Realm of Light (44 page)

Iaris moved around
briskly, peering behind drawn curtains at windows shuttered and barred, then
coming back to rearrange the flowers and peek under the food covers.

“The food is hot,”
she said. “Come and eat.”

“I’m not hungry.”

“Don’t be a fool.
Do you expect to starve yourself to death? I warn you, it is easier to be
defiant on a full stomach.”

Elandra turned
slightly to glance at her. The fragrance of food made her feel ill. “No, please
go ahead. I don’t want it.”

“You’ve barely
eaten in days,” Iaris said. “Pining for your lost lover is one thing, but you
must—”

“I don’t need a
lecture from you,” Elandra broke in rudely. She crossed the room and sat down
on the bed.

The lamps were too
bright. Her eyes hurt, and her vision was blurred. She felt dizzy from the hot
room and let herself sink down. The bed felt as though it were spinning. She
closed her eyes.

The touch of
Iaris’s hand on her brow made her open them again. She frowned, wishing Iaris
would leave her alone. Her mother had been hovering near her through the entire
journey, watching and criticizing, providing little comfort.

“No fever,” Iaris
said. “You’ve been looking ill. Tonight you’re very pale. Did the city upset
you that much?”

“Why shouldn’t I
be upset?” Elandra retorted, draping her hand across her eyes to shield them
from the light. “There’s nothing left.”

“Cities can be
rebuilt,” Iaris said.

Elandra pushed
herself up on one elbow and glared at her mother. “Stop it,” she said angrily.
“Stop trying to meddle.”

“You must think positively.
The empire will go on—”

“We are being
swallowed by darkness, the darkness that Kostimon and Tirhin have unleashed on
us,” Elandra cried. “We face our doom, and ignoring the problem does not solve
it.”

“You are fretting
for a man who is condemned. You are being excessively dramatic and exaggerating
everything.”

“Didn’t you hear
the soldiers?” Elandra asked her. “It’s dark even when the sun rises. The dark
god is coming—”

“Stop it!” Iaris
said, jumping up from the edge of the bed. “I will not hear such blasphemy.”

“Then stay away
from me!”

“It is my duty to
help you.”

“No,” Elandra said
curtly. “You hope Tirhin will reward you if you persuade me to marry him. Dear
Gault, the man’s arrogance knows no bounds. He acts like a bridegroom already.”

“But, Elandra, is
that so awful? Yes, you’re infatuated with this Caelan. But that must end. Your
rank, your lineage all forbid anything more than a mere dalliance. It’s time
you thought about your future, and the future of your family.”

“Meaning you,”
Elandra said in a tight voice.

“Albain and Pier
will both profit from this alliance, if they negotiate carefully.”

“There will be no
alliance,” Elandra said through her teeth. “I will not consent.”

“Your actions
tonight were foolish. Tirhin is clearly besotted with you—”

“No!” Elandra
stared at her in amazement. “He is not.”

“I saw him, child.
He was beaming until you were rude to him. That is unwise, no matter what your
feelings.”

“You forget that I
know him all too well,” Elandra said. “He could barely tolerate me while
Kostimon lived. This is nothing more than an act, part of his hypocrisy.”

“More drama. More
exaggeration,” Iaris said with a sigh. “Look at this room which he has given
you. The best in the villa, obviously. Food, flowers, and a good fire have all
been provided for your comfort. He is—”

“What else could
he offer me?” Elandra asked coldly. “I am the empress, and he is only my
stepson. At the moment, most of his consequence lies in his imagination.
Without me, he has nothing.”

“Then take care
how you deal with him,” Iaris said in exasperation. “You are in an excellent
position to negotiate. Few women are given this opportunity. Make the most of
it.”

“I do not want to
hear anything more from you,” Elandra said, averting her face. She was too
tired and ill to go on arguing. The whole discussion was futile.

“You are putting
all of us at risk!” Iaris told her. “If you care nothing about yourself, then
think of your father at least.”

“I am. But I am
not for sale.”

Iaris glared at
her. “You have no choice.”

“No. I had no
choice the first time my father arranged a marriage for me. This time is
different. He cannot force me. You cannot force me.”

