Chapter Twenty-Two

The rains continued the following day. It was winter, the time of monsoons, when the laborers worked hour after hour to channel the river away from villages and planted fields. The river, swollen and threatening to rage out of control, coughed up Caelan from its muddy depths shortly after midday.

One of the laborers who was pulling logs from the water with grappling hooks and the help of an elephant found him floating unconscious in the water.

This man, streaked with mud and clad in nothing but a loincloth and turban, came running to the gates of the palace and shouted for admittance.

In the council room, Lord Albain, wearing mail and a face as grim as war itself, presided at the head of the table. Elandra, gowned regally, sat erect and silent at his side like the queen she was. She had said nothing all morning while the men argued, hurling accusations and denials. Now and then her gaze moved to the face of Lord Pier, looking pale and drawn after his adventures the day before.

Agreeing to speak under truth-light, Pier had explained his actions to Albain. He made no excuses, no justifications. His report spared neither himself nor the others. It was as though his encounter with dark magic had shaken him. But while he had sought to make trouble yesterday against Caelan, whom he still considered an upstart piece of arena trash, he was not behind the plot to kill Albain in his bed.

The four assassins had confessed at dawn and were already hanged. They were employed by the governor, Lord Demahaud, who was now sitting in the dungeons, an agent of the empire no longer.

Albain had scant interest in what he considered a minor attempt on his life. Once more he pulled the discussion back to the emperor’s successor.

Lord Pier rose to his feet. “I support crowning Tirhin. Despite the initial chaos, he succeeded in pulling together a fighting force, and he has driven the Madruns from Imperia.”

“Yes, to set them loose on the other provinces,” a man piped up on Elandra’s left. “My lands border Ulinia, you know. I am responsible for protecting half that province. And the Madruns will cross my personal estates before they get this far.”

“They will not get here,” Albain said with a growl. “My dispatches say that the Lord Commander has deployed three legions to cut them off.”

Men pounded the table in approval, and several shouted in satisfaction.

Pier, however, was still standing. “All the more reason to send our delegation to Tirhin and proclaim him emperor quickly. The empire needs order restored. This will do it before we have more invaders on our hands.”

“Don’t forget who brought the Madruns here in the first place,” the small man who had spoken before said. “He let them sack Imperia.”

“Renar, hold your tongue,” Pier said sharply. “You don’t know that is true—”

“I know it is true,” Elandra said.

Pier scowled fiercely at her, and several more men jumped to their feet.

“These interruptions cannot be permitted, Albain!” one roared. “The council room is no place for a woman.”

“Silence!” Albain shouted, his voice louder than any of the others. “Whether yob like it or not, she has the right to speak.”

“A woman—”

“In her official capacity, she is not a woman. She is sovereign crowned, and she remains so until Tirhin’s coronation. If that should even come to pass.”

“It must!” Pier said.

“Why?” Albain retorted. “Because you have been promised new lands if you will join his cause?”

Red darkened Pier’s cheeks. “Have you not annexed property since your daughter went to the imperial palace? It is to your personal advantage to keep her there.”

Silence fell over the room. Elandra’s face was burning. She gripped her hands together in her lap and forced herself not to move. It took all her strength to keep her face impassive.

Albain did not rise to his feet. From his chair he glared at Pier, who did not back down. The men watched intently to see what Albain might do. He had been known to issue a combat challenge on less provocation.

“Yes,” Albain said at last, his voice heavy. “It is to my advantage that my daughter keep her throne. It is to the advantage of all Gialta. Is she not more likely to favor her home province than Tirhin? Blood ties are stronger than promises.”

“We have seen no advantage thus far,” Renar piped up.

“That was Kostimon’s doing. When the empress fled Imperia, to whom did she come to raise an army? Us! Not the—”

A knock on the door interrupted him.

“Yes?” Albain called, glowering. He took advantage of the interruption, however, to press his hand to his side and lean forward carefully to pick up his wine cup.

Elandra watched him in concern and said nothing. She had promised him she would stay silent, and she was trying to keep her word despite that one slip. More than once her fists had clenched in her lap, and her anger had nearly driven her to reprimand those who were foolish, ignorant, or wrongly informed. She had been in Imperia. She was a direct witness to the events and the terror. She had been the last person present to see Kostimon alive. Yet these men would not question her. They ignored the information she could have provided.

She sat there, seething, and hated them all.

A guard entered the room and saluted smartly. “The man has been found, my lord.”

“What?” Albain asked. “What man?”

