Chapter Eighteen

Elandra was given the state apartments, reserved for visits of the very highest rank. The tall windows were hastily thrown open, letting in rain-dampened air that did little to dispel the mustiness of the rooms. As Elandra entered, she could hear the scurrying footsteps and muffled giggles of fleeing maidservants. The room was in order, but barely so. It had that hasty, put-together look of crooked cushions, a coverlet not quite smooth, flowers imperfectly arranged, and the suspicion of dust in the corners.

The lack of a woman in charge of this household was evident. Whatever her faults had been, at least when Hecati lived here there had been no dust, and no staff ever caught by surprise.

Scented bathwater was carried in to fill a tub of marble lined with copper. While Elandra soaked, fighting the urge to cry, the seamstress arrived with three gowns over her arm and a mouthful of pins. Food and drink were brought in on a tray, but Elandra gestured everyone away.

“Leave me,” she said.

The noblewoman herself closed the doors on the bathing room and shooed out all the servants.

It was several minutes before she returned, knocking discreetly on the door before she eased it open. “Majesty?” she called.

Elandra was sitting on a stool at the dressing table adorned with fresh flowers and a row of alabaster jars. Swathed in a robe, she was rubbing scented lotion into her hands. Her wet hair hung down her back, still dripping a little onto the floor. Her reflection in the mirror showed her to be pale but composed again.

“Majesty?” the woman called a second time.

The short span of privacy had been enough. Elandra was still worried, but she had regained control of her emotions. She glanced over her shoulder and gestured for the woman to enter.

Curtsying, the woman said, “I am Lyticia, wife of the imperial governor of Gialta.”

Elandra’s brows rose. After her reception today, she had not expected the woman to be of such rank. “Then your husband is Lord Onar Demahaud,” she said.

A surprised and gratified smile spread across Lady Lyticia’s narrow face. She was handsome rather than beautiful, tall and almost thin. Her gown was splendid, and she wore tasteful bracelets and earrings. “Yes,” she said. “Your Majesty’s memory is most kind.”

Oh, yes, Elandra’s memory could not forget the name of the governor. Since Albain had no male heir, his land would be returned by law to the emperor’s ownership, to be either redispensed or sold. Until either eventuality happened, the governor would be the overseer of the vast properties. He could rake whatever wealth he wanted into his pockets. At present, with the empire in chaos, it was likely that Lord Demahaud would be able to keep the vast estates for his own.

But Elandra said nothing of this, and her recognition seemed to gratify the woman.

With detente established, they got busy. Lady Lyticia had brought her seamstress, her maid, and her hairdresser. These individuals went to work, and in short order Elandra was dry, gowned, and coiffed magnificently. She felt regal again, and the increased respect in the women’s eyes made her realize ruefully exactly how much importance Gialtans placed on appearances.

“May I have the honor of loaning your Majesty my jewels?” Lady Lyticia asked with tact.

“You are very kind, but no, thank you,” Elandra replied firmly.

“But truly, I do not mind—”

“No,” Elandra said.

Color spread across Lady Lyticia’s cheeks, and Elandra felt impatient. Why couldn’t the woman understand?

She didn’t want to explain, but she sighed and took the trouble. “An empress may only wear jewels made specifically for her by the Choven,” she said. “I am sure your jewels are splendid, but protocol forbids my acceptance of your generous offer.”

Lady Lyticia smiled, pacified again.

Someone knocked on the door, and a servant entered to whisper in Lady Lyticia’s ear.

She nodded and turned to Elandra, who steeled herself, certain she had primped too long and her father had died without her being at his side.

“The physicians have finished their ministrations, Majesty. If you feel ready to visit your father, this would be an excellent time.”

Relief made Elandra shoot to her feet. Belatedly she remembered to walk gracefully and without haste. She had lost much ground here; she had much to restore. However foolish and of little consequence it might seem to her, these subjects considered their customs important. If she wanted them to treat her as an empress, then she must act like one, no matter how limiting or chafing it was.

She walked down long corridors furnished with fine Ulinian carpets, rows of chairs upholstered in leather, and walnut tables. Maids peeped from doorways, withdrawing at her approach and whispering behind her. Jinjas scampered here and there, leaping onto windowsills and staring at her with bright eyes. Outside, the rain drummed steadily, and the tall windows stood open to catch any hint of coolness to counteract the cloying heat and humidity. Curtains of sheer silk gauze billowed and blew in the damp breeze.

Elandra’s own fear and rising anxiety constantly quickened her feet, although she tried to slow down. Despite her inner strain she managed to keep her face calm and composed, but she could not stop her fingers from knotting together.

