Chapter Twenty-Six

Tirhin’s bodyguards followed him out of the room, leaving only the five prison guards surrounding Caelan.

He knelt on the gritty floor with his fingers tight on the chain, considering his odds, forcing himself to be calm and wait for the moment, however slim. There was always a moment, a slight second of inattention or carelessness, when a guard might glance away or move fractionally too close. If no moment came, Caelan intended to create one.

The links of the chain were stout and well forged. The only weakness lay where the chain had been fastened through the ring bolt. Caelan eyed it, flexing his muscles to keep them loose, aware that his heart was racing.

The sergeant took off his helmet with a grunt of relief and massaged the red marks on his temple where the helmet rubbed it. “Koloth, go watch for when he’s reached the upper levels. That’ll be long enough to wait.”

One of the guards saluted and left. Caelan bowed his head to hide his satisfaction. Only four men now. His odds were improving. He drew in several deep breaths, gathering his strength.

A bestial howl rose in the distance.

The men froze in silence for a moment, then unconsciously drew closer together, holding their daggers. Only the sergeant did not seem concerned.

Tucking his helmet under his arm, he spat on the floor and grinned derisively at his men. “Relax,” he said. “It won’t come this far.”

“We’re very deep in the ground,” one of the guards said nervously. He looked younger than the rest, a stout lad not quite fully grown into his big hands and feet, awkward and gangly in his armor and weapons.

The oldest of the bunch, bearing a puckered scar across his face, rolled his eyes and chuckled. “Maybe the sergeant will let us go lookin’ fer Haggai after duty,” he suggested with a leer.

The boy blanched.

“Shut up, Mox,” the sergeant said. “You know the orders.”

“Aye, but I got me a taste for some—”

Breaking off, he gestured suggestively with his hands and laughed.

Watching them, Caelan realized Mox was a gladiator, or had been. No one he’d fought personally. Strictly second rank, but it explained his lack of military discipline and the sloppy look of him. But even if his armor needed polishing, he would fight mean and he would fight dirty.

As for the sergeant, he was clearly a legion veteran. His ugly face was sunburned and coarse, weathered from long years on the march, his eyes empty of anything except his orders. A little nub of skin and scar tissue was all that remained of one of his ears, and his left cheek was tattooed with the symbol of Faure, the ancient war god. He might command conscripted dregs such as old gladiators and green boys, but he was an imperial soldier, and as such he was one of the toughest, most fearless fighters ever trained.

Caelan made his calculations. Half closing his eyes, he drew severance to him, testing it, knowing that of late his ability to use it had been erratic. The gladiator and the sergeant must be the first to die. The boy would panic and might run. The remaining man looked tough and competent, but Caelan could take him.

“Who’s to do ‘im?” Mox asked, pulling out a dice cup and rattling it suggestively.

The boy grinned, then glanced at the sergeant and wiped his expression blank.

“Know ‘im?” Mox said. “Called ‘im Giant in the arena.”

The sergeant glanced up from honing his dagger and shot Caelan an appreciative look. “Gladiator, eh? You’re big enough.”

Mox laughed. “Why, yer lookin’ at the champion! Weren’t no fighter able to beat ‘im, never. Not a single defeat in all the time—”

“Shut up, Mox,” Caelan said, furious at the man’s chatter. Now they would be more on their guard. He shouldn’t have waited this long to strike.

The sergeant sighed and leaned over to put his helmet on the floor. Taking off his cloak, he folded it neatly and efficiently into a square and laid it atop the helmet. He tested the edge of his dagger with his thumb and eyed Caelan.

“Arena bait, or not, he’s finished tonight,” the sergeant said. “Hold him.”

“You were told to wait until the prince left the dungeons,” Caelan said.

The sergeant sneered. “What the hell’s the difference? Me and my men can’t go off duty till you’re done.”

Mox rattled his dice box. “Can we cast lots fer the heart?”

Caelan glared at the gladiator, and severed without waiting for the sergeant’s answer. To his relief, the swift icy rush of detachment engulfed him, and he went deep into the coldness.

