Authors: Elaine Isaak
DRAINED AT
last, Wolfram found his way back to his own chambers. As he wearily approached, trying to work out what to do, his manservant Erik dashed up to him.
Erik hovered, opening and closing his mouth several times, unsure what to make of his prince’s disheveled appearance. “Ah, Your Highness,” he began, blinking rapidly.
Worn-out from his rage, Wolfram couldn’t muster his customary annoyance. “I know, I was out, I’m back now, I’m sorry.”
“Ah, not that, Your Highness.” His stubby legs worked hard to keep up with his master’s long strides. “But, ah, thank you, Your Highness.”
Wolfram pressed a hand to his forehead. The queen of all headaches was building just beneath the skin. “Then what?” Every motion of his jaw sent a shivering pain through the bone, as if he had been clenching it shut too long—or saying too much.
“Somebody’s waiting, Your Highness. Ah, a—ah, a lady, Your Highness.” His pale hands flapped through the air like plucked squabs trying to take flight.
“What now?” Wolfram groaned. He stopped before his oaken door, pressing both hands to his head to keep it from popping open and revealing the demon within.
“I, ah, I don’t know.” Erik hastened to add, “Your Highness. She came an hour ago, maybe more.” Perpetual lines of worry tracked his pasty brow, and he whipped out a kerchief to mop the sweat from the wrinkles.
“Who?”
The servant risked a tiny shrug, a roll of the fleshy shoulders.
Wolfram nodded once—a mistake. “Where?”
“The parlor, Your Highness.”
No chance to prepare himself, he’d have to get by her to change. Straightening his shoulders, Wolfram pushed open the door, trying a mask of casual interest. It failed.
His lover waited inside, seated in his favorite chair by a crackling fire. She glanced up as the door opened, her lips curving into a smile at the sight of him—but not the broad, expectant look he had grown used to.
Then again, his own expression may have precluded any joy on her part. What little color he yet had seeped away, and he coughed again, sharply. “How did you—?”
She did not rise to greet him, but instead lifted his goblet from the table by her side, and took a sip. “How did I find you, Prince Wolfram?” She let out a peal of laughter. “You thought I had no idea, didn’t you, my lord?” she added, in a light mockery of her usual subservient tone. When she spoke again, her voice rang with knowledge, power, and a chilling awareness. “I have always known who you were. You are not precisely anonymous, Your Highness.” She looked him up and down, her ice-blue eyes sweeping from his mottled tunic to the butchery of his hair. “I take it you have confronted your mother?”
Wolfram shook himself, letting his unsteady feet lead him to a chair. Another lie, another liar he had trusted with his heart. “But what are you doing here? I thought I made everything clear.”
“Oh, indeed you did, Your Highness, but you left before I had the chance to make things clear to you.” She took another sip. The scent of her wine reached him, a very good vintage.
“Things? What things?”
“Well”—she toyed with the goblet—“one thing really. One very important thing.” She met his eyes, her features sharp, as if the skull were closer to the surface and he saw right through her flesh. “I am carrying your child.”
The breath rushed out of him, and his head dropped to his hands. “You’re sure?”
“Of course I am, Highness.”
He frowned briefly at her tone—almost smug. “I understand there are herbs, there are ways, to, well, get rid of it.”
“Of our child?” She drew away from him. “You don’t understand at all, Highness, I want to carry it. I want to give birth to your baby.” Her voice curled around the word as if it were a succulent dessert.
He squeezed his eyes shut. It couldn’t be happening, not all of this, not at once. He could not be having a baby. “What do you want?” He sighed. “I’ll pay for the house, of course I will, and whatever you need.”
“What do I want?” she echoed, and this time, he had to look up to see with disbelieving eyes the change that had come over her. No more the sweet and willing partner, the woman before him sat bolt upright, her voice commanding. “This, Your Highness.” One hand swept the room with unmistakable strength. “I want this.”
