The Eunuch's Heir (41 page)

CRAMPED AND
shivering, Wolfram roused to a sound outside the grate.

Clearing his throat again, Dylan shifted nervously from foot to foot. He wore clean, long robes and stood well back. Over his shoulder, the figure of his father loomed.

“Dylan!” Wolfram cried, relief flooding through him, nearly bringing him to tears. “Thank the Lady you’ve come.”

“Somewhat against my will,” Dylan pointed out. “What do you want?”

“Please, Dylan, I need to talk to you. Can you come closer?”

His eyes flaring, Dylan stepped back.

Wolfram held up his hands. “You’re safe. I haven’t been fed all day, and I’m fresh out of shit.”

“You?” Dylan cackled. “Never!”

“Please,” Wolfram said softly. “Your father doesn’t need to hear everything.”

Gwythym grumbled something, but Dylan, after a glance back, came up and put one hand on the grate. “Are you threatening me?” His pale face looked even more anxious than last time they’d met.

“I’m out of options, Dylan, this is the only way I could get you to hear me.”

“I’m not afraid,” Dylan returned. “Who’d listen to you anyway? Look at you.”

Nodding, Wolfram said, “I know all that. But I do have
proof, kept in a safe place.” He held up his arms so the chain crossed his throat, his face still and serious.

Gripping the bars, Dylan blanched.

“I don’t want to threaten you, Dylan. I don’t want to reveal you, and I don’t know if it would matter if I did, but I need you.” He emphasized the last few words.

“After what you’ve done, how could I possibly help?” Revulsion twisted his lips.

“Listen closely. I did not rape her, I did not beat her,” Wolfram said, noticing the other’s flinch at the mention of the word. “Dylan, I love her.”

Dylan gave a queer laugh. “That’s an odd sign of affection, I think.”

Inwardly, Wolfram cursed. “You were ready to kill me for the woman you love, ready to try, anyhow, am I right?”

A glance over his shoulder and a quick nod.

“Would you ever hurt her, or force yourself on her?”

“Of course not!” The blood rose in Dylan’s face.

“I love Deishima, and I would kill for her, but I swear by this scar around my throat, Dylan, I would never hurt her, do you hear me?”

Slowly, Dylan nodded. “But if you didn’t…?”

“Then her own people did.” Wolfram let this idea sink in a minute, then said, “They’ll kill her, Dylan, as part of this ceremony, and I’m the only one who can save her.”

“Do you think if I told about Asenith and the tiger spell, they’d reopen your trial?”

“I’m not sure she’d back you; and they would all think I’d got you on my side.”

Solemnly, Dylan sank to his knees, his face close to the bars. “What do you need, Wolfram? What can I do?”

“I think you can get me out of here.”

Already, Dylan was shaking his head. “There’s no escape from this place, Wolfram, everything’s been tried—they even searched me at the door.”

“Did I say escape? The day of the ceremony, that’s the day you find out if your calculations are correct, yes?”

An eager nod. “If I’m right—”

“If you’re right, the sun and the moon will come together in the sky.”

Dylan’s eyes widened. “Yes.”

“So here it is. That’s the biggest day of your life, Dylan, and I am—or at least, I was—your best friend. I’ll probably be hanged the day after that, one way or another.”

Looking away, Dylan sighed. “I’m sorry, Wolfram. Sweet Finistrel, if I could undo everything these last six months…”

Wolfram shut his eye, refusing the tears that filled it. “It means a lot to me, that you would say that.”

“Tell me the plan, Wolfram, and I’ll do what I can.”

WHEN FIONVAR’S
horse dropped beneath him, he barely escaped a broken leg of his own. He left the poor beast in a farmer’s field and paid far too much for a new one to get him the last few miles. He had not slept in three days, had only allowed himself brief rests. His legs and his chest ached and just about everything in between, but he’d made it on the day of the Hemijrani ritual. There would still be time, there must be.

