Chapter Nineteen
Forgetting dignity, she whirled around and ran down the steps all the way to the gallery.
But the long room stood empty except for a trio of women gossiping in one corner and a pair of elderly men. The crowd of warlords and courtiers had vanished. She did not have to ask where they had gone.
Sickening anger at their caprice and cruelty filled her, but she wasted no time indulging her emotions. She could be disgusted with them later; it was more important now to stop them.
How?
If she ran outside to the courtyard, she might be able to shame them into stopping the flogging. But she might not. Dear Gault, if her own father perceived Caelan as no more than a lover tagging along in her wake, these dolts of his court must think exactly the same.
She could wait, gather allies from within the troops, and reprimand them later.
That would be very dignified, but it would not save Caelan’s back. She needed Caelan to go to her father now. She hoped he might even know how to heal Albain. Caelan’s father had been a healer. Caelan himself had studied the arts for a time. He must know something.
Beyond that, she could not bear to think what a public flogging would do to Caelan’s spirit. He was just now beginning to believe in himself, just now beginning to reach out to all the possibilities before him. Being whipped would knock him back to his days as a slave, would bring back all the shame and humiliation he had endured before.
She would rather they whipped her than have Caelan go through something like that again.
Her hesitation lasted no more than a few seconds. Faintly from outside, she could hear people shouting and cheering in the mindless way of a mob.
“Fools,” she said angrily, and headed for the portico.
Before she reached it, however, a woman stepped into the doorway to block her path.
She was a tall, fierce-eyed woman, slender despite her middle years. Her henna-streaked hair was expertly plaited and coiffed. Expensive rings glittered on her long fingers. Her gown was of straw-colored silk, full-skirted with a sheer green gauze overlay. She smelled of costly ambergris perfume.
Elandra stopped in her tracks, jolted by a sense of recognition although this woman was unknown to her. “Let me pass,” she said with scant courtesy.
The woman did not step aside. “We will talk, you and I.” Her gaze flickered past Elandra to Alti and Sumal. “Dismiss your dogs, and let us go the balcony gardens where we can be private.”
Another, more boisterous roar rose from the crowd. Elandra glanced at her guards. “Move this woman out of my way.”
They stepped forward, and alarm flickered briefly in the woman’s face.
“Elandra!” she said. “I am your mother.”
It was yet another shock, coming on top of too many. Elandra refused to deal with it. She couldn’t. Caelan needed her more.
“Stand aside,” Elandra said. “This isn’t the time.”
The guards gently moved the woman out of her path, and Elandra hastened on, fearing already from the jeering laughs and catcalls from the crowd that she was too late.
For Caelan, struggling with all his might to keep himself from being strangled, humiliation warred with his pride. All his tremendous strength and fighting skills availed him nothing as long as the air kept being shut off from his lungs. One quick twist of the noose, and his vision would fade. Then he would be helpless, gasping on his knees, sweat pouring off him, his strength gone from his limbs.
Each time he was allowed to draw in air until he could stand again. Then they would propel him forward in a halting, awkward progress down the innumerable steps. Whenever he felt stronger and started to think about what he might try, the man controlling the noose about his throat would jerk it hard, and the world would go black on him again.
The courtiers followed them in a stream, calling out merrily and laughing at the entertainment he provided. They seemed oblivious to the rain soaking their finery.
Caelan despised them, and wondered how Gialta had ever gotten its reputation for powerful armies when it had an aristocracy such as this.
But then, he would have despised anyone who came to laugh at his shame.
The noose around his neck reminded him of the slave chain he had worn for so many years. The public humiliation was like being marched to the auction block all over again. He would never forget the first time he was sold. But it had burned him no worse than what was happening now.
His ambitions and Moah had made him believe he could reach for the throne. But it was a delusion, one fed by Elandra’s love and acceptance. Reality lay in the merciless faces surrounding him.
The rain poured into his eyes, drenching him and pounding on his breastplate.
When he reached the bottom of the steps, they took him across a courtyard to the edge of a parade ground. Near the barracks stood a whipping post, stout and scarred, heavy iron rings bolted to it where he would be bound.
