The Eunuch's Heir (18 page)

A tingling warmth began to grow in his toes and slowly crept up his ankles.

Barely breathing, Wolfram looked up.

A little ways off, Deishima lay on her back, her face to the moonlit sky. With that whispering toss of her head, she had blanketed his bare feet with the richness of her hair.

SUNLIGHT TOOK
a long time to reach Wolfram’s little corner, but he awoke on the instant as a callused hand reached for his shoulder. He jerked upright, relaxing only a little as he found Lyssa staring down at him.

“Great Lady, Wolfram, have you been here all night?”

He shrugged, trying to gauge her mood from the shortness of the question. “Most.” A light blanket of wool so fine it was nearly transparent covered him. Slipping it from his shoulders, he stroked the material between his hands. A cup of tea, long since cold, sat beside him as well, and he took a sip of it as if he’d been expecting it. The sharp flavor perked his senses, rolling in a complex blend of spices down his throat. He had never bothered to try it before, and now he could see the appeal. Draining the cup, he rose, wincing at the stiffness of his wounds.

Lyssa stared, arms folded. “You’re lucky the guards didn’t find you here; I guess the bushes hid you well enough.” Her voice crackled with an energy concealed in her hooded eyes.

“Or they weren’t looking very hard.”

One shoulder shrugged. “You’d best wait the morning in my chambers, Your Highness. I have to go before the Jeshan and beg him to exile you instead of lopping off your head. If you get in any more trouble today, I doubt I can manage that.”

“I appreciate the favor, but I can’t leave.” He started to brush past her, but she caught him in a grip of stone.

“What does that mean? Haven’t you had enough of antagonizing the heathens?”

Wolfram met her eyes—she still had an inch over him. “Something’s going on here, Lyssa, something serious, and I’m not leaving until I understand it.”

“I’ve never known you to be so driven before, not where it didn’t concern your own skin.” She sucked in her breath once she’d said it, as if taking back the regret he could read in her eyes.

“You’re right, Lyssa. I happen to think my skin is involved somehow; and I’m sure that Lochalyn is.”

Her fingers dug a little deeper. “Tell me.”

“I don’t think there’s a war; I don’t think there ever was. Not that it would surprise me—there’s not an acre of unplowed ground in this county, people everywhere, and no water.”

“Oh, be serious.” She dropped his arm and snorted. “I’ve seen the battlefields to the south, and I’ve been to the river as far as that’s concerned. Where do you get these ideas?”

“What river? The one not far off, there’s a handy little oxbow in the trees where the elephants wait while you go down to drink?”

Her eyes narrowed. “That’s the one.”

“I’ve been there, too, only the water was gone. I found the barrels that river sprang from, and the dams to hold it in for a few hours—for a few foreign guests. Tell me about the battlefields.”

“Bodies, torn-up ground, scorched fields, broken weapons—it was a war.”

He frowned, considering that.

“And they like to cut one eye out of their prisoners, surely you’ve noticed, most of the guards here—”

Wolfram laughed. “That one, I know. The eye patches? Most of the men wear them, none of the women. It’s not a war wound, it’s a defense against magic: women’s magic.” He waved his arms around in an imitation of Deishima’s gestures. “Royal women can do things with their hands, and they only work if you can see the gesture with both eyes.
That’s how Deishima caught me here before. Ashwadi, they call it.”

Again, Lyssa snorted, but there seemed less certainty in the sound.

With a chill, Wolfram recalled the moment of their arrival, his suspicions of Faedre being allayed by a smile and a few movements of her hands. “Talk to Faedre; see if she lies to you.” He started walking, and she fell in beside him.

“She must’ve gone to a lot of trouble not to meet me these past few months. Of course, in this place, it isn’t difficult to hide.”

Distracted a moment by Melody’s door, Wolfram nodded vaguely. He wondered where his erstwhile sister had gone, what she had done after he’d left her. He didn’t know how he would ever apologize to her.

“Hey!” Lyssa snapped, regaining his gaze. “You don’t have to respect me, Wolfram, but I would appreciate a little of your attention.”

“It’s not that,” he said. “Really, I just wondered where Melody was.”

She stared at him with hard eyes, her lips expressionless.

Flustered, he stumbled on. “We convinced them we were brother and sister. Well, we look it, anyway. I hurt her feelings last night.”

“That sounds familiar.”

