Authors: John Marco

The Eyes of God (23 page)

BOOK: The Eyes of God

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Then he opened the doors. With two hands he pulled both doors open slowly, revealing a chamber awash with candlelight. Much larger than Cassandra’s own private chamber, this one disappeared deep into the keep, with hallways and doors of its own spoking out from the central hub. A gigantic window let starlight into the room, revealing the dark silhouette of a man gazing out over the city, his hands clasped behind his back, the fingers twitching nervously.

“My lord,” said the steward softly, “the queen.”

Akeela nodded but did not turn around. Instead he waited for the steward to leave the room, closing the doors again behind him. It seemed to Cassandra that Akeela was preparing himself. She watched his shoulders rise with a deep breath. When at least he turned he had a smile on his face, and she could tell he was afraid. For some reason she couldn’t fathom, she resented his fear.

“I’m glad you’ve come,” he said. He drifted across the carpeted floor, going to her carefully. “How are you feeling now?”

“Better now,” Cassandra lied. She glanced around the chamber but saw no bed, then supposed it was in another of the rooms. She had already learned that Koth was a place of excess, and Akeela’s chambers were no exception. But he looked splendid in his royal garb, and it was hard to be angry against his earnest expression. He came and stood before her, and looked into her eyes for a long moment. The longing in his face was frightening. The deepest, angst-filled love burned in him. His eager lips came down to kiss her.

Cassandra closed her eyes. Like a brave soldier she stood her ground as his mouth glided down her cheeks to taste her neck and his hands came around to encircle her waist and pull her greedily forward. She felt herself stiffen at his clumsiness, begging herself to relax and not offend him, yet he seemed unaware of her dread, so lost was he in his own needs. He took her hand and squeezed it tight, his embrace cool and trembling. Breaking off his kisses, he led her toward one of the archways into another chamber of orange candlelight where a huge bed awaited them, already turned down, piled with colorful pillows and immaculate sheets. One by one Akeela blew out the candles as he forged toward the bed, until only a single light burned by the bedside. Then he sat himself down at the edge of the bed, looking up at Cassandra expectantly.

For a moment Cassandra hovered there, watching him watching her, adoring and loathing him at the same time. It was supposed to have been so different. She had always dreamed of a lover with skills. All of Akeela’s talents were in his head, though, and she knew his hands couldn’t bring her joy.

But there was nothing to be done for it. She was his now.

She smiled, struggling to love him, and reached back to undo her dress. When she was done and it fell in a pile at her feet, Akeela’s hands reached out again and pulled her onto the bed.

W
ith the absence of King Akeela, Liiria moved quietly into late spring. The king had gone on his goodwill tour weeks earlier, leaving the work of government to his chancellors and the task of protecting his queen to Lukien. To most men, chaperoning Cassandra seemed an enviable task. But for Lukien, whose passion for the young queen had grown insatiable, the duty was hellish. In the days, then weeks, of Akeela’s absence, he spent increasing amounts of time with Cassandra, seeing to her needs and escorting her to courtly functions, all under the guise of the impeccable champion. They were seldom alone, but that didn’t keep the tension from rising between them. Lukien loved Cassandra and now he knew it. She kept him awake at night, intoxicated by the faint smell of her perfume on his clothes, and she was his first thought in the morning. An awful guilt accompanied him everywhere. His love was a betrayal, a corruption of his loyalty to Akeela, yet he could not control it. It wasn’t lust that drove him on—he knew that because he had tried to satisfy it with Kothan prostitutes. There was more than just a manly yearning goading him toward Cassandra. To him, she was perfect. And the fact that she was unattainable only drove him harder.

Cassandra, too, was burdened by their love. Lukien knew it when he looked at her. Despite a room full of people, she always had a glint in her eyes that belonged only to him. She walked with deliberate slowness when they were alone, never anxious for their solitude to end, and she seldom spoke of Akeela, himself far away and unable to watch her. There were dozens of hints that betrayed Cassandra’s love for Lukien, and the Bronze Knight cataloged them all each night, lying awake in his bed.

But their love for each other remained unspoken.

And it maddened Lukien.

Five weeks after Akeela’s departure, Lukien had made a decision. He was desperate to be with Cassandra, to spend at least one hour alone with her. That afternoon he was absent from the training grounds, feigning illness. He remained in his chamber in Lionkeep the entire day, hunched over a tiny table with a quill in his hand. Balls of crumpled paper littered the floor, the half-written remains of a dozen terrible love poems. Somehow, he had to reach Cassandra. He had to convince her to see him, and that his love for her was real. But he could find no words, and his stunted poetry frustrated him. He sighed and leaned back, staring out the window. The days were longer now, growing warm. Eventually Akeela would return. Lukien closed his eyes, summoning words that would not come. He was an artist with a sword, but with a pen he was a buffoon, and he feared that any poem, no matter its sincerity, would make a fool of him.

“How do I say it?” he whispered. “How . . . ?”

Unlike Akeela, he had never been a man of letters. He realized suddenly that if he were ever to express his love for Cassandra, it would need to be face to face. So he took up one last sheet of paper and wrote a note instead. And when he was done he folded it carefully, sealing it with wax and placing it in the pocket of his shirt. Then, determined not to waver, he left his rooms in search of Jancis.

Cassandra was in her bathtub when she got Lukien’s note.

