Sorcerer's Legacy (15 page)

The Regent cupped his hands. A glow pale as marshlight haloed his fingertips. Alert enough to recognize the threat of sorcery, Elienne shied back against the chair.

“Aisa, restrain her,” said Faisix sharply.

Elienne failed to duck the icy fingers that clamped her head. She thrashed, but the mute’s grip held.

The light of Faisix’s summoning wheeled hazily directly before her. Had Elienne been able to free her hands, she would have covered her face. The spell’s ghostly outline filled her with dread. Horribly, Elienne found herself unable to blink or look away.

“I have her now.” The Regent’s satisfaction overlaid Elienne’s alarm. The spell that bound her swelled, brightened, and acquired hard edges like a glass bubble. Elienne’s eyes ached, the reflexes of her pupils slowed by the drug. Faisix’s sorcery seeped into her mind like spilled water and suddenly crystallized, imprisoning her will. In panic, she tried to call out, but the sound emerged as a whimper of despair.

The light in Faisix’s hands flicked out abruptly. “My dear, I suggest you improve your relations with the mutes. They might consent, out of kindness, to teach you sign language.”

With ungentle haste, Aisa untied her hands and guided her unsteady steps through the door. Faisix called after them. “Aisa, after you have seen Elienne to her chambers, locate Heggen and send him to my study. I have a summoning to perform.”

* * *

Elienne lay back on the silken coverlet of an elaborately carved bed and waited for nausea to subside. Denji stood guard beyond the door. Vainly Elienne strove to remember the route from the study to bedchamber. The corridors had been dimly lit, and Aisa mercilessly impatient. When Elienne had exchanged her dress for a dry one found in the wardrobe, her arm had been imprinted with marks left by the mute’s harsh fingers. Despite Faisix’s pretense of mannered gentility, he had treated her with less regard than an animal; manipulative as a chess master, he seemed unconcerned that the game pieces in his bid for power were human flesh and blood. Elienne wondered, through the lingering discomfort of the drug, what motivated him. Greed alone did not seem an adequate explanation for the Regent’s obsessive desire to disrupt the lawful succession of Pendaire.

The drowsiness caused by the elixir wore off gradually. Restless, Elienne studied the quarters that confined her. The small, richly decorated chamber was consistent with the air of established wealth she had observed throughout Pendaire’s royal court. Fabulously patterned carpets covered the floor, and gilt-trimmed walls were paneled with rare wood, somber and darkly shadowed, yet tastefully adorned with paintings. Above the polished onyx slab of the mantel, candles burned in exquisitely crafted gryphon stands. Elienne admired the prismatic flash of the flamelight in etched crystal wings, and gold talons and eyes of jet crafted with lifelike cunning; no treasure in Trathmere had been so fine.

Though walking made her head swim, and her steps were still unsteady, Elienne studied the contents of every cabinet, table, and dresser. Yet she found nothing, not even a manicure kit, that could be utilized as a weapon. Discouraged, she settled herself at last in the cushioned alcove by the casements.

The rain had stopped. Through honeycombed panes of amber glass, Elienne saw a vast expanse of pine forest, bounded beneath the manor walls by the pewter shine of a moat. Well-groomed rows of hedge, lawns, and flower gardens graced the land within. At third-floor level, the window of Elienne’s chamber overlooked the curved towers of two keeps, but Torkal was more palace than fortress, and Elienne saw neither craft village nor the farmlands that would have surrounded a normal holding in Trathmere. Faisix’s manor was bordered, at least on one side, by trackless wilds.

As she knew nothing of local geography, Elienne had little hope of escape. Even if she managed to get free of the walls, she would face the immediate difficulties of provisions and shelter. The assumption did not follow that a road existed beyond Torkal’s gate; for all she knew of Pendaire’s Regent, he might arrange his travels to and from court entirely by sorcery.

Discouraged, Elienne sought the mirrowstone. Though denied its powers of communication, Faisix had not yet interfered with her visual link with the Prince.

The gemstone revealed a rain-sleek courtyard choked with men-at-arms and the hard, pinpoint blaze of more than one Sorcerer’s soulfocus. Wrapped in a cloak of oiled wool, Darion frowned intently over what appeared to be a supply list. Chestnut hair clung to his neck, curled with moisture, and on the hand that held the parchment Elienne saw the soft gleam of the ring torn from her own finger during the transfer from the keep.

