Two to Conquer (14 page)

“The lad has a head on his shoulders,” said Lord Edelweiss, a gray-haired man dressed like an

elaborate fop, and behind Bard’s back, he heard the old man say, “Pity your own older son shows no such talent for strategy and war skills. Let’s hope he has some skill at statesmanship, or that boy there will have the kingdom in his hands before he’s twenty-five years old!”

King Ardrin said stiffly, “Bard is Beltran’s devoted foster brother; they are
bredin
. I need fear nothing for Beltran in Bard’s hands.”

Bard bit his lip, troubled. He and Beltran had been hardly on speaking terms since that battle and its aftermath; Beltran, tonight, had given him no midwinter gift, though he had meticulously sent the prince an egg from his best hunting hawk, to be hatched under a palace hen; a thoughtful gift and one that would normally have brought delighted thanks from his foster brother. In fact, it seemed that Beltran was avoiding him.

Again Bard cursed himself for his own folly in quarreling with Beltran. Raw-edged over his own

frustration, the enforced separation from Melora—for he knew that she had wanted him then, as much as he wanted her—he had lashed out at Beltran because the boy was the most convenient object on

which to vent his own fury. He should, instead, have taken that chance to cement his own bond with the young prince. Damn it, he missed their old closeness! Well, at least Beltran had not yet poisoned Geremy’s mind against him… he hoped. It was hard to tell what went on behind Geremy’s somber

face, and although it might only have been that Geremy was missing his Ginevra, Bard found that hard to believe. They were not handfasted, and Ginevra was not really of sufficiently noble birth to be a proper match for the heir to Hastur of Carcosa.

Perhaps tonight he should seek out Beltran, make his apologies and explain to his foster brother why he had been so sharp with him… His outraged pride cringed at that thought. But a serious and unmended quarrel with the prince could damage his own career, and if some of the king’s councillors were already wondering if Bard stood dangerously close to the throne—he was, after all, the eldest son of the king’s own brother—then he had better make sure that Beltran did not perceive him as a threat!

But before he could put his resolve into action, avoice at his shoulder said genially, “A good festival to you, dom Bard.”

Bard turned to face the elderly
laranzu
. “And to you, Master Gareth. Ladies” he acknowledged, bowing to Mirella, lovely in her pale-blue gauze draperies, and to Melora, who wore a low-necked gown of green with a high collar; the dress cut as loose as a pregnant woman’s, and indeed, her heavy body made her look very much as if she were pregnant, but the color showed the high color of her clear skin, made her red hair glow.

“You are not dancing, Master Gareth?”

The old man shook his head with a rueful smile. He said,

“I cannot,” and Bard saw that he leaned on a stout walking stick. “A memory, sir, of that fight with the Dry-towners.”

“Why, such a wound should be long healed,” Bard said, with concern, and he shrugged.

“I think perhaps there was poison on the dagger; had it not been diluted by many other fights, I should have lost the leg,” Master Gareth said. “It has never healed completely, and now I begin to think it never will. Even
laran
has not sufficed. But it does not keep me from the festival,” he said, courteously dismissing the subject.

The young son of Hammerfell’s duke came up and said shyly, “Will the Lady Mirella dance with me?”

She glanced at her guardian for permission—Mirella was too young to dance at public balls except with kinsmen—but evidently Master Gareth considered the youngster far too young to represent any threat; they were obviously children together. He gestured approval and they moved away together. The boy was not nearly as tall as Mirella, so they made a somewhat incongruous partnership.

Bard said to Melora, “Will you honor me, Melora?”

Master Gareth raised his eyebrows slightly at the informal use of her name, but she said, “Certainly,”

and held out her hand. She was, Bard reflected, probably several years older than he was himself, and he was surprised that she was not yet married or pledged.

After a moment, as they danced, he put the question, and she said, “I am promised to Neskaya Tower. I dwelt at Dalereuth for a time; but they set us to making clingfire, and I feel it very strongly—that
leroni
should be neutral in wars. So I am bound to Neskaya, where the Keeper has pledged to neutrality in all wars among the Domains.”

