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 much 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.

He was eyeing her in a speculative way she did not like, obviously taking in the richness of her velvet gown and fur-lined cloak. Her veil had come loose in the struggle. She tried to pull it back in place, but it would not stay.

“Where is the healer, my lady?” he asked with a little more respect in his voice. “Is this his room?”

She nodded. “He went to make a potion for me.”

The thief pushed himself away from her with a scowl. He crossed the room in two long strides and came back again. “Agel, Agel, where are you?” he muttered, shoving back his tangled hair from his face. “How long has he been gone?”

“Only a few minutes,” she answered.

The thief, if he was a thief, grimaced impatiently. He seemed very nervous, and he was limping. She noticed his footgear was worn through as though he had walked a long distance. He looked half frozen as well. He had no cloak, and what remained of his tattered tunic was silk. One of his hands looked burned; the flesh across the back was puffed an angry red.

“This was the only window,” he said. “Tell me, is there more than one entrance into the infirmary? Or must I reach it by the passage outside?”

“I do not know,” Elandra replied calmly. She had revised her original estimate of him. By his speech, he was provincial but not lowborn. He looked worried rather than insane. A thief did not refer to his intended victim by name and fret because he had stepped out for a few minutes. She decided he meant her no real harm.

“My guards are outside in the passage. You must wait until the healer returns.”

He pulled at the back of his neck, tipping back his head in a weary motion. “There is no time,” he said.

Without further hesitation he went to the medicine cabinet and started picking through the bottles there, examining one after the other as though he could read the arcane symbols on the labels.

“Ah,” he said finally, lifting one to the light. “That will do for a start.”

Tucking it in his pocket, he started for the window.

“Wait!” she said. “What is your need, stranger? Why do you come here in this clandestine way, asking for our healer by name? Why do you hurry away, when you need care for your hurts?”

With one hand on the open windowsill, he hesitated. The thin sunlight slanted across his face, picking up the molded angles of cheekbone and jaw. His nostrils were etched fine, and there was a hint of tender fullness about his mouth.

The door opened without warning, and the healer walked in.

Startled, Elandra whirled with a gasp and pulled her veil across her face. The stranger dropped to a quick crouch, looking as though he would attack.

Only Agel kept his composure, although he stared very hard at the stranger for a moment. Then he shut the door as though his were an ordinary visitor. He glanced once at Elandra with a frown, then held back what he had intended to say.

“Well,” he said at last. “This is unexpected.”

“Agel! At last.” The stranger hurried to him and gripped his sleeve. “You must help me at once.”

“I am with a patient.”

“Gault above, don’t be an ass.” The stranger didn’t even throw Elandra a look, although Agel kept glancing at her. “Put her out, and listen to me. There can be no delay.”

“I will not dismiss her Maj—the lady,” Agel said severely. Red crept into his face, and Elandra could have throttled him herself. The idiot would give her away yet. “Her well-being is of the utmost importance.”

“Nothing is more important than what I need you to do.”

But Agel was drawing back with a stern shake of his head. He looked angry, embarrassed, and disappointed. They obviously knew each other. In fact, there was a similarity to the shape of their heads and the cast of their eyes. They might be kinsmen. Watching, Elandra let her curiosity grow.

“Get out,” Agel said coldly. “You are clearly up to no good. I will not get involved with—”

“It concerns my master,” the strange said impatiently. He cast Elandra a worried look, as though she might know whom he referred to. “There is trouble.”

“You are always in trouble,” Agel said with asperity. “Have you run away?”

“Only you can help me. I need an audience—”

“If you have run away, or done something even worse, I cannot help you,” Agel said. “I have no influence in that quarter.”

“You have the ear of the emperor,” the stranger said. “I must speak to him.”

Agel’s gaze shifted nervously to Elandra. “Impossible,” he said.

“May Faure burn your ears!” the stranger said. “Don’t say ‘impossible’ in that pompous tone. It must be done. Every moment is vital. Give me your spare set of clothes and some wash water. While you ask for an audience, I will get cleaned up.”

