Chapter 41

The newlyweds emerged onto Stoneheart’s largest balcony, known as the wedding balcony because it was the place where so many Morgravian Kings had presented their new queens to the people.

Valentyna’s heart was pounding yet she felt somehow numb. It was done. The ceremony within the cathedral had dragged on, but she had spoken clearly when asked to take her vows, had even found a smile for the despised man beside her as she uttered the words that bound her to him for life. Their exit from the cathedral had provoked a rapturous noise she had not imagined possible. As the royal couple had walked to their new carriage, its dominant colors not lost on Valentyna, she had been showered with rose petals from blooms especially cultivated beneath glass. Their pastel colors joined the fresh whites of spring flowers. Underfoot, just before her, she had noticed a spray of lavender; it was so out of keeping with the roses and so dear to her heart that Valentyna had turned toward the man who’d thrown it. The Legionnaire had grinned, and she had suddenly recognized the Duke of Felrawthy despite his disguise.

“Thank you,” she mouthed, but much as she wanted to bend and pick up the purple heads of her favorite flower, she had not wished to draw the King’s attention to it. He was far too sharp not to wonder who had thought to throw lavender to the new Queen. She had stepped on it instead, crushing the heads and releasing the fragrance briefly before Celimus had helped her into the open-air carriage.

The noise had been deafening as they had made their slow way back toward the castle. Valentyna had searched for Aremys or Crys but had not seen either again. Inside the carriage the time had seemed right, so she had reached inside the small cream velvet pouch she carried.

“This, my lord, is for you,” she had said in the sweetest voice she could muster, knowing she had to preserve the fragile bond they had formed.

Celimus had looked puzzled as he took the small, exquisitely lacquered box. She knew he was captivated by the way his mouth opened when he saw the gift inside.

“It is a lovely ring, Valentyna,” he had whispered, and kissed her, much to the people’s joy. “Will you put it on me?”

She did so. “I’m glad you like it.”

“I will wear it always. I have something for you too,” he replied. “It’s being readied for you now.”

“Oh?”

“A special surprise,” he had promised, turning away to wave to the crowd.

And now she found herself waving from the wedding balcony to the sea of people below who had crowded into the main square before the castle.

“They are so proud of you, my lord,” she said above the din, leaning close to be heard. She hated her obsequiousness.

“And they love you. I knew they would. You are very good for me,” he replied. She knew he did not mean it as a romantic compliment. Celimus meant it literally: Valentyna made him look better; she was good for his image.

There was truly no hope for them, she thought. She would struggle her entire life to be a sugary-sweet doormat just to keep the peace between them. She could not do it. Just maintaining the delicate truce forged by her careful words on their journey into Morgravia was destroying her soul. She hated him. And tonight she was expected to respond passionately between the sheets with him. As she gazed out across the ocean of smiling faces, Valentyna felt she would rather die than have Celimus touch her intimately.

It seemed he had the same scene on his mind. “Tonight,” he began, “when all the formalities are done with and we are finally in bed, I mean to teach you something.” Valentyna tried but failed to sound seductive or indeed even interested. “That sounds rather intriguing, my lord. What can you mean?”

“I mean to teach you that I am not someone to be trifled with.” Valentyna felt her body chill. He meant to hurt her. “I don’t understand, my lord.” She tried for levity in her voice.

“I will teach you how the King of Morgravia expects his Queen to behave.”

“Have I disappointed you during the marriage proceedings?” she asked, all other sounds now fading to the background as she focused on his voice alone.

“You lied to me, barefaced and at a particularly poignant moment. I am hurt by this.” She could not imagine Celimus emotionally hurt by anything, least of all words. “I don’t understand, Celimus,” Valentyna said, more firmly now, her mind racing. Which particular lie might he be referring to?

“Cailech denied your story to me in person last night. Of course I had hoped it was true, hoped I was the one who had jumped to the wrong conclusion.”

Something in Valentyna died. Wyl had refused her gift of life. “I…” She struggled to form a response.

“Now,” Celimus began brightly, waving to the people and encouraging her to do the same, “I can forgive you this misdemeanor. You have behaved perfectly since our arrival at Pearlis; I believe that you did not invite Cailech to Werryl, nor did you know of his arrival there or his intention to stir up war using Briavel as an ally. My belief is that you lied to save further bloodshed; you hoped to preserve the peace between the three realms. And I am delighted by the wedding gift you have given me. So I forgive you. But you will learn an important lesson tonight.”