The rain slackened, and men surrounded him to unbuckle his armor. For a moment the air felt cool against his sweat-soaked tunic, then he felt a tug at his collar and heard the ripping of cloth.
A cheer rose from the crowd, and Caelan closed his eyes against a raw surge of anger. He had no fear of the lash. Rage continued to build in him until it was an explosive force. Gritting his teeth, he held it back, knowing it would do him no good to struggle and yell curses. It would only make the crowd laugh more.
But he did not deserve this. He had done nothing worthy of this. He had taken no action against these people.
Gazing around at their excited, jeering faces, Caelan saw them caught up in the madness of the moment. He remembered the screaming spectators in the arena, how blood-crazed and wild they were, the frenzy of their cheering, their joy at witnessing death. Surely darkness ate the souls of such people. Worst of all, they were Elandra’s people. He could not unleash severance on them.
Lord Pier stepped forward. He held a coiled whip in his hands. “Bind him to the post.”
Caelan had planted his feet well, and it took four men to manhandle him over to the post. They bound his wrists securely, and only then did the noose come off his throat. He winced, feeling a warm trickle of blood slide down his neck.
Pier handed the whip to one of his minions and gestured. The men ripped Caelan’s tunic away, and an appreciative gasp rose from the crowd.
“Gault above! Look at those muscles.”
“He’s bigger than I thought.”
“He’s a giant.”
“He’s very handsome.”
“No wonder she brought him with her.”
The comments ran on, growing freer and more ribald. Caelan closed his ears, feeling his rage pulse against his throat. He jerked against the iron rings, ready to yank them out by the roots if he could. He budged them not at all, but the violence in him and the loud rattle of the rings startled everyone. Even the man with the whip stepped back.
Caelan looked over his shoulder and met Pier’s gaze. “This is not worthy of you,” he said.
“You are an arena champion,” Pier replied. “You fight well in the ring. You should have stayed there. Challenging your betters is not worthy of you.”
Caelan stared at him in disbelief. Was that all this was? A reprimand to a man Pier thought was a slave? Did he think he could insult Elandra by publicly whipping her companion?
The rage boiled hotter, until Caelan felt his bones would melt. His fists clenched with the violence he could not unleash.
“You will regret this,” he said to Pier.
The warlord turned away with a little shrug, unimpressed. “Forty lashes for his impertinence. Begin.”
At that moment, the clouds parted overhead. Sunlight slanted down upon Caelan alone, isolating him from the crowd, which murmured and shifted back in wonder.
“Look at his back!” someone shouted.
“Look at the imperial mark!”
“His brand is glowing.”
“It’s glowing!”
Some fought their way clear, running and shouting for their jinjas to come. The rest stood there and stared, open-mouthed.
Caelan could not see what they were pointing at, but he could feel the place on his shoulder blade where his slavery mark had been canceled. It burned like fire, as hot as the moment the hissing brand had been pressed to his skin. His rage boiled inside him, burning him from the inside out.
They had no right to do this. No right to commit this act.
And he would not submit to it.
He strained against the ring bolts until the muscles in his arms and shoulders bulged and the cords in his neck snapped taut. A shudder went through him as he poured all his rage into this effort. The sunlight seemed to feed him its heat and strength.
The wood groaned, splintered, and cracked. The bolts pulled free suddenly, sending pieces of wood flying. Shouting aloud, Caelan dropped his arms and whirled around. He broke the ropes that fastened his wrists to the rings and slung them away. He was free and savage, his pulse pounding in his ears, his vision a blur.
Men cried out and fled from him, pushing and shoving each other in panic. Pier and his men stood fast, looking wary and frightened, but holding their ground.
The sunlight broadened as the clouds parted more, and Pier now stood illuminated also. For a moment his light brown eyes changed to black, and he stood revealed as a skeleton. Black tentacles curled about his bones, thrusting out through the empty eye sockets in his skull. Then Caelan’s vision faded, and Pier was a man again—intelligent and dangerous. His hand was on his sword hilt, but he had not yet drawn his weapon.
