The Eunuch's Heir (39 page)

His eye seeming all the sharper for its loneliness, Wolfram watched her. “Then you know that I had to try anything, and my title means nothing beside that love.”

With growing wonder, Lyssa gazed at him. Wolfram leaned against the wall, his right side bent, his eye patch scuffed, and his clothing threadbare and dirty. With his scarred face, he more resembled a pirate than a prince. Chained to the wall and about to be taken below, he would lose all light and freedom, and just might lose his life. And yet he grinned as if he had been given the crown and the Lady’s blessing to boot. This boy had dogged her steps for years, his tempers driving her mad even as his affection drew him nearer. He’d always had the title and the coronet to go along, but Lyssa had never considered him as the prince, as the heir to a kingdom. In a
week, she might see him hanged. Fionvar’s words returned, that it might take a miracle to save his son. And what kind of priestess was she if she could not believe in miracles?

Lyssa nodded. “My brother vowed to stand beside you, Wolfram. In his absence, you’re stuck with me. What can I do?”

His smile turned toward sadness. “Deishima is the only witness in my defense, but she will not be allowed to speak. She told me Dawsiir is still alive, or was when we spoke. I need you to find him. He was there when they took her away. He might know more than that as well.”

That determined grin infected even Lyssa, so that she laughed. “You want me, a priestess and a woman, to search their camp? I’ll stick out like a sword among stones.”

His grin turned wistful. “You ever have,” he told her gently.

A rush of warmth flooded through her like the Lady’s touch, and she basked in his forgiveness.

A CHAIN
about a foot long joined Wolfram’s wrists, while another bound his ankle to a sturdy loop set into the stone wall of his new quarters. The leg chain gave him enough slack to pace most of his narrow cell, but not enough to touch the grate at its end. Cells radiated out from a central chamber where three or four guards played cards and swapped jokes. Torches between the grates provided some light, but little heat so far below the ground. He thought fondly of the tiny chamber he’d been given in the Hemijrani prison, with its daylight and breeze. Down here, his own stink was lost in that of the other prisoners.

Across from him he could see three Hemijrani spaced with empty cells between them—to prevent their conspiring, he supposed. A few other cells were occupied, but he couldn’t tell anything about the occupants. He had slept sitting up against the cleanest wall, his hands tucked into his armpits for warmth. Once, long ago, he’d been given a tour of the dungeon, for it would be part of his domain. He remembered saying it wasn’t near dark or foul enough. His mother replied that Lochalyn was a civilized country, even to its prisoners. Jordan had been held here, after covering Lyssa and Fionvar’s escape from the Usurper, and had his fingers broken one by one for secrets he would not reveal.

Wolfram studied his hands.

A sound on the stairs above brought him to his feet. Two servants carried trays, and the guards assisted in delivering bowls of lukewarm porridge to the inmates.

As he reached for the bowl they slid under his grate, Wolfram called out, “Sir, may I have water to wash?”

“Crown prince, is it?” the guard sneered. “Don’t you care for the smell?”

His temples throbbed, and Wolfram gritted his teeth. “I have my hearing today, sir, and I still have shit in my hair.”

The guard laughed at that. “Cold water, that’s what you get.”

“That’s all I’m asking,” Wolfram replied. “Sir.” His blood boiled to strike away the man’s smile, and he knew why the chain came up short of the door.

After a while, a basin was shoved under the grate, and he bent over it, using the licked-clean porridge bowl to pour the frigid water over his head. He shivered and cursed, shaking out the rest of the water from his hair.

“Enjoying your bath, Your Highness?” the guard called out, making his mates laugh.

Wolfram surged to his feet, and stopped, fists clenched, the length of chain taut between them.

Deliberately, he turned his back and walked toward the back of the cell. He braced his hands against the wall and took a deep breath. The cell in Hemijrai had taken his freedom, but left some measure of dignity. Here, he felt like an animal. In his mind he saw the tiger Rostam pacing, always pacing that little cage that had brought him across the sea. It had only been one night, and already Wolfram was ready to tear someone’s head off.

Toward the back of the cell, the stench increased, so he moved slowly forward again, and sat on the ground, his back to the guards. Crossing his legs, he cupped his hands together in his lap and shut his eye. He focused on the pounding in his skull, the angry swell of his pulse that heated his fingertips. With each breath, Wolfram worked to force back the demon, to spread out his awareness as he had done before.

“Wolfram duRhys!” a voice shouted from the stairs, and Wolfram popped his eye open, scrambling to his feet.

Two guards came for him, one of them waiting outside the
cell with an armed crossbow while the other entered with the key and freed his ankle.

