The Eunuch's Heir (37 page)

ALL THAT
day, Wolfram sat in his room tying knots. The rope was stout, and should hold—Lady willing—and ended in a hook half again as long as his arm. When the sliver of moon had set, he rose and wrapped both rope and hook in a long, light cloak. Shoeless, he crept through the halls to the battlement stairs. The wing that housed official guests thrust out dark and square to the back of the keep. He headed straight there, ducking into alcoves as the men of the watch made their rounds. When he reached the guest wing, he peered down the wall. Far below, water gleamed, and he caught the scent he was after though it turned his stomach.

The castle privies were old-fashioned, small simple rooms sticking out from the wall, with open bottoms and wooden seats. Year upon year, the queen spoke of updating them, or at least enclosing them and concealing the pits below. Her generals, especially those who had fought the Usurper, argued against it. After all, those open holes allowed them to drop nasty surprises on would-be invaders. Halfway down the wall, a privy stuck out from the guest quarters where Faedre and her entourage were lodged. Wolfram had had some time to consider how and where they must hold Deishima and how to get in without arousing suspicions. Most of the rooms had windows, large and relatively accessible, but the privy’s antechamber, stocked with bathtub and basins, had none. She would be safe from prying eyes. Or so they thought.

Wolfram crept along the wall a little farther and found what he wanted, a loop of metal stuck into the floor to tie down defensive artillery. He made fast the rope, and slipped the long cloak over his oldest clothing. Draping the hook over his shoulder, he played out rope over the wall, with knots every foot. Too bad they didn’t have vines here as in Deishima’s garden. Checking again for watchmen, Wolfram climbed over the battlement and clung to his line. Slowly, he began the descent, knot to knot, working carefully. His mind and heart he did not altogether trust, but he knew his own strength and the strength of his determination.

Hand over hand, he let himself down, his bare feet finding purchase in the worn stones and gaps of missing cement.

At last, the privy loomed beside him, then he was below it, listening.

He pulled up a bit of rope and tied off a loop to brace his foot, then unslung the hook.

Saying a prayer that no one would feel the urge in the next few minutes, Wolfram held the hook by its end, pushing upward until he shoved loose the wooden seat. Pulling the hood over his head, he took a deep breath and held it.

Carefully, he climbed up his line and grabbed the edge of the stone base, heaving himself over it onto the floor.

The smell was partially masked by strong herbs, but still made him retch. He forced himself to stillness and listened again.

In the antechamber, something rustled, breathing as carefully as he.

Wolfram slipped out of his protective cloak, folding it to the inside to be ready when it was time to go. Then he opened the door.

A whimper and furtive movements told him he was not alone, and the scent of cloves and Deishima’s sacred leaves washed over him.

“Deishima,” he whispered, keeping close to the floor. “It’s me, Wolfram.”

The movement ceased, then began again, edging closer.

From his pouch, Wolfram plucked a stubby candle and
his flint and steel. He struck a spark and saw the huddled figure, her eyes glinting in the new light. Dripping some wax on the floor, Wolfram stuck down the candle and crawled to her side.

She wore no veil, and had been given a heavier gown for night. Her glorious hair fell in a tangle about her shaking shoulders.

Gently, Wolfram reached out and took her bound hands, his fingers working at the knots until she was free.

Shutting her eyes, Deishima bent her head forward, letting him remove the gag and cast it aside.

Looking on her in the flickering light, Wolfram bit his lip, his throat aching. “I told you I’d come. Did you hear me?”

“I heard you,” she whispered, her voice hoarse, “but I have been too frightened to believe it was true.”

Rubbing his knuckles with his palm, Wolfram held himself in check. “I wish I knew how to comfort you. If you were from Lochalyn, I could take you in my arms and keep you warm and tell you all the lies I can think of.”

Deishima hugged herself, bowing her head. “You might pretend that I am.”

With a soft cry, Wolfram gathered her into his lap, his arms wrapped around her tiny form, her dark head pressed close to his chest so that her tears burned and tickled through his shirt. He stroked her hair, her back, her small, cold hands. “It’s all right,” he murmured, over and over, wishing he could believe it.

