Aker answered in an oddly subdued voice. “I think His Highness will want to take this one.”
Ah, hell.
Janelle spoke fast, grabbing her thought from before, doing her best to use their dialect. “I’m sick. I’ll give a killing fever to anyone who touches me.”
The bearded man cocked an eyebrow. “You don’t look sick to me.” His gaze traveled slowly over her. “Far from it.”
“I’m in the early stages. The most contagious time.”
He snorted. “Which is why you were married today, eh?”
“She’s fine,” Aker said with a laugh. “You should have seen her in the palace. She can scream like a banshee.”
Screw you,
Janelle thought.
“I will tell the emperor of your offer,” the bearded man told him. Then he continued on to a cluster of other riders.
Aker dismounted and helped Janelle down, but he otherwise went out of his way to avoid touching her. She didn’t know whether to be relieved or even more afraid.
The bearded man soon reappeared on foot—accompanied by Maximillian. Janelle’s pulse lurched. The emperor could have been Dominick; he had the same eyes, the same strong features, the same height. But unlike Dominick, who warmed with his gaze, Maximillian’s stare was ice. He appraised her as if she were an object for sale.
The emperor glanced at the bearded man. “You didn’t exaggerate. She’s lovely. Exotic, with that yellow hair. Yes, we will keep the bride.” He nodded to Aker. “I will remember your generosity.”
“Your Highness.” Aker sounded strained. “Look at her jewels.”
Puzzlement creased Maximillian’s face. He pushed Janelle’s hair over her shoulder to see her necklace better. For a long moment he stared at it. When he spoke, his voice was too quiet, like the calm in the center of a storm. “Are you my brother’s wife?”
Janelle met his gaze. “Yes.” She prayed he didn’t find out they had never finished the ceremony.
“It
cannot
be. Dominick would never risk his own death to marry some pretty tidbit.” He took her chin and turned her face to the side. “My God, you do look like her. But you’re too young.” His voice hardened. “From where do you come?”
“Cambridge.” She had no idea if it existed here. “Near Boston.”
“Boston? Where is that?”
“Dominick called it ‘another sheet.’”
His posture went rigid. “And your name is Salima?”
She didn’t see any point in lying now. “No. It’s Janelle.”
“Hai,” Aker murmured.
Maximillian swore. “That’s impossible.”
The bearded man spoke. “If she is the one, Your Highness, you have her now instead of your brother.”
Maximillian answered with barely controlled fury. “One day earlier.
One day
, and I would have been in time.” He reached toward Janelle. When she backed away, Aker stepped behind her and grasped her upper arms, holding her in place.
The emperor grabbed strands of Janelle’s hair and yanked them out, making her gasp at the stab of pain. He thrust the tendrils at the bearded man. “Ride to the palace.
Fast.
Have her signature checked. And tell Major Artos to prepare the army. Dominick will soon realize she is gone, if he hasn’t already.”
Maximillian turned back to Janelle. “You,” he said grimly, “will come with me.”
The emperor’s company rode hard during the day, with stops only to change and rest the biaquines. They continued into the night, lighting their way with torches. Maximillian had Janelle sit in front of him on his biaquine. At least he changed his saddle to an animal skin with fleece against her legs. Smells saturated her senses: leather, sweat, musky animals. Maximillian’s armor jabbed her back and his thighs pressed against her hips. Her chafed skin burned.
“You know Dominick has five children,” Maximillian said when they slowed to rest the horses. “He loved their mother. He hasn’t touched another woman since. If it wasn’t for that god-forsaken prophecy, he wouldn’t touch you, either.”
If he expected to get a rise out of her, he would be disappointed. When she didn’t respond, he spoke tightly. “Dominick will be uncle to your children. Not father.”
She made herself stop gritting her teeth. “How noble of you, to rape your brother’s wife.”
He leaned near her ear. “You will regret that.”
It no longer surprised her that his men had inflicted such cruelty at the palace. A leader’s personality was reflected in those who followed him. Yet she also saw Dominick in the emperor; they moved alike, gestured alike, spoke alike. Maximillian led his men with the same natural authority and intelligence, and he obviously had their respect. Both he and Dominick exuded an ingrained arrogance, though in Dominick it was softened by a sense of humor that suggested he took himself less seriously than his brother.
