Prince of Swords

by Linda Winstead Jones

  Sophie laughed as she copied Isadora’s actions bringing a handful of water to her face. “I know what you mean. My ass aches from riding in the saddle, and my feet ache from walking. But what choice do we have?”

  “None.”

  Refreshed, the sisters sat by the stream, enjoying the beauty of this secluded place and the rest for their bodies. Isadora looked at Sophie and shook her head. Her sister had aged remarkably well, particularly when one considered that she’d given birth to and raised nine children. Three were a handful for Isadora and she could not imagine managing more, but then she’d never had Sophie’s patience.

  They were no more than three days from the coastal town where Juliet was quite sure Liane had settled. Their seer sister was also certain that Liane had changed her name and the names of her sons, but those names were not a part of that which she could discern. It was a large port town, so finding Liane could take days, or even weeks, more.

  Sophie leaned back on her hands. “I never would’ve imagined that we’d search out Liane for the purpose of putting one of Sebestyen’s sons in the palace. What if they’re both like their father? What if they both claim the throne and we exchange one war for another?”

  “From what we have heard of Ciro, Sebestyen himself would be a better emperor.” She snorted in disgust. Perhaps Sebestyen had tried to redeem himself in the end, but he had been a horrid, horrid man and a terrible ruler. “I think you should all move to Tryfyn,” Isadora said. “The King is a good man, and when Lyr marries one of his daughters, we’ll be family and he’ll be glad to welcome you all.”

  “I did not know Lyr was betrothed,” Sophie said with excitement. “What is her name? Is she mild tempered or fiery? How old is she? When will the marriage take place?”

  Isadora sighed. “He has not chosen which princess he will marry, so I can answer none of those questions.”

  Sophie was so silent, Isadora was compelled to turn her head to meet her sister’s stare. The accusation was evident.

  “You are speaking of an arranged marriage,” Sophie said in a lowered voice, as if anyone else were close enough to hear.

  “Lyr is Prince of Swords,” Isadora said calmly. That should be explanation enough.

  “So was Lucan when you met him.”

  “That was different!”

  “How so?”

  Isadora waved a dismissive hand. “Can’t we discuss something more pleasant, like…like war or demons or Sebestyen’s sons?”

  “I knew it!” Sophie grinned widely. “You don’t like the idea of an arranged marriage for your children any more than I do.” She nodded her head. “It is best to marry for love and love alone. That’s what I want for my children, and I’m sure that’s what you want for yours. We were lucky enough to marry for love, so we know how important that is.”

  “He might come to love one of the princesses.” Isadora turned her gaze to the rushing water. Yes, of course she wanted her children to marry for love, but there were also obligations to consider. “When did I get so staid and unbending?”

  “You were born staid and unbending,” Sophie said with a sister’s love. “It suits you.” With that said, she asked brightly, “I wonder which of us will be a grandmother first?”

  “Bite your tongue,” Isadora said sharply.

  Sophie laughed. “I wouldn’t mind at all being a grandmother, and when the time comes, I’m sure you’ll love it just as you loved being a mother. More so, from all I have heard from women who have grandchildren.”

  Fortunately Juliet arrived, and Sophie said no more. Grandmother! Isadora wasn’t certain she was ready for that. Was she so old? Yes, she had a few strands of gray in her hair and the lines at the corners of her eyes had grown more noticeable of late, but…grandmother?

  Juliet, who was more hot natured than her sisters thanks to her father’s Anwyn blood, did not splash water onto her face. She walked into the stream. Since her skirt was much shorter than was fashionable or proper, she didn’t have to worry about soaking her clothing. With cool water rushing against her legs to just above her knees, she turned to face her sisters.

  “A race, eh? Don’t forget about Keelia.” Her smile was wide, as if she, like Sophie, thought being old was grand and wonderful.

