The Rose of Sarifal (32 page)

Lukas guessed this was Prince Araithe, the son of Lady Ordalf, whom he had last seen in Caer Corwell. He was of medium height, and his cloak, when it flapped open, revealed a silver doublet, plum-colored hose, and a silver, tasseled codpiece, a style both ugly and pathetic, in Lukas’s opinion. Lukas was not disposed to like Araithe anyway, but was surprised by the violence of his own reaction as the man approached. Araithe lifted his mask with a right hand that also seemed fashioned entirely of gold, with the elegant, contrived fingers of a clockwork mannequin.

“Is it really you?” he asked. “When the priestesses told me of their dream, I thought it was too much to ask.”

And Lady Amaranth, because of her vulnerability and the blindness of her need, never hesitated. Lukas watched the two of them come together as if partners in a different dance, to a different rhythm. “I’ve prayed for this,” said Prince Araithe, his voice soft and pretty. “A long time—there are too few of us to keep apart. Whatever reason you had for leaving us—all is forgiven now.”

He put his arm around her shoulders. “The price you have paid, the hardships you have endured, let us not speak of them. Or if we must, imagine them as a test to bring you to this place. Your mother and father are dead now. But I am guardian of this tower, and I will be everything to you—mother, father, brother, sister, nephew, uncle, and more besides. There are too few of us to make distinctions, and we will be together for a long time. Everything I have is yours, and I will share it with you equally, for the sake of our shared blood. The world is vast, but we will find shelter …”

She laid her cheek against his breast. Lukas stayed near enough to listen to the prince’s murmurings, and now he caught his eye above her hair. Araithe’s golden fingers made a little gesture of dismissal. But Lukas persevered until a crease of anger marred the perfection of the prince’s forehead, and he moved away from the girl’s embrace. “Make yourself useful,” he said. “Bring my lady something to drink.”

Hogsheads of wine were open on the turf, and Amaka came toward them, a goblet in each hand. She herself had had enough to drink, Lukas decided, judging from
the unsteadiness of her little dance, the way the wine slopped from the crystal cups, the delirious sparkle in her eye.

Lukas put up his palm to forestall her. “Sir,” he said, “your mother promised me three hundred thalers to bring your aunt to Gwynneth Island. In addition, she was keeping a friend of mine in Caer Corwell as her guest, in security—”

The prince interrupted him. “My mother promised you more gold than she had, and paid you more than you are worth. I encourage you to drink a glass of wine then take your leave of us—in safety, with your friends.” He glanced at Gaspar-shen. “As for the person you speak of, I’m afraid I have bad news. She endeavored to escape from my mother’s hospitality, and was killed in the attempt, not by any force of ours, but by a treacherous lycanthrope, a pig from Moray Island.”

He was not clever, Lukas decided, this prince who lived for thousands of years. Time had robbed him of that. Lady Amaranth stiffened, and with her forefinger she touched the climbing rose tattoo under her jaw. She looked toward Lukas and he turned away, wanting to let her think about the possibility of spending eternity in this place, with its bad music and bad company and wine that, he guessed, would have been eighth rate even if it hadn’t been poisoned or full of magic—the fey were no good at ephemera, which was after all what most of civilization was. He waved to her without looking, as if he were washing his hands of the whole business—job well done—cut his losses—Suka was dead; he doubted
that. This lump of leShay shit wasn’t capable of telling the truth. If he said she was alive and well, then Lukas might worry. He affected a frown, as if he were afraid the prince might possibly rescind his offer of safe conduct and, nodding to Gaspar-shen, he went in search of the wolf-girl, whom he found squatting near the border of the trees, head in her hands. He went down on one knee beside her.

“Tell me,” he said.

And so she told him about Bishtek Dlardrageth—strange to call him that. The Dlardrageth had mixed their elf blood with demons out of the Abyss millennia before. More recently, in Spellplague times, Sarya Dlardrageth had gotten loose from prison and had fought some stupid war. From her defeat, Lukas guessed, his friend’s father had escaped and hid himself, had tried to cleanse his son of all demonic traces, and had failed.

These thoughts went through him in a moment. They occupied one part of his attention, while with the other he listened to the druid; how she had fought in Malar’s temple below Scourtop, where the Savage had gone to help his friends—she gave him that much credit, though he had failed, of course; they had both failed, and Malar had been hauled out of the pit, and Chauntea’s priestess and the boy were dead.