Sometime after the Moon began its descent, an officer rode up alongside them, a husky man with well-kept armor. “A messenger has arrived, Your Highness, from the scouts you left to watch the palace.”
Maximillian didn’t look surprised. “Has Dominick come, then?”
“I cannot say. Shall I bring the messenger?”
“Immediately.”
As the rider fell back, Janelle’s mood lifted like a tentative bird uncertain whether or not to take flight. Although it seemed unlikely Dominick had already gathered sufficient forces to come after Maximillian, she could hope.
The officer soon reappeared, accompanied by a red-haired man on a biaquine. Janelle could better tell the difference now between Maximillian’s soldiers and the outlaws he had hired to augment his company. This man had the scuffed armor worn by the raiders.
“What is your message?” Maximillian asked.
“It’s the bride.” The redheaded man nodded toward Janelle. “The wedding never took place.”
Janelle silently swore.
Behind her, Maximillian tensed. “She has his jewels.”
“They reversed the ceremonies,” the man said. “He gave her the jewels this morning.”
Maximillian took Janelle’s shoulders and turned her until she could look up at him. “Then you are not yet his.”
She met his gaze. “Dominick and I are married.”
“My messenger says otherwise.” He glanced at his officer. “Go get Brother Anthony.”
“But you must have a proper ceremony,” the officer protested. “One fit for an emperor. That takes time.”
“And give Dominick time to rescue her?” Maximillian said. “I think not. Get Anthony.
Now.
”
Brother Anthony turned out to be another warrior. He rode with Maximillian, and the emperor’s aides surrounded them, all on biaquines. The torches cast stark shadows, leaving the faces of the riders half in darkness and half lit by wavering orange light. Anthony wore an unadorned cross, but Janelle couldn’t tell if he was a monk, a priest, or a cleric that didn’t exist in her universe. She just wished she were somewhere else. Anywhere. Like on the Moon.
Fleeing the specter of Dominick’s pursuit, Maximillian didn’t even stop for his own wedding. He let them slow enough so Anthony could speak, and then they held the ceremony on the run, as the army rumbled across the plains.
“Each day the Sun rises,” Anthony droned. “Each night the Moon graces the sky in one of its myriad phases, during the ices of winter and the droughts of summer. In the joy of spring or the fertility of autumn, so shall you cleave to each other.” He glanced at the emperor. “Maximillian Titus Constantine, do you accept this woman, Janelle Aulair, as your wife?”
“Yes,” Maximillian said.
“No,” Janelle said.
“No one asked you,” Maximillian told her.
“The hell with this,” she said. “I’m married to Dominick.”
Anthony cleared his throat awkwardly. He produced a scroll and handed it to Maximillian. “I’ve already signed it.”
Alarm surged in Janelle. “That’s
it
?”
“It is done,” Maximillian said. “You are Empress of Othman.” His voice cut like steel. “And you will learn to respect me, wife, or you will find out just how thoroughly that title can be a curse.”
VI
THE FIRE PALACE
The stars glittered as soulless witnesses to the passage of the army. Here in the plains, the night never cooled; even hours past midnight, the air felt like a steam bath. Lines of riders bearing torches wound across the land in rivers of fire.
Janelle dozed, leaning against Maximillian. When she opened her eyes, bleary and confused, the sky had turned crimson. Silhouetted against the horizon, a palace dominated the view. It dwarfed Dominick’s home. The central onion dome was surrounded by smaller domes that clustered like great water droplets, gold-plated and glistening. Bridges arched from tower to tower, glowing in the dawn as if they were flames. The palace shimmered in the morning’s fire.
“Do you like it?” Maximillian asked.
“It’s spectacular,” she admitted.
“It is my home.” He sounded tired but satisfied. “And now yours.”
