Chapter Seventeen

The steps stretched upward in endless progression, as though to the sky itself. Halfway up, Elandra began to tremble, and she thought her legs would fail her.

“No,” she whispered, unable to believe it. “No!”

Caelan looked down at her in sympathy, and frowned a warning.

She understood at once and knew she could not submit publicly to her grief, but inside she felt as though she were being torn apart. She had not grieved for Kostimon, who in many ways had been more a father figure to her than her own. But Albain had been the first man she had ever loved. All her life she had looked up to him, admired him, craved his affection. She would have done anything for him. Just a glance or a quick pat on her head when she was a child had sustained her for weeks.

And now . . . now, when she needed him more than ever before, to hear he was dying seemed like a bad dream. She could not believe it, refused to believe it.

Handar escorted them into the palace, murmuring about accidents and bad portents. There had been lightning and earthquakes, he said. The river had flooded its banks, and one of the stable walls had fallen. Lord Albain had been crushed by a panicking elephant while he tried to help his men restore order.

Caelan never loosened his grip on Elandra’s hand. She could feel the reassurance he sent her even as he pinned his gaze on the general.

“And are there no healers to attend him?” he asked.

“Indeed, yes,” Handar replied. “Our physicians say he is injured inside.”

Caelan frowned. “The slow bleeding?”

“It is as they say.”

Elandra looked up at Caelan in hope. He was a healer’s son. He understood what this meant.

His blue eyes darkened with compassion, and he gave her a small shake of his head.

Her mouth opened, but she didn’t cry out. She had no breath to do so. The world swam before her eyes, but Caelan would not let her faint.

“Keep walking,” he said softly. “Hold your head high.”

She obeyed him, her eyes stinging with tears she would not shed. They found the vast entry hall full of courtiers and the curious, most of whom had gathered to watch her arrival. The women were veiled and gowned elegantly. The men wore gilded mail and silk surcoats heavily embroidered in gold and silver. She recognized coats of arms from across the entire province. Jinjas flitted here and there, peeking out from behind their owners, sharp teeth bared in curiosity, pointed ears twitching in response to the general air of suppressed excitement.

A part of her understood that her strange arrival, without guards, without her ladies in waiting, without evidence of her wealth and power, all served to diminish her in these people’s eyes. These were the nobles and warlords, men she needed to impress, men who commanded armies she needed to call on. Yet she walked before them in mended clothes and unbound hair, lacking jewels, her face pale and ravaged.

The rest of her did not care if every opportunity was lost. She wanted only to break away from Caelan and the general and go running to her father’s apartments. She wanted privacy, not these staring eyes. She wanted freedom to weep and call on the gods for mercy.

She began to tremble again. Her eyes were burning. She could not do this. She could not walk with cold composure into her father’s chamber and gaze at him in a performance while everyone watched her. She could not.

“General,” Caelan said.

Handar paused in the center of a long gallery. Tall windows on one side overlooked the fields beyond the walls. People stood in bunches, pretending to chat among themselves, while in reality they watched like judges. At the far end of the gallery rose a staircase carpeted in scarlet and dark green. The rosewood banisters were carved into the twisted, sinuous shapes of scaled serpents and lotus flowers. High above the staircase hung Albain’s banner with the family coat of arms. Guards stood at the foot of the stairs, as though to bar the curious from the private region of the palace.

“Can someone be sent to attend her Majesty?” Caelan asked. “She has traveled far. She needs to prepare herself suitably so that she may honor her father.”

Gratitude spread through Elandra, but with it came worry. “Is there time?” she asked.

Handar bowed. “Of course, Majesty. He lingers long.”

“That means he is strong,” Caelan said to her. “There is time for what is necessary.”

She gave him a wan smile so that he would think he comforted her. Inside, however, she remained like a clenched fist, too tense and worried to be reassured.

Handar snapped his fingers, and the major domo came running to bow low.

“May I offer the most humble greetings and welcome of this house, formerly thy home, Majesty?” he said, never once looking directly at her.