He searched desperately for his fury, but now, when he wanted it, that power escaped him. Too thunderstruck for words, he followed her gesture with wide eyes.
“Now, don’t look that way.” She patted his knee almost maternally. “This is a royal baby. This baby deserves some love from its father, and some attention from its loving grandmother, don’t you think?”
Think? Wolfram had moved beyond thinking, into a shadow world where everyone around him concealed a secret, each more awful than the last.
“I want you to acknowledge this baby, Prince Wolfram.”
“I can’t marry you,” he managed thickly.
“What, am I beneath your station, Highness?” She rose and cast off her cloak. She wore a gown of velvet and silk, vastly different from the woolens he had provided. The style seemed old-fashioned, the colors faded. “But I have been a princess, here in this very place.” She held out the skirts of the gown, the gesture girlish, the glee in her face a thing beyond the innocence of girlhood. “This is the gown I wore
when I left here; when your accursed saintly father threw me out.” She enunciated these last words very clearly. “It amuses me to wear the same one now that I’ve returned.”
She towered over the seated prince, eyes sparkling.
“I don’t understand,” he protested, watching her.
“Of course you don’t, but I think your mother will. Why don’t we go see her, and you can explain.”
“Oh, no.” He shook his head fiercely, despite the headache. “I can’t go to her like this. You can’t—who are you?” he demanded suddenly.
“A lifetime ago, I was betrothed to that other Wolfram. Ironic, isn’t it?” She stood a little taller. “I am Princess Asenith yfEvaine duThorgir. Now there’s a name you don’t hear very often these days. Thorgir the Usurper was my father. He taught me everything I know.” She leaned down, resting her hands on the arms of Wolfram’s chair to stare into his face. “Your holy father killed my father but he let me live. If only he were here to rue the day.”
Her breath, warm and rich with wine, made a shiver run down his spine. He imagined his mother’s face, learning that her son not only had a lover but that his lover was the enemy, the daughter of traitors. But he would never see his mother’s expression, he couldn’t face her, not with this, his final failure. He studied Asenith up close, in a well-lit room for the first time. The mother of his child if all she said were true. Shame ran together with his anger, overwhelming his own pain and panic. Abruptly, he rose, forcing her back, and walked swiftly to his bedchamber.
“Wolfram!” she snapped, then followed. “You have to listen to me, Wolfram. This life is sacred, and half belongs to you.” She pointed toward her belly.
“Good,” he replied, “keep it.” He pulled open his wardrobe and started piling clothes on the bed, gathering a few things on his arm.
“What are you doing?” Asenith’s querulous voice pursued him. “I don’t want your clothes.”
“So give them away.” He left the pile and shoved the few things in his arms into an emptied leather game bag.
“You’re not leaving,” she protested. “Not when you’re going to be a father!”
He whirled to face her. “Yes, I am. My father left; I want to be just like him.”
The confusion on her pinched features made him laugh, but she composed herself quickly. “What about the baby? You can’t go like this.”
He stuck a hand into his pouch and dropped something into her palm, closing her fingers around it. “So let it grow up to rule this cursed place.”
Asenith’s eyebrows notched upward at the glass locket in her hand.
“Show that to my mother; tell her everything.” He shrugged widely, flopping his hands back to his sides. “Tell her whatever you want, I don’t care.” Wolfram turned back to packing, something like the mindlessness of his anger leading him through. He found his sword by the bedside, and Asenith jumped away from him, but he only swished the blade through the air, remembering how Lyssa’s steady hands had taught him. He fastened the scabbard to his belt and slid the blade home.
Shouldering the bag, he turned toward the door to find Asenith in the way. “Move,” he ordered.
At the tone, she flinched, but didn’t budge from the doorway. “But I wanted—”
“You wanted revenge, you wanted the palace, you wanted to have my baby—well, good, you have it. Now move.”
This time, she stepped aside, letting him brush past toward the door. “Wolfram,” she called, a sudden warmth in her voice. He stopped, cocking his head, but did not turn to face her. “You were an excellent lover, Wolfram.”