With every sense heightened, he gathered his feet beneath him, ready to spring. He watched the guards approach him and saw their threads of life. The sergeant’s were gnarled and tough, streaked black from dark deeds. The boy’s were spindly. Mox and the fourth man moved behind Caelan, and there was no more time to calculate.

As the unnamed guard gripped Caelan from behind, and the sergeant reached for his hair, Caelan spun on his knees, severing as many threads of life as he could reach.

Screams filled the air, but Caelan had no time to count who was down and who was still standing. Sensing a blow from the corner of his eye, he ducked aside, hampered by his chain.

Roaring curses, the sergeant slashed at him with his long dagger, nicking Caelan’s shoulder as he dodged again. It was a shallow cut that stung fiercely. But Caelan ignored it. He gripped the chain with both hands and heaved against it with all his strength. His muscles bulged. The linking pin of the chain sheared in half with a shrill ping and went sailing across the room.

Links of chain slid through the bolt, and Caelan went staggering off balance just as the sergeant tackled him.

They went sprawling together in a tangle of arms and legs.

Caelan blocked the dagger thrust with his elbow, feeling another slice of the point along his arm, and looped the chain around the sergeant’s throat.

Choking and struggling, the sergeant tried to knee Caelan, but Caelan was already hauling himself to his feet, pulling the chain tighter and tighter while the man shuddered and flailed. The dagger fell to the floor. The sergeant’s face began to turn scarlet, then purple. Veins bulged in his temple, and his tongue protruded from his open mouth.

Something sharp plunged deep into Caelan’s back, catching him just below the rim of his ribs and slamming upward.

He dropped severance and staggered to one side, his strength gone, his breath gone, the world dancing in shades of black that flickered in and out of his vision.

The chain slid from his hands, and the sergeant dropped to his knees, making gasping, guttural noises.

Glancing over his shoulder, Caelan saw the hilt of a dagger projecting from his low back, and Mox’s fingers whitening on it as he twisted the blade.

Screaming against the agony, Caelan turned and swung both his shackled hands together. His forearm slammed across Mox’s face, knocking him back. It was a foolish blow, a good way to break his arm against the hard bones of Mox’s skull, but Mox went sprawling awkwardly. He seemed paralyzed on one side, his left arm and leg not working right. But he came crawling back, his scarred face contorted, death in his eyes.

On Caelan’s other side, the sergeant was still coughing and gasping, but he had pulled the chain away from his throat and was trying to regain his feet.

Caelan bent, still reeling from shock and pain, and picked the sergeant’s dagger off the floor. The world tilted without warning, and Caelan staggered into the wall. The jolt brought a fresh wave of agony from his back that spread up through his chest. He struggled to reach the dagger, but his shackles prevented him. If he strained and twisted with all his might, he could just touch the hilt with his fingertips. But he could not grip it, could not pull it out.

A sound warned him. He turned, his reflexes blunted by pain, and the sergeant hit him across the chest with the heavy chain. The blow crushed the breath from him, breath he couldn’t afford to lose.

He had black dots dancing in his vision. He couldn’t draw in more air, couldn’t move. The weapon wobbled in his slack fingers, and he was barely aware of the sergeant wrenching it away from him.

The dagger felt like a log inside his back, brutal and invasive.

“Damn you!” the sergeant said hoarsely, his voice ruined.

Gripping Caelan by his shirt front, the sergeant slammed him against the wall.

Brutal pain exploded inside Caelan as the blow rammed the dagger a little deeper. He tasted blood in his mouth, and knew he was finished. He met the sergeant’s eyes just as the sergeant’s weapon flashed up.

Glaring with hatred, the sergeant held his dagger up where Caelan could see it. “Get your eyes off mine!” he said. “You’ll use no spells on me, you bastard.”

Pinned against the wall, Caelan could barely focus on what he was saying. Caelan’s whole consciousness had centered on the dagger hilt, jammed between his back and the wall’. Every breath, every movement, every bit of pressure exerted by the sergeant brought fresh torment.

“Mox! Get up and help me, damn you!” the sergeant ordered. “Cut open his shirt.”

