The Eunuch's Heir (27 page)

Tilting his head to see her better, Wolfram waited a moment, but she said no more, and he led them onward, carefully negotiating the way over roots and stones.

By the time they had covered the short distance to Gamel’s Grove, Wolfram was ready to sit still for a long while. The hitch had become a limp, and his breathing came too hard. With a negligent hand, he offered Deishima the nearest bench, and sprawled in the grass a little more roughly than he had intended. Taking deep breaths, he admired the golden glints upon the pond, shaken by tiny ripples as the fish came up to kiss the air. A newer stone slab thick enough to serve as a bench crossed one edge of the clearing, by the path, which led onward to a chapel in the deeper woods. Hemlock trees shaded that side, home to a trio of chattering squirrels that chased each other up and down, performing acrobatic feats from one tree to the next. When he had been a Woodman, Wolfram had spent long hours like this, waiting while the beaters chased a deer or boar toward him, and he concentrated on being a part of the wilderness, invisible and harm
less. He drew himself up to sit and found Deishima watching him.

Her shawl twitched as she turned away.

“It’s all right to stare,” he said. “Everyone will, I have to get used to it.”

She turned back to him, sitting slender and straight, her tiny hands in her lap. “It is a beautiful place, this grove.”

“I’ve always thought so. This is the place where Strel Gamel prayed to our Lady, and She granted his heart’s desire.”

“It is a holy place?” She shifted on her seat.

“No, the chapel is farther on. This,” he told her, considering how to word it, “this is a quiet place. A place where all are welcome.”

Nodding, she seemed to relax.

Wolfram plucked at the grasses, then steeled his nerve and began, “I have to ask you about something I heard, on the ship.”

Instantly, she stiffened. “What is it that you heard, Highness Wolfram?”

“You, Faedre, Esfandiyar, and Melody were talking, about me, I think. You said you were preparing me for something. I need to know what you meant.”

Her eyes glinted white then dark in the shadow of her shawl. “There was a ritual we desired to perform. It would also require your participation, but it cannot be, not now that I am defiled.”

“How are you defiled?”

“I have been too long away, in unclean places. I am no longer pure.”

Twisting the grasses about in his fingers, Wolfram pondered this. “So their plans, this ritual can no longer happen?”

“Not in the way in which they intended it. I do not know what they shall plan now.” Her shoulders drooped, and her hands slipped in beneath the veil. For a moment, they covered her eyes.

“Then it’s true that you can never return to them; you can never take back your place,” he said softly.

Deishima shook her head just once, as if she had lost the energy to do more.

“What about your father? I can send you home.”

“I would be punished most severely for the time I have been apart from my guardians.”

“But you would still be a princess.”

Very softly she replied, “I would be dead.”

“He would kill you for that? But it wasn’t even your fault, you have done nothing!”

Framed by folds of cloth, her dark eyes met his. “There is so little you understand about my people. To be a woman in my country, it is very different than your women here. The Jeshan would have only my word that I am still innocent, and my word would not be enough. In order to avoid the dishonor, he must execute me for my defilement.”

“That’s barbaric! It was my fault; whatever happened, I brought it on you.” Claws pricked inside his temples.

“The honorable thing would have been for me to die rather than to be taken by you, Highness Wolfram.”

“You’re right, I don’t understand.” He swallowed hard and forced his hands to stillness, tossing down the blades of grass he had been mutilating. “What if you were married?”

“The penalty for a married woman to be in the woods with an abductor would be the same.”

Shaking his head, Wolfram rephrased the question. “What if you were married to me?”

“But I am not.” She shook her head as well, then paused. “I am not, we are…” Deishima braced her hands on the bench, leaning forward. “What is it that you are saying, Highness Wolfram?”

He rose to one knee and met her gaze. “I am asking you to marry me.”

FOR A
long time, Deishima stared.

Wolfram let out a nervous laugh. “I wish I could see your face right now.”

At last she lifted the edge of her veil, drawing it up to drape down her back. Her fine, dark features showed no expression, her lips lightly held together as if she would speak but did not know what to say. She replaced her hands at her sides, resting on the mossy bench. Her toes brushed the grass underneath, her heels not quite able to reach the ground. Breathing carefully, she watched him, searching for something.

