The Eunuch's Heir (8 page)

Wolfram glowered back. A chill rippled through him. The demon, who had not awakened for these long months, stirred in its sleep, itching for a fight. “I worked five years with Mistress Lyssa, if the name means something to you.”

One wiry eyebrow quirked upward. “Oh, aye? You’re a carver, then?”

“I can be, if I’m needed,” he replied coolly.

The mason let out a gust of laughter. “We’ll see. You worked under Mistress Lyssa.” A wistful look crossed the man’s face, and he leaned closer. “Wouldn’t you rather have worked over her?” He winked broadly.

Wolfram felt himself flush and brought his teeth down on a sharp reply.

The mason drew back, eyebrows leaping. “Or have you already?”

Wolfram took the excuse he was offered. “You’ve not asked why I left there, have you?”

Another gust of laughter greeted this response, and the man slapped him on the back. “Well, lad, welcome to you! What’s your name?”

“Wolfram,” he said before he could stop himself. Warily, he glanced to the mason.

“Aye, and isn’t every lad your age. I’ve three Wolframs apprenticed already!” He guffawed. “Matter of fact, your mistress”—he wriggled his eyebrows for emphasis—“was here looking for that Prince Wolfram a few months back.”

“She was?” Wolfram blurted.

The tone of his voice brought the man’s eyes down to him. “Aye, that she was.”

Wolfram wet his lips. “I’m lucky she didn’t spy me on the road, then.”

“I suppose you are at that.” He rolled up the parchment in his meaty fists. “I’ll start you at five shillings, go to seven if you’re any good.”

Five? How was he to find a room on so little? Why the best inns—Wolfram stopped himself, willing the demon back into its cave. He was not a prince here, just a common stonecutter, and that was a stonecutter’s wage. Grimly, he nodded.

The mason nodded toward a pile of stones not far off. “’Twill be a fountain, if the Lady’s willing, and the hands are strong. Foreman’ll get you your tools.”

THE FOREMAN
did more than give him tools. When he found that Wolfram had no place to stay, he offered the loft of his stables until the young man could find a better one. Wolfram gladly accepted that, plus an advance on his week’s wages to buy new clothes and a bath. His nascent beard he let go, pleased to feel how thickly it grew. When he caught sight of himself in the tarnished bathhouse mirror, it took a touch of his own cheek to convince him the face was his. Tanned, with raven hair and a shaggy beard, he offered himself a grin. Even if he’d passed Lyssa, she would never have known him.

The work in the garden was hard. Even at his most ardent, lessons of statesmanship or language had always dragged him away from carving. Still, Lyssa had once claimed he had the gift, and a few days of shaping simple tiles found him lost in the element of stone. The swing of the hammer, the bounce of the chisel stretched his muscles and eased his mind. Concentrating on the work before him, he could pretend he was no more than a simple laborer too bold for his own good. Between the labor and the nights of drinking with the other lads, he could almost forget himself. If he drank enough ale to pass out, even the looming face in the darkness left him alone.

After a particularly hard night, Wolfram squinted into the glaring sun. He trudged along a path well marked by others, helping to unload great sacks of marble dust to be made into mortar. The stuff dusted the ground around him and the
rough clothes he’d purchased. Plain wool made his legs itch so that his fingers twitched on the sack, dying to get at the annoyance. He’d cut back on his drinking to save money for a new pair of breeches; never having had to pay before, he had no idea that cotton cost so much. Like the others, he wore no shirt, so that the bear claw dangled on his chest, both warning and enigma to his master.

Gritting his teeth, Wolfram shifted a new sack up to his bare shoulder and turned, starting off along the new-laid marble toward the far end. Just then, a small party emerged from the arch not far off, and stopped, surveying the work. The three ladies, two quite young, and one older matron frowning into the glare, lifted their skirts, waving off the dust with pale hands. As they turned to retreat from the clouded sun, the man behind them stood a moment longer, hand to his brow, squinting into the middle distance. Red-brown hair touched his shoulders, and his clothes, though fine, marked him as a tradesman rather than a lord. When he lowered his hand and turned to follow, Wolfram caught sight of his face.

The heavy sack slid through Wolfram’s numb fingers, bursting against the tile.

Laborers coughed and cursed around him, quick to escape the drift of whiteness that covered him, but Wolfram barely breathed. If it had not been for Lyssa’s portrait, he would never have known him. The hair, the height, though at odds with legend, did not distract him from the man’s face. King Rhys, his father.

Movement showed the little party approaching, and a shout heralded the master. Wolfram stood and stared, his mouth hanging slightly open, his itch forgotten.

King Rhys came up, frowning, waving away the dust, he began, “Are you—” then the voice—the light, strange voice—died away. Color slid from the man’s face, and his trembling hand flew to his throat. He gasped, his honey-colored eyes gone wide. He stepped back, blundered into the ladies, turned and fled as if his life depended on it.