He snorted and left, knocking Erik out of his way as he followed the passage toward open air and freedom. Suddenly, the walls pressed on him, gloating, laughing, hiding secrets of their own, and he longed to break into a run. Seething, he mastered himself, pounding down the stairs, refusing to look to the Great Hall where he’d danced, or the chamber where his mother slept (no doubt twined in her lover’s arms), or the vast
and glorious temple where Mistress Lyssa mourned her murdered creations. Let them mold his child as they failed to mold him; let the baby carry the weight of the legend of King Rhys; let the baby—please, Great Mother—let the baby not inherit the wrath that tore through him. Let it never be like him.
Wolfram slipped quietly out the little door he had used not long before. He hesitated a moment, not sure which way to go. It occurred to him that he ought to have a plan, a haven in mind. Maybe head over the mountains toward Bernholt. The passes should still be open—the days had been warm. He’d need a horse, though. Turning aside, he followed the quiet alley behind the houses down and toward the outer wall. The guard kept a stable by the western gate where he could snatch a horse without much trouble. In younger days, he and Dylan had plotted to escape their intrusive parents, sneaking the horses out through the western gate.
Paying little heed to secrecy, Wolfram quickly covered the ground and came to the bailey before the stables. A wall as high as his head surrounded the yard, and Wolfram narrowed his eyes, considering. The smell of horses drifted in the air around him, and they snorted and stamped just beyond the wall. The prince slid his bag to the ground, then froze—surely he’d heard something.
He spun, and found nobody there, but his shoulders tensed. The demon pricked his consciousness.
“Wait, Your Highness!” a voice called—Erik’s voice.
Straightening from his half crouch, Wolfram turned toward his servant. “What are you—” A chain snapped over his head, around his throat, cutting off words even as it tore into his skin.
His hands flew first to his throat, then to the strong hands of his attacker, flailing. Pain shot through him. Where was Erik? Bury it, he couldn’t see a thing.
His fingers slipped in his own blood, couldn’t get hold of the wire. His head throbbed.
With sudden ferocity, Wolfram set his teeth and flung himself backward. He landed hard, feeling the crack of his opponent’s head against the stones.
A wheezy curse. The hands slipped free.
Wolfram smacked his head against the downed man’s nose with a satisfying crunch. Wildly, he fumbled for his dagger.
Suddenly a figure loomed over him—pudgy and pale, Erik’s face swam into view. Wolfram heaved himself off his attacker, lunging forward even as the hilt of his blade came into his hand. Roaring filled his ears. Erik’s hands reached toward him. Erik’s lips moved, his face taut.
In one swift upward rip, Wolfram tore open Erik’s belly. Gore spattered his face as he sprang back for another blow.
Even as he shifted his grip, he saw that one slash had done its work.
Voices echoed around him. Lights appeared at windows. Did someone call his name? Wolfram spun around, his pounding head and torn throat protesting. The two ends of the garrote bounced against his rigid shoulders.
A pack of Hemijrani surged up from where they’d been sleeping beyond the curve of the wall. Their shrill voices beat upon him, dark hands waving, pointing, cursing him with unknown signs.
From the other direction, the heavy bar on the gate scraped free. The guards inside called a halt.
Wolfram spun back to Erik. The mouth flapped stupidly as he died. His flabby hands pressed to the wound, struggling to staunch the unstoppable flow, to keep hold of his heaving innards. The servant’s eyes rolled about, trying to focus on his master and failing.
Surely the hands had gone for his throat! He had seen a blade, hadn’t he? Hadn’t Erik cursed him as he came? Wolfram’s head roared, his hands beat with the terrible pulse of his blood.
As the heavy gate swung open, the crowd of Hemijrani stumbled over themselves to flee, and Wolfram’s legs, as if of their own accord, stumbled with them. He ran, feet pounding, flinging aside the filthy dagger.
