The Eunuch's Heir (17 page)

“Or have you had enough pleasure for one night?” She kissed the open neckline of the robe, her breasts brushing against him.

He could feel his body responding to hers. “Is there ever enough?” The question rang hollow within him, echoing through his memory. One after another, every pleasure he sought turned to bitterness and left him only angrier and more alone than ever.

Faedre delicately danced her fingers over the cloth of his bandage. “Do not worry over your injuries, Prince Wolfram, I can be very gentle,” she whispered, “infinitely patient. There are pleasures you have not even imagined.”

She stood so close that he could breathe her in, even as he knew it was not Faedre he wanted, and it was not her scent that stirred the longing in his soul. The longing felt like a gap in his armor, a chink just waiting for a well-placed blade. He was Prince Wolfram, invincible, untouchable, defended by the sword of fury. There must be no softness in his heart.

Faedre watched him under heavy eyelids, a secretive smile curling her lips. Asenith used to smile at him just so, as if
they shared a secret no other could know. His body begged for release, urged him to accept the smile—just a smile, just a woman’s willing flesh—even if he did not know the price.

Wolfram’s wounds stung as deeply as his heart and he said, “No.”

WHEN WOLFRAM
emerged, Melody sprang up from a seat against the far wall and took two quick steps forward, then stopped, a wrap clutched to her shoulders despite the warmth of the evening. She did not look up at him but studied the pattern of the floor. “Lyssa said you’d gone to the garden.”

“I didn’t.” She looked very young and innocent, but his desire did not answer as once it might. “Shouldn’t you be in bed?” he said, more gently.

Crimson flared in her cheeks, and Melody stared pointedly at the doors before her.

Realizing in an instant what she must think, Wolfram cursed himself, crossing quickly to stand in front of her. “All I mean is that you’ve had a hard time these few days. You need rest.” He reached out to put his hands upon her shoulders, but she slipped away.

“As do you, Prince Wolfram.”

“You’re right,” he replied, almost laughing at the understatement. “But I don’t know if I can sleep.”

“We might talk, since that’s what got you in trouble, wanting to talk.” Her shrug slid the shawl down on her arm, revealing only a narrow strap of ribbon. “To me, I mean.”

Distracted, he nodded. “Yes, of course.” He came to stand beside her, facing the open arch at the end of the hall. “Is the garden empty?”

“Yes, I suppose. It’s awfully dark, though.” Melody glanced that way, then up toward him.

“Your room, then?”

“Yes, all right.” Offering a tremulous smile, she led the way.

Her chamber was small, but richly carpeted, and lit with sparkling silver lamps like Faedre’s. Melody quickly took the only stool, leaving the soft bed to Wolfram, who sat awkwardly, favoring the wounded hip. He really did need to get some rest if the wounds were ever to close properly. By the time he was Lyssa’s age, he wouldn’t have an inch of unscarred flesh remaining.

“Would you like a drink? I don’t have much to offer, I’m afraid.” She rose abruptly and fussed over a decanter and two little metal cups, one of which she brought to him.

Tossing back her drink, Melody smiled into its emptiness. Her eyes glittered unnaturally bright, and Wolfram wondered if it weren’t her first that evening. He sipped his own drink more carefully, beginning to feel the return of sobriety even as the liquor passed his lips. “Was there something special you wanted to talk about?”

“I wanted to say”—she took a breath, still toying with the cup—“how glad I am that you’re alive. When I saw you in that prison, I realized how much I would miss you. I’m glad, now, that I don’t have to.”

“Thank you,” he said sincerely. “It means a lot to hear you say that.”

“In spite of your impulses, you are still the best—” Her breath caught at her throat.

“The best brother?” he finished for her, unsure where this was leading.

“Do you think of me as your sister, truly?” She met his eyes for the first time, straightening her shoulders. The wrap slipped a little more, and she made no move to adjust it, to draw it back up over her creamy shoulders, bare except for the thin ribbon straps of a chemise. He flashed for a moment to Faedre’s dusky skin, to the hardness of Lyssa’s unyielding body…to the exquisite touch of a single lock of hair.

Wolfram drained his cup, trying to remember when his feelings for Melody had changed so sharply, his desire con
verted to protectiveness, conspiracy to mere affection. “We might as well be. Faedre tells me I’m the image of your father, and then—”

“Then what?” she asked, a sharper edge coming into her voice.

“There is my father,” he finished. “He’s not dead.”

She dropped her cup on the floor. “So? I don’t think my parentage is in question.”

“Part of the reason I went to Bernholt was to find him, and I did. He’s your music teacher, Master Duncan. You told me yourself he’s in love with your mother. Don’t ask me how he’s managed—” Melody’s laughter interrupted him, drowning out his words in a torrent of giggles.

