Shadowheart (25 page)

He reached over and completed the only move open to her, then caught her pale king in his hand. He set it lightly in the center of the painted board. “You are not the worst of players,” he said. “But then—my reason is not yet wholly lucid, either. That was three moves beyond what it required to best you.”

Elayne gazed at the ivory figure, the finely carved crown of an elegant set, still a little disconcerted to find that she possessed far from as great a skill as she had supposed. His courier and knights glistened in the lamplight, cut from a blood-red crystal stone.

“I learned to play against my father,” he said. “I never won.” He sat back in the chair, draping one leg over the carved wooden arm. “But I could take Franco Pietro in five games of seven.”

She looked up. In the glow of the small lamp he looked like a great black cat resting across the chair, watching her. “You’ve played him?”

“Many times, before he exiled me.”

“You were friends once?”

“Nay, we were never friends. My father let the Riata have me in hostage when I was seven, in surety for some pact between them—I know not what. Franco was a few years older. And he was not fond of a slinking Navona bastard.” He looked into the darkness and smiled. “When I would not attend confession with his puling priest, who wanted more than confession from me, he had me stripped before his whole family—the women, too—and led about like a dog on a leash. So I took out his left eye with my blade.”

She drew a breath between her teeth. “God save.”

He looked at her steadily, the shadows carving his face in ebony and gold. “One of us will kill the other, Elena. It is certain.”

She shook her head with a small, sad laugh. “I must suppose that as your new-appointed conscience, I cannot hope to persuade you against it.”

“And wait until he comes for me?” He gestured toward the board with a faint smile. “It is no wonder that you lose at chess, Princess.”

Elayne rose. She pushed her hair back over her shoulder. “You said the Riata kept me, also. I marvel that I survived it.”

“Aye. But you had a use. You were surety that Cara would kill Melanthe for them.” He lifted his lashes, looking up from the chair as she stood frozen above him.

He meant to shock her, she could see. She felt helpless, still unable to fathom such things. Her sister—her
sister,
to kill Lady Melanthe? To kill anyone. It seemed absurd. And yet Elayne turned away, as if by squeezing her eyes closed she could blot out the sound of Cara’s begging, the frantic look upon her sister’s face, the cold flat calm in Lady Melanthe’s voice as she said that Elayne must wed the Riata and there was nothing she could do.

“Cara tried,” he said. His voice held a softer note. “But she was hopeless. She had not the skill for it, or the heart.”

“Thank God for that, then.” Elayne bowed her head. “I would not have had her commit murder for me.”

“No? But you have just sworn to kill me on Matteo’s behalf, if you must.”

She looked aside at him. She frowned.

He returned a half-smile. “But that is different, I suppose.”

Elayne pressed her lips together. She lifted her eyebrows. “What thorny questions you do pose your conscience.”

“I have a lifetime’s hoard of them,” he said, “set aside for your deliberation.”

“I used to read of such things.” She thought of the long texts in Latin, the dilemmas and careful weighing of reasons in the documents that Lady Melanthe had sent to her. “Of the jurymen and the advocates and assizes. I would read the writs and decisions, and think of what I would do if I were to judge.”

She thought he would laugh and dismiss her as a foolish woman. But he said seriously, “I never thought to study such.” He leaned on his fist, as if considering, and then made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “I would have supposed all the judges bought and paid for. Did the decisions seem just to you?”

It had never occurred to her that the ecclesiastical judges and the king’s justices would be anything but honest as they struggled to find the truth. But she could easily recall cases that had not seemed to end equitably at all. He leaned his head back on his chair, awaiting her answer, challenging her. She made a rueful face. How green she had been. Of course the judges could be bribed or coerced.

“Often they seemed fair,” she said slowly. “Not always.” She pulled her hair back into a tail and drew it over her shoulder, shaking her head. “But in truth, even when the choice was difficult, I believe they were mostly honest men, and wise. Sometimes—what I was certain of before I began to read, I understood differently by the end. They asked questions. They made me think.” She lifted her chin. “If you believe that a woman can think for herself.”

He laughed aloud. “I served in Melanthe’s chamber for enough years of my life, sweeting. Do you suppose I could believe otherwise?”

Another shock, to find he had been so close to her godmother. But she feigned to ignore it. “Some men do not.”

