She drew her covers under her chin, and as the tears fell freely, she prayed for the return of Laranth’s voice and of her own convictions.
What have I done? Was I mad, Laranth?
The answer came back. No. No.
She did not want her father to die, but without his death, there would be no peace. At least she took bitter comfort in the fact that she would barely outlive him.
She dreamed that night, as she often did.
The dream had two faces, two sides; it did not always end the same way, but it always began with Laranth.
She would have, if she were lucky, a few minutes of the company that she had grown so dependent on, the warmth of a living partner who was both lover and friend, with all the meaning those words could convey, and much they were too slim for.
Then next, his death, or rather, the garish, open casket of the mourning. His face bore no marks, no scars. She would reach out to touch him, and her fingers would feel ice and pain.
This part was always the same. His eyelids would roll open over cavernous, empty sockets and his hands would reach up to grab her.
For your house’s sake, I was slaughtered.
She struggled, then, caught in a grip that not even death could break, and her lips formed meaningless sounds of denial.
You will not take rites with the man who murdered me for the sake of the house that aided him.
She woke crying out in shame and fear, and the colors of the noon sun comforted her enough that she could find sleep again.
The dreams returned.
She wore red, that glorious silk skirt over crinoline and lace. Her hands were in red gloves, her feet in black shoes. The beading at her bodice was all House Valens, and of the most expensive crystal and jeweled work. Around her slim waist was an expanse of black velvet.
The colors of joining, of power, of joy.
She walked down the long aisles of the temple, seeing out of the comer of her eyes all of the houses arrayed in their full colors and regalia. Here and there a head would nod at her passing, but she was not so improper as to acknowledge it. Nor would her father, who walked solemnly, in gray and burgundy velvet, at her side. Their arms were locked, and she could not have freed hers had she wanted to. She did not.
At the floating altar, Lord Vellen waited, Lord Damion at his side. Vellen wore red and black, a more severe robe than her own flowing dress. Ah, yes; the symbols of his office.
She smiled, as she always did, and bowed her head demurely, waiting for the ceremony to start.
Her father bowed to Lord Damion. Their hands met in almost a flash of light.
Still she waited. Her mouth said words, but they were devoid of meaning. Her hands itched at her side.
And then came the moment that she had been waiting for—that of the final joining.
A Karnar in red robes, with his high, imposing shoulders, handed Lord Vellen the blackened blade. Lord Vellen accepted it in steady hands, bowing over it and whispering the ancient words of the Church and God.
Silence reigned in the pews as the edge of the blade cut evenly into his palm. Blood welled there and even trickled down to touch both his robe and the marble floor.
“Lady,” he said quietly, and handed her the knife.
She took it. Her hands were shaking, but not with fear. This was the moment that she had waited for. She lifted the blade above her palm, and then turned suddenly to catch Lord Vellen unaware.
The point of the knife she drove home into his waiting, exposed heart. She had time to draw it above the cries that were already filling the temple.
Time to plant it up to the hilt in his throat.
His blood spurted down her hand, and for the first time since Laranth’s death, she felt warmth.
She knew the Swords were already coming. She could hear the scrape of metal against metal as their feet pounded up the aisles.
With triumph, and with fear, she turned to face them.
The Bridge to the Beyond lay open and waiting as she began to impale herself upon their blades.
She woke with a start to the setting sun, as the distant slice of the blades lingered in her chest a moment more. This passed, and she felt again the warmth of flowing blood. The smile that touched her lips was grim indeed, but not without peace. This dream had kept her sane for what seemed an impossibly long time.
It was all that she was to have, in the end.
For the death that she wished to cause was not, in her mind, murder. It was justice and vengeance; it was peace. She had not made a habit, even in the Empire, of killing anyone directly, and her lack of experience was to show in the worst possible way.
Lord Valens did not wake in the evening.
Matteus sent for her. She had dressed slowly and had even taken the time to pour one small drink before the slave came to her door.
“Go,” she said, the word quiet but firm. “I have no need for assistance this eve.”
There was a silence on the other side of the door, but no sound of retreating steps. She rose in irritation, wondering what the problem was. Her breakfast had already been laid, and it was cooling.
The knock came again before she reached her door. “L-lady?”
“Yes?” The word was ice and flew out of the door as it was wrenched open by her hand.
The slave was one of the younger housekeepers. She did not recognize him and knew that he was not one chosen to serve the members of the house. He cringed openly, something that they would have known better than to do.
“Lord Matteus sent me. It’s—he says it’s very, very urgent.”
She forgot her anger at this impudence and forgot both her breakfast and her drink. She forgot her composure and the rules of comportment that the nobility live by. Heart in her throat, she ran through the halls of House Valens as she had not done since she was a child.
The guards that stood at the door to her father’s rooms barely held their positions; their anxiety was clear for any fool to read should he care to do so.
Worse still, the door to her father’s personal quarters was ajar, and she could see Matteus, standing before the black fireplace, his hand over his eyes.
