The Eunuch's Heir (45 page)

THE NOBLES
in the Great Hall fell silent at Wolfram’s arrival, turning to bow and to stare, as much at the woman on his arm as at himself. The red clothing would cause a stir, but Deishima had little else, and she certainly looked regal enough with her dark hair flowing down her back in waves. Her head did not even reach his shoulder, but she walked with her chin held high, only her grip on Wolfram’s arm betraying her tension.

Rhys slipped away to where Prince Alyn stood and took him in a quick embrace.

Alyn, too, wore red, the crimson of his mourning for his sister. Aside from that, and a bruise on his forehead, he looked as if the events of the afternoon had been years ago. Wolfram wondered if Alyn bore any scars at all, either on his skin or in his heart. Then the prince caught his eye and the confusion and sadness on his face gave the answer. He reached for Rhys’s hand and looked away.

As they came up the aisle, the queen rose. She wore a gown of autumn colors that set off her graying hair, and a band of red about her arm, with the crown to show a royal loss. Descending the two steps before them as Wolfram bowed, Brianna proclaimed, “I give you my son and heir, Crown Prince Wolfram yfBrianna duRhys, of the house of Rinvien, without whom we would not all be here at this moment.”

Wolfram straightened to thunderous applause. In another step, his mother embraced him. He returned the gesture, un
able to remember the last time she had held him close instead of pushing him away.

“I give you also, her Highness the Jeshnam Deishima, and my son’s intended bride.”

They were seated beside her, but the queen remained standing. “I know you are all wondering about this court, after Prayer, at the end of a very long day.” She glanced over to Wolfram, then to Alyn, her smile taking on a hint of sadness. “I have only two items of business, so I shall not keep you long from your rest. The first is to announce that all charges against Prince Wolfram have been found to be without merit.”

The audience grew still, listening, not entirely welcoming him, but at least listening.

“As to the second…” she began, her face clearing with the words, all sadness swept away. She kept her eyes upon her son as she spoke, her face both eager and hesitant. “You all know that, in weeks past, I have considered remarriage, forsaking my widowhood for a new husband.”

His eye beginning to twitch, Wolfram frowned. He felt the brush of Deishima’s hand upon his arm, and took it in his own.

The Herald intoned, “Her Royal Majesty, Queen Brianna of Lochalyn, summons to her court Fionvar DuNormand.”

It still felt strange to Wolfram to hear Fionvar’s name with no title, nor honor. Perhaps she would return his chain. Certainly he deserved that much. Fionvar approached from a seat toward the back. He bowed slightly, his face betraying a twinge of pain from the wound to his back where the falling brick had struck him as he dove.

Still, he met Brianna’s gaze, and said, “I am here at your will, Your Majesty.”

“Wolfram?” she said, not turning aside.

Confused, he rose and went to her.

With both hands, Brianna lifted the golden crown from her head. She ran her fingers over the leaves, then held it out to Wolfram. “Hold this for me, would you?”

Reverently, he accepted it, the crown resting on his palms.

Bowing her head, the queen sank down on her knees at Fionvar’s feet. “You were born no lord, nor prince, nor man of high estate. You came to me with nothing but your honor and your service. Lately, I have abused them both.”

Already shaking his head, Fionvar reached down to draw her up, but she merely clasped his hand in both of hers and looked up into his face. “I cannot wed you as a queen,” she began.

“Brianna, don’t do this,” he murmured desperately. “Stand up, Brianna.”

Biting her lip, she shook her head. “If you would have me as a woman, sir, if, after all of this, you would have me to wife, there is no man in the stars or under them that I would have but you.”

Sighing, Fionvar bent and swept her up into his arms, pressing her cheek to his, stroking her hair. “Of course I will have you, Heart’s Desire. I will have you.”

He stood a moment with the uncrowned queen in his arms, clinging to him with all of her might, then he cast a glance to Wolfram and grinned through his tears. With a little bow, Fionvar turned on his heel and strode off down the aisle, the queen’s gown trailing at his feet.