“Thank you,” Elandra replied in a hollow voice. Now was not the time to remember her childhood spent far from grand public rooms such as this. She had been treated like a servant. She had scrubbed floors for punishment, and she had mended and fetched like many of the other maids when her step-aunt ordered her to.

While the major domo issued discreet orders for a chamber to be cleared for her use, Handar spoke to a man in a long tunic trimmed in monkey fur. This man in turn summoned a lady who approached in a beautiful gown and curtsied perfunctorily to Elandra.

“May I assist you. Majesty?” she asked. “May I offer you the service of my own maids? My seamstress will be honored to alter some of my gowns for your use.”

Elandra did not recognize her, but it hardly mattered. “Thank you,” she said.

Caelan released her hand so that she could be led away in the care of the noblewoman and servants. Elandra started up the staircase, then glanced back at him, missing him already. But the lady was urging her on gently, and she kept walking, feeling numb.

Left behind with General Handar, Caelan watched Elandra walk out of sight with graceful dignity. Only he guessed how frightened she was, how shocked.

This latest blow of fate was surely one cruelty too many. Elandra had endured enough. To now lose her father, the man whose support she had never for one second doubted, on the heels of so many other tragedies was too much. If Caelan could have yelled at the gods and shamed them for their capriciousness, he would have.

As it was, he had to stand here, helpless and unable to comfort her.

But if he could not assuage her grief, at least he could change the hostility he sensed in this room. How quickly people could turn on each other. Petty, jealous, envious, and shortsighted, they forgot how much they needed to side together at this moment of crisis. Caelan swallowed his anger at the way Elandra had been received, and forced himself to pull his wits in line. There would be a change by the time she reappeared. He would make sure of it.

Setting his jaw, he turned on the general, who had been looking at him like he was some kind of encroacher. Caelan knew they had all witnessed the familiarity of his steadying arm around Elandra, the way she clung to his hand, the way she looked to him for guidance and comfort. He was no nobleman, by the state of his clothes or by his origins. And surely someone present had visited the arena in Imperia and would recognize him as a former gladiator.

For an instant Caelan felt the old shame of slavery like a ghost perched on his shoulder, then he shook it off. Kostimon had once been no one from nowhere, and he had made himself emperor. Without leadership, these fancy courtiers were doomed. It was time they knew it.

“We were not properly introduced,” Caelan said to the general with a courteous nod. “I am Caelan of Trau.”

Handar’s eyes widened, but before he could respond, another voice rose from the crowd: “Caelan of the arena is more accurate.”

Men broke into laughter, and the ladies nudged each other and smiled behind their hands.

Caelan’s temper snapped. He whirled around in the direction the voice had come from. “Who said that?”

More laughter rose up, jeering and contemptuous. Caelan glared at them, refusing to be driven away, knowing that if his nerve broke here, he wasn’t worthy to stand beside Elandra, much less face the coming shadows.

“Who spoke?” he demanded again.

“Really? A gladiator?” a rotund, red-faced man said, hooting as he held his sides. “Gault help us, a pretentious brute from the arena.”

Caelan’s face burned, but he didn’t move. His gaze searched the crowd, while they laughed and pointed at him, insulting him openly.

Finally a tall, rawboned man with his black hair scraped back in a warrior’s braid pushed to the forefront of the crowd. He wore old mail, and his surcoat was faded. His gauntlets were folded over his sword belt, and his spurs jingled as he walked. A long, white scar ran down one side of his neck, and he was missing his ear on that side. His thumbs were hooked casually in his belt, showing broad, callused hands scarred across the knuckles from fighting. His brown eyes held scorn, but they were wary, seasoned eyes that had looked on many battles. He was perhaps twenty years older than Caelan, and carried his age as a man in his full prime. Only the jewel in the hilt of his sword and the embroidered coat of arms on the breast of his surcoat proclaimed his high rank. Clearly this man had come for a war council.

He was exactly the ally Caelan needed. He was not someone to be made into an enemy.

“I am Pier,” the warlord said, introducing himself in the stark way of the aristocracy. “I have seen you fight, and I have won money on you. You did once belong to Prince Tirhin. Now it seems you belong to the Empress Elandra.”

