A PRINCE AT HOME
CHAPTER 1
The garden was a subtle mix of tame and wild, of rocky outcroppings and soft green slopes, all beneath the sunless sky of Faerie. The quiet air was fragrant with the scents of pure white roses and a multihued riot of wildflowers; off by herself in a little bower, a green-haired servant stroked music from a silver-stringed harp.
And Ardagh Lithanial, Sidhe prince and lord of this garden and its surrounding estate, sat seemingly at ease amid all the tranquil beauty, his airy palace with its slender columns and gleaming white walls to his back, and appeared to give all his attention to his guest.
But behind the narrow, sharply planed mask of his face with its slanted, fiercely green eyes, the prince brooded. Tall and elegantly slender as all his race, Ardagh was of the dark-haired branch of the royal line (some whispered, though seldom where the prince could overhear, that such hair, sleekly black as sorcery, meant a taint of human blood somewhere in the past), the son of his late father’s second wife. It was his older half-brother, Eirithan Lithanial—green-eyed as he but silvery-fair of hair—who sat the throne.
Which was quite to Ardagh’s satisfaction.
Not that anyone seems willing to believe it. Least of all Eirithan.
They’d had some friendly moments together, the brothers, some times of sharing jests and tales. Eirithan wasn’t all that much Ardagh’s senior, after all; barely twenty years separated them, a mere blink of time to the Sidhe. But, Ardagh thought bitterly, the shadow of the crown had always hung over them. Even at their friendliest, they’d both known the rightful heir had never quite been easy about this… unnecessary younger brother. And now that Eirithan ruled, the happier days seemed gone for good, replaced by endless suspicion.
Suspicion shared, it would seem, the prince thought with a touch of dark humor, by his guest. “Must we have that servant forever lurking behind us?” Lord Iliach snapped suddenly.
“What’s this, my lord?” Ardagh asked, brow raised. “Are you afraid of being overheard? Have you a need for fear?”
“No, no, of course not.”
Of course not, the prince echoed silently. Lord Iliach would never be crass enough to actually accuse him of ambition. Instead, the Sidhe lord, most fashionable in deep blue silks that made the most of his golden hair and blue-green eyes (and clashed most jarringly with Ardagh’s own red-violet robes) merely smiled and began chatting of small matters. But the smile never quite touched his cool, slanted eyes.
“What a lovely garden this is!” Iliach exclaimed suddenly. “How clever of you, Prince Ardagh, to allow the land itself to shape its own design. Such a pleasant touch of wildness.”
Now what games are you playing? Ardagh wondered. Iliach was, after all, a true Sidhe of the royal court: clever, sly and subtly malicious; there was never a word he said that didn’t contain several hidden meanings. He reminds me, the prince thought wryly, of why I shun my brother’s court.
“Why, My Lord Iliach,” Ardagh asked with feigned amusement, “what are you hinting? That I was, perhaps, too weak to impose sufficient magic on it? Too weak to shape things properly?”
Iliach straightened as though genuinely dismayed. “Oh, never that! I only meant to frame a comparison. Might it not be said a garden is symbolic of a realm?”
“Might it?”
“Why, indeed! A foolish ruler tries to force his subjects to his will. A wise ruler, however, is like a wise gardener, knowing when to impose some will on his subjects, when to allow them a touch of freedom.”
“As,” Ardagh said mildly, “does my brother.”
Iliach raised an elegant golden brow at the implicit warning, and fell silent. Somewhere in the garden, Serenai, Iliach’s wife, wandered with her ladies, cooing over this flower and that, gathering specimens for her own garden; it was Iliach’s excuse for being here. The women’s voices, light and inconsequential as birdsong, drifted back to where the two men sat, and Iliach smiled anew.
“My Serenai is such a charming creature!”
Ardagh dipped his head politely; “charming” was the kindest word one could apply to pretty, vapid Serenai. Iliach purred, “What a pity, Prince Ardagh, that you haven’t yet taken a wife of your own. Unlike your brother, of course, and his lovely Karanila.”
Karanila, Ardagh thought, with her coldly perfect face and unreadable eyes that just might hold a hint of malice behind them…
“And what a pity,” Iliach murmured, “that our ruler has no child of his blood as yet. But then,” he added delicately, “he does have you as his heir.”
Just once, Iliach, come to the point! All at once overwhelmed by impatience, Ardagh snapped, “Does that please you, my lord?”
“I beg your—”
“Look you, I know you and my royal brother have quarreled in the past. Oh, don’t give me that so-innocent stare! Being who and what I am, how could I not know?”
