by Janny Wurts
He lifted a hand now remarkably steady, and noticed blood welling from a cut knuckle. Yellow gold glinted, heated as flame against scarlet. Odd, Kennaird thought; the metal must have had a sharp edge. He would file it later. Deep in his mind, he felt the wound should have disturbed him. But the idea was discarded as the ring’s influence unfolded him, filling the empty, insecure places with newborn strength and confidence.
An instruction surfaced. Obediently Kennaird leaned down and opened the lowermost drawer of Ielond’s desk. Within lay notes penned in the Master’s own hand. Kennaird lifted them out, excited and startled by recognition. These were the same documents that had vanished from Ielond’s desk the afternoon Elienne had been presented before the Grand Council.
“But I searched that drawer,” he murmured to himself.
The ring offered no explanation. Kennaird laid the notes flat on the desktop. Uppermost lay the page that listed the times and dates of greatest vulnerability Ielond had gleaned from Elienne’s birth chart. One was circled in red. Kennaird bent closer and saw the marked entry was for that very night, eight hours past sundown.
“Of course,” he said softly. With Elienne weakened by the ardor of childbirth, and the new heir only hours old, Ielond would certainly want someone to guard against harm. Exhilarated by a renewed sense of purpose, Kennaird touched the ring on his hand. Why, he wondered, had the form disturbed him, earlier? The Demon of Hellsgap seemed a right and natural choice of image for an object of power. Legend named it warden of mysteries Ma’Diere had decreed forbidden to Man, and the Secret of Time had certainly never been sanctioned by the League.
* * *
Warm under the dry weight of fresh blankets, Elienne lay with her newborn son cradled against her breast. She wished ardently for quiet. But Law decreed the birth an affair of state, since the event was linked with the succession of a Crown Prince. Beside the usual healer and midwife, numerous officials and no less than two League Sorcerers crowded her chambers. Elienne closed her eyes. Though Taroith had been present to ease the worst of the pain, the hours of labor had taxed her strength. She felt exhausted beyond thought. Only concern kept her awake.
The tiny bundle of life in her arms was perilously vulnerable. On his own, outside the protection of her womb, the infant became a helpless target for any faction anxious to disrupt Darion’s inheritance. Elienne saw threat in the child’s separateness. Fearful as never before that the Seeress’s prophecy would wrench this precious new life from her, she resented the presence of every stranger Pendaire’s unmerciful tradition forced upon her.
Taroith patted her shoulder in fatherly sympathy. “Patience, my Lady. They’ll leave shortly. The documents, I believe, have just been signed.”
Elienne looked up, saw Darion return to her bedside. His white and gold tabard glittered by candlelight, and his hands held a flat square of parchment weighted with colorful wafers of wax. “Lady Consort, I’m proud.” His smile was only slightly shadowed. “This is official acknowledgment of my right to the crown of Pendaire.” He knelt at her bedside and lightly kissed her hand. In a tone pitched for her ears alone, he added, “You have spared me execution and murder. What will you do for encore?”
Elienne smiled wanly amid a fortress of pillows. “Nothing, I hope. May you rule long and well.” She meant it, earnestly.
Darion raised his hand, palm upward. An unfamiliar seal ring weighted his finger. Elienne glimpsed the stag blazon of Pendaire as he cupped the infant’s miniature feet.
“I see he has the proper number of toes.” Hilarity threatened the gravity of the royal expression. “That’s a good start, for a Prince. Have you thought about a name?”
“The mother needs rest,” Taroith interrupted. Beyond him, the room began slowly to empty. “The healer has sent for a wet nurse so she can sleep undisturbed.”
Elienne half rose in protest, the child clutched protectively in her arms. “I require no wet nurse.” Even that small move left her head spinning. She settled back, unnerved by her helplessness.
The midwife leaned over the bed and fluffed the pillows, her beefy features kindly with understanding. “Rest, your Grace. The arrangement need not be permanent. Your son will be astir before you, being fine an’ healthy. All the better you weren’t wakened, at least through the first night.”
“No.” Elienne returned the solicitous concern on the features of everyone present with acid mistrust. “The baby stays with me.”
