“Now I see that it didn’t matter who he was. No one has the right to do that to another, be he prince or beggar.”
Shaylah’s brows went up. “Those are,” she said in thinly disguised amusement, “almost Dare’s exact words.”
Califa studied Shaylah for a moment. The depth of devotion and pride in her eyes was unmistakable.
“You truly love him, don’t you?” she asked.
“More than my life. He is everything I could ever wish, ever did wish for, in a man.” Her mouth quirked. “Sometimes, he is more than is comfortable. A king is not an easy man to live with.”
“A king,” Califa murmured, “and you his queen.” The truth of what she had done, what she had been, struck home yet again. And the truth of something else struck home as well. She said sadly, “I know you can never forgive me, for what I did to him.”
“It would be . . . very hard,” Shaylah agreed.
Even now, Califa thought, Shaylah’s innate kindness kept her from declaring the truth, that it would be impossible.
“There was no end to my arrogance,” she said.
“It was more the Coalition’s arrogance,” Shaylah said. “And but one of the many things they were wrong about.”
“Including bonding?”
Shaylah colored, a delicate shade of pink. “Yes. Before, I had only what I had witnessed with my parents, what they had taught me, to support my views. Now, I know every word of it is truth.”
Califa sighed, a tiny, wistful sound she couldn’t help. “I believe you,” she said softly.
Shaylah looked startled, then speculative. “It’s odd,” she said, her tone sounding a bit too casual, “that I had never heard of Dax Silverbrake until last night. Oh, I had heard the mysterious legends of the flashbow warriors, and of the Silverbrake family—a few of their works survived the attack, and are enshrined now in the Sanctuary—but Dare had never mentioned Dax to me. I had heard of the notorious skypirate, of course. And now I find he is not only the same man, that skypirate and that legendary warrior, but he is Dare’s oldest and closest friend.”
“Was,” Califa corrected tightly. “And not likely to be again. I heard your Dare, and he does not seem in a forgiving mood. And Dax . . . Dax feels he has done the unforgivable.”
“And you do not?”
“He has done,” she ground out, “what he had to do. He is the most brilliant, courageous idiot I have ever known.”
Shaylah’s eyes widened at the emphasis. Then a knowing smile curved one corner of her mouth. “You love him, don’t you.”
It wasn’t a question, and Califa didn’t answer. She wasn’t sure she knew the answer. Then Shaylah’s expression turned grave.
“God, Califa, do you have any idea how much trouble he’s in? How many laws he’s broken? In this time of war, Dare could order his death, even on Trios! Or the council could vote to banish him, branded forever an exile.”
Califa shuddered. “I thought Trios too . . . enlightened for such punishments.”
“In time of war,” Shaylah said dryly, “enlightenment is often the first casualty.”
“But Dax never—”
“You will not speak of him.”
The order, sharply uttered, came from behind Califa. She spun around, caught unusually off guard. And came face to face with the king of Trios.
He looked every inch the king, but the man she’d known as Wolf, the man so determined to regain his freedom that he’d nearly severed his own hand in his efforts to escape his chains, was still visible in the fierce gaze he turned on her as he came to a halt a bare two feet away. It took every bit of nerve she had, but Califa met his stare unflinchingly. Acknowledgment of that nerve flickered briefly, reluctantly, in his eyes. It gave her the courage to try to deflect some of the anger he obviously held against Dax.
“Do not blame him,” she said, her voice none too steady. “He did not wish to deal with me.” That had been true enough, in the beginning. “It was the cost of bringing the prisoners home. I bargained with him, the location of the labor camps for a price.”
“That does not excuse or explain his defense of you. Nor does it explain why he allowed your presence on Trios. And the words of an outworlder about a Triotian of blood mean nothing here.”
He didn’t say “especially you,” but Califa heard the implication as clearly as if he had. He had quickly seen through her attempt to protect Dax, and she lapsed into silence before she provoked his anger again; this was the man who could ultimately order Dax’s death.
“My mate,” he said gruffly after a moment, “has convinced me you should have the chance to defend yourself before the council. She seems to think we owe you that favor, for not giving away our escape.”
Califa’s gaze flicked to Shaylah, who said nothing. I wonder what kind of a battle that was, Califa thought. I should not like to try to convince this man of anything, not through this anger.
“Shaylah is certain that you must have guessed that she had . . . rescued me.”
It wasn’t a question, but if he was willing to listen, she would start here.
“As soon as I heard you had escaped Ossuary,” she said, “I knew. I remembered her face when she found I had . . . sent you there.”
Remembered fury darkened his vivid green eyes for an instant. Then, controlling it, he went on. “I am . . . curious. Why did you not give us away?”
“I . . .” Califa hesitated, floundering a little. “She saved my life once, and I—” She broke off suddenly. “No. No, that is not why. When they came to me, I could not betray the woman who was the sister I had never had.”
It came out vehemently, and Shaylah stared at her as if she’d never seen her before. In a sense, it was true; this emotional creature bore little resemblance to the cool, controlled Major Claxton Shaylah had known. But denying her feelings for Shaylah any longer would somehow be like denying Dax, and that she could not do.