“Watch ‘im,” Mox said, dragging himself upright with difficulty and staggering over to them. He took the sergeant’s dagger and cut open Caelan’s linen shirt.

“Going to cut out your heart,” the sergeant said, coughing again. He sneered, pushing Caelan harder into the wall until Caelan felt himself suspended on that single pinnacle of pain, unable to move or even cry out.

“Hurry, Mox! Damn you, be quick!”

Snarling, Mox raised the dagger. “Slit ‘is throat,” he growled.

“No!” the sergeant said, intervening. “I want him alive while we cut out his heart. I want him to feel it pumping in another man’s hands. I want him to know when we rip it out of him.”

Caelan rolled his head to one side, gasping for breath, feeling the blood bubbling up where it didn’t belong. All he knew was that he had failed. This time, his strength and his gifts hadn’t been enough. It didn’t seem fair that he should die like this down in the grubby depths of a dungeon room, stabbed in the back, chained like an animal, outnumbered. As a destiny, it was sordid and pathetic. And the prophecies he’d been told were lies.

He thought of Elandra, wondering if she would ever know his fate. He longed for her, wished he could tell her once more how much he loved her.

His only prayer was that she would be safe.

“Make it quick,” he said to the sergeant.

The sergeant put his ugly face close to Caelan’s. “Do you hurt now? Eh? Does that knife in your back make you want to beg and puke? Well, see how this feels.” He grinned. “All right, Mox. Make it clean, and make it slow.”

A furious pounding on the door awakened Elandra. Disoriented and groggy, she pulled herself upright on the bed while the jinja hissed and sniffed the air.

She looked at the small, golden creature. Its big, luminous eyes met hers. “Safe.”

Iaris, who had been asleep in a chair, rose and walked over to the door. Her unpinned hair streamed down her back, making her look younger and more vulnerable. Holding a lamp in her hand, she spoke to whoever was knocking, then glanced at Elandra.

“It is the guard,” she said. “He is to escort you to the emp— the prince.”

Elandra’s eyes widened. “Now?”

“Yes.”

Elandra glanced involuntarily at the window, seeing her wan reflection shimmering in the darkness beyond the glass. “What is the hour?”

Iaris yawned. “It does not matter. Your presence is requested. You will go.”

Defiance tightened the skin around Elandra’s eyes, but before she could speak, Iaris was striding toward her.

“Don’t be a fool!” she snapped. “You are his prisoner, as are we all. Thus far, he has treated you with the greatest courtesy, but that could change in one snap of his fingers.” Drawing a gown from Elandra’s journey chest, Iaris flung it at her. “Get dressed.”

Within the hour, Elandra was beautifully gowned and her auburn hair was sleeked back in a heavy coil at the base of her neck. Her topaz hung in its pouch between her breasts, and she kept her hand on it for comfort as she walked through the corridors of Tirhin’s villa with her head held high.

Guards were stationed throughout the house. They snapped to attention as she passed them. She glanced at their weathered faces, seeing experience and long years of service in every crease and scar. Crimson cloaks hung from their shoulders, proclaiming them as the elite Imperial Guard, but most of them had the rough look of common foot soldiers, as though they had been pulled from the ranks for Tirhin’s service.

None of them met her eyes. Elandra kept her expression confident and assured, as though she was accustomed to being summoned by her sworn enemy in the middle of the night. But her heart was pounding in short, hard jerks. It was one thing to belittle Tirhin and defy him in public. It was another to face him alone, without protectors or allies. She felt as though she were marching to battle, and she went armed with nothing but her wits and a sleeve knife. If she still possessed any courage, it seemed to be in tatters at this moment.

“If you have no bravery, at least pretend to the enemy that you do,” her father used to instruct his troops.

Elandra clung to that advice now, wishing her father were walking at her side. But this she must face alone.

She was escorted downstairs to the ground floor. The house was all shadows and golden pools of lamplight, filled with hushed quiet.

Her escort paused at a pair of carved doors and knocked quietly. The doors were opened a crack.

“The empress,” her escort said.

The doors swung inward, and Elandra’s guards stepped aside. In unison they saluted as she walked alone into the room beyond. Then the doors were closed behind her.

