by R. J. Larson
“Do you not wish to see the Infinite’s Holy House rebuilt?”
“It is my dream, Majesty. Yet if this dream cannot be, I will mourn its loss, as I mourn Parne—until I draw my last breath in this fallen world.” Nesac lifted his thin, scholarly hands, an imploring gesture. “Majesty, consider—I beg you!—an Atean wife could very well lead your heart away from the Infinite.”
“Or I might lead her heart to the Infinite,” Akabe argued. Did everyone consider him to be so weak?
The chief priest pressed a hand to his forehead, as if thinking were suddenly difficult. “Have you consulted Siphra’s prophets? Have you sought the Infinite’s will?”
“Yes. He has been silent. However,” Akabe changed tactics, “if my decisions dishonor my Creator, won’t He then tell His prophets to rebuke me? Yet how can rebuilding the temple displease the Infinite? Help me fulfill this work for Him, Nesac. I beg you! Otherwise . . .” Akabe leaned forward, meaning every word, “I will search Siphra for a priest who sees, as I see—that Siphra needs its temple, its strength, and its faith restored!”
Nesac closed his eyes, undoubtedly praying. After a long instant, he sighed and looked at Akabe. “I will continue to pray, Majesty. For you and your wife. And for me, that I will never regret blessing this marriage.”
His words fell on Akabe’s spirit so heavily that Akabe couldn’t rejoice. Not that he wanted to rejoice. Thaenfall had set a snare, and Akabe had stepped into it, eyes open.
There was no other way. None!
He must complete this task he’d begun—this pledge he’d given his people for their temple. He would deal with his priests’ opinions and his counselors’ arguments as they cropped up. As for Caitria and her family . . . may the Infinite protect him!
He managed to smile at the unhappy priest. “Thank you.”
Formally attired and standing in the palace’s ceremonial hall before his council and invited witnesses, Akabe sighed inwardly, feeling condemned.
He was about to marry an Atean.
Akabe hoped his people would understand. Their king certainly didn’t.
Even so . . . Infinite . . . be with us. Akabe fastened a gold armband about Caitria Thaenfall’s slender bicep, then clasped her cold hand. She stared straight ahead as Ishvah Nesac pronounced hesitant blessings upon the royal marriage. The blessings sounded more like a death sentence.
For consecrated land, chosen by the Infinite at Siphra’s beginning.
As Ishvah’s blessing ended, Akabe glanced down at his wife again. Caitria hesitantly looked up, wincing under Akabe’s scrutiny. At least it was clear she didn’t aspire to be a queen. Standing beside Caitria, Cyril obviously noticed her expression. He gave his sister a ferocious scowl that warned her to behave. Caitria glared at him.
Adjacent to the siblings, Cyan Thaenfall, Lord of the Plidian Estates, studied Akabe as if seeing an oddity that should not exist. And perhaps he was correct. As Siphra’s king, Akabe certainly felt like a pretender just now. Particularly with most of his council members and courtiers showing hostile frowns, or—at best—bleak acceptance for this marriage.
Akabe nodded to Thaenfall, then led Cyan, Caitria, and Cyril into a meeting chamber. There a clerk waited, his worktable organized with vials, cords, parchments, pens, and a wavering lamp flame positioned beneath a warming stand, which held a small pan of melted crimson wax.
Seeing Akabe, the clerk produced two copies of the marriage agreement—so sniffily that Akabe nearly growled. He spoke to Thaenfall instead. “Here’s the new contract, my lord. It’s obvious I’ve fulfilled my obligation. Therefore, let’s read and sign.”
Akabe stood beside the haughty lord, reading his own copy of the agreement. Every clause seemed proper and concise. Akabe of Siphra agreed to marry Caitria Thaenfall, with the permission of Cyan Thaenfall, Lord of the Plidian Estates. Furthermore, having paid the negotiated sum, Akabe would bestow upon Caitria all the rights, lands, revenues, and marks of rank due to the queen of Siphra—never to be revoked without justifiable cause, noted in clauses, as long as they both lived.
