The Eunuch's Heir (32 page)

FOR THREE
days, Wolfram feared to leave his room. He sat expecting any moment the knock on his door, the chains to haul him to the dungeon. What more had passed between Fionvar and the queen he did not know. On the second day, there were no guards outside his door and by the third he started to think they would not arrest him; indeed, that none but the three who had been in that room knew that he had killed his servant. It did not absolve him, but it gave him a reprieve, a time to remember how to breathe without anger. Wolfram slept on the floor, missing his boar knife when the tiger’s growl awoke him late at night. The darkest hours he spent with his back to the wall and his heart racing, the tiger’s scent and sound surrounding him—and nothing was there. With a tiny file, he sharpened the bear claw he wore at his throat. He read a little, wrote a few verses, and spent a long time just sitting still, gathering himself.

On the fourth day, the knock came, and Wolfram bolted from his chair, spilling his ink in a black pool upon the stone.

“Enter!” he called.

The door popped open, and Melody stood on his threshold, dressed in an elaborate gown with two sets of false sleeves and a dizzying pattern of vines on the bodice. Her face fell at the sight of him, and she gathered her skirts and bustled in. “But Wolfram, you’re not even dressed!”

Glancing down at his long tunic, loosely belted, Wolfram frowned. “I haven’t been asked back to court, Melody, what else would I wear?”

“My party, silly! Didn’t you hear?”

“Apparently not.”

Melody flopped into a chair, as unprincesslike as ever despite the gown. “It’s our Naming Day, Wolfram. I specifically told him to invite you.”

Warily, Wolfram sat back down, nudging the ink bottle with his toe. “If it was Alyn you told, then I’m not surprised he forgot me.”

“If I can learn how to get on with my brother, Wolfram, then so can you.”

Picking at his ragged fingernails, Wolfram said, “He thinks I’m evil, Melody. It’s hard to forgive someone for that, you know?”

“He’s always spouting warnings of doom. Since we met again, he’s been practically following me around—I had to shake him off to come see you. I’ve not even seen you since you got back!”

“You know where I’ve been.”

“Hiding in your room, I believe.” She reached out and touched his knee, drawing him to face her. “You’ve got fourteen days, Wolfram, surely you can control yourself for fourteen days.” Melody gave him her secret smile.

“Ten.” The touch sent veins of fire straight to his loins, and he wasn’t sure he could even control himself for the next few minutes, the desire to lose himself burned through his self-control.

Staring at him, Melody whispered, “Can I see your eye, brother?”

The fire chilled in an instant. “I’ve only got the one,” he answered, trying to sound cocky.

Pulling back her hand, she said, “You know what I mean.”

He fingered the patch of leather, tracing the thick paint, then eased the strap up and over his head, letting it dangle from his hands in his lap. Slowly, he took a breath, and faced her.

Gasping, Melody drew back. Still, she studied the empty place. Her hand rose as if of its own accord, the fingers
bent to form claws, imagining the strike of the tiger’s paw. “What’s it like?” she murmured. “Does it hurt?”

“It aches, sometimes, or itches. Sometimes I think I’ll take off the patch and be able to see again.”

“Even after that, you still managed to kill Rostam.”

Wolfram paused in pulling on the patch. “Who?”

“The tiger,” she explained. “I can’t stay long, or I’ll be missed at my own party.”

“Shouldn’t you be doing this at home, with your own court?”

“Should be, but Faedre will be leaving after their gathering, and I want to see her off. Alyn didn’t like that, let me tell you.” She rolled her eyes. Somewhere a bell tolled, and Melody grabbed her skirts again, making for the door. “You are coming, aren’t you?”

Rising to see her out, he said, “I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to be anyplace where Alyn is.”

“So you’re never going to leave your room again? That’s not what I expect from you, brother.”

The pulse started at his temple, and Wolfram growled, “I’ll come—but I’ll change first; will that be acceptable?”

“Wonderful!” She grinned and swirled off into the hall with a whisper of satin.

