Taroith quickly assumed the seat appointed for the Regent. The Prince located a chair for his Consort, but Elienne refused it. Like Darion, she preferred to remain on her feet. Already the Chancellor of the Realm tallied the black and white chits deposited in the ballot box by the Councilmen.
At length the Chancellor rose. He spoke softly to the Herald, who finally mounted the dais and stood before the stone rostrum. Sound died in the wide, tiered chamber as he drew breath to announce the result.
“Your Grace, Excellency, august Lords of the Grand Council, the vote is four hundred thirty-six to fifty-two in favor of the writ, now made official by Law.” He repeated the terms Taroith had recited earlier: Darion and his Consort would be married upon the date appointed, the Prince’s authority to be limited to Regency until the birth of a new heir.
Buffered by courtiers who suddenly crowded the dais to congratulate the Prince, Elienne barely noticed as Darion’s arms circled her.
“They expect me to embrace my bride,” he said in her ear.
She returned Darion’s kiss with unresponsive lips, feeling the tension that gripped his spare body. He released her to a thunderous roar of applause.
Elienne looked around and saw Jieles regarding her with exaggerated deference and hostile eyes. “My most sincere felicitations, Lady.” He bent his fiery head and reached to kiss her hand.
He knows he will inherit, Elienne thought, disturbed by his blatantly aggressive overtones. She withdrew from the Duke’s touch with an absent nod and spoke quickly to Darion. “Your Grace, please excuse me. I must see Taroith.” And before the Prince could react, she slipped from his grasp and weaved through the press of bodies toward the Regent’s seat. But Taroith had already gone.
Quickly Elienne searched the surrounding courtiers. The slightest delay would weaken her. The only possible way Darion could gain the throne of Pendaire was for her to renounce her place in his life.
A knot of officials drifted toward the dais steps. In their midst, Elienne glimpsed a gray robe banded in black silk. “Gifted!”
Taroith paused, cloak draped over his arm, and waited for her to make her way to his side.
Elienne ignored the frowning man whose conversation she had interrupted. “Gifted, may I see you at once, in private?”
The Sorcerer’s brows rose. Sharp brown eyes studied her, and the courtier commented unpleasantly about the intransigence of women in matters of stare.
Taroith responded shortly. “My Lord, I find your opinion bereft of any grace, even intelligence. Will you excuse me?” And he escorted Elienne promptly from the dais.
“You would hardly approach me for something unimportant,” he said as they passed beyond earshot. “Don’t mind that ignorant fool.”
Yet just such an ignorant fool had power to influence Darion’s future; Elienne was not placated. She walked across the brightly tiled mosaic floor, reminded of a morning nearly ten months past when she had crossed the council chamber with the same Sorcerer, her purpose to warn him of Faisix’s plot against the Prince. She wondered whether Taroith would prove sympathetic as he had during that first encounter.
The Sorcerer touched her arm gently, urging her forward. “We’ll go to my personal study. You’ll be comfortable. There’s a fire, and no one will trouble us.” His soul focus brightened overhead to light the way.
Elienne moved woodenly at his side. If Taroith proved unsympathetic to her plan, all she hoped to gain for Darion might be lost. She was grateful, suddenly, that she had not had time to change after her ride. The plain green wool of the habit became a symbol of unpretentious origins, before she had been ranked a Princess. Her resolve was strengthened by the belief she would be renouncing nothing that was honestly hers; Darion belonged to the people of Pendaire.
After uncounted turns and two flights of steps, Taroith guided her through a plain door. The room beyond was small, cozily furnished, and striped by wide bands of sunlight from a row of dormer windows. Elienne perched uneasily in the armchair opposite the desk while the Sorcerer laid aside his cloak and kindled the stacked logs in the grate with his focus. A small tabby cat slept curled on the scarlet cushions of the window seat. Elienne envied its peace. Taroith seated himself and waited expectantly. Chills chased her skin into gooseflesh; yet having gone this far, she would not flinch from completing what she had come to initiate.
