The Eunuch's Heir (30 page)

“Aye, Your Highness.” The man bowed, looking befuddled.

“Put it in the trophy hall,” the queen advised, “where all can see it.”

The servant hurried away, and the door shut them off from the gathered nobles.

Queen Brianna drew him on, setting a slow pace. “Much has changed here, Wolfram, since you left.”

“I guess so.”

“We thought you were kidnapped, you know that, but there was no proof. Now I found you were larking about with the Woodmen. Did you think of us then, Wolfram?”

His face burned. “I made mistakes that day, I know—”

“Mistakes? You have entangled this castle with the Usurper’s daughter. You have left us a pile of scandals that we are just beginning to sort out. Now you return, a grand adventurer, to pick up where you left off.”

“Things have changed for me, too.”

“Yes. You got mauled by a tiger and became even less presentable than you were.”

He tried to free his elbow, but she clung on. Not facing her, Wolfram pushed back the burn in his eye, scrubbing his face with his free hand.

“I hope you’ve changed, Wolfram. I hope that cat slapped some sense into you.” She broke her grip abruptly, presenting his own door. “Rest well, because I have a thousand questions for you. I’ll hear Fionvar’s report and Lyssa’s. I’ve already heard from Princess Melody and the Hemijrani delegation, and I’ve even heard from that poor girl you kidnapped to cover another escape.”

Although she was much shorter than he, the points on the crown gleamed aggressively, and her posture echoed her authority. “You’d better get some sleep, Your Highness, and get your story straight. I’ll send for you in the morning. Oh—and there will be a guard on your door tonight.” She backed off one step and stared at his face as she let out a sigh, her arms crossed. “You should know that I am considering remarriage. I’m not so old yet that I cannot get another heir.” With that, she turned and left him, shaken, at his old front door.

SHORTLY AFTER
a dinner tray had been brought to him, another knock sounded at his door. “Wolfram?” called a tentative voice.

Wolfram leapt to answer it, grinning. “Dylan! Sweet Lady, but it’s good to see you!” He pulled his friend in and shut the door.

“I was on my way to the observatory, but I had to stop by.” Dylan turned about to look at him, and caught his breath. “Oh, I didn’t know it was that bad!” He went pale, dropping into a chair by the hearth, his case of pens and a bundle of scrolls in his lap.

Slipping his eye patch back on, Wolfram sat more slowly. “It’s pretty bad,” he agreed. “Some days I think there’s nothing left of me but scars.” He tried another smile, but it was not returned and he looked for his mug instead. “Tell me all; I’d heard you were injured.” He wanted to search his friend’s face but couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Clearing his throat, Dylan said, “Aye—not bad, though. I was out for two days.”

“Two days? And that’s not bad?”

“It was the night you left. We—I went to check on you, then down to the gate.” He let out a strangled laugh. “I remember we always said we’d go that way, if we ran away. There was the fight.”

Wolfram risked a glance, and found Dylan’s face averted. “I’m sorry, I—” He broke off. “I don’t know what to say. I should’ve talked to you.”

“Aye, you should,” Dylan murmured, fingering the pen case.

The silence hung awkwardly, then Wolfram asked, “How’s your work?” The observatory was the one thing that could always get Dylan talking.

Dylan flinched. “Fine, very well. This project I’ve been working on is nearly up. We’ll get to see how well I’ve done.” His voice petered out.

“You never did tell me the specifics,” Wolfram prompted, wondering how bad the injury really was if it had made Dylan go all quiet like this.

“Just some calculations, predictions, you know.”

“No, I don’t, and it seems unlikely you’ll tell me. What’s come over you?”

Again, Dylan jerked, shrinking back into his seat. “Don’t be angry, Wolfram. It’s the long nights. Hard to sleep by day, and I’ve got my other lessons and all. I’ve not been doing too well on that.” He eyed Wolfram sidelong. “I saw your tiger.”

“My tiger.” Wolfram snorted, shaking his head. “Ask me about anything but that. Have you ever done something stupid and risky and thought it was all right because some woman would thank you for it?”

Dylan’s pen case tumbled to the floor, and he scrambled to collect the spilled nibs and wooden tools. “For a woman? Sure, you know me.” He cackled a little, then gave it up, muttering something under his breath.

Wolfram’s head throbbed and he rubbed his temple. “What did you say?”

“What? Nothing. I have to get the latch fixed on this thing.” He fiddled with it as he got to his feet. “I have to go, Wolfram, I’m sorry.” Then he looked up. “I’m sorry.”

“They’ve got me under house arrest; any visit’s better than none at all.”

Popping open the door, Dylan said, “I’ll be back, tomorrow, or sometime. Sorry.”