The healer looked exasperated, and Elandra had to smile behind her veil. This filthy stranger clearly had no idea of how the emperor was approached.

“Well?” he demanded.

Agel sighed. “You are mad to come here like this. Why didn’t you send for me in the normal way?”

Even Elandra lost patience with him. He was stodgy and stupid, for all his professional skill. She could see the stranger was rapidly losing the scant shreds of temper he had left.

“Healer Agel,” she said imperiously, stepping forward.

Both men glared at her as though they wanted no interference.

“If this man is known to you, why do you deny him your assistance?”

Agel’s mouth dropped open before he hastily closed it. “But I cannot—”

She gestured to silence him. “The man is hurt, and cold, and has obviously walked many miles to come here. He is in trouble and has need of you. Will you refuse him care?”

“No, of course not, my lady,” Agel said, looking confused and frustrated. “But I must attend you First.”

“If you will give me the potion I came for, I will consider myself satisfied.” She reached out her hand, and he reluctantly gave her the bottle.

“Thank you,” she said. “Now care for this man.”

“I don’t want that,” the stranger said, interrupting. “The emperor must be warned.”

“Of what?” she asked. “What news do you bring?”

He glared at her.

“Answer her, you fool,” Agel said.

The stranger whipped his head around suspiciously. “Why?” he asked the healer. “It’s no concern of hers.”

Agel’s face went red again. “You lout. You have no manners. A savage would be better than—”

“You can correct his manners later,” Elandra said, losing patience with both of them. She pinned the stranger’s gaze with her own. “What would you tell the emperor?”

His blue eyes were stubborn. He made no answer.

“See?” Agel said to her. “He is hopeless, no one for your Maj—for you to concern yourself about. Just a stupid, troublemaking slave who has run away from his master and wants protection.”

“The law forbids harboring a runaway,” she said severely. However, when she looked into this man’s fierce blue eyes, she had difficulty believing he could belong to anyone. He looked like the hunting eagles of Gialta. Even with tresses on their legs, their talons blunted, and their wings clipped for training, their eyes remained untamed. “Have you run away?” she asked gently.

His eyes did not flinch from hers. “Not yet,” he said.

There was darkness in his voice, a tangle of undercurrents and emotions she did not wish to unravel. As interesting as this was, she could not tarry here for long.

“Take care,” she said in warning to the healer. “Your oath is to help the sick, the injured, and the helpless, but you may not extend that to sheltering runaways or those who have broken the law.”

Agel’s eyes narrowed. His face remained red. “I shall not break the law for this man, my lady. I shall not harbor him, and I cannot give him what he asks for.” He turned on the stranger with open resentment. “Always you cause trouble. Go! Whatever you have done, I want no part of it.”

The stranger looked frustrated. “Yes, you have always been more interested in preserving yourself than in doing what is right. What hope have I of reaching the emperor, if you will not help me? Would you at least carry a message to him?”

“No,” Agel said without hesitation.

The stranger turned on Elandra so suddenly she jumped. “And you, lady?” he asked desperately. “Could you do it?”

She found herself unaccountably flustered. “Do what?”

“Carry a message to him.”

“I—I—”

“If I wrote it down, would you give the paper to him?”

“Stop it!” Agel said before she could reply. “Leave her alone. She is no one you may address, much less command.”

The stranger glared at him. “In this matter, I would crawl on my belly if it would get me to the throne room. I have asked you, begged you. But you cannot dismiss the past long enough to think of the empire. Now I ask this woman. I beg her.”

“Stop!” Agel cried.

“For once, will you not listen to me? I must speak to the emperor, and as soon as possible. It is vital—”

“Vital for the preservation of your own hide,” Agel said spitefully. “You have finally gone too far. I know how you are. You have ruined your relationship with your master— defied him, insulted him, or attacked him. And now you think you will run to the emperor for clemency. As though the emperor cares one jot for who you are.”

