“Then you do not need me.”
“Our borders are weak. Our enemies think we can be taken while we are in this confusion. I don’t have time to deal with internal problems and an unruly populace. The people accept you. Don’t throw away your crown.”
He stared at her a moment, then tilted his head to one side. “Am I so horrible, so repugnant, as a price to pay for your throne? After all, you were married to Kostimon in a political arrangement. This is no different.”
“It is very different,” she snapped.
Color darkened his cheeks, and his eyes narrowed. “In what way?” he asked.
The cold anger in his voice was a warning, but her own temper was flaring. “I was married to the emperor” she said. “You are only a usurper.”
Her words were intended to hurt as much as possible. The widening of Tirhin’s eyes told her she had succeeded.
Crimson surged into his face, then receded, leaving him paler than before. His eyes glittered with fury, and he lowered his head between his shoulders like a serpent about to strike.
“You fool,” he said, his voice cutting. “You are not a peasant girl, able to pick from your offers. You are of the imperial house, and you have no choice. I tried to make this pleasant for you, but if you insist on being enemies, we can be, quite easily. The outcome does not change. We will marry in the morning.”
She stepped back from the chair so fast she almost stumbled. Horror filled her, bringing with it a sweep of anger, defiance, and fear. “No.”
“Yes,” he said, limping slowly forward. “Protest all you want, but we will be wed.”
Elandra lifted her chin, breathing hard, defiance giving her strength. “Not while I live,” she said. “I will never enter your bed. Never!”
Amusement crossed his face, surprising and dismaying her. She had wanted to insult him, not make him laugh at her.
“Very spirited,” he said appreciatively, in a way that made her blood run cold. “Very becoming. You must know that when you lose your temper, your beauty increases twofold.”
Glaring at him, Elandra backed up again. “Get away from me.
He stopped, but the smile still lingered on his face. It was a cruel smile, one without mercy. “I remember when you first came to Imperia on one of your father’s elephants. You were a shy, trembling maiden, hiding behind your veil, hardly daring to lift your eyes to anyone. And now you defy me like a warrior queen, proud and fearless, your eyes flashing like magnificent jewels. You have changed, Elandra.”
“Yes, I have changed,” she said, thinking of the past year in her life and its many hard lessons. “I had no choice.”
“Oh, I think we can simplify this. You were a well-behaved, biddable maiden, incredibly modest while you were married to my father, very obedient and anxious to please.”
Elandra glared at him, resenting his patronizing tone, hating the way he smirked as he said those things.
“But now you are stubborn and defiant. You refuse to be sensible. You are taking a dreadful risk by insulting me.”
“I don’t care.”
“I know.” He looked at her and nodded. “You are in love, are you not?”
Again heat flamed in her face. She bit her lip, knowing her expression had given her away.
“Yes,” he said, and his eyes were like stones. “You are in love with that musclebound brute in my dungeons.”
“It is no secret,” Elandra said. She tossed her head. “Yes, I love him. I say it proudly and without shame.”
“Oh, he is the type to catch a woman’s eye,” Tirhin said. “But you must learn to conduct your liaisons with more discretion.”
“Caelan is not a liaison,” she said furiously.
“But of course he is. I do not condemn you for your amusements, my dear, but the people are more old-fashioned than we. There will be other slaves, handsome ones, in a succession that never has to end, as long as you are sensible.”
“Stop it!” she said, stamping her foot. She loathed what he was saying, what he was implying.
“Don’t be a hypocrite, Elandra,” Tirhin said, watching her with cat-cold eyes. “Your honesty has always been your most striking virtue.”
“I am not playing some lascivious game with Caelan,” she said. “I am wedded to him.”
Tirhin blinked, looking stunned. For a moment he stood statue-still, staring at her, with all the ruin of his ambitions plain to see in his face. Then rage filled his eyes.
His cane whistled out without warning, and would have struck her if she had not dodged. It hit the chair instead with a vicious thud. Elandra retreated behind the desk, acutely conscious that he was between her and the door. Never taking her eyes off him, she reached for her sleeve knife.
