Forbidden (15 page)

“Listen to me.” He faced Feyn. “This is very simple. You’re a diseased serving-woman. If you’ve been down to the dungeons I just came from, you know what I’m talking about. And I’m a worker here, hauling you out before you infect everyone. The guards won’t recognize you, and any attempt you make to struggle will only confirm your illness.”

He paused, only moderately satisfied with his strategy. But it was the best he had.

“Now we can go back up the hole in this closet, which could get ugly, or we can take a back door out of here, which would be much easier. I’m going to free your mouth for a moment. Don’t bother thinking a scream will be heard from in here. Just tell me if there’s a back way out.”

She stood still. He eased the scarf from her mouth. “Which way?”

“This is—”

Rom shoved the scarf back into her mouth. “That doesn’t sound like an answer to me. Let’s try one more time.”

She remained quiet for a moment and then obliged him. “There’s a staircase behind the silk curtains. Where are you taking me?”

“What’s the fastest way out of the Citadel?”

She hesitated and then said, “The service entrance.”

He replaced the gag. “If we run into any guards in general and you scream, they’ll only take you for deranged and know just how diseased you are.”

The guards’ fear of disease would keep them off. For the first time since entering the Citadel, he felt a growing sense of confidence.

Rom wrapped a wide strip of her nightgown around his own face, covering his mouth in a makeshift mask against her “disease.”

“Let’s go,” he said. Keeping a tight grip on her elbow, he led the Sovereign-to-be from her room, then along several passageways occupied by guards who were only too eager to let them pass, and eventually out the side gate.

Those few riding the underground at this hour cast nervous glances in Feyn’s direction.

“Wellness center,” he explained. “Contagious.” They all exited the train car at the next stop.

Feyn had only struggled once, at the Citadel gate, and as Rom had predicted her scene only hastened their escape.

They rode north, to the farthest station point outside the city. Only when they were far beyond the station, on the deserted road to the royal stables, did he unwind the shawl from her face and take the damp handkerchief from her mouth.

“Are you mad? You smuggle me out as a diseased whore?”

“I didn’t say whore.”

“Does it matter?”

The scent of fresh hay and manure drifted through the air. They were approaching the complex of the royal stables, which was so large that the sheer number of workers it employed merited its own stop on the north train.

“And now what—we’re going to saddle a horse and go for a predawn ride?”

He didn’t really know how this was going to work, so he said nothing as he steered her toward a stable next to what looked like an indoor arena.

The stables were dark except for a single light at the end of each one. Staying near the light—he would need to see what he was doing—he moved toward the first stall.

“Your amulet is Sumerian,” she said. “They said you were an artisan.”

“I don’t see any guards. Are there any posted here?”

“The stables don’t usually need them. Most people are afraid of horses.”

Now that she said it, he wondered if he would be. He had always thought it would be calming to ride a horse. But now that he was confronted with the prospect, he wasn’t so sure.

“You’re serious about this,” Feyn said.

“I am.”

He led her to a stall. A nearly white thoroughbred came to meet them.

Rom unlatched the stall door but made her go in first.

“Do you even know how to saddle a horse?”

“No.” He picked up the saddle on the stand outside and turned back to confront the haughty Sovereign and the great mass of horse inside.

“You’re going to ruin her. Untie me. I’ll do it.”

“Just tell me what to do.”

“Do you think I’m going to run off like this?”

“You could knock me out and ride bareback out of here.”

The thought of her riding bareback on the animal was wildly alluring.

“Put down that saddle and get the pad off the wall.”

He took one look at her and put it down before going to fetch the pad and a saddlebag with a couple of canteens strapped to the side.

He followed her directions in placing first the pad and then the saddle on the horse.

“The girth.”

He cinched the girth, knotting the end of it.

“Get the bridle.”

All this time he had watched her with no small measure of respect and wariness. He hadn’t ruled out her clocking him and running. Even as she slipped the bridle over the horse’s head and got the bit in place—all with her wrists tied in front of her—he wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t ride out of here without him one way or another. It was why, when it was time, he mounted first and then reached down and hoisted her up in front of him.

Only then did he untie her hands so she could sit properly and guide the animal.

The horse shifted beneath them, and he grabbed her tightly. If he fell, she was coming with him.

“Take us north,” he said, “into the wastelands.”

