Darkborn Part 14

Lightborn messages traveled through the day, and Floria knew, she knew knew he would be half out of his mind with worry and would want to know even if nothing had happened. "Why haven't the Lightborn found her?" Bal fretted. "With their mages . . . I have to get a message to Floria, find out what's happening. I can't ask anyone to take it to the house; it's too dangerous. I can't trust Casamir Blondell-he'd sooner have Strumh.e.l.ler burn for sorcery than risk interracial strife." He stopped, remembering their loyalties. "I'm sorry-I'm speaking out of turn. The Intercalatory Council," he said, more quietly. "I will send the letter to Mistress Tempe of the Intercalatory Council; as a member of the Prince's Vigilance, she will ensure Floria gets it. Except I need he would be half out of his mind with worry and would want to know even if nothing had happened. "Why haven't the Lightborn found her?" Bal fretted. "With their mages . . . I have to get a message to Floria, find out what's happening. I can't ask anyone to take it to the house; it's too dangerous. I can't trust Casamir Blondell-he'd sooner have Strumh.e.l.ler burn for sorcery than risk interracial strife." He stopped, remembering their loyalties. "I'm sorry-I'm speaking out of turn. The Intercalatory Council," he said, more quietly. "I will send the letter to Mistress Tempe of the Intercalatory Council; as a member of the Prince's Vigilance, she will ensure Floria gets it. Except I need ink ink, ink and a guide frame." Which he had not thought to bring. He was ready to weep, overwrought by that petty obstacle.

Lorcas left the room on silent feet, returning with a small case containing the very materials he sought. Bal said, "The baron . . . ?"

Answer to that seemed unnecessary. Lorcas occupied himself with propping Balthasar up and organizing him with ink, pen, and guide frame, which would let him trace, by feel, the Lightborn script neither he nor any other Darkborn could visualize. But he'd doubly secure the message by ciphering it in a code only he and Floria knew. It had been a game between them in childhood, and the language of his romance in youth.

Floria, Baron Strumh.e.l.ler has been arrested for Tercelle Amberley's murder and for sorcerous harm to Lord Vladimer, who has fallen mysteriously ill. Casamir Blondell is prepared to have Strumh.e.l.ler executed rather than have suspicion fall on the Lightborn, for reasons of public order. If sorcery is behind Lord Vladimer's illness, then I would urge you to urge the Temple to consider intervention-for the peace of all and the life of a decent man. I have sent Telmaine and Amerdale to Merivan's house, where I hope they will be safe, but I am desperate-we are all desperate-for any news of Florilinde. Please send me something, anything. Always yours, Balthasar.

He felt his way to the top of the sheet and wrote a note to Mistress Tempe in plain script, asking her to ensure that the letter reached Floria, urgently. Lorcas relieved him of the ink before he sluiced it over the bedclothes. "Wait," said Bal, as he felt the manservant lift the frame, paper and all. "Now I need a stylus and punch frame. I have to write a cover letter."

Stylus in hand, Bal let his mind empty. What could he possibly write that would convince any Darkborn who laid hands on the letter that they had the true message? He'd been so good good at this, once, when all his concerns were the world-shaking ones of a sixteen-year-old boy in the flush of a hopeless crush. at this, once, when all his concerns were the world-shaking ones of a sixteen-year-old boy in the flush of a hopeless crush.

Lord Aversham, he decided at last. Haven Aversham currently chaired the Darkborn membership of the mediating council. Dear Haven Dear Haven, he began, I am writing to express my concern about the recent tragic events, and to reiterate my willingness to serve I am writing to express my concern about the recent tragic events, and to reiterate my willingness to serve . . . Aversham had an aversion to brevity that made the council minutes tedious reading and the meetings themselves tedious listening, but which Bal knew to be tactical. Bored, impatient people grew careless in their words and listening. It meant, though, that Bal could readily cover a page with elaborations of his opening sentiment. He punched his signature-he had left his personal seal behind-and turned to the envelope. He addressed the ink to Mistress Tempe, the punch to Lord Aversham. Even if the letter did wind up in Aversham's hands, it would do no harm; the desire to help was honest enough. . . . Aversham had an aversion to brevity that made the council minutes tedious reading and the meetings themselves tedious listening, but which Bal knew to be tactical. Bored, impatient people grew careless in their words and listening. It meant, though, that Bal could readily cover a page with elaborations of his opening sentiment. He punched his signature-he had left his personal seal behind-and turned to the envelope. He addressed the ink to Mistress Tempe, the punch to Lord Aversham. Even if the letter did wind up in Aversham's hands, it would do no harm; the desire to help was honest enough.