Beside him, behind him, a high-pitched voice screamed. Guards shouted; one of the refugees fell, and others turned back, yelling and pleading. More ran on, but Wolfram
quickly outstripped them in the familiar streets of his city. He let the demon take control, teeth and fists clenched. Suddenly his feet splashed into one of the culverts that flowed out beneath the city walls. Wolfram dashed to the wall and flung himself down in the muck, pulling himself under the bent and rusted grating.
Free of the wall, he sucked in a deep breath and gagged, hands to his throat, as the pain of the injury flared. Staggering, Wolfram made for the woods. By dawn he must be far away. If he kept running, the guards couldn’t pursue him. If he only kept up his speed, surely he would leave the face behind, the pale face with its flapping mouth that howled with him into the night.
BRIANNA GAZED
at Fionvar across the little table in the salon adjoining her chambers. She took a succulent bite of plum and let the juice run down her fingers. One by one, she licked off her fingers with long sensuous pulls.
Pretending not to watch, Fionvar cracked the shell of a hard-boiled egg with the butt of his knife. A smile tugged at the corner of his lips, however, and he let his eyes flicker up to meet hers. In the soft morning light, the shadows beneath her eyes faded, the fine lines smoothed into her glowing cheeks.
She slid her little finger between her lips and slowly drew it forth. Fionvar began to consider whether they could go back to bed for just a little while, but even as he wondered, there was a loud knock on the door, and it popped open.
“Your Majesty, Your Lordship,” Lady Catherine said, bobbing a little curtsy. “Lady here to see you.” Catherine was a little younger than her queen, and performed every task with remarkable direction and efficiency. She seemed to know what needed doing even before Brianna could ask it. “She won’t give a name, Majesty,” Catherine went on, anticipating the question. “Somewhat familiar, though.” A frown pinched the handsome features. “Says it’s about the prince.”
Brianna, seated with her back to the door, rolled her eyes at Fionvar and offered a wry smile. She dried her fingers on a cloth, and called over her shoulder, “Very well, Catherine, show her in.”
A rustling of skirts allowed the stranger entrance, and
Fionvar immediately rose to his feet. He still held the knife in his hand, the naked blade thrust out.
Startled, Brianna, too, rose, clutching the edge of the table in both hands.
Asenith drew herself up from a slight, but graceful curtsy. She wore a long blue gown with silver trim and a demure veil over her hair. Her smile and blush hinted at triumph and secrets, and Fionvar gritted his teeth. Bury him if he’d greet her as any other than the snake that she was.
“What do you want?”
“What, won’t you offer me a seat, Lord Protector?” Her eyes sparkled. One hand played with a pendant at her throat.
“You were banished from my domain, Asenith,” Brianna replied coldly. Even as she did, though, Asenith’s hand fell away, and Brianna could see the wink of the glass and gold, the twist of dark hair within. “Where did you get that?” she breathed, her fingers twisting tighter into the cloth.
“Wolfram gave it to me. He said you would know it, Majesty.” She sneered around this last word.
Brianna sank back into her chair.
“When and why did you have cause to see the prince?” Fionvar snapped, his mind racing. Wolfram must have seen her last night—purposefully gone to his mother’s enemy with this evidence he did not even understand. But Asenith might. His chest tightened as her sharp eyes sought his.
“Wolfram is my lover, sir, half a year since.” She paused to let them understand this, then continued lightly. “He is the father of my child. Your grandchild.” She nodded to the queen, but her eyes did not leave Fionvar’s face.
Hard as he tried to steel himself to the blow, still it knocked the fire from him. “Won’t you have a seat?” He sat heavily in his chair, the knife clattering to the table.
“This is a lie,” Brianna said. “Your family is not famous for honesty.”
“Nor is yours,” Asenith answered. She helped herself to a custard tart from their abandoned breakfast. “Bring on anyone you wish, midwife, priestess, wizard.” She scooted her
seat toward the queen. “Or place your hand just here—” she caressed her belly—“and you can feel it growing in me.”