But Tirhin stopped his advance. His eyes narrowed, and he studied her as though he had never seen her before. Calm seeped back into his face, and it became an unreadable mask.
“It is something easily said, this marriage you claim. Do you have proof?”
“Only my word,” she replied.
He snorted. “Alas, that is insufficient. Who spoke the words of binding over you? The priest can be traced.”
“There was no priest,” she said. “We exchanged the vows for ourselves.”
Tirhin threw back his head and laughed. “A common-consent marriage?” he asked, when at last he could speak again. He wiped his eyes and laughed again. “Gods, what need have I to hire entertainment when you are before me? Am I expected to believe this wide-eyed tale?”
Elandra glared at him, saying nothing.
Finally he grew quiet, and met her gaze. He frowned. “Tell me this is a jest.”
“No.”
“You have promised yourself without witnesses to a slave?”
“Caelan is not a slave. Kostimon freed him. He is wellborn.”
Tirhin waved away these distinctions impatiently. “You know what I mean. He is not remotely of your rank.”
She raised her eyebrows. “You have no right to advise me.”
“Take care, Elandra,” he said. “We are family.”
She snorted. “Do I make you angry? I don’t care,” she shot back. “I love Caelan, and I have bound myself to him.”
“I am prince of the realm, soon to be emperor,” he said angrily. “I recognize no such marriage.”
She lifted her chin, refusing to be cowed. “Whether you recognize it or not, the marriage exists. You cannot force me to the altar, and any truth-light will confirm my claim.”
Tirhin looked furious, and she was satisfied. She had blocked him and his plans. Let him choke on his ire, if he wished.
“We seem to be at an impasse,” she said coolly. “May I return to my chamber now?”
His eyes glittered, and he limped slowly to the desk to pour himself more wine. As he lifted the goblet, he tapped its base against the wooden box.
“Very well, Elandra,” he said in a voice like velvet. “The contents of the box are for you. If you like, you may consider it a wedding gift.”
She frowned in suspicion, unable to believe he would accept defeat this calmly. “What is it?”
With a smile, he placed his palm flat against the lid of the box. “Do not fear. Open it and see. You will find it an ornament above price.”
Fearing a trick, fearing poison, she refused to touch it.
“Will you not open it?” he asked. “Shall I open it for you?”
Her frown deepened.
“Yes.” He put down his goblet and picked up the box. Opening the hinged lid, he peered in at the contents and smiled to himself.
Watching him, Elandra thought that truly he was mad. What kind of terrible, bitter amusement twisted inside him?
“I will not wear your jewels,” she said in warning. “Keep your gift.”
“Oh, no,” he said, turning the box around and holding it out to her. “I want you to see this. Look at it.”
Still she would not.
“Damn you!” he shouted, his mask suddenly rippe
d away. Furiously he glared at her and dumped the contents of the box onto the desk. A fist-sized, bloody object rolled across the edge of the map and stopped beneath the glow of the lamp.
Elandra stared at it, not recognizing it at first. Then she caught its smell, a horrible smell of blood and raw meat. A memory flashed into her mind. Her father’s hounds, being fed meat and scraps after a hunt, the dogs leaping and snapping at the chunks tossed to them by the butcher.
Feeling faint, she drew in her breath sharply.
“It’s Caelan’s heart, my dear,” Tirhin said viciously. He picked it up and squeezed his fingers around it. Drops of blood landed on the map and spread into the parchment.
Elandra’s stomach heaved. She swallowed hard as the room spun around her. “No,” she whispered, unable to take her eyes off Tirhin’s bloody fist.
“Do you believe me incapable of ridding myself of any opponent, any rival?” Tirhin asked, smiling. “Nothing will stand between me and the throne. When my chancellors told me that unless you and I are wed, I cannot be immediately crowned, I set to work immediately to remove all obstacles.”
Elandra started shaking. She was so cold, so terribly cold. Tears spilled from her eyes, and she sent him a beseeching look. “Tell me this is only a cruel joke,” she pleaded. “He cannot be dead.”
