by Amy Raby
“Gods, Lucien.”
“So now you know my secret, the one I’ve never told anyone, not even Rhianne. Mathian didn’t die at any assassin’s hand. He died at mine.”
“I wouldn’t say he died at your hand. That was a mercy killing.”
Lucien pulled her closer. “And yet, if he’d had help, he might have survived. I just couldn’t get him that help. I still wonder sometimes if . . . well, if on some level I wanted him to die. And if that influenced my decision.”
“I don’t see how it could have, if there was only one reasonable option to choose from. How did you get back to camp?”
“I never made it,” said Lucien. “I crawled for a day, maybe two, and then I collapsed in a bed of plants, unable to continue. They were lemon balm plants, Vitala. I’ll never forget that smell, the tang of the lemon balm and the stink of my rotting leg. I couldn’t stop thinking about Mathian and the horror of opening his throat. I lay there a while—days, maybe. Then, next I remember, I was in the infirmary tent back at camp, with my lower leg amputated. A search party had found me. But they never found Mathian and the others, though I showed them where the attack took place.”
“They were eaten by wolves,” said Vitala. “You made the right decision.”
“We assumed the Obsidian Circle had found them.”
“No, my people never did. Although if they had found Mathian while he still lived . . . Well, he’d have been better off with the wolves.”
“I don’t know, Vitala. I’ve had many occasions to examine the decision I made that day with a clearer head, and I’m not certain I did the right thing. He had a chance, and I took it from him.”
Vitala shook her head firmly. “I’d have made the same decision.”
His mouth quirked. “Somehow I’m not entirely reassured by that. But I’m glad someone knows now besides me. It’s been a hard secret to carry.”
Vitala fell silent, marveling at Lucien’s trust. His claim to the imperial throne could be compromised if his detractors knew he’d killed his elder brother. Cassian would certainly have made much of it. “So, now I know why you hate lemon balm tea.”
“Do you remember that field I made us go the long way around, just north of Tasox? There was lemon balm growing by the side of the road.”
“And you didn’t want to be reminded. It makes sense to me now.”
He sighed. “Vitala, it’s more than that.”
“How do you mean?”
“It’s more than not liking lemon balm tea. It’s hard to explain, but sometimes when I smell lemon balm, I go back to that time, the day of the attack, the aftermath, the days spent lying in those crushed plants. I don’t mean I just think about it. I mean I feel as if I’m literally there, reliving the event. I can’t control it. It happens, and I sort of . . . lose myself.”
Vitala’s throat suddenly constricted. He relived the incident? Wasn’t that just like what happened to her? Her heart throbbed, its pace increasing until she could hear the blood rushing in her ears. “Lucien—three gods—I think I know what you’re talking about. It happened to me.”
His voice was soft. “What’s happened to you?”
“I’ve relived a past incident like that. The other night, in the marriage bed. That’s what happened.”
“Tell me.”
His voice was gentler and less surprised than she’d expected, and she realized he’d already guessed it. He’d known that what had happened to her in the marriage bed was analogous to what had happened to him when he smelled lemon balm tea. Why hadn’t he said anything before? Perhaps he’d been too ashamed—it couldn’t have been an easy story to relate. For that matter, she didn’t especially want to tell hers. But now that he’d shared with her, it seemed only fair. Besides, if he understood what was happening to her, maybe he could help. “I was fourteen when I killed for the first time.”
“Was that a practice kill?”
“Yes. How do you know about those?”
“Bayard said something. He was trying to talk me out of marrying you.”
Vitala snorted. Somehow the knowledge that Bayard had tried to prevent this marriage made her more inclined to make it succeed. “He’s such an ass. What did he say about my practice kills?”
“That you were reluctant to carry them out.”
