The Eunuch's Heir (40 page)

BARELY KEEPING
herself to a walk, Lyssa fled the courtroom. She had watched Wolfram go from a confident prince to a broken prisoner and could bear no more. Whatever Brianna decided to do, Wolfram’s evident confession would bury him more readily than any further testimony they might hear. Unless she found Dawsiir, or someone else willing to support Wolfram’s claims. The more she watched, the more she became convinced that Faedre was lying, at best, and may in fact have beaten her own acolyte to discredit Wolfram. She did not know what Brianna might be thinking—surely the sight of the battered girl had put to rest any doubts the nobles might have had. But Brianna would wait until Fionvar’s return, whenever he could be found. Given good weather and a willing horse, the ride to the manor could be made in four days. He’d had a day’s start on their messenger already. Lyssa found herself praying for rain, anything to slow him down and bring him home.

In the meantime, she knew her charge: to find Dawsiir, the only independent witness Wolfram might have. The Hemijrani had no reason to help her, or to allow her anywhere near their camp. Acting too rashly would probably get the man killed. She needed a plan, and quickly.

Suddenly she wondered what Wolfram would do. No matter the straits he found himself in, he always seemed to find a way, whether that meant using the privy to gain access to the guest quarters or deliberately bringing on the guard to get
himself back out again. Then she grinned, remembering one of his other solutions.

Swinging by her chambers to change, Lyssa felt a sort of fevered energy overtaking her. It had been a long time since she had gone into battle, and, though this was a game of wits more than swords, she welcomed it. Finding one of her best bodices, and a fighting skirt she could strip down to her leggings with a stroke, she dressed. Over the top, she slung her belt, with the sword at one hip, the hammer at the other. Finally, she donned a ceremonial sash with the arms of the queen.

The Hemijrani camp bustled with cooking, washing, and a row of tents with the acrid smoke of their smiths at work. They made charcoal fires in shallow pits and pumped small bellows with their toes while they hammered out whatever was needed. For the first time, Lyssa paused here and watched one of them at work on a long knife. The next man, too, had a knife, and Lyssa’s senses went on alert. In the seven months they had been living here, they could have amassed a stockpile of such weapons. Nothing so conspicuous as swords, at least, not by day. City guards patrolled the tents, but had no cause to scrutinize what they saw.

Lyssa laughed at herself. How had she gone so quickly from a doubter to a believer, seeking the proof of Wolfram’s suspicions? She spotted a pair of guardsmen strolling up the aisle toward her and walked more quickly.

“You, there, Ulric is it?” she called out.

The two men joined her, bowing briefly. “Aye, Mistress, what’s on?”

“Queen’s business,” she said shortly, for it was near enough the truth. “I may have need of you.”

“We’re with you, Mistress.” They shared a look and a smile, hoping for some relief to the tedium of the watch.

“Right, then. We’re looking for the man in charge.”

Ulric replied, “That’ll be Ghiva, little chap with naked feet.”

Lyssa rolled her eyes as another short Hemijrani passed, his feet as bare as all the rest. “Any idea where to find him?”

“Come on.” He led the way between the vivid tents to a
large open area ringed by cook fires. At one end a pile of dirty stones had been arranged into a sort of tower about as tall as Lyssa herself. Bits of feathers and fur surrounded it, and she frowned.

“It’s a shrine, I think,” Ulric explained. “Offerings and what?”

She stared at it. Something about the structure disturbed her. Probably it was the idea of this heathen shrine so close to their own temple. She shrugged off the feeling and pivoted to study the tents all around.

After a moment, one of the small men emerged from a tent and hurried forward. He bowed over his hands immediately and smiled his gold-toothed smile. “I am at your service, sirs, and lady.”

“Ghiva?” she asked.

The little man bowed again. “Indeed. You are perhaps needing a translator? There are few enough of us who have been able to learn your speech.”