“Lady,” he said, turning slowly as she entered. His eyes were veined with a rich red network that spoke not of tears, but of too little sleep.
“My father?”
Those eyes closed.
“Matteus!”
“I am sorry, Lady. I did what I could—but this illness is beyond me. He did not respond to my care.” He waved a hand in the direction of Lord Valens’ bedchamber. “If you wish to see him, do so now. I have not yet called—”
“You’re sorry?” Two quick steps brought her to him, and her hands were on the shoulders of his shirt and the aged flesh beneath before she could think.
He looked back at the wild-eyed woman before him. Although she wore the burgundy and the gray in the style of Lady Amalayna, he barely recognized her, so changed was her face.
Ah, well. Grief was something she had proven herself too weak to deal well with. Had he expected grace or poise here? He tried to shrug her grip off and felt the hardness of nails bite into his skin.
“Lady,” he said, trying to shake off his weariness. “You do your house no good by this display.”
“You’re sorry?” she shouted again. He was the bigger man, but she succeeded in shaking him.
He gave her no answer, and she pushed him back, letting go at the last moment. He made no move to stop her as she threw the door to Lord Valens’ chamber wide. A flurry of color followed as she rushed to the bedside, and Matteus quietly closed the door behind her.
As the door clicked at her back, the fury left. Her breath rattled the whole of her body as if it were a weak, thin frame caught in a tempest of storm and violence.
Dramathan, Lord Valens, lay in bed. His arms were crossed neatly over his chest. His hair had been brushed and coiffed into neat, straight strands. His eyes were closed, and a sweep of gray lash lit against white cheeks. Those
cheeks were sunken and hollow, the lips beneath them a compressed line.
Even in death Lord Valens could be pressed to show no emotion to his children.
She was close enough to touch him, but held her hands at her side. What point was there, now? The dreams of the moming became just that—as hollow as any child’s impossible wish. There was ice on her hand, and her lips were sealed by cold as well.
There would be no ceremony, no joining of houses. Vellen would offer her no knife and no pledge that she could turn so neatly against him.
All that she had accomplished was this: Her father was dead, too soon, and he would never know why.
Her legs would not carry her, would not even hold her, and she sank with rumpled grace to her knees until her face was a foot away from the dead man’s.
Laranth, her father, and her plans had deserted her completely. In the silence she began to weep, and there was no thought or hope of an end to it.
The road into Malakar was not so heavily traveled as Corfaire had expected. He frowned and slowed his pace as he looked to the gate house. Six men stood there, but at this distance he could see that none of them were of the elite. No red marked the dark surcoats they wore.
“Corfaire?” Erin whispered, keeping her sight trained on the gates.
“I don’t know.” He kept the uneasiness out of his voice, but not out of his movements. “Still, there were rumors in Rennath of a change—perhaps this is it.”
“Are the roads so seldom used here?”
“Not at this time of day.”
The sun was up, but not yet at midmorning, and merchants at least should have clogged the gate, holding both papers and soured expressions at the length of time they had to wait with their goods.
Still he had seen no signs of unrest on the route here. Farmers still tended their fields, and none of those fields had been razed.
Behind them, Darin and Tiras walked quietly. Darin’s hand was on the papers that would grant them safe passage through the gates; they crinkled sharply, and Corfaire bit back the order to leave them be. The boy was nervous enough as it was.
Tiras walked with Darin’s staff, using it as a cane. Age had settled onto his frame, bending his shoulders and lending them a frailty that even Corfaire would not have guessed possible.
Erin was dressed as a traveler, not a guard, although her sword still hung beneath the folds of the cloak that Hildy had lent her for just this purpose. Her hair was unbound and un-braided. She looked the very image of cool modesty and distance.
Straightening himself out, Corfaire approached the gates. A guard halted him, as was expected.
“Your business?”
“We come from Rennath,” Corfaire replied, handing him the furled papers. “We’ve traded there and are returning with goods for the High City market.”
The guard raised an eyebrow and looked at his traveling companions: a young woman, a young boy, and an old man. The two horses stood solidly behind, heavily laden with baggage.
“You traveled alone?”
The glitter of suspicion in the guard’s eyes was inevitable.
Corfaire drew himself up to his full height, and his voice altered subtly. “We are not from the northwest; we have little need of heavy guard, and they cost much.”
“Rennath.” The guard read over the papers, the boredom never straying far from his face. “I guess you haven’t heard.”
Corfaire waited patiently, unwilling to give the guard the satisfaction of hearing a question asked. It was not much of a gamble; he knew well the general level of the gate guards and was not about to be humbled in any way by one.
If Swords had been present, he would have taken an entirely different tack. It was odd; the only time he had ever seen a gate manned by just guards was in the late evening, when very little traffic came by.
The guard grunted and handed the papers back. He began a walk around, looking at each of the travelers in turn, until he came to Erin’s side.
