Realm of Light (49 page)

Her words were
intended to hurt as much as possible. The widening of Tirhin’s eyes told her
she had succeeded.

Crimson surged
into his face, then receded, leaving him paler than before. His eyes glittered
with fury, and he lowered his head between his shoulders like a serpent about
to strike.

“You fool,” he said,
his voice cutting. “You are not a peasant girl, able to pick from your offers.
You are of the imperial house, and you have no choice. I tried to make this
pleasant for you, but if you insist on being enemies, we can be, quite easily.
The outcome does not change. We will marry in the morning.”

She stepped back
from the chair so fast she almost stumbled. Horror filled her, bringing with it
a sweep of anger, defiance, and fear. “No.”

“Yes,” he said,
limping slowly forward. “Protest all you want, but we will be wed.”

Elandra lifted her
chin, breathing hard, defiance giving her strength. “Not while I live,” she
said. “I will never enter your bed. Never!”

Amusement crossed
his face, surprising and dismaying her. She had wanted to insult him, not make
him laugh at her.

“Very spirited,”
he said appreciatively, in a way that made her blood run cold. “Very becoming.
You must know that when you lose your temper, your beauty increases twofold.”

Glaring at him,
Elandra backed up again. “Get away from me.

He stopped, but
the smile still lingered on his face. It was a cruel smile, one without mercy.
“I remember when you first came to Imperia on one of your father’s elephants.
You were a shy, trembling maiden, hiding behind your veil, hardly daring to
lift your eyes to anyone. And now you defy me like a warrior queen, proud and
fearless, your eyes flashing like magnificent jewels. You have changed,
Elandra.”

“Yes, I have
changed,” she said, thinking of the past year in her life and its many hard
lessons. “I had no choice.”

“Oh, I think we
can simplify this. You were a well-behaved, biddable maiden, incredibly modest
while you were married to my father, very obedient and anxious to please.”

Elandra glared at
him, resenting his patronizing tone, hating the way he smirked as he said those
things.

“But now you are
stubborn and defiant. You refuse to be sensible. You are taking a dreadful risk
by insulting me.”

“I don’t care.”

“I know.” He
looked at her and nodded. “You are in love, are you not?”

Again heat flamed
in her face. She bit her lip, knowing her expression had given her away.

“Yes,” he said,
and his eyes were like stones. “You are in love with that musclebound brute in
my dungeons.”

“It is no secret,”
Elandra said. She tossed her head. “Yes, I love him. I say it proudly and
without shame.”

“Oh, he is the
type to catch a woman’s eye,” Tirhin said. “But you must learn to conduct your
liaisons with more discretion.”

“Caelan is not a
liaison,” she said furiously.

“But of course he
is. I do not condemn you for your amusements, my dear, but the people are more
old-fashioned than we. There will be other slaves, handsome ones, in a
succession that never has to end, as long as you are sensible.”

“Stop it!” she
said, stamping her foot. She loathed what he was saying, what he was implying.

“Don’t be a
hypocrite, Elandra,” Tirhin said, watching her with cat-cold eyes. “Your
honesty has always been your most striking virtue.”

“I am not playing
some lascivious game with Caelan,” she said. “I am wedded to him.”

Tirhin blinked,
looking stunned. For a moment he stood statue-still, staring at her, with all
the ruin of his ambitions plain to see in his face. Then rage filled his eyes.

His cane whistled
out without warning, and would have struck her if she had not dodged. It hit
the chair instead with a vicious thud. Elandra retreated behind the desk,
acutely conscious that he was between her and the door. Never taking her eyes
off him, she reached for her sleeve knife.

But Tirhin stopped
his advance. His eyes narrowed, and he studied her as though he had never seen
her before. Calm seeped back into his face, and it became an unreadable mask.

“It is something
easily said, this marriage you claim. Do you have proof?”

“Only my word,”
she replied.

He snorted. “Alas,
that is insufficient. Who spoke the words of binding over you? The priest can
be traced.”

“There was no
priest,” she said. “We exchanged the vows for ourselves.”

Tirhin threw back
his head and laughed. “A common-consent marriage?” he asked, when at last he
could speak again. He wiped his eyes and laughed again. “Gods, what need have I
to hire entertainment when you are before me? Am I expected to believe this
wide-eyed tale?”

