He looked back once to see four-footed beasts like wolves bounding at them. The creatures came closer, and they were not wolves at all but furred things with claws and heads like cobras.
Their yellow eyes glowed ferociously, and their jaws dripped death.
Caelan gasped out a warning.
Orlo glanced back and turned pale. “Holy goddess mother,” he whispered, skidding to a halt. He shoved Caelan against the wall and met the charge of one of the beasts with a hard thrust of his sword. The creature screamed and fell, its deadly claws missing Orlo by mere inches. Shouting in panic, Mender stabbed at another one with his spear, but it seemed impervious to the wounds he dealt it. Orlo struck it from behind, severing its spine in one blow, and it fell dead at Caelan’s feet.
Gasping for air, Orlo stared at it, then shuddered once and gathered Caelan to run again. Other creatures appeared, frenzied and wild, as though driven forth from the realm of shadow by something more terrible than all imagination. More than once the men had to stop and fight off attacks. A cross passageway teeming with demons cut them off. Orlo, Mender, and Caelan shrank back into the shadows, and the demons rushed on without noticing them, howling in their madness.
The earth quaked again, rending and cracking. Caelan thought at any moment everything would come crashing down on them, but the old passageway timbers held, groaning, long enough for them to duck through.
They ran until he couldn’t breathe. They ran until his lungs were on fire, and every step jolted the pain back through severance like stitches from a long needle. Even with all his control he felt the agony more and more sharply. He was gasping and staggering by the time Orlo half dragged him up the last ramp into the cold air.
Demons and monsters streamed into the streets.
Then a sudden, very strange hush fell over the chaos. Caelan turned his head, sensing something stirring, awakening, coming, something unbearable in its horror.
He shuddered in Orlo’s hold, knowing this was what he had been born to face, but knowing also he was not ready, not up for it. He had lost Exoner, now in Tirhin’s hands, and without the spell-forged sword he might as well throw stones.
Without warning, weakness sagged through his knees. Orlo grunted with the struggle to hold him up.
“Quick,” Orlo said, panting. “Let’s get him to a hiding place. There’s no safety out here.”
They pushed Caelan behind a shaky wall and crept along cautiously, heading toward a collection of buildings on the other side of the city square.
“It’s coming,” Caelan whispered, swirling through a mist of darkness and raw, burning pain. Severance came and went, sustaining him for a blessed moment of relief only to fade again. “Coming.”
“He’s raving,” Mender said worriedly.
“I know,” Orlo replied. “Let’s go to the tavern. We can hide there.”
Caelan knew he must explain to them. They needed to understand that he was warning them, not babbling in delirium, but he couldn’t gather the words. Stumbling over rubble and timbers, he lost his footing and fell, half dragging Orlo and Mender down with him. From a long distance he heard them pleading with him to climb back on his feet and keep going. Orlo sounded afraid, and that surprised Caelan. He didn’t think Orlo knew what fear was.
But the earth was spinning beneath him. He reached up, but the black waters of Aithe, river of dead souls, swept him away.
He slept and dreamed and fought the creatures that tormented him in his feverish haze. Concealed in the underground cellar of a burned-out tavern, Caelan lay propped up on a crude pallet of straw and blankets. He dreamed of red-eyed demons and men who breathed smoke. He dreamed of the arena, hot in the merciless sun, the spectators screaming. He dreamed of Elandra. Her eyes were radiant, glowing only for him.
“I have a secret to tell you,” she said.
He reached for her, only to have her turn to smoke in his fingers and vanish.
And there stood Kostimon, yellow-eyed and sly, cloaked in purple with a crown of gold on his head. Pointing at Caelan, he laughed scornfully. Beyond the emperor, a trio of Penestrican women robed in black lifted despairing hands to the sky, while they wailed cries of mourning. Darkness crawled across the earth like a vast serpent, swallowing the light, swallowing Caelan.
Lea’s voice called his name. Holding up a lamp, she came searching and did not find him.