“You’re wrong,” the stranger said. “It isn’t like that. It isn’t—” Breaking off, he put out his hand and braced himself against the wall. He looked suddenly white and spent.

Agel hesitated long enough to make Elandra angry again, but before she could urge him he took the stranger by the arm and steadied him. Gently he probed here and there, checking pulse points, examining more burn marks beneath the mud and soot.

“What has happened?” he asked, his voice softer now.

The stranger winced. “Trouble. Terrible trouble. He brought it on himself.”

“You were with him?” the healer asked cautiously. “At his side, as usual?”

Wearily the stranger nodded. He dropped onto the stool and sat there with his head down. “Sidraigh-hal,” he muttered. “Brought him back. I carried him ... I don’t know how many miles. We lost the horses.”

Agel gripped his arm. “Where is he now? Is he hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Then I must attend him at once. Where is he? Did you bring him here?”

“Gault, no,” the stranger said, horrified. “I left him on the doorstep of his house, for his damned servants to find. He can rot in his bed, for all I care. I’ve done enough—”

“No, you haven’t done enough,” Agel said. He strode to his cabinet and began filling a leather pouch with items. “Why didn’t you inform me of this immediately? To what extent is he injured?”

The stranger glanced at Elandra, and his face grew tight and distrustful. He said nothing.

Agel sighed and came hurrying over to her. “My lady, please,” he said softly. “I think it best if you go.”

She stood her ground. “And I think it better if I understand more of this intrigue, healer. Who is this man who has come to you for help? And who is his master?”

Agel might have a stony face, but his eyes flinched at her questions. Seeing that, she knew she was right to be suspicious.

“Answer me,” she commanded.

“Lady, I dare not.” Frowning, he glanced at the man who had come to him for help. “Until I understand what has happened, I can give you no—”

“Who are these men?” she demanded more loudly.

The blond man rose to his feet and advanced on her. “Put her out, Agel. Already she has heard too much.”

“I cannot put her out, you fool!” Agel said to him. “Have a care.”

“A simpering courtier’s wife? She’s in the way. Already she knows more than is good for her.”

Elandra glared at him and let her veil fall. She’d had enough of this overgrown lout who was clearly up to no good. “You will tell me now who you are,” she said in a voice of steel. “I command it.”

The man glared back, crossing his muscular arms over his chest. His face was mulish with defiance. “Go to—”

“Caelan, don’t!” Agel said with a gasp. “If you value your miserable life ... if you value mine ... go no further.”

The man named Caelan turned white, then a dull shade of red. He turned on the healer with unmistakable menace and gripped him by the front of his robe.

“You fool!” he snarled. “You had courage once. Now you quail and quiver even before a woman—”

“She’s not just a woman,” Agel retorted, pulling free. “She is the empress!”

Caelan jerked back from him, and looked from the healer to her and back again in plain disbelief. Then his gaze returned to her, standing there haughty, angry, and unafraid. Consternation filled his face.

He went to one knee, bowing low, and said nothing.

The instant obeisance and humility in a man so fierce, so masculine, so rough absurdly pleased her. She hid that, however, and turned her gaze on the healer.

He looked as though he wished the floor would swallow him whole.

For her part, Elandra was busy thinking. The name Caelan sounded familiar to her. She had heard it before, in passing, perhaps from the guards or some of the servants. A wager ... ah, that was it. He was a gladiator, the champion of the seasonal games. A participant in a hideous, bloodthirsty sport she was not permitted to view. He belonged to Prince Tirhin.

Both men were watching her. They read her face as she reached her conclusions, and they exchanged a swift glance of dismay. Caelan, unbidden, rose to his feet once more.

“I see,” she said coldly, putting it all together. She turned her gaze on Caelan. “You are known to me, by reputation and through my knowledge of your master. Tell me now, with no evasion, of what has occurred.”

He swallowed, his throat working convulsively, but he met her gaze steadily enough. “Forgive me, my lady, but I can speak only to the emperor.”

