Sorcerer's Legacy (6 page)

The Regent paused, allowing his words to take effect. His gaze touched each man present for a brief second before he resumed. “I will allow a conspiracy might be present to falsely establish Darion’s rights of succession. Therefore, as a deterrent to injustice, I move another Sorcerer be present during our candidate’s examination. The task would normally be Taroith’s alone, as Master of the Sorcerers’ League. But Ielond addressed his writ solely into Taroith’s hands, which is not common custom. Most likely, the gesture was innocent. But it might be wise if I attended Elienne’s examination for candidacy, and also at her confirmation of pregnancy should she be blessed with the good fortune to conceive.”

“I second,” said Garend at once.

Elienne’s blood ran cold. She hardly felt Taroith’s squeeze of reassurance beneath the edge of the table. Faisix was a master of manipulation. One smooth move had shed doubt on Taroith’s integrity and assured the Regent access to her through two critical examinations. The Select molded to his touch like soft wax. Round the table, the votes in favor of his motion were entered with swift and deadly ignorance of its possible consequence.

Elienne battled rising uneasiness. She had only just begun to appreciate the practiced sophistication of the Sorcerer who opposed her. If she wasn’t careful, he would shift her out of his path without even the unpleasantness of a confrontation.

Discussion resumed over a host of lesser details. Time and date were set for Elienne’s examination, followed by arrangements for a ceremonial banquet celebrating the royal betrothal. Normally, an endorsed Consort was permitted to pass her time of leisure as she wished, but Garend questioned Elienne’s right to freedom on the grounds that another man might bed her in the Prince’s stead. This idea was bandied about at wearying length. Some deemed it demeaning to confine one who might become Pendaire’s Queen; others felt an assigned escort to be an appropriate and tactful precaution. Elienne herself listened without visible sign of rancor until she saw the beginnings of another smile take shape on Faisix’s features.

The back of her neck prickled with apprehension. Faisix, like a man manipulating chess pieces, was eliminating her options through a series of carefully planned moves. Small, petty arguments would soon be welded together into another, wider purpose; and rather than allow Faisix to arbitrate to his advantage a second time, Elienne gave her seething temper free rein. Even Taroith started in surprise as her small hand crashed down on the tabletop in exasperation.

“Must you peck the issue to death like crows?” she said in sharp annoyance. “The Prince has but days to establish his rights to succession. You do him no favor by wasting his time over trifles.”

“Missy—” Garend snapped over stunned silence.

“
Lady
. I’m not your relative.”

“Missy, his Grace is, at this moment, disgustingly inebriated. His condition is so deplorable that he is incapable of bedding anything but himself. For a good many hours to come, he is unlikely to wish anyone’s company, far less that of a well-born maiden.”

Acidly suspicious, Elienne was not so easily put off. “Does his Royal Grace usually drink himself senseless? That doesn’t sound to me like the behavior of a man who might face execution in seven days’ time. I think the Prince had help, outside help, with his indulgence.”

Immediate protest arose from the Select, but the most dramatic response came from Faisix. He pushed himself forward in his chair. White anger tautened the lines of his face, and his voice cut like a whip through the general outcry. “Silence!”

The Regent settled back. More calmly he said, “My Lady, your words are both treasonous and ridiculously ill-founded. You have neither voice nor vote in this Council. Disrupt these proceedings again, and I’ll have you sent from the room.”

“You’re afraid I might smell the fish beneath all this finery.” Elienne started at the sudden grip of a hand on her arm. She shrugged the clasp off, then turned and met the bland, round face of the door steward.

“Escort her out,” said Faisix with incisive finality. “And keep her with you until this Council adjourns. She must be available afterward for physical examination.”

Elienne slid her chair back. She bent over with a muffled exclamation and fussed with the fit of her shoe—the position placing her head within inches of Taroith’s knee, well inside his sphere of influence should he wish mental contact. Her tactic was rewarded. Taroith’s response came as a light touch upon her mind.
I’ll forestall the Regent. Wait patiently. Don’t stir up any more trouble.

