Realm of Light (39 page)

His scowl came
back. “Unnatural girl—”

“I learned from
you.” Smiling, she held out a piece of the egg.

After a moment,
his expression softened, and he took it. He ate everything on the tray, and
drank two goblets of water, complaining all the time that he wanted wine.

“No wine so soon
after a fever,” Elandra said firmly as the tray was removed.

She smoothed the
coverlet again, whisking away a few crumbs, and Albain caught her hand.

“Daughter,” he
said gruffly.

She paused,
meeting his gaze.

“How did you know
to wake me? How did you know about the assassins?”

She frowned, not
wanting to hurt him. “We’ll discuss it in the morning.”

“No, we’ll discuss
it now.”

“Father, you’re
tired.”

“Don’t evade me,
Elandra!” he said sharply. “What do you know about this?”

“I have only
suspicions, no proof.”

“You had
something, enough to come and save my life.”

Elandra bit her
lip, but his eye was relentless. It bored into her, refusing to let her escape
an explanation.

“Speak up. No
lies!”

“Very well. Lady
Iaris came to my rooms tonight.”

His expression
grew blank. He dropped her hand. “Iaris.”

Elandra nodded.
“She had questions about Caelan, who he was, where he came from. But I sensed
another purpose in her.”

“What else did she
ask?”

Albain’s voice was
quiet now, perhaps too calm. His face gave nothing away.

“She and Lord Pier
intend to sway the council in Tirhin’s favor. They don’t want me or Caelan
upsetting the new balance of power. Lord Demahaud is counting on inheriting
your estates, and Lord Pier wants your rank and influence.”

“Go on.”

“You stand in
their way if you oppose Tirhin and support me. They despise Caelan completely
because of his past.”

Albain said
nothing, but simply scowled in the distance, deep in thought.

Elandra rubbed her
face wearily. Most of the night was gone. She felt wrung out and restless, too
tired to sleep now.

Albain sighed at
last. “Politics are a damned nuisance. I’d rather have a simple war any day.”

Despite herself,
she gave him a wan smile and kissed his cheek.

“I’ll dig into the
rest of it later,” Albain said, yawning. “Don’t look so worried, child. Your
mother can’t hurt me. The only thing between us is you, and that we dealt with
a long time ago.”

“The Penestricans
told me the truth,” Elandra said softly. “About you and her.”

Startled, he met
her gaze, and sadness filled his eye. “I’m sorry,” he said after a moment. “I
never meant you to know that.”

“Thank you,” she
said. “I wish I did not know it either. But in a way it prepared me for this
meeting with her. She would have hurt me had I not known. Truth is better than
one’s dreams and imaginings.”

Albain gripped her
hand hard. “I wish to Gault you were a boy. I would set you on the throne
myself.”

That, unlike
everything else, did hurt her. It hurt her deeply.

She stared at him
a moment, then bent her head and rose swiftly to her feet.

“Elandra,” he
said.

“I must go.”

“Elandra, wait.”

He said it as a
command.

She stopped
unwillingly, her back to him to hide the tears swimming in her eyes.

“It was a stupid
thing to say. I retract it,” he said to her earnestly. “I’m sorry. I owe you
better than an old man’s outdated way of thinking.”

“Everyone else
thinks the same way,” she said, struggling to keep her voice light. “It doesn’t
matter.”

“It does matter.
It should matter. Kostimon could see farther than that. He gave you a chance.
And I promised you my army.”

She turned on him,
not caring now if he saw her tears. “But can you hold your own warlords?” she
asked. “They scheme and intrigue and throw spells the
jinjas
do not
sense. We are slipping from the light into darkness, and every man is running
to grab what he can.”

“The man you
brought with you,” Albain said wearily. “Where is he? Why did he not help you
tonight?”

Her fears came
boiling up, uncontrollable. She gripped her hands together and tried to keep
her lips from trembling. “I don’t know where he is.”

“What?”

“I don’t know! He
is gone. Vanished without a trace. And I fear for him. I—”

“But you must
explain this. He came to me, did he not?” Albain hesitated, looking unsure. “He
healed me.”