The refusal, mild though it was, was like a slap. She realized again that she had no real authority. Even a slave such as this—arena meat, her guards would call him—knew that.

“Mind your stupid tongue,” Agel said to him sharply. “You have done enough harm to yourself already without adding defiance to it.” He turned to Elandra with a bow.

“Your Majesty, I ask forgiveness on his behalf. My cousin is a coarse knave, untrained in—”

Caelan tipped back his head and laughed. Only then did the healer seem to realize what he had said. Looking confused and embarrassed, he broke off his sentence and stood there.

“Agel of the big mouth,” Caelan said, his face still alight with derision. “First you betrayed who I was, then you betrayed who she was, and now you have betrayed yourself. As an intriguer, you are hopeless.”

Agel pushed away from him in outrage. “I am not an intriguer!” he said vehemently, glancing at Elandra as though to see if she believed his denial.

She gazed at him with disgust. He had pretty manners for her, but question his authority even the slightest, or even thwart him, and he grew petty and arrogant. He was a toady, ready to flatter but equally quick to check everyone’s reaction before he committed himself to any opinion. If she ever acquired any influence at court, he would not rise far.

He stepped toward Elandra, his face filled with consternation. “I swear to you that I had no knowledge of these events. Our relationship is a coincidence. Whatever has occurred—”

“Yes, healer,” she said without interest in his continued denials. “Why don’t you confine yourself to your duties?”

“Yes, Majesty,” he said in visible relief. “If I may be permitted to excuse myself, I think I should go to his highness and attend him if he will receive me.”

She looked at this man, so eager to rush to the aid of the emperor’s son while remaining impervious to his own kinsman who stood here injured and pushed to the limits of his strength.

She could not resist saying “But the prince has not sent for you.”

Agel’s eager expression faltered.

Did he not realize the mistake he made before her? Suddenly she was weary of the man.

She made a gesture of dismissal. “Go. Do what you feel is necessary. Certainly the prince must stand in need of your skill at this time.”

The healer smiled. “Majesty, forgive my haste,” he said. “Is there any other way in which I can serve you?”

“No.”

“May I have leave to attend you later, Majesty? To inquire about your headache?”

“Yes.”

He bowed to her, frowned dreadfully at Caelan, and vanished, closing the door with a Firm snap.

She found herself alone with the gladiator. He eyed her like a predator, wary and dangerous. For a moment she felt afraid again, but she refused to show it.

“As for you—”

“My lady, let me speak,” he said urgently. “What I have asked from my cousin, now do I ask you. Have mercy and help me reach the emperor. This is important.”

“I’m sure you think it is, but I cannot do as you ask.”

His face hardened. “You mean you will not.”

“Do not censure me!” she snapped. “There are protocols and procedures. I cannot rush up to the emperor and demand he give you audience.”

“Not even when the safety of the empire is at stake?”

She refused to be flustered and eyed him coolly. “How would a slave know whether the empire is in jeopardy?”

He went pale, and for the first time his eyes seemed to show realization of what he faced.

“You have pushed your way into the palace in a clandestine manner, like a thief. That is a grave offense,” she said, making her voice curt and harsh. “You have come here without the permission of your master. That is another offense. You have dared attack my person. Now you make demands that cannot be met. How do you answer for yourself?”

“My lady—”

“Address me as Majesty,” she snapped.

He bowed his head, chastened. “Majesty,” he said in a low voice.

She did not like his deplorable manners. He had been too much indulged. It often happened to slaves who acquired fame. They found it difficult to remember how unimportant they really were. Yet he was an uncommon man, with uncommon qualities. It must be hard for him to mute that with deference and humility.

“What was your master doing on the Forbidden Mountain?” she asked.

Caelan’s head snapped up, his eyes wary once again.

“Answer me!” she commanded. “What was he doing there?”

“Indeed, my lady—Majesty”—he corrected himself— “I cannot say without betraying him.”

“Is that not your purpose? Haven’t you come seeking audience with the emperor in order to betray and denounce your master?”

