Chapter Twenty-Eight

Caelan heard the whispered argument before he heard the bells ringing over the city.

Dragging open his eyes, he saw Orlo standing across the gloomy cellar next to a wall of wooden kegs, gesturing and arguing in a fierce undertone with someone Caelan could not see.

He struggled to lift his head. “Orlo?”

The trainer broke off and came hurrying to his side. “We woke you. I’m sorry.”

Caelan frowned up at him in the feeble flicker of candlelight, seeing the anger still stamped on Orlo’s features. He glanced back across the cellar, but could not see the individual who stood motionless in the shadows.

“Who?”

“Hush,” Orlo said, wiping his brow with a wet cloth. “Save your strength.”

Caelan could feel a strange energy in the room, a force tightly leashed yet powerful. It emanated from the person he could not see, and he was afraid. For a confused moment he was a boy again, bruised and battered after his attempt to run away from school and join the army.

“Elder Sobna?” he said defiantly. “I won’t be punished!”

“Don’t talk,” Orlo said gruffly. “You can’t afford to start coughing again.”

The energy rippled around the room. It was something he had never encountered before, very ancient, yet no menace lay in it. His initial sense of alarm faded, and he sighed.

Orlo tried to give him water, but Caelan turned his head fretfully from the cup. He beckoned to the person in the shadows.

Orlo gripped his hand and forced it down to his side. “No. You don’t know anything about it. Go back to sleep.”

But a figure emerged, robed and hooded in black. “His invitation allows me to enter,” a woman’s voice said.

Orlo scowled, putting himself protectively between Caelan and the approaching stranger. “You aren’t wanted here.”

Ignoring him, the woman went to the other side of Caelan’s pallet. Her face was smooth and unlined like a girl’s, yet her dark eyes looked old and weary. When she knelt beside him with her hands resting calmly in her lap, he saw how age-gnarled they were.

He stared at her in astonishment. “Penestrican,” he said, his voice a weak rasp.

She inclined her head gravely. “I have come to offer you a lesson.”

Orlo snorted. “What nonsense is this, woman?”

She glared at him. “Until you learn respect, you will be silent!”

Orlo opened his mouth, but no words came out. His eyes widened in alarm, and he raised his hands to his throat.

Alarmed, Caelan tried to sit up and only managed to prop himself up on one elbow. The room spun around him, and he could not breathe. He fell back, dizzy and sweating. “Don’t ... hurt.”

“I haven’t hurt him,” the Penestrican said grimly, still holding Orlo silent in her spell.

The trainer glared at her and reached for his knife.

“No,” Caelan gasped out, trying to intervene.

“Command him to be still,” the Penestrican said sternly. “Otherwise, I shall be forced to hurt him.”

“Orlo, stop,” Caelan said, and broke into a painful fit of coughing.

He felt himself bleeding, the bandage under his back sodden and warm. He seemed to be floating, buoyed up on the pain that was like fire in his chest and back. Then the woman’s hand pressed against his forehead, and his mind cleared anew.

Much of the pain faded to a bearable level.

“Give him water now,” she said.

Scowling ferociously at her, Orlo lifted Caelan as gently as he could and held the cup to his lips.

The water was tepid and tasted awful, but it soothed Caelan’s throat. He swallowed more of it thirstily and felt refreshed by the time Orlo eased him down.

“Release him,” Caelan whispered.

She compressed her lips tightly for a moment. “Very well. But he must learn respect.”

“I vouch for his behavior,” Caelan said.

The woman pointed her index finger at Orlo, who touched his throat and coughed. “What is this?” he demanded. “Who is she?”

Caelan frowned, tired of argument. “You waste ... our time,” he finally managed. “Respect her.”

Defiance filled Orlo’s craggy face, but before he could protest, the Penestrican glanced at him. “Serve Lord Caelan,” she said. “Obey him.”

“Lord Caelan?” Orlo repeated, his brows shooting up, then he frowned and gave Caelan a long, searching glance.