  Isadora sighed. So much for letting go of the subject of her age. “The years go by so fast,” she said. “I blink, and my children are grown, or almost grown. And no matter how old they get, I still worry about them.” She caught Juliet’s eyes. On occasion her sister had assured her that Lyr was alive and well, though his mission was a difficult one and the outcome was still to be decided. “What of my son?” she asked simply.

  Juliet closed her eyes and her face became very peaceful. Beyond peaceful. She took a deep breath and lifted her face to catch the rays of the sun. She did not immediately answer, as she usually did. In an instant, Isadora began to worry. Juliet saw something terrible and did not want to tell. Lyr was hurt, or in danger, or…dead.

  “Tell me now,” Isadora insisted.

  Juliet’s eyes opened, and she frowned. Not an encouraging sign. “I can’t decipher what I see when I reach for knowledge of Lyr. All I see is a loaf of bread being thrust into a raging fire. Does that mean anything to you? Do you understand the symbolism?”

  “No,” Isadora whispered. “But I don’t like it. I don’t like that image at all.”

  EVEN THOUGH THEY’D MET NO RESISTANCE SINCE LEAVING the house where he’d retrieved the crystal dagger, Lyr did not allow himself to relax. If anything, he’d been feeling more anxious of late, more on alert. Maybe it was simply the tension of being in the company of a woman for such a long period of time. Though women came and went on a regular basis, only his mother and sisters were constants in his life.

  As the moon was bright and almost full, they rode into the night. Their mission was an important one, and every step took them closer to the end—whether that end be for good or for darkness. Lyr could not help but think of what failure would mean. His friends, his family, his men—all could and would fall victim to the darkness. His sisters were young and silly and a continual annoyance, but they were his annoyance and he did not wish to see them live in a world where they weren’t safe, or worse, where they might perish at a dark hand.

  And Rayne…Ciro’s plans for Rayne were not of her doing; she had no choice in the matter. If she lived and Ciro won, then her fate would be worst of all. If he had to take her life, he’d be doing her a favor, he supposed.

  Not that she was likely to see things in that way if he was forced to hold a knife to her throat.

  It helped him to think of the worst. Imagining failure steeled his resolve, and it took his mind off other things, like the manner in which the woman who rode behind him had worked her way under his skin.

  Segyn was right. She could burn him, given half a chance.

  Not long after darkness fell, Rayne guided her horse forward, bringing it and herself to Lyr’s side. “I have been seeing more homes in the distance, all to the north. Did you come this way on your journey to my home? Is there a large town nearby?”

  There was a decent-sized village perhaps a day’s ride ahead, and if he had not known too much about Ciro’s plans for Rayne, he would have happily left her there. How would he explain to her that he wouldn’t be leaving her anywhere? He did not lie, but this was one truth he could not share.

  “There is a town ahead, where we can buy supplies and perhaps rest for a short while, but I won’t be leaving you there.”

  “Why not?”

  Lyr took a long deep breath and chose his words carefully. “It is not the best place for you. Trust me in this, Rayne. I promised to see you to a safe place. The town ahead is not such a place.”

  She nodded her head agreeably. “All right. I will trust your judgment in this matter. It’s just that I know I’m slowing you and your men down. You must be anxious to join the fight. I know Tiller and Swaine are.”

  “We will arrive in the place we are supposed t
o be when the time is right.”

  “That’s very philosophical of you,” she said lightly.

  “Man can only control so much of his destiny. That is not philosophy; it’s fact.” Anxious to change the subject, he said, “I notice that you’ve given up swearing.”

  “Yes, I have. It was not for me. I will find another way if I must.”

  If she tarnished her soul so that it was no longer what Ciro needed in order to make that special child, maybe Rayne would be safe. Maybe he would not have to see her in Ciro’s grasp or take her life, and she could have what she wanted—a quiet life in a simple place, where the monster who called her “beloved” would never find her.

