The Princess of Trelian (7 page)

With extreme effort, Calen bit back everything else he wanted to say, restricting himself to a silent but furious glare as he stomped out. There was no arguing with Serek when he got this way. Calen had thought it would be different now that he had earned his first true mark. He thought Serek would finally teach him how to
do
things, real things, to use his magic like a real mage. It wasn’t fair. Did Serek want him to always be helpless in the face of danger? Cowering in a corner instead of being able to protect himself and fight back?

He tried to tell himself that he didn’t need to worry, that the full mages were going to know what to do, that he was just an apprentice and it wasn’t his job to figure everything out. But he couldn’t stop his brain from continuing to turn things over, wondering what was going on and why he couldn’t shake the feeling that what had happened today was only the beginning.

T
HERE WAS A KNOCK AT THE
door. Meg looked up, startled. She was in the middle of changing into clothes a little more appropriate for dragon riding than what she’d had on, and she certainly wasn’t expecting any company.

“Yes?” she called through the door.

“Princess? It’s me, Pela. I’m so sorry to disturb you, but they said —”

Meg opened the door a crack, holding the dress she’d just taken off against her shift. “What is it, Pela?” They had just finished today’s morning walk a little while ago. Meg had been surprised to discover how quickly she’d begun to enjoy them. Pela was already noticeably less jumpy, even after just a couple of days. And when she wasn’t trying so hard to be the perfect lady-in-waiting, she was actually kind of fun to talk with — clever and observant and full of interesting stories about her family and the town where she grew up.

Still, Meg had been looking forward to some time alone with Jakl. He demanded even more of her attention than usual of late, growing anxious if she spent too much time away.

“It’s —” Pela suddenly noticed Meg’s state of undress. “Oh! Oh, Princess, let me help you with that. You shouldn’t be standing half-dressed in doorways. And you know this is one of the things I can help you with, I’ve told you. . . .” She slipped inside, forcing Meg to step back and make room for her or be run over. Meg obediently turned around in response to Pela’s firm hands on her shoulders and gave herself over to the girl’s enthusiastic ministrations.

“The guards asked me to find you,” Pela said, taking hold of the soft fabric of Meg’s shift in order to help Meg tug it off over her head. “It’s — it’s that boy. Wilem.”

Meg spun around to face her, ripping the material from Pela’s hands in the process.

“What happened? Did something happen? Did he escape? I
told
them to take every precaution.” She was instantly furious, absolutely incensed, that the guards could be so careless! When she got her hands on them —

“No!” Pela said, clearly alarmed by Meg’s reaction. “No, nothing like that, Princess. Please — don’t be angry.” She reached out and actually petted Meg’s arm in long, slow strokes, trying to soothe her. “He only wants to speak with you.”

“He — what? Wants . . .” The anger dissipated as soon as Meg understood that Wilem hadn’t escaped, but with such suddenness that it actually made her dizzy. That reaction had been extreme, even for her. And now she felt so
strange
. . . shaky . . .

Meg stepped back and sat on the edge of her bed. Pela hovered anxiously in front of her.

“He . . . insisted, apparently,” Pela said, watching Meg’s face carefully. “He said it was extremely important, and he would speak to no one but you.”

“He insisted, did he?” Meg muttered. Wilem was not in a position to insist on anything. He had been his mother’s willing accomplice, pretending to care for Meg in order to gather information, planning to kill Maerlie in revenge for what he thought Meg’s father and the king of Kragnir had done to his father and brother. True, Sen Eva had lied to him, told him he was avenging their deaths and carrying out his father’s wishes. He had made no attempt to evade punishment once he found out the truth about his mother’s evil plans. Meg knew he deserved some credit for that. But she thought she had given him more than enough already. He was still
alive,
wasn’t he? He had no right to insist on anything.

Pela was still hovering. “Shall I tell them you won’t see him, Princess?”

She wanted to say she would not see him. She wanted that very much. But Wilem was her responsibility now. She had to go see what this was about.