He met the guard’s eye and saw coldness there as the man jerked him forward. Together with two newcomers, they brought him up the long flight of stairs into the hall above. Wolfram’s feet stung as he walked the feeling back into them. The presence of the bear claw beneath his shirt reassured him, as if he had not lost it all.

They turned not for the audience chamber he’d been in before, but for the main court hall. Guards stood at attention outside and in, along the path toward the dais where Queen Brianna sat, her eyes sunken, lips drawn tight.

When they reached the open space of floor before her, the two guards shoved him to his knees. One of them bent to unlock his left wrist, and Wolfram smiled at this unexpected reprieve.

Grinning in return, the guard jerked his arm behind him, and locked them again, this time adding a short chain that bound his hands to the shackle still at his ankle.

Effectively hog-tied, Wolfram bowed his head before his mother, then looked up, searching for her gaze.

Brianna gazed somewhere just over his head. “Bailiff, read the charges.”

Stepping forward, the bailiff spread out a scroll and began to read, “The accused, Wolfram yfBrianna duRhys of the house of Rinvien, crown prince of the sovereign kingdom of Lochalyn, stands accused—” At this, Wolfram let out a short laugh, his shoulders drawn back by the chain which held him down—“of the following crimes: perjury, kidnapping, criminal endangerment, reckless conduct, conduct unbefitting the crown, flight in an attempt to avoid justice, assault, assault upon a royal woman, assault upon a member of a religious order, assault upon a guest of the crown, assault upon an officer of the crown, unlawful entry, attempted kidnapping, rape, rape of a royal woman, rape of a guest of the crown, rape of a member of a religious order. So read the charges of the crown.” He gave a short bow and withdrew to his place.

On his knees, Wolfram swayed. The blood rushed out of
him, leaving him cold and shaky. After a moment of gasping, he finally drew breath.

A single charge of rape could get him branded, marked for the crime, aside from a sentence of years. But the additional charges, especially that the victim was royal, and religious—could get him hanged. With the weight of all the other counts, the queen could elect summary judgment and call for his execution within the hour.

The small group of nobles allowed to witness the hearing buzzed with dismay.

“How pleads the defendant?” His mother’s voice had never sounded more regal, or more distant.

“Innocent,” he breathed, looking up. “I am innocent.”

She swept her imperious gaze back to the bailiff. “Proceed with the witnesses.”

One by one, they called the guards who had caught him last night. They described the madness in his run, the blood on his clothes—the clothes he yet wore—and on the girl he had carried. Gwythym gave his testimony as well, including the threats against Faedre, and all with a sort of coldness Wolfram had never seen before.

Last night, these men had been his unwitting saviors, the defense he sought against Faedre’s people simply slitting his throat. Now, they stood ranged against him, their faces showing their contempt.

“Lyssa yfSonya DuNormand, Mistress of the Family Chapel, and member of the Order of the Sisters of the Sword,” the herald intoned.

Tall and powerful, Lyssa rose from her bench and stepped forward. “Present.”

“Mistress Lyssa,” the queen said, “you have previously told us about your journey to and in Hemijrai, and your return from that country. I would ask only a few questions for the record.”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” She held her wrist behind her, shoulders straight—unknowingly mimicking the posture enforced by Wolfram’s chains.

“On the day of your landing at Freeport, were you in
vited by the Hemijrani delegation to join them in returning here?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.”

“Did the prince agree to that course?”

Lyssa hesitated, glancing again at Wolfram. “No, Your Majesty.”

“Why not?”

“He believed that the delegation were dishonest in their dealings, that they wished to keep him against his will. He had heard them plotting about keeping him.”

“Please tell us what happened that morning on the ship.”

“Goddess’s Tears,” Lyssa murmured, bowing her head for a moment. “He, the prince, snatched Faedre’s acolyte, a girl called Deishima. He had a boar knife from the Woodmen, which he held to her throat, threatening to—threatening harm if they didn’t let us go.” She faltered, then said, turning toward the audience, “I went along with it. I helped to carry the girl off. There had been some signs that he might be right.”

“Was any attempt made to stop you?”

“I thought some of the men looked suspicious.”

The queen narrowed her eyes. “Mistress, was any attempt made?”

“No, Your Majesty. We got off with no trouble.” Lyssa hung her head. “When we reached the gate, Wolfram wanted to let her go, but I was the one who said we should take her. If he was right, then she might be able to tell us what was going on.”

“Thank you, Mistress, that’s all for the moment.”

Lyssa bounded before the queen, “But I’m responsible, too. I helped him get her off the boat; we wouldn’t be here, now, if it weren’t for me!”

Taken aback, the queen put out her hand. “I commend your loyalty, Lyssa, but answer me this, did you hold a knife to that girl’s throat?”

