TEN

      

 

To move from the underground darkness into a cheerful throng required a stretch and twist of spirit that left Elayne feeling remote from her very self. She could not seem to connect the easy mirth and chatter of his household with what had happened to her deep in his hidden chamber—with the person she had become there, violated and violent in return.

She descended the stairs beside Margaret, with the puppy still in her arms, hardly knowing how she should conduct herself. No one offered any guidance. The pirate had assembled a strange court in his island exile. Not even with Queen Anne’s youthful entourage had Elayne bided among so many young people at one time. Not one of Il Corvo’s household seemed to have more than twenty years, and most of them were much younger. The guard that greeted them on their first night had been of middling years, but she had seen none other such since.

While they seemed handy enough at their kitchen tasks, with no elders to hold high spirits in check the atmosphere of merriment bordered on glee. A troupe of boys and girls decorously bore a multitude of tablecloths into the cavernous chamber, under the distracted eye of a young man who was directing the setting-up of the single trestle. When he turned his back, the children began covertly pinching one another. A squeal broke out. The group hurtled past Elayne trailing a sail of damask cloth. The puppy barked, scrambling free of her arms to join the game. Its sharp teeth closed on the cloth.

"Softly!" Elayne said, reaching out to catch the damask.

They all halted, five or six wide-eyed faces turned to her, as startled as if a tree had spoken. The pup tugged and shook at the cloth.

They were just of an age with her sister’s child Maria, nine or ten years, except for one young boy who could not have been more than six. But having checked them, she hardly knew what to say. It was herself who was usually the object of a scold—Maria had always been the best of children, docile and eager to please.

Elayne felt a moment of exquisite longing for her home, where Cara’s reprimands were the worst fate she’d had to fear. This brood looked as scared of Elayne’s disapproval as she had been in awe of her sister’s reproach.

"For pity, ’twould be a shame to injure this fair cloth," she ventured, uncoupling the puppy from its fervent assault on the rich fabric.

She received a series of ragged bows and courtesies in reply. The children edged away from her, folding the damask with more care to keep it from the floor, and then hurried off with a sudden burst of giggles. The pup danced away after them and then bounded back to Elayne.

"Ach, they are rude babes, my lady, forgive them!" Margaret whispered in English. "My lord has not yet taken that company in hand."

Elayne’s glance passed over the Egyptian. He instantly stepped forward, sweeping an extravagant bow. His age was impossible to guess, but he was by far older than anyone else in the chamber. He fluttered his long fingers and opened them, presenting a coil of golden cord and a jeweled collar. "A leash for the noble whelp," he said. "If Your Grace will honor my poor conjuring."

Elayne gave a regal nod, as she had seen Queen Anne do when she received presents of her courtiers. The majestic effect was somewhat spoiled by the puppy’s vociferous objections to finding itself curbed when she fastened on the collar. The dog flew about like a hooked fish, fighting the leash, and then sat down and tried to bite through the cord.

"Come here, then, little witch." Elayne knelt and untied the leash, knowing too keenly herself the sensation of bejeweled confinement. She rubbed the pup’s ears and set it free. Perversely, it stayed at her side, licking her fingers and jumping on her hem when she rose.

"Margaret—where are the elder folk?" she asked.

"Oh, Dario is here—" Margaret waved toward the young man who had finally placed the carved bench to his satisfaction in front of the vast, blackened hearth. "My lord took Zafer with him. Fatima has gone to the cellar. She will return in a moment with refreshment for my lady."

Neither Zafer nor Dario appeared to have more than a year or two beyond Elayne’s own eighteen.

"They are the eldest?" Elayne asked.

Margaret glanced at her. She gave a shrug and lifted her hand. "Your Grace, I know not. I believe so. Will you take this place of honor? Here is Fatima with your drink."

Elayne recognized the same comely Moorish maid who had served Elayne and Countess Beatrice in their captivity. As Elayne sat down at the trestle, Fatima approached with great deference. She knelt before the table, placing two goblets. "Will you take wine, Princess?" she asked.

In all the days that Elayne had nursed Lady Beatrice, this maid had not once seemed to understand her French, nor Latin, nor Italian. But Fatima spoke now in the tongue of Monteverde with more fluency than Elayne owned in it herself.

