Return of the Guardian-King (11 page)

Maddie met her sister-in-law’s gaze. “How could I fail, Your Highness? You were quite specific.”

“It wouldn’t be the first time my instructions were ignored. Or . . . modified.” Her dark, long-lashed eyes dropped to Maddie’s waist. “I see there was some of that, regardless. The dress is too tight for you, I presume?” Maddie flushed as Ronesca pursed her small lips. “It’s hidden well, though. Don’t you think?” She glanced at Lady Iolande, who agreed.

The crown princess’s gaze narrowed again on Maddie. “I’d like you to see that it remains so.”

“But everyone already knows—”

“They only suspect, my dear. And so long as you say nothing inappropriate, that is the way it will stay. Tell them that you will be moving up to Deveren Dol to stay with the Sisters of the Sacred Graces for a time of spiritual healing and refreshment in the wake of your devastating losses. Certainly you’ve played the part of grieving widow well enough. When you return, we will have a grand ball to welcome you back and officially introduce you to the court.”

Maddie frowned at her. “Sisters of the— I have no interest in going on retreat, Your Highness. And, anyway, what would be the point? It will be obvious I’m not going for spiritual healing.”

“Not if you leave within the week. Rumor to the contrary, no one is certain of the truth. And if they don’t see you swelling up like an old sow, they will remain uncertain. When the child is born . . . well . . . perhaps Eidon will be gracious and give you a girl, which would solve all of our problems.”

“I will not go to Deveren Dol, Your Highness.”

Ronesca cocked a shapely brow at her. “You are not queen here, Princess Madeleine. In fact, you are not queen anywhere, so you would do well to stop acting as if you were. I’ve written to your father about this matter, and he has agreed. You’ll go north next week. If your child is determined to be of royal heritage, we will see about procuring him or her a proper sponsor. Otherwise . . .” She let her words trail off meaningfully.

Maddie felt the old anger smoldering within her.

“Say anything to anyone today,” Ronesca said before she could speak, “and I’ll know of it. In which case you will be leaving considerably sooner.”

“My father agreed to this?”

“I have it in writing, my dear.” She pulled at the folds of her gray woolen outer cloak. “Of course, if you were to accede to my wishes and promise to properly identify your child with the kirik here in Chesedh, the king might be willing to rethink things. But as it is . . . he is concerned, Madeleine. For you, for your child, and for his realm.”

“His realm? My child will be no danger to his realm!”

“Perhaps not at your command, but we have many Kiriathans in Chesedh, unfortunately.”

“Helping us fight for our lives.”

“Some of them, yes.” Ronesca’s gloved hands fell still as her gaze came up to meet Maddie’s. “But others are simply leeches, noble exiles too good to do any real work. None of us is happy about this, for we all know Kiriathans are not to be trusted. If word were to get out that you had given birth to Abramm’s heir, what do you think would happen? They would flock to you, seeking to use the child to regain the throne of Kiriath and throw the usurpers out.”

“He would be a babe, incapable of leading any bid to regain the throne.”

“Perhaps, but your finance secretary was once First Minister of all the realm. And before that, a military leader. He is also the child’s uncle, and at one point his wife was actually Abramm’s designated successor.”

“That was changed when Simon was born.”

“Ah, but Simon is no longer in the way. Nor is your other one. . . . What was his name?”

Maddie stared at her stonily. “His name was Ian.”

Ronesca shrugged. “No matter. Neither is an issue any longer, which leaves Meridon as the perfect candidate to serve as regent while your child grows to maturity.”

“I can’t believe you think these things.”

“You deny they are truth?”

“The facts as you’ve outlined them are all true. Yes, Duke Eltrap would be the logical one to head a regency. But he would never do that. At least not right now. He knows the importance of winning the battle for Chesedh before we can even think about Kiriath again.”

“Does he? I’m not so sure. Nor is King Hadrich.”

