Wicked Empress: The Onic Empire, Book 4 (20 page)

At a loss in her misery, she simply stared up at him for a moment, then managed to ask, “Who are you?”

A blip of shame darted across his face. “Forgive me, my lady.” He dropped to one knee, placing his hands on his lifted leg. With his head lowered, he said, “I am Sterlave of Gant, a former Harvester, a handler to the recruits and bondmate to your sister Kasmiri.”

For a moment Bithia simply looked down at him, too shocked to remember protocol or that her sister refused to speak to her. Bithia decided in this situation, she didn’t care. “Rise, Sterlave.” When he did, his concerned face almost caused her to break out in tears. “What happened?” She looked back over her shoulder only to see the people in gray cutting open Viltori’s chest. A wave of dizziness caused her to falter, but Sterlave grasped her hand, drawing her away from the room. Into the hall he took her, settling her on a low-slung bench that took up the wall outside the open archway.

Sitting beside her, still clasping her hand, he conveyed what he knew. “My servant, Rown, likes to gossip with Viltori.” Sterlave smiled gently. “He thinks very highly of him.”

“Viltori is a good man.” She’d almost said he
was
a good man, as if he were already gone. Forcefully she lifted herself. He wasn’t dead yet. There was hope. If they survived, she would take them both to Beserrah. She never should have come here. Damn the handsome stranger for luring her to Diola. If she ever saw him again, she would…she let the thought trail off because she wouldn’t do anything. Had she not come to Diola, she wouldn’t have met either one of them. But that didn’t mean she had to stay. Why would she want to stay ruler of a world that mocked her for her passion and hurt those she loved?

“Viltori is a very good man.” Sterlave brought her attention back to him before he continued. “Rown went to meet him this morning, but when he arrived, a group of men from Blue-green House had Viltori and Drahka trapped in the hallway.” He hesitated for a moment, clearly leery of telling her more about the fight than she wished to know. He conveyed what his servant had told him, leaving out the gore.

When Sterlave finished, Bithia sat very still, her gaze on the tiled floor. She could almost see her reflection in the spotless and highly polished gray stone. She placed her other hand over his. Right now, the warmth of his touch soothed her. Otherwise, she feared she’d be on her feet, pacing, issuing crazy orders that would lead to further chaos.

“Now I understand who and why.” What she understood was this was her fault. She’d humiliated the top member of Blue-green House, but worse, she’d taken away their right to use their slaves as they saw fit. “But to beat a consort?”

Sterlave lowered his face and grimaced. “They said he was not.”

Bithia winced, remembering Ambo’s decree from the meeting this morning. How had the information spread so fast? She’d barely had the test done when the guards brought them in. Wasn’t she supposed to find a protocol liaison to fight the decree before Ambo issued an edict?

“My lady, I swear to you, the guards are loyal to you.” Sterlave forced her to look at him. “They stand ready to defend you and the empire from this uprising.”

“Uprising?” Her brows lifted when she asked. “I thought only Blue-green House sought revenge for what I did last night?”

Before Sterlave could answer, another man said, “Ambo Votny has banded all the Houses together.”

Bithia lifted her head to the owner of this rich, commanding voice. Sweet, merciful Datanna! Her mouth almost dropped open when she saw a massive man with black hair and riveting azure eyes. A curious longing to either fall at his feet and worship him, or fall at his feet and take him into her mouth, left her stunned and unable to do anything at all but stare up at him. It certainly didn’t help matters that all he wore was a black loincloth, slung low on his hips. He wasn’t as big as Drahka, but there was such power emanating from him that he literally glowed.

“Ambo seeks to unseat you.”

Before she could ask, he did as Sterlave had—he dropped to one knee, his hands crossed over his leg. “I am Chur Zenge.”

Undanna had said his name a hundred times, forcing Bithia to repeat it back until she understood how to pronounce it. Moreover, she wanted Bithia to grasp exactly who he was. Chur was a demigod. Undanna had deftly avoided all her questions about when she would meet this man. At the time, Bithia thought they did not want her to seduce a man one step from godhood. Now she realized they didn’t want him to seduce her with just one look. But when she considered him again, he wasn’t trying to seduce her. There was just this sexual energy rolling off him. Briefly, Bithia envied his bondmate.