Corfaire smiled the wolf’s smile, and his hand was already at his sword hilt. “I should not, were I you.” He almost hoped the soft words didn’t carry.
They did. The guard’s face paled, and he stepped back, recognizing in the cadence and tone of the words the nobility of blood that Corfaire’s profile claimed.
“Lord,” he murmured. “Your papers are in order. But the city’s changed some since you’ve been last. Edict from the Lord of the Empire—although there’s some who say the Church did it—says that normal business starts at dusk. Normal days start at sundown. Market’s not open now, but you’ll probably be able to wake an innkeeper.” His eyes brightened a little. “If you’re looking for a place to stay—”
“Thank you. I know the city well.” He turned to Erin and bowed slightly. “Lady?”
She took the arm he offered almost gratefully, as it moved her farther away from the city guard.
“We are about to enter Malakar, the capital of the Empire.” He paused and looked over his shoulder to see that Darin and Tiras were following. “Come on. Let’s get to an inn; we can have lunch and find out what’s been happening in the city.”
His arm trembled as he said the last few words, and Erin looked furtively at his face.
With the exception of Tiras, they all had reasons, beyond the obvious, to fear this visit. Corfaire’s past was here, and he had not yet done with it—nor it with him.
The Lady Amalayna was a noble of Veriloth, and she struggled to remember it as she sat, very still, in her father’s sitting room. No slaves had been called, and no house guards either, although it was inevitable that the house guards would know of their lord’s death. It was, after all, to his person that they had sworn their lives.
Her youngest sister, Maia, had come, and even now sat by her father’s deathbed in the privacy of his closed bedchamber. She was not so young that she did not realize the need for secrecy, nor so foolish that she would allow her grief to show in public areas, and Amalayna had not seen fit to lecture her at this time.
But the rhythm of her quiet sobs could be heard even through the closed doors, and they distracted the acting head of the house. She glanced up at the doctor, who was resting with his eyes closed in the winged chair.
He knew, of course, and she had no choice but to trust him. Still, she would feel better if he might agree to be detained for the next few days.
“You look tired.” Her voice was soft. “I took the liberty of having one of the guest rooms prepared.”
An eyelid creaked open, and a faint, grim smile touched Matteus’ cracked lips. His hand reached down, seeking and finding his drink. “When does Dorvannen return?” The words were too weary to achieve the casual effect they aimed for.
“Six days.”
“For the rites?”
She laughed. She couldn’t help it. “Even so.”
“Perhaps, Lady, it is not I that needs rest.” But he nodded, falling further into the chair. “It’s been a difficult few days. I think I might take you up on the offer.”
She relaxed. “I’ll send for a slave to lead you there, then. Have you eaten?”
“Not much.”
“Good. I’ve already arranged for a meal.”
He rose quietly and gave her a little half bow. “Will you allow me to send a message to my daughter?”
“But of course. I wouldn’t want her to worry.” She, too, rose, and caught his free hand in hers. “Matteus, I’m sorry, but I’ve no choice.”
“Sorry?” He shook his head. “Your father would have done no less. And I’ve been in this situation a number of times before. You see it as a physician in the High City.” He chuckled wryly. “Besides, my own home has one slave and not nearly the array of comforts and services that House Valens will provide to a humble visitor. Why should I overburden my daughter when I can live at your expense?”
She hadn’t given him leave to speak so freely, but didn’t mind. He had good tact and wisdom, and she was grateful for both. She could not face another de
ath today, especially if it were one that she would have to order.
Reaching out, she pulled a long cord and then walked him to the door. When the slave answered her call, she quietly gave directions to him. His bow to both her and the doctor was exact and precise. If she did not go mad in the next few days, it would be because of these perfect little details of normal life.
Only when the physician turned the far corner did she retreat into her father’s sitting room. She had much to think on, and she did not flinch from doing so.
This morning had seen the ruin of her ill-made plans. With Dramathan of Valens dead, Lord Vellen had no reason to carry on with the rites; he had nothing to gain, and little to lose, for though Dorvannen was competent, he was not that high in the Church hierarchy. One day he might rise from the ranks of the Lesser Cabal to the heights of the Greater, but not soon enough.
She could hide her father’s death for a few days at best, and if there were spies in the house, which she felt certain of, any measures she took would be crippled.
A deep breath filled her lungs, and she sat down, hard.
The Greater Cabal convened in two days. If she could keep word of her father’s death from Lord Vellen and his allies, then perhaps Benataan of Torvallen would win the seat he coveted.
That would be a swift and sure guarantee of Lord Vellen’s death—and the death would be less pleasant than the one she had planned to grant him.
But it would not be at her hands.
She gritted her teeth over the cry of frustration that she longed to make. It was not what she had wanted, but it would do. It would have to. Rising, she walked through the room to the door on the farthest right. She walked in it to her father’s study, and took a seat at his desk. On it, a quill and inkstand stood. The seal and the wax were in the uppermost right drawer, and she found vellum there as well.
To Benataan, Lord Torvallen,