He glanced at the man holding the whip. “Hit him. Drive him back.”
The man shook out the whip expertly. Seconds later, the braided leather came whistling at Caelan. Caelan’s gaze was locked on Pier. He didn’t even bother to duck.
But when the lash struck him, it charred instantly to ashes that blew away in the wind.
More people screamed, calling on their gods for mercy. They trampled away, and even Pier’s men backed up.
“Lord, come away. This is surely a demon.”
But Pier apparently did not listen. He drew his sword and charged Caelan.
A quick glance to the side showed Caelan his sword belt lying on the ground. He reached for it, and Exoner almost seemed to leap into his hand. Caelan turned and barely managed to parry Pier’s sword.
Metal clanged loudly, echoing off the stone buildings and silencing the cries of those fleeing. Many ran all the way across the courtyard to the base of the steps, but went no farther. Silence gradually fell over everyone. Even the soldiers kept their distance.
Caelan and Pier circled each other in the strange circle of sunlight. Pier’s eyes were still black and unworldly, as though something unnameable had taken possession of him. Caelan felt only heat and fury. The sunlight burned his skin and seemed to fill his thoughts until he knew nothing else.
He attacked, swinging Exoner with both hands. Pier met the blow, and they were at it, swords flashing rhythmically back and forth to the grunts of the fighters. Sweat flew in droplets illuminated in the sunlight. The air felt heavy and thick, like trying to breathe water. Magic crawled through it. Caelan could smell it like a scorched scent overlaying the fragrance of recent rain upon the pavement.
Someone was calling frantically, “Bring the jinjas! Bring the jinjas! Hurry!”
He did not understand why those peculiar little creatures were wanted, but he could spare no thought for it now. Normally he judged a man’s intention by the shift in his eyes, but Pier’s black eyes were like opaque holes, impossible to judge. Caelan frowned and barely evaded the man’s quick lunge. What possessed him? Either darkness lurked in this palace, or else Pier had brought it with him. Yet his first impression of the man had been favorable.
Caelan attacked in a furious flurry of strength and complex maneuvers that drove Pier back. Spectators fled before them, and Pier stumbled, barely parried as Caelan drove him harder, then mistakenly left himself open.
Caelan leaped at the opportunity, his sword thrusting deep, but at the last second Pier shifted his weight. Exoner did no more than slice along his ribs. Black blood spurted forth, and where it touched the Choven-forged metal, flames burst up.
Pier screamed and staggered back, clutching his side. For a second his anguished eyes met Caelan’s, and they were their normal color again. Then the blackness engulfed them once more.
In a second Caelan realized what he had to do. Even as Pier slowly straightened and lifted his weapon to fight again, Caelan was charging.
He took advantage of his greater reach and heavier weight to tackle the man, heedless of Pier’s sword, which raked across his ribs. Caelan gripped Pier by the front of his tunic, twisting it hard at the man’s throat, and slammed him into the wall of the stables, pinning his sword arm beneath him.
Pier swore and struggled, but Caelan braced his feet and held him bodily. Then he pressed the flat of his sword against Pier’s wounded side.
Arching his back, Pier screamed a shrill, piercing cry as though his soul was being torn from him.
Flames and steam rose between them as Exoner burned away the poison inside Pier. A terrible stench filled the air—not from burned flesh but from something much worse, something inhuman.
A man wearing Pier’s colors dared grab at Caelan’s arm. “In the name of Gault, desist! Take me, demon, and let my master go!”
Caelan glanced at him, and bared his teeth. “Get back,” he said, spitting out the words.
The man turned pale and backed away.
But by then someone else was shoving a group of jinjas forward. “Stop the magic! Stop it!”
The small green creatures stared at Caelan and did nothing.
Relieved, he turned his attention back to Pier. The screams stopped. When Pier sagged against the wall, Caelan took his sword away. Pier was as white as the limestone wall behind him. He looked at Caelan as though he would speak, then swooned.
Gently Caelan lowered him to the ground.
Men rushed closer, but Caelan glared at them. “Stay back!”
“Monster!” one shouted back.