Another murmur ran through the crowd.

Caelan glared at him. “I belong to no one,” he said. “I was born free. I walk free again. I have been a soldier in the Crimson Guard. Now I fight to save the empire from her enemies.”

“Pretty speech for a gladiator,” Pier said coolly. Snickers spread out behind him. “You wear the armor of an imperial guardsman. Some of it anyway, but you do not carry a guardsman’s weapons. And you have no cloak to show your rank ... or lack of it.”

Caelan’s head lifted proudly. “I have been told the men of Gialta are among the best warriors in the empire. I did not know this was a lie.”

Angry voices rose up.

He lifted his own voice to carry over the buzz. “Or that the men of Gialta judge others by what they wear and how pretty they smell.”

Several men now had their hands on their weapons. Caelan met glare for glare, not caring if he insulted all of them.

“Take care, stranger,” General Handar warned him softly. “If the empress is all the protection you have, it will not be enough.”

His warning only goaded Caelan’s temper further. He let his contempt for them show plainly.

“The empress comes to you, having been attacked by demons and Madrun barbarians in the dead of night, within what should have been the safety of her own palace, her own apartments. She comes to you, having seen Imperia burn, having fled for her life from those trying to slaughter her. She comes to you, with the screams of dying men and women still ringing in her ears. She comes to you, with her husband dead, to find her father dying. Her own protector was slaughtered while saving her life. Her guardsmen were massacred in the palace. She has seen betrayal and evil from those whom she trusted. Yes, even from the son of the emperor, a man who drove her to her coronation in the processional and swore an oath of fealty to her that day.”

The room stood silent now. Their eyes were all on him. They listened, despite themselves, to his scorn and condemnation.

“She has come to you, people of Gialta, for help against the darkness that would take this empire and crush it. For days she has spoken of little except the bravery of her native province, of the valiant warriors who live here, of the continued loyalty she expected to find.”

Caelan paused, and a sneer curled his lip. “But because she did not come home riding on an elephant, dripping in jewels, and surrounded by an army of Imperia’s finest, you have looked at her as though she were an oddity. Those filthy, half-savage Thyzarenes who made it possible for her to get here swiftly, without walking the entire distance, have shown her more deference and respect than any finely garbed courtier in this room.

“Was there one bow given to her, your crowned sovereign? Yes, a single bow from a servant. Was there one curtsy? Yes, from a lady forced to speak to her. But what of the rest of you? Because the empress has come here in the manner of a refugee, does that absolve you from courtesy? I have now seen the people of Gialta, and I am most certainly not impressed.”

A furious babble of voices rose up. Several surged toward him, but Pier still stood in the way, thumbs hooked in his belt, his dark head slightly tilted while he listened and studied Caelan.

“Pretty speech,” he said, and the others quieted reluctantly. “But what was she doing consorting with you while her husband lay dying?”

The jeers rose again, and Caelan’s face heated. At that moment he hated and despised them even more than before. They were so stupid, so petty, so small. But most of all, he was furious at himself for having put her in this position.

“Aye!” shouted another voice from the back of the crowd. “Where has she been? There’s a reward for her return. Did you carry her off, or did she go willingly to pinch those fine muscles?”

Enraged, Caelan stepped forward, but Pier blocked his path.

Caelan glared at him. “Step aside, that I may choke—”

“You’ll make no move,” Pier said.

The man’s eyes were light brown, steady, dangerous. Caelan tried to beat down that gaze, without success.

“To insult me is one thing,” Caelan said hotly, “but to insult her is another!”

“You have no right to defend the lady,” Pier said in sharp rebuke. “You are a slave and an army deserter. The empress will be judged by her own people, but you—”

“Judge me by this!” Caelan snarled. He drew his sword, and even as Pier reached for his own weapon Caelan was already bending low to place Exoner on the polished stone floor. He sent it sliding over to Pier’s feet. “Do you know what it is?”