Outside the temple wall, a horde of refugees milled about, with little knots of city guards lurking around them. Fionvar paused a moment to stare at them. They wore rags and traveling clothes, but most were young and uninjured. How could there be so many? Wolfram’s phantom army had indeed materialized, and he knew the queen had no force to match it.

In the bailey, he swung himself down and staggered as the groom led away his horse. “Are you well, m’lord?” one of the men called out, but Fionvar shook him off.

“I need to see the queen,” he panted.

“Aye, m’lord, she’s been waiting on you.”

Taking the steps two at a time, Fionvar ran as best he could, skidding toward the queen’s court only to find it empty. “Where is everyone?”

“Queen’s garden,” a maid replied, with a curtsy. “One of
them wildmen came, but wouldna set foot indoors. Was’t even a man? I’m not sure, my lord.”

Not a man? Fionvar frowned. “Maybe a man with a stag’s head?”

Making the sign of the Lady, the maid nodded. “Met him in the garden, they did.”

So Quinan had come here. Fionvar didn’t have time to muse about that, he’d find out soon enough. Chest heaving, he ran as far as the queen’s quarters and burst in unannounced.

A small gathering stood in the sunlight, facing a strange figure: Quinan in his shaman’s robe, with the antlers still topping his head, shook a long stick covered with the beaks of birds and claws of owl. At Fionvar’s appearance, the Woodman fell silent.

The others turned to him, and Fionvar made a tiny bow, brought up short by the pain. He gritted his teeth, and said, “Sorry, ridden all day.”

“Get him a drink,” the queen said, gathering her skirts and coming toward him, but she stopped a few paces shy, her expression concerned yet wary.

“I’ve been to the manor,” he gasped, but she shook her head and put out a hand.

“Rest a moment, Fionvar, we’re not going anywhere.”

Shaky with exhaustion, Fionvar dropped onto one of the benches. Lady Catherine pressed a mug of water into his hands, drawn up from the little well at the garden’s center. Taking a long swallow, Fionvar tried to relax, listening to their talk.

“Dark people build house of dirt,” Quinan said. “Many house. You give those woods for my people. Why this?” He shook the stick so the beaks rattled together.

“I am sorry,” Brianna told him. “We didn’t know they were building. They went to the woods as we do, to hunt or find herbs.”

“Not so!” He stamped, the beaks clattering like a flock of angry crows.

“They’re going soon,” she said, frowning, her own fatigue
showing at the corners of her eyes. “This is their last day here, then they are all of them going away.”

“I don’t think so,” Fionvar said.

Annoyed at the interruption, Brianna glowered.

“There are too many of them, all waiting outside the temple.” His breathing was still ragged, but his throat no longer burned. “I’ve been studying the woods chapel again, Your Majesty, the prophecy warns of a day the sun goes dark, and a woman will call forth an army. I believe that day is upon us.”

“Now you bring me prophecy as proof, Fionvar?” Her lips trembled, her eyes close to tears. “What shall I do with that? Alyn told us he was evil—my son went dark a long time ago.”

“What if Alyn saw his own fall—not Wolfram’s evil at all! Evil comes not because of our son, but because Alyn didn’t heed the warning. Bury your proof, Brianna, where is your heart?” He thumped his own aching chest and rose. For a moment, they two were the only people in that garden.

“My heart has been betrayed too many times of late.” One of the tears slid down her cheek. “If you had seen her, Fion, if you had seen what he did.”

“Then where is she? I’ll see for myself.”

“In the temple, I suppose, with the others.”

He caught her shoulders. “They’ve already begun?”

“Fion, you’re hurting me.”

A man of her personal guard came up beside her, his hand on the hilt of his sword, searching Fionvar’s face.

Releasing the queen, Fionvar stepped back. “I believe he loves that girl, Brianna. Do you know where they were when he asked her?”

Numbly, wiping away the tears, she shook her head.