All heads turned silently to watch them go as the door banged shut behind them. Slowly, the eyes pivoted back to the head of the hall where Wolfram stood, crown in hand. He blinked a few times, then shut his mouth, then laughed. In a bound, he topped the dais. “My lords and ladies, it must be time to retire for the night. In my mother’s absence, I bid you take your rest.” He stared at the distant door through which they had disappeared. Then he held up the crown, and shouted, “Long live the queen!”

Gwythym took up the cheer, and the room erupted into cheers and startled laughter as they rose up from their seats. Slowly then, they filed out through that same door.

“Wait here,” Wolfram told Deishima and trotted to where Dylan stood.

He caught Dylan to his chest, lifting him from the ground, swinging him around, and setting him down again, if a little unsteadily. “For everything, I thank you.”

“I should have done more, and sooner.” Dylan’s face flamed at the attention.

“Next time, my friend, I’m sure you will act swiftly. Say—your calculations were correct. That must be a thrill.”

“Aye, ’twould be, if they hadn’t been put to such a purpose.” He bowed his head.

Wolfram lightly punched his arm. “Is that what’s bothering you?”

“It’s Asenith. They don’t think she’s got much time left. After all that she’s done, sending on my numbers, the baby, all of that, I know I shouldn’t care, but…I would have given her everything, if I could, but she wanted what I could never offer.” His blue eyes searched Wolfram’s face, glanced to the crown in his hands, and back again.

Wolfram rubbed his finger over a golden leaf. “I have an idea. I’ll meet you at Asenith’s room. Get her out of bed and dressed.”

“I don’t know, she’s not strong.”

“Call her weak, and I think you’ll find her strong enough.” He fairly skipped back to Deishima and drew her to her feet. “There’s something I have to do. First, I’ll see that they find you a room. There’s one not far from mine, if you don’t mind.”

After he had her safely installed in the nearest guest room, with two maids to see to her wishes, Wolfram gathered a few things, then made his way to Asenith’s chamber. Thin and pale, her fingernails showing blue, Asenith stood fully clothed in her best gown, though it hung from her bones. She leaned on Dylan’s arm and glared at Wolfram. “Why have you gotten me from my bed?”

Supporting her other arm, Wolfram smiled. “If you’ll come with me, my lady.”

With numerous pauses to rest, they brought her to the Great Hall. A few torches transformed it into a cavern of shadows, the banner above creating subtle movements of darkness and light. Wolfram led them to the head of the hall and stopped a few feet short of the dais. There, he left Asenith’s side and
went to stand behind her. “You were right about the poison, my lady. It was Duchess Elyn—the candles in your room.”

Breathlessly, Asenith laughed. “She’ll outlive me, she will outlive us all.”

“Despite your best efforts,” Wolfram put in. “I know about the tea.”

Asenith grew still. “Is that what this is about?”

Seriously, he said, “I don’t believe there is time left to punish you, Asenith.”

Her thin body trembled. “No, I don’t believe there is.”

Standing back, Wolfram shook out his official cloak of state, long and green, of velvet with golden leaves embroidered at its hem and a golden clasp at its throat. He draped it about her shoulders.

Her eyes narrowed at him. “What do you mean by this?”

“Kneel,” he told her solemnly.

With Dylan’s gentle assistance, she did as he bid her, staring up at him, her lovely blue eyes faded and dull with pain. Holding out the gleaming crown, Wolfram said, “Your father seized this crown by force and deception. But for tonight, I give it to you freely.” Carefully, he lowered it onto her head. “Arise, Queen Asenith, momentary monarch of Lochalyn—or at the least, of this hall.”

Swaying, she got to her feet, her face pinched as she snorted. “What sort of queen am I, with only two subjects in my little kingdom?”

Bowing, he offered her the throne. “One of us is the crown prince,” he told her. “And the other is the man who loves you.”

The lines eased away from her face, and Asenith held herself straight, lifting her elbow from Dylan’s grasp. She picked up her skirt in her withered hands and walked up the steps, head held high. Turning gracefully, Asenith lowered herself onto the throne, savoring every moment. Her face shining, her eyes roving the vastness of the hall, she smiled, and sighed.

