“I probably would have, if it weren’t for the . . . other thing."
When Hammad gave her a sharp look, she went on to tell him about the secret room. "I hadn’t thought about it in years—until I saw that black stone in the Dark Mountains. Then I remembered it all, including the drawings of wolves."
She went on to describe the similarities between the door she’d seen in the fortress mirror-tower and the door to that secret room.
“They have different woods in the Dark Mountains, and it ages differently as well. But the final proof that it must be a Kassid room came when I first saw that symbol on their tunics. I'd already seen their writing, and it wasn’t at all like the symbols I remembered. But Daken told me that the symbol on their tunics is the ancient symbol for their people, written in the old way. He said that their spoken language hasn’t changed, but that they had simplified their written language centuries ago."
Hammad leaned forward attentively. "A Kassid room—here?"
She nodded. “I trust my memory, but I must see that room again.”
“I agree. I will find some trusted men to take down the wall immediately. But you have not spoken to Daken of this, either?"
She fidgeted uncomfortably. “No, I haven't. I can't really explain it, Hammad. Perhaps it is only that I’ve kept it secret all these years."
"But you have just told me," he pointed out gently, then reached over to cover her fluttering hand.
"I still believe there is no cause for alarm, Jocelyn. But we will go to this room together to test your memory—and then, if we know that it is Kas- sid, you must talk to Daken about it. Once again, he may be the only one who can explain it."
"I know you’ve always had a great interest in history, Hammad, and a much greater knowledge of it than I do. I was hoping that you might know something that could explain it—or that Father knew about it and had told you."
"I know of nothing to explain it, and your father never mentioned it, so he must not have known, either. He would certainly have told me about it, if for no other reason than the one you mentioned. He knew of my interest in our people’s history."
Hammad paused for a moment, staring off into space. His tone became musing. "I have always thought that our history is incomplete, somehow. Despite all the old manuscripts in the palace library, it seems to me that much is missing."
But Jocelyn barely heard him as her thoughts remained on that room deep in the palace cellars. "That room is Kassid, Hammad—and it was built at great cost. It must be important."
“Yes—but not necessarily threatening.”
No, she thought, it might not be threatening, but it was important. There was a reason for her having found it all those years ago.
Chapter Eleven
Jocelyn had deliberately decreed that the marriage ceremony take place immediately, to forestall any plans the court might have to turn the event into a major spectacle. Already, they were upset at her refusal to have the usual lavish ceremony that was traditionally held to commemorate the ascendancy of a new emperor.
“After all," she had told the few who dared to complain, "we are already married. This is merely an affirmation of that marriage."
She had also warned the priests that she did not want their usual hours-long ramblings—though not in language quite that forceful. But in this, she was less successful.
Although one of her many titles was "Defender of the Faith” and she was nominally the priests' superior, they knew they could disobey her with impunity. The nobility of Ertria and Balek paid no more than lip service to the old religion, but the arrogant priests still had considerable power over the common people.
So she stood beside Daken in the Great Hall, carefully maintaining an expression of piety while they mumbled on interminably. The huge room was filled to overflowing, with an even larger crowd gathered in the inner courtyard beyond the open doors. It was traditional to permit several hundred ordinary people to attend, with individuals chosen by lot. Through the growing haze created by the incense, she could see the common folk just outside, straining to get a better view.
I would rather have them in here than these arrogant, bejeweled peacocks, she thought disgustedly. Her stay among the Kassid had decreased her already limited tolerance for her courtiers.
Then, when she forced herself to pay attention to the priests, she saw how they avoided looking at Daken. Perhaps she should have sent him to talk with them; they certainly seemed to fear him.
Then she began to drift off once more into her thoughts. Hammad had gathered together a few of his most trusted men, and she had gone to the cellars with them to show them the wall that would have to be tom down. Fortunately, it was in a part of the cellars that was rarely visited by servants, so the work should be able to proceed in secret. Hammad thought it would take them no more than two days.
She cast a quick, sidelong glance at Daken, who stood stoically beside her, no doubt wishing himself back at the fortress. How easy it had been to love him then—even after his revelations about their magic. Perhaps there was something in the very air in the Dark Mountains that made magic more acceptable. Or perhaps it was only that there she could be a woman, while here she had to be empress.
But I do love him, she thought, even if I no longer completely trust him. Distrust was in the air of the court as surely as magic was in the air of the Dark Mountains.
Finally, it was over, and a great cheer rose up from the people outside. The courtiers, of course, were far too dignified for such behavior.
Taking Daken by the arm, she led him down from the dais, through the overdressed crowd that parted in surprise—and out to the inner courtyard, where the equally surprised common people stepped back quickly, then began to bow and curtsy clumsily.
In a loud, clear voice, she thanked them for their good wishes and promised them that when the war was over, they would see many changes—good changes. Then, half-appalled at her own daring, she hurried back inside to more cheers. When her eyes met Daken’s, he smiled at her and nodded his approval.
