Shadow War

by Deborah Chester

  What was her place now? Kostimon had admitted that he could not support his own intentions. At the first crisis, his kindness had fallen away to reveal the true man beneath. A cruel, manipulative man, with a mind from the dark ages, who asked her to help him yet would not let her try. He had humiliated her, and believed to do so was his right.

  There could be no apology from the emperor. Probably he believed that letting her live was amends enough.

  Be grateful, she told herself.

  But she could not be grateful. She would rather choke.

  Be humble, she told herself.

  Her pride was thundering out of control. Humility could not even be approached.

  Go through with it and wait for another chance.

  But that thought appalled her. She was no schemer. She was not like Tirhin, with his plots and intrigues.

  She thought of her oaths to be spoken tomorrow. Hot tears sprang to her eyes. How could she go through with any of it? A vow had to be honest and heartfelt, if it was to mean anything. Her integrity would not let her mumble empty words, simply for personal gain.

  She could defy him. She could refuse to proceed further. She could ruin her father, destroy the long-range plans of the Penestricians, walk away from an empire teetering on the edge of civil war and chaos. She could retreat to a Penestrican stronghold and live out her days in silence.

  And wasn’t that what the Vindicants were praying for? Wouldn’t that hand everything to Tirhin on a platter?

  She frowned, feeling more confused than ever. She did not know the prince, did not know if he was a good man or a bad one. He was handsome, certainly, but that did not mark a man’s worth. How could she judge his merits, or decide the course of his future? Who had given her the right to decide anything? She was alone, with no one to advise her. At least no one she trusted.

  She went on pacing, feeling pinned under the direct scrutiny of the gods, and could not determine what she should do.

  Chapter Eight

  All during the morning her entourage surrounded her like magpies, coming and going in excitement, chattering constantly. There was an atmosphere of great expectancy among her ladies, who knew nothing of the truth. Rumors flew in all directions, but the throne room had been locked—even her private passage was now barred—with guards at the door. The people who had witnessed the scene in the throne room had all vanished, including Chancellor Wilst, without explanation.

  Elandra knew what had happened to them. Or at least she guessed.

  It angered her that her husband would silence people, even good, useful people like the chancellor, with such untoward finality. While she would have commanded their promise to not speak of what they had witnessed, Kostimon simply used execution to silence them. Like a barbarian, he treated death and mutilation casually. People were completely expendable, in his view. It was the side of his personality that terrified her.

  She said little while her ladies chattered. She had a headache, and she felt nervous and tired. Then her tutor came in, with yet another version of her coronation oath.

  “At last!” he said in excitement, waving the sheaf of papers. “There has been an agreement within the priesthood. Lord Sien has graciously conceded one point which the emperor wanted most particularly. All can proceed now.”

  Elandra looked at Milgard coldly. It was tempting to tell him that his efforts were for naught. She was only to be a consort after all. Everything would have to be changed back to the original ceremonies and protocol. She wondered when the emperor would deign to inform his chancellors. Probably at the last moment, just to watch them sweat and bustle.

  Then her own bitterness dismayed her anew. She tried to shake herself into a better frame of mind.

  “Now, Majesty,” Milgard said eagerly. He pulled over a footstool and stood on it beside her. She stood on her cushion like a statue, arms extended while the seamstresses made finite adjustments to the fitting gown she wore over her clothing. “Let us begin. It will occupy your mind while you stand here being stuck with pins. Repeat after me—”

  “No,” Elandra said suddenly.

  Her head was splitting. The room was too hot and too full of people. She could bear no more of this.

  Gesturing the seamstresses aside, she stepped down off her cushion and shrugged off the fitting gown.

  “I wish my cloak and veil,” she said.

  Looks of consternation flashed about her. “Majesty,” Milgard stammered, “there is little time to learn what you must say. Tomorrow the eyes of the empire will be upon you. It is important that you speak well. Rehearsal is—”

  Elandra snapped her fingers, and one of the ladies hastened to throw her fur-lined cloak about her shoulders. Elandra pulled up the hood and fastened her veil into place.

  “Majesty, please,” Milgard said, looking distraught. He ran his long, ink-stained fingers through his graying hair.

  “Not now,” she said tonelessly. “I wish to go for a walk.”

  The ladies put down needlework and other activities in immediate compliance. They went to get their cloaks, but Elandra raised her hand.

  “Stop. I will walk alone. I wish no accompaniment.”

  They protested, but she left her chambers and walked rapidly outside into the frosty air of midday. The winter sunshine looked pale and blighted today. Even inside the protected walls of her garden, her flowers had been nipped by frost. They drooped, the edges of their leaves rimmed in black. Two guardsmen trailed after her, keeping a respectful distance.

  Elandra glanced over her shoulder at them once, and quickened her step. Her garden walls loomed high, and she felt enclosed inside a topless box. This was a prison, no matter how comfortable. She felt confined and frustrated. Why must she be watched over constantly? What harm could befall her here within the palace? Why, for once, could she not be alone?

