He had been kind to Ariana on the long trip to Arthes, protecting the baby from the carelessness of Galvyn Farrell, but his kindness had been motivated by greed. He’d realized that a dead child would be worth nothing.
In a sharp flash that momentarily wiped away the night’s reality, Juliet knew that Galvyn Farrell, the man who had orchestrated Ariana’s kidnapping in a failed attempt to force Sophie to become his wife, was dead.
At times the psychic events Juliet had experienced all her life were gentle, but often they were so intense they almost blinded her. She could control the ability to an extent by the lifting of her hand away from the subject of the premonition, or by forcing her mind elsewhere. If she did not touch, she often could not feel. There were times when breaking the connection was not enough to end the event. Often the images and sensations continued for a while.
If such a gentle touch triggered visions and premonitions that caused her head to pound and wiped out all reality, what would happen if a man were actually inside her? If she were literally joined with a man, would she be bombarded with images and sensations? In her nightmare, the pain was so great it literally blinded her. The pain she experienced in the dream was not the simple discomfort of a virgin’s first encounter, but a shattering agony that threatened to tear her in two. What if the pain didn’t stop? Ever?
Isadora groaned and lifted her head.
“Bind her,” Bors said quickly, nodding to the soldiers nearest Isadora. They hesitated, but not for long. “Tightly,” he instructed.
The soldiers hauled Isadora to her feet and quickly tied her hands with a rough length of rope. She did not look fearsome, in her white nightgown and bare feet and that girlish braid. But her eyes were dark and dangerous. There was hate in those eyes. Pure, hot hate.
She was going to fight, and if she did, she would die here. Juliet locked her eyes to her sister’s. “Don’t,” she whispered. “It’s time.”
Isadora had never accepted the fact that some things in life were inescapable. “Time for what?”
“It’s time for us to leave this place.”
The eldest Fyne sister did not embrace such truths easily. She never had.
“If you fight, we will die,” Juliet said quickly. “And Sophie still needs us.”
The mention of her youngest sister’s name made Isadora go still.
Bors shifted his knife away from Juliet’s throat. The small cut stung and Juliet suspected there was a spot of blood there.
“You will, of course, allow us to dress appropriately and pack a small bag of our belongings,” she said. There were things she wanted to take with her when she left this place. She could smell the smoke, as if the fire that was to come had already been lit. Best not to tell Isadora just yet that the soldiers planned to burn the cabin and everything in it.
“You have five minutes.” Bors gave Juliet a little shove that sent her toward her sister. ’‘Only because you talked some sense into your sister and saved me from explaining to the emperor how two women took out a number of his soldiers.” He glanced at the man on the hallway floor. “One I can justify. More might cost me my head.”
“Untie her hands,” Juliet said, nodding to her sister.
Bors narrowed one eye. “I doubt that’s wise.”
“I cannot dress her and myself in five minutes if her hands are bound behind her back, and if she travels in her nightshift, she’ll freeze. You did say the emperor would prefer to have us alive, did you not?”
Bors nodded his head, and a wary soldier released Isadora’s hands.
Juliet did not waste time, but grabbed Isadora’s arm and dragged her into the closest bedroom. Cold air rushed through the broken window of Isadora’s bedchamber, making the plain curtains there dance gently. Juliet tried to close the bedroom door, but a soldier caught it and shook his head slowly. They would not remain unguarded.
Isadora spoke in the language their mother had taught them, a precious and sacred language the soldiers would not understand.
“I can kill them.”
"Not tonight." Juliet threw open Isadora’s wardrobe and grabbed a black dress made of a soft, warm fabric. She tossed the frock to her sister, grabbed a pair of boots, and headed for the door. “Come.”
They brushed past the soldier in the doorway, who took great care not to touch Isadora, and past the other young men who had gathered in the hall. Each and every one stepped out of the way, eyeing Isadora with a mixture of hate and suspicion. She had killed one of their own with a touch and a few words they did not understand, and the idea of escorting her to the palace untouched and unpunished didn’t sit well with them.