A knock sounded softly, and the door opened. “The nurse has arrived,” Mirette informed from the hall.
“Send her away!” The words came out uglier than Elienne intended, but weariness and insecurity stripped her of tact. She dared not permit the child to leave her presence.
“My Lady,” Taroith began.
“I won’t hear it!” She met the Sorcerer’s startled glance with the wariness of a cornered vixen. “I prefer to be awakened. Let the crib be brought here.”
Although she had directed her statement to Taroith, Darion was first to notice the buried distress in her voice. Disturbed, suddenly, by what seemed stubborn, irrational hysteria in the woman Ielond had chosen for sensitivity and courage, he listened more carefully. If Elienne was over-wrought, there would be cause.
“Come now,” said the midwife. She laid aside her towels and extended her arms toward the infant. “ ’Tis a natural thing to feel a little set back after a birth. Time and sleep will restore your spirits.”
Elienne regarded the pink, scrubbed hands like vipers. “Get away. Don’t touch him. I told you, he stays here.” Her voice turned brittle with anger. “If you want to help, fetch the crib from the nursery.”
“Enough!” Darion stepped between midwife and Consort with the caution of a man ending a fight between mastiffs. “Leave us, please. I wish to speak with my Lady in private.”
Taroith’s brows rose questioningly. “In private,” Darion repeated quietly.
The chamber cleared slowly of maids and attendants. As though reluctant to give ground, the midwife was last to leave. Taroith held the paneled door open for her wide girth. Then he winked at Darion and closed the latch with firm finality.
Alone with her child, Elienne regarded the Prince who stood before her, hands clasped neutrally at his belt. She said, “You won’t change my mind.”
“I won’t try, Mistress, if you tell me what troubles you.” The medallion on his chest flashed as he drew breath. “I don’t believe your behavior was founded on whim.”
“No.” Elienne felt familiar tension return. Phrased with direct compassion, Darion’s sensitivity invariably left her defenseless against emotion. Too spent to battle, she stared down at the coverlet, trapped yet again by the intertwined monogram of Darion’s initial and her own embroidered onto the sheet. She spoke quickly, before control left her entirely. “But I would rather not speak of it.” With the succession all but completed, the Seeress’s prophecy was her own affair.
“Are you still worried about Faisix?” The Prince waited, motionless, for her answer. After lengthy silence, he said, without rancour, “Lady, Faisix has been in trance, meditating, for the past four days. I doubt he knows your child exists, yet.”
Elienne shivered. She met the Prince’s hazel eyes with open alarm. “He knows. Will you listen? I have a reason. Please, my Lord, don’t allow them to take my child from me, even for a night.”
Darion hooked a stool with his foot and sat down by the bed. “All right.” He lifted a lock of her hair from the bedstead and smoothed its mahogany length upon the pillow. “You honestly feel the baby may be endangered?”
Elienne swallowed. “Yes, Lord. Ielond would not guarantee his life.” Her body ached. She desperately wanted to sleep. But before rest, she needed to stay clear-headed enough to establish her son’s protection from harm. His tiny, warm weight against her body was her last most precious link with Trathmere and her lost husband.
&n
bsp; “I think we should name him Cinndel,” said Darion without warning.
Elienne started, and caught him watching the child with an expression of awed tenderness. “What?”
He laid his forearm on the mattress and leaned on it. “I said, I thought he should be named Cinndel.”
“No.” Emotion rendered the word nearly inaudible. Elienne tried, and failed to curb her amazement. “No,” she repeated more clearly. She shifted the baby closer to the Prince, but he was too young yet to be interested in the bright glitter of the seal ring. Mellowed by the generosity of Darion’s offer, Elienne qualified through a haze of drowsiness, “This child would have died, except through the intercession of your Guardian. I wish to call him Ielond, if you’ll permit.”
“Permit?” Darion withdrew his hand and for a long moment pressed spread fingers across his face. Chestnut hair fringed his knuckles, and the soft glow of candlelight touched his bronze profile. He spoke without moving. “I’d be honored to call my heir by that name.” His tone became fractionally unsteady. “Are you certain?”