Another turn in Melody’s mercurial heart. She had apparently forgiven him his rejection that night. Perhaps he could ignore her charming self and simply be her friend again as he once had been, now that she had come home and put off the insanity of heathen religion. Poking through his wardrobe, Wolfram found a suitable tabard, forgoing the royal colors in favor of dusky blue velvet. He even discovered a forgotten pair of dancing slippers—not that he would dance, but it was her Name Day, so he could not refuse her politely. The last dance he had done had been at winter camp with his Hurim family, dancing around the fire to celebrate their hunt. At Melody’s party, there would be no drums. Almost as an afterthought, he picked up the golden circlet that had been waiting in its chest these long months. Even before, he had rarely worn it. Now, setting it on his head, it sent a shiver
down his spine. How much longer would he be allowed to wear the symbol of his position?

The image of Deishima in the garden with her hair down flitted through his mind, and he pushed it aside, trying to quell the ache that lodged in his throat. She had forsaken him, denying her acceptance, and Melody had returned, embracing him again. The princess was his cousin, to be sure, but beautiful and exciting, a woman nearly as unpredictable as himself. At the door, he paused and wondered why she had not yet taken suitors. He had heard nothing about it despite their close ties to Bernholt. The matter of his own betrothal had been brought up a few times in the past, always with a sort of tension he did not understand. Now, it made him think they might have delayed offering his hand lest they be stuck with him, or with his heir. Wolfram went into the hall, slamming the door behind him.

Wolfram followed a back staircase that would bring him out near the servants’ quarters and their more private way into the Great Hall. This path would shield him from most of the guests and enable him to sneak in without Alyn’s notice. The long hallway was lit by only a few torches and had no windows to the outside. As he walked, his footfalls echoed and his passing flickered the torch flames.

Behind him came a soft, leathery tread.

Wolfram glanced back, over his right shoulder, and cursed. The blind eye afforded no view, and he looked the other way.

A servant came from one of the doors, and disappeared through another.

The torches guttered with the wind of the closing door.

Standing in the hall, Wolfram rubbed at his temple with one fingertip. He started to turn back and heard the sound again—the pad of a soft yet heavy foot.

His heart beat a little faster as he peered into the gloom. Nothing was there.

Resolutely, he faced the Great Hall and went on.

The footsteps came a little faster.

Breathing shallow, Wolfram said aloud, “There is no tiger. It’s just my mind—there’s no bloody tiger.”

A puff of hot, moist air touched his neck, setting his heart pounding.

Deliberately, he kept his pace slow. “There is no tiger,” he repeated. “I killed it. There is no tiger.”

Then, a low growl eddied around him.

Wolfram ran. The bear claw, his only weapon, bounced on his chest.

Bursting through the wide door, Wolfram tried to stop. The dance shoes slipped, sending him headlong across the polished floor, his circlet rolling madly to one side. Fetching up hard against a table leg, Wolfram lay still, panting. His scraped chin ached. The table leg bruised his shoulder, and he shut his eye.

Dimly, he heard the gathering crowd and pushed himself up. “I’m fine,” he gasped. “Fine.” Still, his head hung, and his hands trembled.

“You do know how to make an entrance, Wolfram,” Alyn said, drawing laughter from his guests. “Let me help you up.”

“Leave me be,” Wolfram snapped back, looking up.

In finery to match his sister’s, Alyn stood offering his hand. Slowly, still smiling, he withdrew it. “Have it your way. I know you haven’t been out much lately, so I’m glad you could make it.”

Wolfram grunted, getting his feet under him and rising unsteadily. “I’m not used to these shoes.”

“I’m sure!” Alyn grinned. “Hopefully you can keep them under you long enough to do some dancing.”

Clearing a way in the crowd, Melody appeared at his elbow and held out her hands. “Come on, you’ll like this one.”

Having broken off at Wolfram’s unexpected appearance, the musicians started up a lively tune and, fortunately for Wolfram, an easy one to pick up. Melody danced him around the floor with a spirit that lifted him. By the third repeat, he’d nearly forgotten his fear, and the next dance found him smil
ing. He was not the best dancer by far, but it didn’t seem to matter to Melody. In fact, when she was called away, another lady stood ready to take her place, and another after that. On the walls of the Great Hall hung banners showing the green leaves of Lochalyn and the three hills of Bernholt, the colors picked up again in swaths of fabric on the tables laden with food and drink. During a break, Wolfram fetched a mug of ale and found himself the object of numerous glances and whispered asides. By that time, his side had begun to ache, and he wandered over to a chair not far from Melody and Alyn, waiting to catch her attention.

