Sorcerer's Legacy (21 page)

“How?” Elienne felt Mirette’s sudden stare, and a familiar, hollow quiver invaded her gut.
No
, she thought desperately.
Not so soon.

“Apparently someone caused her to break her vow of silence.” Flatly Kennaird elaborated. “She took her life with a ceremonial dagger reserved for that purpose alone. The initiates of her Order found her shortly after noon. Now will you send your women from the room?”

Elienne nodded, uncomfortably aware of Mirette’s speculative interest. She knew there would be gossip concerning her request to see the Seeress only that morning, but that was unavoidable. Minksa’s offer of service had seen a rude beginning, as well.

Nettled by Kennaird’s tactlessness, Elienne tried her best to ease the girl’s uneasiness. “Go along with Mirette, child. She will look after your needs in my place until I am free.”

The instant the door closed, Elienne rounded upon the apprentice.
“Who could have caused such a thing?”

Kennaird shrugged, disturbed. “No one knows. Not even the initiates.” He sounded strangely irresolute, like a guilty child.

Elienne struggled to master her own fear. “The mutes? Do you suppose there’s
another
Sorcerer in league with them?”

“No. Definitely not.” Kennaird stepped back awkwardly and sat down on Mirette’s embroidery. Fortunately the needle had been left poked through the stuffed arm of the chair. Oblivious, the apprentice continued. “Emrith checked. Aisa and Denji have not left Torkal.”

Elienne felt the blood beat in her veins like the wings of pigeons startled into flight. “Then who? I told no one of the prophecy other than you.”

Kennaird sighed and pushed a fallen lock of hair ineffectively over his bald spot. “Not even the League knows how it happened. Faisix has been in their custody the entire time ... The incident may not be connected with the succession at all, but I thought you should be warned.”

But it was connected, Elienne was certain, and Kennaird’s attempt to dismiss the matter only augmented her concern. Though Ielond had recommended she trust him, he seemed a poor ally. But until the return of the Prince, a fortnight distant, Kennaird, Minksa, and Mirette were the only allies she had.

* * *

Yet despite her foreboding, the interval before the royal arrival passed without mishap, except that Minksa grew careless the morning of Darion’s return and cut her finger on a breadknife. Elienne herself attended to salve and bandages, that the child could watch for the royal cortege from the battlements. Unsettled by the cheerful company of her women, Elienne finally made excuses to Mirette and donned a cloak to join the child’s outdoor vigil. As she buttoned the garment, she overheard whispers that the Prince’s absence appeared to have tried her sorely: how thoughtless she was to expose herself needlessly to chill during pregnancy.

“Never mind the rain,” said Mirette, nettled still by her mistress’s rebellious insistence. “Pray the air will improve her temper.”

Elienne sighed. The women believed her impetuosity to be the inevitable result of new love. Actually, she needed a chance to compose herself, that Darion’s homecoming not take her unprepared. She waited on the battlements to allow space to contain her emotions before she greeted Darion in the courtyard. At all costs, she must not allow his love for her to continue. With the exposure of Cinndel’s child unavoidably to come, disaster would result if sentiment prompted him to defend her against the wrath of a betrayed court.

Elienne left the keep stair and stepped out onto stone sleek with puddles. A sharp wind dragged at her skirts. Through a misty curtain of rain, she saw Minksa curled expectantly against the wall that overlooked the main gates. Her hood had fallen back, and loosened hair had blown into tangles, threaded with sodden red ribbons.

Elienne crossed the open space between. “You don’t look much like a Consort’s Lady, Missy.” She straightened the girl’s damp locks and tucked them back into her hood.

Minksa lifted a face pink with excitement. “That’s too fine a cloth for bad weather, your Grace.” She capped her accusation with a mischievous grin.

“I know.” Elienne glanced ruefully down, saw the delicately embroidered fabric now wilted miserably against her shoulders. “This was the plainest cloak I could find in the wardrobe.”

Which was one thing she would change at once, she decided, if Darion would allow her a seamstress. She had always been accustomed to activity in Trathmere, and riding and hawking might become her only release from the pressures of the intrigue that ringed her round. Pregnant or not, she had no intention of sitting indoors day after weary day.

Lulled into reverie by the steady splash of the storm, Elienne nearly missed the first sight of the Prince’s escort.

Minksa’s exclamation roused her. Small, cold fingers plucked insistently at her elbow, and following the girl’s gesture, Elienne caught a glimpse of banners muted by mist before the cavalcade vanished behind a stand of trees. The nervous rush that followed caught her totally by surprise.

Irritated, Elienne bit her lip. What possessed her, that she felt suddenly overwhelmed?
I don’t love this Prince,
she insisted to herself. But she could not deny she cared, and that she was honestly glad to see him.

The horsemen reappeared closer and swept at a canter around the final bend in the sea road before the castle gates.

“There’s his Grace,” said Minksa, startling her once again from thought. The townsfolk who had turned out in greeting raised a rough cheer.

Elienne leaned over the battlements to see better, and a sudden gust streamed her cloak like a banner. Attracted by bright, yellow-gold cloth against gray sky, Darion looked up and immediately recognized who awaited him in the rain. The weary line of his shoulders straightened as he lifted a hand from the rein and swept off his helmet in salute to his Consort.

