Sorcerer's Legacy (5 page)

“Which is the Prince?” whispered Elienne in Kennaird’s ear.

“Hush.” The apprentice was sweating. Something had made him nervous, and, searching that vast chamber for the reason, Elienne began to take note of the proceedings. An emaciated old man stood on the dais. Heavily ornamented red and black robes draped his stooped back, and though his poor health was evident from a distance, his tremulous voice carried clearly the breadth of the room.

“...since his Guardian’s death, his Grace has done nothing but drink himself senseless,” the elderly man said with succinct clarity. “Were he a Prince worthy to rule, he would not indulge himself to the point of shameless exhibition. It is my opinion this Council wastes time seeking a formal Consort. What can his Grace achieve in seven days that he hasn’t already tried with every scullery drudge and loose wench he could find to fill his nights? My Lords, your Excellency, I say Prince Darion is unfit for succession. The sooner that sad fact is faced, the better for the well-being of this realm.”

Elienne wondered how anyone could listen to such a hidebound outburst; but like the first warning of stormwind on a still afternoon, murmurs of assent swept the packed galleries. Elienne’s temper roused, stripping away the last vestige of restraint. Caution abandoned, she slipped past Kennaird and walked boldly onto the floor.

“Fools!” she said scornfully. “Would you listen to that lame old rooster? Fathering children is a pastime for the young.” She shot a withering glance at the elder, whose jaw quivered with outrage in a face gone red to the top of his bald skull. “Or had you forgotten that, in the advanced state of your senility?”

Hard hands gripped Elienne’s arm, and a flurry of black velvet rippled against her skirts. “Will you shut up?” hissed Kennaird in her ear. The council chamber had fallen silent, and every eye in the room was upon them. At that moment, Elienne noticed who sat in the great chair at the top of the dais.

She had not looked closely at the man when she first entered, but now his golden gaze drew all of her attention. Fear knotted her stomach. Though unfamiliarly framed by a court setting and a collar of burgundy brocade, the fine, light hair, high cheekbones, and sculpture-perfect features were indelibly etched in Elienne’s memory.

“Have you business here, woman?” Faisix said softly. “If so, it had better be exceedingly important. Your abusive contributions are not welcome.” His eyes passed lightly over her gown of yellow silk. “And the clothing you wear is a royal affront. How dare you, without this Council’s approval, dress yourself as Prince’s Consort?”

Kennaird objected loudly. “She has Ielond’s endorsement.” He flourished the writ in his hand, and confusion erupted across the council chamber.

“Silence!” The uproar reluctantly subsided as Faisix nodded pointedly at the document. “Bring that here.”

Kennaird bowed neatly from the waist. “Your pardon, Excellency. I was instructed to give this only into Master Taroith’s hands.”

Faisix seemed unperturbed. “Very well. Taroith?”

A tall, white-haired gentleman rose from a seat on the dais. Robes of silver-gray covered a spare body, and the eyes, brown and kindly, were set in a face molded by wisdom and compassion. From the first glance, Elienne knew she confronted Ielond’s equal, a Sorcerer she could both trust and like.

“Kennaird,” Taroith said immediately. His step, as he descended the dais, was that of a man half his years. “I see you wear mourning for Ielond. You have my sympathy. He was the finest Master Pendaire has ever known.”

Taroith gave Elienne a smile of reassurance and with honest curiosity accepted the writ. “Welcome, my Lady.” He looked down and briefly inspected the seals on the document. “Pendaire could benefit under a Queen such as you. I wish you the best of fortune with the Prince.”

The Sorcerer broke the seals with swift efficiency in a certain prescribed order. Though bent with age, his fingers moved like lightning. As the last wafer of wax parted, a bright blue glyph blazed into view alongside the light of his focus.

Taroith smiled and addressed the Council. “That is Ielond’s own ward. It could have been set only by his living hand. Therefore, what it sealed lies beyond our right to question here.”

The chamber became still as death. Taroith quickly scanned the written lines and at last raised his eyes from the parchment.

“Your Excellency,” he said to Faisix. “My Lords.” He directed a respectful glance toward the galleries, momentarily preoccupied; then, with a confident gesture, reached out and grasped Elienne’s hand. “The writ of Ielond, Guardian of the Royal ward, Darion of Pendaire, recommends to us this maiden, Elienne, as candidate for Consort. Ma’Diere bless her presence. She has solved a difficult problem.”

