Emissary

by Fiona McIntosh

  “What difference does that make?”

  “It’s her touch that quickens his magic!”

  Lazar looked baffled. “I don’t know. I imagine he might have, considering how comfortable they seemed. He had ample opportunity to take her arm or guide her, even. They spent a lot of time talking. I’m not suggesting they’re friends, but if you compare the body language of Ana and Salmeo to Ana and Tariq—”

  “Maliz!” Pez spat.

  Lazar nodded. “…it just seems more relaxed. If Ana was Lyana, she would be dead right now, not pleasuring the Zar.” The words came out choked, angry.

  “It can’t be. This cannot be!”

  “Hush, Pez,” Lazar warned.

  “You don’t understand. Everything I’ve told you is right.”

  “I don’t doubt—”

  “No, listen! I felt her magic. It is not the Lore. It is something else. It has to be of the Goddess and…” Pez looked terrified. Lazar watched him search for more evidence. “You’ve said it yourself!” the dwarf suddenly said. “She knows too much about the ancients—she gave you the names of the giants, of the winged beasts; she can hear me over a mind link; she, too, said this time it would be different.”

  Lazar nodded but said nothing.

  “She told you herself that she is an old soul. She has seen things in her dreams no goatherd’s daughter would know of. You told me once she described Percheron’s layout like the spread of a volcano’s lava…as if marble had spewed out and slid down the hill to the water.”

  “I did.” Again Lazar nodded, not wanting to crush Pez’s attempt to justify his belief.

  “She’s never been out of the foothills! How could she know what a volcano looks like? How can she know who Beloch and Ezram are? How come Zafira believed that Ana is Lyana, as I do, and Zafira is now dead at the hands of Maliz? And don’t deny that Ellyana thought Ana special.” His words were tumbling over one another in his efforts to convince Lazar.

  Lazar hated to contradict Pez’s outburst. “Did she?”

  “Ellyana gave her the statue of Iridor,” Pez replied, his anger barely contained.

  “But what does that confirm?”

  Pez’s face had turned so red with his passionate outpouring it looked as if he was going to explode at his friend’s calmly negative approach.

  Lazar continued softly: “It doesn’t confirm or deny anything, my friend. Perhaps all who believe have been hoodwinked.”

  “Hoodwinked?” Pez’s voice squeaked in his attempt to control his anguish; his expression was incredulous.

  “Poor choice of words, Pez, forgive me. I’m simply suggesting that Ellyana, yourself, and Zafira have fixated on Ana because she is so unique, she does have a curious background, she certainly shows an affinity for Lyana, and—”

  “Stop! We can settle this by finding out if he touched her.”

  “You said he hunts down every clue. Surely he would have tried; there is too much focus on Ana for him not to have his interest at least piqued by her. He was alone with her; he had ample opportunity. If he touched her, she should be dead.” Lazar looked at Pez with deep sympathy. “She’s not Lyana.”

  Now Pez looked as though he might weep.

  “I’m sorry, Pez. Ana is simply a goatherd’s daughter. You have to move past her, see her as nothing more than the Zar’s wife.”

  Lazar meant it kindly but Pez reacted as if stung. “Instead of lecturing me, perhaps you should take some of your own advice!” He leaped from the seat and ran away on his short legs.

  Lazar looked after him with sorrow, and understanding. The dwarf was right. He, too, must move on from Ana. She was no longer a forbidden odalisque—she was now the untouchable Zaradine, First Chosen and Absolute Favorite of the Zar. Any outsider who looked at her with desire would be punished with death.

  Ana was now as good as dead to him, as Shara was—Shara, his first and only other love. After losing her, he’d sworn that he would never open his heart to another woman. He would take his pleasure, enjoy the transient release that lying with a woman offered, but he would return himself to stone—just like the sculptures of Percheron he admired so much. But he had broken his vow—had allowed Ana to touch his heart—and it had only brought more suffering. No female would ever penetrate his facade again and get beneath his skin. He stood, renewing his promise to himself and to Lyana to relinquish Ana.

  “Ana is dead to me,” he said softly, as if speaking the words sealed his oath.

  A runner appeared, anxious and breathless. “Spur Lazar,” he said, bowing.