Lyssa cut him off. “I’m looking for someone.” She crossed her arms, mustering some of the anger that had driven her from court. “You know of the break-in at your ambassadors’ chambers and the resulting trial.”

“Yes, indeed.” He lost his grin. “What a terrible thing to have occurred, and yet upon the eve of our ceremony and subsequent departure.”

Nodding her agreement, Lyssa said a silent prayer for the Lady to guide what happened next. “I am Mistress Lyssa, one of the queen’s close advisors. There was a man whom the defendant knew in Hemijrai, a groom, I met him on one occasion.” To let them know she would recognize the man. “We have reason to believe that the prince gave this man a writ of free passage.” With a quick, stern look to the guardsmen, she plunged on, “You are probably not aware that the prince has no authority to provide such a writ. If it’s true that this man has one, that’s another charge against the prince and may influence his eventual sentencing.”

Though they squirmed a little at the lie, Ulric and his companion had read her look well enough to hold their tongues.

“I see, yes, Mistress.” Ghiva nodded vigorously.

“It is vital that I see this man, Dawsiir, and ascertain if he received such a writ. I will, of course, require your translation.”

Tilting his head to one side, Ghiva considered, squinting against the sun.

Lyssa held her breath. Would he take the opportunity to pile another charge against the prince? If Wolfram was right, they would do all they could to stop him.

After a moment, Ghiva said, “I believe that I would know the man you are seeking. He has unfortunately been injured and may be unable to provide the information you require, Mistress.”

Though her heart fell, Lyssa held her expression. “Has he been searched? Do you know if he possessed a writ?”

The man’s face twitched, and he brought his hands together. “I do not know of this, Mistress.”

“Then perhaps you can take us to see him and find out?” She planted her hands on her hips, in easy reach of the weapons that hung there.

Ghiva’s eyes flicked to the sword and back to her face, his gaze suddenly more alert, shrewdness crinkling his brow. “You will permit me, Mistress, to determine first if he is even well enough to be receiving visitors.”

“Lead on,” she said. “The queen will be pleased by your eagerness to assist.”

Bowing again, he walked before them. As he did, Lyssa watched the way he stepped, almost too lightly, with a wiry bounce to his stride. The markings on his painted feet were those of a priest, but his walk was that of a soldier. He possessed an economy of movement and a well-schooled grace that betrayed him. As he gestured for them to wait outside a tent, she noted the bulge of his muscular arm.

Lyssa’s smile grew. Once you knew to look, the evidence supporting Wolfram’s case was all around.

“What are we about, Mistress, if you don’t mind saying?” Ulric muttered.

“Finding a witness, and taking him to the castle. By force, if necessary.”

They nodded their understanding as Ghiva held back the curtain.

“Perhaps,” he began, with a flash of his golden teeth, “your men might wait outside as the space is rather small.”

Lyssa met Ulric’s eye and raised her eyebrow.

“Aye, Mistress, we’ll be waiting,” he told her, with a wink.

As they ducked inside, Ghiva said, “After these several months among your people, still I have some difficulty in accepting women outside of their place, if you will forgive me, and I am hoping this difficulty is not revealed for you, Mistress.”

She paused, shaking her head. “No, I haven’t noticed.”

“You are a woman, and yet also a warrior are you not?” Ghiva let the flap fall behind them. “As a man of the spiritual as well as of peace, I am sure you can see my difficulty, Mistress, and so I ask that you would forgive my reluctance with you.”

“Think nothing of it,” she said. “Which way?”

She had to duck as she followed him down a narrow path between rows of cots. Their occupants groaned or whimpered, with bandages and herbs obscuring them. All were men, as were their attendants.

Ghiva bowed his head, and said, “We were somewhat unprepared for your winter here, and many of us have developed the fever, or have passed from the world as a result, Mistress. Even we are unable to find the plants that we would use to heal them.”

“I am sorry to hear that,” she told him.

With one of those powerful arms, he indicated the last in the row of beds.

Dawsiir lay with his head bandaged, his eyes glassy with fever. As they crouched beside him, he turned a little, frowning at Lyssa and mumbling something.

