They slept in—at least Varia did—had a late breakfast and a later start. Apparently Cyncaidh did not intend to gallop home like an eager schoolboy. They rode through wild and rocky forest for more than three hours when the road—a good road for such wild country—brought them to an extensive opening with farms. Halfway across it stood a building, almost a palace, half seen through shade trees. Cyncaidh pulled aside and turned. "Aaerodh Manor," he said pointing.
His words, his gesture, were for the whole party, but it seemed to Varia he'd addressed mainly her. She was impressed with the size of it, not entirely favorably. To her, a house so large could hardly seem like home. But it may to him, she thought. And I'm not going to live there.
As they rode on, it held her attention. At least it was handsome, she told herself. Not like the square gray Tudor castles and manors she'd seen pictures of in books, nor the homes of royalty in the Rude Lands. Its designer had been an artist, with a sense of proportion and grace. The walls were white marble, while the roofs were tiled, some green, some red, others blue, their colors saturated. She wondered how often it required cleaning.
Perhaps most interesting, it had no defensive wall, though as they neared it, she could see a tall fence of ornamental black iron pales surrounding the grounds. But the gatehouse, she discovered, had no guards, and the gate was open. They entered, and a graveled lane led them across a green lawn, with flowerbeds, shrubs, and scattered groups of trees. Their approach had been seen, for a major domo met them at the broad steps, a tall, big-framed, uniformed ylf who'd reached the time of decline, his face and figure aging. Nonetheless he shared a strong embrace with the Cyncaidh.
Cyncaidh stepped back. "It's very good to see you again, Ahain."
"We've been waiting for the day, Your Excellency."
"How is Mariil?" Cyncaidh spoke with concern.
"Well enough to have visitors, sir. I have no doubt that seeing you"—his glance shifted to Varia then—"and you, my lady, will be better for her than anything else."
"Good," Cyncaidh said. "I'd been afraid. Is she available now?"
"Yes sir. Your messenger arrived last evening before she slept, and her ladyship's been up for some time. She's breakfasted, and waiting for you in her suite I believe."
His mother, Varia thought, and in her decline, obviously. Why would she be pleased to see me?
Cyncaidh turned to her. "Varia," he said, "come with me. I want you to meet my wife."
Bewildered, Varia followed him up stairs she was scarcely aware of, and down a hall she hardly saw. He knocked at a door, which opened almost at once. An ylvin nurse let them in, and they followed her onto a deck where a woman sat in the sun, withered and frail on a lounge seat, wrapped in a robe against a breeze that felt balmy to Varia. It seemed to her that Mariil must have been lovely, a decade earlier.
But if her old body was frail, Mariil's spirit showed strong and clear in her aura, which was not depressed by her physical decline. And her ylvin eyes were unclouded; Varia felt thoroughly evaluated by them. "Welcome to Aaerodh Manor," the old woman said. "I'm glad to have you here."
"Thank you. Why?"
The old woman chuckled drily. "Why indeed? I saw strength and endurance in you before you spoke. And the ability to learn, and grow in wisdom. They aren't the same thing, those last two, you know. And I see decency, and an honesty that includes self-honesty. Is that enough for you?"
"Do you see information too? Your husband says he's interested in knowledge he thinks I have. He may overestimate me. I spent more than twenty years on Farside, and I've only been back about sixteen months, most of it as his prisoner or the Dynast's. It may not take long to learn all I know of the Sisterhood, beyond what I suppose you know already."
"Indeed. That's the least of my interest." She turned to Cyncaidh. "Raien, I have questions to ask you. Before we talk to A'duaill. You'll want lunch first, though, I suppose."
"That's right. I'll come again afterward."
Kissing Mariil's dry lips then, he left with Varia, neither of them saying anything, and took her to a study, where he rang a bell. A half-ylf answered, the second steward, and Cyncaidh told him to guide his guest through the book shelves which covered one wall. "I'll be back for you when lunch is ready," he told her. "I need to be sure my men are properly settled."
Varia watched him leave. Don't try to figure it out, girl, she told herself. There's too much you don't know. Just pay attention. It'll sort out for you.
After lunch, Varia was taken to Connir A'duaill, who stood as they entered. The interrogator?, she wondered. A'duaill looked as young as most ylver—yet didn't, the difference lying in his aura, and in eyes that felt as if they'd seen everything, or near enough. She had no doubt he was a master magician like Sarkia; it fitted both his aura and eyes. Though he could hardly be as old as the Dynast.
