The Price of Blood and Honor

by Elizabeth Willey

  She glanced at him with dark, dismayed eyes, nodded, and sipped the wine. “I suppose I might as well tell you,” Luneté whispered after a moment, glancing around; “it’s going to be all over the Court in a few minutes. He—I went to see the Empress; she wanted to talk to me.”

  “Yes, I saw you go. Are we to congratulate you on being appointed a lady-in-waiting?”

  “No. That would be dreadful; I know nothing about being a lady-in-waiting, and I have much to do in Lys, I am only now understanding how much.” Luneté drank, glanced around at the glittering, chattering crowd, and lowered her voice still further. “Is Golias— There he is. No, the Empress just wanted me to know that they’re going to be keeping an eye on us. On Lys and Ascolet.”

  “Kind of her. Of course you assumed they would anyway, I hope, but to tell you so is an uncommonly great courtesy.” Dewar watched her; she was watching Otto and the Baroness, who were smiling and talking animatedly.

  “Afterward she led us all out to meet the Emperor and his group, before coming in here,” Luneté said, “and we met Prince Prospero in the corridor, leaving the ball.”

  “Ah,” said Dewar, prompting her.

  “He talked privately with the Empress; I couldn’t hear what they said, and then she called him back when he was leaving and asked if he could not bear himself with better courtesy toward Prince,” Luneté swallowed, “Golias.”

  “The Empress is an optimist,” Dewar observed.

  She drank and swallowed again. “He started laughing. He asked how Golias had come to be a Prince, and Her Majesty told him the Emperor had named him so, and Prince Prospero laughed and laughed— Dewar, he says Golias is not King Panurgus’s son! That his mother lied! And he said—” Luneté stopped and looked for somewhere to put the empty wineglass. “Oh, good, the figure is over, I must speak to Otto!” She handed Dewar the glass; he deposited it on another passing servant’s tray and followed her into the crowd as it rearranged itself.

  Though obviously getting on most peremptory well with the Baroness of Broul, Ottaviano managed to conceal his disappointment at being interrupted by his wife and Dewar. “Madame, perhaps you are not acquainted with Lord Dewar, my cousin,” he said, bowing, to the Baroness.

  “Oh, we’re acquainted,” the Baroness of Broul said, and she smiled very warmly at Dewar.

  Dewar moistened his lips with his tongue, smiled, and bowed, and the Baroness sighed slightly and then attended to Otto’s introduction of his wife.

  Luneté watched the byplay between the sorcerer and the Baroness with a flash of furious indignation born of sudden understanding. He was a flirt, she thought; look at him giving that beady-eyed blond hussy his eye and his hand for the next dance! How could he, in front of her? Not that she had any right—yet, it seemed in poor taste. The faithless, seducing rogue—and Otto had been flirting with the creature too. “Otto,” Luneté said, “I must talk with you right away.”

  “She is bursting with words,” Dewar said, “some very amusing. Someone finally told Avril that Golias is no son of Panurgus.” He smiled very unpleasantly. “I daresay His Majesty will be a trifle red-faced.”

  “You knew this?” Luneté turned on him, still red-faced herself.

  “My dear Countess, it is obvious to anyone who has endured the Fire of the Well and who has eyes to use and the brains to use them. The Well’s children are distinctive among lesser beings.”

  “Why—let’s get off the floor, they’re starting to dance,” Otto said, and they all, Baroness in tow, moved toward the side.

  “You were saying, Otto?” Dewar said.

  “Nothing.”

  “Of course, you knew also,” Dewar said, smiling, looking at Otto with an air of condescending superiority. He was certain Otto had not, for Otto had said nothing of it to him when they had first spoken of Golias nor later during the wars.

  “How might he know?” the Baroness of Broul interjected, eager for the gossip.

  “Oh, ways and means,” Dewar said, patting her hand. “Dear me, the Baron seems to be looking at Your Ladyship and beckoning. Perhaps you’d best see what he wants, and we’ll meet again anon—the last dance, at least, and I’ll see you to your very charmingly-appointed coach.”

  “I should be most grateful if you could be so kind, sir,” said the Baroness, smiling, and she looked back with a little blown kiss as she left them.