Moved by his reaction, Elienne touched the velvet-clothed wrist draped still over his knee. “I decided months ago. I’m glad you’re pleased.”
“Overcome is more accurate.” He lowered his arm, unveiling a wounding smile. Elienne’s breath caught. She had no will left to trample the response that welled up within her. Her grip tightened against the warmth of his sleeve.
Darion covered her fingers with his own. He lifted her hand from his arm and folded it neatly over the child’s blanketed body. “Lady, you shall have your crib. The maid of your choice will attend you. I’ll have a pallet brought.”
“Minksa,” said Elienne promptly. The room seemed to roll like a ship beleaguered by storm swells. Only stubborn will held her eyes open.
Darion rose to his feet, a tall glittering presence seen through vision fuzzed by exhaustion. His voice resumed like a litany, above her. “Further, I will post my two most trustworthy guardsmen at the door of your chambers. They shall have orders to admit no one without your consent.”
Elienne roused herself with an effort. “Kennaird,” she murmured.
Darion bent close. “What?”
“Send Kennaird. I need to speak with him.” Much as Elienne disliked the apprentice, he alone shared knowledge of the Seeress’s prophecy. And Darion was unlikely to humor her very long without demanding the reason for her insecurity. The child’s safety could only be left to one Ielond himself had trusted.
“Very well, Lady.” The Prince saluted, as though to a commander of armies. He struggled with a solemn expression. “Kennaird will be summoned for audience with the Queen-to-be. I will personally oversee all arrangements, and not leave you, or Ielond, until the guardsmen have arrived. Now, will you rest?”
“Like the dead,” Elienne promised. Weakened past restraint, she summoned a wan smile. “My Lord, about the chess game ... someday I’ll explain.”
Darion watched his Lady’s eyes fall closed. He stood for a long while over her still, slight form, while the child of a dead stranger blinked and slept at last in the bright drift of her hair. The sacrifices the two of them had made for his future left him indebted beyond human coin. He yearned for Elienne’s happiness until its absence made him ache. Yet even when he coaxed a smile from her, grief and mistrust seemed always to rob the moment of pleasure. Perhaps the baby would restore her trust in life, he thought. The sharp trip of the latch started his reverie.
Taroith entered. “She’s asleep, I see.” He paused and raked a gnarled hand through his beard. “Are you going to reveal the terms of the truce?”
Darion laughed quietly “A crib at her bedside, Minksa’s presence, and two guardsmen.”
The Sorcerer grunted. “You humor her. Your Grace, never spoil the one you marry. You’ll rue it, sorely.” He was smiling.
Darion shrugged, impossibly high-spirited. “She has achieved my succession. Let her have her way, for tonight.” And he called for servants, his pageboy, and a scribe, that he could fulfill his bond to the lady who had at least granted him reprieve from the headsman.
* * *
Elienne woke in the night to the wind-driven batter of rain against the casements. Ielond lay quiet in his crib. Drowsily, she recalled that Minksa had wakened her earlier, and she had fed her child. There had been lights, then, and stillness. A solitary candle still burned on the table by the bed. Elienne dozed, her thoughts of Darion’s forthcoming coronation. Ma’Diere’s Order would bless Ielond as Prince and heir of the realm at the same time.... Lulled by the fury of the storm, for once she permitted herself the luxury of contemplating a future removed from dread.
Voices beyond the door drew her back. Half-roused, Elienne saw Kennaird enter her chambers. Water glistened in his thin hair, scattering droplets onto the carpet as he bent and carefully fastened the latch.
Elienne stirred and spoke in a voice thickened with sleep. “Kennaird? You came very late.”
The apprentice crossed the floor without a reply. After a brief survey of the room, he unhooked his wet cloak and slung it over a chair by the hearth. “You’re alone?” He sounded brisk rather than surprised.
Elienne raised herself on one elbow. Minksa slept on a pallet behind the decorative screen of the wardrobe. But the girl was no threat to her privacy. Elienne chose not to waken her. “I wished no women about until I had seen you concerning protection for Ielond.”
The name caused Kennaird to check sharply.
“I surprised you.” Softened by fatigue, Elienne smiled. “I’m sorry. The boy is named after the Sorcerer. I hope you don’t mind.”
