The Eunuch's Heir (23 page)

“As I recall, Wolfram’s had bad luck with lots of things. It wasn’t so long ago you passed through to look for him.”

They entered the round sanctuary. It was only a little larger than the family chapel Lyssa was building in Lochdale, just room enough for a single rounded row of benches and the shallow niches to the four directions. Jordan gently pushed her west toward the Cave of Life and lit a small fire there. They settled onto the bench nearest, gazing up through the hole in the chapel ceiling. It seemed strange to see sunlight pouring down rather than the twinkle of stars.

“I swore an oath to take him home or die trying,” Lyssa said to the sky.

Jordan observed, “You’ve gotten him this far.”

She shot him a withering look. “I don’t want to take him home on a funeral litter, Jordan.”

He sighed, shaking his head. “That’s not what I meant.” He turned his face to the sky, fingering a scar that ran ragged across his neck. “Alswytha brought me back from a lot farther. If he can be saved, you’ve brought him to the person who can do it.”

“And if he’s lost,” she murmured, “then he’s not the only one.”

A SHARP
pain yanked Wolfram from the edge of darkness. He opened his eyes, causing the pain to flare, but he saw nothing.

“Your Highness, can you hear me?” a woman’s voice asked.

“Yes—I think,” he mumbled through the blood and pain.

“I’m the Wizard of Nine Stars. I can heal you, but I need the question.”

“Yes,” he said again, then a wave of agony twisted his insides and he sobbed. The image of Erik’s face swam before him in the misty whiteness, and the stony face of the sculpture he had ruined, and the ironic smile of the man he now knew as his father. Even the fear in his false father’s eyes. The humiliation in Melody’s form as he rejected her, the fury that he and Lyssa both wielded to cover their shame. The small and terrified figure of Deishima, bound by his own hand. Suddenly he wanted nothing more than to never see again. “Let me die,” he moaned.

“Bury it!” A fist smacked the table near his ear. “I can’t do that, Wolfram! Ask me a bloody question.”

“He wants to die?” another voice asked.

The wizard’s voice retreated. “No, he doesn’t. He’s in pain, delirious, probably.”

“I’m not,” he gasped, or tried to. Every word stabbed into his skull somehow. “Pain, yes,” he hissed, “mad, no.”

“Great Lady, Wolfram. I don’t want to argue with a dead man. Ask me a question.”

He tried to shake his head, but it hurt more than speaking, and the wetness of tears seeped into the dried blood. “No,” he whimpered. “Leave me be.”

“If you die, so help me, I’ll haul you back from the stars and beyond.”

He laughed without sound, and the hand slapped the table again—trying, he now realized, to keep him focused.

“Wolfram.” The voice said his name as three syllables, soft and foreign.

“What’s she doing here?” A sudden cacophony of voices and denials. “You have to get out.”

“Wolfram!” Deishima called again, her voice more distant. “Please breathe! Please!”

A door slammed loudly.

“Holy Mother, why me?” the wizard wondered aloud. “It’s good advice, Wolfram, keep breathing, blast you.”

Wolfram tried to breathe, but every breath was a fire within him. Every inhalation cracked like a whip. He sent his awareness out into his body, past the wrenching agony of his belly, and found to his horror that he couldn’t feel his leg on one side, that all he felt was a growing cold.
Is this what it’s like to die?
he wondered. What a waste of days his life had been. Why had she told him to breathe? Why had she said “please”? He ran his tongue over his lips. Someone leaned closer, shading the white of his vision. “Where is she?” he whispered.

“Got you, you bastard!” the wizard shouted.

Another voice—Soren’s, he remembered—said, “She’s upstairs, Your Highness, she’s fine. Just waiting for you.”

“Start here,” the wizard instructed.

“What about his face?”

“I need you here,” she snapped. “Just there!”

He felt a slight pressure, and growing warmth. The awareness he had spread within him did not retreat, nor did the darkness return as the two women worked.

“Give me a knife.” Then, a few minutes later, “Not too deep, Soren, you won’t have much strength left to heal yourself when we’re done.”

A sudden heat flooded up from his side, and a shifting tide of energy washed over him as the wizards spilled their blood to mingle with his. Their voices sank lower as they began a chant in some mystic tongue. The breathing pattern they adopted was so like the Ashwadi that he thought of telling them so, but not just now. It seemed more important to keep to himself, to dwell within this body rather than reaching out. Shivers of pain stretched along his side, but they lessened as time wore on. He fancied he could feel the layers of muscle brought together, knitting up again as nerves joined one another.