But Elandra was already on her feet, her heart in her mouth. She rushed around the table and went out the door, leaving the guard to follow her.

Out in the corridor, she looked around wildly.

The guard bowed and pointed. “This way, Majesty.”

She followed him, with Alti and Sumal trotting at her heels. They were not permitted in the council room, but after last night they had come to her with deep shame and apologies, vowing they would not leave her side again.

Outside, the rains had stopped. Puddles steamed in the humid courtyard. A laborer, muddy and practically naked, stood there ringed by soldiers. His elephant held an unconscious man in its mouth.

Elandra recognized Caelan at once. She stopped in her tracks with a gasp.

The captain of the guard took one look at her face and issued orders. The elephant slowly lowered Caelan to the ground.

“They pulled him from the river, Majesty,” the captain said.

Elandra kept her distance. Her heart was pounding. She felt as though she might faint, but stiffened her knees and held on.

A voice, too strange and hollow to be her own, asked, “Is he dead or alive?”

Someone knelt and touched Caelan’s throat. “Alive, Majesty.”

Her ears were roaring. She felt as though ground and sky were trying to turn upside down. Somehow, however, she fought off her dizziness. She dared not move, dared not kneel beside him to wipe the mud and slimy weeds from his face. She feared if she did anything, the bands of her self-control would burst and she would fling herself, howling, across his chest.

She made a small gesture. “Take him inside quickly. See that he is cared for. And reward this man well.”

The laborer bent double in his gratitude. Elandra turned away, following the men who struggled to carry Caelan up the steps into the palace. She felt as though she were floating, as though her head had sailed far above the rest of her body. With every step, a corner of her mind chanted, He is alive. He is alive.

What he had been doing in the river was something to determine later, if it mattered. He was alive. He had come back. The pain in her heart could leave her now, and she lived again.

Inside the palace, she summoned servants and issued orders. Her father’s own valet, understanding exactly what his master owed Caelan, came and washed him personally, dressed him in a sleeping shirt, and tried to revive him with various remedies that Elandra inspected herself.

He seemed unharmed. No bruises or cuts marred his skin. His breathing was even. No fever raged in his body.

But he would not awaken, no matter what they did. Finally, Elandra sent everyone away and settled herself at his side. She held his strong hand in hers, tracing her fingertips over his knuckles and the taut veins in the back of his hand, needing the contact of her skin against his, her flesh to his.

“Please come back to me,” she whispered to him. “I need you so. Please come back.”

Eventually a soft argument outside the door caught her attention. She straightened just as the door eased open.

Alti looked inside. “Your pardon, Majesty. A visitor has come.”

Expecting her father, she smiled. But when Iaris walked in, the smile dropped from Elandra’s lips.

Her mother carried a small stone flask in her hands. Ignoring the hostility in Elandra’s gaze, she walked up to the bedside and put the flask on the small table. Then she stood, gazing down at Caelan. Her eyes, as usual, were unreadable.

“So this is the man who replaces your husband.”

Elandra’s face grew hot. “This is my husband.”

Iaris’s brows shot up. “I see.”

Her voice held censure and contempt, but Elandra met her gaze without shame. It was Iaris who looked away first.

“You make a scandal,” she said.

“Kostimon is dead,” Elandra replied. “Now I make my own choices.”

“You want the throne. That binds you to the place of a widow.”

“I have the throne,” Elandra said angrily.

Iaris’s eyes flashed. “Do not deceive yourself. In name only, if that. No matter how much your father yells and blusters, the men of Gialta are proud. They will not follow a woman to war.”

Elandra rose to her feet and pointed at Caelan. “They will follow a warrior. They will follow him.”

“A slave? My dear, hardly.”

“I told you he is a king.”

Iaris smiled, but it was not kindly. “You live in dreams.”

“And you judge like one blind. Did Pier’s men try to drown Caelan in the river?”

“No.”

“I hope you speak the truth,” Elandra said fiercely. “You do not want to become my enemy.”

Her mother looked at her harshly, then turned on her heel and left the room.

Elandra frowned after her a moment, then picked up the flask and unstoppered it. She sniffed cautiously at the stopper, and wrinkled her nose. Suspicious, she closed the flask and threw it out the window.

A moment later, Caelan opened his eyes. They were deeply, intensely blue, and they looked at her without recognition.

She smiled at him, gripping his hand. “Hello, beloved.”

He frowned, gazing around before his eyes returned to hers. “Hello.” He sounded very tired.

