Chapter 3
Chapter 3
The Council Major
ELIENNE wakened rudely to the stinging, bitter taste of a strange liquid; fumes scoured her nostrils and made them burn. She choked, supported by strange hands. Through watering eyes she caught the blurred impression of an anxious face lit by a candle. All else was darkness.
“My Lady?” said a voice. “Can you hear me?”
Elienne nodded, unable to speak. Whatever she had been made to swallow bound her throat in knots. The cold lip of a flask brushed against her mouth. Fearing a second draught would be forced upon her, Elienne turned her head violently to one side.
“No more,” she managed to croak, and coughed wrackingly so that her objection could not be ignored. Rewarded, after an interval, by the thin clink of glassware being set aside, Elienne blinked away the tears that dammed her eyes.
She lay on a thick-piled carpet magnificently patterned with birds of paradise. Her shoulder was propped against the knobby, carved foot of a dragon whose middle region supported the seat of a chair; and, in the trembling light of a hand-held candle, a sandy-haired man bent over her, thin face drawn with concern.
“Ma’Diere be praised,” he said in a rush. His blue eyes protruded slightly, lending a faintly surprised expression, but his mouth was kindly and generously proportioned. “I was afraid we had lost you too.”
Elienne struggled to sit. “Ielond,” she said, and stopped. Her eyes had begun to adjust to the dim room. Over the young man’s shoulder she saw a figure in blue velvet robes sprawled awkwardly across the top of a paper-littered desk. Horror and loss wrenched a gasp from her lips. “No!”
“He is beyond help.” The young man swallowed. “Dead.”
Elienne bit her lip and restrained an obscenity. She was less successful with the urge to weep that followed.
The man gave Elienne’s hand a self-conscious squeeze. “I know how you feel.” His own voice betrayed grief. “Master Ielond has instructed me since my fourteenth year. I loved him better than my own father.”
“Then you must be Kennaird.” Elienne blotted her face on a silken sleeve. “I was told to trust you.”
She disengaged her hand from Kennaird’s clasp and began to rise, but, overcome with dizziness, she made it only as far as the cushions of the dragon chair. “Hell’s Damnation, what’s the matter with me!” The room began to swirl in sickening circles.
Kennaird confessed with embarrassed haste, “It’s the elixir I gave you. It will only bring you sleep.”
Elienne struggled to stand. “Where is Darion? I wish to speak with him.”
“You must not. Not before the Grand Council has sanctioned him as your betrothed.” Kennaird’s words sounded as though they were funneled across a wide distance.
“Eternity take the Grand Council!” Elienne struggled for control. Her tongue seemed swollen and thick. “I have to see Darion.”
But Kennaird remained stolidly unsympathetic. “Ielond guessed as much. It was his final will that I keep you safely in this tower until tomorrow. A little sleep will do you no harm, and it might improve your temper.”
“Damn you,” Elienne responded, shaping her consonants with extreme effort. Her tongue had grown as sluggish as her eyelids. “Damn yooouuu....”
Her eyes closed. For a long moment Kennaird stood and regarded the small, almost delicately proportioned woman intended as Prince Darion’s bride. Ielond had said he would seek a lady of spirit. The apprentice blasphemed with uncharacteristic fervor. “Ma’Diere’s everlasting mercy! He’s sent us a veritable harridan.”
* * *
Elienne woke to warm sunlight. She stirred languidly. Her clothes had been removed, and whoever had done it had also left her in a marvelously soft bed. She felt rested and pleasant, but for the pestilent itch that had developed in the area of her crotch.
Elienne shot upright, sending pillows and bedclothes in a cascade to the floor. More than sleep had invaded her body during the night. She’d have bet every jewel Ielond had given her that Kennaird had also blessed her with a convincing reconstruction of her maidenhead. The thought raised blistering anger.
The apprentice sorcerer chose that moment to poke his head through the door. “Good day, my Lady.”
“You,” Elienne accused scathingly, “have the manners and the morals of a billy goat.” She made no move to cover herself.
Kennaird gaped. The tops of his ears turned scarlet, and he retreated hastily, slamming the door as he went. Through the thick, carven panels, his voice sounded strangled. “Missy, what was done was for Darion’s sake.”
