The Eunuch's Heir (42 page)

EMERGING THROUGH
the little door by the temple, Fionvar felt a chill to the air that had not been there before. At first, he thought he imagined it, then he noticed the guards around the refugee camp. To a man, they stared at the sky. A few had removed their helmets and stood bareheaded and gaping. Their lips moved in prayer, and their fingers made restless circles, hoping to ward off doom by repeating the Lady’s sign.

Although he’d had the warning of the woods chapel and Alyn’s prophecy, the sight of the sun still rooted Fionvar to the spot. A chunk of darkness wounded it like a terrible bite. A broad crescent was all that remained and even that seemed to be dwindling. Shadows below were consumed by this great shadow, changing into unfamiliar forms.

“Holy Mother preserve us!” one of the guards shouted. He dropped his helmet and ran. Several others followed, tearing for the woods.

“Fionvar, look!” Lyssa pointed toward the Bernholt road. People and animals fled down it, wagons pelting along heedless of what was before them. Shouts and crashes echoed over the wall, and already a black smoke rose near the merchants’ row.

“What’s happening?” she cried.

“The prophecy spoke of a dark sun and the calling of an army.”

“How do we stop it?”

Looking down the slope, Fionvar said, “We have to stop
them.” Where the camp had been most of the tents lay heaped in piles, the cook fires scattered. The Hemijrani, too, glanced to the sky, but they did not run. They smiled and cheered, shaking their fists.

Beside him, Dawsiir murmured something, and Lyssa translated, “It is true; this is the day they are coming.”

“What does he know?” Fionvar demanded, as darkness steadily ate away the sun.

“This is the moon, our lady, coming to the sun, our lord, as on the day of their birth.”

Incredulous, Fionvar pointed. “That is the moon?”

Dawsiir nodded.

“Ask him—” Fionvar began, but Lyssa interrupted. “We don’t have time to understand, Fion, our men are panicking, and theirs are celebrating. Not good at all.”

“The outside entrance,” Dawsiir explained, “is for workmen only when digging. None but the most holy can enter there since the womb is complete.” He peered down the hill into the Hemijrani host and shook his head.

Fionvar sighed. “He’s got no idea, then.”

She shook her head. “No, it’s worse than that. They’ll defend it. Someone down there knows where it is and will do anything to prevent us finding out.”

Squatting down, Fionvar let his head and arms hang limp. “Is this how you felt when you stormed the castle?”

Coming down beside him, Lyssa grinned. She’d argued against that folly when she found herself behind the enemy line with King Rhys, the wizard, and Jordan, newly risen from the dead. It had become the stuff of Rhys’s legend. She wondered if this, too, would be made into tales: the day that three confronted the Hemijrani horde and won entrance to their own temple. “No, Fionvar, there were four of us that time.”

WOLFRAM BEGAN
to think the climb was getting longer, the rope stretching below him into the very heart of the earth. He dare not look down but could only creep along, the rope turned about his arm in case he lost his footing. Not
that it would help much given how weak he already was, but if he grabbed on tight enough—again he steered himself away from that thought and concentrated on finding the next crevice. Inches from his nose, the granite sparkled in the remaining sunlight, his shadow at first in sharp darkness, now strangely doubled and shaded away as the sun disappeared.

Sounds of panic rose from the city, though he could catch the tune of evening prayer desperately sung. Fitting, for this nightfall at noon. Something burned, and he hoped the fire brigade hadn’t fled beneath the awful sky. He reached a narrow slot cut into the stone and clung to the edge, resting, the chain at his wrist an unwelcome weight.

Wolfram allowed himself only a moment, trying to recapture that breath of peace he’d felt above, before he continued his treacherous descent.

Let the rope slide about his arm. Wriggle the left foot down to find a crevice. Let the right foot follow, the toes scraped and throbbing. Watch the twin lines playing out above him.

Sweat soaked the lightweight old shirt he’d chosen for the last climb. Wind chilled his shoulders and bare feet until his teeth chattered.

When the sound grew too much, he clenched his mouth shut and rested his cheek against the stone.

In the channels of mortar, the wind whistled, calling him like a dog to go home.

Wolfram started, popping his eye back open, gripping the rope tighter.

He had been climbing forever, an insect inching along the tower face. The light still shone, what little of it there was, so he had time, but not much. When the sun ran out, so, too, would Deishima’s life.

Again let out the line, walk backward, feet seeking purchase.

He wished he knew the tower better, how many arrow slits cut into it and when he would reach the last one. There must be another soon, he needed that tiny respite.

Let out the line, reach downward—then his toe struck something warm, and the line slipped.

He barely had time to cry out as the rope tore along his arm and he fell, full length on his back on the roof below.

