“Well . . . what news, Hinck?”
“Rogedoth wants all your pages. I told him I misunderstood and would ask you about it. Once you came back from your outing with Miss Mielle, of course.”
“Good man.”
But when they entered Trevn’s chambers, the tumbled mess made it clear someone did not want to wait. Tapestries had been ripped from the walls. The mattress hung off his bed, a gutted mass of feathers and straw. His pile of maps, which he had left in a tidy stack on his table, lay in a crushed heap on the floor, trampled and sullied by dirty bootprints. Everything in his wardrobe had been pulled from its shelf, carpeting the floor in tangled clothing.
“What in sand’s sake happened?” Hinck said. “I just left Rogedoth.”
Trevn picked up a map that displayed a smudge of a bootprint with the even-spaced holes of hobnails. “These were soldiers, not priests.” He handed the map to Cadoc. “Hobnails in the print.”
“Someone besides Rogedoth is looking for the book,” Cadoc said.
“But who would send soldiers?” Trevn asked.
“King Jorger is visiting,” Cadoc said. “The Book of Arman might be important to him.”
No . . . “If King Jorger wanted something, he would simply demand it,” Trevn said. “But I like your thinking, Cadoc. We need to cast a broader net of suspicion. Hinck, have my things moved to Mother’s apartment. As much as I hate spending time with her, I am safer in her company. I must return to work.” He had half a manuscript to finish. And now, another mystery to solve.
Charlon
Come.” Mreegan waved Charlon closer.
Charlon could not. She remained on her knees. Looking up. Up at the throne. “You’ll find no child in me,” she whispered. “I’ve not tempted the prince a second time.” Or a first.
Mreegan’s brows sank. She was angry. Disappointed. “Explain.”
Searching for courage, Charlon reached across the distance. Found the prince. Pulled from his strength. “The bond,” she said. “His emotions weigh heavily. I cannot—”
“You’ve been given a great honor,” Mreegan said, stroking her newt, which sat on her knee. “Do you think my other maidens would fail me?”
“No, Chieftess.” She knew they would not. Already a child would be growing.
“Perhaps you’re not Mother after all.”
“I am!” Charlon pleaded. “I want to be.” Had to be.
“You have until the next full moon. If you’re not with child by then, I’ll choose another. Now go. Do not fail me.”
Charlon lowered her gaze. Left the tent into the darkness of the night. Needed to run. Run far away.
Farther from the red tent, the fear faded. Each step lighter.
Betrayal, her heart said. And her mind understood.
The Chieftess had used magic. To inspire fear, contrition, obedience. Charlon bit back anger. Fool woman had no idea. Magon supported Charlon now. Yet if Charlon failed, Magon might leave. She must not fail. Must not!
She ran back to her tent. Stepped inside.
She felt the prince. Determination. Scheming. Her eyes adjusted to the low light from the smoldering fire. Saw him in his corner. Hating her. She lurched, his rejection too much to bear. Hide, her heart said.
No! She could not hide. She must conquer him. But how? How could she? Too heavy, the burden. Too great for Charlon to master.
She threw herself on her bed of furs. Sobbing. Again a broken child. So unfair. If only she were stronger. Could use magic to manipulate. The way Mreegan did. But she was too weak. Too small. Too broken. She would never be Mother. Never be Chieftess.
A hand touched her shoulder.
“Don’t!” She rolled over. Pulled the knife from her leg sheaf. Held it up in the darkness.
The prince drew back, eyes wide. “Sorry,” he said. “I thought you were hurt.”
“Why do you care?”
He shook his head, and his bewilderment pulsed through her. He didn’t care. Didn’t want to care. “I only wondered.” He started back to his corner.
“Wait. Come here.”
Compelled, he strode toward her, frowning. Hated being forced. Hated her.
“Take my hand.” She thrust hers toward him, hoping action would inspire confidence.
His revulsion choked her. But he crouched. Reached out. Grabbed hold. His skin was icy. Distracted her from the terror. She was touching a man! Stop! her heart said. Get away!
She wouldn’t. She would stay. She must. “You are cold.”
He shrugged. “The one nice thing about your magic. Makes the summer heat almost pleasant.”