“As your mother—”

“You forfeited
that status when you sent me away!” Elandra said. “Besides, I have given my
vows to Caelan. I will not take them back.”

Rage spread
through Iaris’s face. She slapped Elandra hard across the face. “You fool!”

The crack of her
hand stung mercilessly. Elandra lifted her fingers to her cheek. Enraged and
shocked, she stared at her mother.

Iaris glared right
back. Her eyes were wide and furious. “Do you carry his child?”

Rising from the
bed, Elandra said nothing.

“Do you?”

Elandra still did
not speak. Inside, however, her mind was spinning at the thought of it. Perhaps
that was why she was so prone to crying of late. Perhaps that was why she
wanted no food, why she felt so tired. She suddenly wanted to clutch her
stomach in fierce joy and triumph. Caelan’s child. Oh, blessed goddess mother,
let it be true. Let her have some hope in this.

But she refused to
show anything to Iaris. Nor would she answer.

“You will not tell
me,” Iaris said, pacing back and forth in front of her. “Insolent, stupid girl.
If you are breeding, then you will ruin everything. Tell me the truth!”

“I will tell you
nothing,” Elandra said.

“You look green
enough to be quickening,” Iaris said. “And by Gault, if you are, then you have
put all of us in jeopardy.”

“No more than we
already are.”

Iaris uttered a
sharp, short laugh and tossed her head. “Really? Then think on this, my girl.
If Tirhin entertains even the most remote suspicion that you have lain with
that gladiator—”

“And what if it
were Kostimon’s child?” Elandra said.

Iaris stopped in
mid-stride and stared at her. Conflicting emotions chased themselves across her
face. “The Penestricans ordered you to bear his child, did they not? They
taught you how to seduce him. They gave you exact instructions as to—”

“If I bear
Kostimon’s child,” Elandra said coolly as though she did not see the naked
ambition in her mother’s face, “then the empire is his. The child would outrank
Tirhin, whose mother was only a consort, and Tirhin’s claim would be futile.”

“Take care with
your lies, my girl,” Iaris said suspiciously. “Everyone in your father’s palace
saw how you looked at that gladiator. No mourning for Kostimon. No veil of
widowhood. This wanton behavior—”

“I know exactly
which man is the father,” Elandra said wickedly, “for I have lain with only one
of them. But the rest of the world will have to wait until the child is born to
know.”

Iaris glared at
her, too angry to find a retort.

Elandra turned her
back. “Leave me. I wish to be alone.”

She stood there,
exhausted by the scene, but glad that for once she had left her mother
speechless. laris’s footsteps crossed the room, then returned. “Forgive me,
Majesty,” she said with mock courtesy, “but I cannot obey you. The door is
locked. It seems we are prisoners together.”

Sighing, Elandra
started to speak, but just then the floor trembled beneath her feet.

The bed hangings
swayed, and a crack ran up the wall from the corner of the fireplace.

Iaris cried out in
fear. “Merciful gods, what is happening?”

Elandra glanced
up, saw the ceiling cracking, and dodged a piece of falling plaster. She
grabbed a bedpost to keep her balance, and the motion stopped. The room was
silent, except for the hiss of the fire.

Iaris stood
white-faced with terror. “What was it?” she asked. “Where is your
jinjaT’

The tiny creature
popped out from beneath the bed and began to explore. Elandra brushed plaster
dust from her hair.

“Stop shrieking,
Iaris,” she said. “It was only an earthquake.” “It is the return of the gods,”
Iaris said. “The world is ending. We are all going to die, consumed in—”

Elandra poured a
cupful of water and threw it in her mother’s face.

Sputtering, Iaris
stared at her.

“Now be quiet,”
Elandra said. “I want my rest.”

The public
dungeons lay beneath the ruins of the old arena, converted from its underground
warren of training rooms and quarters. Torches burned at the rubble-strewn
entrance, and gaunt-faced soldiers in tattered cloaks huddled around a roaring
bonfire for warmth.

Beyond the
firelight, furtive glowing eyes watched from nearly every nook and cranny. The
soldiers talked loudly and nervously, pretending to ignore the watchers. Now
and then there came the abortive scream of a hapless victim out in the
darkness.