The Penestrican took Caelan’s hand between her own. “I have come to offer you a lesson, if you will learn.”

Her face was growing hazy, merging with the halo of candlelight. Caelan found himself floating again. His lids dropped half shut. “Cold,” he murmured.

“He’s losing blood again,” Orlo said. “If you have come to cure him, then do—please do it.”

“I have come to offer him wisdom,” she replied.

“It’s life he needs more than wisdom,” Orlo argued.

She smiled. “Are the two not the same thing?” she asked gently. “Will you come with me, Lord Caelan?”

He watched her dreamily as though from far away. “Are you the Magria?” he asked.

“No. I am only a dream walker. Let us walk together.”

“Walk?” Orlo interrupted with fresh alarm. “You come to a man who’s half-dead and expect him to go for a stroll? He can’t—”

“Hush,” she said, her gaze not shifting from Caelan. “Our walk is well within his powers.”

Caelan met her gaze, and felt himself float farther away, sinking slowly into a mist of sleep.

Immediately he dreamed, not the earlier feverish fragments of faces and emotions, but of something calm and soothing.

He found himself standing on a headland overlooking the sea. Sunlight glittered upon its endless gray-green expanse. A strong, salty wind blew Caelan’s hair back from his face. The waves below surged and broke upon the rocks with a restless, potent beauty.

At his back grew a grove of trees, and a single boulder rested upon the grass. It might have been a favorite sit-down spot for a weary traveler, but an aura of serene power lay over the clearing. Caelan suspected the stone might be a natural altar of sorts.

The dream walker emerged from the trees, her stride graceful and free, her long gray hair spilling unbound down her back in the way of a girl. She smiled as she came to him.

“Welcome to the place of the goddess mother,” she said.

Caelan stood facing her, aware of the crashing sea, the swaying trees, the immovable stone. The power centered in this spot seemed to be growing stronger, as though forces were gathering here around him. He understood now why the power seemed so unfamiliar to him. It was the force of the natural earth, with all her mysteries woven through the cycles of birth, life, and death.

“What must I learn?” he asked humbly.

The Penestrican looked at him with open approval. “You are very respectful, for a man.”

He sighed, knowing he must curb his inner impatience and sense of urgency. “That lesson, the Choven taught me. It was not easily learned.”

She smiled and spread wide her hands. Her sleeves belled in the wind, and her hair streamed out behind her like a banner. “Look at the stone.”

He obeyed her, and after a few moments he heard footsteps.

He glanced up and found himself facing a slim woman with long blonde hair and intense blue eyes. Power and wisdom shone in her face. Her features were beautiful, yet beauty was not the word to describe her. She was as stern as his father had ever been, perhaps more so. Her eyes were like the arch of sky over them, full of infinite mysteries.

“I am the Magria of the Penestrican orders,” she said. “You are Caelan, the Light Bringer.”

He bowed to her in silence, awed by the power radiating from her. Her youth and beauty were deceptive. This woman was both ancient and ageless. He had no words to describe her.

“There is little time,” she said. “Your injury makes this meeting difficult.”

He understood that she must be expending tremendous effort to create this beautiful spot where he might walk about in complete health. Were they really in his dreams or far away? The answer mattered less than the situation they confronted.

He did not ask questions.

Shrugging a little, he said, “The dream walker offered me a lesson. What must I learn?”

“You are quick, Lord Caelan.”

“I am not a lord,” he said, thinking of his humiliation among the Gialtans. He had learned he could not invent a rank for himself and expect other men to accept it.

Impatience crossed her face. “If the gods grant you a title, will you refuse it?”

His eyes widened in surprise. “The gods?”

She nodded.

He frowned and dropped his gaze, not sure what to think. “I believe such a reward should wait until it has been earned. I have not yet—”

“And Will you tell the gods what they may or may not do?” she rebuked him with visible amusement.