  “Yes?”

  “The Grand Vizier has summoned everyone back to the Throne Room.”

  Lazar knew why and felt his stomach twist with despair and hated anticipation. “Lead the way,” he ordered, knowing full well he could not escape this, no matter how much he wanted to walk out of the palace and just keep walking.

  EVERYONE HE REMEMBERED FROM the wedding ceremony, save Herezah, had gathered in the Throne Room. He nodded at Marius, who smiled his response from across the room—obviously the feast had gone well despite the language divide. Salmeo was rocking on the balls of his slippered feet, wearing a smug expression. At the gesture of one of the mutes, the chief eunich quietly excused himself, presumably to return Ana to the harem and accompany the triumphant Zar back to his guests.

  Lazar could barely disguise his contempt as he stared at the eunuch’s massive back. His thoughts moved sharply from Ana, from the pain of this “marriage,” to hatred for Salmeo. He couldn’t prove it, but he knew, in his marrow, that Salmeo was the one responsible for the attempt on his life. Lazar had long ago dismissed Horz’s involvement; he had not known the Elim well, but what he did know of him was unequivocal. He had originally thought it must have been Tariq’s doing—the old Tariq—but his own security measures imposed within the palace would have prevented the Vizier having any access to the harem’s apothecary or the weapons room. Then there was Herezah—she had all the reasons for being behind such an intrigue, but he could not see how she gained anything from his death, other than the satisfaction of separating him from Ana—but then the harem did that rather effectively. And for all of Herezah’s faults she was a pragmatist; she would know how much Boaz would need to rely on his Spur. He also grimaced privately at the Valide’s amorous interest in him—she definitely preferred him alive.

  No, all of his suspicions this past year of convalescence rested firmly at the feet of the Grand Master Eunuch, who would have been incensed at the humiliation he had suffered for Ana’s original escape, and who was vicious enough to order death to the person who had so painfully pointed out his failure. Salmeo was worse than a scorned woman. He was cruel and spiteful, and being in a position of power, he could have coerced any number of people below him to do his bidding. And Lazar was sure Salmeo would have covered his tracks very well, cowed each person in that line of dirty deeds with so much fear that no one would speak the truth.

  A series of gongs sounded, pulling him back to the present.

  Lazar sighed, knowing what was coming, and turned, as everyone else had, toward the great doors of the Throne Room, which now swung open. In floated the Grand Master Eunuch swathed in multicolored silks. He was beaming; the cavernous gap in his teeth was filled now and then by a bright pink tongue that seemed to taste the air. Aloft he held a silken sheet that was smeared unmistakably with blood. Not much, but enough to tell its own tale.

  The clapping began, turning into a cheer and then a roar as a not-so-sheepish-looking Zar entered the chamber. Lazar had anticipated that Boaz would be embarrassed by the attention, but Boaz was neither smiling nor serious, and he didn’t strike Lazar as triumphant or, by contrast, in any way reserved. Boaz simply looked regal. He carried himself tall and proud; now, in everyone’s eyes, he could carry himself as a man.

  This show of the bedsheets was customary, although it normally took place only between harem walls, more for fun than anything else and rarely showed any blood. But Lazar could und
erstand why today this somewhat vulgar posturing was necessary. This public presentation was for the Galinseans. They would not know that the blood on the satin bed linen was likely false because the Grand Master Eunuch had already prepared each new wife-to-be in a manner that effectively took her virginity. Lazar shuddered. Nevertheless, whether or not the small bloodstain on the sheets was Ana’s was inconsequential. The Zar had taken a wife and their royal marriage was now consummated. Ana might be traveling to the Galinsean capital as an emissary for the royal court of Percheron but now she was much more than a traditional envoy. Percheron, was sending one of its treasures, possibly the most precious of all its jewels—the woman who would bear the first potential heir to the Percherese throne. The Galinseans, as barbaric as they were believed to be, would have to take this woman’s pleas seriously, for Percheron was risking its future by sending her.

  That was the rationale behind the plan, anyway. The Spur knew it would work. As much as Lazar could pride himself on having suggested that the Zar marry Ana immediately, he took no pleasure in his achievement. In fact, he felt so empty he wasn’t even sure he could hide his sour look at the stained silken sheet.