“Demon!” another cried.
“Will you eat him?”
“Lord Pier is dead!”
“He isn’t dead,” Caelan said grimly, touching the rapid pulse in Pier’s wrist. “Not yet. Just stay back!”
But now the jinjas approached him. They bared their small pointed teeth and stared at him with bright eyes.
“No fear, master,” one of them said. “We protect.”
And they formed a ring around Caelan and Pier, keeping the others away.
Consternation seemed to flow through the crowd, but Caelan ignored it. He was grateful to have the creatures on his side.
Gingerly he tugged at the burned edges of Pier’s tunic, parting the cloth to look at the wound. It was well cauterized, the bleeding stopped. Although burned and raw, the skin looked human. Caelan saw no more black blood.
Hardly daring to hope, he peeled back one of Pier’s eyelids. Although the eye was rolled back, it looked a normal color.
One of the jinjas crouched beside Caelan and put its narrow hand on Pier’s chest. “My master,” it said.
Caelan frowned. “Is the darkness in him gone?”
“Mostly. I will take the rest.” With that, the jinja stretched itself across Pier’s chest and began to utter an eerie whine that made Caelan wince.
Hastily he backed away from whatever spell the jinja was weaving, for its magic was not compatible with his own.
Wiping off Exoner, Caelan slid the sword into its scabbard. The clouds closed over him again with a muted rumble of thunder, and it began to sprinkle.
Silence stretched over the courtyard. The crowd stared at Caelan in wonder and fear. He frowned back at them, not certain what they had seen. There should be something he could say, to reassure everyone and dissipate the tension that was like a wall against him. But no words came to his tongue.
Looking over their heads at the steps rising up to the palace, he saw a woman standing near the top, her full skirts billowing in the wind. His heart lightened at the sight of her; then he frowned again.
What would Elandra say about this debacle? He had not meant to alienate her people. Now they feared him, and soon that would turn them against her also. He had let her down, and he was sorry.
His gaze swept across the faces staring at him. “Lord Pier is not dead. Let me pass.”
They parted for him and he walked alone, his head held high, his shoulders tense in expectation of an attack.
But no one dared move against him this time. He walked up the endless steps as the rain strengthened to a light patter, cleansing him of sweat and blood. The cut across his ribs stung, but it was hardly more than a scrape, and he ignored the discomfort.
A few steps short of the top, he stopped and stood there so that she could look down at him. A strange expression lay on her face. She seemed unaware of the rain pelting her, and her eyes held pain. He bowed his head to her, ashamed.
“I am sorry,” he said.
“Surely thou art a god,” she whispered.
His head snapped up. “No! Elandra, do not blaspheme.”
“I saw everything. You were a column of light. He was a pool of darkness.” Her eyes shifted away, then met his again. “It was a prophecy, Caelan. A prophecy of what comes.”
“Whatever possessed Lord Pier,” Caelan said thoughtfully, trying to pretend he felt no shiver of fear down his spine, “I think perhaps it possesses Prince Tirhin as well. My sister is right. I must confront him without delay.”
She nodded, her frown deepening. “We will go. But you must meet my father first.”
Only then did he remember the old man was dying. “Beloved—”
“He has asked for you,” she said. Pleading filled her eyes. “Please ... the physicians are such fools. Can you heal him?”
“No.”
Her breath caught audibly, and he realized she was fighting not to cry. “You know more than they,” she said. “You know many of the arts of healing. You do! At least try.”
He took her hand in his. “Let us go in out of the rain. You’re getting soaked.”
She shook her head, but he escorted her back under the portico.
“Try, Caelan,” she pleaded. “At least try. We need him.”
“I cannot heal others, Elandra. That is not my gift.”
“Are you sure?” she asked him. “Oh, please, please try. Have mercy and go to him. Please.”
He frowned, ready to protest further, but she was not listening to him. He remembered how he had grieved for his own father, whom he had not even loved as Elandra loved hers, and he could not refuse again.
“Let me clean up.”
She gripped his hand and drew him along. “No delays. Come now.”
“But, Elandra, if you want his blessing, I would look better clean and clothed.”