Valentyna began to say something, but he hushed her with his hateful hand against her mouth, replacing it quickly with his lips, much to the crowd’s delight and her disgust.

“Hush, my love. Take your medicine and be pleased it’s not more harsh. I appreciate that you are a virgin, though I cannot promise to be as gentle as I might have been a few days ago. Wave farewell to your people now and let me cheer you with my own special wedding gift as promised.”

“I—”

“Hush. I shall wait while you change. I want you to wear crimson, the color of Morgravia.” Aremys followed Crys blindly as they made their way to the Legionnaires’ barracks. Stoneheart was like a town in itself—a maze of streets and openings, corridors and courtyards. When they finally reached their destination, the barracks were virtually deserted. Everyone was either on duty at the wedding or joining in the celebrations. Crys was able to sneak into the provisions office and take the biggest uniform he could find.

“I have no idea if this will fit,” he said, returning to the small outbuilding where he had left Aremys, “but it’s genuine Legionnaire, so it should do the trick and get you past security. Everyone’s so preoccupied anyway—they’ll see the crimson and black and no questions will be asked. Let’s face it, it’s likely none of the guards on duty around Cailech are going to be proper Legionnaires anyway—they’re probably all mercenary impostors.”

“I hope you’re right,” Aremys grumbled. “I’m sensing we have to get into the dungeon, right?” Crys nodded grimly. “Don’t you think it will be heavily guarded, no strangers permitted?”

“We’re not strangers. We’re guards.”

Aremys did not have the heart to argue. “Lead on,” he said.

At the dungeon Crys discovered that the royal prisoner had been moved.

“We’ve been sent along to make up extra numbers. King’s orders,” Crys said to the officer there, trying his best to sound as uninterested as possible. “Who is the prisoner, anyway?” The man ignored him. “Who sent you?”

Fortunately Crys knew the senior officers and captains of the Legion. “Captain Berryn,” he said, giving the name of one of the more aggressive captains.

The man’s tone changed instantly. “All right, how many of you?”

“There’s two of us but I don’t know how many others he is sending. We were told to report to you here,” Crys lied.

“Why can’t they send a runner and inform us of what they want? I’ll tell you, it was different in the days when the Thirsks ran this outfit.”

Crys shrugged, feigning indifference.

“Get your companion and follow me. I’m on my way there now. And listen, sonny, this is no sideshow, all right? Today we execute a king and you will behave with due respect. Is that clear?”

“Yes, sir,” Crys said, straightening, glad that Wyl was at least being accorded due respect.

Crys and Aremys remained silent as they walked a few steps behind the officer. The man was so preoccupied with what was ahead that he ignored them totally anyway.

They arrived at the courtyard at almost the same time as the King and new Queen, but both had eyes only for the prisoner.

“Cover up, you know the drill,” the officer said, handing them black hoods from a small sack he carried.

He left immediately to confer with one of the captains on the other side of the courtyard.

Crys explained the hood to Aremys in a low whisper. “It’s an old custom dating back to the first persecution of witches and sorcerers. It was held that empowered people had to see a person to cast a spell against them. The mask was introduced to ensure that anyone present at an execution would be impervious to their magic. The belief died out over the centuries, but soldiers are still required by tradition to cover their faces at executions.”

“Suits me,” said Aremys. “At least we won’t risk being recognized by the King or Jessom.” Valentyna stood in the crimson gown Celimus had ordered made for her and then demanded she wear.

She did not notice the trio of Legionnaires arrive in the courtyard. Anger, fear, and the hideous injustice of the position she found herself in quickly gave way to a feeling of desolation when her gaze followed the King’s pointing finger. Chained to a post like an animal, but still looking proud, was Wyl: tall and golden, fury burning in his eyes and a defiant set to his jaw. Now she felt weak, overcome by a combination of terror and an overwhelming rush of love.

Wyl’s light green gaze left her and fell on Celimus. A smirk crossed Cailech’s face and he raised a fist and turned the clenched fingers toward his Morgravian counterpart. A northerner would know that this was the sign that the tribes of the Razors gave to indicate a declaration of war.