His frown deepened. Embarrassed, he said nothing.

“You need our help,” the Magria said, switching subjects swiftly. “The Choven unleashed you on the world, but they enjoy their secrets and mysteries. Now you are in trouble, and where are they? Off busy with forges and chisels, more concerned with creation itself than with what should be done afterward.”

“I don’t understand.”

“No. Will you accept the help of the sisterhood?”

“Gladly. What—”

“Then pay heed. Tirhin is not the enemy you must defeat.”

Caelan looked at her. “I know.”

“Good. Then I need not explain.”

“Will you tell me how to kill a god?’

Her eyes flashed. “Where is your faith?”

“I don’t know,” he said, refusing to be intimidated. “My faith has always been in my ability to fight. But this is not about physical strength, is it?”

She gestured, watching him closely. “Have you other questions?”

He sighed. “Exoner has been taken from me. It is a sword, forged by the Choven.”

“You will need more than a sword to face the darkness,” she said severely.

“But this is no ordinary—”

“So your faith lies in a metal blade and your own muscle,” she said scornfully. “Little indeed with which to face a god.”

Caelan’s temper began to fray. They could circle, parrying words, forever and come to nothing. “Or perhaps the dark god hasn’t broken free. Perhaps he isn’t coming. Wouldn’t he have come forth by now if he—”

“You have seen the darkness,” she said sharply. “Do you doubt?”

“No,” he said, seeing that slim hope sliced away.

“I say again to you that Tirhin is not your enemy. Remember my warning when you go back.”

He frowned impatiently. “Why should I forget it?”

“Because Elandra is to marry Tirhin today.”

Fury ignited in him with such heat and violence he felt as though he had been torched. At the thought of Tirhin daring to put his hands on Elandra, he wanted to break the prince in his hands, sever his threads of life, one by one, until Tirhin screamed for mercy.

“I warn you a third time,” the Magria said. “Tirhin is not your enemy. Do you hear my words? Will you heed them?”

Caelan clenched his fists and with difficulty brought his rage under control. He could not fight unless he could think. And he could not think as long as his wrath consumed him. But by the gods, he would pick a hole in Tirhin’s hide, and he would—

“Stop it!” the Magria said forcefully. Her blue eyes flashed at him, and it was almost like a physical blow. “Will you be a fool at the last hour?”

“She is mine,” Caelan said.

“She is her own,” the Magria said, and every word was sharp and punishing. “Elandra does what she must do, what she was meant to do. You must do the same.”

He felt trapped and increasingly frantic. What kind of insane sacrifice was expected of him and Elandra? That they should be apart forever? That he should stand aside and let her pass into Tirhin’s hands? That cowardly pig of a traitor was not worthy to lick Elandra’s slippers, much less proclaim himself her husband.

The wind ceased to blow, and all grew still and hushed as though the world held its breath. Overhead, the sun went behind a cloud. Thunder rumbled out over the sea, like an omen.

“Will you submit?” the Magria asked him.

Caelan lifted his head. Despite his efforts, his heart still raged at the unfairness of this. “Let her be free from him,” he said, pleading for her. “Whatever happens to me does not matter. But Elandra does not deserve—”

“She is an empress sovereign. She will meet her fate,” the Magria said. “Will you meet yours?”

“You ask too much,” Caelan said resentfully. “We didn’t have to let ourselves be brought back to Imperia. We could have fled, made a life elsewhere.”

“For how long?” the Magria said, unimpressed. “Does love prevail against guilt, against a sense of failure, against the suspicion that one has left an important task undone? Can love alone make two people happy when there is nothing else to hold them in place? Or will the initial infatuation fade and tarnish, until only bitterness remains?”

He frowned, and had no answer.

“Do you love Elandra?”

He did not hesitate. What he felt for Elandra was the most sure thing in his life. “Yes, I love her.”

