“Put me outside yourself,” Caelan said, too furious to care what he said now.
Anger leaped in Pier’s eyes. “Are you challenging me?” he asked in astonishment.
“Does that insult you?” Caelan taunted him. “I am so low, and your lineage is so pure. I am arena trash, as you have said, and therefore I have not even the right to look at you, much less talk to you, least of all challenge you.”
Pier shook his head in disgust. “I will not fight you.”
“Afraid?” Caelan said softly.
Pier’s face darkened. A muscle worked in his jaw for a moment before he finally answered. “The master of this house is dying. In my respect for that man, I do not brawl while his soul departs his body.”
The chastisement stung as though he had actually struck Caelan across the face. Caelan frowned and said nothing. In his anger, he had forgotten the circumstances. He was ashamed of himself, and yet he also knew Pier had goaded him to this point, deliberately pushing him too far. Now he had lost whatever chance he had to win respect from these onlookers. Like an idiot, he had fallen into Pier’s trap.
It had been his goal to win these men, to improve things for Elandra. Instead, he had only made matters worse. If the faces had been hostile and judgmental before, now they were contemptuous.
He could apologize, and make himself look more like a weak fool than ever. He could leave, and have them despise him for running. He could stand here among them and bathe in their scorn. No matter what he did, it wasn’t going to help Elandra.
Granite-faced, he wheeled around and walked down that long, long gallery to the portico beyond. Rain poured down in drenching sheets of water. Sighing, Caelan leaned his shoulder against a pillar.
Footsteps caught his attention, and he straightened up, looking around just as two burly men pounced on him without warning. Caelan’s anger surged hot. He swung at one, but the other came at him from behind and slipped a thin noose around his neck. A deft yank of the man’s wrist, and the cord bit into Caelan’s throat, nearly strangling him.
“Don’t struggle,” the man said.
Caelan froze there, his neck stretched high as he tried to breathe. He might be able to kick the man behind him, but he would be choked to death before he could free himself.
The other one unbuckled his sword belt and relieved him of his weapons. Caelan stood there, helpless and steaming.
“Now,” said the man who held the cord around his neck. “You will go down the steps, quietly. You will cause no more trouble. We will teach you better manners.”
Furious, Caelan hooked his fingers around the cord to pull it, but the man jerked and twisted the noose so hard that blackness swam in front of Caelan’s eyes.
When he came to, a few moments later, he was on his knees. The noose had slackened enough to allow him air. He sucked it in, his lungs burning, his throat on fire.
“You will not try that again,” he was told. “Get on your feet and move.”
There were times to fight, and times simply to stay alive. Caelan did as he was commanded.
Chapter Eighteen
Elandra was given the state apartments, reserved for visits of the very highest rank. The tall windows were hastily thrown open, letting in rain-dampened air that did little to dispel the mustiness of the rooms. As Elandra entered, she could hear the scurrying footsteps and muffled giggles of fleeing maidservants. The room was in order, but barely so. It had that hasty, put-together look of crooked cushions, a coverlet not quite smooth, flowers imperfectly arranged, and the suspicion of dust in the corners.
The lack of a woman in charge of this household was evident. Whatever her faults had been, at least when Hecati lived here there had been no dust, and no staff ever caught by surprise.
Scented bathwater was carried in to fill a tub of marble lined with copper. While Elandra soaked, fighting the urge to cry, the seamstress arrived with three gowns over her arm and a mouthful of pins. Food and drink were brought in on a tray, but Elandra gestured everyone away.
“Leave me,” she said.
The noblewoman herself closed the doors on the bathing room and shooed out all the servants.
It was several minutes before she returned, knocking discreetly on the door before she eased it open. “Majesty?” she called.
Elandra was sitting on a stool at the dressing table adorned with fresh flowers and a row of alabaster jars. Swathed in a robe, she was rubbing scented lotion into her hands. Her wet hair hung down her back, still dripping a little onto the floor. Her reflection in the mirror showed her to be pale but composed again.