Crys looked helplessly at his companion, not understanding.

“He’s baiting the King,” Aremys muttered.

“Why? Surely there’s enough bad feeling?” Crys whispered.

“Wyl is trying to ensure that the King will personally kill him, although I’m not sure the Quickening obeys such laws.”

Dawning had spread on the Duke’s face beneath his hood. “He will be our king, then?” Aremys nodded as they watched Wyl being unchained from the post. But not for long, he thought in private anguish.

Valentyna felt as though she could no longer breathe. Tears were streaming down her face.

“I didn’t know you cared for him that much, my love,” Celimus cooed.

“Why must he die?”

“Because he can’t be trusted. He will always be a danger to us.”

“But killing him will merely enrage the Mountain People and encourage them to wage their own war against both our realms.”

“You have no realm now, beloved.”

“What?”

“Briavel is now part of Morgravia. I now rule both our realms—that’s my job. Your job is to swiftly become pregnant with my sons and be a smiling, loving wife. You will no longer worry about realms, politics, war, strategy—I shall take care of all that. And I am not in the slightest bit intimidated by the Razor Kingdom.”

Valentyna could not stand to be beside him for another moment. With a final glance toward Cailech’s granite expression, she feigned weariness and asked to be excused.

“Soon enough,” Celimus said. “But first let me deliver my gift to you.”

“What do you mean?” she asked, fresh anxiety washing over her.

“You must bear witness, my love. I am executing King Cailech in your honor. He will never trouble you again.”

“I refuse—”

“You refuse me nothing, wife! Remember, you belong to Morgravia now…and to its king.” Chapter 42

Wyl was led up onto a hastily built wooden stage. Despite that touch of theater, it was a lonely scene for a king’s end. the only witnesses were the two royals, a few guards, the Chancellor, and, of course, the masked executioner, who had just arrived.

Wyl was not afraid. The truth was, he could not wait to die again, and feel the Quickening release him from Myrren’s Gift and the curse she had brought over his life. He would not have to live long as Celimus. Just long enough to be with Valentyna again, to hold her once more.

And if it all went sadly awry, he would still live—this time as a burly man of enormous strength and stature. Wyl had taken the precaution of discovering the executioner’s name: Art Featherstone. He wondered briefly how, in the guise of the executioner, he would ever contrive to get close enough to Celimus for Myrren’s Gift to come into play again, but gave up the line of thought. Whoever could have thought that Wyl would become Romen, or that Faryl would claim Romen’s life, or that Ylena—he faltered on hearing her name in his thoughts—would kill Faryl and become her brother’s host. And now here he was, the King of the Razors, about to become the King of Morgravia…or the burly executioner.

He had done his best to plant the seed, without actually inviting death—surely Celimus would find the temptation to personally separate King Cailech’s head from his body irresistible? It would be another triumph for the Crown.

A huge Legionnaire came up with a cup of water. “Orders,” the man said toward the executioner, who nodded, uncaring.

Wyl’s spirits lifted at the sound of the man’s voice. “Aremys,” he whispered as the Grenadyne gave him the cup.

“I beg you, don’t make me keep the promise,” Aremys muttered beneath his breath.

“You will keep it if you care anything for me,” Wyl growled.

Aremys stared into the green eyes, then nodded sadly. “As One,” he said, walking away.

A single trumpet sounded and Wyl noticed for the first time that Valentyna was dressed in a crimson gown. The color of Morgravia. The color of blood. She was solemn-faced and looked intensely frightened. He wished he could spare her this—had hoped against hope that Celimus would come without her.

Valentyna would not look at anyone—not even at Wyl. He could not blame her. It must have felt like a shocking betrayal to hear that he had denied her fabricated story.

He understood, but it did not make it any easier to see her ignoring him. Was it just two days ago they had been making love at Werryl? As the killing blow fell he would cling to that, remember what it felt like to lie naked with Valentyna and love her as she loved him.

Celimus guided his wife to a pair of thronelike seats hurriedly erected in the courtyard. He kissed her hand, winning a sickly grimace from the Queen. Her expression did not seem to matter to Celimus, who was now announcing why the King of the Mountains was to die.