“He damned well better be worth it.” Elienne flung the coverlet aside in anger. “I’ll not suffer every churl and his brother sticking his hands beneath my skirts without granting the courtesy of asking first.”
“Missy, please.”
“You’re not forgiven,” raged Elienne. “Let me be.”
The door opened. Kennaird stood braced as though expecting a blow. But Elienne merely slipped out of bed and stood, wrapped in the chaste folds of a sheet like a barefoot queen.
“My Lady,” the apprentice said coldly, “kindly dress at once. It is already half-past eleven, and you must appear before the Council within the hour. Ielond recommends you to them as a Prince’s bride. Act like one, whether it pleases you or not, or another will pay with his life.”
“Goat,” said Elienne.
Kennaird departed. But he paused on the far side of the door to loose a snort of laughter into his sleeve. Over his work the past night, he had envied Prince Darion the mate Ielond had delivered, but no more. That missy the Prince could have all to himself, and his Grace would be lucky if his hair wasn’t gray before the turn of the season.
* * *
Kennaird sat at Ielond’s desk sorting through papers when Elienne emerged from the bedroom. Alerted by the sound of the door latch, he looked up and studied her with light curiosity. Ielond had fashioned dress and jewelry with the finesse of a master. Golden silk and tourmalines complemented Elienne to the point where it was impossible to imagine her dicey temperament, far less her waspish tongue.
“I am glad you’re not one to fuss overlong with dressing,” said Kennaird. “Ielond’s death has put an already delicate situation squarely on top of a nest of chaos. The Council will be in knots arguing over Darion’s succession, because but seven days remain before his twenty-sixth birthday and he has not fathered even a bastard child. You are the first and only candidate for the Prince’s Consort whom Ielond has entered, and suspicion is already high because he waited so very late. Your case must be presented at the earliest possible moment.”
Elienne offered no response. Instead she gazed about the study with unconcealed interest. Absent were the flasks, braziers, and phials that would have cluttered the dwelling of a Guild Sorcerer from her own land. Though Ielond’s walls were tiered floor to ceiling with the usual rows of dusty leather books, she found no implement of a Loremaster’s practice anywhere in the room.
“Ielond’s sorceries were crafted entirely of mind and will,” said Kennaird. “His art was discipline; his power, self-awareness. He had no need of gimmicks.”
Elienne stared. “Was it he who taught you to read thoughts?”
Kennaird shook his head. “I was guessing. My training has not progressed so far.” He tapped a sheaf of papers with a finger. “But Ielond left much information on you and the place you came from. He had established knowledge of your existence before he broke the barrier of Time and left Pendaire. He had only to locate you and return.”
“Why are you telling me this?”
“I wished you to know just how much faith Ielond placed in you.” Kennaird rose hastily from his chair, heated for argument.
Elienne interrupted. “I think I already know.” Her annoyance showed. “Ielond gave his life, and I my word, for the sake of Prince Darion’s succession. I realize I am a sorry substitute for your Master’s living presence, but that was his choice. Honor his memory by respecting it.” Elienne paused to rein in another stampede of tears. She was through crying over what could not be changed. “Don’t take your Master’s death out on me,” she finished shakily. “And quit trying to shepherd my conscience.”
Kennaird looked down at the papers beneath his hands as though they held an answer for his uncertainty. The brown jerkin he had worn the night before had been replaced with a heavy black robe bordered at the cuffs with a triple band of blue. The deep colors contrasted harshly with his light hair and complexion, and morning light only accentuated the fatigue that ringed his eyes. For a moment, Elienne regretted her outburst. Ielond had not left his apprentice an easy legacy. But before she could offer apology, Kennaird rose and collected a document crusted with seals.
“My Lady, the time has come to present you before the Grand Council of Pendaire.” With evident annoyance, he scooped the remaining papers into an untidy pile. Then he flung wide the study door and motioned the Lady of Ielond’s choosing over the threshold.
Elienne waited on the balcony that overlooked the head of a spiral staircase while Kennaird set a ward to guard the doorway. His focus resolved after an interval of profound concentration. Compared with Ielond’s brilliant manifestation, the apprentice’s effort shone dimly, no more than a faint bluish gleam over his spread palm.
