Authors: Carol Berg
Transformation (26 page)
“Great Druya avenge your mighty servant!” roared Ivan, thrusting his eyes and his clenched hands toward the heavens as if planning to wrest the gods’ cooperation in his bloodletting. “Who were these murdering thieves?”
“Unknown men, Majesty, but the villains were still there, lurking in the pass, when we came. They took our horses, else we would have been here days ago with the news. But they spared our lives ... on condition we deliver a secret message to Prince Aleksander.”
“And what message would these murderers send to my son?” said Ivan coldly.
The Prince had not moved, had not removed his eyes from Dmitri. I could not be certain he even heard the man’s words. The grizzled veteran looked from the Emperor to the Prince and back again. “He said to tell the Prince that all was done as he wished.”
The Hall erupted in frenzy. As molten rocks and lava spew forth from a volcano, so did every hatred, grudge, and grievance against Aleksander fly into the smoky vastness of the Hall of the Lion Throne. He had insulted people, ridiculed them, made mockery of Derzhi honor and traditions. The Prince had dishonored men’s wives and daughters and made light of his solemn duties. A thousand other accusations, petty and not. But the only evidence Ivan cared about lay at the foot of the steps. The Emperor silenced the babbling with a wave of his sword and the thunder of his rage.
“This rite of celebration is suspended for three days, so that we may bid fitting honor to the finest warrior ever to ride beneath Athos’ fire. For a full year from this day shall every household mourn his loss with banners of red upon their doors, and with song and story shall we recount his mighty deeds so that Athos will know to place him at his right hand. There will he defend the realm of day and night against the beasts of the netherworld.”
The Emperor was most efficient in his resolution. With one smooth motion of his sword he removed Vanye’s head, then he kicked it down the white-carpeted steps, where it landed at Dmitri’s feet, staring up in a last accusing glare at the Prince. In a swirl of blue robes, Ivan swept out of the Hall, only half of the stunned witnesses remembering to bow.
Aleksander sat unmoving in his chair. No one dared glance his way as they bustled about. When the Emperor’s guardsmen picked up the litter and bore Dmitri’s shrouded body away, Aleksander’s head did not move, as if the dreadful sight yet lingered in the place it had come to light. Fendular snatched the anointing oil from the gold-suited page boy who stood gaping at the grotesque head and the bloody corpse. Another man packed away the ceremonial bowls and implements, while two women puzzled with what to do with the white strip of carpet, so hopelessly stained with blood.
The crowd dispersed quickly. I imagined they were seeking a place where they could speak freely, away from the fear of Ivan’s wrath. Only a small cluster of guests remained at one side of the Hall: two men and a red-haired woman in dark blue. The Lady Lydia. She stood watching Aleksander. Her companions tried to maneuver her through the side door, but she wrenched her arm from their grasp, then left the room of her own accord.
The bright banners hung limp. Empty chairs lay overturned. Flowers lay crushed on the floor. Arrows of sunlight found their way around the edges of the draped windows only to be slowed and deflected by the drifting smoke of snuffed candles.
I could not move, either, as if my very limbs were linked to the will of my master. And he had no will. His diamond collar glittered in gaudy mockery of the ruins of the day.
As I knew would happen, a slave walked hesitantly across the dais and knelt before the Prince, putting his head to the bloody carpet just out of arm’s reach. Aleksander did not acknowledge the slave, but evidently the message was delivered. The Prince rose and slowly followed the path his father had taken from the Hall.
Chapter 17
Murder. Surely Ivan would not believe it on such flimsy evidence as the word of an unknown bandit and a vengeful traitor. The love between Aleksander and Dmitri was too deep. Yet, how often had the Emperor had a chance to observe the truth of their affection? He had heard Dmitri condemn the Prince for careless stupidity, and he had heard Aleksander rail at his uncle for every attempt at discipline. Perhaps the affection was only clear to me because I, too, had suffered a mentor who drove me wild, back when I was young and headstrong and intoxicated with life.