Iliach waved a graceful hand in surrender.
“I also know,” Ardagh continued, “that you have been trying for long and long to reinstate yourself in my brother’s favor. Without success.”
“Ah, but you—”
“But I do not envy my brother his role. I do not wish to usurp it. You and he and everyone at court knows I have so sworn! I have given my word to do nothing to harm him or his reign. Do you think me an oathbreaker, my lord?”
Oathbreaking was one of the worst crimes possible to a folk who never lied. “Never that!” Iliach exclaimed with what seemed real shock.
Ardagh smiled thinly. “Then you will believe me when I say I wish my brother a long, prosperous life and many heirs of his body.”
“Doesn’t every loyal subject wish the same?” Iliach smiled his charming, insincere smile, and added, “Why, Prince Ardagh, don’t glower so! No need to be upset. We were merely talking… gardening.”
Of course. Just like Lady Tathaniai and Lord Charalian who’d come here before him, and the other half-dozen who happened to have remote blood-ties to the current royal line; the Sidhe might not actually be immortal, but they boasted such long lives few of them could puzzle out all the eons-long twists of genealogy. There were always possible claimants to any throne.
Ambition, Ardagh thought, was one way for shallow minds to ward off boredom.
But not one of you would-be traitors will believe I won’t be used in your games!
If only Eirithan wasn’t so capricious a ruler none of this nonsense would be necessary. Ardagh clenched his teeth, thinking of all those endless, expensive, time-and-magic-wasting court revels—which, of course he, as prince, had to attend—with his brother watching with cold suspicion.
And then you punish our people for your own waste and neglect of our land. You’re ruling over Sidhe, brother, not some magickless little humans aching for a master!
Ardagh knew something about humanity. The prince had once, out of curiosity, crossed Realms into their mortal lands—warily at night to avoid the alien and, for all he knew, deadly to Sidhe, earthly sun—and been bemused by the barbaric vitality he’d seen, even though he didn’t pretend to truly understand those bizarre, short-lived creatures. (A flash of memory: sharing the tale of his adventures with Eirithan, the two of them agreeing humanity was hardly something on which any sensible Sidhe would care to spend much time.)
No, my brother, we don’t have anything in common with those master-and-slave folk. And I only wish I could get you to see that.
Enough of this. “I see that your wife has finished her gathering,” the prince said shortly. “She wishes to leave. Good day to you, Lord Iliach.”
Ardagh waited, chin resting on steepled hands, till the lord and lady were well out of hearing, flown away in their graceful winged chariot, then got to his feet in a restless surge of energy, and paced down the narrow paths of his garden. The green-haired harpist froze when he strode past her bower, staring up at him, her golden, slit-pupiled eyes widening in alarm.
“Angry?” she whimpered.
“Not at you, Ninet.”
“Certain?”
Ardagh sighed. “Yes, little one. I’m certain. Here, look.”
A flash of will sent a cascade of rose petals fluttering down about Ninet; an easy illusion to draw from the magic-rich essence that was Faerie. Ninet giggled, then snapped at the petals, trying to catch them in her teeth before the tiny surge of magic faded and the illusion-petals vanished.
“Gone,” she said with a little sigh. Putting down her harp, the being flowed to Ardagh’s side, no taller than a Sidhe child against his height, slim and sleek as a cat, more innocent than either. “Music?”
“I heard it, Ninet. It was very pretty.”
Ninet, as far as the prince could tell, was the result of someone’s experiment, not quite animal, not quite sprite, abandoned to wander aimlessly till she’d turned up on his estate. Her intelligence was hardly human, let alone Sidhe, expressing itself mostly in music. Ardagh glanced down at her puzzled face and dropped a reassuring hand to the smooth green hair. Ninet pushed into the caress like a cat, and the prince smiled faintly.
“Ninet, I am so very weary of political games! I want—” He stopped with a sharp laugh. “I admit it, I don’t know quite what I want from my life.” Adventure, his mind told him suddenly, unbidden. Excitement. A chance to use my magic for something more than gardening!
Bah, ridiculous. He wasn’t a child to dream such foolish things. And yet… “There has to be more than this—this green quiet,” Ardagh said, “lovely though it is. But that doesn’t mean I lust for a crown!”
Ninet blinked. “Crown?” she repeated blankly.
