Shadow War Part 11

Illuminated by the torchlight spilling outside through the open door, the prince kept a wary, furious eye on the sword in Caelan's hand. "The only one who has followed me is you, you filthy spy. This is the end of you!"

Caelan refused to back down. He intended to drag Tirhin back to the palace and denounce him before the emperor for his crimes. But if he said so, Tirhin would fight him. Better to lie and be crafty for now.

"Your highness promised me I should be your protector," Caelan said. "That is why I am here."

"Stop being so d.a.m.ned n.o.ble. I am sick of your honor. Sick of your loyalty. You are like a dog that is kicked but still comes cringing back for more."

"Where is the priest?" Caelan asked, interrupting. "We must go, and quickly. There is danger here. It-*"

A shriek, similar to the one he had heard before, but much closer, cut across his sentence. The hair on the back of Caelan's neck stood up. For an instant his bowels were water. He did not know what it was, but it was not of the earth.

The prince whirled around, his eyes bulging. "Shyrieas!" "Shyrieas!" he said in a strangled voice. He made a clumsy sign of warding and stumbled back into the hut. "Sien!" he shouted. "Sien!" he said in a strangled voice. He made a clumsy sign of warding and stumbled back into the hut. "Sien!" he shouted. "Sien!"

Caelan followed him, and stood blinking on the threshold. The priest was gone as though he had never been there. Even the cup that Tirhin had thrown on the floor had vanished. The fire on the hearth had been put out. Only the torches still burned.

The prince was buckling on his sword with a wild look in his eyes. "d.a.m.n him," he muttered, thrusting his dagger into his belt sheath. "This is his way of punishing me."

Caelan barely listened. He was eyeing the hole in the roof where the earthquake had broken it. Kicking the debris across the floor, he circled, feeling edgy and trapped. "This could have been a refuge. Better than taking our chances outside. But with that hole, I don't think we should stay here."

Prince Tirhin nodded grimly. He glanced at the door and swallowed. "They hunt in packs. The blood on you will draw them." As he spoke, he gave Caelan a second look and blinked. "In fact, you're covered with blood. What is all that?"

"I killed something," Caelan said shortly, picking up a torch. "I don't know what it was."

"Something that was following me?" Tirhin asked.

Nodding, Caelan tossed the torch to Tirhin, who caught it deftly, and picked up the other. "Ready?" Caelan asked.

"These torches will help, but they won't last long."

"It's less than an hour till dawn," Caelan replied grimly. "That is our hope."

Shoulder to shoulder, armed with torches and drawn swords, they left the hut and began to run.

It was crazy, running like this, struggling up the steep hill, stumbling over the sharp, cold lava that sliced through footgear. Ducking tree branches and avoiding puddles of hot bubbling mud, Caelan ran until his lungs began to heave, until his stomach felt as though it would spew the evening's rich dinner, until his freshly healed side ached. He ran, hearing the prince's breath sounding harsher and more ragged. He wondered if he was a fool to fear so much, when as yet he had seen nothing.

Yet they were coming, the dreaded guardians of the Forbidden Mountain, and all his instincts knew it. Fear filled him, clouding his mind. He remembered the night he'd been caught by the wind spirits, and knew the shyrieas shyrieas would be somehow worse. would be somehow worse.

They splashed through the warm stream, and a little ray of hope lifted in Caelan. Better than halfway to the main road now. He did not think reaching it would save them, but at least it meant they would be off the mountain, in the clear, and on better defended ground. They would make it to the road, he told himself, and there they would fight.

The scream rent the air, right on top of them, so startling, so unworldly that Caelan cried out with it. His heart was pounding as though it would burst. He was out of breath, out of strength. Sweat poured off him in a river. His sword weighed a thousand pounds, and he was too weak, too spent from running to lift it.

Caelan severed severed, leaving his weariness behind. A part of him knew he was taking a risk, severing severing so close to the prince. Tirhin might suspect his secret, yet what did it matter right now? Surviving was more important than anything else. so close to the prince. Tirhin might suspect his secret, yet what did it matter right now? Surviving was more important than anything else.

Whirling with all the speed he was famous for, Caelan lifted his torch aloft, just in time to ward off the creature rushing at him.

It was was a wind spirit, he thought, feeling fear return. Yet the detachment and heightened awareness of a wind spirit, he thought, feeling fear return. Yet the detachment and heightened awareness of severance severance was already telling him differently. The was already telling him differently. The shyrieas shyrieas swirled and circled about them, long misty ent.i.ties half seen in the darkness. Some seemed to have the faces of women; others were too fearsome to describe. They shrieked, and the sound was horrible enough to drive a man mad. Caelan heard Tirhin scream. swirled and circled about them, long misty ent.i.ties half seen in the darkness. Some seemed to have the faces of women; others were too fearsome to describe. They shrieked, and the sound was horrible enough to drive a man mad. Caelan heard Tirhin scream.