“I’m sorry,” he said as she passed him by.
“I’m sorry,” he said, unexpectedly finding himself kneeling to Moah, the leader of the Choven tribes.
“I’m sorry,” he said.
And Exoner lay broken in the snow, while he dreamed and shivered and burned in fire.
The queer tolling of cracked bells awakened Elandra. She could hear them across the city, some near and some faint on the distant hills. One rang whole and pure, its beauty serving only to accentuate the dead, flat notes of the others.
She lay there in her bed, in the fine suite of apartments, and thought of another day when the bells of Imperia had rung for her. It seemed a lifetime ago.
She had been on her way to be married.
“No!”
Sitting bolt upright, she flung off the covers and swung her feet to the floor. Around her, servants were moving quietly, refilling the lamps with oil and lighting them. Pushing back her hair, she glanced at the window and could see the sun hanging halfway above the broken spires of the city, still veiled by the hazy gloom.
She remembered the horrible talk with Tirhin last night, and fresh grief rose inside her along with grim determination. She would not marry the man. No matter what he did, no matter what he plotted, he could not coerce her.
Iaris came toward her, veering around a maidservant carrying a tray of food. “It’s about time you woke up,” she said. “Your bath is being poured. I’ve been sewing since dawn, trying to alter the wedding gown your groom has provided. He says it belonged to his mother. It’s charming, but very old-fashioned. Still, we do what we must. Hurry!”
Elandra ignored her as she would a buzzing fly.
Gripping her by the wrist, Iaris marched her into a small bathing chamber wanned by a burning fire. Curls of steam rose off the surface of the water.
“This is the fate of women,” Iaris said, stripping the sleeping robe off Elandra’s back and pushing her into the deep marble tub. “The more you fight, the more miserable you will be. The result is still the same. Find obedience in your heart, and cease this struggle.”
Elandra sat in the water, letting it lap around her shoulders. She could not cry now. She had cried all her tears for Caelan the night before. Now she felt hollow and empty inside, as empty as the city around her. She felt as though she had died, yet still was able to move about and talk. It seemed so strange.
“I am a ghost,” she said, staring into the distance. “I am nothing.”
Iaris slapped her hard. The blow rocked Elandra backward, and stung enough to get her attention.
Lifting her hand to her face, she turned her head and stared at her mother.
Iaris was glaring at her, looking both angry and afraid. She gripped the rim of the tub so hard her knuckles turned white. “Stop this!” she repeated sharply. “Our lives depend on you. Don’t you understand? Your father, Pier, myself, the others. If you displease Tirhin, he will hurt us. Not you. Us.”
Elandra’s eyes widened. She looked at her mother, heard the truth in her mother’s voice, and felt shame rise inside her.
“You are safe,” Iaris said in a tight, hard voice. “But we are not. No one in Imperia is safe except you. He needs you, Elandra. The rest of us are expendable.”
Elandra’s lips were trembling. She felt cold despite the warmth of the water. “He is a monster,” she said. “A madman. He killed Caelan.”
“He will kill Albain next,” Iaris said. “You know that. Stop being so selfish, girl, and think of someone besides yourself.”
Bowing her head, Elandra began to cry.
“Stop it! Pull yourself
together. Did you tell him about the child?”
Still weeping, Elandra shook her head.
“Thank Gault for that.” Iaris sighed. “I am sorry about your lover,” she said, making her voice more gentle. “He was not suitable in birth or rank, but—”
“He was noble in his heart,” Elandra said, aching for Caelan. She told herself she would never see him again, she would never hear his voice or feel his arms around her. It seemed unreal. How his eyes lit up when he smiled. His mouth had a funny way of quirking up at one corner when he teased her. Oh, her dear, gentle Caelan, a man who could be fierce, savage, and unbending. He was also a man with a heart as tender as a child’s, a man who gave himself heart and soul to whatever and whomever he believed in.
She looked at her mother desperately, seeking solace that was not offered. “What makes one man better than another? Is it an accident of birth, or is it what he proves himself to be?”