Finally she reached tall doors at the end of a corridor. Bowing lackeys opened them at her approach. Guards in turbans saluted her, but Elandra barely noticed them. She hurried into the antechamber beyond and found it crowded with physicians in monkey-fur hats and long beards, chatting among themselves.

Silence fell over them, and they bowed to her in startlement. She passed them without stopping, heading for Albain’s chamber.

Guards opened these final doors, and she walked inside, halting just across the threshold. She found herself suddenly without breath, her heart pounding too fast.

Tall-ceilinged and spacious, the chamber’s walls were hung in silk that was sun-faded and out of style. Her father’s bed was enormous, both broad and tall, with netting looped back out of the way. He lay on his back, his head propped up on a single pillow. His large hands were folded.

She had never seen him look so still, so thin, so pale. She stood there, afraid to walk closer to this stranger.

The room smelled of medicines and blood. A valet stood in a shadowy corner of the room, hastily bundling up stained sheets and sleeping shirt. A lackey with his sleeves rolled up held a basin of dirty water that he carried out through the servant’s door. Her father’s jinja lay curled up on a plump silk cushion at the foot of the bed, whimpering softly in its grief.

Elandra realized she was standing frozen in place while the physicians stared at her back. Frowning, she forced herself to walk forward, only barely aware of the doors closing quietly behind her.

The valet glanced at her, bowed, and departed. She was alone with her father, a man who had sired her and given her a home, yet little of his time and still less of his affection. She was only one of his many bastards, but unlike the others who worked as overseers and stable hands and gardeners, Elandra had a mother who was highborn. Albain had sired only one legitimate child: the vain, spoiled Bixia, who had thought she would marry Kostimon and who had joined the terrible Maelite order in anger when Elandra robbed her of that glory.

Where were his children now? Who of his family stood near to mourn him?

Elandra swallowed and walked to his bedside. His eyes were closed. She could hear the quick rasp of his breathing. His face was an ashen color that frightened her.

Slowly, she placed her hand atop his. She did not want to disturb him, yet it was important that he know she had come.

“Father,” she said softly.

He did not stir.

“Father.” She spoke more loudly. “It’s Elandra. I’ve come.”

He groaned, frowning and turning his head. Watching his pain, she bit her lip and dared say nothing else. He had always been so large, so strong. She remembered him striding through the palace, bellowing orders and slapping his gauntlets in his palm. He always made noise wherever he went, whether it was his mail creaking or his spurs jingling, or his satisfied belches following dinner, or his fist thudding against his chair arm. He was life and movement, blunt and coarse and ferocious. Through his days, he had worked and fought with equal vigor. To see him now so thin and frail, fading before her very eyes, seemed impossible.

Her fingers tightened on his hand, as though by their pressure she could impart her strength to him.

A tear spilled down her cheek and splashed on the coverlet. She rubbed at the spot with her thumb, feeling helpless and afraid.

“Elandra?”

She looked up to find him gazing at her. His single sighted eye was bleary with pain and medicine, but he knew her. Her tears fell freely now, and she couldn’t hold them back. Leaning over, she kissed his cheek.

It felt hot and clammy beneath her lips.

Finding a shaky smile for him, she said, “Hello, Father.”

He let out his breath. “Thank the gods you are found. This madness in the—”

“Hush,” she said, trying to calm him, certain he must not talk too much. “Be still. I am safe. You must not worry.”

“Murdeth and Fury, but I do worry,” he said, refusing to be quiet. “Kostimon dead. You gone to Gault knows where. That puppy Tirhin proclaiming himself. Madruns running wild. I—”

He broke off, coughing up blood. His face lost even more color.

Alarmed, Elandra took a cloth from the bedside table and pressed it to his lips. When the coughing fit finally ended, he lay back exhausted on his pillow.

Elandra drew in several breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. “Now,” she said at last when she could command her voice. “Let us have no more excitement. You must rest—”

His hand moved, and he shook his head. “The dead can rest,” he whispered. “I have too much to do.”

“Everything can wait until you are better.”

His eye opened to glare at her. “Let us have honesty, not these damned lies,” he said, wheezing. “I am dying, damn it. You know that.”

Her lips trembled, but when she answered her voice was miraculously steady. “Yes. I have been told.”

“Aye. Then act sensible. Will you fight for the throne?”

His anger had steadied her. With more calm, she said, “Yes. Caelan and I want the empire.”

Albain frowned, and she hastily explained, “Caelan is the man I love. A woman may choose her second husband, and I have chosen him. His destiny is very great. He is the only man who can possibly defeat the darkness that is coming.”

Albain’s expression did not change. She could not tell whether he accepted what she’d said or was angered by it.

“You move quickly,” he said.

