“The emperor himself already had the goal of Aydindril in mind, though he kept silent on it until he heard the recommendations. My recommendation decided it for him. Emperor Jagang does not always use my strategy, but I was pleased that in this he saw what I saw—that taking the city and palace of Lord Rahl’s wife would not only be a momentous military victory, but will also strike a great blow at our enemy’s very heart.”
Jennsen was seeing him again as she had at first, in awe at how important he truly was. This was a man who, in part, directed the very course of history. The fate of nations, and countless lives, hung on Sebastian’s word.
“You don’t think the emperor may have taken the Confessor’s Palace by now?”
“No,” he said with certainty. “We will not waste our brave men trying to take such an important objective until the weather is with us. We will seize Aydindril in the spring, when this wretched winter is over. I think we can yet reach them in time to be there for the great event.”
Jennsen was enthralled by the very idea of seeing such a momentous event—the forces of a free people striking a mighty blow against Lord Rahl. At the same time, she knew it meant the beginning of the end of D’Hara. But it really only meant the end of evil rule.
In the crackling firelight, it seemed a remarkable night in more ways than one. The world was changing and she was going to be a part of it. She had changed this night, too.
The fire was warm on the side of her face. She realized that she had never seen Sebastian without a shirt. She liked the sight.
His other hand came up to gently grasp her other arm. “Emperor Jagang will like to meet you.”
“Me? But, I’m no one important.”
“Oh, yes, Jennsen, Jagang the Just will be eager to meet you, I can promise you that, to meet the brave woman who wishes to strike such a blow for our courageous people, for the future of a free mankind, and finally bring an end to the scourge of the House of Rahl. For such a historic event as the taking of Aydindril and the Confessor’s Palace, Brother Narev himself intends to travel up from the Old World to witness the great victory on behalf of our people. I’m sure he, too, would be most pleased to meet you.”
“Brother Narev.”
Jennsen thought about the sweep of events that, until now, she had no idea were taking place. Now she was a part of those momentous events. She felt a kind of thrill that she would meet Jagang the Just—a real emperor—and maybe even Brother Narev, who Sebastian said was just about the most important spiritual leader ever to have lived.
Without Sebastian, none of it would be possible. He was such a remarkable man—everything from his wonderful blue eyes and his exotic spikes of white hair, to his handsome smile and extraordinary intellect.
“Since you had a hand in planning the campaign, I’m happy that you’ll be there to see your strategy triumph. I admit, too, that I would be honored to be in the presence of such great and noble men.”
Even though Sebastian seemed as modest as always, she still thought she saw a spark of pride in his eyes, but then he turned serious. “When we meet with the emperor, you mustn’t be alarmed by what you see.”
“What do you mean?”
“Emperor Jagang has been marked by the Creator with eyes that see more than ordinary men can see. Foolish people are frightened by his looks. I wanted to forewarn you. You mustn’t be frightened of such a great man simply because he looks different.”
“I won’t be.”
“It’s settled, then.”
Jennsen grinned. “I agree to your new strategy. We can leave for the Midlands, the emperor, and the Sisters of the Light in the morning.”
It seemed he hardly heard her. His gaze wandered her face, her hair, returning at last to her eyes.
“You’re the most beautiful woman I’ve ever met.”
Jennsen felt his fingers tighten on her arms, pulling her closer. “You favor me with such words,” she heard herself say. He was a trusted advisor to an emperor. She was just a girl who grew up in the woods. He influenced history; she simply ran from it. Until now.
And yet, he was just Sebastian. A man she talked with, traveled with, ate with. She had seen him yawn from exhaustion and fall asleep countless times.
He was a fascinating mix of nobility and commoner. He seemed to chafe at being held in awe, yet by his manner he seemed to court it, if not demand it.
“I’m sorry at how inadequate those words sound,” he whispered, looking very humble. “I mean so much more than that you’re merely beautiful.”
“You do?” Her words were more than a question. They were expectant wonder.
Sebastian’s mouth met hers in a rush. His arms surrounded her. She held her hands out to the side, afraid to hug him because if she did she would have to touch his naked flesh. She stood in his arms, her own arms held out stiffly, her spine arched back under the press of him.
His mouth felt luscious against hers. His arms did more than encircle her; they sheltered her. Her eyes closed as she sagged into his kiss. His whole body felt so hard against hers. His fist seized her hair at the nape of her neck, holding her as he moaned against her lips, as his warm tongue unexpectedly filled her mouth. Jennsen’s head was spinning with the delicious sensations.
The world seemed to be tipping, and she felt as if she were hanging in his arms. She felt the sudden press of the bedding against her. The shock of being on her back, with him atop her, had her suddenly confused and not knowing what to do or how to react.
She wanted to stop him before he went any further. At the same time, she feared to do anything that would cause him to stop, to believe she was spurning him.
It occurred to her how very alone they were. Such isolation worried her. Yet, it excited her, too. With the two of them so completely alone, only she could stop him. The choices that she made not only decided her own path, but also held sway over Sebastian’s heart. It gave her a comforting sense of power.
