by Janny Wurts
My return is no difficulty, Taroith explained. The prison’s ward is polarized only against sorcery applied from within. I will care for Darion. You should try to sleep.
Elienne rose, swayed, and caught the table for balance, betrayed by unsteady legs. The weakness made her cross. “Gifted, save your concern for your Prince.”
Insubstantial as a drawing in silverpoint, Taroith knelt on the pillows at the Prince’s head. Darion lay still as death in the light of the Sorcerer’s soulfocus. Elienne studied the waxy pallor of his features through the cross-weave of Ielond’s enchantment. In Trathmere, a healer would have treated the Prince with an elixir containing an antidote or, if none existed, strong potions steeped with herbs. She wondered how Taroith would effect a cure with nothing at hand but will.
Taroith glanced up as though she had asked aloud. Every creature possesses innate awareness of its physical self, by Ma’Diere’s Law. It cannot be permanently altered, except by Black Sorcery.
Elienne watched as the soulfocus drifted lower and touched Darion’s forehead. Taroith continued his explanation. A trained Master can call forth that awareness, and reinforce the original pattern with inanimate, elemental forces. Drugs, diseases, even injuries have no natural place in the structure and so cannot maintain existence.
As the Sorcerer finished, the soulfocus blurred, expanded, and enveloped the Prince’s comatose body in a shroud of illumination.
Darion.
The strength of Taroith’s call made the very air seem to quiver. Ielond’s enchantment pulsed with power, echoing the rush of surf against the headland beyond the palace walls. Elienne could feel the seething hiss of current and the tumble of sand grains against the seabed as if she stood, drenched by breakers, upon the rocky spine of the reef.
Darion.
Taroith’s second call all but summoned stars from the sky. Cold, fresh air settled around him, and the chamber expanded with silence. Elienne forgot her fatigue, fascinated as the faintest flush of rose touched the Prince’s cheeks.
Darion.
Taroith’s last call was but a whsiper. As if his control was spent, the light that clothed the Prince flickered, then dimmed. Elienne felt the heightened awareness fade beyond perception, until the bedchamber lay stripped of enchantment, shadowed and stale, and hemmed by stone walls filmed with fog. The candles guttered, burnt low in rimmed sockets. Darion remained unconscious, his features limp and lifeless between Taroith’s hands. Elienne watched through burning eyes, unwilling to recognize defeat, unable to accept that all their efforts had resulted in failure.
Taroith stirred, the soft glow of his presence barely visible in the gloom. I could not maintain the final sequence in spectral state. But all is not lost. I believe the drug has been reduced to safe limits. The Prince should sleep off the final stages on his own. Let him waken naturally. And, Lady?
Elienne looked up.
Ask Darion to have Nairgen’s woman questioned. She may provide evidence qf his guilt, or possibly names of his accomplices.
Elienne nodded quickly, shamed by neglect; Taroith had entered no plea on his own behalf until now, and, swept away by concern for herself and the Prince, she had forgotten to offer any help. “I’ll see he does, Gifted.” Contritely Elienne touched Darion’s hand. The fingers were warm. But before she could voice her thanks, Taroith and all evidence of Ielond’s spell vanished, leaving her alone in near darkness.
Even worn out, Elienne decided to restore Darion’s hair to the mirrowstone’s setting at once. The aftermath of Nairgen’s rape attempt had taught her never again to leave evidence of her activities for Faisix’s eyes. Though her fingers responded clumsily and her eyes stung in the dying flicker of the candles, the ceaseless threat she had known since arrival in Pendaire drove her to complete the task. Not until the jewel was securely crimped in its setting did she return to the Prince and settle her aching body at his side.
The hollows around Darion’s eyes had lost the taut, sunken look of fever. His skin was resilient to Elienne’s touch, and his breathing was deep and regular. Confronted with tangible progress toward his recovery, she wondered, through a fog of exhaustion, what she would have to say to him when he woke. The thought tangled unpleasantly with a memory of Cinndel, bloody and still in the dusty bailey where he had fallen. Drowsily Elienne’s reflections drifted into nightmare.