Brianna stiffened. When she did not move, Fionvar reached for the handle of a silver bell and jangled it.
Lady Catherine instantly appeared from the inner chamber and curtsied.
“Fetch Strelana here, and quickly,” Fionvar ordered.
Catherine curtsied again, and exited swiftly.
“Even if it were true,” Brianna said, “how would we know it’s his child?”
“Wolfram did not think otherwise, Majesty. May I call you Brianna? After all, I am practically part of the family.”
“What does he know of such things? Clearly he was taken in by your deceit.”
Sighing, Asenith settled back in her chair, fingering the pendant. “Paternity is such a difficult issue, it’s true.” Her features formed a thoughtful air, but the glinting eyes turned again to Fionvar. “Of course, with his father being so special, no doubt Wolfram, too, is possessed of some little miracles of wisdom.”
Brianna sprang from her chair and crossed to the far window, leaning into the frame to watch the garden. Fionvar, with a glance toward Asenith, followed, moving to stand beside the queen though he did not touch her.
“What has the little fool gotten us into?” Brianna murmured. “Am I so terrible that he needed this revenge?”
“We don’t know that. We don’t know anything for sure, not yet. Let Strelana examine her, then we can get Wolfram down here and listen to his side.”
“His side? He has been sleeping with the Usurper’s daughter! He should have known better than to father himself a bastard, never mind with her. Oh, yes, I’ll get him down here, but listening will not be the first thing on my mind.” Crimson suffused her flesh and her fingers, recently so sensuous, now tightened on the windowpane as if she’d carve through it with her nails.
“He’s wild, Brianna, you’ve said so yourself, but I don’t think he’s stupid, and I don’t think he’s so bent on revenge
that he’d go this far to get it.” Now he pressed his hand over hers. “Not that he hasn’t put us in a very tight place.”
Behind them, the door swung open, and Catherine cleared her throat. The pair turned to find Strelana the Healer awaiting their command, head bowed, eyes flicking back from a surreptitious view of Asenith. The former princess picked her way through the bowl of fruit, evidently unconcerned.
“Bring my son, would you, Catherine?” Brianna gestured for Strelana to rise and approach. “This—lady—thinks that she is with child. Would you please determine the truth of the matter?” Her voice rang with regal authority bordering on arrogance.
Strelana curtsied to Asenith. “My lady,” she said, “I’ll need to touch you.”
“Of course,” Asenith replied graciously. She parted the lacing at the side of her gown and let the old woman slip her hands beneath the cloth. Frowning, Strelana pressed her gentle hands to the other woman’s flesh, letting the fingers creep about with cautious prodding.
At last, she nodded. “The lady is correct. About three months, I’d say.”
Brianna blanched, then quickly turned away. Fionvar nodded back to the healer. “We would ask for your discretion in this, Strelana,” he said carefully.
Her eyebrows twitched, but she curtsied. “Of course, my lord.”
When Strelana opened the door, Lady Catherine barreled into her, both women stumbling back, breathless. Strelana edged by, and Catherine entered, her face as white as the queen’s. On her heels came Gwythym DuLarce, Captain of the Guard. His skin was gray, eyes red, hands shaking as he bowed. He clenched one fist around his sword hilt to try to regain some measure of control.
“Your Majesty,” Catherine began, gasping in a breath, “I found him on his way from the prince’s.”
“What’s happened?” Brianna looked from one to the other, and her hand reached out blindly beside her.
Fionvar squeezed the searching fingers in his.
Gwythym gulped and swallowed, lowering his eyes. “The prince is gone, Your Majesty. Early this morning. His manservant, Erik, is dead, and my son, Dylan—” He swallowed again, tongue darting out to dampen dry lips.
“Great Lady, not Dylan!”
“He’s breathing, but he’s not opened his eyes.” Gwythym shut his own, wincing as he tried to master his breathing.
