Forbidden

by Ted Dekker

  When he moved, the gray light fell full on her face and eyes. Maker. He’d assumed the posters and pictures of her were manipulated images—based on a real person, yes, but icons, nonetheless.

  But she was an icon come to life. Even disheveled, Feyn seemed more than human. And yet, she had felt fully human in his arms.

  Human, and warm. That surprised him, too. He’d never been so close to a Brahmin before. He would have stared, fixated by her, too aware of his lowly station, except for her next words.

  “My guards are going to kill you. How did you get in here anyway?”

  “Your guards? They’re dead. I killed them.”

  She didn’t need to say anything for him to know she didn’t believe him.

  He clamped his hand back over her mouth, wrapped his other arm around her waist, and pulled her, twisting in his grip, off the bed.

  “Stop!” he growled. “I don’t want to hurt you. Stop this!”

  She did not stop. And so he dragged her, struggling—he’d had no idea she was so tall—to the closet. “Where’s the light?”

  She wasn’t going to tell him, was she?

  “Listen,” he said near her ear. “I’ll knock you out if I have to. I’ll do what I must to get your help.”

  Her eyes glanced at the wall. Rom felt behind a bank of scarves and found the switch hiding behind it. He flipped the light on, grabbed a black scarf, and forced most of it into her mouth.

  He had to keep his mind off the fact that he was kidnapping the Sovereign. That she was beautiful, that her presence tugged such an unexpected response from him.

  Why should this surprise him? He was still grappling with the newly awakened feast of his emotions after a lifetime of being starved. She might have been any woman; he would have responded like a starving man confronted with a banquet table. It was nothing more.

  “We’re leaving.”

  Her eyes widened.

  “And you’ll help me, or I’ll take you out of here unconscious,” he said, as much for his own benefit as hers. “I mean it!”

  Working quickly, he pulled off another scarf and used it to tie her wrists behind her back.

  He grabbed a simple white dress, the plainest he could find, and tossed it at her. “Put this on.”

  The gown fell to her feet. She looked at him as though he was an idiot and for a moment he realized he was; she couldn’t dress with her hands bound.

  “If you try to run, I swear I’ll hurt you. You have to ask yourself what kind of man would resort to kidnapping. I might be crazy. With four days—three now—until your inauguration, it would be a mistake to take any chances.”

  He freed her hands and stood near the door so she couldn’t make a run for it. “Now get dressed. Hurry.”

  She looked at him with an impenetrable expression and he turned away, just enough to let her shed the nightgown and don the simple shift, but not enough to let her completely out of his peripheral vision. No matter how much he might deserve it, he couldn’t afford a swift blow to the head.

  When she had dressed, he retied her hands with the scarf.

  He looked at the long shelf of boots along the wall. “That’s a lot of shoes. Where does your maid keep the polish?”

  She looked toward a lower shelf. He found a container of black polish there and several cloths. With one hand, he wiped copious amounts of polish on her.

  “Sorry. I can’t have you looking like royalty.”

  She said something unintelligible behind the wadded scarf in her mouth. He ignored her and finished dirtying her dress.

  “I may not be schooled like you, but don’t take me for a fool,” he said. “If nothing else, my imagination is better than yours. And you’re going to find that I’m living a life you can’t even dream about, Sovereign or not. Step into these shoes.” He held out a pair—the plainest he could find.

  She made no attempt to follow his request.

  “Then don’t. What’s it to me if you cut your feet out there?”

  She stepped into the shoes.

  He wrapped a dirtied white shawl around her head, leaving only her eyes showing. But that was no good—her eyes were unmistakable—so he covered her entire face. Rather than object, she remained quiet and still.

  She was a brave woman, he had to give her that much.

  Rom took up her nightdress and tore it into strips for his own use. Was he overlooking anything?

  Nothing other than his sanity.

  He placed Neah’s cloak over her shoulders.

  Time to go. The faster he got out of the Citadel, the higher his chances for survival.

  “Listen to me.” He faced Feyn. “This is very simple. You’re a diseased serving-woman. If you’ve been down to the dungeons I just came from, you know what I’m talking about. And I’m a worker here, hauling you out before you infect everyone. The guards won’t recognize you, and any attempt you make to struggle will only confirm your illness.”

  He paused, only moderately satisfied with his strategy. But it was the best he had.

  “Now we can go back up the hole in this closet, which could get ugly, or we can take a back door out of here, which would be much easier. I’m going to free your mouth for a moment. Don’t bother thinking a scream will be heard from in here. Just tell me if there’s a back way out.”

  She stood still. He eased the scarf from her mouth. “Which way?”

  “This is—”

  Rom shoved the scarf back into her mouth. “That doesn’t sound like an answer to me. Let’s try one more time.”

  She remained quiet for a moment and then obliged him. “There’s a staircase behind the silk curtains. Where are you taking me?”

  “What’s the fastest way out of the Citadel?”

  She hesitated and then said, “The service entrance.”

  He replaced the gag. “If we run into any guards in general and you scream, they’ll only take you for deranged and know just how diseased you are.”