Kind words. Friendly. Yet fear kept her tense. She stared at their hands. Touching hands. So strange. “Kiss me.”
The order brought disgust. Anger. In the Veil, the slights pushed him forward, crowing as they did. He fought them. Teeth gritted. “No.” He groaned. Agony sliced. Stabbed within. Through their bond.
Charlon screamed. Released the order but held tight. “Kiss my hand!” she yelled. But that also brought rebellion. Released the order again and asked, “Will you kiss my hand?”
The pain fled. Confusion pressed down. His dark eyes met hers. “What?”
“Men kiss the hands of maidens,” Charlon said. “It means nothing.”
His familiar loathing returned. “Kissing a woman’s hand is a sign of respect and honor.”
“You don’t respect me.”
“Right you are, witch. Why don’t you just force me? Why did you stop forcing me?”
Shook her head. Silence. Her hand in his. Flesh against flesh. No, her heart said. Flee!
She tugged her hand back. It slipped a little. But he squeezed tighter, brow knitted in thought. He leaned down slowly, watching her. She flinched. He pressed his lips against the back of her hand.
A ragged scream from within. Charlon yanked free. Scrambled across the bed. Tears blurred him from sight and helped her hide. It was the eyes. Eyes that changed everything. Eyes that saw within. “Don’t look at me!”
His gaze instantly lowered. “You’re afraid of me?”
She wiped away tears. Felt his curious thoughts. He crawled toward her.
She yelped, flipped to her feet. Backed toward the tent wall. “Stay!”
He froze on his knees. “I don’t understand.”
Hands trembling. Too much too fast. No more tonight. “Back to your corner!”
The prince moved to obey, but the slights in the Veil massed around him. Still on his knees, they pushed him off the bed of furs and across the dirt floor, mats bunching behind him. He glided toward the fire. Caught hold of the center tent pole. Held on. His legs stretched out behind him. He fell to his stomach. The slights continued to pull him, cackling.
“Stop!” he yelled. “I’ll go!”
Charlon released her order. The shadir dropped his body.
Thankful. Glad it was over. He pushed to his feet. Hurried to his bed. But as he lay still, his mind spun. Puzzled. “You won’t force me,” he said from his corner. “Someone hurt you. But if you’re so afraid, then how did you manage to . . . ?”
Comprehension dawned. He knew.
“We never . . .” he said. “You lied.” First joy, then overwhelming relief. “I remember now. You had me convinced you were Lebetta. Then you got scared and put a spell on me.”
“Silence!”
But it was too late. His heart soared. Triumphant. He knew she could not. Not do what the Chieftess wanted.
“Please don’t tell.” Her voice, soft and pathetic. She hated her weakness. Her fear. “Mreegan will kill me. Will choose someone else. Someone stronger. Kateen . . . Roya. They will not fail.”
The prince shuddered. Understood perfectly. Those maidens would enjoy being Mother. They would hurt him. And because of the soul-binding, hurt her in the process.
The prince turned on his side. Facing away. His back a wall between them. The sight brought more tears. How she wanted to be near him. To make peace.
Foolish
! Men could not be trusted. These feelings were a lie from the binding. She must control them.
Control.
That was the answer. Magic could force Charlon to do what she could not by herself.
She got up. Fetched her altar mat and a bottle of ahvenrood juice. The goddess would help. Help defeat this man. Defeat fear. Help her become Mother. Become Chieftess.
She only need ask.
Kalenek
The first week passed quickly, but once they met the endless ripples of the Painted Dune Sea, the days crawled. This, surrounded by dust with no break in the horizon, was how it would be for the next few weeks. Sand in Kal’s boots and beard and nose. He did not welcome it.
Now that they were far enough from the red lakes, Kal went back to traveling at the coolest times of day: in the early mornings and from late afternoon until dark. They stopped during the day when they found sand dunes that offered the least bit of shade. At night they slept out under a shelter of stars. The second week passed slowly.
“A shame that Novan is not here to describe the sky,” Onika said one night as they sat around the campfire.
Kal, who sat beside her, smarted, knowing that the prophetess had been growing friendly with Novan before Kal had sent him away. He wanted to ask her if Novan was alive but held his tongue.