The room had no window; that troubled Varia at once. Light came from a skylight shaft and several oil lamps. And the doors were thick; she could scream herself hoarse without anyone hearing.
On the other hand, the appointments were more or less aesthetic, not threatening at all. There were no straps or ties on the table, no whips or tongs or pan of coals, no Xader or Corgan. Besides herself there were only A'duaill and Cyncaidh, and an ylvin scribe with stacked vellum, and a row of sharpened graphite sticks wrapped in paper—effectively pencils.
Musing, she'd hardly heard Cyncaidh's introductions; hadn't even caught the scribe's name. When he'd finished, he looked at A'duaill. "I presume I'm to go now."
"If you please, Your Excellency." A'duaill turned to Varia as if he'd sensed the flash of fear that came despite herself. And said the right thing: "You'll not be harmed, physically or in spirit. That's not something we do here, and in any case we value you for much more than whatever knowledge you may have."
That again. She peered closely at him. "Then why no windows? I could scream myself to death in here without being heard."
"Ah. It's not to keep sounds in, but out. Sounds and more than sounds would hamper what I do here." He turned to Cyncaidh, who hadn't left yet. "Your Excellency."
Cyncaidh nodded to A'duaill, then to Varia, and left. When the door had closed, A'duaill motioned to an upholstered chair across the table from himself. "If you please, my lady." When she was seated, he took the plain wooden chair across from her.
"Why do you call me `my lady'?" Varia asked.
"It's a matter of status and courtesy. You're the Cyncaidh's guest."
"Why am I his guest? Beyond whatever information you may get from me."
"My lady, much will be made clear to you after this interrogation's over, I'm sure. I hope to complete it this afternoon," he added pointedly. "And when I've questioned you, I promise to receive your questions in turn. Tomorrow, if you'd like. Now, was your lunch adequate?"
She looked curiously at him. "More than adequate."
"Good. And I believe no ale or wine or spirits were served?"
"Nothing stronger than a tea of some sort."
"Fine. Have you relieved yourself since eating?"
"Just before I came here. What . . . ?"
"When we've begun, it's much better if no interruption is necessary. Now. Do you have anything on your mind? Anything pressing?"
She peered at him quizzically. "Right now I want very much to know what you're going to do."
"Good. Let's find out. Start of interrogation." He said the latter as if it were a formal opening.
"First we need to find your memories and open them to recall. Think of them as being buried. Deeply. Deeply. You'll need to go deeply to see them. Imagine they're so deep, you can only get to them by a deep spiral staircase, going down and down. . . ."
She recognized hypnotism; she used it herself. But she relaxed, letting it happen, letting his voice take her more and more deeply.
In time she woke up groggy, remembering nothing. "Thank you, Varia," A'duaill said, "welcome to the waking world. We did well; you've been very helpful. Now, look around the room and tell me something you like."
I don't remember a thing, she thought. She was—not muzzy, but disoriented. A'duaill repeated himself. "Look around the room and tell me something you like."
She scanned slowly, noticing what was there. "That rug on the wall," she said, gesturing. She hadn't noticed it when she'd sat down; preoccupied, she told herself. "It's quite handsome."
"Ah yes," said A'duaill. "Look around and tell me something else you like."
"Hmm! The—carving? Sculpture?" She pointed. "The dwarf on the shelf."
"Either term is appropriate. It's carved soapstone. Tell me something else you like."
She looked and frowned. "In that glass pitcher. Is that ice?"
He laughed. "From our own pond. It's cut each winter and stored in a deep bed of sphagnum moss, in an ice house built of logs. In our northern climate, it lasts from year to year."
Varia frowned. Ice wouldn't last in that pitcher very long. "I didn't notice it before." How long had it been? At least an hour, she decided. Surely that long.
A'duaill smiled. "It wasn't there when you came in. When we finished, I allowed you to rest a few minutes; to `settle out' as we say, before I brought you back to the present. I had it delivered then. It's a bit after supper, but cook will have something for you. He knows we're done; he sent the ice." He held up a bottle. "Would you like some wine poured over it? There are those who consider that barbaric, but I like it, and the Cyncaidh does too."
