“No,” she said. “No. The people aren’t stupid. They won’t believe you are truly Sitric reborn. It’s best you face up to it and escape while you still can before they discover that you’ve murdered Sitric. His warriors have no love for him, but their loyalty is unquestioned. They will surely kill you.”
He was frowning at her, completely unaware and uncaring that he was naked, standing there over the dead king’s body as if it were naught but another pillow or a tray of food, something of no account at all. All his attention was on Mirana. He said slowly, “Naphta never questioned my judgment, my decisions. You will not either. She always bent to me, gracefully and naturally, as sweetly as a supplicant worships a god. You will as well.”
“You were wedded to an idiot?”
He struck her hard across her cheek and she reeled sideways, trying to grab onto something to save herself, but there was nothing, only the soft pillows in piles at her feet, the slippery silk draperies beyond her reach, the lush carpets that were thick and deep but allowed no purchase. She sprawled onto her back on the pillows, hitting her elbow on a brazier and knocking it over. Chunks of cold coal fell onto the pillows, blackening the bright reds and golds and blues.
He came down on his knees beside her. He didn’t touch her, but she smelled him, a musky odor that wasn’t displeasing, only different, and it came from his flesh and from his man’s sex as well, close to her, too close to her. She was frightened of him as she hadn’t been of the old king, for he was young and strong, he had all the vigor he’d promised the king. He was angry, and she saw that he trembled with his anger, that it required all his will to control his anger. Einar wouldn’t have even tried to control his fury. He would have struck out and maimed and killed, but not this man. This man had exquisite control over himself. She held very still. He said, his voice harsh, barely overlaid with a calm so naked that it chilled her, “Do not ever again speak ill of Naphta. You are not worthy to even say her name. You are nothing compared to her. She was my queen, the most beautiful woman in the world.”
“I understand,” she said. “Your wife was perfection and I bow to your memories of her. But that isn’t the point now, Hormuze—”
“You will call me Sitric. Forget it not, Mirana.”
“Very well, Sitric. But heed my words, please.” Ah, she saw that the please suited him; he believed her already bending to his will. “I did not know, nor would I have ever realized that you and the old man you pretended to be were one and the same.”
“But you did,” he said slowly, looking down at the back of his hand, where some of the nut dye had smeared. And she’d seen it and wondered at it.
“Nay, I merely believed you had an illness of some kind, nothing more. But listen to me, Hor—Sitric, surely there are old men back at the court who well remember what the old Sitric looked like as a young man. They will denounce you.”
He drew back, sitting on his haunches. He was too close to her, the smell of him was too close. He was smiling. He reached out and touched his fingertips to the red mark on her cheek. Even his fingers smelled of the heady musk scent and she wanted to draw back, but knew it would anger him if she did. She would bide her time.
He said, “I am sorry to bring you pain, but it was short-lived and necessary, you must realize that. You will not question me again, Mirana. However, what you just said is worthy of my listening and my response to you will prove my greatness. I am not a man who makes mistakes. Over the past two years I have cleansed the king’s court of eleven old men, all his cronies since they were boys. I used different methods in all their deaths. All believed them natural deaths, for they were old, after all, that, or accidents. Now there are none left who remember him at my age, none. Three decades is a very long time. As for the men who know him now, why I will age and they will as well and none will remember, for time erases images. I will succeed, doubt it not.”
There was pleasure and triumph in his dark eyes, and now something more, something that made her breath catch in her throat. He was suddenly looking at her with a man’s lust. She didn’t want to look, but she did. His man’s rod was swelling from the thick black hair at his groin, jutting toward her. Odd how it was that the hair at his groin was thick and black and wiry, yet there was no hair on his chest and the hair on his head was as black and soft as the silk pillow beneath her hand.
“The king,” she said, and shuddered.
He frowned at her, distracted from his purpose, and rose to stare down at the old man’s body, drawn up tightly in his final spasms, the muscles of his face showing his agony at his death moment, his eyes filmed, and wide with shock and pain. “Even in death he offends me,” Hormuze said. “You will remain there, Mirana, and I will move him. Do not move.”