Even Dare seemed surprised. But he said only, “They came to you?”
Califa’s mouth twisted into a wry, humorless smile. “Several months after you escaped.” She glanced at Shaylah. “After your medical officer let slip what he had really done that night you came for him, that he had unbanded a gold collar. That and the fact that I was the missing Captain Graymist’s friend, and the owner of the escaped slave, was far too much evidence for the Coalition to ignore.”
Shaylah’s breath caught audibly. “They blamed you?”
Califa shrugged. “It is Coalition tradition, is it not? If you cannot punish the perpetrator, you must punish someone. Anyone.”
Dare was staring at her, as if this put a chink in his anger, and he didn’t like the fact. “And I suppose you think it was punishment enough? Or do you believe that rescuing a few of my people is payment enough?” The rage was building in him again. “There is no payment large enough!”
“I know,” Califa said quietly.
“You know? How could you possibly know what it felt like, what it still feels like to this day, to remember, to dream of it and wake up shaking at the memories?”
“I know,” she repeated. Then she reached up to tug at the cloth that concealed her throat. It slipped away, revealing the dull gold gleam of the collar and the crystal sparkle of the controls.
Califa heard Shaylah gasp, but her eyes stayed fastened on Dare. She saw his eyes widen, then narrow as he stared first at the collar, then at her face. He was shocked, but she could read nothing more in his expression. It was Shaylah who finally spoke, her voice shaken.
“This was your punishment? For not giving us away, they enslaved you?”
“A gold collar for a gold collar,” Califa said simply. “Coalition justice.”
When Dare spoke, his voice sounded as if his fury had been shaken, but his words belied the idea. “And this is why you expect me to believe th
is convenient change of attitude, now that you are in our power?”
“Dare,” Shaylah said, still staring at the collar, “I know you are angry, but think of the price she has paid for protecting us. Think of the times she could no doubt have freed herself by simply telling what she knew.”
“No.” Califa drew herself up straight, ignoring her inner quaking as she faced this man who had so much reason to hate her. “He is right. I expect nothing. Except that you not take your rage at me out on another who does not deserve it.”
“I care not what you expect,” Dare snapped. “I am no longer your slave, to be ordered to your whim.”
She closed her eyes for an instant, summoning an image of Dax, firing that last bolt that would kill him. If he had courage enough for that, surely she could face this man without breaking. She opened her eyes.
“No,” she said. “You are a king. And the rightful King of Trios has always been known as fair.” And then, knowing what she was risking, she added, with a glance at Shaylah, “And even the man I knew as Wolf clearly knew where the true blame belonged. And did not belong.”
Dare stiffened. He stared at her for a long moment, then snapped, “The High Council convenes at midsun. Someone will be sent for you.”
He turned on his heel and was gone before either of the women could speak again.
Califa felt her shoulders sag, and fought of a wave of exhaustion. She wasn’t up to this kind of emotional confrontation, she had gotten little sleep and—
Just why she hadn’t gotten any sleep came back to her with a fierce jab of vivid, heated memory. A tiny moan escaped her.
“Oh, Dax . . .”
She didn’t realize she had spoken it aloud until Shaylah said quietly, “I will try to talk to him again. He is a fair man, Califa, but he is very angry. I don’t know that it will do any good.”
“I cannot blame him,” Califa said honestly. “Were I face to face with one of the people who had used this against me”—she flicked a finger at the collar—“I would be no less enraged.”
Shaylah shook her head. “I can’t believe they—” She broke her own words off with a sigh. “I suppose I have been too long removed from Coalition madness.”
“Madness.” Califa sighed. “I lived for them, and it was always nothing less than madness.”
“I know what it is like to have your entire concept of life turned upside down,” Shaylah said sympathetically.
Califa studied her old friend for a moment, then said in awed surprise, “You . . . you believe me, don’t you?”
“That you are not the woman you were? As I am not the woman I was? Yes, I think I do.” Shaylah smiled ruefully. “However, I admit that since I discovered my pregnancy, I seem to have become quite the optimist.”
For some reason, Rina’s pixie face popped into Califa’s mind. “I suppose you must,” she said thoughtfully. “If you cannot hope for the best for your child, it would be a reason for sadness, not joy.”
Shaylah looked startled, then she smiled. “That you understand that is the best evidence yet that I should believe you. The Califa Claxton I knew would never have wondered, nor cared, about such things. But then, I always suspected that Califa was mostly bluff.”
Califa felt color tinge her cheeks.
“Nor,” Shaylah added in a teasing tone Califa nearly wept to hear again, “would that Califa have ever blushed.”
“No,” Califa said, her voice tight with unshed tears. “No, she wouldn’t.”
And in that moment Califa knew that in regaining this woman’s trust, she had won a prize worth more than her entire misspent life. Even if they ordered her execution, she could not regret coming here; she had regained her friend, and broken through the barrier that had imprisoned Dax, and she would change neither even if it would change her own fate.