A tumultuous wave of talk rose, drowning Taroith’s last words. Beckoning to Elienne, the Sorcerer nodded toward the dais.

“Go with him,” said Kennaird. “And good luck, Missy.”

Elienne moved forward, aware the uproar in the council chamber centered on her. Taroith led her up the steps to the dais. The insulted elder stood at the top, shakily glaring at their approach. Elienne ignored him. He was a known enemy. Surrounding her, as yet undeclared, were others. Elienne studied the faces of the notables on the dais before their first startled expressions could be replaced by less revealing ones.

Taroith placed Ielond’s writ is Faisix’s hands and drew Elienne forward. “His Excellency Faisix of Torkal, who serves Pendaire as Regent until the Prince’s rights of succession have been confirmed.”

Elienne curtsied, since courtesy demanded it. Strangely, no trace of recognition appeared on Faisix’s features. He would not recall the meeting on the icefield until a fortnight hence, Elienne realized. Ielond had spliced her back in time; for Faisix, the encounter had not yet taken place.

Faisix’s light, chill gaze broke through her thoughts, rapt with the curiosity of a predator whose hunger is temporarily quiescent. At last his glance returned to the writ.

“Ielond’s choice,” he mused. “Your Prince has been made to wait a long time for you, Missy.”

Abruptly the Regent rose and addressed Taroith. “Circumstances are hardly normal. The Prince’s grace period is nearly over. I will urge the Grand Council to adjourn at once, that the ten Select may meet separately over this matter.” Faisix turned and spoke anxiously to a portly individual who stood nearby. Though confusion still prevailed on the main floor and in the galleries, his words brought gradual order to those on the dais.

Taroith gave Elienne’s hand a light squeeze. “Formalities, only. Don’t let them upset you. Ielond’s word will stand. It cannot be otherwise. There may be inconveniences added to satisfy a few malcontents, but nothing overly serious. Ielond without a doubt had compelling reasons for selecting this hour for your presentation. Anyone who knew him as I did will trust his judgment, and the rest must acknowledge his legal writ.”

Elienne stared at the richly patterned carpet under her feet and wondered how much Taroith knew of Faisix and the Prince’s curse. Obviously the Sorcerer endorsed her cause. But if the unsettled emotions she had noticed among the council members had accurately gauged their reaction to her presence, she would need more than support. She required nothing less than an ally who was guarded against treachery, and of those present Ielond had placed trust in only one.

“Gifted,” said Elienne to Taroith, turning so Faisix would not overhear. “Gifted, one present wishes the Prince to fail his succession. He has powerful followers.”

Not a flicker of expression altered Taroith’s countenance, but he drew Elienne away from the crowd of notables promptly. “Missy, if Ielond told you who the Prince’s enemies were, you had best name them to me now.”

They reached the stairs and started down. Taroith’s focus lit features that were calm but receptive; and, drawing a deep breath, Elienne plunged ahead. “Don’t ask me to explain,” she said in a low voice. “I know this much first hand, without Ielond to warn me. Your Regent wants Prince Darion dead, Gifted, and my own life to him is but a grass stalk before the Scythe of Ma’Diere.”

Taroith directed a swift glance over his shoulder. Faisix lingered yet on the dais, though the Select of the Grand Council had begun to heed his summons and gather into a group. Looking back to Elienne, Taroith said, “Whatever you do, don’t mention him directly by name. He is Sorcerer enough to follow what concerns him, and no ward of secrecy is possible in this place.”

As they reached the level of the mosaic, Taroith ushered Elienne across its echoing expanse toward a small side door.

“Your accusation is a grave one, Missy.”

Elienne dodged around a message boy who had stopped in her path to stare. “Gifted, Ielond left me but two names I could trust in all Pendaire. Yours was one of them. He said I was to look to you for guidance.”

Taroith regarded Elienne long and steadily as he walked. “Ielond gave his life to bring you here, didn’t he?”

Elienne nodded, avoiding speech. The Guardian’s death was too recent for her to contemplate without emotional interference.

“Well then.” The Sorcerer reached the door, pushed it open, and briskly drew Elienne after. “We mustn’t fail him in his final wish. You have my protection, Lady. We will soon see who would rather Darion fails his inheritance.”

“Jieles, also,” Elienne added.

Taroith made a noise in his throat. “That one I already know to be grasping and selfish.”

