The Winter Prince (The Lion Hunters:01)(45)

“Hardly anything,” he said. But his eyes seemed depthless pools of black water, and the skin around them had a tight, bruised look to it.

“Look at me,” I said, and drew him close to one of the tall lamps. He winced at the sudden bright light in his eyes and turned his face away; I took hold of his chin and turned him back to the light. “Let me see your eyes.” I scrutinized Lleu carefully in the lamplight, and felt his hot cheeks, and counted the slow pulse in his throat.

Ai, Godmother, how?

I told him in a voice without expression, “She seems to have poisoned you again.”

After a pause, Lleu cried softly, “Oh, curse her!” in a high, sharp voice, like a bird screaming.

I said slowly, “You will be in some pain later tonight, I think.”

“Can’t you do anything ?” he asked.

“I can,” I answered, looking straight into his eyes. He could hardly stand stead





ily, and his skin was so pale it seemed faintly cast with blue. As I turned to go I deliberately stepped on his circlet: I kept my foot there for half a moment and added, without looking back, “But I am not going to.”

His voice when he spoke next was uncertain and low, but he dared to say, “Must I command you?”

I shook my head in disbelief and answered quietly, “You must never command me.” I left him so, alone with his glittering mosaic in the dying firelight.





XI


The Prince Betrayed




THE WOMAN SET TO watch you was asleep, nodding over the garment she had been hemming. “Have you—,” I began to ask, but you shook your head and put a discreet finger to your lips. “Speak low. I’ve done nothing to her.”

“You have to another!”

“That was for you.”

“For me!” I laughed. “Well, thank you. But no more of it, Godmother.”

“No.” You sliced back and forth across the floor, exactly like one of your caged wildcats, I the hare or moorhen that ought to be cowering in a corner and hoping you would not notice that I was there. But I was there of my own will. I waited, waited, wondering how you would strike.

You were winking hard, fitting what you had to say to words that only I could understand should someone else happen to hear you. “I want you to hunt for me,” you said at last.

“What quarry?” I asked cauti v toously.

“I want the sun.” Then you fell silent for a time, and ceased pacing as you cloaked your treachery in words mysterious as mummers’ costumes. “If you were a prisoner in blackness, in the cold, if you were an exile in a place of chill and darkness, you would wish that the sun were yours to command: then you could have light and warmth to your whim and pleasure. The sun in your hand, the sun for a ransom—then see the oppressive shadows bend to your will!”

You stopped, facing me, your hands in fists. “The sun,” I repeated, my voice flat. “How am I to get you the sun?”

You hissed in disgust, “You stupid boy!” and turned away, to strip leaves from the little lemon tree Ginevra had set in the window, and then to tear them to shreds between fierce fingers.

I hissed in answer, “Godmother, I do know what you mean.” You stood silent, so still that I could hear the slight patter on the tiles as the torn leaves fell from your fingers. I said, “I am pledged to serve the light.”

“You are pledged to me first.”

“As I am pledged to both, I may decide not to fail either trust.” But I waited to hear what else you might say. “Why should I hunt for you more than another?”

You did not speak aloud. For answer your lips formed one single silent word, which I heard as clearly as if you had shouted it: “Kingship.”

“Temptress,” I taunted, tempted.

You whispered, “The boy outshines you as surely as the noon sun outshines the moon in eclipse. You know it; you hate him for it. When I tested your loyalty last summer your defense of him was wretched.”

“I had not known it was a test.”

“You were so protective of me, or so reluctant to lose me, that it took you a week to tell his father,” you said dryly. “If I had meant to kill him—”

“Be still!” I lashed out. “Your door is open wide. If anyone should come—”

“What would happen? How would I be made more of a prisoner than I already am?” You spoke quickly and quietly in desperate anger, heedless of who might hear. “What a fruitless journey I made when I came here—my brother will not speak to me, and I am not even allowed to join the household for their Midwinter’s feast. As soon as the weather breaks Gwalchmei is to take me back to Ratae Coritanorum for the rest of the winter, and in the spring Artos will see that I go back to the Orcades. Out of sight, out of mind. Gods, I am tired of the endless winter nights, the dark and the cold and the boredom! This exile will drive me mad, Medraut. If Artos will not return to me the old freedom, the old power, I will fight him for it. I want to hold and hurt his beautiful young favorite, his darling; I want to see that proud, bright child trapped as one would cage a little bird, helpless as a wren or robin beating vain and desperate wings against bars of my making. I mean to rape and ruin what Artos loves best until he too bends broken to my will.”