  The guards’ fear of disease would keep them off. For the first time since entering the Citadel, he felt a growing sense of confidence.

  Rom wrapped a wide strip of her nightgown around his own face, covering his mouth in a makeshift mask against her “disease.”

  “Let’s go,” he said. Keeping a tight grip on her elbow, he led the Sovereign-to-be from her room, then along several passageways occupied by guards who were only too eager to let them pass, and eventually out the side gate.

  Those few riding the underground at this hour cast nervous glances in Feyn’s direction.

  “Wellness center,” he explained. “Contagious.” They all exited the train car at the next stop.

  Feyn had only struggled once, at the Citadel gate, and as Rom had predicted her scene only hastened their escape.

  They rode north, to the farthest station point outside the city. Only when they were far beyond the station, on the deserted road to the royal stables, did he unwind the shawl from her face and take the damp handkerchief from her mouth.

  “Are you mad? You smuggle me out as a diseased whore?”

  “I didn’t say whore.”

  “Does it matter?”

  The scent of fresh hay and manure drifted through the air. They were approaching the complex of the royal stables, which was so large that the sheer number of workers it employed merited its own stop on the north train.

  “And now what—we’re going to saddle a horse and go for a predawn ride?”

  He didn’t really know how this was going to work, so he said nothing as he steered her toward a stable next to what looked like an indoor arena.

  The stables were dark except for a single light at the end of each one. Staying near the light—he would need to see what he was doing—he moved toward the first stall.

  “Your amulet is Sumerian,” she said. “They said you were an artisan.”

  “I don’t see any guards. Are there any posted here?”

  “The stables don’t usually need them. Most people are afraid of ho
rses.”

  Now that she said it, he wondered if he would be. He had always thought it would be calming to ride a horse. But now that he was confronted with the prospect, he wasn’t so sure.

  “You’re serious about this,” Feyn said.

  “I am.”

  He led her to a stall. A nearly white thoroughbred came to meet them.

  Rom unlatched the stall door but made her go in first.

  “Do you even know how to saddle a horse?”

  “No.” He picked up the saddle on the stand outside and turned back to confront the haughty Sovereign and the great mass of horse inside.

  “You’re going to ruin her. Untie me. I’ll do it.”

  “Just tell me what to do.”

  “Do you think I’m going to run off like this?”

  “You could knock me out and ride bareback out of here.”

  The thought of her riding bareback on the animal was wildly alluring.

  “Put down that saddle and get the pad off the wall.”

  He took one look at her and put it down before going to fetch the pad and a saddlebag with a couple of canteens strapped to the side.

  He followed her directions in placing first the pad and then the saddle on the horse.

  “The girth.”

  He cinched the girth, knotting the end of it.

  “Get the bridle.”

  All this time he had watched her with no small measure of respect and wariness. He hadn’t ruled out her clocking him and running. Even as she slipped the bridle over the horse’s head and got the bit in place—all with her wrists tied in front of her—he wasn’t sure that she wouldn’t ride out of here without him one way or another. It was why, when it was time, he mounted first and then reached down and hoisted her up in front of him.

  Only then did he untie her hands so she could sit properly and guide the animal.

  The horse shifted beneath them, and he grabbed her tightly. If he fell, she was coming with him.

  “Take us north,” he said, “into the wastelands.”

  Chapter Nineteen

  Despite her exhaustion, Avra couldn’t sleep. Not with the ghosts dashing through her mind, mocking and sending her spinning off axis no matter how she tried to reassure herself.

  Rom should be back by now, Avra. Rom is dead, Avra. They’ve cut him in two and left him to bleed out on the side of the road, Avra.

  She flung off the covers and went out from Neah’s bedroom to the living room, where Triphon was snoring, gape-mouthed on the sofa. He’d been in the same position for nearly three hours and she wouldn’t have minded slapping the contentment off his face, if only to have some company in her misery.

  “Triphon.” She sat down on the edge of the coffee table and shook him by the shoulder. “Triphon!”

  He jolted up. “Someone coming?”

  “Don’t you think they should be back by now?”

  He fell back against the sofa’s stuffed arm, one leg dangling off the front edge of the seat cushions. “Not necessarily. Have you ever been to the Citadel?”

  She shuddered. “No.”

  “It’s pretty big. Depending on where they went and how long it takes them to find what they’re looking for, it could be a while. Especially if they’re staying out of sight.”

  Triphon swung both feet to the floor. The sight of him had always been soothing and familiar to her—a poor way of saying, before she knew fondness existed, that she was fond of him.

  Now she knew she also trusted him.

  He scrubbed at his short hair. “What time is it, anyway?”

  Avra stood and paced, hands on hips. “Almost three in the morning.”

  Triphon got up. He went into the kitchen to look at the wall clock, then came back.

  “Two forty. You’re right. They should be here.”

  She stopped pacing. “Maybe we should head toward the underground station to see if they’re coming?”

  Triphon returned to the sofa but did not sit. “That won’t do anything. The last train leaves the Citadel at three o’clock. It’s almost an hour commute to the station from here. So if we don’t see them in—what, an hour and a half?—they didn’t get out in time.”