"This has to go to the chambers of the Intercalatory Council, over by the prince's residence. There are two slots side by side for communications, and it must go into the left-hand slot-that directs it to Mistress Tempe's secretary and thence to Mistress White Hand. Tell the messenger that, if possible, no one should observe it going into left as opposed to right. It should be in Floria's hands before sunrise."

"I will ensure it is done," Lorcas said, and pa.s.sed it off to his son. "Forgive me for saying this, sir, but you seem to have a certain facility for this."

Bal laughed. "The influence of Mistress Floria White Hand. She taught me a little of her tradecraft. We used to correspond in this way, and still do, from time to time."

"Very good, sir. Now Now, may I get you something for breakfast?"

"Yes, and the morning papers, please."

He was just finishing off a plate of soup, this one with egg vermicelli, and trying to read the headlines without smearing grease across the front page, when Lorcas reappeared in the doorway. "Sir," he said. "A gentleman is asking to speak to you. Would you prefer to receive him here or-" But the newcomer had already pushed past him.

"I'll announce myself," he said, his sonn rippling over Bal. "h.e.l.lo, little brother. It's been a long time, hasn't it?"

He did not move, could not speak as, unbidden, Lysander Hearne drew a chair to Balthasar's bedside and sat down. "You can go," he said, dismissing Lorcas. His sonn washed over Balthasar, raising blurred echoes from bedclothes and draperies.

Lorcas leaned over him to clear away tray, plates, and papers, setting his body between Bal's face and his brother's sonn. In doing so, Bal vaguely realized, Lorcas was offering him a chance to gesture, or signal, or otherwise communicate. But what? Help Help? Call the guard Call the guard ? ? Throw him out Throw him out? "Yes," Bal managed. "Thank you, Lorcas. Thank you."

"Will that be all for the moment, sir?"

"Yes," he heard himself say again. "Thank you."

He heard, rather than sonned, the manservant leave.

"Have you no greeting for me?" Lysander said from closer, startling a burst of sonn out of Bal. The sonn outlined the fine-boned face that so distinctly resembled his own. Bal said, with a steadiness that surprised him, "I'll thank you to come no nearer, sir."

"Come no nearer?" Lysander said. "What am I, suddenly turned mage?"

It was not that; he simply did not want Lysander near him. He still feared him, feared his repertoire of petty physical torments and larger mental ones. And there was the way they had parted, over the ashes of the girl Lysander had murdered. His skin recoiled from the man as it had from the corpse. He managed to resist the urge to wipe his hands to clean from them the touch-memory of dead, chilling skin, coa.r.s.e canvas of stretcher and shroud, and the damp predawn earth he and Lysander had laid her on.

"Balthasar," Lysander said, sounding weary and a little wistful, "I've wanted all these years to tell you how sorry I was that I involved you that night. I panicked, you understand; I was afraid for Father and Mother. I thought it would kill them. Ruin our family name. Ruin your prospects."

Such a glib and ready apology, and at the same time a subtle threat of implication. And no acknowledgment of the girl. No, he would not give this man any hold on him. There had been no witnesses and, beyond that sunrise, no body; there would only be, as there had always been, brother's word against brother. That was his protection as much as it was Lysander's. "I do not believe," he said steadily, "that I know what you are talking about."

He heard Lysander draw breath, hesitate, and then say, "It does not matter. It was all so very long ago. And I have . . . I have more recent wrongs to exculpate."

Balthasar tensed; he could not help it. "Then might I suggest you take your confessions to the rightful authorities."

