Realm of Light (32 page)

“Majesty?” the
woman called a second time.

The short span of
privacy had been enough. Elandra was still worried, but she had regained control
of her emotions. She glanced over her shoulder and gestured for the woman to
enter.

Curtsying, the
woman said, “I am Lyticia, wife of the imperial governor of Gialta.”

Elandra’s brows
rose. After her reception today, she had not expected the woman to be of such
rank. “Then your husband is Lord Onar Demahaud,” she said.

A surprised and
gratified smile spread across Lady Lyticia’s narrow face. She was handsome
rather than beautiful, tall and almost thin. Her gown was splendid, and she
wore tasteful bracelets and earrings. “Yes,” she said. “Your Majesty’s memory
is most kind.”

Oh, yes, Elandra’s
memory could not forget the name of the governor. Since Albain had no male
heir, his land would be returned by law to the emperor’s ownership, to be
either redispensed or sold. Until either eventuality happened, the governor
would be the overseer of the vast properties. He could rake whatever wealth he
wanted into his pockets. At present, with the empire in chaos, it was likely
that Lord Demahaud would be able to keep the vast estates for his own.

But Elandra said
nothing of this, and her recognition seemed to gratify the woman.

With detente
established, they got busy. Lady Lyticia had brought her seamstress, her maid,
and her hairdresser. These individuals went to work, and in short order Elandra
was dry, gowned, and coiffed magnificently. She felt regal again, and the
increased respect in the women’s eyes made her realize ruefully exactly how
much importance Gialtans placed on appearances.

“May I have the
honor of loaning your Majesty my jewels?” Lady Lyticia asked with tact.

“You are very
kind, but no, thank you,” Elandra replied firmly.

“But truly, I do
not mind—”

“No,” Elandra
said.

Color spread
across Lady Lyticia’s cheeks, and Elandra felt impatient. Why couldn’t the
woman understand?

She didn’t want to
explain, but she sighed and took the trouble. “An empress may only wear jewels
made specifically for her by the Choven,” she said. “I am sure your jewels are
splendid, but protocol forbids my acceptance of your generous offer.”

Lady Lyticia
smiled, pacified again.

Someone knocked on
the door, and a servant entered to whisper in Lady Lyticia’s ear.

She nodded and
turned to Elandra, who steeled herself, certain she had primped too long and
her father had died without her being at his side.

“The physicians
have finished their ministrations, Majesty. If you feel ready to visit your
father, this would be an excellent time.”

Relief made
Elandra shoot to her feet. Belatedly she remembered to walk gracefully and
without haste. She had lost much ground here; she had much to restore. However
foolish and of little consequence it might seem to her, these subjects
considered their customs important. If she wanted them to treat her as an
empress, then she must act like one, no matter how limiting or chafing it was.

She walked down
long corridors furnished with fine Ulinian carpets, rows of chairs upholstered
in leather, and walnut tables. Maids peeped from doorways, withdrawing at her
approach and whispering behind her.
Jinjas
scampered here and there,
leaping onto windowsills and staring at her with bright eyes. Outside, the rain
drummed steadily, and the tall windows stood open to catch any hint of coolness
to counteract the cloying heat and humidity. Curtains of sheer silk gauze
billowed and blew in the damp breeze.

Elandra’s own fear
and rising anxiety constantly quickened her feet, although she tried to slow
down. Despite her inner strain she managed to keep her face calm and composed,
but she could not stop her fingers from knotting together.

Finally she
reached tall doors at the end of a corridor. Bowing lackeys opened them at her
approach. Guards in turbans saluted her, but Elandra barely noticed them. She
hurried into the antechamber beyond and found it crowded with physicians in
monkey-fur hats and long beards, chatting among themselves.

Silence fell over
them, and they bowed to her in startlement. She passed them without stopping,
heading for Albain’s chamber.

Guards opened
these final doors, and she walked inside, halting just across the threshold.
She found herself suddenly without breath, her heart pounding too fast.

Tall-ceilinged and
spacious, the chamber’s walls were hung in silk that was sun-faded and out of
style. Her father’s bed was enormous, both broad and tall, with netting looped
back out of the way. He lay on his back, his head propped up on a single
pillow. His large hands were folded.