“Do that,” Wolfram said into Dylan’s wake. He stood a moment at the door, watching his friend’s retreating back.
Maybe Dylan, too, had heard something or been warned away from him. The two armed men in the hall watched him intently after perfunctory salutes. Sighing, he shut the door.

Wolfram hardly slept that night, after trying the bed and the floor in both rooms. His mother had spoken to everyone else by now—everyone but him—and had all the stories. What would they tell her? What was left for him to say? A long time ago he had been a golden child, son of a blessed king who had saved his country from the Usurper, but Wolfram had destroyed all that the legend meant. He had been glad to escape his father’s shadow, only to find himself unprotected and alone. He would like to be able to blame Alyn’s precocious curse, but it was he who had lived up to the prophecy.

He lay on the floor of his sitting room, staring at the window. From youthful adventures, he already knew it was too high to reach the ground without a rope. Might as well make a move, do something so bad that she’d cast him out on his ear and get herself a new heir or a few. Suddenly he realized that Fionvar must know. The Lord Protector had acted so strangely, especially when the queen’s name came up; he must know the threat of marriage hung over them both. And just a week before, Wolfram had been so cocky in his royal attitude, playing with the airs that princes have and ordering the man around like a common servant. The man who was his father, though Wolfram could not bring himself to use the word.

A scent reached him, and Wolfram sat bolt upright, the demon springing to life in an instant. Wild, raw, hot and feline—the scent of the tiger drifted through his room.

Wildly, he spun around. It must be the skin; someone had brought it up. But no, he hadn’t left his room all day, and no one could have snuck past him.

Then came the sound, a low huffing breath.

Wolfram froze, his skin cold, his heart beating madly.

Trembling, he willed himself to calm. There was no tiger. There was no tiger, for he had killed it with his own hands.

In the space his fear had filled, the rage quickly followed. In a few strides, he jerked open the door. “Where is he?”

The two guards sprang to alert, swords drawn. “Who, Your Highness?”

“Prince Alyn, or whoever he got to haul that tiger skin up here.” Wolfram grinned with triumph. It was a wicked joke, but he’d figured it out.

The two men shared a look. “There’s no one here, Your Highness.”

“Not now, of course, but a few minutes ago.”

Shaking his head slowly, the man replied, “There’s been no one since the maid picked up your tray, Your Highness.”

“Did he pay you to keep your tongues, or is it his glowing praise you’re after?”

Bristling, the man said, “We don’t take bribes, if that’s what you’re about.” The look of disgust his partner gave made Wolfram want to strike the haughty expression from his face.

“All I want is to know who brought up the tiger skin and to make sure it doesn’t happen again.”

“It’s in the trophy room for all I know, Your Highness. Nobody’s been by.”

The other relaxed, sliding home his sword. “You’ve had it rough, Your Highness. Get some rest and let us do the looking out, eh?”

Glaring, Wolfram said, “You’ll have it rough when I find out what’s going on.” He went back in and slammed the door.

Inside, arms folded, Wolfram went over it in his mind, the unmistakable scent, the sound of the tiger’s voice. Even had someone brought the tiger skin up to surprise him, that sound was another matter.

Crossing to the window, he pushed open the latch and leaned out. Barely wide enough for his shoulders, the window afforded a narrow view down into the city. His chambers were on the side opposite the temple, so he looked out to the plains beyond instead of the forest. Searching the wide street below and both sides gave him no insight. He even
twisted about to look upward, to see if there was a way that someone had lowered the skin past his window. Nothing.

Pulling himself back in, Wolfram put his back to the wall. His side twinged, but not so much that it brought him down. Granted that he might have imagined the sound, would he conjure the scent as well? Scent was a tricky thing, as his days as a Hurim tracker had shown. Perhaps he’d put Dylan’s mention of the tiger together with his lack of sleep and imagined the whole thing.

Wolfram settled back onto the rug, staring at the ash in his fireplace. He sat with his legs crossed and practiced breathing. In, out. In, out. After a moment, he tried to recall one of the poems Deishima had given him as a focus.

IN HIS
mind, he chanted the lines over and over, and let his awareness seep into his body until the room was gone, taking with it the hardness of the floor, the chill of the air, the memory of the tiger.

Wolfram sat until the sun rose, and, for a time, he was at peace.

MOST OF
the clothes in his closet no longer fit since his shoulders had filled out, so Wolfram settled on a loose-fitting silk shirt and his best hose. He toyed with the boar knife, unsure if it would be welcome in his mother’s court, and slipped it on. Let her tell him to leave it behind; it had saved his life before. The bear claw necklace he set aside on his bed stand, then took that as well.
Na tu Lusawe shasinhe goron.
If the Gifts of the Spirits were revoked from him today, at least he would remember that he had known them.

As he sat over the last of his bread and cheese, someone
knocked on the door. Rising, dusting off the crumbs, Wolfram went to the door.

