“He shall be glad to die,” Anas said with a lack of mercy that made the Magria flinch. Anas stood straight and slender in her black robes. Her eyes were blue and clear. “A thousand years is enough. Most men would find it an intolerable burden.”
“Most,” the Magria agreed wearily. She sipped again at the wine she had brought with her, needing its help. “But he is not like most.”
“He will die in the arms of Beloth,” Anas said fiercely.
“He will find death ten times harder, to match the number of times he has cheated it.”
“His death will come from the hand of one he trusts,” the Magria said bleakly. She glanced up. “When does the bride arrive for our training?”
“Lord Albain has sent word. She comes to us in two weeks.”
The Magria sipped her wine and let the silence grow.
Anas’s eyes widened. “Our future empress will—”
The Magria lifted her hand in warning. “Much of that remains unclear,” she said. But her mind was busy turning over the interpretation of her vision. The empress-elect would resist her training, would resist the emperor. As for the blue and the green ... who were these men? Blue would be Prince Tirhin, but the green? No answer came to her. A mystery. The woman whom destiny had chosen as Kostimon’s final empress would be embroiled in that mystery.
And I, thought the Magria, will die when the emperor dies.
Death she did not fear. Death at the hands of Beloth, god of destruction—yes, she feared that most implicitly.
“And the child we want from this union?” Anas asked, bringing the Magria’s thoughts back to the present. “Was it foretold?”
“Unclear.”
“How are we to train this bride if we do not know—”
“We have more to do than teach a girl how to become a queen,” the Magria snapped. “Civil war is coming. The land will inn bloody, and we will not be able to stand apart from what transpires,”
“Are we in danger, then? All the Penestrican orders?”
“The gravest,” the Magria said grimly. “Beloth has awakened.”
Alias’s eyes widened. “And . . . Mael?” She spoke the dreaded name very quietly. It was unwise to invoke the name of the goddess of destruction, that fearsome mate of Beloth. She walked clothed in famine and plague. With the distaff of suffering, she spun the fates of the doomed. The return of both was only a matter of time, thanks to Kostimon’s opening of the gates.
The Magria shook her head. “I was shown much. I shall have to meditate long to understand it all.”
“Will you try another visioning?”
The Magria did not answer.
Anas compressed her lips. “When will we have the answers we seek? Every delay only drives us farther away from power. How are we to train the bride if we do not understand the path that will be victorious for our purposes?”
There it was, the hunger and ambition that drove Anas, revealed for an instant like a flash of lightning at the window. The Magria tucked the knowledge into a pocket of her mind, satisfied that Anas had not yet completely mastered her emotions. Until then, she remained an ally, not a threat.
“What is to come is not yet determined. Destiny does not speak it. Another visioning will tell us no more than we know now.” The Magria glanced up sharply. “Be assured the Vindicants know nothing more than we do. No one has the advantage right now.”
Anas began to pace back and forth. Her black robes rustled about her, and in sudden impatience she untied her lacings and took off the garment. Leaving it beside the Magria’s, she seemed freer and more at ease. She had the kind of body that pleased men, but she was not destined for such a purpose.
“What are your instructions?” Anas asked. “Do I change the bride’s training?”
“Yes.”
Anas slopped pacing. “Resta has prepared the usual course to teach the girl receptiveness to seduction and the arts of—”
“No,” the Magria said sharply. She pressed together the scars that crisscrossed her palms, remembering their legacy. “I shall teach her myself.”
“You!” Anas said in complete astonishment before she tried to master herself. “But—”
The Magria lifted her brows coolly. “You have objections?”
“No, of course not, but—it’s just that you have taken no personal interest in the training of any of the imperial brides.”