“You can see that he is not a well man, Mistress.”

Nodding, Lyssa felt a shiver of doubt. The man looked feeble, on the verge of death or madness. “Ask him about the writ.”

Ghiva made an inquiry in Hemijrani, with Lyssa paying close attention. She did not get it all, but caught the terms for royalty, and parchment. So far, the soldier-in-disguise was fulfilling her request.

Again, Dawsiir frowned at her and muttered something unintelligible.

Meeting his fevered gaze, Lyssa nodded slightly, unsure how to reassure him that he was helping Wolfram, not betraying him.

Ghiva spoke again, with an angry tone, and Dawsiir swallowed and shut his eyes.

Then the sheet rippled slightly as his hand moved. From beneath his body, he edged a stained and crumpled page.

Immediately, Lyssa snatched it up. Wolfram’s hurried letters filled the sheet. For a moment, Lyssa studied it, considering whether to go through with her plan given Dawsiir’s sorry state.

“Is it indeed what you seek in evidence?” Ghiva asked, his smile sharp and expectant.

She slipped the parchment under her belt. “Indeed, Ghiva, I’ve found just what I was looking for,” she replied, then, bending over as if to thank Dawsiir, she slid an arm under him and pulled him up over her shoulder.

“Mistress! This man is very ill! He should not be moved, please,” Ghiva said, then added something in Hemijrani.

Drawing her sword, Lyssa turned to the aisle and saw the attendants down the row bounding over the cots toward her.

She feinted right, slicing toward Ghiva’s throat. He easily ducked and dove away from the backhand.

With the way cleared, Lyssa lunged forward, her blade ripping through the fabric. “Ulric! Guards!” she yelled, shoving through the opening.

They ran up heavily in their mail, swords drawn.

“Back to the castle!” She ran, Dawsiir clinging to her belt, all the way in, pounding up the stairs to the infirmary with her guard at her back.

Once inside, she lowered her captive onto an open bed as the healers hurried over. “Who’s this? What is his wound?”

“His name’s Dawsiir, and I trust you to do all that you can.” She grinned her triumph.

“As well we must, Mistress,” the healer replied. “For he’ll be lucky to last out the night, as hot as he is.”

Lyssa stared down at Dawsiir’s closed eyes and sweaty brightness. “Oh, Goddess’s Tears, he has to live!”

Another healer approached with a basin of water and shooed her out of the way. “We’ll save him, Lady willing, but how long’s he been like this?”

“I don’t know.” She counted back in her mind. “Perhaps a week, no, longer.”

“No telling, then,” he grunted, starting to strip the grubby bandage. “Even if he lives, he may never recover.”

The energy fell from her as Lyssa knelt beside the still form. “Dawsiir,” she whispered, then, in Hemijrani, “Do you hear me?”

He made no sign.

Dropping her head, Lyssa fought back her defeat. She pulled the parchment from her belt and curved his hand around it. “You’ve got to live, Dawsiir, Wolfram’s life may depend on you.”

One of the healers cleared his throat. “Mistress, we need space.”

Reluctantly she rose and stepped back. Wolfram’s best hope lay in that bed and might never rise from it again. She could do no more good here. Despair welled up in her, and she sheathed her sword at last.

LEANING BACK
against the altar in the tiny chapel, Fionvar stared at the round wall before him. He had come here with Brianna when the manor had hosted Duchess Elyn’s court-in-exile, and with King Rhys in his early days. Over the years since then, he had cleared the vines that had obscured the door and the opening above the altar. He had reset some of the stones in the floor to make for more even footing, then began the tricky work of Strelledor translation. On the wall all around him, the last priestess of this place had written her visions and ramblings in the sacred language of the Lady. Some of her words were barely scratched, others gouged into the stone, making it hard to follow the thoughts. Times when Fionvar needed to get away, he came here. The Sisters of the Sword, his own sister’s order, allowed him to come, provided he did not enter the manor that was their academy and their convent. Last night, he had slept in the Cave of Life and had the best night’s sleep he’d had since Wolfram left. Or perhaps even before that.