After supper!? They'd begun shortly after lunch! She accepted the offer. He poured her only a little, perhaps three ounces. It was as good as Sister-made, she thought, pink and dry, at the edge of sweet. What had he asked? What had she said? The scribe was gone, but presumably he'd written it down, or the gist of it. She doubted anyone could write fast enough to make a verbatim record.
When she'd finished her wine, A'duaill led her to the dining room and left her with the second steward. There she discovered she felt more than hungry. She felt empty! Neither Cyncaidh nor Mariil had eaten with the soldiers; they came in now to eat with her. To the detriment of conversation, she ate like Will after a winter day in the logging woods. And when she finished, felt desperately sleepy, despite having slept, or at least lain unconscious, all afternoon. Something in the wine? A serving girl led her to her room. She was too groggy to bathe. Fifteen minutes after eating, she was in her bed asleep, leaving her clothes for the girl to hang up.
She slept till well after sunup. The first part of the night had not been restful. She'd dreamed strong unpleasant dreams that brought her half awake repeatedly, only to slip back into continuations. The Tiger barracks had been part of it. And a troll, stalking her babies; when she ran to rescue them, the troll turned into Sarkia, who smiled a loving smile and turned her into a frog. Then Cyncaidh had ridden up and cast a spell that turned her not into a woman again, but into a woman-sized frog. He tried several spells, and she grew larger and smaller but remained a frog. Finally he kissed her and said he loved her, and that he'd take her home with him even if she was a frog.
She recalled being reunited with Curtis, too, only to find that the body on top of her was Xader. That time she'd wakened completely, and gotten out of bed shaking. The oil lamp showed her a small wine bottle, but when she'd raised it to her lips, what she swallowed wasn't wine, but something faintly bitter, some medicine. She'd made a face and stumbled back to bed, this time to sleep deeply and unbrokenly.
Whatever the drug had been, it left an unpleasant taste. She poured a glass of water and rinsed her mouth, then drank. Her serving girl, an ylf maid named Ardain, came in from the adjoining room.
"Good morning, your ladyship," Ardain said. "I hope you rested well."
Varia assessed how she felt. Neither good nor bad. A sort of medium gray, she decided. "Well enough, I guess," she said, and wondered if this girl read auras. Not likely. She also wondered again what A'duaill had learned from her the day before. He'd said he'd answer her questions today. Or no, that wasn't it. He'd said he'd receive her questions. Pin him down, she told herself.
She bathed, the ylf maid scrubbing her back. What would Liiset say if she could see. She knew what Idri would say, or Sarkia, who as long as Varia could remember, had portrayed the ylver as evil, depraved. She reminded herself then of General Quaie, who'd made the slander convincing. Not that most of the Sisterhood needed convincing; if Sarkia said it, it was so.
I'm well out of all that, she told herself. The trick now is to get out of here, a much more pleasant prison.
Clean clothing had been put out for her, including a frock hanging at her dresser set. Ardain suggested she wear it this morning. It was lovely, a pale green; she was surprised that this house had one so suited to her coloring. If my hair were long, she told herself, I might put it on, then rejected the thought. It wouldn't do to look too pretty, not where Cyncaidh would see, so she dressed in uniform.
She'd expected to eat breakfast with him, and perhaps Mariil. When they weren't there, she told the steward she'd like to see them after breakfast. Mariil, he answered, usually slept through the morning, and the Cyncaidh was out inspecting the property. That, Varia told herself, could take awhile. "Then I'd like to speak with A'duaill," she said.
"I'll leave your message with his scribe," the steward answered politely, "but just now, he can't be disturbed."
Varia wondered if she was being put off. It smelled that way. She ended up asking a reluctant Ardain to eat with her, clearly not the sort of thing a serving girl was supposed to do. But perhaps she could answer some questions.
"Why am I being treated so well?" Varia asked. "I was brought here a prisoner, you know."
"A prisoner? No ma'am, I didn't know that." Ardain seemed to doubt the claim.
"Why do you imagine I'm being treated so well?"
Ardain was uncomfortable now. "The Cyncaidh is a gentleman, and thoughtful, my lady."
He's that, all right, Varia told herself, but it doesn't answer my question. Besides, Ardain sweetie, you know something you're not telling me. She tried another angle. "Ahain told me Mariil would be happy to see me, or something to that effect. Why would he say that, do you suppose? She'd never met me."
The ylf maid's discomfort clearly was growing. "I don't know, my lady."
