CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Josey yawned as she got out of bed. She hadn’t slept well. All night long the problems facing the realm kept her awake, from the riots in the streets to her problems managing the court, not to mention the continual threat of assassination hanging over her head. It didn’t help that Hirsch and Hubert had gone out again last night to renew their search for the assassin.

Amelia came in with an elaborate gown from the wardrobe, and Josey began the laborious process of getting dressed. With all that was going on, she had to make an appearance in court this morning even if it killed her. Josey exhaled as the corset tightened around her ribs.

“Not so tight, please, Amelia. I’m feeling a little ill disposed this morning.”

“I’m sorry, my lady. Shall I call for a physician?”

Josey glanced over her shoulder and faked a smile. “I’ve told you a hundred times. It’s just Josey. And, no. I’ll be fine.”

The maid gave another tug on the laces. “Yes, my lady.”

Josey sighed, but not too deeply, and sat down for her other maid, Margaret, to select her footwear. She declined the knee-high boots with four-inch heels and went with a pair of laced padded shoes. A selection of jewelry—earrings, necklace, golden tiara—and a bit of tasteful makeup completed the outfit.

“Tell them I’m ready,” she said.

As Amelia went to the door, Josey looked at herself in a large mirror. The blush on her cheeks was a little heavy, but she had to admit she looked like an empress, even though she didn’t feel it. Is this how all rulers feel? Are we all a bunch of trumped-up phonies prancing on a stage? The thought made her feel a little better.

When the door opened and her bodyguards—up to six now, every minute of the day and night—stood aside, Josey walked out into the hallway. The trek from her apartment to the audience was silent save for the clomp of heavy boots on the marble tiles. Josey kept her hands clasped together over her stomach, which fluttered like a bag full of bluetail flies. Decisions needed to be made to restore order to Othir—that was her first priority. She hoped she could find the answers her people needed. Otherwise she would have the shortest reign in Nimean history.

Two of her bodyguards halted outside the Great Hall, and two inside the doorway. The last pair escorted her across the broad chamber. The hall was almost vacant except for a sparse handful of ministers already in their seats. Lord Parmian stood at his appointed place and gave her a commiserating smile as she entered, but the lord chancellor’s desk was unoccupied. Where is Hubert? And where’s the rest of the Thurim?

Her anxiety threatening to burst into a full-blown panic, Josey climbed the steps to the throne. She took a deep breath before sitting down to face her truncated court. When she asked for the day’s first order of business, Ozmond started to approach until a side door opened. Quick footsteps echoed across the hall. Hubert, looking uncharacteristically disheveled, hurried over to take his rightful place. After coughing into his hand, he addressed the court.

“My apologies, Majesty. My noble lords and ladies. The first order of the day is the disagreement between our realm and the kingdom of Arnos over the annexation of Mecantia. Lord Gherova has the floor.”

While Gherova, a fussy sophist who had spent many years living in Arnos, stood and read from what looked to be an exceedingly long roll of notes, Josey motioned for Hubert to approach. He climbed the steps with a hung head. She’d meant to show him the sharp side of her tongue, too, but he looked so pathetic she let him go with a stern scowl.

“You look like a bad dream,” she whispered. “What happened?”

Hubert put a hand inside his jacket and pulled out a parchment packet, which he handed to her.

“Not much, but we found these.”

“By the river?”

“No. We went back to the original scene hoping to discover something we missed before in our haste.” His mouth bunched up. “The theater is in shambles.”

A pain of sympathy stabbed Josey’s heart for the city’s loss. “Was anyone hurt?”

“No one died, which is a miracle.”

Josey opened the packet and spilled out two thin flakes of what she first thought was some kind of leaf. Then she noticed their brittleness.

“Scales?”

“That’s what we think. Master Hirsch believes these will help us track the assassin.”

A weight lifted from Josey’s chest. “Thank you, Hubert. This is the first bit of good news I’ve had in days. Give Master Hirsch whatever he needs.”

“Yes, Majesty. And two new dispatches arrived this morning.”

“News from the north?”