Now, dawn touched the carved words that snaked over the wall. Sunlight gleamed on the handles of axes and the hilts of swords protruding between the stones. If one of the Sisters left the order, she left her weapon as well.

The translation was done, except for some fine-tuning, and he had given the work to the Sisters of the Sword as payment for their permission. Still, Fionvar loved the solitude and let his mind wander over the words before him.

Some of her predictions were clear, though often only in
hindsight, while others made no sense to him, no matter how he poured through religious texts. The words that occupied him today were one of those passages.

“Ware the dark sun,”
she had written,
“for it falls upon the Lady’s altar. A woman stands calling the darkness. An army she calls to bury a crown. Praise the dark son! The skin burns, the voice drowned, the heart burst. O, hear me true! The Blessed one is fallen as it should be. O hear me true, there is but one, not two.
”

The words nagged at him, as he began to glimpse their meaning. “But one, not two”—a reference to this religion of the Hemijrai, of course. “The blessed one” was Alyn, who saw the Lady’s visions, but why should his falling be “as it should be”?

Then he was faced with the curious echo words—the dark sun, the dark son. If he had not translated the passage himself, he would have suspected a simple misspelling, a clerical error in two phrases meant to be the same. “Ware the dark sun, praise the dark son.”

Rolling it over in his mind, he thought of Wolfram, and Alyn’s childhood prophecy that the sun would go dark. Fionvar glowered, trying to concentrate. He had come here for peace, to leave behind the mess in the castle and puzzle over a different mystery. Instead, the two mysteries bound together, and he cursed himself for not noticing the similarity before. Fionvar traced the wandering letters. “The dark son,” could be Wolfram. The blessed one’s fall, Alyn’s fall, if he were right. He suddenly wondered if Alyn’s childhood vision foretold not Wolfram’s evil nature, but Alyn’s own danger—that Wolfram would be present at his own fall. The woman calling—Faedre?—calling an army to bury a crown. The passage had no sense of time—it could refer to now, or years from now. A chill blew through him, and he touched the words again.

The next instant, he scrambled to his feet.

He had done the translation himself. What if she meant not skin, but pelt? Not man, but animal. How could she know? What did it matter, for the certainty overcame him. “The voice
drowned.” It was Wolfram, it had to be, and Fionvar hadn’t listened.

Quickly, he gathered his few things into a bundle and climbed out of the chapel to find his horse. He cut the hobble and strapped on his bundle. Even as he mounted, he heard another horse approaching fast.

On a mount wheezing with exhaustion, a royal messenger galloped up. “My lord Fionvar!”

“Here, is it the army?” Fionvar demanded.

Confused, the man shook his head. “It’s the prince. On trial for rape.”

Stiffening his back, Fionvar stared. He recalled Wolfram holding the reins.
“I’m about to do something reckless and rash
,” he had said. “
It might get me killed.”
Fionvar mounted his horse. Anger swamped the urgency he’d felt just a moment before. “Bury it, what did he do?”

“Broke into the guest quarters, m’lord, and went for the girl.” The messenger circled his exhausted mount, himself drooping with weariness.

“Deishima? But he loves her.”

With a weak smile, the man replied, “Not from what I hear—her blood was on his clothes. Queen’s asked for you.”

Bile rose in Fionvar’s throat, and he dropped the reins, lowering his head. Perhaps all the evil of Alyn’s prophecy was about to come true. “Sweet Lady, couldn’t he even run away and let her out of the decision to hang him?”

He wasn’t sure he had spoken aloud until the man replied, “He did run, straight to our own guards with the girl on his shoulder. Right gleeful he was, I hear.”

“It doesn’t make sense,” Fionvar muttered. He recalled the scene in his office.

“
Back then
,” Wolfram had said, “
I still had the option of running away.
”

“
Don’t you still?
” Fionvar had asked.