D
espite her
exhaustion, Avra couldn’t sleep. Not with the ghosts dashing through her mind, mocking and sending her spinning off axis no matter how she tried to reassure herself.

Rom should be back by now, Avra. Rom is dead, Avra. They’ve cut him in two and left him to bleed out on the side of the road, Avra
.

She flung off the covers and went out from Neah’s bedroom to the living room, where Triphon was snoring, gape-mouthed on the sofa. He’d been in the same position for nearly three hours and she wouldn’t have minded slapping the contentment off his face, if only to have some company in her misery.

“Triphon.” She sat down on the edge of the coffee table and shook him by the shoulder. “Triphon!”

He jolted up. “Someone coming?”

“Don’t you think they should be back by now?”

He fell back against the sofa’s stuffed arm, one leg dangling off the front edge of the seat cushions. “Not necessarily. Have you ever been to the Citadel?”

She shuddered. “No.”

“It’s pretty big. Depending on where they went and how long it takes them to find what they’re looking for, it could be a while. Especially if they’re staying out of sight.”

Triphon swung both feet to the floor. The sight of him had always been soothing and familiar to her—a poor way of saying, before she knew fondness existed, that she was fond of him.

Now she knew she also trusted him.

He scrubbed at his short hair. “What time is it, anyway?”

Avra stood and paced, hands on hips. “Almost three in the morning.”

Triphon got up. He went into the kitchen to look at the wall clock, then came back.

“Two forty. You’re right. They should be here.”

She stopped pacing. “Maybe we should head toward the underground station to see if they’re coming?”

Triphon returned to the sofa but did not sit. “That won’t do anything. The last train leaves the Citadel at three o’clock. It’s almost an hour commute to the station from here. So if we don’t see them in—what, an hour and a half?—they didn’t get out in time.”

“Didn’t get out? You mean they were caught?”

“They might’ve had to hide for a while. Neah would know to get out of there before people start coming in. The trains don’t start again until five in the morning.”

“I’m worried,” she said.

“They’ll be fine.”

“We still have time to catch the last train if we hurry. You have clearance—we could get in, go after them.”

“What, go to the Citadel?”

“I have a horrible feeling. What if they need us?”

Triphon nodded. “I would, but we gave our word to Rom—”

“That was before they disappeared!”

“We don’t know they disappeared.”

“I can’t lose him, Triphon.” She felt a tear run down her right cheek. “I know you understand that. I can’t lose Rom.”

“I know,” he said softly, looking away. “I know how it feels.” He grabbed his jacket. “All right.”

A key sounded in the door and they both froze.

The door flew open. Neah rushed into the apartment. She was shaking. Ashen.

Avra glanced at the empty doorway behind her. “Where’s Rom?”

“What happened?” Triphon said, looking out the door before closing it.

Neah’s face was drawn. “They’ve got him.”

Avra faltered. “Who has him?”

“What happened?” Triphon demanded again.

“You just left him?”

“No, I didn’t just leave him!” Neah clasped her head.

“What happened?”

“We came out of the dungeons, ready to leave, but Rom said he had to stay.”

“
What?
”

“He said he had to stay because the keeper, that crazy old man in the dungeon, told him he had to find Feyn.”

“Feyn?” Triphon hesitated. “As in…
Feyn
?”

“What?
Why?
”

Neah shook her head. “I don’t know! He said he couldn’t leave without finding her. But the guards were coming. They were coming and he was hiding and they found him.” She paced past them and back, wringing her hands. “He’s probably in the dungeon by now. That horrible place!”

“We have to go,” Avra said. “Now, before the underground shuts down for the night.”

“No. You can’t just walk in there! The guards are on alert. I barely got out. They’re looking for me.”

“But not me,” Triphon said.

“Right.” Avra said. “They’re not looking for Triphon. Triphon and I can go.”

“What good would that do? Even if you got in, you don’t know where to find him.”

“You can tell us,” Avra said.

“Neah’s right,” Triphon said. “If they’re on alert, you wouldn’t pass. I, on the other hand, could. I’ll get him.”

“No,” Neah said again.

“Why not?”

Neah met his gaze, seemingly unable to speak.

Avra tried to think, biting at the thumbnail she had already worn down to nothing.

“I could take a hostage,” Triphon said.

