Chapter 4
Chapter 4
Prince’s Consort
ELIENNE wanted time to herself, which meant shedding the presence of the steward who had been assigned escort duty. She watched the man emerge from the council room; he shut the door firmly behind himself and leaned on it, puffing. After appraising the paunch that strained the seams of his white and gold livery, Elienne judged he was not a man who loved exertion. She tailored her methods to suit.
The mammoth oval expanse of the Grand Council Chamber was quite empty, yet the ornate decor held splendor enough to rouse a stranger’s curiosity. Elienne feigned a country girl’s ignorant enthusiasm and, with apparent innocence, began to rove the room and admire.
The steward grunted like an unhappy sow, but the effect was irresistible. He pushed his bulk away from the door and followed while Elienne wandered the length and breadth of the room. No detail was too slight for her interest, though nothing commanded her attention quite long enough for her to linger. When the lower level and every detail of its mosaic floor had been exhausted, Elienne investigated the dais. Up and down twenty-five marble steps went the steward at her heels, his breath by now a stertorous wheeze.
Elienne failed to notice his distress. She plied him steadily with questions, then abandoned the dais and went on light feet straight to the staircase that led to the upper galleries. The steward balked and parked his bulk against the banister.
“Missy,” he gasped. “No more steps.”
Elienne turned in mid-flight and gave him a round-eyed look. “Oh, I’m sorry. I’m quite carried away. I’ve never in my whole life seen the equal of the craftsmanship in this room.”
She paused to gaze wistfully upward. “Mightn’t I just take a look? You can always call if the Select wish me back. I’ll come straight down.”
“Very well.” The steward grumbled to himself and took a seat on the bottom step. Elienne could not leave without tripping over him. She would be secure enough, and his responsibilities did not include guard duty.
Elienne ran briskly up the remainder of the flight. She toured the upper gallery in a methodical fashion that had little to do with her earlier display of false curiosity. She covered all three levels from end to end, thoroughly, until she was satisfied that no other entry was possible except by way of the stair. Then she leaned with artful recklessness over the topmost railing and shouted down to the steward.
“There are soft chairs up here. Would you mind if I did my waiting sitting down?”
The steward nodded immediate assent, as much to get her away from the overhang as any other reason. He settled more comfortably on his step, relieved Elienne had at last decided to stay quietly in one place. No meeting of Pendaire’s Select had ever been brief; this one was unlikely to differ.
Elienne chose a railing seat that offered an unobstructed view of the lower floor. Until her opposition elected to reveal its plot there was no way to gauge the extent of her personal peril. She dared not let the first move surprise her. Nor could she depend on Kennaird and Taroith for shelter against harm. Trathmere’s fall had shown how easily the best defenses could crumble. If she lost the Prince, her fate might be worse than any she would have suffered in Khadrach hands.
Elienne pulled forth the thick gold chain that hung beneath the neck of her gown. The mirrowstone dropped, warm and weighty, into her palm. For a long, still interval, she held it without seeking the image contained by the jewel’s depths. After fourteen hours in Pendaire, this would be her first, unhurried glimpse of the man she had promised to marry.
Carefully, Elienne tilted the gem. The clear, reflective surface became immediately congested and dark. Set like yellowed ivory against a field of black, she saw a man’s face, lit by the dribbled stalk of a half-spent candle. A tangle of brown hair arched over one ear. The long, spidery lines of shadow cast across cheek and brow lent an impression more sinister than neglect. Garend had said the Prince was drunk. Puzzled, Elienne wondered why no servants attended his Grace’s comfort until the effect of the spirits wore off.
Elienne bent closer. The planes of Darion’s nose, forehead, and chin had the spare grace of a draftsman’s sketch, but there all semblance of harmony ended. The mouth drooped open, slack as the empty pouch of a forester’s pack. A small scar bisected the jawline, stark as an ink line against the pale, dry skin drawn taut against a lean framework of bone. The Prince was obviously ill.