“Only the first,” the Magria said softly. Her mind folded back to the memory of a tall, clear-eyed woman with a fiery temper and a will of iron. Fauvina came from a warrior family, a mob of squabbling warmongers who were finally defeated and tamed by Kostimon. Fauvina had been the object of truce, the bride, the settlement. She had gone to Kostimon’s bed like a tigress, unwilling and furious. But genuine love had been born of their initial passion and hostility. With love came liking, and with liking came an alliance of both hearts and minds. As empress Fauvina had used her intellect well, fashioning many of the laws under which the empire still operated. She had been tough but fair. She often fought, but she could also listen. She had heeded the Magria’s training, and under her sponsorship the Pen- estrican orders had spread and flourished. Women had known equality in the first century of the empire. They had owned property and could speak up for themselves.
“Kostimon loved her,” the Magria said softly. “She believed in him, in what he could do. She took his dreams and made them hers. She gave him all the hope in her soul, and it strengthened his arm when he forged the provinces into an empire and changed the world forevermore. For that, he loved her.”
“Fauvina refused his cup of immortality,” Anas said flatly, appearing unimpressed by the sentiment of this recollection. “She lies as dust in her tomb, and we have an emperor who still seeks to cheat death.”
Not until after her death had things changed. The purges under the Vindicants had been a horrible time. The Magria remembered sisters who had been burned alive, those who had been hunted and used by dreadots, moags, and worse for the entertainment of the new noble class. Some sisters had been tortured in ways far beyond physical torment by the inquisitors of the Vindicants.
This dark time of persecution and injustice had driven the Penestricans apart. A schism formed between those who wanted to cling to the true precepts of the goddess mother and those who wanted to forsake the gentle power of the earth for the vicious power of the goddess Mael. Finally they had broken apart, to be forever enemies, but the harm remained. Although through time the Penestricans had achieved some measure of trust again, they had never forgotten what Kostimon had allowed. And of late there had been a scattering of disturbances and incidents that warned that open persecution might return.
Now, however, after centuries of waiting, the Magria almost had the tool of her revenge in her hands. She thought again of her vision, aware that death awaited her. But, like Kostimon, she had lived a long time. It would be worth everything to see a woman of her training on the throne again. It would be worth everything to have some hand in the destiny of the new emperor who would follow Kostimon’s reign.
“I shall train the bride,” the Magria said firmly, lifting her head high. “No one else, not even you, will have the governing of her lessons until I am finished.”
Anas still looked troubled. “Do we dare stir up old animosities?”
“If we don’t act now, we shall never act! Don’t be a fool, Anas. I chose you as much for your courage as your intellect.”
Color stained Anas’s cheeks. She bowed her head. “Yes, Magria. As you say, so it shall be.”
“Our banner shall once again fly with respect everywhere,” the Magria said. “All the old wrongs shall be righted. And what Sien and his followers plan for us shall be thwarted.” She smiled, and in her heart she drew a sword. “The revenge begins.”
Chapter Thirteen
UPSTAIRS, IN THE east wing of Lord Albain’s stone palace, the tall windows stood wide open to catch the cool breezes. Early morning sunlight spilled in, bringing with it
a warning of the intense heat to come. Soon the muxa bugs would dry their dew-paralyzed wings and come alive. The screens would have to be rolled down over the windows for protection. Already, the jungle beyond the stalwart walls emitted screams and bird calls as its day denizens awoke.
Within the suite of apartments belonging to Lady Bixia, daughter of the house, all remained peaceful. The sunshine glowed upon fine Ulinian carpets and walnut chairs gracing the sitting room. Yesterday the room had been complete chaos, piled high with scattered possessions, half- packed trunks, and muslin packing cloths. Now it had a stripped, empty feeling. The trunks had been carried away last night by the porters. The room stood bare of Lady Bixia’s favorite trinkets, music, sewing boxes, and foot cushions. Only a trace of her scent lingered on the air. Otherwise, it was as though she had not lived here for eighteen years. Even the cages containing her parrot and pet monkey had been swathed in traveling covers and removed.
The double doors to Lady Bixia’s bedchamber remained firmly closed, for although this was the grand day of her departure, she never arose before noon.
Her servants had been up since before dawn, driven to a frenzy of last-minute packing and preparations for the comfort of their mistress.