Blood roared in Wolfram’s ears, and he clenched his teeth, his nails digging into his palms of their own accord. The breath
he had been holding came out in a snarl. The bastard knew him, ran from him like the coward he was. All the lies washed over Wolfram in a cold torrent. If the ladies had not been barring his way—he became aware of a new sound tickling the demon within him. One of the ladies was laughing.

“What have you done to him?” the woman laughed, gesturing back the way King Rhys had run.

Wolfram moved at last, dragging a hand across his eyes, blinking fiercely to clear the dust. He swung his throbbing head to focus upon her.

Dark-haired and elegant in a gown of blue silk, the young woman burst out laughing again at the sight of his face. “You look like a ghost!” she sputtered, her green eyes twinkling. She’d let her skirts fall to the ground, heedless of the mess. “I doubt a ghost would scare him so.”

“Who was that?” Wolfram demanded.

The other two women exchanged a stern glance, and their leader stifled her laughter, her brows drawing together in some consternation. She looked vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place her.

“That man who ran away, who was he?” Wolfram insisted again. Off to one side, the master mason swore under his breath.

The mirth fled her features. “Your Highness.”

Wolfram’s hand pressed the bear claw tight to the wild beating of his heart.

“Forgive me, Your Highness,” the master said, coming up beside him.

Bury it, did everyone know him? Wolfram turned, the demon overcoming its momentary paralysis, but the master was not addressing him. With cheeks ruddy from embarrassment, the old man bowed to the ladies.

Spinning on his heel back to face them, Wolfram suddenly placed the resemblance. “Melody?” he blurted.

A heavy, stone-hardened hand smacked him so that Wolfram’s shaky knees buckled, and he floundered to one side. The blow burned in his cheek even as the cold rush of fury consumed him.

Balling his hand into a fist, Wolfram slammed the man’s jaw. The lip cracked, spurting blood to dampen the whiteness of the marble.

The master staggered back, hands clasped over the injury. “I’ll have your hide for this, boy!” He plunged forward again, as if to tan his workman’s hide then and there.

Wolfram ducked the wild swing, bringing his own fist up smoothly to connect with the master’s jaw with a crunch. The impact shivered down Wolfram’s arm as he followed through, crashing his opponent to the ground. “No man lays a hand on me.”

The stamp of heavy feet cut through the throbbing as guards came to the princess’s aid.

“Bury it!” The eddies of Wolfram’s fury whirled within him as his mind raced. When the leaders came up to one side, he dropped to his knees, then rolled.

As expected, the ladies sprang away, shrieking.

Wolfram scrambled up and ran headlong for the arch. He leapt a bed of lavender, landed hard, and sprinted for freedom. Dodging a cluster of guards by the bridge, he won through to the city, making for the main gate.

He had already reached the open market, with the wall rearing up behind, when the first sparks of reason struck through the anger. Panting, he drew up into an alley and considered his place. The master would be out for blood, but he’d also be out cold for a little while at least. As to the princess, he might have insulted her, but it was no serious offense, and he could always reveal his right to use her given name. A new chill caught his stomach. Murder, on the other hand, was a hanging offense. Even if his royalty could save him that fate, what sort of trust could he have with that deed upon him?

So he must leave, but he’d have the time to reach his loft and take away what little he owned. Wolfram set out again at a jog, winding through the progressively narrower streets toward the foreman’s cottage. He let himself quietly into the barn, shushing the two horses, and climbed up into the hay that had been his home for a week. Quickly, he pulled on his
shirt then found his long boar-gutting knife, and Morra’s belt with its flint and steel. Every time he used them, he thought of her, and his warmth was doubled. He fumbled in the hay to find the pouch containing his last few coppers. Then he froze.

Below him, one of the horses snorted and stamped. A shaft of light pierced the gloom from the open door and someone stepped through.

“Hello? Are you here?” A woman made her way toward the ladder. “No good hiding from me!”

Wolfram strangled the pouch with both hands. Even in his blackest rage, he had never struck a woman, not even that whore Asenith. He glanced up sharply as Princess Melody’s head appeared at the top of the ladder.

“Well, hello.” She grinned. “It seems I’ve caught you.”

“Let me by,” he said, “and no harm will come to you.”

Her bright laughter bounced from the low ceiling. “I’ll tell the captain that when he gets here; he’ll not be pleased with either of us, especially since I found you first.” She leaned in toward him, and whispered, “I had to steal a horse.”

Wolfram slumped back on his heels, the rush seeping out of him. He shook his head. “This delay may be the death of me.”

“Oh, don’t be dramatic,” she rejoined him sharply, then the grin slipped back. “That’s what Mother’s always saying to me. You should be using my title, though.”