Wyl looked toward Jessom as the King spoke and remembered the strange blue light entwining their hands in the dungeon, binding them to each other. He wondered if Fynch was right, if the Chancellor might somehow provide that random element that could outwit Myrren’s Gift. Turning his attention back to Celimus’s speech, Wyl heard that he was to be sacrificed as a wedding gift to Valentyna. At this, he withdrew into himself, praying to Shar that the King of Morgravia would see fit to gift Valentyna by making the killing blow himself.

Valentyna had withdrawn too. There was nothing to live for anymore. Soon she would have to witness the death of the man she loved, his head savagely removed from his neck with, hopefully, one swing of a cruel sword. It was too much for her heart to bear.

And after all of that, all that was left for her was Celimus, who had made his despicable intentions very clear. Her notion that she might be able to dupe him into believing she was true had been naive. Celimus was too sharp to fall for that ruse, although he would still expect her to treat him as she had promised, even if she was pretending every minute of every day.

He would continue to hurt her, she knew—first taking Wyl from her, then Briavel, no doubt ultimately taking away every son she bore. Her life would be utterly controlled by him. Bile rose to her throat as she imagined what he was going to do her tonight. Rape, she was sure, would be the very least of it.

Celimus had finished explaining his reasons for executing the treacherous Mountain King and the sudden silence dragged her out of her thoughts. She looked at Cailech, whose shirt was being cut away to reveal his broad torso, sculpted with muscles. She remembered that body well, riding above her in an urgent rhythm, each thrust taking her to a higher level of pleasure.

Chancellor Jessom, looking appropriately somber in black robes, gravely pronounced the Crown’s sentence on the accused. “Have you anything to say, Cailech, King of the Mountains?” he asked finally.

Wyl spoke clearly. “Legionnaires, remember who you are. Remember your oath to protect and serve Morgravians above all others. Above all others,” he stressed, “even above your king—”

“Enough!” roared Celimus, enraged.

At the King’s signal, the beefy executioner backhanded the prisoner, who stumbled but did not fall, despite his manacled ankles.

Wyl knew the guards were probably not Legionnaires—Celimus would not risk them witnessing such an unlawful execution. Nevertheless, he hoped the insult had been sufficient to provoke Celimus into swinging the death sword himself.

“Get on with it!” the King ordered the executioner. “My wife and I wish to continue our wedding festivities.”

“You accuse me of treachery, King Celimus. I’m surprised you aren’t carrying out that threat you made in the dungeon! Or are you too squeamish to risk my blood on your fine garments?” Wyl roared, hoping his lie would get lost in the alarm his words would prompt. He knew he must not try to force death, but perhaps he could needle Celimus into picking up a weapon and killing him in wrath, as Cailech had killed Ylena. “My hunch is that you have never killed anyone yourself but always get others to do it for you, you sniveling coward. A poor shadow of your father,” he added, sneering.

His challenge was greeted with stunned silence as all gathered turned to watch the young King of Morgravia.

Celimus’s voice sounded as cold as the ice from Cailech’s own mountains when it finally came. “I made no threat but you should be assured that I have never been scared to spill your blood, Cailech.”

“Is that so? I’m sure you’ll never prove such a claim,” Wyl taunted, laughing.

Valentyna could not bear it. Wyl had already severed the lifeline she had thrown him and now he wanted to make sure that Celimus chopped his head off? Why? Surely he would prefer the accurate swing of an executioner over the perhaps deliberately clumsy hacking by a man whom he’d just publicly scorned?

Wyl had gone mad. He would die painfully and then Celimus would—

Valentyna caught her breath audibly as the realization hit hard. And then Celimus would become Wyl!

Oh Shar! He was doing it deliberately so that Celimus would die and Wyl would take over his body, becoming the King, and her husband. Wyl would live on because of Myrren’s Gift! Now her breath came hard and fast and her pulse began to race. She stood. “Do it for me, Celimus!” she cried, her cheeks flushed, her heart pounding.

The King swung around in surprise. “You want me to kill him?”

“Yes,” she demanded. “He has driven a wedge between us with his underhanded dealings. I hate him. I hate his treachery. Kill him, Celimus. Do it with your own hand so that we are free of his curse on our lives. That would be my ultimate wedding gift, sire.” She curtsied low, ensuring that her husband saw the swell of her breasts.

Celimus grinned ferociously. He looked like a wolf closing in on its prey as he peeled off his cloak, the crimson lining reminding everyone of the blood he would shortly spill.

