Ciro continued to study the priests at his leisure, in no hurry to oust them all from the palace. There were only a few pure souls among them, and many of the souls he glimpsed were almost as dark as his own. Those were the ones he would call to his side as his power grew.
Emperor Ciro walked past those of his Own who guarded his father’s newly appointed chambers. They bowed, as was right and proper, as he walked through the door to the small, plain room which was intended for a minor servant.
His father sat in a small hard chair, bound tightly even though any movement was increasingly difficult for the rapidly aging man. It was important that the former emperor not forget who was in power here, that he not begin to think that he might have a chance at escape.
If the former emperor were able to speak freely, those Columbyanans who were so eager to dismiss the idea of evil in the palace would believe. That could not happen, not yet.
Alone with his father, Ciro pulled up a chair and unbound one feeble hand. “How are you feeling today, Father? Poorly, I see by your color and the fading light in your eyes.” Ciro pulled his father’s thin wrist to his mouth and nipped the vein there, licking at the blood which seeped out too slowly. The old man didn’t have much to give.
Except the soul, which Ciro was saving for later... but not much later. As soon as he had what he wanted, the old man’s soul would be his.
The former emperor sobbed as Ciro tasted. He was a shadow of the man he had once been, the shell of a rebel who’d taken the throne from his legitimate half-brother.
Ciro didn’t take too much blood, as he was not yet ready to remove his father from this world. There was still much to be learned from the old man, who had thus far been able to hide any knowledge he possessed. There was strength in the old man still, but it wouldn’t last.
Arik would die broken, with nothing left of the man he had once been.
“I can take your soul at any time,” Ciro said as he placed his father’s limp hand on his lap. “It is gray, tarnished by the lives you have taken and the lies you have told, darkened by your thirst for power and your willingness to start a war to get what you wanted.”
“I did what was best for Columbyana,” Arik whispered, as a whisper was all he had the strength for.
“You did what was best for Arik, you selfish bastard.” Ciro smiled. “Now, let’s move on to the current war, shall we? Where is your army, Father? I imagine they’ll be here soon enough, but it would be nice to know when they might arrive so I and my men can be prepared. None can challenge me for the right to the throne as you challenged your brother, but I imagine there are those who will fight me in any case.” If he knew precisely where the army was located, he could place his Own between them and Arthes. With luck, they’d never reach the palace.
He expected some kind of protest from his father, but the old man remained still. In fact, there was an unexpected jolt of life in the shriveled body.
“What are you thinking, old man? What has you believing there is even a shred of hope that I won’t win this war?”
Was it his imagination, or did his father attempt to smile?
Ciro grasped his father’s chin and yanked the old man’s head up so their eyes met. He felt the demon rise up, and knew his own eyes turned black as night. “Tell me.”
He pushed into the old man’s brain. Feeble as he was, Arik fought hard to hide his thoughts. The former emperor began to ponder on days past to conceal anything of importance. He thought of Ciro’s mother, and another woman Ciro did not know. He thought of Ciro as a baby, as a child, as a young man untouched by demons. He thought of redberry pie, and jokes told to him by a minister of finance with whom he had been friends.
Ciro pushed harder, trying to make his way past the memories to see the present, to see what made the dying man smile.
He grasped his father’s throat tight. “Tell me what I need to know. Show me what makes you smile when the loss of your very soul is at hand.”
A few words trickled through, as Arik began to tire. Brother. His own brother, Sebestyen, who’d been dead all these years? No, Ciro’s brother... a half-brother he had never known existed.
Babies. Whose babies? Whose? Sebestyen’s sons.
“There were no babies. Sebestyen’s whore and his get are dead and have been for a very long time,” Ciro whispered as his grip tightened.
Arik closed his eyes. A peacefulness settled over him quickly. He spat out one slightly garbled message. “You are not emperor. You are not my son.”
And then he was gone. His soul, his life, his memories, and his knowledge. Gone.
In anger, Ciro picked up his father’s body, chair and all, and tossed it across the room. Arik felt nothing. Arik was gone sooner than Ciro had intended, leaving annoying and unanswered questions in the wake of his departure.
Brother.
Babies.
***
From a distance the village looked not so different from any other. It was only as they drew close that Lyr sensed a wrongness. All was silent. Too silent. As they approached, he saw that many of the buildings in the village had been burned, and no attempt had been made at repairs.
As they rode down the main street, he realized why. There was no one left to make those repairs. If anyone had lived through whatever fight had taken place here, they’d departed long ago.
Months ago. Remains had turned to bones. Weeds grew among the ruins. Lyr possessed no psychic powers, but he could feel to the pit of his soul that in this place a terrible thing had happened, and this plot of land would never be right again. No one would build where this village had once stood. No one would so much as try to make use of the wood that remained of the few buildings that had not burned.
It was a ghost town, and they’d best ride straight through.
It was Swaine who asked, “M’lord, should we search for usable supplies?”
“No,” Lyr said crisply. “We want nothing that comes from this place. Keep riding.”