She nodded, crying
openly now, unable to stop herself.

“I saw him,”
Albain said slowly, “as though in a dream. He was tall and well muscled. Manly.
Tanned as dark as a laborer, with hair like gold.”

“Yes.”

“He held me, and
the pain left. He spoke to spirits, who came and gave me strength again.”

She pressed her
hands to her face. “His father was a healer, Beva E’non of Trau.”

“Traulanders have
a gift that way.”

“His father died
several years ago. It was his spirit Caelan sought to help you.”

Albain stared at
her, looking awed. “He can enter the spirit world? Death was carrying me there,
but do you mean this Caelan can enter of his own will? Can he return?”

There it was, her
fear articulated now and brought into the open. She raised brimming eyes to her
father and shrugged. “I do not know. I thought he could. From things he has
told me, he has gone there before. He can do so much other men cannot. He—” She
stopped and swallowed, trying to compose herself. “But he is gone. I fear he
cannot return, and that he has given himself wholly to save you.”

Albain held out
his arms. “My poor child.”

She ran to him,
hugging him tight and weeping against his chest. “I made him do it,” she
confessed, sobbing bitterly. “He was afraid, and I begged him. I didn’t listen.
All I wanted was to save you. And now he is gone. He is lost. It is all my
fault.”

The rains
continued the following day. It was winter, the time of monsoons, when the
laborers worked hour after hour to channel the river away from villages and
planted fields. The river, swollen and threatening to rage out of control,
coughed up Caelan from its muddy depths shortly after midday.

One of the
laborers who was pulling logs from the water with grappling hooks and the help
of an elephant found him floating unconscious in the water.

This man, streaked
with mud and clad in nothing but a loincloth and turban, came running to the
gates of the palace and shouted for admittance.

In the council
room, Lord Albain, wearing mail and a face as grim as war itself, presided at
the head of the table. Elandra, gowned regally, sat erect and silent at his
side like the queen she was. She had said nothing all morning while the men
argued, hurling accusations and denials. Now and then her gaze moved to the
face of Lord Pier, looking pale and drawn after his adventures the day before.

Agreeing to speak
under truth-light, Pier had explained his actions to Albain. He made no
excuses, no justifications. His report spared neither himself nor the others.
It was as though his encounter with dark magic had shaken him. But while he had
sought to make trouble yesterday against Caelan, whom he still considered an
upstart piece of arena trash, he was not behind the plot to kill Albain in his
bed.

The four assassins
had confessed at dawn and were already hanged. They were employed by the
governor, Lord Demahaud, who was now sitting in the dungeons, an agent of the
empire no longer.

Albain had scant
interest in what he considered a minor attempt on his life. Once more he pulled
the discussion back to the emperor’s successor.

Lord Pier rose to
his feet. “I support crowning Tirhin. Despite the initial chaos, he succeeded
in pulling together a fighting force, and he has driven the Madruns from
Imperia.”

“Yes, to set them
loose on the other provinces,” a man piped up on Elandra’s left. “My lands
border Ulinia, you know. I am responsible for protecting half that province.
And the Madruns will cross my personal estates before they get this far.”

“They will not get
here,” Albain said with a growl. “My dispatches say that the Lord Commander has
deployed three legions to cut them off.”

Men pounded the
table in approval, and several shouted in satisfaction.

Pier, however, was
still standing. “All the more reason to send our delegation to Tirhin and proclaim
him emperor quickly. The empire needs order restored. This will do it before we
have more invaders on our hands.”

“Don’t forget who
brought the Madruns here in the first place,” the small man who had spoken
before said. “He let them sack Imperia.”

“Renar, hold your
tongue,” Pier said sharply. “You don’t know that is true—”

“I know it is
true,” Elandra said.

Pier scowled
fiercely at her, and several more men jumped to their feet.

“These
interruptions cannot be permitted, Albain!” one roared. “The council room is no
place for a woman.”

“Silence!” Albain
shouted, his voice louder than any of the others. “Whether yob like it or not,
she has the right to speak.”

