The Serpent Bride

by Sara Douglass

  “I understand, Malat.”

  “Then get out of here. You have one hour to pack, get on your horses, and get you gone.”

  “Malat—”

  “Get out of here, get out of this room, now. Now!”

  Maximilian rose and walked for the door.

  Just before he got there, Malat spoke again. “Maximilian? Please don’t drop in on any more friends on your way home. I cannot bear to think that another father might have to go through what I go through now.”

  Maximilian stiffened, then he left without saying a word.

  “Maxel?” Ishbel rose from where she’d been sitting on the side of the bed. “Please, tell me, what is going on?”

  “You don’t know?”

  “No. I don’t know!”

  “Borchard is dead. Murdered. As is happening to too many people about me. And you.”

  “I am not responsible,” she said softly, but with great feeling.

  Maximilian walked over to her, staring for a long moment at her beautiful face. What was happening to them? “Borchard was gut struck, Ishbel. A belly blow.”

  “And your point?” Her face was very white now, and she clutched her wrap tightly about her.

  Maximilian took a step forward and buried his fist in the material of the wrap. “Are you a priestess of the Coil, Ishbel? Be honest with me now if you want me to retain a single shred of trust in you.”

  He was so angry, yet looked so lost. Ishbel didn’t know what to do. She was terrified that if she revealed the truth now, then he would believe she was responsible for Borchard’s death. Better to continue with the lies. He would never find out.

  “No,” she said, holding his angry gaze with unwavering eyes.

  His fist tightened momentarily in the material of her wrap.

  “You’re lying,” he said softly.

  Then he let her go and turned, striding for the door.

  “Get dressed,” he said. “We’re leaving. Now.”

  Ishbel stared after him, a trembling hand rising to her mouth, her eyes glistening with sudden tears.

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  The Road from Kyros to Escator, the Central Kingdoms

  They left Kyros within the hour, traveling in a largely unspeaking train. Ishbel rode her own horse: Maximilian had very pointedly not suggested she ride with him. Worse, Garth now rode at Maximilian’s side, exchanging the very occasional soft word with him, while Ishbel was left to trail behind, several of the Emerald Guard close behind her, doubt and suspicion riding at her side.

  Ishbel herself felt sick with fear and with regret. Fear that Maximilian suspected her; regret that she had so foolishly lied to him.

  She wished beyond anything else she had not been stupid enough to lie to him. He was a generous man and would have understood, but Ishbel knew Maximilian well enough now to know that he did not tolerate lies.

  How stupid she was! A fool!

  She had no idea what was happening to them, why Allemorte and Borchard had died, and what purpose their deaths served anyone save to turn the entire Central Kingdoms against Maximilian, and Maximilian against her.

  Was that the purpose? Ishbel shuddered, her hands entangled in the horse’s mane to help keep her balance, wishing quite desperately she was safe behind Maximilian, clinging to his warm, strong body, listening to his occasional laugh as he pointed something out to her. She wondered if someone was trying to drive them apart, create a wall of suspicion between them, so that the Great Serpent’s wishes could be thwarted.

  She disentangled one of her hands, sliding it under her cloak to rest against her belly. She was almost four months pregnant now, and she could just, barely, feel the new hard roundness of her belly. It terrified her, this baby. It complicated everything, and with its growth Ishbel wondered if it drove the Great Serpent further and further from her perception as her swelling womb upset the delicate coil of her intestines. Without that, without the Coil perfectly aligned within her, Ishbel feared she would never sense the Great Serpent again.

  Worse, she feared she’d never lie close to Maximilian again, wrapped in his arms, listening to him whisper endearments, and telling her how much he wanted the baby.

  Ishbel didn’t know what to think and was confused by her emotions. Losing Maximilian’s regard was starting to appear as frightful as losing her life at Serpent’s Nest.

  Even worse.