“Do you understand what love means?” the Magria asked him, her cold, severe voice very precise in the silence. “Do you understand that it is more than a union of bodies, that it is responsibility and kindness and sacrifice?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him very hard, and he almost expected to have a truth-light thrown over him. But perhaps in this grove of the goddess mother, truth could be read in him through other ways.

“You have said what you believe,” the Magria finally announced. “Your honesty was described to me, but I wished to examine you for myself.”

Caelan shrugged. “You have tested me, but I am not sure I have passed.”

“Not yet. I ask again if you love Elandra.”

He knew what was coming. His heart seemed to shrink inside him until it was a cold, tight knot. Unable to trust his voice, he nodded to her.

“In the culture of the Traulanders, there is a saying ... to walk one’s path. You must walk your path, Lord Caelan. And the empress must walk hers. Will you let her go to the altar today, or will you interfere?”

“Has she no choice herself?” he asked in anguish. “Can she not determine whether she must accept that—”

“You question matters which are her concern, not yours.”

“What concerns her, concerns me.”

“Not at this time. I will not ask you again, Lord Caelan. What is your answer? Will you let her go to the altar, or will you stop her?”

Fuming, Caelan turned away from the Magria. He knew the answer she wanted, the answer she was trying to force from him. But was he some weakling who could stand by while his love went to another man? No, he would fight for her. He must fight for her. She was all that was worth having. She was ...

He glanced up at the dark storm cloud obscuring the sky and thought of the unnatural darkness that concealed the sky of Imperia. He thought of how again and again in his life he had been hurled against the wall of obedience, of how he had fought and defied everyone until he met the Choven. He thought of when he had sought help for the ailing Lord Albain, and how he had been asked to surrender to a force beyond mystery.

He was being asked again, asked to put himself and his own needs and desires aside for a greater good. When he had thought he had only his own life to risk, it had not been a difficult decision. But to leave Elandra in Tirhin’s possession was more than he could do. Jealousy rekindled in him like a flame. But the fire was not as hot as it had been a few moments before. He was thinking now of the empire, of how threatened and unstable it was. Elandra would be safe with Tirhin. No matter how much such an admission cost Caelan, he could not deny it.

The fire inside him snuffed out. He felt cold and drained inside. Grimly he turned back to the Magria and met her gaze.

It was like shoving aside a mountain to say the words, but he said them. “I will let her go to the altar.”

The Magria’s face reflected no triumph, no flicker of satisfaction. Her blue eyes bored into his as though she would weigh his very soul. “This is your promise, your vow?”

A muscle twitched in his clenched jaw. “My word has been given. I will keep it.”

“Ah. The word of Caelan the Light Bringer,” the Magria said. “It is sufficient. But you speak with no pride in your voice. You look on the battle to come with no joy in your heart.”

His gaze met hers like steel crossing steel. “I stand here, a man in a place devoted to all that is feminine. The wisdom of the goddess mother you serve is foreign and strange to me. It is the source of all that is mysterious in a woman. But I answer you now as a man, with a man’s wisdom. To enter combat with joy is to mock and cheapen death. You think because I spent years fighting in the arena for the entertainment of spectators that I view killing as a game. But it is not a game. Battle requires respect. To seek to kill is not a matter of pride. It should be a matter of necessity, nothing more and nothing less.”

She bowed her head to him. “I stand rebuked.”

He wanted only to flee, to find a place of privacy where he could mourn for Elandra. But that was only emotion talking. He shut it away, refusing to listen. This place of women was making him weak. He could not afford to look back at his choice, or to regret it. He must look ahead, or he might break his word after all.

“You may go,” the Magria said.

“Are you to tell me nothing else?”

The Magria lifted her brows. “What else remains to be told?”

“How I am to kill the dark god,” he said.

She smiled. “But I have answered you already.”

“You said I was to have faith.” He shook his head. “I have no sword, no knowledge, no armor capable of withstanding—”

“Walk your path, Lord Caelan,” she interrupted coldly, looking disappointed with him. “Keep your word. That is practicing faith. You will know when the dark god comes.”