Lukas didn’t look at her. He stared out toward the bonfire where the elves danced, dark elves, mostly. Two others drew his attention, one a tiny, emaciated, gossamer-boned fey, scarcely taller than a gnome, but with enormous feathered wings that rose over his
head, his jeweled cap. His face was scrunched up like a monkey’s as he admired the dancers.

He was one of the avariel, the winged elves from the mountain peaks above Cambrent Gap. The other stood apart, a drow captain in black steel half armor, out of place among the revelers, his white hair fastened down his back. And he was staring at Lukas with a dyspeptic, fierce expression, a hand on his sword hilt. Lukas dropped his eyes and listened to Eleuthra Davos tell him about the king’s tomb, and the loregem that had opened the pool among the beech trees and brought them here to safety.

“The king’s gold,” she said, “maybe had begun to heal him where he’d been maimed. I felt the spines that had broken through the skin along his vertebrae, and his shoulder blades blossoming where his father had torn away his wings. I was afraid of him. Gods help me. I didn’t know how long it would take to feel his dragon’s tail curl around me. Oh, but he has broken my heart.”

The drow soldier, a warlock or a swordmage, Lukas guessed, was still looking at them from across the clearing, his lips twisted in an expression Lukas couldn’t read—nothing good, though. Contempt, anger, whatever. As Lukas watched, the dark elf spat at the ground between his boots.

“I heard what you said to him,” Lukas told the druid. “It didn’t sound to me like heartbreak.”

He found himself mimicking the drow, pulling his lips back, spitting. He watched Gaspar-shen take a crystal goblet from one of Lolth’s handmaidens.
He sniffed at it, a pensive expression on his face. He wouldn’t drink it. His interest in food and drink was abstract, metaphorical.

The half moon rose above them, breaking through the curtain of the trees. By its light Lukas saw the tower of the citadel as if conjured into being, a stone spire that appeared and disappeared according to the pattern of the mythal that protected it. Some of the dancers stopped what they were doing and applauded the sight with more politeness than enthusiasm, Lukas thought. He watched Prince Araithe, one arm around Amaranth’s waist, gesture modestly toward the tower as if claiming credit for a magic trick. Lukas despised him.

“I didn’t hear much love in what you said to him.”

“What do you know about it?” said the druid girl.

Good point, Lukas conceded. He could not but remember Marikke and the boy, whom he had found in Caer Callidyrr mired in courthouse bureaucracy, impoverished and without hope. He had taken them in, telling himself he would protect them, at which task he had failed, and the Savage had failed also.

“Where will you go now?”

“Back,” Eleuthra said. “King Derid will need eyes in Moray now the Beastlord has returned.”

Her own eyes were red with tears. Gaspar-shen stalked toward them, a smile on his face. “What did you think of the wine?” Lukas asked.

“I detected hints of blackberry and smoke. A high glycerin content. You can tell from the streaks along the glass. Perhaps we should go.”

Lady Amaranth had lost her brother, Coal. She also had a distinctive way of showing her grief, which was to simper adoringly with her hand on Prince Araithe’s arm as she approached them. “My nephew has consented to let you stay. He said you could play in his orchestra.”

Lukas glanced up at Gaspar-shen. What did I tell you? he thought. “The prince does me too much honor,” he said without rising to his feet.

“Then you accept?” Her eyes maintained a wistful, pleading look, at odds with the rest of her expression.

“My dear, I think it best to take the captain at his word,” said Prince Araithe.

Lukas looked beyond them toward where another figure had entered the circle of firelight, a woman in a long, flowing gown that, like the prince’s raiment, seemed to project a kind of desperate sensuality. The velvet clung to her breasts like a layer of skin. Despite her witch’s mask, Lukas recognized her. For reasons he couldn’t decipher, he’d been expecting her.

“Ware,” said Gaspar-shen.

Lukas stood up. The lines on his friend’s forehead pulsed dimly, red and gold. Which meant—what, exactly? You’d think he’d know by now. People were like undiscovered continents, what they did, what they said, what they meant. As the leShay queen moved toward them, tripping lightly over the grass, as you might say, he allowed himself a small, sweet moment of sadness, and in his mind he captured three small images from the past, because he guessed there’d be no time for contemplation once High Lady Ordalf opened her
mouth—first, Marikke, her stiff yellow hair hanging down over a face flushed with concentration—she was performing some ritual in Chauntea’s honor, some brimming liquid in a bowl of light. Second, the calico-haired boy, his fingernails extended in surprise. Third, the Savage, but not wrecked to pieces the last time he’d seen him, a new self erupting out of him, but at his ease in his black clothes, his dark face shining, a gold coin in his outstretched hand.

