Garden of Madness (28 page)
Thoughts of the palace. Of Amel-Marduk’s seductive smile. Of his intended bride.
Which she feared brought her back full circle to the very place she stood.
Tia stumbled from the elegant home of Dakina into the hot squalor of the farmers’ district, but the heat did little to loosen the icy fingers that squeezed her heart.
Nothing was as it seemed, nor as it should be. If she was to be Amel’s wife, clearly Dakina knew nothing of it.
Crowds of women headed to market and men to their work pressed against her in the street, but Tia pushed through, heeding none of the jostling shoulders and elbows, circling stubborn donkeys, stepping over refuse.
She must know the truth. The truth of Shadir’s plans for Amel, and for her. And she must know whether Amel had knowledge of his birthright.
She had avoided Shadir long enough. The answers to the questions that had perplexed her for weeks were wrapped around the old mage, like the stars and moons stitched into his robes. She would find a loose thread somehow, and she would pull.
At this thought a fresh coldness weighted her chest. More secrets were yet to be revealed. What would such revelations mean for her?
She broke from the crowded main street and ducked into a narrower alley, hoping to reach the palace faster. A shuffling behind her drew her attention. The beggar that had approached earlier followed.
“I have no money for you.” Tia flicked a hand to dismiss him.
He toddled closer, some deformity of leg or hip affecting his balance. His lips broke into a black-toothed grin, and an ill-worn voice singsonged from the rotted teeth. “Prrriiin-ceeesss! Here is the princess!”
A current ran along her veins, sparking from her fingers. She took a step backward.
He wobbled on, and she saw that he had only one functioning eye. The other had been scarred closed—an endless, misplaced wink.
Tia looked away from that eye but dared not turn her back to flee. “What do you want?”
His good eye pierced her, as though it saw things beyond, like an oracle with knowledge she did not possess.
“What do you want?” He repeated her words, his tone as pleasant as a merchant offering a table of luxuries, but that eye, that single watching eye, unnerved her.
He was close enough to smell now, close enough to grab her if he dared, but all he did was stare, and a fear rose in her, a fear of the unknown and of the known, of secrets and of truth, of love and of loss.
“I—I have nothing for you,” she said again, and the words sounded childlike.
“Nor shall you.” His scarred, puckered socket was slitted enough for her to see that one eye did roam beneath the mutilation. He raised a crusty, age-bent finger. “Nor shall you.”
She waited, inhaling shallow breaths against the constriction in her chest.
“Leave truth to the gods, Princess. It is better held in their hands.”
Tia’s hands clutched her thighs, tightened around her robe. Her first sense had been correct. Some kind of oracle. “I cannot.”
His lips closed over the black teeth and his watching eye narrowed to nearly match the one destroyed. She expected another warning, perhaps a threat. But anger merged into contempt and he turned and waddled away, the stench trailing.
Tia let go of pent-up breath, felt her shoulders loosen, and licked dry lips. His cryptic words—implying that she would have nothing if she did not cease her questions—struck at the core of her fear, humiliating as that truth might be.
There was nothing to do but resume her flight toward the palace, toward her questions and toward the answers. Though every eye of each citizen she passed seemed an echo of the eye of the beggar, and she felt that all of Babylon watched her, traced her steps toward the palace, each one with knowledge of her secrets and of secrets yet to be spilled.
She kept close to the jagged-cut walls. At each notch a compulsion to hide herself gripped her, but she pushed on, her eyes on the Gardens now, hanging above the north end of the city.
A figure fell into step beside her. The beggar? A jolt of fear and repulsion surged. She halted, tottering against imbalance, and put a hand to the wall.
Amel-Marduk slowed and faced her, leaving her pushed into a crevice, as though he had divined her urge to be hidden.
“It is early for a tour of the city, Tiamat.” That half-amused smile he often wore tugged at his lips.
She swallowed, fighting the dryness of her throat and mouth. She had not seen Amel in days, not since discovering they shared a father.