Elandra found herself in a study. The room was square and small, with a vaulted ceiling. Animal skins lay upon the polished marble floor. A heavy wooden desk had a map spread across its surface. A burning lamp cast soft light. Shelves filled with scroll cases flanked a tall window. Busts of learned philosophers were displayed on pedestals according to an old-fashioned notion that the likenesses of great thinkers could impart wisdom. The room smelled of leather and old parchment.

She drew a deep, steadying breath. This civilized room reassured her. Although she knew herself to be foolish in thinking so, she felt marginally safer here.

The individual who had admitted her now bowed. It was Agel, the healer.

Recognizing his thin, handsome face and cold eyes, Elandra lost her assurance. She stared at him, feeling suddenly afraid, and did not trust her voice enough to speak.

Agel gave her a perfunctory smile, as though he could read her thoughts. “Please wait here. Sit if you wish.”

Elandra glared at him. “How kind of you to give me permission,” she said regally.

He flushed, frowning, and left the room through another door behind a tapestry.

As soon as he was gone, Elandra paced over to the window. She stared out into the hostile darkness, sensing the evil that lay within it, feeling the evil here around her. Her fingers rubbed the cold glass, tracing the tiny bubbles and imperfections within its surface. With every passing moment, her agitation grew.

A sound behind her startled her. She whirled around, gasping for breath, her heart like thunder within her breast.

Tirhin came limping into the room, using a carved ebony cane for support. Unlike her, he was attired informally in a linen under-tunic with a long robe of midnight blue silk belted around him. He moved slowly, with great difficulty, making no attempt to mask his pain.

“Elandra,” he said, his voice soft and velvety despite an underlying note of strain. “Thank you for coming. I thought we might begin anew in private, where we have no need to act as our rank demands in public.”

His face was as white as his undertunic, throwing his black brows and hair into dramatic contrast. His eyes caught the firelight and shimmered for a moment, paler in color than she remembered, almost yellow.

Despite herself, she shivered.

“Come,” he said, reaching out his hand to her with a smile. “Let us sit and talk.”

Elandra did not move. Her fear was unreasonable, for she could see no threat in his face or manner. Yet she remained afraid.

“Please,” he said.

She heard fatigue and pain in his voice and realized he was waiting for her to sit down before he did the same. His knuckles were white where they gripped the top of the cane.

Compassion touched her then, and she took one of the chairs, sitting erect with her long skirts belled around her, her hands folded in her lap.

Tirhin dropped heavily into his with a grunt of relief and stretched out his bad leg before him.

This close, she could see how much he had changed. Deep lines had been carved around his mouth. A permanent crease between his brows marred his forehead. He looked older by years, and his eyes seemed haunted. Tension radiated from him.

She looked at him, and was glad he suffered. She hoped his guilt consumed him, for no punishment could be more appropriate. Had he sat before her sleek, contented, and fat with his ill-gained riches, she would have thrown her knife at his throat. But this pain-wracked shell of a man, this prince who had lost his youth, vitality, and laughing good looks was someone she could tolerate. Barely.

He met her eyes and gave her a tentative smile, then lifted his forefinger at Agel, who hovered discreetly in the background. “Some wine for the lady, healer. Oh, and bring the box.”

In silence Agel brought a tray containing a flagon of amber-colored wine, two goblets of hammered gold, and a small wooden box with an ornate lid.

Elandra watched scornfully as the healer filled the goblets. “And when did this skilled healer become your servant?” she asked.

Agel did not glance up as he finished pouring the wine, but his nostrils flared.

Tirhin chuckled. “The slaves have all been sent to bed. Our conversation is private, not for idle ears. Thank you, Agel. That will suffice.”

The healer bowed and left the room. Elandra breathed easier after he was gone. “I thought Lord Sien would be at your side.”

“Sien died when Kostimon died,” Tirhin said. “Agel has saved my life.” He drank thirstily from his goblet, then handed the second goblet to her.

Elandra lifted her hand in refusal. “I am not thirsty.”

“At least let us share a toast, Elandra.”