But it was just a kiss. More of a kiss than in the palace, but still, just a kiss. A head-spinning, heart-pounding kiss.
She surrendered herself into his embrace, daring to use her tongue as he did his, and was exhilarated by his ardent response. She felt like a woman—a desirable woman. Her hands ran up the smooth skin of his back, feeling the landscape of his bone and muscle, unhindered by a veil of cloth, feeling him flex as he pressed against her. She could hardly get her breath with the wonder of such feelings.
“Jenn,” he whispered breathlessly into her ear, “I love you.”
Jennsen was stunned speechless. It didn’t seem real. It felt like she had to be dreaming it, or living in someone else’s body. She knew she’d heard him say it, but it just didn’t seem real to her.
Her heart was racing so fast that she feared it might burst. Sebastian’s breath, too, came in desperate pulls, as if his lust for her were driving him mad. She clung to him, eager to feel the warm breath of his words in her ear again.
She feared to believe him, though, to allow herself to believe him, to know if it was real, if this was really happening to her, or if she was only imagining it.
“But . . . you can’t mean it.” Her words were a wall to protect her.
“I do,” he panted. “I do. I can’t help myself. I love you, Jennsen.”
His warm breath tickled her in a way that ran a scrumptious shiver up through the core of her.
For some reason, the memory of Tom came into her mind. She saw him, in her mind’s eye, smiling at her in that way of his. This would not be Tom’s manner. She didn’t know how she knew that, but she did. Tom would not approach the subject of love in this fashion.
For some reason, she felt a stab of ache for Tom.
“Sebastian—”
“Tomorrow, we leave to carry out our destiny . . .”
Jennsen nodded against his shoulder, marveling at how those words sounded somehow passionate. Their destiny. She held on tight, feeling the slick warmth of his back, feeling him push himself against her leg, feeling
his arm lying across her belly as his hand caressed her hip, in a way hoping he would say something to thrill her, to frighten her, at the same time praying he wouldn’t.
“But this night is ours, Jenn, if you will only seize it.”
Jennsen.
“Sebastian—”
“I love you, Jennsen. I love you.”
Jennsen.
She wished the image of Tom would leave her mind.
“Sebastian, I don’t know what—”
“I never wanted to. It wasn’t my intention to allow myself to feel this way, but I do. I love you, Jenn. I didn’t expect it. Dear Creator, I can’t help myself. I love you.”
Her eyes closed as he kissed her neck. It felt so good feeling his intimate whispers in her ear, a whisper that in a way sounded close to a painful confession, laced with regret, anger, yet thick with desperate hope.
“I love you,” he whispered again.
Jennsen.
Jennsen shuddered with the pleasure of the sensation, with the pleasure of feeling like a woman, of knowing that her mere existence thrilled a man. She had never felt particularly attractive before. Right then, she felt more than beautiful—she felt seductively beautiful.
Surrender.
She kissed his neck as he shifted his weight. She kissed his ear and ran her tongue along it as he had done to her. His whole body felt afire.
She froze when his hand slid up under her dress. His fingers glided over her bare knee, over her bare thigh. It was her choice to make, she told herself. It was.
She gasped, eyes wide, staring up at the dark rafters. His mouth covered hers before she could say the word wanting to come out. Her fist pounded his shoulder, once, in frustration at not being able to say that one, short, important word.
She gripped his face to push him away, to allow her to say it. But this was the man who had saved her life. If not for him, she would have been killed along with her mother that rainy night. She owed him her very life. Letting him touch her in such a way was nothing in exchange for that. What harm was it? It was a small thing compared to the way he had opened his heart to her.
Besides, she cared for him. He was a man any woman would desire.
He was handsome, smart, and important. Moreover, she was excited that he cared so for her. She was. What more could she want?
She forcefully banished the unwanted image of Tom from her mind by focusing all her attention on Sebastian and what he was doing to her. His touch weakened her in a way that made her ache.
His fingers felt so good that tears ran down her cheeks. She forgot the word, wondering why she would ever have wanted to say it.
Her fingers clutched the back of his head, holding on for dear life. Her other fist pressed against the sides of his ribs as she cried out at what he was doing to her. All she could do was pant as she squirmed, helpless, at the indecent delight of it.
“Sebastian—” she gasped. “Oh, Sebastian—”
“I love you so much, Jenn.” He forced her knees farther apart. He pushed himself between her trembling legs. “I need you, Jennsen. I need you so. I can’t live without you. I swear I can’t.”
It was supposed to be her choice. She told herself that it was.
“Sebastian—”
Surrender.
“Yes,” she breathed. “Dear spirits, forgive me, yes.”
Chapter 35
Oba leaned a shoulder against the red-painted side of a wagon set back out of the way. Hands in his pockets, he casually surveyed the busy marketplace. People crowding among the open-air stands seemed in a festive mood, possibly because at long last spring was nearly at hand, even if winter was not yet ready to relinquish its harsh grip. Despite the biting chill, people chatted and chuckled, bargained and bickered, purchased and perused.
Little did the shuffling crowds braving the cold wind know that someone important was among them. Oba grinned. A Rahl was among them. A member of the ruling family.