Lyssa deflated. “No, Your Majesty.”

“Then I’ll ask you to step aside.”

Turning away, Lyssa met Wolfram’s gaze, and tears shone
in her eyes. “What can I say, Wolfram?” she asked in a whisper.

He shook his head. As he had listened, the astonishment began to wear off, and he could see the way Faedre would try to get rid of him.

“Lady Faedre DalRakesh, chief priestess of Hemijrai,” the herald summoned her.

Wolfram turned back to see her approaching up the aisle. Tight beside her limped Deishima, and Wolfram’s blood ran cold.

Dressed in fresh wrappings of silk, Deishima walked with her face unveiled. Darkness blackened her eyes and blood trickled from scrapes on her forehead and cheek. Blood seeped between her cracked lips as if she tried to speak. Beneath her dark skin bruises showed at her throat.

Faedre held one of Deishima’s hands, supporting her beneath her shawl with her other arm as the two slowly progressed between the rows of onlookers. Men turned pale and women looked away, tugging out their kerchiefs.

As they approached Wolfram, Deishima’s head dropped to Faedre’s side, her entire body racked with sobs.

“I should have left you,” Wolfram mumbled as they passed. “I should have left you. Oh, Sweet Lady, Finistrel forgive me.”

His last words slipped into the silence of the room like assassins, and he could not call them back.

“Pardon me, Majesty,” said Faedre, turning them both to face the room. “Pardon this dramatic entrance. I have unbound her wounds, and revealed her face lest you should not be aware of what this monster has wrought upon an innocent child.”

In Wolfram’s head, the demon roared. “What have you done?” he cried. “You bitch, you might have killed her. She’s done nothing to you, nothing! How could you do this?” Tears streamed down his face, his throat burned. He could not turn from Deishima’s battered face.

“What have I done?” Faedre asked, blinking back tears of her own. “You, Highness, you crept to her room in the
dead of night, taking her in your arms—can you deny it?” She buried her face in Deishima’s straggling hair, hugging the girl closer.

For an instant from his perspective, Wolfram saw the way her other hand, hidden by the shawl, gripped Deishima’s wrist with brutal strength. He strained at the chains, twisting his arms, while an inhuman growl issued from his clenched teeth.

“You see what he is like, Your Majesty, we are only seeking justice.”

On her throne, Queen Brianna looked faint. The dutiful Lady Catherine had covered her face, and even the bailiff had grown pale at the sight of Deishima.

“You beat her.” Wolfram yelled. “After they took me. You’d already hit her, and you threw her against the wall. If I had one hand free, I’d tear out your heart.”

The guards stepped closer, and the herald banged his staff for order.

From the throne, his mother’s voice came as a hiss, “And you claim innocence.”

“I have never touched her in anger, never!”

“Even when you took her with a knife at her throat?”

He faced his mother, desperation warring with fury in equal measure. “Can’t you see what they’ve done? They want me dead. They have to know you’ll never hear me.”

“You expect me to believe”—she said, rising to her feet—“that they beat their own princess? That they did that to her just to get at you? Look at her, Wolfram! She can’t even speak, she can barely stand.”

Clamping shut his eye, Wolfram lowered his head, his chest heaving with anger and tears, his head pounding with a wild thunder he had not heard since the night he’d left. And he could do nothing.

“Strelana has seen her, Wolfram,” the queen continued, barely controlling her own fury. “Do you know what that means? What has happened to this girl is unspeakable, do you hear me?”

Wolfram strained until the cuffs tore at his skin and howled
his helplessness. The guard grabbed his shoulder before he collapsed, holding him with an iron grip.

He pulled up his head and twisted to look at Deishima through the veil of tears. “I’m sorry,” he said. “I am so sorry.” Every word sounded his death knell, but he knew now that it didn’t matter. They would have slain him in the night, but this moment handed them victory more surely than his murder could ever do. They would have his head, and have his own mother for their executioner. “By all that’s holy, Deishima, I wish I’d never gone to you. I am so sorry.”

Despite the clutch of Faedre’s hands, Deishima turned her head a little, and gazed down at him from her wounded eyes. Almost imperceptibly, she shook her head, just once. She shifted her eyes down.

Between her fingers, she held a lock of hair, stroking it with her thumb.

Her eyes pleaded, even as her lips could not, and he heard the message as if she whispered in his ear. She did not regret his coming. She did not regret that he had held her in his arms, that he had come into her garden and stroked her hair. Even as she stood before him, beaten and defiled, Deishima forgave him.

He would die tomorrow, or today, and she within the week, at the hands of her teachers, her tormentors. If the Lady had a care for the condemned, She would leave him the memory of Deishima’s hair to warm him as he rotted in the cold, cold ground.