“Come,” Shaylah said. “Sit down. Tell me of Dax. I am most curious. I have never seen Dare so . . . torn as he was last night, both hating and loving this lifelong friend.”
So Califa told her friend of the man who had taken over her life, realizing now why Rina had so welcomed a feminine ear; the relief of sharing her chaotic feelings was immense.
But the relief did not last. The more she spoke of Dax, the more anxious she was to get back to him. She was afraid, both of what was to come and what he might do. Shaylah was quick to realize the reason for her growing tension, and with an apology, summoned the boy who had brought her here to take her back. Califa understood; she was still a prisoner here.
“Perhaps,” Shaylah said, “you should spare some of that worry for yourself.”
“I do not care,” Califa said, and meant it. Yet when Shaylah took her hand and clasped it briefly, she welcomed the touch.
“I will talk to Dare,” she promised again, but Califa held out little hope for a change in the direction of that particular fierce wind. Dare had too much reason to hate, and too little reason to forgive.
The look the man posted outside the door of their cell gave her, a combination of leer and smirk, did little to ease her doubts that anything had truly changed.
“He deserves to die, for consorting with the likes of you,” the man muttered.
Califa kept her head high and kept going. When she stepped back into the small room where Dax lay on the cot staring at the ceiling, she tried to summon up some of Shaylah’s optimism.
“Shaylah understands. It was she who sent for me. She will try to talk to Dare—”
“She needn’t bother,” Dax said. He turned his head to look at her then, and Califa felt a chill ripple through her at his expression. “I hear from the guard his decision is already made.”
She blinked. “What?”
“He’s picked out an executioner.”
Chapter 27
CALIFA WONDERED if every Triotian left alive was crowded into the council chamber. The huge hall, still showing the damage of Coalition guns, was packed. All eyes were riveted either on the man who sat in the isolated chair between the crowd and the table at the front of the room, or on the man who stood to one side, a huge, curved sword on his belt, and an ominous-looking silver tool of some kind in his hand. Califa’s eyes shied away from him as she wondered what method of execution was favored on the enlightened world of Trios.
Dax sat in silence, staring stonily forward at nothing. He had not said a word to her since that blunt statement when she had come back into the room that had been their cell. She tried to convince him that the guard, who had obviously learned that she was of the Coalition, was merely being vicious to a perceived enemy, but he hadn’t even reacted.
But what had frightened her the most was what he had done when the armed escort had come for them. The guards had tensed when he bent to his boot and pulled out the knife, but he merely looked at it for a moment, then, with a flick of his hand, hurled it toward the door. The ease of the movement was belied by the solid thunk as the blade dug deeply into the carved wood. Then he walked past the still-quivering knife as if it wasn’t even there.
But it wasn’t until she had taken her own place, in the seat off to one side reserved for the next to appear before the council, and sat watching Dax’s utterly expressionless face, that Califa realized the significance of that action.
He had given up. In jettisoning the knife he was never without, he had jettisoned the last of his defenses. He looked like the slaves she had seen who had surrendered; his proud posture was slumped, his face blank, and his eyes were flat, cold, and as dead as the ashes of a long extinguished fire. Califa felt something tighten in her chest, a chilly little knot that ached abysmally.
There was a steady hum of talk among the gathering, which rose a bit in volume as a petite figure entered the room and walked down to a seat on the aisle in front, followed closely by Fleuren, carried in the arms of the man she had greeted as her grandson.
The girl’s carriage and steady stride faltered as she saw Dax, sitting silent and alone, unmoving, his back to the crowd, a guard at each side of the chair. But then she spotted Califa, and her head came up once more. Something flashed in those jade eyes so like Dax’s, a look that was almost conspiratorial, and Califa knew the girl was indeed up to something. But there was no time to speculate as a door at the front of the hall opened, and the Triotian High Council entered, and filed down to their seats at the long table.
Some of them showed the same momentary hesitation when they spotted Dax, in particular a slender woman whose blond hair was streaked with gray, and the dignified older man who led the procession and took the seat at the center of the table. Only the youngest, a man barely into adulthood, did not react; he was too busy looking smugly full of self-importance, Califa realized sourly.
Shaylah had told her that Glendar, the last surviving member of the original council, would preside over the session; the older man in the center, who had led them in, must be him, she thought.
There were single chairs at each end of the long table, and when the five members of the council had taken their seats and the crowd hushed, it became apparent to Califa who they were for. No sooner had she thought it than Dare and Shaylah entered, side by side, then separated to take the remaining chairs, which placed them facing each other eight feet apart. Shaylah’s back was to Califa, but she could see Dare’s face all too clearly; she found nothing of encouragement in his handsome features. The respectful silence of the crowd pounded home the reality; Dare was their king by choice, and, incredibly, Shaylah their queen.
Neither of them looked at her, or at Dax. Nor did Dax look at them. Or at any of the council; he had shifted his gaze to the floor in front of the table and sat there staring fixedly.
The man she assumed was Glendar rose. He cleared his throat. Dax still did not look up.
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