The Immortal Prince (41 page)

“Then that just leaves the question of who's going to do it?” Tryan said.

“I will!” Elyssa volunteered. “Never could stand the little brat, anyway.”

“No,” I said heavily, not sure why I volunteered. “I will.”

“You?” Tryan asked, clearly sceptical of the offer.

I shrugged and met his gaze without flinching. “Like I said, Tryan, what's one more dead mortal, give or take?”

“Cayal!” Arryl called, falling in beside me on the shaded path as I was heading back toward the palace guest quarters. The air was warm and the magnificent gardens in full bloom. I can't tell you what flowers they were, but I do remember they were blooming. Syrolee likes her flowers and many of the plants that crowded the carefully tended walkways were magically encouraged to flower, despite the fact that beyond the walls of the palace the rest of Tenacia had, until recently, been caught in the grip of a particularly savage winter.

“Arryl.”

“Are you really going to do this?”

“Syrolee was right, you know,” I told her, deciding avoidance was better than confrontation. “You should go back to Glaeba. This is none of your concern.” Refusing to be drawn any further on the matter, I kept on walking.

Behind me, Arryl folded her arms stubbornly. “That's not what I asked you, Cayal.”

I stopped and turned to look at her. Arryl and Diala have the same eyes, although there the similarity between the sisters ends. It's a pity really, that I was at odds with her. I have none of the animosity for Arryl that I have for her sister. “Look…I agree it's not very fair…”

“But you're still going to kill her, aren't you?”

I shrugged. “Somebody has to. At least I'll do it cleanly and I won't gain any particular joy from the act, which is more than I can say for a few others around here.”

She studied me for a time, her expression puzzled. “What are you doing here, Cayal?”

“What do you mean?”

“It's a straightforward question. Why are you here in Tenacia? You don't like Syrolee and Engarhod. You can't stand Elyssa. You're perpetually at odds with Krydence and Rance and I'm certain you'd nail Tryan to a wall if you thought you could manage it. You and Jaxyn haven't traded a civil word in a hundred years, and I'm damn sure they still haven't forgiven you for what happened after you decapitated Pellys. So why are you here?”

“This place is no better or worse than any other place,” I said. “And as someone pointed out to me once, it's a lot of work being a deity. It's much easier to ride in the wake of people who enjoy doing this sort of thing.”

“You never used to be such a cynic.”

“We're all cynics, Arryl. Every one of us.”

Arryl didn't disagree with me, but she wouldn't easily concede the point, either. “Cynic or not, Cayal, Fliss is just a baby. Even if you're callous enough to stand by and watch the Crasii being made without being sick, how can you kill a baby in cold blood?”

“Babies don't wield Tide magic and kill people with it,” I pointed out. I didn't really want to fight with Arryl but there was no point in her harbouring false hopes for the child. For once, I thought Syrolee was right. A mortal able to wield Tide magic was just too dangerous. “It's bad enough that some of us can influence the Tide. Do you really want mortals to be able to do it, too?”

“Would they be any less dangerous than us?” she asked.

“Probably worse,” I replied. “We, at least, don't have to worry about running out of time.”

She shook her head obstinately. “I don't see the difference. We're not gods.”

“To mortals we might as well be.”

“More's the pity.”

She wasn't going to let this go, I realised with despair. “Have you any idea how strong that child is? Forget the fact that she killed more than a dozen Scards, and she's only—in your words—a baby. She can swim almost as deep into the Tide as I can. I dread to think what she'll be capable of when she matures. Throw in a bit of mortal impatience with that mix and the safest thing for everyone on Amyrantha might be to kill her now and to hell with the consequences.”

“Fliss can't help what she is, Cayal.”

“She could be the biggest threat this world has faced since
we
came along,” I warned.

“Or she might be our salvation,” Arryl retorted.

I shook my head, convinced that, however unpalatable the act, killing this six-year-old girl might be the most sensible thing I'd done in years.