Elienne frowned. Often she had sat with Cinndel’s younger brother when the aftermath of his carousing had laid him low. The face she remembered had always been flushed and sweating. Whatever held Darion under certainly was not drink.
And in a palace as richly adorned as Pendaire’s, she doubted whether the dim, drab place where Darion lay was anywhere near the royal suite.
Elienne bit her lip and found herself shaking. The Prince’s enemies were confident indeed if they could remove him on the pretense of drunken stupor and hold him without being questioned. Were Ielond alive, they would never have dared. Without him, Darion had no other to act in his defense with the possible exception of Kennaird. And Kennaird had been kept busy through the night with her.
Elienne cursed. The jewel in her hand was the only weapon Ielond had left her. Darion’s oppressors did not expect him to be seen by other eyes, and according to the Sorcerer’s instructions, communication was possible as well. Perhaps the Prince could be awakened.
Placing her fingertip against the cold surface of the mirrowstone, Elienne leaned close and whispered. “Darion! Your Grace, can you hear me? Darion!”
She released contact. The image flooded back, clouding the stone like dark smoke. The Prince roused enough to stir. This time the magic exposed him full face; his lashes quivered, spiking his cheek with trembling lines of shadow.
Elienne cupped the jewel closer and whispered again, urgently. “Darion, wake up.”
Faint as the distant roll of surf in a shell, she heard a coughing sigh. The Prince closed his mouth. His eyes flickered open, irises wide and black in the candlelight. Hazel, Elienne recalled from her brief impression on the icefield, but they remained unfocused and confused.
“Darion, you’ve been drugged,” said Elienne through the mirrowstone.
She held her breath as the Prince threw one veined wrist across his face. If anyone were present, such movement would surely attract attention.
As though answering Elienne’s fear, a large hand appeared, momentarily obscuring her view. The Prince moaned thickly. Elienne looked on in horror as a second hand moved into sight. Fingers marred by an old, puckered scar pressed a twist of soaked linen firmly over Darion’s nose and mouth until his weak struggles subsided.
“Oh, poor man,” Elienne whispered. Hot tears blistered the inside of her eyelids. When the hands removed the drugged cloth and passed from sight, the mirrowstone’s dark depths returned Darion’s image with faithful clarity, even to the angry red imprint where the rag had roughened his skin.
Elienne shoved the jewel back inside the neck of her dress. The heavy gold setting had gouged purple grooves in her palm where she had gripped too tightly. Angrily she closed her fist over them. Something would have to be done. She no longer found it tolerable to sit like a lady while the Council’s Select dallied over trivia. She could start an inquiry after a man with knowledge of drugs who also had a scarred hand.
Elienne rose and ran between the rows of chairs. She took the stairs two at a time while formulating a plan to forestall the steward. Just below the first landing, she all but bowled over someone who ascended the flight in the same state of haste.
“My Lady!” Kennaird divested himself of an armload of yellow silk skirts.
Elienne paused only to draw breath. “Darion’s been drugged,” she said tersely, and described what she had seen in the rnirrowstone. Kennaird was already familiar with the jewel. He had seen it around her neck the night before; it was the only item on her he had been unable to remove.
“I’ll see what I can do,” Kennaird promised. He grabbed Elienne with both hands as she tried to slip past him. “I said I would look after it.”
“But—” Elienne began in protest.
“No.” Kennaird shook her with curt annoyance. “No. You’ll stay here as you were told. Darion is not the only one in danger. I came to warn you to guard your own life.”
Elienne stopped resisting Kennaird’s hand, and only then realized his homely face was drawn with anxiety.
“Tell me,” she said.
Kennaird released his hold with a tired sigh. “The ward over the study door was broken when I returned.” He shut his eyes and leaned back against the paneled wall of the stairwell. “All of Ielond’s papers were stolen from the desk. Someone now knows more of you, Lady Elienne, than is meet.”