“I’m afraid not. More settlements have been burned along the western border. And the commanders of the Parvia and Wistros regiments have not reported back yet. At best, they couldn’t make the march to Othir in less than six days.”

“Six days!” she blurted, a little louder than she intended. Lord Gherova paused, and then continued after a nod from her. To Hubert, she whispered, “Never mind. Where is everyone?”

Hubert looked away as if he didn’t want to answer, but Josey waited him out.

“Some of the ministers are afraid to leave their homes because of the violence in the streets.”

Josey bit down on her bottom lip. So much for a day of good news.

“Have the riots crossed into High Town?”

Hubert dipped his chin while he pretended to listen to Lord Gherova’s speech. “Just before daybreak a small mob breached the cordon of night watchmen along the Processional. Some homes were vandalized. No one was seriously injured, but fear is spreading.”

It’s already arrived here. Now what shall I do? Unleash more soldiers into the streets? Withdraw until it blows over? She wished she knew. Whatever choice she made, there would be repercussions.

While she stewed, Lord Gherova finished his speech, or so she thought. She watched in dismay as he picked up another scroll and began to unroll it. Josey had heard enough. Her city was tearing itself apart, and this man wanted to ramble about distant problems.

“Please, my lord,” she said. “A moment’s pause.”

The minister regarded her with a jaundiced gaze and then took his seat. Josey looked to Hubert, but he did not move.

“Coward,” she said under her breath. Then, raising her voice, she said, “We have decided the war in the east to be a wasteful extravagance perpetrated by misplaced zeal, and ultimately unnecessary when more important problems plague us here at home.”

Several of the ministers grumbled at this, but their reactions were no surprise to her. The only lords who had deigned to attend today’s audience were the ones most opposed to her rule. Only one person, Lord Du’Quendel, applauded at her words.

“Emissaries,” she said, “bearing our wishes for peace between our lands, shall be dispatched with all haste.”

“That would be a grave error, Your Majesty.”

Josey looked to the main entrance, half expecting Duke Mormaer. Instead, a portly man in pristine white robes stood in the hall’s doorway. Josey started to rise at the sight of him out of long-ingrained habit until Hubert caught her eye and gave a slight shake of his head. The empress did not rise, not even in the presence of the prelate of the True Church.

The holy father entered the hall wearing the full regalia of his office. Josey recognized the emblems from her catechism. The golden staff in the prelate’s hand and gold-linked rope around his neck represented the sacred gallows from which the Prophet was hung. Upon his head rested a crown of sharp golden points. The rod, rope, and the sunburst crown—the icons that stood at the foundation of the True Faith.

The new prelate was younger than she expected; his hair was only just beginning to lighten to silver. Though his vestments were simple, their costliness was evident in the cut and lay of the fabric, fine linen with gold and silk stitching. Beyond his luxurious attire and trappings, the prelate didn’t strike her as a particularly impressive figure. But as he approached, Josey shifted in her seat under the arresting gaze of his cobalt eyes.

Four hierarchs of the Church and an equal number of underpriests, resplendent in scintillating white robes, surrounded the prelate. Lady Philomena walked beside His Holiness to the center of the hall, where she left to take her seat with the other ministers. One hierarch approached the foot of the dais. Josey recognized him by his slick black hair and hooked nose. Hubert had warned her about Archpriest Gaspar, the prelate’s mouthpiece.

The archpriest inclined his head. “I present His Luminance, Innocence the First, Patriarch of the True Faith, Supreme Servant of the Light.”

Josey didn’t know what they expected her to do. Bow to the man? Grovel at his feet? She remained in her throne and tried to present a calm face, but inside she seethed. Just the sight of the man made her relive the harrowing days when she and Caim had been hunted by the Church’s minions. She would never trust them again. Hubert saved her by stepping forward.

“The empress greets you, Prelate Innocence. We received no word that Your Luminance would be attending court this day.”

“His Illustrious Radiance—”

The prelate held up a finger, and the nuncio fell silent. Innocence cast a beatific smile at Josey.