He stepped closer and put a hand against the wall, pinning her into the niche. His gaze roamed her face. Did he read the confusion she felt? She avoided his gaze, studied the close-trimmed beard, the narrow shoulders. Inhaled the spicy incense.
“What has frightened you, Tia?” He ran a finger along her jawline, then touched her lips.
She felt the wrongness of it in her stomach, tasted revulsion and even anger, and yet she did nothing to stop him, nor did she want to. What was she becoming? Tia turned her head from him, fought to keep the palace in view.
He shifted and placed himself again in her line of sight. She allowed herself a glance into his dark eyes. Dark eyes with gold flecks, just like her father’s. She thought of her dream, of Amel urging her to save her family.
“I must get back. They will be missing me.”
“I have been missing you.” His breath was warm against her cheek.
The words strummed against the tension in her chest, like fingers plucking at a strung-tight lyre. Something there might snap if she did not soon escape.
Whether Amel knew she was his sister, she did not know. But this—this fascination—must not continue.
She ducked under his arm, released herself from his cage. “I must return.”
His lips drew together, a slight pout. Did he expect more from her? “I am going back myself. I will walk with you.”
“No!” Tia expanded her chest against the tension, but it did not release. “No. I do not think that is wise.”
“And I do not think it wise that a princess walk the streets alone.”
“I can take care of myself.” Tia headed for the palace but heard his voice behind her.
“This I know, Tiamat. This I know.”
She swept through the morning crowds, regained the palace steps, and fled through its arched entrance, all without looking behind to see if Amel followed. And yet she knew he did follow. And with him she sensed the unknown also crept behind her, ready to overtake.
She did not stop her flight through the palace, not while this surge of energy pushed her past her own fear, toward the Hall of Magi. There could be no more avoidance. The time for truth telling had come.
She passed through the columned entry of the Hall into its otherworldly shadows and hovered at the door. Did Shadir lurk in the gloom, watching her from those star-bright eyes?
Jaundiced sunlight slashed through the slit window high in the wall and cut a line across the polished floor. Dust motes flickered in the shaft of light, twins to the braziers lit against the bituminous walls. The tar’s odor watered her eyes and tightened her throat. She swallowed against the false symptoms of emotion. Shadir would find her strong.
A soft humming, a sweep of purple robe, a figure materializing from the back of the lofty Hall.
“Princess.” Shadir held the final syllable too long, fashioning it into a hiss. “Another visit?” He spread his hands to the Hall. “What can I show you this morning?”
“The past. The future.”
His eyebrows twitched, and a slow smile turned his mouth, the smile of a man who has waited long for what he has just heard.
“Ah. Only this, then.” He stood beside the central haruspicy table, its instruments laid ready.
Tia took a step toward him, but her legs and feet had grown heavy. “I have more questions than answers, and I would know the truth.”
He tilted his head, examined her as though she were a star chart. “Are you so certain? The truth does not always bring relief.”
His insight, an echo of Dakina’s, caused a flutter of indecision in her chest. It was relief she sought. But would the answers instead bring pain?
She jutted her chin toward him, toward the jewel-flecked wall. “Of all people, I should think you would believe that answers to mysteries are worth any price.”
Shadir clasped his hands at his waist and bowed. “You are a true Babylonian.”
His pretense of respect did nothing to warm her.
“I know that you plot to take the throne from my father.”
A slight movement, fingertips braced against the table. His smile did not crack, his eyes betrayed no surprise. But those steadying fingers, they gave her confidence.
“It would be better for you to keep to your amusements, Princess.”
Tia advanced from the entrance, her gaze fixed on his. “Better for whom?”
He licked his lips, a quick, unconscious movement. “You have no reason to fear.”
“A usurper is about to revolt against my family, and I have no cause for fear?” Tia laughed. “You must think me stupid.”
Something flared behind his eyes. Contempt? Tia felt the sting of it, like a tiny whip had lashed her skin.
She tried to force her fingers to uncurl at her sides, but her body held ready, reflexes alert.
“Not stupid, Princess. Simply uninformed.”
“So, inform me.”
