“LADY MYRIEL WON’T sleep, my Lord.” The old chierra servant’s round face was still swollen with tears. “Not for a minute, not since—” She pressed a work-worn hand over her mouth and turned away, staring at a Lenhe crest woven into the wall hanging. Her distress spread through Kevisson’s mind like a dark cloud.
He laid aside the list of damages he was tallying for the Council and stood, his fingers sliding over the red spine-wood of the fine desk. The old Lord’s study must have been his favorite room, he thought. From the look of the papers and ledgers still scattered about, little had been touched since Avlan Lenhe’s death some three years ago. The blue-and-gold ebari-wool throws were still casually laid over the chair turned to the hearth as if the old Lord would be back in only a moment, the brocade drapes were drawn against the late afternoon sun, the wing-backed chairs huddled close to the fire for guests who would never come. This seemed to be a house waiting for something.
“Perhaps I can be of some help—” He paused, having forgotten her name, then concentrated and plucked it lightly from the edge of her conscious thoughts. “Dorria.”
“If you would be so kind. I have been that worried about her.” Dorria dabbed at her reddened eyes with a worn gray shawl. “I’ve seen after two generations of Lenhe children now and I never failed any of them, not until—” Tears welled up in the dark-brown eyes again.
“It wasn’t your fault, Dorria.” He stood up and clasped her trembling shoulder. “I’m sure you’ve always done the very best you could.” You’re of no use to your Lady when you’re this upset, he murmured into her mind, using the contact of his hand on her shoulder to deepen the faint link between them. You must calm yourself so she won’t pick it up from you.
Although the old woman’s chierra mind could not hear him on a conscious level, her body began to relax. Keeping his arm lightly around her shoulder, Kevisson walked her up the winding, carpeted staircase to the family’s personal wing, using his Talent to ease the terrible grief the old servant felt for Myriel, whom she had raised, and for Myriel’s dead son. Although Andiine vows forbade imposing his will on others under most circumstances, blunting of grief was a widely accepted practice.
When they reached the carved expanse of Myriel’s private door, Kevisson turned to the servant. “Wait out here while I speak with her. I’ll call if she needs you.”
Breathing somewhat more easily already, the old woman nodded and stood aside, bowing her head.
Inside, the sitting room was a shambles, as was the bedroom beyond, clothes thrown everywhere, the expensive velvets, wools, and silks ripped, then tossed aside. The fire had burned down into ashes, the air was cold, and the reek of a dozen perfumes mingled near one wall where the smashed jars lay in a heap at the baseboard. In the far corner, Myriel gazed out the window at the wild tangle of woods two fields away, her fists pressed hard against her sides.
Myriel? Kevisson closed the door softly behind him. Why don’t you lie down? It’s getting dark and a lot of people will be here tomorrow.
Myriel stiffened as he spoke directly into her mind. She was still beautiful, he thought, her tall body only slightly rounder than he remembered from all those years ago when his Search had led him into the Lowlands and he had availed himself of her father’s hospitality.
“Go away!” she hissed without looking at him.
Think of your daughters. He edged closer. They’re grieving, too. You must take care of yourself for their sake.
“My daughters!” She turned around, and he realized with a shock that she was laughing in hard, wrenching sobs. Her face twisted. “My daughters, oh, that is just the way one of you would think!” She looked down at the green, soot-smudged gown she still wore, then brushed absently at a few blackened streaks. “I only wish I had sent my daughters out to face the chierra—then I would still have my son!”
You don’t mean that. Probing beneath her shields, Kevisson blanched at the wildness seething through her mind.
“You don’t understand.” Her gaze turned back to the window and the charred fields beyond. “You’re a man—and a son. You’ve never had to think about these things the way a daughter must. If I still had Lat, I would have Lenhe’ayn.” A muscle twitched in her jaw. “Neither of my girls can inherit; my father entailed this estate solely upon my male heirs, of which I have none now to present to the Council.”
There will be time to think about that later. Kevisson resolved to send for a healer from the House of Moons as soon as he had persuaded her to rest; she needed far more care than he could give her. Come and lie down for a little while. He touched her shoulder.
Unexpectedly she whirled on him like a bavval, clawing at his eyes and shoving him back against the wall. Caught off guard, he enfolded her in his arms and held her hard against his chest. Myriel, stop this! He poured all the strength of his Plus-Ten Talent against the inadequate defenses of her Plus-One mind. Stop fighting me and rest!
But grief and pain were lending her unsuspected reserves. Continuing to struggle, she worked one arm free and scratched his face. I’ll rest when I have another son! she cried into his mind, her loss laid painfully bare before him. Her need poured over him, hot and savage. Give me another son! Then her lips were at his, pressing, demanding.
