Byzantium's Crown (19 page)

Alexa was alive! Marric exulted. He would have hidden his face in his hands save that Stephana still clasped them. Her hands had gone very cold. But the visions were not yet over.

Alexa, wearing the dress of an Aescir noblewoman, walking on the riverbank as the bearmaster's men compelled their ship upriver over the rapids . . . Alexa, riding at Audun's side in a green land, her face peaceful . . . staring out to sea, no aura of evil about her now.

The film of oil on the water was thinner, darker now. More and more feebly it swirled. Stephana's hands shook.

"One last thing," Marric begged. "Let me see my sister as she is now!"

Stephana drew a shuddering breath and bent over the bowl.

Alexa's dark hair was brushed back into long braids bound with gold. She wore green, girdled with metal leaves, and she stood between a man and woman, no, a king and queen. Both were tall and golden haired, crowned with simple circlets. Alexa parted her lips as if to speak to Marric and—

The vision guttered out. The oil in the water caught fire and burned for a brief instant. Then smoke rose from what was only a bowl of water stained with ashes. Light and life had fled from it. Stephana's hands jerked and the bowl turned over. She lurched sideways, and Marric came around the table to kneel at her side. He was glad to bury his face against her hair and hide his tears.

He wanted to shout, to laugh, to weep, or to swing Stephana high into the air. Alexa was alive and safe in the Isles of the Mists. The brother and sister who ruled there would protect her against the time he could come to claim her. Alexa would reign as Isis yet!

Stephana raised her head. "Your sister, my love? Indeed, I am glad she lives; you grieved so. But are you—"

He kissed her words to silence.

"Once more you give me life and hope back, Stephana. What manner of woman are you?"

"Yours," she said faintly. "Yours . . . and the Goddess'."

Marric bowed his head over hers. Goddess, don't let me fail her as I failed Alexa. He carried Stephana to the mats that Taran unrolled and covered her with her cloak and his own.

Nicephorus brought water again. "I reset the wards. Now Taran can speak with Imhotep." He put out one hand and smoothed back Stephana's hair. She opened her eyes and smiled at him, then rested her cheek on her hand and slept.

Nicephorus glanced over at Marric.

"Nico, I swear by all the gods that Stephana will never want for anything as long as she lives!" Did Nicephorus think that Marric could ever abandon her, sister or not? "Least of all," he continued, his voice shaking, "for my love."

Nicephorus patted his shoulder. "Rest, Mor. We face a long road in the morning."

Could Marric love two women? Apparently he did. Joy filled him.

Carefully, not to disturb Stephana, Marric settled in next to her. Nico was right: they had a long road ahead of them. At the end of it lay an empire to win, a queen to regain, and all the rest of their lives to celebrate their victories.

Prince Marric leaned back against the railing of the merchantman Pride of Isis and tried to force himself to inner stillness. It wasn't easy; he doubted it ever would be. Once again he had a new identity—Alexandros the merchant, sailing with a party of priests to Byzantium with one of the all too infrequent grain convoys. Behind them across open water lay Alexandria. By avoiding the usual night harbors, the captain and convoy hoped to escape pirates.

For right now, he was safe, and Stephana and Nico with him. He might as well stop scanning the horizon for pirates.

That night in Taran's cabin, Stephana had restored his hopes. And Taran had traveled out of body to speak with Imhotep. Returning to himself at dawn, he told Marric that the Osiris priest had foreseen no more difficulties with Berber raiding parties. They were cut off, the only route of escape lying through the necropolis west of Alexandria. And the tomb guardians—not all of them possessing bodies or human form—would punish those who profaned them. Marric, the priest agreed, had found his own path to freedom. Let him come to the temple with his friends.

"Come with us," Marric urged Taran. The druid refused.

"I am eyes and ear for my order here. Would you abandon your post?"

Long ago, in what felt like another life, Marric had done just that to try to take up the empire he thought he owned—but that owned him. Now he shook his head.

"It is hardly the same—"

"Because I am old and bear no weapons? Prince Marric, innocent of war as you think I am, if I had not wished your coming here safely, you would be wandering the swamps. Please believe me"—his glance left Marric and lighted on Stephana, who still slept, exhausted—"I am in less danger than any of you."

