The Eunuch's Heir (44 page)

LYSSA STOOD
over Ghiva’s body, the bloody sword raised above her. In her loudest voice, she cried, “The Lady stands!” she cried out again, in Hemijrani, this time, “The Lady stands. Your gods have been undone. Fall to your knees and pray that She forgives you!”

A few long knives clattered to the ground, then more. In waves all around her, the soldiers dropped to their knees, pleading with her to preserve them.

In the sunlight, Lyssa laughed, casting back her head to let it echo all around her. At her side, Dawsiir, knelt as well.

“I would serve the Lady who gives such power,” he told her, his eyes shining.

She grinned. “And so you shall, my friend, and any of you who forswear the Two shall be welcomed into the Lady’s arms!”

Suddenly, the tent flaps stirred, and someone darted out. Faedre, her garments dirty and askew whirled, staring at her soldiers.

“Arise!” she shouted. “Now is the time to strike! The temple of the false goddess is falling!”

A rumble arose from the earth as she spoke, and Lyssa looked to the temple wall. Nothing happened. Again, she laughed. “You have no army, Faedre. Only your lies defend you.”

“Where are the Two?” Dawsiir asked, rising to his feet. “You have promised they would be here, that this was the hour of their birth.”

“Treachery,” Faedre said. “They have been undone by betrayal from our very ranks.”

“If they were betrayed, Holy Mother,” he said, “it was by your abuse of the sacred princess.”

“Betrayed?” Lyssa asked. “How can you betray what never existed? You are not here for religion, but revenge. You abused the girl because you knew the ritual was a fraud. You lied to bring these people here to fight and die for your revenge. There are not two, but one!” She raised her arm, the sword struck with the golden rays of sun, the very earth roaring beneath their feet. The eyes of the audience reflected the glowing figure she had become. A thousand men had gathered here to witness the rebirth of their gods. From the rapture on their faces, she knew she had embodied a Goddess of her own.

Gathering her skirts, Faedre ran.

With a cry, Dawsiir started after her. Behind him, the Hemijrani host arose and followed, howling and shouting as they dashed past Lyssa, past their dead general, knocking down the stones of their shrine as they ran. The tent fluttered to the ground in their wake.

Spinning, Lyssa watched them go, but already the furor was dying away. Her body trembled, as if her strength departed. “Wait!” she shouted.

Faedre had nearly gotten to the trees when the first ones caught her.

“The Lady abhors needless death.” Lyssa’s voice was lost in the wailing behind the walls. She ran after them, cursing her own words.

Screaming and clawing, Faedre fell beneath her army, then her screams were heard no more.

GAGGING AND
sputtering, Wolfram fought the arms that held him. He beat his fist against the strong shoulder, but his own strength had fled, and he shivered with the cold.

In answer to his attack, the arms tightened, his captor shaking with sobs. “I’m sorry, Wolfram. Sweet Lady, if I could start all over, I swear I would never leave you.”

Recognizing Fionvar’s voice, Wolfram stiffened. “It wouldn’t be the first time you made that vow,” he said, pushing away, trying to sit upright under his own control. He shook all over and pulled his hands under his arms for warmth.

Fionvar made no reply, and Wolfram glanced over. His father sat with his knees drawn up close, his clothes dripping wet, mud streaking his gray hair.

The shivering took over again, and Wolfram shook back his hair. “What happened? Why are we wet?”

“Faedre pushed you into the pit tied to a bar.” Raising his head, Fionvar ran his gaze to the chain dangling from Wolfram’s wrist. “The floor caved in.”

Studying him, Wolfram said, “You came after me.”

“I had to, I can’t let you die until you forgive me for every time I wasn’t there.”

Wolfram looked away. He took in a deep breath, and let it go. That peace he had found on the tower grew within him. “You’re here now, aren’t you?” he whispered, his throat aching as a tear stung his eye. “You came back when I needed you most.”

