“Slightly dingy brown hair almost down to his shoulders, dark eyes, relatively fit, average height?” Average in all the ways necessary to avoid drawing too much attention to himself.
Adran nodded, the furrows in his brow deepening.
Yiloch jumped to his feet. It had to be the same man. That adept was Myac and he suspected Terral knew as much. Striding to the door, he reached out with ascard, trying to locate Terral in the palace. His skill with that kind of detection wasn’t overly developed, but it ought to be good enough in this limited range.
“What’s wrong?” Adran asked, jogging after him.
“My family has already betrayed me,” Yiloch hissed.
There!
Terral was in the palace library. Adran asked no more questions, he followed Yiloch at a swift pace through the palace. They startled several servants and more than one royal guard who all hurried out of the way. One of the double doors to the multi-level library stood ajar. Yiloch threw them both the rest of the way open and stormed in. Terral stood along one book lined wall smiling and talking to Lady Auryl. When he turned toward the sound of the opening doors, his face paled, the smile dissolving, and the book he held dropped from his hands, forgotten.
Yiloch used a touch of ascard to speed his movement across the remaining distance between them and grabbed Terral’s shirtfront, slamming him back into the shelves. Several books fell from their perches. Lady Auryl backed away, her mouth opened in a silent “o” of surprise. She caught one heel on her own skirts and nearly fell, catching herself on a shelf and knocking another two books to the floor.
Terral gasped, trying to catch his breath through the pain from the impact.
“You’ve been working with Myac,” Yiloch accused, fighting the fury that made him want to beat the man in front of him senseless.
Terral’s eyes jumped to Adran and then to Auryl as if hoping one or the other might come to his defense. Lady Auryl only looked confused and frightened, her eyes darting from Yiloch to Terral and back again. Adran, who had gone to her side, glared at Terral, more than willing to believe the accusation.
“Why?” Yiloch demanded, punctuating the inquiry by lifting him with the help of ascard enhanced strength and shoving him harder into the shelves.
Terral grimaced and defeat broke across his handsome features. In the end, Terral simply wasn’t a fighter.
“Myac is… powerful,” he managed between gasps of pain. “He’s also… my son.”
It was as if someone had kicked Yiloch in the gut. Unable to draw a breath, he dropped Terral, who slumped to the floor, cowering against the shelves amidst a pile of fallen books. Yiloch turned away from him and dropped, listless, into a nearby chair. He scowled at nothing for several long seconds, then he faced Terral, finding his breath again.
“Myac’s your son?”
Terral nodded and started to stand, but he winced part way up and slumped back to the floor. “He’s my only child.”
Yiloch shook his head, closing his eyes for a few seconds. This was far more complicated than he had imagined it would be. Myac himself was family then. It wasn’t a revelation that pleased him in the least.
“What is he trying to accomplish?”
“He wants to put me on the throne and make himself the rightful heir to the empire,” Terral responded, his voice still tight with pain.
The man looked truly wretched crumpled there and Yiloch felt a bitter stab of satisfaction. “All of this is merely a grab for power?”
Terral’s eyes narrowed and the misery transformed, giving way to a sudden and unexpected sneer of rage. “No,” he snarled. “The power is only an extra incentive. Something to sweeten the revenge.”
Yiloch shook his head, mystified by Terral’s words and the sudden change in his demeanor. “Revenge for what?”
“You killed his mother” Terral was shaking now, though whether from pain or passion was hard to tell. “You cut her down like an animal.”
Myac’s face flashed in mind from the moment he stood trapped by Indigo’s power, near panic as he watched Yiloch cut down the emperor. The image transformed, the eye and hair color changing, becoming the panicked features of a youth standing in the doorway of a burning house. A boy who had watched Yiloch kill his mother. Images of his own mother’s death flashed through his mind then, the crossbow bolt punching through her slender throat, bright blood on pale skin and the fading of the light in her eyes as she left him. He could recall the feel of her warm blood covering his hands, soaking into the fabric of his pants when he pulled her to him and struggled to stop it.