“Well, that’s true.” She took a deep breath. “The first time, the man was tied up and gagged. He was a Kjallan soldier, a patrolman who’d strayed too close to the enclave. I was to use my Shard on him. I was hanging back; I remember this terrible cramping in my stomach. Bayard had to yell at me and threaten me to get me to make the kill, and I finally stepped forward and did it. The second time, I was a year older. The man was loose in a room, weaponless, and I was armed with a knife and a sword. They threw me in the room with him, and my job was to come out alive. That was the easiest of my practice kills, because he immediately tried to take the weapons from me, and I fought back, so even though it was an execution, I just went through the motions like in the training room, and it felt like self-defense.
“The third was two years later, and . . . that was the difficult one.” Her throat tightened again, and she paused for a moment, trying to calm herself. Lucien rubbed her back. “This man, another Kjallan soldier, was locked in a small room and left there for a few days. He was given food and water, as if we were going to keep him prisoner, but the Circle does not keep prisoners. I was sent in, unarmed and dressed in a light shift. My orders were to seduce and kill the soldier as I would a war mage. He was tied up, so I could have killed him outright, like the first man, but my superiors wanted me to practice the technique I would be using in the field. They were watching from a hidden window.
“By the way he stared at me, I could tell that of all the things he’d expected to happen to him—torture, interrogation, execution—having a young, skimpily dressed woman enter his cell was not one of them. He was lying on the bed with his wrists and ankles bound. I walked over and untied him. I had no knife, no weapons at all, so undoing the knots was painstaking work. He questioned me endlessly as I worked. Who was I? What was I doing here? Why was I untying him? I didn’t say a word, and I’m sure he believed I was Kjallan—a fellow prisoner, perhaps, who’d come to aid or comfort him. When I finished the last knot, I kissed him. And then I started to undress him.
“I can’t imagine what he was thinking. He’d been expecting to be killed or interrogated, and here was this young woman who untied him and wouldn’t say a word, but apparently wanted to make love to him. He didn’t resist. He was quite cooperative.”
Lucien’s arm moved suddenly, bumping her, and he muttered a quick apology. His muscles were hard, she realized, knotted up with tension.
“I’ll skip the details,” she said. “What struck me was how young he was—no more than seventeen, I think. He was handsome. Indeed, he was almost a younger version of you, very sweet and gentle.”
“I’m not sweet and gentle,” grumbled Lucien.
“I think you are,” said Vitala. “He kept telling me how beautiful I was, though I never said a word back to him. I could feel his beating heart next to mine as he . . .” She swallowed. “I did what I’d been trained to do. You’ve seen my death spell in action. It’s not a pleasant sight, and I was literally attached to him—his hands locked around me as the paralysis took effect, and in the early stages of his death throes he was also . . . in me. You know. When I finally freed myself from his grip, I fled to the far side of the room. And I had the strangest experience. It was like I left my body. I was on the outside, looking down at myself as I cowered in a corner, staring at his shuddering, dying body on the bed.”
She crammed her fists into her eyes as if to physically press back the tears. “I have no memory after that point. Someone must have come and fetched me.” She took a deep breath.
Lucien was still for a long time. His hand on her back had gone motionless.
She let the tears come. “So, now you see why I can’t—”
&
nbsp; “Three gods, Vitala,” choked out Lucien. “I’m sorry. That sounds worse than what happened to me.”
“For you, it’s lemon balm tea. For me, it’s—”
“I know.” He hugged her face to his chest. “But wait. You killed seven men after that incident. Weren’t some of those—well, for lack of a better term, sex kills?”
“Yes, two of them. Remus and one other man, a sort of practice mission I was assigned before I went after you.”
“So why didn’t you have this problem with them?”
“I don’t know.” She wiped her eyes. “Probably because they didn’t remind me of that young soldier at all. They were much older. They didn’t look like him, they didn’t act like him—”
“Wait,” said Lucien. “So the whole problem is the way I look? What you’re saying is we could solve this by putting a sack over my head.”
Vitala sobs turned to a surprised, choked laugh. “I don’t want you to put a sack over your head!”
“But we could,” he insisted. “If that’s what it took.”
