The room was very pink, with plush furniture and thick rugs and all those blossoms. A tray of sweets had been placed on a small table beside the chair that sat nearest the fireplace, where a small, cozy fire burned.
This suite was larger than the cabin where she’d lived as a child with four brothers, a mother, and a father. The sitting room beyond the foyer was vast and elegantly furnished. Down a short hallway her bedchamber, a smaller servant’s room, and a lavatory awaited. Another hallway led to a private dining hall, where she would eat her meals in elegance. Alone. It was a very lovely prison.
“Congratulations, my lady.” A maid dressed in a simple brown frock stepped from the bedroom, her smile wide and welcoming. “My name is Mahri, and I am at your service.”
Liane took a step into the room, and the doors were closed behind her. Ferghus and Tatsl remained in the hallway, where they would no doubt stay until their replacements came on duty.
“Thank you, Mahri,” Liane said softly as she glanced around the room. She approached a large bouquet and picked one pink bloom. Sebestyen was distracted by matters of state, and yet he had taken the time to see that her new rooms were filled with these rare flowers. She lifted the blossom to her nose and inhaled deeply.
Her husband did tend to be moody. She knew that better than anyone. But he loved her. The flowers he had arranged for her proved that he cared more deeply than he was willing to show. When they were alone once again, then he’d be free to reveal his true feelings.
“I do hope the flowers are to your liking, my lady,” Mahri said eagerly. “I saw to them myself, as a way of welcoming you to your new home.”
“You saw to the flowers,” Liane repeated.
“Yes, my lady.” Mahri’s voice was decidedly less enthusiastic when she asked, “Are they not to your liking? I can have them taken away.”
“No, they’re lovely.” Liane’s voice did not reveal her disappointment, but her stomach flipped and her heart sank. She should’ve realized and accepted the truth from the moment Sebestyen had told her she would be empress.
Sebestyen had done nothing on her behalf. He’d changed the laws that would have kept her from being empress so his child would be legitimate. The wedding, the marriage, it had nothing to do with her. It was all for the child, and she had been a fool to let that obvious fact slip by her in the name of love.
It had been a lovely day, bright and full of promise, but at the moment Liane was filled with the certainty that she did not belong here. She was Sebestyen’s lover, his soldier, his slave. Not his wife. She was not meant to be anyone’s wife.
What had she done?
Chapter Two
They’d been traveling more than a week, though Juliet had lost count of the exact number of days. Eight? Nine, perhaps? Whatever the number, the days had seemed endless. Bors led the imperial soldiers unerringly forward, stopping only when necessary. He was more considerate of the needs of the horses than of the men or women in his charge. If not for the animals, Juliet imagined he would have insisted on traveling without stopping at all.
Juliet and Isadora each had their own mount, and the horses were led by soldiers who held the reins and kept a close and wary eye on their charges. The duty of leading the witches was rotated often, and three or four times a day the faces closest to the Fyne women changed. Juliet imagined Bors would have made them walk, if not for the fact that it would delay his arrival in the capital city. They might have each shared a horse with a soldier, but that would put a strain on the mounts. In any case, none of the soldiers wanted to touch the sister they called the dark witch.
Isadora had remained silent throughout. She had never been the forgiving sort, but Juliet had expected her to release some of her anger a few days into the trip. Surely Isadora realized logically that Juliet had saved her life—perhaps both their lives—by rendering her unconscious. The sight of their home burning would have enraged Isadora, and she would have fought. If she had fought, she would have died, no matter what the emperor’s wishes might be.
The sight of the cabin burning had not enraged Juliet. Instead it had filled her with an incredibly deep sadness that had dropped her to her knees. Home was gone. Memories were now only memories, without constant visual memories of what had once been. The smoke from the fire had touched her as she watched, and in that smoke she saw and felt so many truths she had not known. Her mother had loved deeply, once. She’d loved and walked away, afraid of the curse that had ruined so many lives. Isadora had cried on more nights than she’d allowed her sisters to know, after her husband’s passing. Sophie had wandered into her sisters’ rooms on many a cold night, to see that they were properly covered against the chill. Pain and joy and laughter and tears were in that smoke, and Juliet knew she would never forget the moments she’d spent on her knees, soaking it all in, before Bors had snatched her to her feet and dragged her away.
Isadora did not understand, and she did not forgive. Instead she remained stony-faced and refused to respond to Juliet’s attempts at conversation and comfort. She was so angry and defiant and alone, but she had not attempted to fight the soldiers or cast a spell that might cause mischief. It was not easy for Isadora to use her magic without the direction of her hands, but there were some simple spells that would work with words alone. Had she given up? Juliet hoped that was so. In the confines of the Emperor’s Palace in Arthes there would surely be a time when they were alone, or at least not so horribly outnumbered. At that time they could choose to fight, if it was right that they should do so.
Juliet still could not see their arrival at the palace and what would follow, and she cursed her ability that failed her now when she needed it most. She normally needed touch in order to harness the full power of her abilities, and of late no one had cared to touch her. The last person to lay a hand on her was her captor. She knew that with every breath Bors took, he moved closer to his death, but she could not see how or when he would die.