"Bal, this concerns your daughter."

Bal caught his breath, painfully, and then pushed himself up and reached for the chain, jerking it violently once before Lysander could catch him, and it. "I want a witness."

"You do not not," Lysander said, a hiss, and as Lorcas opened the door he spoke in a very low voice: "Send him away, brother, as you value your daughter's safety."

Bal struggled with himself a moment, frightened, furious, and in pain. His instinct to bring in a witness was the correct one, he knew. But his instinct to protect his daughter was stronger. "Lorcas," he said. "I am sorry. My mistake. My . . . my visitor has offered to attend to my needs. Thank you."

"That was clumsy," Lysander noted, once the door had closed.

"It was the best I could do," Bal said. He wondered if Ishmael's servants were in the habit of listening through walls. They seemed to have lat.i.tude enough, and he hoped, even on such little acquaintance, that they would sense his duress.

"What do you know about my daughter?" he said.

"That she is the elder of two, and six years old, by your wife, the former Lady Telmaine Stott," Lysander said. "Whom I do not recall having had the pleasure of meeting, since she moved in much more elevated circles than ours. Rich blood to mingle with ours, brother mine. Your daughter has been missing since the night before yesterday. I do understand how you must be feeling. My children are missing too. My twin sons, by Tercelle Amberley."

His sonn washed across Balthasar, probing every nuance of Bal's expression. Bal kept his face utterly still.

"The sons she delivered in our family home," Lysander said. "The sons our sorceress sister took away. Where are my sons, Balthasar?"

And I should say what? Balthasar thought desperately. Whatever stories Tercelle elaborated, her sons' sightedness testified to something other than an origin in common infidelity. Who was the most deceived here? Ferdenzil Mycene? Tercelle? Lysander? . . . Himself? Balthasar thought desperately. Whatever stories Tercelle elaborated, her sons' sightedness testified to something other than an origin in common infidelity. Who was the most deceived here? Ferdenzil Mycene? Tercelle? Lysander? . . . Himself?

If he said he did not know, he risked Olivede. Though he recalled that, from the moment she demonstrated her magic, Lysander had never again laid his cruel hand on her, and even his mockery and harrying had been wary. He had feared her-it had, Bal realized, forced him to gratify his cruelties outside the family, led him to discover new license, and led, in the end, to that murder. Lysander still must fear Olivede, if he knew she had taken the children but still sought out Bal by preference.

If only Olivede or Baron Strumh.e.l.ler were here now. He was fiercely glad that Telmaine was not. "Tercelle did not tell me who had fathered her children," he said steadily.

Lysander confessed uneasily, "Tercelle became rather . . . strange as she neared her time, Balthasar. I was not as . . . patient with her as I should have been. Which is why, rather than be confined as we had planned, she ran away. To you."

I remember your impatience, Bal thought, and noted that Lysander had shown no grief for the woman whom he claimed as the mother of his children. "How did she become strange?"

His sonn caught a restless motion, as though of unease. "She was convinced that the child-our sons-were in some way unnatural."

Sonn came so swift after that that Bal knew his brother was probing for some revelation about his sons' nature. He did not know whether to lie then or not, whether Lysander knew, or merely suspected, that the infants he claimed as his sons were not pure Darkborn. And on what grounds he might know or suspect. Balthasar might dare to test his lie against Lysander's suspicion, but not against his certainty.

It occurred to him, though, that Lysander might be similarly uncertain as to what Balthasar knew, and similarly cautious of arousing suspicion.

"A woman can have such strange thoughts at such a time, yes," Bal said.

"Would that I had been more patient with her," Lysander said. "What do you know about my sons? How did she come to leave them with you?"

"I believe she planned it that way from the first," he said. "She brought with her a quant.i.ty of hypnotic, which she used on me and on the children." He had decided not to tell Lysander that Tercelle had tried to expose the children, though whether his impulse was to protect himself from further questions, or not further damage the dead woman's reputation, he did not know. "She crept away while we were sleeping. I knew I could not keep the children-she had not, remember, told me there was any connection between myself and them-so I took the first steps in arranging for them to be fostered."