Wolfram traced her features, studied the black sheen of her hair peeking out from the fold across her forehead, then back to her eyes. At last, he looked away, sitting back on his heels, letting his hands fall to his lap. Hovering near the pond, Dawsiir caught his eye for a moment, raising his hands in a gesture of confusion, then found something to occupy himself with on the far side of the clearing.

“I cannot marry you,” she said, clearly and carefully.

“I know I’m not much—not much to look at, not likely to be good company for someone like you, I have no honor…” Wolfram trailed off and shrugged. “I want to undo some of the damage I’ve done. I’ve ruined your life, and all that I can offer you is a new one in return. A different life. I am the crown prince of Lochalyn. If you marry me, someday, you would be queen, your children will be queens.” Children, he thought as he said it, he should not have mentioned children.

Silence fell again between them, and he studied the grass, examined the sunlight falling through the trees, tried to identify birds by their songs. High above, a squirrel sprang to a new bough, barely hanging on with a flip of its tail. Wolfram tracked its progress limb to limb as it nibbled off the buds of flowers yet to come. One of the silver fishes flashed briefly into the air and back with a splash. The little pond smelled of decay and fertility.

“Highness Wolfram,” Deishima began, and the two little lines marked her brow. “Perhaps I should have said that you cannot marry me. I am the Jeshan’s seventeenth daughter. I am not meant for marriage to anyone. I am sure that the queen of your country has more in mind for you than that you should wed such a one as I. Perhaps as a fourth or fifth wife, I might do.”

With that nervous laugh bubbling up again in his throat, Wolfram shook his head. “In my country, there is only one wife, and it is up to the woman to choose—within reason. Wait—” he urged as she opened her mouth to object again. “If you would not have me—and Finistrel knows I can understand that—then think of your country and mine. Your father has been seeking to draw us into this war of yours. If we were to marry, our two countries would be allies. The spices and the cloth of Hemijrai are in great demand here, we can never get enough. Our mountains are rich with iron and copper. This could be a boon for both our nations.”

“You have spent much time thinking on this, Highness Wolfram,” she observed. Her breathing seemed strangely uneven, as if he had shaken her somehow, found a way around her careful composure.

“I had all night.” He plucked a blade of grass and nipped off tiny bits between his ragged fingernails.

“Even though these reasons sound compelling, you cannot marry me,” she repeated. “I am defiled.”

“Bury it, Deishima, if you’re defiled, then I’m the one who defiled you!”

With a quick breath, she withdrew to the far end of the bench, and Dawsiir was beside her in an instant, his face set into a wary mask.

“Oh, sweet Lady, I’m such an idiot. I shouldn’t use your name, I don’t even know what to call you. I’m sorry.” He turned from her, dropping his face to his hands, shaking. “I knew I’d never get this right,” he mumbled. His temples throbbed, and he wanted to pull himself up and run deep into the woods, yelling and daring the Woodmen to come and take their vengeance upon him. The ache in his side told him he’d never make it.

Whispers of Hemijrani reached his ears as Dawsiir demanded some explanation. The tone of his voice had lost some of its reverence for the sacred princess, and Wolfram wondered whose side he would be on if Deishima told him all that they had said. His head pounded like a mason at work, and he lay down in the moss, ripping off the eye patch to press his ruined face close to the cool earth. He breathed in the scents of dirt and moisture. Knowing he must look like even more of an idiot, Wolfram didn’t care. She could walk more easily than he—let her escape and pretend that nothing had happened. He had lost his dignity sometime ago, but enough of it lingered that he did not want to rise and limp like a dog from her sight.

Behind him, she rose with a soft rustle of skirts and scuffing of shoes into the grass. “Highness Wolfram?” she ventured. “Are you well?”

He could think of nothing to reply. He listened to her breathing, and almost missed the stealthy tread that joined them.

“Yes, Highness Wolfram, are you well?” Alyn’s voice called. He crossed quickly and his feet filled Wolfram’s limited view. “You really need to get more sleep.”

“I thought I told them to keep you away.”

“From your room, yes. From the grove, no. And I have to talk to you. You could at least sit up and act like a man.”

