As Brandl rapped politely upon the doorframe of Syllva's private chambers, he knew instantly that he had come at a bad time. He heard a faint sound like a sigh from within, then her voice bidding him enter. The Lady of Isternes sat at her dressing-table, hands pressed to her temples and pale hair unbound down her back; there were bottles of colored glass all around her, which Brandl knew contained the magicked herbs and concoctions of Lonwury. His eyes grew round at the sight. He'd known that Syllva was tired, and getting older each day—he hadn't known that she was this sick.
"Brandl, my friend," she said, raising her head up and conjuring a faint but genuine smile. "I had meant to be more composed than this when you came—I apologize."
"There is no need whatsoever, my lady," he answered. Then, timidly, he added, "Are you unwell?"
She glanced at the bottles all around her, and color bloomed along her hollow cheeks. "I am not sick," she answered, "unless you count old age as a sickness. The medicines help my afflictions, but they can never cure what ails me." She shook her head, tossing her thin and brittle hair about her shoulders. "Brandl" she murmured, "I do not think it will be long now before I depart for Deep Heaven, to rest there."
The duarough felt his heart pounding in his chest—the possibility of Lady Syllva's death had never occurred to him. She had always seemed so calm and self-possessed, someone whom time could not touch—but here she was before him, blighted with age.
The Lady picked up a bottle of rose-colored glass, and turned it idly between her fingers.
"I still have so much in my life that is yet unfinished," she sighed. "Hadin is a fine young man, but he lacks wisdom and discipline—Isternes will pass from my hands to his, and he is yet unprepared. And then there is my eldest son—Irrylath is unhappy, and makes his children unhappy, and I can help none of them…"
Brandl nodded—so she had been aware of that all this while?
"Is there anything I can do?" he asked hesitantly.
Syllva inclined her head. "There is little you can do for my troubled sons, friend," she answered, "but you might tell me whether my sister's daughter will be with us tonight or not."
Regret filled up Brandl's heart.
"No, lady," he replied, "I'm afraid she was unable to accept your kind invitation."
The Lady nodded. "That does not surprise me," she said. Then she shut her eyes tightly, as though something had suddenly pained her.
"My lady?" Brandl asked, voice rising in alarm.
She seemed to recover her composure, and waved aside his concern. "It's only a passing pain," she said, shaking her head dismissively. "They come often, these days—but tell me, how is my niece--" She started to rise, then gasped with pain and clutched the edge of the table to keep her balance.
"Lady, you are unwell!" Brandl exclaimed, and jumped up to help her back into her seat. Her face was ashen under the plum tint, and she did not even have the breath to deny the trouble she was in. "What manner of medicines are these, that steal your strength and cause you such pains as these?" he asked sharply, and picked up the vial she'd been holding to smell it.
"They are from the wise-women of Lonwury," she answered, voice hoarse. She set her head down across her folded arms, as though it pained her.
Brandl made a face at the smell of the medicine—acrid and sour, not like the fresh green herbs of the Upperlands that he was acquainted with, or the duarough-cures Maruha had used to treat his occasional childhood illnesses. He was not as learned as his uncle, Talb, called the Mage of Downwending, but he knew that a good medicine ought to smell of life—how else could life be restored to the sick? The powder in the rose-colored bottle had no scent of life about it.
Suddenly, Syllva's hand went slack. The young bard hastily set the vial down, and took her hand in his own—it was as cold as the waters of the Witch's Mere, colder than hard winterrock. He ran to the door of the Lady's chambers and threw it open
"Help! Help!" he shouted at the guards who were stationed nearby. "My lady has been poisoned!"
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"What will you do now?" Hadin asked his brother quietly.
"I don't know," the King of Avaric replied in a tight, strained voice. "What is there to do? Let Aeriel go her way…return home as soon as courtesy permits…forget that she ever came here." He shrugged, his shoulders taut with discomfort. "Thank you for asking, brother—but it's none of your concern."
"Your children will ask you about it, you know—they consume stories about the Green-Eyed Sorceress and the Fair Witch like food, or air. When do you plan to tell them the truth of the matter?"
Irrylath snapped his head around, his eyes angry and accusing.
"Do you enjoy nettling me about it, brother? Hmm? I can guess at what you're thinking—that I'm a liar, that I deceive my children and my brothers and my mother. That I don't share my life because I am ashamed and fearful." He turned his face away again to look out over the city. "Hadin—my silence is all I can give them. If I cannot love them, if I cannot be a good father to them—at least I shall not burden them with my sorrows. I will not blight them with the illness that eats me. Nor more than I would blight you, or any of my brothers."
"You've never told us," Hadin said softly. "No, I don't enjoy needling you about it—but Irrylath! If it's eating you, like you say, why do you rebuff us every time we try to help you? It's almost as if we were strangers to you, rather than brothers."
The King of Avaric gave a short, joyless laugh.
"I am a stranger to you, practically!" he exclaimed, voice bitter. "I was born more than fifteen years before the eldest of you. Syllva only had me with her for six years, and she gave me over to Dirn…to a nursemaid, after I was weaned. She did not have the raising of me—she is my mother by birth only, and you are my brother only through her. I don't even look like you!" He sighed, and pressed his thin hands to his temples. "There is only one person who knows everything that happened to me," he said, "every detail of it. She saw it in Winterrock. And she could not bear to stay with me afterward, knowing what she did. I would not inflict that upon you, Hadin."
The Istern prince's eyes grew sorrowful with some inner hurt.
"You are unjust, both to us and to Aeriel," he said. "We would not blame you for the Lorelei's doings—nor would we forsake you, no matter how terrible the things she did were. And Aeriel didn't leave because she was repulsed by you—if what they say is true, she was called away by the Unknown-Nameless ones to do their work."
Irrylath shook his head. "Ravenna had some hold over her, through that chain around her wrist…but there was already so much trouble between us. When she found out everything that happened to me…when she herself destroyed Oriencor, while I could do nothing….she saw what I was: Nothing. Insignificant. The man she had mistakenly given her heart to. So she took it back…"
Unconsciously, he traced a line down his breastbone with one finger as he spoke, where he had worn his wife's heart for two years. Hadin watched the motion, troubled—yet another mystery he did not understand, the hearts Aeriel and his brother had exchanged. He supposed that the girl's sorcery made it possible, but its significance eluded him. Perhaps Irrylath was right—his life was none of his concern, too deeply personal ever to be shared, too sickening to ever be put into words.
Timidly, Hadin touched his brother's shoulder gently with one finger.
"Irrylath," he said softly, "it's your choice. I wish I could become something other than a stranger to you. There's still time. And I've seen you with Erryl and Imrahil—you're a good father to them. Please don't turn them into strangers as well--"
The Istern prince's words were cut short as one of the Palace Guard burst into the room, red-faced and short of breath.
"King Irrylath, Prince Hadin!" he panted. "I am sorry to intrude—but your lady mother--"
"What is it?" Hadin asked, eyes growing wide.
"My lords—she has been poisoned!"