Valentyna could hardly believe it. Her spirits were soaring with the hammering of her heart. She would have Wyl. She would have Romen. She would have Cailech. He would be Celimus, but the real Celimus would be dead. Thank you, Myrren, she whispered. Thank you, Shar.

“Come, stand closer, my love,” Celimus called to her. “You must share in this, my wedding gift to you.” Cailech was forced to his knees. Valentyna, no longer afraid, glided confidently toward the husband she despised, her eyes locked on the man who would soon be her one love. She leaned forward and kissed Celimus, making it as tender as she could. She wanted him to know how much this meant to her.

Wyl felt sickened by the kiss and closed his eyes. He knew Valentyna had guessed what was going to happen; he had seen it reflected in the blaze of her eyes and the hungry expression she suddenly wore.

But he did not believe she could live alongside him once he was in the body of the Morgravian King.

Celimus had damaged them both too much. Hurry, Shar damn you, he thought, opening his eyes and silently urging the King on. He lowered his head to the block and bared his thick neck.

But Celimus hesitated. He too had noted the change in his wife’s demeanor. The kiss was a surprise, especially after his threat on the balcony barely an hour ago. He thought about her behavior since: one moment despairing, the next filled with a fervor he did not know she possessed. She looked rejuvenated, excited…she looked hungry. What could possibly have had that effect on her? Surely not the mention of blood. Even the little he knew of her confirmed that she was far from bloodthirsty—she was marrying him simply to prevent bloodshed. No, it was not that. Yet her whole manner had changed at the suggestion that he kill Cailech himself, galvanizing her into this lustful creature. Her eyes blazed with a passion he had not seen since that night in Briavel when they had danced together. And even then he had felt sure the fervor had not been for him.

Celimus’s sharp mind worked across every possible scenario but came up wanting. He could find no logical explanation for this odd change of heart. Valentyna had lied to save this man’s life, had wept at the thought of him dying just moments earlier, yet now she was begging for his execution at the King’s own hand. His instincts screamed that there was duplicity here, but he could not get to the truth. He would test her.

“No!” he roared. “The King of Morgravia will not tarnish his wedding day by dirtying his hands with blood.”

“But, my lord,” Valentyna cried, “this is for me. I want his head.”

“And you shall have it, I promise.” Celimus turned back to the executioner. “Do your job: Behead the treacherous sovereign on behalf of Morgravia and Briavel,” he ordered.

Celimus took Valentyna’s hand and led her back to their thrones. She felt breathless with panic. The King had thwarted them. If Myrren’s Gift continued, Wyl would become the bald-headed executioner.

What a terrible irony, she thought. Only weeks ago she had scorned Fynch for believing in magic, and now here she was pinning everything on the hope of an enchantment. If that hope failed, Valentyna knew in her heart that she would not lie with Celimus tonight…or any night. She would take her own life if need be.

She shook her mind clear as the executioner lined up for his single killing blow. The least she could do for Wyl was bear witness to his brave death. She watched the big man raise his sword slowly, carefully, smoothly. It reached the apex of his swing and was about to fall with its severing blow when she heard herself shriek, “Wait!” The man teetered and then stopped, looking angrily toward King Celimus for guidance.

“What is it, Valentyna?” Celimus asked smoothly. Perhaps now the truth of her strange behavior would reveal itself.

“Let me do it, sire,” she begged, for his hearing only. It was the only way out for her.

For the first time since she’d known him, Valentyna saw hesitancy and alarm on his face. “You would kill this man?”

“For you, Celimus. It is the only way I can resolve the difficulties between us.”

“Through his death?” he queried, wondering if she had gone mad.

“Yes,” she whispered. “He will release us. You will know I am true to you if I do this.” Celimus shook his head, baffled. Nevertheless, the shock of her suggestion titillated his sadistic streak.

He rather liked the idea of her executing Cailech. Such an act would haunt her forever, offering further opportunity for exploitation. She would be even more easily controlled when her demons rose to remind her of this ugly spectacle. It would also, of course, show her to be a strong person, either terrifying or inspiring the onlookers—either way suited him.

He studied her and she stared back at him hungrily. There was no doubting she meant her words.

“It is not a pleasant thing you request, Valentyna. You will have to live with this memory all of your life.”