Yet Elienne watched without criticism as he traced a pattern over the oaken panels above the knob. None of the Guild’s followers could have done as much with so little. Completed, the ward sparkled to invisibility.
Blotting sweat from his brow, Kennaird nodded toward the stairs. “I hope you are as sturdy as you are stubborn. It’s a long way down.”
The words were no understatement. By the time they reached the bottom, Elienne was grateful she had led an unfashionably active life for the wife of a Duke. She wondered briefly whether she would be as free to indulge in hawking and riding as wife of a King.
Kennaird led her through an arched portal at ground level. The view beyond stopped Elienne in her tracks.
The tower opened into an immense garden completely enclosed within a courtyard. Blue, orange, and yellow flowers bloomed in a magnificent array, framing fountains, lawns, and hedgerows with breath-stopping artistry. Above, washed in golden summer sunlight, and brilliant with pennants, rose the spires and battlements of the royal palace.
“How beautiful,” exclaimed Elienne softly, but that moment she caught sight of a flaw amid the garden’s perfection. A dirty, dark-haired child sat huddled beneath an evergreen beside the path. She glared at the two of them, a scowl printed on her smudged oval face.
“Hello,” said Elienne.
When Kennaird turned and saw whom she had addressed, he stopped at once and bent imposingly over the bush and the child it sheltered. “What are you doing here? Does your governess know where you are?”
“No!” The girl shrank into her thicket of needles, hands clenched tightly around scuffed knees.
Elienne grasped Kennaird’s elbow. “Must you be so harsh with her?”
The girl seemed no older than twelve. Elienne stooped and offered her hand, but the child backed violently away. Branches whipped, dealing Elienne a stinging rebuff, and the girl escaped at a run across the emerald expanse of lawn on the far side.
“You insolent brat!” Kennaird yelled after her. “I’ll have you punished.”
Elienne frowned. “Let the poor child be. She was obviously frightened to death of you.”
Kennaird presented her with a startled glance. “That was Minksa,” he said angrily. “She‘s ]ieles’s bastard and, incidentally, one of your enemies. You’ve a lot to learn about this court and its ways before you question my judgment, Missy. Remember that.”
Kennaird strode off before Elienne had time to reply. She was obliged to hurry as the apprentice hustled her without sympathy through an exquisitely carved entry and down a maze of hallways. The decor within reflected the same restrained artistry as the garden. Though Elienne longed to linger and stare, Kennaird‘s hasty step prevented her.
He slowed at last before a wide doorway with broad double panels and a round stag device chased in gold. The knob was set with gems.
Kennaird addressed the liveried steward who guarded the entrance against intrusion with urgency. “I bring with me Ielond’s candidate for the Prince’s Consort.” He waved the sealed document. “This writ was the Master’s last in life. Let me and the maid pass. She is the one chosen to share his Royal Grace’s destiny.”
The steward raised eyebrows in surprise. “You bring a missy endorsed by the Prince’s Guardian? Enter, with my blessing. They’re fighting in there like the two halves of Eternity over His Grace’s future, and—”
“I know. Excuse me.” Kennaird pushed past the steward and opened the door, motioning Elienne after him.
Neither the garden nor the exceptional elegance of the palace halls prepared her for the sight of the Grand Council Chamber of Pendaire. The room was oval-shaped. Loftily domed, a triple row of galleries filled with seated councilmen, tiered its entire circumference. The floor was tiled with a mosaic depicting Ma’Diere’s seasons, fall and winter beneath her shining Scythe, and spring and summer lit with the warmth of the Seed of Life. A dais centered this array, upon which sat an exquisitely dressed collection of notables.
“Which is the Prince?” whispered Elienne in Kennaird’s ear.
“Hush.” The apprentice was sweating. Something had made him nervous, and, searching that vast chamber for the reason, Elienne began to take note of the proceedings. An emaciated old man stood on the dais. Heavily ornamented red and black robes draped his stooped back, and though his poor health was evident from a distance, his tremulous voice carried clearly the breadth of the room.
