Prince Dagnarus entered the room.
The prince had been a beautiful child. Now, at the age of twenty—an age considered by humans to be the age of majority—Dagnarus was a man whose looks, bearing, poise, and demeanor commanded the admiration of all who saw him. Even now, when he had obviously just come from riding, when his auburn hair was windblown and tousled, the color high in his sun-browned face, his riding clothes dirt-covered and splattered with mud, he caused those nobles who had spent hours before their mirrors, combing and preening, to regard his good looks with jealous envy.
At the prince’s entirely unexpected and unorthodox arrival, the flustered Mistress of the Wardrobe wrung her hands; the ladies-in-waiting flocked together, twittering in pretend consternation and hoping to catch the eye of the handsome prince. Only one of the Queen’s ladies continued to calmly ply her needle. She was counting stitches and did not raise her eyes.
The ladies of the court twittered in vain. Although Dagnarus was of marriageable age, none of the yearning noblewomen (or their daughters) had managed to bring a sigh to his lips or a glint to the cool emerald eyes.
“Love weakens a man,” the prince had stated on one occasion when he and his friends were drinking wine and composing sonnets to various ruby lips. “The sight of the loved face in battle causes the swordsman to hesitate when he should strike. The touch of the loved hand jostles the elbow of the archer and the loved lips bid a commander to retreat when he should be advancing. Thank you, gentlemen, I would sooner drink to the plague as to love.” Saying which, he had thrown his mug into the fire.
The prince had not drunk a toast to love, but he had drunk many to lovemaking. Unbeknownst to anyone else in court, the prince’s chamberlain, Silwyth, kept a fund of silver tams ready to ease the pangs of abandoned women. There were any number of redheaded children running about the streets of Vinnengael who could be said to have the blood of kings in their veins.
Dagnarus was not a man to allow animal passions to rule him. He indulged his sexual appetite, but only in order to keep that appetite from interfering with the truly important matters in life. He chose his bedmates wisely, selecting those who were too poor to be a danger to him, and he was honorable enough to leave these women better off, financially, at least, than they were before he dallied with them. He was always coldly honest with them, coldly impersonal in his lovemaking, and it could truthfully be said that none of these women ever languished of love for him at the end of their relationship.
Dagnarus paid scant attention to the simpering ladies-in-waiting. He noticed only one, and that was the one who was not simpering, who did not even look up at his arrival, but continued with her work. Dagnarus was not accustomed to being ignored, and he took this as a challenge. He would make this woman, whoever she was, acknowledge his presence.
“You cruel boy,” his mother berated him in whining tones. “You have not been to see me for a three-month, and now you break in upon my work and throw my ladies into confusion. Look at you. You have not even bothered to change your clothes, but you come straight to me from the stables. I am extremely ill-used.”
The Queen lifted a lace handkerchief to the corner of her eye. The ladies-in-waiting—all but one—sighed and rustled.
“Come now, Mother,” said Dagnarus in a voice mellow and rich, a voice that he played with the skill of a flutist, “you know how busy I am. What with my studies and attending the King’s levees and taking command of my own regiment, I can barely find hours enough in the day. This leaves me, to my regret, no time for pleasure—for the very great pleasure—Madam, of waiting upon you.”
Dagnarus kissed his mother’s hand most contritely, his gaze fixed upon the lady-in-waiting who still refused to leave off her work and give him the admiration that was his due. Dagnarus was starting to feel annoyed. All he could see of her was black hair, smooth and straight, parted in the middle and flowing down her back almost to her waist, and her hands, which were extraordinary for their long, delicate fingers and rosy nails. By the hair coloring, her slender frame and strict discipline, her silken and colorful dress, he knew she was an elf.
“Ah, my child, you work too hard, far too hard,” said his doting mother, who instantly forgave him months of neglect. “Your brother does not work nearly as hard as you do and yet he is to be King,” she added, pouting and bitter.
“Of course, Helmos will be King,” said Dagnarus lightly. “He deserves it and it will be an honor to serve him.” Leaning near, he whispered, “Hold your tongue, Mother. You do our cause more harm than good.” Aloud, he added, “I wish to speak to you, Mother, upon a private matter. Dismiss your ladies.”
