The Eunuch's Heir (29 page)

Still shaking his head, Wolfram said, “There’s no time; they came now, they came for a reason.”

“Your Highness, you can’t just—”

“Get me a horse, get me a carriage, get me an elephant, just get me on that road.”

Fionvar moved to his sister’s side. “I can’t let you do this, Your Highness, I’m charged with your protection, even from yourself.”

“Will you arrest me?” Wolfram challenged, taking one step closer to stand eye to eye with Fionvar. “Will you throw me in the dungeon in chains, my lord?” There was a wicked twist to his lips as he added the title.

“I hope that’s not necessary.” This close to, Fionvar could not avoid the staring painted eye that concealed the maiming of his son, and the sight turned his stomach.

“I am past the age of majority, my lord, do you know what that means?”

For a moment, they were silent, barely breathing, the prince a hairsbreadth taller, his shoulders broad with working muscle, his scarred face deadly serious.

“You no longer command me.”

Fionvar’s chin edged upward; he squared his shoulders and could not think of a response. His mind had gone empty at those words, a swirl of mixed emotions from fury to despair as he knew that it was true; he held no power over this hard and angry man. He did not even know him, and he was not sure he ever had.

“Get me a horse,” Wolfram repeated slowly. “Get me a carriage, get me what you will, but we will leave tonight and make haste for Lochdale. Have I made myself clear?”

“Yes, Your Highness,” Fionvar answered, and the words left a foul taste in his mouth as he bowed out of the presence of royalty.

WHEN THE
door closed, Wolfram sank back to the rug. The rush of power that had overcome him left him dazed, unsure if he could celebrate. It was no victory, but only the latest skirmish with this strange enemy who was his father. Whatever they might be to each other, Wolfram was still the crown prince, and this man was his sworn servant. The thrill of euphoria hovered in the air with Fionvar’s parting bow. Long ago in Deishima’s garden he had envisioned hitting his father, cracking his skull as he had broken that false father Lyssa had carved. He was used to being carried off by his fury, but this new power shook him. He did not need to be polite to this man, he did not need his help, his peace offerings, or anything else he had to offer.

He had been a fool to try to bargain with them when this path lay open to him, especially now that Deishima had vanished. What he needed was to get her back, to get the truth from her at the very least. Even Deishima, slight as she was, could have put up some struggle. Even she had a voice to scream or her Ashwadi to ward them off. Esfandiyar had been here, he had taken her away with him—willingly or otherwise—and Wolfram would find out. Fionvar might have been of some use to him had he put aside his suspicions for a moment, but Lyssa clearly had her brother’s ear already, so it was up to Wolfram alone.

When he left behind his castle and his place, Wolfram had left as well the air of royalty. He had just discovered how to put it on again, draping himself with his birthright as if he already wore the crown.

Fingering the thick wool of the sheepskin, Wolfram remembered the simple beauty of Deishima’s hair, and royalty fell from him like the sham he knew it was. It was a tool, nothing more, a chisel to carve his own way or a blade to cut through the games the Lord Protector sought to play, and he would use any tool at his disposal to find her. She had not left him willingly, he must be sure of that. The demon growled, and there was no breath to stop its roar.

THE CARRIAGE
they gave him was small and scarcely more comfortable than riding, or so Wolfram thought. The Hemijrani horse tethered to the back pranced along as easily the fourth day as it had on the first, and Wolfram enjoyed watching it, imagining the day he would ride it again. Somewhere among the baggage strapped over his head the tiger skin rested, wrapped and hidden from his view. The shifting wind would bring a whiff of it and a shiver to his spine though, thankfully, not so strong a reaction as the first time. They stopped each night by the roadside, and Wolfram got a chance to walk and work the kinks out of his aching body. On the first such stop, he had caught a scent of a Woodman’s pipe, and made some remark about it. A strange look passed over Fionvar’s face, but he said nothing, and the Woodman never appeared.

The guards who accompanied them from Gamel’s Grove turned back when they met an official entourage from Lochdale, surprised to find the prince already on the move only the day after the Lord Protector had arrived. With a broken axle, it took them seven days to reach Lochdale, and Wolfram was more than ready to escape his confinement. People in the streets acted as if there were no carriage as it approached, then hurried to point and whisper as it drew away. The air of mystery surrounding his return must have enthralled more than any ordinary homecoming would have, and Wolfram spent the trip from the gates to the castle peering out between the curtains suddenly thinking it had all been a very bad idea.

Returning from her advance mission to the castle, Lyssa
slowed Fenervon to walk beside the carriage. She leaned down to the window and tapped for Wolfram to draw back the curtain. “Thought you should know she’s here. Living in the guest quarters with the Hemijrani embassy.”

