Sorcerer's Legacy

by Janny Wurts

  She wished no words of consolation. But the other did not speak. Buoyed by the steady, undemanding haven of the embracing arms, Elienne recorded the firm warmth of the Prince’s body sheltering her. His shirt smelled faintly of cloves; her head was pillowed in the hollow beneath his chin. His hands locked across her back, an anchor against the currents of grief. The shirt was unlaced at his neck; he still wore his hose.

  For a very long while, he simply held her close, while the candle by his elbow burned slowly lower in its stand. Through dull, half-opened eyes, she recognized the bedchamber and remembered that the counterpane that covered her was emblazoned with the stag of Pendaire’s royal house. The night surrounded her like Eternity, endlessly empty and cold.

  When Elienne spoke, finally, her tone was dead against the sibilant splash of the rain. “She said I would die truthful.”

  Darion stirred, placed his wrist across the back of her neck, and cupped her face in his hand. A lengthy interval elapsed before he responded at all. “Who said?”

  The candle guttered, all but spent. Elienne lay motionless without replying. He did not press her and for a long while the rain trickled unregarded down the blackened glass of the casements. Words came much later, with great reluctance. “The Seeress.”

  Darion’s fingers moved. He caught her strongly and lifted her until her head rested against his shoulder. His face bent next to hers, eyes fathomless as pools in the dying wisp of flamelight. “The Trinity of Fortune? Are you telling me you knew of this in advance, even since the betrothal banquet?”

  Numbed, Elienne nodded.

  “Ma’Diere’s infinite mercy,” Darion said softly. The whisper of the wind claimed the silence his words left upon the air. Elienne caught the clean scent of thawed earth, and noticed that the casement had been left cracked open. Darion’s fingers soothed her hair. She waited, between the stroke of his hands, for the kick of a child against her breast.

  The Prince’s touch stilled. “How did you keep your sanity?”

  The candle flickered out, the wick a red pinprick against dark. Elienne felt a calloused palm brush her eyes, walling away the sight, along with any associations dredged back by a chance gleam of scarlet. She turned her face into his neck, felt the prickle of chestnut hair. After prolonged quiet, her voice emerged, muffled. “In Trathmere, the boy would have miscarried, consequence of my own misconduct.”

  There was more. Patiently, Darion held her, and waited.

  Chapter 15

  The Trinity of Fortune

  SECONDS passed, unregarded, into minutes or hours; suspended in grief, time had no meaning. When Elienne spoke at last, her voice emerged beaten and flat with exhaustion. “I left my land without hope. Had I stayed, I would have lived as a conqueror’s concubine.”

  Darion stroked her back, his hands warm through the fabric of her nightrobe. Tortured by memory of Ielond’s tiny face, Elienne continued, her old pain a shield against acceptance of the immediate past.

  “My husband’s son would have been raised an overlord, claimed as get of a Khadrach Inquisitor. He would have matured a cruel man, accursed by his own people, for the Khadrach know neither kindness nor mercy.”

  Elienne lifted her face to the Prince in raw appeal. “Perhaps he is better dead.” A deep shiver ran through her, and her breath caught.

  Darion shifted his embrace, clasped her tightly against him. She yielded, helpless before the agony of loss. Tears flooded, hot as blood, and splashed his dry collar. The Prince offered no word of consolation; only the steady comfort of his presence, as though he knew that every sensation, even the impersonal touch of the coverlet against her skin, created a reaction of pain. He held her in total silence.

  The weeping that convulsed her eased and gradually calmed. Darion stroked dampened hair back from her temples, felt the slick tracks of tears that ran unabated down her cheeks. “Ielond was wrong to bring you,” he said finally. “Your grief would be less, born in hatred.”

  Elienne stirred in protest and covered his mouth with unsteady fingers. “No, Lord. In Trathmere, there would be none to comfort me in this hour of despair,” and in forced, broken phrases, she described the Khadrach hordes that had invaded her land with armies and taken her husband’s life. “Ielond spared me immeasurable suffering,” she whispered when she had finished. “I would not have survived that first night with the Inquisitor.”