  He did not think it would be easy to tarnish such a soul. Though he did not see the purity of which she spoke, he knew Rayne was a good person through and through. She had a kind heart and an easy way about her, and she would never knowingly harm a living thing. She was good, in a world where true goodness was sadly rare.

  “We will think of a way,” he said in a lowered voice. He nodded at the blue gem which lay against her chest, catching the moonlight. “I see you have taken to wearing the necklace which was stored with the crystal dagger.”

  A small hand rose up and touched the stone against the swell of her breast. “Yes. It reminds me of my mother, and I wish to feel closer to her now. I’ve been thinking about her a lot lately.”

  “She was…not like your father?”

  Rayne shook her head. Many strands of fine dark hair had come loose from her once-staid fashion and fell around her face and down her back. She was mussed, she was wrinkled, there was a smudge of dirt on her cheek. And still, she was more regal than any princess.

  “She was not at all like my father. If she had been, I do not think the dagger you carry would do you any good at all against one such as Ciro. I think it was her goodness which makes the crystal dagger a weapon for light.”

  “If that is the case, I owe your mother a great debt.”

  Rayne’s pretty brow furrowed. “I suppose.”

  He could not stand to see her frown so fiercely. “Why does that supposition make you scowl? Your mother’s goodness is a fine thing, is it not?”

  Rayne brushed a wayward strand of hair away from her face, as if it had begun to annoy her. “As we ride for hours on end, my mind wanders. It flits from one place to another, and a thousand questions fill my head. The question that has been haunting me all day won’t go away. How did my mother know, all those years ago, that the dagger would be needed now, eight years after her death?”

  The answer seemed simple enough to Lyr. “Perhaps she possessed a magic she did not share.”

  “Perhaps,” Rayne responded. Her hand gripped the blue stone as they rode forward in the night. “I did think she shared everything with me,” she added in a lowered voice.

  They rode for a while longer without speaking, and then Rayne spoke once again. “Save me from him, please,” she said simply.

  “If I can.” He would not promise her more than that, because he wasn’t certain anything more was possible.

  6

  IN THE MIDST OF ONE OF HER LONG, FREQUENT BATHS, Diella frowned at her slightly rounded stomach. In the body which had been hers many years ago, a body which was now dust, she had never conceived a child. This body, however, was apparently more fertile and had caught some man’s seed. She was not overly concerned, as there were many ways to rid oneself of an unwanted child. Diella gave a passing thought as to whom the child might belong to, and then dismissed the query as unimportant. She would not be saddled with any man’s child!

  Perhaps the pregnancy was the reason for her recent pallor and weight loss. Some women plumped up immediately when they caught a seed, but not this body. She could see the bones in her wrists and her legs were too thin, and it took more cosmetics every day to make her look beautiful. She would have suspected the truth earlier but she’d continued to bleed, though irregularly and very lightly.

  A trip to Level Seven would cure all her ills.

  Much had changed in the years that had passed since she’d been empress, but the location of the palace witches had not. The emperor’s quarters were no longer at the top of the palace, on Level One, but farther down. The lift which had once carried those of importance up and down was no longer operational, so of course, the emperor had moved his offices and personal quarters. There was no collection of concubines on Level Three, though the baths there were kept open. Some days she made use of those baths, but on other days—like today—she preferred a small tub in the privacy of her room. She was so tired that making the trip to Level Three seemed too much a chore.

  That was the child’s fault, she decided, and would soon be an unpleasant memory and nothing more.

  Diella left the tub and dried herself with a soft towel, noting the changes in her body as she took care of that simple task. She was downright bony, even though she’d been eating very well since Ciro had taken the palace. Her color was not good at all. There was a touch of yellow under the skin, and this young flesh she had stolen was actually beginning to wrinkle. That was entirely unacceptable.

  Leaving her hair damp, she donned a crimson robe that fell too loosely on her body and exited her chambers. This was not a task she could trust to anyone else, even though she did not relish the idea of climbing two flights of stairs to reach Level Seven.

