Realm of Light (52 page)

“I say again to
you that Tirhin is not your enemy. Remember my warning when you go back.”

He frowned
impatiently. “Why should I forget it?”

“Because Elandra
is to marry Tirhin today.”

Fury ignited in
him with such heat and violence he felt as though he had been torched. At the
thought of Tirhin daring to put his hands on Elandra, he wanted to break the
prince in his hands,
sever
his threads of life, one by one, until Tirhin
screamed for mercy.

“I warn you a
third time,” the Magria said. “Tirhin is not your enemy. Do you hear my words?
Will you heed them?”

Caelan clenched
his fists and with difficulty brought his rage under control. He could not
fight unless he could think. And he could not think as long as his wrath
consumed him. But by the gods, he would pick a hole in Tirhin’s hide, and he
would—

“Stop it!” the
Magria said forcefully. Her blue eyes flashed at him, and it was almost like a
physical blow. “Will you be a fool at the last hour?”

“She is mine,”
Caelan said.

“She is her own,”
the Magria said, and every word was sharp and punishing. “Elandra does what she
must do, what she was meant to do. You must do the same.”

He felt trapped
and increasingly frantic. What kind of insane sacrifice was expected of him and
Elandra? That they should be apart forever? That he should stand aside and let
her pass into Tirhin’s hands? That cowardly pig of a traitor was not worthy to
lick Elandra’s slippers, much less proclaim himself her husband.

The wind ceased to
blow, and all grew still and hushed as though the world held its breath.
Overhead, the sun went behind a cloud. Thunder rumbled out over the sea, like
an omen.

“Will you submit?”
the Magria asked him.

Caelan lifted his
head. Despite his efforts, his heart still raged at the unfairness of this.
“Let her be free from him,” he said, pleading for her. “Whatever happens to me
does not matter. But Elandra does not deserve—”

“She is an empress
sovereign. She will meet her fate,” the Magria said. “Will you meet yours?”

“You ask too
much,” Caelan said resentfully. “We didn’t have to let ourselves be brought back
to Imperia. We could have fled, made a life elsewhere.”

“For how long?”
the Magria said, unimpressed. “Does love prevail against guilt, against a sense
of failure, against the suspicion that one has left an important task undone?
Can love alone make two people happy when there is nothing else to hold them in
place? Or will the initial infatuation fade and tarnish, until only bitterness
remains?”

He frowned, and
had no answer.

“Do you love
Elandra?”

He did not
hesitate. What he felt for Elandra was the most sure thing in his life. “Yes, I
love her.”

“Do you understand
what love means?” the Magria asked him, her cold, severe voice very precise in
the silence. “Do you understand that it is more than a union of bodies, that it
is responsibility and kindness and sacrifice?”

“Yes.”

She looked at him
very hard, and he almost expected to have a truth-light thrown over him. But
perhaps in this grove of the goddess mother, truth could be read in him through
other ways.

“You have said
what you believe,” the Magria finally announced. “Your honesty was described to
me, but I wished to examine you for myself.”

Caelan shrugged.
“You have tested me, but I am not sure I have passed.”

“Not yet. I ask
again if you love Elandra.”

He knew what was
coming. His heart seemed to shrink inside him until it was a cold, tight knot.
Unable to trust his voice, he nodded to her.

“In the culture of
the Traulanders, there is a saying ... to walk one’s path. You must walk your
path, Lord Caelan. And the empress must walk hers. Will you let her go to the
altar today, or will you interfere?”

“Has she no choice
herself?” he asked in anguish. “Can she not determine whether she must accept
that—”

“You question
matters which are her concern, not yours.”

“What concerns
her, concerns me.”

“Not at this time.
I will not ask you again, Lord Caelan. What is your answer? Will you let her go
to the altar, or will you stop her?”

Fuming, Caelan
turned away from the Magria. He knew the answer she wanted, the answer she was
trying to force from him. But was he some weakling who could stand by while his
love went to another man? No, he would fight for her. He must fight for her.
She was all that was worth having. She was ...