“
Not if I am ever to be worthy of the crown.”

After sneaking in, Wolfram ran to the castle guards? He wasn’t insane. He was convinced Deishima had been kidnapped. For a moment, Fionvar let himself believe that his
son was right. If that were the case, Wolfram was no rapist, he was a rescuer. That day, he’d come to warn Fionvar that he might be caught, that he might be shamed more even than he had been. He had come to try to save Fionvar that shame upon himself.

Fionvar caught up the reins. “Has the queen passed judgment?”

“She’ll wait the week,” the man returned, then added, “that was four days ago.”

“Goddess’s Tears!” Fionvar bent low and kicked his horse to a run. He had three days to make a four-day ride, and he could not afford to be late.

TRAPPED AGAIN
in darkness, Wolfram lay on his belly on the floor, his head as close to the grate as he could get.

“The trouble is, Wolfram,” Lyssa was saying, “I’m the only translator we’ve got, that we can trust, that is. And you all know I’m no good. Half the time he isn’t even coherent. I think Ghiva’s no priest, but that’s not proof, and those blacksmiths haven’t made so much as a bloody fishhook in four days.”

His chin propped on his fist, Wolfram stared. In the weak light, he could make out her form, but little else. Still, with the weariness in her voice, he didn’t need to see her face. “Then I’m sunk.” He sighed. Since that day in the courtroom, he had struggled with despair. He shut his eye and saw Deishima’s battered face. The queen had allowed him the full fortnight, but it could do him little good in the dungeon. Only two days remained before the Hemijrani ceremony, and he had no way out. His wrists, still sore, were bandaged beneath the manacles, but he had his bear claw. At the worst, he controlled the time of his own death. If he could learn when the hour was upon her, he could die at the same time. How poignant. He laughed without humor.

“What is it?” Lyssa, his only visitor, sat on her side of the grate, seeming naked without the sword and hammer the guards were holding for her.

“I’m going to die in the darkness,” he murmured. “I came so far, Lyssa. So far you wouldn’t believe it”—another laugh, for whoever believed him?—“to die in a dungeon for a crime I did not commit.”

“You won’t die.” She kicked the grate. “Bury it, Wolfram, don’t talk like that.”

He sat up, not bothering to dust himself off. “How should I talk? Like I’ll be pardoned? Like someone will come forward to defend me? Two days, Lyssa—in two days, everyone will know I’m right, and it won’t matter anymore.”

“Look at it this way,” she snapped. “If you’re right, then the Hemijrani will be in charge, and there won’t be any point in killing you.”

“Won’t there?” He pulled the chain taut between his hands. “If I live, then this is all the freedom I will ever have.”

Lyssa hung her head. “Maybe it’s time to start praying,” she said.

Running the links between his fingers, Wolfram didn’t answer. After a while, he heard her go, her steps sounding hollow in the darkness. His eye ached, but he had stopped crying. After the first two nights, he had even stopped raging, earning him the gratitude of the other prisoners. He couldn’t breathe properly, for the darkness stifled him until he thought he might choke on it. Somewhere far above him, Deishima lay in her own darkness. There was none to save her but him, and he had finally run out of ideas.

Every day, Lyssa visited, telling him things that he already knew. Every day she left him feeling a little more defeated, rolling it over in his mind, finding no way out. Since she had seen Deishima’s face, his mother wouldn’t even read his petitions. Some days, the guards pushed his porridge bowl in just out of reach, and laughed at him for hours. Although he had been stripped of rank and title, they dared not touch him, not yet. But in two days, the queen’s justice wouldn’t mean a thing. Wolfram knew it, and so did they.

Through his thin shirt, Wolfram touched the bear claw. If it could pick the locks, or smuggle him up the stairs, or—what? But even if he could escape the dungeon, what then?
He wouldn’t get within a mile of Faedre’s rooms again, or even the temple where they would hold their bloody ritual. Unless he could fly, he was no good to anyone.

