The Pearls (25 page)

When the invitation came, he'd listened to his council's wishes that he not attend in person lest he be seen conferring too much favoritism on his home province. Lea had begged so prettily to go as his representative, and at the time it had seemed like a harmless expedition. Lea was homesick, although she didn't complain, and he'd enjoyed seeing her so excited and full of anticipation.

Against his better judgment he'd sent her back to that cold, forbidding land of their birth, but how could he have refused her? Had he not sworn to himself that he would grant her anything she wanted for the rest of her life? Even that would never make up for those years of separation, of not knowing what had befallen her, of thinking her dead and torn to pieces in the forest by wolves.

Guilt slammed against his conscience. He told himself now that he should have protected her better, should have sent an entire army cohort to safeguard her journey, no matter what she said. Left to her own devices, Lea probably would have set forth with her protector and a cheap cloak as a disguise—unaware that no artifice could mask her beauty or inner radiance. She hadn't wanted the army with her, and so Caelan had chosen a squadron of cavalry instead, seeking officers slightly more refined, less violent and battle-worn than army professionals.

You fool,
Caelan thought harshly, condemning himself.
You have put her in jeopardy a second time, as bad as when you abandoned her to perish in the ice caves
. He wished with all his heart that he'd refused to let her leave the palace gates.

“Beloved.” Elandra touched his hand. “If you really do think this trouble comes from a Vindicant plot, shall I send for the Penestricans? We'll need every ally we've got.”

Fighting back the stinging in his eyes, Caelan nodded. “Yes. I think you'd better.”

I
ntent
on setting up his ambush, Shadrael had chosen a location where the trail narrowed through a slender gulch. Standing atop a rock, he was busy deploying his men. Pointing them here and there along the top of the gulch, he watched critically while they took cover in the thorny scrub. Satisfied, he was about to take his position when he felt a shift between the spirit world and reality.

Startled, he broke off in midword to Fomo and spun around. As always, his reactions were faster than those of his men. Fomo was still frozen, gaping at him, while Shadrael saw the air ripple and shred apart.

He drew his sword. “The Hidden Ways are opening. Men! To me!”

Fomo squawked a hoarse cry of his own, cracking his whip in warning.

Already horses and riders in the short red cloaks and plumed helmets of the Crimsons were pouring out of the darkness. As their bugler sounded a battle charge, they galloped through the trees straight at Shadrael.

The narrow gulch was behind him, cutting off retreat. On his right, the ground dropped off steeply. The only maneuvering room lay to his left, but he had no chance to reach his mount, no time to do anything other than tear off his cloak and brace his feet. His helmet was strapped to his saddle, out of reach, along with his war axe. All he had to hand were his sword, long dagger, boot knives, and throwing stars.

Beside him, Fomo drew his sword, cursing fiercely. “How'd they—”

Too late for chatter; the charge was upon them. Shadrael stood his ground coolly, aware of his men pouring down the hillside behind him in great, stumbling leaps, just that much too slow and too far away to meet the first onslaught. To his credit, Fomo stood shoulder to shoulder with Shadrael, and did not run for his life.

At the last moment, just before a shouting cavalryman plunged his sword through Shadrael's chest, he
severed
and twisted aside just enough to avoid being run down. As the rider swept past him, Shadrael snapped his threads of life and saw the man go tumbling from the saddle. Quick as thought, Shadrael snapped the threads of life of three other men before the rest veered off, milling in the confined space. By then, Shadrael's men had joined the fight in a screaming melee of clashing swords. They were all too tangled together now for him to cut any more threads of life without risking the lives of his men.

He came out of
severance
, staggering slightly to keep his balance, and saw Fomo deflect a cavalryman coming at him. Fomo's blow was clumsy and desperate, serving its immediate purpose but failing to bring down his foe.

Shadrael spun as the big horse passed him, and ruthlessly cut a tendon in the horse's leg. With a scream, the horse stumbled and went down, flinging off its rider in a crashing fall. Skipping around the kicking, struggling horse, Shadrael pounced on the fallen rider and drove his long dagger through the man's throat.

Freeing his weapon, he whirled to meet another opponent bearing down on him, and from the corner of his eye saw a Crimson in officer's braid sitting apart from the action. The officer was wounded, with one arm bound awkwardly in a sling. Clearly he was unable to fight, and Shadrael's eyes narrowed with calculation.

