So he'd had nothing and no one to guide him when it first began. He'd been just a boy, no more than eleven, and it was even thought for a time that he'd required spectacles to help him see.
They hadn't helped.
As the years passed, Sandu had come to realize that his vision blurred only when he was looking at words. Language didn't matter; ink didn't matter; paper or vellum or tapestrynone of that mattered. If he stared hard enough, if he concentrated, the blurring cleared and he could see the new words squeezed through the old ones. Indeed, if he studied it long enough, the old message disappeared entirely, leaving only the true one. The one perhaps the author had never meant to be read.
Oh, he'd learned reams about his people through their hidden words.
Most of it was fine. Most of it was exactly what he would expect of a tribe of bare-handed farmers and shepherds: minor disputes and jealousies, love affairs, petty thefts. They were more human than not, these scattered drakon of the mountains. He wondered if that was why their squabbles seemed so slight.
The royals surrounding him, however ... they were more worrisome.
By the right of their blood, they dwelled in the Tears of Ice with their prince. They were counts and sons of counts, lords and ladies, and nearly all the males could Turn. It was through the luck of his sister, the former princess, that Sandu now ruled.
Since his maturity he'd made certain that he remained ruler by anything but luck.
He'd been graced with exceptional Gifts. Only a fool would have failed to use them.
He required his nobles to submit any request to him, no matter how inconsequential, in writing. It was how he knew Lord Oreste despised him; that Lady Lucia's beloved son was not of her husband; that the brothers Bazna were dense but trustworthy and their cousin Count Radu of Sinaia anything but. So many secrets, just waiting to be spilled with a stroke of ink.
Until he'd been brought up to the castle at the age of seven, Alexandru knew nothing about any of these particular kin except that they were the white-wigged, glistening aristocracy of his tribe, those who neither sweated nor toiled, yet lived off the fat of the land.
Now he rather imagined he knew them better than they did themselves. He knew their hearts, at least. What they desired. What they most feared.
That was the key to power. Understanding another's true heart.
He leaned forward in his chair, pushed the two foreign-stamped letters side by side until their edges touched, until the very different words shone in their very different colors, spoke to him again in their genuine words: I love you. Beware .
His fingers drummed atop the pages. True hearts never lied.
He'd remained in the library. He'd taken his evening meal there because it had seemed the most expedient thing to do, and because he knew it would set his supper guest more at ease. Count Radu would be smugly pleased to see Alexandru eating goulash from a tray like a common servant.
He kept most of the chamber sparsely lit, the corners all in shadow, the ceiling high above them a mask of dusk. As the twilight descended he allowed the fire in the hearth a sullen smoldering, but the thirteen beeswax candles of the candelabra just behind him burned much brighter than those last few flames. He knew the candles cast a halo about his unpowdered hairworn long and loose, just as the old princes of the realm used to doand effectively shaded his face and hands. His gaze. The single most telling aspect about him, in fact, would be the silver spoon in his grip.
The former Alphas stared down from their portraits on the walls, severe in their silence. Sandu kept them clustered in here, in this private domain, where he could stare back at them openly whenever he wished.
He'd never had his own painted. Probably because he never thought he'd last here as long as he had.
Radu's chair had been placed to face his prince, and so Alexandru had a very good view of him: the aquiline nose, the opaque black eyes, the deep, permanent line engraved between his eyebrows. His wig was iron gray, a plain queue, no curls. The ruffled lace along his bib glowed with the candlelight, distinct down to the last intricate knot. The count's lips kept a constant, derisive smile. Sandu sometimes wondered if it was still a willful effort for him, or if his mouth had finally frozen into its sneer.
"More wine?" he inquired, leaning forward to offer the carafe.
"No, my lord."
They were a dozen years and a universe apart. Radu was older, an animal nearly beyond his prime, and beneath his poise and his half-lidded gaze, he remained utterly hostile. Unlike Alexandru, he'd been born a courtier, and was in fact a cousin by marriage to the former prince. Had he a fraction more of the Gifts, there was no doubt he would be sitting with the light behind him in this library right now.
Praise the stars he could not Turn.
Alexandru knew the count hated him with a passion that even his letters could scarcely contain.
