Читать книгу Grand Conspiracy - Janny Wurts, Janny Wurts - Страница 13

Seventy-five leagues northward, far removed from the chill of woodland nightfall in Taerlin, candlelight rinsed the carpeted chamber where the oldest daughter of the Lord Elect of Erdane perched on a brocade stool. Her lush skirts spilled a lake of pale rose silk and gilt trim around her primly crossed ankles. Walnut hair fanned over her shoulders, combed into a shining cascade of warmth by the lady’s maid who attended her.

‘Oh, Ellaine, to be so fortunate!’ From a nearby stuffed chair, with a pert, dimpled chin perched on cupped palms, her younger sister mused on, ‘Having a prince ask for your hand in marriage! I could burst from the excitement.’

The tortoiseshell comb slid, streaking sparks of static in the dry air, while the candle’s rinsed glow raised Ellaine’s skin to a flush and glinted off lips like ripe peaches.

The sister’s spun fantasy gushed on through bright hopes and girlish dreams. ‘You’ll go to Avenor and wear diamonds and ermine, and we will all die of envy.’

‘The contract’s just signed,’ Ellaine contradicted in her sweet, retiring alto. While the maid tipped her head to run the comb at Ellaine’s nape, her muffled voice showed apprehension. ‘A thousand things could go wrong.’

Her thoughts skittered and fled like dropped pearls. She tried not to think of the horse with the blue-and-gold trappings just arrived, with a train of liveried attendants. The turmoil of their stabling still upset the evening calm of the yard. Dogs barked in the streets. Every hall in the mayor’s mansion reechoed with the fast-paced dialect of strangers. Ellaine’s damp fingers clamped in her swathed lap. Belowstairs, her mother and father stood to receive the royal suit and exchange courtly courtesies until the moment of her formal presentation.

‘You could worry yourself silly!’ A moue on her cupid lips, the younger sister masked a giggle as the maid crossed her line of view. ‘The trade guilds would scarcely see you lose such a prize! Father’s done nothing but count the coin for your dowry for at least the past six weeks. Believe it. You’re going to stop hearts.’ The maid gathered up the smoothed waves of hair and deftly separated the shining mass into neat strands for braiding. ‘You’re not thinking of shaming us all by throwing a scene as he meets you?’

Ellaine swallowed. ‘No.’ Erdane was no eastland city, to encourage its women to bold acts of freedom and independence. ‘But you know there will be unkind comparisons drawn.’

She would not speak the name of Lysaer’s first princess, who had been Etarran, beautiful and proud and spirited as a wild lioness. During her winter’s stay at the palace of Erdane’s mayor, the girls had known Lady Talith well enough to measure her mettle. She had made no secret of her penchant for the blood sport of palace intrigue. Small good her rebellious intelligence had done her in the end; even her sharpened wit had become eclipsed by the Prince of the Light’s blinding majesty.

The maid’s firm fingers braided Ellaine’s hair, unconcerned, as the sisters took stock of the recent tragedy that cast a dampening chill on the hour’s anticipation. The late Princess of Avenor now lay six months dead, a suicide who had plunged from the high tower battlement that fronted her husband’s hall of state.

‘She was barren and in despair,’ the younger girl insisted, while the maid’s efforts bundled her sister’s dark tresses in consoling, brisk tugs that pulled at her small furrows of worry. ‘All you need do is give the prince heirs. You’ll wear pearls and fine gowns and be comfortable for the rest of your life.’

Other benefits remained politely unspoken, that Ellaine’s promised marriage would also bring Erdane the strength of Lysaer’s royal protection. The city would claim the prince’s defense against the machinations of the Master of Shadow, and also a field-trained division of sunwheel troops to secure the trade roads through Camris.

The indolent young sister lifted no hand to help as the maid stretched and caught up the silk cord for tying: dusky rose, to match the dress, wound in twisted gilt threads for strong accent, and tasseled with a dropped spray of pearls. She laced its rich length through the end of the braid, then coiled the magnificent, shining rope into a headdress to crown Ellaine’s heart-shaped face. Elaborate grooming did not settle her nerves. Refined brows and doe eyes flickered in trepidation as a foot page tapped at the doorway.

‘His Lordship the Elect asks that the Lady Ellaine come down for the presentation.’

‘Stop frowning, you goose!’ teased the sister. ‘And leave off measuring yourself against Lady Talith. You don’t keep forward habits. Nor do you delight in ambushing old, scarred captains at arms in their bathtubs. You won’t gad about playing fire with politics, or get yourself abducted by a sorcerer.’

The maid patted down the last wisp of strayed hair. She garnished the piled glory of coiled braid with a gold-and-ruby pin, her earthbound steadiness in contrast to the sister’s girlish trills of excitement. ‘What will you do but have beautiful, strong babes for the realm? If you dare throw a tantrum, be sure I’ll run ahead of you, begging to go in your place!’

