssa created a diversion while Alswytha traded places with him, making him look like her and vice versa. It was the wizard who walked up the steps and proclaimed Brianna as the queen. The wizard stepped into the sky—to the stars, as most people believe. Rhys took his bodyguard and rode
quietly away. He spent some time recuperating at Gamel’s Grove, then went to be with his princess. As I was left with my queen.”

They sat in the feeble glow of the guttering torch, neither one speaking, and Wolfram drained the last of his goblet.

“That is some story,” he said at last.

“It is,” Fionvar agreed. “I wish it had not taken me this long to tell you.”

“The worst part was feeling that everyone was lying to me, that even my own hair was a lie.”

“Great Lady, Wolfram, I hope—” Fionvar started fervently, then broke off.

“If you can’t use my given name, who can? After all, you gave it to me.”

“Does that mean I am forgiven?” he asked softly.

Wolfram flopped onto his back, looking up at the stars. The demon was at rest for the moment, but eighteen years of history was hard to overcome. “I don’t know. Ask me in the morning.” Then he laughed. “No, I’ll be busy getting over this stuff.” He waggled the goblet. “Ask me in a few days.”

“I’ll do that.”

Silence descended again, and the torch flickered and died.

Fionvar spoke from the starlight. “Thank you for hearing me out. I thought, by the time it came to tell you, that the anger would overcome you.”

“The demon,” he said. “I thought so, too.” Catching Fionvar’s puzzled expression, Wolfram went on, “Ever since I was a child, I’ve felt as if something else lived inside me.” He tapped his temple with one finger. “When something upsets me, this monster tries to escape; it tries to tear its way right through me and I…I go mad. I scream, and hurt people, and break things—and ruin everything.” He gave half a smile. “My demon.”