reasons for the words intoned by the Outlander holy man. He
came to the part of the ceremony she would take for her cue.
She took a deep breath and slowly drew down the hood of her
cloak.
“If anyone knows of any reason why this man and this
woman should not be joined together in matrimony, speak now,
or forever hold your peace.”
“I know of several,” she said in a clear, firm voice that
echoed through the abbey and kept walking.
Nicholas’s head jerked at the sound of that clarion call. A
collective gasp went through the congregation as Sera walked
like a queen down the long, white aisle, her cloak trailing
gracefully from her shoulders. He heard the screech of metal
on metal as soldiers drew their swords. A guard standing in
front of him remembered his duty and drew a pistol. Nicholas’s
hand cracked against the back of the soldier’s head. He grabbed
the pistol from his slackened hand. Edging around the fallen
guard, he slipped through the next rows of men in blue and
gold uniforms who seemed riveted on what was taking place at
the altar.
“Hold,” said the archbishop in a commanding voice. “This
is God’s house.”
The soldiers looked to Galerien, straining like hunting
hounds before the cast. But the king had turned pale as a sheet.
He stared at the woman walking toward him, and his mouth
quivered. The men sheathed their swords.
“Who makes this objection?” demanded the archbishop.
“I, Catherine Elizabeth Seraphina Galerien, do make it.”
Sera’s clear voice carried through the entire abbey. She turned
to face those gathered, and at that moment, sunlight slashed
through the clear, leaded window above her, lighting her features
for those in the front of the abbey to see clearly. Men and women
murmured to each other, and the whispers spread through the
abbey from front to back.
“She is the image of her blessed mother,” cried one woman.
“Aye,” quaked an old man, “but with our beloved king’s
coloring. I remember exactly that golden hair and those deep
blue eyes. It is our princess, returned to us.”
Elderly ministers of Beaureve painfully went to their knees
while the new ones installed by Galerien looked left and right
uneasily.
Sera raised her right arm and pointed at Galerien. “This
marriage cannot go forward because this man is a murderer and
a traitor to Beaureve.”
Galerien’s face froze in a mask of malevolence and fear.
“How does this imposter dare to interrupt my wedding?
Guards!”
His army unsheathed swords again.
Nicholas pushed through the last row of guards separating
him from the altar. His heart pounded against his chest. Sera
was so small, so vulnerable standing alone in the vast, cold
abbey.
She turned and slowly perused the abbey. Men gave cries
of shock. Swords clanged dully upon stone as they dropped
their weapons.
“Dear Heaven,” said the archbishop, casting a fearful glance
at Sera. He seemed to remember himself and his office, for he
squared his shoulders and looked her straight in the eye. “Young
woman, your charges are heavy, indeed. I must have proof that
you are the princess Catherine Elizabeth before I listen to your
accusations.”
Sera climbed the stairway to the altar and held her hand out
to the archbishop. In it was a man’s ring, wrought in beaten
gold, a crowned lion rearing.
“Dear Heaven,” said the archbishop again. “The royal seal.
We have been looking for this for seventeen years.”
Sera turned to Galerien. “You never could find it, could
you? My father gave this to me moments before you had him
murdered. Mama hid me, for we heard the assassins killing the
guards outside their door. The murderers broke the door down
an instant later. She never had time to close the wardrobe door
completely. I saw everything.”
Nicholas was close enough to see Sera’s face. Something
painful and wrenching twisted in his heart as he watched her
relive the worst night of her life.
“They were dressed in black,” she said. “First they killed
the king. He struggled, but they stabbed him again and again.
My mother screamed, and they laughed as they plunged the
knife into her heart.”
There was absolute silence in the abbey. Sera’s voice clearly
cut through the silence, and she sounded as cold as the moon.
“You came in shortly afterwards, didn’t you, Uncle? ‘Where is
the seal?’ you said. ‘I need it.’ And the tall man, the one who
looks like Death said, ‘Why must you have it when you have a
whole country now?’”
A gasp of horror went through the crowd. “‘And the girl,’
you said. ‘Why did you not kill her in her nursery? I told you, I
wanted them all taken out in one blow.’”
Sera’s voice gained strength. She pointed at Galerien. “You
have murdered kings and innocents. You have plundered the
riches of Beaureve. You have forced the people into a life of
destitution. You are not fit to marry. You are not fit to rule this
country.”
Galerien’s face mottled purple. Nicholas had seen that look
before on a wild boar cornered by the hounds.
“Imposter!” he roared, charging Sera from his place.
“Guards, take her!”