"But you do not know where?"

"No."

"But you can find out, can't you? You would wish to ensure they were well treated." That with only a trace of his former sneer at Bal's mush-heartedness.

But the sneer was there, and suddenly Balthasar remembered lying against the paper wall, voiceless, in agony, in shock from his internal bleeding, while the man with the aristocratic accent, who had directed the a.s.sault, stooped to pull his hood from his head.

He remembered: He said this one was weak. He said this one was weak.

Weak was the epithet Lysander had hurled at both his siblings, and their parents, whether they tried to placate or resist his will. was the epithet Lysander had hurled at both his siblings, and their parents, whether they tried to placate or resist his will.

"Lysander," Bal said, "you have not asked how I came to be in this bed. Two men invaded my home and tried to beat out of me the whereabouts of the infants. When I was lying on the floor, nearly unconscious, I remember that one of them said: 'He said this one was weak.' Those were your your words, weren't they?" words, weren't they?"

This time his sonn aggressed, capturing the betraying twist of Lysander's expression: anger, not remorse, at being balked. For a moment, Lysander hesitated, as though toying with the lie, and then he said carelessly, "Right up until I left, you were a whining, belly-aching brat."

"That was seventeen years ago."

"Very well, Balthasar," Lysander said. "I'll grant you've grown a spine. So I'll put it to you man-to-man. Give me back my sons, and I'll give you back your daughter."

"Why should I trust you?" Bal cried, in a sudden outburst of anguish that was less than half calculated. "You have never spoken a single word that did not advance your own interests. Tercelle Amberley is dead, and you've barely acknowledged that, or acknowledged her her except as someone who inconvenienced your plans. She was to be married, Lysander. How dare you compromise her?" except as someone who inconvenienced your plans. She was to be married, Lysander. How dare you compromise her?"

"She loved me! I would have married her but that you drove me out of the city," Lysander said. "She was the only person who ever loved me, and her sons are mine, and the only thing I shall ever have of her. But why should I bleed bleed before you, who love your daughter so little that you sit here-" before you, who love your daughter so little that you sit here-"

"Lie here," Balthasar corrected sharply.

"-bandying words with me, while your child suffers."

How very Lysander, Balthasar thought, Balthasar thought, that even as he blackmails me, he seeks to persuade me that I am in the wrong. that even as he blackmails me, he seeks to persuade me that I am in the wrong. It was potent still; he was fighting for composure. It was potent still; he was fighting for composure.

Sensing his vulnerability, Lysander leaned closer. "Balthasar, we are both fathers concerned for our children. I know I won't persuade you that I love mine-I'd never even held or sonned them. But they are my my children, Balthasar." children, Balthasar."

"I did not drive you out of the city," Bal said harshly. "You fled in fear of justice. But you are right." He forced the words through a tightening throat. "You seem to know . . . rather a lot. I have to believe it is real and you are not just using it to your advantage. Please . . . bring me back my daughter, or tell me who has her. I will do whatever is within my ability to find your sons for you."

Lysander leaned back, smiling slightly now. "I want mine first. Then you can have yours."

"I don't know where they are," Balthasar said.

"You are in no position to bargain, Balthasar. But I will take evidence of your goodwill."

"I will find out out," Bal said, his voice shaking. "I need time."

"Balthasar. Ishmael di Studier murdered the woman I loved. I was there, in that house, when he tried to bully from her the knowledge of your daughter's whereabouts; I was there, listening-to my eternal regret too late in my intervention-when he murdered her. I know you and our beloved sister have helped arrange bribes within the jail. I know you are planning to use your wife's money in his defense. All that has to stop. If it does, I will give you time." He rose. "And if it doesn't, be a.s.sured I will know. And if my sons have come to harm, harm you you sent them into, you will never know what happened to your daughter, except that, believe me, it will be worse than anything you can imagine." He waited a moment longer, and then, satisfied that he had rendered Balthasar speechless, he said, "I don't suppose that I need to tell you to discuss this with no one." sent them into, you will never know what happened to your daughter, except that, believe me, it will be worse than anything you can imagine." He waited a moment longer, and then, satisfied that he had rendered Balthasar speechless, he said, "I don't suppose that I need to tell you to discuss this with no one."