Elandra glared at
him, saying nothing.

Finally he grew
quiet, and met her gaze. He frowned. “Tell me this is a jest.”

“No.”

“You have promised
yourself without witnesses to a
slave?”

“Caelan is not a
slave. Kostimon freed him. He is wellborn.”

Tirhin waved away
these distinctions impatiently. “You know what I mean. He is not remotely of
your rank.”

She raised her eyebrows.
“You have no right to advise me.”

“Take care,
Elandra,” he said. “We are family.”

She snorted. “Do I
make you angry? I don’t care,” she shot back. “I love Caelan, and I have bound
myself to him.”

“I am prince of
the realm, soon to be emperor,” he said angrily. “I recognize no such
marriage.”

She lifted her
chin, refusing to be cowed. “Whether you recognize it or not, the marriage
exists. You cannot force me to the altar, and any truth-light will confirm my
claim.”

Tirhin looked
furious, and she was satisfied. She had blocked him and his plans. Let him
choke on his ire, if he wished.

“We seem to be at
an impasse,” she said coolly. “May I return to my chamber now?”

His eyes
glittered, and he limped slowly to the desk to pour himself more wine. As he lifted
the goblet, he tapped its base against the wooden box.

“Very well,
Elandra,” he said in a voice like velvet. “The contents of the box are for you.
If you like, you may consider it a wedding gift.”

She frowned in
suspicion, unable to believe he would accept defeat this calmly. “What is it?”

With a smile, he
placed his palm flat against the lid of the box. “Do not fear. Open it and see.
You will find it an ornament above price.”

Fearing a trick,
fearing poison, she refused to touch it.

“Will you not open
it?” he asked. “Shall I open it for you?”

Her frown
deepened.

“Yes.” He put down
his goblet and picked up the box. Opening the hinged lid, he peered in at the
contents and smiled to himself.

Watching him,
Elandra thought that truly he was mad. What kind of terrible, bitter amusement
twisted inside him?

“I will not wear
your jewels,” she said in warning. “Keep your gift.”

“Oh, no,” he said,
turning the box around and holding it out to her. “I want you to see this. Look
at it.”

Still she would
not.

“Damn you!” he
shouted, his mask suddenly ripped away. Furiously he glared at her and dumped
the contents of the box onto the desk. A fist-sized, bloody object rolled
across the edge of the map and stopped beneath the glow of the lamp.

Elandra stared at
it, not recognizing it at first. Then she caught its smell, a horrible smell of
blood and raw meat. A memory flashed into her mind. Her father’s hounds, being
fed meat and scraps after a hunt, the dogs leaping and snapping at the chunks
tossed to them by the butcher.

Feeling faint, she
drew in her breath sharply.

“It’s Caelan’s
heart, my dear,” Tirhin said viciously. He picked it up and squeezed his
fingers around it. Drops of blood landed on the map and spread into the
parchment.

Elandra’s stomach
heaved. She swallowed hard as the room spun around her. “No,” she whispered,
unable to take her eyes off Tirhin’s bloody fist.

“Do you believe me
incapable of ridding myself of any opponent, any rival?” Tirhin asked, smiling.
“Nothing will stand between me and the throne. When my chancellors told me that
unless you and I are wed, I cannot be immediately crowned, I set to work
immediately to remove all obstacles.”

Elandra started
shaking. She was so cold, so terribly cold. Tears spilled from her eyes, and
she sent him a beseeching look. “Tell me this is only a cruel joke,” she
pleaded. “He cannot be dead.”

“He is. I hold the
proof in my hand. You are a widow, Elandra.”

She cried out,
lifting her hands to her mouth, unable to deny her pain. “No. No, I will not
believe it!”

Tirhin came around
the desk, tossing away the heart, and gripped her wrist with his bloody hand.
“Believe it,” he said harshly. “He is dead. I gave the order myself.”

She wept.

“You are mine,”
Tirhin said. “Now, go back to your chamber and prepare yourself for the
ceremony. It is nearly dawn.”

Elandra barely
heard what he was saying. Grief welled up inside her, drowning her in its icy
depths. “If he is dead, then I shall die too.”

“As you wish,”
Tirhin said coldly. He pulled her close to him, and his eyes bored into hers.
“As soon as we are wed, your usefulness to me is finished. You will be quite
free to kill yourself then if you please.”