For a moment, he fought for the breath that had been knocked from him. At last, he sat up. He had stepped into a bird’s nest, spilling feathers and twigs along the roof junction.

Wolfram laughed without breath. His shoulders stung from the impact, and his arms ached from the effort of getting him down. Eyeing the vertical wall before him, Wolfram cursed his own madness and gazed up. High above, a tiny figure waved. Dylan. He waved both arms, and the rope came tumbling down in a heap.

Somewhat recovered, Wolfram untied himself and gathered the rope, dragging himself to his feet. He stood on top of the lesser hall, with only its pitched roof between him and the temple courtyard, its confused guards keeping to their doors. They might spot him now, but they’d never reach him in time. He circled to contemplate the temple itself. The vast round space was roofed over with slate, steeply laid. Ribs of stone arched out from it to the surrounding buildings and to a secondary wall on the outside.

Carefully, he crossed over on one of the buttresses, his arms outstretched, holding his breath. For one moment, he glanced down, and found his shadow slender and doubly dark. He wavered, licked his lips. “Bury it!” He ran the last few steps, flinging himself upon the roof.

Tying off the rope to the buttress, Wolfram began a new sort of creeping, hunched over, diagonally up the steep slates.

Ridged with decorative stones, the hole suddenly lay open before him. The bear claw chafing his chest, Wolfram lay flat and snuck a look.

Many torches lit the temple interior, their smoke tingling his nose. Dark Hemijrani men filled the rows of benches, standing up, with long knives held in their fists. They filled all the space from altar to wall, even squeezing into the sacred caves, overturned candles littering the niches. A guttural chant reached his ears, topped by a keening wail, which rose and fell, its words lost in ululation.

On the altar directly below him, Deishima sat between a pair of curving swords. Legs crossed, hands cupped together in her lap, she wore no veil, and her hair gleamed with strings of beads.

To her left hand Esfandiyar led the chant. To her right hand stood Faedre, crying out strange words. Behind her, Melody held her hands together, joining in the song.

His pale hair a beacon in the sea of darkness, Alyn faced Deishima. Where the others were still and intent on their purpose, he stirred, looking side to side. Once, he looked up, his face fearful in the glimpse Wolfram had as he rolled to the side.

As he lay with his face to the sky, darkness consumed the last golden edge of sun.

THE THREE
crouched on their hill, searching the milling mass of Hemijrani. The darker the sun grew, the bolder grew the refugees, many slashing the air with wicked knives or calling out taunts to the few city guards remaining. Several of the tents still stood, and Fionvar couldn’t tell which might hide the tunnel they sought.

Suddenly, Lyssa nudged him with an elbow. “It’s there!” She pointed into the midst of the throng, where the stone pile and one small tent stood. “That’s a shrine, a miniature of their own temples. I thought it was funny the other day—the stones aren’t clean, they’re still covered with dirt. They haven’t been exposed for long, see?”

“I see,” he agreed. “I see about a thousand men between us and it.”

“We have the element of surprise.”

“They will have seen someone moving up here, but I doubt they expect an attack.”

Beside him, Dawsiir frowned, looking to his companions, then the camp. He flashed a brief grin and held up a hand, then took off down the hill, keeping low.

A moment later, he returned with an armload of the castoff cloth. Dropping the bundle, he started talking so fast that Lyssa couldn’t follow him and grabbed his shoulder to get him to stop.

Catching his breath, he explained more slowly. If they wrapped themselves, draping their heads, and walked hunched over, they might pass for women.

Fionvar and Lyssa exchanged a dubious look, then she shrugged. “What else do we have, really?”

With Dawsiir directing, they dressed themselves in the ragged lengths of fabric until only their eyes could be seen. Fionvar shook his head. “I don’t know about this.”

“It’s just to get close, then I’ll create a diversion. You go for the tent.”

“Three against a thousand is bad enough, but one?”

Her green eyes twinkled. “I have an advantage. I really am a woman.”

Dawsiir led the way, walking boldly now, his bandage disguised by a head scarf. He started a running monologue, sounding irritated, and earning knowing looks from the men they passed. They worked their way through the edge of the gathering, cutting a diagonal course toward the woods that would bring them near the stones.

A harsh voice cried out to them. Someone pushed through the crowd, and they hurried farther, Dawsiir turning to face the newcomer.

His feet clean of markings, with a curved sword in his hand, Ghiva confronted the groom, shouting angrily.

“Go, Fionvar,” Lyssa urged.

Ducking and running, Fionvar slipped through the crowd, which turned to watch the commotion. He found the little tent and crawled under the flap. Inside, a steep tunnel opened into the earth. Stripping off his disguise, Fionvar drew his sword and plunged into the darkness.

