TWOLAS - 05 - Grand Conspiracy

  Ellaine closed her eyes, while other hands patted and primped, and tucked ruches and arranged pins and jewelry. She could scarcely share her sister's breathless excitement over the bows and fine laces, or the delicate embroidery of gold worked into satin ribbons. As a comfortable cloud of patchouli arrived and settled in a whisk of silk at her right hand, her mouth turned up at the corners. 'I'm too pale, I know.'

  Her mother patted her chill hand. 'Never mind, Ellaine. Your eyes will be dazzling. We'll just brighten your skin with a dusting of rouge powder.' The beautiful, ringed hands which had managed each detail of her father's state palace in Erdane snapped once, and a maidservant jumped in response. 'Mind, not too much, girl! She'll flush with the dancing. We don't want her looking like a hussy, nor leaving streaks on her husband's fine cuffs as he touches!'

  Ellaine chewed her lip; caught herself; stopped. A fortnight in residence had shown her how tightly the wheels of efficiency meshed in Avenor's state household. Gace Steward ran everything like a high-strung dictator, until even the pot scullions feared to spread gossip. 'Ath, where will I be needed?' she blurted aloud.

  Her mother caught her shoulders in a careful, quick squeeze. 'Women's wisdom, my dear. You'll make your own way. This bastion of male authority will have chinks, and you'll find them, just as I did when I wed your father.'

  Ellaine opened velvety, tea-colored eyes. Her answering smile trembled at the edges, but courage shone through, steadfast and determined. 'Are you sure you taught me everything you know?'

  Her mother arose from her perch on the chair arm. 'You will bear the royal children. That will make you an influential power in this land, don't you ever for one moment forget. Your worth will come to be measured as Crown Princess. Nor will you fall short. You hold the threads of your prince's dynasty, and in that arena, your place beside him is equal. One day, your blood will shape Avenor's policy. Your son will sit the throne that commands Tysan's four principalities, and his deportment as a king will come to be the purposeful achievement of your life.'

  The lady's maid slipped the pins, and deployed the little ringlets that softened the line of a face which required little artifice to adorn the clear bloom of youth. Another hand arranged the jeweled pendant at her throat, and the room very suddenly seemed half-empty of life; the squealing of children and the companionable chatter of women relatives rolled into a sudden, poised hush.

  Her mother's wise eyes misted over. 'Blessed be, girl, you're lovely. You'll do very well. Come now, the carriages are waiting.'

  * * *

  In twenty brisk minutes, impeccably on time, the Prince of the Light emerged from the privacy of his chamber. He had called for no emergency council. Beyond his first orders to Sulfin Evend, he had done nothing more than let his servants attend to his dress. His stature ensured that their fuss was not wasted. The cloth of gold sash and sapphire tabard finished that precise, frosty poise that could intimidate at twenty paces. By the lighthearted charm annealed through his expression, no doubt clouded his committed intention to grant his new bride her day of carefree celebration.

  The talk of the courtiers drifted around him, brittle as beads of blown glass. If none of the pedigree elite could ignore the royal seal of silence, word of the smashed ships would break loose from other sources. The trade guilds had private couriers. The noon post run from Hanshire would reach Avenor by evening, to questions and unrest if the gate watch detained them. Ill news could not bide in close company for long. The ministers' wives in their layered gowns and amethysts, their velvets with silver-tipped ribbons, would hear from the lips of their lackeys.

  Like the flocking of sparrows before breaking storm, the guests poured in for the bridegroom's reception, smiling and oblivious. The palace halls jammed with their packed heat and noise; their grooms and their footmen thronged the vestibules. While the bride's procession wound through the city in gilt carriages with outriders tossing flowers, the highborn and the powerful gathered to toast the health of Tysan's prince. In crowded splendor, cloaks and jeweled mantles crushed together in steaming warmth and perfume, and a sibilance of flowery language, they wished him vigor and bliss through his upcoming nuptials.

  The secrecy imposed on the master shipwright's defection wove through the opening festivities, a thread of cranked tension as conversations faltered around Avenor's high councilmen, then lurched through a cascade of inane subjects on bursts of determined energy. Stifled intimations of disaster rode through empty compliments and innuendo like the pall of a ghost ship, passing. Strain tugged at the weave of the music and gaiety like the subliminal false note: here the jarring trill of laughter from a lady unaware of the pending call to muster; there the odd gap in mannered pleasantries which a member of the prince's inner cabal jumped to fill.