But you suspect, Varia thought, then told herself to leave the girl alone; she'd hardly tell anyway. "Are you from around here?" she asked.
"Yes, my lady, from Salmon Cove. My family fishes. And harvests seals in their season."
"That sounds interesting. How did you come to work here at the manor?"
"My uncle's been with the Cyncaidh's household troops since he was eighteen. He's first sergeant now," she added proudly. "So I got interviewed by Lady Mariil. I've been here since I was fifteen."
"I'll bet they like you; I do. How old are you?"
"Seventeen."
"Suppose you want to get married? Or are those things arranged for you?"
Ardain blushed. "Noble girls get husbands arranged for them sometimes, though they can refuse. For folk like us though, fisher folk or farmers, it's usual to marry a lad who catches your eye." She laughed. "The boy's supposed to ask the girl, but a girl can get him to, if she wants."
"And do the lords ever, um, impose on a girl who works in the house? A lord or his sons?"
Ardain darkened. "Never!" she said.
"I don't mean you, Ardain, or the Cyncaidh. I was thinking about households less well regulated. Less honorable. I'm a stranger in your land, you know."
This mollified the girl somewhat. "I've heard of such, I'll admit," she said, "but it wouldn't happen here. If the Cyncaidh had sons, and they—troubled a serving girl, he'd discipline them severely, I have no doubt."
If the Cyncaidh had sons. "I suppose he would. He's considerate of others." A noble without sons, whose wife is far beyond child-bearing. "Thank you for answering my questions, Ardain. I think I'll go to the study now."
Vordan, the second steward, took her, and at her request, showed her the shelf on local and family history, then left her to herself.
Varia ate in the small dining room. Would have eaten alone, if she hadn't again requested Ardain's company. The second steward acquiesced gracefully. Clearly there was no taboo connected with it; it was simply something out of the ordinary. Varia could see the value of not hobnobbing with the help. If the staff was like part of the family, there'd be little privacy, and the distinctions between duties and personal relationships could get badly blurred. But she was a guest, wanting company.
When she and Ardain sat down alone, she asked Vordan when she might talk with the Cyncaidh, or A'duaill, or Lady Mariil. Vordan brought the steward, who promised to get her a more specific answer. He was back before she'd gotten to dessert. The Cyncaidh, he said, was with A'duaill and the Lady Mariil in A'duaill's office, where they'd had lunch as they worked, and would remain till they were finished. She'd be informed at once when they were.
In the study again, Varia did as much thinking as browsing. She'd found nothing about any gate in this part of the world. Were there gates in the empire? If there were, Ylver could safely pass through, at least those with talent. What regulations and policies might they have?
From auras she'd seen in the empire, most ylver had only modest talents, probably because among commoners, breedings weren't arranged. Apparently they weren't among noble families, either, but nobility might originally have been a function of talent. In which case, if nobles married nobles more or less exclusively, most noble children would be born with substantial talent, and no doubt be trained to use it.
Fertility was a problem among the ylver; that was well known to the Sisterhood. Sarulin, the founder and first Dynast, had been ylvin, a sorceror's daughter in the court of a high noble. At least in those days, ylvin nobles sometimes warred on each other, took other ylver captive and made slaves of them. And if the story was true, Sarulin had been such a captive. Beautiful red-haired Sarulin; among the mostly black-haired ylver, she'd been conspicuous. Her captor, who was also red-haired, had raped her—impregnated her at any rate—and the story was that he'd been an exceptional magician.
Sarulin had already decided to escape and start a rebel movement, and with her powers, she'd known almost as soon as it happened that she'd conceived. So she'd undertaken to manipulate the microscopic creature in her uterus to produce a multiple birth, something that had never been tried before, and she'd succeeded. Then she'd run away with her master's discontented son, also very gifted.
Or so the story went, and the truth might well have been something like that.
Varia wondered again what A'duaill's questions had been. Had he learned how fertile her clone was? That among the Sisterhood, multiple births were a learned skill? Had he learned how it was done? Was that why she'd been brought here?
She had her audience with him that afternoon, and didn't ask any of those questions. Perhaps later, but just now . . . Her loyalty to the Sisterhood had been battered since her kidnapping from Farside. But on the other hand, while clearly the ylver were not an evil race, they had their Quaies in high places. Thus she didn't want them learning to do what Sisters routinely did—produce litters.
If A'duaill hadn't learned about this already, to ask would result in another interrogation. Then he'd surely know.