“...since his Guardian’s death, his Grace has done nothing but drink himself senseless,” the elderly man said with succinct clarity. “Were he a Prince worthy to rule, he would not indulge himself to the point of shameless exhibition. It is my opinion this Council wastes time seeking a formal Consort. What can his Grace achieve in seven days that he hasn’t already tried with every scullery drudge and loose wench he could find to fill his nights? My Lords, your Excellency, I say Prince Darion is unfit for succession. The sooner that sad fact is faced, the better for the well-being of this realm.”
Elienne wondered how anyone could listen to such a hidebound outburst; but like the first warning of stormwind on a still afternoon, murmurs of assent swept the packed galleries. Elienne’s temper roused, stripping away the last vestige of restraint. Caution abandoned, she slipped past Kennaird and walked boldly onto the floor.
“Fools!” she said scornfully. “Would you listen to that lame old rooster? Fathering children is a pastime for the young.” She shot a withering glance at the elder, whose jaw quivered with outrage in a face gone red to the top of his bald skull. “Or had you forgotten that, in the advanced state of your senility?”
Hard hands gripped Elienne’s arm, and a flurry of black velvet rippled against her skirts. “Will you shut up?” hissed Kennaird in her ear. The council chamber had fallen silent, and every eye in the room was upon them. At that moment, Elienne noticed who sat in the great chair at the top of the dais.
She had not looked closely at the man when she first entered, but now his golden gaze drew all of her attention. Fear knotted her stomach. Though unfamiliarly framed by a court setting and a collar of burgundy brocade, the fine, light hair, high cheekbones, and sculpture-perfect features were indelibly etched in Elienne’s memory.
“Have you business here, woman?” Faisix said softly. “If so, it had better be exceedingly important. Your abusive contributions are not welcome.” His eyes passed lightly over her gown of yellow silk. “And the clothing you wear is a royal affront. How dare you, without this Council’s approval, dress yourself as Prince’s Consort?”
Kennaird objected loudly. “She has Ielond’s endorsement.” He flourished the writ in his hand, and confusion erupted across the council chamber.
“Silence!” The uproar reluctantly subsided as Faisix nodded pointedly at the document. “Bring that here.”
Kennaird bowed neatly from the waist. “Your pardon, Excellency. I was instructed to give this only into Master Taroith’s hands.”
Faisix seemed unperturbed. “Very well. Taroith?”
A tall, white-haired gentleman rose from a seat on the dais. Robes of silver-gray covered a spare body, and the eyes, brown and kindly, were set in a face molded by wisdom and compassion. From the first glance, Elienne knew she confronted Ielond’s equal, a Sorcerer she could both trust and like.
“Kennaird,” Taroith said immediately. His step, as he descended the dais, was that of a man half his years. “I see you wear mourning for Ielond. You have my sympathy. He was the finest Master Pendaire has ever known.”
Taroith gave Elienne a smile of reassurance and with honest curiosity accepted the writ. “Welcome, my Lady.” He looked down and briefly inspected the seals on the document. “Pendaire could benefit under a Queen such as you. I wish you the best of fortune with the Prince.”
The Sorcerer broke the seals with swift efficiency in a certain prescribed order. Though bent with age, his fingers moved like lightning. As the last wafer of wax parted, a bright blue glyph blazed into view alongside the light of his focus.
Taroith smiled and addressed the Council. “That is Ielond’s own ward. It could have been set only by his living hand. Therefore, what it sealed lies beyond our right to question here.”
The chamber became still as death. Taroith quickly scanned the written lines and at last raised his eyes from the parchment.
“Your Excellency,” he said to Faisix. “My Lords.” He directed a respectful glance toward the galleries, momentarily preoccupied; then, with a confident gesture, reached out and grasped Elienne’s hand. “The writ of Ielond, Guardian of the Royal ward, Darion of Pendaire, recommends to us this maiden, Elienne, as candidate for Consort. Ma’Diere bless her presence. She has solved a difficult problem.”
A tumultuous wave of talk rose, drowning Taroith’s last words. Beckoning to Elienne, the Sorcerer nodded toward the dais.
“Go with him,” said Kennaird. “And good luck, Missy.”
