by John Marco
Seeing himself in a losing argument, Akeela shook his head and sighed. “All right. I shouldn’t have said that to you.” He sat back down on the rock. “I have too much to deal with, I guess. It’s maddening me.”
The explanation appeased Lukien, who nodded. “I know you’re worried about Cassandra, too. How is she?”
Akeela couldn’t help himself. He asked, “Why do you ask that?”
“Because I haven’t seen her for days,” said Lukien.
“She isn’t well,” said Akeela. “Something with her stomach; I don’t know.”
“Then she should see a physician.” Lukien’s tone was brittle. “Quickly, don’t you think?”
“She doesn’t want to see a physician, Lukien. She doesn’t do everything I tell her, you know.”
“You’re her husband. You can insist on it.”
Akeela laughed bitterly. “I’m her husband! I don’t think that makes much difference to Cassandra.”
“Akeela, what are you talking about?” asked Lukien in exasperation. “You’re not making sense.”
Akeela waved him away. “Go back to Lionkeep, Lukien. Tell Baron Glass to leave his declaration with all the others. When I’m ready to talk, I will send for him.”
“Won’t you come back with me?”
“No. I’m not done here yet.”
Lukien stared at him for a moment, but Akeela would not meet his gaze. Finally the knight turned away. Dejected, he returned to his horse and rode off. Akeela watched him go. He didn’t like shunning Lukien, but he didn’t know if he could still trust the knight.
“Damn it all,” he muttered. “I have to know!”
His brief time with Cassandra had taught him something about her. She loved trinkets, and never got rid of anything. If there was any evidence linking her to Lukien, she would still have it, squirreled away somewhere.
Sure that he would go mad without the truth, Akeela resolved to find it.
An hour later, Akeela was once again inside Lionkeep. Still in his damp clothes, he went straight to the private wing he shared with Cassandra, skirting his underlings along the way and refusing to speak to anyone but Warden Graig, who told him that Baron Glass had gone. When Akeela asked the Head Warden about Cassandra, Graig reported that the queen was gone, too. Apparently her handmaid Jancis had convinced her to leave her sickbed behind and get some air. Relieved, Akeela headed toward his lavish rooms, telling Graig not to disturb him. He was nervous suddenly, and wondered if his furtiveness showed. But Cassandra was out of their chambers very rarely lately, and Akeela knew he had to move fast.
The hallway leading to their wing was empty. His boots fell hard on the floor, echoing through the hall. The servants had gone, for without Cassandra to look after they had a much needed break, letting Akeela make his way undisturbed to their bedchamber. It was an elaborate, many-chambered room featuring a high ceiling and wide hearth. A canopied bed draped with linens stood against the western wall. Akeela didn’t bother to strip off his wet things. He could smell sickness in the air, the staleness of Cassandra’s lingering breath, and for a moment he felt ashamed. She was ill, and he still loved her, no matter what she might have done. But illnesses passed. Adultery was forever.
He looked around the room, studying the shelves and mantle. Both were lined with trinkets Cassandra had collected from her years in Reec. There were urns and pretty plates, etched glassware and statuettes, all in feminine patterns and colors. But none of these things were unusual or new, and Akeela knew any evidence against his wife wouldn’t be on public display. Studying the room, he took stock of the furniture. She would keep her private things very close to her, he decided. Discounting the bed, his eyes came to rest on Cassandra’s wardrobe in the dressing room. He had never been into her wardrobe because there had never been a need to, and that made it the perfect hiding place.
Akeela listened for a moment then, sure that no one would disturb him, went into the dressing room and opened the wardrobe. The tiny chamber smelled of perfume. Unsure of what he was looking for, he began rifling through Cassandra’s garments. She had brought a lot of clothing with her from Hes, and many more items had been given to her by the noblewomen of Koth. The wardrobe bulged with garments, making the search difficult. There were tiny drawers filled with jewelry and shelves with hairpins and brooches. Akeela searched these, too, finding nothing extraordinary. He even found the bracelet Baron Glass had given Cassandra when he’d met her. It was a pretty thing, but Cassandra hadn’t thought so, relegating it to her wardrobe with her less cherished items. Akeela felt suddenly foolish. There was nothing in the wardrobe linking Cassandra and Lukien.
