Kariana stood staring at the corpse for long moments, dripping blade in hand, chest heaving, eyes clouded with madness. Aiul raised a hand and ran it down his face, uncertain what to say.
Without warning, Kariana swooned and collapsed to one knee.
“Kariana!” For the moment, the grimness of the situation fled his mind. He knelt beside her and tilted her face toward the light. Her eyes seemed to react well enough, so a stroke seemed unlikely. Who could know what’s going on? She’s pumped full of Mei knows what. For all I know, she’s dead already. “Kariana?” he said, softly, trying to reach her.
She moaned and fell forward into his arms, limp. She was feverish and trembling. “Mei!” Her body shook with her convulsive sobs.
“It’s over,” he said, even more worried now. Kariana had always been the dramatic sort. She was good at it and fooled most people, but he knew her well enough to tell this was different.
“It got out of hand,” she choked out. “It all got out of hand.”
He ran a soothing hand down her hair. “I know.”
“It wasn’t supposed to be like this.”
“It was a mistake from the start, Kariana. A horrible, ugly business.”
“Not just this,” she sobbed. “Everything! This whole life! It wasn’t supposed to be like this for me. For us!”
Aiul stammered briefly, blinking in shock. “What are you saying?”
Kariana looked up at him, her eyes shining with tears and wide with mad hope. “We were supposed to be together, Aiul! Mei, you were supposed to be mine, not hers!”
“Kariana—”
“No! Listen to me!” She tore her tiara from her head and hurled it across the room. “I hate this life! I hate it! It’s wretched and horrible, and people say terrible things about me! I don’t want to be empress!” Aiul tried to speak, but she clamped a hand over his mouth. “I’ll give it to you, do you hear me? Leave her and come to me. You can be emperor if you want. Or we could just run away and be free! Just stay with me! Please!”
Aiul struggled to free himself from her grasp. “Kariana, you are not well! You’re exhausted and in shock! What you’re saying is madness!”
“It’s truth!” she cried. “It’s destiny!”
Aiul had had enough. He forcefully pulled away, and Kariana collapsed to the floor, so wracked by her sobbing.
“Don’t go!” she begged.
“I must, damn it!” He hurriedly gathered his equipment. “I am married, Kariana! You must accept it.”
Kariana leaped to her feet and lunged toward him, her face twisted in fury, a low, bestial snarl rising in her throat. She was on him in an instant, slashing at him with her long nails and spitting like a feral cat. “You bastard!” she shrieked. “You insufferable son of a whore! An empress on her knees offering you her crown isn’t good enough for you?”
It was all Aiul could do to keep her slashing claws from his face. She was a mad tigress. He seized a flailing arm as she brought the other up and grabbed a handful of his shirt for leverage. “Stop it, Kariana!”
She spat at him and kicked savagely at his shins, punctuating each blow with a curse.
Aiul had suffered enough. He shoved her away, harder than he intended. She flew back from him, still maintaining her death grip on his shirt. The fabric tore, and she staggered back, a look of shock on her face. She teetered briefly, then fell, striking her head against the table, the Southlander’s massive hand seeming to reach for her hair on her way down. She looked up at Aiul, a mixture of fear, fury, and pain on her face, the scrap of cloth from his shirt still clutched in her hand.
Aiul shook his head in consternation, torn between the contradictory urges of tending her wound and fleeing from her. “Damn you, Kariana! Why did you make me do that?”
She looked up at him, tears running down her face, no longer an empress or a savage beast, just a heartbroken little girl, exhausted and defeated. His heart went out to her.
“I’m sorry,” she pleaded. “I just—” She paused and wiped at the blood on her forehead. “I never felt like this before, don’t you understand? Not until you came back to me. It’s too much! I can’t bear it!”
“You need rest, Kariana. And you need to sober up.”
She brightened. “I’ll sleep, I promise! Come with me. Put me to bed.”
Aiul sighed, exasperated. He had walked right into that one. “I cannot Kariana. I have a wife. I have responsibilities.”