She stared at him coldly and made no move to take the goblet, which he still extended to her. “We have nothing to celebrate.”

“Not even a mending of a broken friendship?”

Elandra did not relent. “You are premature.”

His smile faded, and a shadow crossed his eyes. He set down the goblet with enough force to slosh its contents. “Will you not meet me halfway?”

“Why should I?”

He struggled a moment with himself, as though to keep his patience and his temper. “This hostility from you is most unbecoming. It does nothing to show the people that we are united in—”

“We are not united,” Elandra said sharply.

“Let me finish,” he said. “I was going to say united in friendship. Why do you fear me? We are family. I mean you no harm.”

“Do you not,” she said softly beneath her breath.

He overheard and frowned. “I am not your enemy, whatever you may think.”

“Then why am I your prisoner?”

Tirhin leaned back in his chair. “Leave if you wish. Go. I will not stop you.”

“My chamber door was locked tonight.”

“For your protection.”

She sniffed. “I was brought to this room by an armed escort.”

“For your protection. In Gault’s name, Elandra, you have seen the city. You must surely realize the danger that surrounds us. These walls offer some protection, but not enough. Twice the guards have killed things which crept inside somehow, things you do not wish to meet.”

“You brought them here.”

Anger flashed in Tirhin’s face. He slammed his fist down on the arm of his chair. “Kostimon brought them! Do not lay that blame on me!”

Her gaze dropped a moment; then she looked up again. “And what blame will you accept?”

His mouth tightened. “I let the Madruns sack the city. I regret that now, but at least they have finally been driven out. At the time it seemed my only chance of seizing the throne from the old devil.”

“Couldn’t you have waited?”

“For how long?” he retorted.

“A few weeks. A few days. Your father had little time left.”

Tirhin snorted and drained the contents of his goblet. “Do you think he would not have found a way to thwart death again? I tell you, he was planning something—”

“How could he—”

“Why not?” Tirhin broke in. “He made his bargain before with the dark god to evade death.”

“Yes, but that was over.”

“Was it? I’m not so sure.” Tirhin poured himself more wine with an unsteady hand, spilling some of it. “He and Sien were plotting some scheme with the darkness.”

“But—’“

“I tell you, he would have succeeded!” Tirhin said sharply. “You knew him only a short time, but even so, do you truly believe that he would not have tried again to keep his life and his throne, if there were any way to do it? No matter what the cost?”

Elandra sat in silence a moment, but finally she replied with honesty. “Yes, I believe he would have taken any chance offered to him.”

“Yes.” Tirhin shifted in his chair and grimaced.

Elandra rose to her feet. “You are unwell. The hour is very late. We can talk later—”

“We will talk now!” he said forcefully, glaring up at her. “This is our only chance for privacy. There is little time, and I will not be put off.”

Pain gripped his face again, and he rubbed his leg fretfully.

Watching him, Elandra frowned. “You are exhausted, and your wound pains you. Can this not wait until morning when you are more rested?”

He bared his teeth in a bitter version of a smile and shook his head. “There is never a moment when the wound does not pain me,” he admitted. “I do not sleep at night. While the rest of the world lies quiet, I have nothing to do but fill the hours with activity.”

Elandra stared at him in consternation. “You do not sleep at all?”

“No.”

“But you must take rest.”

“Oh, yes, I rest. But there is no sleep. Please, sit down.”

She sank back into her chair, feeling more pity for him than she wanted to. “But how can you live if you do not sleep?”

He shrugged and ran the back of his hand across his forehead.

“Can the healer not cure you?”

His lips curved bitterly, and he would not meet her eyes. “Obviously not.”

“I do not understand. For all his faults, Agel is a most skilled healer, trained in Trau’s best school.”

He stared into the bottom of his cup. “Some hurts are beyond all the skill and ability of this world.”

Understanding came to her. Chilled, she shrank back in her chair and stared at him with new eyes. Memories of General Paz came to her, along with memories of her own poisoning.

“The darkness is within you,” she whispered.

Still he would not meet her eyes.

She swallowed hard, not knowing what to say. She had escaped the trap, but could Tirhin? “Is it the poison?” she asked.

He shook his head.