For a second, he almost responded. Then he drew away from her tear-ravaged face. Perhaps you will have another son someday, but not like this.
You refused me before.
Even as he forced her back onto the bed, he felt the aching need that she projected burning through him.
Don’t say no again! Give me a son and I swear I will love him! That’s why you wouldn’t before, wasn’t it? You thought I wouldn’t love him!
It was true; he had refused her because he had caught a glimpse of himself through her mind: the disappointing reality that his eyes and hair were golden brown, not the true gold that the Kashi prized as the visible proof of their superiority to the chierra. Any child of his would likely have carried that same chierra-like coloring, and he would never give his child to her or anyone else to be scorned as he had been.
It won’t matter! Myriel’s arms wrapped around his neck, drawing him down to her desperate need. I swear it won’t!
For a moment, tangled in her arms, with the fire of her body pressed against his, he was tempted, almost swept beyond thinking. She was still lovely—in fact, she was all the more beautiful for the years that had transformed her from the shallow, ambitious girl he remembered into this grieving matron. But his heart had chosen long ago, for all the good it had ever done him, and it had not chosen her.
Freeing his arms, Kevisson folded her to him as if she were an ailing child and stroked the ash gold of her wild hair. His face ached where she had scratched him. Sleep, he whispered into her mind, knowing tomorrow would be difficult for her even if she did manage to rest. She struggled within his grip, trying to escape, but he pinned her arms, projecting an aura of calm he did not feel. Sleep, he commanded her again. I won’t leave you.
Then he leaned back against the wooden headboard of her bed, using his will against hers, feeling the tension drain gradually from her body until at last his strength overpowered hers and she slept. For a long time, he watched her chest rise and fall in the evenness of a sleep that eased grief for the moment, watched until most of the lines smoothed from the curve of her still-perfect cheek.
Would he have been so firm in his refusal, he wondered, if he had never known Haemas Sennay Tal?
* * *
Even before she met Enissa in the hallway, Haemas caught Enissa’s grumbling thoughts as the older woman rounded the comer. She was struggling into her heaviest wool cloak while trying to balance her medicinal pouch at the same time.
Haemas took the pouch from her. “Is there an emergency?”
A head shorter than Haemas, the older woman drew her stout body up and regarded her impatiently. “Now what else do you think could pry me out of my warm bed at this late hour? If you must know, Kevisson asked me to come down to Lenhe’ayn and see after one of the family who’s in a bad way.”
“Oh.” Haemas’s face warmed as she realized Kevisson had contacted Enissa without even leaving her a message. “Do you think you’ll be back by morning? The girls seemed rather subdued at the table tonight. I’m afraid they may be upset about the attack.”
A half smile quirked the edges of Enissa’s mouth as she took her bulky shoulder pouch of medicines back. “There’s not one among that lot who can think much beyond the cut of her next festival gown, and that’s a pure fact.”
Haemas started to protest, then didn’t. The Kashi daughters sent from all over the Highlands as well as the Lowlands to study mindarts at the House of Moons did seem to have an overwhelming preoccupation with things other than studying, such as clothes and boys—and marriage. Softening her shields, she skimmed at the surface mindchatter of the girls housed on the upper floor and caught at the edges of a few carelessly broadcast thoughts: the latest colors in Cholee velvets ... eligible oldest sons ... invitations to the Dynd Naming to come in the next ten-day ... and the undisputed goldness of young Arrich Dynd’s eyes.
Haemas shook her head ruefully. “I guess you’re right. Do you want me to come with you?”
“I most certainly do not.” Enissa shouldered her bag. “These flighty, half-witted girls need you right here, where you can keep an eye on them.” Enissa reached out with both hands and pushed her toward her own chambers. “Get some rest.” She opened Haemas’s door and guided her inside. “The night’s half over as it is. I’ll be back as soon as I can.” Then she shut the door firmly in Haemas’s face.
Well, good-bye to you, too, Haemas said as the older woman started down the staircase, then shook her head. The air in her sitting room was cooler than she’d expected, the fire in her blue-tiled hearth barely more than glowing red embers. Kneeling, she added more kindling, then prodded and stirred until the flames crackled again. But even though she held her hands close, the fire seemed to give off far too little warmth. Stretching her hands closer, she watched the shimmering fire, suddenly too weary to go about even the simple business of undressing for bed.
The events of the last few days swept back over her: Master Ellirt’s sudden death, the appointment of Riklin Senn as the Head of Shael’donn, Kevisson’s anger with her. It was all more than she could take in. Gathering her legs to her chest, she rested her chin on her knees and tried to concentrate on her schedule for the next few days.
