The Eunuch's Heir (25 page)

Drawing the skins about his shoulders, Quinan made no answer as he vanished into the forest.

WOLFRAM JERKED
awake, the scent of the tiger strong in his nostrils. Immediately he stilled himself and listened. He thought the door had opened and softly shut, but there was no sound of breathing aside from his own. No stealthy footsteps stalked his bed. No moist breath touched his skin, nor did he sense the heat of the beast.

Cautiously, Wolfram raised his head, shifting toward his back, and feeling the twinge of the new scars on his side. He edged himself up on the pillows, turning bit by bit until he was propped up on his back.

A spasm jolted through him, smacking his head against the wall as he scrambled back.

Warmth dampened the bed where he sat, and he muttered, “Goddess’s Tears,” willing himself to relax.

Alternating stripes of fire and darkness, with the whiteness of its belly showing, the tiger lay at the foot of the bed. Or rather, the tiger skin. Some kind soul had thought to go back for it. Somebody—Lyssa?—had prepared it while he slept, and brought it as a surprise. He would kill her. He would throttle her with his bare hands once his heartbeat had gotten back under control. Not to mention his bladder.

Wolfram bowed his head, releasing his grip on the blankets and tensing, then relaxing his fingers. He took a deep, if shaky, breath, and followed it with one more steady. He’d just gotten the nerve up to shove the tiger off onto the floor when the door banged open, and he hit his head all over again.

“Jumpy?” asked the newcomer in a jovial tone. He offered that gleaming smile that made Wolfram first want to kiss his feet, then smack the teeth out of his head: Alyn.

Who else but Prince Alyn of Bernholt could show up out of nowhere, unexpected, and manage to catch Wolfram terrified and sitting in a puddle of his own piss?

“Please tell me you brought that thing so I have an excuse to take your head off.” Wolfram straightened the covers quickly, with a flick to indicate the tiger skin.

“What, don’t you want the trophy of your kill?” Alyn’s rich tenor voice made the whole room seem brighter, and he drew the curtains to enhance the effect, turning back to Wolfram with that same smile.

Sunlight lent a halo to the tight golden curls and the velvet of his mantle. “I cannot claim the reward for that gift, however, as I believe it was Mistress Lyssa who brought it. I greeted her on the stairs.” He stripped off his riding gloves, dropping them and his mantle onto one of the chairs, then pulling the other one closer to the bedside. “It’s a fine skin—I don’t believe I have ever seen its like!” He dropped into the chair and swung his legs up to rest his boots on the tiger’s back. When he crossed his ankles, a little cloud of traveling dust rose up into the beam of light and settled down on the fur. “So you slew the monster with your bare hands and a boar knife. Do tell!”

Wolfram rubbed his temple with two fingers as he tried to meet Alyn’s gaze; one eye to two. As if Alyn needed another advantage.

Still smiling, Alyn let his bright eyes travel the whole of Wolfram’s face. He let out a little sigh and shook his head. “Hard to handle a bow now, wouldn’t you say?”

“What are you doing here?” Wolfram managed.

“The Lady let me know that you were in trouble, and Melody, of course. Where is she, by the way?” He tilted his chin up with a false lightheartedness.

Head pounding, Wolfram allowed himself a sneer. “What, the Lady didn’t reveal her to you? Didn’t show you a vision of Melody in some Hemijrani soldier’s bed?”

Unfazed, Alyn replied, “She’s still a virgin. I would know.”

“Divine knowledge, or direct?”

Alyn lost his smile. He let his feet drop back to the floor and leaned forward. “Do not you accuse me of incest, Prince Wolfram.”

Wolfram felt cold down to his toes. How much did the Lady let Alyn know, and how much did he guess? Wolfram could never be sure.

A knock sounded at the door, and Alyn called, “Come in!” in his most mellifluous tone.

When Soren entered, she was already smiling. “Alyn! We’d no idea you were coming.” They embraced as old friends.

“I’m so sorry I did not send word; it seemed best under the circumstances to come as quickly as possible.” He shot a sympathetic look toward the bed.

“Oh, of course.” She released Alyn and walked over to lay a hand on Wolfram’s brow, without bothering to look at him. “But weren’t you in Drynnlynd? You must’ve left before this ever happened.”

Alyn lowered his head. “I had a feeling I would be needed.”

Soren made the sign of the Goddess. “She truly watches over us, doesn’t She?”

“With or without Alyn’s help,” Wolfram growled.

“The Lady shares her love with all, except for the unbelievers. For them”—Alyn met Wolfram’s single eye—“there is only pity.”

“What about for the sanctimonious, self-righteous bastards?”

