by Mia Marlowe
Erik had only nightmarish flashes of the time he languished on the cusp between this world and the next. Rising from the icy mists of Hel, the shade of his brother came to reproach him.
Or to drag Erik back to that cold hall with him.
“It's a long tale,” Erik said.
“Then I'd better get comfortable.” Nestor settled next to Erik, splaying his gnarled fingers on his knees and looking at him with expectancy.
In a flat voice, Erik told Nestor of his wife's faithlessness and his brother's betrayal. Then with more difficulty, he relived the killing, or at least as much of it as he could remember through the black berserkr haze.
“So, you have done murder,” Nestor said thoughtfully. “And yet, he was your brother and you loved him, so the memory pains you.”
Against Erik's will, tears pressed against his eyes. He blinked them back. He never cried. Not at the funeral biers of his parents. Not even when Olaf's body was burned before Erik was sentenced to banishment. Not over the men he'd led to their deaths in the Harbor of Theodosius. A warrior didn't weep. Still, a tear slid down his cheek, scalding a salty path over his abraded skin. He swiped it away, heedless of the extra agony the rough touch cost him.
“Bah! Pain has made me womanish.”
“No,” Nestor corrected. “Do not be afraid to shed tears. You have earned them. The evidence of your remorse gives me hope for your soul. Even our Lord wept. Better men than you have let grief seep from their eyes.”
“Of that, I have no doubt,” Erik said sourly.
“You were banished for your crime and yet your punishment has brought you no peace.” Nestor seemed to be mulling over the problem as if he were a physician diagnosing a patient. “In ancient times, a murderer might be condemned to drag the body of his victim with him as punishment. Bound wrist to wrist and ankle to ankle with the decaying corpse, the killer would bear a constant reminder of the wrong done. No one could remove it till the bones loosed from their sockets and fell away of their own accord. I cannot see your brother's body on your back, Erik, and yet you bear it just the same. O wretched man, who will deliver you from the body of this death?”
The image of his brother's moldering corpse made him want to retch. Nestor was right. Erik bore the load of his crime in his own heart. He'd never really believed in the Christian idea of sin, but he felt the weight of his guilt bearing down on him anyway.
“There is only one thing you can do,” Nestor went on. “You must forgive your brother.”
Erik couldn't have been more surprised if Nestor had slapped him. “No, you're wrong. Olaf is dead. Surely there's no going back now.” Erik stood and paced toward the parapet. “Even if such a thing were possible, I'm the one who needs forgiveness.”
“You're right in that,” Nestor said agreeably. “Yet it is a principle woven into the very fabric of the universe. In the measure that we forgive others, we ourselves find pardon. Release Olaf from the wrong he did you and you release yourself.”
Olaf's face rose up in Erik's mind again, as he was as a boy. A sob fought its way out of Erik's throat and this time, not a single tear, but a torrent poured from his eyes. He buried his face in his hands and wept like a lost child. From his heart, he forgave Olaf for sleeping with his wife. He wiped the offense from his mind. He buried the hurt as a dog might bury a bone and resolved not to take it out and worry it again. The knot of bitterness in his chest dissolved into tiny pieces and washed away with the salty river of his tears.
Nestor's bony fingers patted his unburned shoulder, easing the shudder that coursed through him.
“Yes, my brother,” the little monk said. “Now you have tasted the most terrifying power of Love. The power to forgive.”
As his soul quieted in heartbroken peace, Erik decided the Christian's god wasn't as weak as he thought.
“Novices to intrigue sometimes regard intelligence-gathering as a game. It is, a most deadly game.”
—from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus
Chapter 29
* * *
Valdis was too stunned at first to protest Damian's kiss. She had seen Christians at the basilica share what they called “a kiss of peace” and assumed this was what her former master offered, a simple expression of comfort. But when he drove his tongue between her teeth, it was clear there was nothing sympathetic in his embrace. She shoved against his chest with both palms.
“What are you doing?” she demanded. “You endanger us both. Or do you suppose being a gelding will shield you from Mahomet's jealous eye?”
It was the wrong thing to say. Damian's dark brows lowered and his face hardened like marble. Valdis regretted throwing his maiming in his teeth. After all, in a world where her family had cast her out and the man she loved was no more, Damian was the only one who seemed to care for her even a little.
And she’d hurt him to the core.
Yet he was the one who had always urged her to discretion. Whatever possessed him to kiss her like that?
“Forgive me.” She stood and walked to the nearby potted roses to put more distance between them. “I shouldn't have said it like that. I only meant—”
“No, you're right.” Damian's expression went flat and unreadable as he waved off her apology. “It was a mistake to kiss you. It just seemed you needed something and I was caught up in the moment. We will not speak of it again.”
Valdis nodded, but she felt a tingle at the small of her back. From the beginning of her enslavement, Damian felt safe. The kiss shattered that safety forever. Erik's instincts were right. Damian did want her, though the kiss didn't smack of passion. It was more like a test, in which she or he had failed. She'd heard the zenana gossip about late-made eunuchs and their unnatural sexual stamina. If she thwarted Damian's advances, would he still honor his pledge to set her free?