At twilight Stephana had led them through the fog again. Nicephorus, tied to a horse, maintained the glamour that let them approach Alexandria invisible to guard, traveler, or thief.

By midnight they arrived outside the south wall. Stephana headed for a small, concealed entrance. After he forced it open, Marric found a long underground passageway of dressed limestone that led to the temple itself. Imhotep awaited them. He nodded and hurried them inside. No one else saw them—and thus could not be blamed. As the passage wound on beneath the city, it pressed in on Marric. Halfway to the temple, by Imhotep's reckoning, his torch flickered out.

"Do you wish me to summon light?" Stephana asked. Echoes hissed and grumbled.

"Light has never shone here." They continued in darkness.

As Marric began to wonder if being lost in a tomb could be more unnerving than this—and what if they were lost beneath the maze of streets—the passage opened into the brightly lit inner precinct of the temple. None of the priests and scribes there stopped to wonder at their superior's shepherding a bandaged man with the bearing of a general, a woman with silvered hair, and a slighter man who might have been one of them, were it not for his look of hard usage.

They were assigned quarters where they found supplies and garments suitable for a sea voyage.

When Marric had left Tmutorakan for his capital at Alexa's summons, he had had no doubts of his fitness to rule. Now, turning over the contents of the sea chests, he felt unsure of his strength. Could he reconcile Huns, Aescir, and the empire? And then there was Irene. He had sense enough to fear her powers and no idea of how to fight them.

As Marric finished donning the breeches and full tunic of a prosperous merchant, Imhotep entered.

"Do you think I can do it?" Marric asked without preface.

"Can you not try and go on living?" The priest's irony reassured Marric more than any assurances. "There are dangers, and you know them now. But you are not without allies. We in Alexandria will alert our brothers and sisters in Byzantium. They will harbor you while you make your plans."

"I have to thank you—"

For the first time in their acquaintance, Imhotep smiled. Then his face changed, and Marric laughed. He knew the expression from the days before he entered training: priest reproving him for his temper.

"You are going to warn me against rashness again, aren't you?"

"Only a rash man would attempt what you do. I will give thanks for your rashness each day of my life. But I do wish to remind you of one thing. Prince, you are on the Wheel. For all that you do, there comes payment. There will always be payment, in this life or another. Be careful you do nothing that will make you
pay more than you can bear."

Marric would have questioned him further. But Imhotep held up his hand, forbidding questions. Marric remembered this gesture too.

"Come now and join your companions."

The long tunic of a scholar made Nicephorus look younger yet more dignified than Marric thought he could. But Stephana, she was the wonder. Over her blue tunic she wore a rich dalmatic with embroidered key-trim at hem and at her knee. A semi-circular cloak in a darker blue lay over her arm. The gold brooch that fastened it gleamed with a sapphire. She bore herself like the great lady a kinder fate would have let her be. Marric grinned, and she whirled before him, delighted by his admiration. Seizing his hands, she led him to a seat.

"In seven days a grain convoy will embark for Byzantium," Imhotep told them. "Until then—well, no one objects to worthy, pious citizens who take quarters in Rhakotis by the Temple and spend their days in prayer."

"Is it safe?"

"Rhakotis is the oldest part of the city. Those who live here are Egyptians of the old stock, loyal to the temple and to me. Of course, I could send the lady to the temple of Isis. Pharia: the island is well secured."

"Let me stay here!" Stephana interrupted. "If I am to help him—" She broke off and laughed. Marric had never heard her sound so carefree.

"I assume your plans are the best possible under these conditions," said Marric. "We will stay together."

"No one will know where to seek us," said Nicephorus.

"Not on this level of being," said the priest. "I caution you against venturing out on any other. By now Irene knows that the prince has eluded her. And she has creatures who will search the astral planes for Marric. If they find him—"

"I cannot travel as Taran did," Marric objected.

"Not that you perceive. But it lies within you, and your companions' gifts quicken your own. But since you cannot yet defend or conceal yourself, you need protection."

