"But how shall I know when that comes?"
"Thou shalt know, daughter," Gwen assured her. "Believe me, thou shalt know. But if thou must have some guide, here it is: If thou dost find thyself even asking the question, 'Am I in love?' then thou art not. When thou art in love, thou wilt know it beyond the shadow of a doubt. If thou dost wonder if thou art in love, then thou art not. Aye, if thou art in love, thou wilt know it—and there is no more to be said."
"Truly, good mother?" Cordelia asked, in a very small voice—and for a moment, Gwen saw her as a little girl again, a five-year-old clinging to Gwen's skirts. She stood up, smiling, and embraced her child. "It was true for me, my daughter—oh, how it was true, and is! I cannot say what was true for others, only for myself. If it is love, thou wilt know it. It will not be, "Am I in love?' No, the voice within thee shall say, "So this is love!' "
"Yet how if I love two?" Cordelia asked, still quite small. "And how if both love me?"
"Wait," Gwen advised. "Wait until thine heart has spoken for one, and only one, for the other is a liar. Wait, daughter—only wait."
In the sitting room of her suite, Chief Agent Finister paced the floor, still disguised as Lady Delilah. The mask of innocence was dropped; the clinging vine had fallen away, to be replaced by the whiplash. Her eyes flashed fire, every movement tense with barely suppressed rage.
Her lieutenants stood in respectful silence against the walls of the room, three of them men, two women. The men were nearly salivating, feeling themselves galvanized by the mere sight of their leader, felt every cell of their bodies respond, even now, when the lady was not being at all seductive—even now, when she was enraged and might very well attack one of them with lethal intent. But she was completely beautiful; every line, every gesture, every curve kindled desire within them.
The two women watched in mixed awe and envy—awe that a woman had gained the foremost position of power among the anarchists of Gramarye; envy of that power, and of the beauty that she had used as a tool and a weapon, to rise to that position.
"How dare she outshine me!" Delilah fumed as she paced the room. "How dare she win the Prince's eye—and how dare he be merely courteous to me, yet burning with. ardor for her!"
No one dared answer.
"We must do away with her!" Delilah spun on her heel, jabbing a finger at one of the women. "Did Gerta take her that cup of poisoned wine?"
"Five or ten minutes ago, Chief," the woman said quickly. "As soon as you ordered it, the wine was prepared and sent up."
Delilah nodded, eyes burning. "We still dare not attempt an open assault—these Gallowglasses have proved too powerful in the past. But a poisoned cup, here in our headquarters, where everyone around them is one of our agents—aye, here we may have at them." She burst into rage again. "Where is the silly goose?"
There was a knock at the door. One of the men reached to swing it open, and Gerta entered.
"Well?" Delilah pounced upon her. "Did she drink it?"
"N-n-no, Chief."
"Not drink it! Did you not press it upon her?"
"I ... I couldn't, Chief. She wasn't there."
"Not there!" Delilah halted, staring. Then, finally, she probed with her own mind, her eyes glazing for a moment. It was true—wherever Cordelia was, she was beyond Delilah's range.
Chief Agent Finister was a very powerful esper, but her range was very limited. Within that range, she was formidable, especially in the area of projective telepathy. She excelled at the crafting of witch-moss, and at inserting her own commands and thoughts into another person's mind at so deep a level that it amounted to instant hypnosis. This also made her able to kindle passion in any man, to make herself seem infinitely desirable. It was this last trait that she had used to win her office—coupled with extortion and assassination.
"Her broomstick was gone, too, Chief," Gerta supplied. "After all, she is a witch."
"She could be anywhere!" Delilah threw up her hands in disgust, turning on her heel to pace again. "Did the sentries not see her go? Did no one see where she sped?"
"None, Chief."
"Of course not!" Then, suddenly, Delilah stopped, lifting her head, a strange, feral gleam coming into her eye. "She is gone, she is fled. Now might we slay the Prince and be one step closer to loosing anarchy upon Gramarye!"
"He has a younger brother," one of the men protested. "And when he comes of age to be susceptible to me, I shall slay him likewise! Then, when the King and Queen die, the barons shall vie to see who shall have the Crown—and war shall be loosed upon this island! Let us not waste the opportunity! Creep into his chamber, stab your daggers into his heart, run him through with your swords!" Her voice sank low, with an intensity that` raised the hairs of her lieutenants. "For I will see his blood!"
Her men stared at her, appalled. Not a single one of them doubted the true reason for this murder. Oh, surely, it was excellent policy for the anarchists. Baron against baron, duke against duke—a chaos of war out of which a few strong warlords would arise. They would tear the land apart in their own turn until the peasants, sickened by war, would rise up and cut them down.
Then, guided by the anarchist cells, they would establish their own local governments which, carefully guided, would wither away, and the land would be left without government, without law, without oppression, guided only by custom and the natural morality inherent in each human being, the innate nobility of the species. This was their dream.
Of course, they blinded themselves to a few unpleasant truths that disagreed with their vision. They ignored some of the more base impulses of human beings, and the savage aspects of the natural social rules that arise even in the animal kingdom, plus the fact that there are always unbalanced humans who are motivated more by greed than by concern for their fellows—but all dreamers overlook a few things they do not wish to gaze upon.
Still, those reasons of policy were scarcely what had motivated Delilah to order this assassination. All of them knew that she had intended to captivate Alain, then marry him. What would have happened then was open to speculation. Many of them suspected that her real goal was personal power, and that she would forget the anarchist cause in an instant when it had served her purpose—or even turn against them, seek to wipe them out, as threats to her own position.
That didn't affect their loyalty, of course. It was based on fear and lust, on the men's side, and on the women's, on admiration and fear.
So none of them really believed Alain's assassination was a matter of policy. They all knew that Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and that, somehow, incredibly, unbelievably, Prince Alain had scorned their leader, the Lady Delilah, Chief Agent Finister, whom any one of the men would have given his life for—if, before death, he could have shared the ecstasies of her bed.
"His comrade," one of them ventured, "Geoffrey Gallowglass. He is a warlock, and a powerful one."
"Moreover," said another, "he is highly skilled with weapons—perhaps the most expert in all the land." Delilah smiled, with cruel anticipation. "I made an appointment with him, to play a game of chess; he expects me even now."
The men all stiffened in jealousy.
"But he shall not find me." Delilah turned to one of her female lieutenants. "His weakness is women. Send him your most voluptuous, most accomplished assistant—and when he is deep in his revels with her, ignoring the world around him and least expecting attack, drive a dagger under his ribs. Then bring me his head."
The men all shuddered, but their jealousy was the only guarantee she needed.
"And what of the bandit Forrest?" one of the men protested. "Might he not come to the Prince's aid?"