The coach began to slow, then came to a stop, and soon the door creaked open. Maddie stepped out after Iolande into a white silk tent, erected at the villa’s entrance alcove to protect guests from the weather. She guessed there must be two layers, for the walls of the inner barely stirred despite the stiff wind gusting outside. The rain was so effectively blocked, the only moisture that dampened the pavement was that carried in by the coaches themselves.

Servants in short white jackets and blousy black trousers guided them to a long, upsloping corridor with a high, arched latticework ceiling of stone and glass. Warmed this chilly, wet day by tall bronze braziers full of coals, its length was lined with other guests making their way up to Tiris ul Sadek’s famed Grand Salon.

Ronesca was fashionably late, so the salon was already crowded, the rumble of their conversation competing with the minor key refrains of a cadre of balcony musicians.

Vast sheets of silk draped the great hall, reminding Maddie unnervingly of the night she’d served the Gilded Ram’s esteemed guest. Huge orbs hung about the room—not kelistars, but glass filled with swirling, dancing colored lights, mostly in shades of amber and blue. Their illumination reflected off great winged creatures rendered in brushstrokes of silver and gold and sparkling crystal on the silk draperies, benevolent beings watching over the crowd.

A golden fig tree stood at the room’s midst, encased in a glass dome, and beyond it a modest dais had been set up for a great gilded chair on which the draek sat to receive the compliments of his guests, the line as long as the room itself. Ronesca and her attendants were immediately escorted to the front, of course, and Maddie was only about ten feet away when she finally got a clear look at their host.

He was a man in his prime—tall, straight-backed, and well-built—in impeccable white robes sashed in gold. A swag of loose gold netting set with jewels and precious stones swept across his chest and a white turban covered his dark hair. A gold ring glittered in his ear against a closely trimmed dark beard. More gold stippled his cheekbones beneath liquid brown eyes lashed in black. It was the eyes that keyed her recognition and drove the breath from her chest. For this was the same man she’d served at the Gilded Ram, the one who’d caught her wrist and smelled it, who’d offered to buy her unborn child. Tiris ul Sadek, gone slumming while he waited for his villa to be prepared. . . .

He stood and stepped off his dais to greet them.

“Draek Tiris.” Ronesca dropped a deep curtsey, Madeleine doing likewise at her elbow. “It is a pleasure to finally meet so esteemed a man as yourself.”

“The pleasure is all mine, Your Highness.”

The dark, liquid eyes fixed upon Maddie and, to her vast relief, showed no sign of recognition. Of course. As many times as she’d experienced the same phenomenon, why had she even doubted?

“May I introduce you to Princess Madeleine, my sister-in-law,” Ronesca purred, “the First Daughter of Chesedh, and widow of the slain Kiriathan king, Abramm Kalladorne.”

Maddie held out her hand, and ul Sadek took it, the touch of his fingers on hers sending a tremor up her arm. He’d lost the grotesque claws, she noted. “My sincerest condolences on your loss, my queen,” he said soberly. She had not noticed how wonderful his voice was when he’d spoken to her in the inn’s back room, but now it made her breath catch.

Ronesca frowned, having noted his inappropriate title for Maddie. She didn’t dare correct him though, so she diverted his attention back to herself and introduced the Countess Iolande Cheriqual. Ul Sadek greeted her with a cool disinterest that bordered on rudeness, and immediately returned his gaze to Maddie. “Your husband was a great man,” he said. “I was shocked to hear he had passed on.”

Maddie stared back at him, shocked herself that a great lord and foreigner such as Tiris ul Sadek would have heard of Abramm.

Ronesca was clearly annoyed. It was not often she found herself outmaneuvered in conversation. Now she smiled and intruded again. “Perhaps you have not yet heard the details of his tragic death. I—”

“Rest assured, Highness,” ul Sadek said, cutting her off. “All in the south and east have heard by now of the death of the White Pretender. If indeed he is dead.” He cocked a dark brow at Maddie, the gold on his cheekbones glittering exotically. “It would not be the first time he has come back from the grave, now, would it?”

“Come back from the grave?” Ronesca tittered nervously. “He was executed before hundreds.”