The prince dropped to his knees, and in a flash the shyrieas shyrieas were on him, swarming in silent flight, rending with claws and teeth. were on him, swarming in silent flight, rending with claws and teeth.

Caelan waded into them, feeling as though his skin was being sanded away. His clothes billowed in the wind of their pa.s.sing. He felt the cloth tearing into shreds. His sword pa.s.sed through them without effect, but everywhere the torch touched, a shyriea shyriea screamed and shied back. screamed and shied back.

Grimly Caelan could think of only one thing to do. He focused on his torch flame and shifted to sevaisin, sevaisin, joining himself to the flame, becoming flame, becoming heat. joining himself to the flame, becoming flame, becoming heat.

Fire shot down the length of the torch and along his arms. He screamed in the flames as they consumed him, yet when he opened his mouth, fire burst from him and blazed across the shyrieas. shyrieas. They parted in a frenzy, melting and dissolving as the flames drove them back. They parted in a frenzy, melting and dissolving as the flames drove them back.

Caelan's hair and clothes were on fire. Flames shot from his fingertips, from his eyes, from his open mouth. He could not stop it, could not control it. He was burning in the fire, dying in it even as the spirits were dying.

He felt the earth scorching his feet as though he were drawing fire from what seethed below its surface. From far away, he heard a rumble that grew in volume as though the whole mountain stirred.

Then from the top of Sidraigh-hal Sidraigh-hal behind them, molten lava spewed forth a shower of red and gold. The rumbling grew more violent, shaking Caelan off his feet. behind them, molten lava spewed forth a shower of red and gold. The rumbling grew more violent, shaking Caelan off his feet.

The fire in him went out, and somehow he was able to reach for severance. severance. It snapped the last connection, and he was free, blessedly free, back in the icy safety of nowhere at all. It snapped the last connection, and he was free, blessedly free, back in the icy safety of nowhere at all.

"The void," he mumbled, and lost consciousness.

He awakened in the cold grayness of dawn to find himself sprawled on the ground while a fine mist of rain fell on him. His clothing was sodden and plastered to his skin. Across the canyon, the mountain still belched smoke, indistinguishable from the mist at this distance. The air smelled of sulfur and wet ashes.

Caelan groaned and managed to roll over until he could sit up. His clothes hung on him in filthy tatters. His hands were streaked black with soot and grime. His hair smelled as though it had been singed. Still, as bad as he felt, he could have been dead. He should should have been dead. have been dead.

His amulet pouch swung heavily against his chest. He held it a moment for comfort, then frowned. It felt wrong. With sudden foreboding, he shook the contents onto his palm. Before, he had had two small emeralds. Now they were fused together into a larger whole, as though somehow they had grown. He did not understand what had happened. His memories of fighting the shyrieas shyrieas were unclear. Yet clearly there had been much magic wrought. were unclear. Yet clearly there had been much magic wrought.

He ran his fingertips over the gem and frowned. It worried him that the emeralds had changed. It was as though he was losing a piece of his last memories of Lea.

Finally he put the emerald back in the pouch. It barely fit there now. He secured the top of the pouch tightly and frowned, still disconcerted.

His sword was a melted lump of metal, useless. He climbed stiffly to his feet and stamped around unsteadily, observing the ring of charred gra.s.s around him. What had he done this time, he wondered dazedly. He could barely think, much less remember.

Then he saw a crumpled figure a short distance away. Caelan's breath caught in his throat. He stumbled over and dropped to his knees beside the prince.

Tirhin lay on his side, unmoving. His clothes were as torn as Caelan's. The rain had streaked the b.l.o.o.d.y stains, washing them to pink. Cautiously Caelan touched Tirhin's shoulder and turned him onto his back.

The prince's face was pale and drawn with pain. He was unconscious, but not dead. Caelan did not waste time trying to rouse him. He remembered that men attacked by spirits often went mad. It would be easier to handle Tirhin this way.

Kneeling, Caelan pulled the prince's weight over his shoulder, then stood up, staggering a little. His feet sank into the mud, and he found it hard to get his balance, but little by little he made it up the hill to the main road.

There, the mire was deeper than ever, but Caelan trudged steadily southward. Sidraigh-hal Sidraigh-hal grumbled and belched threats behind him. Caelan was glad to turn his back on this evil place. He hoped he never saw it again. grumbled and belched threats behind him. Caelan was glad to turn his back on this evil place. He hoped he never saw it again.

It would be a very long walk back to the city. If the G.o.ds were kind, Tirhin would not die on the way. To live was not what the prince deserved, but Caelan might as well run for his own life as bring home a dead master.