She had never seen
him look so still, so thin, so pale. She stood there, afraid to walk closer to
this stranger.

The room smelled
of medicines and blood. A valet stood in a shadowy corner of the room, hastily
bundling up stained sheets and sleeping shirt. A lackey with his sleeves rolled
up held a basin of dirty water that he carried out through the servant’s door.
Her father’s
jinja
lay curled up on a plump silk cushion at the foot of
the bed, whimpering softly in its grief.

Elandra realized
she was standing frozen in place while the physicians stared at her back.
Frowning, she forced herself to walk forward, only barely aware of the doors
closing quietly behind her.

The valet glanced
at her, bowed, and departed. She was alone with her father, a man who had sired
her and given her a home, yet little of his time and still less of his
affection. She was only one of his many bastards, but unlike the others who
worked as overseers and stable hands and gardeners, Elandra had a mother who
was highborn. Albain had sired only one legitimate child: the vain, spoiled
Bixia, who had thought she would marry Kostimon and who had joined the terrible
Maelite order in anger when Elandra robbed her of that glory.

Where were his
children now? Who of his family stood near to mourn him?

Elandra swallowed
and walked to his bedside. His eyes were closed. She could hear the quick rasp
of his breathing. His face was an ashen color that frightened her.

Slowly, she placed
her hand atop his. She did not want to disturb him, yet it was important that
he know she had come.

“Father,” she said
softly.

He did not stir.

“Father.” She
spoke more loudly. “It’s Elandra. I’ve come.”

He groaned,
frowning and turning his head. Watching his pain, she bit her lip and dared say
nothing else. He had always been so large, so strong. She remembered him
striding through the palace, bellowing orders and slapping his gauntlets in his
palm. He always made noise wherever he went, whether it was his mail creaking
or his spurs jingling, or his satisfied belches following dinner, or his fist
thudding against his chair arm. He was life and movement, blunt and coarse and
ferocious. Through his days, he had worked and fought with equal vigor. To see
him now so thin and frail, fading before her very eyes, seemed impossible.

Her fingers
tightened on his hand, as though by their pressure she could impart her
strength to him.

A tear spilled
down her cheek and splashed on the coverlet. She rubbed at the spot with her
thumb, feeling helpless and afraid.

“Elandra?”

She looked up to
find him gazing at her. His single sighted eye was bleary with pain and
medicine, but he knew her. Her tears fell freely now, and she couldn’t hold
them back. Leaning over, she kissed his cheek.

It felt hot and
clammy beneath her lips.

Finding a shaky
smile for him, she said, “Hello, Father.”

He let out his
breath. “Thank the gods you are found. This madness in the—”

“Hush,” she said,
trying to calm him, certain he must not talk too much. “Be still. I am safe.
You must not worry.”

“Murdeth and Fury,
but I do worry,” he said, refusing to be quiet. “Kostimon dead. You gone to
Gault knows where. That puppy Tirhin proclaiming himself. Madruns running wild.
I—”

He broke off,
coughing up blood. His face lost even more color.

Alarmed, Elandra
took a cloth from the bedside table and pressed it to his lips. When the
coughing fit finally ended, he lay back exhausted on his pillow.

Elandra drew in
several breaths, trying to calm her pounding heart. “Now,” she said at last
when she could command her voice. “Let us have no more excitement. You must
rest—”

His hand moved,
and he shook his head. “The dead can rest,” he whispered. “I have too much to
do.”

“Everything can
wait until you are better.”

His eye opened to
glare at her. “Let us have honesty, not these damned lies,” he said, wheezing.
“I am dying, damn it. You know that.”

Her lips trembled,
but when she answered her voice was miraculously steady. “Yes. I have been
told.”

“Aye. Then act
sensible. Will you fight for the throne?”

His anger had
steadied her. With more calm, she said, “Yes. Caelan and I want the empire.”

Albain frowned,
and she hastily explained, “Caelan is the man I love. A woman may choose her
second husband, and I have chosen him. His destiny is very great. He is the
only man who can possibly defeat the darkness that is coming.”