“Wolfram!” Soren protested.

Alyn stilled her with a gentle touch. “He’s had a difficult time, Soren. He doesn’t know what he’s saying. It’s a good thing you came in.” Alyn leaned over, and whispered, “I think he needs his bedsheets changed.”

Soren rolled her eyes. “I’ll find someone to help lift him.”

“I can do it,” Alyn said, over Wolfram’s “I don’t need help.”

“Oh, no. I couldn’t ask you to do this. Can you really heal with your hands alone? Is it like magic?”

Alyn’s laughter echoed in the spacious chamber. “No, that’s a ridiculous rumor. It takes someone like you, a trained wizard. I’m just a voice for the Lady, not the hands to do Her work.”

Inching to the side of the bed as they spoke, Wolfram sat up. He gritted his teeth against the complaints of his muscles, tugging his nightshirt down as best he could. Sliding his feet to the floor, Wolfram stood braced against the bed, trembling with weakness.

“Here, let me help you.” Instantly, Alyn jumped to his side, taking his arm in a firm grip. “You shouldn’t be doing this, not in your condition.” He smiled at first, then wrinkled his nose. “Do you think he’s up to a bath, Soren? He’s starting to smell as bad as his girlfriend.”

Startled, Soren stopped gathering the sheets. “What girlfriend?”

“You know, that Hemijrani heathen child—the one who’s living in your stable.”

“Oh, her. I thought you were serious.” She tossed her braid over her shoulder and went back to work.

“Deishima, you mean? You’ve seen her?” Wolfram demanded, pulling his arm out of Alyn’s grasp.

“Briefly, when I brought my horse in. She asked about you, and I assumed she was another of your whores.”

Wolfram pulled back and made a fist, but Alyn caught his hand. “Don’t strain yourself; everyone knows about your women now.” He chuckled as he let Wolfram go. “Most people are pretty impressed, actually. Carrying on for so long under the queen’s nose.”

“Get away from me,” Wolfram spat, struggling to master his muscles. He couldn’t have hit Alyn any harder than a feather. “Why is Deishima in the stables? Where’s Dawsiir?”

Soren shrugged. “Lyssa told everyone not to let them in. I
guess that’s where he felt most comfortable, so he took her along. That’s all I know.”

“Goddess’s Tears, she’s a princess and an acolyte of their high priestess—Didn’t Lyssa tell you any of that?”

“Lyssa did tell me that what’s-her-name was dispossessed and wouldn’t be allowed near the priestess anyhow. Maybe this is what these people do, how should I know?”

Alyn patted his shoulder. “We’ll find them a hut someplace, or a loft or something. Maybe I should try to convert them,” he mused.

Wolfram slapped the hand away and stumbled toward the door. Catching himself on the handle, he popped it open.

“What are you doing? You shouldn’t even be out of bed so soon!” Arms full of sheets, Soren pursued him into the hall, with Alyn on her heels. “Talk sense to him, would you?”

Alyn laughed. “He doesn’t understand sense.”

Maintaining his momentum, Wolfram plunged down the stairs, hanging on to the rail to control his descent. They tilted crazily in all directions, nearer or farther than he expected, as if he’d forgotten how to walk. He stubbed his toes and smacked his feet down hard, panting with the exertion. Even when he’d been falling-down drunk it had never been this difficult. Alyn stayed one step behind, calling out advice but not touching him again.

When they reached level ground again, Wolfram fell against the wall, gasping, hiding his ruined face. The demon tore at his neck and shoulders, urging him onward. A few servants came up, but Wolfram shook his head violently, and they stayed back, staring and whispering.

Alyn gave his eloquent shrug. “I think he’s headed for the stables. Has anyone seen Lyssa? Perhaps you could send her along.”

“Why don’t you fetch her, Alyn? You’re so good at finding people.” Jordan, the Liren-sha and lord of the manor stepped up, briefly gripping Alyn’s hand, then gently pushing him on his way. When Alyn hesitated, Jordan assured him, “Go on; I’ll stay with Wolfram.”

Briskly, Alyn nodded and set off with long strides.

Coming to Wolfram’s side, Jordan murmured, “I would offer you my hand, but I don’t think you’d take it.”

For a moment, Wolfram’s pride stiffened his spine. He mastered his breathing then looked up, shaking the ragged hair back from his eye.

Jordan slipped off the glove he always wore and held out his right hand. Crippled fingers bent together, the knuckles bulbous, the bones at odd angles. During King Rhys’s war, a torturer had broken each bone with hammer and chisel—the tools of the stone carver Lyssa had became. The wizard had healed the flesh but could not make the bones straight again or make the fingers bend. This was the hand he now offered. Jordan met Wolfram’s gaze. “It’ll be harder for you because they’ll want to look you in the eye without seeming to stare. At least I have my gloves.”