“Sorry, Your Highness.” He searched the darker corners of the loft. He might have hidden, but a word from her would probably get the place torched. After four years apart, his recollections of Melody were of a tomboyish girl with capricious moods. Bright, sly, and utterly charming, alternately supporting her brother’s dire proclamations about him, then wooing him back to her friendship. After the third or fourth incident when her bruise or ripped gown mysteriously became his fault, Wolfram had been banned from playing with the little princess, which he had thought just as well. But seeing her now, he could think of a few new games to play.

With a snort of laughter for his libido, Wolfram dropped his eyes from her face.

“Do I know you?” she asked suddenly.

“I work in the gardens, but not for long, only a week, I mean, Your Highness.”

“Oh, no.” She shook her head fiercely. “There’s something about you, and there’s the way Master Duncan reacted when he saw you.”

“Who?” In the blackness of anger, Wolfram had almost forgotten the start of the incident. He scrambled toward her. “Who is he?”

“What’s it to you?” She pulled a little back, her arms outstretched as they clung to the rails. Then, her eyes widened, and she flung herself forward again. “Wolfram! But you’ve dyed your hair!”

He groaned and flopped back into the hay. Doomed for certain, now.

Melody pulled herself up the last few rungs and crawled over to stare down into his face. “What’re you doing here, and like this? Why are you in disguise?”

Outside, marching echoed from the buildings, and Wolfram gripped her shoulder, stopping the flow of questions. “There’s no time, Melody, your men are here.”

She nodded quickly, coming close. “You’re in hiding,” she breathed.

“Yes. They can’t know who I am. It’s extremely important.”

“Highness?” a man shouted. “Are you here, Your Highness?”

Melody pressed a finger to Wolfram’s lips and scurried to the opening. She leaned down. “After him, Captain!”

“What?”

“Didn’t he pass you? He’s just gone!” She stuck her arm through to point out the door. “Hurry!”

“Are you well, Your Highness?”

“I’m fine, don’t bother about me! By the mount, I nearly had him.” She smoothed back her hair.

Still, the man hesitated. “But—”

“Go!” She shouted down at him. “I’ll just sit and catch my breath.” She sat up again, turning to wink at Wolfram as the men below tramped out and scattered for the search. Crawling back over, she sat down beside him, studying him sidelong.

“Thanks,” he muttered, sitting up as well, scratching his beard.

“It was fun,” she replied, her teeth gleaming in the filtered light.

“I’d best be going, or they’ll come back.”

She caught his arm. “Don’t go. I’ve just found you, and I want to hear it all.”

Wolfram glowered at her. “Well, I’m in a hurry. We’ll have to talk another time.” He pushed himself toward the ladder.

Her grip tightened. “Don’t go, Wolfram.”

“Don’t try to stop me, Melody, you have no idea what’s at stake.”

“I’ll scream,” she said simply.

Wolfram wet his lips, staring down the ladder.

“They’d come running, and they won’t even bother about who you are before they hack you to bits.”

“You wouldn’t,” he scoffed, inching forward.

She released his arm and settled back into the hay. “Try me.”

Very slowly, Wolfram turned toward her. All the fun had gone out of her voice and face, her pretty lips set into a firm line. Their eyes met, and he let out a long breath. “What do you want from me, Melody?”

“Stay with me, Wolfie, a little while,” she pleaded. “You have no idea how boring it is being a princess. Alyn goes off adventuring all the time, speaking the words of the Lady, glowing like starlight on earth. The only thing I have to look forward to is picking a husband from the legion of fools they keep parading by me. That fight in the garden was the most excitement I’ve had in years.”

Wolfram grunted. “It was stupid. I wasn’t thinking straight, and I blew it.”

“You were magnificent,” she breathed. “Great Lady, Wol
fram, I’ve never seen anybody fight like that.” She balled her smooth hands into fists, swinging at the air. “The mason must weigh three times as much, but you put him on his back like a dead fish.” She smacked a fist into her palm. “I wish I could do that.”

“It’s not a skill I’m proud of,” Wolfram growled, but he moved away from the ladder to sit beside her. He rubbed his right hand absently with his left.

Watching the gesture, Melody reached out and took his tingling hand between hers, gently chafing the numbness out. “You should be proud.” She ducked her head over his battered hand.

He shook his head. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand.” His fingers warmed in her grasp, and he looked down at the fall of dark hair that brushed his wrist.

Their eyes met, and she smirked at him through the gloom. “You’re the brother I should have had.”

“What about Alyn?”

“He’s off for another pilgrimage, chasing another ridiculous vision. He hears voices, Wolfram, every voice except mine.” The words trailed off.

“I didn’t know,” he said.

“Will you let me call you ‘brother’?” she asked. “And you can call me ‘sister,’ if you want. After all, you haven’t got one.”

He nodded reluctantly, though that was the last thing he wanted to call her. The scent of the hay conjured memories of other stables, other girls not half as beautiful.