  The blood of a virgin.

  Ana’s blood.

  A virgin no more.

  “Zaradine Ana,” he murmured. The words rolled awkwardly, unhappily, off his tongue.

  The cheering had not let up and Boaz was unsuccessfully trying to dampen the high spirits of those helping him celebrate not only the loss of his bride’s virginity but also his own.

  “Doesn’t look too flushed for someone who has just mounted his first filly,” someone muttered softly to Lazar.

  Lazar controlled a start. How had the Grand Vizier managed to steal up so close to him?

  Maliz continued: “Ah well, he’s young…first time…probably all over in a blink.” He smiled conspiratorially, laying a perfectly manicured hand on Lazar’s arm.

  The Spur flinched as if scalded. He hoped the grinding of his teeth didn’t sound as loud to the Grand Vizier as it did in his own head. “I can’t remember that far back, Tariq.”

  It was obvious to Lazar that Maliz noticed his overreaction, but the Grand Vizier’s voice contained nothing more than his recently acquired sardonic tone. “Oh, come now, Spur Lazar. We all remember our first time.”

  “You can?” Lazar meant to sound flippant but the words came out with no humor at all.

  “Of course, as though it were just moments ago. She was very young, very ripe. Delicious, as I recall…just like Ana.”

  The inflammatory words sounded like a test, as though the man were waiting for him to make an error, admit something, reveal a secret. Lazar felt only revulsion. “Excuse me, Grand Vizier. I must offer my best to the Zar and make preparations for our journey.”

  “Yes, of course,” the Vizier replied, infuriating Lazar with a knowing wink.

  Lazar stalked away, unsettled by his own internal battle over Ana and unnerved by the Vizier’s scrutiny. Knowing that beneath the newly charismatic facade lurked a demon added exponentially to his discomfort. It occurred to him, as he walked toward his Zar, that perhaps Maliz suspected that he knew something about who Tariq really was. Shaking his head, he chastised himself. He was being paranoid.

  “Ah, Lazar,” Boaz said, the warmth of his smile doing nothing to penetrate the iciness of his Spur’s feelings.

  “Congratulations, my Zar.”

  “Thank you. I’m not sure how to feel,” Boaz admitted quietly. “I’m not yet seventeen summers and already married—sounds very serious and grown up, don’t you think?”

  “You are a Zar, the Mightiest of the Mighties…that is serious enough for any man of any age.”

  Boaz nodded his appreciation. “And she is so lovely,” he added, a little too wistfully for Lazar’s jangling nerves.

  “Indeed. She was certainly more lovely tonight than she would have been bloated at the bottom of the river, fodder for the palace fish, Highness.”

  The Zar’s eyes narrowed. “Are you all right, Lazar?”

  Lazar reined in his bitterness. “I am, Majesty. Forgive me. None of us has had any sleep and I think I must pay attention to my recovery. I look robust, I know, but the poison took a heavy toll and I can get quite weary.”

  Both knew that, although the words were probably truthful, they were meant to distance himself from what he had actually meant. The real truth had been glimpsed but had quickly hidden itself. Lazar cursed silently, now adding severe irritation with himself for that transparency to his list of grievances.

  Boaz became rigidly serious. “I feel like an enormous weight has been lifted off my shoulders since you returned, Lazar…was it only just hours ago?” He stepped down from his dais and embraced the Spur. “I’m so glad you’re back. I need you.”

  “I know,” Lazar replied, somewhat shocked by the public gesture and unsure how to respond.

  “And I need you to keep Ana safe,” Boaz added with a fresh intensity, his dark eyes glittering.

  “Of course, my Zar, she is your wife, your—” Lazar broke off as Boaz shook his head.

  “She is so much more to me. I will make special sacrifices for her. I couldn’t offer her protection when she was the sole property of the harem. Now I can offer her all the protection in the world because she belongs to me…totally.”

  The words cut like a blade through flesh and muscle, through sinew and bone, straight to Lazar’s soul. He took a steadying breath and replied solemnly, “I understand, Highness.” Although he had no idea what Boaz meant by saying he would make sacrifices. What sacrifice did any Zar make for any women, wife or otherwise?