“But Alyn,” she was saying, “it’s just for an hour or so, and it’ll encourage them so much—they’ll be ready to go home after that.”

For the first time ever, Alyn looked awkward as he regarded his sister. “You’re asking me to impersonate a foreign—no, a heathen deity, Melody, and I don’t believe the Lady would be as forgiving as you think, even for an hour.”

“Please, Alyn, it means so much to me.”

“I think you’ve grown unnaturally attached to that woman, that’s the trouble.” He turned away to adjust the lacing on his doublet.

“She’s only here for a few more days, then I’ll never see her again, Alyn.” Melody leaned closer, placing her hand on his shoulder. “Can’t you see your way clear to help me out?”

Wolfram, enjoying the moment, suddenly put in, “Give him a chance to preach to the refugees, and he’d likely do anything.”

Startled, Melody shot him a glance, but Alyn said eagerly, “I’ve already spoken to them, in their encampment. They are a heathen people, not as civilized as ourselves, of course, but I think the Lady might accept them as her servants.”

“You find them uncivilized?” Wolfram asked.

“Well, of course. Look at how they treat their women. The women are segregated, and only the priestesses have any education. Their religion amounts to worship of the sun and moon, and any transgression results in severe punish
ments. I’ve even heard that they make sacrifices on these holy days.”

“They won’t on this one,” Melody cut in, but the two men ignored her.

“I guess you would have to be convinced of Finistrel’s reign in order to talk the way you do, Alyn, but you haven’t looked deep enough. They do worship the moon as their goddess, yes, but she also resides in the earth—not so different from the story of the Second Walking, when Finistrel took the starstuff from the dirt and made all of us.”

“I wouldn’t go that far,” Alyn said slowly. “And there is still that sun-god.”

“A god and a goddess creating together?” Wolfram grinned. “Doesn’t sound too far-fetched to me.”

Alyn turned scarlet and took a quick drink of his wine as Melody giggled. She nudged Wolfram and gave him a wink. Taking a sip of the ale, Wolfram marveled over the brief conversation. Talk to him about religion, and Alyn suddenly paid attention, acting as if he wanted to know what Wolfram thought. After the constant bickering of their childhood, it had never occurred to him before to talk to Alyn about what he held most dear. In return, Alyn eyed him warily, holding his tongue, even though Wolfram had delivered the parting shot.

“It’s a wonderful party, Melody. I’m glad I came.”

“So am I,” she returned, her face lighting up with her smile.

Alyn went back to fiddling with his laces, then jumped up. “Must be time for another dance, Mel, won’t you join me?”

Still gazing at Wolfram, she accepted the offered hand and rejoined her guests.

Warmed by that smile, Wolfram sat sipping his ale. Deishima’s betrayal seemed a long time ago, despite the tenderness that lingered when he thought of her. Lyssa might have been right all along, and he couldn’t really blame Deishima for not wanting to marry him, of all people. He had been a fool to ever hope otherwise. The dance was slow and stately, with plenty of bowing and posturing. Melody and Alyn, well
tutored by their dancing-mad mother, made an elegant couple. At each parting, Melody struck careful poses, adding a few graceful gestures as she did.

Setting down his mug, Wolfram leaned forward, elbows on knees, staring intently. Another break, another gesture, and Wolfram’s head began to pound. The more they danced, the more Alyn seemed pleased by whatever Melody was saying to him when they came together again. Ashwadi—Melody had not forsaken the foreign ways she’d become so enchanted with in Hemijrai, oh, no.

Wolfram leapt up and threaded his way among the dancers. When Alyn turned out at one point, Wolfram stepped in, bowing at the appropriate moment to Melody’s astonished face.

“You can’t do that, Wolfram!” Alyn protested, hovering nearby.

Taking Melody’s hand, Wolfram said, “It’s done.” He had not meant to snap, but Alyn flinched a little at the words.

Still, he smiled to his guests and left the floor, ceding his partner.

“What are you trying to do?” Wolfram murmured.

Recovering, Melody said, “I’m trying to dance, Wolfram. How about you?”

They split to stand across from one another while each performed the series of little steps and postures. Melody’s hands fluttered and Wolfram laughed. Catching her hands, he said, “Didn’t they teach you yet? It takes two eyes.”

Her cheeks slightly rosy, Melody said, “I don’t know what you mean.”