She bit her lip, wanting his blessing. If she had that, she could ignore everyone else. “I met him first in my dreams when I went to be trained in the Penestrican House of Women. I did not know his name then or where to find him. We are destined, that is all I know. He has saved my life too many times to mention. He brought me safely from the palace when the Madruns would have killed me. He rescued me from the realm of shadows, where Lord Sien sought to trap me. Now he has brought me here, to you, Father.”

Pain shadowed Albain’s face. “You knew this man in the palace of your husband?”

Embarrassment filled her. “I was faithful to Kostimon,” she said sharply. “Though he was not faithful to me.”

Albain swallowed a cough. “Not required.”

“Of him?” she said bitterly. “No, the man is always free, though the woman lives under rules like chains.”

“Don’t whine of your life. You are empress.”

“Yes, I am. I would ask you to meet Caelan, Father. Later, for a moment, to judge him for yourself.”

Albain closed his eyes and said nothing. She waited, wondering if her defiance had been too much for his scant strength.

But it seemed he was only resting. A few moments later, he opened his eyes again. “Who are his people?”

She wanted to laugh with relief. Albain might think he was still withholding judgment, but such a question gave him away. “He is a warrior, Father. He—”

“Who are his people?”

She stopped and frowned. A dozen convoluted explanations ran through her mind, but when she looked into her father’s pain-riddled face she knew she must give him only the truth. “He comes from Trau,” she said.

“That one!” Albain whispered. “I have heard of that one.”

Elandra hesitated, then continued. “His father was a healer, the most renowned in the empire at one time. But Caelan has been touched by the Choven. They have given him his own destiny, and he is to—”

“Later,” Albain whispered, his voice fading.

She picked up his rough hand and kissed it. “I’m sorry. I’ve stayed too long and tired you. I’ll let you sleep now.”

“Elandra.”

His voice stopped her. She hurried back to his side. “Yes, Father?”

“Your plans.”

“Oh, not now. You’re too tired—”

He silenced her protest with a glare, then let his eyelids fall shut again.

She stood beside his bed like a schoolgirl and said quickly, “I plan to return to Imperia and confront Tirhin. Caelan and I need the army you promised me. With your men, it’s possible we can persuade the imperial troops to join us, if they have not already scattered. I want the full support of the Gialtan warlords as well as the benefit of your secret alliances with warlords of the adjacent provinces.”

He blinked, and she smiled. “Yes, I know about those. Kostimon’s informant network was thorough. As long as you were loyal to him through the bindings of our marriage contract, he felt your private alliances only served to strengthen his base of power.”

“Hell’s damnation,” Albain said, looking disconcerted. “What else?”

Elandra drew a deep breath. “I ask for your treasury, the contents of your armory, and supplies.”

He scowled at her. “Want everything.”

“Everything is at stake. Did you know the governor is here, ready to confiscate your lands?”

Albain’s single eye grew fierce. “Scavenging dog.”

“Yes. We must act quickly. I intend to hold a war council while all the warlords are here and convince them to support us—”

“Enough,” he whispered.

She fell silent at once, watching him, worrying about him. On impulse, she put her arm across him and kissed his cheek again. “Please recover. Father,” she said, weeping again. “Please don’t die. I need you—”

His hand lifted and feebly patted her arm. “Come later,” he said, his voice a rasp. “Bring him with you.”

She straightened up, feeling hope. If Caelan passed her father’s approval, then Albain would likely give her what she asked for. And how could he not be impressed by Caelan?

But her father’s time was swiftly running out. He might die before his agreement was given.

Elandra watched him fall asleep and felt ashamed of herself. How could she worry about the empire when it was her father she should be concerned about? Must she be so selfish? What did it matter if Tirhin kept his ill-gotten throne? She and Caelan could go anywhere they wished, create a life together, find happiness.

Yet even as these sensible thoughts crossed her mind, she felt a sense of urgency drawing her onward to Imperia.

She wiped tears from her face, then tiptoed from the room.

Outside in the antechamber, she paused a moment to draw in deep breaths, trying to clear her lungs of the sickroom smell. While she was questioning the physicians, Lady Lyticia returned.

The woman curtsied, looking eager. “Majesty—”

Annoyed by the interruption, Elandra ignored her. “Can nothing else be tried?” she asked the chief physician.

He frowned, clearly put out by having his methods questioned. “It is not a matter of—”

“Majesty—”

In the palace, such impertinence would have been dealt with summarily on her behalf, but now Elandra had to personally put this provincial nobody in her place.

“Excuse me,” she said to the physician, who bowed.

She turned on Lady Lyticia with a glacial look that did not seem to deter the woman at all.

“Majesty,” she said, “there is a lady who wishes to—”

“You have not been acknowledged,” Elandra broke in, and her tone sent color surging into the woman’s cheeks. “How dare you approach me without leave? How dare you interrupt my conversation?”