She watched him drag the king’s body from the small chamber. She didn’t doubt for an instant that he’d planned this for a very long time. Old Sitric’s body would never be found, of that she was certain. She closed her eyes a moment. What would she do?
He was gone for a long time. When he came through the silken draperies, he wore a long robe of vivid green silk, belted at his waist. He was carrying a silver tray with two silver goblets on it, goblets of exquisite design.
“I have brought us wine that came from a land you have never learned of, Mirana. It will calm you and make the night pass pleasantly between us. You will not be afraid that I will savage you. I took three slave girls last night to drain my passion.” He saw that she would question him, and added, “No, Mirana, I did not let them see me as I am now, for if I had, then I would have had to kill them, and I do not approve unnecessary death. They used their mouths on my rod and left me immediately after. I have told you to trust me, to know that I am a brilliant man. I will be careful not to hurt you overly. Here, Mirana. You are now my wife, my Naphta, and my queen. Drink to us. Drink to the king and queen.”
She took the goblet and lifted it to her mouth. She smelled the deep cloying sweetness that rose to her nostrils like thick steam from the red liquid. There was a stench to it and she knew fear, deep grinding fear. She looked up at him. “I do not wish to drink this.”
He tightened. Mirana saw it not only in the thin line of his mouth, but the long sinewy muscles of his body. Even his voice was taut and stiff and hard when he spoke. “You will do as I bid you. You are my wife now and you will never say nay to me. Do you understand me, Mirana?”
“I understand you very well, but I am myself, Hor—Sitric—not this woman you believe I resemble. I can never be her. You loved her, this Naphta. I am not she. You even said that I wasn’t worthy of her. It is true. Please, look at me, listen to me.”
“You are just as I wish you to be. All other things—those small movements with your hands, the way you will laugh, the way you will bow your head to me in pleasing submission, the way you will look at me when you wish to give me pleasure with your body—all these things I will teach you. You are an apt pupil. As for her spirit, I know you have it not nor will you ever have it, but you will become sufficient. You will obey me in all things. You will do just as I bid you. I have a daughter, Eze, who even now carries her mother’s expressions—your expressions. You will care for her as if she were your own, and as she grows older, she will be more and more like her mother, as will you, and I will have both of you to remind me of my Naphta. That is all.”
So he had a child to remind him continually of his dead wife. She knew there was nothing for it. He’d planned this for three years, and all had gone as he’d foreseen, except for one very important thing that hadn’t been in his control. He’d trusted Einar. He hadn’t realized what a vicious savage her half-brother could be, hadn’t realized that he couldn’t be believed or trusted in his word or his dealings. Also, he’d overlooked chance. Mirana looked at him straightly. She said, not unkindly, “I am already wed to Rorik Haraldsson. My half-brother, Einar, lied to the king. I was stolen from him and then returned, but I am not a virgin, Hormuze—aye, allow me to call you by your real name now—nor am I th
e king’s wife or your wife. I am Rorik’s wife. I love him. I owe him my loyalty and my loyalty is his forever, no other man’s. Believe me, Hormuze, for I would not lie to you. He is my husband. He is looking for me even now, and he will find me. I am not the virgin you wanted. I am no maiden to fill your needs. I’m sorry, but I cannot change things to suit your pleasure.”
“No! You lie!” He lurched to his feet, hurling the goblet away from him. The deep liquid arced in a stark clear red, then dissolved, splashing onto the pillows, staining the soft yellows and whites and golds with bloodred. He reached down and jerked her to her feet. Her silver goblet slipped from her fingers. She felt the wet of it on her bare feet.
He jerked her against him, and his long fingers were around her throat. “You lie,” he said, then he kissed her hard. He was talking against her closed lips, cursing, for she knew the fury of the sound if not the meaning of his words. “You lie,” he said again, louder now, and he was shaking her even as his mouth was devouring hers, as if he wanted to consume her and kill her as well and she was growing light-headed at the tightening of his long fingers around her neck.