Some time later, as Jocelyn was beginning to silently count the minutes until they could escape, she saw one of Hammad’s aides come into the hall and move purposefully through the crowd toward his commander. After a brief conversation, Ham- mad found his way quickly to Daken.
She knew something had happened even before the two men approached her and suggested they retire to a small anteroom off the hall. And she quickly learned that she was right.
The Menoan and Turvean forces had joined at their common border and were on the move toward Menoa’s border with Ertria. She didn’t need Ham- mad to tell her that war was now inevitable. Their last, faint hope of avoiding it had been the sending of an emissary to Arrat to inform him of what he already knew—that the Kassid had joined forces with Ertria. Hammad reported that the emissary, a cousin of Jocelyn’s, was now safely back within the borders of Ertria, and he'd sent one of his aides on ahead to report that his announcement had been greeted with a stony silence from Arrat. ·
After Hammad’s announcement, the three of them stood there in silence as the revelry continued in the nearby Hall. Then there was a knock at the door, and Hammad went over to admit Eryk. Jocelyn had not seen him alone since her return, and now she took his hand to introduce him to Daken. Hammad, however, was uninterested in social pleasantries at the moment.
He told Eryk the news, then explained to Daken that the most likely point of invasion would bring the enemy quickly into some of Eryk’s lands.
Eryk nodded solemnly. "I have already moved all the farm workers’ families to safety. The workers have remained to prepare for planting, but I ordered that no planting be done until we could determine if there would be war."
"I am sorry that your lands will be caught up in this," Jocelyn said sincerely. "Of all the landholders, you are the one who least deserves it.”
"Yes, but he is also the only one who would trouble to move his people to safety,” Hammad stated. "The others would simply remove ever
ything of value and leave the people to their own resources."
Both Jocelyn and Eryk nodded in agreement with this, while Daken eyed Eryk with interest. This, he knew, was the nobleman rumored to be the most likely candidate for Jocelyn's hand.
Perhaps he would have made her a good husband, Daken thought. At least he seemed different from the others if those statements were to be believed.
' Knowing what was to be believed was a very difficult thing in this avaricious and dissembling court. After only a few days here, he felt a nearly overwhelming urge to do exactly what so many of them seemed to expect of him—seize power for himself. But he reminded himself once again of the decision made long ago by his ancestors, and he knew it had been a wise one.
His gaze traveled from Eryk to Jocelyn and he felt a deep, aching sense of loss. Day by day, perhaps even moment by moment, she was slipping away from him to be reclaimed by the band of beribboned and bejeweled thieves she called her court.
And now there would be war. He’d known it would happen but had held out to her the hope that it could be prevented—and then had perhaps come to half-believe it himself.
‘‘My people tell me that we are in for a spell of rain," Eiyk said, "And they are uncannily accurate in their predictions. So the attack may be postponed."
Hammad nodded, then glanced at Daken. "Nevertheless, we must move quickly now that we are certain of their point of attack."
"We are ready,” Daken replied, but his gaze was locked on Jocelyn, whose fair skin had gone quite pale.
Jocelyn leaned back in her warm, scented bath. Save for her maids, she was alone on her wedding night. Daken had gone to the camp, and tomorrow the Kassid, together with the Ertrian army, would begin the long march to the border.
There was, she thought, a certain benefit to knowing that the worst had happened. She couldn’t say that she felt tranquil, but at least the agony of waiting was over.
Daken had come back to their suite with her, but only for a few minutes, and his mind was clearly elsewhere for most of that time. That difference she'd begun to feel in him from the moment the Kassid had made their decision had only increased. The man who’d held her in his arms and had sworn that he would return to her was a stranger—a mythical warrior come to life to save her empire.
She had believed him when he’d said he would return to her, but what difference did it make? When he returned, it would only be to say goodbye. He belonged to the Dark Mountains, and she belonged here—and their allotted time together was drawing to an end.
The bath water was growing cool, but she felt unable to move. One of the maids suggested that more warm water should be brought, but she shook her head. It seemed to be the only effort she could make just now.
How very strange the mind was. In the Dark Mountains, her life here had begun to seem like a distant dream. But now that she was back, her time there felt the same way.
She leaned back still more and closed her eyes. Immediately, her inner vision was filled with Daken and the times she had known even then she would never forget and others that had seemed unimportant at the moment, but had somehow been preserved anyway.
Tears began to fall down her cheeks unnoticed. Even if she never again saw the Daken she had loved, she had these memories to cherish. It would be enough. It had to be enough.
She drew into herself, curling up in the cooling water, floating with those memories and trying to hold at bay the doubts that kept trying to intrude. She was drifting in that strange place between wakefulness and dreaming, clinging to one while reaching for the other, when a low, urgent and very familiar voice intruded.
She opened her eyes to find Daken standing there, glowering at the maids, who were clearly caught between their fear of him and their duties to her.
“Go! Leave us alone!" he repeated.