They sat quietly a moment longer, then Wolfram said, “I killed Melody.”

“I know,” Fionvar told him.

“I didn’t know what else to do. I couldn’t think—”

A warm hand gripped his shoulder. “I know,” Fionvar said again, calmly.

Wolfram went on, “When she died, I could feel that power—it was as if something else had taken her already, something that blew through me at her death. I could have taken it, then, and done whatever I would.”

“And yet you let it go.”

He let out a hollow laugh. “I wouldn’t trust myself to use it well.”

Still with that strange calm in his voice, Fionvar replied, “I would.”

“You’d be alone in that.”

“No. I saw the look on Deishima’s face when she thought I was you.”

Wolfram gasped. “Deishima!” Stricken, he turned to Fionvar. “Did the temple come down?”

“The floor at least, I don’t know.”

“Oh, Sweet Lady!” He scrambled to his feet, swaying as dizziness swam in his head. Waiting for it to clear, he rubbed his forehead.

Trying to stand, Fionvar winced. A ragged gash marked his back.

Looking down at him, Wolfram sucked in a breath. “You’re hurt.”

Raising his chin, Fionvar gave a crooked smile. “Aren’t we all?”

Squatting, Wolfram thrust out his hand.

Fionvar clasped it in his own, and together they rose. Over their clasped hands, their eyes met, then Fionvar pulled him into a fierce embrace.

Once again, Wolfram felt the solid warmth of his father’s arms. He had forgotten how much he missed that comfort. Pulling away, he said, “All those things I said to you before I left? I’m sorry about that.”

Laughing, Fionvar said, “Why? You were right!”

Together, they walked up the hill, both weak, both aching, each hoping the other wouldn’t notice.

The small door by the temple stood open, and they entered the narrow courtyard with its well. They let themselves into the chaos of the temple court, a half-round strip of space now full of arguing castle guards.

“Make way!” Fionvar shouted. “Where’s Gwythym?”

He shoved a path through the crowd toward the temple doors. A great log lay nearby, battering no longer.

Swiping the sweat from his brow, Gwythym turned from the door and stopped, his jaw dropping open. “Fionvar, Great Lady, but I thought you were gone! It’s the prince, oh, Goddess’s Tears, Fion, I’ve made such a ballocks of the whole thing.”

Placing his hand on Gwythym’s shoulder, Fionvar stopped his words and stepped aside.

Weary and ragged, but still on his own two feet, Wolfram
blinked at the guard captain. The day had drained him so that he could summon no anger.

Shoulders sagging, Gwythym fell to his knees. “Oh, Your Highness, Sweet Lady, I cannot begin to beg your forgiveness.” He hid his face in his hands. “Bury me beneath a pile of stone, Your Highness, that’s all I deserve for being such an idiot.”

Glancing to Fionvar, Wolfram sighed. “I could grow sick of apologies, even.”

Fionvar offered a smile that felt like Wolfram’s own.

Turning back to Gwythym, Wolfram told him, “You can’t be blamed for mistrusting me, nor for believing the evidence they brought you. You didn’t need to set me free. Thank you for your compassion.”

Gwythym’s head jerked up. “Oh, Great Goddess, Your Highness, don’t be thanking me! That I can take least of all.”

Wolfram laughed. “Then it shall be your most fitting punishment. That and a few nights in that bloody awful dungeon.” That said, he looked up at the door. “Why’s this still standing?” On the other side, voices moaned and murmured, and a few cried out in Hemijrani.

Rising slowly, Gwythym dusted off his knees, then took a quick glance at the state of Wolfram’s own clothing and grew red to the tips of his ears. “Something’s jammed it inside, Highness. With the people there, we daren’t try to bust it back. I’ve sent men for bars to break off those hinges.”

Wolfram’s mouth went dry. “Didn’t anyone get out?”

Gwythym shut his eyes, giving a slow shake of the head.

Pushing past to the door, Wolfram smote it with his fist. “Alyn! Alyn, you bastard, are you there?”