So she asked instead how such interrogations were done. When the person was deeply enough in trance, he said, they'd answer any question, if it was skillfully put. The trick was to ask the right questions. This he did by reading the aura. A skilled questioner could see and interpret its responses to questions, and use them, along with the answers, to guide further questioning.
"And what will the result be of our session together?" Varia asked. "What is my status here now?"
"My lady, you are still the Cyncaidh's honored guest. Beyond that, you'll have to ask him."
"Honored guest? I'd thought of myself as his well-treated prisoner."
A'duaill seemed honestly pained at that; troubled at least. "I can see why you might think so, my lady. Let me suggest that you speak with Lady Mariil about it. The Cyncaidh is involved for the rest of the day, and I know that Lady Mariil hoped to talk with you after supper, her strength permitting. She's resting just now; sleeping I suspect. The day has taxed her quite severely."
Varia returned to Cyncaidh's study looking forward to the evening. It seemed to her she was getting close to learning what she needed to know. The trick would be to make an ally of Mariil. Perhaps they'd agree to let her go through and bring Curtis back with her. To the empire. If they wanted her as a brood mare, maybe they'd be interested in another unusually fertile blood line—fertile by the standards of ylver and the Sisterhood. She'd promise it, if necessary. But what she and Curtis decided when they were together again might be another matter.
The book she pulled from a shelf was The Western Empire, from the Reign of Braighn the Red to the Time of Troubles. She found it fascinating, not least to learn that among this raven-haired people there'd been redheads well before Sarulin and her captor, notably Braighn the First. Who was fascinating, although the ylver he ruled might have used another adjective. If Sarulin was of Braighn's lineage, it would explain her ruthless strength as well as her red hair.
From time to time, Varia encountered something in its pages that brought her own situation to mind. Affairs and jealousies had played significant roles in ylvin politics then. Probably they still did. And apparently, Cyncaidh wanted, intended, to make her his mistress. Apparently Mariil knew it—apparently the household staff did too—and approved. Certainly the family Cyncaidh would want an heir, preferably male, and preferably of fertile lineage, with demonstrated talent. From what she'd read these last two days, adoption was often resorted to, though historically, adopted sons were less readily accepted in matters of political power.
What would the Cyncaidh and Mariil think of Curtis Macurdy as a sire to adoptive children? Unfortunately, Curtis showed no clear ylvin traits, aside from his untrained talent and minimal body hair. Her tentative optimism of earlier that day looked—unwarranted—given what she'd just read.
Still she'd present the idea, and see what the response was.
She wasn't good company for Ardain at supper. Being company for Ardain isn't your job, she reminded herself, then wondered what was. When they'd finished dessert and she still hadn't heard from Mariil, she decided to have a hot bath, and dismissed Ardain for the day. When she'd finished bathing, she dressed in her uniform again, and was sitting on her balcony appreciating the sunset, when someone rapped. The steward this time.
"Lady Varia," he said, "the Lady Mariil would be pleased to have your company in her suite. In twenty minutes, if that's suitable."
Why not now? she asked herself. As if I haven't waited long enough already. She shook the thought off irritatedly. Don't be petty, Varia Macurdy. She gave you the twenty minutes so you could be ready without hurrying.
"Thank you. Do I go myself, or—?"
"Annith will come for you, if that's all right my lady."
"That'll be fine."
He turned and left. Twenty minutes. Her eyes lit on the dress that had been hung for her that morning; she'd had Ardain leave it out. That, she thought. I'll wear it. Dressed as a soldier, I invite orders. Let her see me as a woman like herself.
She took off her uniform, then her underclothes, and looked at herself in the mirror. She'd grown up among Sisters where youth seemed almost eternal. But among them, on the onset of decline, a Sister was removed from the community, sent to spend her remaining five to ten years at a retreat "in the south," where no one visited. A practice that grew out of Sarkia's unwillingness to confront the loss of vigor and life, Varia thought wryly. At least the ylver honored their elderly.
As for herself—her critical eyes could find no fault with what she saw. Mother of forty-three, wife of two, and abused repeatedly by a squad of Tigers for how many months. The correct ylvin genes, unhindered by counter-beliefs, healed most wounds short of mutilation or death. You still look twenty, she told herself. Except for the eyes and aura, I suppose, and most don't confront the one or see the other. So here you are, coveted as a brood mare by an ylvin high noble.