“He is. I hold the proof in my hand. You are a widow, Elandra.”
She cried out, lifting her hands to her mouth, unable to deny her pain. “No. No, I will not believe it!”
Tirhin came around the desk, tossing away the heart, and gripped her wrist with his bloody hand. “Believe it,” he said harshly. “He is dead. I gave the order myself.”
She wept.
“You are mine,” Tirhin said. “Now, go back to your chamber and prepare yourself for the ceremony. It is nearly dawn.”
Elandra barely heard what he was saying. Grief welled up inside her, drowning her in its icy depths. “If he is dead, then I shall die too.”
“As you wish,” Tirhin said coldly. He pulled her close to him, and his eyes bored into hers. “As soon as we are wed, your usefulness to me is finished. You will be quite free to kill yourself then if you please.”
He released her, shoving her back with enough force to make her stumble. She righted herself, mute and shivering, feeling as though she walked in a dream.
“Now you may wear his blood to bed,” Tirhin said cruelly. “Sweet dreams, my dear.”
He lifted his voice to call for the guards.
Elandra turned her back to him. The room was spinning worse than before. She felt as though pieces of her were floating apart from each other.
“Caelan,” she murmured, and fainted.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Caelan came back to consciousness as the dagger was drawn from his back. He struggled up, fighting the hands that pressed him down, and was forced to lie on his stomach, sweating and battling the scream in his throat. A man’s knee pushed against his back, bracing hard as the dagger withdrew slowly. It drew Caelan’s life with it, and he heard the blade scrape against bone.
Shuddering, Caelan pressed his face against the floor, and endured the agony until fingers tapped his shoulder.
“Easy, there,” said a gruff voice. “It’s out.”
The pain remained, throbbing and hot. Men spoke to each other in low voices over him. He felt himself being bandaged roughly but expertly.
“Sit him up where he can breathe.”
Pulled upright, Caelan sagged against the man supporting him and felt something placed to his lips.
“Drink,” he was told.
He parted his lips, still half swooning, unable to grab a thought for longer than a moment.
The liquid filled his mouth. He choked, and for a confused moment thought it was blood, drowning him.
“Damn! Tip his head back. Hold him before he spills the lot.”
Then Caelan swallowed, and tasted wine. His panic faded, and he swallowed more, gulping it until he choked again, coughing. They let him go.
Bending over, he slumped against the arm supporting him and fought to breathe. But the wine had helped. His vision cleared, and so did his mind.
He tried to lift his head, trembling with the effort. Sweat dripped off him, soaking his hair into strings, stinging his eyes. Squinting, he looked at his chest and found himself still whole.
A short distance away, the sergeant lay on the floor in a pool of blood, sightless eyes staring at Caelan. Mox’s body sprawled across the sergeant’s legs like a doll dropped and forgotten. Strangers with matted beards and ragged clothes stood around idly, talking to each other in low voices.
Caelan frowned at them, not understanding who they were, and looked up at the man holding him. Orlo, his bald head gleaming in the torchlight, met Caelan’s eyes and smiled.
“So you’re with us again,” he said. “Harder to kill than a Madrun.”
Caelan stared at him, soaking in the realization that he had been rescued. He remembered none of it. He must have lost consciousness before Mox started to cut him. Absently, he rubbed his chest, and Orlo frowned.
“That reminds me,” he said. “Pob, cut out a heart and take it to the prince’s villa.”
A dark-haired man with keen, intelligent eyes came over and crouched beside Caelan and Orlo. “Now?”
“Yes, now! Why in blazes did I just give you an order?” Orlo said grouchily. “Do it.”
Pob smiled lazily, taking no offense. “Sure,” he said, and drew his dagger. In a fluid motion, he rose to his feet and kicked the corpse of the sergeant over on its back. “Someone help me get this breastplate unbuckled.”
“See that you save the weapons and armor,” Orlo told them. “Then clean out this room. We don’t want to draw the demons this high into the catacombs.”
Pob and his companions nodded and turned themselves to their grisly task.
