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Chapter Twenty-Six

She was fair of skin and fine of build. Once she had been called beautiful. Even today, many still pointed to the delicacy of her features, the luminous quality of her eyes, the purity of the whiteness of her hair, and accounted her a beauty. But time had set its stamp on her long ago. She wore the lines and frailty of age, and it had been some time since anyone had written songs exalting her features.

Her name was Maeve, and since before the birth of most people now alive she had been Queen of Cretanis, the proud island kingdom of western Europe. She had always ruled alone; her husband, now long dead, had been Consort and Prince, never King.

Today she wore clothing of varying shades of green. The top was the precise color of rich grass that was closely tended. The skirt was made up of alternating horizontal bands of that color and a darker green, and its hem swept just across the polished surface of the floor. It was not too extravagant a dress in appearance, but it was costly of make, with devisements bound into it to keep it light so that wearing it did not tax her.

She moved along the marble gallery in one of the few areas of the palace where she could find privacy. Guards stood at the doors leading into this portion of the complex but could only come within in response to an alarm. The gallery, all of Panhellenic marble, with stone benches upon which she never sat and a small blue pool in which she had never waded, connected the display room, with its banks of glass cases and the treasures they held, with her private library.

She never spent much time in the gallery, but its serenity and its simplicity always soothed her. Today, as for the two days before, she needed soothing.

Maeve swept into her library. It was, by comparison with the two chambers before it, a plain room. Two stories in height, its walls were all concealed by bookcases, map cases, and scroll racks. The furnishings were simple—a sofa, a stuffed chair sagging in the middle from too many years of supporting even her slight weight, chairs, tables, desk lamps. Everything was in various shades of brown—all but the spines of some of the books. Only among the books themselves, and in her garments, were there exceptions.

And in the fire, of course. It blazed in its reds and oranges and yellows in the fireplace, set in the one portion of wall not occupied by bookcases.

She hesitated, looking into the fire. It should have sprung to life as she entered, rather than being ablaze already.

"Hello, Maeve."

It wouldn't do to start, or to whip around to look at the intruder. Maintaining her composure, she turned, slowly and regally, to look up. "Hello, Desmond."

Doc stood upon the walkway above, a volume in his hand, his pose suggesting he was surprised to find her here. It was a charming act, of course. Only she was allowed to be here. His very presence, uninvited, could lead to his execution.

His clothes were no more appropriate than his manner. He wore dark brown pants, riding boots, a long-sleeved black shirt with an open neck and flaring sleeves. It was rather subdued for him, and she realized, somewhat distantly, that he had probably chosen it because it was difficult to see at night. It was likely that he had worn some sort of cap over that white hair of his, so like his father's in length and texture.

"You're dressed to skulk," she said. "Are you here to kill me?"

"I'm here to talk to you." He put the book back in its case, then straddled the nearest ladder and slid down to the floor.

"How did you get in?"

"Oh, a way my father showed me. Long, long ago. I've been saving it. I knew I might only use it once." Without invitation, he moved to take one of the high-back chairs, twirling it to face it toward her before sitting.

Primly, she sat upon her comfortable stuffed chair. This situation afforded her no sense of menace. "You are here to talk about Casnar," she said.

"Casnar, and other things. By the way, is he home yet? We could not find any sign of his escape from Bardulfburg. He was, I imagine, too experienced to leave a trail."

"Escape? The Crown Prince of Cretanis need not escape."

Doc shook his head, dismissing the matter. "I will simplify matters by saying that I know you were part of his collaboration with General Ritter and Doctor Niskin."

"Speculate all you will. But I do not collaborate with gangsters."

The comment brought a smile to his face. "How about that? I do. But this is no speculation. Which I'll prove presently." He lost his smile and leaned forward, all amusement gone. "Before I do what I have to do, I should tell you this. All my life, at least in my youth, it was my hope that you would accept me. Not as a son, but as a member of your family. As a boy, I thought you kept me at a distance because I meant that Father had desired, and had, other women. But eventually I learned that was not your reason; had it been, you would have brought your indignation to bear on some of those women, or my mother, as well. You never did. You saved it for me. As a youth, I thought it was because you considered me a threat to your own children—and this was before you'd borne any. But your dislike of me persisted even when it had to be clear to you that I had no intention of seeking the crown of Cretanis." He shrugged. "As a man, I gave up wondering. I always kept my hand outstretched, in case you ever chose to take it. You never did. Now I withdraw it."

"I am devastated," Maeve said, and gave him the faintest hint of smile. He wasn't amusing her. It was time for him to go.

"But now I think I know why you always disliked me."

"Do tell."