"A calm night," Sandu said, resting the rim of his spoon on the ceramic bowl before him. "No winds, good moonlight. I thought perhaps I'd visit your holding."
"I'd be honored, of course."
"Your sheep are well?"
The smile grew more acerbic. "So I've heard." "Excellent."
Sandu lifted another bite of goulash, savoring the fragrance of seared beef and onions, sharp paprika. The silver spoon moaned an eldritch song against his lips.
"Are you certain you wouldn't like a bowl?" He returned the count's smile from over the spoon. "It's an old family recipe."
And it was . somewhat. When he'd helped his mother make it as a boyback when his mother was still alive, on those cold, cold winter nights there'd been onions and potatoes for the pot but no beef. Beef was an extravagance young Sandu had only ever heard about.
For an instant emotion flared behind the other man's eyes, something a step beyond smugness; beef or no,gulyds was the fodder of peasants. "I fear I've already supped." He gave a small nod of his head.
"Noble One."
"Very well."
Sandu kept him there in the growing hush, the night beyond the windows thickening to sapphire. He allowed his gaze to rest upon the embers of the fire and devoured every bite of his meal. Radu didn't stir.
"I'd like you to draw me a map," Sandu said at last. He leaned back, touched his napkin to the corners of his mouth. "It's been so long since I've flown as far as Sinaia. I've no desire to lose my way."
"Of course," said Radu again. He rose without bowing, approached the desk and began a swift sketch with the quill and ink Sandu had already set out.
"My friend," Alexandru said, watching him, "you have your ear to the ground, so to speak. Have you heard anything new about the sanf inimicus? Gossip? Whispers?"
The other drakon 's hand never faltered. "No, my lord."
"Or of the English?"
"Nothing." Radu tossed down the quill, straightening from the map with a quick, jerky movement.
"Ohpray don't forget to write in the names of the lakes," Sandu said mildly. "I find them immensely helpful."
The map was simple but surprisingly well done. It was clear Radu had some skills, at least, beyond subterfuge; every line was certain, every image perfectly identifiable. He'd even drawn in his flocks, clusters of sheep and goats and cows scattered amid the forest meadows.
The lakes' names were scribbled in black. Lacul Rosu, Bicaz, Spatar Cantacuzino. Between each one oozed fresh red letters, bleeding through as strong and thick as all the other marks.
The red lettering said,Serf. Usurper. I hope they eat your heart.
He was still looking at those letters when he spoke once more. Radu was gone, taking with him the odor of his stifled hate. The hallway beyond the double doors held no whiff of human or drakon; the maids and footmen would be below stairs still, cleaning and chattering, preparing the castle for another day. Someone would be up for the dinner tray, but they would give him time yet. They knew not to interrupt.
There really seemed to be no reason not to acknowledge her.
"I know you're there, child." Alexandru didn't glance up from the map. "You needn't hide."
He was staring at the word Serf, letting it burn like fire into his vision, when he heard her exhale. He closed his eyes briefly, erasing the word, and when they opened again, she was edging forward from the shelter of the far bookcase, easing into his deliberate puddle of light.
Chapter Six
I was quiet. I had been so quiet, I was a mouse, I was a mote of dust. But he'd heard me anyway. Or smelled me. Or sensed me.
I certainly sensed him . I sensed him across my skin, the delicious little goose-prickles he roused with the timbre of his voice. The scent of him, dark night and spice and unpolished diamonds. The way the colors of him seemed to lap up the light, deep blue soaking into his hair, gold into his skin. And those eyes, flat-clear mirror eyes, pale and empty as they captured mine from across the chamber.
I left the shadows that had shielded me. He'd addressed me directly; he was looking straight at me, it was stupid to cower, and anyway there was a part of me that no longer wanted to cower. I wanted his attention. I knew that. I was sure it was why I had come.
I can Weave away, I told myself, as my bare feet found the edge of his rug. I hugged my arms across my chest if I have to, I can Weave.
I wasn't certain if it was actually true. I knew I would Weave back sooner or later, but my control was still dubious at best.