As for Isadora and herself...she saw nothing.
They rode slowly but steadily along the road to Arthes, even though it was well past dark, and even the soldiers were yawning and whispering complaints about the pace of this return journey. Tonight as the sun had set, the full moon had risen into the sky. Shining brightly now, it allowed them to see the road clearly enough to travel well past sundown. They would likely continue this pace for the next three nights, when the moon was at its brightest and fullest.
From the grumblings she’d heard, the soldiers had had trouble finding the mountain cabin of the Fyne witches, even though Bors had been there before. Isadora’s spell, meant to keep all conflict and men away from Fyne Mountain, had protected the sisters and their home for a little while. If only Juliet had done her part and seen what was coming before it was too late, they might’ve escaped. They could’ve hidden in the hills for a long time. Perhaps forever.
But she had not seen, and to her mind that signified she had not been meant to see. She and Isadora were fated for this journey. They were meant to be here, in this place at this time. She just didn’t know why.
Juliet’s eyes were suddenly drawn to the darkness of the forest that lined the road to the north. There was movement there that the soldiers did not see or hear, the movement of a watcher hidden in the depths of the woodland. She knew that someone watched, as surely as she had known that the emperor’s men would burn the cabin she’d called home all her days.
She should be afraid, to know that a stranger watched so intently, but she was not at all frightened. Instead a deep sense of calm settled over her, as if a mantle of warmth penetrated her cloak and her gown and seeped into her skin. There was little left to fear. Home had been taken from her. Sophie had been taken from her. Even Isadora, who rode close beside her, had been taken. Juliet Fyne was a woman who had little left to lose.
She was not afraid, but her curiosity was definitely roused. What manner of man would be here in the middle of night, so far from any semblance of civilization? They were days from
the last village; days still, she had heard, from the next town to the west. Between here and there were only a few isolated farms and ranches. The land hereabouts was hard and unfriendly. The barren heart of Columbyana, some called it. Farming and ranching in this part of the country were not for the timid. The land was cheap and so men tried. Maybe some succeeded for a while, but most did not. Perhaps the man in the forest was a curious farmer, come to watch the parade from the safety of the darkness.
Juliet’s world narrowed until she was in a state that usually required the touch of her hand to accomplish. Everything around her faded. The soldiers, the horses, Bors. Even Isadora disappeared. There was no one in her conscious mind but herself and the watcher.
He was a man, yet not a man. A beast, yet not a beast. There was magic in his blood, as there was magic in hers, and he carried within him a force beyond her comprehension. Strength usually frightened her. At the very least she was wary of it. But this watcher’s strength was tempered with gentleness and honor.
And need.
The watcher kept pace with the retinue of soldiers and their captives. His eyes were not on Bors or the armed soldiers, but on Juliet. Without fail, his powerful gaze remained fixed on her. She felt that gaze to her bones, and instead of chilling her again, she felt warmth.
In the depths of the wood she caught a glimpse of those eyes. They were gold, and they shone in the night much like the moon above. The connection she felt with the creature in the forest was unlike any she had ever known. She was not close enough to touch the watcher, and yet she felt as if his mind and hers had merged, somehow.
Why do you follow?
The question was silent, a whisper of her mind, but within her mind there was an answer.
You know.
Juliet shook her head. I don’t. I don’t know. And yet deep within her something stirred. A fear. A knowing.
You are connected to the earth with rivers of knowledge. Do you not know all things?
If I knew all things I would not be here.
Do not be afraid.
“I’m not afraid,” Juliet whispered.
“Well, you should be,” the young soldier who led her mount said, confidence and arrogance in his voice. “The emperor doesn’t care much for women, unless they serve him in some way. I don’t know why he sent for you, but he has plenty of cooks and maids. Most of his concubines have got themselves with child, and of late he’s been procuring new wenches to serve him and his ministers. You and your sister will likely find yourself living on Level Three.”
The mental connection Juliet had found with the creature of the forest disappeared, as if a ribbon had been cut and the severed ends fell free. She dismissed the unusual event as her own imagination, feeding her an intimate conversation when she had need for contact with someone. Anyone.
“What?” she asked, sounding confused and more than a little sleepy. The experience, imagination or not, had left her feeling dazed and headachy. Maybe she had dozed off in the saddle, and the watcher was just a dream.
The soldier glanced back at her, a trace of annoyance on his pretty face. He did not look to be more than twenty years old. A bit of baby fat made his cheeks full and pink, but there was no hint of the child in his harsh voice. “Level Three, witch. Since most of the concubines are pregnant and will soon be too unattractive and unwieldy to serve the emperor and other favored men in positions of importance, he’s been collecting replacements. I hear it’s not a bad life for a woman, if she does as she’s told.”
“Most of the...uh, ladies...they’re with child?” Juliet asked. There were ways to prevent conception. Surely the emperor availed himself of such methods.
“Yes. It’s odd, if you ask me.” The soldier lowered his voice. “They all got pregnant on the same day. There was quite a to-do on Level One. The emperor was supposed to get married again, but his bride-to-be made the skylight in the grand ballroom explode, and the next thing you know there were all sorts of goings-on...going on,” he finished quickly, more than a little embarrassed. “When springtime comes, Level Three is going to be quite busy, and not in the usual way.” The soldier turned his young face to the front once again.