She would be on her guard with him from now on.
“You usually visit me at daybreak,” she said, hoping to bring some normalcy to their conversation. “What brings you at twilight?”
Before Damian could answer, the sound of commotion rose to her ear. Valdis leaned over the balustrade to peer down into the inner courtyard. Guards were dragging two people toward the pergola in the center of the garden.
It was a man and a woman, though both had been whipped so badly, their clothing hung in bloody ribbons down their backs. They were forced to their knees while the guards bound their hands behind them. The woman raised her heart-shaped face to the fading sunlight.
It was Landina and Bernard.
“Assemble in the courtyard,” Publius screeched, his unnatural alto straying upward in pitch in his excitement. “Witness the terrible wrath and justice of our lord!”
Valdis flew down the staircase, jostling the squealing women of the zenana in her haste to hurry to her friend. The day she and Landina were sold as slaves off the docks, she'd offered mute comfort to the Frankish girl. Once again, all she could do was stand with Landina in silent support.
Landina's gaze darted over the gathering mob, obviously looking for Valdis. When she found her, the Frank's face broke into a sad smile. It was the only goodbye she could offer without endangering Valdis as well, but it spoke volumes—sorrow for her deception, thanks for Valdis's friendship and finally, farewell.
Then the Frankish girl turned her eyes toward her lover, and no matter how the pitiless lash fell on them both, she would not look away.
“I have failed you,” Bernard gasped between stinging blows. “I am sorry, beloved.”
“I am not,” Landina said with fierceness. “We have known love, you and I. I would not trade one moment with you for the span of a hundred lifetimes.”
“Silence!” Mahomet strutted forward, hands on his hips. His dark eyes snapped and his white teeth glinted like a wolf about to attack a helpless kid. In his rage, he was terrifying. “You have led my agents quite a chase. Shall I give you over to them for sport to make up for their trouble? It will give me pleasure to see your living entrails wrappe
d about your own throats.”
The guard wielding the whip threw it down and pulled out a wickedly curved knife.
“Master, a thousand pardons, but I must speak,” Publius interrupted with a groveling bow. “Such things are not fitting for the women of the zenana to see. At least five are bearing now and we do not want to blight the children by allowing the mothers an evil sight.”
When Mahomet held up his hand to halt the guard's action, Valdis felt a surge of hope. Was it possible that her master possessed a shred of mercy?
“You are right, Publius,” he finally said as he held out his hand. “Bring my sword.”
Hushed expectancy fell over the assembly. Valdis forced herself to breathe as Publius hauled his bulk up onto the raised pergola. He offered the curved scimitar to Mahomet, jewel-encrusted hilt first.
“Hold still, Frankman,” he said to Bernard. “And I will give you a cleaner death than you deserve.”
Bernard's mouth moved, but Valdis couldn't make out the words. Landina didn't turn away as the blade sliced through the air, taking Bernard's head with it. His blood spattered her with a warm shower.
“I will see you soon, love,” Landina said to the disembodied head. When Mahomet raised his sword again, she actually gave him a tremulous smile.
Landina's little head rolled to a stop in the grass at Valdis's feet. It lay there blinking up at her for the space of several heartbeats. Then the bright eyes dulled and her smiling lips went slack.
“Behold the mercy of our lord and master," Publius began chanting. The cry was soon taken up by the women around her.
Valdis did not join them.
When she looked up, Mahomet was standing directly in front of her. He kicked the Frankish girl's head away and studied Valdis for a few moments.
“You will dine with me this night,” he declared.
Valdis swallowed the gorge that rose in the back of her throat and bared her teeth at him, hoping he would mistake the expression for a smile.
He seemed satisfied and moved on.
Valdis bored a hole in his back with her gaze. She understood why Landina smiled before the blade fell. She had known love and the knowledge freed her from fear, even fear of death.
Valdis had known love too—love that unseats reason and drives all other passions before its unassailable tide. There was nothing Mahomet could do to her that would wound her more than the loss of Erik. She was untouchable. She was beyond the reach of her master’s cruelty. Death would be welcome when it came for her.
But before I leave this Middle Realm, she promised herself, I will kill Habib Ibn Mahomet.
“It is said God is pleased to give us the desire of our hearts.
Somehow, I don't believe the Almighty had my heart in mind.”
—from the secret journal of Damian Aristarchus
Chapter 30
* * *
Valdis wandered slowly through Hagia Sophia's arcade and under the huge floating dome with its enigmatic Kristr gazing down. Perhaps the god of this great city looked graciously on her in her grief. Last night she'd escaped Mahomet's bed once again.
Damian had been Mahomet's other dinner guest. Thanks to his surreptitious signals, she managed to satisfy Mahomet with vague predictions about silk prices and the coming chariot races. Her gift triumphed over his lust.
Her master was pleased enough by her prognostications that he called for another odalisque to service his body's needs later that evening. Valdis was grateful, but she was even more relieved he allowed her to continue her daily outings to the Hagia Sophia. Though it drained her heart’s blood to visit Erik's runes in the church gallery, it also anchored her to this world for another day.