Prince Alexandru hadn't moved from his chair, his body long and lean, his legs outstretched and his feet crossed at the ankles. He wore boots, even indoors. He wore a silk shirt with pearled buttons and a waistcoat of charcoal brocade, breeches of supple soft leather. Everything about him breathed power, pleasure, luxury. Control.
I envied him that. The control. There wasn't any hint of emotion on his face; I knew my own would reveal every little fear that bit at me. It always had.
One hand lifted, bringing a finger to rub lazily against his lips. I halted, abruptly both uncomfortable and excited by that simple, sensual motion.
"Ah," he said, and allowed his hand to drop back. "You're not a child tonight, are you?"
He hadn't even glanced below my neck. I had managed to Weave not quite nude this time. I was wearing my chemisenot the dress, just the undergarmentwhich was nonetheless quite an accomplishment for me. It had taken me a year to manage this much. I still couldn't do anything like jewelry or hairpins. Sometimes all I ended up with were my garters.
A chemise is only muslin, however. Translucent. And the corsets somehow never made the Weave.
A single dark brow began to arch. The prince was waiting.
My mouth opened; I'd waited so long for this moment. I'd practiced my speech a hundred times to the painted walls of my room, every word premeditated, every argument clear-cut. But now, when I tried to form the words, no sound came out.
"Honor," he said. "Is that your name?"
This time I didn't even attempt to answer. My speech wiped blank. I stared at him. His ankles uncrossed, sudden and stealthy. "Honor Carlisle. Correct?" Oh, no
I glanced around the room, my heart in my throat. It looked like my old father's study but larger, with glass-fronted bookcases and masculine side tables, green leather chairs stuffed with horsehair. The paintings on the walls were all gilt-framed oils of men and landscapes. There was a bronze statue of a hart by the door. The room was more grandiose than Alexandru's private quarters, antiquated somehow, tinged more of other people than of him. But we truly seemed alone.
"Are they here?" I demanded anyway. "The English drakon ? Are they here for me?"
"No, girl. The only foreign creature here is you."
He rose from the chair, taking with him the map drawn by the other man, the dark-eyed one. He walked to the desk and opened a drawer, pulling free a smaller piece of paper, holding it out to me.
"I received your letter," Alexandru said.
"What letter?" My heart was still pounding.
His lips quirked, just barely. "The one you wrote."
He held it out, patient once more, until I came near enough to take it from his fingertips.
"I never sent this," I said, backing up again to scan it. "I never wrote this."
From the edge of my view his stance seemed to tighten, a very subtle shifting of his muscles, of the dark evening colors spilling into him. "You're not Honor Carlisle?"
"I am." I shook my head. "But I didn't .."write this yet, I almost said.
There was no question it was my handwriting. But it was so strange; I'd had no notion to send him a letter, not in all these years. I wouldn't even have known how to direct it. All I knew of Zaharen Yce was that it was a castle set alone amid some very bleak and cold mountains. In Transylvania. And I could hardly pop back to Darkfrith to ask anyone there to clarify matters. Lady Lia had made it exceedingly clear, ever since she'd first stolen me, that if I were to go back home, my life would be forfeited.
Forfeited. As in, given up, given away.
She would not tell me why or how. She claimed she wasn't certain. But when she spoke like that, when she spoke about her dreams, it was impossible not to feel my flesh crawl. Whatever else she hid from me, whatever other troubles we shared, the instant she'd said to me,You will be killed there, I believed her.
I turned Alexandru's letter over in my hands. Yes, still my writing, the imprinted wax seal of the shiremost likely from the forged stamp Lia kept in her nightstand drawer, one of her few souvenirs from childhood.
"Senyoreta."The prince waited until I looked back up at him, distracted, pushing a fall of hair from my eyes. "How is it, exactly, that you appear to be both a child and a full-grown maiden? That you manage to get in and out of my castle without smoke?"
I chewed my lower lip. "May I sit?"
He indicated one of the green chairs, the one directly across from him. I chose one by the hearth instead. The chemise wasn't very insulating.
"I'm not mistaken, am I?" Prince Alexandru remained standing. "Youare that child I pulled from the river six years ago? And the young woman from the ball? From the granary and the field?"