Elayne gave a short nod. Fatima beckoned a young boy to her side, one of the merry crew that had sailed about the chamber with the damask cloth in tow. He made a deep bow, serious now, rubbing his fingers quickly on his shirt before he took the jar. His hands were barely large enough to hold the heavy vessel as he poured an unsteady stream of rosy liquid and placed the goblet before Elayne. He stepped back with another nervous bow, kneeling down to one knee.

Elayne gave him an encouraging smile and reached for the wine.

"Hold!" Il Corvo’s voice froze her, ringing harshly in the great high chamber. Elayne let go of the goblet. He strode forward from nowhere, his hair dewed with moisture, the dark mantle flaring. "Taste it, Matteo!"

He stopped beside the table, glaring down at the kneeling boy. The child had already dropped his face to the tiled floor, quaking. "Matteo," the pirate said in a voice of ice. "You fail me. Drink of what you poured. Discard the rest. And then I do not wish to set eyes upon you again."

The boy raised his pallid face. Still on his knees, he crawled forward. He lifted the goblet and took a sip.

"Drink deeper," the pirate demanded.

The child took a full swallow, and then another. The entire household watched in silence. Matteo appeared as if he might retch, his mouth screwed into a tight, unhappy rose. Elayne watched with horror. It was an undisguised tasting for poison, credence without the pleasant rituals she had seen at court that made it seem only ceremonial.

For long moments everyone stared, but beyond the grimace, Matteo seemed to take no ill effect. He sat upon his knees, very still, his head bowed in disgrace.

Il Corvo turned his brutal look upon Elayne. "Never...never...take food or drink without credence."

She had forgotten. Lady Melanthe had warned her of such; this pirate himself had taken advantage of her trust to stupefy her when he pleased. He sat down, dismissing Matteo with a disdainful motion of his hand. The boy backed away on his hands and knees, in full health enough to rise and run when he reached the wall.

The pirate watched him go. He looked around at his petrified household and narrowed his eyes at the maid. "Fatima. Matteo’s life is in your hands. If you allow him to make such a mistake again, you will be the one to put a poison cup to his lips yourself. Replace the wine."

Fatima went to her knees. "You command me, Your Grace," she said breathlessly.

She rose and turned, hastening after Matteo. Elayne gripped her hands in her lap.

The Raven looked aside at her. "Remember this, my lady. You, too, are responsible for their lives. Do not allow yourself to be imprudent, or to be served carelessly. If there is any injury to you, those who caused it—by mistake or by malice—will suffer an ill fate."

She tried to appear composed, sitting with her back rigid to control her trembling limbs. "He is but a child," she said faintly.

"The better to do murder unobserved."

"Do murder!" she echoed. "The boy cannot yet have eight years to his life."

"I had but nine, at my first," he said. He took the seat beside her, throwing off his red-lined mantle. "I do not ask so much of Matteo yet, if it comforts your gentle heart. But they all know the price of an error in my service."

Two of the littlest boys bore his cloak away, their faces solemn and scared. At his order, Margaret brought a golden dish and set it upon the table. Stiffly Elayne offered her hands to be rinsed from the pitcher of perfumed water. The fragrance did not mask the scent that lingered on her, the scent of lust and coupling—the scent of a manslayer.

The one called Dario came forward. He was a thick-muscled, broad-shouldered youth with blunt strong features, but he bowed with a precise elegance, taking the napkin from his left shoulder and drying Elayne’s hands.

"Your pardon for this crude meal, my lady," the pirate said gruffly. "It is not what I intended. We will have a proper feast in Monteverde to celebrate our marriage."

" ’Tis no matter," Elayne said in a stifled voice. If she never had a feast in Monteverde, she would be pleased.

"Pour into three cups," he instructed Dario, and watched as the youth performed a careful ritual, tasting deeply at each before he served it.

The Raven took a slow sip of one goblet, and offered it to Elayne from his own lips. She drank a convulsive swallow, assured at least that this was safe. He lifted the next cup and held it out to her. But as she raised her hand to steady the goblet, he drew it sharply away.

"Do not drink of this," he said. "Be careful. Smell it."

She lifted her eyes in mistrust. He met her look under his black lashes, a steady stare. Elayne drew in a breath over the cup.