"Because I'm Daoine Sidhe and you're not."

She did not move, did not allow a single muscle to twitch, but she felt as though she'd suddenly been plunged into water as cold as ice. She could not breathe for a long, helpless moment. She did manage to cock her head and look puzzled. It helped her stall for time, for her voice to return. But the panic that gripped her said that her delays would gain her nothing.

"The Reinis wanted me for my seed," Doc continued, "to begin a breeding program. A silly notion. And I, like my father, am a bit old-fashioned about the way I choose to dispense it. But the question it begged was why. With Casnar a willing member of their plan, why not use his seed to breed a new generation of Daoine Sidhe and raise them on the soulless words of the Reinis? There were only two possible answers, of course. Either he had no seed to offer—and the bastards he's left around Europe are ample evidence that this is not the case—or his seed was unsuited to the task. Because he is not Daoine Sidhe."

"You are ridiculous." It did her no good to offer denials, and every word she spoke cut her like an icicle being dragged out of her. But pride demanded that she bow not even a little to this man.

"I am Daoine Sidhe because my father and mother were. Casnar and I share the same father. Therefore, if he is not Daoine Sidhe, it is because you are not. Can logic be simpler than that?"

"It is not true."

"I cannot imagine being so devoted to a matter of race that you would lie about it for so many years and suffer to conceal some wayward drop of blood in your ancestry."

"I have never had to do so."

Instead of answering, Doc took an object from his pocket. Maeve recognized it from her tabletop. It was a wooden paperweight, glossy with lacquer. Embossed on it in gold were the rounded hill and eagle atop it that were the centerpiece of her family's coat of arms. The front edge featured four indentations, a little small for Doc's fingers, but he squeezed his hand into the dents anyway. "I was fairly sure when I read some documents Ish found at the site of the breeding program. They were a manual, being translated into Burian from Cretanis, on the care and feeding of little Daoine Sidhe—part of a lecture series, actually. Guidelines for expectant mothers. The Cretanis portion was not signed, but the voice seemed very like you. Still, I wasn't absolutely sure until I found this. Bitte," he said.

With a mechanical creak, one of the bookcases swung open. In the niche beyond stood an aluminum cabinet topped by elaborate glassworks.

Maeve stared at the cabinet as though she could will it out of existence, then turned the same look on Doc. But he remained resolutely in place. He set the paperweight on the near tabletop.

"What are you going to do?" she asked.

"I'm going to tell the press. They might not be shocked by your collaboration with the Reinis . . . but when they print the story of the shame you felt about your ancestry, you'll be the laughingstock of much of the world."

She let a long silence fall between them. She knew what she had to say, but the words constituted a surrender, and she had almost never surrendered in her life. Finally she managed to utter them. "What must I do to convince you otherwise?"

"Abdicate. Tonight. To Sanborn or either of the girls, but not to Casnar. My one bit of meddling with Cretanis politics will be, must be, to deny the throne to someone who supports the Reini philosophy."

Maeve didn't bother to ask what would happen if she refused. Doc did not lie. She could call her guard, or even the special bodyguard with which every member of her family was bestowed; she could not count on Doc dying, could not count on his associates not to have the information and release it in the event of his death.

She offered him a smile that was almost genuine. "Your visits are always interesting."

"I'm glad."

"This one is at an end. I should not like to endure another one. Ever."

He rose. "Farewell, then."

He moved to another bookcase and whispered a word to it. The lower section of it, only a pace and a half high, swung open. He had to duck to enter the gap it revealed. He pulled the case shut on his way out.

* * *

It was some time before he could make his way back to the airfield. Sneaking back out through the royal complex, even with the knowledge his father had given him, was laborious. Making his way unseen across the city of Beldon, which had been denied to him by an order of exile for many years, took time and effort.

As he entered the hangar where the plane waited, bells began ringing in the distance. He frowned; it was not yet six bells. And yet the peals reached six in number and continued.

The associates were alert for his return. Harris and Gaby moved out from the hangar's small office. The rest descended the plane ladder. Their faces were grave.

"What has happened?" he asked.

They hesitated and looked at one another. It was Ixyail who spoke. "Doc, it was on the talk-box. Maeve has abdicated. She said it was time. She bestowed the throne upon Prince Sanborn."

Doc nodded.

"And then she climbed to the top of Beldon Tower and leaped to her death. The bells are tolling for her."

Her words hit him like a blow. He must have let some part of his feelings show. She came forward to wrap her arms around his neck. "Doc, I'm sorry."

He held her. He forced words past the stone that had appeared, full-grown, in his throat. "So am I. But here's not the place for it.

"Let's go home."

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