“The Grove of the Heart’s Desire. Not that it wouldn’t be the first time such vows have been forsaken.” He wished he could take back the words, but they had gone.

“You don’t know everything that’s happened, Fionvar. You weren’t there.”

“Then I was a fool to leave him,” Fionvar said. “It won’t happen again.”

“He is lost to me, Fionvar; he has done that to himself.” She swallowed, and added, “And so have you.”

A pain stabbed at his chest, and Fionvar’s head shot up. “He’s in the dungeon?”

Lady Catherine, with a glance at her mistress, nodded.

Fionvar strode for the door. He turned on the path and faced Quinan. “I will smoke with you. Before this day is out, Wolfram will prove worthy of his name.”

Across the well, Quinan stared, his eyes overshadowed by the stag’s antlers. He let out a small cry and lowered his staff. “No, friend. I think I will not smoke with you.”

A retort formed on Fionvar’s lips, but he saw some terrible sadness in the Woodman’s rough features, and he held back. To Brianna he said, “What about Lyssa?”

The queen turned away, and Lady Catherine was left to reply, “She’s been with him, my lord. Last I saw, she went to the infirmary; she has a Hemijrani groom there.”

“She’s found Dawsiir?” Anger turned to confusion. “Can’t he support Wolfram’s story?”

Carefully, Catherine said, “She tells us that he does.”

Fionvar nodded. “I see. And Gwythym?”

“Is about some personal business. I’ve not seen him.”

“Personal business? We’re about to be at war!”

Over her shoulder, Brianna tossed, “So you say.”

“Mark my words, Your Majesty, if we do nothing, we will be lost.” He gave a short bow. “When the sky goes dark, you’ll know where to find me.” So saying, he turned his back on the queen and fled from her garden. On the table where they used to share their meals, he saw the long boar knife in its leather sheath, the knife that Wolfram had laid at his mother’s feet. Fionvar snatched it up and stuck it into his belt. He would see that it was returned to its rightful owner.

The infirmary surrounded a garden of its own not far off, and he found Lyssa there, deep in conversation with a Hemijrani man.

His head bandaged, the man sat on the edge of a bed, clothed in ill-fitting local garb. Both looked up at Fionvar’s precipitous entrance.

“She was kidnapped, wasn’t she?” he asked.

Flustered, Lyssa leapt up. “Yes. They struck him. Once they had the princess, he didn’t dare disobey them.”

“Holy Mother. Wolfram’s been telling the truth.” He slumped onto the facing bed, wiping sweat from his brow.

“You, of all people, shouldn’t look so surprised,” she replied.

He studied her, even though she would not meet his eye. “Part of me still hoped he was wrong, that it wouldn’t come to this. We need to stop that ceremony.”

At this, Lyssa looked up. “We?”

Quietly, he told her, “I need you on my side, Lyssa, as much as he does.”

She bit her lip.

“If there is one thing I’ve learned from this mess, it’s that everyone deserves a second chance.”

“Thank you,” she whispered.

“Come on, we’ll go to the temple, maybe we can get to Faedre.”

Shaking her head, Lyssa said, “I’ve been. They’ve got guards on the entrance, ours and theirs. Nobody gets in. Even if we stormed them, there’ve got to be a thousand Hemijrani on the inside, we wouldn’t get close.”

Unsteadily, Dawsiir rose, speaking in his own tongue.

“They’ve been digging, he says, night and day.”

“Yes,” Fionvar said, “I’ve seen them with shovels. What of it?”

“They were making a womb to the goddess,” Dawsiir explained through Lyssa. “If the temple is to be proper, the womb will be underneath.”

Clenching his fist, Fionvar recalled the houses of dirt in Quinan’s forest; it had to come from somewhere, and suddenly he heard the echo of what he had taken for rats, scratching every night beneath the temple floor. “They’ve made our temple into their own, is that it?”