His stomach turned and an involuntary moan escaped his lips.
Fate was a cruel mistress. He may as well have murdered his own mother. Myac, in a terrible way, was another version of him, seeking vengeance for the exact same loss that had led Yiloch to that village, to that moment, in the throes of a blind rage stoked to a killing frenzy by Emperor Rylan.
Yiloch jumped to his feet, knocking over the chair. His gut was a nest of knots and hollow regrets. He turned, kicking the toppled chair. It flew into a freestanding shelf, one ornate wooden leg snapping as the shelf rocked and more books fell to the floor. He slid his hands behind his neck and bowed his head before the weight of a new, overwhelming misery. They balled into fists there and he grimaced, yearning to lash out at anything or anyone to release the turmoil within, but that passionate fury was what led him to this miserable place.
Lashing out won’t help, a voice said in his mind, sounding disturbingly like both Indigo and his long dead mother.
An icy calm suffused him then and he lowered his hands, seizing control. He turned, his gaze locking on Terral. The other man had gotten to his feet and stood there hunched with pain. Now he stepped back, bumping into the shelf before Yiloch’s cold stare. Another book fell, clipping his shoulder on the way down.
“I can’t change the past,” Yiloch stated.
“Neither can I.” Terral lowered his gaze, rubbing at the bruised shoulder. “I never wanted any of this.”
“I know.”
Terral glanced up at him, his brow pinched with confusion.
Yiloch responded with a bitter smile. “You never had any ambition, Cousin. You and my brother were much alike in that way. I guess Myac must take after his mother.” She had been beautiful and determined. A woman trying to save herself and protect her son before he cut her down. “He will never stop looking for revenge. He has to die.”
Terral deflated, sliding down against the shelf so that he was once more sitting on the floor amidst the fallen books, his long hair fell forward to hide his face when he hung his head. Yiloch went to sit in another chair. Lady Auryl watched them both, quiet tears tracking down her soft cheeks. Whether or not she understood all of what had passed between them, she would have to be all but dead not to feel the ache of loss that filled the room. Adran stood with an arm around her shoulders, deliberately looking at neither of them.
“Maybe if I talked to him,” Terral started, gazing up at Yiloch, his voice little more than a whisper. Yiloch gave him a sharp look and he sighed again. “No. He’ll never listen to me. Do you think you can defeat him?”
He regarded Terral. The man’s tone was flat, expressing no emotion either way. Perhaps part of him wanted Myac gone. He was an illegitimate son, not that most nobles didn’t have one or two illegitimate children. This was the first time Yiloch had ever seen the man look truly miserable. His son’s ambition and hunger for vengeance had driven him a very long way out of his comfort zone. Did he even care that Yiloch had killed the woman who fathered his only child? He certainly didn’t appear to share Myac’s thirst for revenge. There had been that brief flicker of anger, but even that had been fleeting.
Yiloch looked away from his cousin, feeling a swell of disgust with his lack of devotion to his only son and the woman who mothered him. “If he is alive and we get through the coming battle we are bound to find out sooner or later,” he said finally.
All four of th
em turned when Ian cleared his throat. The young creator stood in the doorway of the library, looking only at Yiloch first then he started to look around, his brow knitting in a puzzled look.
“My lord, I apologize for interrupting this…” he trailed off and his gaze meandered over the fallen books around a rather humble Lord Terral. “Shall I call someone to come clean this up?”
A spike of frustration lanced through Yiloch. He closed his eyes and took a few deep breaths to bring it under control. The last thing he needed was to let his frustration drive him to start attacking his most valuable people without cause.
“I…” he trailed off, fighting the edge of anger that still tried to creep through in his voice. “I suspect you came here with some other purpose,” he said, managing an even tone this time.