"Do you smell it?" he asked.

She shook her head. "It smells of spice."

He offered the first goblet again. "Look in it. Observe the color."

Elayne looked at a claret wine that seemed ordinary in its honey-red color and sweet scent of spicery. "I see nothing."

He held up the second cup. "What of this?"

She frowned down at the silver goblet so close to her nose. He tilted it—and she saw the thin film that threw transparent colors across the surface.

"Oh—" she said. "I see it."

"At last," he said in a tone of great congratulation. " ’Tis fortune that it’s only a drop of olive oil." He pushed the third goblet over the cloth toward her. "This one contains bane enough to kill us both. Smell it."

Gingerly Elayne sniffed at the last goblet—one of the cups that Dario had tasted not moments before. He stood by, erect and unconcerned, bowing his head when she glanced at him.

The faintest odor of burnt syrup, of almonds blackened beyond mere roasting, tainted the scent of the last cup. It seemed to go instantly to the back of her nose and linger there. She pushed the cup hastily away. "But he drank of it!"

Il Corvo looked up at Dario with a slight smile. "Enlighten the princess to what passed."

The youth bowed to his waist. "Your Grace, there was no bane in it when I drank. My lord diverted you with the second cup and envenomed the last one while you were distracted with looking at what he showed to you. It is a common ruse."

"Common?" she repeated weakly. Her voice rose. "This is common in Monteverde?"

"No doubt they are clumsier about it," the Raven said, "and easy to detect. But you make a credulous target. You must learn to take notice of what happens around you."

"Helas," she cried. "God forfend that I ever came here!"

The pirate scowled. "By Christ, can you not yet see what true profit it is to you?" He waved his hand for Dario to remove the cups. "Madame, you were bound for Monteverde and certain death in your innocence. Whatever I have done, whatever I may be—there is no one alive who can school you better in the wiles of murderers, nor keep you more surely from any human menace. Do you doubt me?"

She stared at the white tablecloth before her, where a cup of the claret had left a mark like a bloodstained new moon—a mark of poison, or of sweet safe wine; she knew not which. Once she had trusted her dark angel to keep her from all harm. But that happy illusion was broken now; it was an assassin who proclaimed himself her protector with such forbidding certainty.

There are a hundred dangers, Lady Melanthe had warned her, in a voice of anguish. There is no time to teach you.

Her godmother had known this pirate.

Elayne could not reason that Lady Melanthe had somehow sent her to him. To her family’s enemy. To the same assassin who declared that he would have killed her himself if she had wed Franco Pietro of the Riata.

She could not reason it, and yet she remembered Lady Melanthe’s cool ruthless demeanor, her own sister’s awe of the countess, the respect tinged with dread that was never spoken. And she knew that her godmother was closer in spirit to the Raven than to anyone else Elayne had ever encountered.

"I am yours," the pirate said to her. Softly. Simply. He watched her out of shadowed eyes. "To my death."

She took a deep breath, staring at the shape of the half-moon stain. There was yet the hot soreness inside her, where he had taken her, left his man’s seed in her body. Black mystery and pain, and she wanted it again—she wanted him before her, his head arched back, at her mercy. The strength of what she felt, the power he gave her to hurt him—her desire for it shocked her. Thunder cracked and rumbled overhead. Sullen smoke curled from the chimneys, the tempest exhaling like a living thing from the darkest corners of the lofty kitchen. The grave faces of children gazed at her from the shadows.

"Do it, then," she said, lifting her eyes. "Teach me what arts of malice that you will. I am certain that you know them all."

His lip curved in dry mockery. "I could not teach you one-tenth of what I know of malice," he said. "But I can put you on your guard against it."

Zafer appeared at that moment, emerging from the smoky shadows, his tabard and exotic headpiece darkened and dripping with rainwater. As the Raven looked toward him, the young infidel made a bow, but no words passed between them. There was only a glance, a moment that seemed to convey some grim meaning between the youth and his master as the storm wailed outside.

"Attend me well, then, my lady," the pirate said, turning back to her. "Place no faith in such useless concoctions as the powdered horn of a unicorn or the color of a moonstone—such false alchemy is for fools. Open all of your senses. Each poison has a character of its own. Each murderer has a nature that betrays him, if you observe closely enough."