“As hundreds saw him die in the Val’Orda. Or so the song goes. Is that not so, Princess Madeleine?” And he turned again to Maddie, leaving Ronesca in a wordless fluster.

“It is, Your Grace,” Maddie replied. “But alas, I fear this time . . .” The words stopped. He stared at her, his dark eyes boring into hers, a slight twitch at the corner of his lip. But she could not make herself go on. Could not make herself say aloud the truth that he was dead and wasn’t coming back.

Ronesca did it for her. “This time there will be no miraculous returns. Abramm’s death was a great loss to us all.”

“I’m sure it was, Your Highness. Thank you so much for coming.” Ul Sadek gestured now toward the room at large. “I invite you now to enjoy some of my art collection, mostly sculptures today, but I trust you’ll find it as fascinating as it is unusual. And don’t miss out on the refreshments.” He caught Maddie’s eye yet again. “The golden figs have become edible just this week and are especially delicious.”

With a nod to each of them, he turned his gaze to the aristocrats waiting behind them, the dismissal again bordering on rudeness.

As soon as they were out of earshot, Maddie expected Ronesca to hiss with outrage. Instead she seemed completely smitten with the man, not even noticing the snub. “Is he not the most charming, gracious, and utterly manly man you have ever seen? I could listen to that voice all day, even if he were just reading figures. And his eyes . . . They look right at you, right into you. He certainly had his eye upon Madeleine, though, didn’t you think, Iolande?”

As they made the rounds, Ronesca was unable to talk of anything but Tiris ul Sadek, marveling at the d
cor, the food, the music, in between blurts of sublime appreciation for his person. Though she showed no interest in the art collection, the food was divine. Before long she was making random comments that gradually evolved into reminders that Maddie had her future to think of, that being unwed at her age was exceedingly eccentric, and though she never came right out and said it, that Tiris ul Sadek would make her a wonderful match.

The notion was so ridiculous—and repellent—Maddie struggled to believe what her eyes and ears were telling her. But that was really what her sister-in-law was suggesting. When Ronesca spotted Tiris moving among his collection of crystalline sculptures and all but shoved Maddie into his path, she was finally convinced—and fully alarmed.

Tiris, of course, was utterly gracious, apologizing for having nearly run her over, while his dark eyes laughed at her obvious befuddlement. With no desire to speak to the man one moment more than she already had, Maddie insisted it was her own clumsiness and glanced about for an excuse to make her escape. But though she’s fully expected his other guests to move like water into her place, she was unnerved to discover they had all been drawn away, each person suddenly occupied with the pedestaled artwork or other conversations. Leaving her face to face with her host and no polite way of disengaging.

“You must think I am a dreadful man,” he said in that marvelous voice, “sneaking about in back room orgies, trafficking in flesh, buying babies.”

The blood rushed to her face, and her mind went blank.

He flashed a glorious smile at her. “I assure you, princess, my intentions were purely honorable, if misguided. Though you can hardly blame me for that. . . .”

It felt as if her cheeks would burst into open flames, but still she could not speak.

He laughed softly and let it go. “I keep an orphanage.” With that he offered her his arm. “Walk with me a bit?”

Uncomfortably aware of the amused and speculative glances coming their way, she accepted, and after a few moments of gazing at the crystalline statue of a long-haired, bare-chested man with arms flung wide to the heavens—she couldn’t decide if the subject was angry or worshipful—they began to stroll in silence.

“I have heard about the orphanage,” she said at length. “That you established it because you were yourself an orphan.” She glanced around hopefully, but there was still no one to deliver her. “It appears you have come a long way.”

“Oh, I was not a poor orphan. I was an orphan of extreme privilege. Servants, attendants, tutors . . . I simply had no parents. But I understand the hole that leaves in a child’s soul. My adopted children grow up fully cared for, educated at the highest level of our culture, with a name and an honored place in society.” He paused, eyeing her. “Had you stayed long enough, perhaps I’d have had time to explain that to you. Had you stayed long enough, I might have offered you even more.”