“What do you want, Cayal, not to do this thing?”

“Arryl, if I don't kill her, I'll never hear the end of it. And one of the others would simply do it instead.”

She glared at me. “What's more important, Cayal? Your reputation or your daughter's life?”

I shook my head, smiling at her. “You can't play the guilt hand on me, Arryl. You don't know whose child she is.”

“Yes, I do.”

“It won't work,” I warned, turning my back on her. “Nice try, though.”

“Elyssa keeps records,” Arryl informed me as I walked away. “She doesn't tell you or the others about them for precisely the reason we're standing here now.”

Suddenly filled with trepidation, I stopped and turned to stare at her.

“Fliss is your child, Cayal. Alita was fathered by Krydence. Nilaba was fathered by Jaxyn and Travus is Rance's son. Tryan hasn't fathered a Tidewatcher in years, but Elyssa's waiting for the most opportune time to tell Syrolee. I don't think she's annoyed enough at her brother right now, to do anything about it.”

“How do you know she keeps records?” I asked, hoping Arryl was wrong, even while knowing she probably wasn't. Arryl isn't the liar among us. She's the one who picks beaten travellers up off the road and nurses them back to health.

“I've seen them.”

“I don't believe you.”

“Yes, you do,” she said, stepping a little closer. “That's why you volunteered to do this dreadful thing yourself.”

“Now you really
are
imagining things.”

“Even if you don't see the physical resemblance in the child, I still believe you offered to do this, Cayal, because in your heart, you suspect the truth.”

“We're Tide Lords, Arryl. We no longer have hearts.”

“That's not true.”

“Visit a Crasii farm sometime,” I suggested. “That should convince you.”

She reached out to touch my face. “I'm only trying to help you, Cayal.”

“Why?” I demanded, jerking away.

She lowered her arm, studying me intently. “Because you're one of the few who's not totally lost.”

“Really? How can you tell?”

“You take no pleasure in killing.”

“Are you sure about that?”

“Yes.”

“You're wrong, Arryl,” I said. “You're wrong about everything. Fliss isn't my child and I'm no better than any other fool in this Tide-forsaken place. Don't make me out to be something you'd like me to be, rather than what I am.”

She studied me for a moment longer and then shrugged, clearly disappointed by my response. “Then I apologise, Cayal, for my mistake in thinking you had some shred of humanity left in you. I suppose you're not interested in my plan for saving Fliss, either. Do have fun murdering your own child, won't you?”

She turned on her heel and headed back along the brick path, but had only taken three steps before I sighed, shaking my head.

“Arryl!”

“Yes?” she enquired, glancing over her shoulder, as if she had no notion as to why I was calling her back.

“What plan?” I asked.

“Are you going to tell me you actually killed that poor child?” Arkady asked when Cayal's voice faltered just on dawn. The fire had burned down to coals again, but she was warm enough, sitting close beside him on the floor near the hearth. At some point, she'd rested her head on his shoulder and closed her eyes, listening to his hypnotic voice as it transported her back to a place and a time that couldn't possibly exist.

“No, I didn't kill Fliss.”

“Then why did you warn me that I'd like you less once I'd heard the tale?”

“Because you haven't heard it all yet.”

Arkady lifted her head from his shoulder, rubbed her eyes and glanced around the cabin, not sure that she wanted to hear the rest of it. She'd been expecting to be told about the great love of Cayal's life but, as he suggested when he began his tale, Amaleta was almost a footnote, rather than the focus of the tale. She yawned and stretched luxuriously. “It's almost dawn. Did Maralyce not come back?”

“We may not see her again for days,” Cayal told her. “She's not all that fond of company.”

Stiffly, Arkady moved a little, only to discover her backside had gone to sleep on the rough wooden floor. She rubbed it painfully as pins and needles shot down her legs, frowning. “What's for breakfast?”

“Are you hungry
again
?”

“We poor, insignificant mortals have to eat, you know.”

