Read Online Cobweb Bride by Vera Nazarian - Free Book Online Page B

the Lord has decided to punish me in my moment of arrogance. But—never mind.” He paused. “And yet I am oddly glad to hear from you—all of this. Because I see now that this is not Goraque’s doing, none of it, but something greater than either of us. So, I agree to his offer. Tell him—we are under truce. Until we come to the bottom of this, all of it, the dark sorcery or curse of hell, we will set down our arms and return to our lands. Now, go, tell him my words. Oh, and be sure to tell him that I am dead. The Chidair corpse sends his greetings and his regards! What a wonder, eh? Now, go!”
    And the Duke again began to laugh, starting out soft then harshly, his perforated body whistling with air.
    The messenger nodded his head in a crisp salute, and turned his horse and galloped away to relay the message, quickly disappearing into the bluish-shadows and the sweeping line of the Chidair army in the direction of the lake.
    Hoarfrost raised his gauntleted hand, stiff and creaking as a frozen haunch of meat, and the stalled army once more resumed movement.
    They were heading North, home.
     
    T he Winter Palace of Lethe echoed with the death rattle of the old Queen Andrelise. All night it resounded, into the dawn hours and the following day. It filled the mind of Prince Roland Osenni and—he had no doubt—the mind of his wife Lucia.
    No matter what room he entered, Prince Roland could just hear it at the edge of his auditory sense, the endless breathing, in and out, as though an anvil lay upon his mother’s chest. The weight was pressing down, down, choking her, and yet she breathed.  . . .
    He could no longer be in that chamber of unending death.
    Being there made him want to scream and do violence to her, to himself. Nor could he concentrate upon any other daily routine.
    Instead he walked around the halls and corridors aimlessly, startling the Palace serving staff. Or else, after locking himself in his personal quarters for most of the waking hours, he paced like a caged beast back and forth along a narrow long stretch of room.
    Princess Lucia shared two of his meals this day and they ate in grim silence, served by a cadre of impeccable servants who moved in such a funereal hush so that not even their trays clanked; nor silverware or bone china.
    Finally, during supper, Roland could not stand it. He opened his mouth, but his wife preceded him.
    “What—does Your Highness think?” Princess Lucia said, raising her gaze from the contemplation of a plate of sawdust-tasting soufflé before her. “Was that creature, that man-apparition in her chambers, really . . . Death?”
    “Hell be damned if I know,” the Prince replied, watching his own plate of beautifully presented delicacy that tasted like dried straw. Was it soul-sickness and a trick of the senses, or had food indeed become unpalatable?
    Her Highness might have dropped her patrician jaw at such language in the dining room at any other occasion. Today she merely observed him.
    “I don’t know,” he repeated. “I only know this is interminable. And it sounds callous for a son to say such a thing, but I wish Her Majesty would pass along already. She is in agony, my mother is.”
    “I agree.”
    The Prince looked up. His wife was looking at him, and her eyes glistened, were full and dark with moisture, reflecting the bright candlelight.
    “There must be . . . something that can be done,” she continued.
    The Prince frowned. “What do you suggest?”
    “Oh no, God in Heaven, no!” Princess Lucia hurried to negate any notion of acts of a dark nature that her words might have planted. “I would never imply such a horror as you might think I mean, no. Indeed, how could Your Highness think I ever could? I love her as much as you, with all my heart—”
    “Then what?”
    The Princess took a deep breath so that her lace quivered around her décolletage. “Your Highness will not like it, I expect. But—I must say it. You must send for Grial.