“Who’s betraying whom?” he wondered. He shook his head, laughing. “What a fool I am.”
He was about to close the wardrobe when a slim, white item at his feet caught his eye. There, barely visible beneath the wardrobe, was a piece of paper. Akeela’s heart stopped. His eyes lingered on the sliver.
Not in the wardrobe, he told himself. Under it.
He went to his knees and reached beneath the hulking furniture, barely able to squeeze his hand into the space. With his fingers he tried prying out the paper, but found that it wouldn’t yield. Lowering his head to the floor, he peered beneath the wardrobe with one eye and discovered why. There were dozens of similar papers, all stacked upon each other and corded together with yellow ribbon. Each had been carefully folded in the same exact fashion. Akeela struggled to get his hand into the space. Finally he seized the bundle and pulled it forth. Sitting up with the papers on this lap, he undid the yarn and unfolded the first one. What he read made his heart sink.
It was a love note. It described a brief and beautiful interlude in an apple orchard, using words like “honey” and “rapture.” Akeela’s hand trembled as he read. Cassandra’s name was all over the page, but Lukien’s was nowhere. Even the signature was furtive. Lukien had simply called himself “your adoring servant.” But it was unmistakably the knight’s script, and it proved Trager’s every detail correct. Unable to stop himself, Akeela read another letter, then another, all written by the same treacherous hand.
He felt sick. He had believed the worst, but only partially. There had always been hope, and that had kept him alive. Now he was truly alone, and he was enraged. There were no tears this time, only an endless ocean of madness. He slammed the letters down into his lap and clumsily began tying them together again. When he was done he shoved the packet roughly under the wardrobe. Let Cassandra wonder if she’d been discovered—he didn’t care.
“Bitch!” he spat. “After all I’ve done for you.”
And then there was Lukien; sweet, deceptive Lukien. What could be done with a man like that? Akeela closed his eyes, imagining punishments. He could execute Lukien for what he’d done, but he knew he could never order such a thing. Like Cassandra, he still loved Lukien.
“Betrayal,” he whispered. “It is everywhere.”
Very slowly he got to his feet. He heard voices in the distance, footsteps coming closer. He straightened. It would be Cassandra, returning from her walk. His anger cresting, he stepped out of the dressing room and into the bedchamber, resolving to confront her. Jancis’ voice rang down the hall, coming closer. Akeela went to the door and flung it open . . .
. . . and saw Cassandra’s death-white face.
“Cassandra!”
Cassandra’s body hung limply at Jancis’ side, propped up by the maid’s arms. She was stooped and groaning, holding her midsection and straggling toward the bedroom.
“What’s wrong?” Akeela demanded. “Cassandra?”
Cassandra shook her head, able to speak only in moans.
“She’s very ill,” said Jancis. “Help me get her to bed.”
Akeela took over, carefully lifting Cassandra into his arms. She let out a wail, closing her eyes. Tears squeezed past her eyelids. Akeela rushed her into the bedroom.
“Jancis, what happened? What’s wrong with her?”
As Akeela placed Cass
andra into the bed, Jancis explained, “We were in the garden, talking. I thought she should get out for a while, get some air. Then she started moaning.” The girl looked at her mistress, her eyes full of worry. “I’m sorry, my lord. It’s . . .” She stopped herself.
Akeela whirled on her. “What?”
“It’s an old sickness, my lord. She’s been this way for months.” Jancis bit her lip. “I think it’s getting worse.”
“Months?” Akeela erupted. He turned to Cassandra, who was breathing hard. “Cassandra, is that so?”
His wife nodded weakly. “I’m sorry, Akeela.” She began to sob. “Please help me. It hurts . . .”
Akeela hurried a hand onto her face. “All right,” he soothed. “I’m here, love. Don’t worry.” He turned to Jancis. “Get Gwena in here. And send for my physician!”
The maid raced out of the room. Akeela took Cassandra’s fragile hand in his own. It was bony from lack of food. Her eyes were sallow.