“But—”

“This time has finished. You must go back.” She beckoned to the dream walker, who came forward to stand beside Caelan. “May the goddess mother fill your heart with courage. May the god of war strengthen your arms. May the gods of light unite in you, that you may prevail.”

She lifted her hands, and the wind blew in a gust that nearly knocked him off his feet. By the time he regained his balance and stood braced against its force, the Magria had vanished.

“Walk with me,” said the gray-haired sister. She gave him a kindly smile and brushed her hand over his face.

He closed his eyes instinctively for a second, opening them to find himself back in the cellar in the gloom and candlelight. Orlo was sponging his face, and the dream walker was gone. He lay there on the straw pallet, and felt feverish and hot. Disappointment filled him. Had it been only a dream? Had they done nothing to take away his wounds?

His head jerked away from Orlo’s touch.

“Easy,” Orlo said to him. “I don’t want you moving now that the bandage is changed.”

“Where is the sister?” Caelan asked. His mouth felt furry and thick, as though he had been sleeping with it open. “Where did she go?”

“Hush yourself,” Orlo said, trying to soothe him. “She left long ago while you were sleeping.”

Caelan frowned, feeling betrayed. What were these games they played with him? “Didn’t she heal me?”

Orlo sat back on his heels and scowled. “The bleeding has stopped. Your wound is closing. Now the witch is gone, and I have seen enough magic practiced to last me a lifetime. Why did you never tell me the truth?”

Caelan’s frown deepened. Dream or reality? Had he talked with the Magria? Her words merged with the crash of the restless waves, the two blending into each other. It was a haze, unreal to him now.

The sound of pealing bells, so flat and discordant, distracted him. He heard the beating of drums, a throbbing sound that pulled at him. A crowd was cheering.

Puzzled, he looked up at the smoky beams of the ceiling. “What is that?”

“The assembly,” Orlo said.

“What is the hour?” he asked wearily. “Dawn?”

“Why, no,” Orlo replied, tossing his sponge in a wooden pail of water. “It’s nearly noon. The square is filled with the pathetic few remnants of Tirhin’s subjects, such as they are.” He snorted. “The owner of this miserable hole and his whole family have ventured out to watch the ceremony. I’m not going.”

Caelan rubbed his forehead restlessly. “Ceremony,” he said in a dull voice.

“The proclamation has been sent out,” Orlo said. “The wedding will be directly before the coronation—”

“Wedding!”

Memory flooded through Caelan. He flung off the tattered blanket and tried to sit up.

Orlo pushed him down. “Are you mad? What are you doing? You can’t get up!”

“Why didn’t you wake me sooner?” Caelan said furiously. “Damn you, let me up!”

Again he tried to sit up and managed to get himself propped on one elbow. Breathing hard, he ran his fingers over the bandage. He felt sore and stiff. Pain still ran deep through him, but it was no longer the mortal kind of agony that had incapacitated him. This he could manage.

Groaning, he pulled his feet under him and lifted his hand to Orlo. “Help me up.”

“Caelan, you must lie down. You’ll start bleeding again if you move. You can’t afford to lose more. You’re already as white as a bone.”

“I’m fine. Help me up,” Caelan said grimly, gritting his teeth.

“In Gault’s name, you’ll kill yourself!”

Caelan glared at Orlo, but the trainer had a strange, mutinous expression on his face. Too much time had already been wasted in arguing. Caelan rose unsteadily to his feet. His balance was shaky. He was so stiff he could barely move. He needed a massage and some drills to stretch his muscles, but there was no time. Elandra was out there, going to Tirhin like a prize captured in battle. Gritting his teeth, Caelan forced down his anger and panic, seeking a center of calm. He could not find it, could not achieve the severance he sought and so desperately needed.

Closing his eyes, he struggled to find his balance, to find the icy void. As always when he was worried or upset about Elandra, he could not do it.