Again his eyes widened. She felt her irritation rise. Did he think her incapable of guessing the truth?”

“Majesty, I stand before you a condemned man,” he said finally, his voice low with pleading. “I have attacked you, insulted you, acted in all ways wrong. I will die for it. I have no defense to offer, save these circumstances.”

She stared at him. This was a man of rare courage, far more pragmatic than she’d expected. His qualities had held her from calling her guards. They intrigued her enough now to give him a nod.

“Speak,” she said. “And tell me the truth of this matter.”

His blue eyes were grave. He hesitated.

“If I judge it sufficiently serious, then perhaps I will go to the emperor on your behalf,” she said. “Mind, I make no promise. But in the interests of the empire, I will listen to what you know.”

“No,” he said wearily and turned away.

She stared at him in disbelief, unable to comprehend that he was refusing the opportunity she had just granted him. Was he mad?

“Will you die in silence?” she asked him in open exasperation.

In return he shot her a look that made her flush. “Majesty, if I may speak freely, to denounce the prince is a punishable offense. Why should I confide my knowledge in you, expecting you to then denounce him for me? Why should I request that you endanger yourself on my behalf? Can a slave ask this of his ... queen?”

She felt both hot and cold. Her feet were rooted in place. Her heart was suddenly pounding in embarrassment. She had completely misjudged this man, from his first appearance at her throat, to the brutal accusations Agel had hurled at him, to his stubbornness in not obeying her commands.

Only now did she understand that he was trying to protect her. Not to gain her favor, but because doing so was natural to him. What kind of man was this, to think of others beyond his own terrible predicament? It was obvious that Tirhin had been plotting treason, and that this man, this gladiator champion in his possession, had witnessed everything. Was Caelan so honorable that he could not withdraw into the blindness and deafness that every slave acquired for self-protection? Was he truly willing to risk his life in order to carry a warning to the emperor?

She saw that he was, and understood his frustration all too well. Here was a man trying to help, and hindered at every turn.

“I am sorry,” he said now, spreading out his hands. “I am a man of action and the sword, not of polished words. I cannot go back to my master’s service, even if he orders me killed for my disobedience. I cannot take back what I have done and said in this room. I can only ask for pardon, and your help.”

His appeal moved her deeply. She believed his sincerity now.

“If you truly want my help, you must be forthright in your answers,” she said. “Speak to me about your master. Is he badly hurt?”

“Yes.”

“Is he dying?”

“He could be. I do not know.” Caelan hesitated. “The shyrieas got to him.”

“Shyrieas?” she echoed amazed and fearful. “In the city?”

“No. Beyond.” He gestured vaguely.

“Ah, on Sidraigh-hal” she said, remembering what he had said earlier. “What were you doing there? Plotting treason against the emperor? Was that how the two of you were caught by the demons which protect the mountain?”

Caelan’s mouth opened.

She went on. “The mountain was active last night. We felt tremors, even here in the city.”

As she spoke, she thought, Yes, even a tremor that broke the ruby throne. Did Beloth plan that? Can the shadow god reach so far now into our world?

Driving such thoughts away, she continued.

“Yes, you were there by your own admission. That is how you got your burns. And you carried his highness back?

All that way? That indicates deep devotion to your master. Why are you now so eager to denounce him?”

He frowned. “I—”

“Are you guilty as his accomplice? Have you also committed treasonous acts? By his order or by your own free will? Have you listened to treasonous talk and not reported it? Today is not the first time surely that Prince Tirhin has acted against his emperor, yet why haven’t you spoken up before now? Why wait? Is it for revenge against your master that you speak now? Why did you not come forward at the first incident? Do you understand that if you speak, you will come under blame?”

His chin lifted. “I am prepared for that.”

“How proudly you say it. Have you realized that if you lay such a charge, you must be questioned? Do you understand that slaves are questioned by torture, and must make confessions in order for their evidence to be admissible in court?”