“That seems to me an ill choice,” said Bard. “If we must fight, why should
leroni
be exempt from battle? Already they do not carry weapons, even in battle. Are they to live at peace when the rest of us must fight for our lives?”

“Someone must begin the fight for peace,” Melora said. “I have spoken with Varzil and I think him a great man.”

Bard shrugged. “A deluded idealist, no more,” he said. “They will burn the Tower of Neskaya about your heads, and go on making war as always. I only hope, Lady, that you may not share in their fall.”

“I hope so, too,” she said, and they were silent, dancing. She was singularly light on her feet, moving like a breath of air.

He said, “Dancing, you are very beautiful, Melora. How strange, when first I saw you, I did not think you beautiful at all.”

“And now that I look at you, I see you are a handsome man,” she said. “I do not know how much you have heard about
leroni
—I am a telepath and I do not look much at people, what their outward aspect may be. I had no idea even whether you were fair or dark, when I talked with you on campaign. And now, you are the King’s banner bearer and a handsome man and all the ladies envy me because you do not dance often with them.”

From any other woman, Bard thought, this would have sounded unendurably coy and flirtatious.

Melora stated it simply, like any other fact.

They danced, silently, the old sympathy beginning to build up again between them. In an isolated corner of the room, he drew her to him and kissed her. She sighed and allowed the kiss, but then, regretfully, drew away.

“No, my dear,” she said, very gently. “Let’s not allow this to go so far that we cannot part as friends, and no more.”

“But why not, Melora? I know that you feel as I do, and now we are not hindered as we were after the battle—”

She looked straight at him. She said, “What we might have done, had occasion offered, in hot blood and after the excitement and danger of battle, is a thing apart; now, in cold blood, you know and I know that it would not be suitable. You are here with your promised wife; and the Princess Carlina has been most gracious to me. I would not step on the hem of her robe before her very eyes. Bard, you know I am right.”

He did, but in his outraged pride, he would not acknowledge it. He flung at her, wrathfully, “What man except some sandal-wearer wishes to be only friend to a woman?”

“Oh, Bard,” she said, shaking her head, “I think you are two men! One of you is heartless and cruel, especially with women, and cares nothing how you hurt! The other is the man I have seen, the man I dearly love—even though I will not share your bed this night, nor any other,” she added firmly. “But I hope with all my heart, for Carlina’s sake that it is always this other man I know that you show to her.

For
that
one, I shall cherish all my life.” She pressed his hand gently, turned away from him, and quickly lost herself in the crowd of dancers.

Bard, left alone, his cheeks burning with outrage, tried to follow her green-clad form through the crowds; but she had hidden herself from him as completely as if she had vanished right out of the hall.

He had the faint prickling sense of
laran
in use and wondered if she had thrown a mantle of invisibility over herself, as he knew some
leroni
could do. His rage and wounded pride knew no bounds.

Fat, stupid woman, probably she had cast a glamour over him so that he wanted her, because no man before had ever done so… Well, Varzil of Neskaya was welcome to her, damn him, and he hoped the

Tower was burned over their heads! He went back to the buffet and wrathfully drank another glass of wine, and another, knowing that he was getting drunk, knowing King Ardrin, himself an abstemious man, would not approve.

Nor did Carlina; when she met with him again, there was gentle reproof in her voice.

“Bard, you have been drinking more than is seemly.”

“Are you going to make me a henpecked husband even before the wedding?” he snarled at her.

“Oh, my dear, don’t talk that way,” she said, flushing to the neck of her green gown. “But my father will be angry too. You know that he hates it when any of his young officers drink so much that they cannot behave in a seemly manner.”

“Have I done anything unseemly?” he demanded of her. “No,” she admitted, smiling a little, “but

promise me not to drink any more, Bard.”

“
A ves ordras, domna
,” he conceded, “but only if you will dance with me.”