“Some men are fools. As are some women. I should not like to have been in your position, for example, and have my life depend on your sister’s cunning.”

“I seem to have survived,” she said, a little offended by the implication that her sister was a fool, though indeed Cara’s mind was not overly given to sharp wit.

He watched her, tilting his head. “I wonder what you would have done in your sister’s place.”

She turned full toward him, her loose hair swirling around her. “Tell me this,” she said. “Why was I with the Riata at all, and not with my sister and Lady Melanthe?”

“We thought you in safekeeping,” he said. “Prince Ligurio knew he was dying—we all knew it, for months ahead. There was time to prepare. You were too important to be unprotected and too young to be usefully wed, so he saw that you were dedicated to the holy sisters at his abbey; the one he provisioned in Tuscany, where he meant Melanthe to go after she buried him. You set off before he died with an escort of ten knights, and word came back that you had arrived. Do you have any memory of it?”

She blinked, and shook her head. “Nay—of a nunnery?”

“No memory of a seizure, of a fight?”

She shook her head. “No.”

“You were young,” he said. “Four years, at best. I know not how they stole you, then, by hap an abduction, or treachery within the abbey itself. But once they had you, they had Cara’s will. She kept it secret—even I did not guess, though the devil knows I suspected there was something. By then we were bound for England, while Melanthe played all sides false.” He gave a dry laugh. “Even my father. Melanthe was ever daring beyond reason in her dealings. I think that was half of why he loved her.”

Elayne frowned. “My sister told no one?”

“No one,” he said.

She sat down, gazing at the red and ivory chess pieces, twirling a lock of her hair around her finger.

“Who would she have told?” he asked. “We knew there was a Riata agent among us. My father had set me to protect Melanthe. Cara well knew that I would kill her in a heartbeat if I discovered she was their tool to murder his betrothed.”

Elayne looked up quickly. “I thought you loved her.”

“I did.”

She curled her hair around her fist, stroking her thumb against the smooth strands. She gave a short, uneasy laugh, staring at the black-and-white squares on the board, thinking of her sister, of the silence around Monteverde. “Poor Cara.”

He showed his teeth in a sneering smile. “Aye. Poor Cara.”

She took a deep breath. “I know not what I would have done in her place. The same as she did, I must suppose.”

“Make the attempt, but be certain that you bungle it? Spare your own soul at the price of what you love?”

She raised her eyes and met his dark steady gaze. He tilted his head a little, inquiring.

“Is she so much to be blamed for that?” Elayne asked. “It was murder they asked of her.”

“With your life at stake.” He regarded her, resting his cheek in his palm. He smiled so faintly that it was barely visible. “The silly Monteverde rabbit, she never had the steel to commit murder, not even to save you. The Riata’s besetting weakness; they misjudge the temper of their weapons. You were doomed from the moment they took you.”

“I live,” she said.

“Aye,” he said, “it is a miracle worthy of a saint.”

Or worthy of an angel. A dark and potent angel, equal to the task.

She looked down at the chessboard, where her defenses stood in disarray under his swift attack. She was alive, and it was not Cara’s doing, or Lady Melanthe’s. All her life she had trusted in her guardian, felt him standing in the shadows to protect her. She bowed her head.

“I thank you,” she said, “for what you did for me. For bringing me out of their hands—when no one else could do it.”

He glanced up at her, his dark eyes half-concealed by the lazy black lashes. Then he shrugged and stretched out his leg, looking away. He kept his gaze averted, swinging his foot lightly over the arm of the chair, and gave a soft snort of disdain.

“You do not like to be thanked,” she said.

He opened his palm and frowned at it, as if there were some mystery there. “I hardly know. You are the only person who has ever done it.” He closed his hand and then flicked his fingers wide, and suddenly there was a blossom in his palm, one of the tiny sweet-smelling flowers from the citron trees. He held it out to her between his fingers. “For your hair,” he said brusquely.

Elayne reached for the flower, holding it cupped in her palm. It was slightly bruised, the petals creased, giving off a heady scent.

“Cara never thanked you?” she asked, taking a breath of the tiny blossom.

“I did not linger to speak to her,” he said.

Elayne had no image of him in that single memory of her arrival at Savernake. Only snow, and Cara big with child.
I can’t believe she never once spoke of you,
Elayne wanted to say.