  “Didn’t get out? You mean they were caught?”

  “They might’ve had to hide for a while. Neah would know to get out of there before people start coming in. The trains don’t start again until five in the morning.”

  “I’m worried,” she said.

  “They’ll be fine.”

  “We still have time to catch the last train if we hurry. You have clearance—we could get in, go after them.”

  “What, go to the Citadel?”

  “I have a horrible feeling. What if they need us?”

  Triphon nodded. “I would, but we gave our word to Rom—”

  “That was before they disappeared!”

  “We don’t know they disappeared.”

  “I can’t lose him, Triphon.” She felt a tear run down her right cheek. “I know you understand that. I can’t lose Rom.”

  “I know,” he said softly, looking away. “I know how it feels.” He grabbed his jacket. “All right.”

  A key sounded in the door and they both froze.

  The door flew open. Neah rushed into the apartment. She was shaking. Ashen.

  Avra glanced at the empty doorway behind her. “Where’s Rom?”

  “What happened?” Triphon said, looking out the door before closing it.

  Neah’s face was drawn. “They’ve got him.”

  Avra faltered. “Who has him?”

  “What happened?” Triphon demanded again.

  “You just left him?”

  “No, I didn’t just leave him!” Neah clasped her head.

  “What happened?”

  “We came out of the dungeons, ready to leave, but Rom said he had to stay.”

  “What?”

  “He said he had to stay because the keeper, that crazy old man in the dungeon, told him he had to find Feyn.”

  “Feyn?” Triphon hesitated. “As in…Feyn?”

  “What? Why?”

  Neah shook her head. “I don’t know! He said he couldn’t leave without finding her. But the guards were coming. They were coming and he was hiding and they found him.” She paced past them and back, wringing her hands. “He’s probably in the dungeon by now. That horrible place!”

  “We have to go,” Avra said. “Now, before the underground shuts down for the night.”

  “No. You can’t just walk in there! The guards are on alert. I barely got out. They’re looking for me.”

  “But not me,” Triphon said.

  “Right.” Avra said. “They’re not looking for Triphon. Triphon and I can go.”

  “What good would that do? Even if you got in, you don’t know where to find him.”

  “You can tell us,” Avra said.

  “Neah’s right,” Triphon said. “If they’re on alert, you wouldn’t pass. I, on the other hand, could. I’ll get him.”

  “No,” Neah said again.

  “Why not?”

  Neah met his gaze, seemingly unable to speak.

  Avra tried to think, biting at the thumbnail she had already worn down to nothing.

  “I could take a hostage,” Triphon said.

  “No, no.” Avra shook her head, glanced at Neah. She had gone silent.

  “If Rom does end up in the dungeons, who’s in charge of them?”

  “Saric,” Neah said faintly.

  An idea—a crazy idea—took root in Avra’s mind.

  “I have a plan.”

  “Are you deaf?” Neah said. “Have you heard nothing I’ve said? I’m not going back!”

  “You won’t have to. Triphon and I will go.” Avra turned toward Triphon. “Are you with me?”

  He grinned. “To the end.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Saric paused before his chamber’s long mirror. It was new, a replacement for the one shattered by Portia.

  Porti
a, who was now…absent.

  Outside his chamber, the residence buzzed with activity. Feyn herself, he imagined, had already left for the countryside, not to return until her inaugural entrance into the city—a journey that would begin at the country estate, near the stables, and end on the steps of the Grand Basilica. Until then, she would spend the next three days in solitude.

  Three days. So much would change.

  He smoothed the sleeves of the robe. Tilted his head and studied the line of his jaw, now perfectly smooth, a translucent veneer over the dark veins that branched like the limbs of an inky tree. This was the face the world would soon come to fear.

  It was time.

  It took him less than five minutes to reach his father’s quarters. This time, he noted, the secretary rose to meet him.

  “My lord.”

  “Are the arrangements as I requested?”

  “Yes, my lord. The Sovereign is waiting for you.” She gestured him toward the great bronze doors.

  “Alone.”

  “Alone, as you requested.”

  “There’s so little opportunity to share a private meal with my father alone, you understand.”

  “Yes, but there will be many opportunities with the Sovereign your sister.” The secretary’s smile was polite, but he found the expression unattractive.

  “It will never be quite the same as with Father, will it?” He gave a smile of his own and pushed wide the great bronze door.

  Inside, the receiving chamber was filled with the smell of venison and wilted greens, all set upon a simply appointed table.

  Vorrin was behind the great desk nearby, writing. Saric went to one knee.

  “Saric. Good morning.” Vorrin gestured for him to rise. “Give me a moment.”

  “Take your time, Father. I imagine there’s much demanding your attention these last days.”

  He waved off the servant turning up the gilt teacups on the table. “You may go. I’ll serve my father this morning.”

  “If you would, please take these out to Camille.” Vorrin stood and gave the documents to the servant, who left, closing the heavy double doors behind him. Having prepared the tea, Saric went to embrace his father.

  He accepted his father’s kiss, suppressing the urge to recoil from the crepe-like skin of his cheek, the thin line of his lips.