by Janny Wurts
Elienne heard his step on the stair. He did not return. Presently Mirette entered. She had been weeping. After a hostile glare at Elienne, she began to empty the wardrobe.
“You are to be moved to other apartments, my Lady,” she said tartly, and Elienne perceived that the woman’s bitterness was rooted in sympathy for the Prince. In time, she knew her strained relations with Darion would create irreparable enmity in a person who had closer contact with her than any other, a situation she could ill afford.
Elienne made an attempt to avert the worst. “Mirette, can we talk about it?”
Mirette banged down a chest lid and reached to fasten the latch. Her hand shook. “His Grace said you were not to be faulted. I have no desire to know more.”
Wounded more deeply than she cared to admit by the rebuff, Elienne wondered briefly whether the bed of the Khadrachi Inquisitor might have been the easier fate to manage.
* * *
She saw little of Darion in the following weeks. Those meetings which were unavoidable were always public, and handled invariably with deferent reserve. Elienne found even the briefest encounters abrasive. Time did not smooth her tangled emotions, and Mirette’s stiff silences became a constant reminder that her adherence to solitude was gracelessly cruel to a man who deserved better. Elienne escaped to the stables as often as she could.
The Horse Master had chosen her a pert chestnut mare, spirited, but obedient to the rein. Though Elienne had preferred more challenging mounts in Trathmere, she was content during pregnancy with a quieter animal; and the mare had good stamina and comfortable gaits. Accompanied by a groom and two men-at-arms in royal livery, Elienne spent long hours riding the hills above the harbor. Her escort quickly learned that she desired silence. Out of respect, they often hung back and allowed her to ride ahead in solitude, for which Elienne was grateful.
The Horse Master glowed with pride over the mare’s glossy new growth of muscle. “The Lady’ll make a fine Queen,” he boasted to her groom, unaware that she had lingered in the stall to give the mare a carrot, “Pushes the best out o’ that animal, yet never a mark of abuse. And she’s tough. Rides even with the morning sickness, did ye know?”
The groom knew. Elienne colored and laid her check against the mare’s silky neck. She had twice had to dismount, only that day. But not even nausea was enough to keep her indoors, under Mirette’s accusing eyes. And though Minksa remained a staunch friend, Elienne’s reticence toward the Prince distressed her. Where initially the girl’s confidence had begun to blossom under the first love and understanding she had known in fourteen years of life, now she lapsed often into odd periods of silence. It was a pity, Elienne reflected. She let herself out of the stall and set the bolt securely. The child at present was the only measurable good she had done anyone since her arrival in Pendaire.
The stable was strangely deserted for mid-morning. Elienne paused in the aisle, alerted to the reason by the clang of the gate and a rattle of hooves and harness in the courtyard. A large cortege had just arrived. Though the commotion probably heralded nothing more than the arrival of a border patrol, she shook the straw impatiently from the hem of her habit and hurried outside.
The courtyard was jammed with riders. Cloaked against the early autumn chill, they dismounted from animals slick and steaming with sweat. Elienne identified the gold and black surcoats of the royal guard, but, backlighted by a cloud-streaked sky, the standard at the head of the column bore the argent and blue blazon of the Sorcerers’ League. Taroith must have returned at last, from the keep where Faisix was held in custody. In the midst of the jumble, his tall, white-haired figure caught her eye.
“Gifted!” Elienne started forward, pleased.
Though her hail could not possibly have been heard above the din, the Sorcerer glanced around. His smile of welcome gave her a twinge of discomfort; inevitably he would ask after the Prince.
Taroith left his horse with a groom and made his way through the press to where she stood. “You look thin,” he observed as he tugged the riding gloves from his fingers. “Is the pregnancy giving you difficulty?”
Elienne saw advantage in the excuse. “A bit. Yet not enough to keep me indoors.” She attempted to divert the Sorcerer’s scrutiny with a change of subject. “Gifted, I’m glad you’re back.”