“Why haven’t I met you until now?” Right after she asked she realized that knowing the answer didn’t matter. Why was her brain so focused on meaningless ruminations when the men she loved lay dying?

“You did not need me until now.” Chur lifted one sleek, dark brow, as if asking her permission to rise.

With an extension of her hand, she granted him consent. He stood and again dominated the area. Despite the height and width of the hallway, Chur took up a large portion. When Sterlave stood beside him, they effectively blocked the entire space. Comforted by two such powerful men, Bithia felt some of her anxiety recede. These two had helped the two who lay fighting for their lives. Each bowed to her to show willing obeisance. Now she had to be strong enough to cast down Ambo and his band of indolent elite.

Bithia rose from the couch. She wasn’t going to collapse in tears and let fear rule her, for that was exactly what Ambo wanted. Only he could have put the idea into the heads of Blue-green House. Only Ambo could have told them where to find the two men and that he would declare Drahka invalid as a consort, thus making attacking him not punishable by death. All of this, from her early morning meeting, to the dismissal of her bonding, to the attack on her lovers, Ambo had carefully arranged. Going deeper, she wouldn’t be surprised if Ambo had staged the harassment of Viltori last night.

Ambo had been more than happy when all Bithia wanted was one man after another. As soon as she took an interest in running the empire, he’d bowed and acted all pleased, even spent time teaching her about the circle and when and how meetings were conducted. He must have realized she would push for more equality as many of her questions had been about the treatment of servants. Ambo was not a hasty man. As soon as he sensed her change of heart, he’d readied himself. When the opportunity presented, he lashed out, grasping for power. The gods only knew what else he had done to her empire.

“What is the strength of their force?” Bithia asked both men, for they seemed to be sharing leadership of the guards. Again, she felt she could trust them. If they wanted power for themselves, they never would have helped Viltori or Drahka. They wouldn’t have knelt to her, either. What surprised her more than anything was that before her were two prime examples of sexy male and she wasn’t interested in either one. Oh, there was that power from Chur, but he didn’t project it on purpose, and she could choose not to respond. Her smile was bittersweet. She’d finally learned to control herself. In the same breath, she might lose the two men she’d longed for her whole life.

“Ambo thought the guards would be loyal to him,” Chur said, his face grim. “He was wrong. Upon hearing what you decreed last night, some of their own servants ran rather than stand and fight by their owner’s sides.” Chur paused for a moment, listening to voices she could not hear.

As she opened her mouth to ask, Sterlave begged her to silence with the press of his finger to his mouth. A part of her reacted with displeasure, for who would dare to shush the empress, but then she let it go, as it wasn’t important. Sterlave and Chur were here to help. They might be a bit odd, but so was she. She almost cracked a smile: Empress Bithia and her merry band of misfits.

After a long time, Chur turned his intense gaze on her. “My lady, the guards have captured Ambo. Apparently when he realized he’d grossly miscalculated his own power, he took what riches he could carry and tried to fly off in the Golden Bird.”

Bithia’s frown must have conveyed she had no idea what that was.

“A ship capable of space flight,” Sterlave supplied. “It belonged to your mother.”

Nodding, Bithia considered for a moment. “Have Ambo held until I decide what to do with him.”

Locked inside a clear glass coffin, Viltori lay on his back, his body nude and newly washed. An angry red line ran down the center of his chest. Whatever they’d done to his heart by cutting him open had worked. Below his back was a mat that sensed his heart rate, his breathing, making minute adjustments to the drugs in both the air and those that went up through the mat, directly into his skin. Eyes closed, he lay so still, breathing only occasionally. The physician said this was for the best. Deliberately, he’d put him into semi-suspended animation to give his body time to heal. If he actually felt all the pain he was in, the agony would kill him.

A lone tear fell against the glass and she hastily wiped it away with the sleeve of her gown. She wanted to touch him, to hold his hand, to whisper in his ear how sorry she was and that she would do anything to fix the mess she had made. He was so near but still so far away.

