A tall, white-haired gentleman rose from a seat on the dais. Robes of silver-gray covered a spare body, and the eyes, brown and kindly, were set in a face molded by wisdom and compassion. From the first glance, Elienne knew she confronted Ielond’s equal, a Sorcerer she could both trust and like.
“Kennaird,” Taroith said immediately. His step, as he descended the dais, was that of a man half his years. “I see you wear mourning for Ielond. You have my sympathy. He was the finest Master Pendaire has ever known.”
Taroith gave Elienne a smile of reassurance and with honest curiosity accepted the writ. “Welcome, my Lady.” He looked down and briefly inspected the seals on the document. “Pendaire could benefit under a Queen such as you. I wish you the best of fortune with the Prince.”
The Sorcerer broke the seals with swift efficiency in a certain prescribed order. Though bent with age, his fingers moved like lightning. As the last wafer of wax parted, a bright blue glyph blazed into view alongside the light of his focus.
Taroith smiled and addressed the Council. “That is Ielond’s own ward. It could have been set only by his living hand. Therefore, what it sealed lies beyond our right to question here.”
The chamber became still as death. Taroith quickly scanned the written lines and at last raised his eyes from the parchment.
“Your Excellency,” he said to Faisix. “My Lords.” He directed a respectful glance toward the galleries, momentarily preoccupied; then, with a confident gesture, reached out and grasped Elienne’s hand. “The writ of Ielond, Guardian of the Royal ward, Darion of Pendaire, recommends to us this maiden, Elienne, as candidate for Consort. Ma’Diere bless her presence. She has solved a difficult problem.”
A tumultuous wave of talk rose, drowning Taroith’s last words. Beckoning to Elienne, the Sorcerer nodded toward the dais.
“Go with him,” said Kennaird. “And good luck, Missy.”
Elienne moved forward, aware the uproar in the council chamber centered on her. Taroith led her up the steps to the dais. The insulted elder stood at the top, shakily glaring at their approach. Elienne ignored him. He was a known enemy. Surrounding her, as yet undeclared, were others. Elienne studied the faces of the notables on the dais before their first startled expressions could be replaced by less revealing ones.
Taroith placed Ielond’s writ is Faisix’s hands and drew Elienne forward. “His Excellency Faisix of Torkal, who serves Pendaire as Regent until the Prince’s rights of succession have been confirmed.”
Elienne curtsied, since courtesy demanded it. Strangely, no trace of recognition appeared on Faisix’s features. He would not recall the meeting on the icefield until a fortnight hence, Elienne realized. Ielond had spliced her back in time; for Faisix, the encounter had not yet taken place.
Faisix’s light, chill gaze broke through her thoughts, rapt with the curiosity of a predator whose hunger is temporarily quiescent. At last his glance returned to the writ.
“Ielond’s choice,” he mused. “Your Prince has been made to wait a long time for you, Missy.”
Abruptly the Regent rose and addressed Taroith. “Circumstances are hardly normal. The Prince’s grace period is nearly over. I will urge the Grand Council to adjourn at once, that the ten Select may meet separately over this matter.” Faisix turned and spoke anxiously to a portly individual who stood nearby. Though confusion still prevailed on the main floor and in the galleries, his words brought gradual order to those on the dais.
Taroith gave Elienne’s hand a light squeeze. “Formalities, only. Don’t let them upset you. Ielond’s word will stand. It cannot be otherwise. There may be inconveniences added to satisfy a few malcontents, but nothing overly serious. Ielond without a doubt had compelling reasons for selecting this hour for your presentation. Anyone who knew him as I did will trust his judgment, and the rest must acknowledge his legal writ.”
Elienne stared at the richly patterned carpet under her feet and wondered how much Taroith knew of Faisix and the Prince’s curse. Obviously the Sorcerer endorsed her cause. But if the unsettled emotions she had noticed among the council members had accurately gauged their reaction to her presence, she would need more than support. She required nothing less than an ally who was guarded against treachery, and of those present Ielond had placed trust in only one.
“Gifted,” said Elienne to Taroith, turning so Faisix would not overhear. “Gifted, one present wishes the Prince to fail his succession. He has powerful followers.”
Not a flicker of expression altered Taroith’s countenance, but he drew Elienne away from the crowd of notables promptly. “Missy, if Ielond told you who the Prince’s enemies were, you had best name them to me now.”
They reached the stairs and started down. Taroith’s focus lit features that were calm but receptive; and, drawing a deep breath, Elienne plunged ahead. “Don’t ask me to explain,” she said in a low voice. “I know this much first hand, without Ielond to warn me. Your Regent wants Prince Darion dead, Gifted, and my own life to him is but a grass stalk before the Scythe of Ma’Diere.”
Taroith directed a swift glance over his shoulder. Faisix lingered yet on the dais, though the Select of the Grand Council had begun to heed his summons and gather into a group. Looking back to Elienne, Taroith said, “Whatever you do, don’t mention him directly by name. He is Sorcerer enough to follow what concerns him, and no ward of secrecy is possible in this place.”
As they reached the level of the mosaic, Taroith ushered Elienne across its echoing expanse toward a small side door.