Her scorn was coming out into her words. How big and foolish he was, standing there with his mouth open. He looked at her as though he could not imagine a woman would know about such matters, much less understand them. He was like an ox, too big and docile to comprehend that he was being led to slaughter. She wished she could tell him that Kostimon knew his son was plotting, but that was privileged information, not for disclosure.

Caelan sighed. “I would not be risking this if I did not believe the emperor should be warned without delay. Will you now keep your promise, Majesty, and tell him?”

“I made no promise.”

He scowled. “You—”

Her hand flashed up to silence him. “I said I would judge your message and then decide whether I could help you. It is quite impossible.”

His shoulders sagged, and despair filled his face. It was as though he was too weary to be angry anymore.

“The emperor grants few audiences,” she found herself explaining out of pity. “Those are set weeks in advance. He will see no one on whim or demand.”

“But for this—”

“No. It is by his will,” she said. “It cannot be changed.”

“But how—”

“There is another way,” she said.

Hope dawned in his face. Eagerly he nodded. “Tell me, and I shall do it.”

“You offered to write your message. Do that, and I will see that it reaches the hands of Lord Sien.”

Everything in his face crashed. He drew back, shaking his head. “No.”

“Why?”

“It is impossible.”

Elandra’s patience crumbled. She had made more explanations and offers of assistance than he had any right to expect. Suggesting Lord Sien’s help was the only avenue of seeing that his message got to the emperor, for the high priest alone had unlimited access to the emperor’s ear. But this man was indeed an ignorant knave. If he did not understand how far she had been willing to go on his behalf, then she would not explain further.

“Very well,” she said coldly, and walked to the door.

Caelan came after her. “Majesty, please!”

“I must go.”

He reached around her and held the door shut with his palm when she would have opened it.

Outraged, she whirled to face him and found him far too close. “How dare you keep me here against my will!”

“What is one more offense among so many?” he retorted. “Will you help me if I tell you the Madruns are coming?”

“The Madruns are always coming,” she said, unimpressed. “It is a threat spoken to frighten children. They cannot break through our defenses.”

His face was intense. “But if they could?”

“They cannot!”

“But if they could!”

She stared at him, wondering for a moment if it could be true. The very idea chilled her. “Is this the terrible warning you bring?” she asked, putting a slight hint of laughter in her voice.

He met her gaze, emotions at war in his face. Finally he took his hand from the door and stepped back.

“It is impossible for them to reach Imperia,” she went on derisively. “Our defenses are very strong.”

He said nothing. His eyes held defeat, and it was as though he refused to plead or argue further.

She watched him a moment, wanting to believe him, but unable to. With a sigh, she replaced her veil and straightened her cloak. Her obligations could not be put off any longer. She had tarried here too long already. Elandra’s curiosity was stronger than ever regarding what Tirhin had been up to. But if the slave would not talk openly, she could waste no more time trying to draw it from him.

“My advice for you is that you run,” she said. “The healer will tell Prince Tirhin what you have done here. You are lost. No one at the palace will grant you sanctuary, and you cannot return to your master with any hope of his mercy now that you have attempted to denounce him. Run. It is your only hope.”

“I can’t live with bounty hunters on my trail,” he said quietly.

It was not the answer she expected from him. She cast him one final look of amazement, then gathered her potion from the table and left the small study, taking care to close the door after her.

In the passageway the guards snapped to attention and fell into step behind her. Elandra walked quickly, moving with purpose but not unseemly haste. She was late; she had been gone too long. There would be an uproar to face in her chamber.

It did not matter. She had much to think about regarding this chance encounter.

Was it chance or fate? whispered a voice in the back of her mind. The Penestrican sisterhood did not believe in chance, only in connections.

What had Tirhin done?

He had plotted treason unsuccessfully in the past, and Kostimon had overlooked his transgression. Lately the prince had been surly and rebellious, but more toward her than toward his father.

But now he had done something wrong enough to shock a slave still loyal enough to carry his master bodily all the way back from Sidraigh-hal. As for how the slave had escaped the shyrieas himself, that had not been explained. She was inclined to think there had been no encounter with demons.