“You have no idea how important that notion is to me, sire.” He shook his head, as if washing his hands of her. “As you wish.” He turned to the executioner. “Bind the prisoner’s mouth,” he ordered, knowing Cailech was likely to make a fuss when he learned of this new and exciting turn of events. The idea of his queen killing a man made Celimus feel like rutting. His mind slithered toward the bedchamber. An heir would be made tonight, he was sure of it. He would have his first son before next spring.

Wyl looked around, confused. He watched Celimus stand once again, hoping against hope that the King had had a change of heart and would deliver the killing blow. But it was Valentyna who walked toward him.

“No!” he shouted from beneath the bindings, but it came out as a strangled cry. His eyes were wide with horror at her decision.

Valentyna glided toward him in her bloodred gown and Wyl was suddenly reminded of his dream at Tenterdyn. This was it. No dream, but a premonition. She bent toward him, tears streaming down her face. “Forgive me,” she whispered, and he roared his anguish, not caring that it appeared he was about to die cringing like a coward.

The executioner pushed Cailech’s head down onto the block again. “Don’t make it harder for her,” he growled. “She’ll never survive it if she misses.”

Wyl knew the man spoke the truth and he stopped struggling. He did not want to become Valentyna. He did not want her to sacrifice herself for him. He could hear her shallow, terrified breathing. The courtyard was so silent he was sure he could hear her heartbeat too. It was too much for his own bleeding heart.

Wyl closed his eyes and begged for a miracle that might thwart Myrren and her cursed gift.

Finch? he called silently.

Valentyna lifted the sword. She took a moment to pray for her own soul before she screamed her despair, pouring her sorrow, pain, and anguish into the downward sweep that severed King Cailech’s head from his neck.

She sank slowly to her knees in his blood, her heart aching, tears streaming, and waited for the change to come over her body. She had no idea what to expect or how the magic worked. All she knew was that she would accept him gladly. This would be her ultimate sacrifice, the final demonstration of her love.

Behind her, Celimus’s dark olive eyes sparked with the fire of lust for this woman and the joy of knowing his final enemy was slain. He was Emperor now—and perhaps Valentyna had just shown herself worthy of the title of Empress.

Nearby, Chancellor Jessom’s body sagged and he hung his head as he struggled slightly to breathe. He would need to gather his composure quickly.

The King of the Razors’ body was slumped forward over the block. The executioner bent to pick up the head, which had rolled to his feet. For the umpteenth time he wondered whether the brain remained alive just long enough to know its head had been removed from its body. At the King’s nod, Art Featherstone placed the head of the Mountain sovereign in a leather sack. He would take care of the body once the royal party had departed.

Valentyna felt nothing. Not even a single tear. Was she now Wyl? Had her soul left her body? She was confused. Her hands were slick with his blood, and through her wet eyes she could focus on nothing else.

“Come, Valentyna,” said the voice she hated more than any in the world, and then she felt the King of Morgravia’s touch. She turned away from the headless body to look at Celimus and knew in that instant that something had gone terribly wrong. It had all been a lie. The Quickening was not real. Cailech was dead and the story about Wyl Thirsk must have been some sort of cruel ruse. She was alive and her husband awaited her.

“Jessom,” the King said.

The Chancellor looked up and cleared his throat. “Sire?”

“Help Queen Valentyna to her chambers. I will see you both there shortly.”

“Yes, your majesty,” the Chancellor said, offering his arm to the Queen. Her pale skin was spattered with blood. “You, guard,” he called to Aremys, and beckoned. Aremys moved silently toward the Chancellor; he could not risk being recognized. “You look a burly enough fellow. Help the executioner remove the body immediately and lock it away. Bring the key to me. No one is to be permitted entry. Is that clear?” Aremys nodded.

Jessom looked directly at Crys. “And you, take an inventory of all present, including guards and the herald. I want the names brought immediately to me in the Queen’s chambers. Is that understood?” Crys, puzzled, nodded beneath his hood, avoiding speech for the same reason Aremys had.

Jessom looked as stunned as the Queen by the afternoon’s events. Moving with uncharacteristic awkwardness but quickly, he hurried Valentyna from the scene of death, and using back corridors that only he seemed to know about, he got the silent, shivering bride to her suite of rooms.