“What were you doing in the river?” she asked with a little catch in her voice.

“River?” His frown deepened. “I had to swim.”

“I see.” She smiled, pretending that his incoherence didn’t frighten her.

“I had to go under and not come up. I don’t remember why.”

“It’s all right now. You’re back. You’re safe.”

The puzzlement in his eyes faded. He smiled at her. “Elandra.”

She smiled back. “Yes. You know me now. Are you hungry?”

He shook his head. “He can’t hurt me.”

“Who?”

“He can’t. I was so afraid of him, but he is only memory.”

“You’re not making much sense, you know.”

He smiled again. “It is strange to be here. You look tired. Has something happened? Your father?”

He tried to sit up, but she pressed him back. “Father is much better. Practically well, and he won’t stay in bed. Everyone is afraid of him because he recovered so suddenly. They think he is enspelled.” The lilt in her voice dropped, and she pressed her lips to Caelan’s hand. “Thank you,” she whispered brokenly. “I know it cost you too much. But thank you.”

He stroked her hair and didn’t answer. Whatever had worried him before seemed gone. There was something dreamy and far away in his eyes, an unconcern that worried her anew. He ate a little under her persuasion; then his eyes closed.

She watched him sleep, watched rest restore color to his face and take away the purple smudges beneath his eyes. She could never tire of looking at him. She wanted to memorize every line and feature of his face, for last night she had lain awake, unable to bring him into her mind. It had frightened her, not to be able to recall him with more clarity. She did not want that to happen to her again.

Alti knocked on the door. She went to it and looked out at the guard.

“Lord Albain, Majesty,” he whispered. “He has sent for you.”

“Is he still at council?” she whispered back.

“Yes, Majesty.”

She glanced over her shoulder and saw that their voices had awakened Caelan. He sat up, running his hands through his long hair, and she sighed.

“Let my father know I will come shortly.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

She closed the door and faced Caelan. “I’m sorry.”

He flexed his shoulders, stretching until his rib cage arched above the concave ribbing of his stomach. Her own body grew warm, wanting him. But not with her father waiting for her.

Fighting for breath, she said, “Do you feel well enough to face him?”

“Albain?”

“Yes.”

An insolent grin slowly spread across his face. He knew what she had been thinking, and that knowledge in his eyes made her blush.

“Caelan, no,” she said shyly. “Not now.”

“Come here.”

She went to him, loving the circle of his arms. If only they were free, if only they had just themselves, then she could stay in his arms all she wanted.

He kissed her long and deeply, robbing her of breath and thought, melting her to her very bones. When she finally came up for air, her mind was buzzing and foolish. She clung to him and barely managed to say, “Stop. My father is waiting.”

“Your father,” Caelan said with regret.

She pulled free of his grasp, and he sighed. “It’s time we met, I suppose.”

“Yes, it is.”

He shrugged. “Send our regrets, and let us think only of ourselves.”

“Certainly not,” she said primly, although an inner spirit of rebellion longed to do exactly as Caelan urged. “Here is clothing. Please hurry.”

He groaned and stood up. “The efficient woman.”

“Hurry,” she told him, refusing to relent.

When she bent over to pick up a garment, Caelan grabbed her from behind and spun her around. “You could say I have a raging fever.”

Laughing, she had to fight her way free. She pushed the tunic into his hands to keep them occupied and backed out of reach. “I will not,” she said, still battling to keep a smile off her face. “They are waiting—”

“Who is waiting?”

“The entire war council.”

He pulled on the linen tunic and held up the mail shirt. “What is this?”

“Armor.”

“Not likely.”

“Now who is more closed-minded, the Gialtans or you?” she teased him. “You can wear protection without looking like a turtle.”

He frowned. “A what?”

“A turtle. A creature that lives in a shell. This gives you more freedom of movement. It is more modern.”

Caelan pulled it on and moved his arms experimentally. “It’s too tight.”

“On you, everything is too tight,” she said, handing him a sur-coat of dark green. “It will do for today. You can discuss a better fit with the armorer later.”

The leggings and boots fit him well enough. The surcoat hung to his knees, and made him look even taller and more imposing than before. He buckled on his sword belt, swept back his hair with both hands, and faced her.

“Will you do the inspection, Majesty?”

“You are beautiful.”

Amusement lit his face. “Exactly the quality most likely to impress a room filled with hostile warlords.”

Her eyes grew troubled. “Oh, they are very hostile indeed. You must take great care. I have told them you are a king, but—”

“A king!” he said in consternation. “No, Elandra, why?”