Frowning, Pier stared at the sword, then at him, as though at a loss. Slowly he allowed his own weapon to drop back in its scabbard. “It is a very fine-looking sword,” he said after a moment.

Caelan was boiling, but he managed to control his voice. He gestured. “Pick it up. Handle it. Test its balance.”

“Why should I?” Pier asked. His eyes raked Caelan up and down. “When a rich city falls to invaders, any man may steal a good weapon.”

Caelan jerked slightly, finding it all he could do to control himself. Pier smiled in thin satisfaction, and Caelan understood the man was trying to goad him into making a mistake that would get him killed.

“The sword is mine. I did not steal it. If you doubt that,” Caelan said quickly as Pier opened his mouth, “pick it up.”

Frowning, Pier stared at the sword, then bent to grab it. Before he could touch it, however, a child-sized creature with green translucent skin and pointed ears came whirling up to cling to the warlord’s arm.

“Touch not, master!” it said in urgent warning.

Pier drew back. “Why? Is it enspelled?”

“Perhaps it’s poisoned,” another man said. “It’s a trick to kill you.”

Caelan was staring at the creature. He had never seen anything like it before. “What is this thing?”

“Have you never seen a jinja before?” Pier asked. The creature bared its pointed little teeth and sent its master an adoring gaze. Pier patted its head, and the jinja sneezed and scratched its ear.

“The sword is not poisoned,” Caelan said. “If you’re afraid to touch it, let the jinja tell you what it is.”

Another jinja, this one garbed in silk pants and a short, sleeveless vest, sped up to them, zigzagged around Caelan almost too fast to see, then retreated to a safe distance. A third joined them, bright-eyed and plainly fascinated by the sword.

“Choven made,” Pier’s jinja said, scratching its ear again as though it had fleas. “Choven make for one only. Others no touch.”

A strange expression crossed Pier’s face. He bent and tried to pick up the sword, but dropped it immediately.

Several women cried out.

“I am not hurt,” he said to the inquiries around him.

A courtier beside him gave one of the jinjas a shove. “What evil magic does he bring into this court?”

The three creatures raced around Caelan, darting close, then speeding out of reach. One ran at him and touched his arm, then fled, shrieking, “No magic! No magic!”

Pier snapped his fingers, and his own jinja ran over to jump onto the broad sill of a window. It perched there and started cleaning its ears with its fingers.

Pier studied Caelan a long while. “Your sword would not let me hold it,” he said at last. “When my fingers tried to close around the hilt, some force pushed my hand away.”

“It is magic,” another man said.

“The jinjas say not,” Pier said sharply.

“Jinjas can be wrong.”

One of the creatures howled angrily at this comment, but was ordered to be silent.

Pier went on studying Caelan, and finally nudged Exoner back to him with his foot.

Caelan picked up the weapon, feeling it nestle in his hand the way a dog might thrust its head into its master’s palm to be stroked. Caelan slid the sword into its scabbard, and let his hand rest there, drawing strength and confidence from the weapon.

“Only kings can carry Choven swords,” Pier said finally.

“That’s the legend,” Caelan replied.

The round-faced courtier gasped and nudged his neighbor. “He claims to be a king.”

“Outrageous!”

The murmurs rose again, but suspicion was darkening Pier’s face like a cloud.

His eyes bored into Caelan’s. “What are you up to?”

Caelan said nothing.

“You abducted the empress—”

“I saved her life,” Caelan corrected him. He had Pier thinking now. He felt that was progress toward turning the man into an ally.

“Clearly she feels herself in your debt.”

“No.”

“Would you prefer I called it something offensive?”

Caelan’s face burned again. He realized he had been optimistic too quickly. Pier was far from being on his side.

“You think that because you have the empress in your power, and you have paid the Choven to make you a sword worthy of a king, that you can take over the empire and set yourself on Kostimon’s throne? You?”

Caelan said nothing. Pier’s contempt was like a hot brand, burning him.

“Well, well,” Pier said in mock appreciation. “How interesting to see what high ambitions arena trash aspires to these days.”

