Glimmer in the Maelstrom: Shadow Through Time 3 (9 page)

Noola rose on an elbow and caught his attention.
I do not blame you for the death of my sister. No matter who killed her. The Dark gave the order. He was to blame. He was the evil.

Mooraz shook his head. ‘Pagan’s father was guarding the King from my lord. Yet instead of aiding him, as a loyal subject should … I killed him. Then did nothing to stop The Dark killing the King.’

You were obeying orders.

‘I was hiding.’

Noola looked at him in surprise.
From what?

Mooraz shook his head. ‘Responsibility?’ He closed his eyes. Something in his expression caught Noola in the chest and she held her breath. ‘When I was barely a man,’ he said softly, ‘The Dark gave me my first order. He told me to kill my own parents. He said they were evil.’ If Noola could have spoken she would not have known what to say. ‘So I did. I killed them. And from that time on, I obeyed The Dark implicitly.’ He opened his eyes and gazed straight into Noola’s. ‘To question any order might have led me to question his first.’

She raised her trembling hands.
You would have gone mad.

He nodded. ‘If the Guardian Pagan comes for me I will not struggle against my fate. Let him finish what The Dark began.’

Stay here, she signed, pointing down with two fingers.
He will not find you here.

Mooraz raised his hand and touched her hair, another intimacy he had never shown her. She felt as though her heart would burst with longing and despair. ‘I must know that my lady is safe,’ he said gently. ‘I cannot leave Be’uccdha behind me until that is done.’

He wanted to leave his House behind? Did that mean he would return to Noola when he had fulfilled his obligations to the daughter of The Dark? Hope shone in her eyes.
The Cliffdweller girl will return
, she signed.
She will guide you on your journey.
And then you will return to me and be my love — the words, unexpressed, echoed in her heart.

Mooraz pulled her down onto his chest and kissed her forehead. ‘The future is an unpainted canvas,’ he said. ‘I thought myself dead once, when I lost my arm. Perhaps …’

‘M
y Lady, the King will see you at last,’ Firde said, hovering near. ‘We must ready you.’

Lae nodded. The King called. ‘The dead king who now lives,’ she said, unable to feel the shock and delight his other subjects had experienced at Mihale’s triumphant return. Common folk and nobles alike were in awe of how the Airworld of Atheyre had revived their king, and it seemed a magic Plainsman stone had allowed Mihale and his party to return from the final resting place of souls when no other ever had. These wonders should likewise have fascinated The Dark, but Lae could only feel hollow disappointment that it was Mihale and not his son who had been given such a generous reprieve from death.

Despite this sentiment, Lae had begged an immediate audience with the King, not in her capacity as The Dark but as the woman who had mothered and lost the orphaned son he had never known.

Lenid.

Firde took the small toy castle out of her nerveless fingers. Lae remembered the day Kert had given it to Lenid. She remembered watching them play with it, smiling at their laughter. Loving them. Loving even Kert who had broken her foot and treated her abominably when he had first captured her, thinking her an agent of her father and a traitor to the throne. Loving Kert because he had loved Lenid so much. As she had. Trying to forget that Kert had grown to love her as well, and that she had come close to consummating their marriage, only to withdraw that fledgling sentiment when Pagan had returned, bringing with him a reckless love she had almost forgotten. Kert’s love had then turned to bitterness, and now he was dead.

‘They are gone from your life, My Lady,’ Firde said, kneeling before her, dabbing at her face with a kerchief. ‘Your husband and your son are no more, yet you clutch them in your heart to your ruin. You must open your heart and release them. Let them go.’

Lae’s watery gaze met Firde’s. ‘What I must do is go to the King and tell him that his son is dead because I did not watch him closely enough.’ Even with her eyes wide open Lae could not escape the memory of those terrible few seconds, her horror when she’d realised none of them would reach Lenid in time, not even Kert who was at full stretch towards him, and certainly not herself with a crippled ankle. The sight of Lenid tumbling over the edge, his little arms flailing, the unforgettable hiss and shower of sparks that had followed, and then the smell. Lae shuddered. The acrid stench that had risen from the Volcastle mouth was burnt into the back of her throat. She would never escape it.

Firde touched her hands. ‘You were not his Champion, My Lady. Your husband, the Lord Sh’hale, was responsible for our sweet little man’s life. You must not continue to blame yourself.’

Kert had escaped guilt into death. Only Lae remained to explain to their king how his son had not been adequately protected.

Firde waited but Lae made no movement. ‘Come, let us dress you,’ the maid said, pulling on her lady’s hands. ‘Perhaps when you have spoken to the King your grief will be shared and lessened.’

Lae let herself be led to the dressing room where she stood quietly while Firde changed her into the white mourning robe she had worn for Lenid’s requiem two days before.

‘If only you had let the Guardian heal your foot,’ Firde said, shaking her head. ‘Now you must limp before the King.’

Lae made no reply but she was resolute on the matter. Pagan would not touch her, and now Mihale would see why she had been unable to save his son. It was her only defence.