“I don’t know,” Iaris said. “But if he is dead, then he is dead. Your tears won’t bring him back. And if Tirhin is mad, then you truly are the last hope Imperia has. Don’t throw that away, Elandra.”
Elandra wiped her face and nodded. She felt colder than ever inside, but her grimness had not lessened. Nor did her intentions waver. No matter what her mother said, or how much she pleaded, Elandra would not let herself be made Tirhin’s wife.
She thought of the Magria’s strange prophecy and how she had been given two destinies. If she locked herself in her chamber, refusing Tirhin, there would be civil war. She remained popular with the people, and they would support her. But Tirhin had killed the man she loved, and Elandra hated him for that. Her grief hardened inside her, becoming cold, implacable hatred. She would not sit in passive resistance. No, she meant to strike hard. She must avenge Caelan. The goal burned in her heart like fire. Woman of fire, the prophecy had called her. So be it.
When she was dressed and adorned with jewels and veiled, Elandra dismissed everyone.
“I am going to say my prayers,” she said. “I will be alone.”
Iaris looked at her suspiciously. “What are you up to now?”
“By tradition, a bride has the night before her wedding to fast, meditate, and purify herself. I have not had that privilege.”
“They are waiting,” Iaris said. “There is no time for this.”
“I will have my prayers,” Elandra said angrily. She glared at Iaris with all the stubbornness she possessed.
“What are you up to?”
“Nothing more than I have said. I shan’t be long.”
Iaris pointed across the room at the window, where the jinja sat pouting because it was not allowed to go. “Go stand in that corner, then, and say your prayers quickly. The gods will understand your haste. I will wait here by the door.”
Anger flashed through Elandra. Through her teeth, she said, “You are a blasphemous woman. Get out.”
Red surged up Iaris’s throat into her cheeks. But she never flinched. “I do not trust you.”
“I have given my word,” Elandra said. “Take care. You are treading close to treason.”
Alarm flickered in Iaris’s eyes at that threat. She frowned as though she would protest further, but instead she said, “Very well. But for a few moments only. The escort is waiting.”
Elandra waited until the door was closed; then she ran across the room to the window. “Jinja, give it to me.”
The jinja sprang up at her command and jumped off the window sill. It had been sitting on her sheathed dagger, concealing it from the maids who had straightened the room.
Elandra strapped the thin sheath on her arm and pulled the sleeve of her dress down over it. A more sensible, safer course of action would be to go through the ceremony today and kill Tirhin tonight in the bridal chamber, but she had no interest in safety. She would give Tirhin a knife in the heart instead of her vows. It would be her vengeance for the man she had loved. She did not care what happened after that.
The jinja pressed close to her skirts, making a worried, mewing sound.
“Danger,” it said. “Danger great. Hide is better.”
She paused and stroked its small, golden head. “I know,” she said sadly. “But I can’t.”
“I go,” the jinja said. “Bad magic here.”
“No.”
The jinja hissed, but she gave it no chance to protest.
“You will stay here and hide yourself from what will happen. That’s an order.”
The jinja glared up at her, its pointed little teeth bared. “No orders give to jinja. Only love.”
She bent over and kissed the top of its head. “You have served me well,” she whispered.
“Danger,” the jinja insisted. “Need jinja.”
She sighed. “The laws of Imperia forbid you to go with me.”
Growling, the jinja darted away and jumped back on the windowsill with its back to her.
She stared at it a moment, but she could not relent. In silence, she fastened her veil in place, grateful that it would conceal the defiance in her face, and went forth with murder in her heart.
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Caelan heard the whispered argument before he heard the bells ringing over the city.
Dragging open his eyes, he saw Orlo standing across the gloomy cellar next to a wall of wooden kegs, gesturing and arguing in a fierce undertone with someone Caelan could not see.
He struggled to lift his head. “Orlo?”
The trainer broke off and came hurrying to his side. “We woke you. I’m sorry.”