“Don’t you leave me, Aiul! Not now, not tonight! I need you.”
“My wife needs me.”
“I command you!”
Aiul shook his head. “Not this time, Kariana. And not ever again.” He turned away and walked toward the door.
“Cocksucker! Motherfucker son of a bitch bastard—” She trailed off, out of words crude enough to express her contempt. “Mei as my witness, I’ll fucking kill you and that wretched whore! Do you hear me?”
Aiul hunched his shoulders against the onslaught and stepped out of the room.
“Aiul! I’m sorry! Aiul! Please!”
Aiul kept walking.
Kariana lay in a heap on the cold stone floor for some time, trembling, unable to control her warring emotions. She wept, cursed, and screamed, buffeted by rage, humiliation and deep, agonizing loss. How could this be? How had she come to this? “It isn’t fair!” she screamed and tore at her hair in frustration. She tried to rise to her feet, staggered, tried again, and managed to haul herself up against the table. The dead Southlander seemed to leer at her, mocking her, drinking in her pain like a fine wine. She reached for her knife and stabbed him again, swooned, then steadied herself with both hands. Blood dripped from her gashed forehead onto the Southlander’s face, ran slowly down his cheek like a tear, and mixed with the rest she had spilled from him.
“Blood calls for blood,” she whispered, wondering why she should think of the phrase. She had heard it somewhere before, but why did it come to mind now?
She raised the scrap of Aiul’s shirt to her forehead and daubed at the wound. It was superficial, really. She barely felt it. But then, she thought, she might not notice a sword shoved through her gut right now, not against the rest of her pain. Well, that and the drugs.
It was all her wretched brother’s fault. If he hadn’t gone and gotten himself killed, none of this would have happened. Theron would have been emperor, and she would have been happy. But instead, they had put a crown on her head, and whispered secretly that she had engineered the entire affair.
They called her murderess and whore, a poor ruler, stupid and vain. She could accept some of it. A whore? They never complained when they were with her. No, they took their pleasure and then spit on her because she took hers as well. Better a whore than a hypocrite. A poor ruler? Certainly. What had she ever been taught of such things? Who had prepared her? And yet they cursed her when the crown they placed on her head failed to magically infuse her with wisdom and knowledge. Vain? Her father had been of the mind that the entire point of her existence was to serve as decoration. She was merely what she had been groomed for, what she had been expected to be: a toy. Was it so wrong to accept her place as had been defined for her by others, to take joy in it? Stupid? Oh, yes, very, up to now, and it was high time for that to change.
But murderess? She had never hurt a soul until tonight. Well, not without their consent and a safe word in place. She knew how, of course. Torture was a womanly art, handed down from mother to daughter for centuries. The only use she had ever found for it was to entertain her friends who had peculiar, embarrassing tastes that their wives would not indulge. The same friends, she thought bitterly, who denounced her to hide their own shame. She was nothing but a receptacle for their vile spew.
Suddenly, everything seemed too close, too tight. She had to get out, get some air to clear her head. She looked briefly at the rapidly cooling body of the Southlander, wondering what should be done about him, then dismissed the notion.
Let someone else clean up the mess
. She was empress.
Aiul spent most of the trip home cursing himself for letting things come to this. It was pure idiocy and had been from the start. He had no idea how it would play out with the Southlanders, but one thing was certain: his part in their story was over.
He was only interrupted from his brooding once when a group of three men moved toward him menacingly. Aiul hitched the edge of his cloak aside, grasped the handle of his mace, and stared at them from beneath his hood with undisguised malevolence. In truth, he would have been quite pleased to bash in some thug’s skull, a fact that was apparently clear to his would-be muggers. The men slowly backed away, then turned and fled like the cockroaches they were.
Aiul shook his head and moved on, his mind turning back to Kariana. Damn her! He could barely contain his fury at her presumption, her selfishness, and yet he felt a deep sympathy for her, as well. He resolved not to hold it against her. She was who she had always been, and he should have known better. He would check in on her in the morning. A night’s rest should clear her head of the drugs and exhaustion, and she would be in a more sensible state of mind. Perhaps we could even be friends again, he thought. Mei knows, she needs some true friends.