A faint scraping of leather against wood brought her back to awareness. Elienne whirled to face the sound and caught sight of a furtive movement beyond the tumbled pile of bedhangings. A small face, fringed with dark hair, withdrew hastily into shadow.
Recognition eased Elienne’s initial stab of fright. “Minksa?”
The girl flinched at the mention of her name, widened eyes fixed on Elienne in distrust. Uneasily Elienne wondered whether the child had slipped in to hide during her absence; if Minksa was sent to spy, how much of Darion’s recovery would be reported to Faisix? Quite obviously, the child was terrifed.
“I won’t hurt you.” Elienne hoped she sounded sincere enough to reassure. From the first encounter, she had been inclined toward compassion for Minksa, whose nervous, hunted expression seemed that of a child sorely deprived of affection. Ignoring Kennaird’s warning, she decided her best defense lay in winning the child’s trust.
Elienne gathered Darion’s hand into her lap as an indication that she had no intention of moving in pursuit. “Come out, child. You must ache from staying still so long, and it’s chilly under the bed.”
Minksa hesitated. Her eyes darted significantly toward the door to the sitting room.
Elienne strove to recapture her attention. “My sister’s daughter was about your age, I believe. Are you twelve?”
The girl stood, visibly torn. Nervously she plucked at the elflocks that spilled over her thin shoulders. Her shift was loosely cut, shamefully large and worn for the niece of a Prince.
Elienne patted the pillows at her side with heartfelt sympathy. “You look troubled. Do you want to talk?”
Minksa chewed her lip, then shook her head in violent refusal. A single candle revealed what might have been tears on her pallid cheeks.
Careful to move without threat, Elienne offered her hand. “Will you let me help, Minksa?”
But whoever had sent the child to spy had traumatized her beyond coaxing. Minksa bolted madly for the door. The wake of her rush smothered the candle, and in darkness, Elienne heard the slap of sandaled feet crossing the floor at a run. The sour clank of the outer bar and a sudden draft of cold air marked Minksa’s departure. The guards made no move to stop her. A moment later, Elienne heard the muffled sound of the door closing. The soft note of the latch carried clearly over the low roar of the surf.
Chapter 7
The Heir of Halgarid
SHE WOKE with her head pillowed against the Prince’s thigh. His hand lay in her lap where she had last placed it, now cold-lit by dawn light from the arrowslits. But the wrist was no longer limp, and the fingers curved protectively against her waist. Abruptly aware of his conscious presence, Elienne caught her breath, glanced up, and met dark hazel eyes regarding her with close attention.
Nothing had prepared her for this moment.
The Prince’s hand stirred. Elienne tensed for the inevitable caress, yet Darion withdrew his touch. His expression of polite restraint remained unchanged as he folded his arm across his chest.
“My Lady?”
Elienne searched his face, relieved to find no trace of passion. She inclined her head. “Good morrow, your Grace.”
“Taroith left me with the awareness of how deeply I stand in your debt.” Darion’s voice was courteous, but distant. Probably he wished to win his right of succession and be done with her.
That suited Elienne. Thought of the physical involvement she had promised Ielond revolted her suddenly, and she wished the obligation finished, quickly, without kindness or commitment, so that she could
forget. “Your Grace, you owe me nothing.” With self-control tight as any she had shown before Faisix, Elienne began to unclasp her bodice.
Darion reacted instantly. “Lady.”
Deaf to his urgency, Elienne continued to disrobe with mechanical efficiency. The loosened silk of her blouse slithered back, baring one shoulder to the chill air. Her fingers trembled as she reached to shed the garment entirely. But Darion caught her hands with his own and firmly resisted her intent. “Mistress.”
Elienne’s heart turned with sudden fear. “Mistress” was formal title for a married woman, not an affianced bride. She studied the Prince’s features anew, prepared for betrayal and cornered by need to defend herself and Cinndel’s unborn son.
The eyes which met hers were calm. “Yes, Mistress. Ielond broke the barrier of time and gave his life to send you to me. He told me you would already carry the son who would become my heir.” Darion pressed her hands down into her lap. He smoothed the fallen sleeve back over her shoulder with a touch that was gentle but remote. “You come to me straight from the arms of a lover who is dead. Ielond promised me that the lady he would send would not be missed elsewhere.” The Prince’s smile was bitter. “He was a Sorcerer who kept his word.”