“Don’t worry,” Orlo said quietly to Caelan, patting his shoulder. “Tirhin will be happy with his prize, and it will take him that much longer to discover you’ve survived.”
Caelan wanted to speak, found the effort too hard, and twisted his lips into a wan smile of thanks.
Orlo’s own gaze turned sober. “How bad is it?” he asked.
“Hurts.”
Orlo grunted, peering at Caelan’s back. “I’ll wager it hurts like bloody hell. Can you breathe all right?”
“Don’t know.”
“You’ve been spitting a little blood. If you can’t breathe right, it’s likely you have blood in your lung.”
“Hurts.”
Orlo nodded and squeezed his shoulder gently. “All right. I figure it just reached your lung. Maybe tore it a little, but it’s not a bad puncture. I tried to draw it straight out at the same angle it went in. Less damage that way, provided you don’t bleed to death.”
Caelan shut his eyes, feeling tired.
Orlo patted his cheek. “Stay with me, Giant. I’m going to put you on your feet. No, don’t help me. I’ll do the lifting. But it’s time we got you out of here. The smell of blood will draw things you don’t want to meet.”
Caelan nodded, then grimaced as Orlo pulled him to his feet. A wave of clammy misery swept through him, and the room spun violently. Desperate not to faint again, Caelan struggled to find severance. Shakily he pulled it around him, closing off the pain, and slowly straightened.
Orlo watched him, looking a little awed, a little frightened, a little admiring. “You’re a tough brute,” he said. “Always were. Even if you haven’t any sense.”
Caelan looked over at Pob, who was wrapping a bloody object in a rag while his fellow ruffians watched. “Gladiators?”
“Aye,” Orlo said proudly. “Trained every man of them. Did you really think you could take on five guards by yourself?”
Caelan grinned at him and nodded his thanks to the men. “Four,” he said, still struggling to find enough breath to talk. “Just four, but thanks for coming in time.”
A rumble passed thr
ough the room, and the walls shook ominously. Caelan glanced up in alarm. “Earthquake?”
“Aye. Men, clear out!”
Lifting Caelan’s arm over his shoulders, Orlo guided Caelan out into the passageway. Another rumble came, longer than the first, and this tremor was stronger. Dust rained down on them. Someone called out a breathless prayer. Someone else cursed the world, the gods, and the shadows. Pob tucked the wrapped heart inside his jerkin and ran ahead of them out of sight.
“We’re too far down,” Orlo said, breathing hard. He pushed Caelan forward. “Too close to—”
An unearthly cry uttered by no mortal throat came rising from below them. Caelan looked back. In the torchlight, he could see another flight of steps leading down. He pulled free of Orlo’s arm.
“What are you doing?” Orlo asked in alarm. “You can’t go that way. There’s Haggai and worse down there.”
The shout rose again, uttering words this time that seemed almost understandable. Caelan listened, feeling his skin crawl. “I should know that voice,” he said thoughtfully.
Orlo gripped his arm. “Are you mad? Don’t listen to it. If hell spills its jaws tonight, I don’t intend to be standing down here to meet what comes out.”
More howls, louder than before, echoed through the passageways. A swarm of rats came boiling up the steps toward them. The men turned and ran. Orlo ran too, urging Caelan along with him.
“Run, you big fool!” he said hoarsely. “Forget how much you hurt, and let’s get out of here!”
Fear coursed through Caelan in waves. He could smell a terrible dank, decayed stench like the fetid breath of a predator. A shrieking, skittering, squeaking noise came, swelling in volume as the rats caught up with them and fled on ahead of them, both angry and panicked, their red eyes glinting in the torchlight.
“We can’t let it out,” Caelan whispered, feeling himself choking up. He coughed blood, and his knees tried to buckle under him. “Have to stop it.”
Orlo kept him moving. “Come on! This is no place to fight, you idiot. Mender, come back here and help me. If he swoons, I can’t carry him by myself.”
The gladiator turned back to shoulder Caelan’s weight on the other side. Caught between Orlo and Mender, Caelan ran awkwardly, trying to hold severance and consciousness at the same time.
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