She wasn’t listening. “I will have you go to him while the light still shines a little on your skin. If you could save me within the realm of shadow, and if you have released Lord Pier from the grasp of darkness, then surely you can also save my father.”
He sighed. A physical injury was not the same as an injury to the soul. But Elandra’s stubbornness was a wall around her.
Together they walked through the immense palace that rivaled Kostimon’s in splendor and size. Two Gialtan guards trailed after them, although no one sought to stop them. Caelan did not think he would impress anyone with rain, sweat, and blood drying on him, his tunic torn off his back, and his hair hanging in his eyes.
In the antechamber, the physicians looked startled to see them. One of the men held open an ancient book with a crumbling leather binding and a lock and chain that swung freely. He paused with his long index finger still resting on one of the vellum pages.
Caelan glimpsed strange, arcane writings, and a sense of magic hovered in the air above the man’s head.
Caelan frowned, focusing on the mortar and pestle the second man held and the bottle of liquid in the hands of the third.
They stared like guilty men caught in some act.
“Learned men,” Elandra said with a courteous inclination of her head. “I return with a visitor—”
“Your pardon, Majesty.” Caelan broke in with a sense of deepening unease. “Who are these men?”
She looked surprised. “The physicians—”
“Are they? What are you concocting?” Caelan asked the men.
The three exchanged glances, and he saw lies enter their faces.
“Only a potion to help soothe Lord Albain’s discomfort,” one replied. “The pain grows worse.”
Caelan looked around. He felt a strange charge in the air, something unseen and unwanted.
The hair on his scalp prickled, and he would have set Choven warding keys on the doors and windows as protection if he’d had any.
“What’s wrong?” Elandra asked him, her eyes wide. “What do you see?”
Caelan glanced at her two guards. “Do you serve her Majesty or have you been set to follow her like watchdogs?”
They bristled at his question, but Elandra answered for them. “They are my men.”
“If you would save Lord Albain,” Caelan said to them, and his glance moved to encompass the men guarding the door as well, “then get these physicians out of here and do not let them return. That is not opium they are mixing.”
“I protest!” the tallest physician said. Holding the bottle, he stepped forward. “Majesty, this is an outrage. What manner of barbarian have you brought here? How dare he accuse and slander us?”
The guards stepped forward, but not fast enough. Caelan glimpsed a movement from one of the physicians and drew Exoner. As swift as thought, he sprang across the room and speared the ancient book on the end of his sword.
Flames burst forth, engulfing the book. With a scream, the physician dropped it. The fire blazed up, hot and hungry. Within seconds the book had been devoured, and all that remained was a small pile of ashes. The air stank most foully despite the open windows.
“Exoner is truth,” Caelan said, glaring at the physicians, who watched him fearfully. “You are lies. Get out!”
The guards hustled them out, and Elandra ran to the door of her father’s chamber. Flinging it open, she snapped her fingers.
“Jinja! Come forth and serve your master,” she said imperiously.
She had to call a second time before a sniffing, woebegone jinja appeared. Its green skin was tinged an unhealthy gray. Its pointed ears drooped. It could barely drag itself along. When it came to the doorway, its eyes held only misery.
“There is magic here,” Elandra said sharply to it. “Bad magic. Did you know? Why are you not protecting my father?”
The jinja did not appear to hear her at first; then it sniffed the air and blinked. Lifting its head, it sniffed again. A glower darkened its small face, and it straightened erect. Like a dog following a trail, it began to slowly zigzag back and forth across the room.
One of the guards returned, looking slightly breathless. Shame burned in his face. “Majesty, we beg—”
“Let no one enter,” she commanded in a voice like iron. “No one.”
“Yes, Majesty.”
Elandra stood in the doorway to her father’s chamber and beckoned to Caelan. “Come,” she said.
He could smell sickness and death ahead of him in the room, which was thick with gloom. If she expected a miracle, he could not give it to her, but at least Lord Albain could now die in peace, in his own time, not helped along by his enemies.
Sighing, Caelan squared his shoulders and reluctantly stepped inside.