“The gentleman says that he and your most devout friend will worship at the Temple of Druya in the outer ring tonight. They will discuss business after making offerings for the god’s feast tomorrow. And it would needs be brief, as he has very important company at his residence this night and cannot be away from them long.”
I flipped the man a coin and hurried back to the inn to await sixth watch, for Druya was a god of night and darkness, and it was always in the hours before midnight that a “most devout” Derzhi woman would come to the temple of Druya.
“I’m coming with you,” said Fiona.
“No. She doesn’t know you. I don’t want to frighten her away.”
“Surely a Derzhi princess is not one to be frightened easily. I’ll wear these cursed robes, and she’ll think you’ve brought your wife. It will put her at ease.”
My wife . . . Filled with dreams and fears and journeying, I had spared little thought for Ysanne in the past months, yet she had always been at the back of my mind. I feared that this terrible thing that had come between us was but a symptom of a deeper problem that I had tried to ignore for far too long, sure that devotion would always lead us right. She was queen and had given her life to it. She had warned me repeatedly, but I had never listened. I was . . . whatever I had become in our long years apart, and whatever we said of it, we had never been able to reconcile my discontent with her position. Her duty made it impossible that she trust me. And my history made it imperative she should. Now our ways had parted so decisively that I was afraid there was no going back. I wondered how she fared, and whether she allowed herself to think of our son . . . or of me. Lost in the empty ache of memory, I missed the rest of Fiona’s arguments, but when I slipped through the bustling streets toward the bronze dome of Druya’s temple, the white-robed figure trailed doggedly behind me.
The interior of the temple was dark, save for a bank of candles beneath the towering red and gold mosaic of the bull on the distant wall. The domed roof was supported by a forest of orange and red-striped columns, and you could never get an expansive view of the god’s gigantic image, only glimpses of its majesty through the complexities of the space. The thick walls of the temple blocked out the noise of the street traffic, but strands of bells, large and small, silver, gold and brass, hung from iron hooks that protruded from the massive columns. The bells moved with the air of our passing, leaving a trail of chiming music behind us as we hurried through the dim light. A few worshipers moved about, leaving offerings atop the five altar stones that were already heaped with flowers ready for the next day’s festival. I began to do the same, passing slowly from one granite block to the other, dropping a handful of the prickly villaine and musty-scented harrowmint I’d bought from the flower seller outside the temple gates.
“Have you said prayers enough?” said the small, neat-bearded Derzhi gentleman who lingered at my side after placing his own flowers on the third altar stone.
“Enough,” I said.
“Then, let us be quick.” He took my arm companionably, though with a quite firm grip that steered me toward a dark alcove between two of the altars. “And this woman who has been following you . . . ?”
“She’s with me,” I said, gritting my teeth. “Harmless. On my life.”
“As you say. My dagger will watch and judge. You have a quarter hour, no more.”
Before I could thank him, Hazzire fixed his attention on a mural that depicted Druya’s mysterious cave deep in the fiery bowels of the earth. I stepped into the alcove, feeling Fiona slip quietly in behind me. A tall figure in pale blue silk hovered in the shadowed nook. Her shining hair was piled high, the red curls tamed into a queenly knot, exposing the long graceful curve of a neck no sculptor could duplicate. From the quivering tensions in the air, I knew the worst.
“Seyonne! You are mad to come here.”
“Your Highness.” I genuflected, but she did not offer me her hand, the slender hand so deceptively fine-boned and soft—I had watched the lady throw enough furniture in a half hour’s distress to leave a man-high heap of broken sticks.
“Kiril was here a fortnight ago. I couldn’t believe the things he told us.” When I stood up again, her fiery green eyes, at a level with my own, were demanding to know why she should give hearing to one guilty of treachery to her beloved lord. “Aleksander has been beside himself for weeks, punishing himself for letting you go into such danger, for hurting you so badly, grieving that you suffered yet again for him. Then to find out you had betrayed him so wickedly . . . and how it was done . . . his horses . . . Have you the least idea what you’ve done?”