  Boaz wasn’t finished; determined to press his point, he moved still closer still to Lazar “I love her,” he said fiercely. “There may have to be other women in my life but no one will share my heart other than Zaradine Ana. Her son, when she gives me one—and she will…her womb is possibly already quickening with my seed…is the only heir to this throne.” Lazar met Boaz’s gaze. The intensity in the Zar’s stare was almost unbearable.

  Lazar had known Boaz since the day he was born. He had always liked him as a child and had liked him even more as a boy and then as a young man. He had pledged his faith to Boaz when Zar Joreb had revealed during a private conversation that none of his other sons came close to Boaz in suitability as a leader and had asked Lazar to pledge his faith to the Zar-to-be; it was easy to give oath to the ruler that he would lay down his life for Boaz if asked. He knew this boy turned man to be passionate, knew that he took all his endeavors seriously. Obviously getting married was no casual event, even though it had been done to save them from a dire situation. Lazar suddenly realized that Boaz might not have agreed to the marriage had he not been so smitten by the bride.

  This realization hit him physically—as though someone had punched him hard in the belly without warning. Lazar had no time to brace for the breathless wave of pain that coursed through his body. He knew almost everything there was to know about Boaz, but he had never suspected that the new Zar was as in love with Ana as he himself was.

  Lazar had been careful; Ana had had no sign that he worshipped the ground she stood upon, the very sunlight that glinted off her radiant golden hair. Jumo had touched Ana more than he. Lazar had deliberately avoided giving anything of himself, save his helpless heart…and she didn’t even know that he had handed it over to her in those foothills, on that first night, when she had reached right to his core and claimed him as her own. He had given it willingly, with a sense of wonder, surprise, awe, and a depth of feeling he never thought he might reach again.

  Ana had become his touchstone, his reason for taking a breath each day and then another and another. It was because of her that he had vowed to go on breathing, to go on fighting the disease that wanted him so badly, when it would have been so easy to surrender to it.

  She had saved him because of his terrifying love for her. And here was another man claiming the same! And this man had no empty claim.
Not only did she belong to him as wife but she now belonged to him in body. Boaz had taken her, joined their bodies into one, might even have already sired a child on her if the gods were paying attention.

  Lazar felt dizzy. A surge of nausea overwhelmed him. The words no one will share my heart other than Zaradine Ana echoed around and around his mind, addled with angst, riddled with jealousy…the latter an emotion he had never experienced. He was the eldest in his family, the spoiled child, the boy who had never had to fear anyone or feel rivaled by anyone—the heir who’d been doted upon until he’d made his error, and even then it was his choice to leave Galinsea. Life had always been his to carve as he wished and he chose his own paths. In this timeless moment he knew he was being pushed from the chosen path. Another had the right of passage here, and save for a high act of treason, there was absolutely nothing that Lazar could do to prevent his own fall by the wayside as Boaz pushed past.

  There was nothing Lazar could do. He bowed, outwardly honoring his Zar but inwardly feeling dizzy with despair. “You have my word, I will lay down my life for her to keep her safe,” he managed to say.

  When he looked up he was shocked again to see Boaz misty-eyed with emotion. “You already have once before. Thank you for offering again—this time to my wife, not to a common slave.”

  The words rang in Lazar’s ears as a warning. All he could do was nod before muttering his excuses to go prepare for the journey.

  AS HE WATCHED THE Spur’s retreating back, Maliz stored away the memory of how Lazar had reacted when he had touched him. He had flinched as though he had been burned by a fire-brand. What had startled him so? There was no denying that the Spur was suspicious of him but Maliz believed that was because the Spur and Tariq had an historical disgust for each other. Maliz knew Tariq had despised Lazar for his looks, his stature, his popularity, his disdain for palace ways, all of which had seemed only to make Joreb hold the man in ever higher esteem—they’d been little short of blood brothers in the early years, and Tariq had burned with jealousy that the counsel that was rightly his was being given by a soldier. And Maliz suspected that Lazar detested Tariq for his obsequiousness and constant desperation for acceptance and respect.