Kennaird staved off Elienne’s response with a raised hand. “Wait, Missy, until I finish. Ielond was not careless enough to leave written all the facts about you. There was nothing in his notes that would prevent your—”
“Shh!” Elienne pointed down the stair and whispered. “The steward.”
Kennaird obligingly lowered his voice. “They can’t stop your Consortship with the contents of those papers. But every facet of the culture you came from was outlined in detail, and among the documents taken was the written summary of the birth chart Ielond cast for you. He left out everything that pertained to your former marriage. But well outlined for my own purposes was a list of the dates and times your natal stars warn you will be vulnerable.”
Elienne felt the constriction fall away from her chest. Astrology she understood. The Guild had placed great stock in the movements of planets and events, but Elienne had never paid much attention. No Guild seer had been required to foretell disaster in the path of Khadrach’s armies. She spoke at last, concerned mainly for Kennaird’s loss. He seemed greatly upset.
“Can’t you recast the chart?”
Kennaird shook his head. “Ielond spliced Time to find you, Missy. Ma’Diere only knows when and where you were born.”
“Well then, look after Darion.” Elienne shrugged lightly. “There’s no use fretting.”
Kennaird regarded her anxiously. “Lady, you had better hear me. Ielond knew his craft. Trathmere’s Loremasters were as blind men feeling their way among the stars in comparison. That list in the wrong hands could spell your bane in this world. Guard yourself well.”
“I will.” Elienne needed no warnings to emphasize her current danger. Aggravation made her response more curt than she intended. “But since I am in no direct danger at the moment, see to Darion, I beg you.”
Kennaird made no move to depart. “Beware of Minksa, Lady. She means you ill. I suspect she may have been involved with the theft of Ielond’s papers. Restrain your sympathies where she is concerned.”
“All right.” Elienne bit back impatience. She failed entirely to see how a little girl could have broken a Sorcerer’s ward, but that small point was not worth delaying Kennaird with argument. Darion needed help, and in another moment she would disobey completely and search for him herself. But Kennaird was through lecturing.
“Ma’Diere keep you, Lady.” The apprentice walked with her to the foot of the steps. Leaving her in care of the steward there, he hurried across the council chamber and disappeared through its wide double door.
* * *
The meeting of the Select did not adjourn until well into the afternoon. Escorted by the door steward, Elienne returned to the white and gilt paneled chamber in compliance with a summons from the Regent. She entered with reluctance. A surreptitious peek at the mirrowstone only minutes before had shown Darion’s condition unchanged. Kennaird had not yet managed to aid the Prince, and Elienne fumed inwardly at the barriers of formality that hampered her from taking action herself.
As expected, Taroith and Faisix awaited her in the recently vacated council room. Elienne held her eyes downcast, but not through any maidenly deference. Though she wished to alert Taroith to the Prince’s present danger, she dared not risk eye contact with the Regent. On the ice plain, the man had displayed a mindbender’s skills without visible sign of effort. Better Taroith should remain ignorant than risk having awareness of Darion’s drugged state plucked from her thoughts.
“Come here, Lady Elienne,” said Taroith. In response to her evident apprehension he added, “This examination will neither hurt you nor disturb your dignity.”
Elienne obediently sat in the chair the Sorcerer offered. With the same rigid indifference she had shown when Ielond transformed her dress, she held still as Taroith brought his focus to rest on her abdomen. The touch roused a chilly prickle of awareness. The Sorcerer cupped his hand, bent fingers eclipsing the white blaze, and exerted gentle but firm pressure.
Elienne felt cold slip like water through the fabric of her dress. The light penetrated the skin beneath, then muscle, and sank deeper. An alien presence invaded her innards like frost.
“Relax.” Taroith smiled and quietly slipped his other hand around her waist and placed it flat against her back.
Elienne took a slow breath. The icy, tingling sensation of the soulfocus within her body totally absorbed her attention.