“Daughter, I have come this day to forge a new relationship between this body and the True Church of the Holy Prophet.”

Josey cleared her throat and tried to hold back her indignation. “You said something as you entered, Luminance.”

“Yes, Daughter. It would be unwise to make overtures of peace to the godless heathens of the east.” His gaze slid to Hubert. “I would caution you not to be guided by the artifices of the Horned One, but to cleave unto the Church as a wife to a husband. Only in this way shall you find the wisdom you seek.”

Josey didn’t know whether to be offended or disgusted by his words. Hubert held his hands by his sides, but Josey could see he was agitated, too.

“I beg Your Holiness’s pardon,” she said, “but the empire faces dire threats here at home. The continuation of the war in the east is no longer possible.”

“All things,” the prelate intoned,” are possible through the Light, Daughter.”

Josey wanted to retch. “What does the Light say about the thousands of young men who have died overseas and will never see their homeland again?”

Prelate Innocence regarded her with an expression partway between contempt and amusement. “Sacrifices made in the name of the Almighty are never in vain. We urge you to pray, Daughter, as the faithful pray for the salvation of your eternal soul.”

Josey felt the first strains of an oncoming headache. A fantasy had begun in her imagination, of this flawlessly clean prelate being dipped by his ankles into a vat of pig feces. It brought a smile to her lips, but she missed part of the lecture.

“—people are up in arms,” the prelate said. “They decry the scandalous way the True Church has been shut out from its rightful place as the spiritual sovereign of this nation.”

Hubert opened his mouth, but this time Josey didn’t give him the chance. This was too much.

“The Church,” she said, pitching her words loud enough to be heard throughout the chamber, “does not rule any longer.”

If he was embarrassed by her admonishment, the prelate did not show it. “Daughter, if you do not—”

“Your Majesty.”

Prelate Innocence blinked. “Pardon?”

“You will,” she said, more firmly, “address us as Your Majesty, or Your Highness.”

The prelate held her gaze for a long moment. Once, perhaps, she might have bowed before that penetrating stare, but she was not a child anymore. She was the mother of a nation and she would receive her due respect.

After what seemed like ages, the holy man dipped his head a fraction of an inch. “Yes, Majesty. Have I your leave to continue?”

“You do, Your Holiness.”

“If Your Majesty does not heed the advice of the Church, this city will tear itself asunder.”

That sounds suspiciously like a threat. Be careful, Innocence, lest your visage of impartiality slip away entirely.

“What does Your Holiness suggest?” Hubert asked.

Josey could have kicked her lord chancellor, but she understood the game he was playing. Placate the Church by pretending to consider its position, but continue doing what needed to be done.

“First,” the prelate said, “the holy war must not be halted, not for a single day. In fact, new efforts must be made to bring the pagans of the east to the Light. Only in this way can the blessings of the Almighty be restored to the nation.”

Josey ground her teeth together until she thought they might shatter.

“Second, the empress must subjugate herself before the Church. Publicly.”

Josey almost jumped to her feet at those words, but Hubert glanced back with a soothing expression. Her nails dug into the wood of the throne’s arms. Why not request that I parade down the Processional naked and prostrate myself before the cathedral doors?

“Third, an army must be sent north.”

Josey perked up at that pronouncement. She tried not to give away her sudden interest, but it was difficult. Fortunately, the prelate explained himself before she needed to ask.

“There are strange happenings in the northern states,” he said. “Though they be barbarians, the people of those lands are still children of God and must be protected from the temptations of their baser natures.”

Josey didn’t believe the explanation for a minute, but she kept that to herself. She wanted to know what was happening in the north as much as anyone.

“These,” the prelate concluded, “must be done before the people of Othir can regain their trust in the crown.”

Josey didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t believe the gall of the man to march into her palace and make such demands.

“Thank you, Your Luminance,” Hubert said. “Any assistance offered in these tumultuous times is gladly received.”