  “Her coach?” Otto repeated, ignoring Luneté’s fingers digging into his arm.

  “An heirloom of the Baron of Broul’s,” Dewar said, lifting an eyebrow. “Considerably older than his wife, I’d dare say, and heated, too.”

  Luneté glared at him. Insolent rake! she thought.

  Otto chuckled; Luneté nudged him hard with her elbow. “Otto, I want to talk to you.”

  “Certainly, Lu. What’s up? More gossip?”

  “Alone,” she said, giving Dewar a withering look.

  “If it’s something more Prospero said to Glencora in front of her ladies,” Dewar said, smiling most annoyingly and bowing, “it’ll be all around the room soon.”

  “Exactly,” Luneté said, and she felt unaccountably close to tears. “Excuse us, please.”

  Golias smiled at Freia, showing his canines, and closed the door behind him, turning the lock.

  Its thud as it went into place was the only sound in the library for a long quarter-minute.

  “Fancy meeting you here,” Golias said, moving toward her.

  Fear clutched her stomach, made the bile rise in her throat. Freia circled away from him as he approached, at once watching him and seeking something with which to defend herself.

  “Your father’s been spreading a rumor,” Golias said, “one I don’t like, and you’re going to tell him he’s wrong. You’re going to tell him my mother didn’t lie. Cat got your tongue?”

  She had nothing to say to him. Maybe a heavy book—she’d never have time to use it—a wine-bottle from the table, damn, he was between her and the table—she sidestepped him as he stalked her and put a sofa between them.

  “Bastard bitch,” he said.

  Golias moved to her right, cutting off Freia’s path to a stair that went up to a gallery. She backed away, moved to her left around a grouping of chairs and small tables. She thought she could throw an oil-lamp at him, but they were all lit and she feared that it would very likely start a fire, and fires had a way of getting out of control—

  Golias was still smiling as he came rapidly around a long table, and Freia darted down to the other end of it, barely keeping it between them.

  She was cold. Some part of her detached itself, thinking that she should have grabbed a log from the wood-box when she could. Or a brass candlestick—

  He sidled toward her along his side of the table. Now she couldn’t back away; there was a high-backed sofa behind her, so she went the same way, and he suddenly put one hand on the table and vaulted it.

  Freia screamed once, reflexively, and sprang back. Golias grabbed her left arm, laughing, and spun her around to wrench it up behind her back, shifted his grip quickly and spun her again so that she faced him, her left wrist in his left hand, and stepped rapidly forward so that he pushed her backward onto the table. His right leg went between hers and his right hand caught hers as she tried to gouge his eyes.

  He grinned.

  As she inhaled to scream again, he kissed her, bending her further back, and released her hand, laughing in his throat as she writhed.

  Freia screamed in her soul: Papa!

  He put his right hand behind her, transferred his crushing hold on her left arm to it, and with his left hand grabbed Freia’s hair and held her immobilized, still bearing her back against the table with his mouth on hers, chuckling as she tried to bite him. Bigger and heavier than she, Golias could use his weight to pin her and his reach to control her while she squirmed and sought weak points, degrees of freedom, escape.

  She couldn’t touch his sword; he wore it across his back and wouldn’t let her reach high enough to
grab the hilt. No dagger that she could reach, either.

  An intolerable interval, but probably only a minute, later, Golias stopped kissing her and said, smiling, “With all this comfortable furniture around, it seems a shame not to use it, dear lady.”

  Freia attempted again to bite him, and he drew away, laughing, and lifted her up bodily. She landed several good kicks on his legs, sobbing and yelling, and Golias put her down on a divan, pinning her with knees and still holding her left arm—going numb now—behind her back. Kissing her again, he opened the front of her dress, cutting the cord.

  Someone banged on the door, shouting.

  Golias chuckled softly and strangled her yell with a wadded piece of lace-fringed cloth. “Such a lovely mouth you have too. Pity to stop it. There.”

  The banging became battering.

  Freia tried to spit out the cloth and kicked, knocking over a small table—a mistake; Golias caught her skirts and, shifting his weight on her, began moving them up.