“The Lady is innocent,” said Taroith presently. “Test for truth if you wish, Excellency.”
Faisix rounded the chair and knelt beside the Sorcerer. He reached out and placed his narrow hand over Taroith’s. Despite all effort at control, Elienne’s stomach muscles knotted.
“There is nothing to fear, Elienne,” said the Sorcerer gently. “The Regent will only atune his awareness to mine. There will be no pain, I assure you.”
Elienne closed her eyes, forced herself to remain calm. The sensation of cold in her middle sharpened and grew heavy. Since she had no way of knowing whether Faisix could exert any control over Taroith’s probe, Elienne tried to limit herself to trivial thoughts as a precaution, until the trial should end.
A small bubble of surprise rose in her mind. Startled by a swift flare of annoyance, Elienne repressed a shiver, certain the emotion was not her own. The feeling vanished as Faisix removed his hand. He had passed briefly through her awareness, and some of his own reaction had leaked through the contact. The Regent had expected to find evidence of Ielond’s meddling, Elienne realized. Faisix knew that she carried some means of establishing pregnancy. But the Prince’s Guardian had predicted accurately; no trace of her child by Cinndel could be detected yet through conventional sorcery.
Elienne found little comfort in the fact she had passed safely through the examination. Faisix would now be forced to seek her ruin beneath the Law, and in a strange court with unfamiliar customs she had little defense against treachery.
Taroith lifted his hands. Like a spark fanned by an air current, his focus withdrew from Elienne’s body. Numbness lifted and her own warmth flooded back like circulation returning to a cramped limb.
“The Lady is indeed innocent.” Faisix mastered his disappointment with finesse, and his yellow eyes seemed empty of malice. “I owe you an apology, Master Taroith, for expressing doubt against you earlier. The Law has been satisfied. The Council will place its seal of approval on the required documents this afternoon. I will personally send word to the kitchens to prepare a banquet in celebration.” The Regent bestowed a smile cold as a snowdrift on Elienne. “Congratulations, my Lady Consort. May the Prince’s favor become you.”
Elienne rose warily and curtsied. Her mistrust of the Regent proved justified; she had barely completed her gesture when the door opened and admitted two strapping women in armor. Their hair was cropped short as a child’s, and wide mesh belts clinked with weaponry. Broad, calloused hands and sinewy wrists offered mute evidence that scabbarded steel and heavy ash spears were not at all ornamental.
“Aisa and Denji,” Faisix introduced. “They will stand guard at your door, Lady, until the royal grace period is past. They have orders to kill any man who enters your chambers—other than the Prince, of course. Questions will be asked afterward, should such a situation arise. Pendaire’s succession is no light matter, and with Ielond dead, the Select chose caution.”
Elienne said nothing. Plainly, she would have no chance to speak alone with Taroith. Rather than place her escort on their guard, she smiled sweetly and allowed herself to be marched from the room. The muscled height of the guardswomen made her small build seem fragile by contrast. Elienne hoped with all her heart the impression would cause Faisix to underestimate her. She needed every advantage she could foster, however slight.
* * *
Elienne was given a suite of rooms in the top of a keep overlooking the sea. Aisa and Denji guarded the only door, which gave onto the stair. The room was built on the defense wall, and arrowslits pierced the stone in place of casements.
Left to herself, Elienne looked out. Hundreds of feet down, green, foam-laced breakers crashed against the black, splintered rock of the headland, and sunlight struck rainbows through the spindrift thrown up by the surf. Chilled by more than damp air, Elienne turned away. Though savagely beautiful, the view foreclosed any hope of escape. Even the spartan ugliness of the arrowslits became a blessing to her eyes. Windows, in that place, would have left her susceptible, not to attack from the outside, but to a push from within. And all too likely, the guardswomen were hostile. Until they proved otherwise, Elienne chose to regard her surroundings with an eye for her own defense.