GHIVA CAME
on, shouting, “Who are you? Where have you come from?” Keeping his head bowed, Dawsiir explained, “These women, they have been at the temple door, thinking perhaps they could watch the ritual, and it has taken me some time to convince them they must not wait there. A thousand pardons, o great warrior.”

“And shall you punish them yourself, little man, or do you require help with that as well? No one who does not fight is allowed to be here.”

Dawsiir made a derisive noise. “I shall punish them and fight as well. Which would you have me do?”

His sword held high, Ghiva turned on Lyssa, who kept her face averted. Growling, he turned back toward Dawsiir. “Look at me, boy! By the Two, I’m sure I know you.”

“As you know all those who serve the Two.” Dawsiir’s voice held a trace of doubt.

Under her loose garments, Lyssa took the hilt of her sword.

As Ghiva reached for Dawsiir, Lyssa swept off the cloth and let it flutter to the ground. Setting her stance, she grinned. “I, too, would fight, but my cause is different.”

Drawing back, Ghiva studied her. “Our Two have struck the light from your kingdom, woman. Return to your place and await the coming of truth.”

“My place?” Lyssa lost her smile. “My place is defending the Lady, against any who attack Her.”

Darting a glance to either side, Ghiva shouted, “You were three. Where is the other?”

“There is no other, Ghiva. You’re wrong.”

In Hemijrani, he called out, “Find the third one!” but his own people, gawking at the woman with the sword, did not heed him.

Ghiva flashed his golden teeth. “You cannot stand against us, we are an army.”

“Of men,” she amended. “Will they fight me? Will they dare?”

“I will not need them; no woman is strong enough to defy me.”

“Not alone,” Lyssa said. “For the Lady stands with me, Ghiva, even in the dark.”

Placing both hands on the hilt of his curved sword, Ghiva sneered. “Her temple stands for us today. Submit yourself to me, and you may not die.”

“Submit yourself to the Lady and save me the trouble.” Taking her hammer in the left, Lyssa aimed a slash to his middle.

Ghiva leapt back, and his own blade clanged against the hammer’s shaft.

With a gasp and a jabber of their own tongue, the crowd fell away, leaving them circling as the sun went dark.

ON A BENCH
of stone beneath the trees, Brianna sat in her garden, examining the first blooms of lavender by the gravel path. When Fionvar came, she had thought he would be with her. Surely, with Wolfram accused of rape, he could admit his mistake and return to her. Even if he could not admit it, there would be no shame in his release from that foolhardy vow. Why stand with a son who betrayed him, time and again?

Even with only the rumor of her remarriage, she had received three offers, princes younger than she with hopes of kingship. Lochalyn was a small kingdom to be sure, but better than the little estates they might get when their siblings ascended to reign. She set aside the letters and the portraits and could see only Fionvar’s face before her. When she brushed her hair at night, she felt his hands, and she awoke in the morning missing his warmth. She knew he understood the need for a worthy heir, and the more he resisted, the more she insisted until she could not acknowledge her own heart.

There must be a compromise. If she exiled Wolfram or had him branded for the crime—but then these Hemijrani would get more angry than they already were, and they had every right to be. She had called up conscripts from the villages to strengthen the city guard in case the trial sparked a riot, but there had been no violence thus far. Not from them, anyhow.

Gazing at the path, she watched the shifting shadows of the leaves. Rounds of sunlight rippled and distorted into strange shapes, and she frowned.

The chill reached her back almost as it reached her heart, and the queen looked up. Overhead, a dark stain marked the sun, growing bit by bit.

The blood rushed from her face, and she tried to rise, but stumbled.

“Your Majesty!” Lady Catherine, her gown choked in
both hands, ran up the path. “Have you seen? Sweet Finistrel in the stars, what’s happening?”

“The sun goes dark,” she breathed, and her son was locked in a dungeon while Prince Alyn joined in a heathen rite. “Oh, Fionvar, what have I done!” She swayed, and Catherine caught her. Together, they tripped down the path, meeting a contingent of guards coming up it.

“Your Majesty.” Randall, Gwythym’s lieutenant, bowed, then breathlessly began, “It’s the city, there’s a panic on, and people demanding entrance to the temple, while the rest run about like mad things.”

“Get your men down there—where’s the captain? I want that temple open and those refugees contained.”

He frowned as he fell in beside her. “Contained?”

“It’s an army, lieutenant.”

“Well, we’ve got men on them, the ones outside, that is.”

“And inside?”

He glanced away. “Orders were to let them have it, Majesty.”

Brianna made the sign of the Lady. “Then take it back.”

“Aye, Your Majesty. Best stay in your quarters, and I’ll put some men on you.”