She dressed and looked again. It wasn't a formal gown, but a dinner frock. Still, she'd never had so nice a dress in her life before, not even for her first wedding. She didn't pirouette in it though, just looked. God, she thought, I'm beautiful after all. Truly beautiful, except for that wretched short hair. Curtis, oh Curtis, I wish you could see me in this.
She felt the damned tears begin to well, and would have changed back into her uniform, except for the knock at her door.
"Come," she said. Mariil's nurse opened it, and Varia left with her, to the east wing and Lady Cyncaidh's suite. Mariil looked up when they entered, and her expression softened visibly when she saw Varia in the frock. She didn't stand, but motioned Varia to a chair in front of hers. "You are truly beautiful," she said softly. "More beautiful than I realized."
"You wanted to talk to me."
Mariil nodded. "To you, with you, about you. I've read the transcript of your interrogation, and there was much personal history in it. You are—even more remarkable than I'd appreciated. Even stronger. Raien had already told me what he knew of you—how he found you after your flight through the wilderness; of your assault on him when he wouldn't free you to find your Curtis; and of your swim. I was impressed. But the things we learned through A'duaill . . ."
"I trust there was more to it than my life history."
"Much more. Much of use to Raien in planning."
"Planning?"
Mariil shook her head. "We could talk about that for days. And will, I hope. Just now I want to talk about you and Raien."
"Your husband."
"My husband. The man I've loved since I first saw him when he was what he looks now to be: a youth in his early twenties." She smiled at Varia then. "I was seventy-two, and quite lovely. At least I thought so, and I'd been hearing it all my life. My first husband was a pleasant and thoughtful man, if a bit careless with the maids, but Raien— And Erig was in decline.
"Raien, it seemed, was as smitten with me as I with him. I was much older, of course, and we knew that barring violence or accident, the time would come . . ." She gestured to herself. "The time would come that has."
Varia kept aloof, as best she could. "And you've produced no heir in those thirty or so years."
"Twenty-nine years last equinox."
"You've had the man you love for twenty-nine years. I had mine for a few weeks."
The reply seemed to shrink Mariil, and for a long moment she didn't answer, then nodded. "But it wouldn't work," she said, "even if you could reach him. Your Dynast knows only that you fled. And where to? To Curtis Macurdy or your death." Again Mariil paused. "Your Dynast is ancient and unrelenting. She doesn't easily give up what she thinks of as hers. She'd send someone after you. Idri perhaps."
The thought jarred Varia. She'd recognized the possibility once, then pushed it away out of sight. Oregon. Suppose they went to Oregon. Could Idri sniff her out so far? Could a tracker?
"Your Dynast still has allies," Mariil was saying. "She'll have sent Idri to Oz, with a strong escort from some friendly king, probably Gurtho of Tekalos. With a request to hold you, if you showed up. But not to Ferny Cove; that would be too dangerous."
Mariil's expression was bleak, grim. "Then Idri would go through the Oz Gate with three or four guardsmen to hunt you, and if you'd gotten through, you'd be taken, you and your Curtis. Unless he fought. Then he'd be killed."
Unless he fought. And he would. But he wasn't trained to it; and probably they'd catch him with no weapon. Varia felt herself taut, vibrating like a fiddle string.
"The Cyncaidh could take me there," she said. The words tumbled out of her more rapidly than she'd intended. "With a company of soldiers. Let me get Curtis and bring him through. Then we could live here—you could let us have a servant's cottage—and produce sons and daughters for you. You could choose one of them to adopt. Or more than one."
Mariil shook her head slowly. The discussion and emotions had taxed her strength. "It wouldn't work," she said. "Not for the Cyncaidh, and not for you. It was possible for him to slip around in the Rude Lands with a few half-ylver who could pass as locals. But to ride in with a company—they'd hardly come back alive, certainly not from Ferny Cove. Your captured Sisters weren't the only ones savaged there. The fighting was fierce, and Quaie took no prisoners. Vertorus was quartered, and his body thrown to the dogs. His sole surviving son, Keltorus, has sworn his enmity forever, though being an ill-tongued drunkard of a short-lived family, his forever might be shorter than he thinks. He's ordered that no Sister be allowed within the borders of Kormehr, and any trespass be referred to him for punishment. I can guess what it would be—death, but not quick."
Frowning, Varia gnawed a lip. "And you want me for a brood mare, for Cyncaidh himself to sire his sons on."