She lifted her chin. "And what is yours?"

His gaze lingered on her hand upon the table, then moved upward to her face. No more than she could fathom a panther’s mind could she have said what was in his.

"Let that question be your ultimate examination," he said. "We will discover if you are cunning enough to solve it."

 

* * *

 

For the night he took her to sleep beside the great kitchen fireplace, a captive within a close embrace, held against his chest as he leaned back on the hearthstone. Zafer stood silent guard. The rest of his servants lay ranged about the chamber in what comfort they could find, shapeless lumps of shadow in the ebbing firelight.

All night the storm whistled and shrieked. Elayne slept only fitfully, plagued by uneasy dreams. She woke once to find the white pup’s chin resting on her calf as the young dog lay sprawled on its back, belly up and paws all askew within the wedge of space between her leg and the pirate’s. Dario had taken up guard, his face lit faintly by the pulsing red ember glow. She could feel the Raven sleep—strangest of all, for she had come almost to believe that he never did. But the soft touch of his breath was slow and even in her hair, his arm across her waist an insensible leaden weight.

He had a name, such a deceptive, unapt name that she could not bring herself to employ it with him. Allegreto, he claimed to be called. The English tongue had no such word, but in the Italian and the French it meant something cheerful and light—even joyous.

He did laugh, but only in mockery. He smiled as a cat might smile while it toyed with a mouse. She wondered if he had ever in his life had a fit of honest mirth, the way she had laughed sometime with Raymond, both of them falling into hilarity, piling one childish jest upon another until they could not draw breath.

She doubted it. Those who knew the Raven used a title more apt than his own font name. Fitting enough, to call him after the black-winged harbingers of death and war.

She had learned to distinguish the scent of three poisons since supper, and watched Zafer empty a vial of powder, hidden in his napkin, into the salt. She had watched him do it four times, and never once detected the faint turn of his wrist until he slowed the motion and lifted the cloth for her to observe each step of the action. Then Margaret—composed and determined—had demonstrated how to apply venom to a cloak pin and stab Zafer as she aided him to dress. She was not very accomplished at it, and apologized profusely to my lord and my lady for her inexperience while Zafer held a dagger to her heart, having turned off the maid’s assassination attempt with a move as quick and simple as a striking snake.

The pirate had watched his apprentices with calm attention, remarking quietly on their work in the way a good master would appraise his students’ efforts and offer methods of improvement. He recommended that Margaret attempt a scratch instead of a stab, as less likely to arouse suspicion, and equally effective with the proper poison. He advised Elayne to cause any sharp fastener to be dipped in water and wiped before she touched it, and to place it in her clothing by her own hand. He slipped the daggers he wore from their sheaths and showed how poison subtly discolored a blade—the one for his left hand was always envenomed, he warned her, the one for his right was clean.

Despicable it was, to put children in the study of such evil things. And yet they all—girls and boys, from the youngest up to Dario and Zafer and Fatima—looked to him eagerly, vying to show the degree of their scholarship in his deadly arts. In his own manner he treated them with a grim sort of kindness. When Margaret’s babe had begun to wail from its basket slung on ropes near the hearth, she was granted quick reprieve from any further mayhem in order to attend her child. Matteo, skulking miserably in a half-lit corner, was called forward to make another try at a proper poison tasting. After a multitude of attempts, he possessed himself sufficiently to pour a full cup without shaking so that he spilled drops all over the tablecloth, and performed the credence. When at last the Raven, without praise or censure, simply lifted Matteo’s offered goblet and drank from it, the boy’s face broke into a glow of tear-stained relief and pride.

Elayne could see the pirate’s fingers dimly now, entangled in her loose hair, intertwined with her own black and rain-washed curls as if he had woven them together by design. Like enough he had, to be vigilant of her every move even while they slept— and yet a stray lock coiled across the back of his palm, lying softly against his skin, like a black lamb curled there in innocent affection.

His hands fascinated her: their swift ease with the blades, on the wine cup, the rough jerk in her hair as he had yanked her away when she bit him. He had smiled then—smiled—and the thought of it sent an ache all down her body, a liquid pain that seemed like bliss.