“A form of bondage,” Ardagh told her dryly. “Ae, never mind. What I want hardly matters. I can hardly back away from my bloodline until and unless Eirithan can finally sire an heir.” That was no easy thing for a member of such an infertile race; their father had been considered truly amazing for having sired not one but two healthy sons. “Ha, and once my brother has a child, I become even more ‘unnecessary’! Isn’t that a charming thought?”
“Means?”
“That means, little one, that for now we can expect more visits from malcontents.”
Ninet, of course, understood almost nothing of what he was saying, but she nodded wisely, eyes solemn. “And as for my brother,” Ardagh continued, stroking her hair absently, “Eirithan may not trust me at his side, but he certainly won’t let me out from under his eye, either!”
Ninet blinked. “Not happy?” she asked nervously. “Go?”
“I can’t! Don’t you see—No. Of course you can’t.” Very slowly, Ardagh told her, “As long as I remain Eirithan’s heir, I can’t just up and disappear. Do you understand that?”
“What?”
“Ae, Ninet. I may not be sure what I want, or what my future holds, but this is my estate, and I have no intention of surrendering it.” He paused thoughtfully. “I do wonder, though, just how many of my servants are reporting to my brother.” The prince had long ago cast a security spell over the entire estate; no one could work magic without his knowing it. “But there are always more mundane ways of transmitting information.” He ruffled the little being’s hair. “Enough.”
“Music?” she asked hopefully.
“Yes, Ninet, I think I would like to hear more of your music, and—What is it?” Ardagh snapped at the servant who had suddenly appeared at his side.
The slender, silver-haired being bowed warily. “Your pardon, my prince, but had you forgotten your royal brother’s revel this night?”
Ah yes, he had. Ardagh sighed. “Very well. Have my spidersilk robes laid out. The… red ones, I think.” He paused. “Now what?”
The servant licked its thin lips nervously. “The theme, my prince! The theme of this night’s revel is—”
Oh Powers, he was sick of these endless, meaningless themes! “I don’t care what it is!” Ardagh exploded. “The red robes are suitably royal, and the red robes will do!”
###
Eirithan Lithanial, tall and regal in flowing silver robes, silvery hair framing his impassive face, listened without stirring to what his spy was telling him. This Iliach was such a slippery creature, noble enough of blood and never quite treasonous, but willing to bend to whomever promised him the best reward. Look at him now, smiling so ingratiatingly, saying absolutely nothing of use. Eirithan held up an aristocratic hand for silence.
“In short,” he said coldly, “no matter what you tried, my brother would not be baited.”
“Ah… no, my liege. He claimed most vehemently that he remains true to the vow he swore to you.”
“So. Leave me.”
Eirithan watched the Sidhe lord leave, then got to his feet in a swirl of silver robes. He began pacing restlessly through the small audience hall, ignoring the precise beauty of walls magicked so they seemed lined with windows into fantastic realms rather than with mere paintings, glad that there was no one else in the hall to see his uneasiness.
What games are you playing, Ardagh? So seemingly innocent, there in your pretty gardens far from my court. You are my brother, we share the same ambitious blood—you can’t be content like that. You must make a move against me, but when? How?
He never had been able to understand Ardagh, not even back when they both had been boys and could share some jests, some hints of friendship.
No. It had never quite been friendship. How could it be? How could he ever forget, even for a moment, what his brother represented? Though up to now Ardagh had never provided the slightest reason for action (for murder, whispered Eirithan’s mind, making him shiver He is my brother, I will not shed his blood), he might someday prove the greatest threat to Eirithan’s reign in all the realm—
“My liege.” The voice was smooth and rich as velvet. Eirithan stopped dead.
“Karanila. What would you, wife?”
She moved softly to his side, almost as tall as he, beautiful, slender and graceful as a hunting hound, her long, moon-pale hair caught in a hundred intricate, jewel-studded braids. The scent of her subtle fragrance, the delicate touch of her hand on his arm, sent a sudden flash of desire through him.
So beautiful, so beautiful… if only I could trust her!
Malicious for malice’s sake, that was Karanila.
With a surge of will, Eirithan forced himself sternly back under control. Karanila smiled. “So distraught, husband, so remote. What troubles you?”
“Nothing to worry you.”
She stiffened slightly. “It’s Ardagh, isn’t it? Ae, again.”
Eirithan glanced sharply at her. “What does that mean?”
She turned away, toying with the end of one gleaming braid. “Nothing to worry you.”
“Don’t play games! What is it? Has Ardagh dared approach you?”
Her sideways little smile was infuriatingly innocent. “Would he dare?”