She held her hand over his heartbeat. “You should not have come, Highness,” she mumbled into his arm. “If they find you here—”

“I don’t care,” he answered fiercely. “I couldn’t leave you here alone. Sweet Lady, I wish I could take you out with me, but I cannot carry us both that way.”

Raising her head, Deishima slipped her hair back behind her ear. “You are like no one I have ever heard of.”

He grinned. “They’ll make new stories for me,” he said, giddiness welling up in him. “Stories to frighten their children to behave.”

She gave a ghostly smile in return and slipped from his arms to sit close by him. “Why have you come here?”

Wolfram grew serious again. “I think I know what they’re about. This ritual, it’s for the rebirth of your Two, am I right?”

Deishima nodded. “It has never been done before. We have been waiting for the sign and for Their earthly elements.”

“Melody and Alyn.”

“Over my country at the time of their birth the sky went dark and bright, for the sun and moon came together. Everywhere was searched, and no such pair was found.”

“But Faedre knew about the twins in Bernholt. She came home telling the Jeshan they had been born, but far away.”

Surprised, Deishima blinked at him. “How is it that you have learned all this?”

“There’s more,” he said. “In a few days, all of your refugees are gathering here—something else will happen—darkness again?” This earned him a full-fledged smile.

“The rebirth will be complete, and the Two shall again take form.”

“Do you really think that will happen?”

The smile slipped away, and she watched the candle for a moment. “I do not know. The Holy Father, he believes with all of his being that it will be. The Holy Mother…” She trailed off and frowned.

“Faedre’s not here for religion, she’s looking for revenge.”

The frown grew deeper. “I do not wish to believe this. Before we came here, I believed that she was true to Jonsha in all ways. When the tiger came—” She broke off and glanced at him, at his scarred face. “Forgive me; I shall not again mention it.”

“It’s not your fault.”

“No, you were correct, the tiger came for me. She would have me die lest I should speak to anyone about this ritual.”

“But she kidnapped you back instead.” He hugged his knees, their arms close and warm. “Because they need you. She convinced Esfandiyar that you could be cleansed.”

“Yes.” The single syllable was faint, and she searched the darkness.

Wolfram swallowed, and said, “I know you use sacrifices in your rituals—the monkeys that Esfandiyar keeps.”

One hand pressed to her mouth, Deishima nodded.

Reaching out, he gently touched her far cheek, turning her to face him, their noses inches apart in the darkness. “But such a great occasion calls for a great sacrifice, a worthy, pure, unsoiled sacrifice. It’s you, isn’t it?”

She did not want to meet his eye. “All of my life, I have been taught for this moment. The signs of my birth showed that I am to be the one, that my life will be most of service in this way. I have always known that it would be my place to die for the glory of the Two.”

“You are not meant to marry anyone, you told me,” he breathed.

“I am meant to consecrate the moment of their rebirth.”

Wolfram let his hand fall and leaned his head back against the wall, looking at the distant ceiling. He did not want to ask what must come next, but it was the telling point.
Sometimes it’s not about me
, he thought. “Is it still your wish to have that fate?”

She was silent.

“When we spoke of marriage, I thought I could make you a queen. They’ve given me fourteen days to do something stupid, to give them the reason to throw me out, and this is it. If anyone finds me, I’m an exile at best. Even if I could get you away, I have nothing to offer you.” He steeled himself for the hardest thing he would ever say. “Tell me now, Deishima, if you don’t want my help—you said you couldn’t resume the life you left, but now you have, by whatever means—if you want me to leave you, I’ll go. I’ll hide my head on that day, and stay as far away as I can, and you can”—his voice broke, but he plunged ahead—“you can die for your faith, if that’s what you want. I will let you go.”

“I do not know what I wish,” she said, her voice a quiet song of anguish. “This is not how I imagined it to be. And the Holy Mother cares little for the sacred things. These are
the people of my faith who have taken from me both voice and peace.”

Wanting to rage and storm and make her his own, Wolfram covered his mouth, squeezed shut his eye. The power of this desire went beyond any lust, beyond the need for flesh or fantasy. It filled the hollow places and it terrified him.