But they did not wish to risk touching her themselves.
The sisters ran into the room where Juliet had, just minutes earlier, been trying desperately to get to sleep. The window where she’d stood and looked out on the cold landscape was broken. Cold air rushed in, and the lace curtains fluttered. She went directly to the wardrobe and threw open the doors.
Warmth was her first priority, comfort the second. She laid her hands on a dark green gown with a full skirt and slightly puffed long sleeves and pulled it from the wardrobe. Everything else would be left behind.
They pulled the frocks on over their nightshifts, since the soldier who had been ordered to guard them once again stood in the doorway and watched insolently. Sitting on the side of the unmade bed, they pulled on thick socks and their boots. Isadora’s tall boots were black, as was almost everything she’d worn since her husband’s death, and Juliet’s were a warm brown. As with the dresses, the footwear had been chosen with comfort and warmth in mind. They did not don their best and prettiest shoes, but instead chose sturdy walking boots.
The minutes ticked past, and Juliet didn’t expect Bors was the type of man to give them more time if they needed it. What does one take when leaving home for the last time? There were so many things she had expected to have around her forever. Dresses and shoes and furnishings could be replaced, in time. But what about Mother’s good dishes, the silver, those few pieces of nice jewelry, the painting over the mantel in the parlor...her herbs.
Gown on and half-fastened, boots on but untied, Juliet collected her small valise and then grabbed Isadora’s hand once again and raced for the kitchen. Again, the soldiers gave them a wide berth. It would be tempting simply to run, but more than one soldier rested a ready hand over a sword or a dagger, and they were all more than willing to make use of those weapons if given the opportunity.
“What are you doing?” Isadora asked. She sat at a kitchen chair and tied her boot strings while Juliet ran to the shelf of herbs and scraped everything she could into her valise. “Do you expect to need all those medications on the trip? Surely you’re not going to doctor the paivanti soldiers.”
“Don’t curse,” Juliet said almost absently. She wasn’t yet ready to tell her sister that the soldiers planned to burn their home. Heaven above, she could already smell the smoke, the acrid burning of their furniture and clothes and even the soldier’s body that would be left in the hallway. “You never know what we might need.”
“Warm cloaks, I imagine,” Bors said as he walked into the kitchen, brushing past the guard who remained close to Isadora—but not too close. “The nights will only grow colder as we travel to Arthes.”
Isadora stood sharply. The guard and Bors both took a step back as she said, “I’ll collect our cloaks.”
Juliet stared at her sister. “Promise me you won’t do anything rash.”
Isadora hesitated. She wanted to fight. She would prefer to die fighting than to go peacefully with the soldiers. It was only the threat to her sister and the knowledge that Sophie still needed them that kept her in control. “Fine,” she snapped. “I promise.”
Perhaps half a minute after Isadora left the room, Bors said, “Time’s up.”
Juliet closed her valise and snapped it shut. Soldiers began to pour toward the front door. Light from their torches flickered wildly on walls Juliet knew she w
ould never see again; a cold breeze wafted through the broken kitchen window. Isadora, closely guarded but untouched, emerged from the hallway with her own black cloak and Juliet’s good gray cape draped over her arm.
“Time to go,” Juliet said as she took the cape from Isadora. When her sister realized what the soldiers planned, she was sure to fight. And die.
The sisters donned their cloaks and stepped into the night surrounded on all sides by soldiers. Juliet held the valise in her left hand, and she fisted her right hand tightly. Isadora stayed close by her side as they walked away from the cabin. Men bearing torches remained behind. She didn’t have much time.
Juliet stopped. Isadora stopped, too, and turned to face her sister.
“I’m sorry,” Juliet whispered.
“Sorry for—”
Isadora didn’t have the chance to finish her sentence. Juliet lifted her right hand and tossed the fine powder into Isadora’s face. The effect was immediate. Isadora was silently outraged for a spilt second, and then she collapsed. Juliet did her best to break her sister’s fall, catching the unconscious woman and easing her to the ground.