"Traitor," Caelan said aloud, grimly ignoring the ache in his muscles and the prince's heavy weight. He forced himself to walk steadily and slowly. He had a long way to go. "Master traitor, what will I say about you when I get you home? What will I do with you? Bargain for my freedom in exchange for silence? Pit my feeble word against your exalted one? Hope to gain an audience with the emperor, which is as likely as learning how to fly? What am I to do? Who will believe me? As a slave and a foreigner, I am nothing, and you are all. There is no one who will believe me, for I have no proof of your infamy."

Every word he spoke aloud depressed his spirits. Would the prince be grateful for having his life saved? Caelan no longer believed in fairness, not from the man slung across his shoulder.

"All my life I have believed in the wrong things," he said aloud, speaking to the sky that was slowly brightening despite the rain. "I should be running for my life. I think I would be safer trying to hide in the wilderness than going back to resume my chains." He sighed. "A fool who serves a traitor. The G.o.ds help me."

Chapter Seven.

A loud noise awakened Elandra from sleep.

Groggy and confused, she sat bolt upright and brushed back her long heavy tangle of auburn hair from her face. She listened, even drawing back the velvet bed curtains, but all lay silent around her. Not even the palace servants were stirring yet.

It was that cold, still time just before daybreak, when the night reluctantly released its dark grip on the world. Elandra had been dreaming-strange, unpleasant dreams mingled with intense anxiety about some task she had to perform.

Sighing, she gripped her head in her hands. She felt tired. Sleep came fitfully these days, if at all. She could not stop worrying about the coronation and all it entailed. Since Kostimon had told her last month that she was not to be crowned consort but instead sovereign, she had suffered a sense of gnawing dread.

Everything had been changing so quickly since the announcement. She had already been moved from the women's wing of the palace to new state chambers near the throne room. She had her own guards now, the members drawn from the elite Imperial Guard. All were strangers to her. They had been brought before her yesterday in a brief, private ceremony, wearing tunics emblazoned with her new coat of arms. One by one, each man had knelt before her and sworn to serve her with his life. Afterward, she had been informed that this ceremony of fealty would be repeated following her coronation. She was asked to choose a color for her guardsmen. One of the chancellors also muttered that a protector should be chosen. The protocol involved seemed unclear; there had been no empress sovereign since Fauvina some nine hundred years before. Many ancient tomes in rotting leather bindings were pulled down from the palace archives and consulted with much head-shaking and lip-pulling.

Even the coronation ceremony itself had to be conducted differently. There was some problem with the Vindi-cant priesthood over the matter of the wording. Elandra, beset with seamstresses fitting her for her coronation robes, had not yet learned the words of her own oaths because she kept getting revisions. Her political tutor, Miles Milgard, stamped in and out of her chambers regularly, trying to teach her history or inform her of the current state of alliances and trade agreements while she stood on a cushioned stool like a mannequin, with four seamstresses surrounding her, pinning and st.i.tching as fast as they could.

Her gown was fashioned entirely from cloth of gold, its stiff heavy folds reaching to the floor and extending behind her in a train that pulled at her shoulders. Over it she would wear the robes, so heavily embroidered with gold thread and trimmed with rare white sable from Trau that they were too stiff for her to sit in. The robes and gown combined weighed almost as much as she. Every morning she had to don a bulky contraption fashion of thin plate metal and practice walking back and forth in it. It was crucial that she be able to move gracefully in her first and most important public appearance. She had to be able to curtsy in the robes without falling, and she would have to kneel and rise to her feet without a.s.sistance. Then there was the crown to manage as well, and she would be given a scepter to hold aloft-without wavering-as she recited her oath.

At night, too weary for restful sleep, she often dreamed that she was climbing a thousand steps with a tremendous burden on her back. She climbed and climbed forever, until her legs and back were aching, yet the steps never ended.

How amazing it was to think that just over a year ago, she was an insignificant girl in her father's household, working as a menial in her half-sister's service, a.s.signed to run errands and do st.i.tchery.

Even now, when she tried to think back to her wedding day, the memory was clouded in a haze. She had been so nervous she thought she would faint. Heavily veiled and richly gowned, she had gone into the temple on the arm of her beaming father. Vindicant priests had chanted over her and the emperor. She and Kostimon held hands, and the high priest tied a silk cord around their wrists. Then had come the blessing, and the drink of sacramental wine. Past that, she had only vague recollections of sitting for hours under the suffocating veil while the feasting went on. She'd been too terrified to eat or drink all day, but Kostimon had been kind to her.