Hours must have passed before the skin itself fused along the ragged lines, and the warmth withdrew, leaving him calm. He had all but forgotten the ache of his temple and cheek and the blinding whiteness that shielded his eyes.

“Bit of a rush job,” the wizard remarked, her first words in the common tongue for a long time.

“He’ll live, though,” Soren pointed out. “The face?”

“Yes—mainly cosmetic, I expect. Great Lady, but I’m exhausted. I’m getting too old for this stuff.”

Soren giggled.

A cool strip of metal slid along his cheek, then drew upward, slicing the layers of silk stiff with his blood. Wet cloths descended, and a splash of water that struck him rigid with pain.

Two breaths drew inward sharply, then blew out, and he could picture the women, side by side.

“Oh, for the love of the Lady.” Alswytha sighed.

“We can’t do it, can we?” Soren asked, her voice trembling.

Alswytha gently tilted his head to the left and sighed again. “We’ll do what we can, Finistrel help him.” The heat of her fingers hovered, then touched him, and the pain shot him back into darkness.

SITTING AT
Asenith’s bedside, Fionvar cut slivers of chicken from a roasted bird. He passed them toward her
mouth and watched as she carefully chewed and swallowed, her eyes never leaving his.

“You brought this?” she asked again.

“In my own two hands.” He offered another sliver, watching her thin, pale face. Her hair, limp and ragged, was tied back under a kerchief. On good days, she could sit up and handle her own utensils. On days like this, the room was kept in shadows with only a pair of candles for light, and servant after servant found him at her request, until he brought a meal and fed her as much as she would take—probably less than her baby was getting from the wet nurse. Most of the time, she seemed lucid if listless, and their conversation ranged over the same ground. Had he brought the food himself? Was he sure no one had touched it? Had anyone been around her door? She was sure she had heard something.

“They’ll get me,” she whispered. “They’re doing it now.”

“My lady,” he said, returning the meat to the platter, “there are times I can’t come to you—like today, you waited hours to eat.” He was careful to turn away when he inhaled, lest the scent of her sickness sicken him as well.

“They’re poisoning me, I know it,” she rasped.

Sighing, Fionvar bowed his head. “It was a difficult birth—I was there. It’s just that you need to eat more to keep your strength up. Whatever ails you can’t be helped by your staying abed for so long.”

“How is my daughter?”

“She’s fine.” Relieved by the change in topic, Fionvar offered her a slice of turnip, which she ignored. “She’s growing so fast, you would be amazed, and I think she’s got your eyes.”

“All their eyes are blue at first,” Asenith breathed, turning away.

Fionvar put aside the tray and leaned on the bed. “Look, isn’t there someone else you trust? Someone from the city, perhaps, who could come to stay with you?”

Her head moved very slightly. A nod?

“Talk to me, my Lady, I’m trying to help you.”

When she faced him, her eyes glistened, and her voice
sounded a little stronger. “Wolfram had a friend, a redhead.”

“Dylan? Dylan DuGwythym?”

Definitely a nod this time. “Met him some times, always together.”

“That would be Dylan. Do you want me to see if he’ll visit with you?”

Another nod, with her eyes shut. “How’s Elyn?” she breathed.

Better than you, he wanted to say, though not by much. “She’s old,” he told her. “It’s surprising she does as well as she does.”

A near-silent laugh escaped her. “Her bile keeps her alive.”

“You may be right.” Fionvar smiled, but her eyes remained closed, and the smile slipped away.

Her lips parted a little to allow her shallow breaths to deepen.

When he was sure she slept, Fionvar rose, taking the dinner tray with him. He let himself quietly out and handed the tray off to one of the waiting servants. Standing in the hall, he took a deep breath and let it out slowly, rolling his head from side to side. He remembered hating her, not so long ago; now, there was only pity and worry. She had quickly deteriorated, her muscles shaking, her stomach weakening, until she lay in bed all day and refused even the best food they could think to bring her. Sitting there, Fionvar believed that she was dying. He did not know how or why; perhaps someone was poisoning her. If so, it was a very stealthy someone, for neither Fionvar nor the healers could find any evidence.

“This is the last place I expected to find you, visiting an ailing whore.” Queen Brianna stood at the corner, her arms crossed.

“What’s come over you?” Fionvar met her in a few long strides and took her elbow, but she shook him off.

“You’ve been awfully thick with her since the birth, haven’t you?”

“I helped her when she needed it, nothing more.” He reached out again.

“Nothing?” She laughed, a bitter sound that echoed in the hall.