Humiliation rolled over Caelan. It was exactly as he had feared it would be. He stood there, forgetting all that Moah had said to him about destiny and ability, while these highborn men jeered in his face.

Pier’s face creased with disgust. He gestured at Handar. “General, see that this fool is thrown out.”

Handar, a man almost half Caelan’s size, drew in a resolute breath and started his way, but Caelan was not finished with Pier yet.

“And whom will you give your new oath of fealty to, Lord Pier?” he asked in a ringing voice that carried clearly over the noise in the gallery. “Will it be Tirhin the Usurper, who turned the Madrun invaders loose on his own people? Who was so anxious to have the throne that he could not wait a few days more for his father to die naturally?”

Pier’s face darkened. “We know of Prince Tirhin’s actions. We know he has proclaimed himself emperor. We also know he has driven the Madruns from Imperia, and now they rape and pillage the countryside, a problem for each province to cope with as they march homeward.”

“Who named Kostimon emperor?” Caelan asked them. “Who can remember the legends? His father did not give him the throne.

No, he took it for himself. If you do not want Tirhin, whom will you name instead?”

Shouting broke out, but Pier held up his hand for quiet. “That cannot be decided now.”

“When will it be decided? When Tirhin is finished dividing the empire into weak halves? When the treasuries are completely looted and the army revolts? When the darkness that is coming decides there is nothing to stop it? When will there be a council?”

Pier said nothing. Tight-lipped, he glared at Caelan, then looked at Handar. “I told you to put this man outside.”

“Put me outside yourself,” Caelan said, too furious to care what he said now.

Anger leaped in Pier’s eyes. “Are you challenging me?” he asked in astonishment.

“Does that insult you?” Caelan taunted him. “I am so low, and your lineage is so pure. I am arena trash, as you have said, and therefore I have not even the right to look at you, much less talk to you, least of all challenge you.”

Pier shook his head in disgust. “I will not fight you.”

“Afraid?” Caelan said softly.

Pier’s face darkened. A muscle worked in his jaw for a moment before he finally answered. “The master of this house is dying. In my respect for that man, I do not brawl while his soul departs his body.”

The chastisement stung as though he had actually struck Caelan across the face. Caelan frowned and said nothing. In his anger, he had forgotten the circumstances. He was ashamed of himself, and yet he also knew Pier had goaded him to this point, deliberately pushing him too far. Now he had lost whatever chance he had to win respect from these onlookers. Like an idiot, he had fallen into Pier’s trap.

It had been his goal to win these men, to improve things for Elandra. Instead, he had only made matters worse. If the faces had been hostile and judgmental before, now they were contemptuous.

He could apologize, and make himself look more like a weak fool than ever. He could leave, and have them despise him for running. He could stand here among them and bathe in their scorn. No matter what he did, it wasn’t going to help Elandra.

Granite-faced, he wheeled around and walked down that long, long gallery to the portico beyond. Rain poured down in drenching sheets of water. Sighing, Caelan leaned his shoulder against a pillar.

Footsteps caught his attention, and he straightened up, looking around just as two burly men pounced on him without warning. Caelan’s anger surged hot. He swung at one, but the other came at him from behind and slipped a thin noose around his neck. A deft yank of the man’s wrist, and the cord bit into Caelan’s throat, nearly strangling him.

“Don’t struggle,” the man said.

Caelan froze there, his neck stretched high as he tried to breathe. He might be able to kick the man behind him, but he would be choked to death before he could free himself.

The other one unbuckled his sword belt and relieved him of his weapons. Caelan stood there, helpless and steaming.

“Now,” said the man who held the cord around his neck. “You will go down the steps, quietly. You will cause no more trouble. We will teach you better manners.”

Furious, Caelan hooked his fingers around the cord to pull it, but the man jerked and twisted the noose so hard that blackness swam in front of Caelan’s eyes.

When he came to, a few moments later, he was on his knees. The noose had slackened enough to allow him air. He sucked it in, his lungs burning, his throat on fire.

“You will not try that again,” he was told. “Get on your feet and move.”

There were times to fight, and times simply to stay alive. Caelan did as he was commanded.