Saatha Bramm had a Testing coming up; no doubt her father, Lord Ellric Bramm, self-important Lowlander that he was, would insist on being present to make sure the House of Moons didn’t botch it. And then there was Meryet Alimn ...
Stifling a yawn, she blinked at the yellow flames for a moment. Meryet? For some reason, she couldn’t remember what had been on her mind. A chill, bone-aching weariness seeped up from the tips of her toes, spreading until she could hardly remember her own name. Reaching back, she loosened her mass of pale-gold hair from its single braid and shook it out, combing it with her fingers.
Meryet ... Shivering, Haemas pushed herself up from the floor, then balanced there dizzily. No doubt, she should have eaten something instead of merely playing with her stew at the evening meal. Well, she scolded herself, that had been foolish. How could she expect people to trust her with their daughters when she didn’t even take proper care of herself?
Something rustled behind her. Turning her head, she peered through the flickering shadows. Was someone standing there, watching her, over by the far wall?
“Who’s there?” she demanded, thinking that one of the girls had sneaked in.
“So, Lady,” a cool voice said from the shadows, “shall we resume our discussion?”
It was Diren Chee, and she realized suddenly that her strange malaise was being projected by him. Heart pounding, she strengthened her shields and darted toward the door, but in two determined strides he caught up with her and threw his arm around her neck, jerking her almost off her feet. Before she could cry out, something hard and sharp-edged pressed against her temple and loosed a lightning bolt deep into her brain. Gasping with pain and shock, she tried to push it away.
He caught her wrist in iron fingers and twisted it behind her back. “You will come with me now,” he whispered. “Say it!”
The words echoed inside her head until she thought it would burst. She threw her will against the grinding pain, trying to shield it out, but it increased twofold, then threefold. Her knees sagged as she was drawn down into a dark vortex of pain.
“Fool!” Chee shifted his arms to take her weight and keep her from falling. “Fighting only makes it worse! Do you want to kill yourself?”
Then the swirling darkness swept her beyond pain and fear.
* * *
Enissa opened her mind to the ilsera crystals set into the portal housing, concentrating on their soundless vibrations. Somewhere beyond the thicket of surrounding trees and bushes, one of the House silshas snarled and another screamed in answer, apparently enraged. A shiver ran down her spine, and, suddenly feeling something was wrong, she glanced back at the House of Moons, two stories of solemn grayness outlined in the muted glow of silvery Sedja, the largest of Desalaya’s three moons.
A few late lights still shone in the girls’ windows, but the sense of menace was already fading. You’re getting old, she scolded herself, but that’s no excuse for jumping at shadows. She sighed and turned back to the portal, focusing her mind again, then altering the wavelength to match the crystals in the Lenhe’ayn portal, having to reproduce it from Kevisson’s relayed memory since she had never set foot on Lenhe ground.
Wouldn’t her late husband, Rhydal, be scandalized if he could see her now? she mused. Here she was, setting off into the night by herself, going to a place she’d never been before, to tend a woman who wasn’t even a member of one of the High Houses. It was a wonder her long-dead Sithnal husband didn’t march back from the Darkness itself to haunt her.
The distance from the Highlands to the Lowlands passed in less than a flash, stealing her breath with the instantaneous bite of deep cold between. She opened her eyes to the torch-lit, white-painted portal of Lenhe’ayn.
“Enissa!” Kevisson Monmart stepped out of the shadows and reached up to take her arm. Four fiery red scratches trailed down the left side of his face. “It’s good of you to come all this way, and at this hour, too.”
“That’s Healer Saxbury to you, young man, when you have me out in the middle of the night on a call.” She smiled. She had known this boy’s family all her married life—the Monmarts having been one of the few Lowland Houses, besides her father’s, that her husband, Rhydal, would tolerate—and she had always liked young Kevisson. She had to keep reminding herself that although he was some twenty-odd years younger, he was no longer a boy at all. She peered down at him. “What in the name of Darkness happened to your face?”
Kevisson glanced back at the massive house. “Myriel is out of her mind with grief.”
“She fought you?” Enissa sighed, then stepped down from the portal platform onto the crushed gravel path. “You should have called me sooner.”
He turned for the main house. “We’d better get inside. I did set a guard, but I don’t know how safe we are exposed out here like this. The raiders could come back, although they left little enough worth bothering. Most of the zeli fields were yet to be harvested. I don’t know how Lenhe’ayn is going to make it through the winter now.”
Shouldering the weight of her pouch, Enissa fell in beside him, each of her steps equaling only half of one of his strides. “And how is your mother?”