Elienne felt her stomach tighten with unwanted emotion. She stepped back stiffly from the battlements. Bitterly Elienne remembered the uncontrolled moment of warmth she had shown the Prince upon her rescue from Torkal, and regretted that loss of restraint. As Elienne made her way down the keep steps, Minksa’s joyous shouts of greeting were like a knife in her back.

The courtyard was cold and exposed to the bite of the sea wind. Elienne stood amid an expanse of rain-pocked cobbles as the ranks of horsemen clattered through the gates. Darion was soaked, but resplendent, in enameled armor chased with gold. He dismounted, smiling, and threw his reins to the groom who ran at his stirrup.

“My Lady!” His shout lifted easily over the crack of hooves and the rattle of winches from the gatehouse.

He crossed the yard at a half run, and Elienne saw he was stiff with fatigue from the saddle. He deserved nothing less than warm welcome, hot spirits, and back rub. A thick lump knotted her throat; desperately, she forced her emotion back.

“My Lady?” Darion reached her, arms outflung to embrace her.

Threatened by unwanted empathy, Elienne avoided his eyes. She curtsied formally, and felt Darion’s hands touch her shoulders in a belated attempt to recover his equilibrium.

“My Lady, I am glad to see you are recovered from your captivity.” His words sounded forced.

Elienne raised herself, glad of the rain that hid the wetness on her cheeks. “Welcome back, your Grace. Your presence has been greatly missed at court.” She sensed the longing in his voice and knew she was not callous enough to risk a prolonged encounter. “Your Grace, I have a request.”

“You need only to ask.” Warmth crept back into his voice.

Elienne steeled herself against compassion. “Could you arrange a horse and a hawk for me? I am weary of the indoors.”

For a moment, Darion stood utterly still. Then he raised a hand to rake wet locks back from his collar. “Of course,” he said at last, disappointment completely controlled. “I shall speak to the Stable Master at once, and the Master Falconer.” He paused. “You’ll want proper attire. I’ll have the steward appoint you a tailor.”

Elienne murmured polite thanks, and repeated her curtsy. Darion took her hand, lightly kissed it, then moved off without comment. She dared a look at his back then, and at once saw the cost of her resolve to spare him from entanglement. His anguish stopped the breath in her throat. Her facade shattered, Elienne fled back into the castle.

Elienne returned to her chambers soaked and shaken. Mirette and her women accosted her immediately with scolding and hot towels. And that, suddenly, became more than she could bear.

“Leave me,” she said, driven beyond politeness. “I want to be alone.”

The women were slow to respond.

Elienne whirled sharply on Mirette. “Did you hear? Get them out.”

The door closed with accusing control. But Elienne was far beyond noticing nuances. She flung herself headlong across the stag medallion on the bed and wept for the man who had ridden himself to exhaustion for five weary weeks in her behalf. Memory of his stony-faced kiss returned to cut her. Had he shown anger or resentment at her rejection, her cold response would have been easier to justify. Instead, he had mastered his disappointment, determined despite his own desires to grant her release and leave her free to find happiness unencumbered by guilt. “I cannot promise I will love your Prince,” she had said to Ielond on the icefield. “Husband he may be, but only in name. My heart is not available for bargain.”

Caught by a wave of misery, Elienne failed to hear the click of the door latch. Her women were not present to warn the pageboy who entered of her presence. His chatter died, mid-sentence. Startled, Elienne raised flooded eyes and with a horrid shock recognized the black enameled armor he carried.

“Mikon, is something wrong?” called a familiar voice from the corridor, and unaware of her, Darion appeared, framed by the lighted square of the doorway. Elienne confronted him knowing she had no hope of concealing the evidence of her tears.

His features momentarily registered shock. Then he looked suddenly away, all brisk efficiency, and lifted a towel from the hands of the page who stood, stunned and staring still with curiosity

“Leave us,” he said gently. “I will attend to my own needs this once, and I think if you ask the cooks nicely, there are pastries waiting.”

The boy deposited his burden with a noisy clatter and departed in high spirits for the kitchens. Darion ruffled his wet head with the towel, then rescued his swordbelt from a precarious position against the wall and hung it carefully on a chairback. He stood with hands rested on the gold boss of his buckler and glanced across the bed where she sat.

“Lady, do you still grieve for the one you have lost?”

Though allowed space to compose herself, Elienne groped for a plausible response. Should Darion discover the feelings she kept hidden, her posture of assumed indifference could never be salvaged. Having no better excuse than the one he already offered, Elienne made herself speak. “I miss him, your Grace.”

Stitched leather buckled under Darion’s fingers, and his features assumed the rigid mask she recalled from the mirrowstone’s view of his confrontation with the headsman. Elienne looked away. She raged at her own thoughtlessness, for forgetting her place of refuge had been the Prince’s own apartments. His discomfort tore her the worse for being her own fault.

Darion answered, presently, in a voice that was too steady. “I should never have moved you in here. I’m sorry.”

“No. I’m sorry.” Elienne stared helplessly at the stag medallion on the counterpane as Darion stepped back through the doorway. She heard, through the open door, a quietly phrased request that the old Queen Mother’s apartments be opened and aired. Mirette’s voice queried him once, sharply.

“Never ask that again, madam,” said Darion softly, but with unforgettable force. “Concern yourself with your mistress’s well-being. She has need of a friend.”

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.