He wanted to look back to see how Rayne was reacting to the scene, to the charred remains and the bones, to the heavy air of wrongness, but he didn’t. He didn’t dare let on to her or anyone else that he was concerned about how she might feel at this moment, or any other.
His plan was to ride straight through without stopping, to emerge on the other side and leave the damned village behind. He would not so much as glance back.
Rayne had other plans.
First he heard her gasp, and then he heard the collective protest of his men. All of them shouted. No. Don’t. It isn’t safe. Lyr turned about to see that Rayne had already slipped from her saddle and was running toward a corpse that lay half in and half out of the doorway to what might’ve once been a public house. A skeletal arm was outstretched. Fire had burned away clothing and flesh, but the afternoon sunlight slanted down at just the right angle to sparkle on a wide gold bracelet and a golden ring which dangled on bone.
Whoever had done this—Ciro and his Own were the likeliest culprits—had not been concerned with taking valuables. The bracelet and ring would be worth a small fortune to a farmer or a shopkeeper, but they had been left on the victim as if unimportant. If anyone had stumbled across this scene in months past, they’d run from it without looting the bodies. Anyone who passed by here would sense the same wrongness which had been so apparent to Lyr.
When Rayne dropped down in front of the corpse and sobbed, Lyr knew what they had found. Her father. He dismounted and walked toward her, touched by the sobs but unable to show it, wishing desperately that they had taken a different route. She already knew that her father was dead. There was no reason for her to see what had become of him.
“Get back on your horse and forget what you’ve seen here,” he said, his voice low and steady.
He was prepared for Rayne to argue with him, but he was not prepared for her to jump up and hurl her body at his, holding on to him and sobbing even harder, clutching at him as if she’d fall to the ground if he pushed her away. For a
moment he didn’t know what to do. This was highly improper, and his men were watching.
There was nothing he could do but put steadying arms around her and offer comfort. Offering comfort was not his strong suit, but he did the best he could. He patted her back, then ran a hand up and down. He murmured a senseless, “It’s all right,” when nothing in this world was all right at this time and they both knew it.
“You told me he was dead,” Rayne said, her voice broken and sad, “but to know that he died like this, to be burned and left behind without a proper burial, to lie in the open this way and... and...”
“Forget what you’ve seen.” Comforting finished, Lyr tried to gently remove Rayne from him and turn her toward her mare. “What remains of your father is not your father, do you understand that?”
Rayne refused to release him, and he could not bring himself to forcibly push her away. “He was not a good man.” Her sobs lessened in intensity. “But there were times when he was a decent father. I think he loved me.” She sounded less than certain.
“I’m sure he did,” Lyr said, though he could not at all be sure that a man who would leave his daughter chained in the cellar and promised to a demon had any love in his heart.
Her grip lessened, and Lyr felt a rush of relief. She was going to release him. She had come to her senses and would back away.
“We will bury him, won’t we?” Her head, which had been pressed against his chest, tipped back so she could look him in the eye. “I can’t leave my father this way.”
“We don’t have time...”
She moved well away from him, finally. “You go on, then,” she said, anger taking the place of her sorrow. “I’ll bury him myself.”
“You know very well I can’t leave you here,” he said in a lowered voice.
“Then help me bury my father.” Her eyes, still wet with tears, pleaded with him. They were the sort of eyes that might break a man’s heart if he allowed.
Lyr looked up and down the street. Fynnian’s body was not the only one that had been left to rot. Would burying the victims of the slaughter make it a better place? Would anything or anyone heal if they made that effort?
He finally set Rayne aside as he turned to the men, who watched too closely. They had never seen the Prince of Swords offer solace to anyone, and he could not help but notice the curiosity in their eyes. He ignored those glances. “Find some proper tools. Shovels, picks, anything that will move dirt. We’ll dig one grave.”
Segyn’s mouth was set in a grimace that spoke of disapproval as he repeated Lyr’s original protest. “M’lord, we haven’t the time for—”
“We’ll make the time, and we’ll all do our part. Cover your hands and faces as you work. These bodies have been here a long while and those which were not burned might be diseased.”
“I’ll dig,” Rayne said, most of the teary sadness gone from her voice. “I know I can’t do as much as the four of you, but—”
“You will not dig.” As the men moved away to find the tools they’d need, Lyr turned to face Rayne. “You may say words over the grave if you’d like, but you’ll have to make them quick.”
“I don’t mind helping,” she said. “In fact, I insist. I’m the one who made the request, so I’ll—”
Lyr was unaccustomed to having his commands questioned, and Rayne questioned him constantly. He was mightily tired of it. “You will not dig your father’s grave. Mention it again and we’ll leave him where he lays.”
Rayne pursed her lips to keep from saying more and then dropped her head as if to stare at her feet.
“Help me lead the horses to the other end of town,” Lyr said in a kinder voice. He tried to imagine finding his own father in such a state and could not. No matter what sort of man he’d been, Fynnian had been dear to his daughter. “We will dig the grave there, away from the scene of their deaths. You have spoken often of your garden. Perhaps you would like to gather a few plants with which to mark the grave.”
Her head popped up quickly, and he saw the light of pleasure in her eyes. That light should not bring him even a tidbit of joy, but it did.