  Her head ached more fiercely. Stopping a moment to rub her temples with her gloved fingers, she drew in several breaths of frosty air. Nothing helped. The tension knotting her neck did not slacken. And it was too cold for her to linger out here.

  Yet she did not want to return to her chambers to be fussed over endlessly, suffocated with attention. Abruptly she made a decision and veered from her garden. Indoors, she headed toward another section of the palace, walking with swift determination. Her guards moved closer. Unobtrusive, yet there in her wake. She reminded herself they followed to protect her, yet she did not feel safe.

  She walked quickly along the galleries and passageways, keeping her hood up and her veil in place for concealment. Each time she met a courtier or a servant or a chancellor, she was conscious of the swift flick of their eyes, followed by a little gasp of recognition. It irked her. Why should she maintain this pretense of being hidden away when anyone who saw her knew who she was? Or maybe it was the fact that she’d left her chambers to stroll through the palace at large that shocked everyone she met. She must be violating another rule and another set of protocols. For once she did not care. She felt restless and edgy, rebellious and daring.

  Finally she reached a section where she did not know her way. She stopped and gestured. One of her guards stepped forward and bowed.

  “The new healer,” she said impatiently. “Where is his workroom?”

  The guard frowned, looking shocked. “But, Majesty, if you are ill he will be brought to you. You must not go to him. It is not—”

  “Do not tell me what is and is not permitted,” she said sharply enough to make the man blanch. “Direct me to his workroom.”

  The guard bowed again. “If your Majesty will follow me ...”

  He led her into a modest area of pokey passageways, dark, ill-lit rooms, and storerooms stocked with provisions. Women on their knees scrubbed steps and floors with brushes. The men were all carrying items or hurrying somewhere. Elandra saw no idleness, no slacking.

  Unconsciously she gave a nod at the activity. It looked well supervised, but she would very much like to check the inventories someday to see how muc
h waste and graft were going on.

  Then, for the first time all day, she nearly smiled at herself. The steward would die of horror if he found her in his storerooms, counting barrels herself. No, no, he would expect her to sit in her audience room while he laid carefully penned lists before her and assured her all was as it should be.

  She passed an open door where cold air was pouring in along with servants busily unloading laden carts. More feast day provisions. So much work toward an event that might be canceled.

  Stop it, she told herself sharply. The emperor had said there would still be a coronation. She might as well shake herself out of this dark mood.

  They climbed a long series of steps, leaving the bustle of the storerooms behind. Here, there was no heat and no activity. Despite the warmth of her cloak, Elandra shivered. Ahead she could smell the unpleasant scents of a sickroom mingled with the aroma of herbs and bracing tea.

  The guard leading her stopped. “Wait here, Majesty.”

  He walked alone to the infirmary door and knocked, while the other guard stood close to Elandra.

  The door opened, and the new healer peered out. He and the guard spoke softly a moment, and the healer shook his head. He pointed and closed the door.

  The guard returned to Elandra. “Healer Agel is honored by your visit, Majesty. He begs you to enter his study. He will attend you shortly.”

  Already half regretting her impulse, she nodded. The guards led her a short distance down the shadowy hall and opened a door.

  She was shown into a small, austere room. Almost entirely bare of furnishings, it contained only a writing table, a stool, and a simple chair. There was a case to hold parchment scrolls, and everything looked neat and utterly clean. Even the table was swept clear, and the medicine cabinet stood open to show orderly rows of small jars.

  No fire burned on the cold grate. A single lamp struggled to supplement the inadequate light streaming through the window.

  Elandra gazed about her with keen disappointment. “Is this all?” she asked.

  “We Traulanders require little in the way of material possessions,” said a deep, faintly accented voice behind her.

  Elandra turned as the healer stepped into the room. He wore the plain white wool robe of his calling, and his hands were tucked inside his sleeves. His face was gaunt and pale. His eyes were calm, dispassionate, uninvolved.

  Seeing him, she relaxed at once. “You are Healer Agel,” she said, “newly appointed to the court of my husband.”

  His eyes widened at this hint. He bowed deeply to her. “Majesty,” he said, less calmly than before. “Forgive me. Had you but summoned me, I would have come to your assistance at once.”

  Her eyes narrowed in annoyance. So, when the guard had first spoken to him, the healer had thought her one of the concubines. Presumably they came often to his infirmary. “Had I desired you to attend me in public,” she said through her teeth, “I would have done so. I prefer privacy for this consultation. Without my ladies in waiting, without my tutors, without my guards.” She gestured at her guards in dismissal. “Leave us. This room is too small.”

  “Majesty—”

  She glared at them over her veil. Reluctantly they left the tiny study and shut the door.

  Closing her eyes a moment, she released a sigh.

  “May I see your hand?” the healer asked.

  Shivering and wishing he would light a fire, she extended her left hand.

  He supported it carefully on the tips of his fingers, taking care to touch her as little as possible. When he massaged the web between her thumb and forefinger, she winced at the tenderness.

  “You suffer the affliction of a headache,” he said.

  “Yes.”

  Releasing her hand, he studied her a moment. His eyes were so serious. She wondered if he ever laughed.

  “May I reach beneath your veil and touch the back of your neck?”