“If we appealed to the Penestricans—”

“Those witches are not coming within a league of me,” he said, and filled his goblet again.

“But if they could help you—”

“They will not,” he said.

“Tirhin, it can be fought. It can be—”

“But I don’t want to fight it,” he said. He turned his pale yellow eyes on her, and she felt as though she had been physically shocked.

She opened her mouth, but no words came out.

“It is time to be frank, Elandra. I want no secrets between us,” he said, leaning forward. “The throne will be mine, and once I have it, I shall not relinquish it. I have taken the darkness in exchange for the same life span as my father.”

Horrified, Elandra stared at him. “Tirhin, no!”

“Yes. The wound will never heal. I can never sleep again, but I don’t care. All is worth it.”

“But your father did not—”

“No,” he interrupted quietly. “Kostimon did not make the same bargain I have. Kostimon did not pay the same price. But you see, Kostimon had to pay when he died. I am paying now, in exchange for something far sweeter.”

She frowned. “I don’t understand.”

“You don’t have to. But I am nothing to fear, I assure you. I shan’t turn into a monster when you least expect it. I am as I shall always be. Young and manly. In my prime.”

Elandra blinked. Was he mad? Did he not see how thin and haggard he actually was? Was he unaware of how ill he looked? Did he still believe himself the strong, handsome young man he had been only a few months past? He was lying to her; most certainly he was lying to himself if he believed any of what he had just said.

“Now I have been open and honest with you,” Tirhin said, putting his cup aside. “I have explained my reasons and shared my plans for the future with you.”

“Future?” she said in astonishment, and gestured at the window. “What future do you expect? Darkness has swallowed Imperia. Soon it will engulf all the empire.”

He nodded. “Things are changing, but we will rebuild the city. We—”

“Tirhin!” she said sharply, forgetting caution. “Are you mad? Do you not realize that we are ending? The demons will rule, not you.”

“We will rule,” he said, leaning forward to grasp her hand.

She tried to pull free, but he held her fast.

“Listen to me,” he said intently, gazing into her eyes. “I have nothing to fear, and once you are married to me you will have nothing to fear either. There are ways to survive, even in perpetual night.”

“No,” she whispered, trying again to pull free.

“You are a beautiful woman,” he said. “Courageous, wellborn, intelligent. The people love you. When my father chose you, he chose well. Together, we can mend what is broken in the empire. You are already crowned. Our alliance will be—”

“No!”

She jerked her hand from his and stood up, circling to stand behind her chair. She needed that physical barrier between them.

“Elandra, listen—”

“I will not hear you,” she said in agitation. Dear Gault, she had even felt sorry for him. She had forgotten how charming the man could be, how persuasive.

“Elandra, it is imperative that we marry.”

Her face grew hot. She glared at him defiantly. “Imperative for you, perhaps, but not for me.”

“You cannot rule the empire alone. The people will not accept it.”

“Then I shall not rule,” she told him.

He laughed and levered himself painfully to his feet. “That is a lie. I can see ambition in your face, hear it in your voice. You were hoping to align yourself with Gialta and the imperial army, but as you have seen, neither of those factors belong to you. I made sure of that from the start.”

“Then you do not need me.”

“Our borders are weak. Our enemies think we can be taken while we are in this confusion. I don’t have time to deal with internal problems and an unruly populace. The people accept you. Don’t throw away your crown.”

He stared at her a moment, then tilted his head to one side. “Am I so horrible, so repugnant, as a price to pay for your throne? After all, you were married to Kostimon in a political arrangement. This is no different.”

“It is very different,” she snapped.

Color darkened his cheeks, and his eyes narrowed. “In what way?” he asked.

The cold anger in his voice was a warning, but her own temper was flaring. “I was married to the emperor” she said. “You are only a usurper.”

Her words were intended to hurt as much as possible. The widening of Tirhin’s eyes told her she had succeeded.

Crimson surged into his face, then receded, leaving him paler than before. His eyes glittered with fury, and he lowered his head between his shoulders like a serpent about to strike.