The cold claws began flexing in his spine, and he gritted his teeth. “You know what a wreck I am, you’ve always known, so don’t put this on me. We almost made a terrible mistake; it won’t happen again.”

“Did you make a mistake with Melody, too?” Her eyes flinched shut a moment as the words left her lips.

“Not that kind.”

Lyssa shook herself and crossed her arms. “They went to the tower at dawn or thereabouts—Faedre and Melody both. I’m supposed to pick up the priestess for this meeting with the Jeshan.”

“Good. Then I’ll come along and find Melody. We’ll both be happy.”

“You shouldn’t—” she began, but he was already walking. In two long strides, she passed him. “Do as you will, Your Highness. If I keep you from death, it’ll be for his sake.”

Wolfram didn’t have to ask whom she meant as they cut a path to the tower, matching each other in anger and purpose, ignoring the hapless servants who dodged out of their way.

Out of the shady garden and the stone walls of the palace, the day had already grown hot. Wolfram waited, arms crossed, in the sun, despite the headache throbbing his temples. Ever watchful of her naked scalp, Lyssa stood in the long shadow of the tower. Restless, Wolfram started pacing, following the path marked by the decorative tiles inset in the floor. Each one had a different picture, frequently showing the sky, with the sun or moon partially visible and strange creatures writhing among the stars. Letters in black stone, like those on the tower itself, formed a border around each panel.

“Highness Wolfram!” Esfandiyar bleated, emerging from behind the tower. “Here you should not be, for the Jeshan’s anger is yet terrible.” He hurried forward. Faedre and Melody appeared behind him, with Deishima and her leaf-strewing servant following.

Wolfram went quickly to meet them, darting a glance to Lyssa as she approached. “Melody, I need to speak to you, please.”

Melody raised her head, her shoulders back. All of her clothing was richly embroidered with a pattern of stars and the moon and sun centered over her breasts. About her neck hung a figurine of Ayel and Jonsha. “I no longer wish to hear you.”

“I’m sorry about last night, if you could just let me explain—”

“Have I not said that I’ve heard enough?” Her hands clenched into fists at her sides, and Wolfram let his own hand fall.

He hung his head and sighed. At the hem of her wrapped skirts, Melody’s feet poked out. Twining symbols in dark red traced their way over her toes, and he snapped his eyes back to her face.

Melody looked sharply away. “Holy One, I am not feeling well.”

“I understand, my daughter, and you may go,” Faedre answered her, her voice dripping with sympathy.

Gathering her skirts, Melody fled down the stairs, with Wolfram left in her wake.

“She has elected to take the Two into herself, Wolfram,” Faedre’s gentle voice told him. “Perhaps later she will discuss her choice.”

Lyssa and Faedre brushed past him toward the stairs. The servant scattering his leaves followed more slowly, with Deishima upon her path. She did not look his way, but flicked the fingers of her left hand, making the bracelets chime, as she passed.

“Highness Wolfram,” Esfandiyar said. “It is not wise, truly, to be standing in the sun so long.”

Wolfram looked back at him at last. “When have I ever been accused of wisdom?”

Embarrassed, Esfandiyar gazed into the distance, his bare toes crossing each other and uncrossing as he stood.

Faedre and Melody stood at the center of whatever plan they were building, but Esfandiyar could not be too far away himself. Wolfram found a smile. “Why don’t you show me your palace? If you’re with me, I can’t get in any more trouble, right?”

“Yes, yes!” Esfandiyar brightened immediately. “What would the highness wish to see?”

Taking in the palace rooftops in a slow circle, Wolfram fixed on the strange dome he had noticed before. He pointed, and said, “What’s over there?”

Some of the brightness quickly faded. “It is my holy office, Highness Wolfram.”

“You don’t seem very pleased about that.”

“I am simply uncertain if this is the right place to be showing you at the present moment.” He gazed at the dome, a smile flitting about his lips.

Suddenly sure of his plan, Wolfram inquired, “What harm could it do? Is it near the Jeshan or his daughters?”

“Indeed, no.” Esfandiyar clasped his hands behind him, regarding Wolfram from his dark almond eyes. “Then we shall see it. I think there is not any harm in it for you.” He puffed out his chest and showed his golden teeth. “Coming as you do from a—less settled place, surely this will be a sight for you.”