  Scraped raw with sympathy, Darion leaned close and kissed her. His lips caressed her with agonized tenderness. Trembling, Elienne responded, the salty taste of tears bitter on her tongue. After a space he lifted his head and cradled her face against his own. “I love you.”

  Elienne lay quiescent in his arms, the wind beyond the casement a lament in her ears. Cinndel seemed faded and distant as a childhood fancy. “Through your darkest hour; maintain your courage,” Ielond had said. “Remember I have looked beyond and seen a beginning.” But the future stretched before her like a vista without hope—she could no longer deny that she loved Darion; and now, unavoidably, his life once again might be threatened. “My Lord, what of your succession?”

  “Mistress, your sacrifice was not made in vain. The headsman cannot touch me now.”

  “But there can be no lawful coronation until you have offspring,” Elienne interrupted. Her voice broke, torn short by a knot of pain for her lost child, and for the curse that prevented conception of another.

  “I don’t know,” he admitted. Betrayed by her nearness, Darion’s intended detachment came out transparently strained. “This is a precedent. The Grand Council will have to rule one way or another.”

  Elienne laced both hands in his hair and drew him into another kiss. He quivered under her fingers. “My Lord,” she said in his ear. “By my life, I swear, I will see you get another heir.”

  His grip changed, and he drew her strongly against him. Elienne clung to him and buried the sliver of ice in her heart. Her promise to Darion was made in the knowledge that her life with him might be sacrificed. She lay quietly with him, and he who had not rested through two long nights at last slept with her twined in his arms. Slowly dawn silvered the black panes of the casement. The rain eased and stopped, and spring sunrise spilled rosy light beyond the darkened towers of the palace. In utter stillness, Elienne listened reflexively between the song of robins for the thin cry of an infant. No sound answered. No sound ever would. Ielond was dead.

  * * *

  The Grand Council of Pendaire seemed eternally in session. The murder of Darion’s heir brought about intensive study of the ancient Laws of succession, and debate ensued concerning the legality of the impending royal marriage and coronation, since by tradition the ceremonies were held together. Though worn by exhaustion and grief, Elienne dealt with the irritability of an uncertain court with a sturdy self- reliance that bordered at times upon belligerence. She maintained quarters in the Prince’s apartments and shared the wide bed with his Grace through two sleepless nights. He stayed available to her; painfully aware her women provided no comfort, he deferred the hour when court responsibilities would call him from her side.

  The morning following the baby’s funeral, Mirette brought the accustomed attire of mourning from the wardrobe and met with blistering rebuke.

  “Put that back.” Elienne sat stiffly upon the edge of the bed, hair coiled in elflocks around the delicate lines of her collarbone.

  Mirette hesitated fractionally too long.

  “I won’t wear black, Mistress,” said the Consort with such unrestrained vehemence that Darion left the attentions of his valet and set his hands lightly on her shoulders. Elienne started and glanced up at his face in sudden, anguished appeal. “I don’t need to be reminded. Your Grace, the boy is beneath the soil. Let me put him behind me as swiftly as possible.”

  Darion gathered her close and spoke quietly to Mirette. “Please bring my Consort something else to wear.”

  The L
ady-in-waiting curtsied with rigid courtesy and walked back to the wardrobe. Cued by the fixed set of her back, Darion resolved to seek an elderly woman who would not be discomforted by Elienne’s difficult temperament.

  Mirette returned with a white and gold dress gathered at the waist with a girdle of topaz and pearl. Elienne pulled free of Darion’s embrace and accepted the gown without comment. He lingered while she donned it, impressed by her fierce determination to shed her loss and act for the future. In all his life, he had never known a woman with her resilience of character. “Elienne?”

  She paused with one wrist halfway down a sleeve, dark eyes swollen and heavily circled.

  Darion restrained an impulse to sweep her into his arms again. “I must leave you for the council chamber. Taroith reports further absence on my part might not be wise.”

