Realm of Light (40 page)

He seemed
unharmed. No bruises or cuts marred his skin. His breathing was even. No fever
raged in his body.

But he would not
awaken, no matter what they did. Finally, Elandra sent everyone away and
settled herself at his side. She held his strong hand in hers, tracing her
fingertips over his knuckles and the taut veins in the back of his hand,
needing the contact of her skin against his, her flesh to his.

“Please come back
to me,” she whispered to him. “I need you so. Please come back.”

Eventually a soft
argument outside the door caught her attention. She straightened just as the
door eased open.

Alti looked
inside. “Your pardon, Majesty. A visitor has come.”

Expecting her
father, she smiled. But when Iaris walked in, the smile dropped from Elandra’s
lips.

Her mother carried
a small stone flask in her hands. Ignoring the hostility in Elandra’s gaze, she
walked up to the bedside and put the flask on the small table. Then she stood,
gazing down at Caelan. Her eyes, as usual, were unreadable.

“So this is the
man who replaces your husband.”

Elandra’s face
grew hot. “This
is
my husband.”

Iaris’s brows shot
up. “I see.”

Her voice held
censure and contempt, but Elandra met her gaze without shame. It was Iaris who
looked away first.

“You make a
scandal,” she said.

“Kostimon is
dead,” Elandra replied. “Now I make my own choices.”

“You want the
throne. That binds you to the place of a widow.”

“I
have
the
throne,” Elandra said angrily.

Iaris’s eyes
flashed. “Do not deceive yourself. In name only, if that. No matter how much
your father yells and blusters, the men of Gialta are proud. They will not
follow a woman to war.”

Elandra rose to
her feet and pointed at Caelan. “They will follow a warrior. They will follow
him.”

“A slave? My dear,
hardly.”

“I told you he is
a king.”

Iaris smiled, but
it was not kindly. “You live in dreams.”

“And you judge
like one blind. Did Pier’s men try to drown Caelan in the river?”

“No.”

“I hope you speak
the truth,” Elandra said fiercely. “You do not want to become my enemy.”

Her mother looked
at her harshly, then turned on her heel and left the room.

Elandra frowned
after her a moment, then picked up the flask and unstoppered it. She sniffed
cautiously at the stopper, and wrinkled her nose. Suspicious, she closed the
flask and threw it out the window.

A moment later,
Caelan opened his eyes. They were deeply, intensely blue, and they looked at
her without recognition.

She smiled at him,
gripping his hand. “Hello, beloved.”

He frowned, gazing
around before his eyes returned to hers. “Hello.” He sounded very tired.

“What were you
doing in the river?” she asked with a little catch in her voice.

“River?” His frown
deepened. “I had to swim.”

“I see.” She
smiled, pretending that his incoherence didn’t frighten her.

“I had to go under
and not come up. I don’t remember why.”

“It’s all right
now. You’re back. You’re safe.”

The puzzlement in
his eyes faded. He smiled at her. “Elandra.”

She smiled back.
“Yes. You know me now. Are you hungry?”

He shook his head.
“He can’t hurt me.”

“Who?”

“He can’t. I was
so afraid of him, but he is only memory.”

“You’re not making
much sense, you know.”

He smiled again.
“It is strange to be here. You look tired. Has something happened? Your
father?”

He tried to sit
up, but she pressed him back. “Father is much better. Practically well, and he
won’t stay in bed. Everyone is afraid of him because he recovered so suddenly.
They think he is enspelled.” The lilt in her voice dropped, and she pressed her
lips to Caelan’s hand. “Thank you,” she whispered brokenly. “I know it cost you
too much. But thank you.”

He stroked her
hair and didn’t answer. Whatever had worried him before seemed gone. There was something
dreamy and far away in his eyes, an unconcern that worried her anew. He ate a
little under her persuasion; then his eyes closed.

She watched him
sleep, watched rest restore color to his face and take away the purple smudges
beneath his eyes. She could never tire of looking at him. She wanted to
memorize every line and feature of his face, for last night she had lain awake,
unable to bring him into her mind. It had frightened her, not to be able to
recall him with more clarity. She did not want that to happen to her again.

