Ielond towed Elienne onward, oblivious to her growing alarm. The orange sun hung off to the right as though suspended, and awash in torrid light, the icefield glimmered behind like the Plains of Hell. Following Ielond’s footsteps, Elienne saw the steady brilliance of his focus begin to shine through the solidarity of his person. At the next step, his cloak glittered like frost-shot glass and sparkled into transparency. Elienne felt the cold tingle of enchantment pierce her inner-most flesh. She wanted to stop, but the Sorcerer pulled her relentlessly forward.
“We have entered the threshold of the Timesplice.” Ielond’s voice seemed diffracted, and both hands and feet disappeared after his cloak. “Ma’Diere’s fortune go with you, Lady Elienne. You are Darion’s last hope in life. Abandon him, and his death is certain.”
The Sorcerer moved directly through the dazzle of light that burned, hot as a star, at the end of the icebridge. The solidity of his body unraveled into a blaze of blue-white sparks and vanished. Elienne felt herself gripped and hurled after him into oblivion. The light snapped out with the speed of a lightning flash, and sky and icebridge fell away into darkness.
Elienne could neither hear nor see. Her throat would not answer her desire to scream, and her very soul was plunged into cold darkness, fathomless as Eternity.
Chapter 3
The Council Major
ELIENNE wakened rudely to the stinging, bitter taste of a strange liquid; fumes scoured her nostrils and made them burn. She choked, supported by strange hands. Through watering eyes she caught the blurred impression of an anxious face lit by a candle. All else was darkness.
“My Lady?” said a voice. “Can you hear me?”
Elienne nodded, unable to speak. Whatever she had been made to swallow bound her throat in knots. The cold lip of a flask brushed against her mouth. Fearing a second draught would be forced upon her, Elienne turned her head violently to one side.
“No more,” she managed to croak, and coughed wrackingly so that her objection could not be ignored. Rewarded, after an interval, by the thin clink of glassware being set aside, Elienne blinked away the tears that dammed her eyes.
She lay on a thick-piled carpet magnificently patterned with birds of paradise. Her shoulder was propped against the knobby, carved foot of a dragon whose middle region supported the seat of a chair; and, in the trembling light of a hand-held candle, a sandy-haired man bent over her, thin face drawn with concern.
“Ma’Diere be praised,” he said in a rush. His blue eyes protruded slightly, lending a faintly surprised expression, but his mouth was kindly and generously proportioned. “I was afraid we had lost you too.”
Elienne struggled to sit. “Ielond,” she said, and stopped. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the dim room. Over the young man’s shoulder she saw a figure in blue velvet robes sprawled awkwardly across the top of a paper-littered desk. Horror and loss wrenched a gasp from her lips. “No!”
“He is beyond help.” The young man swallowed. “Dead.”
Elienne bit her lip and restrained an obscenity. She was less successful with the urge to weep that followed.
The man gave Elienne’s hand a self-conscious squeeze. “I know how you feel.” His own voice betrayed grief. “Master Ielond has instructed me since my fourteenth year. I loved him better than my own father.”
“Then you must be Kennaird.” Elienne blotted her face on a silken sleeve. “I was told to trust you.”
She disengaged her hand from Kennaird’s clasp and began to rise, but, overcome with dizziness, she made it only as far as the cushions of the dragon chair. “Hell’s Damnation, what’s the matter with me!” The room began to swirl in sickening circles.
Kennaird confessed with embarrassed haste, “It’s the elixir I gave you. It will only bring you sleep.”
Elienne struggled to stand. “Where is Darion? I wish to speak with him.”
“You must not. Not before the Grand Council has sanctioned him as your betrothed.” Kennaird’s words sounded as though they were funneled across a wide distance.
“Eternity take the Grand Council!” Elienne struggled for control. Her tongue seemed swollen and thick. “I have to see Darion.”
But Kennaird remained stolidly unsympathetic. “Ielond guessed as much. It was his final will that I keep you safely in this tower until tomorrow. A little sleep will do you no harm, and it might improve your temper.”