Taroith’s gaze stayed on her face, and he made no effort to answer. Uneasily, Elienne stared at the bustle of men-at-arms and horses being led away. Whether or not the Sorcerer guessed that she had estranged herself from Darion, he would soon find out. She regretted her impulsive greeting and wished instead she had returned to her chambers without calling attention to herself. The sun burst through a break in the clouds, drenching the scene in light. Bright amid the gray steel helms of the guardsmen, a fair-haired head caught her attention.
Elienne felt gooseflesh ripple the skin on her neck and arms. “Faisix is with you?”
Darion’s antagonist stood, unrestrained, amid a group of halberdiers. An unfamiliar Sorcerer stood with them. Shocked that a traitor who had engaged Black Sorcery against the crown should be permitted the liberty of escort without bonds, Elienne glanced questioningly at Taroith. “They aren’t going to free him, are they?”
The Sorcerer’s eyes left her at last. “No.” He gazed at his hands. “He will not be released. The League will plead for his life, but he may yet face the headsman. It is a pity.”
“A pity?” Elienne scuffed savagely at a tuft of moss between the cobbles. “You said yourself he was mad. A killer. And the Seeress was murdered by someone who wished to know her secrets.”
Taroith touched her gently on the arm. “There is no way known to League mystery, or Black Sorcery either, that Faisix could personally have been involved with breaking the Seeress’s vows of silence. His death would achieve nothing. Alive, he has something left of dignity, and a chance to recover from his mistakes.”
Though Elienne had seen enough of death to sympathize, the Sorcerer’s logic did nothing to relieve her inner distress. Perhaps she was hopelessly prejudiced, but she was unable to imagine that the man who had tormented her could ever recover humanity enough to be trusted.
“You don’t believe me.” Taroith withdrew his hand and sighed with weary regret. “Lady, look at him. See for yourself. Perhaps then you’ll gain a measure of understanding.”
Elienne did not wish to comply. The raw forces that once had swept her from Ielond’s arms during transfer were too potent a memory for simple forgiveness, whatever sentiment the sight of the man who had wielded them might arouse. Since she could not dismiss the issue without appearing hard-hearted, reluctantly she looked again.
The square had cleared partially, allowing a clear view of the prisoner. Though his tall frame and elegantly handsome features were recognizably the same, the man himself had changed profoundly since Elienne had seen him last. From bared head to the plain, unassuming set of his shoulders, the former Regent exhibited a poignant humility that alienated all previous impressions. Even from a distance, his expression of sorrow touched the marrow of Elienne’s soul. She swallowed, suddenly subdued. As though purged by remorse and loss, Faisix seemed reawakened to compassion. His attitude of deferent gentleness made her heart cry out for reprieve, even against the recent scars of remembered terror.
“I don’t understand,” she said softly.
“That’s not surprising.” Taroith steered her across the cobbles toward the palace door. “You lack the background. Faisix’s father, the old Earl of Torkal, was killed in a drunken quarrel with his steward. His son was ten at the time, and motherless. Ielond took him in, reared him as his own. The boy idolized him.”
Taroith opened the heavy, studded panel door and waited for Elienne to pass. “As a child, Faisix had tremendous aptitude for sorcery. Everyone assumed, when he came of age, he would apply for League training.”
The Sorcerer fell silent. His booted step echoed hollow
ly down the corridor. At his side, Elienne waited patiently for him to resume. Taroith halted abruptly. Tall lancet windows silhouetted his gaunt frame as he drew breath, and his words fell as an incantation upon stillness.
“The requirements for apprenticeship are unimaginably stringent. It takes a bold heart and a dedicated, disciplined mind to undertake the examination for candidacy. Only the strongest are permitted to try, for the slightest irregularity of character is enough to constitute failure. And failure, without exception, engenders emotional loss greater than anything else a human soul can endure. The effect can be crippling; some aspirants never recover.”
“Then Faisix was found unsuitable?” said Elienne. A gust rattled loudly against the leaded glass casements. She had to lean close to hear Taroith’s reply.