“Majesty?” the woman called a second time.
The short span of privacy had been enough. Elandra was still worried, but she had regained control of her emotions. She glanced over her shoulder and gestured for the woman to enter.
Curtsying, the woman said, “I am Lyticia, wife of the imperial governor of Gialta.”
Elandra’s brows rose. After her reception today, she had not expected the woman to be of such rank. “Then your husband is Lord Onar Demahaud,” she said.
A surprised and gratified smile spread across Lady Lyticia’s narrow face. She was handsome rather than beautiful, tall and almost thin. Her gown was splendid, and she wore tasteful bracelets and earrings. “Yes,” she said. “Your Majesty’s memory is most kind.”
Oh, yes, Elandra’s memory could not forget the name of the governor. Since Albain had no male heir, his land would be returned by law to the emperor’s ownership, to be either redispensed or sold. Until either eventuality happened, the governor would be the overseer of the vast properties. He could rake whatever wealth he wanted into his pockets. At present, with the empire in chaos, it was likely that Lord Demahaud would be able to keep the vast estates for his own.
But Elandra said nothing of this, and her recognition seemed to gratify the woman.
With detente established, they got busy. Lady Lyticia had brought her seamstress, her maid, and her hairdresser. These individuals went to work, and in short order Elandra was dry, gowned, and coiffed magnificently. She felt regal again, and the increased respect in the women’s eyes made her realize ruefully exactly how much importance Gialtans placed on appearances.
“May I have the honor of loaning your Majesty my jewels?” Lady Lyticia asked with tact.
“You are very kind, but no, thank you,” Elandra replied firmly.
“But truly, I do not mind—”
“No,” Elandra said.
Color spread across Lady Lyticia’s cheeks, and Elandra felt impatient. Why couldn’t the woman understand?
She didn’t want to explain, but she sighed and took the trouble. “An empress may only wear jewels made specifically for her by the Choven,” she said. “I am sure your jewels are splendid, but protocol forbids my acceptance of your generous offer.”
Lady Lyticia smiled, pacified again.
Someone knocked on the door, and a servant entered to whisper in Lady Lyticia’s ear.
She nodded and turned to Elandra, who steeled herself, certain she had primped too long and her father had died without her being at his side.
“The physicians have finished their ministrations, Majesty. If you feel ready to visit your father, this would be an excellent time.”
Relief made Elandra shoot to her feet. Belatedly she remembered to walk gracefully and without haste. She had lost much ground here; she had much to restore. However foolish and of little consequence it might seem to her, these subjects considered their customs important. If she wanted them to treat her as an empress, then she must act like one, no matter how limiting or chafing it was.
She walked down long corridors furnished with fine Ulinian carpets, rows of chairs upholstered in leather, and walnut tables. Maids peeped from doorways, withdrawing at her approach and whispering behind her. Jinjas scampered here and there, leaping onto windowsills and staring at her with bright eyes. Outside, the rain drummed steadily, and the tall windows stood open to catch any hint of c
oolness to counteract the cloying heat and humidity. Curtains of sheer silk gauze billowed and blew in the damp breeze.
Elandra’s own fear and rising anxiety constantly quickened her feet, although she tried to slow down. Despite her inner strain she managed to keep her face calm and composed, but she could not stop her fingers from knotting together.
Finally she reached tall doors at the end of a corridor. Bowing lackeys opened them at her approach. Guards in turbans saluted her, but Elandra barely noticed them. She hurried into the antechamber beyond and found it crowded with physicians in monkey-fur hats and long beards, chatting among themselves.
Silence fell over them, and they bowed to her in startlement. She passed them without stopping, heading for Albain’s chamber.
Guards opened these final doors, and she walked inside, halting just across the threshold. She found herself suddenly without breath, her heart pounding too fast.