Then Shadrael was fending off attack, ignoring his disadvantage in fighting horsemen from the ground. He parried a blow, the blade of his shorter, heavier sword scraping against the serrated edge of a cavalry weapon, and drove his dagger into his foe's leg.

A hot spurt of blood nearly hit Shadrael in the face. He slashed the girth of the man's saddle and shoved hard, dumping his opponent onto the ground while the startled horse bolted out of the way.

Flailing for balance, desperately trying to raise his weapon, the cavalryman had no time to hold off Shadrael, who was already on him, cutting a great gash through the man's shoulder and nearly taking off his arm.

Something hit Shadrael hard in the back, almost driving him to his knees. Catching his balance, Shadrael jumped aside. This new opponent was on foot. Reaching behind him, Shadrael grabbed a helmet plume and dragged his attacker forward as he spun around. The move pulled the man onto his dagger with a shock of impact that numbed Shadrael's hand. The tempered black steel of his blade pierced the other's cuirass, and Shadrael yanked up hard to drive his dagger even deeper.

Blood bubbled from the cavalryman's mouth. He stared at Shadrael in astonishment, trying to speak, and crumpled.

Climbing over him, Shadrael saw Fomo cornered, outnumbered, and in trouble. Shadrael flung a throwing star into the back of one of Fomo's opponents, then found himself face-to-face with a large, thick-chested cavalryman wearing lieutenant insignia. On foot and brandishing his longer sword with a ferocious grin, the lieutenant gave Shadrael a quick, mocking salute.

Panting a little, Shadrael balanced on the balls of his feet and drew his dagger again, holding it loose and ready in his left hand to balance the sword in his right. He did not bother to return the salute, knowing his foe was trying to distract him by any means possible.

“Come on!” the lieutenant shouted.

Their swords clashed hard, ringing out over the noise, and for a few moments they fought well matched. There was a dancing light in this Crimson's eyes, a reckless laugh in his throat. He fought dirty, like a seasoned veteran, and he was quick for his size.

The rapid exchange of blows tired Shadrael. He could find no chance to use his dagger, and his shorter sword made it difficult to take the advantage that he wanted. Still, a cavalryman on foot was but half a fighter, and no match for regular army.

Yelling, Shadrael feinted right, then left, saw his opponent prepared for such an easy trick, and dropped to his knees, skidding under the lieutenant's sword so close he felt its blade lightly graze his brow. The Crimson jumped to one side, evading Shadrael's quick dagger slash at his legs, and swung his sword with two hands at Shadrael's unprotected head. Shadrael ducked just in time, caught the sword with his own, and tried to flip it out of his opponent's hand, but without success.

“Ha-ha!” the man yelled. “Come on!”

Blood was already running in Shadrael's right eye from the cut he'd taken. He squinted, making adjustments for its effect on his vision, and lunged again from his knees, slashing hard to hamstring the lieutenant.

The tip of his long dagger caught target, while he took a hard blow to his shoulder in return and heard the scrape of steel across his armor. The double shoulder plating held, however, saving Shadrael from losing his arm. He saw, to his irritation, that he'd slashed boot leather only, not ten-dons.

Shouting, the lieutenant kicked at him, stumbling back in an effort to get out of reach. Shadrael wrapped his arms around the man's legs and brought him down. Locked together, they rolled over and over in the dust and confusion. Something kicked Shadrael in the back, but he paid no heed as he tightened his hug on the Crimson's legs and jerked his shoulder to drive its spike deep into the back of the man's thigh.

The lieutenant howled with pain and struggled harder. Shadrael twisted the spike deeper, then yanked backward, using the spike to hamstring the man. Flailing and kicking, screaming oaths, the lieutenant struggled away from him, but could not gain his feet. Shadrael loomed up over him, plunging his sword into the man's groin.

A great gout of blood gushed forth, and shock quivered through the lieutenant's face. “Hervan!” he shouted. “I'm done!”

The sound of galloping hoofbeats made Shadrael whirl, bracing to meet a mounted charge, but the officer in the sling rode past him without engaging.

Surprised, Shadrael stared past the struggling bodies and flash of weapons, but caught only a glimpse of scarlet cloth in the trees as the man rode away.

Coward? Shadrael thought, fending off someone who blundered into him. No. The officer was riding off in the direction of the mercenary camp, riding toward Lea.