Below, the two men got down on one knee and gazed up
at her, then Dylan’s head bowed, and silent tears splashed to the floor. Wolfram touched his friend’s shoulder, drawing his look; the wonder on his face was gratitude enough. He took the coronet from his own head and placed it on Dylan’s. “Sit with your queen,” he said.

Dylan mounted the steps, bowing over Asenith’s hand. Then she put her hand on his cheek. “Oh, love.” She sighed, and he stopped her with a kiss.

“I would have given you all this, if I could.”

Her smile trembled. “I know, Dylan,” she breathed. “I know.”

He sank down beside her, laying his head on her lap. Her skeletal fingers touched his face, his hair, his shoulder, and relaxed as her head leaned back against the throne, the crown glittering over her brow, her eyes fixed on the unseen stars.

AFTER THE
pain awoke him, Fionvar lay for a long time, watching the new dawn find gold in the gray of Brianna’s hair. He wondered about the barons this morning, arising, considering their queen’s rash proposal, and the way he had carried her off. He hoped it would do no harm to Wolfram at least.

He rose and paced to the window, the stone cool beneath his feet. Outside, late spring shimmered green in the garden, small birds chattering as they bounced among the last leaves of fall. The grassy path by the gate was a field of violets.

“Fionvar?” Brianna started up from bed, then settled when she saw him there. “I thought you’d gone again.”

He crossed to her and knelt on the bed. “No, love, still here. You can smell the spring out there,” he said, smiling. “Walk with me?”

“In my nightclothes?” She laughed. “Besides, Wolfram’s coming to breakfast, and we’re rising late as it is.”

“Just a little while.” He slid back off the bed and held out his hand. She hesitated, then sighed and took his hand, letting him draw her up. Hand in hand, they stepped out of the door into the remaining chill of dawn.

Brianna giggled as her bare toes hit the gravel path. “This is foolish. We’ll catch our death of cold.”

“Bosh!” he said, dropping her hand. “I’ll race you to the orchard.”

“Fionvar, you’re wounded.” She propped her hands on her hips.

“Then you’ll have to give me a head start!” He sprinted
along the path, dodging the well at the center, grinning at the sound of her feet behind him. He ran down to the garden gate, flinging himself against it with a triumphant whoop. In the next minute, he sucked in a breath as the pain once more clutched his chest.

Landing with a shout beside him, her palms to the wall, Brianna panted, then she frowned. “Are you well?”

“Tired,” he said, “still tired after those three days with no sleep.”

“You have a right to be,” she said. “Why are you smiling like that?”

For Fionvar stood looking through the bars, out toward the forest, a wistful sort of smile playing about his lips. “Quinan said something yesterday morning. I think I understand now what he meant.”

Fionvar broke away from her and flung himself down in the violets. After so short an exertion, he had a hard time catching his breath. Worry etching her face, Brianna settled in the new grass, taking his head on her lap. “I love you,” she said.

Fionvar reached up to touch her cheek. “I know.”

WOLFRAM CARRIED
the crown in his hands to his mother’s door, glad he had taken the chance when it came to him. Wolfram knocked and heard no answer. Puzzled, he knocked again. After a moment, he shrugged and pushed the door open a crack, peeking inside. The curtain to the bedchamber stood open, as did the door to the garden, and his parents were nowhere in sight.

Letting himself in, he crossed the sitting room and looked out the door, then set off on the gravel path.

When he drew nearer, he saw the queen with Fionvar’s head in her lap, bending over him. His face flushed, and he was about to go when she looked up. “Sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean to—”

Tears streamed down her cheeks, but, unlike last night, there was no joy in her eyes. “Wolfram,” she cried.

He covered the last steps at a run and fell to his knees beside her.

Fionvar’s face looked gray and drawn, his eyes searching the distance.

“Father,” Wolfram whispered.

The dark eyes flickered toward him, and Fionvar smiled weakly. “You have a beautiful daughter, did I tell you?”