Caelan frowned up at him in the feeble flicker of candlelight, seeing the anger still stamped on Orlo’s features. He glanced back across the cellar, but could not see the individual who stood motionless in the shadows.
“Who?”
“Hush,” Orlo said, wiping his brow with a wet cloth. “Save your strength.”
Caelan could feel a strange energy in the room, a force tightly leashed yet powerful. It emanated from the person he could not see, and he was afraid. For a confused moment he was a boy again, bruised and battered after his attempt to run away from school and join the army.
“Elder Sobna?” he said defiantly. “I won’t be punished!”
“Don’t talk,” Orlo said gruffly. “You can’t afford to start coughing again.”
The energy rippled around the room. It was something he had never encountered before, very ancient, yet no menace lay in it. His initial sense of alarm faded, and he sighed.
Orlo tried to give him water, but Caelan turned his head fretfully from the cup. He beckoned to the person in the shadows.
Orlo gripped his hand and forced it down to his side. “No. You don’t know anything about it. Go back to sleep.”
But a figure emerged, robed and hooded in black. “His invitation allows me to enter,” a woman’s voice said.
Orlo scowled, putting himself protectively between Caelan and the approaching stranger. “You aren’t wanted here.”
Ignoring him, the woman went to the other side of Caelan’s pallet. Her face was smooth and unlined like a girl’s, yet her dark eyes looked old and weary. When she knelt beside him with her hands resting calmly in her lap, he saw how age-gnarled they were.
He stared at her in astonishment. “Penestrican,” he said, his voice a weak rasp.
She inclined her head gravely. “I have come to offer you a lesson.”
Orlo snorted. “What nonsense is this, woman?”
She glared at him. “Until you learn respect, you will be silent!”
Orlo opened his mouth, but no words came out. His eyes widened in alarm, and he raised his hands to his throat.
Alarmed, Caelan tried to sit up and only managed to prop himself up on one elbow. The room spun around him, and he could not breathe. He fell back, dizzy and sweating. “Don’t ... hurt.”
“I haven’t hurt him,” the Penestrican said grimly, still holding Orlo silent in her spell.
The trainer glared at her and reached for his k
nife.
“No,” Caelan gasped out, trying to intervene.
“Command him to be still,” the Penestrican said sternly. “Otherwise, I shall be forced to hurt him.”
“Orlo, stop,” Caelan said, and broke into a painful fit of coughing.
He felt himself bleeding, the bandage under his back sodden and warm. He seemed to be floating, buoyed up on the pain that was like fire in his chest and back. Then the woman’s hand pressed against his forehead, and his mind cleared anew.
Much of the pain faded to a bearable level.
“Give him water now,” she said.
Scowling ferociously at her, Orlo lifted Caelan as gently as he could and held the cup to his lips.
The water was tepid and tasted awful, but it soothed Caelan’s throat. He swallowed more of it thirstily and felt refreshed by the time Orlo eased him down.
“Release him,” Caelan whispered.
She compressed her lips tightly for a moment. “Very well. But he must learn respect.”
“I vouch for his behavior,” Caelan said.
The woman pointed her index finger at Orlo, who touched his throat and coughed. “What is this?” he demanded. “Who is she?”
Caelan frowned, tired of argument. “You waste ... our time,” he finally managed. “Respect her.”
Defiance filled Orlo’s craggy face, but before he could protest, the Penestrican glanced at him. “Serve Lord Caelan,” she said. “Obey him.”
“Lord Caelan?” Orlo repeated, his brows shooting up, then he frowned and gave Caelan a long, searching glance.
The Penestrican took Caelan’s hand between her own. “I have come to offer you a lesson, if you will learn.”
Her face was growing hazy, merging with the halo of candlelight. Caelan found himself floating again. His lids dropped half shut. “Cold,” he murmured.
“He’s losing blood again,” Orlo said. “If you have come to cure him, then do—please do it.”
“I have come to offer him wisdom,” she replied.
“It’s life he needs more than wisdom,” Orlo argued.
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