The demon swelled and howled, tearing at his insides, but Wolfram felt powerless to rise. “Why do you do this to me? Why do you strike at me every time we meet? You’ve been doing this since we were five years old, Alyn; what did I ever do to you?” Spent, he tilted his chin up and tried to breathe.

Alyn’s answer was a long time coming. Finally, he said, “To me? Nothing—not yet.” He took a breath and puffed it out. “But there is evil all around you, bad things hovering like vultures.”

Already exhausted and caught once again humiliating himself, Wolfram curled up on the ground, clenching his teeth to keep them from chattering. Alyn, the Voice of the Lady, saw evil around him. Of course Deishima couldn’t marry him, she must see it, too. Could she see the terrible face of the murdered man who haunted Wolfram’s dreams, or the demon that ripped at his neck, or the thousand little wounds that Wolfram had delivered every day? Wolfram whimpered, feeling the tiger’s teeth.

Then Deishima spoke. “But this is not true, sir. I do not know who you are, but I wish to know why you should lie in such a terrible manner. By what right would you say such a thing?”

“By the right the Lady saw fit to give me. Not that I would expect a heathen to understand, but it is Her voice I hear, Her visions I see. And he”—Alyn thrust his finger toward Wolfram—“is a vision of the blackest kind.” From the narrow view afforded him, Alyn towered upward, his accusing finger reaching down from the very stars.

“Then I am glad that I am not myself sworn to such a blind Lady as yours must be.” The moment she said it, Deishima gasped and backed away, pulling the veil down over her face.

His lips forming an unaccustomed grimace, Alyn raised a shaking fist as if to strike her.

Wolfram scrambled to his hands and knees.

Alyn let his hand drop. “I thought your kind were supposed to be retiring, not even speaking without a man’s permission. I guess I shouldn’t be surprised that Wolfram managed to find the shit among the roses.” He glared down at Wolfram. “Please tell me you weren’t trying to seduce her, not here—or do you bother with persuasion these days?”

Grabbing a clod of dirt, Wolfram flung it straight at Alyn’s face, where it landed with a satisfying splat. As Alyn wiped
the dirt from his eye, Wolfram tried to rise, but the muscles of his right side gave a fierce spasm, dropping him back to the dirt to curse.

Even with grass on his face, Alyn laughed. “It’s a good thing I’m not like you physical types, or I might have to redress that blow. But it seems you don’t need my help to hit the dirt. Why would my sister go anywhere with you?”

“She didn’t go with me, I went with her, it was her idea,” he mumbled through the pain, beaten by a man who had not even touched him. “I think her Hemijrani maid had been working on her for a long time to make the trip.”

“Where is she now? What’s happened to her?”

“How should I know? You’re the one who’s so good at finding people.”

Alyn crouched down, tilting his head to stare at Wolfram. “I can’t feel her anymore. I lost her a few weeks ago, that’s why I left Drynnlynd, that’s why I’m here—not to help my dear friend recover from his own absurdity. She’s my twin, and I can’t feel her.”

“I don’t know, Alyn, I swear I don’t. Maybe with Faedre on her way to Lochdale.” Summoning the last strength of his anger, Wolfram managed to raise his head. “Please leave me alone, Alyn, I am begging you.”

“I don’t believe you’ve begged for anything in your entire life!” Alyn grinned. “Say it again.”

“Please, Alyn, I beg you to go.” His voice cracked, and he lowered his head.

Without any comment, Alyn walked away.

Lying on his left side, his good eye shut against the grass, Wolfram fought the shaking that had overtaken him. The cramp in his side eased slightly, but tremors of weakness tugged at the scars, and he felt his insides knotting. He hunched into his crossed arms, praying for some deliverance. Tiny, gulping breaths rasped in his throat.

Even the birds had fallen silent in the wake of the confrontation. Dawsiir was muttering in Hemijrani—cursing himself, or so it seemed.

Why wouldn’t they go? Wolfram had to give them some
sign, but he could not speak, knowing that his pain and frustration would be what they heard. He opened his eye, tilting his head to focus on the sharp, green blades. A tiny hemlock cone snuggled in among them. Patiently a beetle climbed up the nearest blade, its antennae quivering as it tried to determine the nature of the obstruction that Wolfram had become.