“Gifted.” She swallowed and started anew. “Gifted, in view of the Grand Council’s decision, I’ve a confession to make.” She met the Sorcerer’s steady brown eyes with rugged determination. “I beg you to listen without judgment, and to stand with me in finishing the work Ielond began. If Darion is ever to claim his full birthright, I’ll need your help.”
Taroith leaned forward on crossed arms, hair coiled like sea foam around his black-banded collar. “Mistress, set your mind at ease. Much of what you’ve come here to relate may not surprise me. I am aware Ielond had a master plan; Darion’s affliction is known to me.”
Elienne gazed down at the scuffed leather toes of her riding boots, relieved to know the Sorcerer at least would not expose Darion’s heirship as fraud. Bracelets clinked on her wrists as she forced her interlocked fingers to relax. In a steadier voice she said, “Then you knew my child was not legitimate, and that Darion’s seed was cursed to sterility by Black Sorcery?”
Taroith straightened in his chair. “Cursed! Ma’Diere! That ritual requires the death of a virgin girl! How was such an evil thing accomplished?”
“Faisix murdered Minksa’s sister. The Prince was seventeen at the time, yet he forbade his Guardian to work the counterspell. Ielond broke the barrier of Time in an effort to save him.” She described her departure from Trathmere by Timesplice, and Ielond’s certainty that her dead husband’s child could not be detected by Pendaire’s Sorcerers for a full three days following conception. Taroith did not interrupt. Her words came with difficulty as she related how the Seeress’s prophecy obstructed any chance of conceiving another man’s child to become Darion’s heir. She finished flatly. “Our marriage will produce no children. But I know a way to ensure the Prince’s succession, and satisfy the prophecy, so that Halgarid’s line will inherit after him.”
The tabby stretched in the window, pink tongue curled into a yawn. When she leaped lightly onto Taroith’s lap, he stroked her fur with an absent hand, his expression thoughtful. “You have come to ask my help?”
Elienne mustered the last of her courage. “Gifted, I ask your cooperation. I cannot marry Darion, if he is ever to inherit lawfully. Discredit me as Consort. Betroth the Prince to Minksa, and get her pregnant by another man.” Fiercely resolved, she raised hardened eyes to the Sorcerer’s face. “Her child will be of Halgarid’s blood, thereby satisfying the Trinity of Fortune.”
Elienne leaned back in her chair, drained by stress, and poised on a knife edge of hope and loss. She had said everything necessary. The Sorcerer had only to approve, and Darion’s future could be assured.
Taroith lifted the cat and released her on the rug. His cragged features showed little of his thoughts as he laced his hands together on the desk top. “What of yourself?”
Elienne answered briskly, “I am nothing in this world. Spare your Prince, Gifted. He is the future of Pendaire.”
The Sorcerer bent his head and watched the tabby stalk across the carpet, tail held haughtily aloft. Beyond the windows, a quarterstaff cracked flatly as a hackbut against silence. Taroith swore. The Prince was at practice again.
“Mistress,” he said at last, “your offer is the gift of an honest and unselfish heart. Yet I advise against such a course of action.”
“What else can I do?” She felt cornered. “Gifted, for Darion’s sake ... I have no other choice.”
“There is always choice, Lady.” Taroith raised his voice over the din of weaponry from the courtyard. “Accept your Prince as husband. Unless my awareness of you errs badly, you
love him as you once did the father of your deceased child.”
“But the prophecy!” Elienne protested. To her annoyance, Taroith smiled. The thought that he might be patronizing her sparked anger. “Black Eternity, Gifted, does Darion’s life mean nothing to you? Do you want Jieles to rule?”
The Sorcerer rose. Gray velvet rustled as he rounded the desk and caught her tense shoulders with firm fingers. “Elienne, you base your assumption on flawed facts. The Trinity of Fortune is incomplete without all of its parts. Did you think to ask Darion for his third?”
Elienne shook her head, stubbornly resistant to comfort. “Gifted, Darion was drugged unconscious at the time the Seeress delivered the prophecy to him.”
