The Eunuch's Heir (33 page)

“Oh yes, you do.” They were the head couple of the line, and Wolfram suddenly broke away, taking her with him to a place by the wall. “I can’t stand Alyn, you know that, but I also won’t stand for him being manipulated that way.”

“What way?”

Wolfram pulled her closer. “Stop playing innocent with me, Melody. You’ve learned Ashwadi, and you’re trying to get Alyn to go along with something.”

“So what if it’s true? What’s that to do with you?”

“Tell me what you want,” Wolfram said, “and I’ll leave you alone.” He stared down into her face.

For a moment, she froze, uncertain, testing the strength of his grasp. With a smile, Melody pressed a little closer. Her breath warmed his chest, and she replied, “What do you think I want, Wolfie?”

The stirring of his blood turned to ice, and he pushed her away to hold her at arm’s length. “Don’t taunt me like that; you don’t care about me.”

“How do you know what I care about, Wolfram?” she returned, the color in her cheeks heightening her beauty. “You just play with your women, you court some foreign hussy, then you think I’ll forgive you and welcome you home. Did you really think I wanted to be your sister?” Her lips twisted, and her eyes gleamed. “Surprise, Wolfie,” she said with a bitter edge.

Stunned, Wolfram released her and let the wall support him. He had thought her flirtation in Hemijrai no more than the false intimacy of close companions, certainly not an infatuation she carried with her—for how long? She brought her arms close, biting her lip as she watched him.

“Of course Alyn doesn’t want you here—he had a vision, he saw me swoon in your embrace, Wolfie, but you won’t embrace me, will you?”

Wiping sweat from beneath the eye patch, Wolfram protested, “You’re the one who called me brother.”

Crossing her arms, Melody spat, “Oh, you’re such an idiot!”

“I didn’t know, Melody, how could I know?” His head swam with mixed emotions.

Shrugging one shoulder, she scrubbed away a tear. “It doesn’t matter now, does it? You’ve shown me what you really think about me. I should have known better after the last time.”

Wolfram put a hand on her bare shoulder, but she shook him off. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t know I was hurting you. I didn’t think—”

Melody spun so quickly Wolfram found his back against
the wall. “That’s right. You ask that little hussy to marry you, and now you claim you’re sorry?” The grin she gave had none of her earlier charm. “Watch your back, Wolfram, when my power comes.”

Chilled, he said, “But you won’t be queen for years.”

Melody laughed. “And chances are good you won’t ever be king, little Wolf. But that’s not the only way to take command—and there are powers much higher than a crown.”

“What has Faedre promised you? What does she have in mind, Melody?”

“Oh, this and that.”

“I’ll stop it, whatever it is—they’ll never carry it off.”

“Go on and try, Wolfie. I’ll tell your mother that you hit me. I’ll tell her you raped me—remember that day in the stables in Bernholt? I’ll tell her every wicked thing I can think of.”

“I never laid a hand on you, Melody,” he whispered.

“No one will accept your word, Wolfram,” she said, stepping away. “No one will believe a thing you say.”

Wolfram turned his face to the wall, clinging with his fingertips while the demon roared. He must not turn; if he so much as called her name, he was a dead man. She could take him down with a word, and he had no defense against her. Melody’s laughter rang in his ears as she started another dance.

Fleeing the party, his head pounding, Wolfram ran down the hall. His slippers skidded a bit, but the stone here had been left rough, and he managed to keep his footing. He reached a pair of peaked doors and flung them open, emerging onto a balcony that overlooked the small courtyard by the temple. Here, he sank to the stone, resting his head on the balustrade, his chest heaving. After a while, he leaned back and cupped his hands together. Carefully, he took a breath and let it out slow, willing himself to relax. Just as he thought he was banishing his headache and the demon along with it, he saw a party enter the courtyard below. Walking slowly and talking, Faedre and a Hemijrani priest led the way, fol
lowed by a little group of their companions. At the end came the slight figure that must be Deishima.

Inside, the fury was unleashed and Wolfram sprang to his feet. The foreign hussy, as Melody had called her, had turned him down. Was there not a soul under the stars who wouldn’t lie to him? Now she walked freely about his castle, where he had to watch his every move. They would be heading for the guest quarters, and he knew a back way. Dashing through the doors, Wolfram paused a moment to snatch off his slippers and toss them away.

Barefoot and fleet, he made for the back stairs.

He moved quietly, dodging startled servants, like a wolf who’d found the scent he was after. The side twinged, but he ignored it, pushing himself to get there first.