Josey glared at the back of her lord chancellor’s head, but she kept her mouth closed before she said something irrevocable. She continued to fume as Hubert kissed the prelate’s ring like a lapdog looking for a treat. When the ring was turned toward her, Josey looked up at the ceiling and pretended she didn’t see it. The view of the Church’s frescoes above her throne only served to worsen her mood. Fortunately, the prelate took the hint and turned away, leading his entourage out the doors. Josey managed to hold onto her temper. Just barely.

“We shall retire,” she announced to the hall. “Good day, my lords.”

She descended the dais, and Hubert fell in step behind her. Josey made it all the way to the hallway outside the great hall before she erupted.

“How could you?” she demanded, raising her fist like a weapon. Her temples were throbbing now, which only added to her indignation. “How could you smile in that pig’s insolent face and tell him we would consider his outrageous demands? You might not have any pride left, but you represent me when you stand in that court!”

To his credit, Hubert stood mute and took her assault. He did not flinch, nor did he argue. Finally, Josey ran out of invectives to launch at him. Then, as she stood panting in the middle of the corridor, with her bodyguards studiously looking away, Hubert made a solemn nod.

“If my service fails to satisfy—” he began.

“Don’t start that again!” she said. “Just explain what you were doing in there.”

“Protecting you, Majesty.”

She stared at him for a long moment. “Yes, of course you were. I’m sorry, Hubert. I’ve just … got a lot on my mind.”

“No apology is required. I understand, and I think you’re holding up quite well under the circumstances.”

“Thank you.” She appreciated that. Sometimes she felt she was all alone in this huge stone palace. It was nice to be reminded she had friends close by. All of a sudden, she missed Anastasia.

He smiled, half shy and half roguish, and for a moment the old carefree Hubert stood before her. Then he cleared his throat and the mien of the lord chancellor fell back into place.

“We cannot afford to incite the new prelate, Majesty. Not with the streets in chaos. The Church could make things even more difficult.”

“How?”

“Some citizens have taken up refuge in the churches. The priests …”

She began to see the problem. “They’re using this opportunity to say things. Things about me.”

“I’ve heard accounts of sermons about demons walking the streets and the end of the world.”

Josey glanced over his shoulder to the tapestries on the corridor wall. “And they blame these things on me.”

“Yes, Majesty. I could go to DiVecci and make your imperial displeasure known to the hierarchs.”

She wanted to let him go, with a hundred soldiers at his back. She would have liked that, but they couldn’t afford a confrontation now. Hubert knew as much, but the offer was kind. Josey winced as a sharp pain stabbed her forehead. She staggered, for a moment losing her balance. Hubert grabbed her by the arms.

“Majesty?” He looked to the guards. “Get the empress’s doctor. Hurry!”

“No,” she tried to say, but it came out in a whisper.

She felt queer, as if she had drunk too much wine and couldn’t find her balance. The hallway seemed abnormally warm all of a sudden. One horrifying thought shot through her mind. Have I been poisoned?

Cool wind rushed across her face as she felt herself being carried. She reached out to touch soft cloth. She tried to grab hold of it and pull herself up, but her fingers wouldn’t work. Her world drifted into darkness.

Caim, they’ve killed me. Caim, come back….

The darkness closed around Caim. Here, nothing existed. No pain, no sorrow. Only the dark, and the solace it brought.

A spell of vertigo twisted his insides as he was spat out into the frigid night. A mountain of white flashed before his eyes as he fell. The warm body in his arms started to slip away, but he grabbed tight onto her as his shoulder hit the ground hard enough to make him grunt. Cradling Liana against his chest, he felt the cool cushion of snow against his face.

He opened his eyes with care. They were lying between several evergreen trees. The night sky turned above them, the light from a handful of stars painful to his eyes. He exhaled the breath he’d been holding. I guess it worked.

He hadn’t been sure it would. The first and only time he’d tried to transport himself through the shadows had been on the roof of the palace in Othir while fighting Levictus. He didn’t know how he did what he did, but it worked. And now again, as easy as falling off a mountain.