“So they will accept you.”

“Do they?” There was a world of bitterness in his voice.

She gripped his hand. “But it’s true. You wear the sword of a king. Your destiny—”

“No, Elandra,” he said with more firmness than before. “These are not things to speak of.”

“But—”

He lifted his hand to silence her. He was frowning now, all the fun erased from his face. “You must understand this,” he said seriously. “I am not a king. The sword does not make me a king.”

“But only kings can carry such—”

“Choven steel is the only metal that can fight darkness.”

“That isn’t true!” she protested. “I have seen you attack shyrieas with ordinary metal. You destroyed General Paz when he—”

“Demons and those who are possessed are one thing,” he said, shaking his head. “But I am speaking of the darkness itself.”

She spoke the syllable “Bel...” and Caelan held up his hand to silence her, then nodded. She drew back, drenched in fear. “No,” she said. “No, Caelan!”

“Elandra—”

“No!” she shouted. “You’re telling me that you went to the Choven for that sword, that you need it so you can fight— In the name of Gault, don’t seek the dark god!”

“Please—”

“No, I refuse to listen to this. I won’t allow it.”

“You can’t stop it.”

“You said you wanted to rule. You said you wanted to be emperor, the two of us side by side.”

“Yes, I said that,” he agreed. “And I do. I have ever since I was joined with Kostimon and you in the ring of Choven fire. Kostimon’s ambition touched me. It made me think there was a chance to rise from nothing.”

“It is possible,” she said. “Kostimon did it. I have done it. You can too.”

He smiled at her ruefully. “My path of life leads elsewhere.”

“Don’t say that! You’re tired, confused. You don’t—”

“No, Elandra. Don’t lie to yourself. I was created to fight. It’s all I can do. It’s all I know. Everything that has happened to me in my life was to shape me for what is to come.”

“But you’re mortal!” she cried. “You can’t go in search of Beloth! You can’t win. I have seen him. I know what he is—”

“Kostimon loosened his chains,” Caelan said grimly. “He is breaking free.”

She pressed her hand to her lips in an effort to hold back her sobs. “But what about us? Why have you let me think we were going back to Imperia to reclaim the throne? Why do you tell me now?”

“Because you must keep your throne,” he said. “And I must fight what comes. We will both return to Imperia. I promise you that. But stop persuading these warlords to support me. Don’t try to shape reality to your desires, Elandra. You will only get hurt.”

Tears streamed down her face. She was losing him, losing him to death, and she could not bear that. Was there nothing she could say that would deflect him from this course?

“They will not follow me,” she said.

“You will find a way.”

“Caelan!”

He looked down at her, and his gaze was loving, sad, and implacable.

Suddenly she hated him. Sniffing, she said, “I wish you had told me the truth before I gave my heart to you. Am I to have you, only to lose you?”

He stepped back, and something seemed to close in his face. “Do you think I will lose?”

“You think it,” she said bitterly, refusing to let him shift blame onto her. “Why should I not believe as you do?”

He had no answer.

Angrily she wiped her face. “What will this self-sacrifice accomplish? Will it stop the dark god? Or will you be as a moth, flying toward the fire, burned to death before you can even strike a blow? It is glory, I suppose, but what else? What can you do?”

He shook his head, his expression bleak. “I shouldn’t have told you. I meant to say nothing until it was time. I shouldn’t have spoken of this now.”

That hurt her more deeply than anything. She saw how little her words mattered, how little impact her feelings and opinions had. It had been the same with Kostimon and her father. Were all men like walls? Did they never consider the ones they left behind, the ones who had to cope with the aftermath?

She was not impressed. Caelan’s death would not keep her warm at night. His death would not give her comfort during her days. She could not talk to a dead man. She could not love a dead man. He would have glory, and she would be alone. He would be gone, and she would go as spoils to the victor.

Silence filled the room. Wearing his granite face, Caelan went to stare out the window. Elandra poured a ewer of water into a basin and washed her face to remove all evidence of tears. Last night she had thought him lost to her forever. She had grieved and worried. Now he stood no farther away than across the room, and it was as though he had ceased to exist. She had lost him, would lose him. Whatever days or hours remained for them were already shadowed by the future.

She had never been so angry, or hurt.

“I am ready,” she said in a small, cold voice. “Come.”

Without waiting to see if he followed, she opened the door and stepped outside, walking away rapidly with her guards at her heels.