Elienne finished with her shoe, rose, and walked out of the room without a backward glance. Left standing by himself, the steward stumbled awkwardly over her chair in his haste to follow, and with varying degrees of disgruntlement the Select of Pendaire’s Grand Council resumed debate.

Chapter
4

Prince’s Consort

ELIENNE
wanted
time to herself, which meant shedding the presence of the steward who had been assigned escort duty. She watched the man emerge from the council room; he shut the door firmly behind himself and leaned on it, puffing. After appraising the paunch that strained the seams of his white and gold livery, Elienne judged he was not a man who loved exertion. She tailored her methods to suit.

The mammoth oval expanse of the Grand Council Chamber was quite empty, yet the ornate decor held splendor enough to rouse a stranger’s curiosity. Elienne feigned a country girl’s ignorant enthusiasm and, with apparent innocence, began to rove the room and admire.

The steward grunted like an unhappy sow, but the effect was irresistible. He pushed his bulk away from the door and followed while Elienne wandered the length and breadth of the room. No detail was too slight for her interest, though nothing commanded her attention quite long enough for her to linger. When the lower level and every detail of its mosaic floor had been exhausted, Elienne investigated the dais. Up and down twenty-five marble steps went the steward at her heels, his breath by now a stertorous wheeze.

Elienne failed to notice his distress. She plied him steadily with questions, then abandoned the dais and went on light feet straight to the staircase that led to the upper galleries. The steward balked and parked his bulk against the banister.

“Missy,” he gasped. “No more steps.”

Elienne turned in mid-flight and gave him a round-eyed look. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m quite carried away. I’ve never in my whole life seen the equal of the craftsmanship in this room.”

She paused to gaze wistfully upward. “Mightn’t I just take a look? You can always call if the Select wish me back. I’ll come straight down.”

“Very well.” The steward grumbled to himself and took a seat on the bottom step. Elienne could not leave without tripping over him. She would be secure enough, and his responsibilities did not include guard duty.

Elienne ran briskly up the remainder of the flight. She toured the upper gallery in a methodical fashion that had little to do with her earlier display of false curiosity. She covered all three levels from end to end, thoroughly, until she was satisfied that no other entry was possible except by way of the stair. Then she leaned with artful recklessness over the topmost railing and shouted down to the steward.

“There are soft chairs up here. Would you mind if I did my waiting sitting down?”

The steward nodded immediate assent, as much to get her away from the overhang as any other reason. He settled more comfortably on his step, relieved Elienne had at last decided to stay quietly in one place. No meeting of Pendaire’s Select had ever been brief; this one was unlikely to differ.

Elienne chose a railing seat that offered an unobstructed view of the lower floor. Until her opposition elected to reveal its plot there was no way to gauge the extent of her personal peril. She dared not let the first move surprise her. Nor could she depend on Kennaird and Taroith for shelter against harm. Trathmere’s fall had shown how easily the best defenses could crumble. If she lost the Prince, her fate might be worse than any she would have suffered in Khadrach hands.

Elienne pulled forth the thick gold chain that hung beneath the neck of her gown. The mirrowstone dropped, warm and weighty, into her palm. For a long, still interval, she held it without seeking the image contained by the jewel’s depths. After fourteen hours in Pendaire, this would be her first, unhurried glimpse of the man she had promised to marry.

Carefully, Elienne tilted the gem. The clear, reflective surface became immediately congested and dark. Set like yellowed ivory against a field of black, she saw a man’s face, lit by the dribbled stalk of a half-spent candle. A tangle of brown hair arched over one ear. The long, spidery lines of shadow cast across cheek and brow lent an impression more sinister than neglect. Garend had said the Prince was drunk. Puzzled, Elienne wondered why no servants attended his Grace’s comfort until the effect of the spirits wore off.