Marric started to object to that term.

"You protected me, love. When I would have lived out my life joyless, you forbade. Let me thank you by doing this."

"If you wish to protect me, love," Marric said, smiling into her eyes, heedless of their companions, "we left your lance behind."

"I am not joking," said Stephana. She turned to Imhotep. "Do not even think of separating us. Who can guard him better, night and day, than I?"

The priest inclined his head in respect. "I cannot withstand fate. Be it as you will, child."

The wind blew Marric's cloak about his tall form. He smiled at the lingering memories. Now, on board Pride of Isis, he played the part of a well-to-do merchant. Stephana posed as his wife. As far as Marric's feelings were concerned, that was no imposture. Day after day—even while learing the disciplines of breathing and thought Imhotep put him through—Marric had watched his lover flower. Even Antonia, his mother, could not have borne herself with more grace.

But Stephana could not escape her past. Some evenings Marric found her seated before a candle flame, seeking calm with the patience adepts had. At other times nightmares made her toss and moan. After he woke and comforted her, and before she could sleep again, she would perform rituals of protection. The air would shimmer with blue light. And even after that, when she was exhausted, she would lie and shiver in his arms.

What was she anyhow? Marric had known women who made a profession of beauty and turned pleasure into high art. He had known women who were royal, whose birth and strength of will equaled his. Why, then, did he love this woman whose great arched eyelids and slender bones made her look fey, a woman who had spent part of her life in misery and another part—equally arduous—in esoteric study he couldn't even understand? Power had cost her cruelly. But it did not deprive her of her essential shrewdness. Marric trusted her judgment as he hoped one day to trust his empress'—assuming Alexa was learning the same harsh lessons slavery and despair had taught him. But Stephana had courage and humor, a great capacity to take joy even in the smallest gift. She would have made a fine empress.

Stephana's maid, muffled in a heavy cloak, approached Marric. Her very intonations a copy of her lady's, she repeated a message: Did my lord intend to fast all day?

Now Marric remembered. Not all gifts gave Stephana pleasure. Daphne had been one such.

In Alexandria Imhotep had opened the treasuries to Marric. "You are Horus. Take what you need. All we have comes from you, and is held in trust for you."

With this money Marric was able to purchase even the gifts with which he would bribe Irene's servants. His own needs, like Nicephorus', were simple: one attendant would serve them both. And they had him, the urchin Marric brought to the temple was pleased to leave Alexandria. But he would stay with the ship.

Marric assumed that Stephana would need a serving girl and that she would require what any other lady needed in a maid: health, strength, pleasantness, skill in fine sewing, hairdressing, and perhaps music. Stephana's own skills, in short. It would be an interesting challenge to please her. Seeing Daphne in the market, Marric decided she satisfied the requirements and did not even bother to bargain for her. He tossed a pouch to the dealer, sent a temple servant to procure her a decent gown, and told her to dress and follow him.

He had presented her with some anticipation to Stephana. "This is Daphne," he told her. "She will serve you well . . . won't you, child?"

"Yes, please, lady," the girl had stammered. She watched Stephana with eyes almost blank with fear. And she shrank away from Marric. Had the girl really thought he wanted a concubine? She was scarcely thirteen!

"Daphne, did my lord explain we have a long way to go? Will you come with us?" Stephana asked.

"Willing?" Daphne fell on her knees and burst into babyish, astounded tears. Stephana took her head between her hands, while Marric started to leave the room in some embarrassment. It was not going properly. He could rely on Stephana to calm the child down.

When Stephana's fingers brushed Daphne's collar, no thicker than the one Marric had broken from about her own throat, she went rigid. Stroking Daphne's curly hair, she looked up.

"Marric!" she called. Her voice was indignant and reproachful. "You bought this girl and simply would give her to me? Oh, Marric!" Pain shimmered in her eyes.

Stephana had needed a maid; he had provided her with one. That seemed simple enough, didn't it?

"She is unfree," said Stephana. "A slave. As were we, my lord, as were we."

Daphne would be well treated, Marric started to say. Seeing that she would serve Stephana, how not?