He glanced up at
the dark storm cloud obscuring the sky and thought of the unnatural darkness
that concealed the sky of Imperia. He thought of how again and again in his
life he had been hurled against the wall of obedience, of how he had fought and
defied everyone until he met the Choven. He thought of when he had sought help
for the ailing Lord Albain, and how he had been asked to surrender to a force
beyond mystery.

He was being asked
again, asked to put himself and his own needs and desires aside for a greater
good. When he had thought he had only his own life to risk, it had not been a
difficult decision. But to leave Elandra in Tirhin’s possession was more than
he could do. Jealousy rekindled in him like a flame. But the fire was not as
hot as it had been a few moments before. He was thinking now of the empire, of
how threatened and unstable it was. Elandra would be safe with Tirhin. No
matter how much such an admission cost Caelan, he could not deny it.

The fire inside
him snuffed out. He felt cold and drained inside. Grimly he turned back to the
Magria and met her gaze.

It was like shoving
aside a mountain to say the words, but he said them. “I will let her go to the
altar.”

The Magria’s face
reflected no triumph, no flicker of satisfaction. Her blue eyes bored into his
as though she would weigh his very soul. “This is your promise, your vow?”

A muscle twitched
in his clenched jaw. “My word has been given. I will keep it.”

“Ah. The word of
Caelan the Light Bringer,” the Magria said. “It is sufficient. But you speak
with no pride in your voice. You look on the battle to come with no joy in your
heart.”

His gaze met hers
like steel crossing steel. “I stand here, a man in a place devoted to all that
is feminine. The wisdom of the goddess mother you serve is foreign and strange
to me. It is the source of all that is mysterious in a woman. But I answer you
now as a man, with a man’s wisdom. To enter combat with joy is to mock and
cheapen death. You think because I spent years fighting in the arena for the
entertainment of spectators that I view killing as a game. But it is not a
game. Battle requires respect. To seek to kill is not a matter of pride. It
should be a matter of necessity, nothing more and nothing less.”

She bowed her head
to him. “I stand rebuked.”

He wanted only to
flee, to find a place of privacy where he could mourn for Elandra. But that was
only emotion talking. He shut it away, refusing to listen. This place of women
was making him weak. He could not afford to look back at his choice, or to
regret it. He must look ahead, or he might break his word after all.

“You may go,” the
Magria said.

“Are you to tell
me nothing else?”

The Magria lifted
her brows. “What else remains to be told?”

“How I am to kill
the dark god,” he said.

She smiled. “But I
have answered you already.”

“You said I was to
have faith.” He shook his head. “I have no sword, no knowledge, no armor
capable of withstanding—”

“Walk your path,
Lord Caelan,” she interrupted coldly, looking disappointed with him. “Keep your
word. That is practicing faith. You will know when the dark god comes.”

“But—”

“This time has
finished. You must go back.” She beckoned to the dream walker, who came forward
to stand beside Caelan. “May the goddess mother fill your heart with courage.
May the god of war strengthen your arms. May the gods of light unite in you,
that you may prevail.”

She lifted her
hands, and the wind blew in a gust that nearly knocked him off his feet. By the
time he regained his balance and stood braced against its force, the Magria had
vanished.

“Walk with me,”
said the gray-haired sister. She gave him a kindly smile and brushed her hand
over his face.

He closed his eyes
instinctively for a second, opening them to find himself back in the cellar in
the gloom and candlelight. Orlo was sponging his face, and the dream walker was
gone. He lay there on the straw pallet, and felt feverish and hot.
Disappointment filled him. Had it been only a dream? Had they done nothing to
take away his wounds?

His head jerked
away from Orlo’s touch.

“Easy,” Orlo said
to him. “I don’t want you moving now that the bandage is changed.”

“Where is the
sister?” Caelan asked. His mouth felt furry and thick, as though he had been
sleeping with it open. “Where did she go?”

“Hush yourself,”
Orlo said, trying to soothe him. “She left long ago while you were sleeping.”

Caelan frowned,
feeling betrayed. What were these games they played with him? “Didn’t she heal
me?”

Orlo sat back on
his heels and scowled. “The bleeding has stopped. Your wound is closing. Now
the witch is gone, and I have seen enough magic practiced to last me a
lifetime. Why did you never tell me the truth?”