“Your accusation is a grave one, Missy.”
Elienne dodged around a message boy who had stopped in her path to stare. “Gifted, Ielond left me but two names I could trust in all Pendaire. Yours was one of them. He said I was to look to you for guidance.”
Taroith regarded Elienne long and steadily as he walked. “Ielond gave his life to bring you here, didn’t he?”
Elienne nodded, avoiding speech. The Guardian’s death was too recent for her to contemplate without emotional interference.
“Well then.” The Sorcerer reached the door, pushed it open, and briskly drew Elienne after. “We mustn’t fail him in his final wish. You have my protection, Lady. We will soon see who would rather Darion fails his inheritance.”
“Jieles, also,” Elienne added.
Taroith made a noise in his throat. “That one I already know to be grasping and selfish.”
With a wave of his hand, the Sorcerer set his focus about the task of igniting the wall sconces. Thin new flames lit a white-walled room trimmed with gilt molding, and furnished with a long table and chairs. The last wick had barely caught fire when the door opened wide to admit the Grand Council’s Select. They were all past middle age, and as brilliantly dressed as a flock of rare birds.
Pendaire must be a rich kingdom, Elienne concluded, or else its peasantry was excessively oppressed. The last of the Select filed in, the elder Elienne had insulted entered among them, supported on Faisix’s arm.
“We can also assume that old Garend there is no friend,” murmured Taroith in Elienne’s car. “You touched his pride with your slight to his manhood, I’m afraid. He is one who holds a vicious grudge.”
Confronted close hand by Garend’s crumpled cheeks and pinched, miserly features, Elienne found it difficult to regret her hasty words. The man reminded her of sour milk. Never one to bury dislike under innocuous courtesies, Elienne accepted the chair Taroith offered without comment. The Select of Pendaire’s Grand Council would no doubt provoke response from her soon enough; she had simply to wait and to watch.
Faisix opened by having Ielond’s writ read aloud by a scribe. The document was lengthy, detailed, and formally phrased, yet the Select listened without interruption until it was complete. The silence held as the scribe returned the writ to Faisix and departed, leaving the liveried door steward the only other nonofficial in the room beside El
ienne.
“It appears Ielond has left us an eminently qualified candidate,” said Faisix to the assembly. “All that remains to satisfy the procedure of the law is this Council’s signature of endorsement.”
A subtle and clever opening: Faisix had used simplicity as a gambit in a trap to be sprung by the Prince’s own supporters, Elienne realized immediately. Her suspicion was swiftly confirmed.
“There are but seven days left for Prince Darion to conceive an heir,” said one of the Select. “Ielond’s timing has given him poor odds of fulfilling the terms of the Law. I move that he be allowed a twelve-month extension, lest he be condemned without fair chance.”
The debate was opened. Faisix sat back in his chair, ambiguously silent, as another voice contested. History held record of six royal executions. Not one of Darion’s predecessors had been granted additional time.
The original defendant was quick to point out that those six unfortunates had been paired with a legal Consort for years. But Garend struck down that argument with a specific.
“What difference, my Lords?” he said in his rasping tenor. “King Mistrael II had no legal Consort at all. He was granted his rights of succession on the evidence of four illegitimate children. This Prince of ours has lain with enough women to demonstrate the potency of his favors. He has sired no bastards. The Grand Jury would have no choice but to rule out his case.”
Murmurs of assent underlined Garend’s statement, but argument prevailed. Words grew heated, and delicately, without Faisix’s prompting, the Select swung their questioning from Darion to Ielond’s own motives for revealing an unknown candidate at the bitter end of the Prince’s trial period. Garend’s contributions figured heavily. His was the first attack to be targeted at Elienne, and even through dignified phrases his malice was apparent.
The accusations prompted Taroith, who had remained silent, to speak out at last. “Garend,” he said with firm finality. “The Lady’s candidacy is not yours to question.”
“I must,” Garend responded. “For the sake of Pendaire. Though no Sorcerer, even I am aware a gifted healer can simulate virginity well enough to pass your examination. If this missy were an ordinary candidate, Ielond surely would have presented her case before today. I say the Prince is incapable, and that fact is what prompted his Guardian’s great delay.”
A muttering swept around the table, killed by Taroith’s forceful exclamation. “Nonsense! Ielond was the most respected Master in Pendaire; that was the reason he was appointed Guardian to begin with. You do him and Elienne both a disservice by mistrusting her candidacy. I personally believe she is someone special, that Ielond took pains to select her above other more available women. Whether true virgin or not, she cannot be pregnant without her examiner’s knowledge. And I remind you all it is Darion’s ability to father offspring which must satisfy the Law, not the past history of his Consort.”
“But suppose Ielond was capable of creating pregnancy and shielding it by sorcery,” Garend persisted. “The possibility must be considered.”
Surprisingly, Faisix himself ended the controversy. His lips slid easily into the thin, brittle smile Elienne recalled from the icefield. “My Lords,” he admonished. “Are we so easily made victims of hysteria? Pregnancy cannot be fabricated without employing the Black arts. If such is the case, it will be quite obvious even to the green eye of an apprentice.”
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 fin
ished 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.”