I hurried through the passages that led from the Great Hall toward the Emperor’s chambers. Stunned courtiers flowed aimlessly in the jammed galleries, their eyes searching the crowds for a trustworthy face. When lucky enough to find a friend, they would clump to the side of the passage like clots of cream in a milk jar and whisper and glance over their shoulders to make sure no one would overhear.
I kept my eyes cast down and ignored any command that might be aimed at a slave. I was desperate to find Aleksander, desperate to understand what was happening. I had never believed my own quiet speculation that the Khelid thought to force the Emperor to name a Khelid-chosen heir. There were too many obstacles of heged tradition to overcome. Even with Aleksander out of the way, the Derzhi would go to war before seeing the throne go to someone else, and war was exactly the thing the Khelid could not deal with. We were hurtling down a steep path, and I could not see where it would end.
I could not get close to the Prince, nor even get information on where he was. No one had seen him enter the Emperor’s chambers, though everyone assumed he was there. A harried serving woman said the Prince had retired to his apartments, but the rooms were cold and deserted. I returned to the Emperor’s wing and drifted from one dark doorway to another, trying to hear the gossip, trying not to be noticed, trying to figure out how in the name of sense I could get anywhere close to where I needed to be or learn what I needed to know. Hopeless. Powerless.
My heart stuttered when an iron hand gripped my shoulder. “I said, you will come with me, slave.” It was a balding man in blue satin pantaloons and a brown vest that exposed a chest full of wiry gray hair. I hadn’t even heard his approach.
“But, sir, I—”
The man pulled me so close to his face that I could count the wide pores at the end of his egg-shaped nose. “You are required to come. We will not have a scene here in front of all these people. I would prefer not to be seen with a slave—especially you.” He let go, brushed some imaginary lint from his bulging vest, and walked primly around the corner. Cursing silently, I followed him into a nearby passage, quiet, elegant, and deserted, the domain of the most-favored guests, so close to the Emperor’s rooms.
He led me through an open door into a room that smelled of flowers. A large bouquet of tall, peach-colored stentia and radiantly blooming roses stood on a polished round table. The room was hung with fine stone tablets carved with stylized images of Derzhi desert life, as stark a contrast to the flowers as were the lingering snows in the garden. The man in blue satin closed the door behind me, then said, “Wait here,” and disappeared through an inner door. I crossed my hands on my breast and cast down my eyes, trying to force myself into familiar habit. I was a slave, subject to the fancies of any Derzhi. I could not afford to forget it.
Don’t wonder. Don’t worry. There’s nothing to be gained by it. What comes, comes.
But my own words rang hollow, the echo of a peace I no longer owned. The demons had started a war, and I had to play whatever pitiful part I could, even deaf and blind and powerless as I was. Every minute ate away at my composure. Where was Aleksander? I had no time for the whims of Derzhi nobles. I was on the verge of bolting, when the Lady Lydia hurried into the room, her angular cheeks as red as her hair, her green eyes blazing.
“Did he do it?” she demanded, not waiting for me to rise from my hasty bow. “Answer me truthfully.”
“No, my lady. He did not.”
“You know him well enough to swear it?”
“I would stake my life on it. He is not capable of such a deed.”
“You truly believe that. How is that possible?” I could not understand her anger. “Does it not poison your tongue to say it?” She grabbed the iron ring about my wrist and yanked my arm up in front of my face as if I were a puppet at a midsummer fair, then she dragged me toward a looking glass and spun me around where I could glimpse the ruin that was my back. “Look at what he’s done to you. What perverse madness makes you love one who treats you so cruelly?”
“Prince Aleksander is my master, my lady. He has the power of life and death over me, and the capability of every vile possibility in between. I’ll not pretend feelings that are impossible for a slave.” I spoke over my shoulder, refusing to look at the gaunt, scarred stranger she claimed was me. “But I must be honest in my answers. Despite his faults, the Prince is capable of great devotion. The only person I’ve seen who owned that devotion was the Lord Dmitri.”
A small table went flying past my head, collapsing into splinters as it struck the wall beside the looking glass. I ducked and whirled about to see the lady taking up a chair to follow it. Were it anyone else, I would have flattened myself to the floor and covered my head, but somehow I trusted that her aim was true. I merely stepped to the side. She wasn’t throwing things at me. In a quarter of an hour, she had created a sizable pile of sticks and velvet and glass beside the gouged wall, and she had regained a semblance of composure.