The first torch was thrown onto the roof of the Fyne cabin. And then another. A cretin of a soldier tossed his blazing torch through the parlor window, and watched with a smile on his face as the flames caught and spread.
“What did you do to her?” Bors asked indifferently as he nodded to an unconscious Isadora.
“I saved her life,” Juliet whispered.
Bors was greedy and without scruples, but he was not stupid. He understood what had happened. Juliet wondered if her sister ever would.
After a moment of silence Bors said, in a matter-of-fact voice that was as chilling as the wind, “Use that powder or anything like it on my soldiers, and I’ll gladly give them permission to do with you as they wish before they kill you.”
The Imperial Palace in Arthes
* * *
Liane held her breath, unable to believe that this moment was real. With afternoon light streaming through the recently repaired sunroof above, she and Emperor Sebestyen stood side by side in the grand ballroom. The gathering was small but impressive. Ministers and priests had gathered for the celebration.
A few more words remained to be spoken, and when that was done, Sebestyen would be her husband. Liane would be empress. The child she carried—if it was indeed a boy as the witch Gadhra had seen in her dreams—would be emperor one day. The circumstances had changed dramatically for a woman who just a few months ago had been the emperor’s favorite concubine and his most trusted assassin.
With Sebestyen by her side, Liane stood before Father Merryl, the highest-ranking priest in Columbyana. For the occasion she wore not a sheer harlot’s frock or a plain crimson robe, but a finely crafted luxurious gown in that regal crimson. A gown befitting a lady. A gown studded with jewels and adorned with golden lace. It was generously cut across the midsection, since her belly had already started to swell. She loved that gentle swell of her stomach, and often found herself simply sitting with her hands resting there as she contemplated her own changing body.
Sebestyen was a handsome groom, more handsome than she had imagined he could be. His dark hair was pulled back in a neat queue, and the crimson robe he wore was his finest. The trim around his collar matched the gold lace on her gown, but was much more masculine. For the special occasion he wore his own crown, a simple gold circlet set with a few flawless scarlet stones. She sometimes thought his features too sharp, but today he looked regal and handsome. He looked like an emperor. Her emperor.
His face was not so pale as it had once been. He had seen the sun of late, since the witch Sophie had brought the old prediction true and there was no more need to hide from the sunshine. What was done, was done.
But in spite of the prophecy of doom, no disaster had followed the touch of the sun on the emperor’s face. Sebestyen had seen the sun, and now weeks—months—later, there had been no sign of his downfall. Quite the opposite. With a child on the way and a new bride, his life had never been brighter.
While it was a beautiful day and Liane’s circumstances had taken such a wonderful turn, she was well aware that her life was not yet perfect. Sebestyen had not again said that he loved her. His confession that day had been brought about by Sophie’s spell, just as the miracle of their child had been made possible by the witch. But still, she believed his vow had been true. He did love her. It was just difficult for a man like Sebestyen to say the words.
Since he’d learned of the child and insisted that Liane become empress, he had not touched her, not in the way she had come to expect and need. He had been busy with other matters, she reasoned. Columbyana was in an uproar, thanks to the small band of rebels which had been a thorn in Sebestyen’s side for nearly seven years.
Liane’s own brother Kane was one of those thorns. She’d never told Sebestyen that the man who’d taken Sophie out of the palace while Level One had been in an uproar thanks to her spell was her own younger brother. She had made her choice, and in doing so she had to put her old family, what was left of it, out of her mind and out of her heart. She had made her choice on that day when she’d refused to leave with her brother and his woman. It had been the right choice for her. She had not known at that moment how right it would be.