Tall-ceilinged and spacious, the chamber’s walls were hung in silk that was sun-faded and out of style. Her father’s bed was enormous, both broad and tall, with netting looped back out of the way. He lay on his back, his head propped up on a single pillow. His large hands were folded.
She had never seen him look so still, so thin, so pale. She stood there, afraid to walk closer to this stranger.
The room smelled of medicines and blood. A valet stood in a shadowy corner of the room, hastily bundling up stained sheets and sleeping shirt. A lackey with his sleeves rolled up held a basin of dirty water that he carried out through the servant’s door. Her father’s jinja lay curled up on a plump silk cushion at the foot of the bed, whimpering softly in its grief.
Elandra realized she was standing frozen in place while the physicians stared at her back. Frowning, she forced herself to walk forward, only barely aware of the doors closing quietly behind her.
The valet glanced at her, bowed, and departed. She was alone with her father, a man who had sired her and given her a home, yet little of his time and still less of his affection. She was only one of his many bastards, but unlike the others who worked as overseers and stable hands and gardeners, Elandra had a mother who was highborn. Albain had sired only one legitimate child: the vain, spoiled Bixia, who had thought she would marry Kostimon and who had joined the terrible Maelite order in anger when Elandra robbed her of that glory.
Where were his children now? Who of his family stood near to mourn him?
Elandra swallowed and walked to his bedside. His eyes were closed. She could hear the quick rasp of his breathing. His face was an ashen color that frightened her.
Slowly, she placed her hand atop his. She did not want to disturb him, yet it was important that he know she had come.
“Father,” she said softly.
He did not stir.
“Father.” She spoke more loudly. “It’s Elandra. I’ve come.”
He groaned, frowning and turning his head. Watching his pain, she bit her lip and dared say nothing else. He had always been so large, so strong. She remembered him striding through the palace, bellowing orders and slapping his gauntlets in his palm. He always made noise wherever he went, whether it was his mail creaking or his spurs jingling, or his satisfied belches following dinner, or his fist thudding against his chair arm. He was life and movement, blunt and coarse and ferocious. Through his days, he had worked and fought with equal vigor. To see him now so thin and frail, fading before her very eyes, seemed impossible.
Her fingers tightened on his hand, as though by their pressure she could impart her strength to him.
A tear spilled down her cheek and splashed on the coverlet. She rubbed at the spot with her thumb, feeling helpless and afraid.
“Elandra?”
She looked up to find him gazing at her. His single sighted eye was bleary with pain and medicine, but he knew her. Her tears fell freely now, and she couldn’t hold them back. Leaning over, she kissed his cheek.
It felt hot and clammy beneath her lips.
Finding a shaky smile for him, she said, “Hello, Father.”
He let out his breath. “Thank the gods you are found. This madness in the—”
“Hush,” she said, trying to calm him, certain he must not talk too much. “Be still. I am safe. You must not worry.”
“Murdeth and Fury, but I do worry,” he said, refusing to be quiet. “Kostimon dead. You gone to Gault knows where. That puppy Tirhin proclaiming himself. Madruns running wild. I—”
He broke off, coughing up blood. His face lost even more color.
Alarmed, Elandra took a cloth from the bedside table and pressed it to his lips. When the coughing fit finally ended, he lay back exhausted on his pillow.
Elandra drew in several breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. “Now,” she said at last when she could command her voice. “Let us have no more excitement. You must rest—”
His hand moved, and he shook his head. “The dead can rest,” he whispered. “I have too much to do.”
“Everything can wait until you are better.”
His eye opened to glare at her. “Let us have honesty, not these damned lies,” he said, wheezing. “I am dying, damn it. You know that.”
Her lips trembled, but when she answered her voice was miraculously steady. “Yes. I have been told.”
“Aye. Then act sensible. Will you fight for the throne?”
His anger had steadied her. With more calm, she said, “Yes. Caelan and I want the empire.”
