Daughter of Regals by Stephen R. Donaldson Page B

putting myself into his arms for comfort. At the same time, I yearned to
flay his heart with accusations and bitterness.
    I did neither. I stood
and stared at him and said nothing, letting my nakedness speak for me.
    He was unable or
unwilling to meet my gaze. Slowly, he shambled from his hiding place as if he
had become unaccountably old in a short time and crossed the room to the door.
Bracing himself on the frame as if all his bones hurt and his Scepter alone
were not enough to uphold him, he called hoarsely for any servant within
earshot to attend him.
    Shortly, he was
answered. His voice barely under control, he told the servant to go to my
private chambers and fetch a robe. Then—still with that painful slowness—he
closed the door and turned back to face me.
    “All I proposed to him,”
he said with a husky tremor, “was that he ask your hand in marriage—or in
alliance. if you would not wed him. I conceived that Scour’s Dragon would teach
you your peril so plainly that you would give up your reasonless
pretensions.”
    “Oh, assuredly, good
Mage,” I replied at once, scathing him as much as I was able. I only kept
myself from tears by digging my nails into the palms of my hands. “That was all
you proposed. And then you commanded the guards away, so that he would be free
to act violence against me if he chose.”
    He nodded dumbly, unable
to thrust words through the emotion in his throat.
    “‘And when he sought to
harm me, you did not intervene. He was certain that you would not”
    Again, he nodded. I had
never seen him appear so old and beaten.
    “Mage,” I said so that I
would not rail against him further, “what is his hold upon you?”
    At last, he looked into
my eyes. His gaze was stark with despair. “My lady, I will show you.”
    But he did not move—and
I did not speak again— until a knock announced the return of the servant. He
opened the door only wide enough to receive one of my robes.
    Without interest, I
noted that the robe was of a heavy brocade which had been dyed to highlight the
color of my eyes, so that I would appear more comely than I was. While I
shrugged it over my shoulders and sashed it tightly, Ryzel averted his head in
shame. Then, when I had signified my readiness, he held the door for me, and I
preceded him from the meeting-room.
    I desired haste; I
needed movement, action, urgency to keep my distress from crying itself out
into the friendless halls of the manor. But somehow I measured my pace to
Ryzel’s new slowness and did not lose my self-command. The death of my father
had left me with little cause for hope and no love; but at least it bad given
me pride enough to comport myself as a woman rather than as a girl. Moving at
Ryzel’s speed, I let him guide me to the upper levels and out onto the parapets
which overlooked the surrounding hills.
    The night was cold, but
I cared nothing for that. I had my robe and my anger for warmth. And I took no
notice of the profuse scatter of the stars, though their shining was as brilliant
and kingly as a crown in the keen air; they were no more Real than I was. I had
eyes only for the moon. It was full with promise or benediction; and its place
in the heavens showed me that little more than an hour remained before midnight.
    The manor was neither
castle nor keep, not built for battle; it had no siege-walls, no battlements
from which it might be defended. The first Regal had designed it as a seat of
peace—and as a sign to the Three Kingdoms that his power was not founded upon
armies that might be beaten or walls that could be breached. In consequence,
the Mage and I encountered no sentries or witnesses as we walked the parapets.
    Still he had not spoken,
and I had not questioned him. But after we had rounded one corner of the manor,
he stopped abruptly. Leaning against the outer wall, he peered into the massed
darkness of the hills. Sharply, he whispered, “There!” and pointed.
    At first. I saw nothing.
Then I discerned in