Sera squared her shoulders and faced the monster charging
her. He would try to kill her, now, but Nicholas and Andre could
escape with Katherine. A tall man stepped in front of her, his
wide shoulders blocking her view.
“No, Galerien. Finally, it comes to just you and me, doesn’t
it?”
Sera’s whole body went cold. “No, Nicholas,” she cried.
“You have been ill. He will not fight fairly. I can deal with him.”
Nicholas pushed her aside, very gently. “This is my battle,”
he said in a soft, chilling voice. She had never seen so much
cold fury in one man’s eyes before.
She wanted to stop him, to reason with him, but it came to
her that Nicholas must do this for his own pride. Even more, he
must do it for Beaureve, for who would rule her country after
she left it if not Nicholas? And how would her people accept
him as their king, if he did not save them now from Galerien?
She only prayed he was well enough to win against the monster.
Galerien roared and unsheathed his sword.
Nicholas’s face was calm and implacable as, blazing with
rage, Galerien lunged. Nicholas parried easily. Sword rang upon
sword as Galerien fought to push Nicholas back down the aisle
of the cathedral. Nicholas stepped and turned without wasted
motion. Sera thought he looked as graceful and as unconcerned
as a dancer, but this dance was deadly. Galerien feinted, and his
sword thrust down and sideways, but Nicholas had whirled out
of the way.
He had that look of abstract concentration one saw on the
&n
bsp; faces of saints and warriors in Outlander paintings. Sera dared
not speak to stop the killing for fear of breaking that
concentration. He leaped aside again as Galerien’s sword slashed
downward. The deadly arc was a flash of jeweled color beneath
the stained glass window. Sera shuddered, compelled to watch
as every person in the prayer house watched, scarcely breathing.
They twirled and feinted, clashed against each other as
swords met and held. And then Nicholas, almost insouciantly,
gave a flick of his wrist, and Galerien’s sword arced into the air.
It sailed to the altar and embedded itself into the wood of the
little cloth-covered table behind which the priest stood,
transfixed. Nicholas smiled, a small, tight movement of the lips,
and pressed his sword against Galerien’s throat. Galerien backed.
Nicholas followed. Galerien fell to his knees and fumbled in
his sleeve. He surged up again, a knife in his hand.
But Nicholas gave a snarl of satisfaction. With a swift thrust
of his leg, he kicked out and the knife went sailing. Galerien
fell, tried to right himself, but the marble floor was slick. He
struggled, back arched, while Nicholas held him there.
“Say your last prayers, Galerien. Not that they’ll do you
much good where you’re going.” Nicholas stood over his enemy.
He was coiled to thrust.
“Stop.” Sera’s voice held his hand back from the final coup.
“What?” Nicholas tried to shake the battle rage from his
brain. Sera stood beside him, staring down at the beast. Why
did she ask—no, command—him to stop? How must she feel,
looking into the eyes of the monster who had taken away
everything she loved?
“Not death,” she said. “Not in a prayer house. Not for this
man.”
“Sera, think. He took your loved ones from you. He hunted
you and murdered your people. Think of Selonia, Sera, of Iman
Hadar’s palace.” He could not believe she would hold true to
her philosophy after all this.
She shook her head. “It is too easy a fate to let him die,”
she said. “Instead, he shall know, finally. He shall know just
what he did.” Shall, not will. She spoke in the language of the
law, proclaiming herself judge and jury.
“Do you see them, Uncle? Your victims. My mother, my
father, who did nothing to you but love you. Do you see their
end, now?” She spoke very softly, and Galerien stiffened,
moaning.
“Do you see the people of Selonia? The dead children, the
old people who couldn’t run fast enough from the black shadows
that cut them down? Do you smell the blood?”
“No, no, please!” Galerien’s neck was stretched like that of
a man on the rack.
“Do you hear the infants wailing for mothers who lie dead
on top of them, shielding their tiny bodies from the beasts you
sent to wreak such terror?”
“God, no more! I see them. I see them! Take them away,
please, please.”
“I cannot, Uncle. You killed them, and now they’ll haunt
you for the rest of your life. You’ll know your sins forever, and
the sacred promise of each life you snuffed out.”
Galerien rolled to his side and drew his legs up, curling his
whole body together in agony. “I didn’t know. I didn’t realize.”
He began to sob, muttering and moaning to himself.
Nicholas looked at Sera and then at the figure cowering on
the floor. Her beautiful face was stern. “Artemis,” he whispered.
“Goddess of the silver bow. You called the Furies.”
“I am no goddess,” Sera said, still staring at Galerien as he
writhed at her feet. “And I did not call them. They have been
waiting for him, lo these many years.”
