Grand Conspiracy: Second Book of The Alliance of Light. Janny Wurts

‘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

      Triangle

      Ivel the blind splicer rubbed his nose with the back of a horny fist, eyes rolled like fogged marbles toward the impatient presence of the Riverton yard’s master shipwright. He spat, then resumed tying an endsplice into a hawser. With rankling sarcasm, he said, ‘Should we bathe? Clean our teeth?’ Rope plies whipped into herringbones under flying, competent fingers as Ivel bared his gapped teeth in a grin of challenging mockery. ‘Or should we just sweep up the shavings so his Grace’s velvets won’t soil? Personally, someone should shoulder the broom so we don’t pain our knees when we grovel.’

      The gripe concerned the scheduled royal inspection. Granted Ivel’s natural penchant for mischief, the comment’s disastrous timing was aimed to reap a storm of agonized embarrassment.

      Feet planted in the scrolled flakes of spruce that blew like shed leaves from the sawpits, the burly master shipwright he tormented was no man’s easy mark. Cattrick maintained his cast-iron calm as naturally as he drew breath. Clad in his best scarlet cloak against the winds that foreran the change of the season, he matched the splicer’s wicked thrust with his own stamp of spiteful courtesy. ‘With all due respect, I must leave your question to the voice of higher authority.’

      Goading on Ivel’s insolent disregard for rank, the yard’s master added, ‘That’s presupposing his Grace cares to answer a commoner’s impertinence in the first place.’

      Stonewalled behind a laborer’s grave deference, Cattrick bowed to the glittering royal person, just arrived with his guard and his retinue for his long-deferred tour of the shipyard.

      Ivel slapped his knee, the report of his callused palm like a whipcrack. ‘Hah! I thought as much! Anybody who hasn’t got the healthy stink o’ tar is bound to wear jewels and airs. So that’s his exalted self, the Prince of the Light, standing stiff-backed and pompous beside you?’

      Cattrick pretended a cough behind the muffling sleeve of his shirt.

      Lysaer s’Ilessid was all frigid formality in cloud white velvet, sewn like coarse rain with diamonds and sprays of small seed pearls. The statesman’s panache he wore like steel armor let him meet Ivel’s derision without astonishment.

      Yet the rowdy splicer interrupted again before even the royal guard could intervene. ‘Tell me, should I prostrate myself and press my face in the dirt? Or in the name of efficiency to your royal design, would you rather I finished this hawser?’

      Silence ensued, more thunderous than the hollow boom of the caulkers’ mallets which impacted the scene with the racketing crescendo of industry.

      The lantern-jawed guard to the prince’s left was first to reach for his sword hilt.

      ‘No,’ Lysaer snapped. His raised hand averted the tensioned response as his other two bodyguards rocked on their toes to charge forward. ‘Let the craftsman be. He may mock, but his rank tongue harms nothing.’ The prince advanced a step to distance his person from the zeal of