“No, no.” Avra shook her head, glanced at Neah. She had gone silent.

“If Rom does end up in the dungeons, who’s in charge of them?”

“Saric,” Neah said faintly.

An idea—a crazy idea—took root in Avra’s mind.

“I have a plan.”

“Are you deaf?” Neah said. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? I’m not going back!”

“You won’t have to. Triphon and I will go.” Avra turned toward Triphon. “Are you with me?”

He grinned. “To the end.”

S
aric paused
before his chamber’s long mirror. It was new, a replacement for the one shattered by Portia.

Portia, who was now…absent.

Outside his chamber, the residence buzzed with activity. Feyn herself, he imagined, had already left for the countryside, not to return until her inaugural entrance into the city—a journey that would begin at the country estate, near the stables, and end on the steps of the Grand Basilica. Until then, she would spend the next three days in solitude.

Three days. So much would change.

He smoothed the sleeves of the robe. Tilted his head and studied the line of his jaw, now perfectly smooth, a translucent veneer over the dark veins that branched like the limbs of an inky tree. This was the face the world would soon come to fear.

It was time.

It took him less than five minutes to reach his father’s quarters. This time, he noted, the secretary rose to meet him.

“My lord.”

“Are the arrangements as I requested?”

“Yes, my lord. The Sovereign is waiting for you.” She gestured him toward the great bronze doors.

“Alone.”

“Alone, as you requested.”

“There’s so little opportunity to share a private meal with my father alone, you understand.”

“Yes, but there will be many opportunities with the Sovereign your sister.” The secretary’s smile was polite, but he found the expression unattractive.

“It will never be quite the same as with Father, will it?” He gave a smile of his own and pushed wide the great bronze door.

Inside, the receiving chamber was filled with the smell of venison and wilted greens, all set upon a simply appointed table.

Vorrin was behind the great desk nearby, writing. Saric went to one knee.

“Saric. Good morning.” Vorrin gestured for him to rise. “Give me a moment.”

“Take your time, Father. I imagine there’s much demanding your attention these last days.”

He waved off the servant turning up the gilt teacups on the table. “You may go. I’ll serve my father this morning.”

“If you would, please take these out to Camille.” Vorrin stood and gave the documents to the servant, who left, closing the heavy double doors behind him. Having prepared the tea, Saric went to embrace his father.

He accepted his father’s kiss, suppressing the urge to recoil from the crepe-like skin of his cheek, the thin line of his lips.

Vorrin glanced toward the window. “It would be an auspicious end, I think, to see the sun once before the conclusion of my reign.”

Saric poured his father some tea, then forked venison and greens onto his plate. “Are we really going to talk about the weather?” He walked around the small table and sat down.

“You’re right. Time enough to reflect on these things after.” Vorrin bowed his head and Saric paused, hands in his lap.

“Maker guide us in all we do. We are blessed to have Order.”

“We are blessed,” Saric murmured before reaching to fill his own plate.

They ate for a full minute in silence before Vorrin set down his fork. “Now that it’s ending, I confess, I find myself filled with some strange anxiety. But I’m comforted that Feyn will soon take my place.”

“Do you suppose that Megas, at the end of his reign, looked back on all that he had accomplished and considered it good?”

“Megas, more than any of us, accomplished great things.”

“And yet some say that he had Sirin killed. Have you ever heard that?”

Vorrin stirred his tea. “Yes,” he said at last. “It is an old, blasphemous rumor. One of many. Whatever the truth, the Maker has seen fit to grant us Order out of it. That is what matters.”

“Is it?” Saric set his fork down and stared across the table at the aged thing that had once been his father. “Is it all that matters, really? You say that, but I have to ask, what
was
so bad about Chaos?”

“Please. Such questions you ask.” He set down his spoon. “You’ve lived so long under the prosperity of Order that you cannot know—none of us can—the horrors of Chaos. The violence of it. The dark ends of hate and jealousy and ambition.”

“Are they all so dark?”

“Yes,” Vorrin said, lifting his teacup. He took a small sip. “Or have you forgotten the events prior to Sirin—the detonation of the weapons? Millions of lives were lost. Farmlands ruined. Many people starved. Where there is hunger and death, there is terrible unrest. All that makes us human, all of our higher pursuits, become lost to baser ways. Men become like animals. It was Sirin who preached Order out of darkness. But it was Megas who had the vision to give Sirin’s Order universal life.”