Riding through the
terrible streets, Caelan held himself tightly
severed,
fearing any
contact with the darkness that now ruled Imperia. The smell of death sickened
the air, along with the scorched, fetid stench of forbidden magic.

Tightly guarded by
men who rode with drawn swords in their hands, Caelan soon gave up any attempt
to keep his bearings. With the city destroyed, nothing looked as it should. But
when they reined up at the dungeons, Caelan gasped in surprise.

How well he
recognized the public square and entrance to the arena, with its stone pillars
and a massive lintel carved to show a stylized border of swords laid end to
end. The arena itself towered there no more. Only a single section of seats
remained, the top half broken away. The rest lay in rubble that filled the
ring.

“Get off,” ordered
a weary voice.

Caelan dismounted,
the shackles on his wrists clanking softly. He still wore the mail shirt Elandra
had given him, and during the past few days he had been grateful for it. The
long sleeves had protected his wrists from being rubbed sore by his chains. As
his mount was led away, he stretched himself carefully, taking care to make no
sudden moves that would get himself beaten. It felt good to stand on the ground
again.

The soldiers
exchanged information. Caelan learned he was a special prisoner of the
emperor-elect, to be kept in a solitary cell until he was sent for. No
visitors. No one was to talk to him, on pain of death.

The irony of it
made Caelan smile without amusement. Some men walked a path of life that
progressed in a straight line from birth to death. Others meandered, finding
what accomplishments they could. Still others walked in a circle, ending up
where they had started. Thus it was for him. He had begun life in Imperia as a
slave, chained and beaten, imprisoned beneath the arena with his only future
seeming to be a quick death in the ring. Now he had returned, once again in
chains, once again under the dominion of Tirhin.

His head lifted,
and he gazed out into the darkness. Tirhin would not own him long this time,
for indeed the world was ending. Time was running out for all of them.

The tip of a spear
prodded him in the back. “Get moving.”

“Watch him!”
another said in warning. “He’s a big brute.”

“Aye, Giant was
always dangerous.”

Their fear made
them nervous and sweaty. Caelan had fears of his own. Imperia was no place to
be shackled and weaponless. If anything attacked, the guards would protect
themselves, not him.

Nervously, he
flexed against his chains, but they were well forged and held him.

Something that
sounded suspiciously like a
shyriea
shrieked nearby. One of the soldiers
flinched, and nearly ran his spear through Caelan’s side. The rings of his mail
protected him, but Caelan turned on the man.

“Have a care, you
fool!” he said angrily.

Another soldier
stepped between them and rammed Caelan in the chest with the butt of his spear.
“Quiet!”

Caelan drew in a
painful breath, his temper hot, but he restrained himself, knowing that to
argue would only bring on another beating. He’d had enough of those.

“I want to see
Prince Tirhin,” he said hoarsely. “I am a member of the Crimson Guard. I
demand—”

The spear shaft
swung again, cracking him across the jaw and knocking him down.

Caelan lay there,
stunned, his head ringing.

They kicked him.
“You’re a deserter. Now get up! Get moving!”

They stripped off
his mail, then kicked and pummeled him, thudding into the sore places. He
pulled himself to his hands and knees, swaying as his head spun. Blackness
dipped and swooped at him. By the time he drove it away, they had yanked him
forward by his arms and were shoving him down a ramp into a torchlit maze of
passageways. He walked past beat-up wooden doors banded with iron. The smell
was even the same—musty and damp, sour with old sweat and blood.

He was shoved into
a dark cell, hard enough to make him stumble into the back wall. The door
slammed, and he heard the bolts shoot home. Caelan clung to the wall, fighting
off his dizziness. Pain was still exploding in his jaw. He felt it gingerly,
decided it wasn’t broken, and spat out a bloody tooth.

He stumbled over
an object that went skidding across the dirt-packed floor. A stool, he thought.
The door had a narrow opening set with bars. Meager illumination from the
torchlight in the passageway barely reached into his cell. Exploration told him
he had a stool and a pile of dirty straw, but nothing else, not even a pail of
water.

Ignoring his
thirst, he sat down on the stool and bent over with his elbows on his knees.
The bruises were nothing. He would mend ... if he lived long enough.