“Damn you,” Elienne responded, shaping her consonants with extreme effort. Her tongue had grown as sluggish as her eyelids. “Damn yooouuu....”
Her eyes closed. For a long moment Kennaird stood and regarded the small, almost delicately proportioned woman intended as Prince Darion’s bride. Ielond had said he would seek a lady of spirit. The apprentice blasphemed with uncharacteristic fervor. “Ma’Diere’s everlasting mercy! He’s sent us a veritable harridan.”
* * *
Elienne woke to warm sunlight. She stirred languidly. Her clothes had been removed, and whoever had done it had also left her in a marvelously soft bed. She felt rested and pleasant, but for the pestilent itch that had developed in the area of her crotch.
Elienne shot upright, sending pillows and bedclothes in a cascade to the floor. More than sleep had invaded her body during the night. She’d have bet every jewel Ielond had given her that Kennaird had also blessed her with a convincing reconstruction of her maidenhead. The thought raised blistering anger.
The apprentice sorcerer chose that moment to poke his head through the door. “Good day, my Lady.”
“You,” Elienne accused scathingly, “have the manners and the morals of a billy goat.” She made no move to cover herself.
Kennaird gaped. The tops of his ears turned scarlet, and he retreated hastily, slamming the door as he went. Through the thick, carven panels, his voice sounded strangled. “Missy, what was done was for Darion’s sake.”
“He damned well better be worth it.” Elienne flung the coverlet aside in anger. “I’ll not suffer every churl and his brother sticking his hands beneath my skirts without granting the courtesy of asking first.”
“Missy, please.”
“You’re not forgiven,” raged Elienne. “Let me be.”
The door opened. Kennaird stood braced as though expecting a blow. But Elienne merely slipped out of bed and stood, wrapped in the chaste folds of a sheet like a barefoot queen.
“My Lady,” the apprentice said coldly, “kindly dress at once. It is already half-past eleven, and you must appear before the Council within the hour. Ielond recommends you to them as a Prince’s bride. Act like one, whether it pleases you or not, or another will pay with his life.”
“Goat,” said Elienne.
Kennaird departed. But he paused on the far side of the door to loose a snort of laughter into his sleeve. Over his work the past night, he had envied Prince Darion the mate Ielond had delivered, but no more. That missy the Prince could have all to himself, and his Grace would be lucky if his hair wasn’t gray before the turn of the season.
* * *
Kennaird sat at Ielond’s desk sorting through papers when Elienne emerged from the bedroom. Alerted by the sound of the door latch, he looked up and studied her with light curiosity. Ielond had fashioned dress and jewelry with the finesse of a master. Golden silk and tourmalines complemented Elienne to the point where it was impossible to imagine her dicey temperament, far less her waspish tongue.
“I am glad you’re not one to fuss overlong with dressing,” said Kennaird. “Ielond’s death has put an already delicate situation squarely on top of a nest of chaos. The Council will be in knots arguing over Darion’s succession, because but seven days remain before his twenty-sixth birthday and he has not fathered even a bastard child. You are the first and only candidate for the Prince’s Consort whom Ielond has entered, and suspicion is already high because he waited so very late. Your case must be presented at the earliest po
ssible moment.”
Elienne offered no response. Instead she gazed about the study with unconcealed interest. Absent were the flasks, braziers, and phials that would have cluttered the dwelling of a Guild Sorcerer from her own land. Though Ielond’s walls were tiered floor to ceiling with the usual rows of dusty leather books, she found no implement of a Loremaster’s practice anywhere in the room.
“Ielond’s sorceries were crafted entirely of mind and will,” said Kennaird. “His art was discipline; his power, self-awareness. He had no need of gimmicks.”
Elienne stared. “Was it he who taught you to read thoughts?”
Kennaird shook his head. “I was guessing. My training has not progressed so far.” He tapped a sheaf of papers with a finger. “But Ielond left much information on you and the place you came from. He had established knowledge of your existence before he broke the barrier of Time and left Pendaire. He had only to locate you and return.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I wished you to know just how much faith Ielond placed in you.” Kennaird rose hastily from his chair, heated for argument.