Suddenly, he released her and shoved her hard away from him. She fell back onto the pillows. Her fingers massaged her sore throat. She didn’t move, didn’t speak, just waited to see what he would do.
He paced, the flap of his long robe opening, and she saw the black hair on his legs and his man’s rod, limp now against the bush of black hair at his groin.
“I will kill Einar,” he said. “But first I will know if he knew of this.”
“He knew. I told him. He counseled me to suffer the old man’s mauling and pretend to a virgin’s pain to save myself. None of this was my doing, Hormuze. Einar only told me of his agreement with the king yesterday. I told him the truth but he wanted to be the king’s brother-in-law. He wanted the power and the wealth.”
“You swear to me that you are not a virgin? That you are truly wedded to this Rorik Haraldsson?”
“I swear it to you.”
She wondered then if he would kill her. He could try, she thought. She would fight him until there was no more strength in her body.
But he hadn’t moved to her. He was still pacing, and she knew he was thinking, plotting, trying to decide his best course of action.
She said, “Let me go, Hormuze. Return me to my husband. I belong with him, not with you nor with any other man. Only him. I love him. Please understand.”
He turned then and stopped. He smiled down at her. “Oh no,” he said. “I won’t ever let you go.”
“Aye, you will.”
At the sound of Rorik’s voice, Mirana cried out, unable to help herself. Hormuze whirled about to see one of those massive Viking warriors standing there, all golden and bronze and large, too large, just standing there, at his ease, confident and calm, ready to kill if called to, his eyes on Mirana—nay, on Naphta—and there was hunger in his eyes, more hunger than a man should ever have for a woman. Hormuze recognized it because he’d felt it himself for his beloved wife. It was then he heard a child’s voice. It was then he heard Eze. He knew fear greater than he ever had in his life.
“Rorik,” Mirana said. “You came. By all the gods, I prayed you would come. I prayed you would come for me.”
“Of course I would come for you. I would search the earth to find you. You are my wife.” He turned to Hormuze and looked silently at the other man for a very long time. Finally, he said over his shoulder, “Hafter, bring Eze.”
Hormuze wanted to fling himself on the huge Viking, even though he would have no chance against such a man, but it didn’t matter, the Viking had taken his Eze, he had to kill him, he had to.
Eze came into the chamber, her hand held by another one of those Vikings, this one more golden, less controlled, Hormuze knew, than the other man. He could tell simply from the way he held himself, the clenching of his muscles, the expression in his eyes, those damned blue eyes that most Vikings had, guileless eyes, beautifully light and clear, yet he knew these Vikings could kill as quickly and eagerly as they could love or laugh or drink their mead.
“Eze,” he said, and held out his hand. The little girl would have gone to him but the Viking held her back, gently, Hormuze saw, but still he wanted to kill the man.
“I have brought your daughter to you, Hormuze,” Rorik said. “I will make a simple trade with you. My wife for your daughter. Agreed?”
“Damn you, both of them are mine!” Hormuze wanted to hurl himself on the damned Viking, so calm he appeared, so sure of himself. He wanted to stick a dagger in his chest, deep and deeper still and twist it. He wanted to pour poison down his strong corded throat, and watch his muscles spasm and tighten until he was naught but a pitiful scrap, just like the king had been.
“Papa,” Eze said, not trying to move from Hafter’s side now, for she sensed the pain, the uncertainty, the rage of failure that filled her father. She said in a voice too old for a child her age, “Papa, Lord Rorik has told me what you have done and why. He realized that I have the look of his wife, Mirana, and that you wanted my mama back so badly you stole Mirana. But Papa, she isn’t Mama. She belongs to Lord Rorik. She belongs on Hawkfell Island. Papa, please, let her go. Lord Rorik has no desire to harm you or me. Please, you don’t prefer her to me, do you?”