“Oh, Wolfie, then there’s nothing to it!” She dropped the shawl and crept up beside him on the bed, her feet tucked beneath her delicate shift like a child’s. “There’s no blood between us, don’t worry.” She reached out to tuck a lock of hair back behind his ear.

“No, listen, Melody.” He caught her hand and held it firmly. “He is my father, I recognized him from the portraits and the bust Lyssa was carving. He’s changed his hair, and he doesn’t look like a king, of course, he’s in hiding. He’s probably been in Bernholt ever since he was supposedly taken to the stars. He must’ve gone there to be with your mother, don’t you see?”

“Of course I do.” All the laughter had left her, to be replaced by an avid smile. “But you don’t know all. I’ve seen him naked, getting out of the bath once when I arrived early for lessons. He didn’t see me, thank the Lady!” She made the circle sign of the Goddess.

“So what?” Something pricked the back of Wolfram’s neck, and he was not at all sure he wanted to hear what came next.

“He’s a eunuch, Wolfram, he can’t be anybody’s father.”

“That can’t be true!” His grip tightened on her hand until she jerked it free.

“I’ve seen it!” she snapped back at him, edging away. “And even if you’re right, if he was King Rhys, then it fits.
Don’t you know your own history? There were always stories that Rhys had been castrated. Thorgir was supposed to have done it, precisely to stop him having children.”

“Of course I’ve heard that.” He had, but he was the man’s son; the rumors were lies, maybe the first of the lies surrounding him. He slowly massaged his temple, his fingers pulsing with heat.

“Look, he may’ve been my mother’s lover all these years—he probably killed my father, or some such thing; but he is not my father, Wolfram, and I am not your sister.” She pounded her fist against her own chest, between her breasts. “Are you even listening to me? I am not your sister.” Holding back her wild dark hair with one hand, Melody glared at him. “Answer me, won’t you? Don’t I deserve something from you?”

“Bury it, Melody, so you’re not my sister! I’m listening, I’ve heard every cursed word you said, but have you?”

Cringing, she scooted away from him, but he pursued her on hands and knees, confronting her with her back against the wall.

“Don’t you hear what you’re saying? He’s not your father, he’s not mine either! Who is? Goddess’s Tears, Melody, who am I? Isn’t there something about me that’s not a lie?” His pulse roared, and the cold wash of fury welled up within him.

Sucking in a ragged breath, she said, “I don’t care who your father is, why should I? Or who you look like, or what—”

He uttered a cry almost like a howl as the truth worked its way free at last, and he slammed his fist into the wall by her head. Wolfram rocked back to his heels, and Melody whispered, “Are you hurt?”

“I’ve been such an idiot,” he said to the ceiling. “How could I be so stupid?” Lost in a daze of throbbing veins and a flood of remembering, he slid off the bed onto the floor and turned away.

Lyssa herself had told him, years ago, that her elder brothers might have passed for twins. How long had he railed
against his absent father only to realize now that his father had been there all along. The scene in his mother’s chambers replayed itself before him, every word, every fleeting expression crossing Fionvar’s face. “
Adulterous bastard,”
he had called him; no wonder, now, that the Lord Protector had looked so close to laughing. “
You’re not my father!”
Suddenly, Fionvar’s forbearance in not laughing louder struck Wolfram as extraordinary self-control.

A thousand miles away Melody called his name, not for the first time. Her hands caught at his arm, but he shook her away. “I’m sorry,” he murmured, then he pushed through her door out into the hall, turning for the garden.

Shaky legs carried him to the farthest corner, a patch of soft grass half-hidden by roses. Wolfram flung himself down, wrapping his knees with both arms, back to the wall. His mind skimmed backward through his life, looking for his father, and finding him at last. Fionvar gave him his first pony and the leg up to ride it. Fionvar learned that his favorite snack was honeyed chestnuts, something his mother never recalled when she was trying to bribe his fleeting good humors. When the queen sat at court, and a weeping six-year-old was unwelcome, Fionvar had gathered him up to hear the whole tale. Wolfram could almost feel those arms embracing him. Everywhere in his childhood, he found Fionvar’s presence, much as he had tried to push him away.

Later though, when he’d started outgrowing boots faster than the cobbler could make them, Fionvar vanished. Suddenly he stood on the far side of the aisle, or the far side of the room. He didn’t come to archery practice, or Wolfram’s bouts with Lyssa, or even to the unveiling of the prince’s first finished sculpture. Wolfram discovered girls, then women; he haunted the dark alleys of his city, and the tempers of his boyhood grew into the demon that haunted him. He shivered with recollection. The two events—Fionvar’s distance, his own growing rage—existed unconnected in his memory, or he thought they had. After twice being abandoned by King Rhys, Wolfram now discovered a third,
more subtle retreat. What had come first? Why had his father, secret though he must be, withdrawn from his life?