Taroith appeared at the Prince’s shoulder, dressed for the saddle. “Your Grace?”

As Darion glanced up at the Sorcerer, Elienne was shocked by the change in the Prince’s face since morning; he looked haggard.

“I have confirmation for you,” said Taroith. “Lady Elienne was taken to Torkal by way of the shoals of East Inlet. The reef was laid bare by tide at the time, and fog hid the sorcery from the sentries.”

Darion’s mouth tightened with grim anger. “You traced her through Ielond’s interface?”

Taroith nodded. “The jewel was in Elienne’s possession, and still operable before Faisix raised protective wards and closed our access to Torkal.”

“She hasn’t contacted me.” The anguish in the Prince’s voice made Elienne wince. “By Ma’Diere, if she’s been harmed, Faisix will come to rue it.”

Taroith said nothing, but his lined features reflected sympathy.

Darion bunched the sodden parchment in his fist with bitter anger and stepped back. “To horse!” His shout brought order to the jammed bailey. “We ride for Torkal!”

Elienne let the mirrowstone fall from shaking hands. However brief their acquaintance, Pendaire’s royal heir plainly had come to value her with more than political significance. Given time, Elienne realized, her feelings for this Prince might grow beyond friendship. She quenched the thought at once. Already the cruel promise of the seeress’s prophecy made her destiny an intolerable burden. If Darion fell to the headsman’s ax, she wanted none of her emotions involved. And if by miracle he was granted life, her own falsehood exposed, his anguish at her loss would be lessened if she had never fostered his love. Firmly Elienne hardened her heart. A man comely as Darion would never lack for mistresses. And surely, if she kept herself aloof, he would direct his affection elsewhere.

* * *

Twilight fell early, hastened by a cloak of tattered clouds.

Through the mirrowstone, Elienne watched the steaming torches carried by the Prince’s outriders, while in her own chamber the candles burned low and guttered above the glass crests of the gryphons. She had no means to estimate the distance that separated Torkal from the royal palace. The men-at-arms traveled a muddy highway between fenced pastures and well-kept fields. Post stations were numerous, and efficiently staffed, which was fortunate, for the fast pace set by the royal company demanded frequent change of mounts.

The crofters Elienne glimpsed through the mirrowstone’s narrow field of view were neat and adequately dressed. The Prince’s retinue was received, invariably, with courteous deference, and even the horse boys seemed well fed. Confronted by mile upon mile of peaceful farmland, Elienne saw Pendaire’s great wealth was probably the accumulated reflection of prosperity under fourteen generations of sound rule.

Faisix would end that. Elienne had seen how quickly honest, hardworking people could sour under the corrupt demands of the Khadrach. Why, she wondered again, would any man wish to disrupt the succession of a Prince as worthy as Darion?

Her thought was disrupted by the scrape of the door latch. Elienne dropped the mirrowstone, looked up, and saw Minksa enter with a tray of food and fresh candles.

Surprised, at first, by the child’s presence at Torkal, Elienne swiftly realized why Faisix might wish the girl removed from the royal palace. If she had been sent into Darion’s chamber to spy, the Regent would not care to have her closely questioned. Surely the summoning he had mentioned as Elienne was led off had referred to the child. Minksa scuttled to the hearth and dumped her burden on a low table with a dissonant clatter of fine porcelain. She bestowed a wide, startled glance upon Elienne and cringed as though expecting reprimand. The child was desperately frightened. Elienne longed to express understanding; the tray was far too large for a child to handle gracefully. Enraged by the sorcery that prevented her from making even the simplest expression of sympathy, Elienne gestured for the girl to continue her chores.

Minksa gathered the candles from the tray with small, grimy fingers and paused, balanced on crossed feet, before the mantel. The shelf lay beyond her reach. The girl looked nervously to either side, in search of a footstool or chair.

Elienne rose to help her. Minksa started and whirled, poised for flight, her face a small, white oval in the flicker of flamelight.

I won’t hurt you,
Elienne thought. Slowly, carefully, she extended her hand.

Minksa shook her head. Tangled hair tumbled around her thin shoulders as she stepped back. But when Elienne walked to the far end of the mantel, the child held her ground. After an anguished interval, she hesitantly offered the candles.