It was not the prince’s place to command the Queen, but Dagnarus had so long been his mother’s master that she obeyed him without question.
“Ladies, leave us,” the Queen ordered. “I will ring when you are needed.”
The Queen’s command could not be disobeyed and obliged the dedicated seamstress to lay down her needle. She rose to her feet with unstudied grace, the grace of a newly blossomed flower lifting its head to the sun, lifting a face whose exquisite beauty was so perfect that anyone seeing her immediately longed to find a flaw, just to make her mortal. Her eyes, almond-shaped and tilted, were unusually large and blue as the air the elves worship. Her lips were full and sensuous, her chin well-shaped but firm, denoting strength of spirit. Lowering her eyes, which seemed to decrease the light in the room to a marked degree, she made her reverence to the Queen and passed coolly by the prince without exhibiting the slightest interest.
“Who was that elf woman who just left?” Dagnarus asked, taking care that his tone should be indifferent. His mother was jealous of his affections and would immediately rid the court of anyone he admired. Though she wanted him to marry, she had determined that he would marry a woman of her choice. So far, those she had presented to him had been ugly as crows. “I don’t recall having seen her before.”
“You would have seen her had you bothered to wait upon me,” said his mother, absorbed with her own grievances. “She is just arrived at court within the fortnight. Her husband, Lord Mabreton, is the new elven ambassador. There is to be a dinner in his honor this evening. I trust you will attend?”
“If you wish it, Mother,” said the prince, unusually dutiful.
“I do,” said the Queen. “Helmos will be there, smirking and lording it over everyone. You must be certain to take him down a peg or two.”
As little love as Dagnarus bore his elder brother, not even he could accept the picture of the scholarly, earnest, and modest Helmos “smirking and gloating.” Dagnarus usually avoided such royal functions if he could, preferring to spend the night drinking and gambling with his friends in the local taverns. His plans changed immediately. He had no objection at all to appearing in his best clothes, seated alongside his father, directly opposite the beguiling Lady Mabreton.
Mabreton. The name had a familiar sound to it. Dagnarus could not recall where he had heard it before. He made a mental note to ask Silwyth, who would know all there was to know about the lady. And her husband.
“What is it you want to talk to me about?” the Queen asked. Eyes narrowed, she regarded her son with suspicion. “Not about that elf woman, is it?”
“Certainly not, Mother,” Dagnarus said, smiling. “I only asked because it is right and proper that I know the members of my father’s court. Don’t you agree?”
The Queen believed him. His tone was nonchalant, his interest in the woman appeared to be only the interest of the moment, quickly forgotten. Dagnarus was adept at dissembling, at hiding his true feelings, at shuffling his mental deck so that the cards he needed were always on the top. No one ever caught him cheating.
He glanced around to make certain that the ladies-in-waiting were not waiting within earshot. Assured that he and his mother were alone, he turned his full attention to the Queen.
“Mother, I have news,” said Dagnarus, sitting in the chair opposite his mother, a chair the lovely Lady Mabreton had ju
st abandoned and that still held her warmth and her perfume. For a moment, the prince had some slight difficulty in banishing her image, but, after only a brief struggle, he succeeded. “Lord Donnengal is dead.”
The Queen gazed at him stupidly, plied her fan. “Well, and what is that to me? I never liked the man, for all your father thought so highly of him.”
“Mother,” said Dagnarus impatiently, “who gives a hang whether you liked him or not? He is dead. Don’t you understand what this means?”
The Queen regarded her son doubtfully, wanting to please him, but not certain what he was talking about.
“It means,” said Dagnarus, patiently, “that there is now an opening among the ranks of the Dominion Lords.”
Emillia’s eyes widened. Reaching out her hand, she clutched her son’s forearm with such violence that her long nails pierced his flesh. “It shall be yours! Of course, it shall! How wonderful the ceremony will be. I will have a new gown, of course. The feast will be splendid. We will serve—”
“Mother,” Dagnarus interrupted, his tone cold and biting. He jerked away from her touch. “Do not have the goose for the feast plucked yet. You know perfectly well that I shall not even be nominated for the post.”