  Prince Lysaer himself was the picture of candor, his stunning good looks and royal bearing a sight to break hearts and wring sighs of envy from every female bosom in the room. Too soon, for them, the reception ended. His Grace owned that charmed manner of listening to each word, his blue eyes trained in riveted attention. And yet, the tongues of the gossips all noticed: his mind was a statesman's. He drew the morning formalities to a close precisely on the hour appointed.

  'And not out of ardor for his pale, nervous bride, you ask me,' hissed a dowager matron from under the fringed lace of her hat. 'Something else is afoot, I could bet all my pearls.' A porcelain, ringed finger stabbed home the point. 'The high chancellor's out of words, a first-rate astonishment, and the seneschal goes claptrapped as a rabbit anytime somebody mentions reclaiming the trade down the coast.'

  As the horses for the prince's cavalcade arrived in the outer archway, each led by a liveried groom, not a minister or high councilor failed to draw a deep sigh of relief.

  For his Erdani bride, Lysaer s'Ilessid had arranged a state ceremony, founded in the tradition of town law. The appointments he made had been lavish enough to overawe even the massive envoy from Etarra. His great hall had been bedecked with spring lilies. Garlands of primroses trailed in strung ropes from the hammer beams, tied up with ribbons of cream silk. By Westlands custom, the bride and her family were given first seating. They and their invited guests sweltered in their rain-dampened finery, while the youngest children ate dried fruits and fidgeted, and the bridegroom's procession wound through Avenor's main avenue, cheered on by merchant admirers and the heaving press of commoners clad in their holiday best.

  Decorum reigned, despite dreary weather. The state dignitaries paraded in their wilted panoply, red noses and broad hats clustered like posies under the fringe of swagged awnings. Their ladies tapped through the puddles in pattens, their rich mantles strung with pearls that fogged in the unrelenting drizzle off the sea.

  Once, a crofter from Korias broke through the mounted cordon. Through the press and the cheers, he demanded to know why an adept from Ath's Brotherhood had not been invited to officiate.

  The Prince of the Light heard that cry and drew rein. In glittering ranks, his honor guard halted. While his snowflake-dappled palfrey sidled and champed at the bit, he answered through an oddly bitter sorrow. 'You didn't know?' Unerring, his gaze singled out the man who had offered complaint. 'The adepts have been cozened by the delusion of Darkness itself. If you ask, they will insist that the Master of Shadow is innocent of his crimes against humanity.'

  'Innocent?' A burly cooper shook his fist from a second-story alcove. 'My own brother's bones lie buried under a rockslide in Vastmark, alongside his unblooded sword!'

  'Just so.' Gold fillet gleaming, Lysaer tipped his head in salute to the man's tragic loss. 'Our land and people will not be exposed to blind trust in a sorcerer who has torn down a mountain to cause a massacre. The adepts of Ath's Brotherhood are not welcome in my city. For that reason, Erdane's high chancellor is given the honor to preside over my marriage to Lady Ellaine.'

  The white horse leaped ahead to a touch of gilt spurs, while the rain misted the prince's collar of white diamonds to dim pearl and streaked tarnis
h through his unprotected hair. At the looming archway that fronted the great hall, the decorous procession reached its end. The bridegroom dismounted. His jewels spat reflections beneath the ragged flames of the torches. Two pages in white velvet took his palfrey, and liveried servants opened the doors. More light flooded out, scented with incense and primroses. Satin ribbons in Erdane's colors dripped from the wreaths by the entry. Watched by a spellbound populace, Lysaer s'Ilessid stepped inside, between the high pillars of rosewood, and the sagging, plumed hats of his courtiers.

  Cheers resounded from the street as the Mayor of Erdane handed his daughter to the prince. She was on that day seventeen years of age, with the brown eyes of a trusting deer and hair like burled walnut, twisted high in wire combs. Lips lush as peaches were flushed where her small, nervous teeth had pinched the blood to the surface. Her royal bridegroom touched her cheek.