Ah, Rorik thought, seeing the anguish distort Hormuze’s face. A child’s words could cut deeper than the sharpest knife. He held himself still and waited. He saw that Mirana was as silent as a shadow, her face pale, yet her eyes were bright and watchful. She was sitting up on those damned foreign pillows, looking like some sort of sacrifice to an alien god in that white gown that showed her breasts and her belly, so stark against her black hair.
“I have held contempt for most men I have met in this land,” Hormuze said at last, speaking straightly to Rorik. “They are vain and greedy and would kill their brothers if it would bring them gain. But you are different.” He turned to his daughter. “He hasn’t hurt you?”
“Oh no, Papa. Lord Rorik and I spoke all the way here to Clontarf. He has been very unhappy without Mirana. Her half-brother stole her back and forced her to wed with the old king. Lord Rorik wants to kill Einar and he wants to have Mirana back with him. He kept telling me not to be afraid, that he knew you were a wise man, not a fool, and that you would quickly come to an agreement with him. You will, won’t you, Papa?”
“Aye,” Hormuze said, knowing there was no other answer for him. “Take your wife, Rorik Haraldsson. She is not an easy woman. She speaks the truth even when wiser counsel would be silence. She rejects being my queen and knowing ease and wealth throughout her life. I do not understand her fully. She speaks and questions when she should be silent, but she holds you in honor and she is loyal to you. That, I believe, is very important.”
“I know. I heard what she said. It pleased me. I don’t want an easy woman,” he added, speaking to her now, watching her face. “I want a woman who will fight by my side, a woman who will love me until the day I leave this earth, a woman who will laugh with me or hit me when I treat her stupidly, a woman who will hold my honor as dear as she holds her own.” Rorik turned to Hafter. “Let Eze go to her father.”
The little girl didn’t immediately run to Hormuze. She walked instead to Mirana and held out her hand. “I am glad you are all right,” she said. “I don’t think you look at all like me. I don’t remember my mama so I can’t speak about that. My eyes are dark like my papa’s, and yours are very green. Lord Rorik hasn’t been happy without you.” She held Mirana’s hand until they stood in front of Rorik. Eze gave Mirana’s hand into Rorik’s, then smiled up at both of them. “Do not worry. My father and I will survive. We always have. He is very smart and he won’t let anything hurt me.” She smiled at them, then turned to her father, running to him, hurling herself against him.
Hormuze gathered Eze against him, hugging her so tightly she squeaked. “I like you to look like you, Papa,” she said, and he squeezed her again, then he laughe
d. “I don’t like you to be old and fat and ugly. I hated that ugly scraggly beard. Please stay like you are now.”
“I will try, Eze. I will try.”
“I had no wish to kill you,” Rorik said. “I am pleased that you are a reasonable man.”
“I have no choice but reason,” Hormuze said. He saw Mirana held close to the Viking’s side, her head pressed against his chest. He felt something move deep within him. By all the Viking gods, she looked like Naphta. He watched her look up at her husband and remembered that look as well. It was the way Naphta had looked at him. He shook his head. It wasn’t to be.
Hormuze said to Rorik, “You were lucky. I dismissed most of the king’s warriors. I made it easy for you to board the barge. I have made everything very easy for you.”
“I appreciate the result, though your motives were blacker than a Christian’s sins. Aye, the warriors are within the fortress, drinking themselves sodden, I doubt not, so that you were able to kill the king with no witnesses, no interference from his vaunted Viking guard. Aye, I am grateful that Einar does not know I am here. I want Mirana safe before I take him. I assume you have already killed the king?”
“Poison. I would have preferred to kill him more slowly. He was a venomous man, old and rattled in his wits, but his greed was that of a younger man’s.”
“Sira is with Einar,” Mirana said.
“I know. Hafter questioned one of Einar’s guards. He didn’t wish to die. He told us all we wished to know. We will take both of them. But first I would ask Hormuze what he will do now.”
He shook his head. “I must flee, I suppose.”
Mirana said, “Why? You will present yourself as the king on the morrow. Why must you change that?”
“You are not my queen,” Hormuze said simply, finality in his voice, and acceptance of that finality.
Lord of Hawkfell Island Page 29