“Ah… yes.” Ian met his eyes and Yiloch realized the poor creator was probably running on even less rest than he was. He mustered a smile, hoping the sympathy in the expression would help. Ian answered with a rather tremulous almost-smile and continued. “Lord Theron Milan is at the inner gates. He is here as an emissary from King Gavin to request an audience with Lord Terral and Lord Captain Adran.” He nodded to each man in turn, then a sudden bemused grin cracked his features. “Convenient that you’re all in one place. He doesn’t appear to know that you have returned, my lord,” he added, his gaze drifting back to Yiloch.
Theron Milan. Indigo’s uncle and a highly regarded representative of the Caithin kingdom. Yiloch had never met the man, but he had heard his name mentioned respectfully with some frequency during his stay in Demin. More than one member of the King’s High Council had boasted of Theron’s skill in handling sensitive diplomatic missions. This one fit that description remarkably well. Despite his exhaustion, he was eager to speak to the man, though he suspected it had a lot more to do with his family ties than his political prowess.
“I imagine he’s about to get more of an audience than he bargained for,” Yiloch replied. “Ian, find someone to escort him to the throne room then go get some rest.”
Ian’s expression hardened, a sudden clarity in his gaze. “I will attend you, my lord, in the throne room along with Lord Terral and Lord Captain Adran. The Caithin will not get a second chance at you so long as I draw breath.”
The fierce conviction in his tone surprised and pleased Yiloch. There would be no arguing with the creator and he found he wasn’t inclined to do so. He nodded. “So you shall, though I recommend that we both change first.” His gaze slid past Terral and came to rest on Lady Auryl. “Lady Auryl, I apologize for startling you.”
“I am fine, my lord.” Her voice trembled, but she lifted her chin and pulled her shoulders back, regal as ever. “I will retire to my rooms and let you attend to your business.”
They all wished her good evening and Yiloch waited until she had left the room, then he turned to Adran. “Captain Adran, please escort Lord Terral to his rooms. Ian, go with him and see to it that he cannot leave said rooms for the time being. When that is done, clean up and join me in the throne room.”
There were questions in the widening of Ian’s eyes, but his firm nod said he would leave them to a more appropriate time. For now, he would do as ordered.
Terral swallowed with the expression of someone who had tasted spoiled wine, but the wary glance he gave Ian was enough to assure Yiloch that he would offer no fight. Terral would have to wait until they were done with Lord Theron and he wasn’t about to have the traitor wandering freely about the palace any more than he was going to allow him contact with the Caithin emissary.
When they were all gone, Yiloch sat a moment more, considering the mess he had made. The collection in the palace library was exceptional, boasting books from several different countries, many rare and highly prized tomes among them. He scanned the floor, hoping nothing valuable had been damaged in the encounter.
After a few minutes, he became aware of another presence in the room, tensing when the individual drew on ascard. She had entered from a small servant’s door tucked into a wall of books. Her pale lips curved up, increasing the wrinkles around her eyes, and she curtsied to him, then looked up and caught a book as it rose from the floor and glided into her hand. The book opened and pages flipped past under her scrutinizing gaze. When the book closed, she looked up at him and smiled again.
“Still here, my lord? I can take care of this.” As she spoke, the book traveled through the air, landing back on its shelf and another rose to her hand.
“It appears that you can,” he replied with an amused smile. How many times had he caught his younger brother, Delsan, sitting in a cubby watching palace librarians moving books around with ascard? For the first time, he felt a true pang of remorse for the loss of his brother and guilt rushed in on its heels. Maybe he was even more like his father than he cared to admit. It was something to consider and perhaps try to improve upon going forward.
“A good evening to you,” he murmured, as he rose to leave the room.
“And to you, my lord,” she called softly after him.
CHAPTER TEN
The man the usher announced as Lord Theron was a handsome individual… for a Caithin gentleman. Well-groomed dark hair brushed his shoulders, the length a little longer than was typically popular in Caithin society. Dark eyes peered out of a face that had nobility and refinement etched into every curve or well-defined angle. The fitted doublet he wore was fashioned in a rich chocolate color so dark it looked almost black, with Caithin red and gold embroidered sparingly down the sleeves, the red and gold hawk above a crown, the crest of the king, stitched over the left breast. He moved with considerable grace, almost worthy of a pureblooded Lyran and, to his credit, his stride and expression didn’t falter when he saw Yiloch sitting on the throne. With only one tiny hint of a twitch in one finger, he continued to the foot of the dais and bowed deep.