“Complaining, as always, but I’m sure that comes as no surprise.” He stopped at the side door and rapped sharply. One of the chierra servants, still dirty and smudged from the day’s cleanup work, peeked out, then hastily opened the door.
A bit breathless from trying to match his pace, she followed him into the half light of the long hallway. “Naevia still wants you to come home and take over Monmart’ayn?”
“I’m afraid she speaks of nothing else.” Kevisson led her to a side staircase. “Of course, if my father were still alive, it would be different. Because of my ...” He hesitated. “My coloring, as well as my commitment to Shael’donn, he always intended my sister, Mairen, to inherit, and I really don’t see why she shouldn’t.”
Enissa watched his strong back striding easily up the long flight of steps, then put a hand to her chest, took a deep breath, and followed him. You ought to take your own advice, she scolded herself, and lose some weight!
He waited at the top for her as she struggled up the stairs, and she stopped on the last step to ease the knot in her chest. “Was Lady Lenhe badly injured?”
His mouth straightened. “Physically, she isn’t hurt. All the harm is here.” His fingers brushed his temple. “Her only son was killed in the attack, and it seems the old Lord entailed this estate solely upon her male heirs. Now she won’t be able to hold this land. She—” He broke off and gazed down the hall. “Perhaps I’d just better let you see her. Then you’ll understand.”
Enissa nodded and mounted the last step. “I’m ready.”
Another few doors down, he stopped and nodded to a plump gray-haired chierra servant. “Any change, Dorria?”
“No, sir.” The old woman dabbed the corner of her eye with a worn shawl. “But I didn’t let no one in or out, just like you said.”
He took the key from her hand. “You’ve done well. Now I want you to go to bed and get some sleep. We’ll see after your mistress now.”
“Oh, no, sir!” Dorria touched the door with trembling fingers. “I want to take care of her myself. I won’t be able to sleep a single wink, knowing how she is and all.”
“Dorria ...” He reached out and put a firm hand on her shoulder. “Go and get some sleep. I insist.”
Enissa felt him put the full force of his mind behind that statement and stared at the pair of them. Andiine Masters were well known for their restraint in such matters. Things must be very bad indeed.
Dorria’s lined face looked puzzled. Then she turned to go, wrapping the shawl around her hunched shoulders and walking slowly.
Enissa frowned up at him. “I suppose that was necessary.”
“She’s almost as badly off as her mistress.” He turned the key in the lock. She heard it click, then stepped aside as he swung the door open. Inside, the room was a terrifying mess, with clothes and other possessions ripped to shreds and thrown everywhere, vases smashed and ground into the thick carpet, furniture splintered.
“Myriel?” Kevisson stuck his head through the door, then motioned to Enissa. “She must still be asleep.”
Enissa followed him in, picking her way through the wreckage of slippers and lace and cosmetics strewn across the ruined carpeting. “Grief does terrible things,” she murmured.
He pointed to the blue canopied bed, then stood aside. Enissa took up the hand dangling limply off to one side and held her own fingers against the hollow of the sleeping woman’s wrist, but the skin was cold, far too cold. She pressed harder, feeling for the pulse that should be there.
Appalled, she stared down at the pale form on the disordered bed, seeing the hollowed shadows under the eyes, the lines of grief so strong that they were still visible, even though Myriel Lenhe had passed beyond this world.
“I did the best I could, but I’m no healer.” Kevisson leaned against the bedpost at the head of the bed and shifted uneasily. “How is she?”
Enissa laid the bloodless wrist beside the woman’s body, then reached across and straightened the other arm, too. She moved back, wondering what had happened and how she was going to explain this—indeed, how Kevisson was going to explain.
“Is she worse?” He reached out and touched the white forehead, then stood there in shock.
“She’s—gone.” Enissa sighed and looked about the room, wondering if there was an intact length of silk left somewhere for the traditional shroud.
“She can’t be!” The color drained from his face. “She was sleeping when I left her, only sleeping!”
“Perhaps she didn’t want to live.” Enissa took his arm and pulled him toward the door. “Wake the servants. I’m afraid there is much to be done here before morning.” She stopped and thought for a moment. “Did any of the rest of the family survive, or was she the last one?”
Kevisson took a deep breath, then shook his head, his eyes dark and miserable. “She said there were two more children, both girls. I haven’t seen them yet.”
Enissa opened the door and guided him out. “Poor little tykes,” she said. “I suppose I’ll have to tell them as soon as it’s light.”
As she watched him walk away, his shoulders slouched in shock and weariness, she was touched by an uneasy feeling that Myriel Lenhe’s death had been no accident.