A murderous fury swept through Shadrael, and for a moment he knew nothing but a frantic urgency to go after the man.

“Here's death from Rozer,” snarled a hoarse voice.

A blow struck him in the side, making him stagger. Shadrael turned, realizing too late that he hadn't finished the lieutenant after all.

Grimacing in triumph, the dying officer sank down. Clutching his wound, unable to stanch the flow, Rozer slowly let the hilt of his weapon fall from slack fingers. He tipped back his head to stare up at Shadrael while a look of puzzlement filled his eyes. “I—I'm unsworn,” he said in a voice of wonder, and died.

Pain began to shoot through Shadrael's side, but he
severed
it, disregarding the injury as unimportant, and fought his way through the shifting crowd of men to the nearest riderless horse.

He caught its dangling reins and jumped into the saddle. For a moment he felt oddly breathless as though he might pass out, but
severance
held. Shouting at Fomo, who brandished his sword in acknowledgment, Shadrael galloped after the officer in the sling.

Only now, as he ducked low to avoid the sweeping slap of tree branches, did Shadrael allow himself to think. How had the Crimsons found them? How had they opened—and
used
—the Hidden Ways? In that, they had completely surprised Shadrael, who hadn't anticipated such a move. Who among them was still practicing shadow magic? Was it this officer, now on his way toward Lea? How did the knave know where to find her?

He's the one using magic,
Shadrael thought.

In Shadrael's mind, Vordachai's orders no longer mattered. He'd left survivors the first time, taking his one prisoner and letting the rest of the squadron go. But this time, he would see them all slain. And no one was going to take Lea from him. No one.

W
ith
the palace looming behind her, Empress Elandra was making an official promenade across the east gardens. She wore a gown of Mahiran cloth, the threads an intricate weaving of spun gold and pale umber silk. Elaborate embroidery on the skirt made it stand out stiffly around her. A delicate spell sewn through the seams of the garment enhanced her beauty in a subtle way, dazzling the onlookers. Her long auburn hair was coiled neatly beneath a head-dress studded with pearls and topazes. A necklace of fat yellow pearls strung on chains of gold hung about her neck. In the newest fashion, a hammered gold chatelaine dangled from her waist.

A narrow carpet had been unfurled across the grass to protect her slippers, and diminutive pages carried her train. Her attendants, led by Lady Avitria, followed her at a decorous distance, preening in their best gowns, enjoying the chance to air their finery.

The empress made slow progress, for she took time to speak to various courtiers and their ladies, who were likewise parading along the longest axis of the gardens. The flowers, reviving in the cooler weather brought by recent autumn showers, were blooming profusely in drifts of magenta and yellow. And beyond the intricate fretwork of the fence, thronging crowds pressed close to the bars to gaze at the empress and her fine court. They cheered and called out to her, and now and then Elandra paused with a smile to wave in return.

A Reformant priest escorted her, chatting with her earnestly about acquisitions for the palace library, a place once used as a repository for Kostimon's collection of pornography and odes to Beloth. Lord Nardeth was a learned man with a quick and agile mind, but although she favored his plans Elandra felt too distracted today to pay close heed to them.

She was too worried about Lea. Adding to her concern was the fact that so far the Magria had not responded to her summons. This was so discourteous, so unusual that it alarmed Elandra.

Even if the Magria were too busy to come immediately, it was her custom to send a message explaining the circumstances behind a delay. Instead, there had been only silence. Elandra feared her message had perhaps been intercepted, or tampered with. She was trying to decide whether to send members of the Imperial Guard to make sure all was well with the sisterhood.

“And so you agree to these arrangements, Majesty?” Nardeth asked. “You feel they are suitable?”

Blinking, Elandra realized she'd heard almost nothing he'd said. She bestowed a gracious smile on him. “Most suitable. Everything is as I would wish.”

Delight and relief lit his thin face. He bowed deeply to her. “Your Majesty is kind indeed. Thank you. I shall commission purchase of the texts immediately, subject to your final approval, of course.”

“Of course,” she murmured.

From the corner of her eye she glimpsed a messenger approaching rapidly. More bad news? she wondered. She kept her expression calm, but it was difficult.

“The emperor and I appreciate your hard work,” she said to the priest in dismissal.

Respectfully he bowed, retreating just as the messenger strode up.

