The Eunuch's Heir Read Free Page B

just the harshness of the soap, or the bleaching of the sun? Of course it was. His wild imagination had again sprung to the wrong conclusion.
    Perhaps the dagger hanging against his hip deterred the pickpockets who slipped in and out in the shadows, or perhaps it was that special darkness he carried with him that night, but he arrived at the little door unmolested. He turned a key in the ancient lock, and it slid without a sound. Wolfram pushed back the door and replaced the key in the cleft between two stones. When he shut the door behind him, even the starlight left him at last. No matter, he had come this way too many times to be uneasy in the dark, even up the narrow stairs, choosing the right passage. On the other side of the wall, voices murmured, chairs scraped—the sounds seeping through to him in the musty little corridor. He came to the temple stairs. He hesitated a moment—he could turn down, descend to the chapel and find Mistress Lyssa. She would know what to do, what to say to convince him that his very hair had not turned traitor. Abruptly, he turned upward, toward his mother’s chambers. At this hour, she would still be in the hall, or listening to the complaints of some tedious courtier. He came to the door, pulling it cautiously inward, so that it barely ruffled the tapestry that concealed it. Wolfram stood for a moment without breathing, waiting to hear if anyone moved within. Silence greeted him.
    He slipped back the tapestry and entered his mother’s room. Some of the anger had worn away along the walk to get here. A hint of apprehension entered in its stead, but he shook it off. Did he not have a right to visit his mother’s rooms? Well, perhaps not when she had no knowledge of it. His father would never have done it—not his sainted father. Of course, that other one probably did it all the time, sneaking through this very door to pay his nightly visits.
    Wolfram’s hands hardened into fists, and he pushed away from the wall, the new anger carrying him to the wardrobe. He popped open the doors and pulled out the first drawer, pawing through the jewels it contained. The search fruitless, he shoved it back again, but it stuck, and he let go, the drawer clattering onto the tile floor. Heedless of the mess, he pulled out another.
    When the last drawer had joined its fellows, Wolfram kicked the wreckage out of his way and slumped to the floor. Aimlessly, he kicked another drawer, sending it skittering against the wall. There, it struck, and the bottom cracked and fell away. From beneath the panel, a small ivory box tumbled.
    Grinning, Wolfram rose and crossed to the wall in two long strides. He swept up the box and creaked open the lid. His fingers suddenly careful, he lifted out a thin gold chain, letting the pendant twinkle in the light of the lamps his mother always burned. The pendant resembled a shell, two smooth curves of glass bordered in gold sheltering a little curl of hair. Soft baby’s hair, as dark as the night around him.
    He stood transfixed, his heart lurching within him, throat dry. It could not be. It could not be. Why would she do this to him?
    Voices approached in the hall outside, and Wolfram spun, staring at the mess he’d made of his mother’s things. Even as he took a step to rectify the damage, he stopped himself, the cold demon anger gathering again inside him. Why should he care? Maybe she wasn’t even his mother—maybe everything he knew was a lie.
    The door swung open, his mother leaning into it, with her back to the room. “Yes, of course, Grandmother. I’ll have it seen to immediately.” She raised her eyebrows to the man who accompanied her.
    Duchess Elyn, tall and gaunt with age, her white hair piled atop her head, retreated from the chamber, disappearing down the hall.
    The Lord Protector, Fionvar DuNormand, let a smile spread across his face, gazing into the eyes of his queen. “Do you remember when we were afraid of her?”
    Queen Brianna laughed, pressing her