“A woman—”

“In her official
capacity, she is
not
a woman. She is sovereign crowned, and she remains
so until Tirhin’s coronation. If that should even come to pass.”

“It must!” Pier
said.

“Why?” Albain
retorted. “Because you have been promised new lands if you will join his
cause?”

Red darkened
Pier’s cheeks. “Have you not annexed property since your daughter went to the
imperial palace? It is to your personal advantage to keep her there.”

Silence fell over
the room. Elandra’s face was burning. She gripped her hands together in her lap
and forced herself not to move. It took all her strength to keep her face
impassive.

Albain did not
rise to his feet. From his chair he glared at Pier, who did not back down. The
men watched intently to see what Albain might do. He had been known to issue a
combat challenge on less provocation.

“Yes,” Albain said
at last, his voice heavy. “It is to my advantage that my daughter keep her
throne. It is to the advantage of all Gialta. Is she not more likely to favor
her home province than Tirhin? Blood ties are stronger than promises.”

“We have seen no
advantage thus far,” Renar piped up.

“That was
Kostimon’s doing. When the empress fled Imperia, to whom did she come to raise
an army? Us! Not the—”

A knock on the
door interrupted him.

“Yes?” Albain
called, glowering. He took advantage of the interruption, however, to press his
hand to his side and lean forward carefully to pick up his wine cup.

Elandra watched
him in concern and said nothing. She had promised him she would stay silent,
and she was trying to keep her word despite that one slip. More than once her
fists had clenched in her lap, and her anger had nearly driven her to reprimand
those who were foolish, ignorant, or wrongly informed. She had been in Imperia.
She was a direct witness to the events and the terror. She had been the last
person present to see Kostimon alive. Yet these men would not question her.
They ignored the information she could have provided.

She sat there,
seething, and hated them all.

A guard entered
the room and saluted smartly. “The man has been found, my lord.”

“What?” Albain
asked. “What man?”

But Elandra was
already on her feet, her heart in her mouth. She rushed around the table and
went out the door, leaving the guard to follow her.

Out in the
corridor, she looked around wildly.

The guard bowed
and pointed. “This way, Majesty.”

She followed him,
with Alti and Sumal trotting at her heels. They were not permitted in the
council room, but after last night they had come to her with deep shame and
apologies, vowing they would not leave her side again.

Outside, the rains
had stopped. Puddles steamed in the humid courtyard. A laborer, muddy and
practically naked, stood there ringed by soldiers. His elephant held an
unconscious man in its mouth.

Elandra recognized
Caelan at once. She stopped in her tracks with a gasp.

The captain of the
guard took one look at her face and issued orders. The elephant slowly lowered
Caelan to the ground.

“They pulled him
from the river, Majesty,” the captain said.

Elandra kept her
distance. Her heart was pounding. She felt as though she might faint, but
stiffened her knees and held on.

A voice, too
strange and hollow to be her own, asked, “Is he dead or alive?”

Someone knelt and
touched Caelan’s throat. “Alive, Majesty.”

Her ears were
roaring. She felt as though ground and sky were trying to turn upside down. Somehow,
however, she fought off her dizziness. She dared not move, dared not kneel
beside him to wipe the mud and slimy weeds from his face. She feared if she did
anything, the bands of her self-control would burst and she would fling
herself, howling, across his chest.

She made a small
gesture. “Take him inside quickly. See that he is cared for. And reward this
man well.”

The laborer bent
double in his gratitude. Elandra turned away, following the men who struggled
to carry Caelan up the steps into the palace. She felt as though she were
floating, as though her head had sailed far above the rest of her body. With
every step, a corner of her mind chanted,
He is alive. He is alive.

What he had been
doing in the river was something to determine later, if it mattered. He was
alive. He had come back. The pain in her heart could leave her now, and she
lived again.

Inside the palace,
she summoned servants and issued orders. Her father’s own valet, understanding
exactly what his master owed Caelan, came and washed him personally, dressed
him in a sleeping shirt, and tried to revive him with various remedies that
Elandra inspected herself.