The frightened women stared from him to her and she nodded. Her heart was pounding and she half-rose from the bath, frightened herself now as she stared at him.
“Daken, what is it? What’s happened?"
His fierce expression softened even as he turned back to her. He lifted her from the bath, then quickly wrapped her in the towelling cloth.
"What has happened," he said in a calm voice that belied the tension she could feel in him, “Is that I had to see you again.”
He carried her into the bedchamber and laid her on the bed, then began to rub away the wetness, lingering over her soft curves.
“I went to the camp, but I could not sleep there. Forgive me, maiza, for thinking only of war and not of you. Perhaps I have finally talked myself into being a true warrior at last." He gave a rueful chuckle and continued his ministrations, but more slowly, lingering over her breasts and the sensitive flesh of her inner thighs.
"I could feel the presence of the ancestors there; we all could. They are transforming us from men of peace into the warriors created by the gods.
“But a part of me resists that. A part of me wants only to be in your arms.”
He paused, and his hands on her grew still. "I think they know that, and approve. If I have to kill, I must at least know why I do it. And I must have your love to give me courage."
She wriggled free from the constraining towel and wrapped her arms tightly around him. Her tears were starting again.
"I thought I'd lost you—lost the man I love. You’ve been so different, Daken."
“I know,” he said, kissing away her tears. "It is the war and this place—and our history. But none of it has anything to do with us, with the man and woman who love each other.”
The night became a long, waking dream. Every kiss, every touch, every soft word of love, became a moment separated from the rest, but also one long continuum of sensuality. They were fierce with each other, but gentle, too. They drifted along the edges of sleep together, only to be pulled back again by erotic demands.
Although neither spoke of it, they both knew that magic touched them—a magic far beyond either of their understanding. It was ancient, timeless—and all-powerful.
Their footsteps echoed sharply in the heavy silence, and the torchlight flickered over empty corridors, illuminating nothing but the dust of centuries.
She might have been that curious child again, Jocelyn thought. She was even carrying a large ball of red yam again—the same color she’d carried all those years ago, though the choice had been random, dictated more by size than by color. It surprised her that she could recall even that small detail.
But she wasn't alone this time, and she was glad of that. By an ironic twist of fate, the child had been braver than the adult was. But then, the child hadn’t known what she would find.
"You told no one in all these years?" Hammad asked, his voice booming in the silence.
She shook her head. “I guess I just thought of it as a wonderful secret. Arman was always bragging about secrets he kept from me, or talking about things he did that I couldn’t do—so it became my secret, something I’d done that he hadn’t."
And it seemed to her now that she was intended to keep it secret, she thought—just as she was intended to discover it in the first place.
“Then I simply forgot about it over the years," she went on. "Or maybe I didn’t really forget, but rather put it away with everything else from childhood. It was only when I saw that black stone in the Dark Mountains that I began to think about it again, and I had intended to talk to Father about it when I came back.”
They were both silent for a few moments after that, each of them lost in a resurgence of pain over his loss. Hammad had come to her suite quite early, just after she had awakened to find that Daken had gone. Even as he’d told her that the men had broken through the wall in the cellar, Jocelyn had been struggling to decide if the night just past had been real. Then, after Hammad had gone and her maids had come in to help her dress, she knew, finally, that it had been real. Her body told her. No dream lover could have left her with this powerful awareness of herself—or with the small aches and pains of a night
spent exploring the outer limits of a body’s capacity for pleasure.
She felt it still, as they walked through the ancient cellars, and a lingering trace of the night’s magic seemed to be following her as well.
She paused at the bottom of a small set of stairs, then chose the corridor that led to the left at an angle. Nothing was straight down here; corridors seemed to branch off at odd angles everywhere. And yet she felt so confident of the way—too confident for someone relying on a single, sixteen-year old memory. But she was still wrapped in the magic of the previous night and didn’t question it.
"We’ve been moving steadily downward," Ham- mad observed. "I had no idea the cellars were this deep."
"How old do you think this part of the palace is?” she asked, knowing this his interest in history made him one of the few people likely to be able to make an accurate guess.
"No one really knows. It was built in stages, of course—over centuries, actually. It’s possible to see where construction left off and was begun again years later, and we can guess that it might even have been partially tom down and rebuilt at times. But this”—he waved an arm around them—"has to be the oldest part. See how the stones are cut differently? Cutting tools were less precise back then.
"If I had to make a guess, I would say that this portion of the palace must be at least four hundred years old, perhaps even older. The oldest account we have mentions construction atop an older structure, but says nothing about what it was.”
“But Hammad, my family’s rule goes back only a little more man three hundred yean. If this is older, who built it?"
Hammad shrugged. “It might still have been built by your family, before they conquered the other noble families. Or it might have been built by one of the other families, then taken over by your family after the conquest. If my me memory serves me cor rectly, there is mention somewhere of a desire to get rid of the old structure, as though it were associated with bad memories.”
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