Evidently finished reading, Thaenfall snatched a gilded stylus, jabbed it into an ink vial, and scrawled his name at the bottom of each parchment. Out of turn, yet Akabe wasn’t about to rebuke the man.
Akabe signed both documents less hastily. The fussy clerk applied the royal seals, and Thaenfall grabbed his copy of the document. Flat-voiced, he told Caitria, “In nine months, I expect to hear that you’ve borne an heir for Siphra.”
Thaenfall bowed to Akabe and departed, snapping his fingers at Cyril as if the young man were a dog commanded to follow at his heels.
Neither man looked back. Stunned, Akabe listened as their footsteps faded and the door closed with a muffled thud. Was Thaenfall always so rude and unfeeling toward his children?
Akabe looked down at Caitria, who still stared at the doorway as if unable to believe what had just happened. Sympathetic despite his own frustrations, Akabe wrapped his hands around Caitria’s. She stared up at him now, dazed as a wounded creature.
Beyond them, gathering his pens, wax, and cords, the clerk said, “The queen should have signed the document, Majesty. Yet I suppose it’s no matter. The marriage contract will stand.”
Caitria’s chin quivered.
Still furious with Thaenfall, Akabe held Caitria as she cried. Over her head, he gave the clerk a meaningful glance and sternly nodded everyone toward the hall. When all the witnesses had departed and closed the door, Akabe smoothed Caitria’s hair, marveling at its sheen and delicious scent. “This whole matter was handled badly—you deserved better. I’m sorry.”
She stiffened in his arms and pulled back, gazing at him in evident confusion. And hurt. “Sir, why should you care more about my feelings than my own family has?”
Akabe lifted a strand of Caitria’s hair plastered to her cheek by tears. “Lady, I am now your family.”
Caitria sobbed, covering her face with her hands.
Apparently not the answer she’d wanted.
Akabe opened his eyes the merest fraction, aware first of Caitria asleep beside him, then of the door creaking open. A servant lit the hearth, then departed, softly closing the door. The first sounds of Akabe’s day, as usual, made him hate being a king. Servants appearing and disappearing like shadows always raised Akabe’s instincts to hide or to defend himself.
Which explained the dagger he hid beneath his pillow each night.
Any of these servants could be an assassin, the way they slipped through the palace. He must remind his guards to be vigilant. They’d failed him before. If they failed him again, Caitria’s life would be equally endangered—a risk Akabe could not allow. She was now, by all of Siphra’s legal requirements, his wife. She merited his protection.
Hearing her stir, Akabe touched Caitria’s tender face, then kissed her cheek. If only necessity hadn’t forced him to marry a stranger—he hated being so unsure of his queen . . . his wife. But perhaps he could lessen their mutual emotional distance. He snagged his overtunic from the foot of the bed, flung it on, then stood. “Good morning, lady. I’m expected at various meetings today. Before then, however, let’s share the morning meal.”
She nodded and sat up, still seeming half asleep as she reached for her chamber robe and slippers. Akabe waited for her to speak, to say something . . . anything. But she moved about in that same speechless daze of last evening. How long would it take for her to recover from her father’s harsh abandonment?
It might help if he corrected his own unhappy acceptance of their marriage.
As Caitria donned her robe and swept her hair off her neck, Akabe glimpsed a darkened mark on her pale skin. A bruise on her throat, just behind her ear.
Akabe strode around the bed, startling her. She froze, her brown eyes huge. Did she fear he would strike her? He halted within arm’s reach and opened his hands gently, matching his cautious movements with hushed words. “Stand still, lady, only for an instant.” He slid his hands beneath
her hair, lifting the soft, sweetly scented brown waves off her neck. Not one bruise, but two. Someone had held Caitria by the back of her neck. Viciously and recently. “Who gave you these bruises? Your brother?”
“No, my lord.”
“Your father then.”
She waited, not arguing with his conclusion.
Akabe released her hair and stepped back, watching her. “Why was he angry with you?”
“Because I . . . behaved thoughtlessly, and . . . spoke contrary to his wishes.”
“Concerning what?”
Caitria looked away, her elegant face setting in stubborn lines. Clearly, she would refuse to elaborate further. “It’s unimportant now, Majesty.”