Elienne stooped to the child’s level and smiled reassurance. She had barely caught hold of the candles when Minksa let go and retreated, well beyond reach of a kindly touch. Elienne buried disappointment and rose. The girl waited, tense as a cornered hare, while she pinched the tired wicks of the old candles and located the flint striker to ignite the replacements. New flames wavered and lengthened, spreading soft light over crystal and gemstone. Elienne returned the striker to its hook and began a smile of encouragement for Minksa. But the fresh illumination revealed a detail she had missed earlier: the livid, congested weals of a recent beating marked Minksa’s wrists and neck.

Elienne gasped, her heart wrung with pity. But before she could extend any comfort, the girl whirled and fled like a blown leaf through the door, oversized brown skirts billowing around her thin, bare feet.

Who had punished her? Elienne wondered. Could Minksa have suffered because she had been seen leaving Darion’s chambers? Forgetful of caution in her concern for the child, she ate the bread, chicken, and wine on the tray without thought about the possibility of drugs.

Her mistake overtook her as she pushed her chair back after the meal. A violent wave of dizziness overturned her sense of balance. Startled and furious over her carelessness, Elienne rose at once to force herself to vomit. But she fell in the attempt. The hand she flung out to save herself landed on the tray; porcelain skidded across the tabletop with a crash. Plates and saucers flew like game pins and shattered against the hearth tiles. Elienne tumbled after, accompanied by the clamor of silverware as the tray upended and crashed to the floor.

Prone on the heated stone before the hearth, Elienne felt the room lift and heave about her, precarious as a ship’s deck. Booted feet wavered before her face. Elienne tried to recall whose they were, but her memory dissolved in the jaws of a poisonous black vortex. Sounds bounced like echoes across her thoughts.

“She’s under.” The cold voice was a stranger’s. “Faisix wishes her taken to his study at once.”

Hard hands gripped, then lifted her. Elienne lost track of reality. Jumbled impressions burst against her mind: a man’s shaven skull, framed by a cowl of night; a staircase of marble the color of old blood; and the spinning sensation of descent. Keys rattled and a heavy bar clanged, echoing against stone walls. Elienne blinked, dazzled by sudden light. Amid a gleaming forest of flasks and braziers, she at last saw a face she recognized. A smile curved hated lips.

“Denji, kindly set the lady here.” Faisix’s image whirled in the kaleidoscope of her delirium. Elienne fought rising panic.

“Hold her.”

Black-gloved hands circled her wrists. The cowled man towered above, black-eyed and still except for a rhythmic twitch in his cheek. Elienne felt a frantic burst of fear. Her own scream shattered the quiet.

“Silence,” said a voice, and a baleful yellow flame arose in the air. Light brightened painfully, and smashed into Elienne’s consciousness. Everything spun. Sucked downward into darkness deeper than mortal awareness could encompass, set adrift from all physical sensation, Elienne tumbled over and over in a bleak, limitless spiral toward the ultimate of Ma’Diere’s secrets, the Eye of Eternity.

Pursued by her own raw terror, Elienne tried to break free. Cold tendrils curled around her. Elienne cast in desperation for some landmark upon which to ground her reason. Yet nothing met her search but the silent depths of the infinite. The threat engendered by Faisix acquired new meaning; for in the cold stillness surrounding her, Elienne recognized the steely presence of Ma’Diere’s Scythe. Bereft of the means to protect her unborn child, she cried out, from the depths of coma, for mercy, and movement answered.

Blurred by fog, Elienne caught the fleeting glimpse of a cloak hem bordered in silver and black. The impression of cloth swirled at the limits of perception and vanished in the mist, but not before Elienne had recognized the pattern.

“Gifted!” Elienne whirled and pursued the elusive clue. “Ielond!”

Mist resisted like water, dragged at her running feet. Elienne forced herself forward. Before her, the fog thinned reluctantly and yielded a dim outline of a cloaked figure walking with measured steps ahead.

Elienne shouted frantically, “Ielond, I beg you!”

For an edged, despair-ridden moment, the appeal had no effect. Then, slowly, the figure paused and turned to wait. A silvery spill of hair trailed from the velvet hood, bracketing shadowed features. Elienne drew uncomfortably close before she could discern the face, familiar though it was in memory.

Ielond was frowning. “Why have you followed, Lady?” Though gravely stated, the question was not without compassion. “This is no place for the living, and your time is not yet come.”

“Gifted, I am sent against my will.” Elienne stopped before the Sorcerer, and the yellow silk of Pendaire’s Royal Consort billowed and drifted about her on the currents of her dream. “Faisix and his henchman would do me harm. I ask your help, for your Prince, and for my unborn son.”