He released her,
shoving her back with enough force to make her stumble. She righted herself,
mute and shivering, feeling as though she walked in a dream.

“Now you may wear
his blood to bed,” Tirhin said cruelly. “Sweet dreams, my dear.”

He lifted his
voice to call for the guards.

Elandra turned her
back to him. The room was spinning worse than before. She felt as though pieces
of her were floating apart from each other.

“Caelan,” she
murmured, and fainted.

Caelan came back
to consciousness as the dagger was drawn from his back. He struggled up,
fighting the hands that pressed him down, and was forced to lie on his stomach,
sweating and battling the scream in his throat. A man’s knee pushed against his
back, bracing hard as the dagger withdrew slowly. It drew Caelan’s life with
it, and he heard the blade scrape against bone.

Shuddering, Caelan
pressed his face against the floor, and endured the agony until fingers tapped
his shoulder.

“Easy, there,”
said a gruff voice. “It’s out.”

The pain remained,
throbbing and hot. Men spoke to each other in low voices over him. He felt
himself being bandaged roughly but expertly.

“Sit him up where
he can breathe.”

Pulled upright,
Caelan sagged against the man supporting him and felt something placed to his
lips.

“Drink,” he was
told.

He parted his
lips, still half swooning, unable to grab a thought for longer than a moment.

The liquid filled
his mouth. He choked, and for a confused moment thought it was blood, drowning
him.

“Damn! Tip his
head back. Hold him before he spills the lot.”

Then Caelan
swallowed, and tasted wine. His panic faded, and he swallowed more, gulping it
until he choked again, coughing. They let him go.

Bending over, he
slumped against the arm supporting him and fought to breathe. But the wine had
helped. His vision cleared, and so did his mind.

He tried to lift
his head, trembling with the effort. Sweat dripped off him, soaking his hair
into strings, stinging his eyes. Squinting, he looked at his chest and found
himself still whole.

A short distance
away, the sergeant lay on the floor in a pool of blood, sightless eyes staring
at Caelan. Mox’s body sprawled across the sergeant’s legs like a doll dropped
and forgotten. Strangers with matted beards and ragged clothes stood around
idly, talking to each other in low voices.

Caelan frowned at
them, not understanding who they were, and looked up at the man holding him.
Orlo, his bald head gleaming in the torchlight, met Caelan’s eyes and smiled.

“So you’re with us
again,” he said. “Harder to kill than a Madrun.”

Caelan stared at
him, soaking in the realization that he had been rescued. He remembered none of
it. He must have lost consciousness before Mox started to cut him. Absently, he
rubbed his chest, and Orlo frowned.

“That reminds me,”
he said. “Pob, cut out a heart and take it to the prince’s villa.”

A dark-haired man
with keen, intelligent eyes came over and crouched beside Caelan and Orlo.
“Now?”

“Yes, now! Why in
blazes did I just give you an order?” Orlo said grouchily. “Do it.”

Pob smiled lazily,
taking no offense. “Sure,” he said, and drew his dagger. In a fluid motion, he
rose to his feet and kicked the corpse of the sergeant over on its back.
“Someone help me get this breastplate unbuckled.”

“See that you save
the weapons and armor,” Orlo told them. “Then clean out this room. We don’t
want to draw the demons this high into the catacombs.”

Pob and his companions
nodded and turned themselves to their grisly task.

“Don’t worry,”
Orlo said quietly to Caelan, patting his shoulder. “Tirhin will be happy with
his prize, and it will take him that much longer to discover you’ve survived.”

Caelan wanted to
speak, found the effort too hard, and twisted his lips into a wan smile of
thanks.

Orlo’s own gaze
turned sober. “How bad is it?” he asked.

“Hurts.”

Orlo grunted,
peering at Caelan’s back. “I’ll wager it hurts like bloody hell. Can you
breathe all right?”

“Don’t know.”

“You’ve been
spitting a little blood. If you can’t breathe right, it’s likely you have blood
in your lung.”

“Hurts.”

Orlo nodded and
squeezed his shoulder gently. “All right. I figure it just reached your lung.
Maybe tore it a little, but it’s not a bad puncture. I tried to draw it
straight out at the same angle it went in. Less damage that way, provided you
don’t bleed to death.”