“The sky is black as tar and sprinkled with diamonds,” Grayson said.
“Ever held a diamond?” Burk asked. “I have. Don’t look like nothing but a shard of glass.”
“How about you, Sir Kalenek?” Onika said. “How would you describe the sky this night?”
Kal glanced at the vastness overhead, and his heart pinched to think of Livy, looking down. “I see a million tears. The gods weep for mankind, weary of watching their creation destroy itself. We hate each other to the point of hopelessness.”
“Is he always so joyful?” Burk whispered to Grayson.
“Not tears, Sir Kalenek,” Onika said, “but glimpses of hope. Hope is seeing light in the darkness. No matter how dark life seems, hope is never far away.”
Her words sobered Kal, and he looked again to the night sky.
“May I feel your face, Sir Kalenek?” Onika asked.
So strange was her request, Kal turned toward her, intending to ask her to repeat herself, but her hand was already reaching out. It slid over his bearded cheek, making him jump.
“I don’t mean to frighten you,” she said.
Not frightened. Stunned.
She palmed his cheek, pulled her hand forward, fingertips trailing through his beard, up over his lips and nose, between his eyes and along one eyebrow. He should stop her. Her blindness had kept his scars hidden from her all this time, but now she would see everything. She would know. Yet no one had touched him so tenderly in so long that he couldn’t move. Her fingers found the scar on his forehead and traced the line down over his other eye and across his cheek.
“There are two types of pain, Sir Kalenek,” Onika said, fingers lingering on the pinched scar just above the line of his beard, “that of lifeless existence and that of growth. Let go of the pain, embrace growth, and only beauty will remain.”
Her words destroyed the thrill of her touch. Kal grabbed her wrist and pushed her hand away. “Nothing beautiful about me, Miss Onika. If you’ll excuse me.” He pushed to his feet and left the campfire, desperately needing time alone.
As Kal walked into the darkness, he heard Burk ask, “Will you feel my face, Miss Onika?”
“Not tonight,” she said, “but perhaps in another time and place.”
“How long should we wait for you?” Jhorn asked.
They had finally reached the outskirts of Lâhaten. Jhorn was given coin to purchase supplies while Kal attempted a meeting with Empress Inolah.
“If you don’t hear from me before tomorrow at dawn, set off without me. Take the east road toward Jeruka.” It was Kal’s hope to send a messenger to escort Jhorn and the others to the palace, but Emperor Nazer had never been a sane man. Kal didn’t dare put the group in danger by bringing them along until he was certain they would be safe.
“Arman will cover your path in blessings,” Onika said.
Her warming words made Kal want to embrace her. Instead he said, “Thank you, Miss Onika,” fixed her in his mind, and set off on foot toward the smoking mountain. The camel brayed as if to protest his leaving, but Kal didn’t look back. Jhorn needed the animal more than he did.
By the time Kal reached the city gates, it was after morning prayers. The gates were open, and no one questioned him as he entered the city. The streets in the Open Quarter were filled with vendors setting up market stalls. A few urged him to come inspect their wares. He ignored them, though the Kinsman language they spoke gave him a measure of peace.
The mother realms were behind him now.
Unlike the filth of Hebron, the city of Lâhaten was pristine. Emperor Nazer and his fathers before him were obsessed with immortality and built cities to last, made of stone. The streets were hard-packed gravel. Both kept the city safe on those rare occasions when the mountain rained ash and fire. The houses were tapered, slightly smaller on the top than the bottom, which helped prevent collapse in earthquakes. The castle itself was built of stepped pyramids, four small around one so tall it tweaked Kal’s neck to tilt and see the top.
He reached the gates to the Imperial Quarter and found them closed. “Good morning,” he told the guard, whose head was shaved like all Imperial Guards of the Emperor.
The Igote stared at Kal’s scars. “Five Woes! Who took a knife to you?”
Where Kal’s scars were concerned, he preferred blunt rudeness to silent stares. “I am Sir Kalenek Veroth, High Shield to Sâr Wilek Hadar of Armania.” Kal showed his shield ring. “I come on urgent business on behalf of House Hadar.”