Lady Lyticia’s eyes grew very bright, and her mouth trembled a moment. She cast a swift glance around at the watching physicians and guards and tossed her head.

“Forgive me, Majesty,” she said in a tight little voice. “I thought my position as the wife of—”

“Your husband does not own my father’s estates yet,” Elandra snapped.

“In the emperor’s absence, we represent—”

Everything inside Elandra froze. She stared at the woman and had never been so angry before. Rage thundered in her ears, and her hands curled into fists. But at her core, she was brutally, ruthlessly cold. She realized that this woman was treating her as an empress consort, nothing more. Everyone was. She should have determined that from the first moment of her arrival, except the news of her father had been too much of a shock.

In that moment, Elandra finished growing up. She knew she could not be soft-edged and compliant, and accomplish her goals. She had always wanted to please others, to have others like her.

Now, none of that mattered. Her world was in chaos. Her father was dying. She had lost every material possession she owned. She had nothing to lose, no one to please, and only one direction to go.

Her gaze impaled Lady Lyticia’s. She said, “You have forgotten that your sovereign is present.”

Lady Lyticia turned pale. “But—but—”

“Furthermore, that means my father’s estates will revert to me. You may tell your governor husband now to stop evaluating the contents of this household, for he will never put his hands on any of it.”

“But—”

“You are dismissed.”

Lady Lyticia stood rooted in place, livid and wide-eyed, her mouth open and gasping.

Elandra turned her back on the woman and looked at the physicians, who hastily assumed respectful poses.

“You were saying?” Elandra prompted the chief physician.

Holding his beard in one hand, he bowed low to her. “It is our concerted opinion,” he said, his gaze flickering slightly as the guards put a sobbing Lady Lyticia outside the room, “that nothing can be done. When a man is crushed inside, he may live for several days in terrible pain, but his life force cannot be contained.”

Grief stabbed through Elandra. “This is unacceptable.”

The man bowed again. “Sometimes, Majesty, our desires are not sufficient to change the way things are.”

She whirled away from him and swept from the room, barely aware of the guards saluting her. There had to be a way to save her father, some means other than feeding him opium for the pain and saying nothing else could be done. She knew only one person who might know what to do.

An empress did not run, but Elandra was past caring what anyone thought of her actions. Holding up her skirts, she strode through the corridors and down a series of steps.

When she passed a pair of guards standing at attention before a passageway that led to the kitchens, she paused.

“You and you,” she said crisply. “I require your attendance.”

Looking startled, the men approached her. They were much alike in appearance, both wiry and dark-skinned. Both wore sleeveless jerkins with dagger belts crisscrossed over their chests. They carried ceremonial pikes. They looked like brothers.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked.

Her tone was abrupt and harsh, not at all womanly. She had no idea as she stood there, fuming with anger and impatience, how much she sounded like her father at that moment, how her jaw was clenched just like his, and how fiercely her eyes were snapping.

The men bowed low. “Aye, verily,” one replied. “Thou art the daughter of our lord. Thou art the wife of our dead emperor, a woman of full rights and property, unveiled.”

Her chin lifted in satisfaction. “Protect me as you would Lord Albain. I will endure no more insults beneath this roof. I will have no one stand in my way.”

The men straightened. Their dark eyes gleamed with understanding, and before they spoke, she knew she had their absolute loyalty.

“Give me your names.”

“I am Alti.”

“I am Sumal.”

“We are twins,” Alti said.

“You are now my men,” Elandra said. “Let replacements be found for your post. Let the word be passed through the barracks that I need a personal guard from any who will volunteer. When the hour of danger struck in Imperia, the elite Imperial Guard could not protect me from harm. Never again will I go forth without Gialtan fighters at my back.”

Alti and Sumal grinned and looked as though their chests would burst. She knew their type, plantation-born, brought up to hard work, fearless, and incredibly loyal.

“The word shall be given, Majesty,” Alti said.

She nodded. “Let the word also be passed that I want a jinja of my own. A real one, young and unbonded, from the wild. Not one retrained in the sorcerer’s market. I trust my father’s soldiers to find this for me. I will not ask a nobleman to perform this service.”

Alti and Sumal exchanged glances, and their grins faded away. Somberly they nodded, understanding her meaning, respect increasing in their eyes. After all, she was Albain’s daughter before anything else, and like Albain she understood that the true strength of Gialta lay in the hearts of its common fighting men.

“It shall be done, Majesty,” Alti said.

Elandra smiled briefly. “Come, then. I wish to find Lord Caelan, the tall man who came here with me.”

They frowned and again exchanged glances. “That is a difficulty, Majesty.”

Impatience surged through her. “Why?”

“No one said he was a lord. There was trouble in the gallery, and now he has been taken to the whipping post.”