The Lion of Farside by John Dalmas

So she asked instead how such interrogations were done. When the person was deeply enough in trance, he said, they’d answer any question, if it was skillfully put. The trick was to ask the right questions. This he did by reading the aura. A skilled questioner could see and interpret its responses to questions, and use them, along with the answers, to guide further questioning.

“And what will the result be of our session together?” Varia asked. “What is my status here now?”

“My lady, you are still the Cyncaidh’s honored guest. Beyond that, you’ll have to ask him.”

“Honored guest? I’d thought of myself as his well-treated prisoner.”

A’duaill seemed honestly pained at that; troubled at least. “I can see why you might think so, my lady. Let me suggest that you speak with Lady Mariil about it. The Cyncaidh is involved for the rest of the day, and I know that Lady Mariil hoped to talk with you after supper, her strength permitting. She’s resting just now; sleeping I suspect. The day has taxed her quite severely.”

Varia returned to Cyncaidh’s study looking forward to the evening. It seemed to her she was getting close to learning what she needed to know. The trick would be to make an ally of Mariil. Perhaps they’d agree to let her go through and bring Curtis back with her. To the empire. If they wanted her as a brood mare, maybe they’d be interested in another unusually fertile blood line—fertile by the standards of ylver and the Sisterhood. She’d promise it, if necessary. But what she and Curtis decided when they were together again might be another matter.

The book she pulled from a shelf was The Western Empire, from the Reign of Braighn the Red to the Time of Troubles. She found it fascinating, not least to learn that among this raven-haired people there’d been redheads well before Sarulin and her captor, notably Braighn the First. Who was fascinating, although the ylver he ruled might have used another adjective. If Sarulin was of Braighn’s lineage, it would explain her ruthless strength as well as her red hair.

From time to time, Varia encountered something in its pages that brought her own situation to mind. Affairs and jealousies had played significant roles in ylvin politics then. Probably they still did. And apparently, Cyncaidh wanted, intended, to make her his mistress. Apparently Mariil knew it—apparently the household staff did too—and approved. Certainly the family Cyncaidh would want an heir, preferably male, and preferably of fertile lineage, with demonstrated talent. From what she’d read these last two days, adoption was often resorted to, though historically, adopted sons were less readily accepted in matters of political power.

What would the Cyncaidh and Mariil think of Curtis Macurdy as a sire to adoptive children? Unfortunately, Curtis showed no clear ylvin traits, aside from his untrained talent and minimal body hair. Her tentative optimism of earlier that day looked—unwarranted—given what she’d just read.

Still she’d present the idea, and see what the response was.

She wasn’t good company for Ardain at supper. Being company for Ardain isn’t your job, she reminded herself, then wondered what was. When they’d finished dessert and she still hadn’t heard from Mariil, she decided to have a hot bath, and dismissed Ardain for the day. When she’d finished bathing, she dressed in her uniform again, and was sitting on her balcony appreciating the sunset, when someone rapped. The steward this time.

“Lady Varia,” he said, “the Lady Mariil would be pleased to have your company in her suite. In twenty minutes, if that’s suitable.”

Why not now? she asked herself. As if I haven’t waited long enough already. She shook the thought off irritatedly. Don’t be petty, Varia Macurdy. She gave you the twenty minutes so you could be ready without hurrying.

“Thank you. Do I go myself, or—?”

“Annith will come for you, if that’s all right my lady.”

“That’ll be fine.”

He turned and left. Twenty minutes. Her eyes lit on the dress that had been hung for her that morning; she’d had Ardain leave it out. That, she thought. I’ll wear it. Dressed as a soldier, I invite orders. Let her see me as a woman like herself.

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