The chambers themselves were lavish. In keeping with what she had observed of Pendaire’s palace, the furnishings were handsomely adorned with stone and inlay of silver filigree. Thick, patterned carpets brightened the parquet floor, and a fire burned in the grate to drive off the damp. Through the doorway, a maid labored over a carved double bed, patting smooth silken sheets and embroidered coverlets in deferential silence.
Yet the beautiful decor did nothing to allay Elienne’s sense of vulnerability. With stiff self-reliance, she began at once to rearrange the furniture. The maid emerged from the bedchamber, startled to find the new Consort pushing a heavy chest across the floor.
She curtsied deeply. “My Lady, did you not find the room to your liking?”
Elienne shook her head and leaned like a draft horse. The chest rumbled another foot across the parquet. She abandoned it in the middle of the chamber and gathered the ornaments from a small side table.
Puzzled more than politeness would permit, the maid tactfully curtsied again. “The Lady mustn’t spoil her dress before this evening’s banquet.”
Elienne responded with a preoccupied smile, both hands full of glassware. When she deposited the items on a cushioned chair and hefted the table toward the other side of the room, the maid salvaged the awkward situation as best she could by offering her help.
“Thank you.” Elienne nodded toward a stuffed stool. “That can go there.”
She and the maid labored for a time in silence. After a particularly trying struggle with an armchair, Elienne said, “Why won’t Aisa and Denji speak to me? Have I offended them?”
“The shieldmaids?” The woman’s eyebrows rose in her round, sweating face. “My Lady, they are deaf-mutes.”
“Forgive me; I’m foreign,” said Elienne quickly. ‘‘I didn’t know. Is it common practice to put out ears and tongues in Pendaire?”
“Ma’Diere, no, my Lady.” The maid wiped sweaty palms on her sleeves. “That pair belonged to the royal family of Kedgard.”
Elienne’s face remained carefully blank.
“It is an island kingdom,” explained the maid. “The Regent took pity on them during a diplomatic visit and bought their freedom. They have served out of gratitude since.”
“That was a kind act.” Glad she had not trusted the guardswomen, Elienne bent and began to wrestle with an immense potted plant. “Is his Excellency often moved to charity?”
“I wouldn’t know.” The maid sighed. “Lady, must you move that?”
Elienne gave the plant a determined shove. Branches swayed, bobbing small pink fruits precariously against stem moorings. The tree was top-heavy, and would likely upset if she disturbed it further.
“I suppose the thing will do well enough where it is.” Elienne critically surveyed the room and finally nodded in satisfaction. “That will do. And thank you.”
The maid’s reddened face reflected little appreciation for Elienne’s taste. “I’ll send a girl up to help tidy your hair and dress, with permission, Lady.”
Elienne hesitated. She disliked personal fuss. As Duchess of Trathmere, she had often declined the services of a maid, and since her arrival in Pendaire she wanted nothing better than to be left alone. “I’d rather manage myself.”
The maid pursed her lips with evident disapproval. Elienne’s labors with the furniture had badly mussed her dress, and her dark, copper-brown hair sported loosened wisps like a peasant woman’s. Should she appear in that state before Pendaire’s best blood, she would disgrace her royal partner.
Elienne sighed and tilted her head toward the reddened slice of sky visible through the nearest arrowslit. “It’s only sunset.” She smiled with girlish innocence. “I have until the ninth hour of the evening before the banquet, and nothing at all to do between. If I have to sit idle, I think the excitement will ruin me.”
“Very well, my Lady.” Dubious still, the maid curtsied and departed, weaving her way through a tortuous maze of tables, chairs, and hassocks toward the door.
Elienne sank into the nearest chair the moment the heavy, inlaid panel closed and left her solitary. She was hot and tired, and the excuse she had just uttered had been an outright lie. The necessity of acting and reacting with strangers who had no awareness of her recent loss strained her. Not even in Trathmere, as prisoner of the Khadrach, had she felt so bereft, and until now Darion’s difficulties had denied her the rest and quiet she needed to reach acceptance of foreign surroundings and the role she had agreed to play through.