“Cassandra, why didn’t you tell me you were so sick?” he begged. He was angry again, this time at the thought of losing her. “Tell me why.”
“I . . .” Cassandra swallowed. Her voice was thin. “I wanted to come to Koth. If I was sick, my father wouldn’t have let me.”
The confession rattled Akeela. So did her sunken cheeks. She began crying in earnest.
“Akeela, I’m frightened.” She put her hands to her stomach. “My insides . . .”
“Don’t worry,” said Akeela. He stroked her hair. “The physician is coming soon. It’s going to be all right.”
She opened her eyes. “Will it, Akeela? Do you promise?”
Akeela’s smile was inscrutable. “I promise. I’m never going to let you go, Cassandra.”
14
A cancer.
Physician Oric had been with Cassandra less than an hour before making his diagnosis. The dreadful conclusion turned Akeela white. He knew what tumors were, of course, but up until that moment he had only heard it used in regard to strangers. No one meaningful to him had ever perished from such growths, and it seemed impossible that it should strike so young a woman. Physician Oric had come out of Cassandra’s bedchamber looking gray and harried. Akeela had been waiting in the hallway. Gwena and Jancis and some of the other castle women were with him, and when he’d heard it was a tumor the young king had fallen against the wall, nearly collapsing. In that moment, he could have forgiven Cassandra anything, and the adultery she had done was as nothing compared to the love he felt for her. Barely able to speak, he had made old Oric repeat the word again to be sure he’d heard it.
“It’s a cancer,” said the physician. “And it will spread.”
Oric was a learned man and had been the family’s healer since Akeela could remember. Like most Liirian physicians, he had been educated in Koth’s renowned colleges. But when it came to Cassandra, Akeela trusted no one, and so called on every physician in the city to examine his wife. Over the following days they came to Lionkeep at the king’s request, poking and prodding the queen, their faces long with concern. And all of them confirmed Oric’s opinion—Cassandra was dying. She had a growth that had advanced beyond any surgery. It had begun somewhere in her gut and was reaching into her bowels, slowly clawing out a fatal foothold. Despite their combined knowledge, none of the physicians could offer any hope. All they could do was make her comfortable, they said, and wait out the weeks before she died. Most believed she would be dead within two months, but Oric was generous enough to say three, maybe slightly more. “The queen is young and otherwise strong,” he told Akeela. “She will live longer than most.”
But three months was hardly time at all.
“She will have good days and she will have bad days,” Oric went on to say. “And her bad days will be very bad indeed.”
Akeela didn’t have the strength to listen to any more. For days he kept the worst of the news from Cassandra, but he knew that she had guessed it, and when he returned to their bed chamber to tell her, she said the words for him.
“I’m dying,” she whispered.
Akeela tried to smile. “That’s what Oric says, but I don’t believe him.”
“Then you’re a sweet fool, Akeela.”
Her voice was a rasp; her eyelids drooped with drowsiness. Oric had prescribed a regimen of strong herbs and medicines, and now Cassandra seemed to be in no pain at all. She looked pale, and that was all.
“How long?” she asked.
“I won’t answer that,” said Akeela.
Cassandra opened her eyes. “Akeela, how much time do I have?”
“As long as I say so. I am your king and husband. You can’t die without my permission.”
Cassandra laughed. “Even a king can’t save me now.”
“I won’t let you die, Cassandra. Remember my promise?”
“Your promise is forgiven, Akeela. What kind of wife would I be to hold you to something so impossible?” She turned her head and buried her face in the pillow. Then she began to sob. “What kind of wife. . ?”
“Rest,” said Akeela. “I’ll be back later. There are visitors waiting to see you, but I’ll send them away.”
Suddenly Cassandra faced him. “Visitors? Who?”
“Jancis wants to see you.” Akeela hesitated. “And Lukien.”
“Lukien?” Cassandra’s eyes darted away. “He knows, then?”
“The whole city knows, Cassandra, and would be at this door to see you if not for me.” Akeela turned to leave. “But you need rest. I’ll tell them to go.”