Unimportant? Not by the look of those bruises. Akabe suppressed a frown. He could only guess that they’d quarreled about this marriage. She’d argued against it, failed, and suffered. For which he must bear the blame. Well enough. He touched her face, running his fingers along that stubborn, lovely jawline. When she glanced at him warily, he said, “This will not happen again. Granted, we’ve been compelled to accept this marriage, but for as long as I live, I will not allow you to experience further abuse such as this!”
Tears brimmed in her eyes, and she swallowed, so pitiable that Akabe felt compelled to hug and console her. In his thoughts, chief priest Nesac warned again, Majesty, consider—I beg you!—an Atean wife could very well lead your heart away from the Infinite. . . .
Was this how such a divergence of faith might begin?
A vulnerable instant.
The longing to protect . . .
The progression was more subtle and more treacherous than he’d believed. Would he be able to withstand such temptation?
Infinite? Guard my heart, I beg You!
Caitria slid another glance toward her husband as he led her out into the echoing corridor to face her first day as his queen. Was he always so . . . protective? Truly, she’d experienced more tenderness and consideration from this “despicable fool,” as her lord-father called him, in one day than from her entire family for ages.
Oh, it would be so easy to love this man if he weren’t such a danger to her family. To her! Though she was descended from Siphra’s most ancient noble lines, her family might be destroyed if she breathed a word of her fears and suspicions to Akabe—to the king.
She must guard her every word. Did he suspect—?
A bark startled Caitria from her thoughts. She turned and laughed, seeing her beloved nursemaid and her capering hound, both delighted to see her. “Issa! Naynee! You’ve stayed?”
She wasn’t completely abandoned in this cold palace—such a relief!
Naynee beamed, her dear ruddy face alight with joy. “Your lord-father guessed he’d no reason to feed your dog or your servant any longer, lady. He left us here, if you’ll have us.”
“Oh, you know I will!” Unless the king refused. Caitria cast a fearful look at Akabe, silently imploring his agreement. He had absolute control over every aspect of her life now.
The king remained silent, studying Naynee as if trying to judge the influence she might wield. If only he knew how loving Naynee was! How disinterested in political maneuverings! Please . . .
Just as she was about to kneel before him and beg, despite the gathering courtiers, Akabe nodded. “I agree. Naynee and Issa will be the first official members of your household.”
“Thank you, sir!” She stifled an undignified whoop.
The king seized her hand—a subtle smile lurking about his handsome mouth. “Now,” he murmured, “one favor for another. . . . Come with me today, lady. Majesty. Not to the council meetings—I won’t bore us both with those—but come visit the property we’ve granted Siphra. Nothing formal or announced. A surprise inspection.”
The property they’d granted Siphra? That wretched temple land! She was grateful for his indulgence, but he could leave her out of his religion! Didn’t he understand how vengeful the Ateans would be if she gave the slightest appearance of following the Infinite?
And yet, what else could she do? Would the Ateans understand the extent of her isolation? Her virtual imprisonment here—abandoned by her family and surrounded by hostile courtiers?
Forcing herself to think of less frightful things, Caitria nodded. “Of course, sir. I’ve never been. Can you imagine? My life’s controlled by land I’ve never seen.”
“You haven’t traveled?”
“Not since Mother died ten years past. I’ve been isolated on our estates. My lord-father . . . has been busy.” Too busy to do more than snap at her or lash out when she offended him. If only Mother had lived! Safer to not remember Mother now—risking a display of weakness before all these haughty courtiers.
As they walked along the huge marble-columned corridor, Caitria shivered despite the stunning surroundings. The palace was too opulent for her tastes. She loved coziness. Here highly wrought carvings of birds, flowers, and trees fretted the white marble columns, arcades, and walls like stonework embroidery—all coldly forbidding her to touch them. Semiprecious gems and gilding sparkled overhead on the soaring ceilings in massive sunbursts of gold and crimson that dazzled her and made her feel like an intruder.
But the king’s chambers were worse. She couldn’t move in those dim rooms without fear of breaking something priceless and irreplaceable.