“It’s not lost.” Taroith’s hold tightened. “A Seeress’s words never pass unheard.” Ask Darion for his portion of the Trinity. Afterward, if you still wish to renounce your Consortship, come back, and we’ll talk. But I caution you: Ielond chose you for the Prince’s bride. Trust there was purpose behind his selection. Change might well disrupt the legacy he left his ward.”
The Sorcerer urged Elienne to her feet. Beyond the window, the interplay of quarterstaffs reached a crescendo. “Score!” shouted Darion.
Taroith smiled. “You’re dressed for the outdoors. Go to your Prince.”
Doubts lingered in her thoughts as she reached the door. The tabby blocked her path, and Elienne bent to move the animal aside.
“Lady!” The Sorcerer shouted, razor-edged with urgency. “Summon Darion.”
Elienne started and whirled around, surprised rather than frightened.
Taroith overtook her in two long strides. The cat streaked out of his path. “Use the mirrowstone, at once.” He grasped her forearm and wrenched open the door.
Bundled unceremoniously into the corridor, Elienne gasped. “What’s happened?”
“Call Darion to Minksa’s chamber, now.” Taroith turned a corner and plunged down the stairway, his fingers like iron upon her wrist. “Minksa’s dying.”
Elienne groped at her neck for the mirrowstone’s chain. The echoes of her own footfalls beat at her ears as the jewel caught in her palm. She sent a mental call to the Prince; his surprise struck her in a wave of cold, and she sensed him fling aside his quarterstalf in dismay.
“... stabbed herself.” Breathlessly, Taroith ducked into a corridor. “Duaire tries to hold her to life, but her spirit is unwilling, for reasons—” He broke off suddenly, then said, “Oh, Ma’Diere. So this was the outcome Ielond foresaw.” He stopped so suddenly she slammed into his side. The Sorcerer caught her close with his other hand. “Mistress, keep steady. We’re going to transfer.” And the narrow stair exploded into light. Wind slapped into Elienne’s skirts. A flash of energy scalded her, and emptiness yawned under her feet. The sensations ceased with a snap. As her eyes adjusted, Elienne viewed a small, candlelit chamber, sparsely furnished. A tray of food steamed on a side table. Beyond, Duaire bent over a slight, familiar form, the hem of his robe darkened crimson. He spoke without looking up. “Mercy upon her. She used a fork. Taroith, I couldn’t hold her. Something concerning a debt to the Prince and his betrothed, and far too strong to countermand.”
“I know what it was,” Taroith sighed. “Is she gone?”
Duaire’s shoulders sagged as he straightened. “Yes.”
Yet another loss, Elienne thought. Minksa had been a friend. Tormented as her short life had been, the girl had not deserved such an end. These were the fruits of the intrigues surrounding the succession of Pendaire’s throne.
“Summon me a circle of seven Masters. But spare yourself, Duaire. You’ve spent enough of your strength.” With careful hands, Taroith lifted Minksa’s corpse from the floor.
Elienne watched dully as small, streaked fingers fell away from the smeared handle of the fork.
“Don’t look,” said Duaire unexpectedly out of the darkness at her side. He caught her close; the sounds of the other Sorcerers’ arrival was muffled by the fine cloth of his sleeve.
Suddenly Darion’s voice cut clearly through the noise. “Taroith! No! I forbid this!”
Elienne twisted clear of Duaire’s hold and saw the Prince standing in the doorway, pale features set with denial. His shirt lay open at his throat, and sweat gleamed on his collarbones. Across from him, ringed by six League Sorcerers, Taroith leaned over Minksa’s limp form, hands stained red from handling her, and head bent in apparent deference.
Yet when he looked up, determination etched new lines across his lean face. “Your Grace, the girl died believing she granted you deliverance.”
“No.” Darion made a trapped gesture with his hand, breathing hard. The stag medallion flashed on his chest. “You’ll work no darklore for my sake. I refuse to see you damned.”
But Taroith was not deterred. “Would you permit Faisix to reverse the curse against you?”
“He’s dead.” The prince spoke aggressively, clear warning his temper neared the breaking point.