Caim blinked as his eyes recovered from their sensitivity. His body ached all over, like he had been sewn up in a canvas bag and beaten with clubs. But after a few deep breaths the strength began to return to his arms and legs. Moving slowly, he laid Liana flat on the ground and slipped his arm from under her. She didn’t appear to have suffered any further injury from the abrupt nature of their transportation.

The snow came to his knees as he stood up. Trees extended all around them for as far as he could see through their branches, save in one direction—east if his bearings were right. There, a gentle slope allowed him a view of a great expanse of woods extending to a broad, white plain. In the distance loomed the gray walls of the city. It must have been eight or nine leagues away. Not quite where I was aiming, but it could be worse.

But now he had to decide what to do next. Where should they go? Back into the city was out of the question. The streets would be crawling with patrols in force. That left either heading to the old manor house where the outlaws had originally convened, or remaining here and hoping someone found them before they froze to death. Neither option did much to raise his spirits.

Caim knelt beside Liana in the snow. Her eyelids fluttered as one of her hands came up to her head. He caught it before she touched the injury.

“Easy,” he said. “You’ve taken a nasty hit.”

Liana focused on his face, and for a moment Caim was taken to another time and place, only he had been the one on his back, opening his eyes to see someone leaning over him. They’re nothing alike, Josey and this girl, and yet …

Biting back on feelings he didn’t want to dwell on, Caim helped her sit up.

“What happened?” she asked. “Where’s Keegan?”

“We’re safe, a few miles from the city. And Keegan is with the others.”

She looked around, then winced as the movement tugged at the wound to her head. “I don’t see anyone.”

“No, we’re alone.”

Should he tell her how they’d gotten here? Better not. She’d probably run off screaming through the woods.

“I don’t understand.”

“It’s okay. But we need to start moving.”

She was shaking. Caim wrapped his cloak around her and started to pick her up, but she reached out to stop him.

“I can walk.”

“Be still,” he said, a little gruffer than he intended, but it worked.

She let him lift her. His arm burned with the effort, but she was light. Probably undernourished. Times have been harder up here than anyone realized.

“Point the way back to the old house,” he said.

“They won’t go there.”

“Good. Then where?”

She looked up at the sky. They stood like that, her lying in his arms, until his leg started to ache.

“Liana, if you—”

“The castle.” Steam wreathed her mouth as she exhaled. “That’s where they’ll go.”

“All right. Which way?”

She pointed west, and Caim started walking through the snow. Crystals of ice flew into his face, and the buzzing had taken up residence in the back of his head again. Northward, it tugged him, always northward. What awaited him there? Whatever it was, it would have to wait. There were mysteries enough right here, and he intended to get to the bottom of them. What had happened to Kit, for one. He needed to find her, but how? Was her disappearance connected to the buzzing he felt coming from the north?

Uncertainties spun around in his head as he marched deeper into the hills with the girl cradled in his arms.

The blizzard came out of the north. The few stars visible in the overcast sky flickered and went out as the snowfall thickened and fierce winds howled through the trees. Visibility dropped to mere yards, and then to nothing.

Caim stopped in the lee of a large oak tree, with the snow piling up around his legs. His arms and lower back ached from carrying Liana for the better part of the night. She had drifted into unconsciousness sometime before midnight, and now he feared for her recovery. With a head wound, out in the cold, her chances were dwindling. And he had no idea where they were. Bowing his head against the oncoming wind, he set off again.

As he trudged through the snow, his thoughts returned to the prison, and the woman at the gate. Eyes dark as the ocean depths, long hair like spun filaments of onyx; he couldn’t shake them from his mind. But even as he turned her looks over and around in his head, everything he knew screamed that she could not be his mother. All his good memories from his childhood, all the love he’d felt, revolved around his mother. His father had been a firm influence, a hard man and stern, difficult for a child to understand. But his mother had been his entire world. That she could change so much … it was unthinkable.

What of me? Would she recognize the man her son had become? And if she did, would she even care?

He’d made hard choices in his life, choices that had led him down a path of bloodshed and fear. What mother would be proud to call him son? Better to have no son at all than a cold-blooded killer with nothing to show for his life except a parade of corpses.