He drew her to him, a lodestone against her own will, as if all she had been taught of good and right, all she knew of joy and mirth, held no strength against the beckoning darkness. She wanted to wound him again. She craved to do it. Just that way, that shocking moment of power, to make him hurt and shudder and lose himself in her again.

With a shiver, Elayne pulled the wizard’s robe close around herself in the night. She felt the pirate come instantly alert. Dario stood straight.

She shifted a little within the wider space the Raven made as he lifted his arm. When she was still, he lowered it again, holding her entrapped. The puppy turned over and heaved a sigh.

 

* * *

 

He gave her scrolls to study. They were nothing like the texts that Lady Melanthe had provided for her education. As the storm still slashed and rumbled overhead, she read a Latin compendium of toxic substances, divided into sections, first those natural and then those made by the hand of man: their manufacture, their modes of delivery, their effects. Dry mouth; rapid heartbeat; hot, dry; agitation and delirium...certain death.

In the margins were notations. Other effects—large pupils, muscle spasms; the names of men, some of them scratched through.

She might have been sitting in the kitchen at Savernake, on a bench and trestle borrowed from the great hall, with the smells of bread and cooked onions and soot, the watery storm light falling down from high window slits onto the parchment. She might have been studying her notes of Libushe’s herbs and potions. Except she was not. She was reading how one man might kill another, or make him impotent or blind, while children sat about her chopping dates and talking cheerfully and Dario pumped the wheel of a whetstone, making a pitched whine above the rumble of the storm as he sharpened their proffered daggers and little knives, sending sparks flying to the tiled floor. Margaret’s baby played at her feet while she mended buttons on Elayne’s torn shift.

Il Corvo sat midway up the stairs to the kitchen gallery, dressed in black velvet, one leg extended—like an illumination in a book Elayne had seen once, of a nonchalant fiend overlooking the souls in Purgatory, lounging between the curves and struts of the letter E.

His languid glance came to hers as she lifted her eyes. Heat suffused her, dread and pleasure. She would have looked away, looked down, but it seemed as if that would be weak—an admission that she even noticed him. That she remembered—vividly. Between them now there was potential; he spoke of Monteverde and taking power there, but closer and more real to Elayne was the babe that tumbled at Margaret’s hem. Libushe had explained it. Elayne knew it well enough; she had seen the animals at Savernake couple, seen the foals and lambs come spring. In her fondest dreams, she had seen herself picking wildflowers in the woods with a bright-haired son of her own and Raymond’s—but somehow the gap between chastity and that vision had not seemed to invite very close examination.

He held her look. With a slow move, like a lazy caress, he touched his fingertips to his shoulder, to the place where she had bitten him. Instantly she felt a spring of hot sensation, a violent dream of her power to mark and wound him as he arched under her hands. He smiled at her, a mere hint in the greenish light of the storm.

Elayne looked down, snatching a quick breath, as if the atmosphere had closed upon her.

Perchance it was a spell he had laid on her, that made her blood run in a tangle and her breath come strangely when she thought he was remembering as she was. She had never in her life before wanted to hurt any creature. It was not anger, though anger was a part of it. But it was more than that, more—it was all twined and twisted with the way he looked beneath his lashes and smiled as if he knew.

Perhaps it was a curse to make her foreign to herself. He would perceive how to make such a thing, and not bungle it with mismatched feathers.

He rose from the stairs and came down in one graceful bound, scooping up one of the youngest ones as the child was about to reach for a newly honed knife that Dario had just laid aside. With a flick of his wrist, Il Corvo sent the blade spinning end-over-end above them. It reached a zenith and flashed downward; Elayne’s heart stopped as the little boy looked up at the weapon descending toward his head.

An arm’s-length above the child, the pirate plucked the dagger from the air.

"Hot," he said, holding the blade before the boy’s face. He set the child on the floor. "Don’t touch it too soon."

The boy shook his head vigorously.

"It’s cool now," the Raven said. "Take it."

The little boy reached for the knife, but the pirate moved it. Instantly the child assumed a stance, his short legs spread, rocking forward on his toes; an echo of Il Corvo’s agile pose. For a few minutes they feinted and sparred for possession of the blade. Fifty times the cruel edge came within a hairsbreadth of slicing the child’s soft skin, but he ducked and twisted, moving in under Il Corvo’s arms. Somehow the pirate made it appear as if the boy really did dispossess him of the weapon, emitting a suitably foul oath and dropping the knife when the child cracked him on the knee-cap with a sudden, awkward kick.