Unbidden, Cinndel’s face arose in her mind as he had appeared the night his son was conceived. Elienne thrust the memory forcibly away. Darion’s uncertain succession endangered her own safety, and only the Prince’s enemies would gain advantage if she indulged grief to the exclusion of caution.
Reluctantly Elienne rose, pulled a stick of kindling from the bin by the fireside, and wedged it beneath the fruit tree. She gave the ornate pot an experimental shove. It tottered unsteadily. Satisfied that an easy push would topple the ungainly plant, Elienne crossed the chamber and sat down before the lady’s dresser. Brushes, combs, hairpins, and a manicure kit gleamed in neat array beneath a gilt-framed mirror.
Elienne sorted the items until she located a cuticle knife. Though the wrought gold haft was delicately set with pearls, the blade was tempered steel. Elienne experimentally pared a broken thumbnail. The knife parted it like butter. Nothing but the best would serve for one who might become Queen of Pendaire. Thoughtfully Elienne returned the instrument to a tooled leather sheath. Faisix would hardly have troubled to see her legally locked in a remote palace keep without devising a threat to match that advantage. She tucked the knife beneath the cuff of her dress and smoothed yellow silk over the lump; Darion’s enemies would not catch her entirely defenseless.
The light through the arrowslits slowly failed. Oppressed by the deepening shadows, Elienne located a flint striker and lit the candle on the dresser, then busied herself with the pins that held her hair. Freed, the locks tumbled down her back, rich as dark mahogany. Fanned in wide, curling waves over her shoulders, the hair provided a perfect screen for her hands should the guardswomen look unexpectedly through the door.
Elienne drew the mirrowstone from her collar. Silver highlights gleamed coldly over its polished face, eerie against the warm yellows of the candle flame, yet Elienne noticed little beyond the image beneath.
Darion lay still, exactly as she had last observed him. But now the dribbled stalk of the candle had burned out. Elienne observed a scene carved into clarity by the frosty glow of a Sorcerer’s soulfocus. Even as she watched, Taroith’s veined fingers entered into view and gently unfastened the Prince’s shirt. The Sorcerer bared a tautly muscled chest adorned by a pendant wrought with the golden stag device of Pendaire’s royal house. Elienne held still. The mirrowstone transmitted sound along with its image, but only faintly.
“Can you rouse him?” said a voice to one side—Kennaird’s, surely, by the impatient inflection.
“Not here.” Taroith leaned forward and placed his ear against Darion’s ribs. The soulfocus drifted lower, hovered closely over the Prince‘s forehead. A long moment passed. Then Taroith sighed. As he moved to rise, his hair snagged in the Prince’s pendant. He freed the lock with an abrupt gesture that roused a flickering sparkle of reflection from the mirrowstone’s depths. “Not here,” he repeated. “I fear Nairgen overdid himself. The Prince suffers severe overdose. To heal him now would require deeper trance than I wish to risk in this place.”
“He must appear at the banquet in three hours.” Kennaird sounded frantic.
“Then we must move,” Taroith said.
The image in the mirrowstone dipped and spun as hands lifted the unconscious Prince from the pallet. Elienne caught a blurred glimpse of shelves stacked with glass jars, a shuttered window, and the supine figure of a woman on the floor. Then a sound beyond her own door recalled all her attention.
She thrust the mirrowstone back under her collar. Someone climbed the stair without, and by the weight of the tread, sharply punctuated by the ring of booted heels, her visitor was male. Without protest from the guards, the latch tripped sharply. Elienne whirled as the door swung open.
Over the threshold stepped a man of medium build, resplendently dressed in a white tabard blazoned in gold with the royal stag device. Through the blurred shadow of twilight, Elienne saw a polite smile of welcome spread across Darion’s features.