Fionvar stepped forward until he was nearly on top of her. “There’s no need to yell at me outside her door.”

“Do you call kissing her nothing?” Gathering a handful of her satin skirts, Brianna spun and headed back the way she had come.

“She kissed me!” he protested, catching up to walk alongside her.

Brianna hmmphed. “And when were you going to tell me?”

“I didn’t think of it.”

“No, you didn’t think of me. Catherine had to tell me. I’ve been waiting for your explanation, but it didn’t come, then I find you visiting her, over and over. Tell me what to think, Fionvar!”

Even in her anger, she did not forget herself completely but took him to a private chamber, where he shut the door behind them.

“She needed help, and I was there. I didn’t tell you about the kiss because there was nothing to it—she had a terrible time and was grateful the whole thing was over. Weren’t you?”

“What were you even doing there?”

“I’m the Lord Protector, and my job is to look out for the crown. She gave birth to a potential heir, the only one we have at the moment, and I think that warrants some consideration on our part.” He flopped into a leather seat and stared up at her.

“There are better ways to get an heir,” she replied.

“Nothing springs readily to mind, unless—” Breaking off, he drew in a breath and his chest ached. Fionvar slowly rose, coming to stand before her. For a moment he stood, wanting to be sure his suddenly weak knees would support him. “Unless you are thinking of marriage,” Fionvar finished softly.

Brianna tilted her head to meet his eyes. “No kingdom can
truly be secure with only one heir. As Lord Protector, you must know that better than anyone.”

Fionvar reached out to her crossed arms and touched the golden marriage bracelet she wore. King Rhys had given it to her on their wedding day, the day he vanished. The three of them and a well-paid goldsmith were the only ones who knew the band was hollow. Hidden inside for all these years rested a bundle of hairs from a violin bow: the marriage band Fionvar had given when he had nothing else to give, long before she wed the king. “You’re married twice already, or had you forgotten?”

“I’m the queen, Fionvar, queens make choices for many reasons, and love is only one of them.” Her voice faltered, though her gaze did not.

“Do you want me to fight with you, to make the choice easy on you, Your Majesty?” He struggled to keep the hurt from his voice and turned his back to her, his fingers encircling his own bare wrist.

“You know what I’m saying, Fionvar,” she pleaded. “You know it would be easier on all of us if she died, if the baby died, if we could just forget this ever happened.”

Fionvar pressed a hand to his mouth and shut his eyes a moment. “Do I know? Can you forget that this is our grandchild, that, if Wolfram never comes home, this baby is all we have of him?”

She did not answer for a long time, and Fionvar was not sure he breathed again until she spoke. “It is my duty to think of this kingdom, whatever my personal feelings might be,” said Brianna evenly. “If you consider more deeply, I think you’ll find that it’s your duty as well; it’s why Rhys chose you for my protector.”

“No, no, no.” Vehemently, Fionvar rounded on her. “He chose me because he made me a promise. He swore to keep you safe for me, to find a way for us to be together. He chose me to be here for my own son—in which I’ve failed—and for you. I don’t think he considered how much the crown would change you, Brianna.”

“Well, it has. One of the first things I loved about you was
your dedication to this crown, to restoring the true line upon the throne. Don’t you even care about keeping it that way?”

“I’ve changed, too, Brianna,” he said. “I’ve learned that there’s more to the world than a crown.”

She faced him down, finding the fear behind his words. “You just won’t admit that Wolfram’s never coming home. It’s been six months without a word. When are you going to give up?”

Reeling, Fionvar whispered, “I will not give up on my son.”

Brianna uncrossed her arms, hesitated, then crossed them again. “Well, then perhaps you can see why the crown must go forward—without you, if need be.” Her brows pinched together, and her hands seemed to be holding her steady.

“Have we grown so apart, Brianna, or did I never truly see you until now?”

Swallowing, she turned her face from him.

Fionvar nodded slowly, and pulled open the door, nearly colliding with a breathless servant. “What is it, man?”

“Is the queen about, my lord?”

“There she is.” He gestured the man inside, pivoting on his heel to pay attention.

The man flung himself into a shaky bow. “I have news from Gamel’s Grove, Your Majesty. It’s the prince—he’s alive!”

“Oh, thank the Lady!” Fionvar shouted, slapping the doorframe, a ridiculous grin overtaking his face.

Over the head of the messenger, Brianna raised her eyes and stared at him, her face drawn and her mouth set. “Perhaps you should hear this, my lord,” she said carefully.

He returned the stare, his relief fading as he studied her. “I’ve heard all I need to, Your Majesty.”