by Melanie Rawn
Kiele’s fingers trailed along the gold headpiece on her desk. It was not quite a coronet, for not even she would dare that in the presence of her prince. Her pretty mouth twisted as she calculated yet again the chances of wearing the real thing one day. None, unless a great many people died. Though elderly, Clutha was in the best of health, as was his son Halian. The blood connection between them and Waes was in the female line and so remote that Kiele had no hope of its ever becoming applicable to the inheritance of Meadowlord.
The best she could do was set up one of her half sisters as Halian’s wife. She had been well on the way to it some years ago when her choice, Cipris, had died of a slow, mysterious fever. Halian had been sincerely attached to Cipris, but that had not prevented him from taking a mistress to console himself. He had sired several children on the woman—all girls, for which grace Kiele thanked the Goddess. Had there been a son, he might have become the next heir to Meadowlord, with no blood ties to Kiele at all.
Halian had been quite happy in his illicit domestic life and reluctant to exchange it for legal marriage. But now his mistress was dead. Kiele smiled as she put her signature to a letter inviting her half sister Moswen to Waes for the summer. Moswen would make Halian an excellent wife—although Kiele wondered why she took the trouble to elevate one of the hateful Lady Palila’s daughters. Then she shrugged. She worked with what she had. Moswen was the right age, reasonably pretty, and grateful to Kiele for past favors. She was also hungry for the trappings of power. She saw the jewels, the lovely clothes, the deference, and it was these things she desired. Of the realities of power she saw and understood nothing. Kiele considered her the perfect choice, for she would be easy to instruct and influence. Once Clutha died and both Halian and Lyell were out from under the old man’s eye, Meadowlord would be Kiele’s to play with as she wished. Halian had proved himself the type of man who could be led by what was between his legs—just like Lyell. With Moswen leading Halian, and Kiele leading her. . . .
A shift of light in the mirror caught her attention, and the door behind her swung open to admit her husband. Lyell was an angular, pallid man whose blue eyes and nearly colorless blond hair were more faded than ever by the Waesian colors of red and yellow that made up his formal clothes. Kiele frowned slightly as he approached her, for she had ordered his squires to dress him in a shade of green to complement her own gown. They would have been a matched set, and Clutha would have been honored by their wearing his color. But Lyell was stubborn about his family dignity and wore his own colors on all formal occasions. In some ways his stubbornness had served Kiele well, for she might have made some tactical errors in the past if not for Lyell’s insistence on the rigidities of tradition. Faint gratitude stirred at the memory, and her frown became a smile by the time he crossed the chamber and stood behind her.
“You’re so beautiful,” he murmured, stroking her bared shoulder.
“Thank you, my lord,” she said demurely. “I had thought to save this gown for the Rialla, but—”
“Wear it then, too. Not even High Princess Sioned can have anything so magnificent.”
Mention of Rohan’s Sunrunner wife, who with her fire-gold hair and forest-deep eyes wore green even better than Kiele did, decided her against making the dress part of her Rialla wardrobe. “Did you have something to tell me?”
“A letter arrived for you from somebody in Einar. You said you didn’t wish to be disturbed while dressing, so I opened it for you.” He produced a piece of folded parchment from his pocket.
A curse nearly left her lips when she recognized the handwriting and the remains of a dark blue wax seal. Forcing herself to stay calm and casual as she placed the letter aside, she said, “It’s from my childhood nurse, Afina, who married a merchant in Einar.” It was the truth, but she did not add that Afina had been the only servant at Castle Crag to care for her after her sister died of Plague. Afina had wanted to come to Waes, but had been persuaded that she could be much more useful in the vital port of Einar, the first link in Kiele’s chain of informants. Merchants heard everything, and usually passed it on to their wives.
“A boring letter, really—just family news. I don’t know why you bother with a former servant, Kiele.”
“She was very kind to me when I was a little girl.” To distract him from the subject, sure to touch soon on the unsuitability of the Lady of Waes corresponding with a mere merchant’s wife, she brought her arms closer together to deepen the valley between her breasts. Lyell’s fingers strayed downward from her shoulders, as she had intended.