“Speak,” Elandra said to the man.

He swept her a bow. “By your leave, Majesty. A Penestrican is at the gates and says she has your summons.”

“Has she been kept waiting outside like an errand girl?” Elandra asked in astonishment. “Does the gatekeeper not understand the Magria is always allowed admittance?”

“It's not the Magria, Majesty.”

Perplexed, Elandra held back a frown. A messenger from Anas, she decided in disappointment. Another delay.

Although she knew she should, for the sake of appearances, continue her promenade, Elandra was too impatient. With Lea's welfare at stake, the rules of protocol could wait.

“Order the gatekeeper to admit the Penestrican at once,” she commanded. “Have her conducted into the women's pavilion. I shall receive her shortly.”

The boy bowed and loped away to do her bidding. Elandra turned to her ladies and announced the end of her promenade, dismissing them to do as they wished for the remainder of the afternoon. While everyone was looking baffled or curious, she twitched her train from the hands of her pages, caught her protector's eye, and left the carpet to make her way across the grass to a stone path leading to one of the canals. Descending the shallow steps leading to the water's edge, she jumped lightly onto one of the large silver disks floating on its surface without waiting for her protector's assistance.

Someone behind her gasped aloud. “She'll be drowned!”

Elandra paid no heed. Keeping her balance, she even managed to avoid wetting the hem of her ample skirts and was intrigued by how the disk supported her weight, bobbing only slightly beneath her.

“To the palace,” she commanded.

At once, the disk glided forward, bearing her along on the water's surface without a splash or even a ripple. There was no rush of speed, only a slow, steady motion; just the same, Elandra found it rather exhilarating. This was the first time she'd used a canal disk, although she knew Caelan made a habit of utilizing this newest gift of Choven magic.

Now, as she glided through the gardens toward the palace, standing serene and dignified on this amazing form of transport, she smiled and nodded graciously to the people she passed on the banks. Most of them looked too startled, too dumbfounded to respond, although a few managed to give her obeisance. She promised herself that, when Lea was safe again, and some of the empire's troubles quieted, she would bring little Jarel to the canals and cross the water like this with him. How he would love it.

Reaching the opposite end of the central canal, the disk beneath her feet slowed to a gradual stop and bobbed at the base of the stone steps. She climbed them, sweeping past the astonished pair of palace officials who had been chatting there, and made her way indoors.

Guards were waiting to escort her. Alone, without the rest of her abandoned entourage, she went swiftly to the women's pavilion and settled herself in a rather austere public chamber, instead of her more comfortable and exotic personal sitting room. With Lea in trouble and Caelan nearly beside himself with worry, this was not a time for sipping fruit water and nibbling delicacies.

When the doors opened to admit a young woman in long black robes, Elandra was sitting erect and quietly in a tall-backed chair carved from Mahiran satinwood. Her
jinja
crouched beside her chair, busy fingering the elaborate embroidery on her skirts and chittering softly beneath its breath. Two of her ladies-in-waiting, who had not accompanied her to the garden, stood nearby, their expressions pleasant and without expectation. A chamberlain hovered near the door, and Elandra's protector prowled about before taking a stance behind her chair.

The woman who entered alone wore a stole of black cloth draped over her head, and walked forward with eyes cast down and head slightly bowed. She was short of stature and plump, yet her movement held a hint of seductive grace not usually found among the sisterhood.

As she drew near, Elandra's
jinja
suddenly twitched its pointed ears and jumped upright to stare hard at the priestess. Hissing in fury, it flung its brimless fur cap away and jumped off the dais toward her.

The priestess halted, shrinking back, but at that moment Lady Avitria hurried in by a side door. Her own
jinja
—a small, cowed creature with unhealthy blue coloring and a small dark blue cap—rushed past her to dart into the path of Elandra's
jinja
. Suddenly there was vicious snarling from both creatures, and they swirled into a fight.

“Bronzidaec!” Lady Avitria said. “Bronzidaec, stop at once!”

Gasping, the priestess backed away, pressing a corner of her stole to her face, her enormous eyes peeping over its edge.

Elandra jumped to her feet. “Send for Rumasin!” she said. “Hurry! They must be parted before one is killed.”