Saric’s gaze followed his father’s cup as it settled back on the saucer. “You respect Megas, yes? Even if he had Sirin killed.”

“There was a time when this rumor troubled me greatly. But sometimes imperfect tools lead us toward perfect ends.”

Saric resisted the urge to smile. “Look around you, Father. Do you really see perfection?”

Vorrin glanced up, fork in hand. He set it down, ran his tongue over his lips, and sucked at a tooth.

“Of course it’s not perfect. You and I know that. But the people need a way to temper their fear of death. They need their icons, their support rails to hold on to as they walk unsteadily through this life. We need them, too. Order isn’t perfect, but it’s surely greater than we are.”

“Is it? To what end?” Saric said. “Bliss? What do you know of Bliss?”

“I know only what you know: That it is the absence of fear. And I know that the rules of Order mark the path that avoids fear. The Maker does not require the rules of us;
we require the rules of the Maker
. We are the ones who need them, not he. That is the greatest secret. You’ve never understood this the way Feyn does. But in time, you will. That is my prayer for you.”

The old man coughed. He dabbed at his lips, looked down at his napkin as though surprised at the saliva there.

Saric slid back from the table and stood. “Do you know what I think, Father? That I do understand. I understand that this is all so much
rot
. That you’ve bought into the greatest illusion of all. We’re not
more
human because of Order. We’re less. The very Maker we bow to has stripped us of passion!”

A muscle beneath the wrinkled skin of his father’s eye had begun to tic, like the first mechanical hiccup of a malfunctioning machine.

“Megas was great for his passions, you old fool. For his willingness to take up a weapon and make his convictions a reality. But in doing so he stripped us of the same thing that made him great. And what are we now? We’re rats.” He dropped his napkin onto his plate. “But no longer, Father. I will not abide in this rat hole.”

“What—what are you talking about?” Vorrin said, his last word coming out with a wheeze. He tried to push back from the table as well, but his hands trembled. His strength had left him. “Dear Maker…”

Saric slowly approached him, watching the failure of his body with dispassion. “You refused me the senate, Father. And so I shall take it my own way.”

Vorrin pulled at the neck of his robe, gasping for breath. “You don’t know what you’re doing. You’ll throw the world back to Chaos!”

Saric jerked his father’s robe, sending the Sovereign sprawling to the floor. “More than that, dear Father, I’ll rule that chaos with an army that will make you gasp from your grave.”

Vorrin curled and then arched against the floor, mouth open, jaw working, sucking air. Not unlike a fish, Saric thought.

“Your heart is stopping,” Saric said, tilting his head to study him. It was just as Corban said. “A small gift of alchemy. A little something that will leave no trace, I’ve been assured.”

“I beg you…I beg you, my son—” Vorrin gasped, his thin lips turning blue.

Saric crouched next to him, peered into his ashen face. “It’s so beneath you to beg for your life.”

The Sovereign’s lips moved, but this time no sound came out. Instead, the breath wheezed from between them as the light slowly faded from his old gray eyes.

The room was silent.

Saric stood and embraced the fear and anguish that now flooded his mind. He’d prepared for this moment, but he hadn’t expected his emotions to be so natural, so visceral.

He let out a cry and lurched toward the door. Threw himself against it, pushed it open.

“Help!”

The cry came out as a guttural roar, propelling the secretary to her feet. “Get the doctor! The Sovereign’s stopped breathing!”

She went white.

“Now!” he shouted.

He spun and hurried back to his father’s side. It would only take a minute; the Sovereign’s physician, however rarely needed, lived in an adjacent apartment just as the head of the senate did.

When the sound of pounding feet reached him, Saric sank to his knees beside the lifeless ruler. “This was your fault,” he said softly into the lifeless old ear. “You were always a fool.”

Saric straightened and pushed against Vorrin’s chest. “Breathe, Father!” he shouted. A wheeze slid through the dead Sovereign’s lips. Saric pounded his father’s ribs with a fist.

Rowan came bursting into the room.

“Help me!” Saric shouted.

In a flurry of robes the senate leader dropped to his knees on the other side of the Sovereign. He tilted up Vorrin’s head, listening for breath, but there was none to hear.