“Yes, you did. I haven’t seen her yet.” Wolfram’s eye stung.

“I hope you will love her as deeply as I have loved you.”

Wolfram grabbed his hand. “Don’t die! I’ve only just found you.”

“I have been here all along.” He gazed up at them. “I will be here still.” Then he seemed to look beyond, alert, as if someone had spoken his name. “Yes,” he said at last. “Lady, I will walk with you.”

The dark eyes, a match to Wolfram’s own, gazed off into that distant place. Brianna began to shake, tears streaming down her face until she bent her head over her husband’s, her loose hair hiding little of her grief.

Wolfram sat back on his heels, face to the sky, where the sun rose over the garden wall. Gently, he lay his father’s hand upon his chest. With careful fingers, he touched his mother’s shoulders, but the gesture set off a wave of sobs, and he drew back. He felt hollow, as if those places in him had at last been named, then abandoned. Quietly, he rose and turned away, leaving the queen her last moments with the man she loved.

Shutting the garden door behind him, Wolfram straightened his clothing and took a deep breath, letting it out slow. At last, he opened the outside door.

As expected, Lady Catherine sat there on a little stool, dropping the pretext of her embroidery as she curtsied low. “Is everyone up then, Your Highness? Ready to break the fast?” Her cheeks were slightly pink, her hesitant fingers clasped.

Wolfram forced himself to take another breath. “Lord Fionvar DuNormand is dead,” he told her, calm and quiet. “Please see that arrangements are made.”

The color fled her cheeks as she looked to the door, then back to his face. “Oh, for love of the Lady.” She sighed, then glanced back to the door. “Oh, Your Majesty.”

Wolfram touched her arm. “Leave her be a little longer, Catherine. Then I think she will have need of you.”

Catherine nodded promptly. “Of course, Your Highness.” She matched the calm of his own demeanor until she turned away, stuffing her things into her basket, pricking her hand upon the needle. “I’ll see to the arrangements, of course.” Her voice quavered, and she sank back onto the stool, hiding her face.

Retreating from her grief, Wolfram backed a few paces down the hall, then began walking, the aches of yesterday’s adventures gone numb even as his mind seemed empty.

At the door, he raised a hand to knock, then lowered it, his head bowed. He knocked at last, and entered at a word. Inside, an older woman sat in a chair with slats upon its legs, creaking back and forth, and murmuring a wordless tune. She looked up at his appearance. Gripping her burden a little tighter, she made as if to rise.

“Don’t get up,” he told her. “I just thought…it was about time.”

Nodding, she relaxed into the chair and slipped aside a corner of the soft blanket. Wolfram took a few steps nearer, gazing down. Inside her swaddling clothes, his infant daughter gazed back, her eyes a deep blue, wide and unblinking for a long moment.

“Bend down, Yer Highness,” the nurse advised. “She can’t see far.”

Wolfram came up beside the chair and knelt, moving aside the blanket around her face. Asenith claimed the child resembled him, but who could tell? He smiled a little. Perhaps she was Dylan’s after all; perhaps all the bother had been for naught.

“Would you care to hold her, Highness?”

“Oh, no, I don’t think—” But she took his hand, molding his arm to support the baby’s head.

“Just like so. You’ll do fine.”

The baby was warm, and lighter than he expected. One of her arms wriggled free. It waved in the air as her face took on an expression of intense concentration. Then the tiny hand covered and uncovered the painted eye patch. Cold, damp fingers patted his cheek so gently that it tickled, and he let out a nervous chuckle.

The baby’s face split into a huge grin, bare of teeth, with her tiny nose crinkled up in devilish glee.

Wolfram laughed aloud. Something about the cheeks and the chin—it was his smile as it had been before the demon tore away such innocent pleasure, before the scars had reshaped his face. His smile. And his father’s.

The breath escaped him in a rush. Tears welled up in him, spilling over his cheek, splashing on his daughter’s face. He pulled her close, embracing her warmth, her soft head tucked against his chin, and they wept together in uncomprehending abandon.