“Ielond himself conducted the test. He was a fair judge, though the adverse decision must have cost him great pain. At first Faisix seemed to handle it well. He went on to become a brilliant statesman and was granted the Regency when Darion’s parents perished in the fire.” Taroith gazed out over wind-tossed gardens. “No one knows what turned him, whether he became jealous of the Prince for sharing Ielond’s affections, or whether, all along, resentment of his rejection from apprenticeship festered in him. Whatever the cause, the League assumes full responsibility. I will save him from execution, if I can. The Prince supports me.”
The statement came as a surprise, reminding Elienne of the distance that separated her from Darion. Weeks had passed since she had last reached for the mirrowstone, and for days at a stretch she had avoided his company. Caught suddenly by a chill of foreboding, she realized how easily that isolation might augment the threat to her child and Darion’s succession. For though Faisix’s repentant attitude roused her to pity, she did not trust him.
Despite Taroith’s insistence, she was not convinced that the Seeress’s death was coincidence. The only justification she had to balance her distrust lay in the third of the Trinity of Fortune that was hers alone. Elienne laced her fingers tightly together to keep from shaking openly. Above anything else, she did not want to confide that information. In the wrong hands, the knowledge could ruin her.
“Gifted,” she said at last. “I think you are making a grave mistake.”
Chapter 12
Ielond’s Paradox
TAROITH abandoned the window, his expression sharply surprised. His dark eyes met hers with a directness that turned Elienne’s chills to sweat.
“Tell me why, Lady.”
Elienne fought an onset of discomfort. Ielond had urged her to seek Taroith’s guidance, yet intuition made her suddenly doubt the advice. Repentant or not, Faisix sought her destruction. Uncertain how to express her mistrust, and pinned by the intensity of the Sorcerer’s attention, Elienne groped clumsily for a reply.
A shout in the corridor spared her. With characteristically poor timing, Kennaird burst around a bend into view, the hem of his mourning robe splattered heavily with mud. “Master Taroith!” He paused to catch his breath and rubbed a nose pink with chill. “Have they told you? The Grand Council has appointed you Regent until Darion’s coronation.”
“I was aware.” Taroith stepped back from the window and resumed his interrupted course.
Kennaird tagged along as though waiting for the Sorcerer to comment. When none was forthcoming, he said, “Aren’t you pleased? It’s quite an honor.”
The Sorcerer answered reluctantly. “I have accepted as a formality of Law.” He reached the doorway to his own chambers and paused with his hand on the latch. “I informed the Council members that Darion will make the decisions. I have enough to occupy me without adding troublesome matters of state to the list.”
Elienne observed the apprentice’s crestfallen expression with distaste. Kennaird seemed to relish gossip like an old crone, an odd and embarrassing trait for one who had reputably passed Ielond’s examination for apprenticeship. Briefly Elienne wondered what the dead Sorcerer had seen in the man, unaware Taroith echoed her thought.
But as Master of the Sorcerers’ League, his concern went deeper; surely as the stars turned, when mourning for Ielond was past, Kennaird would appeal for continuation of his training. Yet that responsibility was seven months distant. Taroith put it from his mind.
“Good day, my Lady, Kennaird. The journey has tired me.” The Sorcerer bowed respectfully to Elienne and retired to his chambers.
Kennaird sighed and walked on. Headed in the same direction, Elienne went with him, absorbed and silent.
Kennaird interrupted rudely with a question. “What has happened between you and the Prince?”
Elienne stopped cold and regarded him through narrowed eyes. “Ask his Grace.”
“I did.” Kennaird glared back, fingers knotted belligerently in his belt. “He refused to say.”
Angered, Elienne produced a honeyed smile Jieles would have recognized. “Then I have nothing to add. I’m on my way to the privy. Are you going to follow?”
Kennaird’s round face turned an unbecoming shade of puce. “You’re the cause of a lot of talk.”
“You’re adding to it. I’m not interested.” While the apprentice was still flustered, Elienne stepped past and left him standing stupidly at the foot of a flight of stairs. However highly Ielond had regarded his apprentice, she was unable to respect the man. Kennaird had irritated her ever since that first day he had scolded Minksa. With sudden longing, Elienne realized how greatly she missed the Prince’s staunch logic. He alone had breached her loneliness. Yet even his friendship might endanger his succession, and the people of Pendaire needed his rule.