After a moment, a weak voice called back, “Wolfram? Is it you? By all that’s holy, I’ll see you buried for the work of this day.”

Tilting his head back, Wolfram grinned. “He’ll be fine.” He leaned close to the door. “But you’ll have to get out of there first, Alyn. What’s at the door?”

“They jammed it with a bench, and some of the stone
work’s come down to block that in. There’s a few dozen heathens up against it now, and me, trying not to fall in the pit.”

“Is Deishima there? Is she with you?”

“Great Lady, Wolfram, should I care?”

Wolfram slammed his fist against the door.

“Careful,” Fionvar said. “There’s still hope. We’ll have to wait until they get it open.”

But he avoided Wolfram’s eye, and Wolfram said quietly, “She was by the altar, last I knew. Did you see it fall?”

Now, Fionvar met his gaze and nodded. “I’m sorry, so help me, if I could have saved her…” The words trailed off, and Wolfram heard the truth in them.

His heart seemed dead and hollow, recalling the last glimpse of her ceremonial robes—rich crimson, the color of death, and blood pooling in her small, dark hand.

“We’ll find her, one way or another,” Fionvar breathed, touching his shoulder.

Shaking off the hand, Wolfram looked up toward the roof. Then he backed away a few paces and started looking around. His rope still snaked up the side of the roof. If he could get inside, he could look around for himself.

“Wolfram, I don’t know that you’re up to climbing—” Fionvar began, but Gwythym took Wolfram’s arm and pointed.

“We’ve a heap of barrels by that wall, Highness.”

Both men trailed him to the barrels, and Wolfram clambered up, his breathing more labored now, his clothes clinging with water, thankfully clean of Melody’s blood.

For the second time, he crossed over the court, all the men’s eyes upon him. Carefully, he crept up the slates and came to the edge.

Dust swirled inside the temple, backed with the blackness of the pit that opened below. Tracing the walls, he could see the Caves and niches still standing, packed with terrified Hemijrani who regarded him with dazed expressions. He scooted to one side, and could make out the pile of debris at the doors and the flash of Alyn’s bright hair where he clung to a column.

A cloud passed before the sun, removing the glare of the dancing dust, and his eyes followed the path of the rope. Then he laughed aloud.

Halfway down, where the altar would have been, Deishima clung to the line. Her arms and legs were wrapped around it, her right arm bandaged with a strip of red silk.

At the sound of his laughter, she looked up, squinting into the new sun. “Can it be you?”

“Sweet Lady, you’re alive!”

“By the Two,” she called back, “so are you!”

He caught hold of the rope and strained to pull her up, his torn palms throbbing.

Voices rang out behind him, and suddenly the rope slid backward. Down below, a dozen guards hung on to it and hauled at Gwythym’s command. Fionvar sat back on a barrel, one hand at his chest as he watched.

Slowly, Deishima rose beneath him until Wolfram caught her up in both arms and brought her over the edge. The men below let out a cheer as Wolfram embraced her. She slid her arms around him and sighed. “They have taken me from darkness to darkness, Wolfram, until I had forgotten there was light.”

Wolfram stroked her dark hair and did not trust himself to speak.

“Then you fell from the sky like a star,” she whispered, “and I was lit up by your glow.”

RELUCTANTLY LEAVING
Deishima in the hands of the healers, Wolfram slowly made his way back to his room. His wrists were raw after days in chains, and his muscles protested every movement. After sending for a meal from the kitchens—a big, hot meal dripping with flavor—he finally walked to the bedroom.

Wolfram stripped out of his ruined clothes. Over his head, he slipped the bear claw on its thong, watching it twist in the air before him. Placing it on his night table, he touched the straw mattress on his bed. The clean linens lay folded back, awaiting his homecoming. Just for a minute, he would sit. Then the bed enveloped him, and Wolfram fell into a deep and dreamless sleep.