“Well, certainly, you will!” the Queen said angrily. “Your father cannot deny you this! It is your right!”
“He can deny it and he will,” Dagnarus predicted. “He does not consider me a suitable candidate. Just because I am no weak-eyed book reader. Just because I sleep through the minstrel’s love songs and prefer dicing with my friends than gaping in the face of some old philosopher who yammers on about the deep meaning to be found in the cutting of a nose hair. You may rest assured, Mother, that I will not even merit consideration.”
“You will. I will talk to the King,” said Emillia, rising with a rustle of silk brocade, meaning to leave that moment.
“No, Mother, you will not,” said Dagnarus firmly. He knew well how little love King Tamaros had for his second wife. “That is why I came to speak to you before—” In his heart he said, before you do me irreparable harm, but aloud he finished with, “before you exert yourself on my behalf.”
His mother was displeased. “I wonder if you realize how important this is to you,” she said crossly. “You do not stand a chance of becoming King unless you are a Dominion Lord like your brother.”
“I know the importance, Mother, believe me,” said Dagnarus, his tone dry. And that is why I choose to handle this myself, he thought, but did not say. Aloud, he continued, “As for my becoming King, Dominion Lord or not, it will not happen. At least, not if it depends upon my father. The King will never depose Helmos in my favor.”
“Nonsense. The King adores you—” his mother began.
“Yes,” Dagnarus interrupted with a bitter smile, “but he does not like me much.”
“I don’t know what you are talking about!” the Queen cried, and fumbled for her handkerchief again. “I am sure you are blaming me. You act as if I would spoil everything for you, when I care about you more than life itself. I don’t know how you can be so cruel…”
“Stop sniveling, Mother, and listen to me.” Dagnarus was losing patience. “You will not broach this subject with my father. You will not whine, grizzle, plead, or badger. When he or anyone introduces the subject of my becoming a Dominion Lord, you will behave quite calmly, act as if it is accepted fact. ‘Certainly my son will be nominated,’ you will say, looking startled at the very idea that anyone could have doubts. And you will say nothing more. Do you understand? And you will tell my grandfather Olgaf to stay out of this altogether.”
Emillia was a silly, shrewish, vain woman, who had long ago lost all authority or influence she might have held at court. This was not completely her fault. Her father, King Olgaf of Dunkarga, continued to stoke the fire hot beneath the royal pot, keeping the King’s soup bubbling in hopes that someday His Majesty would lift the spoon and burn his mouth. Dagnarus needed help from this quarter as much as he needed scorpions in the bed linens.
Emillia did not give way without protesting with a few squeezed-out tears that her son did not love her, that no one loved her, that her sacrifices were not appreciated, that she was sure she could convince Tamaros to see reason and that poor dear Papa would be only too happy to come to court and insist that Dagnarus be given his rights.
Dagnarus listened to her with as much patience as he could muster, reminding himself that as a soldier he must learn to endure hardship and torment. He knew how to handle Emillia, however; he’d been doing so since he was two years old. He charmed her in one sentence and threatened her in another, until she was not quite certain which was which. Gradually, he persuaded her to his way of thinking.
When the Queen began to conceive of the plan as having been her idea in the first place, Dagnarus knew he had won. He was safe from her machinations. He left her as quickly as he could after that, though he paused in the antechamber, hoping to see Lady Mabreton. He was disappointed. She was not among the ladies moving in haste in response to the Queen’s imperious ringing of her bell.
Dagnarus returned to his chambers to bathe and change his clothes and decide on how best to confront his father. King Tamaros had never before denied his youngest son anything, but Dagnarus was less confident in his ability to succeed in this. The nomination of a Dominion Lord was something solemn and sacred to King Tamaros, something to be prayed over and gravely considered. It was not like giving his son a pony. Still, by the end of his bath, Dagnarus thought he had devised the way to approach his father.
“Silwyth,” said Dagnarus, shaking out his wet curls and vigorously toweling himself, “I want to ask you something.”