With one hand, he caught the last corner and swung around it, catching sight of Faedre passing at the opposite end.

Creeping now, Wolfram moved up the dim hall, pressing himself against the wall and waiting. The group seemed to dawdle, but at last, they passed by, with Deishima still at the end.

He pounced, snatching her from behind and spinning her against the wall. “You heathen bitch, couldn’t you even tell me no?”

The hidden figure let out a tiny whimper, dark eyes gleaming, the whites showing.

Grabbing the veil, he flung it back and froze.

BENEATH THE
veil, a scarlet band of silk wrapped Deishima’s mouth, cutting into the corners, catching the tears that now spilled from her eyes.

His own mouth fell open even as his anger fell away. Aghast, he couldn’t think, couldn’t even breathe for a moment as he searched her face.

Her eyes darted toward the hall and back, her eyebrows pinched together.

“Sweet Lady,” he gasped at last, then quickly flipped the veil in place again. The lines between her eyes smoothed as she tried to blink away the tears.

Brushing his lips to her concealed ear, Wolfram whispered, “Your hands are bound, too?”

He felt a single nod against his cheek.

“I’m sorry, I’m so sorry.” Cupping her face in his hands, Wolfram kissed her through the layers of fabric, feeling the heat of her beneath the silk. “I love you,” he murmured, starting a fresh stream of tears.

Pulling away, Wolfram crossed his arms. “Don’t I deserve an answer?” he shouted, even as three dark men hurried up, with Faedre close behind them.

He lunged forward as if he would rip off her veil, but the lead man grabbed her and dragged her backward.

“You’ve been rescued this time,” Wolfram yelled, “but you just wait. I’ll be coming for you!” Holding her frightened gaze, he started after her.

Faedre stepped before him. “This is hardly the way to speak to a holy person, Prince Wolfram.”

As Deishima disappeared around the corner, Wolfram turned his eye to Faedre. “She claimed to be defiled, she claimed you’d never have her back—she’s a worse liar than I am.”

With a pretty frown, Faedre explained, “Of course this was not so, Highness. She had forgotten the ritual cleansing which we can perform. Naturally, she must undergo penance.”

“I’ll give her penance!” He stepped forward again, but Faedre did not move, so that he brushed against her breasts. The medallion of the Two grazed his chest. Distracted, he met her gaze.

“Ah, Your Highness, I can, of course, understand your frustration. Part of her penance has been to sever her earthly ties. Since there is no women’s quarter here, she must not speak to men, nor, indeed to anyone outside of our rooms.” Faedre’s voice became a purr as he did not move away.

Turning his scowl into a sly grin, Wolfram lifted a hand to toy with a strand of her hair. “How can you understand my frustration?” he asked, forcing back his anger.

“It was not even allowed for her to say farewell, or to tell you why she must go. Naturally she regrets this, although she is pleased to be able to serve again.” She smelled of cinnamon and musk and let her fingers brush against his thigh.

“That’s all she’s fit for—I tried to do her a favor,” he grumbled.

“And a very great favor indeed,” Faedre murmured. “One wasted on the mere seventeenth daughter of a distant tyrant, Your Highness.”

At last, Wolfram turned away. “Tell her I hope she dies as a shriveled old virgin,” he tossed over his shoulder.

After a throaty chuckle, Faedre called to him, “I am sorry about your eye, Prince Wolfram. I wish that my pet had been more gentle with you—and you with him.”

Wolfram cast back a glance to see her teasing smile.
“Maybe someday I’ll show you how gentle I can be,” he replied, keeping the chill from his voice.

She turned toward her room but looked back coyly over one shoulder. “I hope you do, Highness.” Swaying her hips so that the tassels on her veil twitched, she moved off down the hall.

Almost her flirting could distract him, but Wolfram shook off the trance and hurried away. On the ground floor now, he found his way to the smaller courtyard he had overlooked earlier and wrapped his arms around a carved-stone pillar. Pressing his cheek to the cool, rough surface, Wolfram let the jitters overwhelm him. He could not have spoken even one word more without screaming. His side ached, and his empty eye twitched as the rush slowly began to fade.

Shutting his eye, he calmed himself, then grinned with a terrible glee. He was right! Deishima, bound and gagged, hadn’t left him of her own will—she had been carried off, abused and threatened, and the Lady knew what else. Kidnapped. Horror and anger quickly drove out his surge of satisfaction.