The priests openly hated Liane for surpassing her station. They were all gathered here today, of course, twenty or so of them in their crimson robes huddled together with their heads bowed, as if they prayed for Liane to be struck dead before she could further corrupt the emperor. In some of their sour faces—Father Merryl’s and the younger Father Breccian’s, in particular—she saw the potential for real danger. Father Nelyk looked almost amused by the ceremony, as if he knew something the others did not. Liane did her best to ignore them all. Even though the priests were powerful and she had sensed and felt that hate as if it were a tangible thing, she knew she was safe. She carried the next emperor in her body. They would not dare to harm her.
When the time came, Father Merryl commanded that Liane kneel. She did so gracefully. He placed a small golden crown much like Sebestyen’s upon her head. It was not at all heavy; not much heavier than the thin gold ring she wore on the middle finger of her left hand.
Sebestyen took her hand with his cool fingers and she rose to her feet, and the ceremony was done. Immediately he released his hold on her.
She was empress. Empress Liane. She would give Sebestyen the child and heir he had likely never thought to have, and he would lay the world at her feet. And even if he never again said the words, he did love her.
When the ceremony was done, she reached for Sebestyen. He had held her hand so briefly as he’d helped her to her feet, and she wanted more. She wanted to intertwine her fingers through her husband’s and hold on tight.
She wanted so very much to lace her fingers and his together, but he subtly stepped aside so their hands did not touch.
Two sentinels, men she recognized and knew well from her years in this palace, flanked her. Ferghus was quiet and tall, and wore his fair hair short. He did occasionally flash a friendly smile, but not today. Tatsl never smiled, that Liane was aware of. He was darker, shorter, older, and wearier than Ferghus, and as was the preferred fashion in the palace, he wore his dark hair long.
Sebestyen walked away, leaving her in the company of the sentinels.
“Wait,” she called.
Sebestyen turned. There was a trace of amusement in his blue eyes, and also a trace of impatience. “Yes?”
“I thought perhaps I could accompany you to your quarters this afternoon.”
“I have meetings planned for the entire day.”
She had seen him this way before, with his previous wives. They had been a duty to him, a requirement. Not a love. Not a joy, as she would be. “It is your wedding day, my lord. Surely...”
His blue eyes went hard, and all trace of amusement fled; his jaw tightened. “The rebel forces in the north are growing stronger
and larger. They have taken the Northern Palace, in case you have not heard. A band of Tryfyn scum murdered my new Minister of Finance, and my Minister of Defense has apparently gone missing. A band of soldiers assigned the simple task of fetching two women from the Southern Province has been gone far too long.” His nostrils flared and his mouth thinned. “I have concerns to attend to, and they will not wait simply because this is my wedding day.”
“Of course,” Liane said meekly. “I was not thinking, my lord.”
“Apparently not,” he said under his breath as he turned away.
“Fine.” Liane gathered her skirts in her hands and walked toward the door and her quarters on Level Three. But when she and her escort reached the lift, Ferghus pushed the lever that would take them to Level Five. Arguing would be a waste of time. She was empress now, and Level Five would be her home.
On Level Five she exited the lift and walked down the wide hallway toward the empress’ quarters, her head high and her stride stately. The rooms that would be her new home would be finer than those she had called her own for so long, she knew. Larger and more finely furnished, with servants available at a call. Lavish meals would be brought to her, singers and poets would entertain her. An artist would paint her image, and if she was not pleased with the result, he would torch the portrait and start again.
She would have maids to cater to her needs and pretend to be her friends, and materials for embroidery and painting and whatever other mindless hobby she might enjoy at her fingertips.
If she craved anything, anything at all, all she had to do was ask and it would be delivered to her.
With one exception, of course. Sebestyen was not to be called. No one dared to summon the emperor. He would send for her when and if he desired. He would request her presence or he would ignore her until she delivered him a child.
Tatsl threw open the doors to her chambers. The sitting room had been filled with bouquets and garlands of flowers not easy to come upon at this time of year. The gesture gave her a moment’s hope that perhaps Sebestyen did care more deeply than he had allowed her to see this afternoon.
The Moon Witch Page 2