  She smiled back, shyly radiant. The retinue of high officers trailed the couple inside, and the heavy oak panels swung closed. The riveted interest of the onlookers waned, leaving wet, cold people restless in the dusk, and the sheen of chill flagstone dulled from silver to lead under the whispering rainfall.

  Inside the dry sanctum, where privilege reigned, the shining perfection of the evening sustained, against odds. The ceremony passed without flaw. The cream of the company retired to the state ballroom. There, the inner circle of Prince Lysaer's guests dined their way through nine courses. Branched candelabra blazed with beeswax lights, and the boards were drawn from the feast. The Exalted Prince swept off the dance floor and returned the Mayor's pigeon-pert wife to the care of her beaming husband. Her blush cheeks glowed through the rice powder the inclement weather had not yet managed to smudge, and her eyelids fluttered from the royal flattery bestowed through the lull in the music.

  'Madam, my pleasure,' Lysaer murmured, his glance on his bride, whirled giddily away in the embrace of a middle-aged cousin.

  Gace, steward of the royal household, slipped in like a weasel and plucked at his Grace's sleeve. His lashes slitted in sly confidence, he whispered, 'There's been widespread comment, my prince. No delegation from the s'Brydion duke has arrived to honor your nuptials.'

  His manners unshakable, Lysaer s'Ilessid bestowed a light kiss on the soft, scented cheek of his mother-in-law. 'Madam, please excuse me.' His engaging smile never shifted, but his eyes were blue as fired enamel as he drew Gace Steward aside. 'Shouldn't your concern lie closer to home? Whatever has caused Alestron to withdraw, unless you speak to the servants about wine, Avenor's hospitality will be faulted.'

  'Your Grace.' Gace clicked his heels and bowed, his smug manner stiffened as he realized: the red was indeed running low. No doubt the fact had been pointed out to his prince by the unforgiving, sharp eye of the mayor's wife; the embarrassment galled him beyond his concern for the state of s'Brydion loyalties.

  Lysaer masked a smile as his steward scuttled off, primed with frustration and no doubt stormy reprimand for the servant in charge of the cellar.

  Since Gace's failed attempt, more than one courtier with the perspicacity to mention Alestron's lapse discovered the bridegroom escaped to the dance floor. Lysaer's elusive opinion on the subject sparked whispered speculation in dim corners. Behind their sealed silence, Avenor's peer statesmen pondered whether the four foundered ships might in some way be connected.

  * * *

  Outside, unconcerned with the snarls of conspiracy, the rain-dreary twilight melted into a gusty, black night. Stars spiked between shredded clouds. On the knoll above the harbor, Avenor's high towers bloomed with a twinkling garland of lights. Largesse was thrown to the beggars in the square, new-minted shadowbanes interspersed with commemorative coins struck with the princess's profile. When the coffer was emptied, the crowds loitered in the streets and the wineshops. Rich and poor jostled elbows, hoping to glimpse the royal couple, while an uneasy current of movement heaved through them, as men raced to arms from the taverns and barracks, and the ship's chandler loaded his supply drays by torchlight. His long-haired, plucky daughters drove them in thundering haste down the back streets to the docks, where the swearing stevedores packed casks and salt meat onto the galleys appointed to depart.

  Lord Commander Sulfin Evend presided over the messengers, coming and going. Still clad in dress finery, his unadorned field sword slung on a belt set with cabochon turquoise, he chewed a lamb pie someone had brought him and raised eyes like gray sleet from the latest list of lading. His tactical survey encompassed a high tower window with rose garlands spilled like clotted shadow over the edge of the sill. A light burned there, the solitary star of a candle.

  The time was two hours before the tide's turn at midnight. 'Be ready,' the Lord Commander barked to the state galley's captain, stalled by the rambade to chastise a green sailhand who fumbled to batten the forward hatch. 'Our prince will be timely. If not, you can claim the sunwheel badge off my tunic.'

  'For a dozen coin stake, I'll accept.' The captain's flinty laughter entangled with the boom of a rolling wine tun. 'Which makes for a heartless quick bedding of the bride, if you win. Or dare you place gold that the princess isn't a virgin?'

  Sulfin Evend flashed a sardonic grin. 'If she's not, then you'll see a mayor elect's head roll to a royal for treason. His Grace can't afford another taint on his wife.'