Faedre and the rest held her prisoner, parading her around to prove what a fool he was, to try to convince even him that he was wrong. Deishima must be terrified—had she even understood what he tried to tell her, or had his own fury only scared her more?

Suddenly, he wished he had fled without speaking once he knew the truth. Then again, he couldn’t leave her there as she had left him, without hope. No, she would remember his words tonight, in whatever dark hole they kept her. She would know that he would come for her.

Madly, Wolfram laughed. For a long time, he couldn’t stop, the false mirth bubbling over. Imagine someone being comforted by the thought of him. Imagine himself being the savior—it was almost more than he could bear. He was reckless at best, evil at worst: a murderer, a liar, and a bastard. Reformed, maybe, but would she know? Besides that, to free her would take the kind of stupid secretive stunts that had gotten him in so much trouble to begin with. If he succeeded,
his mother would disown him. If he rescued Deishima, he wouldn’t have even his position to offer her.

The manic laughter died away, leaving him drained and slumped against the pillar as he turned it in his mind. They would not believe him, Melody was right about that. And she was still tight with Faedre. If he told what he knew, even if he had Deishima to back him, Melody would make good on her threat. Along with his true crimes, the rumor of rape would be enough to hang him, prince or no.

Letting go of the pillar, Wolfram began to walk off the nervous energy that had possessed him. To free her meant exile, to tell anyone meant death, and to pretend he had not seen…? What might it cost him to let her go, to pretend he didn’t know the truth? If he were no longer a prince, she would blame herself. She would refuse to marry him all over again. He could keep his own counsel, stay quiet and out of the way. In a few weeks, they would have this celebration they were planning and go home. She would return to whatever her life had been, undergoing this forced penance and forget about him, given time.

He stalked the hallways and stairs, making first one choice then another, trying them on to see what fit. After a while, he found himself staring at his dull reflection in a highly polished rosewood table. The whorls of the wood brought to mind Deishima’s eyes, dark and gleaming. If all they wanted was to get her away from him, to bring her home, if that was all, why was she terrified?

Suddenly something that Alyn had said echoed up from his memory, “
I’ve even heard that they make sacrifices on these holy days
.” Monkeys, Wolfram had thought at the time, but what if the day were especially sacred, a ritual that required years of preparation—even to the point of raising someone so pure she was not allowed to tread the ground outside of her own garden? It could no longer happen, she’d told him, now that she was defiled. “
I am not meant for marriage to anyone
.”

Wolfram reeled, his skin gone cold, and braced his hands on the tabletop. He had little evidence, but he knew with
a terrible certainty. Whatever the Hemijrani planned, Deishima would die.

She had known all along. She had been raised for this and accepted it as her sacred place—until the unthinkable happened. Taken hostage, carried off into the woods, defiled by the touch, by the mere presence of a man. But Wolfram had turned her world around again by asking for her hand.

“Can I help you?” a voice behind him asked.

Rubbing his arms to get some life back into them, Wolfram turned.

The door across the hall stood open, and Fionvar stood there with an armload of books. “Oh. I didn’t—I’m sorry, Your Highness.” He briefly bowed his head.

Wolfram touched the table behind him. He should have recognized it right off, and probably would have, if his mind had not been elsewhere. Somehow his wanderings had brought him to the door of the Lord Protector’s study.

Shifting the books a little, Fionvar asked, “Were you looking for me?”

Numbly, Wolfram shook his head.

Fionvar nodded a little. “Well, you’ve found me anyhow, Your Highness. Is there something I can do for you?”

“I need,” Wolfram rasped, brought into his body again, “I need to sit down.”

Hesitating a moment longer, Fionvar nodded again. “Come in.” He led the way and dropped the books in a heap on his desk. “Can I pour you some wine?”

“Thank you.” Wolfram sat gingerly on the sweeping curved bench facing the desk and the tall stained-glass windows. The room had seven sides, and a peaked roof with highly carved beams. The little table in the hall, carved in the same style, had been moved out to make room for Fionvar’s desk.

Holding out the goblet, Fionvar said, “It took a special court and consensus among the barons for me to get permission to use this room after King Rhys left it.” He swung one leg up to perch on the edge of the desk and sighed, studying the ceiling, his hands clasped in his lap.

Something in his tone drew Wolfram’s attention from the
welcome drink. Fionvar no longer wore the chain of his office. The familiar tabard with the royal arms had been replaced by a simple black tunic. Looking back to Fionvar’s face, Wolfram thought he looked older than he had that day, the first day Wolfram had ever seen him angry. “Where’s your chain, my lord?”