  “I’m going with you.” Elienne read protest on his features and forestalled him. “Don’t argue. I know. They will toss Ielond’s death about like drunks playing mumblety-peg. I’ll weather it.” She hesitated, the shadow of an uncertain smile upon her lips. “Do you suppose they can deny your right to marry before the wan and aggrieved presence of your betrothed?”

  Darion caught his breath in wide surprise. After a moment he lifted his head and laughed aloud. “Eternity!” he said the moment he could manage speech. “Ielond knew what he was about.” The Prince raked disordered hair back with his fingers. “Poor Jieles. He’s going to be sorely disappointed.”

  Elienne stared. “I don’t pity him.”

  “No?” Darion responded to the discreet touch of his valet and lowered his head to receive the ornate collar of state. “Then dress, you crafty shrew. We don’t want to keep him waiting.”

  Yet despite the unprecedented and steadfast presence of the Consort at the Prince’s side, the Grand Council managed to extend debate over a fortnight. The stress began to wear heavily upon the Prince. Attuned to his emotional state as she once was to Cinndel’s, Elienne began cautiously to extend what release she could. Nights alone in the royal suite became a haven of shared solace for them both. Darion demanded nothing. Conscious her body required space for readjustment following childbirth, he settled, apparently content with the comfort of her presence. Yet lying awake in the darkness with his arms loosened in sleep across her breast, Elienne wondered whether he guessed her hesitation was rooted also in uncertainty.

  The Seeress’s prophecy troubled her still, though the Trinity of Fortune might have resolved completely with Ielond’s death. Now no stranger’s child by her could possibly claim the heirship. But the statement for the realm had yet to be determined. Either Jieles or one of his sons would have to be crowned for Halgarid’s bloodline to inherit fifteenth in succession. Elienne’s fingers tightened over the Prince’s wrist. Though Darion was spared execution, the Grand Council might well deny him kingship until he had sired a new heir. How many years, she wondered, could he rule childless without dispute or conspiracy arising to supplant him?

  The Prince sighed beside her, disturbed by restless dreams. Elienne traced the tense muscles of his shoulder, anxious to know whether she dared allow her love for him free rein. But bound to the Grand Council’s decision, like him, she could do little but wait.

  Outdoors, the days warmed under the first breath of spring. Elienne resumed riding in the early hours of morning, with the Prince mounted at her side. The exercise helped ease the tension generated from long hours in the council chamber, and through Darion’s company, she saw the hills and forests of Pendaire in a new light. Landmarks inspired him to recite ballads from the early years of the realm, and gradually she absorbed knowledge of the local history. Set against the rich and varied past of an ancient kingdom, Faisix’s curse of childlessness imposed upon the Prince awakened fresh depths of anger. For the first time, Elienne fully understood Ielond’s motivation to break the barrier of Time in Darion’s behalf. And though she would regret lifelong the loss of Cinndel’s child, she accepted why the Sorcerer might have sanctioned the sacrifice in view of the greater good. The boy would not have survived in Trathmere. And in truth, the Sorcerer had not lied. “I cannot promise such choice will be without peril, but the Prince is a just man, and your son would become heir to Pendaire’s throne.” Ielond had never guaranteed the child would inherit.

  “You’re very quiet,” said Darion at her side. He ducked his head as his mount carried him under a low-slung branch.

  Elienne watched him straighten in reserved silence, unwilling to voice her thoughts.

  The Prince laced long fingers through his horse’s mane. “You’re brooding again. May I ask why?”

  But Elienne neatly sidestepped the issue. “Do you suppose we could visit Minksa this afternoon?”

  Darion checked, dark brows hooked sharply into a frown. “Why? Mistress, the girl is tormented with guilt. Duaire has all he can handle just preserving her sanity.”

  The mare tossed her head as Elienne pulled her up short. She met the Prince’s displeasure with a raised chin. “I was her only friend. What happened was not her fault.” Elienne felt her voice begin to shake, and cursed her loss of control. “I want to forgive her.” And maddeningly, emotion threatened her control.