“My lady, I swear to you, there is an explanation. I am not blameless . . .” The demands of those green eyes would not allow me to pretend otherwise. “. . . but on my soul I have not conspired to harm the Prince. If his need required it, I would do again everything that is past, even to wearing his chains. If we had time, I would tell you all.”
She shook her head. “Telling me accomplishes nothing. You know well enough how little words or wishes can change the ways of the world. Why have you come?” She flicked a suspicious glance to the white-shrouded Fiona, but I was not going to waste the precious time with introductions.
“I need to know the whereabouts of the man named Balthar.”
The lady’s rosy complexion faded, and her lip curled. “Balthar . . . of the slave rites?” Lydia was a longtime opponent of slavery.
“Yes.”
“So this is about vengeance? I thought you above—”
“There is no human vengeance fit for this man; the gods must take care of such crimes. But I must discover what he knows of matters of grave concern to my people. Please, my lady, he may have knowledge of such importance . . .” How could I explain my fears, my questioning, the complexities of sorcery and worlds and history, of nobility of spirit doomed to madness? It would take five hours.
“It is for Seyonne’s son, lady, a child born demon-afflicted.” Fiona had slipped off her white veil and stared quite boldly at the tall Princess. “You understand that Ezzarians are hesitant to speak of such personal matters.”
I wanted to choke Fiona. What idiocy had prompted her to make a revelation so fraught with risk?
“Your son!” Lydia’s astonished glance shot from Fiona to me and back again. “Then, you are Seyonne’s wife, the Queen who helped—”
“No.” Fiona and I answered together.
“Hsst, Your Highness!” Hazzire swept into the alcove and took Lydia’s arm. “There is a disturbance outside the temple.”
“Forgive me, my lady,” I said, grabbing Fiona and pulling away. I, too, heard the shouts and noise at the temple gates. “I would not have you compromised.”
But for a moment Lydia stood her ground against her nervous steward, fixing her gaze on my face as if locking my image in her mind for later dissection. “The answer will be at the Gasserva Fountain at midnight.”
“My lady, there is but one other way out of the temple.” The dapper Hazzire was about to burst.
“I’ll see she has time,” I said. “Hold at the rear door until all goes dark.” Before the words were out of my mouth, the Princess and her guardian were gone, and I shoved Fiona farther into the alcove, where a deep niche in the stonework made a hiding place just large enough for a child or a very small woman. “Stay here, out of the way, but be ready to run.”
“Where are you, traitor?” Aleksander’s anger bounced off the walls of the temple as if the majestic bull itself had set to roaring. “Coward! Deceiver!” The ordinary worshipers scurried away in shock and dismay. “And where is the one you came here to meet? What spell have you cast to turn her against me?”
I could not allow him to search for Lydia or to harm innocents in his rage. “I am here, my lord,” I said, dodging behind one pillar and then another as I spoke, swiping at the bells to set up echoes and distractions. “I did indeed seek audience with an intermediary, hoping to plead my case with you. Hoping you would listen to one you cannot doubt, as you find yourself doubting me.”
“Where is she? How dare you invade my household with your treachery?”
“She has refused me, my lord, and returned to tell you of it. She says I must submit myself to your judgment first.” Lies came easier these days. And he couldn’t see my face go yellow as he always claimed it did when I tried to deceive him. “And so I must beg your grace—”
“Do not beg anything from me!” His boots rang on the floor tiles as he strode through the columns, hunting me, searching, not with melydda, but with pure warrior’s instinct. “All your talk of faith, of honor, of light and darkness . . . was it always a lie? Face me and say these things again, and let me applaud your art.”
I shifted my senses, straining to hear. “No, keep them back,” he said quietly to someone close by him. “I want everyone out of here. We have no idea what all he can do. And, Sovari”—I heard the unmistakable sound of a sword unsheathed—“if you find my wife . . .”
“I’ll be discreet, my lord.”
Soon the soft footsteps fell away, and there was only one Derzhi left anywhere close inside the temple—the one with the drawn sword. I closed my eyes and called up a wind to douse the candles. His steps halted when the darkness fell. I wished the Lady Lydia quick and silent feet.