What, then, had Tirhin done? What was this wild talk of Madruns overtaking the city? It was unthinkable that Tirhin would join in some unholy alliance with the enemy, and yet it made sense. It explained what had made this slave claw his way through an unguarded palace window, risking everything for a chance to warn the emperor.

She had barely managed to pretend that she didn’t believe the slave’s hint about the Madruns. But inside, her heart raced at the possibility. Yet they couldn’t take the city. They couldn’t.

Even with help?

She dismissed the thought, telling herself not to become fearful and foolish. Her own father considered fear a contagion. He despised anyone who was governed by it. Elandra told herself she must think on this matter with her coolest reason.

But what if the slave was right? What if there was little time? What if her indecision and delay cost the city dearly?

What if she broke protocol and risked demanding an audience with the emperor? Even she had not the right to go to him unbidden. What if Kostimon heard her secondhand tale of supposition and hearsay and disbelieved it?

After the events of this morning, her ground had become very shaky. She did not think Kostimon would receive her at all, much less listen.

Besides, if she took the risk and Kostimon did believe her, that would mean Tirhin’s arrest. An investigation would be carried out. Possibly he would be tortured. If the charges were proved true, Tirhin might be executed.

Elandra frowned to herself as she hurried along. She held a man’s future in her hand, and she was not certain she liked it.

But if she kept quiet, deliberately suppressing the knowledge she had been given. How could she live with her own conscience? Would her silence not make her a coconspirator against her husband?

What was she to do? What was the wise course? The right course? They did not seem to be the same.

Did not Kostimon genuinely want his son to succeed him? Had he not hinted as much to her earlier? If she accused his son, would that not enrage him? The relationship between father and son was clearly a troubled and complex one. She would be foolish to step between them in any way. Besides, Kostimon had been laying many secret plans lately. His network of spies informed him of everything, and he had Tirhin watched constantly. Was he not already informed of where his son had been last night?

The easiest course would be to consult with Lord Sien. He would know how to handle this news and whether it should be mentioned to the emperor.

Such thoughts brought her no relief. She did not like Sien, or his priesthood. Something about the man chilled her. In his presence she always longed for the protection of a jinja, and until now she had avoided him as much as possible. He did not approve of her, nor did he approve of the emperor’s recent decision to make her a sovereign.

To approach him for his advice might be the avenue toward making peace. However much she disliked him, it would be better to have him for an ally than an enemy.

Her chin lifted, and by the time she reached her chambers her difficult decision had been made.

Her ladies clustered around her, fussing and scolding, and hastening to remove her cloak and veil. She was terribly late. Where had she lingered so long? Was she not frozen from being outdoors for nearly an hour? The delegation of Penestricans had arrived. She had kept them waiting. No, there was no time now for anything except her preparations. No, she was very late, too late to think of writing notes to people. She had no time for discussions with priests and chancellors. Everything must now wait.

Resignedly, Elandra allowed herself to be led into her bedroom, where she was undressed and bathed in warm water scented with rose petals and fine oils. Then the preparations began, with each lady in waiting standing in line with the one article of clothing she was responsible for. Each lady walked up to Elandra in turn, curtsied low, handed over the item of clothing to Elandra’s dresser, and curtsied again before retreating. It took an inordinate amount of time, but it was the customary ceremony of dressing the empress and it occurred several times a day, for every separate function. Late or not, protocol must be maintained.

Today, she was not impatient with it. Her mind busily turned over every aspect of what she intended to do. And she decided against putting herself under an obligation to the high priest. It was too risky. Elandra stilled her uneasy conscience. If Tirhin had done serious wrong, the emperor’s own spies would bring word to him soon enough.

“Keep your place,” Kostimon had shouted at her this morning.

Elandra’s eyes narrowed as her gown was slowly lowered over her head and fastened at the back. Her place was remaining the empress, remaining alive. She would do whatever was necessary to keep that. Even if it meant not passing on a warning to her husband.