He looked at her curiously. “Does that mean you're finally ready to admit that I'm
immortal
?”

“Tides, no!” she exclaimed, climbing to her feet, stamping them to banish the tingling from her numb buttocks. “That would mean admitting I'm wrong. I'm never wrong. Just ask my husband.”

“Do you love him?” Cayal asked, looking up at her.

“Of course I do.”

“Then why are you here with me?”

“You kidnapped me, remember?” Stretching again, Arkady glanced around the small cottage with a frown. “It would be too much to hope, I suppose, that this place has internal plumbing?”

“It's a miner's cabin, Arkady.”

“I feared as much. Will you put the kettle on while I answer the call of nature?”

He nodded and Arkady turned for the door, gasping as the icy dawn slapped her awake when she opened it. Hopping gingerly from one bare foot to the other, she spied the outhouse on the other side of the muddy, equipment-strewn yard and hurried across to take care of business. By the time she returned, Cayal had the fire stoked up again and the water sitting over it, the large black kettle hanging on the hinged metal hook attached to the side of the fireplace for just that purpose.

She shivered as she closed the door and hurried back to the fire. “Tides, it's cold out there.”

“It's the altitude,” Cayal explained. “Did you want the last of the bread?”

Arkady nodded, helping herself to the remains of the bread lying discarded on a wooden platter beside last night's meal, which sat congealing on the table. The bread was stale but she was ravenous enough not to care.

“You're common-born, aren't you?”

Arkady stopped chewing mid-mouthful and stared at Cayal. “You can tell that just from the way I eat?”

He shook his head. “I can tell from the way you do everything. Your manners are far too perfect for one raised with them. You've learned to be a duchess, Arkady. You weren't born one.”

“Did something happen while I was gone?” she asked, looking around the cabin. “Why the sudden need to insult me?”

“I wasn't insulting you. I was complimenting you.”

“Then I'd rather you didn't do me any more favours, thank you.”

“How
did
you become a duchess?”

“I married a duke.”

He smiled thinly. “You know what I mean.”

“I don't see that it's any of your concern,” she replied, taking a seat at the table.

“You expect me to tell you every little intimate detail of my life,” he reminded her, as he spooned the tea leaves into Maralyce's chipped teapot. “Don't you think it's fair you tell me something about yours?”

“No,” she stated flatly. “I don't.”

“Let me tell
you
about it, then.”

She rolled her eyes and looked away, knowing there was little she could do to stop him. “This ought to be good.”

Cayal set out the teacups and turned to the fire, lifting the heavy kettle from its hook with his bare hands. If he was burned by the scorching metal, she couldn't tell. He poured the water as if it came straight from a cool mountain stream, rather than bubbling over a fire. “You don't love your husband, Arkady. You might like him. You may even respect him, but you don't love him. I'm guessing you have your own bedroom at the palace and he has his. He probably takes lovers, now and then, but he's the king's cousin, so he knows how to be discreet. You married him because you gained something from it—wealth, certainly, although you don't strike me as the avaricious type—and he gained a very nice table ornament to trot out at dinner parties.” Cayal replaced the kettle over the fire and turned back to the teapot. “You'll have to give him an heir, someday, I suppose, but you've time yet, before you reach the danger years for childbearing, so he doesn't mind you playing at being an academic for a while longer. How am I doing?”

Swallowing the last of her bread, which had suddenly turned to ashes in her mouth, Arkady made no attempt to deny his accusations. Nor was she impressed by them. “You could have found out all of that from any guard in Lebec Prison.”

“They told me your father died there.”

“Then you know everything about me.”

He smiled humourlessly and began to pour the tea into a couple of mismatched cups he'd found on the mantel. “I have a feeling we could be acquainted for a thousand years and I'd never get to know you, Arkady Desean. You're far too practised at concealment. I doubt you'd even recognise yourself, if you were ever forced to confront the truth about who you really are.”