From the gloom, Deishima spoke. “Sixteen years I have dedicated myself to the moment that awaits me. For sixteen years, I did not question that it was so, that my birth had been for this, to bring the Two back into this world. I did not leave the women’s places, I did not speak to man or heathen, I had no interest in the world, but in the spirit only. Sixteen years, then you came. You came to me and touched my hair.”

Wolfram stifled a giggle.

“And I did not know why. Why has he done this thing? Why has he defied the laws of my people to enter this garden, to dare to touch me, the consecrated one? I wondered.”

“Because I’m an idiot,” he supplied gruffly.

“Do not say that!” she hissed so fiercely that he looked upon her. “A fire burns in you, Wolfram, a spirit so remarkable that even you cannot contain it.”

Bowing his head, he said bitterly, “If it’s true, then you’re the only one who sees it.”

She set her hand upon his ruined cheek. “Then I have been given a gift beyond measure, Wolfram, that you love me. And if you are a prince, or an exile, or a beggar in the street, it shall not make me love you any less.”

Wolfram lifted her hand and pressed it to his lips.

“You need offer nothing more than yourself, and I will think myself a queen.”

Tears ran down his cheek and soaked the cuff of her gown, and he pulled her again into his embrace. This time, she slipped her slender arms about him, and he felt the throbbing of her heart with his.

Outside, he heard a noise and tensed, then pulled away. “I have to go.”

“Yes, yes,” she urged him, flicking away her tears with her fingertips.

Impulsively, he said, “Come with me—I can tie you to the rope, I can pull you up. There’s got to be a way.”

“We have no time, Wolfram. You will find another way.” She grabbed the scarves which had bound her.

As he reached the door, he turned back. “Dawsiir—where is he?”

“They overcame him. He lives, I know nothing more.”

Wolfram nodded. “I love you.” He slipped through the door, shutting it behind him. Gathering up his cloak to pull it on, he heard another door opening and froze.

A Hemijrani voice barked a loud question and Deishima stumbled over the answer. Another voice joined the first, then Melody said, “Why’s her gag off? What’s going on?”

“Someone has been here,” Faedre reported, with a nasty edge.

“There is no one,” Deishima pleaded. “I have freed myself. How could anyone be here aside from me?”

A heavy tread crossed the floor. “What about this?” The stripe of candlelight under the door suddenly faded.

Faedre murmured, “You little fool, did he come to you? Tell me!”

There was a sharp sound of a hand striking flesh, and Deishima cried out.

Wolfram ground his teeth, strangling the cloak with both hands. He had to leave, this was his chance, but the demon roared. He grabbed the edge of the stone seat, steadying the hook.

“Tell me!” Faedre shouted again, and someone struck the wall hard. Deishima moaned and did not answer.

Snatching up the hook, Wolfram spun about. Throwing open the door, he lashed out with the cloak, a war cry issuing from his throat.

Slumped on the floor, with a trickle of blood at her forehead, Deishima cried, “They will kill you!”

Wolfram flung the cloak over Faedre’s head.

Faedre yelled, bringing two more men into the room, sending Melody tripping out of their way.

Swinging the hook in a wide arc, Wolfram sliced open one man’s arm and kept the others at bay a moment longer.

He bent and scooped Deishima over his shoulder, dragging the knotted rope behind him.

The attackers stumbled and cursed.

Bursting through their midst, Wolfram ran for the door. His shoulder struck the opposite wall.

Dropping the hook, he ran on, yelling at the top of his voice.

When he reached the entrance to the quarters, he kicked it hard into the startled faces of the outside guards.

Freed from the cloak, Faedre and her minions pursued him down the hall, only to meet a group of hurrying castle guards coming to the commotion.

“Catch him!” Faedre shouted.

Wolfram clung to Deishima a moment longer, then slid her down to kneel on the floor and stuck his hands in the air. “I’m unarmed,” he called out as they caught him.

Quickly, Faedre grabbed Deishima and pushed her behind, into the waiting arms of her men. “He broke into our quarters,” she told the new arrivals. Her smoldering gaze had turned to fury. “You’ll not get away with this, Your Highness.”

Panting, he grinned back at her. “I’m not dead yet, Faedre. You’d better watch yourself.”

Two men held him tight, already binding his wrists with someone’s belt. He did not struggle.