“Send your soldiers to bring our injured kin to us. You two stay here.”
“We need to speak to . . .”
“What you need will be addressed later,” the flame-haired Sitha said, cutting Eolair’s words short. “I am Yeja’aro of the Forbidden Hills, and you are trespassers who may not make demands. But if you bring our kinswoman swiftly, and come along without trouble, I promise to return you here safely, whether the ones you seek wish to meet you or not.”
The Erkynguards looked confused, but since they were surrounded and outnumbered, they did not seem particularly eager to start a fight. “Go back to the camp and bring the Sitha-woman on her litter,” Eolair told them. “Quickly.”
After a bit of hesitation, the soldiers turned and rode back toward the camp.
“You two will have to leave your horses behind,” Yeja’aro said. “They will not be able to travel where we go.”
“Is it far?” Morgan couldn’t help asking.
Yeja’aro gave him a flat look. “That depends on how it is measured.”
It was growing dark quickly. Two of Yeja’aro’s hunters produced sticks of wood that suddenly burst into flame, although Morgan had no idea what lit them. By this light they waited as the forest evening deepened into night. Morgan thought he had never in his life experienced anything quite as eerie as being watched for so long by all those silent Sithi.
When the soldiers finally returned, this time with the horses bearing the Sitha-woman’s litter, they were accompanied by Sir Porto and all the trolls. Porto hurried to Morgan’s side. “The Erkynguard captain said he and his men are waiting just down at the edge of the trees,” he whispered. “If you need them, just shout.”
Count Eolair heard him and carefully shook his head. “We will not need the captain and his men, Sir Porto. And be aware—the Sithi have very good ears.”
Yeja’aro had been standing over the Sitha-woman’s pale, motionless form. When he looked up, his expression seemed to have tightened into an even deeper anger. “Your men would be sentencing you both to death if they attacked.”
“Nobody is attacking,” Eolair said. “These men are here in large part to protect Prince Morgan, our royal heir. We are a peaceful mission, and we want only to speak to your masters—”
“Masters!” said Yeja’aro with sudden fury. “Ha! Do the Zida’ya have masters now, like mortal men? Are we to have kings and slaves and such?” He stared at Morgan and Eolair for a moment, then his face turned expressionless once more. “We will take you with us now. Say your farewells.”
“I would like to come too,” said Binabik. “I am knowing Prince Jiriki and his sister of old, and am proud to be calling them friends.”
“And I am pledged to help this mortal prince find his destiny,” Snenneq said. “I must go too, because I have made a pledge!”
The Sitha looked at Binabik’s wolf-steed Vaqana. It clearly puzzled him, but he only shook his head. “What you might have pledged, or how you might name the members of House Sa’onserei, means nothing to me,” said Yeja’aro, and pointed to Morgan and Count Eolair. “No others will accompany us but these two.” And nothing Binabik or Snenneq could say would change his mind.
To Morgan’s surprise, in the midst of all the other danger and confusion surrounding them, he actually found himself feeling sorry for both Binabik and Little Snenneq, who looked absolutely miserable that they could not go along.
“But for how long will we be gone?” Eolair asked at last. “How can our men wait for us if we cannot tell them how long?”
Yeja’aro shook his head in irritation. “There is no answer. If you wish to come with us, come. If you do not wish to, do not. But if it is you who have harmed this woman Tanahaya,” he gestured toward her litter, “and you have told us lies about it, then we will find you no matter where you are and destroy you.”
Morgan was torn between wanting to tell this self-important fellow a few things and his earlier urge to get out of the vicinity as quickly as possible. Stymied, he looked to Eolair.
“We will come with you, Yeja’aro,” said Eolair. “We wish to see her healed as much as you do.”
Qina reached up and touched Morgan’s sleeve. “Remember Sedda sent token to you, Prince Highness,” she said so quietly he had to bend down to hear better. “The moon mother saw you on the mountain. She watch out for you.”
Morgan did not know what to say, and only nodded his head.
“Do not fear, friend Morgan—we will all be waiting here,” said Snenneq. “In the same place, until the time of your returning.”
“He is speaking truth,” said Binabik, his round face stern. “Your safety is being our sworn promise to your grandparents. We will be waiting.”
“But hurry back, Highness,” Porto added. “The king and queen will have my head if you don’t.”
As Morgan and the count finished their farewells, four of the Sithi took up the handles of the litter and carried it silently away into the forest shadows.
“Walk now,” demanded Yeja’aro. “You two follow one of the torchbearers. I know mortal eyes are weak, especially after the sun has gone to her bed.”
“You heard him,” said Count Eolair with a less than happy smile. “Time to go, my prince.”
Morgan was afraid to look back at old Porto and the rest as he left them behind, worried that in his fearful state he might do something that seemed unmanly. He did his best to walk like a man who was not afraid as he followed the light of the Sithi torches into the ancient forest.
47
Hidden Chambers
The climax subsiding, Idela rolled onto her back and took a deep, shuddering breath. Her breasts trembled. “Oh, sweet and merciful God. I have been without a man so long—since my poor husband died!”