That won the small, bowed ghost of a smile, and a loosening of clammy fingers. Ellaine arose. The pearls on the gold-and-rose ribbon dangled jauntily down the determined line of her back. Primped to a crescendo of magnificent good looks, and finished in the exacting deportment expected of the daughter of a westland city mayor, she dredged up a playful wink for her sister that unveiled the thoughtful, inner fiber of her courage. ‘You shan’t go in my place. If our father wishes me to wed royalty, I’ll find the grace somewhere to make the best of the prosperity bestowed on our family.’

The younger sibling laughed, adoring as she watched the maid smooth and arrange the folds of the magnificent rose dress. ‘Well, I’ll just have no choice but to stay home and wilt from sheer awe.’ She levered herself out of her nest of upholstery, kissed her sister’s cheek, and whispered her most sincere wish for good luck and happiness.

‘Thanks. I’ll need everything.’ Ellaine sucked in a final, deep breath, then sailed out the door and descended the long, curving stair to the salon.

The man who awaited her presence was dressed in shining silk in royal colors, and cosseted in her father’s best chair. His lean hand curled on the stem of a glass of Falgaire crystal. As he smiled his appreciation for the quality of the vintage, he turned his gray head; and Ellaine paused, consternation masked behind manners. This was not the vigorous, fair-haired prince she had been led to expect.

Dry-skinned, sallow, and elderly, the rail-thin Seneschal of the Realm arose on stilt legs. He set the wine flute aside, while her father spoke her name and beckoned her forward. Avenor’s aged envoy accepted her offered hand, his grasp cold and dry as he recited a prepared speech of welcome and acceptance. ‘His Grace, the Lord Prince of the Light, sends his most sincere regrets. He has a war campaign to wind down in the wilds of Caithwood, and an inspection of the shipyard at Riverton overdue since the closing of summer.’ The royal official blinked pouched, hound’s eyes, apologetic and stiff, no doubt recalling the past princess’s lightning wit, and the abrasive fight she had raised each time conflict arose with the Shadow Master’s allies.

Soft civility before her predecessor’s razored style, the Lady Ellaine masked her personal disappointment behind the decorum of her upbringing. She did not interrupt, but listened in patience as the seneschal finished his delivery. ‘The safety of the realm must come before his Grace’s preference and pleasure, as my lady must understand, who will become his crowned consort in the royal seat at Avenor.’

Ellaine endured the seneschal’s bony, chapped clasp and dipped into a flawless curtsy. ‘His Grace is excused. Please extend him my heartfelt wishes for a swift close to the strife in south Tysan.’

‘He has sent the traditional gift in token of his regard.’ The seneschal snapped his fingers. The page boy posted by the door stepped forward, bearing the royal offering.

She accepted the gold-edged coffer with shy grace and opened the lid. The inside was lined with damascened silk, and a plush velvet cushion. Against the shadow-soft nap, the sudden dazzle of gemstones cast back sliced light like a cry. Ellaine murmured polite thanks for the gift, a diamond-and-sapphire pendant hung on a massive chain of roped pearls. Though the piece was an emphatic exhibition of wealth, a male statement of property sent by a prince to mark his personal claim, her smile to the page boy was genuine. ‘Would you help with the clasp?’

The boy bowed, obedient, the gold fastening easy work for his admiring hands. The scintillant, dark jewel and sharp fire of the diamond lay too hard, too weighty against the delicate rose-and-gilt gown. Yet the girl handled herself well under the yoke of the twisted pearl chain. ‘Tell the prince I am pleased.’

Her father stepped in, his thanks more effusive, while the mother whisked her daughter away like the cosseted asset she had become. Erdane’s ambition and welfare would rise on her ability to pleasure Avenor’s prince. The Seneschal of the Realm accepted the hospitality of the mayor’s mansion, the discomfort that lingered after duty was discharged smoothed over in smiles and diplomacy.

The lady handfasted to wed the Prince of the Light in the month after spring solstice was a sweet child, with skin creamy rich as a white, summer peach, and sloe eyes like melted chocolate. Yet for all her unspoiled beauty and innocence, she was no match for the sultry wit of her late predecessor.

Lysaer’s political choice was too evident: the wife selected to bear Tysan’s royal heir was a biddable broodmare, not a mate who could stand as an equal partner in his cause to destroy the Master of Shadow. The nuptials to come would not interfere with his formal promise. The Prince of the Light had sworn to cleanse Athera of the tyrannies perpetuated by the Fellowship’s compact and to eradicate the practice of sorcery. True to sovereign integrity, after Talith’s embarrassments, he had ensured that no spirited wife would swerve him from the pursuit of his chosen destiny.

Autumn 5653