Eirithan caught her by the shoulders, forcing her to face him. “I told you, don’t jest with me! Has Ardagh tried to betray me?”
Karanila’s eyes were unreadable, her mind closed to him. She hesitated just long enough to set his nerves on edge, then pulled free, raising a hand to gently trace the lines of Eirithan’s face. He jerked his head back angrily, and Karanila chuckled, deep in her throat. “No, my husband,” she purred, “he has not.” She paused a heartbeat longer before adding thoughtfully, “Yet.”
“Stop that.” Eirithan pulled Karanila to him again, more gently this time. “Dance with him tonight, yes? Talk with him. A woman can learn things from a man he never meant to tell her.”
Karanila chuckled again. “Shall I? Shall I, indeed? And do you trust me that much, my husband?”
Eirithan froze, reluctant to admit the truth, unable by his Sidhe nature to lie. Karanila disengaged herself gently from his grip and walked away, her laughter trailing lightly back to where he stood.
###
Lord Iliach looked neither left nor right as he strode down the intricately intertwined corridors of his estate, but every psychic sense was alert and quivering. At last he allowed himself the smallest sigh of relief. Serenai was off with her women in her garden, cooing over her plant cuttings. No one else was watching or following. Iliach dared one bold look about, just to set his mind at ease, then slid behind a billowing hanging, barely noting the woven, magic-worked figures moving slowly through a never-ending dance. Beyond lay a small, secret room, barely large enough to hold those who sat within.
“My lords, lady.” His welcoming sweep of hand took in them all: icy-eyed Lady Tathaniai in ice-blue silks; sturdy, impassive Lord Charalian; and the brother-lords Sestailan and Teretal, elegant as ever, their hair bright as spun gold—all those ambitious souls who were his allies. For now. Until they no longer needed each other. “My pardon for arriving so late, but… as you can guess, I was detained.”
“Well?” Sestailan asked coolly. “Does he suspect?”
Iliach sighed. “Of course he does. Our liege lord remains his usual suspicious self. But he can prove nothing.” The Sidhe lord sank into a chair, calling a wine-filled goblet to him with a twist of will. “And no, I did not give him anything about us. For all that he listened so closely to every word I said, our dear Eirithan never once suspected I was anything but his humble servant.”
“And the other?” Teretal wondered, leaning forward.
“Who? Ardagh?” Iliach took a long sip from his goblet. “What a tiresomely honest creature he is!”
“But is he with us?” Lord Charalian snapped.
“No. Not yet. He remains his usual self: haughty, hostile, and so proud of his honor he has no sympathy for any… weaker sorts.”
Lady Tathaniai raised a warning hand. “Don’t scorn the prince too much, my lord. Haughty he may be, but he’s no fool.”
Sestailan laughed softly. “True enough. And that pride of his may prove very useful,”
Iliach matched their suddenly sly smiles with his own. “Useful, indeed. Play one brother against the other carefully enough, and—” He gave a graceful little shrug. “Who can say what will result? Or who may remain in power?”
“Or,” Teretal purred, “who may end up there?”
###
The theme of this night’s revel, Ardagh saw, was winter sorcery. Aristocratic dancers in drifting silks the many cool shades of snow under moonlight, glittering here and there with drops of silver, moved smoothly to music from crystalline flutes and silver-strung harps, all within a vast hall of the royal rath, his brother’s ornate fortress, transformed by enchantment into the illusion of a gleaming blue-white cave of ice.
It all, Ardagh thought dryly, looked like one great, overblown sugar cake.
The prince stood straight-backed and silent at the side of his brother’s throne, refusing to admit that his servant had been right: the red of his robes was jarringly loud against so much silvery-white. He also refused to acknowledge the cool glances a good many of the Sidhe nobles turned his way as they whirled by. He knew well enough they thought him overly proud because he kept to himself, because he kept his vows and refused to play their subtle games.
Ardagh glanced sideways to where Eirithan sat all in silver, pale face and hair all adding to the illusion of an icy statue. Only the eyes were alive, studying the dancers as though puzzling over their innermost thoughts,
Probably wondering which of them are plotting against him. Or with me.
“So solemn,” purred a velvety voice, and Ardagh started, then dipped his head in a polite little bow.
“Karanila.”
If her husband was an icy statue, Karanila was a statue come to life, the floating folds of her pure white gown shimmering like winter mist, her hair and face frosted with a haze of glittering silver. Her smile was coolly amused. “I find myself without a partner for this dance.” Her eyes glinted slyly. “My husband refuses to join me. Will you not take his place?”