Elienne moved forward, aware the uproar in the council chamber centered on her. Taroith led her up the steps to the dais. The insulted elder stood at the top, shakily glaring at their approach. Elienne ignored him. He was a known enemy. Surrounding her, as yet undeclared, were others. Elienne studied the faces of the notables on the dais before their first startled expressions could be replaced by less revealing ones.
Taroith placed Ielond’s writ is Faisix’s hands and drew Elienne forward. “His Excellency Faisix of Torkal, who serves Pendaire as Regent until the Prince’s rights of succession have been confirmed.”
Elienne curtsied, since courtesy demanded it. Strangely, no trace of recognition appeared on Faisix’s features. He would not recall the meeting on the icefield until a fortnight hence, Elienne realized. Ielond had spliced her back in time; for Faisix, the encounter had not yet taken place.
Faisix’s light, chill gaze broke through her thoughts, rapt with the curiosity of a predator whose hunger is temporarily quiescent. At last his glance returned to the writ.
“Ielond’s choice,” he mused. “Your Prince has been made to wait a long time for you, Missy.”
Abruptly the Regent rose and addressed Taroith. “Circumstances are hardly normal. The Prince’s grace period is nearly over. I will urge the Grand Council to adjourn at once, that the ten Select may meet separately over this matter.” Faisix turned and spoke anxiously to a portly individual who stood nearby. Though confusion still prevailed on the main floor and in the galleries, his words brought gradual order to those on the dais.
Taroith gave Elienne’s hand a light squeeze. “Formalities, only. Don’t let them upset you. Ielond’s word will stand. It cannot be otherwise. There may be inconveniences added to satisfy a few malcontents, but nothing overly serious. Ielond without a doubt had compelling reasons for selecting this hour for your presentation. Anyone who knew him as I did will trust his judgment, and the rest must acknowledge his legal writ.”
Elienne stared at the richly patterned carpet under her feet and wondered how much Taroith knew of Faisix and the Prince’s curse. Obviously the Sorcerer endorsed her cause. But if the unsettled emotions she had noticed among the council members had accurately gauged their reaction to her presence, she would need more than support. She required nothing less than an ally who was guarded against treachery, and of those present Ielond had placed trust in only one.
“Gifted,” said Elienne to Taroith, turning so Faisix would not overhear. “Gifted, one present wishes the Prince to fail his succession. He has powerful followers.”
Not a flicker of expression altered Taroith’s countenance, but he drew Elienne away from the crowd of notables promptly. “Missy, if Ielond told you who the Prince’s enemies were, you had best name them to me now.”
They reached the stairs and started down. Taroith’s focus lit features that were calm but receptive; and, drawing a deep breath, Elienne plunged ahead. “Don’t ask me to explain,” she said in a low voice. “I know this much first hand, without Ielond to warn me. Your Regent wants Prince Darion dead, Gifted, and my own life to him is but a grass stalk before the Scythe of Ma’Diere.”
Taroith directed a swift glance over his shoulder. Faisix lingered yet on the dais, though the Select of the Grand Council had begun to heed his summons and gather into a group. Looking back to Elienne, Taroith said, “Whatever you do, don’t mention him directly by name. He is Sorcerer enough to follow what concerns him, and no ward of secrecy is possible in this place.”
As they reached the level of the mosaic, Taroith ushered Elienne across its echoing expanse toward a small side door.
“Your accusation is a grave one, Missy.”
Elienne dodged around a message boy who had stopped in her path to stare. “Gifted, Ielond left me but two names I could trust in all Pendaire. Yours was one of them. He said I was to look to you for guidance.”
Taroith regarded Elienne long and steadily as he walked. “Ielond gave his life to bring you here, didn’t he?”
Elienne nodded, avoiding speech. The Guardian’s death was too recent for her to contemplate without emotional interference.
“Well then.” The Sorcerer reached the door, pushed it open, and briskly drew Elienne after. “We mustn’t fail him in his final wish. You have my protection, Lady. We will soon see who would rather Darion fails his inheritance.”
“Jieles, also,” Elienne added.
Taroith made a noise in his throat. “That one I already know to be grasping and selfish.”
With a wave of his hand, the Sorcerer set his focus about the task of igniting the wall sconces. Thin new flames lit a white-walled room trimmed with gilt molding, and furnished with a long table and chairs. The last wick had barely caught fire when the door opened wide to admit the Grand Council’s Select. They were all past middle age, and as brilliantly dressed as a flock of rare birds.