Dawsiir, edging away from him, nodded. “Yes, but this may also be the way in, if it can be found. A Hemijrani temple has a tower, a round chamber, and a womb, with hidden doors between.”

Considering the dark man, Fionvar asked, “You know that we’re after your people. Can I be sure you are with us?”

“I have been their prisoner in my sickness. Highness Wolfram, through this lady, has been my deliverance. He and his princess have need of me.”

“His princess?” Fionvar raised an eyebrow.

With a sudden light in his eyes, Dawsiir placed his hands together, fingertips to wrists. “She has told me they are to wed and gave me the blessing of her smile.”

“Ah, Wolfram, I have been so blind.” Fionvar sighed. But they had no time for regret, not now. He got once more to his feet. “Let’s go then.” He gave Dawsiir an arm to support him and the three left the infirmary as quickly as they could.

HIS HANDS
tucked between his knees, Wolfram huddled against the wall. The dungeon guards’ withholding his food had left a gnawing in his guts, and he suspected even his demon had starved. Darkness and light ebbed before his eye. If he shut it, the empty socket showed him visions of Erik’s death, Deishima’s bloody face, Lyssa’s hard, forbidden body. The tiger’s breath burned him, the leopards’ snarls drew him awake when he longed for sleep. The tiger roared, and Wolfram jerked, his body rigid.

Something had hold of his ankle, then the chain dropped away.

“On your feet,” Gwythym snapped. “Come on, then.”

Pushing himself up along the wall, Wolfram squinted. “Is it today, my hanging?”

“Not yet,” the captain said. He turned Wolfram to the wall, and unlocked one hand, bringing them together again behind him. With a firm hand, he guided Wolfram out of the cell. “You’ve got your wish, an hour outside. Whatever it is Dylan’s so keen to show you, I don’t know. I don’t know what your hold is over my son, but I’ll tell you I don’t like it.”

Wolfram laughed, but it made no sound. Dylan had done his part, but Wolfram had no idea if he was strong enough to follow through. He hadn’t counted on the toll the dungeon was taking, the way it sapped his will with every hour. “Thank you, Captain.”

Two guards marched beside him, with four more behind.
With his arms linked at his back and the cuff still about his ankle, Wolfram doubted there was much he could do, but the group seemed tense nonetheless. At the top of the stairs, Dylan waited, leaping forward when they emerged. It had been weeks since Wolfram saw a mirror, but the look on Dylan’s face was all the reflection he needed. He tried a smile. “Dylan. I have been blessed to have you as my friend.”

Swallowing hard, Dylan looked away. “Come on, there’s not much time.” He led the way down halls and up stairs to the base of the tower, where his key gave them entrance. As they walked, the servants and lords froze in their activities to watch them pass, and Wolfram hung his head beneath the weight of their contempt.

He stumbled more than once on the long, long stair, with one of the guards muttering oaths as he propped him back up and kept a grip on his elbow.

In the study room of the observatory, Gwythym called a halt, looking up the narrow ladder. Gasping for breath, Wolfram was glad of the rest. He didn’t need to pretend to be weak and harmless. The chain dragged him even as the stench of his clothing and his unwashed hair still held him prisoner. He had given up on praying.

“We have to go all the way up,” Dylan said, “or he won’t be able to see.”

“I don’t like it,” Gwythym said again. “I do not like anything about this, Dylan.” His voice held a warning edge.

Wolfram let his weariness take over and shut his eye. Either the captain would let him up, or he would fail. Even if Gwythym let him make the climb, he had no guarantee, only greater risks. Now, he swayed on his feet and winced. “Forget it.” He sighed. “I’ll stay here. I’ll die, it doesn’t matter.”

“No, Wolfram, it does,” Dylan urged him.

Wolfram raised his head a little, and saw Dylan reach out, only to have his arm restrained by his father’s strong grip. “It’s no use, Dylan. You did your best,” Wolfram mumbled.