“My dear boy,” said the queen. “My love, how could you invite so many to your party, and not me? Who is this … whore?” she said, not deigning to look at anyone except her son, peering up into his face, so close to him now that he was obliged to take a step backward and let go of Lady Amaranth’s arm. “Who is this … diseased slut? Does a mother’s advice mean nothing to you? Your father died of a venereal infection, as you know. And he was in his … prime.”

Well, that should get the ball rolling, Lukas imagined.

At first he’d thought Lady Ordalf, not to be outdone, had assumed a mask that was the ugliest in the entire citadel, a grotesque apparition of white skin patched with scabs, a long, beaked, unblown nose, and broken teeth. But now he saw her mask was actual flesh, a small piece of illusion that was now undone, melted away, revealing the golden eyes, sweet features, and laughing, purple mouth of the leShay queen.

Really, Prince Araithe was not clever. “Madam,” he said, his face stiff with shock, “may I present to you my aunt—”

Ordalf whipped her head around, and any thought Lukas might have had that she’d relaxed or forgotten her malice toward her younger half sister was immediately dispelled. But then her face again reformed into beauty, and she held out her hand, displaying a ring on her right forefinger that, Lukas imagined, she wanted Amaranth to kiss.

Or maybe not. Amaranth, also, had taken a step backward. The queen spoke again, her voice lovely and melodious. “Captain, I believed we had a bargain, and that you were to deliver to me one small spherical part of this merchandise, and not, as I see now before me, the entire shipment. Was it too much to ask, that my wishes be fulfilled? Here you’ve given me too much of a good thing, which is worse than nothing at all. I believe that voids our contract, and that you can expect nothing more from me, and the matter of three hundred gold pieces …”

Of all the world’s races, Lukas decided, the eladrin and elves cared the most about coin, perhaps because they lived so long. Still, it astonished him that she could not refrain from haggling, even at a moment like this one.

“Of course,” she said, “I also was unable to keep my side of the bargain, to keep your gnome on this side of the Nine Hells. The giantess I showed you, she separated her torso from her legs without even the benefit of a knife and fork.”

These words were worth more than any of the gold she owed, Lukas thought, because they showed both she
and her son were lying, and Suka might be alive for all they knew.

“Thank you,” he said, and she glanced at him briefly, stuffed with contempt for his sincerity, which she could not hope to understand.

“Sister?” Lady Amaranth began.

The music was silent now, as if everyone in the clearing had become aware of this knot of difficulty under the tall trees. Ordalf held out her hand. The ring on her forefinger began to glow, an amethyst.

And as if it had been pushed out from its center, Lukas felt an odd sensation travel through his body and then beyond him out into the clearing, a wave of inertia that dulled and numbed his senses and made it hard to move, hard to think. He imagined the synapses and ganglia of his body set alight as with a gentle electricity, impeding his control. Or it was as if time had slowed for him and all the others whom the wave had touched, the force out of the jewel. Only Lady Ordalf was unaffected, the author of the spell. She sauntered easily to stand next to her sister, immobile and, as Lukas could see, petrified with fear. The leShay queen reached out with her left hand, and with a cruel familiarity she moved her fingers over Amaranth’s face, brushing her cheek, pulling at her hair, tweaking her ear then moving down her neck over the yellow rose tattoo, while at the same time murmuring as if to herself a soft commentary on her sister’s plainness and defects, her unpleasant pallor, her red freckles and red hair, filthy and unbrushed, and was this a twig in it? You must have gotten your complexion from your
father. And what are you wearing? She moved her hand down the front of Lady Amaranth’s shirt, modest and androgynous, homespun in her Moray workshop, dyed in earth colors—Lukas could scarcely move a muscle. His body trembled, and with great difficulty he turned his face an inch or so to see if Gaspar-shen was having any luck, but the genasi stood beside him like a statue. Eleuthra was no better. The musicians, instruments still raised, had stopped their playing. Time itself had stopped, or almost stopped, for all but the night birds that still passed over head, and for the drow captain, who had come closer, sword drawn, a puzzled expression on his face—a warlock, then. Lukas had been right.