Since he had decided to become invincible, and over the course of his long journey north, Oba had become a new man, a man of the world. At first, after the death of the troublesome sorceress and his lunatic mother, he was aswirl in newfound liberty, and hadn’t given any thought to coming to the People’s Palace, but the more he considered the pivotal events that had taken place and all the new things he had learned, the more he had come to realize that the journey was vital. There were still bits missing, bits that could lead to trouble.
That Jennsen woman had said that quads hunted her. Quads only hunted important people. Oba was concerned that they might turn to hunting him, too, since he was important. Like Jennsen, he was also one of those holes in the world. Lathea hadn’t explained to him what that meant, but it made Oba and Jennsen both special in some way. It somehow linked them.
It was possible that Lord Rahl had learned about Oba, maybe from the treacherous Lathea, and he feared having a rightful rival who could challenge him. Oba was, after all, also a son of Darken Rahl. An equal, in many ways. Lord Rahl had magic, but Oba was invincible.
With all the potential trouble brewing, Oba thought it best to look after his own interests by traveling to his ancestral home to learn what he could.
Even before he had decided to travel north, Oba had had his concerns. Still, he enjoyed his visits to new places, and had learned many new things. He kept lists of them in his head. Places, sights, people. Everything meant something. In quiet moments he would go over those mental lists, seeing what things fit together, what revelations he could divine. It was important to keep the mind active, he always said. He was a man on his own, now, making his own decisions, choosing his own road, doing as he pleased, but he still had to learn and grow.
But no more did Oba have to feed the animals, tend the garden, mend fences and barns and houses. No longer did he have to haul and fetch and obey every foolish whim of his lunatic mother. No more did he have to endure the troublesome sorceress’s loathsome cures, her furtive glances. No more did he have to listen to his mother’s tirades, her taunts, or be subjected to her venomous humiliation.
To think, she had once had the gall to order him to pick away at a frozen mound of muck—him, the son of Darken Rahl himself. How Oba put up with it, he didn’t know. He supposed that he was a man of remarkable patience, one of his many stellar traits.
Since his maniacal mother had always been so harshly adamant that he never spend money on women, Oba had celebrated his freedom from her tyranny, once he reached a good sized city, by visiting the most expensive whore he could find. He understood, then, why his mother had always been so dead set against him being with women—it was enjoyable.
He had found, though, that those women, too, could be cruel to a man of his sensitivity. They, too, would sometimes try to make him feel small and unimportant. They, too, would fix him with that calculating, callous, condescending gaze he so hated.
Oba suspected that it was his mother’s fault. He suspected that even from the world of the dead, she might still manage to reach into this world, through a whore’s cold heart, to vex him in his most triumphant moments. He suspected that her dead voice whispered vicious things in the women’s ears. It would be just like her to do that; even in her eternal rest, she would not be content to let him have any peace or satisfaction.
Oba wasn’t a spendthrift—not by any means—but the money that had so rightly been his did bring him some well-deserved pleasures, like clean beds, good food and drink, and the company of attractive women. He tended his money carefully, though, lest he end up without it. People, he knew, were only too covetous of his wealth.
He had learned that just having money, though, brought him favors, especially from women. If he bought them drinks or small gifts—a pretty piece of cloth for a scarf, a trinket for their wrist, a shiny pin for their hair—they were more likely to cozy up to him. They often took him somewhere quiet, where they could be alone with him. Sometimes it was an alley, sometimes it was a deserted wood, sometimes it was a room.
He suspected that some of them just wanted to get at his money. Still, it never failed to amaze him what entertainment and satisfaction he could derive from a woman. Frequently with the aid of a sharp knife.
Being a man of the world, Oba knew about women, now. He had been with many. Now, he knew how to talk to women, how to treat women, how to satisfy women.
There were a number of women still waiting, hoping, praying he would one day return to them. Several had even deserted their husbands, expecting they might win his heart.
Women couldn’t resist him. They fawned over him, delighted over his looks, marveled at his strength, moaned at the way he pleasured them. They especially enjoyed it when he hurt them. Anyone less sensitive than he would fail to recognize their tears of joy for what they really were.
While Oba enjoyed the company of women, he knew he could always have another, so he didn’t become entangled in long love affairs. Most were brief. Some very brief. For now, he had more important matters on his mind than women. Later, he would have all the women he could ever want. Just like his father had.
Now, at last, he could look upon the soaring stone splendor of his true home: the People’s Palace. Someday, it would be his. The voice had told him so.
A hawker pushed in close beside him, disturbing Oba’s pleasant thoughts, his imagining of what lay ahead for him.
“Charms, for you, sir? Magic charms. Good luck for sure.”
Oba frowned down at the hunched hawker. “What?”
“Special charms with magic. Can’t go wrong for a silver penny.”
“What do they do?”
“Well, sir, the charms are magic, sure. Wouldn’t you like a bit of magic to ease the terrible struggles of life? Make things go your way for a change? Only a silver penny.”
Things did go his way, now that his lunatic mother wasn’t around to pester him and keep him down. Still, Oba did like to learn new things.
“What will this magic do? What kinds of things?”
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