Elienne interrupted. “I think I already know.” Her annoyance showed. “Ielond gave his life, and I my word, for the sake of Prince Darion’s succession. I realize I am a sorry substitute for your Master’s living presence, but that was his choice. Honor his memory by respecting it.” Elienne paused to rein in another stampede of tears. She was through crying over what could not be changed. “Don’t take your Master’s death out on me,” she finished shakily. “And quit trying to shepherd my conscience.”
Kennaird looked down at the papers beneath his hands as though they held an answer for his uncertainty. The brown jerkin he had worn the night before had been replaced with a heavy black robe bordered at the cuffs with a triple band of blue. The deep colors contrasted harshly with his light hair and complexion, and morning light only accentuated the fatigue that ringed his eyes. For a moment, Elienne regretted her outburst. Ielond had not left his apprentice an easy legacy. But before she could offer apology, Kennaird rose and collected a document crusted with seals.
“My Lady, the time has come to present you before the Grand Council of Pendaire.” With evident annoyance, he scooped the remaining papers into an untidy pile. Then he flung wide the study door and motioned the Lady of Ielond’s choosing over the threshold.
Elienne waited on the balcony that overlooked the head of a spiral staircase while Kennaird set a ward to guard the doorway. His focus resolved after an interval of profound concentration. Compared with Ielond’s brilliant manifestation, the apprentice’s effort shone dimly, no more than a faint bluish gleam over his spread palm.
Yet Elienne watched without criticism as he traced a pattern over the oaken panels above the knob. None of the Guild’s followers could have done as much with so little. Completed, the ward sparkled to invisibility.
Blotting sweat from his brow, Kennaird nodded toward the stairs. “I hope you are as sturdy as you are stubborn. It’s a long way down.”
The words were no understatement. By the time they reached the bottom, Elienne was grateful she had led an unfashionably active life for the wife of a Duke. She wondered briefly whether she would be as free to indulge in hawking and riding as wife of a King.
Kennaird led her through an arched portal at ground level. The view beyond stopped Elienne in her tracks.
The tower opened into an immense garden completely enclosed within a courtyard. Blue, orange, and yellow flowers bloomed in a magnificent array, framing fountains, lawns, and hedgerows with breath-stopping artistry. Above, washed in golden summer sunlight, and brilliant with pennants, rose the spires and battlements of the royal palace.
“How beautiful,” exclaimed Elienne softly, but that moment she caught sight of a flaw amid the garden’s perfection. A dirty, dark-haired child sat huddled beneath an evergreen beside the path. She glared at the two of them, a scowl printed on her smudged oval face.
“Hello,” said Elienne.
When Kennaird turned and saw whom she had addressed, he stopped at once and bent imposingly over the bush and the child it sheltered. “What are you doing here? Does your governess know where you are?”
“No!” The girl shrank into her thicket of needles, hands clenched tightly around scuffed knees.
Elienne grasped Kennaird’s elbow. “Must you be so harsh with her?”
The girl seemed no older than twelve. Elienne stooped and offered her hand, but the child backed violently away. Branches whipped, dealing Elienne a stinging rebuff, and the girl escaped at a run across the emerald expanse of lawn on the far side.
“You insolent brat!” Kennaird yelled after her. “I’ll have you punished.”
Elienne frowned. “Let the poor child be. She was obviously frightened to death of you.”
Kennaird presented her with a startled glance. “That was Minksa,” he said angrily. “She‘s ]ieles’s bastard and, incidentally, one of your enemies. You’ve a lot to learn about this court and its ways before you question my judgment, Missy. Remember that.”
Kennaird strode off before Elienne had time to reply. She was obliged to hurry as the apprentice hustled her without sympathy through an exquisitely carved entry and down a maze of hallways. The decor within reflected the same restrained artistry as the garden. Though Elienne longed to linger and stare, Kennaird‘s hasty step prevented her.