Elienne shivered. “Please,” she began. Adversity had forced her emotional turmoil at bay behind a wall of restraint. She found sympathy threatening that barrier, and grief was nothing but a liability. “My Lord, please, simply do what you must.”
“Do you think me a man without feeling?” Darion’s voice was no longer quite selfless. “Lady, you’ve been through Hell itself to give me my right of succession. If you’re going to be imagining another man’s face over mine when we love, I’d prefer to know who he was. I would rather respect his habits and his memory, that our time together might tax you as little as possible.”
“Stop!” Elienne tried to curb the tears that brimmed at the edges of her eyelids. “I beg you, be done with this.”
“No.” Darion was final. “Lady, allow for me, if not for yourself. I would rather give Pendaire to Jieles than use you like a street wench. You cherished someone enough to grant him a child. Why don’t you start by telling me his name?”
The sincerity of the Prince’s compassion struck Elienne like a blow, crumbling her defenses. Unwanted sobs wrenched her throat, rendering speech impossible. Darion’s features softened, then blurred through a rush of tears. Elienne buried her face behind her fingers, only vaguely aware of the arms that circled her and gathered her close. Grief allowed her neither pride not will to resist. Cradled against the warmth of Darion’s chest, she wept for the husband and the home torn from her by the Khadrach.
The Prince held her, stroking the hair that spilled down her back long after crying had left her exhausted. Quiescent, she lay against him, accepting his comfort, and resigned to its inevitable conclusion.
Yet Darion’s touch remained passionless, and a lengthy interval passed before he so much as spoke. “Lady, your man must have been exceptional to inspire such love. Please, tell me about him.”
Crowded by vivid memories, bewildered by the enormity of her loneliness, Elienne found herself tempted to accept the consolation of communication. But Darion was a stranger, inescapably removed from all she had known and loved.
“Cinndel was beyond words,” she said at last. How could she speak of the rapport, the humor, and the joy she had shared with a man now dead? “Why ask me of him? You cannot take his place.”
“I never expected to.” Darion’s tone was complaisant. His hands never broke their rhythm over her hair. “I wish only to understand you, Lady. If Cinndel was important to you, he is important to me. If you feel I seek to manipulate or use you, I will leave you now. I’ll not establish my Kingship through another’s pain.”
Elienne pulled away from Darion’s embrace. She sat up and stared through tear-swollen eyes, and on his features read honesty like flint. “Ma’Diere.” Her voice shook. “That scruple could cost your life, and Ielond’s sacrifice in your behalf will be wasted.”
A fine web of wrinkles tightened the skin around Darion’s eyes. Yet his voice showed no strain. “Even so, Lady.”
Reminded of the mirrowstone’s image of the Prince confronted by the headsman’s ax, Elienne drew back, suddenly white. Assured and unselfish, the man who would bestow her freedom was not one to waste himself for a fool’s sense of gallantry. About his stillness she caught a shadow of the quality that had so haunted her on the ice plain. Behind the Prince’s concern lay a need greater than her own, a need she now knew herself incapable of denying.
“My Lord, love for my husband never made me cold.” Hesitantly, Elienne laid her hands in the Prince’s. “I want you to live, and claim your kingdom, though it costs me pain. Forgive the fact I haven’t yet strength enough to lay my past aside. That is my burden, not yours.”
Darion drew her close, the stress coiled tight within him now openly apparent. “Lady Consort, I make that burden mine as well.”
The perception and grace behind the statement demanded no less than the warmth of an understanding response. “I refuse you that, Prince of Pendaire.” Elienne lifted her head and kissed the man who would soon be her husband, not with passion, but with honest appreciation of his individuality. “I came to grant you release, not to add to your troubles.”