Pasevalles thought the pink flush on her throat and cheeks was very moving, and did not doubt that she had deeply enjoyed their lovemaking of recent days, but he was a bit more cynical about the idea that he was the first she’d had since Prince John Josua’s death. Too many rumors had come to him over the years, and he knew that Sir Zakiel of Garwynswold, the guard captain, had been frequently in Idela’s company in years past—so much so that some courtiers had taken to calling him “the Widow’s bed warmer”.
But whatever he might think of Idela’s application to chastity, Pasevalles was beginning to admire her more than he had thought he would. She had not mentioned their agreement once since she had first brought it up. In his experience, those who expected favors were prone to remind him of it far more often than necessary, but the princess had left the entire subject cloaked in dignified silence. Not that he needed to be reminded; in this respect, at least, he and Idela were of like mind. He too wanted Morgan to learn responsibility, or at least some semblance of it, so the young prince would make a fitting ruler one day.
He reached out and touched her right breast, tracing his finger up from the base to the still pouting tip. She shuddered and pushed his hand away. “Don’t! You make me want to start all over again.”
He smiled. “I am in no hurry.”
She sat up, pulling the coverlet up to her neck, then thought better of it and let it fall. Idela was a handsome, vital young woman, something else Pasevalles could not help but admire; someone who did not sit back and wait for things to come her way but reached out for them—quite the opposite of his own mother, who had largely given up on life after Pasevalles’s father had died at the battle for the Hayholt. When the fever caught her, she had not resisted—even his infant sister had fought harder, although she too had ultimately succumbed. But his mother had been like the defenders of a castle who had decided to open the gates to a superior force: The fever had barely touched her before she surrendered.
Not Idela, though. The prince’s widow still had ambitions and not just for her son, Pasevalles knew: she wanted a meaningful role in things. Pasevalles might bring not
hing in the way of patrimony, but he had worked hard and made himself an indispensable man here in the Hayholt. There would be no shame in John Josua’s widow marrying a lord chancellor, especially one who was in line to become the next Hand of the Throne. Pasevalles was pragmatic about himself, too: he did not flatter himself that his charm or looks alone had led them to this bed on this hot afternoon. Idela knew the limits women faced, even royal women, and she wanted a partner. Pasevalles was seriously considering the partnership, although neither had spoken of the possibility out loud, or even hinted at it beyond his promise to push the king and queen for more responsibility for Prince Morgan. It was not as easy a decision as it seemed. Pasevalles had ambitions of his own, ideals he had harbored since boyhood, and Idela was a strong-willed woman who would want her own way in any marriage.
He smiled at the thought that he was even contemplating taking a princess for a wife.
“You look pleased with yourself,” she said, catching his expression and smiling back. “Now that you have made a fallen woman of me.”
“Angels do not fall,” he said. “They fly down on their shining wings, so that we mortals may see something of perfection.”
She pinched his arm. “I wish I could believe that you really thought that.”
“You do not know my depths, lady, if you think me incapable of such strong feelings.”
Idela laughed, but there was a hitch in it, as if for a moment real emotion had interfered with pillow talk. “You read me like a book! That is just what I thought of you for so long. So proper, so courteous! Always dressed just right, always the correct thing to say. I am glad to learn that you are not as prim as you once appeared. The things you do to me—!” She shook her head. “I could never have guessed you were such a wicked man!”
He put his mouth close to her ear. “If the angel can remain earthbound just a while longer, there are other mortal tricks I could show you.” He kissed the side of her neck.
She turned and took his face between her hands and stared into his eyes, long and searchingly. “Sometimes I do not know what to think of you, Pasevalles. Truly I don’t. You are such a gift.” She let him go. “But I cannot stay. The queen expects me to join her this afternoon, and I had to tell a terrible lie just to steal this time.” She sat up and looked around the chamber. “How strange to be so close to everyone yet so far from them, too!”
“Must you really leave?”
“Yes, I really must.” She swung her legs out and set her feet on the floor. “How can it be so hot outside but these stone flags are cold as ice?”
“This room has thick walls,” he said. “Because it was once part of an old fireplace flue, when this part of the residence had only one, although it was sealed off and filled in long ago. That is one reason why it is so private—even if there were people in the next room, they would hear nothing.”
“Private, silent, and all but unused. How clever of you to find it.”
He shrugged. “When I first came to the castle I enjoyed roaming through it, discovering bits of its history. I have long kept this room as my secret—I have the only key. There are so many chambers here in the residence that even when we are full up with guests, nobody bothers with it. Even the maids do not come in.” He sat up so he could better watch her dressing. “I needed a place where I can steal some time for myself, especially when I have to exercise Count Eolair’s duties as well as my own.”
“And that is all you ever do here?” she said, then lifted her foot to pull on her hose, showing him the smooth length of her leg. “Truly, Lord Pasevalles?” Her flirtatious manner had a hint of something deeper, something Pasevalles could almost scent—a touch of desperation, perhaps.
“I promise you, Idela, you are the first lover I have ever brought here.”
“I choose to believe you.” She turned and crawled across the bed to kiss him, wearing only hose and her half-donned shift. Her curling hair draped either side of his face like the curtains on the bed canopy. She dragged her breasts slowly across his chest as their lips met.