By the time he awoke, the sky was growing dark again. He could smell cold roast lamb and parsnips, and his stomach growled. Stiffly, he arose and dressed. Ravenous, Wolfram attacked the meal left for him. When he was sated, he paused, then returned for his coronet, then hesitated again. First, he washed his hands and face, adding a splash of rosewater. He tried to comb out his hair. This called for a bit of cursing, but he finally got it in order. Rummaging in his wardrobe, he found a belt of golden leaves and added the boar knife Fionvar had returned to him.

Watching himself in the mirror, he placed the coronet on his head. He had lost his patch, so the scars showed plain. It was a serious face, with no trace of the mischief it used to hold. He fingered the scars and the edge of the empty socket.
At last, he smiled. He could have two eyes or one, dark hair or blond; and Deishima still loved him.

As he passed through the halls, servants bowed, and nobles looked away, the shame clear in their eyes. Under other circumstances, they might have come tonight to watch him hang. Wolfram made it a point to acknowledge every lord or lady, by name if he could. The demon kept to a low rumble of satisfaction at every flustered reply.

At the infirmary door, a phalanx of royal guard drew themselves to attention, and Wolfram frowned. He passed between them, then pivoted. The man on the end turned scarlet and focused somewhere over his shoulder. He had been the lead man that day in the dungeons, the day that Wolfram had gotten his meeting with Gwythym, the last day he had been fed.

Wolfram stared at him hard. The demon gnashed its teeth, longing for blood. Wolfram’s grin tightened. “You are dismissed, sir. Turn in your arms and go.”

Startled, the man met his gaze. “I—uh, forgive me, Your Highness.”

Shaking his head, Wolfram kept his voice low and even, “I believe I gave you an order. If you fail to obey me, there is room in the dungeon these days.”

“Aye, Highness,” the man mumbled, making a half bow.

The rest of the guards exchanged worried looks as the man broke ranks.

“One-eyed Highness pitching shit,” Wolfram said, watching the man’s back to be sure he was gone. Then he opened the infirmary door and shut it firmly behind him.

A new temporary infirmary had been established in an outbuilding to tend to those wounded in the temple. Lyssa’s small army of Hemijrani converts tended their fellows, describing the miracle they had witnessed and the mighty arm of the Lady who slew their general. Here in the castle rested only a few. Thankfully, Alyn had already been released after his head wound was deemed a minor scrape. A curtain shielded the last bed, with its two windows overlooking the garden, and Wolfram cleared his throat before he let himself in.

Deishima was sitting up in bed, and her face broke into a smile at the sight of him. Several layers of silk had been removed, leaving her clad in a short, tight-fitting bodice and long, pleated skirt. She cradled her wrapped arm, her hands slathered with healing lotion for the rope marks across them.

Her visitor rose and stared. Wolfram faced his mother a long moment before she stepped aside, letting him pass toward the head of the bed.

Queen Brianna looked weary, her eyes rimmed with redness and shadows, her hair more gray, but then he had not seen her since he went to the dungeon.

Turning his back to her, he pulled the chair nearer and touched Deishima’s cheek. “How are you?”

“Tired,” she answered. “Otherwise, better than I have been in some time.” She cut her eyes away toward the queen.

Wolfram bit his lip and released it. “I wish things had been otherwise for you.”

Deishima glanced out the window, a tear trapped in her dark lashes. “We have been through terrible things, you and I.” She laid her hand gently over his.

“There will be joy for us, I promise. Such joy as I can provide, it will be yours.”

The queen made a small, helpless noise behind him.

“I believe you,” Deishima said. “You have yet to break a promise to me.”

A bubble of happiness welled up in him, and he grinned. “Then I promise that this will not be the first.”

“Your Highness—” the queen began, and both turned to look at her, losing their secret smiles. Ducking her head, Brianna addressed Deishima. “Your Highness, you must forgive me for what has happened to you under my roof. If there is any way that I can redress the wrongs done to you, you have only to name it.”