“Have you seen her? Has anyone?” Wolfram’s head was already aching from the taunting tone of Lyssa’s voice.

“Everyone has; she follows Faedre everywhere like a proper little acolyte.” She gave a little smile. “You should be glad to be shut of her, Your Highness.”

“It can’t be—she wouldn’t just go like that.”

Lyssa straightened up. “Suit yourself, Your Highness, you’ll see soon enough.”

The carriage pulled up before the grand stairs where a gathering awaited him. From behind the curtain, Wolfram eyed his mother and Duchess Elyn, side by side, both looking drawn and worried, their faces grown more alike in the time he had been gone. A step down from them, at ease in his finery, Prince Alyn of Bernholt chatted with one of the ladies, sunlight glinting from his golden curls as he spoke. He must have come straight to the capital after their last encounter. Then the prince glanced up to the carriage and Wolfram got a clear view of his companion: Princess Melody. Dressed in a gown of local make, with her hair done in ringlets, she turned expectantly with the others.

Rubbing his temple, Wolfram squinted to glower at her. He’d hardly recognized her out of the Hemijrani garb she had adopted, with her feet concealed, talking with her brother as if they’d always been close. The prickling began at the back of his neck, and he smoothed out his rumpled traveling clothes.

Setting a hand upon the door, Wolfram started forward when it popped open from the outside, and he nearly tumbled out.

The footman bowed and apologized, but Wolfram caught the glint of a smile on Alyn’s lips, the frown deepening upon his mother’s.

With as much dignity as he could still muster, Wolfram descended and walked up the steps to meet the queen.

Brianna held out her hand to him. “Welcome home, my prince. I trust this last part of your journey was not so troublesome as what went before.”

Bowing over her hand, Wolfram said, “I am glad to see you well, Mother.”

“And I, you,” she replied.

He looked up to meet her gaze, and her cheeks paled beneath their hint of rouge. Her eyes danced about his face, then shifted away. “Would you dine with us, or would you prefer to rest after your trip?” She returned her gaze to his with a little more grace.

“I could eat,” he said warily.

“Excellent.” She smiled timidly, but warmly enough for that.

On the step beside him, Fionvar shifted forward, ready to offer his arm as was their custom, but the queen slipped her hand around Wolfram’s elbow, turning them both away and drawing him up the stairs.

Following behind, the group seemed awfully quiet—full of murmurs, with an absence of cheers or laughter. Wolfram felt on edge, surrounded by a new and denser web of lies—suggested by the expression on his mother’s face, the way she had turned aside from her lover—it should have been a sign of her welcome that she had taken her son’s arm, instead it felt like an insult to somebody else. Melody’s laughter rang out briefly, and the shushing of Alyn’s unmistakable voice. Everything around him had become an elaborate farce, everyone trying to put on their show and he the only one who did not know his part.

The queen led him to the greater of her private dining chambers, seating him at her right hand, while Alyn, as visiting royalty, took the left with his sister beside him. As they came to the door, Fionvar and Lyssa exchanged a furtive look; one of them should take the place beside him, and neither was eager for the honor. Both stepped forward, bumping each other, and Lyssa let out a harsh laugh as she yielded to her brother. A few other courtiers filled in, with Duchess Elyn at the foot of the table.

When everyone had taken a place, Brianna rang a bell, and the servants’ door flew wide to admit the first of many trays laden with all manner of foods. After the time on the ship and the months of unseasoned roast meat with the Woodmen, the scents of this meal seemed as strange as those of Hemijrai. Baked apples surrounded a roast piglet, while a mound of turnips made a nest for lamb encrusted with savory herbs. They had gone to the trouble of a small feast for his return, and it made him feel unsettled, even more out of place.

As the guest of honor, he was offered each dish first. The stewed meat and bread he had eaten the last week could not rival this fare, but he couldn’t be sure he was ready for all of this. He smiled often to prove his delight, but moved the food around his plate more than he ate it.

Queen Brianna looked to him with a nod. “Tell us about your adventures then, or what you might?”

Fear quickened his heart as he stared back at her. “I thought you wanted to be the first, Mother.”

“Well, Princess Melody has told us of the palace at Hemijrai.” She inclined her head to their royal visitors. “But Lyssa tells us you spent time with the Woodmen in our own mountains. Why not tell us about that?”

“I’m no good at stories,” he said under his breath.

She leaned toward him, still smiling. “We have to tell them something, Wolfram, something to take back to the streets before the rumors start.”

With a slight nod, Wolfram sat back and took a long swallow of ale. “I couldn’t get enough adventure here, as you all know,” he began, allowing himself a smile. “So I went to the forest to learn the ways of the Hurim. They were unsure about me, but let me stay to prove myself. We hunted boars together, using long spears rather than bow and arrow.” Glancing at his mother, he untied the cuff of one sleeve and rolled it past the elbow, displaying a curving scar that ran the length of his forearm. “To prove my worth, I had to kill the boar with a knife—before he killed me. I won, but not by much.”