  Diella did not rush, but walked slowly and deliberately up the stone staircase. She met no one. Since Ciro had taken over the palace, many of the sentinels had either deserted or been executed. Soldiers, Ciro’s Own, took their places in short order, but those soulless soldiers had a tendency to remain near to the man they worshipped.

  A few sentinels, those who were touched by the demon or simply craved what Ciro promised, had remained. They were her favorites, as they still possessed a bit of themselves and had not given their souls over to the demon. They were healthier, prettier, and they gifted her with more of their attention—which was, after all, what she needed most.

  Stop.

  Diella was surprised by the voice of the demon, as he rarely spoke to her anymore. She had served her purpose in leading Ariana and her army to Ciro, and a lavish life in the palace was her reward.

  “I want no man’s child,” she said aloud.

  You carry no man’s child.

  Diella stopped climbing and caught her breath. “It isn’t possible that the child is yours. You’re…you’re…” In another place, unable to touch her, not of this life.

  Mine, yours, Ciro’s, Lilia’s.

  Diella sat. Her legs were about to give out on her, in any case. She did not mind at all doing the demon’s work in exchange for this new and healthy—well, once healthy—body. But to carry its child? To give birth to a baby who would be both human and demon?

  “I don’t want it,” she whispered.

  What you want has never mattered. What you want doesn’t matter now. You will carry and birth this child, even if I have to order Ciro to put you in Level Thirteen for the next five months. Is that what you wish for, Diella, do you wish to go home to that dark hole beneath the palace?

  She shuddered. Nothing was worse than the emptiness that was Level Thirteen. Nothing.

  “I won’t raise this child,” Diella said as she descended the stairs, Level Seven forgotten. The Isen Demon would never allow her to rid herself of the life inside her. Still, she would not sacrifice her entire new life for a child. “Once it’s out of my body, someone else will have to care for it.”

  That is my plan, Diella. All you are asked to do is nourish and birth my daughter, Ksana.

  “Pretty name,” Diella said. “Isn’t that a flower?”

  A poisonous flower, more beautiful than any other and deadly to the touch.

  Diella placed a hand over her slightly rounded stomach. If the child was actually poison to the touch, how would she survive the months to come?

  I will protect you. All you need do is nourish Ksana and deliver her into
this world. When that is done, your obligation to me is also done. Others will be waiting to take her from you, to raise and educate her.

  As much as she hated the idea of being pregnant for the next five months, Diella was pleased to know that she’d be released from her allegiance to the Isen Demon. It was a fair enough trade, she supposed.

  RAYNE’S EYES WERE WIDE AS THEY RODE INTO THE TOWN. It was her first foray into such civilization. The four men who served as her escort surrounded her, Lyr in front, Segyn behind, Tiller to her right, Swaine to her left. They kept a sharp eye on all those who were in the streets and on the shaded walkways before shops and businesses.

  The soldiers who escorted her were an awesome sight, and that was undeniable. What must these four men look like to the farmers and shopkeepers of this village? The men shaved quickly every three or four days, but they were all due for another and looked rather rough at the moment. They were well armed and carried their weapons with the ease of warriors. They were straight of spine and hard of eye, and showed no softness, no kindness, in their exterior presentation.

  Perhaps the Circle Warriors were as foreign to the villagers as this village was to Rayne.

  The buildings which lined the street were not what she would call attractive, but they were sturdy and well kept. The people were much the same. They looked to be hardworking people, many of them a bit the worse for wear at the end of a long day. She hadn’t seen her face in a mirror in a long while. After these days of travel, she imagined that she herself appeared to be a bit worse for wear.

  One building was very noisy, and beyond opened doors she saw many men and a few brightly dressed women who seemed to be having quite a lot of fun. They laughed and drank, and there was loud, crude music and boisterous dancing that caused the women’s colorful skirts to swirl and flip.