“You fool,” he said, his voice cutting. “You are not a peasant girl, able to pick from your offers. You are of the imperial house, and you have no choice. I tried to make this pleasant for you, but if you insist on being enemies, we can be, quite easily. The outcome does not change. We will marry in the morning.”

She stepped back from the chair so fast she almost stumbled. Horror filled her, bringing with it a sweep of anger, defiance, and fear. “No.”

“Yes,” he said, limping slowly forward. “Protest all you want, but we will be wed.”

Elandra lifted her chin, breathing hard, defiance giving her strength. “Not while I live,” she said. “I will never enter your bed. Never!”

Amusement crossed his face, surprising and dismaying her. She had wanted to insult him, not make him laugh at her.

“Very spirited,” he said appreciatively, in a way that made her blood run cold. “Very becoming. You must know that when you lose your temper, your beauty increases twofold.”

Glaring at him, Elandra backed up again. “Get away from me.

He stopped, but the smile still lingered on his face. It was a cruel smile, one without mercy. “I remember when you first came to Imperia on one of your father’s elephants. You were a shy, trembling maiden, hiding behind your veil, hardly daring to lift your eyes to anyone. And now you defy me like a warrior queen, proud and fearless, your eyes flashing like magnificent jewels. You have changed, Elandra.”

“Yes, I have changed,” she said, thinking of the past year in her life and its many hard lessons. “I had no choice.”

“Oh, I think we can simplify this. You were a well-behaved, biddable maiden, incredibly modest while you were married to my father, very obedient and anxious to please.”

Elandra glared at him, resenting his patronizing tone, hating the way he smirked as he said those things.

“But now you are stubborn and defiant. You refuse to be sensible. You are taking a dreadful risk by insulting me.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.” He looked at her and nodded. “You are in love, are you not?”

Again heat flamed in her face. She bit her lip, knowing her expression had given her away.

“Yes,” he said, and his eyes were like stones. “You are in love with that musclebound brute in my dungeons.”

“It is no secret,” Elandra said. She tossed her head. “Yes, I love him. I say it proudly and without shame.”

“Oh, he is the type to catch a woman’s eye,” Tirhin said. “But you must learn to conduct your liaisons with more discretion.”

“Caelan is not a liaison,” she said furiously.

“But of course he is. I do not condemn you for your amusements, my dear, but the people are more old-fashioned than we. There will be other slaves, handsome ones, in a succession that never has to end, as long as you are sensible.”

“Stop it!” she said, stamping her foot. She loathed what he was saying, what he was implying.

“Don’t be a hypocrite, Elandra,” Tirhin said, watching her with cat-cold eyes. “Your honesty has always been your most striking virtue.”

“I am not playing some lascivious game with Caelan,” she said. “I am wedded to him.”

Tirhin blinked, looking stunned. For a moment he stood statue-still, staring at her, with all the ruin of his ambitions plain to see in his face. Then rage filled his eyes.

His cane whistled out without warning, and would have struck her if she had not dodged. It hit the chair instead with a vicious thud. Elandra retreated behind the desk, acutely conscious that he was between her and the door. Never taking her eyes off him, she reached for her sleeve knife.

But Tirhin stopped his advance. His eyes narrowed, and he studied her as though he had never seen her before. Calm seeped back into his face, and it became an unreadable mask.

“It is something easily said, this marriage you claim. Do you have proof?”

“Only my word,” she replied.

He snorted. “Alas, that is insufficient. Who spoke the words of binding over you? The priest can be traced.”

“There was no priest,” she said. “We exchanged the vows for ourselves.”

Tirhin threw back his head and laughed. “A common-consent marriage?” he asked, when at last he could speak again. He wiped his eyes and laughed again. “Gods, what need have I to hire entertainment when you are before me? Am I expected to believe this wide-eyed tale?”

Elandra glared at him, saying nothing.

Finally he grew quiet, and met her gaze. He frowned. “Tell me this is a jest.”

“No.”

“You have promised yourself without witnesses to a slave?”

“Caelan is not a slave. Kostimon freed him. He is wellborn.”

Tirhin waved away these distinctions impatiently. “You know what I mean. He is not remotely of your rank.”