  The battering at the door stopped and started again, then stopped with a last thud.

  Papa! Freia wailed in her soul, Prospero! This time don’t fail me— She twisted under Golias, impeding him, and he jerked her left arm so that it felt broken; the pain overwhelmed her and black spots hazed her vision. Something clattered, and a cold draft moved over her sweating forehead.

  Golias glanced up quickly, tensing, and then resumed.

  In his instant of inattention, Freia got rid of the cloth and shrieked. Golias slapped her, stunning her for an instant, and removed his right arm from beneath her, using it to cover her mouth as he continued getting her clothing out of his way.

  Whissssh.

  The unmistakable sound of a sword coming out of its sheath.

  “Golias!”

  Startlement crossed Golias’s face; he let go of Freia’s mouth, reaching up and drawing, half-rising off her.

  “Freia, get thee gone!” Prospero ordered his daughter, and steel whizzed over her body to strike at Golias. With his left hand Prospero pulled Freia toward him, dumping her off the divan, as Golias parried and Prospero attacked him swiftly. Metal rang against metal—weeping, shaking, Freia huddled out of the way on the carpet, half-under the divan, until they passed into a more open area of the room.

  Holding her dislocated-feeling left arm close, Freia rose to a crouch, watching them. She was afraid to pass anywhere near them and their flickering, clashing weapons. She looked at the closed door and didn’t move—they were between her and it. Golias would grab her, stab her as he had before.

  A cold draft stirred the room again; the draperies over the one of the tall terrace windows bellied and shrank on themselves as Prospero backed Golias past. Freia shivered. Prospero must have come through there. Yes. The door was still locked, but outside was so cold—

  The gallery caught her eye, ill-lit and remote, above the fray.

  Freia fled up the stairs and along. A door to her left fell open as she brushed against it; she went into the room she found there, a private workroom of some kind, its single window’s draperies open to let the cold eyes of the Landuc stars see in. The door closed behind her. There were chairs, a table—she didn’t make it that far, but folded, nauseated with rage, fear, and impotence, onto the floor, to sit there sobbing sickeningly.

  Shouts and sounds of fighting, crashes, angry cries, and brief silences floated up; Freia stopped hearing them when she covered her ears and wept, keening softly to herself, rocking on her knees, and then cried a while longer in the dark.

  The door moved. A light shone in through the first crack, striking Freia.

  The bearer of the light said “Holy Well!” in a low, appalled voice. He quickly opened the door fully to enter and shut it behind him.

  Silenced by the shock of what he saw, he squinted at Freia as she tried to scramble away.

  “Lass, lass, come here,” Prince Gaston whispered, and he set the light down on the table, bent, helped her up in one fast movement. He settled her on a wide, deep old leather sofa. “Sit here. Here. Whose hand hath turned ’gainst thee?”

  Freia’s guts were still liquid with fear. She shook her head, covering her face. Where was Prospero?

  “Lady, good lady—” Gaston sounded nonplussed, and he touched her shoulder. She flinched, but wouldn’t look at him. After a moment he went away, returned. “Drink this,” he suggested, half-kneeling beside her. “Come now, lass. ’Tis over. Drink.”

  He was gentle and insistent, his hand weighing her arm down.

  Trembling still, Freia lifted her face and saw that he offered her a glass of something—liquor, obviously—and she accepted it. Gaston had to steady her hand when a wave of heavy shaking went through her. It burned her throat and belly and made her cough, her eyes watering.

  “Here.”

  A clean, plain white linen pocket-handkerchief was in his hand now. Her own was sopping. Freia nodded thanks and blew her nose.

  Gaston’s eyes moved over her as she did these things. He brought her another drink, putting a splash of water in the glass too.

  “Tell me what’s passed,” Gaston commanded her, on one knee in front of her again so he could see her face.

  Freia couldn’t find a word for any of it.

  “Wert attacked,” Gaston prompted.

  Freia nodded, shaky, convulsively fast. “He—” she choked out, and had a sip of the fire-and-water drink. She coughed again.

  “Slowly. Take’t slowly. Art safe now. Slowly,” he reminded her softly, putting his hand on her left wrist, pushing the sleeve back to see the marks and deepening bruises there. “Who hath done this, lady?”