Esfandiyar gestured for Wolfram to walk beside him, and they set out across the roofs. A narrow path paved with stone tiles picked its way ahead of them, curving between sharper roofs, and draping itself over those more shallow, skirting the sudden openings of courtyards. Each yard gave a little glimpse of the life of the palace as servants brushed away insignificant dirt or rearranged the stone stools and low tables. Several sprouted lush gardens, tended by yet a legion more of servants. A few held cracked tiles populated by lizards and little else, evidently unused for many years. These occurred with greater frequency as they approached the dome. The roofs themselves had plain tiles and little ornament compared to other sections, and their pale, weathered color showed their age.

At last, the dome rose up before them, a perfect hemisphere, and yet quite as old at the rooftops they had passed. Here and there cracks traced the stone structure, and patches showed darker on the surface. Great bands of metal clutched the dome, etched with lettering and strange symbols similar to the tiles surrounding the tower. Interspersed around the structure, small windows pierced the dome, even cutting into the metal to let in tiny bits of sunlight.

Esfandiyar led the way around to one side and into a narrow stair, the treads so cupped by many feet that Wolfram had to press both hands to the walls to steady himself. Not that this was difficult—his shoulders barely had room in any event. Descending from the sunlight, he squinted into the darkness ahead, only to be confronted with a wall.

The priest clasped small metal protrusions, performing a series of twists, then lifting a section of the wall out before him. Though grunting under the weight, he urged Wolfram past, and replaced the door behind them. It slid smoothly
into place, and the sequence of motions was repeated to lock it.

Inside, except for the apparently random piercings of the dome, all was black.

“How about a light?” Wolfram said, putting forward a cautious foot.

“Ah! Indeed no!” Esfandiyar clutched his shoulder, holding him still. “Many pardons, but it is essential not to walk until your eyes are used to darkness.”

He released Wolfram, and they waited. Gradually, Wolfram could make out other features of the space in the intermittent light. He looked first to where he stood and took a sharp breath. They stood on a narrow walkway not even as wide as the stairs behind. Both sides fell off precipitously to the corresponding half of the sphere below. Wolfram shot a glance back to Esfandiyar and caught the tiny glint of his golden smile.

“Many pardons, Highness Wolfram, I should have been warning you not to step astray here.”

“Yes, you should.” As he studied the points of light in the dim space, they began to seem less random. Some of the openings were round, some square, with a very few octagonal. The lights they cast were distorted upon the round walls, stretching into strange shapes picking out the edges of elaborate paintings. Here and there, a face showed, obliquely illuminated in vivid colors. More often, he made out patterns of marks and letters. The only one of the lights close to perfectly round illuminated such a patch. The characters upon it looked familiar, and Wolfram dared a few steps along the narrow way to draw up across from it. It was the same as one of the tiles he had lately examined around the perimeter of the tower.

Suddenly, he laughed, turning back to Esfandiyar. “You keep the hours here—and at the tower as well! These round holes mark the hours.” He gestured up to the dome, then frowned. “Some of them do, anyhow.”

“Aha!” Esfandiyar agreed, coming surefootedly to join him. He pointed to the round spot on the wall. “We should soon be eating.”

Wolfram turned a slow circle, studying the walls. He had been in Dylan’s observatory in Lochdale: it did not look much like this, but if he accounted for the distortion of the sphere, the flat markings they used back home would bear a similar pattern. Of course, their observatory was only a few years old, with many measurements yet to be taken, while this one must have stood for centuries. Paintings dimly seen and little blocks of letters encrusted the walls. The path he stood on bisected another, and he could make out one even narrower going around the edge of the dome. From what he could see, the markings continued on the floor below, interrupted by the pathways above, and he imagined generations of priests like Esfandiyar crawling about with paintbrushes or balancing on ladders to mark the various chips of light that held such great significance for them.

“It’s extraordinary,” he breathed, wishing Dylan could see what the Hemijrani had accomplished. Dylan was one of the moon-watchers, just beginning to trace the path of the night sky. One set of holes—perhaps the squares—would mark the moon’s pale light. Knowing the effort his friend put into complicated measurements and records, Wolfram stood in awe of the room he now witnessed, with the full pattern of the sky arranged around him. “You tend this place?”

“Indeed. It is the wonder of our people.”

Wolfram smiled at the pride in the other man’s voice. “Indeed. You must have rooms devoted to records and charts.”