Fortunately, she had other—mortal—sources to inform her what had been happening in Horold's audience, and old Molith nodded when queried with an eyebrow. So Ingeld was forewarned not to go charging into her bedchamber with a retinue.
Pleading a need to rest, she entered the room alone and even managed to close the door without slamming it in fury. Just as she had feared, Bena was stretched out on her sleeping platform, dead to the world. No doubt he had spent most of the night rollicking with some slut. Oh, that young idiot! Could even Benard Celebre be so blind to danger? Horold would see this as deliberate provocation, and his seers would tell him of it.
She swept across the room like a pillar of fire, fully intending to haul him off the platform by his ear. But the closer she came, the more her resolution faltered, until she came to a stop, staring down at him in aching wonder. Oh, Bena, Bena! He was no beauty by day, being dark and hairy even by Florengian standards, with quarryman chest and shoulders that belied his noble birth. His face was as solid as battlements, all jaw and forehead and cheekbones. And yet, boy and man, he had always been beautiful in sleep, with those incredible lashes spread on his cheeks; awake, he could melt any woman with one glance of an artist's eyes—gentle, limpid, all-seeing.
She turned to look at the twins' smiling faces in the tiles. Had they lived, they would be this age now—mature but still young, in the prime of their strength and yet untamed by the withering of dreams. And back to Benard... Strong but never aggressive, easygoing in most things and infinitely stubborn in the rest, combining wrestlers' brawn with the delicate touch of butterflies.
Especially she remembered Benard in that terrible summer six years ago, when Finar and Fitel had set off to join their uncle in Florengia. Horold had been away suppressing some minor revolt or other, but word of the avalanche had gone first to him. Ingeld had learned of it from his letter ordering Cutrath into Werist training, breaking the promise he had given her when she agreed to bear him another son. One blow had deprived her of all her children and all pretense of a marriage.
In her agony and rage, she had sought comfort from a boy half her age, a boy even younger than the twins she mourned. Benard had given it unstintingly, knowing his compassion might cost him his life. At first she had asked only the solace of holy Nula, but as he held her in his arms through a long night of tears, holy Eriander had come to offer support also. If either mortal had invoked that god, it had been she, not Benard, although even then he had been no innocent. He could easily have refused her, telling her to remember her age, and his, to reflect that she was the light of Veslih on Kosord, who performed countless marriages every year and lectured every bride on the importance of fidelity.
For a season they had been lovers. With Benard she had found the happiness her marriages had lacked. Many in her household must have guessed, but there had been no open scandal and holy Veslih had not burned Kosord to the ground in retribution.
Horold had found out, of course. All he needed to do was ask his resident seer what his wife had been up to—those busybodies. The brutish-looking man who had left in spring to go campaigning had returned in fall as a thing that walked on its hind legs. Their ensuing battle had been as memorable as any he could ever have fought, with him calling her a whore and her demanding to know what sort of shoats he expected her to farrow. In the end they had stopped fighting without ever making peace. He had known that any harm to her would cause the people to rise in a rebellion that he could suppress only by crippling the city for years to come.
Fortunately Benard had been the one man in the satrapy beyond his reach, a state hostage whose death would rouse the fury of his brother Stralg or, worse, their sister. Horold was terrified of Saltaja. So the unspoken terms had been that there would be no open break, that Benard would not die, and that Ingeld would sleep alone in the future. Horold had not set paw in her bedroom since. Ironically, she knew that she was married to the best of the four sons of Hrag, that none of the others would have been so forgiving.
It had been a very long time since a man lay where Bena lay now.
"Benard Celebre!" she snapped. "You are a fool!" She whirled away, marching across the room in sudden rage. When she turned, he was upright already, feet on the floor, swaying as he peered at her with sleep-sodden eyes.
"Uh? You told me to come here."
"That was before I knew that Horold was going to send you!" She swirled over to the arches, around by the bathtub, back to the door again, robes dancing.
He sat down heavily and mumbled at his toes, "You are not making a huge quantity of sense, my lady."
"Fool! Can't you see the danger?" she shouted, still pacing wildly. "He insulted Cutrath and forbade him to hurt you. He heaped gold on you so the court cheered in wonder. He even sent you to me. Simpleton! Half-wit! Jar-head! You must go. Now!"
Then she saw how he was looking at her and cursed again. He knew the signs—she was overwrought and flushed from the fire. Pyromancy always left her aroused and vulnerable; her mother had confessed the same. Horold had known, back when he was still human, that a visit right after an augury would not go unrewarded. A long time ago, that! But she was not too old to feel the need, and Benard could read her as easily as he could shape clay. He rose to his feet again and tried to intercept her. "Ingeld—"
"Don't touch me! Can't you see it's a trap, fool? You're a dead man, Benard Celebre, a dead fool. Hurry. Leave before it's too late."
"No, I don't see." His vision was always selective.
"I mean he's shown you favor so he won't be the second most obvious suspect when bits of you turn up in the midden. But that's what he intends to do—disassemble you, claw you to bare bones. Benard, Benard! How could you possibly do anything so unspeakably stupid as to challenge Cutrath and then win? In front of his friends?"
"It was win or have all my guts kicked out." He smirked, pleased with himself. Great, lumbering bear!
"Silence! And why were you such a pea-brain as to come to court and brag about it? Why did you let that stupid Witness hag vomit it all out for everyone to hear? Why did she know what had happened? Answer me!"
Eyes of oiled ebony gleamed. "Make up your mind. I thought I was supposed to remain silent. Stand still, woman, you're making me giddy. Oh, gods, I want to kiss you!"
She flinched back. "No! He'll ask that Witness trollop what you did in here. They're bitches! Horold can ask anything about anyone and they'll tell him. She witnessed? There was no hedging or double-talk?"
He frowned. "No. I mean yes. She witnessed."
"How?" Ingeld howled. "Why are you so important that she sees what you do?" The Maynist's interest was inexplicable, but it confirmed the pyromancy. This seemingly insignificant artist was not insignificant at all.
"I expect it was Cutrath she was—"
"No! No! Last sixday he disappeared on a drunken binge. Horold asked where he was and the seers knew only that he was out of range, not in the palace. Last night they must have been seeing you!"
"Perhaps she could hear my thoughts this morning."
"Mayn's blessings do not include reading thoughts, only emotions. You must go now, Benard! Oh, look at you! Those fingernails! Are you eating properly? What's that all over your kilt?"
"Charcoal... blood? Twelve curses!" He was more upset by that tiny bloodstain than he had been by her prophecies of sudden death. "It's not my kilt. I'll have to buy Thranth another."