The door closed behind him.

Balthasar rolled onto his side, curling up, as he had lain against the paper wall, as he had lain in his bed for days after he and his brother laid out the murdered girl. He knew now why Lysander's grief had seemed as shallow and false as a gla.s.s lake in a model garden, his declaration of other wrongs to exculpate merely mockery. He had not changed.

Lorcas announced himself by a light brush of sonn and a c.h.i.n.king of bottles on the bedside table behind him. "Here, sir," he said, arriving on the near bedside with a gla.s.s. "Get this down you." He steadied Bal with a wiry arm and forced the draft down him, with the indifference to protest of the experienced nurse.

"It's mostly not . . . physical," Bal whispered through sticky lips.

"I know, sir. It was plain that you feared that your visitor did not mean well, so I presumed to listen at the door. I apologize if I have given offense."

No offense, just a desperate sense of relief that he did not have to choose to tell or not to tell. "That . . . was my brother. Seventeen years gone and still a monster. And he has my daughter, or knows who does. Lorcas, you know what he asked of me; you know I have no choice but to comply, though if anyone should burn for the murder of Tercelle Amberley, it should be Lysander!" He shuddered. "But I suppose it would be brother's word against brother again; there's no ash, even." Bal whispered, an abject confession, "I cannot continue to help Baron Strumh.e.l.ler. He insists I . . . not."

"I fully understand, sir, and so would the master," said the manservant quietly. "I think we should ask the ducal staff to attend you now. It could endanger your daughter if he learns of the connection between us and the master. My son and I will return to the city residence. There will be correspondence to manage and transfers of funds to arrange; if we are not to have the support of Lord Vladimer's local network, then we must use paid agents in our inquiries. If I may be so bold, though, I think my master would recommend that you go to your wife's sister's as well."

"I . . . can't," Bal said. "Lysander will be back." Which was the least of it, he knew, sick with shame. He did not want to expose Telmaine to Lysander, did not want to witness Lysander's manipulations bent on her. He did not want to have to tell her why why he was withdrawing their support from Baron Strumh.e.l.ler, though he knew she would understand and forgive it as being for their family. She had already opposed his becoming involved, and he had argued oh, so eloquently in favor and sent her away. he was withdrawing their support from Baron Strumh.e.l.ler, though he knew she would understand and forgive it as being for their family. She had already opposed his becoming involved, and he had argued oh, so eloquently in favor and sent her away.

Sweet, cursed Imogene. He thought-he'd sworn-he'd never again be bent to Lysander's will, made accomplice to his appet.i.tes and his corruption. He had never imagined that he'd be party to the suffering of innocents at Lysander's hands. What he would do to Strumh.e.l.ler was betrayal enough, given Blondell's willingness to have him made scapegoat, but Strumh.e.l.ler still had loyalists and resources; he was not helpless. But Tercelle Amberley's infant sons were helpless, if they were even still alive. Whatever Lysander's true relationship to them, he could only do them harm. It was not in his nature to do otherwise. He thought-he'd sworn-he'd never again be bent to Lysander's will, made accomplice to his appet.i.tes and his corruption. He had never imagined that he'd be party to the suffering of innocents at Lysander's hands. What he would do to Strumh.e.l.ler was betrayal enough, given Blondell's willingness to have him made scapegoat, but Strumh.e.l.ler still had loyalists and resources; he was not helpless. But Tercelle Amberley's infant sons were helpless, if they were even still alive. Whatever Lysander's true relationship to them, he could only do them harm. It was not in his nature to do otherwise.