Snarling and snapping, the two
jinjas
clawed and bit until magic began flashing in green bursts about them. As her ladies scattered in alarm, Elandra took a prudent step back, agonized with worry for her golden. Only Lady Avitria held her ground, watching the battle coolly without expression on her haughty face.

By the time Rumasin came hurrying in with two bulky servants carrying a large square of canvas and a net, Lady Avitria's
jinja
was squealing in agony.

Helplessly, Elandra pressed her fists together. She had not called commands to her own
jinja
, for she knew it would neither hear her nor obey. Occasionally in her childhood, she'd seen
jinjas
fighting. Such battles were vicious and sometimes both combatants perished, even if they were parted in time.
Jinja
bites made awful, poisonous sores and could be lethal.

“Hurry!” Elandra called to Rumasin.

The eunuch clapped his hands, and the menservants rushed forward to throw their net over the fighting creatures. Using long rods, the men expertly forced the
jinjas
apart. While one man held the net in place, the other deftly snared Elandra's
jinja
in the canvas and rolled it up.

Furious squalling and much thrashing went on, surprising Elandra, for she'd expected her golden to quieten immediately. It had served her well and during the Terrors it had been quick to sense shadow magic and the approach of evil. Elandra was extremely fond of it.

“I'm sorry, Majesty,” Lady Avitria said. “My blue is always causing trouble. I don't know why.”

Elandra nodded unhappily. She knew that most of the
jinjas
in the palace were walking bundles of jealousy, quick to lose their tempers, show their teeth at each other, and snap at the air in warning. For some reason, none of them liked the blue. Elandra had no idea where Lady Avitria had acquired it, but by all accounts it was not well trained.

Now it lay on the carpet, whimpering as it was rolled in the net and carried out. Lady Avitria watched it go without making any effort to touch it. “Oh, Bronzidaec,” she said sadly.

Quiet fell over the room. The other ladies fanned themselves, still looking scared. The chamberlain cleared his throat. Elandra's protector relaxed beside her and stepped back.

Lady Avitria walked over the torn parts of the carpet and curtsied low to Elandra.

“I beg Your Majesty's forgiveness for my
jinja
's behavior. It was very wrong to attack your golden. It knew better than to start a fight.”

Shaken, feeling a little sick now that the incident was over, Elandra sat down without paying much attention. “I thought it was the other way around. My
jinja
attacked yours.”

“Oh no.” Lady Avitria smiled fleetingly, although her eyes looked cold. “Your Majesty is too kind, too gracious. No, no, my Bronzidaec was to blame. If it survives, I assure Your Majesty that it will be punished.”

Frowning, Elandra said, “You do not need to flatter me by holding your creature to blame. I saw clearly what happened.”

“Majesty—”

“Enough.” Elandra lifted her hand in dismissal of the matter.

It was only a
jinja
spat, more violent than usual, nothing more. Elandra beckoned to the priestess, who'd retreated nearly to the door. “Come here.”

Hesitantly, the priestess obeyed. “Majesty, thank you for your summons.”

Elandra's slim brows lifted. “I sent for the Magria, not you. What message do you bring?”

“One of apology, deepest apology, and a plea for your pardon.” The priestess pulled away her stole to reveal the brassy blond hair and rounded face of Elandra's half sister, Bixia.

Astonished, Elandra could only stare. She had not seen Bixia in years, not since her half sister was led away from the sandpit inside the Penestrical stronghold, screaming in rage and promising revenge. Bixia, pampered and spoiled, had been their father's legitimate daughter, born of his first wife. Elandra had been Count Albain's natural-born daughter, a product of his passionate affair with the wife of another man. Raised together in Albain's palace, the two girls had never felt any bond for each other. Bixia's cruel and jealous aunt had made Elandra a servant within the household and abused her without Albain's knowledge. And Bixia, believing herself destined to marry Emperor Kostimon, was indifferent to Elandra's plight. Instead, it was Elandra who had gone to the imperial palace while Bixia had vanished, never to be found…until now.

It was too great a surprise, so completely unexpected that Elandra found herself with nothing to say at all.

Bixia's eyes searched hers for a moment, bold and defiant until Elandra said nothing, did nothing. Then Bixia's expression grew unsure. She frowned, stepped back, and sank into a curtsy.

“Majesty,” she said softly.

If any resentment lingered in her voice, Elandra could not hear it. Rising to her feet and waving back her protector, Elandra moved to the edge of the dais.