And how could Wolfram ever look on him again, without that storm of memories overwhelming him? If he faced his father again, how could he not be consumed by the demon rage?

The ache of his bruised fist began to seep through to him, and Wolfram opened his eyes to the night. He jerked back, striking his head painfully on the wall.

Not three feet away, seated by the roses, Deishima regarded him steadily. If it had not been for the moonlight glinting on her hair and in her eyes, he might not have seen her at all.

“Bury it,” muttered Wolfram, rubbing the back of his head, his fingers slowly working their way back to his throbbing temple. “Can’t you just leave me alone?”

Deishima made a tiny gesture with her hand, clinking the bracelets she wore with her embroidered robe. “You are safe, Highness Wolfram. With these, I can do nothing to you.”

Jolted a second time, he realized he hadn’t even thought of her magic. “I’m not safe if your blasted guards can sneak up on me like that.” He shrank a little farther into the wall.

“They cannot,” she told him. “And I will not call them.”

“I have no intention of touching you. I can’t imagine why I ever did.” The lie burned his throat, but the chink in his armor lay all too open if she chose to place her blade.

She ducked her head, turning the bracelets slowly about her wrist.

“Have I spoiled your garden?” He started to rise, gritting his teeth against the pain. “I’m sorry, I’ll go.”

She held up her hands, palms toward him. “No,” she said. “No, it is I who have disturbed you.” He paused, eyeing her, and she continued, “It is I who should beg forgiveness. Again.”

Sighing, Wolfram slumped down again, momentarily grateful not to have to go; he’d no idea where he would have gone in any case.

“Are you well, Highness Wolfram?” She pronounced his name as if the vowels were both the same, deep and hollow.

“Aside from being ripped up by your leopards, I’m fine.” Both elbows rested on his knees, both hands gripped into his hair. Not her fault, not really, he told himself over and over.

“I do not think it was they who wounded you so deeply, but if I am mistaken, then I am also sorry.” She edged around the bush to get a better look at him.

“Didn’t I just say I’m fine?”

A frown flitted between her brows. “When I believe that it is so, I will be most pleased to leave you.”

He shut his eyes again, pushing his back against the stone. “So I’m wounded, it’s nothing to do with you.”

“I would not wish to think I had done such a thing after so brief an acquaintance.”

He hoped the hitch in his breath did not reveal him as he answered, “I would hate to think you could.”

“So we have ruled out that I have done it. Who remains? There is my mistress, whom you have lately seen; and the foreign lady, the ambassador whom I believe you have known. Your sister-princess, from whose room you came—”

“Have you been following me?” He leaned forward to glare at her.

“There is the scent of my mistress upon you,” she explained, her pulse jumping in her throat though she did not pull away from him. “The ambassador has come a long way to find you. And to the last, I sat in my circle when you entered the garden; I saw where you came from, though you did not notice me.”

Slowly, Wolfram drew back to his wall. He wanted to be left alone, and yet, he did not want for her to go. “I haven’t got the strength to play this game tonight.”

“Then I shall tell you a story instead.” Deishima shifted her position, crossing her legs and bending over them to touch her forehead briefly to the earth. “The Two sat in their palace at the center of the world, when they heard outside a terrible shouting. They came into the sunlight and found that one of their warriors had fallen from the wall where he was to march. He was not injured, but angry, and so he beat upon the wall and cursed it.

“The Two approached, and asked of him, ‘Why do you rail against this wall, which thought only to support you?’

“‘It has allowed me to fall, and so it should be punished,’ he told them, and again struck the wall.

“The Two laughed together, and he bowed to Them and asked what was the cause of Their humor. ‘You punish this wall,’ They replied, ‘and yet it is yourself who feels the pain.’”

Again, she touched her forehead to the earth, a strand of her hair nearly brushing his toes as she raised her head.

“That was a stupid story,” Wolfram muttered, letting his hands fall from his face. He plucked at a shoot of the vine reaching to start its ascent.

“Why do you rail against this wall?” she murmured.

Shutting his eyes, he buried his face in his folded arms. In the moments of her silence, the night grew cold. He heard her moving, turning away. Wolfram couldn’t stop shaking: the demon had retreated, but it had left that hollow feeling behind, an empty place in his chest. He swallowed again and again, yet his throat stayed sore. The shivering chafed his bandages and his scraped palms. He wanted to scream or to die. Then something whispered in the air around him.