Perhaps Lysander already knew about them; perhaps Tercelle had told him . . . what? Of that Lightborn lover . . . but why should Lysander believe it, much less be incited to murderous rage? Or perhaps the conviction that the children were other other was his, not hers, and she had fled him in terror-but why then not confide in Bal? Except she had known him when he was in thrall to Lysander-but why then would she flee Lysander and come to Bal? It was all contradictions, and his agitated mind could find no purchase. was his, not hers, and she had fled him in terror-but why then not confide in Bal? Except she had known him when he was in thrall to Lysander-but why then would she flee Lysander and come to Bal? It was all contradictions, and his agitated mind could find no purchase.

Telmaine Several times in the night Telmaine woke to the sound of a child crying. Twice it had been Amerdale; the other times she had been certain it was Florilinde, until that leaden instant of realization that it could not be. Betweentimes she'd been tormented by bizarre dreams: dreams of streets she'd never walked and people she'd never known; of a strange old man in an ornament-filled home; of laying hands on a man's swollen leg, feeling and easing its pain; of crouching in stony rubble amongst gnarled trees, with open s.p.a.ce beyond the reach of sonn all around; of running for her life, pursued so close she dared not turn. This last time she woke, trembling, to the tolling of the sunset bell.

Amerdale was asleep in the cot beside her. Florilinde . . . Florilinde was somewhere out there in the city, alone, and crying in Telmaine's dreams. She muted her sonn and lay in stillness, remembering her firstborn as the midwife lifted her, squalling, from between Telmaine's thighs. Even as Florilinde declared herself in the world, she was still bound to Telmaine by the fat umbilical cord. If only there were still such a cord binding heart to heart, mouth to ear, eye to eye.

Who was to say there was not, for a mage mother and her child? She might have asked Ishmael di Studier that-she might have asked Ishmael di Studier many things, but for her aversion and his importunity. Her vagrant thoughts lingered on that kiss, and the emotions it had aroused in her, and in him, and in her again. How could could she, said the inner voice of censure, how could she think of such a thing at such a time? But she was, she was, and she was also thinking, if she were more powerful than he, she, said the inner voice of censure, how could she think of such a thing at such a time? But she was, she was, and she was also thinking, if she were more powerful than he, was was her magic truly contained within her skin, when his, it seemed, was not? her magic truly contained within her skin, when his, it seemed, was not?

She breathed slowly, extending her awareness, slowly pushing outward the skin that was so exquisitely sensitive, seeking the distinctive essence of her elder daughter's consciousness, seeking the child's voice that wept in her dreams. Silent as mist, her awareness pervaded the room; as though her fingers had brushed her daughter's skin, she sensed Amerdale's dreaming presence, had a sense of a soft dog's muzzle nuzzling her face, of kitten fur fluffing under her fingers. She let herself diffuse farther, beyond the walls of the room. Here was Merivan, lying wakeful, seething with frustrated energies, and here her husband, his half-awake thoughts an erudite babble, and there each of their children. And there the servants-a fierce burst of furtive s.e.xual pa.s.sion that reminded her of Tercelle Amberley's impressions. And elsewhere a drearier coupling, the man's imposition as resigned as the woman's submission, the affection between them gone as barren as the Shadowlands. Here were the nearest Lightborn, outside under the sun. She lingered a moment, fascinated. It was not simply that they were awake, but that they were different different, like hard crystal to her mental touch. A voice whispered, She shied away, mindful of Ishmael's warning. Beyond were more Lightborn, some watery, some fiery, some crystal, some stone, and some that felt as though her drifting consciousness had brushed leaves or gra.s.s. Other voices whispered, , and went unanswered. She spread her awareness farther, drifting through isolated points of water, fire, stone, leaf. Lightborn and Darkborn, she knew the difference, though her sense of individual essences was growing less distinct the more she gathered within the radius of her awareness, and she worried that she would find Flori and not know it.

The fringe of her consciousness brushed something, like a great smoldering ulcer in the tissue of the city. Grief, pain, fear, misery. It was the burned quarter, and the houses and hospitals around it in which the grieving and suffering lay. Her spirit shuddered back from it, and for a moment she lost herself, lost direction.

And then she felt a banked-ember heat she recognized. How else could she call him, here? But he was dreaming, a familiar dream of running and being pursued.