  Golias, her mouth formed, and she could not say the word.

  But he had been watching.

  “Golias,” Gaston whispered, his face changing.

  “Yes …” breathing out, the word fit in, and Freia shook her head. “I couldn’t—I couldn’t—He …” and she stammered, disconnected syllables.

  “Slowly,” Gaston whispered.

  “Before—” Freia tried to say, and shivered, set the glass down abruptly to keep from spilling it. Breathing too fast, she closed her eyes and made herself breathe more slowly, thinking about each breath, fists clenched.

  “Better,” her interrogator encouraged her, and he laid his hand on her shoulder, carefully, the warm touch nearly weightless, reassurance without compulsion.

  “When he—before—” Freia whispered, and she opened her eyes to look at him. “He said—he would—ag-g-gain,” she forced out. If only Prospero had listened to her; had he taken but an hour to hear her tale of injury and outrage, surely he would never have brought her in range of Golias again.

  Gaston asked softly, “Rape?”

  Freia nodded.

  “And ’twas again tonight.”

  “Yes—”

  A hard expression came over Gaston’s features, and he studied her a moment.

  “I n-never—” Freia protested, beginning to weep, “I never—His m-mother, he s-s-said—”

  The Fireduke softened. “Aye, I’ve heard that tale. —And Prospero came in.”

  Freia nodded again, quickly, using the pocket-handkerchief and successfully fighting down her tears. “Papa. Papa made him stop. Prospero. Yes. Fought him. I had to get away. Where is Prospero?” She swallowed a breath deliberately.

  “I know not, lass. Thou hidst here because wert afraid?”

  “Of-of G-G—” Freia stuttered. She shook her head, exhausted, shivering.

  “Lass.” Gaston shook her by her shoulders, but not hard, then moved up to sit beside her on the chill leather sofa. She drew away from him, but allowed him to touch her cold hand, his palm warm and hard, his sword-callous fingers pressing hers. “Lass, lass,” he murmured to her, trying to comfort her. “Thou fearest him, his violence.”

  Freia nodded.

  They stared at one another, she pale with grief and distress, he impassive as stone but for the intense light in his eyes.

  “Lass, I swe
ar it to thee by the Well that sustains me, this shall not happen again, it shall not shadow thee a day longer.”

  Another few heartbeats passed.

  “Thank you,” she whispered.

  “Naught have I done for which thou couldst thank me,” Gaston said in an undertone, to himself more than to her. “Let us get thee to thy father.”

  He assisted her to stand and kept his hand under her arm, supporting her as they went, she all a-tremble still, down the gallery and descended. There were overturned furniture, smashed glass, spilled wine, broken paintings, books on the floor. A small fire in one corner had been doused; ashes and water sullied the soft crimson carpet. The draperies were thrown back and the open window had been closed.

  Freia drew her breath in. She tugged her ripped dress over her breast; Gaston picked up a silken chair-shawl and placed it on her shoulders. Freia looked gratefully at him and clutched it in front of her.

  They stood a moment, their eyes meeting.

  “I’m in thy father’s bad books,” Gaston said gently. “Go thou to thy rooms or his. He’ll find thee anon.”

  She nodded, swallowed hard, gripped the shawl with both hands. His damp handkerchief was still in her fist; Freia handed it back to him. Gaston accepted it wordlessly. Freia turned and slipped out of the library, barely opening the door.

  Gaston stood looking at the closed door for a long time. He unfolded the ball of tightly crushed linen in his hand and found that she had given him her own handkerchief too, wadded up with his and just as wet with tears.

  9

  “ALL RIGHT, LUNETÉ. WHAT’S GOING ON?” demanded Ottaviano. She had dragged him back to their apartment, through the empty, quiet Palace halls and corridors, sent the servants away, and now they two stood there face-to-face.

  She looked at him searchingly. “Prince Prospero told the Empress that Golias is not a son of Panurgus,” she said.

  “Dewar said, yeah. What’s so upsetting in that? I thought you didn’t like Golias.”

  “I don’t like Golias,” Luneté said. “Otto, would Prince Prospero lie about that?”