All true. She had no words to offer, only this dead and dreary sense of inevitable disaster.
When she did not speak, he pressed his case. “Yes, I’ll grant, the first vision you had of him seems to have been borne out as legitimate. But that doesn’t make anything of the second or third visions. Your second amber vision showed him dead. Your vision on the longboat showed him surrounded by light.” He paused. “Have you considered the possibility that the third one actually supports the second? That what you were seeing somehow was a glimpse of him in the eternal realm?”
“Oh yes, of course I have. That’s why this is so abominably hard!”
Beneath the cloak she hugged herself, trying to regain control of emotions that threatened to spiral out of control. For a time they strolled in silence, footsteps crisp on the damp stones beneath their feet, bells clanging down on the dock at the foot of the wall where they walked. Out on the harbor, the deck lamps of his twelve galleys illumined their forms and gleamed off the water. She drew and released a shaky breath, wishing she didn’t have to decide, knowing that she must.
Finally Tiris cleared his throat and spoke, treading carefully. “Let’s say for the sake of argument that he did survive the desert. From which direction do you believe he will come? And how will he do so without your hearing of it? I know that your friend the duke has ears out everywhere and that so far all reports are of imposters. . . . Last of all, if he comes in secret he can’t be bringing an army, and we know the regalia are lost. . . . So what good can you imagine he will do you?
She had no response to that. There
was
no response. All that he said was true, much as she wished to deny it.
They reached the stair to the courtyard garden and descended, strolling through the damp greenery in silence, then returning to her chambers, where they sat before the fire sipping mulled wine and making small talk. Finally Tiris’s patience gave out.
“I know your cabinet has drawn up a resolution to accept my suit should I offer it,” he said. “But I will not be publicly embarrassed. I will make no official offer until I have your personal guarantee of acceptance.” He paused. “Marry me, Madeleine. Become my queen, co-ruler of the three realms. Let your children become my official heirs. Simon will inherit all my holdings. Ian will be a great scholar, unlocking secrets of the ancients; or perhaps a warrior, a leader of men like his father. And as for beautiful Abrielle, she will be the princess of three realms, the apple of her father’s eye, and only the finest of men will dare to even ask for her hand. . . .” He chuckled. “I might even have to reinstate a trial-by-dragon ritual again.”
She smiled, knowing he was trying to lift her spirits, but the horrible oppression only weighed more heavily. It was as if all her emotions had become flat and dull, to the point where she almost didn’t care.
“You think I would not love you?” he asked gently.
“Honestly?” She looked up at him. “I fear it is I who would not love you.”
She saw the flash of disappointment in his eyes. “Abramm still holds your heart that tightly. . . ?”
She could not answer, for her throat had swollen and she was teary-eyed again.
He drew a deep breath and let it out. “Well, I am a patient man, and I believe time changes many things. I can wait for the fires of your love to kindle.”
They fell silent for a time, until finally he stood to take his leave. She arose to see him off, but he hesitated, gazing down at her. And though he was willing to wait for the fires of her love to kindle, he was not willing to wait for her answer to the question of his suit and brought it up now one last time.
“What say you, my iblis flower? Will you accept me?”
She looked up at him, wondering why this was so hard when she felt so vague.
He stroked her cheek and a tingle swept through her. She let her eyes drift over his face, noting the long lashes, the gold scaling on the cheekbones, the strong jawline beneath his short-cropped beard. The bewitching dark eyes, the gold in his ear and on his fingers, the fresh white linen of his wellmade tunic . . . the power in his voice and presence. He was more than any woman could ever hope to have. He could save her realm. He could save her children. He could save her—and he wished to on all counts.
If she were honest with herself, part of her—a very strong part—wanted to let him.
Except for the dwindling hope of Abramm’s return, what reason did she have for refusing? None save the undeniable sense that she would be betraying her husband’s memory. But would Abramm really have wanted her to go on with the rest of her life, raising his children alone? Would he not have wished her to take advantage of this offer?
She dropped her eyes to the line of buttons that closed his tunic. “Will you show me your shield, Tiris?” she asked.
He smiled, and the long graceful fingers at once began to unfasten the buttons. When he had undone the tunic nearly to his waist he pulled the edges apart, and there gleaming beneath his inner shirt of silk was the golden shield of Eidon that marked him as one who carried the Light.
