Realm Of Light Part 28

A courtier beside him gave one of the jinjas jinjas a shove. "What evil magic does he bring into this court?" a shove. "What evil magic does he bring into this court?"

The three creatures raced around Caelan, darting close, then speeding out of reach. One ran at him and touched his arm, then fled, shrieking, "No magic! No magic!"

Pier snapped his fingers, and his own jinja jinja ran over to jump onto the broad sill of a window. It perched there and started cleaning its ears with its fingers. ran over to jump onto the broad sill of a window. It perched there and started cleaning its ears with its fingers.

Pier studied Caelan a long while. "Your sword would not let me hold it," he said at last. "When my fingers tried to close around the hilt, some force pushed my hand away."

"It is magic," another man said.

"The jinjas jinjas say not," Pier said sharply. say not," Pier said sharply.

"Jinjas can be wrong." can be wrong."

One of the creatures howled angrily at this comment, but was ordered to be silent.

Pier went on studying Caelan, and finally nudged Exoner back to him with his foot.

Caelan picked up the weapon, feeling it nestle in his hand the way a dog might thrust its head into its master's palm to be stroked. Caelan slid the sword into its scabbard, and let his hand rest there, drawing strength and confidence from the weapon.

"Only kings can carry Choven swords," Pier said finally.

"That's the legend," Caelan replied.

The round-faced courtier gasped and nudged his neighbor. "He claims to be a king."

"Outrageous!"

The murmurs rose again, but suspicion was darkening Pier's face like a cloud.

His eyes bored into Caelan's. "What are you up to?"

Caelan said nothing.

"You abducted the empress-"

"I saved her life," Caelan corrected him. He had Pier thinking now. He felt that was progress toward turning the man into an ally.

"Clearly she feels herself in your debt."

"No."

"Would you prefer I called it something offensive?"

Caelan's face burned again. He realized he had been optimistic too quickly. Pier was far from being on his side.

"You think that because you have the empress in your power, and you have paid the Choven to make you a sword worthy of a king, that you you can take over the empire and set yourself on Kostimon's throne? can take over the empire and set yourself on Kostimon's throne? You?" You?"

Caelan said nothing. Pier's contempt was like a hot brand, burning him.

"Well, well," Pier said in mock appreciation. "How interesting to see what high ambitions arena trash aspires to these days."

Humiliation rolled over Caelan. It was exactly as he had feared it would be. He stood there, forgetting all that Moah had said to him about destiny and ability, while these highborn men jeered in his face.

Pier's face creased with disgust. He gestured at Handar. "General, see that this fool is thrown out."

Handar, a man almost half Caelan's size, drew in a resolute breath and started his way, but Caelan was not finished with Pier yet.

"And whom will you give your new oath of fealty to, Lord Pier?" he asked in a ringing voice that carried clearly over the noise in the gallery. "Will it be Tirhin the Usurper, who turned the Madrun invaders loose on his own people? Who was so anxious to have the throne that he could not wait a few days more for his father to die naturally?"

Pier's face darkened. "We know of Prince Tirhin's actions. We know he has proclaimed himself emperor. We also know he has driven the Madruns from Imperia, and now they rape and pillage the countryside, a problem for each province to cope with as they march homeward."

"Who named Kostimon emperor?" Caelan asked them. "Who can remember the legends? His father did not give him the throne.

No, he took it for himself. If you do not want Tirhin, whom will you name instead?"

Shouting broke out, but Pier held up his hand for quiet. "That cannot be decided now."

"When will it be decided? When Tirhin is finished dividing the empire into weak halves? When the treasuries are completely looted and the army revolts? When the darkness that is coming decides there is nothing to stop it? When will there be a council?"

Pier said nothing. Tight-lipped, he glared at Caelan, then looked at Handar. "I told you to put this man outside."

"Put me outside yourself," Caelan said, too furious to care what he said now.

Anger leaped in Pier's eyes. "Are you challenging me?" he asked in astonishment.

"Does that insult you?" Caelan taunted him. "I am so low, and your lineage is so pure. I am arena trash, as you have said, and therefore I have not even the right to look at you, much less talk to you, least of all challenge you."

Pier shook his head in disgust. "I will not fight you."

"Afraid?" Caelan said softly.

Pier's face darkened. A muscle worked in his jaw for a moment before he finally answered. "The master of this house is dying. In my respect for that man, I do not brawl while his soul departs his body."