“Not on your life, Randall. I’m for the dungeon.” She stopped, sweeping the table with her eyes, but Wolfram’s knife was gone. “Someone’s got to free my son.”

CROUCHING TO
avoid the low ceiling, Fionvar sprinted down the tunnel. They had shored it up with timbers hewn from Quinan’s forest, and the floor was packed by long use. He saw dim light ahead and finally burst out into an open space. In an instant, his feet lost purchase on the dirt, and he slipped.

Gasping, Fionvar flung himself backward and caught hold of the last timber.

He breathed hard for a moment, then pulled himself back into the tunnel. Sitting up, he got his first look at the womb they had dug beneath his own Lady’s temple.

Perhaps twenty feet across, the pit extended in both directions from where he sat, with a spiraling path of packed dirt going up. A structure of stones and timbers supported the temple above, though they were bound with ropes and seemed precarious at best. Below, the path had already disintegrated as water welled up to fill the pit. How deep it went, he could not tell.

Fionvar smiled to himself. A people running out of water had probably not counted on the flooding of their womb. Still, the satisfaction of their surprise was short-lived. The pit undermined the very foundations of the temple above, and he dared not imagine what it would take to fill the thing in and be sure the temple was safe. How ironic, that the temple the Usurper’s pride had lifted would be usurped by new invaders.

Dusting himself off, Fionvar drew his sword and started up the path, keeping close to the earthen wall.

As he drew nearer, he heard the sound of chanting, a sort of low drone, with high, wailing notes floating over all. Unlike the careful melodies of Strelledor, this music grated on Fionvar’s nerves. He would put a stop to it and to the whole perversion of the Lady’s way.

Slowing his pace, Fionvar reached a trapdoor, propped up with a long stick. He tried to hear if someone might be on top of it, but there was no way to tell. Supporting the door with one hand, he eased the stick away.

The heavy wood nearly got away from him; red stone tiles camouflaged the top side of the door. Gently he brought it down and pushed it to one side. Above him, on sturdy legs of marble, stood the altar of Death, a red cloth draped over the whole. No wonder they had been able to keep it secret this long.

Fionvar pulled himself up, bumping his head on the altar, but the chanting was loud enough that he doubted he could be heard. Hunched on the floor, he lifted the edge of the cloth and peeked out. Dark bare feet surrounded him, a thicket of legs.

Behind the altar, he found the narrow space clear and decided to risk it. Carefully he slipped out from under the cloth
and got up on his knees, peering among the legs of those who stood on top.

With his back toward Fionvar, Alyn stood by the altar, facing a delicate woman who sat atop it. Folds of rich fabric fell all around her though her head was bare. Long, black hair shimmering with jewels draped her shoulders. Her face showed the yellowing of healing bruises. For an instant, she looked directly at him, as if she could feel his eyes upon her. Her face lit with an inner fire that quickly died away, leaving tears coursing down her cheeks.

In that moment, he saw the beauty and grace that had captivated his son. He wanted to go to Deishima and carry her off on Wolfram’s behalf, but he dared not move. That she saw Fionvar and spoke no warning confirmed all that Wolfram had said. He had asked for her hand, she had given it, and now waited without hope for her hero’s return.

The chanting receded to a whisper, and Faedre’s ululating cries rang out in the temple. She raised her hands to the darkening sky. Calling the darkness, as the prophecy had told him. Opposite her, a Hemijrani priest shook scented water on Deishima’s head. From the far side of the main altar, Melody stepped up, with a flash of silver in her hand.

Fionvar leapt up onto the altar of Death, knocking down the men already there. “Your Highness, Melody! Stop! You don’t know what you’re doing!”

The chanting ceased, and all faces turned toward him.

“Thank the Lady.” Relief washed over Alyn’s face. “Where are the guards?”

“Right outside,” Fionvar claimed, but Faedre laughed.

“Outside indeed,” the priestess said. “Running from the power of the skies and the strength of the Two. They are outside, Fionvar, and they will stay that way.”

“Don’t you see, Your Highness? She’s no friend of ours—she’s here to usurp this kingdom again. Whatever she wants from you, don’t do it.”

Deishima bowed her head, and Melody took her hand.

The displaced Hemijrani grabbed him all around, knocking the sword from his hand.

“You should have stayed home, my lord,” Melody said, her face alight with an unholy smile.

Staring at her, Fionvar realized his mistake. It was not Faedre who would bury the crown. “No! You can’t do this!” He struggled, but the men jumped up around him, dragging him to his knees, a dozen knives pricking at his skin.

Turning Deishima’s palm to the sky, Melody sang a harsh song, and cut a slender line of red across the exposed wrist. Blood seeped from the wound and trickled down, making a scarlet stain on the upraised palm.