Pendaire must be a rich kingdom, Elienne concluded, or else its peasantry was excessively oppressed. The last of the Select filed in, the elder Elienne had insulted entered among them, supported on Faisix’s arm.
“We can also assume that old Garend there is no friend,” murmured Taroith in Elienne’s car. “You touched his pride with your slight to his manhood, I’m afraid. He is one who holds a vicious grudge.”
Confronted close hand by Garend’s crumpled cheeks and pinched, miserly features, Elienne found it difficult to regret her hasty words. The man reminded her of sour milk. Never one to bury dislike under innocuous courtesies, Elienne accepted the chair Taroith offered without comment. The Select of Pendaire’s Grand Council would no doubt provoke response from her soon enough; she had simply to wait and to watch.
Faisix opened by having Ielond’s writ read aloud by a scribe. The document was lengthy, detailed, and formally phrased, yet the Select listened without interruption until it was complete. The silence held as the scribe returned the writ to Faisix and departed, leaving the liveried door steward the only other nonofficial in the room beside Elienne.
“It appears Ielond has left us an eminently qualified candidate,” said Faisix to the assembly. “All that remains to satisfy the procedure of the law is this Council’s signature of endorsement.”
A subtle and clever opening: Faisix had used simplicity as a gambit in a trap to be sprung by the Prince’s own supporters, Elienne realized immediately. Her suspicion was swiftly confirmed.
“There are but seven days left for Prince Darion to conceive an heir,” said one of the Select. “Ielond’s timing has given him poor odds of fulfilling the terms of the Law. I move that he be allowed a twelve-month extension, lest he be condemned without fair chance.”
The debate was opened. Faisix sat back in his chair, ambiguously silent, as another voice contested. History held record of six royal executions. Not one of Darion’s predecessors had been granted additional time.
The original defendant was quick to point out that those six unfortunates had been paired with a legal Consort for years. But Garend struck down that argument with a specific.
“What difference, my Lords?” he said in his rasping tenor. “King Mistrael II had no legal Consort at all. He was granted his rights of succession on the evidence of four illegitimate children. This Prince of ours has lain with enough women to demonstrate the potency of his favors. He has sired no bastards. The Grand Jury would have no choice but to rule out his case.”
Murmurs of assent underlined Garend’s statement, but argument prevailed. Words grew heated, and delicately, without Faisix’s prompting, the Select swung their questioning from Darion to Ielond’s own motives for revealing an unknown candidate at the bitter end of the Prince’s trial period. Garend’s contributions figured heavily. His was the first attack to be targeted at Elienne, and even through dignified phrases his malice was apparent.
The accusations prompted Taroith, who had remained silent, to speak out at last. “Garend,” he said with firm finality. “The Lady’s candidacy is not yours to question.”
“I must,” Garend responded. “For the sake of Pendaire. Though no Sorcerer, even I am aware a gifted healer can simulate virginity well enough to pass your examination. If this missy were an ordinary candidate, Ielond surely would have presented her case before today. I say the Prince is incapable, and that fact is what prompted his Guardian’s great delay.”
A muttering swept around the table, killed by Taroith’s forceful exclamation. “Nonsense! Ielond was the most respected Master in Pendaire; that was the reason he was appointed Guardian to begin with. You do him and Elienne both a disservice by mistrusting her candidacy. I personally believe she is someone special, that Ielond took pains to select her above other more available women. Whether true virgin or not, she cannot be pregnant without her examiner’s knowledge. And I remind you all it is Darion’s ability to father offspring which must satisfy the Law, not the past history of his Consort.”
“But suppose Ielond was capable of creating pregnancy and shielding it by sorcery,” Garend persisted. “The possibility must be considered.”
Surprisingly, Faisix himself ended the controversy. His lips slid easily into the thin, brittle smile Elienne recalled from the icefield. “My Lords,” he admonished. “Are we so easily made victims of hysteria? Pregnancy cannot be fabricated without employing the Black arts. If such is the case, it will be quite obvious even to the green eye of an apprentice.”