“Yes,” she said. “I would like that very much.”
They gathered the horses, and as they walked the animals down the street of the dead village, Lyr felt compelled to add, “Don’t move too far away from us as you work. What happened here took place long ago, but I don’t like the feel of this village.” He did not add that he didn’t want her out of his sight.
Rayne nodded and then she said in a lowered voice, “You’re a good man, Lyr Hern.”
“No, you are a good daughter. I would not stop to take on this chore if you had not insisted.”
She didn’t look at him as she answered, “A good daughter would’ve stood up to her father when she realized he had chosen the wrong path. A truly good daughter would have tried to save her father before a day like this one arrived. I was too meek, too afraid to do what I knew to be right. I won’t be afraid again.” A touch of steel entered her soft voice.
Lyr didn’t tell her that every warrior knew fear. The trick was in not allowing that fear to rule all else.
At the moment his own fear was a new one. He didn’t know that he could save Rayne from Ciro. He didn’t know if he would be called upon to take the life of this woman who had the power to make him do things he knew he should not do.
His fear for her was much greater than any he had ever known for himself.
Chapter Eight
Lyr and his men worked hard, and they finished their unpleasant chore much sooner than Rayne had expected they would. She took Lyr’s advice to heart and remained nearby as she did her own digging. Even if he hadn’t told her to stay close, she would’ve done so. She felt safer in their presence... in Lyr’s presence, more rightly.
She chose two small bushes she knew would flower in the spring, and also unearthed two evergreen plants. It was possible that no one else would ever know these bushes marked such horror, but she would know. Maybe her father would know, if his spirit survived and watched over her.
Somehow she thought his spirit would have better things to do. Though she tried to convince herself that he’d loved her, in truth she had never been very high on his list of priorities. In death would he be sorry for the choices he had made in life?
When the remains had been covered and nothing more than a mound of recently turned dirt marked the spot, Rayne set the chosen plants on the sites where she wished them to be. One each of the evergreens at the foot and the head of the grave, the two plants which would flower in the center. Each of the men made a move to assist her, but she shooed them away. They had done their part and needed to rest. This was her contribution to the chore, and she wanted to accomplish it alone.
As she dug holes for the plants with the simple tools Swaine had given her, she hummed a spiritual tune her mother had taught her years ago. Odd, but she’d forgotten the song until now, though her mother had sung it often. It seemed fitting, as if the serene words might lift away some of the pain of this place. She dug, and hummed, and when the song was done, she spoke to the plants. They were living things, after all, different in many ways from animals and humans but still very much alive. Her escorts, all four of them, sat, rested, and watched. They did not speak. Perhaps they were too drained from their unpleasant chore.
At the center of the large grave she dug a suitable hole and placed the roots of the first of the flowering plants there. She used her hands to cover the roots, and then she moved a short distance away to do the same for the other plant. She could not tell if the blooms on this wild flowering plant would be white or lavender, but she hoped for the latter. This dull place needed some color, even if it lasted only for a week or so once a year.
It would be best if someone were here to water the transplants and tend to them until they were well situated in their new sites, but that was not possible. She would have to trust that rain would fall and the roots would remain healthy and reach deeper into the earth.<
br />
“Grow for me,” she whispered. “Take root, be strong. Flower.” She dug her hands into the dirt, wishing she could share her will for life, that she could send that will into the soil itself. She wished that she could somehow assure, even though she would never pass this way again, that the plants which marked this grave would thrive.
Just a few inches from her nose a leaf twitched. The wind, she thought, before several more leaves began to twist and dance. She felt no wind in her hair or on her face, though she would have welcomed a breeze since her physical efforts had caused her to perspire.
She did not remove her hands from the dirt, but remained very still as the plant began to grow before her eyes, It was as if a season passed in the blinking of an eye. The thin limbs grew longer, and buds appeared, growing as she took one long, deep breath.
The buds opened, revealing large, healthy lavender blooms. It was as if time rushed forward.
Time. Was this Lyr’s magic at work? Her head snapped up and she found that all four men had risen and moved closer to her, and they stared at the plants which were growing at a rapid rate. Judging by the expression on Lyr’s face, this was not his doing. He was stunned.
Somehow she had done this herself.
Rayne removed her hands from the dirt, and the growth stopped. The blooms looked healthy, and they were decidedly fragrant. She stood and brushed the loose dirt from her hands, and absently brushed away some of the soil that had clung to her skirt. There was no quick fix for the dirt which was lodged beneath her fingernails.
It was Segyn who spoke first. “I did not know you possessed such magic,” he said, his tone reverent.
“Neither did I,” she said.
Her gaze was drawn to Lyr, who stared at her with those narrowed eyes which always seemed so calculating. She knew him well enough to realize that he did not entirely believe her.
***
Phelan wasn’t sure how to proceed. Something had happened happened between Rayne and Lyr, or else it was about to happen. He was not blind to the silent exchanges where eyes met eyes, and who wouldn’t question the way the slut had so easily thrown herself into m’lord’s arms when she’d found her father’s body?
Children of the Sun Page 62