He found himself home before he quite realized it. His feet, apparently, knew the way well enough to take him there without his head having to be overmuch involved. He looked up briefly at the towering building, his head clouded with strange thoughts. The Cradle of Nihlos was one of the tallest buildings in the city, practically clawing at the sky. It bespoke privilege and power like little else could, a middle finger raised to the sky, defying the gods and their petty gravity. And we who live there imagine it speaks of us in such terms, when in truth, we’re all just devolved wretches, children playing with the masterworks of our betters who came before us, as the whole thing winds down like an untended clock.
Aiul entered the Cradle’s large, opulent foyer, his boots clicking against the marble tiled floor, echoing from the polished granite walls. The light from the few candles the staff kept burning at night cast a soft glow over the room, enough to see by, but not so much as to trouble the eyes of those coming in from darkness. The concierge, an elderly and dapper man with white hair, stood his usual post behind the huge reception desk. As Aiul crossed toward the elevators, the older man looked up briefly and examined a chart hanging from the wall on his left, pressed his pencil to his lip, then turned to examine a chart on his right. Satisfied, he turned back to his work. It was a practiced gesture, one that allowed him to scrutinize anyone entering the establishment without seeming to focus on any particular person. Aiul had been fooled by it for months when he had first moved in, only later did he realize the level of service and subtlety his coin had bought him. This last week, he had begun to appreciate the true value of it.
Aiul entered the elevator, giving a tired nod to the short, well-dressed attendant. The man was a commoner, of course, such menial tasks being beneath even slaves, but he still bore the air of professionalism upon which the Cradle’s reputation depended.
“Twelfth floor, sir?” the attendant asked.
Aiul nodded again, and the man responded by sounding two bells, one strike against a lower pitched one, twice against a higher pitched one. The elevator jerked slightly, then began a smooth ascent.
“Still using bells?” Aiul asked.
“Aye, sir,” the man answered. “Most of the residents prefer it this way, so I am told. They are more comfortable with slaves powering the elevator than with magic. The accident…”
“So the official line goes,” said Aiul. “I think the truth is simpler.”
The attendant stared at the floor, and repeated, “I am told the residents prefer it this way.”
“Of course,” Aiul said with a wry smile.
Aiul inserted his key into the lock and turned it as quietly as possible. So far, he had been lucky, and Lara had no idea how late his excursions often ran, and for her peace of mind, he wanted it to remain that way. He opened the door to find darkness and breathed a sigh of relief.
Just enough light filtered through the curtained windows to navigate by. He removed his shoes, robe, and mace, leaving them at the front door, and padded softly across the carpet to the living room. He knew he should put them away, especially the mace, so as not to provoke any questions from Lara, but his mind was in an uproar, and he needed something to calm his nerves. They could wait a few minutes, he told himself, just until his hands stopped shaking.
He took a bottle of fine whiskey from his bar, unstoppered it, and considered simply drinking from the bottle, but his manners were not so easily dismissed. He settled for four fingers in a large tumbler, neat, the first finger gulped with all the expected fire and grimacing, the remaining three to be sipped while the first worked at his nerves.
Aiul opened the heavy curtains to gaze out a huge picture window at the city below. He nursed the whiskey, his eyes roaming over the spires of the city. Everything was orange at night, tinted by the ever-present, luminous cloud cover. Nihlos knew no rain or snow, nor did she ever grow too cold or too warm, all due to those clouds. Another miracle we will not be able to repair once it fails.
He watched over the sleeping city for a while, seeking solace that would come only with a higher blood alcohol level. At last, the muscles in his neck began to relax, the pounding in his chest and temples subsided, and he told himself that he would, perhaps, be able to sleep.
He was jarred from his peace by the sound of movement behind him. Luck can only hold out so long, I suppose.