Licking his lips, Wolfram studied the hand, then looked back to Jordan’s face. The demon’s claws pricked a little less, and Wolfram reached out for Jordan’s arm.

Slowly, they made their way down the hall and out into the sunlit courtyard. Servants who parted before them bowed their heads to duck their master’s warning gaze.

The stables formed one wall of the small courtyard with open stalls at one end and a building enclosing a few more stalls at the other. The two delicate Hemijrani horses shared one stall, and a dark man paused in the act of refilling their water trough. He dropped the bucket and hurried over, placing his arms together and bowing. A white grin split his face, followed quickly by a frown. Dawsiir bowed again and kept his head lowered, darting glances upward as if unsure what to do next.

“Dawsiir! Thank the Lady. Where’s Deishima?” Wolfram reached out and touched the man’s arm, surprised at his own relief.

Dawsiir let off a stream of Hemijrani, then sprinted ahead of them toward the building. Still leaning on Jordan’s arm, Wolfram followed. The stench of the stable struck him first, and the heat rising from the half dozen horses who munched their hay. It took a moment for his eye to adjust to the dim
interior as Dawsiir led them toward the far corner. A narrow stall stood open though the gate had been draped by an old blanket. Dawsiir spoke urgently over his joined hands and, after a moment, Deishima answered him.

Slowly, she came to the doorway, head bowed and concealed by the shawl she had worn yesterday. She huddled close to the wall, her dark fingers pressed against it, the nails ragged and dirty. One bare foot on top of the other, Deishima stood waiting, one dark eye visible from the folds of the shawl. A few strands of lusterless hair straggled beneath its hem.

A shudder passed through Wolfram from his scarred face to his own naked feet. “Oh, sweet Lady,” Wolfram murmured, releasing Jordan’s arm to prop himself against Deishima’s wall, his face three feet from hers. She seemed to him as a wraith, a desolate spirit still among the living by no choice of its own.

“Wolfram!” Lyssa shouted from the doorway. “What are you doing out of bed?”

“He would not listen to me, of course,” Alyn was saying as he followed her down the aisle.

“She was—” Wolfram said, not turning. “No, she
is
our responsibility.”

“She brought the cursed tiger down on you, or had you forgotten? Whether it came for her or you, the fact of the matter is you’re a cripple because of her!” Lyssa jabbed her finger toward Deishima, who shrank back into the stall.

“So arrest her, lock her in a dungeon as a royal prisoner—she’d be a lot better off than she is now!”

Cutting in front of Jordan, Lyssa crossed her arms. “It’s not your concern, not in your condition. We need to get you back to bed.”

“I can’t leave until I know she’s being taken care of.”

Lyssa growled, “I’ll take care of her—I’ll pitch her into the street.”

“She saved my life,” he said, kneading the pain in his temples, trying to ignore the ache in his side.

“What? When? You didn’t tell me that.”

“In the surgery, she told me to breathe.” He rubbed the empty eye socket, feeling dizzy.

The concern that had quickened in Lyssa’s face vanished into chill. “Don’t be an idiot. It was Alswytha and her daughter who saved you.”

Shivering, Wolfram tried to shake his head. “You don’t understand. I don’t have much time,” he mumbled, waves of nausea spreading through him. “Dawsiir.”

The groom appeared before him, by Deishima, but not so close that he could touch her, even by accident.

“Sell the horses—get clothing, food, find a room.” Wolfram managed to summon up the Hemijrani word for horse. “Buy her some shoes.” From Deishima’s wrappings, a tiny voice emerged, translating.

Dawsiir babbled for a moment, looking from one to the other.

“Didn’t you even learn their language?” Alyn chimed in.

Wolfram picked out the tall, handsome prince leaning casually on an open gate, looking clean and elegant even in these surroundings. Wolfram’s own garb consisted of the thin nightshirt someone had loaned him, stained and stinking. He could barely keep himself upright, never mind strike a nonchalant pose. “You know, Alyn, I don’t really need your help to look ridiculous right now.”

“Highness Wolfram,” Deishima whispered. “He says he has sold all that he could, his knife and belt, other things. He brought me these clothes and some food. He says he has tried to sell the horses, but these people cannot speak with him and do not trust that these horses are his to sell.” She looked up suddenly. “The Ambassador is right; you need rest and to heal yourself. Do not worry over me; I am no longer worth the concern of another.”