“Let’s go down late for dinner,” he suggested.
“Lyell! It took me all afternoon to put this on!”
“It’ll take only a few moments to get it off you.”
“We don’t dare insult Clutha,” she scolded, winking at him. “On any other night—”
“But it would be perfect now. I’ve talked with your women. This is the right time to make another heir.”
Kiele vowed to dismiss whichever of her maids had been blabbing. She had learned long ago that men strayed when their women were child-heavy; her father had never been able to bear the sight of his mistresses during pregnancy. Kiele had fulfilled her duty by giving Lyell a son and a daughter. Conception tonight would mean she would be bulky and uncomfortable by the late summer, when she would need all her wit and charm—and when other women would be at their loveliest in pursuit of the richest and most powerful men. Lyell had been the key to the locked walls of Castle Crag for her; she did not love him and never had. But he was useful, and he was hers, and she did not intend for him to seek other beds. Once she ruled Meadowlord through Moswen and Halian, then Lyell could mount as many mistresses as he pleased. But not now.
She smiled at him. “Anticipation always enhances enjoyment, Lyell. Now, be a darling and find my green slippers, please? After all, you’re the one who kicked them under the bed the other night.”
He kissed her shoulder and obeyed. Kiele locked Afina’s letter in her jewel box and replaced the key in a pocket of her underskirt. Lyell returned from the bedchamber just in time to see her smoothing her green stockings. He knelt beside her to slide on the velvet slippers.
“If you don’t put your skirts down, I’ll forget Clutha even exists,” he said playfully.
She deliberately hiked the gown a little higher. “Does he?”
“Kiele!”
But she glided smoothly from her chair and out of his reach, laughing as she placed the golden headpiece on her piled dark braids.
Dinner in the banqueting hall was endless. Prince Clutha was full of plans for making this year’s Rialla more splendid than ever, and, Goddess knew, the cost of the last one had been such that Kiele had gone for half a year without a new gown. She was forced to listen in angry silence with a smile on her face as Lyell’s pride made him agree to schemes that would beggar him. Most entertainments were put on by the princes, with the burden falling on Rohan as usual, but the prizes for horse races and the spectacle of the last evening’s banquet were Lyell’s responsibility, with only nominal assistance from Clutha. Kiele promised herself that once Halian was Prince of Meadowlord with Moswen as his wife, this triennial penury would cease.
Clutha had brought his Sunrunner with him, a frail and withered old man with very dark eyes that saw too much as far as Kiele was concerned. She knew that whenever he accompanied Clutha to Waes, Lady Andrade received detailed reports. When dinner was over, the old faradhi wheezed his way into the dining room, Clutha’s squire at his side. The young man gave Kiele a slight, elegant bow, his fine dark eyes flickering with disapproval of her almost-crown. She favored him with a lifted brow, wondering if his place on the social scale of nobility was low enough to allow her a calculated insult in return.
Clutha glanced up from the written list of expenditures. “You’ve the look of the last sunlight about you, Tiel.”
“Indeed, your grace, Riyan and I have just received word that Prince Ajit of Firon is dead. A seizure of t
he heart, it was.”
Kiele made appropriate noises of shock and grief, but her mind raced. Ajit had no direct heir. She tried to recall the collateral branches of the Fironese royal house, and if she was allied with or related to any of them.
Clutha gave a heavy sigh, shaking his bald head. “Unhappy news. Many times I’ve told him he should live life more easily, as befits men of our age.”
Kiele coughed to hide a giggle, remembering that Ajit had planned to take yet another wife—his seventh—this year at the Rialla. Halian caught her eye and his lips twitched.
“There’ll be one less wedding at Lastday this year,” he remarked.
His father thundered, “You will mourn our royal cousin with respect, you insolent fool!”