‘I know what you are doing,’ Firde said, moving behind her to arrange her hair. ‘You punish yourself for the little man’s death by cutting off the one person who could offer you solace. The Guardian loves you, yet you will not even speak to him.’

‘I am in mourning,’ Lae reminded her, closing her eyes to push the memory of Pagan from her mind. But he would not be removed. He remained beside her as he had at the requiem, in his father’s Guardian honour cloak with its hundreds of neatly stitched droplets of blood falling from wide shoulders, his long dark hair rising in the breeze that had visited them that morning, his longing gaze straying towards her. All this Lae had seen and yet had felt nothing, nothing but the pain of Lenid’s death.

Her love for Pagan was locked away in a corner of her heart where it could remain as a memory. She felt constriction in her chest when she thought of him, but that was all. No desire to look into his dark eyes again, no desperation to feel his lips against her own, to finally lie with him as she had dreamt of for so long, even while she had been trapped into an unconsummated marriage with Kert.

‘My Lady is ready,’ Firde said softly behind her.

Lae gazed dispassionately at her own reflection, and did not see the swirling right-face tattoo that she had suffered to be cut upon her three years ago when she had been barely fourteen, or the elaborate hair coils Firde had wrought, tunnelling her glossy black hair to the back where it fell in ribbons. All Lae saw were empty eyes like cold black stones. ‘When Pagan knows he cannot have me, he will return to his Magorian woman,’ she said. ‘It is for the best. They have a son together.’

Firde’s lips pressed tightly together. She shook her head, and did not need to say what was in her heart. Lae had heard it all too often.

‘Where are my assistants?’ Lae asked.

‘In your audience room, My Lady.’ Firde bowed respectfully, as was required to The Dark, and Lae left her, picking up the two silent acolytes who flanked her as she limped to the chambers where Mihale awaited her. It was a slow journey on unyielding flagstones which made her wrongly healed ankle ache. Lae had ample time to calm her mind, yet instead she imagined every way she might explain the circumstances of Lenid’s death to the child’s father and could find none that would purge her from guilt.

‘My Lady The Dark,’ the door guard said and bowed, then opened the wide panelled doors for her.

She left her acolytes behind and stepped onto thick rugs, feeling immediate relief in her ankle. Gone too was the stark light of the corridors, replaced with the gentler illumination of lorthen-oil candles with their heady floral scent. She turned her head and saw Mihale, still as youthful as he had been when he’d left them, waiting on a chair by the hearth. He indicated for her to take the seat facing him.

Lae nodded solemnly and stepped towards him, her heart beating faster. She had not expected to be facing him alone. ‘Majesty,’ she said respectfully when she had seated herself, ‘I am greatly pleased to see your life restored.’

‘And I am greatly pleased to be returned to my home, and to know that my murderer is dead,’ he replied, a ghost of his old one-sided smile touching his lips, letting Lae know he did not hold her responsible for her father’s actions.

‘As am I, Majesty,’ she replied in truth. Any love Lae had mistakenly harboured for her father had been destroyed the day he’d stabbed Mihale in front of her eyes. Khatrene had also witnessed that horrific act but she had never given up hope for her brother. With the help of the Plainswoman Noorinya and Lae herself, a heavily pregnant Khatrene had brought Mihale’s body to the Royal Shrine, and there Talis had found them all after Khatrene had given birth to The Catalyst. He had opened the way between the worlds and the Airworld of Atheyre had called him and Khatrene into its Column of Light along with Mihale. Lae had been left literally holding the baby, and when Raiders had attacked she had given Glimmer into Pagan’s arms and ordered him to open the way to Magoria.

Lae had meant to go with them into exile, to help protect the royal child, but she had become caught up in the battle, and once the way was opened Pagan could not stop his passage. They had disappeared and when the Raiders had been defeated she had been left in the hands of Kert Sh’hale who had believed her to be a traitor in collusion with her father. Despite Kert’s hatred, Lae had struggled to help him find the servant Ghett who bore Mihale’s child and secure her in the Volcastle where The Dark could not harm them. They had succeeded, but in Kert’s hands Lae had suffered deprivation and cruelty so alien to her life as a lady of court that she had often thought she would not survive, and indeed she had almost died in the Volcastle dungeons.

Bad memories. Very bad.

Lae struggled to keep them from her voice as she asked Mihale, ‘Your royal sister and her Champion Talis?’

‘Safe and well,’ he said, confirming what Firde had already seen. ‘We were escorted in by the Royal Guard who were still bloodied from slaughtering the last of the sieging Northmen. The Volcastle is free of the barbarians and my Guardsmen are pleased to have had action at last. I believe it has been some time.’

‘A little more than three years, Majesty, since the siege began.’

‘Yet only months on Atheyre, my sister tells me,’ he said, and shrugged. ‘I was slumbering.’ When he had smiled at that oddity he said, ‘I spoke to your betrothed, Pagan, when he escorted us in.’ Lae’s mouth tightened and Mihale studied her a moment, his gaze lingering on her face. ‘He has matured.’