  Darion reached across and touched her cheek. “My tough Lady, I admire your courage. But the event is too recent for you both. If you break down and weep in Minksa’s presence, you’ll cause her no end of harm. Give yourself time. Everything doesn’t heal in a day.”

  Elienne’s expression turned mutinous.

  “All right.” Darion sighed and returned his hand to the rein. “I’ll ask Duaire. But you’ll abide by his judgment, won’t you?”

  “I’ll beat you to the cedars,” said Elienne with total incongruity. With an impish grin, she kicked her horse into a gallop. A mud clod thrown up by the mare’s hooves struck the Prince and left a rich splatter on his impeccable white lawn sleeve.

  “Bitch,” he murmured fondly, and tossed his own animal its head.

  * * *

  Yet when Darion and his Consort returned from their ride, the subject of Minksa was never reopened. Taroith awaited them at the stables. Early sunlight burnished his hair to silver as he crossed the courtyard, his step urgent. Darion halted his horse, and Elienne saw the pleasure fade from his face.

  “Your Grace, I bring news,” said Taroith at once. “The Earl of Torkal’s body has perished.”

  The Prince gave the Sorcerer a dark, unreadable glance and vaulted lightly from the saddle. A groom took his horse. He caught the mare’s reins while his Consort dismounted, concern evident in his movements. “There’s more, or you wouldn’t have met me.”

  Taroith raised his voice over the crack of hooves as a second groom led Elienne’s mare to the stable. “There is more. The Select met separately concerning Faisix’s death. They also drafted a final decision on your succession.”

  Darion’s response was clipped as he took his Consort’s arm. “Has the Grand Council yet endorsed anything?”

  Elienne looked from his tautly controlled features to Taroith, but the Sorcerer’s expression was equally stiff. The birdsong and the bright, cloud-flecked sky seemed suddenly false as illusion around her, and happiness became a lost dream.

  Abruptly, Darion started across the bailey.

  Taroith matched his long stride and said cautiously, “Your Grace, the Council is presently in session, for the purpose of the vote.”

  The muscles of Darion’s jaw tightened. He steered Elienne clear of a puddle and mounted the marble stair before the entrance without voicing the obvious: the Council might have waited for his return before presenting the Select’s writ for approval. Instead, he said, “What are the terms?”

  Taroith’s sigh was buried by the boom of the door panel as it swung under Darion’s hand. “That you marry your Consort at the week’s end and head the Grand Council with a Regent’s powers, coronation and kingship subject to t
he birth of a living heir. I think the writ will pass, this time.”

  Elienne clung to Darion’s arm as he stopped just past the threshold. “Will Jieles retain the heirship in the interim?”

  The door swung shut at Taroith’s back, and his face fell into shadow. “Lady, that much could not be argued. The Duke of Liend is of Halgarid’s line.”

  Yet the pause that followed only fueled Elienne’s apprehension.

  “If the Grand Council is voting, I would prefer to be present,” said Darion suddenly. He turned down the corridor, oblivious to his mud-stained shirt and the chestnut hair still disordered from the morning’s gallop in the hills.

  Elienne hurried to keep pace with him, heart pounding beneath the heavy wool of her riding habit. If Darion’s life became the only obstacle between Jieles and the crown, the Prince’s safety would never be secure. The Duke of Liend had once sanctioned his own daughter’s murder for the sake of power. Elienne felt sweat spring coldly along her spine.

  Darion approached the entrance to the Grand Council chamber and snapped a command, which the door steward leaped to obey. The servant performed his bow of obeisance to an empty hallway as the Prince and his Consort passed quickly within, Taroith behind them.

  The moment she entered the wide oval chamber, Elienne knew the vote was already in progress. The galleries above were largely empty, observers having been denied entrance to the session. The vacant seats lent a sense of desolation, as though the people of Pendaire had no voice at all in the succession of their Prince. Elienne quelled rising alarm as Darion led her across the wide expanse of mosaic and up the stair to the central dais.