Burdened by his thoughts, Caim made it another candlemark or so before he couldn’t go on any farther. His legs were stiff, his feet were numb, and he had long since lost his sense of direction. They could be marching in circles for all he knew. He gazed down at Liana, nestled against his chest. They had to get out of this weather.

Looking around, he sought out the tallest tree. He walked about two hundred paces before he found one that would suit. Setting Liana down in a drift, he used his arms to carve out a cave under the lowest branches. He dug until he reached the ground and then he went back out to retrieve his charge. He laid her at the back of the little den and used his body to block out the wind. Caim reached for the pouch at his belt, intending to try to start a fire from the sodden needles, but his fingers were frozen into claws, and he was too tired to make the effort. He collapsed on the cold ground and closed his eyes. Just for a moment.

A voice came to him in the quiet of the night, recalling a voice from a long time ago.

It was late and he was supposed to be sleeping, but the shapes crawling across the ceiling of his room were too interesting. Where was his friend? She usually came around when he was alone, to play with him or sing songs, or tell him stories. He liked her stories best of all. He didn’t really understand them, but they filled him with wonder and a desire to see what lay beyond the woods and fields of his home.

The door opened. He heard its creak distinctly even though he couldn’t see over the side of his cradle. He listened. Then a mass of dark hair blocked out the ceiling. Its tendrils cascaded over him, full of his mother’s smell. He reached up, but she caught his wrists. He giggled, hoping she would pick him up, but a pillow came down over his face. He batted to knock it aside, but his laughter turned to a muffled gasp as the plush surface filled his nose and mouth. He couldn’t breathe. He hit the pillow again and again, but it wouldn’t move. He was too small. His tears wet the underside of the cushion, mashed against his face. I’ll be good, Momma! I’ll be—

Caim jerked upright, his chest constricting with the need to breathe. He gasped as cold air hit his lungs. The tugging sensation throbbed in the back of his head. He took deep breaths until it faded to a dull buzz.

It was dark. Turning, he looked out through the narrow tunnel. Snow was still falling, but not as heavy as before, and the wind had died down. Then he heard something else. A keening moan, like an animal, or perhaps a woman’s cry. Caim froze. Just the wind playing tricks on me—

The moan rose again, louder this time, and nearer, as if it came from right outside the shelter. It was definitely a woman. Caim started to poke his head out, but a faint voice stopped him.

“Stay.”

Caim leaned down over Liana. “What?”

“Don’t go.” She swallowed with some trouble. “The voice. Not real. A lure …”

Caim scooped a handful of snow from the wall and placed a pinch on her lips. Liana sucked it into her mouth greedily. As he fed her more, the lonely moan rose again outside the shelter. What awaited him out there? The answer lodged in his gut, even though he didn’t want to acknowledge it.

Liana wrapped her fingers around his hand. Her eyes were half closed and lined in purple smudges. Looking down at her, he let his gaze trace the soft contours of her lips and imagined how soft they would feel. Her gaze was frank as she reached up and touched his face. It would be easy to fall for her, to lose himself in her eyes and her body, and banish his personal demons for one night. The passion stirred in his blood, so similar to the killing rage.

Caim eased back on his heels. Liana frowned, but didn’t say anything. He was grateful for that, because he didn’t know what he would do if she pressed the issue. Run out into the snow like a coward and freeze to death most likely.

With a sigh, Caim settled down behind her and wrapped an arm around her middle. She didn’t protest, and he tried to think about the snow—cool, cool snow—as she scooted back against him. The wind battered their tiny shelter. He and she were maybe the only living souls for miles, lost in the middle of a trackless wood, but as long as they lived there was hope. He let that thought warm him as he pulled his damp cloak over them. Things were spinning beyond his control. Everything had been simple before he got himself entangled with these amateur insurrectionists, and now he was having a difficult time cutting free of them. Every time he tried to walk away, some new obstacle crept onto his path. Is this payback for all the evil I’ve done in my life? Kit, where are you?

Outside, the voice had ceased its lament.