Some servants had been up all night.
Crouching on the cool stone steps leading up to the empty hearth, Elandra forced her sore and aching fingers to keep stitching. She had to finish hemming this new dressing robe so it could be packed. Only last night had Bixia discovered the robe was too long. In a screaming fit, she had ripped at the garment and flung it on the floor. Elandra tried to clean it, and she’d been up all night sewing.
The stitches were not ordinary ones, but instead some kind of intricate embroidery indicative of the finest handwork. It had taken hours to puzzle out the trick of the tiny stitches.
Now Elandra was so tired her eyes would barely focus, and she could not stop shivering from exhaustion. Glancing up for a moment and grimacing at the stiffness in her neck, she realized the sunlight was finally brighter than her little lamp. Leaning over, she blew out the flame and sighed with her eyes closed.
If only she could rest for a moment.
But she dared not. Dragging her eyes open again, she forced herself to regain her concentration. If she didn’t complete her task, it would be the switch for sure.
The needle jabbed into her finger, and she flinched.
Swiftly she stuck her bleeding finger into her mouth and sucked at the wound. She couldn’t afford to spill even a tiny drop on the gorgeous white brocade fabric. It was the finest cloth she’d ever touched, incredibly soft, and beautifully cut by an expert seamstress. It was the only garment of Bixia’s trousseau that Elandra had been allowed to see, much less handle, and its exquisiteness took her breath away. It did not deserve to be treated like a rag and flung about, even if it didn’t fit the way Bixia wanted it to.
Quick footsteps approached the door to the sitting room, and it was shoved open without a knock.
Startled, Elandra looked up in dread, but it was only one of the maids hurrying in with her arms full of clothing freshly finished from the laundry downstairs.
Elandra sighed and relaxed. “Hello, Magan.”
The woman looked surprised to see Elandra. “What are you doing in here?”
Elandra shrugged, although the taut muscles in her shoulders screamed from the movement. “I haven’t finished with this yet.”
Magan looked at the garment flowing from Elandra’s lap, and her eyes widened. “Gods’ mercy, what arc you doing with that?”
“Mending it,” Elandra said.
Magan’s mouth opened, and she seemed about to say something before she changed her mind. “Give me that,” she said with an apprehensive glance over her shoulder. “If the hag finds this, it’ll be the end of you.”
Elandra also looked at the doorway in apprehension. The threat was real enough. Hecati was a vicious taskmaster. Not the tiniest detail or omission ever escaped her vigilant eye.
“Come on, I say! There’s no time to be lost.”
“But I’m not finished,” Elandra said. “I’ve got to or—”
“Don’t be stupid. You can’t be caught with this.”
Elandra didn’t argue further. The servants had protected her more than once. Folding the robe hastily to hide the unfinished hem, she gave it to Magan, who stuffed it quickly in between some of the other gowns.
“And the box it was in,” the maid said. “Where’s that?”
“I don’t know. Bixia came out wearing it last night. That’s when she found out it was too long and threw such a fit.” Elandra frowned in growing consternation. “It’s part of the trousseau, isn’t it?”
“Never mind that. If we don’t find the box, it’s my back as well as yours.”
“It might be in her bedchamber,” Elandra suggested.
Magan made a face. “I’m not going in there. Let her get in trouble for once, playing with things such as this without a care for their importance.” She clicked her tongue in disapproval.
The sound of voices in the corridor made both of them look. Elandra didn’t hear Hecati’s unmistakable tones, and relaxed again.
Magan shook her head. “The men are in the courtyard loading the elephants. I’ll get these put in the last trunk to be carried downstairs, and we’ll pray no one figures out what happened.”
“Thank you, Magan,” Elandra said. The maid had always treated her with kindness, and she was grateful.
Rolling her eyes, Magan sent Elandra a quick wink and hurried into the dressing room at the far side of the suite just as more maids hurried in with armloads of slippers and undergarments, looking excited in the general commotion.