  Ishbel felt completely friendless in this world. Maximilian kept his back to her for most of the time, and his face and voice coldly neutral on those occasions when he couldn’t avoid speaking to her. Garth was now back at Maximilian’s side, and as careful as her husband not to look her way.

  Ishbel didn’t know what to do—she didn’t know what she wanted to do.

  They traveled westward for two days, stopping at wayside inns at night. Ishbel’s nights were as friendless as her days. Maximilian still shared a bed with her, but he did not curl about her, keeping a vast physical and emotional distance from her within their bed.

  On the second night out of Kyros, Ishbel tried to broach that distance.

  They had eaten in the public room of the inn, and were now preparing for bed. They’d been completely silent since entering their chamber.

  Ishbel had stripped down to her undershift when, heart thudding in mouth, she decided to speak.

  “Maxel, please talk to me. What can I say to you? I had nothing to do with Borchard’s death! I know nothing about why—”

  “Then why were you there so soon after his murder? I’d left you asleep in bed, exhausted. Why, then, were you up and running about when Borchard lay dying?”

  Because the Great Serpent woke me, Maxel, and said there was a murderer in the house. “I had a bad dream…I dreamed you were in danger. I…I had to—”

  “I am sick of your lies, Ishbel. I am sorry, I am tired. I just want to sleep.”

  He turned away.

  Ishbel wanted to scream at him; instead the tears spilled over and she turned her back as well, rubbing at her eyes. She waited until she heard Maximilian get into bed, then she blew out the lamp and slid in the other side.

  They lay there for hours, both awake, staring up into the dark emptiness.

  Maximilian had finally dropped off, and was lost in a deep, dreamless sleep when a noise disturbed his peace.

  It sounded a little like Ishbel, crying out in fright.

  He didn’t immediately respond. He was too tired, too disheartened, too confused to leap immediately into wakefulness.

  Ishbel cried out again, and this time he felt her body shift violently on the bed.

  Finally, and now with some urgency, Maximilian roused himself.

  The room was lit, something he would remember later as strange.

  Armed men surrounded their bed, eight or nine of them, dressed in the colors and badges of Malat of Kyros.

  One of the men held a struggling Ishbel in his arms.

  “King Malat sends greetings,” said this man. “He begs me to tell you that he wishes you to suffer the same pain as he suffers. He hopes that one day, as you remember the night you lost your wife, you also regret what you did to Malat, in Kyros. Take a long, hard look at your wife, Maximilian, for it is the last sight you will ever have of her.”

  Maximilian started to move, seeing only the terror and panic on Ishbel’s face, and the brutal hand of her abductor gripping tight about her belly. But just as he swung toward the side of the bed, something came down hard on the back of his head, and he knew no more.

  CHAPTER NINE

  The Road from Kyros to Escator, the Central Kingdoms

  They enveloped her within a dark power that terrified Ishbel, and took her to a place that she could not comprehend, for it, too, was wrapped in dark power. She had thought the Great Serpent of infinite power, but he was a mere worm compared to the enchantment wielded by these nine men. She could not think nor act. All Ishbel could do was breathe, and try to hold on to life, and not panic—almost impossible given the circumstances.<
br />
  She knew they were not Malat’s men, whatever they’d said to Maximilian. The man who held her spoke with a voice that imitated the Kyrrian dialect, but which she recognized as a fabrication. The man’s real voice, which she could hear shadowing the false one, was of an intonation utterly unknown to her.

  He held Ishbel in a grip so tight, so strong, so implacable, she thought he would murder her. If not that, then she was sure he would crush the baby within her. In that first flush of sheer terror, Ishbel didn’t care. She was in so much fear for her own life, which she was sure would be cut short within a moment, that she had no concern for anyone else, whether her husband or her child.

  They took her to a dark place of power, and there they bound her and left her lying on a cold, unknown floor.

  Even though Ishbel stared wildly into the darkness, she could see nothing. For an unknowable time she lay, her terror escalating with every breath, feeding her imagination until she began to believe that they did not mean to murder her, but to torment her into insanity.