* * *
Fall wrapped the countryside in flame-colored splendor, and a fortnight of brisk, golden days blessed Pendaire. Darion gave Minksa a pony, and for a short while the girl accompanied Elienne riding. But the mild weather broke early that year. Thick frosts withered the late-blooming roses in the gardens beyond her window. Bent brown stalks rattled in the wind like ranks of aged spearmen, until autumn rains beat them flat. Elienne began to feel less ill in the mornings, and Mirette commented that her riding habits were becoming snug about the waist.
“You’ll have to put the mare to pasture soon, I think,” she said.
Elienne twisted her hair into a knot and pinned it with more force than necessary. “I’ll have the seamstress let them out.” She jammed her cap on her head and rose from the mirror.
Mirette gathered skirts of rose silk trimmed with fur and stepped out of her path. She had learned respect for her mistress’s temper. “You shall not be able to ride much longer, Lady, without risk to your child.” Her soft complexion and rich clothes made her look more like the Princess than Darion’s Consort, who was dressed for bad weather, and whose skin was roughened from exposure to wind and sun.
Elienne tossed her cloak over her shoulders and left the room without answer. Once outdoors, she allowed her oath of aggravation to mingle with the rain. Would Mirette never understand her mare was the only thing left which gave her pleasure? She dreaded the day she could no longer ride; her mornings out were all that made her isolation from Darion tolerable.
She returned, chilled, and wet to the skin, having ridden farther than usual. Even her escort had complained. Elienne entered her apartment and flung off her dripping cloak, braced to endure Mirette’s annoyance. Yet no scolding arose to disturb her.
Elienne paused with her hand half-raised. Her women were absent. Darion sat in one of the brocade armchairs beside the fire, alone. Elienne tensed, wary lest she reveal her vulnerability. His gaze fixed upon her, chilly as the breakers on the north beach, and the velvet of his surcoat rose and fell evenly, unmarred by quickened breath.
He looked down at his hands. “You asked to see me?”
The wet bodice seemed suddenly tight around Elienne’s chest. Words became difficult. “I was worried.”
“About Faisix?” Darion rose and
smoothly turned the adjacent armchair toward the fire. “You’re cold. Won’t you sit?”
Elienne stepped back. “I’ll spoil the brocade.”
Darion smiled with sudden, unexpected warmth. “I believe you’re worth it. But if you get much thinner, I’ll have to reconsider. I thought the sickness had stopped?”
“It has.” Trapped by a shiver of chill, she grinned back. “You explain to Mirette.” She dragged her muddy skirts across the carpet and settled herself before the hearth.
Darion remained standing. “You were worried?” Cautiously he folded his arms and rested his weight against the chairback.
“Yes.” The fact that he was behind her, out of view, set her somewhat at ease. “Jieles told me the Grand Justice meets tomorrow to determine Faisix’s sentence. He thought they would spare his life.”
“I would support such a decision,” said Darion. “Do you wish him dead?”
A log fell, and sparks fluttered, brief and bright as fireflies in the updraft. Though Elienne wished to sound objective, a tremor invaded her voice. “Lord, I fear for the safety of my child.”
He had leaned close to her. Elienne felt the current of his sigh tickle her neck. “Above all others, I expected you to understand the futility of executions.”
Elienne closed her eyes, tried frantically to stem the emotion that locked her throat. She wanted to tell him of the Seeress’s prophecy; that she would fail him, and perhaps lose the son she had left Trathmere to save. Yet the most she could do was shake her head.
Darion left the chair. He crossed in front of her and sat on the settle by her knee. The fire traced copper highlights in his hair. “My Lady, you have nothing to fear.”
His sincerity made her afraid that the barrier of distance she had raised between them would shatter under the stress. But he only gathered her cold hands into his own calloused, warm ones in brotherly concern. “Elienne, trust me. Faisix will never leave the custody of the League. He regrets his actions, greatly, and spends his time in meditation. I have seen him, twice. He bears no malice toward you, or the child you bear. You are secure here, I promise. My word as Halgarid’s heir.”