And Nicholas knew that with all his modern understanding,
his enlightened vision, he would never totally comprehend this
woman whose magic could make a demon writhe in shame.
“Take him away,” said Sera to the people kneeling before
her. “House him comfortably. From now on, look upon him
and recognize his suffering.”
Sera looked at the men and women before her. She began
to raise the hood of her cloak.
An old man richly dressed hobbled toward her as guards
dragged Galerien out of the abbey. He dropped to one knee
before her. “Princess, I am—“
Sera bent and helped the old man to his feet. “I recognize
you, Baron Taurons. You used to let me play with your
timepiece.”
The old man’s rheumy eyes grew bright. “Aye, that I did.
Princess, your throne awaits you. Your people need you.”
Sera looked at Katherine, at Andre who stood now beside
Katherine. After a long moment, she finally raised her gaze to
Nicholas’s face, her expression inscrutable. She seemed to be
waiting for something from him, perhaps an explanation, a
justification. He was paralyzed by fear—that whatever he said
wouldn’t be enough. What could he tell her, this goddess from
a golden world, that would keep her here, that would convince
her he was compensation enough for what she’d lose?
Stay with me. Try to love me, in spite of my imperfections.
If he were any other man, he could say, I love you. The muscles
of his hand ached with the need to reach out and touch her, to
tell her what was forbidden to him.
A movement from the corner of his eye made him turn.
Another walked the cathedral aisle toward them, a giant of a
man with golden hair, wearing a gray cloak.
Nicholas felt Sera’s eyes still locked on his face. Why
couldn’t he say it? Why must he condemn himself to a life of
hiding from what he felt? Everything in him fought to break
free, to express in words what his heart had known, it seemed,
forever. But her eyes fluttered shut and the radiance that seemed
her very life seeped out of her face. Nicholas lunged forward
an instant too late. The Hillman had already grabbed her. Sera
slumped against his side, her face bleached of color. Even her
hands hung lifeless from slack arms.
“Let me have her,” Nicholas said—actually, begged—the
man who had taken her away from him once. He raised his
hand, half in supplication, half in preparation to take Sera in his
arms. “I have to tell her. She has to know.”
The Hillman’s blue eyes bit into Nicholas with a chill that
went bone deep. “This is what you have done to her, Outlander,”
said the Hillman. “The power she used to save you and these
others has drained the life out of her until there is almost nothing
left of her. Can you heal her?”
Nicholas dropped his hand and lowered his head. He had
not a word to say in defense of himself. What had he done in
his pride but harm the only thing that gave light and joy to his
life? My kind don’t heal. We only wound, he thought, and call
it duty.
“She comes with me.” The Hillman raised Sera’s hood to
her hair, and then raised his own. A faint breeze wafted past
Nicholas’s
face. He shut his eyes, unwilling to face the empty
space where she had been, but it didn’t matter. He knew that
she was gone. He knew because he felt the crack that rent his
heart in two.
Fifteen
Andre hesitated outside the door to Nicholas’s study. His
friend had been busy all day with the problems of two countries,
and if the last two weeks were any indication, he’d work on
well into the night. Beaureve’s ministers had asked him for help,
at least until their princess returned to them. Poor fools, they
really believed she would come back to them.
Nicholas seemed to know better. After the first week of
difficult work in Constanza, Nicholas had appointed new
officials, new justices, and new ministers to report back to him
on a regular basis. He had been tireless in his efforts for
Beaureve, attempting to exorcise his demons through intense
work.
He had succeeded in giving Beaureve the beginning of a
new age. People who had suffered under the iron rule of Galerien
now hoped for better from Nicholas, and were content to wait
for improvement, particularly now that there was food in the
markets and only reasonable taxation to face.
But Nicholas, although physically recovered from his
wound, carried scars that worried Andre. He never spoke of
Sera, and he never laughed. He dined alone and ate little. The
only sign of pleasure he had shown in the last week was his
delight in Katherine’s upcoming marriage to Andre. And even
that was tinged with a hint of melancholy.
Andre bit his lip as he raised his hand to knock at the door.
He must think of something that would smooth away the haunted
circles from beneath Nicholas’s eyes. A sound behind him, a
brush of air quickly displaced, jarred him from his thoughts.
He turned about and scowled fiercely. The man removing the
hood of his gray cloak was the Arkadian scoundrel who had
taken Sera from Nicholas.
“Does your king sit within his study?”
Andre bristled. The fellow had a hell of a nerve returning
to the palace.
“Do you wish an interview? For what purpose? Will you
tell him about your idyllic married life? Does it please you to
rub his nose in it? Come,” he said raising his fists. “I apprehend
that you do not approve of weapons, at least those that only
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