Alti knocked on
the door. She went to it and looked out at the guard.

“Lord Albain,
Majesty,” he whispered. “He has sent for you.”

“Is he still at
council?” she whispered back.

“Yes, Majesty.”

She glanced over
her shoulder and saw that their voices had awakened Caelan. He sat up, running
his hands through his long hair, and she sighed.

“Let my father
know I will come shortly.”

“Yes, Majesty.”

She closed the
door and faced Caelan. “I’m sorry.”

He flexed his
shoulders, stretching until his rib cage arched above the concave ribbing of
his stomach. Her own body grew warm, wanting him. But not with her father
waiting for her.

Fighting for
breath, she said, “Do you feel well enough to face him?”

“Albain?”

“Yes.”

An insolent grin
slowly spread across his face. He knew what she had been thinking, and that
knowledge in his eyes made her blush.

“Caelan, no,” she
said shyly. “Not now.”

“Come here.”

She went to him,
loving the circle of his arms. If only they were free, if only they had just themselves,
then she could stay in his arms all she wanted.

He kissed her long
and deeply, robbing her of breath and thought, melting her to her very bones.
When she finally came up for air, her mind was buzzing and foolish. She clung
to him and barely managed to say, “Stop. My father is waiting.”

“Your father,”
Caelan said with regret.

She pulled free of
his grasp, and he sighed. “It’s time we met, I suppose.”

“Yes, it is.”

He shrugged. “Send
our regrets, and let us think only of ourselves.”

“Certainly not,”
she said primly, although an inner spirit of rebellion longed to do exactly as
Caelan urged. “Here is clothing. Please hurry.”

He groaned and
stood up. “The efficient woman.”

“Hurry,” she told
him, refusing to relent.

When she bent over
to pick up a garment, Caelan grabbed her from behind and spun her around. “You
could say I have a raging fever.”

Laughing, she had
to fight her way free. She pushed the tunic into his hands to keep them
occupied and backed out of reach. “I will not,” she said, still battling to
keep a smile off her face. “They are waiting—”

“Who is waiting?”

“The entire war
council.”

He pulled on the
linen tunic and held up the mail shirt. “What is this?”

“Armor.”

“Not likely.”

“Now who is more
closed-minded, the Gialtans or you?” she teased him. “You can wear protection
without looking like a turtle.”

He frowned. “A
what?”

“A turtle. A
creature that lives in a shell. This gives you more freedom of movement. It is
more modern.”

Caelan pulled it
on and moved his arms experimentally. “It’s too tight.”

“On you,
everything is too tight,” she said, handing him a sur-coat of dark green. “It
will do for today. You can discuss a better fit with the armorer later.”

The leggings and
boots fit him well enough. The surcoat hung to his knees, and made him look
even taller and more imposing than before. He buckled on his sword belt, swept
back his hair with both hands, and faced her.

“Will you do the
inspection, Majesty?”

“You are
beautiful.”

Amusement lit his
face. “Exactly the quality most likely to impress a room filled with hostile
warlords.”

Her eyes grew
troubled. “Oh, they are very hostile indeed. You must take great care. I have
told them you are a king, but—”

“A king!” he said
in consternation. “No, Elandra, why?”

“So they will
accept you.”

“Do they?” There
was a world of bitterness in his voice.

She gripped his
hand. “But it’s true. You wear the sword of a king. Your destiny—”

“No, Elandra,” he
said with more firmness than before. “These are not things to speak of.”

“But—”

He lifted his hand
to silence her. He was frowning now, all the fun erased from his face. “You
must understand this,” he said seriously. “I am not a king. The sword does not
make me a king.”

“But only kings
can carry such—”

“Choven steel is
the only metal that can fight darkness.”

“That isn’t true!”
she protested. “I have seen you attack
shyrieas
with ordinary metal. You
destroyed General Paz when he—”

“Demons and those
who are possessed are one thing,” he said, shaking his head. “But I am speaking
of the darkness itself.”