“I mean no disrespect,” Halian said contritely, but there was that in his eyes that told Kiele he wished the old man dead, burned, and out of his life. She lowered her gaze to her lap after casting a careful look of sympathy at him. Yes, he was ripe for the plucking, if Moswen was clever and played on his impatience with his father. Clutha behaved as if his son was still a lad of barely twenty winters, not a man nearly forty. Kiele would have to remember to tell Moswen the best approach to use. She would be a princess before autumn.
News of Ajit’s death dampened Lyell’s ardor, for which Kiele was profoundly grateful. While he slept in the huge state bed, she returned to the dressing chamber and lit the candle on her desk. Its reflection in the mirror gave her enough reading light as she scanned the letter from Afina.
You may recall my sister Ailech, who was in service at Castle Crag during your childhood, though not in the honored place I had at your side, but in the kitchens. We were never very close, for she envied me my place. But I have had news of her family after these many years. As you may know, she went to Waes with Lady Palila, both of them big with child, and it happens she bore a son, a fine young man with dark hair and green eyes. Ailech died shortly after his birth, and her husband also having died, Masul was raised by my parents where they are pensioners at the manor of Dasan in Princemarch. Masul is something of a hawk in a sparrow’s nest, for with his black hair and green eyes he is unlike the rest of our blond, brown-eyed family. Ailech’s husband also had dark eyes, and was small of stature like us, but they say Masul is the height of your late father. But I chatter on about matters that could not interest you.
Afina never wrote about anything that did not interest Kiele and they both knew it. Kiele had asked her to use her contacts in Princemarch to get definite news about a boy said to be Roelstra’s son. She had been toying with a particular scheme all winter, working out ideas—purely speculative until now, when it seemed that her arrow shot in darkness had hit an unexpeted target. Delight brought a soft burst of laughter from her throat. She glanced at the open door to the bedchamber, but there was no sound from Lyell.
That night at the Rialla had always intrigued Kiele. Four new borns in one night; a princess exiled and a princess rewarded; a mistress burned in her bed. Of the four babies, one had been Chiana—insufferable girl. If Kiele shared anything with Pandsala it was an aversion to their half sister.
But was Chiana Roelstra’s daughter? Kiele chuckled silently as she set fire to the letter and watched it burn to ash on a polished brass plate. Afina had not had to repeat that part about the green eyes. Roelstra’s eyes had been that color. And Masul was nearly Roelstra’s height, was he? Kiele bit her lips to keep from laughing aloud.
She pulled out parchment and pen, and wrote a swift letter to Afina thanking her for her letter and asking for more interesting family news to distract her from the strain of organizing the Rialla. She ended by expressing a desire for a gift, one of those trinkets Afina often provided to cheer and amuse her—something in shades of black and green. This would be correctly interpreted to mean that the gift was to be Masul himself. As she signed and sealed the letter, another idea struck her. She wrote a second letter, this one a prettily worded invitation for her dear younger sister Chiana to do her the favor of coming to Waes to help her plan this year’s entertainments. That Chiana herself would be providing Kiele’s entertainment caused another chuckle as she folded and sealed the parchment.
Kiele weighed her letter to Moswen in her hand for some moments before burning it, too. With Chiana here, Moswen could not be. And with the thought of her other half sister she nearly laughed aloud—for what could be more hilarious than setting Chiana’s hopes on Halian, only to have him reject her utterly when her lowly birth was made public? Kiele hugged herself as the letter burned, rocking back and form with suppressed mirth.
After a time she sobered. She knew she would have to be cautious. The physical characteristics Afina had mentioned would be a help, no matter what the boy’s true ancestry. Once Kiele had Masul to hand she could judge whether the green eyes and height were matched by reasonable facial resemblance. Lady Palila had had auburn hair; if Masul’s was very black, Kiele could heighten the illusion of his parentage by application of a subtle reddish dye. Proper clothes were essential as well. And jewels. She rummaged in her cases and came up with an amethyst brooch that could be redone as a ring to hint at connection with Princemarch. She could slip it in with jewels due to be reset in time for the Rialla. At worst, if the boy was impossible, she would have a new ring.
But if Masul was believable as Roelstra’s son, then even if he was truly baseborn there were endless ways to use him. Chiana’s public mortification when her birth was doubted was worth anything. The burden of proof would be on those who suspected his ancestry to be common—for the only thing certain about that night had been its chaos.