  Shouts swelled from the celebrants who swayed, roistering drunk on the seawall. By the harbor gate, small knots of stragglers had knit into groups of fist-waving craftsmen. Here and there, the plumed hat of a merchant appeared among them like a stray mushroom.

  'His exalted self had better not tarry,' the galley captain mused, his critical eye trained on the argument about to flare between his purser and the spitfire minx in charge of the wagon on the dock. 'The lid's coming off the bad news from the south. Angry trade guilds won't wait for our prince to prove out his prowess in the sheets.' Sea routes were open, but the old deadlock held; no goods could pass southward by galley with Havish's ports closed to slavery. Since thaws, the landbound trade through the Camris passes vied to press full advantage. Caravan masters had hiked up their haulage rates to the despair of the incensed merchants. 'Those ruined ships have left a rank mess. Believe it. We've got the entire high council belowdecks, buzzing like a pack o' hazed wasps.'

  'The wait won't be long,' Sulfin Evend assured. Upon his next glance, the window in the tower had gone dark.

  * * *

  Lysaer s'Ilessid leaned back against the wall, his ringed hand still clenched on the cord he had jerked to shut the heavy curtain. The candle by his elbow spat driblets of wax. Shouts from the street reached him muffled through velvet, meaningless as the noise of sea breakers. He shut his eyes, opened them, watched the jeweled rings on his fingers flicker like actinic static. He could not stop their trembling, though he gripped the silk drawstring until his knuckles gleamed white to the bone.

  Across the narrow landing, the door to the bedchamber cracked open. The Erdani lady's maid appointed to the princess swept into a tactful curtsy. 'She's ready, your Grace, and virgin in truth. Be gentle. Behind the excitement, she's frightened.'

  'You may go.' For a miracle, his self-command stayed intact, his voice a cool ribbon of steadiness.

  The maid bobbed another curtsy and departed to a proprietary rustle of skirts. Lysaer stood alone in front of a door he would rather have died than step through.

  'Merciful Ath,' he whispered before he recalled his forfeited right to beg help from that quarter. The beams overhead and the creamy brick lintels with their lion-bossed rods and tapestried hangings closed him in like a prison. He jammed down a memory: of long hair spilled like tawny satin between his fists; the breath he sucked in smelled of roses and beeswax as he pushed away from the wall. Two steps, three. He marveled the body could follow instructions when the mind cried out for escape. His duty to Tysan set in traitorous conflict against the cry of his heart, he raised the latch whose touch was ice under his filmed, sweaty hand.

  The bedchamber bey
ond held the stuffy perfume of the citrus oil used to polish the massive carved bed, and the cloying, heavy sweetness of roses which trailed from the urns by the casement. Damask curtains closed out the night. One candle burned on the pearl-inlaid table. Alongside lay a basket of oranges, and a tray bearing two cut-glass goblets, a wine carafe, and a stoppered decanter of brandy. Lysaer blinked, stabbed by the recollection of another chamber laid out with chilled wine and fruit, and a floor tiled in a turquoise motif of sea creatures.

  Then a runnel of sweat threaded his lashes and dragged him back to the present.

  This floor was eggshell marble, its polished shine broken by a patterned carpet from Morvain. He could not look at the girl on the bed, nestled in a drift of white sheets. She would be naked, scented, adorned in the gold bracelets and necklet he had given that morning as a bride-gift. She watched him with huge sloe eyes, and a trusting innocence that left him battered and speechless.

  He managed to pour her wine without snapping the fragile, stem goblet. With the brandy he was less successful. The spill ran down his fingers and flecked amber stains on the gold-stitched silk of the coverlet. Ellaine's silent censure seemed to sear his skin through his tabard as he drank, seated on the mattress with his back turned, and his eyes on the pleats of the curtains.

  'Lord Exalted,' she whispered. Glass clinked. She set her wine on the table untouched.

  He reached sideways, closed his hand over her slender wrist before she could withdraw from the gesture. 'Will you not drink?'

  Her trembling increased at the snap in his tone. Hand still locked to her wrist, he knocked back the brandy. The fire of the alcohol blazed down his throat, seared a path through the hollow in his chest, and settled a spark like damnation in his belly. He sat, the girl's delicate limb in his grasp, and waited to welcome the numbness.