Darkness had fallen outside the palace. To mimic the natural flow of day and night, the room where Viltori was kept was dark. Cool blue lights lined the edges of the walls so anyone who entered would have a sense of space. Bithia did not fear the darkness as some did. She welcomed the shadows, as they mimicked the gloom inside her heart. Even though the physician had insisted his prognosis was fair, Bithia read the truth in his eyes. Viltori’s chances for a full recovery were slim. The men had beaten him so badly with their fists and feet that they had damaged every organ in his body. In their fury, they’d yanked hanks of his beautiful blond hair out by the roots. They’d pummeled his face until all that was left were two slits where his eyes should be and a crooked strip that roughly outlined his mouth.

Hesitantly, the physician had informed her that one of them had violated Viltori. When she sputtered that all of them had, he explained that wasn’t what he meant. For a long moment, she’d glared at him, demanding he speak plainly. Cautiously he said that one of the men had raped him. Blinded by rage and fury, she almost didn’t hear him explain that it was curious, as he was not torn, but the evidence of another man was clearly present. She breathed a sigh of relief that left the doctor baffled. She explained that Viltori hadn’t been violated by one of the mob; he’d made love with Drahka. The physician nodded without censure, then made a note by summoning a blue floating screen. He’d left her alone after that, just as she’d asked. At least before all the trauma, Viltori had shared something wonderful with Drahka. Somehow, knowing they’d been together gave her peace.

Turning, she walked over to the bed upon which Drahka lay. He was not encased in glass. Bithia wanted to touch him, but did not wish to wake him. Like Viltori, he rested upon a mat that kept constant track of his health, dispensing medications, even providing heat should he grow cold. Even though he was bare below a clean gray sheet, she could still see every part of his form. How could a man so big be so motionless?

“My lady?”

Bithia turned. In the doorway stood her newly appointed protocol liaison. She was a beautiful woman, but Bithia expected no less from the bondmate to the mighty Chur. Cascading harvest-colored hair fell to her mid-calf and her eyes were a commanding jade. However, the most amazing thing about the woman was her remarkable intelligence. She knew the Harvest prophecy more fully than any other person on the entire planet.

“Enovese.” Bithia nodded slightly, keeping her voice a whisper. “Have you found the answers I seek?”

Holding a book to her chest that was wider than her slender body, she offered, “I have, my lady.”

With a last look at the two men she vowed to avenge, Bithia left the infirmary. As they walked toward the entrance of the palace, Enovese’s steps were as silent as her own were. When Bithia glanced down, she noticed both of them were barefoot.

“Are the people assembled?”

“Yes, my lady.” Enovese’s posture was serene, but she betrayed her anxiety by chewing at her bottom lip.

In silence, they continued. Alternate flashes of determination and distress shot through her at what must be done. Part of her wanted revenge, but another part wept at the horror of vengeance. A line of guards pushed open the heavy wooden gates. When they stepped outside, crisp winter air chilled her bare feet, but then the crimson carpet she walked upon warmed them. Shimmers of heat rose into the night, melting back a circle of snow. Stars twinkled in the night sky, looking oddly cheery against the gloomy tableau.

In the center of the gardens, the block had been set in the pit. In a semicircle around the pitted slab of Onic rock stood most of the palace populace. Jewel tones sparkled amidst the wave of bland brown as most in attendance were slaves. Bithia now understood just how vast the palace was given the number of people who lived there. Blue-green House stood the closest to the block. Bithia wanted them to have a good, long look. Stricken faces lifted from the ground to her, then fell. If they searched for a flicker of forgiveness in her eyes, they found none.

Lifting a smooth black stone from a massive pile, Bithia tested the weight against her palm. Devoid of features, the oval rock was slippery in her grip and frightfully cold. As she moved on the carpeted walkway toward the block, the crowd grew utterly silent. Ambo lay below the pressor, a device that held him flat on his back, against the slab of stone. Walls along the four edges of the pressor created a basket.

“You have committed treason against the Onic Empire.” After uttering her accusation, she cast the first stone into the pressor. The weight was slight. The device barely moved. She looked down at Ambo’s flushed face. His mouth was unbound, but he could not speak; the pressor crushed down on his rotund belly, pushing his guts into his lungs, making speech impossible.