Darion responded with tenderness. The kiss he returned was a compliment rather than a demand, and the hands that slipped the clothing from her body were gentle and unhurried. Elienne felt herself stirred to intimacy. She might not love this man, but out of sympathy she could return the gift of his compassion. She pressed close to him, awakened to desire, and recognized the familiar tension of shared physical passion. She fought to keep her words light. “My Lord, won’t you rid me of Kennaird’s handiwork? I find it a nuisance.”
Darion laughed softly. “My Lady, that would be a pleasure.” Yet the smile abruptly left his face, and the bantering tone turned serious. “But I am in no way deceived.”
He soothed her with his touch until the barriers of her loss gave way before a torrent of physical passion.
Sparked into flame like kindling, Elienne accepted him fully; until, caught utterly by surprise, she felt her desire peak with him. The moment caught like pain.
Peace shattered before a cruel need for Cinndel, who alone had shared this intimacy.
Darion cradled her like a child. “Have I hurt you?”
Elienne turned her face away in distress.
Darion gently withdrew, and began to rub her back. “You miss Cinndel. There is no shame in the fact.”
Elienne barely heard him. But beneath his ministrations, knotted muscles slowly eased, and exhaustion began at last to claim her.
The Prince settled the coverlet over her and continued to stroke her shoulders through its warm folds. “Lady, I respect your courage. From this moment, you may, if you choose, have nothing but formal relations with me. You have more than accomplished your promise to Ielond, and between us I demand no falseness.”
Elienne stirred and drew a long, shaky breath. “Your Grace, I cannot pretend to love you. But you have won my admiration as Cinndel’s equal, and your friendship is a gift greater than any I could have wished.”
Through eyes grown heavy with weariness, Elienne saw Darion smile as she sank into dreamless sleep.
* * *
Movement roused her. Darion had risen, and as Elienne rolled over, she saw him stretch once, striped with golden morning sunlight, before he reached for the hose and tabard she had discarded on the floor the past evening. He caught her staring as he dressed. To her delight, he colored slightly, embarrassed.
“I don’t mean to abandon you, Lady.” He knelt by her side, concerned but impersonal. “The Grand Justice will meet shortly concerning the charges of treason against Taroith, and I must be present.”
“I understand.” Elienne w
anted to inquire how much information Taroith had left the Prince concerning Nairgen’s plot against the succession, but his mood was not one that invited interference. “Master Taroith asked me to request that you question the healer’s wife.”
Darion frowned. “I should have in any case. Are you comfortable? If you have needs, I will see they are attended.”
Elienne tried to soothe his sharpened edges with a smile. “Acquit Taroith, your Grace. I want for nothing more than time to myself.”
Darion rose and buckled on his swordbelt. Even as he stood barefoot, with childishly disordered hair, daylight unveiled with stark clarity the intelligence and the grace the drug’s debilitating effects had robbed from him. Elienne perceived with fresh understanding Ielond’s dedication to such a Prince, and renewed outrage stirred in her against the faction of Pendaire’s court that valued power over the realm’s well-being. Even victimized by injustice, Darion proved himself formidably suited for the kingship that should have been his without hindrance or doubt. Had Cinndel fallen heir to the same lot, in honesty Elienne wondered whether even he could have handled himself with the same finesse.
“Ma’Diere give you peace, my Lady Consort.” Darion bestowed a courtly bow and departed. As his step faded on the stair, Elienne realized, by his absence, how deeply he had touched her. Beyond her own fight for survival, he had won her willing support. While turning that thought over in her mind, she drifted into drowsy reflection, and thence to sleep.
* * *
When Elienne awoke at noon, the room was empty. The sea’s restless surface threw needles of reflected light across the beamed ceiling. Annoyed at her laziness, Elienne rose at once and found fresh clothing laid out for her, alongside a basin, towels, and a basket of fruits and cheeses. No servants appeared to attend her. Elienne washed, grateful that Darion seemed to have taken her request for solitude seriously. The dress was wheat-gold, trimmed with black, mercifully plainer than the one Ielond had fashioned for her, yet richly woven despite its simple cut. Elienne dressed quickly, anxious to know how Taroith fared, and afire to see how Darion’s enemies would react to his restored health. Yet she dared not consult the mirrowstone without advance precautions.