Others had pushed through the heavy doors. Some of them held their hands against their mouths, stifling their cries; some wailed fearful prayers.

Some simply stared at the body jerking on the floor as the senate leader pounded upon Vorrin’s chest.

“The physician is here—out of the way!”

Saric spun back just as the woman who’d seen to his father’s health for the last decade—a middle-aged woman named Sarai—burst through the knot of onlookers. She dropped to her knees and felt his throat, listened near his mouth, and then stacked her hands upon his chest and began a rapid series of compressions. The body of the Sovereign spasmed like a puppet to the audible crunch of bone.

Rowan turned away as though he might be sick.

After several moments, the doctor stopped. Sweat beaded on her temple and nose.

“He’s dead?” someone cried from the door.

“Out!” Rowan roared. “Get out!”

“It can’t be.” Saric let anguish fill his throat. He fell back on his heels and stared at the dead body. “My father’s dead?”

That silence was answer enough. Those at the door did not leave but stood transfixed by the sight.

Saric let out a low moan. He staggered to his feet, gripped his robe with both hands, and ripped it wide.

“Father!”

Rowan, trembling and pale, stood to follow the old custom. His long fingers dug into the front of his great black robe. The heavy velvet tore open.

“Maker have mercy on us.”

Saric sank back down to his knees. He wrapped his arms around the old man’s carcass, so thin beneath the myriad layers of his embroidered robe. “Father, Father…”

You see how low I will stoop now, Father? To belittle myself like this in such a pathetic fashion? How I cradle your body when others shrink from it?

He felt his body shaking, but it was from his own rage and disgust, not the fear the others thought they saw.

“Father…”

They tried to draw Saric up by the shoulders. “My lord…”

It was Rowan. He pulled at Saric with trembling hands.

Saric dug his fingers into the withered limbs of his father and clung more tightly.

“My lord! It’s death. You must let go.”

Saric turned on the man. “Leave me! Leave us!”

The senate leader looked about him, obviously disoriented by the unprecedented nature of this event. Which of them had ever witnessed the death of a Sovereign? Even the physician had backed away, white-faced.

“Sire, you must know.” Rowan’s tremulous voice filled the chamber. “I cite the Order:
If one Sovereign shall die before the end of his term, his eldest, should he have progeny, shall rule in his place until the end of that term
.”

The senate leader was shaking. Saric could see it now in the tremor of his torn robes where they gaped like wounds against his bare, smooth chest.

“Sire…”

Saric flung his hand out. “Leave me!”

“But you must—”

“My Sovereign lies dead and you cite old laws?”

“The Sovereign lives,” Rowan said. The senate leader’s face was a mask of terror. Saric saw it clearly—the man’s slow swallow, the working of his throat, the tight draw of his brows.

“He is Saric, eldest son of Vorrin.” He dipped his head.

“Do not speak this to me,” Saric said, this time with dangerous quiet.

Rowan’s eyes darted back and forth between Saric and the form of Vorrin. He was fearful, yes, but resolved to follow Order. Doggedly determined. As ever.

As Saric knew he would be.

“Sire, I cite the Order.”

Saric stood. “No. Call for my sister.” He turned toward the door. “Call my sister, Feyn!”

“It is the law!” Rowan said, and sank to one knee.

Behind him the doctor hesitated, and then quickly followed suit. One by one, those standing in the doorway, the Citadel Guard in the middle of the room, Camille the secretary, all went down to their knees.

“Get up. All of you, get up!” Saric snapped. “I’m not fit to
advise
this man, much less sit on the throne.”

No one rose.

“Forgive me,” Rowan said. “I never realized until now your great loyalty to your father.” There was something new in his eyes, Saric thought. A newfound deference that had not been there before. “We all fear and mourn this loss. But now you must come before the senate. Please. You cannot leave the world without a Sovereign.”

“You would have me as Sovereign for three days when Feyn has been groomed for this, has prepared years for it, and is poised, even now, in preparation for this very office? In this one thing the Maker has been merciful. Seek my sister.”

“She cannot assume rule yet. Order forbids it.”

“There is Order, but there is also practicality and reason. If you won’t move to inaugurate Feyn early, then at least choose someone with experience. Miran, Sovereign before Father, is alive and well. Let him serve.”