“No.” Kennaird’s lips curled. Half-lit by the candle, his expression seemed strangely amused, as he resumed his interrupted course and paused at her bedside.
Elienne settled back against the pillows, more tired than she cared to admit. She looked up at Kennaird with relief. Shortly she could enlist help from a nurse without danger to Ielond. “Kennaird, I’m worried about the Seeress’s prophecy. No one else knows the child may still be threatened. You are the only one I dared trust to ensure his safety.
The apprentice gripped the bedstead above her. Shadows bent his familiar features into a mask’s hard angles, and eyes pale as winter searched her face, as though something about her annoyed him.
Chilled awake by the intensity of his silence, Elienne knew faint alarm. “You will help, won’t you?” She pushed back the coverlet as though to rise.
Kennaird laid a hand on her shoulder. “I’ll look after the child.” He pressed her firmly back against the pillows.
His autocratic touch sparked annoyance. Elienne resisted, and felt his fingers tighten, gouging her nightrobe unpleasantly into her skin. “Kennaird!” Fully roused, she twisted angrily, and caught sight of a bright glitter of gold; the Demon of Hellsgap lay coiled like a garrote beneath his knuckle.
Terror flooded her, sharp and immediate as a knife. She drew breath to scream, found bedclothes rammed tight against her mouth. The cry emerged muffled. Kennaird shook her. She lashed out, felt her wrist caught and imprisoned in a cruel grip. Elienne wrenched in panic. Her assailant braced against her. His leg bumped the side table. The candle tottered, tossing pinwheels of shadow.
Driven by fear, Elienne flung against his hold again. Kennaird raised his knee and pinned her long hair against the mattress. The bedclothes shifted in his hands, ruthlessly suffocating her. Elienne struggled. Harsh fingers twisted the cloth to gag her. She tried to kick free of the blankets, without success. The sheet tightened like a rope across her mouth, salty with the taste of her own sweat. She heaved, desperate. Kennaird’s hold slipped. Knuckles banged painfully against her ear.
Air sobbed in Elienne’s throat. “Guards!”
A hard palm silenced her. Elienne thrashed. Kennaird forcefully thrust the gag back over her face. Her elbow cracked the headboard. But the pain of
impact went unnoticed as the apprentice yanked the sheets into a knot. His face loomed over her, stippled with sweat, and unhumanly intent. Distantly, Elienne heard the rattle of the door latch.
“Eternity, it’s locked!” someone shouted.
A heavy object crashed against the door from without, but the stout oaken panels held. Kennaird finished with the gag. He released her with an expression of contempt and started around the bed. Beyond stood the crib where Ielond lay sleeping.
Elienne flung herself after Kennaird. He would kill her child. Linen snapped taut under the force of her rush. Cloth abraded her chin and ripped away. Elienne caught Kennaird’s elbow and clung. Too weak to stop him, she could only slow him down. A fist battered her shoulder. The doors shuddered under a second blow.
“No!” Elienne kicked at his kneecap, missed, but saw a white figure move in the shadows across the room. “Minksa! Unbar the doors!”
The girl ran like a deer. Kennaird saw her and swore. He raised his arm and smashed Elienne brutally aside. She staggered. He struck her again, and she fell.
The door burst open. Guardsmen entered, running, just as Kennaird reached for the child.
“No!” Elienne made a frantic effort to rise. “Stop him!”
Gauntleted hands seized Kennaird, jerked him back. He tore free, whirled, and attacked the guards, though he was unarmed. Through a wave of weakness, Elienne heard the slick ring of a sword drawn from a scabbard. Steel flashed, yellowed by candlelight. But crazed as a beast, Kennaird rushed the guardsmen with suicidal fury.
The blade took him in the chest. Startled by the impact, the guardsman cried out in stark surprise and dropped his weapon. Kennaird toppled with a gasp. The steel crossguard thudded into the carpet. Driven home by the weight of his own body, the blade emerged, bloodied, through the back of his jerkin. But Elienne saw nothing beyond the flash of gold that tumbled from his outflung hand. The object spun, flickering in the darkness, and came to rest a scant yard from her face.