But this time he had to. Without severance he could not even walk outside, much less help her.

Keep your word, Lord Caelan, said the voice of the Magria in his mind.

His eyes flew open, and he looked around. He had heard her so clearly, it was almost as though she stood in the room with him.

But she was not there.

Only her words echoed inside him. He remembered his promise. He remembered what was at stake.

Orlo gripped his shoulder. “Stop this, you fool!” he said angrily. “You can’t go out there and show yourself. Soldiers are everywhere. Tirhin thinks you’re dead. Leave it that way. You can sneak out of the city after the ceremony and—”

“No,” Caelan said.

The cheering grew louder. He glanced at the ceiling again, feeling the pull. It occurred to him that if Tirhin thought he was dead, then so must Elandra.

Closing his eyes, he shut his emotions into a box. He had given his word to the Magria. And though it would destroy him to see Elandra go to another, he would stand in the crowd where she could not see him and witness the ceremony.

Calmness flowed over him, and he slipped into severance, detaching himself from pain and weakness, locking his box of emotions with chains of purpose and determination.

The stiffness in his body was forgotten. He swung his arms, loosening them, and stretched carefully until he felt his wound pull.

“The armor that was taken from the soldiers we killed last night. Is any of it here?”

“You’re not back in the arena,” Orlo said, watching him with a mixture of fear and exasperation. “That crowd is not cheering for you, Giant. You’re champion no longer. There is no combat.”

“Get me a breastplate,” Caelan said. “And a sword.”

“None of the breastplates will fit you.”

Caelan almost smiled. “I forgot. The sword then, and a dagger.”

Orlo hesitated. “The army stands guard in the square to keep order. They won’t let you near Tirhin.”

“Give me a sword.”

Orlo unbuckled his own belt and handed it over, but when Caelan reached for it, Orlo held it fast. “Why did you lie to me?”

“About what?”

“Groveling as a slave all that time, letting yourself be whipped and degraded. Why? If you are a lord—”

Caelan stared at him, and remembered how the dream walker had addressed him. He laughed bitterly and shook his head. “I am no lord,” he said. “For a few days I thought I might become one, but—”

“The Penestricans don’t lie,” Orlo said suspiciously. “Whatever else they do, they don’t lie. She said—”

“Forget what she said!” Caelan shouted. He wrested the sword scabbard from Orlo’s grasp and slapped the belt around his bare waist. “I’m a fighter, nothing more.”

“I don’t believe that.”

Caelan concentrated on the buckle. “Believe what you like.”

“Tirhin will never fight you,” Orlo said desperately. “Listen to me, just this once. You’ll never reach him before the soldiers cut you down. This revenge is pointless.”

Caelan ran his thumb inside the belt, frowning. The sword’s weight seemed wrong. He could not get it adjusted over his hip the way he wanted. Orlo was completely mistaken about everything, but Caelan did not intend to explain. That would take too long, and he doubted Orlo would believe him.

“You’re getting it wrong,” Orlo said gruffly. He brushed Cae-lan’s hands aside and rebuckled the belt for him. He took extra care to slide the leather belt below the bandage.

Bare-chested, Caelan gripped the hilt of the sword and half drew it, then let it slide back into its scabbard. He felt cold and detached, yet awareness of the shifting stamp and noise of the crowd overhead ran constantly through his mind. A fanfare of trumpets made him jump, his heart suddenly racing.

“Why did I save you?” Orlo muttered angrily to himself. “Why did I fret and worry over your miserable hide? You’re going to destroy yourself.”

Not listening, Caelan picked up a cloak lying across a stool and started for the crude wooden steps leading out of the cellar.

“Caelan!” Orlo called after him.

Without stopping, Caelan glanced back.

Orlo threw him a gladiator’s salute, his face twisted with grief. “Fight long and die well, Giant!”

Caelan smiled and raised his hand in farewell.