It was a couple-dance again, and, with the license allowed to a handfasted pair, he could hold her tightly, not at the decorous distance required of most couples. Geremy, he noticed, had been given the privilege of dancing with Queen Ariel, at a most respectful distance indeed. Beltran had (probably at Carlina’s request) chosen to dance with the ungainly Lady Dara. She too was graceful on her feet, as much as Melora, was it so common for ladies who were over-plump to dance so gracefully? Damn it, he would not think of Melora now! She might dance with the friends from Zandru’s hells, for all he cared! He drew Carlina vengefully close to him, aware of her thin, bony slenderness in his arms. A man could be bruised on those bones!

“Not so tightly, Bard, you are hurting me…” she protested. “And it is not suitable…”

He let her go, stung with compunction. He said, “I wouldn’t hurt you for the world, Carlie. Anyone or everyone else, but never you.”

The dance ended. The king and queen, with the more elderly and dignified ladies and lords of the court, were withdrawing, so that their presence might not inhibit the younger people at their revels. He saw that the young son of Hammerfell was being taken away by his governess, and that the pretty Mirella was being folded into her cloak by Master Gareth. King Ardrin made a little speech, wishing the

youngsters a merry festival and bidding them dance till dawn if they wished.

Carlina stood beside Bard, smiling as her parents departed. She said, “Last year I, too, was taken away at midnight when the elders and children were sent to bed. This year, I suppose, they think that as a handfasted bride I am in no danger, with my promised husband to guard me.” Her smile was merry.

And, in truth, Bard knew that midwinter revels sometimes grew a little rowdy. They were certainly noisier, after the old people and children departed; there was more drinking, many boisterous kissing games, and the dances grew wilder and less decorous. As the night moved on toward dawn, more and more couples slipped away into the gallery and side passages of the castle, and once Bard and Carlina, dancing past a long passage, saw a couple closely embraced, so intimately so that Carlina quickly turned away her eyes. But Bard steered her into the galleries.

He murmured, “Carlina, you are promised to me already. I think already most of the couples here who are pledged or handfasted have gone apart—” He drew her into his arms, straining her close to him.

“You know what I want of you, my promised wife. It is midwinter, we are handfasted, why not make it complete now, since the laws permit?” His mouth fastened over hers; when she twisted away to breathe he murmured thickly, “Even your father could not protest!”

She said softly, “Bard, no, no.” He could sense the rising panic in her, but she spoke in an undertone, trying desperately for calm.

“I have resigned myself to this marriage, Bard. I’ll honor my father’s wish, I promise you. But not—

not now.” He sensed, and it struck pain deep into him, that she was fighting hard not to show her dismay and revulsion. “Give me time. Not—not now, not tonight.”

It seemed that he could hear again the threatening words Beltran had hurled at him:
roses will grow in
Zandru’s ninth hell before you take Carlina to bed
!

He snarled at her, “Has Beltran made good his threat, then?”

Melora had refused him, too, though a scant forty days before she wanted him. Melora was a telepath; she must have been aware of the quarrel with Beltran, knew Beltran could poison the king’s mind

against him; a liaison with an out-of-favor courtier could do Melora no good… Beltran had turned Melora against him, too, and now Carlina…

Carlina said, her voice shaking, “I don’t know what you are talking about, Bard. Have you quarreled with my brother?”

“And if I had, would that change your mind about me?” he demanded, bitterly. “So, you too are like all women, you will tease me as if I had no manhood! You are my promised wife, why do you draw away

from me as if I meant rape?”

“You just now said,” she replied, staring up at him with bitterness as great as his own, “that you would never want to hurt me. Does that hold only when I agree to everything you want of me? Do you think it would not be rape because I am your promised wife? I love you as foster brother and friend, and if the Goddess is merciful to us both, a day will come when I will love you as the husband my father has given to me. But that time is not yet; I have been promised that I shall have till midsummer. Bard, I beg you, let me go!”

“So that your father may have enough time to change his mind about me? So that Beltran may poison his mind against me, have you given to his own minion?”

“How dare you say that of Geremy,” she demanded furiously, and somehow the name ignited the last reserves of Bard’s wrath.

“So, you are so careful of
his
honor, that
ombredin
, that half-man—”

“Don’t speak that way of my foster brother,” she said in a rage.