The stairway wound around the tower, circling a central shaft of air. Janelle could see over the railing all the way to the bottom, many stories below. They climbed single-file: two guards, Janelle, Maximillian, and two more guards. She could barely walk, she hurt so much from the ride. Only the unwelcome prospect of being carried kept her from collapsing. Maximillian was a foreboding presence at her back, threatening in his silence and unstated intent.
At least he had no time for her now. The moment they arrived, people had sought to see him: officers, clerks, servants, aides. His advisors were at the bottom of the tower, sorting out what needed to be done, but he obviously had to return to his duties.
Their climb ended at a landing with a heavy wooden door. One of the guards lifted its iron bar and pulled the handle. With a creak of protest, the door swung ponderously open.
They took Janelle into a circular stone cell with a high ceiling and four small windows, one each looking north, south, east, and west. A wheel across the chamber was wound with a thick chain, which then snaked up the wall and across the domed ceiling to its highest point, held in place by iron rings. From the top of the dome, it hung halfway to the ground. A pair of leather shackles dangled from its end.
Two guards went to the wheel, and one tapped a combination into some mechanism there. Leaning their weight into their work, they cranked out the chain. It rattled up along the wall, pulled by its own weight as the shackles descended. A stench of oil permeated the air. The guards let the chain down to Janelle’s height and locked it in place. Another guard pushed her forward, and she stumbled into the shackles, which swung away, then came back and thwacked her shoulder. The entire time, Maximillian watched with an avid gaze.
While Maximillian watched, two guards came up on either side of Janelle, towering over her. They stank like sweat and biaquines. They lifted her arms, and they tightened their hold when she tried to pull away. Then they shackled her wrists above her head.
“Why?”
she asked Maximillian. “I’ve done nothing to you.”
“Nothing?” he said, incredulous. “You’ve torn apart my life and destroyed my bond with my brother. That prophecy has brought us nothing but endless grief.”
“That may be true. But I have nothing to do with it.”
“Of course you do. You
are
it.”
“I’m here
only
because Dominick looked for me. If Gregor had never said anything, you would have never known I existed.” She suspected Maximillian and Dominick would have been antagonists anyway; they were too much alike, two conquerors in a land that had space only for one.
“You would have come anyway,” he said. “When you were seventy.”
Janelle doubted it. By that time, he and Dominick would be close to ninety, if they lived that long. Age added a great deal to a person, maybe the serenity of a long life or a cynicism steeped in discord, but whatever happened, surely they wouldn’t still be locked in this duel of fates half a century from now. Far more likely, Gregor or the “seeress” had misread whatever evoked this miserable prophecy.
The guards at the wheel cranked out the chain, and the shackles rose until they pulled Janelle’s arms tight over her head. She had so far hidden her distress, but as the chain continued to rise, lifting her into the air, it was too much. She groaned, and a tear ran down her face. When they finally locked the chain in place, she hung painfully by her wrists in the center of the cell.
Maximillian came over and stood eye-to-eye with her. “My brother thought he could take my title and my life. He will pay for that.” He lifted his riding quirt in front of her. “I shall send him this. Soaked with your blood.”
She wanted to spit at him. “I don’t care how great your title. What you’re doing is sick.”
Janelle expected him to deny it. But he only said, “A man in my position can never show weakness.” Fatigue saturated his voice, revealing far more pain than he probably realized. “For our entire lives, Dominick and I have been pitted against each other. He must learn I will never tolerate his betrayals. It is true, you will pay the price. But that is the way of life.”
She regarded him steadily. “He would never do this.”
He answered bitterly. “Dominick and his ‘moral imperatives.’ It is easy for him to preach when he has never had to serve as emperor. He grew up flawed by a mother’s softness, and now he presumes to suggest I lack a conscience. But inside, he is just like me.”
“If he chooses compassion over cruelty, so can you.”
“You confuse weakness with compassion.”
Her anger sparked. “Brutality is easy. It takes no strength.”
A muscle twitched under his eye, and his voice hardened. “I will see you tonight.” He went to a small table by the door and set down his whip so she would be staring at it. Then he regarded her with an unyielding gaze. “While you are waiting, my empress, it would behoove you to think long and hard about how you speak to me.”