“You can do whatever magics you wish, Seyonne, but one of us will take you. You will not live to betray me again.” He was only a few steps away. Close enough that we could speak in normal voices, though I kept moving slowly between the columns, silencing the bells beside me or sending a wind to ring those farther away to keep him at a distance.
“My lord, will you not give me hearing?”
“I’ve listened too much. And do you know what I’ve heard? The story of how the Yvor Lukash and his rabble came near taking the Emperor’s horses, and how a sorcerer toyed with my warriors and left two dead and one crippled. My nobles say that a man who cannot secure his own horses, cannot secure his own empire.” His footsteps grew closer, and his voice grew harder. I heard the sound of flint and steel, and soon a torch blazed no more than ten paces from my position. “Some say this outlaw sorcerer is the same who invaded the castle of one of my barons and slew an unarmed warrior, and perhaps the same who stole my tax money in Vayapol not long after. Some say it is one who fights with more skill than the Lidunni Brotherhood, and I have seen only one man who can do such a thing. And I have heard that a man I trusted with my soul . . . one to whom I gave my friendship and such honor as I have given no other . . . has painted his face with daggers and made mockery of me. Is this the story you wish to tell? Or do you maintain the lie you told me at Dasiet Homol—that you are not one of them?”
“If you would but—”
“Druya, bear witness to my empty head . . . I believed you. Never again, Seyonne. Come out and tell me your story. But this time bring your sword with you.”
I grieved to hear his rage and hurt. The ties that bound Aleksander and me were deeper than vows or kinship, more precious to me than my own life. But I could not assuage his wounding without explaining everything—if it was possible even then—and this was not the time to tell him of Blaise. Too much pride was involved. Too much suspicion. I had to find a way to keep the young outlaw alive and well. Only then could I consider how to make his peace—and mine—with Aleksander. “I’ll not ask you to trust me, my lord. I know how hollow such words ring when the wound is so great. I understand—”
“Understand? Half of the Twenty Hegeds have called a meeting one month hence, and they have summoned me . . .
summoned me
. . . to attend them and explain what I am doing about the rebels. Do you
understand
what that means?”
I knew. Humiliation. And there was only one way for a Derzhi warrior to recoup such a loss of respect. War. Things were far worse than I had imagined, but I had no answer for him. “If it would help you set things right, I would yield to you, my lord. But my death—even if you make it a spectacle—will not solve your problems. Nor will making war on your own people, no matter how much your barons demand it. Stall them. Convince them. No one reads the hearts of men as you do. When your temper cools, you will remember why we cannot hide our truth from each other. You know me as no other man or woman in this world knows me. Give me time, and I’ll show you how to end this rebellion. I swear to you.”
“I have no time left. And neither have you.” Aleksander then dismissed any lingering illusion that I could convince him of my good intentions. “I will not take back the gifts I have given, but you will never enjoy them, Ezzarian. I have issued a judgment of treason against the Yvor Lukash and his riders. I will take them, they will die, and their deaths will be on your head. And likewise any man, woman, or child who gives aid to the Yvor Lukash, who feeds, houses, heals or clothes any one of you, will be held traitor to the Empire and will die a traitor’s death.”
“My lord, please—”
“As for you, if you take one step to return to the land of your birth, your people will be held as your accomplices, and I will burn Ezzaria with such fires as no sorcerer can quench.”
My blood turned to ice. I could scarcely answer. “No fear of that. They’ll not have me back.” But to have the choice removed . . . Even with my knowledge of Aleksander, I had underestimated his anger.
The Prince’s voice fell to a quiet that was far more deadly than his fury. And his words were wrenching in a way no bluster could match. “I once thought that this ‘shunning’ your people practice was a coward’s way of punishment. Now at last I understand it. Sometimes you cannot bear to see the ugly truth of something you believed was good. But I am a hardheaded Derzhi, and I must follow my own way. So you can surrender and stand trial with your friends, or you can fight me and die here. That is the only choice that remains to you. Surrender or die.” His warrior’s skills were not honed with melydda, but they were very good. He was no more than five steps away from me, and he knew very well where I was.