“Good evening, my Lady Consort,” said the man in a light, pleasant voice. “I have waited long for this day. Permit me to express admiration for Ielond’s choice. He has sent a true beauty, far finer than my most fanciful dream. I hope you shall find happiness with me.”
Elienne barely noticed the compliment. Faisix had aptly demonstrated the powers of Pendaire’s masters to alter faces with illusion; the man was surely an impostor, shape-changed by sorcery to the Prince’s image. If she trusted that the mirrowstone from Ielond had reflected the real Darion, this one was surely a stranger and a threat.
“Come here, Elienne.” The man politely offered his hand. “Let me have a closer look at you.”
Elienne’s heart pounded with leaden strokes against her breast. The guardswomen were deaf. She could expect no help from them.
“My Lady?”
Elienne curtsied and forced a smile. Her lips responded woodenly. “There is better light here, your Grace.”
Her only choice was to play along, delay the man with coyness until she could catch him off guard. There was risk no such chance would present itself, but Elienne shied from the conclusion of that possibility. As the man wound his way between the furnishings, she rose warily, left her stool placed in his path, and rested one slippered foot on its embroidered cushion.
“I thought I was not to see you until this evening’s banquet.” Her voice, maddeningly, reflected false bravado rather than surprised nonchalance.
The man stopped before her. His smile brightened. Animated with life and spirit, the Prince’s face was handsome—not so gentle as Cinndel’s, but certainly not unpleasant. “I was impatient.” He studied her with frank admiration. “Can you blame me? And having stolen this glimpse of you, I become all the more so, Lady.”
He reached out as if to touch her fallen hair. Elienne kicked the stool at his shin and stepped back, but the man dodged lightly to one side.
“Minx.” With easy good humor, he moved again in pursuit. “You’ll not escape me. You are my Consort, by the seals of the Grand Council, and by Ielond’s writ. Do you play games with me for sport?”
“You’re a stranger.” Elienne paused, taut with alarm, behind a table. Her hands left sweaty prints on the rare wood, vividly betraying her fear. Yet subbornly she resumed her charade. “I would like to know you better. I cannot please a man I’ve only just met.”
“But you have.” The impostor stopped and leaned expectantly toward Elienne across a spread of ornaments on the tabletop. “You have pleased my eyes past bearing. I have but seven days to establish my right of succession. We’ll have time enough later for talk. Years’ worth.”
His hand shot out and seized Elienne’s arm. The grip was light, almost bantering, but Elienne saw threat in the contact.
She shoved the table rim hard into the man’s groin. Glassware pitched over the brink and struck, decking the parquet with a sparkling spray of costly fragments. The man gasped. But instead of losing his hold, his fingers tightened cruelly and he yanked Elienne to him. “Lady.” The word came half-strangled from his throat. For a long moment he wrestled for breath. “That was an affront. A man in Pendaire can face execution for striking a Prince.”
Elienne went lax in the impostor’s arms, and smiled, clothing the murder she felt inside with tenderness. “But I am no man,” she said softly.
He chuckled. “Bless Ma’Diere, you certainly aren’t.” Entirely without courtesy, he brushed the hair away from her face, leaned down, and kissed her mouth.
Elienne permitted him. She could do nothing effective with her arm pinned, and resistance would not entice the man to drop his guard. Though the touch of the man’s lips revolted her, she feigned response, grateful she was not the inexperienced virgin she had been made to appear. Fatigue and excessive responsibility had made Cinndel difficult to please in the last months before his death; this man’s wants were simpler, Elienne sensed, and when he raised his head at last, his face was flushed, and a light sweat shone on his brow.
“Ah, Missy, that was more polite.” But his grip on Elienne did not loosen, and his intention was evident. He wished to bed her ahead of the Prince. If he succeeded, her Consortship would be suspended until it could be proved she had sustained no pregnancy. There would be no way to avoid having Cinndel’s child ascribed to this stranger’s paternity. Should that happen, Elienne realized Darion’s chance, and her own, would be irrevocably lost.