As I watched her vent her fury, I questioned the cause of it. I recalled our earlier conversation, and a glimmer of suspicion began to grow. She did not argue with Aleksander, pick at his flaws, and scorn his follies because she despised him. Quite the contrary. I wanted to laugh at the revelation. I leaned against the wall and pressed a hand to my face, fighting to banish all trace of my understanding. But she would not allow me to hide.
“Oh, Seyonne, I’ve not injured you? I’m as bad as the despicable prince.” With soft fingers she pulled my hand away and probed with worried green eyes.
“No, my lady. You will just have to tell me if throwing furniture eases your affliction.”
“He is impossible.”
“Yes, my lady.”
“Cruel, thoughtless, stubborn ...”
“Indeed.”
“... prideful and foolish. Insulting.”
“No one would argue with any of those things, my lady.”
“So why can I not cast him from my heart?”
“Clearly reason and logic have nothing to do with such matters.”
She grabbed my shoulders and shook me. “You love him, as I do.”
“That is impossible. I serve him. Nothing more. A sword loves neither the hand that forges it, nor the hand that wields it. But there is more to him than we see, my lady. At least you can be assured that you do not care for a man who would kill his own uncle.”
She sagged onto a velvet couch, now bereft of cushions. “No. Instead I love a madman.”
“He is not mad, my lady, no matter how strange his current behavior.”
She wrinkled her wide, smooth brow and shook her head. “In that you are wrong. The Emperor has judged him so, and he would never send Aleksander away unless he was convinced. Ivan zha Denischkar dotes on his son, and he is not a fool.”
Judged him mad ...
I knelt at her feet. “My lady, forgive my questioning, but you have spoken freely with me, and I must know what’s happened. What do you mean that the Emperor is sending him away?”
I knelt at her feet. “My lady, forgive my questioning, but you have spoken freely with me, and I must know what’s happened. What do you mean that the Emperor is sending him away?”
“The Emperor would not hear it at first—that Aleksander was mad. He dispatched men to burn villages until these bandits were caught. But Aleksander would not agree to lead them or have anything to do with the hunt. The Emperor called me in to convince Aleksander to explain himself ... not knowing that my persuasion is exactly opposite whatever cause I plead with the Prince. He tried to make Aleksander say he didn’t have anything to do with the murder, but Aleksander continued to insist that it was his fault. That he never meant for Lord Dmitri to die, but that he was to blame. What was the Emperor to think? He asked if Aleksander knew where the bandits were hiding and who they were, but the Prince said it didn’t matter who they were. The crime was his. Then came that repulsive Chamberlain—”
“Fendular.”
“Yes. And he simpered and groveled and began to tell of Aleksander’s strange behavior of late: these dreadful events with poor stupid Vanye and Sierge, odd tales from the Dar Heged, insults to powerful families and the Magicians’ Guild, consorting with beggars and ... low women ... fits of temper and abuse. He said Aleksander had cursed Lord Dmitri and vowed to make a slave his chamberlain. Sovari confirmed Aleksander’s change of orders on the night of the Khelid entertainment, and how the Prince had disappeared that night, only to return muddy and disheveled, refusing to say where he’d been. Then other men stepped forward and confirmed Fendular’s lies, and added more tales of their own. ...”
Only they weren’t lies. Every word spoken was true, I had no doubt. Exaggerated perhaps. Taken away from its true meaning. Put together in ways that would point up the truths the instigators wanted. Perfectly crafted. Terrifyingly perfect.
“And Aleksander ...”
Lydia rose and strode to the table, gripping the edge so hard I thought the marble top might break away in her hands. “It was as if he didn’t hear any of it. He sat and stared into nothing. The Emperor commanded him to swear he had not harmed Dmitri. He laid his own sword in front of the Prince and said that all Aleksander had to do was place his hand on the sword and swear. Nothing more would be said about any of it. He would be anointed this night.”
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