With a wave of his hand, the Sorcerer set his focus about the task of igniting the wall sconces. Thin new flames lit a white-walled room trimmed with gilt molding, and furnished with a long table and chairs. The last wick had barely caught fire when the door opened wide to admit the Grand Council’s Select. They were all past middle age, and as brilliantly dressed as a flock of rare birds.

Pendaire must be a rich kingdom, Elienne concluded, or else its peasantry was excessively oppressed. The last of the Select filed in, the elder Elienne had insulted entered among them, supported on Faisix’s arm.

“We can also assume that old Garend there is no friend,” murmured Taroith in Elienne’s car. “You touched his pride with your slight to his manhood, I’m afraid. He is one who holds a vicious grudge.”

Confronted close hand by Garend’s crumpled cheeks and pinched, miserly features, Elienne found it difficult to regret her hasty words. The man reminded her of sour milk. Never one to bury dislike under innocuous courtesies, Elienne accepted the chair Taroith offered without comment. The Select of Pendaire’s Grand Council would no doubt provoke response from her soon enough; she had simply to wait and to watch.

Faisix opened by having Ielond’s writ read aloud by a scribe. The document was lengthy, detailed, and formally phrased, yet the Select listened without interruption until it was complete. The silence held as the scribe returned the writ to Faisix and departed, leaving the liveried door steward the only other nonofficial in the room beside Elienne.

“It appears Ielond has left us an eminently qualified candidate,” said Faisix to the assembly. “All that remains to satisfy the procedure of the law is this Council’s signature of endorsement.”

A subtle and clever opening: Faisix had used simplicity as a gambit in a trap to be sprung by the Prince’s own supporters, Elienne realized immediately. Her suspicion was swiftly confirmed.

“There are but seven days left for Prince Darion to conceive an heir,” said one of the Select. “Ielond’s timing has given him poor odds of fulfilling the terms of the Law. I move that he be allowed a twelve-month extension, lest he be condemned without fair chance.”

The debate was opened. Faisix sat back in his chair, ambiguously silent, as another voice contested. History held record of six royal executions. Not one of Darion’s predecessors had been granted additional time.

The original defendant was quick to point out that those six unfortunates had been paired with a legal Consort for years. But Garend struck down that argument with a specific.

“What difference, my Lords?” he said in his rasping tenor. “King Mistrael II had no legal Consort at all. He was granted his rights of succession on the evidence of four illegitimate children. This Prince of ours has lain with enough women to demonstrate the potency of his favors. He has sired no bastards. The Grand Jury would have no choice but to rule out his case.”

Murmurs of assent underlined Garend’s statement, but argument prevailed. Words grew heated, and delicately, without Faisix’s prompting, the Select swung their questioning from Darion to Ielond’s own motives for revealing an unknown candidate at the bitter end of the Prince’s trial period. Garend’s contributions figured heavily. His was the first attack to be targeted at Elienne, and even through dignified phrases his malice was apparent.

The accusations prompted Taroith, who had remained silent, to speak out at last. “Garend,” he said with firm finality. “The Lady’s candidacy is not yours to question.”

“I must,” Garend responded. “For the sake of Pendaire. Though no Sorcerer, even I am aware a gifted healer can simulate virginity well enough to pass your examination. If this missy were an ordinary candidate, Ielond surely would have presented her case before today. I say the Prince is incapable, and that fact is what prompted his Guardian’s great delay.”

A muttering swept around the table, killed by Taroith’s forceful exclamation. “Nonsense! Ielond was the most respected Master in Pendaire; that was the reason he was appointed Guardian to begin with. You do him and Elienne both a disservice by mistrusting her candidacy. I personally believe she is someone special, that Ielond took pains to select her above other more available women. Whether true virgin or not, she cannot be pregnant without her examiner’s knowledge. And I remind you all it is Darion’s ability to
father offspring
which must satisfy the Law, not the past history of his Consort.”

“But suppose Ielond was capable of creating pregnancy and shielding it by sorcery,” Garend persisted. “The possibility must be considered.”

Surprisingly, Faisix himself ended the controversy. His lips slid easily into the thin, brittle smile Elienne recalled from the icefield. “My Lords,” he admonished. “Are we so easily made victims of hysteria? Pregnancy cannot be fabricated without employing the Black arts. If such is the case, it will be quite obvious even to the green eye of an apprentice.”