Deishima’s face looked solemn and empty of warmth. “The boon I shall ask of you is this, that when Wolfram would speak to you, you would listen. That his word will be enough for you. That you shall not suffer him to lie in chains
when it is in your power to set him free.” Her small dark fingers curled around his hand.

Beneath those words, the queen withered, her eyes vacant. “What you ask is no more than my duty to my son. A duty I have neglected for far too long.” Then she looked up, and a radiant smile lit her face. “Your Highness, of all that has come and will yet come of these events, the only thing I do not regret is that my son has found you. I know now that you were a light to him in the darkness. You believed in him when the rest of us cursed his name.” She looked to Wolfram then, with those bleak eyes. “I do not expect your forgiveness, Wolfram. My crimes against you are too many for that. You have changed, these past months, and I hope you will grant me the chance to change as well. Tomorrow will be as if we met for the very first time.” The queen hesitated, then went on, “I would like the chance to know you.”

Letting out a pent-up breath, Wolfram regarded his mother. She stood meekly before him, awaiting his answer. “Shall I join you for breakfast, Your Majesty?” he said lightly. “We’ll want to get an early start.”

Her smile broke into laughter, and she wiped at her eyes with the heels of her hands. “Yes, yes, we must do that.” She turned to go, then said, “Oh, I have called a court after Evening Prayer. I hope that you both will attend?”

“It will be a pleasure to attend your court in freedom, Your Majesty,” Deishima said, “for both of us, if I am not mistaken.”

The queen inclined her head. “In the meantime, Wolfram, I should tell you that my grandmother’s condition has worsened. I know that you and she have not gotten on well, to say the least, but she has a visitor you should meet.”

“We will stop in on the way,” he told her.

With a swish of the curtains, she left them alone.

Wolfram brought Deishima’s hand to his lips and kissed it. “I can only imagine what a terrible time you’ve had, Jeshnam. If anything I do or say pains you, just—”

“Ah!” She brought up her hand. “It is not you who have wounded me, Wolfram. Indeed, I believe it shall be you who heals me.”

“There is so much you don’t even know about me.” He sighed. “Or I about you.”

“We shall have time for all of that.”

Shaking his head, he said, “Some things shouldn’t wait that long, now that you’re here in the castle. I should be the one to tell you, not some servant or lady-in-waiting.”

Her dark eyes fastened on his face. “I am listening.”

“I mentioned that I have known other women. There is one in the castle, Asenith is her name. Her father once usurped this kingdom, and my father—that is, not really my father—” He shook his head and laughed. “That’s another story entirely. Anyhow, I—she entrapped me, trying to have my child. She succeeded, but now she’s dying. I’ve seen her only once since I got home.”

“I can understand this, Wolfram.”

Watching the sunset, he frowned. “I have a daughter I’ve never seen.”

Smiling, Deishima said, “I wonder if she resembles you.”

He laughed. “I hope not!”

Outside, a bell rang in the city, calling the citizens to pray.

“That’s Evening Prayer.” Wolfram rose. “If I’m to visit Elyn, I should go soon. Will you come?” His eyebrows inched upward, longing for her company, afraid to say too much.

“I shall.”

He put out an arm for her, and she leaned on him as she slid off the bed. Looking down, he laughed again. He had forgotten to put on any shoes. Their bare toes fidgeted on the cool tiles, hers as dark and delicate as the rest of her, his long, pale, and lumpy in comparison. “Everyone will think we belong together,” he said.

“And shall they be wrong?” she asked.

He knew the way to Elyn’s chambers because he had been avoiding it for years. The honor guard outside her door he expected. The sound of song beyond it made them pause: the Evening Prayer in Strelledor, flawlessly accented despite the climbing pitches and soaring notes of the singer. The voice had a crystalline perfection, clear, beautiful, and stirring, lift
ing up the listeners even to the stars of which it sang. The masterful stroke of a violin buoyed the singer’s voice. Not daring to break the spell, Wolfram and Deishima waited outside until the song died away again to silence.