“Maybe. I don’t think it’s entirely visual. I know it is partly, because I’ve had . . . ‘events’ . . . based merely on seeing someone who looked like that soldier. It happened to me in the Imperial Palace with one of your door guards.”
He stared at her. “You slept with one of my door guards?”
“No, no. I just saw him in the hall, and that was enough to trigger it.” She reached up and stroked his face, pushing back the hair that drooped over his forehead. “You look like the soldier, but not exactly. Your hair and face are similar, but I remember him having peach fuzz on his chin, and you don’t.” She ran her hand over the rough stubble. “I think you don’t look similar enough to cause a problem just by my looking at you. But in a bedroom situation, combined with all the other sensations—touch, sound, smell—that’s when it happens.”
“You might have said something.”
“I’m sorry. I was ashamed. I didn’t think you’d react well to hearing that I see images of another man when I’m with you. It’s not something I want to happen or that I can control, but until you told me your story, I didn’t think you’d understand.”
“I don’t like it,” said Lucien. “But I understand. It seems the real problem is—well, how should I say? When the man enters you. That’s what caused the event.”
She shuddered. “Yes. And I don’t think that was visual at all, because I had my eyes closed.”
He was silent for a moment, thinking, his fingers idly stroking her back. “Am I correct in assuming Remus entered you?”
“Yes, but it was . . . completely different. He was rough. I was dry. It hurt.”
He sighed. “Well, I don’t think the solution is me hurting you.”
“No.”
Again he paused to think. “But you don’t have a problem when I use my mouth or my hand.”
“No. But I can’t give you an heir that way—”
“Shh.” He squeezed her in gentle rebuke. “It’s too early to be worrying about heirs. My point is that we know at least one way to avoid your visions. We may find other ways.”
“But, Lucien . . .” How could she explain this to him? She was so limited. He had made her an empress, but she couldn’t do this simple thing that virtually any woman could do. He wouldn’t be happy with her long term, couldn’t be. He was normal, and she was broken. “You deserve more,” she choked out. “You deserve better.”
“This is what’s really bothering you. Isn’t it? You think I’m unhappy with you.”
“If you’re not now, you will be. I’m not normal.”
“No, you’re certainly not normal,” said Lucien. “You’re extraordinary. You’re beautiful and smart and deadly, and I love you. And if you’ve got some problems, remember I’m a Caturanga player. I view those as challenges.”
“Lucien—”
“Look,” he said, grabbing her hand and placing it on the stump of his missing leg. “Am I normal?”
She rolled her eyes. “You get around fine. It’s not a big deal.”
“Not a big deal?” He snorted. “In Kjall, a nation that worships physical perfection? Do you know how many of my legati laugh at me behind me back? Do you have any idea what my father used to think of me?”
“I’m sorry—I had no idea. It’s never bothered me.”
He kissed her. “I know it doesn’t bother you. You’ve never reacted to my weakness with anything more than curiosity, and I love you for that. We made a deal before. I propose we make another.”
“What sort of deal?”
“We’re neither of us flawless. You accept my broken parts, and I’ll accept yours.”
“But I’ve already accepted—”
“Shh,” he said, unbelting her syrtos. “So have I. Makes it all the easier. Doesn’t it?”
“What are you doing?” His tongue found her nipple, and she gasped.
“Sealing the deal. No more words, love, unless you’re screaming my name.”
“I don’t scream your—” She bit her tongue, because he was doing that thing with his fingers that she loved.
“Don’t lie, Vitala. Yes, you do.”
• • •
Early the next morning, Vitala watched the small encampment spring into action. Lucien had signaled Quincius and ordered him to march the bulk of the army to Blackscar Gulch. Now the small contingent of troops that had accompanied them to the coast was packing up; they’d be off by midday. She and Lucien had a final breakfast with Jan-Torres and Rhianne.
“Empress,” said King Jan-Torres. “May I speak with you privately this morning?”