  Ba’al’uz drew his Eight aside, leaving the woman, Ishbel, for the moment, and they conversed in low tones so she could not hear them.

  “Kanubai shall be pleased. We have the woman,” said Ba’al’uz. “She and her child will make a lovely sacrifice.”

  Ba’al’uz was more than content with events. The murder of Borchard had been masterful, accomplished while Ba’al’uz was shrouded by Kanubai’s power, and would be sure to drag both Kyros and Escator into the war that would soon consume the east.

  And now they had Kanubai’s sacrifice. Ba’al’uz almost floated on the glow of achievement.

  “She’ll be trouble,” said Zeboul, the most senior of the Eight.

  “We shan’t have to worry about that,” said Ba’al’uz. “I have just the thing.” He held up a small vial. “Poison. Not enough to murder her—or her child—before Kanubai commands it, but enough to keep her quiet.”

  “And now?” asked another of the Eight, a man called Salim.

  “Torment her,” said Ba’al’uz, “just a little to amuse ourselves and to ensure complete compliance, and then we move down toward Deepend and the FarReach Mountains. You will need to take her back to Isaiah—I really don’t care what he does with her so long as he keeps her alive and under some semblance of control—while I attend to the other little matter Kanubai requested.”

  Now all eyes glinted with delight.

  “The Weeper,” said Zeboul, for Ba’al’uz had told them about the object Kanubai desired.

  “Yes,” said Ba’al’uz, “the Weeper. Just think, my brothers. With that and the woman and her child…Kanubai shall reward us most handsomely, eh?”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Road from Kyros to Escator, the Central Kingdoms

  Maximilian remained unconscious for a good six hours after Ishbel’s kidnap and, because no one had thought to disturb the king and queen in their bedchamber, there was no alarm raised until Maximilian stumbled out of the chamber door, yelling for Egalion and the Emerald Guard.

  There was instant commotion. Not chaos, for Egalion took command, directing the Emerald Guard to search the inn, all outbuildings, and the surrounding countryside.

  “Are you certain these were Malat’s men?” Egalion asked Maximilian, now back in the bedchamber, sitting on the edge of the bed, with Garth holding a compress against the swollen, broken skin at the back of his head.

  Maximilian nodded, then instantly regretted it, groaning. “Yes. Yes, they wore Malat’s livery and badges. Shit! They said…they said that Malat sent greetings, and that he wants me to suffer the same pain that he suffers. They said I would not see Ishbel again.”

  Egalion and Garth exchanged a look.

  “Maxel,” said Garth, “it might be that these were not Malat’s men at all, but—”

  “Do not blame Ishbel for this!” Maximilian seethed, wrenching himself away from Garth’s hands. He stopped, taking a deep breath. “I apologize, Garth. I should not have spoken that way. I am racked with guilt at the way I treated Ishbel over the past few days…and you did not see her face as those men held her. She was terrified. Gods, I am terrified for her now.”

  Again a pause. “I find I do not much like the idea of never seeing her again,” he said softly.

  Garth gently put the compress back on Maximilian’s head. “There was nothing you could have done, Maximilian. Do not blame yourself.”

  “Yes, I blame myself,” said Maximilian. “What a muddle I have made of my marriage. How could I have mismanaged it so desperately?”

  “Maxel—” Garth began.

  “And I should have known better than to lie so unprotected in a public inn. The assassin who murdered Allemorte had been sent for Ishbel, I know this. Why did I not realize they would try again?”

  Egalion squatted on the floor in front of Maximilian so he could look him directly in the face. “Maxel,” he said, “almost seven hours have passed since they stole Ishbel. They could be anywhere. I have set the Emerald Guard to searching the inn and surrounding area, but I do not expect to find them. Whether Malat’s men or others, they will be well away by now.”