Didn’t he possess a refuge in the palace? A sunlit chamber where one could flop onto a couch or into a cushioned window seat with a favorite collection of stories, then read until a nap took hold? Did kings and queens even indulge in naps?
This whole situation promised a dismal life.
Silent, she accompanied her new husband as he ordered his servants and guards to prepare for the impromptu temple inspection. It seemed almost natural to ride beside him in a plain open chariot through Munra’s streets. And, despite her predetermined loathing, the vast temple site amazed her with its white steps and immense smooth-slabbed paving stones, not to mention the multitudes of workmen.
Yet the king scanned the site, visibly tensing. Speaking so softly that Caitria almost didn’t hear, he said, “Those men don’t belong here. Too well-dressed to be workers. Not reverent enough to be worshipers . . .”
Caitria followed the king’s gaze, eyeing the suspected noblemen—for noblemen they were. They swaggered about, armed with swords and daggers, and . . . oh . . . was she imagining she’d seen them before?
While she sifted through her memories, trying to recall faces and names, Akabe signaled to four of his guards. “Sirs, follow me.”
Tucking her mantle close, Caitria started after her husband. But a guard stepped in front of her. “Majesty, please wait.”
“Very well.” Curious, she leaned around her concerned guard and watched as the king hurried toward one particular supervisor, who’d been beckoned by the noblemen.
Busy overseeing his workers, the supervisor shook his head, refusing to leave his task, which irritated the aristocrats. Caitria frowned. Where had she seen these men?
Akabe called out, “Good sirs, allow him to do his job!”
The troublemakers turned and gawked, obviously recognizing their king. One recovered and lunged for Akabe, dagger drawn.
Assassins!
Caitria struggled as the guards pulled her away.
8
Akabe drew his dagger but had no chance to defend himself. Two royal guards tackled his foolhardy assailant, while the remainder chased down the man’s cohorts.
Dan Roeh, who’d resisted speaking to these men and thereby escaped their trap, abandoned his work now and hurried toward the scuffle. “Majesty!”
Akabe halted Dan, noting smears of blood on the ground from the skirmish. Had the attacker suffered a wound? It seemed so. Infinite, let there be no more bloodshed! He snapped a look at Dan. “Is the prophet here today?”
“No, sir. Lessons are tomorrow. She’s with her mother this morning.”
“Good.” Akabe sighed his relief, refusing to think of Ela beyo
nd her importance to this temple. “We’ll hire guards to protect you and your men. Until then, wear weapons as you work. That blood could very well have been yours, Roeh—bless the Infinite for His protection!”
“Bless Him, indeed,” Dan mumbled, staring as the guards lifted their bleeding prisoner. “I’ll tell my men about the weapons.”
“Thank you.” Akabe turned, glimpsing Caitria’s approach.
She faltered, paling at the blood and the now-unconscious prisoner. “Majesty . . . sir . . .”
Aware of Dan Roeh’s watchful gaze, Akabe gripped Caitria’s hand. Was she turning faint? “It’s not safe for you here, lady. Another time, perhaps. Where are your guards?”
“I—I ran from them, sir.”
Akabe looped an arm around his wife and swung her away. “We’re leaving. For now.”
“Sir,” Faine mourned amid the hastily assembled royal council, “bad news. It seems the Thaenfall family was involved. They are Atean. They worship the goddess and wear her coils.”
“Not the entire family,” Akabe argued. “My wife hasn’t mentioned the goddess Atea to me. And she has no marks of Atean worship.” Only bruises from her lord-father.
“Nevertheless . . .” Faine reddened, betraying his annoyance. “Forgive me, Majesty, but we cannot trust the queen.” Faine removed a money pouch from his belt and overturned it on the council table, deliberate and dramatic. Two rings spilled out amid the jangling of silver coins. “Majesty, these are signets taken from the suicides this morning.”
Akabe winced inwardly. Of three attackers, only one escaped. The other two knifed themselves. “Who were they?”
Faine offered the larger signet to Akabe. “This was worn by Ison of Deerfeld. A Thaenfall cousin. His comrade was one Ezry Morside, a landholder of Deerfeld’s properties. Both have remained away from court as our opponents.”