"Well-placed," he said as the student bore his prize away. He sat down next to Elayne, rubbing his joint, and gave her a sideways smile. "A promising brat."

She did not return the smile. "Would not grown men serve you better?" It came out like an accusation. "Why children?"

He leaned back, his elbows on the table. "Because they are wholly mine."

Elayne turned her face away from his faultless profile. "They seem a frail force."

"Do they?" he asked idly.

She rolled the edge of the scroll under her finger. Her heart seemed to pound in her ears when he was so close to her. "Would you bring up your own child in such a manner?"

She felt him look at her. Before he spoke, she added, "And you need not enlighten me—I am certain it is how you were fostered. Would you make the same of your own blood?"

The sound of the whetstone wailed, searing metal to stone. His body was perfectly still beside her. She thought he was more frightening when he was motionless than when he wielded any weapon.

"Tell me what choice I have," he said softly.

Elayne wet her lips. She had not expected him to give her a serious reply. But he waited, as if he meant it. She frowned down at her knuckles, finding that mere admonitions to do good and not sin seemed foolish. She could not give a sermon on it. It seemed utterly wrong, to corrupt children, to bend them to such service, and yet she could only offer platitudes about abandoning his iniquity and seeking rectitude. Platitudes to the man who swore to guard her from such murderers as himself.

"I asked your sister the same once," he said. "And she had no answer for me either."

She bent her head. Then she took a deep breath and looked toward him. "If you desire that I will bear your children, then you must find one."

He never moved. His lashes flicked downward and up again. He remained gazing at Dario’s back as the youth pumped the grinding wheel.

"Libushe taught me many things," Elayne murmured, barely above a breath. "Even if you force me, I can prevent a child."

It was a lie; Libushe had taught her herbs and methods that might prove successful at preventing a conception, but the wise-woman had not promised certainty, and warned her it was a deadly sin to use them. But Elayne thought even a wizard might not be sure of what a woman of knowledge could impart.

He looked at her then. Instead of the cold fury or disgust she had prepared for, it was a mystified look, as if she had spoken some riddle that made no sense to him. "Why?’

"Because it would be mine, too," she said, "and I will not have any child of mine brought up to be what you are."

His fine mouth hardened. "A bastard?"

"A murderer. Like these." She inclined her head toward the others.

"You wish him to have no defenses?"

She paused at that. "No," she said. "But..." She put her palms together, trying to find words for what she meant. "No more than other people. Not corrupted and trained to slay as if it is a game."

She thought he would mock her and call her foolish. He only frowned a little, then sprang up. He walked to the foot of the stairs, put his boot upon the lowest step, then turned and came back. He looked down into her eyes, still with that faint frown. "If I swear this to you, then you will not resist me?" he demanded in a low voice. "You will conceive?"

She felt her cheeks burning. His word could hardly be trusted. She did not want to be his wife. The idea of bearing him sons and daughters was horrifying and frightening and exhilarating all at once. "If God wills it," she heard herself say, in a voice that barely whispered in her throat. But it did not seem that God’s will could have any link to what she felt.

"Then I swear," he said at once. "Man child or girl, their education belongs to you. I will not teach them what I know."

 

* * *

 

The storm lasted two nights and swept past, leaving wreckage and a crystalline atmosphere, a chill that made these warmblooded southerners shiver and chafe their hands. The air felt revitalizing to Elayne, but even she huddled close in her mantle as they toured the storm-clawed rooms and loggias. She felt as shattered as the beautiful carved doors that hung askew on their hinges—as if she were someone unknown to herself, born of the destruction to a new and harsher spirit.

The white puppy trailed behind her, endowed now with the name of Nimue, for the Lady of the Lake who had bewitched the love-sotted Merlin and sealed him in his cave. The young dog cared for nothing but play and theft, investigating the debris with a sportive glee—the only cheerful presence amid a grimly silent household.