Albain’s
expression did not change. She could not tell whether he accepted what she’d said
or was angered by it.

“You move
quickly,” he said.

She bit her lip,
wanting his blessing. If she had that, she could ignore everyone else. “I met
him first in my dreams when I went to be trained in the Penestrican House of
Women. I did not know his name then or where to find him. We are destined, that
is all I know. He has saved my life too many times to mention. He brought me
safely from the palace when the Madruns would have killed me. He rescued me
from the realm of shadows, where Lord Sien sought to trap me. Now he has
brought me here, to you, Father.”

Pain shadowed
Albain’s face. “You knew this man in the palace of your husband?”

Embarrassment
filled her. “I was faithful to Kostimon,” she said sharply. “Though he was not
faithful to me.”

Albain swallowed a
cough. “Not required.”

“Of him?” she said
bitterly. “No, the man is always free, though the woman lives under rules like
chains.”

“Don’t whine of
your life. You are empress.”

“Yes, I am. I
would ask you to meet Caelan, Father. Later, for a moment, to judge him for
yourself.”

Albain closed his
eyes and said nothing. She waited, wondering if her defiance had been too much
for his scant strength.

But it seemed he
was only resting. A few moments later, he opened his eyes again. “Who are his
people?”

She wanted to
laugh with relief. Albain might think he was still withholding judgment, but
such a question gave him away. “He is a warrior, Father. He—”

“Who are his
people?”

She stopped and
frowned. A dozen convoluted explanations ran through her mind, but when she
looked into her father’s pain-riddled face she knew she must give him only the
truth. “He comes from Trau,” she said.

“That one!” Albain
whispered. “I have heard of that one.”

Elandra hesitated,
then continued. “His father was a healer, the most renowned in the empire at
one time. But Caelan has been touched by the Choven. They have given him his
own destiny, and he is to—”

“Later,” Albain
whispered, his voice fading.

She picked up his
rough hand and kissed it. “I’m sorry. I’ve stayed too long and tired you. I’ll
let you sleep now.”

“Elandra.”

His voice stopped
her. She hurried back to his side. “Yes, Father?”

“Your plans.”

“Oh, not now.
You’re too tired—”

He silenced her
protest with a glare, then let his eyelids fall shut again.

She stood beside his
bed like a schoolgirl and said quickly, “I plan to return to Imperia and
confront Tirhin. Caelan and I need the army you promised me. With your men,
it’s possible we can persuade the imperial troops to join us, if they have not
already scattered. I want the full support of the Gialtan warlords as well as
the benefit of your secret alliances with warlords of the adjacent provinces.”

He blinked, and
she smiled. “Yes, I know about those. Kostimon’s informant network was
thorough. As long as you were loyal to him through the bindings of our marriage
contract, he felt your private alliances only served to strengthen his base of
power.”

“Hell’s
damnation,” Albain said, looking disconcerted. “What else?”

Elandra drew a
deep breath. “I ask for your treasury, the contents of your armory, and
supplies.”

He scowled at her.
“Want everything.”

“Everything is at
stake. Did you know the governor is here, ready to confiscate your lands?”

Albain’s single
eye grew fierce. “Scavenging dog.”

“Yes. We must act
quickly. I intend to hold a war council while all the warlords are here and
convince them to support us—”

“Enough,” he
whispered.

She fell silent at
once, watching him, worrying about him. On impulse, she put her arm across him
and kissed his cheek again. “Please recover. Father,” she said, weeping again.
“Please don’t die. I need you—”

His hand lifted
and feebly patted her arm. “Come later,” he said, his voice a rasp. “Bring him
with you.”

She straightened
up, feeling hope. If Caelan passed her father’s approval, then Albain would
likely give her what she asked for. And how could he not be impressed by
Caelan?

But her father’s
time was swiftly running out. He might die before his agreement was given.

Elandra watched
him fall asleep and felt ashamed of herself. How could she worry about the
empire when it was her father she should be concerned about? Must she be so
selfish? What did it matter if Tirhin kept his ill-gotten throne? She and
Caelan could go anywhere they wished, create a life together, find happiness.