“Lord Theron Milan,” Yiloch acknowledged.
Given that Caithin had committed a crime against Lyra by taking him hostage, it would have been reasonable to at least make Theron wait a while in that bow before acknowledging him, but desire burned in Yiloch. A desire to learn more of Indigo through this man who had helped raise her and he made little effort to quell it. Besides, there was far too much at stake for him to indulge in petty punishments, even for as serious an offense as that of which Caithin was guilty.
“Your Highness, I must confess that I am somewhat surprised to find you here.”
“So am I,” Yiloch replied with wry humor. “I only made it back here a few hours ago.”
Theron met his eyes, his expression tightening, not in anger, but in a quick grimace of emotional pain. An ache resonated through Yiloch in response. The grimace and the faint flicker of hope that sparked in the emissary’s eyes spoke volumes that he suspected the man would never put into words without prompting.
Taking a chance, he said, “I regret to inform you that Lady Indigo is not here, but she was well when last I saw her.” Heartbroken and adrift without a place to call home, but well enough.
Theron ducked his head, trying not to let his emotions flavor the audience, but not before Yiloch caught the faint smile and the shine of relieved tears in those dark eyes.
“Thank you, my lord,” he said after a brief silence, his voice, tight with emotion, barely crossing the distance between them.
“I did not make her do this,” Yiloch stated, relenting to an odd inclination to defend himself.
A startled noise came from Adran and, to his surprise, Theron laughed.
“No disrespect, my lord,” Theron said, gathering his composure. “You may be an emperor, but it would take more than a mere emperor to force that woman’s hand.”
Yiloch surrendered to a fond, nostalgic smile. This was complete madness. Given recent events, the room ought to be frozen over with hostility at best. Theron, however, didn’t seem to harbor as much animosity toward him as he would have expected and he found himself wanting to trust the man. They had a common bond in their
love of Indigo and perhaps that connection was something they could build upon.
“Lord Theron, I realize our countries are on uneasy terms, to put it rather mildly. The things we meet now to discuss could well lead to war between us. However, I will soon have another army pounding on my gates and I could use a glass of wine to ease my tension. Would you be willing to retire to a more comfortable room and have a drink while we speak?”
Theron’s gaze swept over him, taking his measure. After only a few seconds hesitation, he nodded. “I would, my lord.”
“Send food and wine to the crystal sitting room,” Yiloch ordered, catching the eyes of an elderly attendant who waited at the corner of one edge of the dais. The man bowed and vanished through a doorway. The usher also vanished, going ahead to ensure the room was properly prepared.
When they entered the crystal sitting room, candles burned and a warm fire crackled merrily in the hearth. The reflections of the fire and candles danced about on the created crystal windows that lined one wall, much like those in his private chambers. This room, with its pale ivory and bleached wood furniture had been one of his mother’s favorite rooms. Delicate, created crystal wind chimes hung outside a window that looked out on a small flower garden she had cultivated herself. Beyond the garden was a magnificent view of the gilded straight second only to that from his chambers. He had avoided the room since taking control of Yiroth, but tonight, with an army marching on the city and the alliance with Caithin on the verge of complete collapse, it felt like the right time to use it. Now, while Lyra was still his.
“Please, make yourself comfortable,” Yiloch gestured to the room, sweeping Adran and Ian into his glance to ensure they understood that the offer encompassed them as well.
Wine and a tray of bread, fine meats and cheeses arrived as they were sitting. When the attendants left, Yiloch met Theron’s discerning look. The man rested back in the chair he had selected, crossed his legs, and took a sip of the wine, offering a nod in appreciation of the fine vintage. Then he rested the glass on a small side table and leveled a steady gaze at Yiloch.
Apostate: Forbidden Things Page 9