On the other side stood Fionvar, the Lord Protector, in velvet and with a sword at his side. They regarded each other quietly.

“The queen sends for you, Your Highness,” said Fionvar, stepping aside.

Flustered, Wolfram blurted, “She sent you?”

After they’d gone a few paces, Fionvar murmured, “I waylaid the messenger.”

Wolfram grunted his acknowledgment.

“The second shift of guards reported all quiet, except that you asked them about the tiger.”

“It was nothing. I must have been dreaming.” Their strides matched in length and rhythm, and Wolfram hesitated a half step to break the match.

Fionvar flicked him a glance, then looked toward the audience chamber. “I put it away, Your Highness. I wanted to tell you.” Again, he stepped aside and bowed, gesturing Wolfram into the room ahead.

Wolfram looked down at the man’s dark head, silvering at the temples, bowed before him. “You put it away?”

From his sleeve, Fionvar produced a small key and dropped it into Wolfram’s hand. “In a chest. That’s the only key.”

Staring at the key, Wolfram slowly closed his fingers.

“I’ll burn it, if you wish,” Fionvar said softly. “Your Highness.”

A sound from the room caught his attention a moment, and the paralysis was over as Fionvar told him, “You’d best go in.”

Tapestries of wool decorated the walls of the small room, punctuated by two doors. At least one more door stood concealed by the hanging to the queen’s left, depicting a fanciful group of wild animals dancing. The queen’s throne commanded the center of the back wall, flanked by two lower seats. Lady Catherine, with a tablet of parchment on her lap, occupied one of these and, with a low bow, Fionvar crossed to take the other. Duchess Elyn had her accustomed chair in
the corner. A lower half-round chair was placed opposite the throne, and two guards stood at the ready beside it.

Wolfram’s fingers felt warm, his shoulders tight as he made his own bow. His own smaller throne had been moved to one side, awaiting the queen’s decision. The layout was for an interrogation or a sentencing; the chair given in case the defendant should collapse at hearing the verdict of the queen. She seemed set against him already, everything arranged for her foregone conclusion: that her own son was a criminal.

He held the little key in his grip, focusing his strength on that rather than unleash the demon. Then he glanced to the Lord Protector and to the queen.

Ignoring the chair, he walked slowly to the center of the room and stood before her. Despite the protest of his injury, he sank down to one knee and gripped his fingers together on top. Bowing his head, Wolfram said, “Queen Brianna, fair and merciful, I ask your pardon.”

In a careful voice, she said, “Go on.”

“Six months ago, I fled your anger, thinking to leave behind all that I had done. I have learned that these things cannot be undone so easily. I didn’t want to come back here, knowing this, but I have reason to fear that Lochalyn is in danger.”

“What danger?” Then, a little louder, she said, “Look at me, Prince Wolfram. What danger do you speak of?”

Raising his head, Wolfram felt an edge of fear. “There is no war in Hemijrai. They have no water there and too many people. These people you’ve been sheltering are no refugees. If anything, they are colonists.”

“The war is over. That’s why the Jeshan sent his delegation, to gather his people to go home. We are not in danger from these people.” His mother leaned back in her throne, overcoming the surprise of his kneeling as a penitent. “And in any event, that’s not why we’re here. After ransacking my rooms and insulting myself and the Lord Protector, you fled the castle. Furthermore, the Usurper’s daughter came before
me to reveal that she would bear your child, which she has done—unless you can deny that you’ve been with her?”

Swallowing, Wolfram said, “I cannot deny it.”

“So,” she continued, “you ran away, leaving me your lover and your bastard to deal with. You fled to the forest. What then?” Before he could answer, she went on, “Ah, yes, you went to Bernholt, in the guise of a stonemason. There you met the Princess Melody and convinced her to join you in flight.”

“No,” he protested, kneading his temple. “She had a plan, a Hemijrani maid. I told her to stay home, not to get mixed up with me.”

“And did she stay home?”

“No, but—”

“I’ve put up with quite enough from you already,” she snapped. Regaining her composure, she took a sip of wine and continued, “Next, you fled to Hemijrai, rode some elephants, were welcomed by the High Priestess, and started breaking
their
laws.”

Wolfram slipped his knee down and sat back on his heels, staring at her in disbelief. “I did not know their laws; I went to the women’s quarter looking for Melody, to make sure she was all right.”

“And assaulted a princess of their realm for the first time.”

“I didn’t assault her, I touched her hair! It was stupid, I know that.”

The queen made a beckoning gesture, and Wolfram turned.

Faedre and a few other Hemijrani entered the room, with Deishima in their midst. She walked up to Faedre’s side and gazed at the queen.

“Deishima,” Wolfram breathed. “Jeshnam, I did not expect you.”

From the opening in her veil, her eyes flicked to his and away, blinking quickly.