She nodded, her back stiff. ‘He has lived half his life on Magoria championing The Catalyst, Majesty,’ she replied. ‘While here, my time has been spent caring …’ The thought of Lenid caused her to falter and she struggled to move on. ‘Majesty, have you been told the fate of The Catalyst?’ She knew Pagan would have respected her grief and allowed her to tell the tale of Lenid’s death in her own words.

‘Your betrothed has told me of her sad demise.’ Mihale shook his head. ‘My sister is stunned at the loss of her daughter.’ Yet the King appeared tranquil in the face of this shocking news, as though it was of scant concern that the Four Worlds would not now be joined and that all life would soon end.

In sharp contrast, Lae felt as though rocks sat on her chest, and she ached to release the burden by telling Mihale of his other loss, but his repetition of the word ‘betrothed’ grated on her nerves. ‘Majesty, the Guardian Pagan has been as a husband for many years and has sired a son in Magoria. He is no longer my betrothed.’

Mihale’s eyebrow rose. ‘Then why would he beg my permission to wed you at your earliest hour? And this before we had barely exchanged greetings.’ Mihale’s penetrating glance searched her eyes. ‘Clearly in
his
mind you are still betrothed.’

Lae shook her head, confused by Pagan’s actions, wanting only to speak of Lenid now so the ordeal of this interview could be ended. ‘Majesty, I know you must be tired and I keep you from your rest, but there is a truth I must unfold for you which is … perhaps more bittersweet than the betrayal of my father, for all that it was an accident.’

‘An accident.’ Mihale frowned and the freshness of his features, the freckles and snow hair tucked behind his ears, seemed to age subtly, as though in preparation for the sad news Lae must impart. The King was seventeen, as was Lae, yet she knew that the grief and suffering they had separately endured had matured them both.

‘I escaped my father and married Sh’hale,’ she began, then realised that she had omitted the reason for her marriage. ‘We … your son …’ Suddenly all the openings she had planned became confused in her mind. She struggled for an even breath while Mihale watched her patiently, and at last she regained her composure. ‘The maid Ghett, Majesty,’ Lae said carefully, ‘bore a child of royal blood. Your child, named Lenid for your father.’

Mihale made no movement of surprise at this and Lae wondered nervously if Pagan had in fact already told the tale. Surely not? ‘We feared … No.’ Lae corrected herself, ‘My Lord Sh’hale, who was the child’s Champion, feared, as did I, that my father would seek to kill Lenid if …’

Mihale continued to observe her with no changing expression and Lae felt cold in her belly. Was this mask of a face covering disapproval? Deadly anger?

Her breaths quickened. ‘Majesty, I wed Sh’hale to seal a farce that the child was ours, and we hid him from court by pretending an eye ailment that required darkness. We sought only to protect him until he was of age to rule, but he and Kert … fell. The Volcastle mouth …’ The memory of that day swept up into her mind, closing her throat. Her hands rose to shield her face, and though Mihale might order her death for disobedience, she could not speak another word.

‘Clearly the child and his Champion have died, along with The Catalyst, which is unfortunate. But did you think I would punish you for an accident?’

Unfortunate?
Lae’s hands dropped and she gazed at her king in shock, at his calm voice and this easy dismissal of her horrific guilt.

‘Did Lenid not have a halo of blood upon him at birth?’ Mihale asked.

‘Majesty … yes,’ she whispered, remembering the old midwife’s prophecy, that the child would not live to rule.

‘Then that was the reason for his death.’ Mihale reached for a goblet of wine and took a sip, then another before replacing it on the side table and leaning back in his chair to gaze on her again. ‘So, will you have the Guardian as husband?’ he asked. ‘He has done good service to the throne and deserves a wife.’

Lae shook her head, unable to speak, unable to believe that the death of Mihale’s son was so easily dismissed. Admittedly he had not seen the child, but surely he should feel some grief, some dull echo of the loss that tore her apart. ‘I am in mourning, Majesty,’ she said slowly, ‘I could not consider —’

‘The child was not your own,’ Mihale said. ‘I am sure the rituals can be set aside in this instance.’

‘I … Majesty, I
cannot
,’ she said clearly, desperate now to escape his presence before emotions overcame her. Mihale’s lack of grief only exacerbated her own. ‘With your permission, I would refuse the Guardian’s suit and undertake a vow of celibacy, as my father did before me, the better to strengthen my powers as The Dark.’

Mihale raised an eyebrow. ‘Yet your father broke that vow to marry my sister,’ he said, ‘and consummated that marriage, as prophecy decreed, to produce The Catalyst.’

Lae nodded at these truths, knowing they had no bearing on her father’s later sedition. ‘Yet it is not my duty, Majesty, to marry the Guardian Pagan.’

‘I can order you,’ he replied, but there was no threat in his voice.