The Regent paused, allowing his words to take effect. His gaze touched each man present for a brief second before he resumed. “I will allow a conspiracy might be present to falsely establish Darion’s rights of succession. Therefore, as a deterrent to injustice, I move another Sorcerer be present during our candidate’s examination. The task would normally be Taroith’s alone, as Master of the Sorcerers’ League. But Ielond addressed his writ solely into Taroith’s hands, which is not common custom. Most likely, the gesture was innocent. But it might be wise if I attended Elienne’s examination for candidacy, and also at her confirmation of pregnancy should she be blessed with the good fortune to conceive.”
“I second,” said Garend at once.
Elienne’s blood ran cold. She hardly felt Taroith’s squeeze of reassurance beneath the edge of the table. Faisix was a master of manipulation. One smooth move had shed doubt on Taroith’s integrity and assured the Regent access to her through two critical examinations. The Select molded to his touch like soft wax. Round the table, the votes in favor of his motion were entered with swift and deadly ignorance of its possible consequence.
Elienne battled rising uneasiness. She had only just begun to appreciate the practiced sophistication of the Sorcerer who opposed her. If she wasn’t careful, he would shift her out of his path without even the unpleasantness of a confrontation.
Discussion resumed over a host of lesser details. Time and date were set for Elienne’s examination, followed by arrangements for a ceremonial banquet celebrating the royal betrothal. Normally, an endorsed Consort was permitted to pass her time of leisure as she wished, but Garend questioned Elienne’s right to freedom on the grounds that another man might bed her in the Prince’s stead. This idea was bandied about at wearying length. Some deemed it demeaning to confine one who might become Pendaire’s Queen; others felt an assigned escort to be an appropriate and tactful precaution. Elienne herself listened without visible sign of rancor until she saw the beginnings of another smile take shape on Faisix’s features.
The back of her neck prickled with apprehension. Faisix, like a man manipulating chess pieces, was eliminating her options through a series of carefully planned moves. Small, petty arguments would soon be welded together into another, wider purpose; and rather than allow Faisix to arbitrate to his advantage a second time, Elienne gave her seething temper free rein. Even Taroith started in surprise as her small hand crashed down on the tabletop in exasperation.
“Must you peck the issue to death like crows?” she said in sharp annoyance. “The Prince has but days to establish his rights to succession. You do him no favor by wasting his time over trifles.”
“Missy—” Garend snapped over stunned silence.
“Lady. I’m not your relative.”
“Missy, his Grace is, at this moment, disgustingly inebriated. His condition is so deplorable that he is incapable of bedding anything but himself. For a good many hours to come, he is unlikely to wish anyone’s company, far less that of a well-born maiden.”
Acidly suspicious, Elienne was not so easily put off. “Does his Royal Grace usually drink himself senseless? That doesn’t sound to me like the behavior of a man who might face execution in seven days’ time. I think the Prince had help, outside help, with his indulgence.”
Immediate protest arose from the Select, but the most dramatic response came from Faisix. He pushed himself forward in his chair. White anger tautened the lines of his face, and his voice cut like a whip through the general outcry. “Silence!”
The Regent settled back. More calmly he said, “My Lady, your words are both treasonous and ridiculously ill-founded. You have neither voice nor vote in this Council. Disrupt these proceedings again, and I’ll have you sent from the room.”
“You’re afraid I might smell the fish beneath all this finery.” Elienne started at the sudden grip of a hand on her arm. She shrugged the clasp off, then turned and met the bland, round face of the door steward.
“Escort her out,” said Faisix with incisive finality. “And keep her with you until this Council adjourns. She must be available afterward for physical examination.”
Elienne slid her chair back. She bent over with a muffled exclamation and fussed with the fit of her shoe—the position placing her head within inches of Taroith’s knee, well inside his sphere of influence should he wish mental contact. Her tactic was rewarded. Taroith’s response came as a light touch upon her mind. I’ll forestall the Regent. Wait patiently. Don’t stir up any more trouble.
Elienne finished with her shoe, rose, and walked out of the room without a backward glance. Left standing by himself, the steward stumbled awkwardly over her chair in his haste to follow, and with varying degrees of disgruntlement the Select of Pendaire’s Grand Council resumed debate.