“The Imperial Quarter is closed by order of the emperor,” the guard said. “No one enters.”
A typical response. “I don’t wish to bother the emperor. My message is for Empress Inolah, my sâr’s sister.”
The guard shook his head. “The empress is unwell. Emperor Nazer has ordered her seclusion.”
Inolah sick? The news stunned Kal. “What are the symptoms?”
“What do you think I am? The emperor’s favorite friend? How should I know?”
Kal had half a mind to slit this man’s throat, but he reined his temper. “If I cannot see the empress, would you announce me to Prince Ulrik?”
“He’s sick too,” the guard said. “I’ll send word to Emperor Nazer that you’re here with a message for the empress. Can’t do more than that. I have my orders.”
Kal fumed inside but nodded. “Emperor Nazer should be proud to have such a man guarding his gates.”
“I thank you, sir.”
Thanks wouldn’t help Kal speak with Inolah. He walked away, uncertain what to do.
A boy approached and offered to lead him to an inn. For a price, of course. Kal gave him a copper for directions to the city barracks.
It had been seven years since Kal last stepped foot in the Rurekan barracks. Then it had been on the Imperial Quarter’s side. Guards had been able to pass into the IQ through an inner gate—one hidden from common folk. Before Kal could see whether that route still existed, he needed a uniform. Should he look for the laundry or take one off a guard?
The barracks were across from the guards’ stables. Men came and went freely from the entrance in singles and pairs. Most headed deeper into the city; some walked into the market, some to the stables, and, every so often, one went up a platform and into a small shack. It wasn’t until a man drove a mule and wagon—carrying a noxious load—from the back of the little building that Kal realized it was an outhouse.
Perfect. But the mere thought of killing a man made his arm tingle. Panic shot through him that he might again lose the use of it. He would kill no one, then. Simply detain a man and steal his clothes.
He entered the outhouse. Inside was a bench with four holes, two of them occupied.
Kal sat between the two guards and waited. One finally got up and left. The moment the door shut, Kal attacked the other.
The guard attempted to fight back, but with trousers tangled around his ankles, he fared poorly. Two blows to the head knocked him senseless. Kal quickly stripped off his uniform. He tied the man’s ankles with the tunic, his wrists with one leg of the woolen stockings. The other stocking leg he stretched and shoved in the man’s mouth to gag him.
Kal pulled the uniform over his own clothes, noting the stripes on the sleeve. Some kind of officer. He tucked his thick warrior’s locks up under the man’s helmet and left.
On his way down the ramp he passed a guard coming up. The man saluted. Kal nodded and hurried into the barracks. It wouldn’t be long until his victim was discovered. He followed a long hallway, walking past a dining hall, armory, laundry, bathhouse, then room after room filled with sets of stacked beds. He rather liked wearing a helmet. It was nice not to have everyone staring at his scars.
Up ahead, at the end of the hall, a door opened and an officer stepped out. “Ho, up! Squad! Every man in the palace! Some prisoners have gone missing. Step it up!”
Men poured from the bunks and ran toward the officer. Kal joined the rush.
“Who are we looking for?” someone asked.
“The empress and Prince Ulrik have escaped the dungeons. The emperor wants them found.”
Kal stared dumbly at the officer as guards passed him by. “The royal family was in the dungeon?”
“None of that now,” the officer said. “You just help find them before the emperor blames the guard for their escape.”
“What of Prince Ferro and the princess?” Kal could never remember the girl’s name.
“Prince Ferro is safe with the emperor. And everyone knows the princess was married off. Where have you been?” The guard shoved Kal through the door.
Kal stumbled along with the horde of guards. Married off at six years of age? Who was so desperate for a royal marriage to marry a child? No wonder Inolah had revolted.
Kal followed the guards through a tunnel that ran under the inner wall and into the barracks of the Imperial Quarter, then through to the inner bailey of Castle Lâhaten. The guards entered the palace through a side door, then down a stone spiral staircase until they reached the dungeons. They wove from one cell bank to the next, bumping into other guards doing the same. There was no organization here. And why would Inolah still be in the dungeon if she had escaped? She would be trying to leave the castle.
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