“We’ll get you up in the sun, the wind. Just being there will do you good.” He pushed the red hair from his face and
pleaded with his gaze. “Come on, Wolfram, don’t give up now.”

“No, mayhap he’s right. This should be far enough.” Gwythym gestured to the windows all around. “Open those, if you want a breeze.”

“Aye, we could use some fresh air,” one of the guards grumbled, waving a hand before his nose.

Wolfram’s right side spasmed, and he fell, his knees striking heavily as his shoulder caught on the ladder.

This time, Dylan ducked around his father and came to Wolfram’s side. Cupping the back of Wolfram’s head, he brought his mouth to Wolfram’s ear. “She needs you, Wolfram, have you forgotten that? Sweet Lady, Wolfram, you’ve got to try.”

“I don’t know if I can,” he whispered. “I’ve got nothing left.”

“You’ve got her.”

He blinked, sighed, and finally nodded. “Help me up, will you?”

Slipping an arm around him, Dylan drew him to his feet and held him there. “Where’s the key?”

“Dylan,” Gwythym began, but Dylan cut in, “He’s got to climb that ladder, where is the key?”

“I cannot do that, lad, and you know it.” The captain’s face was grim. “He’s got something on you, and I’ll not have your life in danger for it.”

Setting his jaw, Dylan squared his shoulders. “All right, Da, so here it is. I tried to kill him. That scar around his neck? It’s mine. The night he was leaving here, I went for him. Now, he has nothing on me.”

Gwythym gaped at his son. “You tried…? Dylan, lad, I don’t understand.”

Fighting back tears, Dylan said, “You don’t have to, not right now. What you have to do is unlock that chain.”

Gwythym let a slow whistle between his teeth. “It’s madness, Dylan, after all that he’s done.”

“We don’t have time for this, Da. Would you want to die without once more feeling the sun on your face?”

“Captain,” one of the guards said, his tone insistent, but Gwythym ignored him.

From his belt, he drew the key, tapping it against his palm as he regarded his son.

“Don’t do this, Captain.”

“He can’t overpower us, look at him.” Gwythym’s face grew a little warmer, his gaze a little softer as he studied Wolfram.

The man moved forward, gripping his sword. “It doesn’t matter, he’s a criminal.”

“Wait in the hall, men,” Gwythym said.

“Have ye gone mad?”

“If I have, then on my head be it. Lock the door, there’s none at risk but the three of us.” Then he walked to Wolfram’s back and fitted the key into the lock.

Still grumbling, the men did as they were commanded.

Unlocked from the left, the heavy chain hung at Wolfram’s right wrist. He rolled his shoulders and let out a breath. “Again, thank you, Captain.”

Fixing him with a cold stare, Gwythym replied, “It’s not for you, it’s for my son.”

“Can’t you take off the chain, just for now?” Dylan asked.

“Different key. That’s to be sure that he could take any one of us and not get himself free.”

“It’s all right, Dylan,” Wolfram murmured. He straightened and looked up the ladder. “Best I go first, I guess.”

“Get on with you, then.” To Dylan, he said, “You owe me a thousand words on this, or more, lad.”

“Aye, Father, I know it.”

Hand over hand, Wolfram climbed the ladder and flung back the trapdoor at its top. The sun fell upon his face, and he rose into it. Dylan had been right; the warmth of the sunlight gave him solace, while the wind blew away the darkness he had carried with him. Crossing to the wall, Wolfram took a deep breath and held the springtime inside him before gently letting it out. The trapdoor banged shut. Wolfram faced father and son, and smiled. “I’ve never been so grateful for a day, even if it has to be this one.”

“What d’you mean by that?” Gwythym asked, standing foursquare on top of the door, sword at the ready.

Dylan, crossing to his post, stopped with one foot in the air, his face turned to the sky. “Finistrel and all the saints,” he murmured, “it’s coming.”