“What happened to the bride?” Juliet held her breath as she waited for the soldier to answer.
“She ran off while the place was in an uproar.”
“So, there was no wedding?”
“No wedding.”
Juliet looked toward the forest again, and this time she saw no spark of gold. She felt no tug at her soul. Her mind was on the soldier’s words, not on the watcher. If the watcher even existed. It was easy to write off the event to her imagination or a dream, and turn her thoughts to something more solid. Springtime, the soldier said. All those women conceiving at the same time. Goings-on. Exploding skylights.
In spite of the forest mystery, angry soldiers, Bors, Isadora’s foul mood, and the threat of Level Three, Juliet managed a smile. Sophie.
Liane paced in her quarters, while Mahri watched with increasing dismay. The maid and companion had offered everything she knew to offer. Food, drink, music, novels, poets, a comic or a dramatic play presented for the empress’ pleasure. Liane wanted none of those things, so now the young girl wrung her hands and chewed on her lower lip.
Liane had been empress for seven days, and Sebestyen had not yet sent for her. Not once. She was his wife in name only, and she had not even had the pleasure of his company at a meal, much less the pleasure of his company in his bed or hers. She had been all but locked in this damned suite of rooms with everything any woman might desire. Everything but her husband.
She hated pink. It had never been her favorite color, but since moving into these rooms, she had come to detest the putrid shade. Pink coverlet on her bed, pink chair, pink flowers, pink pillows. The shades varied, but no matter where she turned, she was confronted with the color that literally nauseated her. These days she did not need anything, much less something so insignificant as a color she did not care for, to cause her insides to roil.
It was late in the day. Surely Sebestyen was not absorbed in matters of state at this hour. Perhaps he was asleep, resting after a long and arduous day. The rebellion was growing in strength. The rebels had not approached Arthes, but knowing that they grew stronger was a concern.
As was the fact that Maddox Sulyen, the former Minister of Defense and Sophie’s father and a traitor in Sebestyen’s eyes, had disappeared. The emperor’s days were surely long and taxing, given the current state of affairs in Columbyana.
“Your nightgown is on the bed,” Mahri said when Liane made a sharp turn and headed for her bedchamber. “I pressed it myself this afternoon while you were napping.” The girl followed, as if to help her mistress prepare for yet another night alone.
“If I slept well at night, I would have no need for naps in the afternoon,” Liane said sharply. Too sharply, perhaps. The situation that was driving Liane mad was not Mahri’s fault.
“I will have a sleeping potion prepared...”
“No potions,” Liane snapped. Never again would she take a witch’s elixir into her body. For her sake and for the sake of her child, she would not drug herself for any reason. Not to prevent a child or conceive one, not for pleasure or comfort or sleep. She no longer trusted Gadhra’s brews, and preferred suffering from the occasional bout of sickness over taking the medicines that were prepared on Level Seven.
“But you must...”
“I must see my husband. Now.” Liane threw open the doors to her wardrobe, and instinctively reached for a plain crimson robe, much like the ones she had worn as Sebestyen’s concubine. Perhaps if he saw her without the trappings of her new station, he would forget for a while that she was empress and remember only that she was his lover.
The swelling of her body was subtle, and yet undeniable. Did Sebestyen find that roundness unattractive? Is that why he had not sent for her? Did her altered physical appearance disgust him? She would like to believe that her husband would not be s
o shallow, but she knew that he could be unreasonable about even the smallest infraction. Is that how he saw her pregnancy? As an infraction?
Mahri tried to stop her, even as Liane marched out of her bedroom. “We should send word that you wish to see the emperor,” she said quickly. “It would be poor manners to arrive unannounced.”
Liane spun on the girl. “Poor manners to visit my husband in his bed?”
The young girl paled. “I hear he is not one to be disturbed lightly,” she whispered. “That is what I hear.”
“I know Sebestyen better than you or anyone else,” Liane said. “He will be glad to see me.” Eventually.
Liane threw the door to her suite open, only to find the way blocked by two armed sentinels. Ferghus and Tatsl were not on duty tonight. Too bad. She might’ve been able to reason with them. Balen and Vance might be more difficult. They were unerringly loyal to their emperor, and on more than one occasion she had caught them studying her with what might be called thinly veiled contempt.
They still thought of her as a whore, and perhaps they always would.
“I wish to be taken to the emperor.”
The sentinels looked at one another, and a silent message passed between them. “We will tell the emperor’s guards that you—”
“I intend to surprise my husband,” she interrupted. Again, they looked at one another. Had Sebestyen ordered that she not go to him? Is that why everyone was trying to stop her?
Liane was not easily stopped. She surprised the guards by swinging up her fisted right hand and punching Balen in the throat. He dropped to his knees and raised both hands up to protect the injury while he gasped for breath. Vance instinctively reached for his weapon, and then hesitated. He could not harm the empress, especially not while she carried the emperor’s heir. He raised one hand to his throat in way of defense, and Liane kicked him solidly between the legs.
The Moon Witch Page 3