Albain frowned, and she hastily explained, “Caelan is the man I love. A woman may choose her second husband, and I have chosen him. His destiny is very great. He is the only man who can possibly defeat the darkness that is coming.”
Albain’s expression did not change. She could not tell whether he accepted what she’d said or was angered by it.
“You move quickly,” he said.
She bit her lip, wanting his blessing. If she had that, she could ignore everyone else. “I met him first in my dreams when I went to be trained in the Penestrican House of Women. I did not know his name then or where to find him. We are destined, that is all I know. He has saved my life too many times to mention. He brought me safely from the palace when the Madruns would have killed me. He rescued me from the realm of shadows, where Lord Sien sought to trap me. Now he has brought me here, to you, Father.”
Pain shadowed Albain’s face. “You knew this man in the palace of your husband?”
Embarrassment filled her. “I was faithful to Kostimon,” she said sharply. “Though he was not faithful to me.”
Albain swallowed a cough. “Not required.”
“Of him?” she said bitterly. “No, the man is always free, though the woman lives under rules like chains.”
“Don’t whine of your life. You are empress.”
“Yes, I am. I would ask you to meet Caelan, Father. Later, for a moment, to judge him for yourself.”
Albain closed his eyes and said nothing. She waited, wondering if her defiance had been too much for his scant strength.
But it seemed he was only resting. A few moments later, he opened his eyes again. “Who are his people?”
She wanted to laugh with relief. Albain might think he was still withholding judgment, but such a question gave him away. “He is a warrior, Father. He—”
“Who are his people?”
She stopped and frowned. A dozen convoluted explanations ran through her mind, but when she looked into her father’s pain-riddled face she knew she must give him only the truth. “He comes from Trau,” she said.
“That one!” Albain whispered. “I have heard of that one.”
Elandra hesitated, then continued. “His father was a healer, the most renowned in the empire at one time. But Caelan has been touched by the Choven. They have given him his own destiny, and he is to—”
“Later,” Albain whispered, his voice fading.
She picked up his rough hand and kissed it. “I’m sorry. I’ve stayed too long and tired you. I’ll let you sleep now.”<
br />
“Elandra.”
His voice stopped her. She hurried back to his side. “Yes, Father?”
“Your plans.”
“Oh, not now. You’re too tired—”
He silenced her protest with a glare, then let his eyelids fall shut again.
She stood beside his bed like a schoolgirl and said quickly, “I plan to return to Imperia and confront Tirhin. Caelan and I need the army you promised me. With your men, it’s possible we can persuade the imperial troops to join us, if they have not already scattered. I want the full support of the Gialtan warlords as well as the benefit of your secret alliances with warlords of the adjacent provinces.”
He blinked, and she smiled. “Yes, I know about those. Kostimon’s informant network was thorough. As long as you were loyal to him through the bindings of our marriage contract, he felt your private alliances only served to strengthen his base of power.”
“Hell’s damnation,” Albain said, looking disconcerted. “What else?”
Elandra drew a deep breath. “I ask for your treasury, the contents of your armory, and supplies.”
He scowled at her. “Want everything.”
“Everything is at stake. Did you know the governor is here, ready to confiscate your lands?”
Albain’s single eye grew fierce. “Scavenging dog.”
“Yes. We must act quickly. I intend to hold a war council while all the warlords are here and convince them to support us—”
“Enough,” he whispered.
She fell silent at once, watching him, worrying about him. On impulse, she put her arm across him and kissed his cheek again. “Please recover. Father,” she said, weeping again. “Please don’t die. I need you—”
His hand lifted and feebly patted her arm. “Come later,” he said, his voice a rasp. “Bring him with you.”
She straightened up, feeling hope. If Caelan passed her father’s approval, then Albain would likely give her what she asked for. And how could he not be impressed by Caelan?
But her father’s time was swiftly running out. He might die before his agreement was given.
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