“My mother-in-law will be furious,” she said. “But I could be a little late.”
“You should not,” he said, pushing gently on her shoulders. “Remember, one of their chief complaints with Morgan is that he is always late—when he shows up at all. Let us not remind them of his faults in his absence.”
She pouted very prettily. “I expect the man I bed to be quite mad with lust for me, not to speak with practical good sense.”
“Then you should pick younger men, my beautiful one. Remember, I am quite old and that means, I fear, a certain practicality.”
“Mmmmm.” She leaned close again to kiss him one last time, so he could feel her skin upon his, her breasts upon his chest. “You are not so old as all that, Lord Chancellor. Oh! You have made me tingle all over, all over again, dear, dear Pasevalles.”
“And you have brought something into my life that has been long missing,” he said. “But now we must both get up and attend to our duties, so that we may have this in the future. Discretion, Princess, discretion! This household is a thousand mouths and two thousand ears just waiting for interesting tittle-tattle.”
She sighed, but sat up and returned to hunting for her clothes, cast here and there in the heat of their first moments. “When will we be together again?”
“Soon, I pray. It will be difficult with the escritor and all his retinue coming tomorrow, but we will find time, I promise.”
“You had better. I am a religious woman, but I do not consider an escritor, even when sent by His Sacredness himself, an acceptable excuse for you to stay away from me.” She stood and stretched, showing him her pale ribs and belly before pulling her shift back down in mock modesty. “Goodness! I forget myself—and in front of our respectable lord chancellor, too!”
“You are truly beautiful, Highness,” he said, and meant it.
“And I am yours,” she said, without any mockery at all.
Their lovemaking had been stormy, almost angry. At times in the darkness he had felt as though he lay not with his wife of so many years, but some she-beast of the wild forest, all snarls and scratches. Afterward, they lay panting, side by side but not touching.
“Why?” he said again, when he could talk. “Tell me why?”
“I have already told you, and you know I am right. There is no other way.”
“That wasn’t what I was going to ask you.”
“What, then?” She sat up. “Sweet Elysia, it is so hot.” He heard her fumbling toward her table, then a moment later he heard the clink of ewer against goblet as she poured herself watered wine. He listened to her swallowing. How strange it was, to live in the dark! How different it made things. Even the familiar sounds made by his familiar wife were transformed into little mysteries.
“Why did you marry me?” he asked.
“What? That is a foolish question. I married you because I loved you as I loved no one else, before or since.” But something in her tone made her words seem odd and false to his ears.
“If that is true, it doesn’t explain why you are so often angry with me.” He didn’t mean to sound like a hurt child, but he knew that he did. At the moment, though, hidden by the darkness, he did not care. “When we argued earlier, you all but called me ‘kitchen boy.’ As if, despite more than thirty years of being a king, of ruling at your side, I was still a child you thought you had to instruct.”
“No, no. That’s not true. It’s not even fair.” He heard her bare feet pad across the floor, felt the bed sag slightly as she climbed back in. “It’s just . . . sometimes I lose patience.”
“As you would lose patience with a child. Or a simpleton.”
“Simon, please. It isn’t like that. Not truly.” Her hand found his in the darkness and curled within it, like an exhausted animal looking for shelter. “I love you so much that it sometimes makes me think I wo
uld go mad without you. But sometimes you don’t seem to think beyond what you can see, what you can reach. If someone tells you they mean well, you believe them. If someone fails you but tries hard, you never punish them, or even dismiss them.”
“Isn’t that what Usires taught? ‘The weakest of thee, the poorest of thee, those I love the most.’”
“Usires was not a king! He did not have the safety of all the world to consider. He was a fisherman’s son.”
“Like me.”
“By the Holy Tree, Simon, see how you do it again! These are important matters.”
“And you are saying that the souls of men, which Usires tried to save, are not important?”
She pulled her hand away. “Are you being difficult by intention because you are still angry with me?”
“Oh, am I the angry one?”
“Just now you are.”
He bit back what he would have said, and for long moments they lay side by side in silence.
“I’m afraid, Miri,” he said at last. “I’m not angry, I’m afraid.”
This time his wife’s reply was careful and quiet. “What do you mean? Afraid of what?”
“Everything. That I’m a fool blind chance has made a king. Or even worse, that I may have been destined for this throne, but I have disappointed destiny.”
She said nothing for a while. The darkness seemed as thick as treacle, covering everything. “Miri?” he asked at last.
“I fear being a disappointment to our people, too,” she said quietly. “It would be a wicked ruler, I think, who didn’t. But that is not my greatest fear. I have already seen that come true.”
Simon understood, and now it was his turn to fall silent.
“I miss him too,” he said at last.
“Every day,” Miri replied. “And the strange thing is, I don’t merely miss him in one way. I miss the clever young man who died, but I also miss the baby he was, that chortling, fat-legged cherub who used to pull my sewing box down and then sit in the middle of all those pins and needles, laughing. I miss the boy who so badly wanted to shoot a bow, and then wept when he actually shot a bird. I miss all the different John Josuas at the same time. How can that be?”