He slowed at last before a wide doorway with broad double panels and a round stag device chased in gold. The knob was set with gems.
Kennaird addressed the liveried steward who guarded the entrance against intrusion with urgency. “I bring with me Ielond’s candidate for the Prince’s Consort.” He waved the sealed document. “This writ was the Master’s last in life. Let me and the maid pass. She is the one chosen to share his Royal Grace’s destiny.”
The steward raised eyebrows in surprise. “You bring a missy endorsed by the Prince’s Guardian? Enter, with my blessing. They’re fighting in there like the two halves of Eternity over His Grace’s future, and—”
“I know. Excuse me.” Kennaird pushed past the steward and opened the door, motioning Elienne after him.
Neither the garden nor the exceptional elegance of the palace halls prepared her for the sight of the Grand Council Chamber of Pendaire. The room was oval-shaped. Loftily domed, a triple row of galleries filled with seated councilmen, tiered its entire circumference. The floor was tiled with a mosaic depicting Ma’Diere’s seasons, fall and winter beneath her shining Scythe, and spring and summer lit with the warmth of the Seed of Life. A dais centered this array, upon which sat an exquisitely dressed collection of notables.
“Which is the Prince?” whispered Elienne in Kennaird’s ear.
“Hush.” The apprentice was sweating. Something had made him nervous, and, searching that vast chamber for the reason, Elienne began to take note of the proceedings. An emaciated old man stood on the dais. Heavily ornamented red and black robes draped his stooped back, and though his poor health was evident from a distance, his tremulous voice carried clearly the breadth of the room.
“...since his Guardian’s death, his Grace has done nothing but drink himself senseless,” the elderly man said with succinct clarity. “Were he a Prince worthy to rule, he would not indulge himself to the point of shameless exhibition. It is my opinion this Council wastes time seeking a formal Consort. What can his Grace achieve in seven days that he hasn’t already tried with every scullery drudge and loose wench he could find to fill his nights? My Lords, your Excellency, I say Prince Darion is unfit for succession. The sooner that sad fact is faced, the better for the well-being of this realm.”
Elienne wondered how anyone could listen to such a hidebound outburst; but like the first warning of stormwind on a still afternoon, murmurs of assent swept the packed galleries. Elienne’s temper roused, stripping away the last vestige of re
straint. Caution abandoned, she slipped past Kennaird and walked boldly onto the floor.
“Fools!” she said scornfully. “Would you listen to that lame old rooster? Fathering children is a pastime for the young.” She shot a withering glance at the elder, whose jaw quivered with outrage in a face gone red to the top of his bald skull. “Or had you forgotten that, in the advanced state of your senility?”
Hard hands gripped Elienne’s arm, and a flurry of black velvet rippled against her skirts. “Will you shut up?” hissed Kennaird in her ear. The council chamber had fallen silent, and every eye in the room was upon them. At that moment, Elienne noticed who sat in the great chair at the top of the dais.
She had not looked closely at the man when she first entered, but now his golden gaze drew all of her attention. Fear knotted her stomach. Though unfamiliarly framed by a court setting and a collar of burgundy brocade, the fine, light hair, high cheekbones, and sculpture-perfect features were indelibly etched in Elienne’s memory.
“Have you business here, woman?” Faisix said softly. “If so, it had better be exceedingly important. Your abusive contributions are not welcome.” His eyes passed lightly over her gown of yellow silk. “And the clothing you wear is a royal affront. How dare you, without this Council’s approval, dress yourself as Prince’s Consort?”
Kennaird objected loudly. “She has Ielond’s endorsement.” He flourished the writ in his hand, and confusion erupted across the council chamber.
“Silence!” The uproar reluctantly subsided as Faisix nodded pointedly at the document. “Bring that here.”
Kennaird bowed neatly from the waist. “Your pardon, Excellency. I was instructed to give this only into Master Taroith’s hands.”
Faisix seemed unperturbed. “Very well. Taroith?”