Arkady looked away. “I believe we're rapidly approaching that ‘you'll like me less when I'm done' point you spoke of.”

“Why was your father arrested?”

“He was caught helping escaped slaves.”

“He'd been doing it for years, I heard.” Cayal handed her the tea, which she accepted gratefully as she nodded in agreement, much more comfortable talking about her father than the direction the conversation had been heading a few moments ago.

“He was betrayed by a colleague at the university,” she told him, sitting at the table opposite him. “Someone he trusted. They arrested him, took him to Lebec Prison and interrogated him for days without respite. My father was a sick old man before they took him away. He was dead before I could find a way to have him released.”

“What happened?”

“I just told you what happened.”

“No, I mean what happened to make this trusted friend suddenly betray your father?”

Arkady hesitated for a long moment before she answered, not sure, even as she did, why she was confiding in this man. “Because I refused to sleep with him any longer.”

Cayal said nothing, but neither did he look particularly surprised.

“Aren't you going to say something?” she asked in the awkward silence that followed her announcement.

He shook his head. “Is there anything I could say that would make a difference?”

His question surprised her a little. “I…I don't know. Probably not.”

“Did your father know?”

Arkady shook her head. “My father's betrayer was a man named Fillion Rybank. He was the head of the School of Medicine at Lebec University. He and my father had been the best of friends since their student days. It would have killed him if he'd known.”

“It killed him anyway, I'd say,” Cayal pointed out a little heartlessly.

“Ironic, isn't it?” she agreed. She wasn't angry. Cayal said nothing she hadn't tormented herself with for the past seven years. And it surprised her now how easily the tale came out. “It started when I was fourteen. Fillion came by to visit my father late one night on some pretext or other and caught him treating an escaped feline in the basement.”

“Did he confront your father about it?”

“No,” she said. “He didn't know Fillion was there. But I saw him and I begged him not to say anything. He agreed on the condition that I come to his rooms the next afternoon to…‘take care of some important business for me' I believe was how he put it.” She sipped her tea, not surprised at how distant the memories seemed. Arkady had partitioned off that part of her soul many years ago. “I soon learned what sort of business he had in mind, and that it mostly involved me on my hands and knees, begging him to punish me for being a naughty girl, and then thanking him afterwards for having his way with me. I think I must have cried for two days after the first time. And he kept making me come back, week after week, for the better part of six years. I was so frightened of Fillion. So frightened for my father. I couldn't tell him what was going on. At first I thought I was protecting him. When I got older, I realised he'd die of shame and mortification if he discovered I'd suffered such abuse to save him, when he believed so fervently that it was his job to protect me.”

“But you put an end to it,” Cayal said. It wasn't a question.

Arkady shrugged. “I got older. And a friend discovered what was going on. He threatened to kill Fillion himself if I didn't put an end to it. Odd, don't you think, that it was the threat of his death that helped me finally get the courage up to tell Fillion Rybank it was time he started taking care of his own business? Mind you, I was more concerned for my friend than for my tormentor, because he was quite serious about killing him. I didn't want him punished for my foolishness. Anyway, Rybank didn't take the news well and three days later, they arrested my father.”

“And yet despite these setbacks, you somehow came out of this calamitous mess married to a duke,” Cayal remarked.

Arkady remained calm, displaying no emotion. She'd had almost six years of weekly visits to Fillion Rybank's rooms to practise that particular skill and had mastered it long ago. “I've known Stellan Desean since we were children. When I'd exhausted every legal avenue to have my father released, I petitioned him directly.” She might be feeling unusually garrulous, but there were some secrets she wasn't prepared to surrender quite so easily.

“And what?” Cayal asked with a raised brow. “One look at your matchless beauty and he took you to wife after promising to release your father?”

“More or less.”

“You're a good liar, Arkady.”

“It takes one to know one,” she retorted. “Tell me the rest of it.”

“Why should I bother? You think I'm a liar.”

She smiled. “I enjoy watching a master at work.”