“Well, I’m afraid I need to dress for court,” Fionvar’s voice said, “so I’ll leave you be.” The door opened inward and he met Wolfram’s eye, tucking his violin under his arm. Glancing back over his shoulder, he smiled. “Go on,” he said. “It’s about time.”

Wolfram stepped into a chamber rich with carved oak and warmed by a roaring fire. Elyn lay in her enormous bed, her hands shaking on the coverlet, tears trickling down her cheeks. The singer stood with his back to her, arms folded, studying a painting.

“I am not crying, you fool,” Elyn rasped. “’Tis the smoke. So, will you stand there all night, or aren’t you coming in?” She glared at the newcomers.

Startled, Deishima shot him a look, but Wolfram just laughed. Elyn was an old lady, a decrepit, wrinkled little woman trapped at last in her bed. She no longer held power over him. “We have no wish to interrupt.”

At this, the singer turned. “You are interrupting nothing, my lord, my lady.” He gave an elegant bow and straightened, his handsome face suddenly still.

“Your Highness is the title, is it not?” Elyn cracked. “I assume she’s reinstated you. Don’t you recognize your own son, Rhys?” She cackled until her voice broke, and she took a swallow from her ever-present tea.

Wolfram stared at the singer, the man who had been King Rhys. The eunuch who was supposed to be his father. “I don’t believe we’ve met.”

King Rhys stepped around the bed and came nearer. “Once, in Melisande’s garden. I thought you were someone else. A ghost.”

“Orie,” Wolfram supplied.

Rhys nodded. “I did not expect you to look so alike.”

“Sit down, the lot of you,” Elyn said. “I hate to strain my ears.”

Obligingly, though they did not look at her, the three settled into leather seats by the bed. “This is Her Highness, the Jeshnam Deishima. She’s my betrothed,” Wolfram said, for the first time aloud and in her presence. Deishima lit up with a shy smile.

Gazing at her, Rhys said, “We are well met. I used to be King Rhys. Now I am a simple master of music.”

“Simple?” she asked. “You are a master indeed, but simple, I think not.”

“It’s a good thing you’re marrying her, Your Highness; otherwise, I might have to, prior devotion notwithstanding.” Rhys lifted a mug from the table beside him. “I assume you know the whole story by now, Highness.”

Frowning, Wolfram nodded. He wet his lips and sniffed the air, then shot out his hand to snatch the mug away. “Don’t drink it!” Wolfram said, taking another sniff. “It doesn’t smell right.”

“It is Terresan tea, is it not?” Deishima inquired, leaning over. “And yet it is not. I believe you are right, Wolfram. Do you fear poison?”

Suddenly, Elyn began to laugh, deep and hearty.

They turned to look at the frail woman in the bed.

“Oh,” she gasped, “the little minx said she would get me! Every day I met her, she wished to tear out my eyes. It’s her, I am sure of that.” She waved her mug. “Who drinks the stuff, save myself? And you, of course.” She gestured toward Rhys.

“Asenith?” Wolfram ventured.

“The Usurper’s daughter,” she sputtered between fits of laughter that threatened to crack her ribs.

Wolfram shut his eye, resting his forehead in his hand. “How did you do it, Duchess?”

“The candles.” She laughed. “I left the candles for her chamber, with quicksilver at the wicks. Oh, I have not laughed so much since…I do not believe I have ever laughed so much.” Her voice died away, but the sheets stirred with her laughter as the three stared at the would-be murderer, herself a victim of the same venom.

“Aren’t you glad now, that you came home?” Wolfram asked.

Tilting his face to look at the man who was and was not his son, Rhys answered, “I am glad that I have met you. Fionvar’s letters used to sing your praises. Even when you were driving him mad. Speaking of Fionvar, we should be on our way to court.” He looked again to Elyn. “Lady walk with you,” he told her, but the old woman’s eyes were already closing.