Elienne bent closer. The planes of Darion’s nose, forehead, and chin had the spare grace of a draftsman’s sketch, but there all semblance of harmony ended. The mouth drooped open, slack as the empty pouch of a forester’s pack. A small scar bisected the jawline, stark as an ink line against the pale, dry skin drawn taut against a lean framework of bone. The Prince was obviously ill.

Elienne frowned. Often she had sat with Cinndel’s younger brother when the aftermath of his carousing had laid him low. The face she remembered had always been flushed and sweating. Whatever held Darion under certainly was not drink.

And in a palace as richly adorned as Pendaire’s, she doubted whether the dim, drab place where Darion lay was anywhere near the royal suite.

Elienne bit her lip and found herself shaking. The Prince’s enemies were confident indeed if they could remove him on the pretense of drunken stupor and hold him without being questioned. Were Ielond alive, they would never have dared. Without him, Darion had no other to act in his defense with the possible exception of Kennaird. And Kennaird had been kept busy through the night with her.

Elienne cursed. The jewel in her hand was the only weapon Ielond had left her. Darion’s oppressors did not expect him to be seen by other eyes, and according to the Sorcerer’s instructions, communication was possible as well. Perhaps the Prince could be awakened.

Placing her fingertip against the cold surface of the mirrowstone, Elienne leaned close and whispered. “Darion! Your Grace, can you hear me? Darion!”

She released contact. The image flooded back, clouding the stone like dark smoke. The Prince roused enough to stir. This time the magic exposed him full face; his lashes quivered, spiking his cheek with trembling lines of shadow.

Elienne cupped the jewel closer and whispered again, urgently. “Darion, wake up.”

Faint as the distant roll of surf in a shell, she heard a coughing sigh. The Prince closed his mouth. His eyes flickered open, irises wide and black in the candlelight. Hazel, Elienne recalled from her brief impression on the icefield, but they remained unfocused and confused.

“Darion, you’ve been drugged,” said Elienne through the mirrowstone.

She held her breath as the Prince threw one veined wrist across his face. If anyone were present, such movement would surely attract attention.

As though answering Elienne’s fear, a large hand appeared, momentarily obscuring her view. The Prince moaned thickly. Elienne looked on in horror as a second hand moved into sight. Fingers marred by an old, puckered scar pressed a twist of soaked linen firmly over Darion’s nose and mouth until his weak struggles subsided.

“Oh, poor man,” Elienne whispered. Hot tears blistered the inside of her eyelids. When the hands removed the drugged cloth and passed from sight, the mirrowstone’s dark depths returned Darion’s image with faithful clarity, even to the angry red imprint where the rag had roughened his skin.

Elienne shoved the jewel back inside the neck of her dress. The heavy gold setting had gouged purple grooves in her palm where she had gripped too tightly. Angrily she closed her fist over them. Something would have to be done. She no longer found it tolerable to sit like a lady while the Council’s Select dallied over trivia. She could start an inquiry after a man with knowledge of drugs who also had a scarred hand.

Elienne rose and ran between the rows of chairs. She took the stairs two at a time while formulating a plan to forestall the steward. Just below the first landing, she all but bowled over someone who ascended the flight in the same state of haste.

“My Lady!” Kennaird divested himself of an armload of yellow silk skirts.

Elienne paused only to draw breath. “Darion’s been drugged,” she said tersely, and described what she had seen in the rnirrowstone. Kennaird was already familiar with the jewel. He had seen it around her neck the night before; it was the only item on her he had been unable to remove.

“I’ll see what I can do,” Kennaird promised. He grabbed Elienne with both hands as she tried to slip past him. “I said I would look after it.”

“But—” Elienne began in protest.

“No.” Kennaird shook her with curt annoyance. “No. You’ll stay here as you were told. Darion is not the only one in danger. I came to warn you to guard your own life.”

Elienne stopped resisting Kennaird’s hand, and only then realized his homely face was drawn with anxiety.

“Tell me,” she said.