Her steps slowed as she mounted the marble staircase. She liked this time of day with the mellow golden quality of light shafting through the windows. It was between worship services, so there were few people around. The basilica was quiet enough that she sometimes fancied she heard sibilant voices floating on the air currents, soughing through the man-made cavern. She never caught any actual words, but the sound was restful, and if her heart needed anything, it needed rest.
Usually she was alone in the upper gallery, but today she saw a hooded figure at the top of the staircase. He turned away as she approached and disappeared into the shadows. That suited her purpose. She preferred solitude.
Valdis found her seat and settled into her ritual of mourning. She pushed back the burka so she could see the runes more clearly. A gasp escaped her throat.
Instead of just the first two letters, someone had finished Erik's name. Then the rune writer had carved the most astonishing word.
Alive.
Valdis covered her mouth with both hands to keep from crying out. She wanted to laugh hysterically, to dance till her feet bled, to run screaming his name at the top of her lungs.
Erik is alive.
She whispered her thanks to the solemn mosaic on the dome. Then she dropped to her knees and pressed her lips against the runes. If Erik were alive, then the world was put on its head. The sunlight was brighter streaming in the circle of windows along the base of the dome. The colors of the mosaic tiles were crisp and vital. The scent of incense tickled her nostrils for the first time and it seemed as if the half-heard voices that whispered through the vaulting space were laughing softly with her.
She stood to go and nearly ran into the man with the hood.
“Your pardon,” she said as she slid past him to the stairway.
“Valdis,” he said so softly she barely heard him.
She stopped dead. There was no mistake. It was Erik's voice. She turned to him, but his face was still hidden. Her hand crept to her breast to make sure her heart was still beating. Then she slowly walked toward him.
His gray eyes flashed in the shadows.
“It is you?” She scarcely dared believe it.
“Almost,” was the cryptic answer. The man threw back his hood.
Valdis's eyes widened. But for the fact that he was now clean shaven, the left half of his face was the same—the angular strong lines of his jaw and cheekbone, his high broad forehead, just as she remembered him. She'd never seen him without a beard and mustache. He looked years younger.
But the right side of his face had been ravaged by fire. The angry red skin boiled across his cheek and down his neck, disappearing under his clothing. Valdis wondered how far the river of melted flesh flowed. There was only a blackened nub where his ear should have been and what remained of his hair hung in wisps on that side of his head.
He was like the defunct two-headed deity Janus. Seen in profile, he might have been taken for either a handsome young god or a monster.
But he was still her Erik.
And she loved him more than her next breath.
She lifted a tentative hand and touched his cheek. His jaw tensed and she drew back, fearing she had caused him more pain.
“Oh, my love,” she said with a sob. “What have they done to you?”
“If you can't bear me, I hold you blameless. I will leave this city and never trouble you again. Erik the Varangian is dead. His oath to the emperor died with him,” he said, his voice still husky from smoke. “But if you think you can stand the sight of me, I would take you with me, Valdis.”
“And I would go,” she said without hesitation.
He drew her into his arms and with great gentleness, he kissed her. For a moment, Valdis wondered if she were having one of her spells and this was only a vivid dream. Surely this couldn't be real, and yet his lips were warm. She slipped her hands under the folds of his cloak and his firm flesh met her touch. His big hands slid down her back and cupped her bottom. When he pressed her against him, she felt his groin harden with unsatisfied desire.
This was no shade, no phantom. It was Erik back from the dead. Wonder and joy expanded in her chest as her body responded to his with warm moistness. As their kiss deepened, tears coursed down her cheeks, washing away the last of her grief. When he finally released her
mouth, she laid her head on the expanse of his chest, breathing in his dear masculine scent and listening to the rioting thump of his heart.
“I have booked passage on a ship bound for old Rome,” he said. “It doesn't leave until next week, but I don't think I can wait till then to have you.”
Though she wanted him with a fierce yawning ache that caught her by surprise, Landina and Bernard's death was freshly scored on her mind. Now that Erik was alive, she had every reason to go on living.
And everything to lose.
“We must be wise. I cannot go missing until the ship is ready to sail or Mahomet will set his hounds on my trail,” she counseled as she planted a kiss at the base of his throat. “And I have a debt to pay before I can leave this city.”
She told him of Landina's end and her vow to bring Mahomet to his grave. To her relief, he nodded in agreement.
“I will help you,” he said. “If everything I have learned is true, your master and his confederate were behind the attack of the lion on the emperor's ship and on my crew. I may not be oath-bound to the Bulgar-Slayer any longer, but I owe Mahomet a taste of the agony he gave my pledge-men who died in the harbor.”
“Then let us plan, beloved.”
“Try to find out what new scheme your master is hatching and I will do the same,” he promised. “And once we have finished with this cursed place, we shall drink deep from the horn of love for all our days.”
She kissed him once more and forced herself to pull away, promising to come at the same time on the morrow.
As she walked back to her waiting escort, Erik's words played in her head like a half-remembered song.
“We shall drink deep from the horn of love all our days.”