If it turned out he was wasting her time, she would make him very sorry.

“No. It’s all right, Pela. I will speak with him. Tell the guards to have him meet me in the garden.”

Pela darted out to relay the message and then returned to help Meg back into her dress; she certainly wasn’t going to meet Wilem dressed like an errand girl in her patched-up pants and tunic. In fact . . .

“Pela, fetch me the dark blue silk, the one Maerlie sent.”

Pela curtsied, seeming pleased. “Yes, Princess!”

When they left for the garden, Meg let Pela walk ahead so she could compose herself. It had been weeks since she’d last spoken to Wilem. Thinking about him still brought back too many terrible feelings. The shock at his betrayal and the fury at what he had done, and at the far worse things he had been planning to do. Shame and embarrassment at having believed that he truly cared for her. Shame, too, at having been so devastated by the loss of her false suitor, even in the midst of the danger facing her family and the kingdom. And most of all at not having realized, for believing in the lie, for believing it so completely that she let him
kiss
her . . .

That kiss, that night, had been magical. Even now, appallingly mixed in with the hate and anger was the remembered thrill of that sweet moment when he leaned toward her and she realized what was about to happen and the way her mind had seemed to go away for a time and her heart had felt so large and full and tender inside her. Her first kiss, her first romance — it should have been something to treasure forever. Instead it was a poisoned thing, a memory that made her feel small and stupid and cold.

Although perhaps cold was not quite accurate. Angry fire was growing inside her again.
Jakl,
she thought urgently at her dragon,
stop that.
With effort, she slid the barrier into place as Calen had taught her, muting Jakl’s presence in her mind to a vague sensation that she was aware of but didn’t feel quite so connected to. She could just barely sense him pouting on the other side. He hated when she cut him off that way. She didn’t like it, either, but she couldn’t face Wilem with Jakl reflecting and amplifying everything she was feeling.

She tried not to think about the fact that it seemed to be getting harder and harder to put up the barrier each time she tried it.

When she reached the doors that led to the garden, Meg took a few extra deep breaths.
You’re not angry,
she told herself.
You’re not upset. You don’t even care. You don’t feel anything about Wilem at all.
Then she stepped out into the sunny afternoon.

He was there, waiting for her, seated on a low stone bench, a guard on either side and another standing stiffly at attention, facing the steps she was now descending. She barely saw the guards, though. All she could see was Wilem, his dark eyes looking up at her with a strange blend of fear and hope, his face, though somewhat more haggard than it had once been, as heart-stoppingly beautiful as ever. For the hundredth time, she thought of how unfair it was that someone so treacherous could project such an attractive image to the world.

He stood as she approached. She stopped several feet away.

“Princess,” Wilem and the attention-standing guard said at the same time. The guard shot Wilem an irritated glance, then turned back to face Meg. “Your Highness,” he said this time, and seemed petulantly satisfied when Wilem remained silent. Pela stood awkwardly nearby, clearly uncertain whether to stay or go.

“Leave us,” Meg said to the guards, “but stay in sight, please.” She turned toward Pela. “You may go, as well, Pela. Thank you.”

The guards strode off obediently, and Pela looked both relieved and reluctant as she made her way back inside. Meg was left facing her enemy alone. He was taller than she was; she didn’t like having to look up at him. She also didn’t like being this close . . . facing each other, so like they had in that other time, before everything fell apart in such a horrible, painful mess.

“Sit down, Wilem,” she said.

He sat at once, silently, watching her face. Waiting for her permission to speak, she realized. She crossed her arms, looking down at him. Looking down at him was much better.

“What is it that you want to say to me?” she asked coldly. She hoped it was coldly, anyway. She was definitely trying for coldly.

“I have been having dreams,” he said without preamble. “Bad dreams. Very vivid and . . . disturbing.” He paused, then added, “I believe they have something to do with my mother.”