Ardagh refused to take her words at anything but face value. “I’m not in the mood for dancing.”
“Come now, Ardagh. I promise you a mere dance won’t compromise your precious honor.”
The prince bit back an impatient oath. Karanila was beautiful as ever, the cold silver frosting of face, hair and costume making the woman beneath the chill facade seem all the more sensual for the contrast. If she were anyone else, he would probably have enjoyed the mutual game of seduction and surrender. But she was who she was, and the only way to stop her slightly malicious teasing was to yield to her more open demand. Her hand resting lightly on his arm, Ardagh led Karanila out onto the dance floor, moving gracefully through the intricate steps with her, aware that many of the others had retreated to watch.
As Eirithan was watching.
“How my husband stares,” Karanila purred, as the dance brought them nearly into each other’s arms. “Almost as though he expected us to be plotting something devious.”
“Nonsense.”
The dance drew them apart. Ardagh moved through the pattern with this lady and that till he found himself confronted by Karanila again.
“Or,” she added with an odd little smile, “as though we were planning to betray him.”
“I’m not. Are you?”
“Why, Ardagh! Such a question!”
The dance drew them apart once more. Ardagh waited impatiently for it to end, hoping it would before he had to face Karanila and continue their ludicrous duel. Ae, no, here they were again, face-to-face, and her eyes alive with mischief.
“And can you really say you never even thought about betraying him?” she murmured. “Never? Not even for me?”
Her lovely face was turned to his, her body so close he could feel its warmth, so close they were nearly touching. But Ardagh could have sworn he felt a subtle, chill undertone beneath the flirtation, and glanced up at Eirithan again, seeing the sudden tense alertness.
So that’s it. You’re using Karanila, brother, trying to trick me one way or another. Damn you!
He stopped short, the dancers eddying about him in surprise. With a curt bow to Karanila, Ardagh stalked from the dance floor, ignoring her indignation. Eirithan stiffened as he approached, and the prince snarled, “Don’t worry, brother. I’m not trying to assassinate you.”
“What—”
“How dare you try trapping me?”
“Mind your tone!” With an intricate wave of his hand, Eirithan created a barrier of secrecy about them, a vague shimmering of the air that held in sound.
But the courtiers could still see through that barrier. Belatedly aware of them staring in wild curiosity, Ardagh turned his back on them, adding in a fierce whisper, “When are you going to stop these ridiculous games?”
“I play no games.”
“Oh no, of course not! Since the day you took our father’s throne, everything you’ve said or done where I’m concerned has been aimed at forcing me to break my vow!”
“Now that is truly ridiculous,” Eirithan said coldly. “I am doing nothing more than keeping my throne secure.”
Powers, they might as well still be boys! Mixed in with the moments of friendship Eirithan had given him had been unpredictable bouts of anger, bewildering to the younger boy. It wasn’t until he’d become an adult that Ardagh had realized the reason behind that rage. Of course Eirithan had never quite dared destroy his unwanted younger half-brother; not even the most jealous of princes would kill anything as rare and precious as a child. But that hadn’t stopped him from forcing Ardagh into duels with sword or spell—practice duels, he’d claimed, but vicious enough.
And just as stupid as this whole discussion! “Look you, Eirithan, there are times when I very much regret my vow to you—but swear it I did! And if you paid as much attention to your people as you do to trying to trap me, you wouldn’t have to worry about your throne!”
Ignoring Eirithan’s command to stop, Ardagh destroyed the magical barrier with a surge of his own Power and began to stalk angrily away. But before he’d gone a dozen steps, he nearly collided with a breathless, wild-eyed messenger. As the startled prince stepped aside, the messenger gasped to Eirithan, “My—my liege, we n-need help—Wyvern—village—”
Ardagh felt the shiver of magic brush him: someone was casting a restorative spell on the exhausted man, who staggered, then began more strongly, “A wyvern has attacked a village, killed a man and two children.”
There was a collective gasp of horror from the courtiers: precious children slain! Eirithan sprang to his feet, the very image of outraged royalty.
“Come, my friends!” he shouted. “We shall have a royal hunt! This monstrous killer shall be slain!”
Melodramatic, a cynical part of Ardagh’s mind whispered. But he wondered aloud, inexplicably uneasy, “The wyvern normally hunts deer and other such creatures. Why should it leave the forest? Why take on prey foreign to it?”
But in all the sudden swirlings of excitement, no one heeded him.