The chastis.e.m.e.nt stung as though he had actually struck Caelan across the face. Caelan frowned and said nothing. In his anger, he had forgotten the circ.u.mstances. He was ashamed of himself, and yet he also knew Pier had goaded him to this point, deliberately pushing him too far. Now he had lost whatever chance he had to win respect from these onlookers. Like an idiot, he had fallen into Pier's trap.

It had been his goal to win these men, to improve things for Elandra. Instead, he had only made matters worse. If the faces had been hostile and judgmental before, now they were contemptuous.

He could apologize, and make himself look more like a weak fool than ever. He could leave, and have them despise him for running. He could stand here among them and bathe in their scorn. No matter what he did, it wasn't going to help Elandra.

Granite-faced, he wheeled around and walked down that long, long gallery to the portico beyond. Rain poured down in drenching sheets of water. Sighing, Caelan leaned his shoulder against a pillar.

Footsteps caught his attention, and he straightened up, looking around just as two burly men pounced on him without warning. Caelan's anger surged hot. He swung at one, but the other came at him from behind and slipped a thin noose around his neck. A deft yank of the man's wrist, and the cord bit into Caelan's throat, nearly strangling him.

"Don't struggle," the man said.

Caelan froze there, his neck stretched high as he tried to breathe. He might be able to kick the man behind him, but he would be choked to death before he could free himself.

The other one unbuckled his sword belt and relieved him of his weapons. Caelan stood there, helpless and steaming.

"Now," said the man who held the cord around his neck. "You will go down the steps, quietly. You will cause no more trouble. We will teach you better manners."

Furious, Caelan hooked his fingers around the cord to pull it, but the man jerked and twisted the noose so hard that blackness swam in front of Caelan's eyes.

When he came to, a few moments later, he was on his knees. The noose had slackened enough to allow him air. He sucked it in, his lungs burning, his throat on fire.

"You will not try that again," he was told. "Get on your feet and move."

There were times to fight, and times simply to stay alive. Caelan did as he was commanded.

Chapter Eighteen.

Elandra was given the state apartments, reserved for visits of the very highest rank. The tall windows were hastily thrown open, letting in rain-dampened air that did little to dispel the mustiness of the rooms. As Elandra entered, she could hear the scurrying footsteps and m.u.f.fled giggles of fleeing maidservants. The room was in order, but barely so. It had that hasty, put-together look of crooked cushions, a coverlet not quite smooth, flowers imperfectly arranged, and the suspicion of dust in the corners.

The lack of a woman in charge of this household was evident. Whatever her faults had been, at least when Hecati lived here there had been no dust, and no staff ever caught by surprise.

Scented bathwater was carried in to fill a tub of marble lined with copper. While Elandra soaked, fighting the urge to cry, the seamstress arrived with three gowns over her arm and a mouthful of pins. Food and drink were brought in on a tray, but Elandra gestured everyone away.

"Leave me," she said.

The n.o.blewoman herself closed the doors on the bathing room and shooed out all the servants.

It was several minutes before she returned, knocking discreetly on the door before she eased it open. "Majesty?" she called.

Elandra was sitting on a stool at the dressing table adorned with fresh flowers and a row of alabaster jars. Swathed in a robe, she was rubbing scented lotion into her hands. Her wet hair hung down her back, still dripping a little onto the floor. Her reflection in the mirror showed her to be pale but composed again.

"Majesty?" the woman called a second time.

The short span of privacy had been enough. Elandra was still worried, but she had regained control of her emotions. She glanced over her shoulder and gestured for the woman to enter.

Curtsying, the woman said, "I am Lyticia, wife of the imperial governor of Gialta."

Elandra's brows rose. After her reception today, she had not expected the woman to be of such rank. "Then your husband is Lord Onar Demahaud," she said.

A surprised and gratified smile spread across Lady Lyticia's narrow face. She was handsome rather than beautiful, tall and almost thin. Her gown was splendid, and she wore tasteful bracelets and earrings. "Yes," she said. "Your Majesty's memory is most kind."

Oh, yes, Elandra's memory could not forget the name of the governor. Since Albain had no male heir, his land would be returned by law to the emperor's ownership, to be either redispensed or sold. Until either eventuality happened, the governor would be the overseer of the vast properties. He could rake whatever wealth he wanted into his pockets. At present, with the empire in chaos, it was likely that Lord Demahaud would be able to keep the vast estates for his own.

But Elandra said nothing of this, and her recognition seemed to gratify the woman.