He rose, a move as elegant and sure as a dance step, all of his stiffness vanished. “As well she married her English swineherd after all. I’m sure I would have killed her eventually, when we required a goose to pluck at Christmas-tide.”

“Have you played morra?” he asked as he returned the chessboard and pieces to the coffer. The room was growing cooler. A night breeze had risen, a low sighing in the shutters.

For a moment she did not understand him, and then gave a startled laugh. “Morra! Not for years.”

“Nor I. By chance we would be more evenly matched.‘”

“At a child’s game!” she said ruefully.

“Nay, I’ve seen fortunes won and lost at morra,” he said, dropping the chest closed. “Is it only for children in England?”

Elayne tucked the little sweet-scented flower behind her ear. She saw him watch the move, and felt herself grow warm. “Cara taught us when we were young. I’ve not seen it played since.”

He held out his fist. “Two fingers or four?”

She frowned a little, recalling. “We played only two. You can play it with four?”

“We can play it as you like,” he said. “Ten rounds, two fingers—and a fist for zero? Call the sum of all fingers. One point for each win.”

Elayne gave a little shrug. It seemed quite a descent from the strategies of courier chess, but he stood before her with a serious look, one hand behind his back. She held out her hand and faced him.

“Count of three,” he said. “One … two … three …”

“Four!”
they said simultaneously, and Elayne looked down at their hands. They each had two fingers extended.

“A tie,” she said.

He nodded. “One … two … three …”

Elayne blinked, caught without having considered how many fingers she would show.
“One!”
she said as he said,
“Two!”
She looked down and realized she had held out two fingers. He had extended one.

She rolled her eyes. “Stupid of me.” The total sum could hardly be one if she held out two of them herself.

“Tie again.” He frowned downward. “One … two… three…”

“Zero!”
she exclaimed, holding out her closed fist as he flicked out two fingers. “Oh, Mary, you—” She almost said he had won, and then looked up at him. “What did you call?”

He scowled, and cleared his throat, and then said with an embarrassed look, “I forgot to call.”

She giggled. “ ‘Tis more difficult than I remembered.”

“Aye!” he said, with a shake of his head. “Ready?”

They stood facing. She could see that he was pressing a smile from his lips.

“One … two … three …”

“Three!”
Elayne exclaimed to his
“One!”
He held out one finger and she two.

“I won!” She felt an absurd rush of pleasure to be the first to triumph. “What round is this?”

He tilted his head. “The fifth?”

“
Avoi
, I am ahead.”

He bowed, his black hair falling across his shoulder. “You are ahead, my lady.”

She stared down with concentration at their fists, nodding faintly in time with his count.
“Three! ”
she cried, and almost forgot to hold out her fingers. She scrambled to extend two a moment after he made his show of one.

“Oh ho! Cheating!” he said.

“No, no—I lost my concentration,” she said. “Do not count it.”

“Very well,” he said, “but you should know that I have cheaters tossed down that trapdoor.”

She glanced up, but he was grinning. “Loser must carry the chamber vessel down the stairs!” she said, flicking her tongue at him.

“A cruel fate! Ready?”

She nodded, tensing, trying to hold her two numbers in her head while he counted.
“One!”
she cried, thrusting out her closed fist as he snapped out two fingers.

They both looked down.

“You forgot to call again!” she said.

“God’s blood.” He shook his head with a startled laugh. “You start the count. It seems that I cannot do both.”

Elayne bounced on her toes as she counted. “One… two … three—
four!
No,
three!
I meant three!” They were holding out three fingers between them. She looked up. “I did! I swear it!”

He put his hand under her chin. “You are a cheat, hellcat. A born cheat.”

Elayne took an excited breath as he leaned over and kissed her mouth. She sucked quickly at his lips and then broke away. “Ready? I’m ahead.”

“I will not allow you that last point.”

“I’m still ahead. What round is this?”

“Six. Because you cheated,” he said.

“Ready?” She drew a deep breath, her body taut with anticipation, planning to call three and show two, trying to remember which was which. “One … two … three—
five!”
she yelled.

He paused, holding out his two fingers near her two. “Five?” he inquired mildly.

Elayne blushed. “You confused me!”

“How?” he demanded.