  “Yes.”

  Again his touch was impersonal, professional. He moved around her with exaggerated care until she longed to scream at him to simply take down her veil and handle her as he would any other patient. She resisted this, knowing it was foolish and self-indulgent.

  Finally he stepped back. “Your Majesty is very tense,” he said. “You have not been sleeping well, and you are overly fatigued. My advisement is rest.”

  She looked at him directly. “I do not have that luxury. I will be involved in ceremonial activities this afternoon, all evening, and all day tomorrow.”

  “The coronation, yes.” He frowned. “I can remove the headache. I can induce calm, if your Majesty wishes. However, without rest the headache is likely to return in a few hours. I can also mix you a very mild sedative to help you sleep.”

  She knew nothing of Traulanders, except that they were cold, characterless giants who lived in a country of snow and ice. They were said to be incorruptible and trustworthy, clannish, and hard to like. Suspicious of strangers, old-fashioned, and nonprogressive, they rarely traveled beyond their own province. It was strange to meet this man from a land that sounded like a tale for children. She did not think he would poison her.

  “The potion is acceptable,” she said at last. “You may also treat me.”

  Bowing, he said, “If your Majesty would remove your veil and hood.”

  She could not hesitate, could not betray any nervousness. It was said that healers from Trau possessed extraordinary powers. They could remove all kinds of hurts with a simple touch. She marveled at such abilities, but she was not sure she believed. Kostimon had an old man’s desperation to try anything that would ease his aches and pains.

  Lowering her veil, she pushed back her hood and faced the healer. Gravely he seemed to gather his concentration; then, with a frown, he pressed his fingertips against her forehead.

  “No,” he murmured and shifted his touch around to her left temple.

  The pain flared harder inside her skull, throbbing wildly for a moment, then it eased. Suddenly it was gone, as though it had never been.

  Elandra’s eyes widened. She drew in her breath sharply. “It’s gone.”

  The healer stepped back and bowed again. “Yes. But your Majesty must heed my advice to rest. Also, you should avoid salt in your diet for a few days. These simple precautions will insure that the pain does not return.”

  “Thank you,” she said with a smile. Impressed by him, she marveled at his skills. Kostimon was wise to bring this man to court. He should have done so years ago.

  Nodding, the healer moved to his cabinet and began taking down bottles. “I will make an infusion which you might drink later with tea, just before you retire. It will help you sleep.”

  “Yes. That would be helpful,” she said, keeping her tone as formal as his.

  “Your Majesty should not wait,” he said. “It will not take long to make the infusion, but I shall be happy to see it delivered—”

  “No,” she said sharply, fearing poison and interference. Anyone might meddle with it on the way. “I shall wait.”

  “My humble study is not comfortable.”

  “No,” she agreed, putting up her hood and veil again for warmth. “But I shall wait.”

  He did not protest further. Gathering his materials, he walked out into the passageway and shut the door quietly, leaving her alone.

  Sighing with relief, she sat down and massaged her temples. Miraculously, the pain was still gone. She felt restored, and some of her edginess was fading. Even this dreadful, icy room was better than her own quarters. At least it was quiet and utterly private. She shut her eyes a moment, sinking into the tranquility.

  The window slid open with a scrape, startling her. She looked up at a man’s head and shoulders framed within the window’s opening. He was climbing inside.

  Even as she scrambled to her feet, he pulled himself the rest of the way through and dropped to the floor like a cat.

  He was immensely tall, taller even than the healer, with broad, muscular shoulders and a tangled mane of
golden hair. Dressed in filthy rags, he was covered in grime from head to foot. His blue eyes glared fiercely, darting here and there in feral distrust.

  Elandra regained her startled wits immediately. “A thief,” she breathed, and gathered herself to scream.

  Faster than thought, he was across the small room and on her. Her cry was cut off by his hand pressing roughly against her mouth. He pushed her back against the wall and pinned her there with his body, holding her fast despite her struggles. He stared at the door, but her guards had not heard her. They did not come to her aid.

  “Be quiet, or I will choke the life from you,” he whispered harshly.

  She heaved against him, but he might as well have been a rock. His hand was crushing her lips. She drew them back from her teeth and bit him.

  Sucking in a breath of pain, he shifted himself slightly and gripped her throat with his other hand. The pain was immediate and terrifying. She couldn’t breathe at all.

  Then his crushing fingers lifted from her throat, and she sagged weakly, struggling to draw in air.

  “Now be quiet, and I will not hurt you more,” he said.

  She started coughing. Her throat burned like fire.

  He seemed to take her coughing for assent, for he released her slowly and cautiously. Lifting his hand from her mouth, he held up his forefinger in warning.

  “Remember, not a sound,” he whispered. “Who is out there?”

  “My guards,” she replied, her voice a strangle. She was thinking desperately, trying to devise a plan to escape. All the while a derisive voice in the back of her head jeered at her: Oh, yes, how safe it is inside the palace. You may roam anywhere you please. Why not dismiss your guards entirely? But telling herself how stupid and naive she’d been did not help. This seemed to be a day of hard lessons.