In a few steps, Deishima was before him, her borrowed skirt held up to reveal the toes of her new slippers. She stood there, the rest of her unseeable above him, then sank down to her knees a few feet away from his face. Her lips trembled, and her eyes glistened with unshed tears. For a moment, she pressed her fingers to her mouth, trying to master her breath as her shoulders shook. When she bent forward, hiding her face, her veil slipped and fell over her. One quick dark hand grabbed a handful of fabric and yanked it off, flinging it aside with a glittering trail of hairpins. Her midnight hair shone in the sunlight, tumbling all about her, making a black cloak over her shoulders and forming a pool around her on the grass.

Wolfram relaxed his arms. He reached a cautious finger to stroke a dark ribbon of hair. “Please,” he whispered, not sure if he wanted to be heard, “please don’t cry. I’m no good with tears.”

Shaking her head, Deishima peered at him over her hands. Her small and shaky voice said, “Jeshnam is my title of birth, Highness. You may call me Jeshnam.”

He slipped his fist beneath his cheek, and repeated, “Jeshnam.”

Deishima nodded. “That man is Highness Melody’s brother.”

“Her twin, yes.” They spoke in tones so hushed that Wolfram could hear the muffled thumping of his own heart.

“And he hears the voice of your Holy Lady, is this true?”

“Yes.”

She raised her chin a little and propped it on her joined hands. “I hope that She is not so harsh in Her judgments as Her messenger would appear to be.”

“Me, too.” Wolfram felt another gripping pain in his guts and winced. “He has no right to talk that way to you, Jeshnam.”

“Nor to you, Highness,” she said so softly he could barely hear her.

“You don’t know me,” he told her. “You don’t know the things I have done. I should never have asked you…” He gazed at her through the screen of grass, with her face revealed to him in the sunlight, framed by the rivers of her hair.

“By the Two and Their every glory, Highness Wolfram, you have given me a thousand reasons why I should wish to marry you.” She tucked the creeping tendrils of hair back behind her ears. “What I do not understand is why you should wish to marry me.”

“I need your compassion.” He smoothed out the grass before him to see her clearly. “Your grace and your serenity. And your wisdom. I have learned so much from you already.” He thought to leave it there, but he knew this was not all, was not even the start. “I don’t know why I’m so affected by you. When he told me you were in the stables, I went mad. I had to find you, to see that you were all right. From the first moment I touched your hair, Jeshnam, there has been a fire in me.” Two little lines pinched between her brows, and she looked quickly away from him. All of his fury, his misery, and his folly had been laid out before her—there was nothing he could offer in his own defense. He let his head sink back to the earth. His eye shut on the unfamiliar burn of tears.

One small and gentle finger stroked down his cheek so lightly he could almost have imagined it. Her fingers traced the scars like rays of the sun. Her thumb ran along the jagged line of his eyebrow, down by the smooth new skin to the edge of his jaw, and lingered there. “Why should you battle a tiger for me, Highness Wolfram?” she breathed. “Why should you anger your people? Why should you suffer the ridicule of your enemy on my behalf?”

He dared not move for fear of breaking the tenuous warmth of her touch. “Because I love you.”

She drew back, but he reached out and caught her hand, holding it as he might hold a wounded bird. Wolfram pushed himself up on his hand and searched her face. “I have had women before. I have lusted after so many, and I have been so low in my pursuit of pleasure that I’m not even sure I will be welcomed home. I thought I had everything I could ever want, and now I can see that it was nothing.” He opened his fingers so that her delicate hand rested lightly on his palm. He let her go, but she did not run. “If the leopards had torn me to pieces, it would have been worth it to have that single touch of you.”

Her dark eyes met his, the twin lines between them smoothing, then returning as she regarded him. Her warm hand trembled upon his own, her smooth dark skin a sharp contrast to his pale, callused palm.

At last, her lips parted. “You are like no one I have ever heard of, Highness Wolfram. Not even in the chronicles of time.”

“Jeshnam, Deishima, will you marry me?”

For the first time, she smiled, spreading a radiance over her face brighter than the sun to his eyes. “Yes, Highness Wolfram, I will.”