It had been a long day for the queen, spent listening to the prattle of civil servants and the complaints of kitchen staff. With Akeela gone, she was surprised at how many of his responsibilities had fallen on her shoulders. There were always countless questions to answer and decisions to make, and endless invitations to tea at the chancelleries, where the ministers interrogated her for insight into her husband. Nervous about his costly library and his revisionist views, they were always eager to speak to Cassandra, hoping for some gaffe or juicy bit of gossip to pass her lips. They were always disappointed. Despite her youth and inexperience, Cassandra knew she was loyal to Akeela. At least politically.

She sunk down into the iron tub, burying her chin beneath the warm water, soap bubbles clinging to her breasts and hair. The room was blessedly quiet, for the wing Akeela had prepared for them in Lionkeep was gigantic, and only certain servants were allowed in its halls. If she listened very closely, Cassandra could hear their footfalls in the distance, tapping on the marble floors. It was a very grand home she had now, and she adored it. But mostly, on days like today, she enjoyed the silence. Too tired to dance the way she had in Hes, she spent a good deal of time in her prized bathtub, letting the perfumed oils draw the knots from her muscles. So when she heard Jancis’ insistent call, she groaned.

“Cass? Where are you?”

Cassandra considered not answering, but it was too late. Jancis rounded the corner, peeking her head inside the chamber. A peculiar excitement lit her face.

“I’m tired, Jancis,” said Cassandra listlessly.

“Oh, you won’t be after this,” said the girl. She held up a piece of folded paper.

“What’s that?”

“A note,” said Jancis. “From Lukien.”

Cassandra jerked upright, splashing water over the edge. “What?”

“He just gave it to me.” Jancis hurried over and knelt down next to the tub. “While I was in the kitchen, helping Beith. He called me aside and handed it to me.”

“Just like that? Did anyone see?”

“No,” Jancis assured her.

She gave the note to Cassandra, who took it warily. Cassandra’s wet hands saturated the paper. She looked at it blankly.

“Open it,” pressed Jancis.

“I’m afraid,” said Cassandra. “What do you think it says?”

“How should I know? Find out for yourself!”

Jancis hovered over her friend eagerly, waiting for her to read the note. Cassandra slid her nail under the wax seal, breaking it, then unfolded the paper. On it was Lukien’s penmanship, broad and rambling.

“What’s it say?” Jancis asked.

Cassandra read in silence.

My Queen,

When the dawn is new, look for me at the southern gate.

It was signed simply,
Your Adoring Servant.

Confused, Cassandra stared at the paper, biting her lip. “He wants to see me,” she said. “In the morning. He wants me to meet him at the southern gate at dawn.” Cassandra let the note drop from her hand and fall to the floor. “Jancis, what am I to do?”

“I don’t know,” said Jancis blankly. “Cassandra, you’re . . .”

“Married. I know.”

It was a miserable prospect, and it made Cassandra sag until her chin was once again in the water. She stared at her knees poking above the bubbles. What was she to do? Lukien had made his move. In a hundred daydreams she had hoped for this moment, and now that it was here she was speechless.

Dawn,
she thought blackly.
When no one can see us.

“What a grand conspiracy I make,” she whispered. “What a terrible queen I am.”

Lionkeep slept. A gentle fog hung about the keep, shrouding the bricks and grassy fields. Up in the sky, starlight struggled through the haze. Sounds of wildlife heralded the coming morning, the buzz of insects and the songs of birds. Off in the distance, a sentry called all clear.

Lukien rounded the corner of the granary house, quietly approaching the gate. The hooves of his horse, Ghost, clopped on the cobblestones. He wore no armor, just a gray doublet and trousers, and he carried no sword at his belt, for he did not wish to look suspicious or arouse a sentry to alarm. As always, the southern gate was unmanned. A winding avenue led to the main houses, up a hill and out of sight in the fog. Past the gate, the avenue fanned out into a green and rolling field, which also disappeared in the mist. Lukien paused just past the granary, staying to the shadows. It was very near dawn, yet he could hear no one else, just his own nervous breathing. He peered toward the gate and the avenue, waiting for Cassandra to appear. Surely she had received his note. But that didn’t mean she would answer his odd request, and her absence worried Lukien. He had taken a dangerous chance in sending his note. The die was cast.

“Come on,” he whispered. “Please . . .”

The first rays of sunlight crawled over the keep. Lukien was grateful for the fog. The morning was warm, perfect for spiriting away. But he didn’t intend to ride alone. If Cassandra didn’t show . . .

He heard footfalls up the avenue, very faint. He cocked his head to listen. Someone was approaching. Carefully he backed Ghost against the wall, enough to still glimpse the gate. Down the hill a figure approached. Small and slight, it moved with grace through the fog, head hidden beneath a shawl. Lukien’s heart leapt. It was Cassandra. She looked around furtively, clasping the shawl around her face, her body dressed in a colorless frock. When she reached the open gate, she paused. Her eyes darted nervously about the avenue. Lukien urged his horse out of the shadows. Cassandra noticed him immediately.

“Shhh,” he cautioned, putting a finger to his lips. He did not speak again until he was just before her. “My lady, you’ve come.” Unable to control his smile, he beamed. “Thank you.”

“Lukien,” she sighed. “This is . . .” She shrugged. “Wrong.”

“I know, but I had to speak to you. I swear, my lady, I couldn’t bear another moment of silence.” He glanced around. “This is no place to talk. Here, take my hand.”

“No,” Cassandra refused. “I can’t go with you. Say what you must, but say it here.”

“Cassandra . . .”

BOOK: The Eyes of God

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