The castle stood, but the open arcades lay in ruins, their heavy beams torn askew and flung into the shuttered chambers. Elayne doubted if Amposta’s ship could have survived such a tempest. She said a prayer for Lady Beatrice, but the countess’s fate seemed distant now, in God’s hands.

Her own pressed much closer. The Raven appeared unconcerned about the damage to his castle, the smashed tiles and drenched hangings. The gleaming horizon seemed to trouble him more—he stared out at the empty blue sea and posted watches at all the corners of the fortress.

Elayne thought of the fleets he had said might come for her. She’d thought he spoke in dry jest, but he surveyed the water with such intensity that she knew he expected something to appear. Before he had made no effort to constrain her to stay within the castle. Today he spoke sharply if she lagged more than a few steps behind him.

"Is there danger of attack?" she asked when he had sent Zafer away to discover how the town had fared.

He glanced down at her. For an instant the flash was there, that promise of fire and pain that bound them now whenever he met her eyes. Elayne forced herself not to look away.

"Attack is always a prospect," he said.

"Might you bring yourself to utter just how large a prospect?"

He gave a short laugh. "It is not attack on this stronghold that need alarm you, my lady. I maintain defense of the island by sufficient means." He looked back out to sea. "My comrades are to gather a fleet here, in preparation for our return to Monteverde."

"A fleet." She pushed back from the marble parapet, startled. "So soon?"

"The time was appointed many months ago. When first I had news that Franco Pietro was to take a bride—and her name was Princess Elena."

"A fleet," she said faintly.

"A great fleet, of sixty ships and four thousand men-at-arms, to bring about the absolute destruction of the Riata. It has taken me five years to assemble it."

"Depardeu," she whispered. She looked at him, and then at the empty horizon. The sea was fresh and running high. Huge waves crashed far below, rolling in under the precipitous castle wall. Nothing else interrupted the expanse of vivid blue.

"Yes," he said, "they do not come."

Veiled by the wind-tossed mass of her hair, Elayne looked down, twisting the band on her finger. She had wished with all her heart to depart on Amposta’s vessel for England and home. But she did not believe anything could have kept it afloat in such a storm. Even if his comrades were marauding pirates, she could not wish so many such an end. Her throat felt tight and queasy.

"Haps they did not all perish," the Raven said evenly. "Some might have made shelter."

"God defend them," she said, signing the cross.

"No one will set this at God’s door," he said. "They will blame me."

"You? For a storm?"

"Aye. And the Devil. They will say I tried to command the wind by diabolic means, and lost control of it."

The puppy broke into shrill barking, scrambling after a gull that had the temerity to land on the marble edge. The bird took off in a clumsy flap of wings, then hovered and wheeled in the updraft from the cliff. Having accomplished her adopted duty, Nim trotted importantly back to Elayne, skirting broken tiles and jumping over the smashed pot of a palm tree. She grabbed a branch of the palm in her sharp white teeth and shook it vigorously, sending dirt flying from what was left.

"Peace, little witch," Elayne said gently, pulling the plant away.

The pirate reached down. He grasped the whole of the shattered palm. He swept it up, as Nim skipped backward, and heaved it over the parapet in one great arc, flinging clods of dirt.

His face held no expression. He began to seize pieces of broken clay, hurling them one after another in graceful flights that soared and tumbled and fell out of sight. He moved with methodical calm along the railing, bending to grasp a piece of wreckage—any piece, large or small—rising in one swift motion to launch it from the cliff. Shards of tile and smashed members of wood sailed from the parapet and disappeared into blue oblivion.

When the floor was cleared, he put his boot to the edge of a pedestal that had survived the storm and toppled it, sending Elayne and Nimue cowering back as the stone smashed down. Chips of tile and stone went flying. Jagged cracks shot across the beautiful tile floor.

Elayne snatched up the puppy and turned her back as he moved toward a sculpture of a griffon atop the parapet. She squeezed her eyes shut, expecting another impact, but none came.

She turned hesitantly. He stood still, an ironic tilt to his mouth. The breeze played with his black hair and lifted the dark cloak, flashing wings of bloody red. He might have been the Devil indeed, standing there deadly and alone in the dazzling sun. He cast one look at the empty horizon and turned away.

"We leave tonight," he said. "Take what you want. We will not return here again."