"Telmaine! Telmaine!" Far, far in the distance, a body was being shaken, a face slapped over and over again, ice water splattered on a head and chest. Far, far in the distance, a desperately attenuated tether was tightening. She clung for one more terrifying, uncomprehending moment to her sense of Ishmael's presence, and then was back, furious and unwilling, in the bedroom.

The voice, the shaking hands, the slaps and pinches, were Merivan's, Merivan barefoot, bareheaded, with a rumpled nightdress. Amerdale was howling. Telmaine sat up, reeling, her bones bobbing like bubbles, her head floating on her shoulders. She realized her nightgown and bedclothes were soaked. "What'sha doing doing?" she demanded in groggy outrage. Merivan had never been given to this kind of nonsensical prank, unlike her brothers, who had tormented Telmaine to the screaming point.

"You wouldn't wake up!" Merivan accused. "The maid"-she was a quivering girl clutching a bowl-"came in to conduct your morning toilette and you wouldn't wake up."

"Oh, for pity's sake!" Telmaine said, toppling over on one elbow. "I was asleep."

"You were unconscious. What did you dose yourself with?"

"Nothing! My husband works with addicts. Sweet Imogene, Meri, I have had three indescribable days. I was utterly exhausted." She threw back the wet sheet and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, leaning forward, tugging the soaked nightgown away from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "There was absolutely no need for all this My husband works with addicts. Sweet Imogene, Meri, I have had three indescribable days. I was utterly exhausted." She threw back the wet sheet and swung her legs over the edge of the bed, leaning forward, tugging the soaked nightgown away from her b.r.e.a.s.t.s. "There was absolutely no need for all this hysteria hysteria."

The particular accusation made Merivan draw herself up. "I do apologize," she said icily. "And I will leave you to dress. Breakfast will be in an hour." She turned and, straight-backed, left the room.

"And you, too, you blithering ninny," Telmaine snapped at the hand-wringing maid. "Don't you dare come into this room again unless you're called!"

Amerdale scrambled into Telmaine's arms, sparing the maid her further wrath and Telmaine later repentance. Telmaine gathered her sobbing daughter to her, feeling the child's fright and disorientation at wakening in yet another strange place, to yet another rumpus. "Shh, shh," she murmured, while she struggled to comprehend with her rational mind what had seemed so plausible in that dream-walking state. Had that truly been Ishmael di Studier she had touched? What did it mean that they had nightmares in common? Had he fashioned some kind of connection between them yesterday? How dared dared he! Or had she simply been overwrought, as Merivan a.s.serted she was, overwrought in her imagination and troubled in her conscience? She wavered, divided as to what she wished were so. If she truly had power, if she truly had extended her senses over the city, then he! Or had she simply been overwrought, as Merivan a.s.serted she was, overwrought in her imagination and troubled in her conscience? She wavered, divided as to what she wished were so. If she truly had power, if she truly had extended her senses over the city, then she she could find Florilinde. But in doing so . . . in doing so she would violate her compact with the natural order, and would become . . . She did not know what she would become. could find Florilinde. But in doing so . . . in doing so she would violate her compact with the natural order, and would become . . . She did not know what she would become.

Curse them for interrupting her! Curse them, too, for giving her a chance to think. them for interrupting her! Curse them, too, for giving her a chance to think.

"You're wet, Mama," Amerdale complained, cheek against her wet nightgown.

"I know. Those silly women half drowned me."

"I want to go home. I want Papa."

Telmaine gently drew her fist away from her mouth. "Don't do that, Amy. It's babyish. We'll go and visit Papa after breakfast." Surely Bal would have heard from somebody by then, even if that somebody were Mistress Floria White Hand. Give me her back Give me her back, she whispered to the Sole G.o.d, give me her back and my world, your world, will be back in order. My magic will lie still within my skin, and I'll think no more of the feeling-all the feelings-of Ishmael's lips on mine. give me her back and my world, your world, will be back in order. My magic will lie still within my skin, and I'll think no more of the feeling-all the feelings-of Ishmael's lips on mine.