Elandra watched them go by, and felt her own spirits rise. Bixia was being packed for her bridal journey, and good riddance as far as Elandra was concerned. In an hour her half-sister would be gone at last, and perhaps there would finally be peace in this house. If nothing else, Elandra was looking forward to having a life of her own without spoiled Bixia to fetch and carry for.
Elandra put away her needle case and tucked it in her pocket. She rose stiffly on legs that would barely support her. After sitting on the steps all night, she was so cramped and knotted she felt a hundred years old instead of seventeen. Yawning, she pushed her heavy tangle of hair back from her face and stretched with her hands on the small of her back. She wanted to fall into bed and sleep forever.
A whistling sound through the air was the only warning she had before pain stung her leg through her gown.
Elandra turned around in a fury, barely managing to hold her tongue. There stood Hecati, a thin, tiny woman who had a supple willow switch in her hands. Her plain face was pursed in its customary vinegary scowl, circled by a snowy white wimple that never looked creased or soiled no matter how hot and steamy the days got. Her eyes glared at Elandra with contempt.
Elandra glared back, resentful of this woman who had made her life a misery. Be careful, a small inner voice warned her. Soon she’ll be gone. You can hold yourself until then. But it was hard to be prudent, especially now when freedom was so close.
“Idle good-for-nothing,” Hecati scolded. “Everyone is working as fast as they can and you stand here like some great lady with no task to do.”
“I just—”
“Silence! You haven’t my leave to speak.” Hecati’s eyes narrowed suspiciously. “I’ve not seen you for hours. Where have you been? Hiding? Sleeping? Shirking?”
Alarm replaced Elandra’s anger. Hecati still had plenty of time to punish her before the departure. Elandra moved back a half step. “No,” she said in a low neutral voice. “I haven’t been hiding. I’ve been hemming the—I mean, I’ve been doing some mending.”
Hecati focused on her even more intently. “You’re lying,” she said. “What have you been doing?”
Elandra could have cursed her own hapless tongue. She was too tired to lie effectively. With Hecati she needed all her wits about her. “Nothing
,” she said resentfully.
“Exactly. Nothing. You are a lazy wretch.” Hecati raised the willow switch threateningly. “Now tell me the truth!”
“I’ve done no wrong,” Elandra insisted. How she wished this horrible woman would just go, but Hecati stood before her like a nightmare that never ended.
Hecati tapped her shoulder lightly with the switch, and Elandra flinched reflexively. Hecati permitted herself a tiny smile of satisfaction that made Elandra hate her even more.
“I am still waiting for the truth, girl. Or do you want it beaten out of you?”
Elandra sighed. “I was just mending some of Bixia’s—”
“That’s Lady Bixia.”
Elandra lowered her gaze to hide her resentment. “Some of Lady Bixia’s old gowns that she wants to give to the servants as her departure gift.”
“Lie! That work has already been done.”
“Most of it,” Elandra said hastily. “But there were a few items she found and—”
Hecati lifted her hand, and Elandra broke off her sentence. The woman considered the story, her hostile eyes staring implacably at Elandra.
She had always been a foe. From the first day Hecati arrived years ago to take charge of Bixia’s upbringing, battle lines had been drawn between her and Elandra. She had made her favoritism plain, taking obvious pride in the fact that her sister had given birth to Bixia. At first she had tried to get rid of Elandra, shutting her away, refusing to let her play with Bixia. Lord Albain had put a stop to that. Then Hecati had tried to have Elandra sent away. Albain had refused that also. He wanted his daughters raised together. Beyond that, he let Hecati do as she pleased, and it pleased her to turn Elandra into Bixia’s personal slave.
But you are leaving today, Elandra thought, clinging to her one hope. You are leaving forever and taking Bixia with you.
“Truth and lies,” Hecati murmured, her gaze rolling upward. “Truth and lies. You have been sewing all night—”
“Yes,” Elandra said quickly and held her breath. She tried to think of something that would distract Hecati. If Hecati even suspected part of what she’d done, Elandra knew she would—
Reign of Shadows Page 16