With detente established, they got busy. Lady Lyticia had brought her seamstress, her maid, and her hairdresser. These individuals went to work, and in short order Elandra was dry, gowned, and coiffed magnificently. She felt regal again, and the increased respect in the women's eyes made her realize ruefully exactly how much importance Gialtans placed on appearances.

"May I have the honor of loaning your Majesty my jewels?" Lady Lyticia asked with tact.

"You are very kind, but no, thank you," Elandra replied firmly.

"But truly, I do not mind-"

"No," Elandra said.

Color spread across Lady Lyticia's cheeks, and Elandra felt impatient. Why couldn't the woman understand?

She didn't want to explain, but she sighed and took the trouble. "An empress may only wear jewels made specifically for her by the Choven," she said. "I am sure your jewels are splendid, but protocol forbids my acceptance of your generous offer."

Lady Lyticia smiled, pacified again.

Someone knocked on the door, and a servant entered to whisper in Lady Lyticia's ear.

She nodded and turned to Elandra, who steeled herself, certain she had primped too long and her father had died without her being at his side.

"The physicians have finished their ministrations, Majesty. If you feel ready to visit your father, this would be an excellent time."

Relief made Elandra shoot to her feet. Belatedly she remembered to walk gracefully and without haste. She had lost much ground here; she had much to restore. However foolish and of little consequence it might seem to her, these subjects considered their customs important. If she wanted them to treat her as an empress, then she must act like one, no matter how limiting or chafing it was.

She walked down long corridors furnished with fine Ulinian carpets, rows of chairs upholstered in leather, and walnut tables. Maids peeped from doorways, withdrawing at her approach and whispering behind her. Jinjas Jinjas scampered here and there, leaping onto windowsills and staring at her with bright eyes. Outside, the rain drummed steadily, and the tall windows stood open to catch any hint of coolness to counteract the cloying heat and humidity. Curtains of sheer silk gauze billowed and blew in the damp breeze. scampered here and there, leaping onto windowsills and staring at her with bright eyes. Outside, the rain drummed steadily, and the tall windows stood open to catch any hint of coolness to counteract the cloying heat and humidity. Curtains of sheer silk gauze billowed and blew in the damp breeze.

Elandra's own fear and rising anxiety constantly quickened her feet, although she tried to slow down. Despite her inner strain she managed to keep her face calm and composed, but she could not stop her fingers from knotting together.

Finally she reached tall doors at the end of a corridor. Bowing lackeys opened them at her approach. Guards in turbans saluted her, but Elandra barely noticed them. She hurried into the antechamber beyond and found it crowded with physicians in monkey-fur hats and long beards, chatting among themselves.

Silence fell over them, and they bowed to her in startlement. She pa.s.sed them without stopping, heading for Albain's chamber.

Guards opened these final doors, and she walked inside, halting just across the threshold. She found herself suddenly without breath, her heart pounding too fast.

Tall-ceilinged and s.p.a.cious, the chamber's walls were hung in silk that was sun-faded and out of style. Her father's bed was enormous, both broad and tall, with netting looped back out of the way. He lay on his back, his head propped up on a single pillow. His large hands were folded.

She had never seen him look so still, so thin, so pale. She stood there, afraid to walk closer to this stranger.

The room smelled of medicines and blood. A valet stood in a shadowy corner of the room, hastily bundling up stained sheets and sleeping shirt. A lackey with his sleeves rolled up held a basin of dirty water that he carried out through the servant's door. Her father's jinja jinja lay curled up on a plump silk cushion at the foot of the bed, whimpering softly in its grief. lay curled up on a plump silk cushion at the foot of the bed, whimpering softly in its grief.

Elandra realized she was standing frozen in place while the physicians stared at her back. Frowning, she forced herself to walk forward, only barely aware of the doors closing quietly behind her.

The valet glanced at her, bowed, and departed. She was alone with her father, a man who had sired her and given her a home, yet little of his time and still less of his affection. She was only one of his many b.a.s.t.a.r.ds, but unlike the others who worked as overseers and stable hands and gardeners, Elandra had a mother who was highborn. Albain had sired only one legitimate child: the vain, spoiled Bixia, who had thought she would marry Kostimon and who had joined the terrible Maelite order in anger when Elandra robbed her of that glory.

Where were his children now? Who of his family stood near to mourn him?

Elandra swallowed and walked to his bedside. His eyes were closed. She could hear the quick rasp of his breathing. His face was an ashen color that frightened her.

Slowly, she placed her hand atop his. She did not want to disturb him, yet it was important that he know she had come.

"Father," she said softly.

He did not stir.