Caelan’s frown
deepened. Dream or reality? Had he talked with the Magria? Her words merged
with the crash of the restless waves, the two blending into each other. It was
a haze, unreal to him now.

The sound of
pealing bells, so flat and discordant, distracted him. He heard the beating of
drums, a throbbing sound that pulled at him. A crowd was cheering.

Puzzled, he looked
up at the smoky beams of the ceiling. “What is that?”

“The assembly,”
Orlo said.

“What is the
hour?” he asked wearily. “Dawn?”

“Why, no,” Orlo
replied, tossing his sponge in a wooden pail of water. “It’s nearly noon. The
square is filled with the pathetic few remnants of Tirhin’s subjects, such as
they are.” He snorted. “The owner of this miserable hole and his whole family
have ventured out to watch the ceremony. I’m not going.”

Caelan rubbed his
forehead restlessly. “Ceremony,” he said in a dull voice.

“The proclamation
has been sent out,” Orlo said. “The wedding will be directly before the
coronation—”

“Wedding!”

Memory flooded
through Caelan. He flung off the tattered blanket and tried to sit up.

Orlo pushed him
down. “Are you mad? What are you doing? You can’t get up!”

“Why didn’t you
wake me sooner?” Caelan said furiously. “Damn you, let me up!”

Again he tried to
sit up and managed to get himself propped on one elbow. Breathing hard, he ran
his fingers over the bandage. He felt sore and stiff. Pain still ran deep
through him, but it was no longer the mortal kind of agony that had
incapacitated him. This he could manage.

Groaning, he
pulled his feet under him and lifted his hand to Orlo. “Help me up.”

“Caelan, you must
lie down. You’ll start bleeding again if you move. You can’t afford to lose
more. You’re already as white as a bone.”

“I’m fine. Help me
up,” Caelan said grimly, gritting his teeth.

“In Gault’s name,
you’ll kill yourself!”

Caelan glared at
Orlo, but the trainer had a strange, mutinous expression on his face. Too much
time had already been wasted in arguing. Caelan rose unsteadily to his feet.
His balance was shaky. He was so stiff he could barely move. He needed a
massage and some drills to stretch his muscles, but there was no time. Elandra
was out there, going to Tirhin like a prize captured in battle. Gritting his
teeth, Caelan forced down his anger and panic, seeking a center of calm. He
could not find it, could not achieve the
severance
he sought and so
desperately needed.

Closing his eyes,
he struggled to find his balance, to find the icy void. As always when he was
worried or upset about Elandra, he could not do it.

But this time he
had to. Without
severance
he could not even walk outside, much less help
her.

Keep your word,
Lord Caelan,
said the voice of the Magria in his mind.

His eyes flew
open, and he looked around. He had heard her so clearly, it was almost as
though she stood in the room with him.

But she was not
there.

Only her words
echoed inside him. He remembered his promise. He remembered what was at stake.

Orlo gripped his
shoulder. “Stop this, you fool!” he said angrily. “You can’t go out there and
show yourself. Soldiers are everywhere. Tirhin thinks you’re dead. Leave it
that way. You can sneak out of the city after the ceremony and—”

“No,” Caelan said.

The cheering grew
louder. He glanced at the ceiling again, feeling the pull. It occurred to him
that if Tirhin thought he was dead, then so must Elandra.

Closing his eyes,
he shut his emotions into a box. He had given his word to the Magria. And
though it would destroy him to see Elandra go to another, he would stand in the
crowd where she could not see him and witness the ceremony.

Calmness flowed
over him, and he slipped into
severance,
detaching himself from pain and
weakness, locking his box of emotions with chains of purpose and determination.

The stiffness in
his body was forgotten. He swung his arms, loosening them, and stretched
carefully until he felt his wound pull.

“The armor that
was taken from the soldiers we killed last night. Is any of it here?”

“You’re not back
in the arena,” Orlo said, watching him with a mixture of fear and exasperation.
“That crowd is not cheering for you, Giant. You’re champion no longer. There is
no combat.”