"We want you to be Lady Cyncaidh."
Varia stared. "His wife?"
"His wife. I'm in the process of dying, as you see. And he needs more than heirs. To have a blood heir is desirable, but Raien wants and deserves more than that, believe me."
She paused, seeming to gather strength. "Besides, my dear, he loves you." Again she paused. "I'm an old soul, Varia, with many earlier lifetimes whispering to me. Wisps of wisdom, when I manage to hear and recognize them. And I have no doubt you were born to this. I'll be dead within months. I've been declining for more than seven years now, and am very near the end. The Cyncaidh, on the other hand, is fifty-three, and his line tends to longer lives than most."
She paused, looking piercingly at Varia. "Not that I'm useless yet; certainly not to you. I'm a healer of the spirit, and yours has cruel wounds, not healed, just scarred over." She waved a hand as if impatient with herself. "Back to the issue. Like myself, the Emperor's Chief Counselor has reached his decline, though he may continue in office for another year or three. And the Cyncaidh is likeliest to replace him, for when Paedhrig was Chief Counselor, and Raien his aide, they were haft and blade, two parts of one instrument.
"Our Emperor is eighty-four himself now, and the Diet most often elects the Chief Counselor to the throne, if he's served well. But meanwhile, as Chief Counselor, Raien would start a healing. More than a healing: the spread of trade and learning and peace in the Rude Lands—something made more difficult by that lunatic Quaie. Peace even with the Sisterhood; Sarkia can't live forever. And closer at hand, he'd promote civility within the empire."
Varia shook her head, not disagreeing but overwhelmed—this was too much too fast.
"Meanwhile he's taken no mistress during my decline, though I've suggested it to him. Until he knew you, there was none he wanted." Mariil got laboriously to her feet. "Come, Varia. I'm tired. Even talking tires me these days. And a go-between should take such matters only so far. Let him ask you himself."
As if hypnotized again, Varia stood. "There is something else I must tell you," Mariil said. "Something he cannot and would not. That he is a very good man: kind, considerate, and loving. He is still loving to me. Not in bed of course, bag of bones that I am. Let him remember what I was like in bed in decades past: smooth and supple and full of life." She put her hand on the door handle. "Hmh! I ramble."
Together they walked down the hall to the Cyncaidh's private apartment, and Mariil knocked.
"Come!"
Before she touched the handle, she turned and kissed Varia's cheek, a quick dry touch. "I hope you'll be happy, whatever you decide." Then she opened, turned away, and left Varia standing there alone. The Cyncaidh had gotten to his feet and started to the door. He too had exchanged his uniform for less formal wear.
He stopped in his tracks. "God," he breathed. "Varia, you're beautiful!"
She looked down at herself, then at him.
"Come in! Come in!" he said. She did, and he closed the door behind her. "Mariil's told you what I want?"
"Yes."
"That I want you as my wife, when she's gone? And as my mistress now?"
"The first, yes. The latter she implied."
Reaching, he touched her cheek. "I fell in love with you when I first saw you on that mountain pass, deep inside the Rude Lands."
Varia's voice was quiet, almost emotionless. "There are beautiful ylvin women who'd bring a dowry of wealth and connections."
"I know. Since Mariil's decline became known, a few have courted me, or their fathers or brothers have. But it's you I want to spend my life with. I have no doubt it's our destiny, for I wanted you before I really knew you." He chuckled. "I wanted you when your face and clothes were grimy, and your hair only this long." He indicated half an inch.
Varia failed to smile. "Before you really knew me. Do you know me yet? Really?"
He sobered. "I think I do. I've been on the trail with you. Seen you under stress, seen your aura, and read the transcript of A'duaill's interrogation. And beyond that, there's a knowing that goes deeper than seeing."
"You know I love someone else."
"I do know, and I'm content with it. He must be good, for you to love him."
Good and innocent. But I wonder how Curtis would feel to share me with you. Though I've been overshared already, if not of my own will.
The Cyncaidh put a hand on her waist then, and gently but firmly drew her close. She did not resist. "It is my wish," he said, "to love you so long as we both shall live."
So long as we both shall live. She'd heard those words before, in English. Had said them. Tears began to flow, silent as always. Cyncaidh kissed first them, then her lips, and she responded the way she'd feared she might.
She did not return to her room that night, nor on any night thereafter.