She raised her eyebrows. “You have no right to advise me.”

“Take care, Elandra,” he said. “We are family.”

She snorted. “Do I make you angry? I don’t care,” she shot back. “I love Caelan, and I have bound myself to him.”

“I am prince of the realm, soon to be emperor,” he said angrily. “I recognize no such marriage.”

She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed. “Whether you recognize it or not, the marriage exists. You cannot force me to the altar, and any truth-light will confirm my claim.”

Tirhin looked furious, and she was satisfied. She had blocked him and his plans. Let him choke on his ire, if he wished.

“We seem to be at an impasse,” she said coolly. “May I return to my chamber now?”

His eyes glittered, and he limped slowly to the desk to pour himself more wine. As he lifted the goblet, he tapped its base against the wooden box.

“Very well, Elandra,” he said in a voice like velvet. “The contents of the box are for you. If you like, you may consider it a wedding gift.”

She frowned in suspicion, unable to believe he would accept defeat this calmly. “What is it?”

With a smile, he placed his palm flat against the lid of the box. “Do not fear. Open it and see. You will find it an ornament above price.”

Fearing a trick, fearing poison, she refused to touch it.

“Will you not open it?” he asked. “Shall I open it for you?”

Her frown deepened.

“Yes.” He put down his goblet and picked up the box. Opening the hinged lid, he peered in at the contents and smiled to himself.

Watching him, Elandra thought that truly he was mad. What kind of terrible, bitter amusement twisted inside him?

“I will not wear your jewels,” she said in warning. “Keep your gift.”

“Oh, no,” he said, turning the box around and holding it out to her. “I want you to see this. Look at it.”

Still she would not.

“Damn you!” he shouted, his mask suddenly ripped away. Furiously he glared at her and dumped the contents of the box onto the desk. A fist-sized, bloody object rolled across the edge of the map and stopped beneath the glow of the lamp.

Elandra stared at it, not recognizing it at first. Then she caught its smell, a horrible smell of blood and raw meat. A memory flashed into her mind. Her father’s hounds, being fed meat and scraps after a hunt, the dogs leaping and snapping at the chunks tossed to them by the butcher.

Feeling faint, she drew in her breath sharply.

“It’s Caelan’s heart, my dear,” Tirhin said viciously. He picked it up and squeezed his fingers around it. Drops of blood landed on the map and spread into the parchment.

Elandra’s stomach heaved. She swallowed hard as the room spun around her. “No,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off Tirhin’s bloody fist.

“Do you believe me incapable of ridding myself of any opponent, any rival?” Tirhin asked, smiling. “Nothing will stand between me and the throne. When my chancellors told me that unless you and I are wed, I cannot be immediately crowned, I set to work immediately to remove all obstacles.”

Elandra started shaking. She was so cold, so terribly cold. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she sent him a beseeching look. “Tell me this is only a cruel joke,” she pleaded. “He cannot be dead.”

“He is. I hold the proof in my hand. You are a widow, Elandra.”

She cried out, lifting her hands to her mouth, unable to deny her pain. “No. No, I will not believe it!”

Tirhin came around the desk, tossing away the heart, and gripped her wrist with his bloody hand. “Believe it,” he said harshly. “He is dead. I gave the order myself.”

She wept.

“You are mine,” Tirhin said. “Now, go back to your chamber and prepare yourself for the ceremony. It is nearly dawn.”

Elandra barely heard what he was saying. Grief welled up inside her, drowning her in its icy depths. “If he is dead, then I shall die too.”

“As you wish,” Tirhin said coldly. He pulled her close to him, and his eyes bored into hers. “As soon as we are wed, your usefulness to me is finished. You will be quite free to kill yourself then if you please.”

He released her, shoving her back with enough force to make her stumble. She righted herself, mute and shivering, feeling as though she walked in a dream.

“Now you may wear his blood to bed,” Tirhin said cruelly. “Sweet dreams, my dear.”

He lifted his voice to call for the guards.

Elandra turned her back to him. The room was spinning worse than before. She felt as though pieces of her were floating apart from each other.

“Caelan,” she murmured, and fainted.