“Of course, Your Majesty.”
She and the king of Mosar retired to a small office off the great hall, which seemed to have been raided of its furniture; it contained only a single chair and a flimsy desk. Jan-Torres bade her sit and fetched a chair from another room, then took a seat beside her. He seemed less intimidating today than yesterday, and she realized it must be something he could turn on and off as he desired.
“I hear you’re considering returning to the Obsidian Circle,” he said.
Vitala bit her lip. Had Lucien told him that? Perhaps Lucien had told Rhianne and she’d passed it along. “I was, but not anymore.”
“I understand you and Lucien are having problems,” he said. “I don’t know the details; you two will have to work them out. But something Rhianne said struck me, and I wanted to speak to you about it. She said you felt useless in the role of empress and believed you could best aid the war effort by taking up your former role of assassin.”
She nodded. “Lucien and I are getting along better now. But it’s true: my role as empress is an empty one. We don’t rule a country yet. We rule an army, and that army has a chain of command I have no business inserting myself into. Besides, my knowledge of strategy is confined to Caturanga. It has little real-life application. It’s not as if this war is going to be easy to win, so why waste my talent on being a figurehead? One more assassin could shift the balance.”
He smiled and said nothing.
“You agree with me?”
“Not at all. Empress, I recognize what you’re going through. Most of my officers go through it when first promoted to a captaincy. You’ve been a doer all your life, someone who accomplishes things through direct action. But now, in this less-active role, you feel useless.”
Vitala nodded.
“But you’re not doing nothing—far from it. You were the one who rescued Lucien and brought him to Riorca, and when your superiors at the Obsidian Circle didn’t share your vision of a productive alliance, you broke him out and helped him gather an army. This alliance between Riorca and Lucien’s forces came about entirely because of you.”
She flushed, pleased at his praise, but she had to correct him. “The army part was all Lucien.”
Jan-Torres nodded. “You did your part, and he did his. Remember that you are a symbol to both Kjallans and Riorcans. You and Lucien, unite
d in marriage, are living, breathing proof that former enemies can work together for a shared cause. What would it mean to those Kjallans and Riorcans if you were to suddenly abandon them?”
“I wasn’t going to abandon them. I’d be helping the war effort.”
He shook his head. “Now that you’re a figurehead, you have to consider the appearance of what you’re doing. Running away makes it look like you’ve given up. What kind of message does that send your people?”
Her shoulders sagged. “That I think things are hopeless.”
“War is psychological, Vitala. Your role is not to do, but to inspire. Work out your problems with Lucien in private. But in public, stand by his side. Show your people that you will not give up on them. You must hold this coalition together.”
Vitala swallowed the lump in her throat. “Yes, sire.”
Through the town hall’s thin walls, she heard a centurion barking orders, calling soldiers to attention. The king of Mosar cocked his head to listen. He stood, took her hand, and lifted her from her seat. “Your people are ready. Go on and take back your country.”
29
From the top of the ladder, Vitala poked her head over the partially completed stone wall. A gust of wind surged up the canyon, whipping her hair about her face. She clambered onto the wall and stood, staring out onto the rocky bleakness of Stonemaw Pass. Once a river canyon, it was now dry and dead, with only a few wilted spinebushes raveling up from the cracks.
Lucien stepped onto the wall beside her, snugged an arm around her waist, and said, “What do you think?”
“The men are making good progress.”
He nodded. “Every day counts.” He pulled her in for a kiss.
She wrapped her arms around him, sighing with contentment.
A shuddering boom startled her. Lucien’s hand tightened around her waist, and she turned to see an avalanche of rocks tumbling into the gorge. A cloud of dust and pulverized stone drifted silently upward on the tongues of the wind. Just another pyroglycerin blast, clearing space and providing raw materials for the walls that climbed a little higher each day. Two of the five were already complete. Above them, crude towers and shelters were also taking shape, as well as rockfalls that could be released onto the enemy soldiers.