Squinting, Wolfram looked to the sun. At one edge, a sliver of darkness encroached. As they watched, the darkness grew, nibbling away at the golden heat.

“What is this?” Gwythym breathed, lowering the sword.

“The moon,” said Dylan with a grin, “the moon and the sun, together in the sky. I did it!”

“You did this? What, with magic?”

“No, Da,” he replied, with a laugh, “I did it with numbers, and with these.” He gestured toward the new clock and the tubes of his equipment.

Wolfram peered over the edge toward the roof of the temple far below. “How long do I have?”

“Less than an hour now,” Dylan said. “Are you up to it?”

“Up to what? What’s going on?” Gwythym demanded.

Heedless of the captain, Wolfram asked, “Did you get what I asked for?”

Kneeling, Dylan popped open the case which ordinarily held his parchments, pulling out a great coil of rope and a pair of riding gloves. Handing them over, he said, “Are you sure of this?”

“She needs me.” Wolfram strung the rope through one of the brackets made for Dylan’s equipment.

In two strides, Gwythym stomped on the rope. “Hold there and tell me what you’re on about.”

“Bury it, Captain, there’s no time! Deishima’s down there, and they’re going to kill her.” His head beginning to ache, Wolfram squinted up at him.

“How do I know you’re not trying to escape?”

“Like this?” Wolfram’s grin returned with a vengeance. “I’d have to be a madman.”

“By all accounts, you must be,” Gwythym replied. “But you’re in my keeping now.” He let the point of his sword rest on Wolfram’s shoulder.

Blood boiling, Wolfram gritted his teeth. “And if I escape? At least my mother won’t have the worry of hanging me. Would that be so awful?”

Slowly, the sword withdrew, and Gwythym, after a moment more, stepped away and turned his back.

Quickly, Wolfram bound the rope about his waist, hampered by the chain at his wrist. He gathered the rope in his arms and dropped it over, watching it snake down the side of the tower and pool up in the crevice of the roof below. Again, his side cramped, and he doubled over.

“Wolfram,” Dylan sprang to his side. “You’re weaker than I thought. You’re not up to this, are you?”

“I have to be,” he said through clenched teeth. “If I can’t make it, she dies, and an army will tear down this place and everyone in it.” His head throbbed, and the pain in his side eased, leaving him pinched and aching. Dylan was right, he’d never make it—not down there, not to do whatever came after. He stared down the rope, then put his back to the wall and sat, his hands in his lap.

“Wolfram?”

“Just let me breathe.” He sighed, trying to force back the doubts, to cage the demon. He conjured the vision of Deishima’s face, hidden behind the veil. Her dark eyes beckoned him, and those two little lines formed between them, the lines of her concern. He went deep within himself, into the dark places, into the places her acceptance had filled. The body he had so depended on was failing him, so hurt that he could barely see straight. “Sweet Lady,” he whispered, “if ever there has been a time I needed You, this would be it.” He drew a deep breath. It carried the heat of the sun, the power of the wind, the strength of the stone around him. He could smell the springtime in new flowers on the breeze. If he must die, better it be in the open, striving for something worth his life.

After what felt like ages, Wolfram opened his eye. A sense of calm filled him, the urgency of his mission echoing around him.

“How are you, Wolfram?” Dylan crouched before him. “You look…better.”

“I have to go,” he said, pushing himself up. The hunger and weakness lingered, but he kept them in abeyance as he pulled on the gloves.

Bouncing a few times on his toes, Wolfram said, “If I don’t manage this, Dylan, get him to send the soldiers, right?” He nodded toward Gwythym.

“I will.” Dylan gave a half smile. “Come back, though, Wolfram? Without you, my life would be deadly dull.”

Wolfram lightly punched his shoulder. “You’ll not get rid of me this easily.” Taking up the dangling rope, he grinned and lowered himself over the wall into the wind to begin his terrible descent.