Releasing Brianna, Fionvar crossed to his friend and took him by the shoulders, gazing on the bowed head, red hair streaked with gray. Asenith shifted back in her chair, trying to look inconspicuous, but Fionvar glared at her. “Catherine, take this lady to a chamber and set guards to watch her there.”
Asenith glared right back. “Last night, I stayed in Wolfram’s rooms; besides, I have a stake in this as much as any of you.” She cupped a hand over her stomach.
“Catherine, get her out,” Fionvar growled, and the lady hurried to obey.
Catherine took Asenith’s arm firmly, hauling her for the door. At first, she tried to resist, then allowed herself to be tugged into the hall and gathered her skirts in one hand, thrusting her chin up as if it were she who insisted on going.
“Sit down, Gwythym, tell us all.” Fionvar gently guided him to a chair and poured out some water for the captain.
Behind him, Brianna came out of her shock to settle back in her chair, pushing away the plate of food. She focused her attention on the captain as well.
After taking a long swallow, Gwythym began. “A few hours ago, a man came up to me from the western gate. The garrison had been roused by a fight outside, and mustered quickly. They found a rowdy group of refugees and two bodies. My men fought to subdue the easterners, but they were already running away. A few stayed to fight. In the dark, it must’ve been chaos. When they brought out enough torches, they found Erik there dead, and Dylan among the injured.” As he reported to his commander the tremors left his voice, and he straightened. “We lost two men, four wounded.”
“What of the refugees?” Brianna prompted.
“Five down, six wounded. They’re in the infirmary.”
The queen shook her head, and sighed. “Go on. Tell us about Wolfram.”
“Seemed odd to find Erik and Dylan there without the prince, Majesty, so we sent up to his chambers. That lady answered. Said he’d gone out with the servant, and she hadn’t seen him.” Gwythym reddened. “Should’ve told you then, I suppose, Your Majesty, since—” He broke off.
“Tell me everything, Gwythym. It can hardly be worse than we’ve had already.”
“Well, why’d he go looking for company if he’d already got this lady in his room, that’s what I wondered. Must’ve been some other reason. I didn’t worry though, since—” he broke again, shrugged, and went on—“it’s like him to be impulsive, begging your pardon, Your Majesty. Wouldn’t be the first time I had to bring him in.”
Brianna frowned. “I don’t recall hearing about this, Captain.”
His face reddened further and he shifted uncomfortably. “Some things a young man would just as soon his mother not know, Majesty, even a prince.”
“After you’ve done here, perhaps you’d better tell me about those things.”
He glanced to Fionvar but nodded once. “We started to search the city, Majesty, all his places. Anywhere Dylan or Erik might’ve left him. No sign, not anywhere. We got a chance to ask the injured men this morning, and one of them said he thought he’d seen the prince, just a glimpse mind you, before the battle. Long and the short of it is”—he met Brianna’s gaze without flinching—“either he’s gone off with the refugees, or they’ve taken him and fought to cover themselves.”
“Oh my Holy Mother,” Fionvar breathed.
“You’re saying you think the prince has been kidnapped? To what end?”
“Money, sanctuary?” Gwythym took another swallow of water and shrugged again. “They’ve been asking your intervention, Majesty, perhaps they thought this’d make sure of it.”
“Bury it,” she snapped. “What proof? What’ve we got?”
“Well, we’re looking for the refugees from last night, and we’ve just got an interpreter to talk to these ones in the infirmary. I’m sorry I waited so long to tell you. I just…” He slumped in the chair.
“You didn’t want to tell us the prince was gone,” Fionvar supplied quietly.
Gwythym nodded miserably. “Might as well turn in my badge, Fion.”
“How’s Dylan?”
“He went down early in the fighting, got trampled, mostly. They say he’ll pull through. Erik though—” Gwythym shuddered suddenly.
Fionvar and Brianna waited.
“Some monster left him gutted like a fish, begging your pardon. Most terrible thing I’ve ever seen.” His voice died away, remembering.
Fionvar put a hand over Brianna’s, stilling its trembling. The queen whispered, “And these people have my son.”