He had come to her chamber and unveiled her. For a long time he had stood gazing at her, as though to drink in her beauty. He had been old and strange in his festive clothes of imperial purple, a ta.s.seled cap on his head. His skin was creased and weathered, but not as much as she expected. He looked no older than a man of seventy, instead of nine hundred years more. His eyes were yellow and very wise. They twinkled at her before he smiled. Only then did she relax and begin to feel that she would survive.

"You are very lovely my dear," he had said to her. "Exquisite, in an unusual way, and a little like someone I loved long, long ago. If the G.o.ds are kind to us, perhaps I will come to love you too. And perhaps you will love me. But we will not rush it. There is plenty of time to get acquainted first. You look exhausted. Your day has been long, and so has mine. We will talk again tomorrow."

Approaching her, he gave her a gentle little kiss on the forehead, the way her father might have kissed her goodnight. "Sleep well, little one."

And that was their beginning, a slowly evolving friendship based on courtesy and respect. She could not have been more grateful.

In this year, she understood she was on trial. She could make no public appearances. She had to keep to her own private quarters in the women's wing, confined to a suite of rooms and her own small garden. This was chafing. Sometimes she thought she would go mad from all the restrictions. But her Penestrican training helped her.

She read all she could, and her request for tutoring was granted with amus.e.m.e.nt. Finally, Elandra could have the education she'd always wanted. She took to her studies with zest.

After a while the emperor began to drop by to talk to her. He would quiz her about her studies, and when he found her to be both intelligent and conversant, his visits became regular and longer. They played chess, and he taught her military strategy in the process. Sometimes he would conceal her behind a panel in his audience room while he conducted business. Then he would question her afterward for her reactions and judgments.

With his encouragement, she grew less timid and learned how to state her opinions and even defend them without growing uncertain or confused.

He acted more like a parent than a husband, and began to take pride in her. He showed her off to his chancellors. He deferred some decisions to her. He watched.

And last month he had come to her one afternoon when she was playing the lute in her garden. He dismissed her attendants and took her hand in his rough ones. His yellow eyes had never been so serious.

It frightened her suddenly. She found herself lost in his eyes, in their age, wisdom, and coldness. He was looking at her as though they were strangers, and her heart stopped beating.

Perhaps it was over, she told herself. He had tired of her. She was not feminine enough for him. He had never consummated their union. That alone should have warned her. Now he had come to tell her he was putting her aside. Perhaps she would go to the prisons, or perhaps her father would take her home to Gialta. Her very life depended on the whim of this man.

She tried to meet his gaze bravely, but she found herself trembling.

Kostimon bent over her and kissed her full on the lips, something he had never done before. As a caress it was exploratory and expert, but she felt no spark between them, nothing in him.

Straightening, he stroked her face with his fingers. "Our year is nearly over," he said.

She struggled to hide her fear, to show nothing except attentiveness. "Yes," she whispered, her voice not quite steady.

"I have had you all to myself. Now that is ending as the bridal year draws to a close." He smiled briefly. "In a month you will be crowned."

She started breathing again, with such a sudden gulp of air she found herself coughing. Reaching for a handkerchief, she pressed it to her lips.

"Forgive me," she gasped, trying to stop the coughs without success. "I am not heeding you with much composure."

He laughed at that and touched her hair. "So I see. Did you think I would cast you out?"

"I-" To her mortification, she felt her face burning. She tried to meet his eyes and couldn't. "I have failed to be a -wife."

He laughed again, while her embarra.s.sment grew hotter. She longed to throw herself in the reflecting pool.

"Ela," he said fondly, using his pet name for her. "You silly child, I have no need for a bed companion. There are plenty of those, disposable pretties with no thought in their heads."

Still staring hard at her hands, Elandra frowned and began pulling her delicate handkerchief to pieces.

"You are so much more," he said, pride evident in his voice. He put his knuckle under her chin and tilted up her head. "Look at me."

Her gaze shifted away.

"Look at me," he commanded.

She obeyed him, still upset although she wasn't sure why. It took effort to meet his eyes, but she saw no anger or disappointment there. She bit her lip to stop it from trembling and tried to listen.

"You are spirited and courageous," he said. "Better than that, you are pure of heart and true of conviction. I have been neither for centuries. You would go to the wall for what you believe in. Imperia needs that."

Her eyes filled with tears. "Let me give you sons," she whispered.

He shook his head. "I have a son. I do not need more. They have always disappointed me."

"Then-"

"Hear me," he said, putting his finger across his lips. "I believe in nothing anymore. I have lived too long. Seen too much. Been disillusioned too many times. But you have brought hope back into my heart. You, and you alone. I have tested you, and found you worthy. I have had discussions with your father. I have even talked to the Penestrican witches about you."

She frowned at that, but before she could speak, he continued, "I am going to crown you sovereign empress, Ela."

She looked at him, stunned.