“I’ve resigned my office, Your Highness. I’m sorry, I thought someone would have told you.”

Wolfram laughed weakly. “Who would even talk to me these days?”

Shoulders slumping, Fionvar shut his eyes. “Again, I am sorry.”

Wolfram let himself lean back into the cushions. Now that he had come to sit down, he discovered every ache in his bruised body, plus the stinging scrape on his chin.

Abruptly, Fionvar rose and rounded his desk to pull a few more books off the shelf and add them to the pile. Then he took down something else and held it, his back to Wolfram. “I don’t know how to talk to you anymore,” he murmured.

“What?”

Fionvar turned and placed what he held on the leather surface of the desk. About a foot tall, carved of rough marble, stood the figure of a woman, the folds of her cloak just beginning to be roughed out. Fionvar touched it gently with one finger, tracing the shoulders, tapping the stump of a neck where the head had broken off. “You were twelve—”

“I remember,” said Wolfram hoarsely. The chisel slipped, the marble cracked, and the figure he had been working on was ruined. Throwing down his tools, the young prince had fled, requiring days of coaxing from Lyssa before he would try again. “Why did you resign?”

“She wanted me to make a decision I could not accept, not yet.” Fionvar stared at him with dark and tired eyes.

“You chose—” But Wolfram could not complete the thought aloud, not after all the years of anger that lay between them. He clutched the goblet with both hands.

As he settled into his leather chair, Fionvar’s frown returned. “Are you well, Your Highness?”

Shaking his head, Wolfram drained the goblet and held it out for more. “I thought the day I left was the worst day of my life,” he said. “Maybe I was wrong. Back then, I had the option of running away.”

“Don’t you still?” Fionvar asked lightly, raising an eyebrow.

Meeting his gaze, Wolfram answered, “Not if I am ever to be worthy of the crown.”

“That reminds me.” Reaching into a bottom drawer, Fionvar revealed Wolfram’s coronet. He held it out across the desk. “One of the ladies brought this by. They found it in the Great Hall after you left the party.”

Tentatively, Wolfram took it but did not replace it on his head.

“She told me how you lost it, Your Highness,” Fionvar said gently. “What happened?”

Wolfram gave a little laugh. “It doesn’t matter.”

“What you told us in the audience chamber,” Fionvar began, knotting his fingers together and untangling them again. “It was a terrible thing.”

Nodding, Wolfram waited.

“But you need not have told us. No one but you knew the truth before that moment. If you had kept silent, who would have been the wiser?”

“Five men would have died.”

“Strangers,” Fionvar supplied. “Hemijrani.”

Feeling the prickle of demon claws, Wolfram said, “Innocent men.”

Suddenly Fionvar smiled, and Wolfram almost thought there were tears in his eyes. “Yes,” he agreed. “That took courage,” he said softly, “and compassion. And something else.” The smile grew a little more broad. “Honor. Every man does things that he regrets, but few are willing to own their deeds unless they are compelled to.”

Again, Wolfram gave his offhand shrug.

The smile slipped away, and Fionvar asked, “Do you want to tell me what happened?”

Wolfram laughed, shaking his head. “Yes, more than any
thing.” He laughed again because he suddenly realized that it was true.

Raising his eyebrows, Fionvar waited.

Wolfram took a deep breath and sighed. “I can’t.” He slipped up the patch and rubbed at the scarred skin. “Oh, Sweet Lady, how I wish I could.”

“Try me.” Fionvar folded his hands, leaning over the desktop. “Tell me one thing I couldn’t possibly believe.”

“One thing,” Wolfram repeated faintly. He searched the revelations of the last few hours and started shaking his head. Any one of them would only make things worse.

Wetting his lips, Fionvar said, “Please.”

Well, there was one thing that would damage only Wolfram’s reputation and he could see no point in defending that. “I fell into the party because I was convinced the tiger was chasing me. I could hear it, I could smell it, I could feel its breath on my neck. I was scared out of my mind when I took that fall.” He clutched his elbows with his hands, the remembered fear shivering through him.

Silence hung for a moment, then he heard Fionvar rise and walk briskly around the desk. “That key I gave you, do you still have it?”

After a moment more, Wolfram raised his head and shook his wrist where the key slipped out and dangled on the tie of his cuff.

Fionvar grinned, a fierce and angry sort of grin that Wolfram had never seen before, and yet one that felt familiar—like his own.