“Do you love the bitch, or is she just a fuck?” Lara’s voice was higher than usual, stressed, a mixture of whisper and sob. She stepped forward from the shadows where she had been hiding, her face twisted in grief, her brown eyes brimming with tears and accusations. The light from the window was not bright, but it was enough to illuminate the sheer fabric of her sleeping gown, turning it into little more than a nimbus, a mild blur over her flesh beneath. She took her place in front of him and folded her long, pale arms over her swollen belly, waiting for him to answer.
She is so different from Kariana. Thicker, taller, stronger. Even their features were at odds: Lara was solid and broad, where Kariana was pointed and delicate. Lara’s hips alone made her the better choice in a wife, but she was superior in every way. And we dare call ourselves nobles. We have it backward. The commoners are more fit.
Aiul stared at her for a moment, his jaw locked in place, his mind struggling to maintain cohesion as it was pulled this way and that by conflicting emotions and irreconcilable duties. As a lover, his eyes caressed the curves of her body in erotic and devoted appreciation. As a father to be, he felt giddy with pride to see the swelling of her belly, to know that his child would soon draw its first breath. As a doctor, he unconsciously scanned her for abnormalities and noted with satisfaction that all appeared to be going well with the pregnancy. But as protector and defender of his wife and unborn child, he felt bile rising in his throat. He could lie, and likely she would even believe him, but it would fester. Lies always did. They created barriers, ever-widening gaps that should not exist between two people trying to live as one.
As a doctor, he knew that a surgical scar was preferable to death, but as a husband, he could not bear to watch as he made the incision. He turned back to the window and looked out over the city as he spoke.
“It is neither. But there are things I have kept from you. It is difficult, so please, just listen until I am done. Will you do that?”
“Yes,” she whispered, almost choking on the word.
He told it mechanically, a recitation of facts rather than a confession, history rather than drama. He imagined it would be easier for her, but in the end, it seemed to have simply made things worse.
She waited long in silence, weeping softly until she was certain he was done. “What is it you expect of me? What am I supposed to do? Just bear the humiliation in silence? Paint on a smile like a good noblewoman and pretend my husband hasn’t
betrayed me?”
Aiul turned to her, frowning. “It is not betrayal to go along with a tradition hundreds of years old.”
Her face was red, her eyes bloodshot from crying. “Then why did you hide it from me?”
“To spare you this. I knew you would not understand.”
Lara buried her face in her hands and said nothing, simply shook with sobs she was trying to silence. At last, she looked up again, fury in her eyes.
“I spoke to my mother about it when I first noticed. She took your side. ‘He’s a man, Lara,’ she said. ‘Men have weaknesses we have to accommodate in return for their strengths.’” Lara spat at the floor. “I thought you were different, Aiul, but you’re just like my father, my brothers, like every man I ever knew!”
Aiul bit back a retort. She could not understand and did not deserve his wrath. It was not her way, and it was unfair of him to expect her to cast aside her own traditions in favor of his without time to adjust and accept. He had chosen this. He would find a way to bridge the gap. “Go to bed, Lara,” he told her. “We’re both exhausted. Things always seem harder to cope with when you’re tired.”
She nodded and dried her tears with the sleeve of her gown. “And you? Will you sleep? With me?”
Aiul shook his head. “I doubt I will sleep at all this night.” He drained his glass, reached for the bottle of whiskey again, and turned back toward the window.
Lara snorted. “Feeling too guilty?”
He looked at her again, feeling haggard. “Not in the way you imagine. If only I were merely guilty of something so small as cheating on my wife.” He refilled the glass and sipped at the liquor. “I am much worse,” he said. He turned back to the view of the city and stared out once again. “I am a murderer now.”
Caelwen stood outside the prison, armed and armored, watching the great iron doors that sealed the entrance. the Empress preferred to believe she was alone, but what she didn’t know in this case would not only not hurt her, but likely keep her alive. The undercity streets were dangerous, and it was his duty to protect her.
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