And if the rumors were true, and Masul really was her half brother. . . . Kiele grinned into the mirror, contemplating the delightful prospect of Pandsala ousted from Castle Crag, Pol disinherited, and Rohan humiliated. She pictured Lyell as Masul’s champion and herself as his mentor, teaching him how to be a prince—and through him ruling Princemarch.
She gazed at the two letters. One would go to Einar and bring Masul, the other to Port Adni and bring Chiana. She would keep Masul in hiding until the Rialla, school him, attach him to her as his only hope of winning his cause. It would not do to have him meet with Chiana before the princes assembled.
But it all depended on his ability to pass himself off as Roelstra’s son. Kiele regarded her own reflection by candlelight, asking herself if it might be true—and if she wanted it to be true. She decided not. A fake, with reality to hide, would be much easier to control than the real son of the late High Prince. She knew the characteristics of her father’s breeding only too well.
Chapter Three
Pol had dreadful memories of his first trip across the straits between Radzyn and Dorval. His mother had warned him that faradh’im and water were in no way compatible. But, wise in the way all eleven-year-old boys think themselves wise, and very conscious of his dignity as the son of the High Prince, Pol had not believed her.
His first step on board ship had taught him otherwise. He remembered turning to look at his parents, who stood on the dock with Aunt Tobin and Uncle Chay, all of them waiting for the inevitable. The ship moved fractionally on the tide. Pol felt himself turn green. He staggered to the rails, was grabbed by a sailor before he could fall overboard and, after being dreadfully sick, fainted. A long day’s misery in a private cabin had been crowned by the indignity of being carried off the ship that night and put immediately to bed.
The next morning his eyes had ceased their imitation of hot coals and his stomach seemed inclined to stay where it belonged. Pol pushed himself upright, every muscle in his body bruised with the violence of his reaction to crossing water, and groaned. A very old man was dozing by the empty hearth. The noise made him start awake from his nap, and a kind smile further wrinkled his face.
“I thought you’d appreciate a good night’s sleep on solid ground before riding up to Graypearl. Feeling better? Yes, I see you are. You’ve freckles on your nose now, not green splotches.”
&n
bsp; Thus had he made the acquaintance of Prince Lleyn of Dorval. Pol had felt unequal to the breakfast the old prince proposed, and they had ridden to the great palace where the entire household had assembled to greet the future High Prince. The night’s rest enabled Pol to behave with suitable dignity, and his gratitude had been of such proportions that it had been only a short step to outright worship of the wry old man to whom his parents had entrusted him.
Similar arrangements were made in Radzyn so that Pol and Meath could sleep off the crossing in private before their official arrival at Radzyn Keep. Assisted from the ship to a small house Lord Chaynal kept in the port, they were tucked up between cool sheets and in the morning were greeted by Pol’s cousin Maarken.
“I won’t ask about the crossing,” he said, smiling in sympathy as the pair woke up bleary-eyed. “I remember it all too well myself. But you both look as if you’ll live.”
Meath glanced at him balefully. “I had my doubts last night.” Turning to Pol, he asked, “Are you recovered, my prince?”
“More or less. It never gets any easier, does it?” Pol sighed.
“Never,” Maarken affirmed. “Do you want something to eat?” Their winces made him grin. “All right, stupid question, I know! There are horses outside if you feel capable of sitting a saddle without falling off.”
They did. There was no special welcome from the people of the port, though they paused in their daily routines to greet both Pol and their own young lord. Maarken was the image of his handsome father: tall, athletic, with dark hair and gray eyes like sunlight through a morning mist. He was more lightly built than Chaynal, however; the slender bones of his grandmother’s people had lengthened in him, not thickened. At twenty-six he had fulfilled the promise of height and strength that for now was only hinted at in his young cousin. He also wore six Sunrunner’s rings where Pol had none. As they left the precincts of the town and started down the road between newly sown fields, he caught the boy’s envious look and smiled.