“Not precisely.” Taroith paused, as though waiting. His gaze stayed locked upon the Prince. A moment later, one of his colleagues entered carrying the iron bar that confined the demon ring which had once driven Minksa to murder. The Sorcerer handed the rod to Taroith, who raised it balanced across his palm. Stillness settled over the little room, and Elienne held her breath as he addressed the Prince. “Your Grace, if I release the ring and place it upon my own hand, Faisix’s projection will supplant my will. With seven Masters present to direct his influence, I believe he may be pursuaded to reverse your affliction, in the same manner as it was originally cast. Our offense against Ma’Diere’s Law will be but slight.” His tone turned stony. “Faisix was not the only adept about with a touch for mindbend.”
Darion stepped out of the doorway, stern profile bronzed by flamelight. “There’s danger to you.”
Taroith gripped the bar of iron on either side of the ring and stared at the bright gold glitter of the demon as though he and the Prince were alone. “Of course. Should my colleagues lose control, yes, there is danger. There is danger in all sorcery. But I assume that risk, as is my right.” He looked up in sincere appeal. “Trust me, your Grace.”
“I understand.” The words seemed tortured from Darion’s throat. Fallen hair veiled his expression as he blotted his brow with his sleeve. “Please take my Consort from the room. I will not risk her to Faisix again.”
Duaire moved to Elienne’s side and took her elbow.
“No, please. I wish to stay.”
But Duaire paid no attention. He caught her with uncompromising firmness, just as Taroith set his hand on the ring, soulfocus stark as a beacon over his head. Heated air fanned her hair as Duaire steered her toward the door, and a harsh blaze of scarlet rinsed the walls. Duaire guided her firmly outside. The corridor went dark as the latch fell shut under his hand.
The subdued light of the Sorcerer’s focus drove the blackness back. She sat down on the cold stone, weary, feeling decades older than the desperate woman who had first come to Pendaire with Ielond. “I wanted to forgive her,” she said at last.
Duaire sighed, scarred features troubled by memories of his own. “Minksa could not forgive herself. All her life, she was used as a pawn in this mad play for power. She died believing your heirs would bring an end to the feuding. Mourn her loss, but do not dishonor her sacrifice, my Lady. The decision to take her life was hers alone.”
Elienne waited in silence. From within the cell came a rumble of thunder and a sharp metallic clang; she heard a Sorcerer’s voice say, “Your Grace, I suggest you burn that garment.” After an interval, the door opened, throwing yellow light into the corridor. Darion emerged, shirtless, his face a mask. Taroith followed on his heels, haggard with weariness. He had rinsed his hands. Elienne watched the approach of the Sorcerer and the Prince and thought, It’s over now. It’s all over.
Gently Darion pulled her up fr
om the stone. Elienne leaned against him and listened to the steady beat of his heart. Taroith shoved damp hair back from his brow and broke the silence with a curt command. “Your Grace, tell Elienne your third of the Trinity of Fortune.”
Darion swore in mild surprise. “Wasn’t she told?” And he leaned close, a trace of life restored to his expression. “The Seeress promised me my heart’s desire.”
“Your succession.” Elienne traced his jawline with hesitant fingers. “I’m glad.”
“Ma’Diere.” Darion laughed and lifted her effortlessly into his arms. “No, love. My heart’s desire was nothing less than a child of my own, by you.”
“The curse has been reversed.” Taroith raised an iron rod newly bent into a seamless ring. The demon glittered hotly, imbedded immovably in a surface that glowed white with wardspells. “Lady, I can promise with Eternity’s finality Faisix will cause no more harm to your children.”
Darion cradled her close. The Sorcerers fell behind as he moved off down the corridor. Elienne felt his grip shift as he started up the stairs.
“I can walk,” she said. When he failed to respond, her protest turned heated. “Lord, put me down!”
But his arms only tightened. “Not here, my future Queen. I’m taking us both to the bedchamber. We’ve an obligation to the realm of Pendaire.” He paused. Chestnut hair tickled her cheek as he kissed her long and gently. When he finally raised his head, a dawning glimmer of joy shone through his solemnity. “Our first male heir will be named Cinndel. This time, by right of sovereignty, I’m going to insist.”
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