Kennaird released his hold with a tired sigh. “The ward over the study door was broken when I returned.” He shut his eyes and leaned back against the paneled wall of the stairwell. “All of Ielond’s papers were stolen from the desk. Someone now knows more of you, Lady Elienne, than is meet.”

Kennaird staved off Elienne’s response with a raised hand. “Wait, Missy, until I finish. Ielond was not careless enough to leave written all the facts about you. There was nothing in his notes that would prevent your—”

“Shh!” Elienne pointed down the stair and whispered. “The steward.”

Kennaird obligingly lowered his voice. “They can’t stop your Consortship with the contents of those papers. But every facet of the culture you came from was outlined in detail, and among the documents taken was the written summary of the birth chart Ielond cast for you. He left out everything that pertained to your former marriage. But well outlined for my own purposes was a list of the dates and times your natal stars warn you will be vulnerable.”

Elienne felt the constriction fall away from her chest. Astrology she understood. The Guild had placed great stock in the movements of planets and events, but Elienne had never paid much attention. No Guild seer had been required to foretell disaster in the path of Khadrach’s armies. She spoke at last, concerned mainly for Kennaird’s loss. He seemed greatly upset.

“Can’t you recast the chart?”

Kennaird shook his head. “Ielond spliced Time to find you, Missy. Ma’Diere only knows when and where you were born.”

“Well then, look after Darion.” Elienne shrugged lightly. “There’s no use fretting.”

Kennaird regarded her anxiously. “Lady, you had better hear me. Ielond knew his craft. Trathmere’s Loremasters were as blind men feeling their way among the stars in comparison. That list in the wrong hands could spell your bane in this world. Guard yourself well.”

“I will.” Elienne needed no warnings to emphasize her current danger. Aggravation made her response more curt than she intended. “But since I am in no direct danger at the moment, see to Darion, I beg you.”

Kennaird made no move to depart. “Beware of Minksa, Lady. She means you ill. I suspect she may have been involved with the theft of Ielond’s papers. Restrain your sympathies where she is concerned.”

“All right.” Elienne bit back impatience. She failed entirely to see how a little girl could have broken a Sorcerer’s ward, but that small point was not worth delaying Kennaird with argument. Darion needed help, and in another moment she would disobey completely and search for him herself. But Kennaird was through lecturing.

“Ma’Diere keep you, Lady.” The apprentice walked with her to the foot of the steps. Leaving her in care of the steward there, he hurried across the council chamber and disappeared through its wide double door.

* * *

The meeting of the Select did not adjourn until well into the afternoon. Escorted by the door steward, Elienne returned to the white and gilt paneled chamber in compliance with a summons from the Regent. She entered with reluctance. A surreptitious peek at the mirrowstone only minutes before had shown Darion’s condition unchanged. Kennaird had not yet managed to aid the Prince, and Elienne fumed inwardly at the barriers of formality that hampered her from taking action herself.

As expected, Taroith and Faisix awaited her in the recently vacated council room. Elienne held her eyes downcast, but not through any maidenly deference. Though she wished to alert Taroith to the Prince’s present danger, she dared not risk eye contact with the Regent. On the ice plain, the man had displayed a mindbender’s skills without visible sign of effort. Better Taroith should remain ignorant than risk having awareness of Darion’s drugged state plucked from her thoughts.

“Come here, Lady Elienne,” said Taroith. In response to her evident apprehension he added, “This examination will neither hurt you nor disturb your dignity.”

Elienne obediently sat in the chair the Sorcerer offered. With the same rigid indifference she had shown when Ielond transformed her dress, she held still as Taroith brought his focus to rest on her abdomen. The touch roused a chilly prickle of awareness. The Sorcerer cupped his hand, bent fingers eclipsing the white blaze, and exerted gentle but firm pressure.

Elienne felt cold slip like water through the fabric of her dress. The light penetrated the skin beneath, then muscle, and sank deeper. An alien presence invaded her innards like frost.

“Relax.” Taroith smiled and quietly slipped his other hand around her waist and placed it flat against her back.