True to his word, Akeela dismissed all of Cassandra’s visitors. Even Lukien. He guarded Cassandra like a mother, keeping everyone but Oric away from her, relenting only when his wife cried for Jancis. The handmaid became the queen’s lone visitor, for all others were barred from the royal couple’s wing.
Days passed, and Akeela grew more despondent. The isolation that had plagued him since returning from abroad had reached a dangerous peak, and he shunned all overtures of friendship and support. Baron Glass stopped sending war declarations from the House of Dukes, but there was still talk of battle with Norvor, and whispers that Akeela had become impotent and unable to act. It was said that his courage was withering along with his wife. Work stopped on the great library. Akeela attended Cassandra day and night. And he brooded. He had made an impossible promise. Akeela knew he would need a miracle to save Cassandra.
Then, one afternoon, Figgis came to see him.
It was eight days after Cassandra’s illness had been discovered. Akeela, weary beyond words, had sought shelter from the world in his study, the only part of Lionkeep that was truly his alone. He sat at his desk listening to the breeze outside his window, threatening a storm. In one hand he held a book, in the other a brandy. Akeela swirled the brandy absently as he read, losing himself in the rhymes of some Liirian poet. For the moment, he had put aside Cassandra and his thousand troubles, and the brandy deadened his pain. The sound of the wind gave him something like contentment.
But an unwelcome knock at the door shattered his solitude.
“My lord? Are you in there?”
Akeela recognized Figgis’ voice. He put his down his book with a sigh. “I’m here,” he called. “Come in.”
Figgis the librarian pushed open the door and licked his lips nervously. He, too, had a book in his hand, very old from the looks of it and covered in dust. His hair was matted and his clothes were customarily wrinkled, and his eyes had the same tired droop as Akeela’s own. He gave his king an apologetic smile as he peered into the study.
“Sorry to interrupt, my lord, but I found something I thought would interest you.”
Akeela looked at the item Figgis had brought. “A book? Figgis, I have my mind on bigger things these days than books.” He waved it off. “Add it to the collection.”
“Uh, no, my lord misunderstands. This isn’t just a book. May I come in?”
“I’m very tired, Figgis . . .”
“Really, this is important, my lord,�
� said the old man.
He waited on the threshold. Akeela hesitated. The last time someone had come to his study with “important” news he had learned of Cassandra’s infidelity. More news like that and Akeela knew he’d collapse.
“All right, but close the door, will you? I don’t want a parade marching in here. Brandy?”
Figgis shook his head. “Uh, no, my lord, thanks.”
“Pity. I find it the only thing that helps my headaches these days.” Akeela drained his snifter then poured himself another. He could already hear his slurred speech, but didn’t care. “Be seated, Figgis, and tell me what’s so urgent you simply had to disturb me.”
“Yes, thank you, my lord,” said Figgis. He slid out a chair and sat down, laying his book on the desk. “Now, about this book—”
“Where’s your monkey?” Akeela interrupted. “I like that little fellow.”
Figgis smiled gently. “My lord is drunk.”
“So I am.”
“Peko is resting in his cage.” Figgis reached out and nudged the book beneath Akeela’s nose. “I have something special here, my lord.”
Through bleary eyes Akeela studied the book. It had a cover of worn brown leather, frayed at the corners, with numerous dog-eared pages. There were strange markings in the leather, like Reecian runes, but foreign. Akeela reached out and ran his fingers over the embossed lettering, trying to decipher it.
“It’s from Jador,” Figgis explained. “It’s very old and rare. It’s written in Jadori, my lord. You won’t be able to read it.”
“No?” Akeela slid the book back toward Figgis. “Then it’s not much good to me, is it? I really wish you wouldn’t bother me with this, Figgis. I told you, I have things on my mind.”
“But that’s just it, my lord,” said Figgis. “I’m here to help you. And help Queen Cassandra.”
“What do you mean?”
“This is a text of Jadori history and folklore, my lord. Like I said, it’s very unusual, maybe the rarest book I own. I’ve been reading it for years now, trying to make sense of it. The Jadori language is very different from our own. It’s difficult, and I’ve only been able to translate some of the text.”