“Yes, Your Highness. How may I be of service?”
The elf was laying out the prince’s clothes, clothes suitable for an audience with the King, although Dagnarus had made no mention of the fact that he was going to see His Majesty. Silwyth knew. Silwyth always knew. Dagnarus had long given up trying to discover how Silwyth knew.
“My mother has a new lady-in-waiting. An elf.”
“That would be Lady Mabreton, Your Highness.”
“Yes, that’s the name. Tell me about her, Silwyth,” said Dagnarus. Ordinarily there would be a host of lords assisting the prince to dress, but Dagnarus, having cut his morning amusements short on hearing the news of the death of Lord Donnengal, was alone with his chamberlain.
“She is the wife of Lord Mabreton, a Guardian of the Eastern Wood and a Dominion Lord. He is of the House of Wyval, loyal to the Divine, but not unduly so, if Your Highness takes my meaning. The Shield of the Divine made Mabreton a Dominion Lord, and he is properly grateful.
“Lady Mabreton is a reluctant member of the court. She did not want to come and is said to have adamantly refused to accompany her lord when the subject was first broached. She was made to see that her lord would lose face if she stayed behind, disobeying not only his wishes but those of the Shield. It is said Lord Mabreton threatened her with divorce if she did not come, which would have meant utter disgrace and ruin for herself and her family. I find that rumor difficult to believe, however, since it is obvious to all that Lord Mabreton adores his beautiful wife. It is my guess that her own family were the ones who persuaded her to come, for they are an impoverished House and dependent on her influence. Whatever the reason, she is here in court. Not only that, but she is a lady-in-waiting. I mean no disrespect to the Queen your mother when I say that Lady Mabreton is most unhappy in that position.”
“She is? How interesting.” Dagnarus smiled, well pleased by what he’d heard. “Tell me, Silwyth. Why is the name Mabreton so familiar to me? Where have I heard it before?”
“You are thinking of the Lord Mabreton who was ambassador when Your Highness was a boy. It was around the time of the gifting of the Sovereign Stone…”
The memory came flooding back to Dagnarus, the memory of Silwyth plunging his knife into an elf lord’s back.
“By the gods!” Dagnarus look
ed intently at Silwyth, whose face was calm and composed as ever. “I know the man you mean! What relation was he to this Lord Mabreton?”
“They were brothers, my lord. The Lady Mabreton was the wife of the first brother. As is elven custom, if another brother is unmarried, he has the option of marrying his brother’s widow, should her family deem such a marriage to be of advantage to the lady. In this instance, her family wanted desperately to hang on to the Mabreton family fortune, and so they readily agreed.”
“I see. Why did I never see her when she was at court when I was a child? Not that I would have paid much attention to her, I suppose,” Dagnarus said, grinning as he buckled a jeweled belt around his waist. “I thought more of my dog than I did women. Still, even a little boy must have noticed such a beautiful creature.”
“I am sure Your Highness would have noticed her,” said Silwyth, and there was something wistful in his voice. “Our women are famed for their beauty, but hers is beyond compare. She did not come to court then, however. She lived in a house that the first Lord Mabreton had built for her on the shores of the River Hammerclaw. When word of her husband’s death reached her, she returned, under the protection of the Shield, to her own family.”
Dagnarus’s face darkened. “Is she still under the Shield’s protection?”
Silwyth hesitated, then said, “No, my lord. She is not. Her family and the family of the Shield’s wife are not on good terms, and relations between the two have lately deteriorated. The Shield would not protect her. This is perhaps another reason she thought it expedient to travel to Vinnengael.”
“Excellent. Silwyth, you have caused the sun to shine on my entire day. You’ve heard the news, of course.” Dagnarus slipped his arms through the sleeves of a richly embroidered and furtrimmed cloak worn over his short tunic.
“Of Lord Donnengal’s passing? Yes, Your Highness. I offer my condolences. He was well-known to you, I believe.”
“Faith, I cared nothing for him one way or the other. What is important is that this leaves a vacancy in the ranks of the human Dominion Lords.”
Well of Darkness Page 23