For a moment Meg could not think of one suitable thing to say in response to this. Her brain seemed unable to translate all of those words into meaning. Dreams. Like she’d been having? And something to do with Sen Eva? That was the hard part to get her mind around. Of course they all knew Sen Eva would be back at some point. But not
now,
not yet.
Gods,
Meg thought.
Please not yet.

“What —?” She licked her lips and started again. “What makes you think your mother is involved?”

“I can feel her there, while I’m dreaming,” he said. “Her . . . presence. I can sense her as if she were sitting just out of sight in another room. And the dreams themselves . . .” He stared at the ground beside her feet. He looked so unhappy. She fought back a wave of sympathy.
Remember who he is!

“What are the dreams about?” she asked.

He shook his head — in refusal or denial or frustration, she wasn’t sure. “I can’t remember most of them clearly once I wake up. They were infrequent at first, just once or twice a week, and I thought they were just regular nightmares. But lately they have been coming every night. Almost as soon as I close my eyes. In them, everything is dark and confused, and . . . sometimes I see myself doing things. Bad things that I don’t want to do.” He looked up at her again, and his eyes seemed full of pain, but she knew she could not trust those eyes. Not really.

“What kind of things?”

He hesitated again and then seemed to make some kind of decision. In a flat voice, keeping his eyes steadily on hers, he replied, “Sometimes I hurt you. Sometimes I hurt your family. Sometimes I kill the mage or his apprentice. Always, I end up fleeing the castle, running off into the night. And I can feel my mother there, in my head, telling me to do these things. Forcing me to do them. Showing me how and when and taking me through the steps to achieve each end . . .” Some of the flatness dropped from his voice. “I don’t do them willingly. I don’t — I don’t want to hurt you. I swear it. And I don’t want to escape. I want to pay for what I’ve done. I don’t
want
to go back. But she wants me to. To do whatever I have to do to get free and go to her.” He paused once more, and Meg had trouble making herself believe his anguish was false. “My mother is sending these dreams. I am sure of it.”

“Sending them. You mean magically.”

“Yes.”

Meg automatically made the protective sign of the goddess. Gods, she wished Calen were here. And Serek. And the whole gods-cursed Magistratum with their stupid council and their meetings and rules and libraries and whatever else they could use to tell her what she was supposed to do with this disturbing information. Should she even believe it? She thought she had to. If he was lying to her about this, she could not see how that would serve a purpose, other than simply to upset her. And if he was telling the truth, she could not afford to ignore his warning.

“Do you think you are a danger to my family, Wilem?” she asked calmly. Far, far more calmly than she felt.

“I don’t know.” He closed his eyes, and she saw again how rough and drawn his face was now. Like someone who had not slept well in a long time. “I think — I think I might be.”

“Because you think the dreams might succeed in making you do something against us?”

“Yes.”

“Are they getting stronger?”

“Yes,” he said, opening his eyes again. “The early ones were shorter, less . . . forceful. As though the early dreams were first attempts, practice, and now that she has figured out how to send them more effectively . . .”

Meg fought back a shudder. “You think she might be getting skilled enough to turn her suggestions into compulsions.”

He nodded.

“Do you think she might be able to send the dreams to other people as well?” Her dreams weren’t like that, really. Not like he had described. But maybe Sen Eva had other goals for Meg.

“I don’t know,” he said, glancing at her curiously. “Have you —?”

Meg cursed inwardly, a sudden fierce river of doubt rising within her. Doubt and an urgent sense of alarm.
Stupid, stupid girl!
She should not be giving him any information. What if all of this was some sort of ruse to get her to admit she was having nightmares herself? What if Sen Eva was using him to find out whether her attacks on Meg’s sleep were working? This could all be part of some larger scheme — even his presence here, his apparent rejection of his mother and her plans — everything could be a lie. Everything.
Anything.
She had to be more careful. Why was it so hard to remember not to trust him? He’d fooled her with lies before. Would she never,
never
learn?