“By—standing there.” She gave him a wounded look. “And kissing me.”

“Where shall I stand? Over the trapdoor?”

She held up both palms, and then pressed them together. “Round six. One more time. We must compose our minds.”

They stood with their fists out, nearly touching. Elayne closed her eyes. For some reason the simple act of choosing two numbers and causing her mouth to produce one and her fingers to show another was quite strenuous, particularly when she seemed to want to laugh every time she met his eyes. She looked at him. He was watching her with a comical expression of inquiry.

“Are you sufficiently composed. Princess?”

She made a face at him. “You are distracting me.”

“You are beautiful.”

“No, sir,
you
are beautiful, and know it far too well for any man’s good. One … two … three—
three!”
she cried.

“One!”
he shouted at the same time. She held out two fingers, he held out one.

“Ha!” Elayne jumped like a child. “Two points for me now. Seventh round.”

“Your hair is like silk.” He reached out to touch it, but she caught his hand.

“Round seven,” she said, holding his wrist steady before her, preventing him. “One … two … three …”

“
Four
!” They both shouted at once. Two fingers showed on each hand.

“The Devil,” he said. “I’m going down to a tie.”

“I’ll win.” She gave him a smirk.

He caught her around the waist and pulled her against him, burying his face in her throat. Elayne gave a shriek and pushed him away, laughing. “Now who is cheating?”

He stood straight. Elayne began to count. “Wait!” he said.

She stopped.

“I must compose my mind,” he said.

“One … two … you are a loathsome toad … three…
zero!”
Their voices united as he yelled,
“One!”
When she looked down, he held out one finger against her closed fist.

She thrust out her lower lip. “A point for you.”

“You’ll never win,” he growled. “I won’t abide it. Last round, hellcat.”

They leaned toward one another. Elayne counted. “One … two …” She held her free hand against his shoulder, holding him off as he pressed toward her. She could not look at him; she would have burst out in hilarity for the ferocious look on his face. “… three!” She flung out her hand.
“Three! ”
she cried, while he shouted
“Four! ”
at the same time, almost in her face.

They both looked down. He held two fingers extended. She had one.

She shrieked again as he took her down against the bed, falling in a shower of hair and his body tumbling beside her. “I won!” she mumbled against his palm over her mouth. “Sound and fair!” She yelped as he rolled her over and muffled her head down in the pillows. “I won! I won! Ow!”

“Say my name,” he ordered, holding her into the pillow by the nape of her neck. He was nearly on top of her, his weight pressed warmly against her hips and her back.

“No!” she cried, then gave a stifled scream and a buck as he put his arm about her. “You
lost!”

“Aye,” he said beside her ear, “but you think I’m beautiful.”

“A loathsome toad!” She giggled and gasped for air. “A great… toad!”

She found herself turned over and pulled atop his chest as he lay back on the bed. He held her tight, their legs tangled amid the white robe and scarlet bedcover.

“Allegreto,” she said, and he closed his eyes and leaned his head back and smiled.

She had not known he could smile so. She had not imagined he could laugh. And he was beautiful—a far vision beyond beautiful—he was her pirate, her angel, his cheek and jaw and throat a perfect form, shadowed with roughness, his lips parted. She could feel his breath rise and fall, the strength like a hunter’s longbow drawn taut, easily held, as his arm curled about her to pull her close.

“When I saw your eyes,” he said, “I thought of that lake out there.”

She ducked her face into his shoulder, taking a deep breath of his warm skin. “At home some said I had the Evil Eye when I looked on them.”

“Fools,” he said. He twined his fingers in her hair. After a moment he tugged it and said, “This is your home.”

She did not answer. She had no answer. Monteverde still seemed unreal to her, a place of foreboding and violence. And yet this lake was Monteverde, the dark mountains, the water so dazzling under the sinking sun and radiance that it almost made her mind ache. And he was a manslayer, without any sense of right and wrong that she could fathom— and when he laughed with her… just once, laughed with an open delight in the moment—she felt as if some long-lost part of herself had been completed.

“You should not have to come home this way,” he said. “Like a thief. I should have held it for you.”

“Not for me,” she said, shaking her head.

“Look what is left of Navona.” His mouth tightened, the smile gone. “I knew they had pulled the walls down—but I did not realize—until I saw it…” He let out a long breath. “I have not done well.”