  Maximilian said nothing, and Egalion and Garth exchanged another look.

  “We need to decide what to do,” said Egalion. “Whether to continue on for Escator, or…”

  Maximilian winced as Garth moved the compress, then waved at him to take the thing away.

  “Everything is going wrong,” Maximilian said. “Too many things.”

  He stopped, and the other two waited.

  After a long moment Maximilian sighed, gingerly stretching his upper back and shoulders. “I need to go back to Malat,” he said. “Maybe they were his men, maybe not, but I need to see him. And…maybe he can give me some clue as to what is going on.”

  Maximilian’s voice broke on that last, and Egalion stood up, and rested a hand on his shoulder.

  “We’ll find her, Maxel,” he said.

  “I doubt that very, very much,” Maximilian said softly.

  Malat could not believe it when he heard that his soldiers had apprehended the King of Escator a mile out of Kyros and that Maximilian was requesting to see him.

  “He was heading back?” he said. “To see me? Does he have a death wish?”

  “He has been injured in some fight,” said the captain of the guard. “Perhaps he is looking for sympathy.”

  Malat cursed. “Then I wish well to whoever injured him, but they could have done a better job and stopped his heart entirely.”

  “What should we do with him, sire?”

  “Is his entire retinue with him?”

  “Several of his Emerald Guard,” said the captain, “but none of his other companions. Maximilian said they waited for him at an inn some distance along the road.”

  “What the fuck does he want?” Malat muttered. “Why disturb me in this fashion? Oh, damn it, put him in a dungeon—the coldest, dampest one you can find—and tell him I will consider his request for an audience over my evening meal.”

  “Sire,” the captain said, “Maximilian said the matter was desperate.”

  “Desperate is the state of my heart,” said Malat. “Maximilian has no right to use the word.” He fell silent, studying the captain of the guard, who was now looking decidedly uncomfortable. “Oh, very well, bring him in an hour to the smaller audience chamber—and empty it of any servants, guards, and courtiers beforehand. I will see him then.”

  “Sire, do you think it wise to talk with this brigand without protection?”

  “If he so much as takes a step in my direction,” Malat said, “I’ll run him through with a sword. Now, go, and leave me in peace.”

  The smaller audience chamber was an unadorned room with few windows, paneled in dark wood, and with an air of such somberness that very few people had ever dared laugh in its confines.

  It suited Malat’s mood perfectly.

  One of the double doors at the other end of the chamber opened, and th
e captain of the guard escorted Maximilian through.

  At Malat’s tip of his head, the captain retired, closing the door behind him.

  “To what,” said Malat, his voice underscored with venom, “do I owe this honor?”

  “Ishbel has been taken,” Maximilian said, walking forward from the far end of the chamber, “by your men.”

  “What!” Malat leapt from his chair. “How dare you—”

  “They told me,” said Maximilian, stopping halfway down the chamber, “that you wanted me to suffer the same pain as you suffered, and that I should never see Ishbel again. I want my wife, Malat. I did not murder your son, and now I want my wife back!”

  Malat stopped a few paces away, studying Maximilian carefully. He was disheveled and dirty, his face tired and drawn with both physical and emotional pain, and the neck of his shirt appeared crusted with dried blood.

  Malat walked forward, held Maximilian’s eyes for a long moment, then slowly walked about him, noting the deep bruising and scabbed abrasion at the back of his head.

  “What happened?” he said.

  “Your men came, on your orders, and took my wife, beating me that I might not rescue her.”

  Malat was now back in front of Maximilian. Again, he spent a long moment holding Maximilian’s eyes. “You don’t believe that,” Malat said.

  “I am left to believe only what my eyes showed me and my ears told me,” Maximilian snapped. “Did you send your men to take my wife and threaten her death?”

  “No. Do you believe me?”

  Maximilian took a deep breath, passing a trembling hand over his eyes. “Yes. If you’d sent men, their orders would have been to murder me, not take my wife.”