She felt mildly surprised, for in some part of her thoughts she had not really believed he was marked. Even now, she reached out to touch it, wishing it was not covered by the silk so that she might pick at the edge to be sure it was not of paper or those newer ones of pure gold. But to do so he’d have to disrobe completely, and she couldn’t ask him to go that far. So she let go a faint spark of the Light, felt an echo in return.
He smiled at her. “Satisfied?”
“Yes.”
“So . . . will you marry me, Madeleine?”
Her resistance to the idea weakened with each moment, as if his dark gaze were pulling it out of her. She felt as if she were sliding down a long hole.
Yes, say yes . . .
The word formed upon her lips. The only word she could give him, the one that would save everyone and everything . . .
yes
. . .
yes . . .
“Yes.” She blinked, staring up at him in astonishment.
I said yes
.
His eyes glowed with pleasure. “We’ll announce it tomorrow, then? Together?”
“Yes.”
He lifted her hand to his lips and kissed the backs of her fingers, his dark eyes never leaving her own. “You will not regret this, my flower. I promise you. . . .”He turned her hand over and kissed her palm, then pressed his nose to her wrist and, closing his eyes, inhaled deeply, a languorous smile curving his lips. Strangely, the action that had so repelled her the first time he had done it now sent ripples of pleasure up her arm and across her chest.
He opened his eyes, snaring her gaze again, and the power of her attraction to him dizzied her. When he bent to kiss her, she let him, his lips soft upon her own, his beard tickling her face. He smelled faintly of sandalwood, the scent filling all her head and mind so that when he pulled away it made her dizzy. He smiled. “I will make you forget all about him, my flower. You will see. . . .”
He left her then, and she stood at the entrance to her apartments, watching him go, waiting until he had disappeared from view at the end of the long hall. But by the time she had returned to her bedchamber, all the warm pleasure she’d derived from his company had faded and she felt inexplicably dirty. As if something precious had been defiled.
And that night, she cried herself to sleep for thinking of what she had done.
Stuck in the long line of people waiting on the road outside the gates of Horon-Pel in hopes of being granted entrance, Abramm brushed yet another sluggish fly off his stubbled jaw. He let Newbanner’s reins slide through his gloved fingers as the horse tossed his head and sidled impatiently in place; then he regathered the slack. It was the gruesome reminders of the fate awaiting those who transgressed Esurhite law—human heads staked on poles alongside the road—that had brought so many flies, even this late in the season. The nearest was blond, relatively fresh, and already eyeless, thanks in part to the gull perched on its crown.
Grimacing, he brushed more flies away again and turned his gaze toward the stone anchor posts of Horon-Pel’s iron drawbridge looming in a gathering mist ahead of him. Between the posts stood the fancy gold-scrolled coach that had earlier pushed past everyone else on the road to take the head of the line. Its occupant was still arguing with the guards stationed there to question each traveler before allowing them entrance—or, more often, the closer it got to dusk, turning them away. And with every passing moment, Abramm’s chances of getting himself and his party into the city that night diminished.
He glanced at Cedric, mounted and dressed in Esurhite black beside him, looking undeniably ill at ease in his bronze helmet. He dared not say a word, for fear of giving his true nationality away. Likewise for Trinley, driving the cart behind them. Galen, who sat beside him, had picked up a surprising amount of the language just listening to Abramm as he’d tutored Borlain, while the latter’s command of it had increased dramatically over the last few months. But they were the only three of the group who had even a thread of comprehension, though for most of the men it didn’t matter since they were supposed to be slaves.
Their cart they’d found in a deserted, earthquake-devastated settlement on their way down the mountain. Most of the men rode on it now, slaves being brought to the galleys in Horon-Pel, as Borlain and three others brought up the rear on horseback. The multitudes lining the road had ogled them repeatedly for two days now, especially tall, blond, powerful Rolland. Time and again, Abramm had fielded—and refused—offers to buy them before they ever reached the city.