He played the chain links over his fingers, then froze, and started to smile.

Dropping the chain, he scrambled closer to the grate. “You, there! Guard!”

“I’m busy,” the man shouted back, earning the laughter of his mates.

“I need to see the captain!”

The man plucked a card from his hand and slid it onto the table. “Cap’s got better things to do, hasn’t he?”

“I think he’ll see me,” Wolfram persisted, some of the old fire returning. “I think he’ll be madder than a snake if you don’t tell him I’ve asked.”

The men snorted to each other and went on with their game.

“I don’t have time for this,” Wolfram muttered. He prowled to the back of his cell where the stench was strongest, and picked up a handful of muck. Approaching the grate, he took careful aim, and threw the handful. It passed the bars, but struck harmlessly some yards to the left of the table.

The guards laughed uproariously. “One-eyed rapist pitching shit!” the leader called over.

Roused, the demon dug in its claws, and Wolfram gave a nasty grin, going back for two more handfuls. The next one struck a little short.

The guards laughed again, but one of them glowered at Wolfram over his cards.

Gauging his aim and compensating for the missing eye, Wolfram threw again.

Splat! The gob hit the leader’s shoulder, spattering his face and cards. He surged up, drawing his sword. “You little bastard!” He wiped the stuff off as he charged.

Quickly, Wolfram threw another.

Ducking, the guard slipped and went down. Suddenly, from across the way, another blob flew through the air, hitting the table.

Hemijrani voices cheered from their own darkness. Shit flew through the air from all directions.

“You lot calm down!” one of the guards roared.

“I want to see the captain, now!” Wolfram yelled back.

“Captain! Captain!” the other prisoners began to chant, glad of some distraction.

Running with his arms over his head, one man made for the stairs, while another snatched up the bucket of cold water kept handy. He trotted up and flung it through the bars of Wolfram’s grate.

Stung by the cold, Wolfram yelped. Then, with the demon pounding inside his head, he called, “Thanks for the bath!” and got back in the game.

By the time Gwythym appeared, the remaining guards had taken cover on the stairs, shouting their threats and insults.

“Watch out, Captain! He’s armed!” the leader shouted.

Wolfram got to his feet. “Leave him be!” he called to his backers.

A few more stink bombs flew halfheartedly, but they settled down at Gwythym’s shout, “You want to be flogged or fed, it’s your choice!”

Glaring, Gwythym came up to the grate. “Inciting a riot, eh? Can’t you just leave well enough alone?”

“I need to see Dylan,” Wolfram said urgently.

Gwythym smacked his forehead. “Oh, for pity’s sake! Queen asked for him to test the truth at your trial, but she let me keep him back—keep him as far from you as may be. And who needs testimony, with that girl before them?”

“Please, Captain.” He knelt so his face would not be in shadow. “I’m a dead man, you know that.”

“Aye, for what you’ve done, you will be.” His jaw clenched on the words.

Wiping his hands on his knees, Wolfram said, “This I did not do.”

“If it weren’t this, it’d be something else, don’t you think?”

The unaccustomed sarcasm made Wolfram flinch, and he narrowed his eyes. “You know, don’t you?” he asked softly.

Gwythym crouched down to meet his eye. “Aye, that I do. And if you think I’d let my son anywhere near you, then you’re mad as well as doomed.”

“He’s your son, but he’s not a child. Tell him we’ve spoken and let him decide.”

“Bah!” Straightening, Gwythym crossed his arms. “If I hear you’ve been at this again”—he waved a hand to the soiled chamber—“I’ll beat the shit back into you, hear me?” He turned on his heel and left, barking orders for the place to be cleaned, and any further incident severely punished.

Wolfram sank back on his heels, the fury leaving him empty and shaky as it always had. Pray, Lyssa had suggested. He prayed that it would be enough. But the hours wore on in darkness, and the guards didn’t even bother with his porridge, and even that prayer grew hopeless.