“The same knife you used on the tiger, was it?” Alyn asked brightly, leaning over to admire the scar.

Wolfram slipped back his arm and tied the sleeve. “That’s the one.” He drew the knife from his belt and held it up.

“You’ve brought the skin, haven’t you? We should have it out so everyone can see how brave you’ve been.”

Clasping her hands together, Melody gave him her most beautiful smile. “Oh, yes, brother. Can’t we see?”

A general murmur rounded the table, and the queen made a shooing motion with her hand to send a servant out.

Wolfram’s palms grew clammy and his eye socket twitched. He laid the knife on the table in front of him. “I was not brave,” he said, “but desperate.”

“Don’t be so modest,” Melody said, bringing his eye back to her face.

“I’m glad you have forgiven me,” he murmured across the table.

For a moment, her face lost its expression. “So much has changed, Wolfram, you’d be amazed.”

“We can talk later?” A touch of hope soothed the pulse at his temples.

Leaning away, she sipped her goblet and eyed him. “Later,” she said, as the doors were flung open with a flourish.

Three servants paraded in with the tiger skin stretched between them. One brought the fearsome head up level with the queen so that the striped hide took the length of the table and a bit more to display. The courtiers gasped, and even Duchess Elyn’s eyebrows rose.

Taking a long drink, Wolfram mastered the shudder that ran through him, shutting his eye until he could breathe again. He opened it to see Melody watching him with a curious, calculating stare. With one hand, she stroked the soft white fur of the creature’s belly.

Turning aside, he found himself confronted by Fionvar’s profile.

“Holy Mother,” Fionvar whispered, setting down his knife. He shot a quick glance to Wolfram, then bowed his head. “I hadn’t seen it before.”

“I’ve seen it too much,” Wolfram replied. He took another drink and waved to have the mug refilled. It had been much too long since he was stinking drunk.

“So here’s the beast that laid you low,” Alyn remarked. “Amazing to think it was raised as a lady’s pet. Gentle as a pussycat, she says.”

In answer, Wolfram flipped back the eye patch and stared Alyn full in the face, gratified by the way he blanched at the sight. “Have you ever faced down death, Alyn?” He retrieved the knife and pulled it from its leather sheath. “I’ll get you a tiger of your own, Alyn. I’ll even loan you my knife.”

“Put that away, Wolfram,” the queen murmured through a pleasant smile.

He jammed it back into the sheath and flipped the eye patch back into place.

“I’m sorry you feel it necessary to resort to juvenile behavior, Wolfram,” Alyn said. “I do not believe there’s any need for me to prove myself against you, is there?”

“Let’s step outside, and I’ll show you some truly juvenile behavior.”

Under the table, the queen kicked him, hard. “Now, boys,” she said lightly. “Let’s not have any of that. Perhaps Alyn should tell us about his trip to Drynnlynd.”

Sliding the knife back into his belt, Wolfram seethed as Alyn began some anecdote about a distant monastery where they had begun to worship the moon. “Where’s Dylan?” Wolfram asked suddenly. “Is he well?”

“Visiting your whore, most like,” Elyn’s voice cut through the admiring chatter of the nobles so that all turned a little pink or pale and studied their plates.

“Oh, sweet Lady, I should have told you more,” Fionvar muttered. “You have a daughter, unnamed, and Asenith is not well.”

“You didn’t tell him?” Brianna asked sharply.

“Don’t judge me until I’ve given my report,” he replied. “Your Majesty.”

“It seems, Your Highness, that the Lord Protector has been remiss in his duties. Yes, a daughter was born to this woman.
She claims the child is yours. Of course, it’s hard to say, isn’t it? She has been living by her wiles these last years.” The queen’s gaze was cool and pointed, urging some action upon him.

Asenith. He had not thought of what to do about her or the child she bore. Trying to look noncommittal, he replied, “I guess I’ll have to hear her story.”

“She’s on the threshold of the Lady,” Elyn chimed in. “Won’t matter a dram before too long.” Grinning, she drained a cup of her ubiquitous tea and set into a coughing fit.

Wolfram rose too quickly, leaning his fingertips on the table. “I’d like to go to my chambers for that rest after all. Sorry, Mother.”

“I understand, of course. I’ll walk with you.” She, too, rose and held out her hand. “Please, everyone, finish your meal.”

The assembly rose as well, and the servants holding up the tiger skin gathered it up into a mound of fiery fur. They prepared to follow, but Wolfram turned. “No! Don’t bring that to my rooms—I don’t care what you do, I don’t want it.”