She spoke the
syllable “Bel...” and Caelan held up his hand to silence her, then nodded. She
drew back, drenched in fear. “No,” she said. “No, Caelan!”

“Elandra—”

“No!” she shouted.
“You’re telling me that you went to the Choven for that sword, that you need it
so you can fight— In the name of Gault, don’t seek the dark god!”

“Please—”

“No, I refuse to
listen to this. I won’t allow it.”

“You can’t stop
it.”

“You said you
wanted to rule. You said you wanted to be emperor, the two of us side by side.”

“Yes, I said
that,” he agreed. “And I do. I have ever since I was joined with Kostimon and
you in the ring of Choven fire. Kostimon’s ambition touched me. It made me
think there was a chance to rise from nothing.”

“It
is
possible,” she said. “Kostimon did it. I have done it. You can too.”

He smiled at her
ruefully. “My path of life leads elsewhere.”

“Don’t say that!
You’re tired, confused. You don’t—”

“No, Elandra.
Don’t lie to yourself. I was created to fight. It’s all I can do. It’s all I
know. Everything that has happened to me in my life was to shape me for what is
to come.”

“But you’re
mortal!” she cried. “You can’t go in search of Beloth! You can’t win. I have
seen him. I know what he is—”

“Kostimon loosened
his chains,” Caelan said grimly. “He is breaking free.”

She pressed her
hand to her lips in an effort to hold back her sobs. “But what about us? Why
have you let me think we were going back to Imperia to reclaim the throne? Why
do you tell me now?”

“Because you must
keep your throne,” he said. “And I must fight what comes. We will both return
to Imperia. I promise you that. But stop persuading these warlords to support
me. Don’t try to shape reality to your desires, Elandra. You will only get
hurt.”

Tears streamed
down her face. She was losing him, losing him to death, and she could not bear
that. Was there nothing she could say that would deflect him from this course?

“They will not
follow me,” she said.

“You will find a
way.”

“Caelan!”

He looked down at
her, and his gaze was loving, sad, and implacable.

Suddenly she hated
him. Sniffing, she said, “I wish you had told me the truth before I gave my
heart to you. Am I to have you, only to lose you?”

He stepped back,
and something seemed to close in his face. “Do you think I will lose?”

“You think it,”
she said bitterly, refusing to let him shift blame onto her. “Why should I not
believe as you do?”

He had no answer.

Angrily she wiped
her face. “What will this self-sacrifice accomplish? Will it stop the dark god?
Or will you be as a moth, flying toward the fire, burned to death before you
can even strike a blow? It is glory, I suppose, but what else? What can you
do?”

He shook his head,
his expression bleak. “I shouldn’t have told you. I meant to say nothing until
it was time. I shouldn’t have spoken of this now.”

That hurt her more
deeply than anything. She saw how little her words mattered, how little impact
her feelings and opinions had. It had been the same with Kostimon and her
father. Were all men like walls? Did they never consider the ones they left
behind, the ones who had to cope with the aftermath?

She was not
impressed. Caelan’s death would not keep her warm at night. His death would not
give her comfort during her days. She could not talk to a dead man. She could
not love a dead man. He would have glory, and she would be alone. He would be
gone, and she would go as spoils to the victor.

Silence filled the
room. Wearing his granite face, Caelan went to stare out the window. Elandra
poured a ewer of water into a basin and washed her face to remove all evidence
of tears. Last night she had thought him lost to her forever. She had grieved
and worried. Now he stood no farther away than across the room, and it was as
though he had ceased to exist. She had lost him, would lose him. Whatever days
or hours remained for them were already shadowed by the future.

She had never been
so angry, or hurt.

“I am ready,” she
said in a small, cold voice. “Come.”

Without waiting to
see if he followed, she opened the door and stepped outside, walking away
rapidly with her guards at her heels.

The guards outside
the council room threw open the double doors as she came striding up, her eyes
snapping, her head high. She swept inside and found the men on their feet,
chatting idly.

They had the air
of having reached a decision. Their conversations faltered as they all turned
to look at her.