The earthquake that had blocked the pass and devastated the towns across North Andol had combined with the economic drain of supplying a war to drive most of the populace toward the western cities. Now a sea of humanity camped in the flat, muddy fields beside the road. Small domed tents and makeshift lean-tos crowded around the bow-topped wagons of the east plain nomads as far as he could see. In the gathering twilight cook fires gleamed brightly, adding their smoke to air already heavy with the Shadow’s mist and the stench of too many people crushed too close together.
They were families who had come looking for work, for food, and for new lives in the wake of the earthquake’s devastation. They were also merchants of all kinds, slave traders, goatherds, fishermen, a few farmers selling last season’s crops, and water vendors. Earlier many of them had stood along the way offering their goods to those still on the road—for a stiff price, of course.
And many among them had avidly eyed the men in Abramm’s cart as it had trundled by. With Leyton’s rise to the top of the Esurhite Games, Kiriathan slaves had become a valuable commodity, sought by the Game masters to play the role of the defrauded and vengeful King Abramm. The slave who brought Leyton down would win a lot of money, enriching his owner substantially. With Leyton scheduled to fight in Horon-Pel’s arena tomorrow, this fact was especially on the minds of those camped outside the city’s gates, and Abramm believed few around him were above stealing a few slaves if it meant their family’s survival.
Last night had been bad enough. If they had to spend another in this mass of desperate people, he wasn’t sure how many of his men would be with him come morning.
He batted another sluggish fly off his face and shifted restlessly in the saddle, trying to ease the stiffness and chill of his legs and bottom. Would that man from the coach ever stop arguing and accept his fate? Already some on the road were yelling at him to do so.
It wouldn’t have been so bad, he thought, if it was just Leyton’s appearance and general desperation that had brought people to Horon-Pel, but there was more. Along the route, he’d learned that the blast that had destroyed the temple corridor at Aggosim had indeed also destroyed the corridor in Oropos, triggering a second earthquake that had destroyed much of that city, as well. As a result, new corridors had been set up in the smaller temples in various cities along the coast, including Horon-Pel. The latter’s temple was situated outside the city walls, so he’d seen that one in action today, proving the rumors true.
Ahead, the finely dressed citizen was reboarding his carriage, the guards stepping back, their black tunics blurred in the gathering mist. Abramm couldn’t even see the entrance tunnel anymore, but two soldiers were jamming lit torches into brackets on the side of the anchor posts. Despite all the arguing—or perhaps because of it—the fancy carriage was turned away, forced to execute a jerky Y-turn before plunging back through the line the way it had come, moving more rapidly and with less concern than ever for whom it hit. At least, once it passed, the line moved on again.
Soon Abramm pulled Newbanner to a halt before the guards, explaining his assignment as the gatemen scowled. One muttered something about not many slaves for all the soldiers he had with him, did a cursory inspection of the property in question, then waved him through with directions to the army slave quarters by the harbor. Directions Abramm would recall only for the purpose of avoiding that area at all costs.
Inside, they plowed into a crowd even more closely packed than the one outside. People filled the gate yard and crammed the narrow lanes beyond, hemmed in by the tall, age-stained plastered walls of the city’s buildings. Garlands of colorful fish-bladder lanterns hung across the streets, suspended between facing windows above the crowd. Here and there, jugglers and musicians clad in bright silks performed, as the people danced—or swayed—and the scents of fried bread, spice tea, and grilled meat filled the air. Many people carried cheering sticks, some bearing the old crescent moons of the White Pretender, the others carrying images of the gold crown that Leyton was defending. It was a bright, festive atmosphere, but the moment he emerged from the entrance tunnel, Abramm knew his plan of finding a deserted alley in which they might change into the civilian clothes they’d picked up along their journey would be more difficult than he’d hoped. Still, he gave it a try.
But each time they turned off, they only ended up in cramped, crowded dead ends, where they had to struggle to turn about. And though their Esurhite uniforms protected them from heckling, still Abramm saw the resentment in the eyes of those around them. He’d seen it on the road outside the city and even before then as they’d traveled through a land stripped of its resources. With the men gone, there’d been no one to work the fields, so most stood fallow. Veiled, empty-eyed women, stick-legged children, and skinny old men were the only inhabitants, along with a few skeletal goats. The rare storage barns that held anything at all were usually in the process of being emptied by a troop of black-tunicked soldiers who packed the last bushels of corn, beans, or tubers onto their carts and drove away.