He circled his table, placing it between them. She thought to follow him around it but chose to wait. Let him have his false protection.
He wrapped his robe tighter and crossed his arms. “There has been a need for many years to put a—competent man—on the throne. You know this.”
Anger surged hot in her throat, but she kept silent.
“There is one who is the perfect choice. Best for the kingdom.”
“Amel-Marduk. The mage who is completely under your control.”
Again the small bow. “I will admit, the boy values my advice. But he will be his own king, I assure you.”
Tia laughed again, a bitter huff to inform Shadir that she knew this to be false. “And my family?”
He shrugged and rearranged the instruments on his table. “There is always some upheaval when kings transition. But no harm will come to you, Princess. You will remain in the palace, nothing will be taken from you.”
“Because you intend for me to marry Amel. Become his queen.”
Ah, she had surprised him. He blinked several times in succession, then looked through the window slit high in the tar-black wall. “I am impressed. I had underestimated you.”
Tia circled the table and faced him, ready with one last revelation. “Hear this, Shadir. I will not marry my own brother.”
Shadir’s lips parted and his eyes widened. But then his face closed down again, into a sharp squint and puckered mouth.
She had spent all her knowledge now, everything that gave her an edge in this battle, and as Shadir’s surprise ebbed and his anger grew, she felt a slight shift that signaled power flowing toward him, and she was afraid.
“Truly, you should keep to your games, Princess.”
“I am not a child, nor a fool, Shadir.” Tia spat the words at him but felt a tremor begin in her legs. “I will not be used as part of your quest for power, as if I am nothing more than a palace asset.”
Shadir stroked his beard and studied her. “You are far more than that, Tiamat. Yes, Amel-Marduk is the king’s son. His only son. But his claim to the throne is still tenuous. Marriage to you will bolster that claim and will endear him to the kingdom. For they love their princesses.” Kind words, served up with an ugly sweetness.
“They will not favor a brother and sister on the thrones.”
Again, the smile that reshaped his face too slowly, taunting her to guess what he knew, what he would next announce, a secret too delicious not to share.
When it came, she could swear she heard the clank of heavy chains across her heart.
“Have no fear of such objections, Tiamat. For you are not the king’s daughter.”
Shadir’s words entered through her ears, bounced against the inside of her head, then plunged into her heart.
Not the king’s daughter
.
A cold, cold tickling in the arches of her feet skittered upward through her legs and became a chomping, gnashing monster, eating away at everything she called her own, her very identity. She grabbed for the table and clung as though it would save her from being consumed. Behind Shadir, the Hall of Magi’s star-flecked wall spiraled and blurred.
Tia found her voice, guttural and whispery. “I do not believe you.” The words came from the pit of her stomach, tainted with acid.
Shadir gave a tiny shrug of one shoulder and half turned to his instruments. “Perhaps you should ask your mother.”
It was his confidence that shook her, that struck like a blow to her chest and drove breath from her lungs. She could hear the
whoosh
of blood in her ears, but all else in the Hall was ghostly silence, as if the underworld had ceased its activity to listen.
“Whose daughter, then?”
Shadir inhaled and looked through the high window, as if trying to recall a time long past. He stroked his oiled beard and pursed his lips. “Let me see if I can recall. There were so many men in those days who—”
“Stop!” Tia pushed away from the table, but her hands were stuck there, in half-dried blood perhaps. The stickiness pulled at her skin and she imagined her palms torn open and raw.
Shadir laughed, a self-gratifying chuckle, and returned to arranging his instruments, still smirking. She longed to pummel the smirk from his face, but with only his words he had weakened her arms more than an hour’s training.
But she could still speak, could still form objections with throbbing lips. “And why did the king not thrust her from the palace? Reject both of us?”
The square of light on the floor receded as the sun rose higher, leaving the center of the room unlit, but Shadir’s gold-threaded robe seemed still to glow with an inner light. Those glistening threads held her captive, waiting for his answer.
He locked his eyes on to her own and watched her for a moment with that dead stillness of expression she had come to loathe.