She rested her hand on his chest. She had a strong desire to deny it, but there was not a single thing she knew of him that she could say with a whole heart was well or rightly done—except that he had saved her life. She traced the line of his collarbone with her forefinger. “You defeated me soundly at chess,” she offered.

He gave a short laugh. His mouth relaxed into an easier curve. “We have two days safe here.”

“Time enough to play morra again. I prefer it.”

He caught her hand in his fist, running his thumb up and down the inside of her palm. “I might have other amusements in my mind.”

She lifted her head from his shoulder and looked into his eyes. He raised his elegant eyebrows. She smoothed the tip of her finger along one of the scratches she had made on his skin. With no more than that, she felt his body grow taut. His lashes lowered. He ran his tongue over his lower lip.

“I won,” she said in a low voice.

He turned over and lay atop her, spreading her hair on the pillows around her head. “Be cautious of me, hellcat,” he said. “Be careful. There is a brink there—and I don’t know where it is.”

She felt herself as if she had long passed some precipice, and walked on thin air in this tower above the dark lake. “Do you fear it?” she whispered.

He ran his hands up behind her ears, his thumbs caressing her cheeks. “The galley drew anchor two days ago,” he said. “You are certain.”

“I am certain.”

He closed his eyes briefly. “God help me, I cannot keep it in my head.”

“In the small hours of the night, two nights past,” she said.

He looked aside, frowning. She could feel his hands tighten in her hair. “I should know the names of Franco’s men in d’Avina.”

“You do not?”

He stared down at her, shaking his head slowly. “No.” He lifted his head abruptly, as if he remembered something. “There should be a message tonight.” With a quick move, he sat up on his elbow.

Elayne sat up also, watching him. The moment of play had vanished; he had nothing of pleasure or ease in his face now.

“I must go,” he said. He started to rise, and paused. He leaned very close to her, just touching the corner of her lips. “Rest, beloved,” he murmured. “Do not leave this chamber. I will return before morning.”

He kissed her deeply, pressing her hard down into the pillows. As Elayne lifted her arms around his shoulders, he pulled back and turned away, his bare feet hitting the floor lightly as he left the bed.

There were no books in Gian Navona’s chamber. If he had been a scholar and wizard like his bastard son, he left no sign of it in this tower haven. Elayne spent some of the long hours of the night in searching through his coffer and the cupboard, being careful to touch nothing that Allegreto had not examined and declared safe. She pulled the musty bedding from the mattress and replaced it with sheets from the cupboard. The scent of ancient herbs filled the room, their dry skeletons scattered across the carpet where they fell as she shook out the folded linen.

A wealth of fine tapestries lay rolled in the bottom of the cupboard—winter dress for the chamber, their rope cords coiled neatly by the hand of some long-vanished servant. Elayne looked up at a row of gilded wall hooks shaped like the heads of mastiffs, running the whole length and breadth of the chamber under a ceiling painted with silver stars. Gian Navona had not spared his comfort or expense here.

She made a pile of the old sheets. To occupy herself, she shook out Allegreto’s indigo doublet and tried to brush the dried mud and sand from the collar. She had an idea of hanging it, to ease the wrinkles, and even managed to toss one of the tapestry cords over a hook before she looked again at the stains and deemed it a hopeless task. She laid the garment over his chair instead, feeling an unfamiliar moment of housewifely enjoyment as she arranged the cloth.

She punched and poked his felt hat into shape again, too, smiling a little as she hung it over the chair, thinking of his discolored eye and criminal look from under the pointed brim. She braided her hair when it was dry, standing well back from the sunburst mirror to see as she pinned it around her head.

Raymond had called her a remarkable woman. She looked at the shadowy face in the glass, only able to discern the line of her nose and cheek and the shape of her eyes in the weak lamplight.

Everyone said she resembled Lady Melanthe. But she did not see it. Perhaps their eyes were a similar color, and unusual, and that accounted for the likeness. Her godmother looked like a queen—Elayne did not think her own face and bearing even fitting for the princess that they said she was. There was a softness to her features, a wideness to her eyes, and an upward curve to her mouth that made her appear more like to a mischievous pup. She had hoped it would disappear as she grew older, but in the dark mirror she thought she looked no more regal than Nim.