CHAPTER ONE

Palace of Aqhat, Isembaard

I shbel stood on the deck of the riverboat under a gently undulating canvas canopy, using all of her self-control to present a calm, confident exterior, yet horribly aware that her constantly shifting eyes revealed her anxiety.

The long, slow, comfortable river journey had reached its conclusion. In the early hours of the morning the boat had docked at the wharf of the palace of the Tyrant of Isembaard, and now, midmorning, she was to disembark and meet, finally, her captor and the man who planned to destroy all the kingdoms north of the FarReach Mountains. She had dreamed the previous night of the Lord of Elcho Falling again, the dream more vivid and terrifying than ever, and she thought it boded ill for today.

She was dressed in the Isembaardian fashion for the day. She’d been wearing only her nightclothes when Ba’al’uz had snatched her, and for the terrible journey through the FarReach Mountains she’d been given only rough and functional garments. Once she’d fallen into the care of Axis, Ishbel’s wardrobe improved, but had still been largely functional.

At breakfast, a servant had appeared, carrying over his arms a thick swathe of soft linen, saying that it was a gift from the tyrant, and he would be pleased if she were to wear it on this day.

Ishbel dressed hesitantly, unwilling to accept the gift, yet at the same moment glad of the opportunity to wear something elegant, comfortable, and flattering to her ever expanding figure. She did not know if Isaiah was aware of her pregnancy (had Axis sent word? Had he left the boat secretly, and met with Isaiah?), but the robe of heavy white linen, draping softly from a wide collar of multicolored glass beads that covered her shoulders and upper chest and back, flattered both her coloring and pregnancy, and in the warm humid air was far more comfortable than something more closely fitted.

The tyrant, Isaiah, was clearly determined to make a grand showing for her.

The riverboat was the only vessel docked at the expansive stone wharf. The wharf was empty of all the paraphernalia Ishbel would have expected: crates, ropes, casks, bundles of sails, fishing nets. Instead, the vast area of cream stone had been swept and scrubbed free of any stain so that it reflected an almost blinding white light in the strong sunshine. Spear-wielding soldiers, dressed only in white linen hipwraps, sandals and glittering copper helmets, lined the wharf in three rows, creating an avenue that stretched back at least two hundred paces to the gates in the palace walls.

Further rows of armed men lined the tops of the palace walls.

Aqhat glittered with the fire of copper and the lightning flashes of steel.

Ishbel was not sure if this display was meant to impress her or to intimidate her, but she had to confess to herself that if Isaiah had aimed for intimidation, then he’d managed it very well. The only thing that spoiled the perfect stillness of the men, and the symmetry of their display, was an ugly brindle dog that trotted slowly behind one of the lines.

The day was going to be hot. The air was very still, and, save for the gentle lapping of water against the riverboat’s hull, it was completely silent.

Nothing moved. Ishbel had been standing here now for at least half an hour and not once had any of the armed men moved.

There was just the glittering light and ever-increasing heat.

And Ishbel’s own ever-increasing apprehension.

“What is this, Axis?” she said, very low, turning her face only slightly toward Axis, who stood to her left and just behind her. “Why this display?”

Axis was clothed in clean shirt and trousers, his boots finely polished, his hair freshly washed and his beard trimmed close to his jawline. Among all this exotic landscape and peoples, he at least reminded her of the land of her birth.

He gave a small shrug at her question. “Isaiah must be bored,” he said, “or perhaps, now that he is gathering his men for an invasion, he needs some duty to occupy the ever-increasing forces. A spot of ceremonial duty in the scorching sun will surely keep them out of mischief for the day.”

“What does he want with me?” Ishbel hissed, unable to keep the anxiety from her voice.

“Not much, Ishbel,” Axis said. “Remember that this was not his idea, but Ba’al’uz’. No doubt Isaiah wishes to impress you, but, the instant he sees that belly, any vague interest he may have in the idea of taking Maximilian’s wife as his own bride will vanish in a rush of disagreeable revulsion. I am willing to wager that you will see him this morning, and then you’ll barely ever see him again. He’ll be no danger to you, Ishbel. Don’t worry. Just enjoy the day. If nothing else, the Isembaardians know how to put on a display.”

“Are you well, Ishbel?” said Zeboath softly from a few paces behind her. “You have been standing here for a time now, and the air is hot, even if we are shaded from the sun.”

“I am well enough, Zeboath,” Ishbel said, turning and smiling a little for him. “I haven’t been too—”

Distant trumpets sounded, and Ishbel jerked her face back toward the palace gates.

They had opened, and a single figure emerged.

There was a sudden rush of sound as, in perfect harmony, every soldier lining wharf, avenue, and palace walls thrust his spear into the air.

The ugly brindle dog scampered off, his tail between his legs.

Ishbel drew in a quick breath, holding it an uncomfortably long time until she remembered to breathe again.

The man walking down the center of the avenue was as yet too distant for Ishbel to make out features, but amid all this glittering array and bright light, he appeared not only a man of considerable height and strength, but singularly dark. There was a mass of braided hair that swung over his shoulders and back, and the braids shimmered with each movement, as if he had diamonds threaded through them. He wore a black hipwrap and sandals, and little else save for a massive golden collar that draped over his shoulders and upper chest.

Golden bands shone at his wrists and ankles.

He strode ever closer, every movement measured and confident, and Ishbel saw that he wore no weapon.

All about him were weaponed, but Isaiah was confident enough of his power that he felt no need to arm himself.

When he’d come to within fifty paces of the docked boat, the men lining avenue and walls began to repeatedly thrust their spears into the air with extraordinary and almost graceful coordination, shouting their tyrant’s name as he strode among them.

“Isaiah! Isaiah! Isaiah!”

Ishbel had to use every ounce of her self-control to keep her hands relaxed at her sides and her head held high.

“Be calm, Ishbel,” Axis murmured. “This is a game, nothing else.”

Isaiah now came to a halt ten or fifteen paces from the walkway connecting boat to wharf.

Ishbel had never seen any man—or woman, come to that—who commanded so much authority. He dazzled and intimidated with an easy command of that authority, and Ishbel thought that the Northern Kingdoms had very little chance indeed, if this man had set his mind to them.

“Ishbel,” Axis murmured, holding out his arm for her.

She took it and, with thankfully confident steps, proceeded down the walkway to meet the Tyrant of Isembaard.

She noticed the instant he saw her belly. Something crossed his striking face, a shadow of disgust, probably, and Ishbel relaxed very slightly.

He would not bother her. He would set her aside in a chamber, and forget her.

Close up, Isaiah was taller and stronger than Ishbel had first thought. He was very handsome, and radiated such confidence and power that, despite her relief, Ishbel remained completely intimidated.

He regarded her with the steady black gaze of a hawk, his face now completely expressionless, his thoughts utterly closed to Ishbel.

Again as one, the troops fell silent, placing their spears back at their sides.

“Isaiah,” Axis said, in what seemed to Ishbel to be a fantastically relaxed voice. “I have the honor to present to you Ishbel, Queen of Escator.” His voice thickened with humor. “Your new bride.”

“A somewhat used bride,” Isaiah said, his voice devoid of any emotion, yet somehow managing to convey the utmost contempt.

All Ishbel’s fear, intimidation, and nervousness vanished in a moment of blinding, consuming anger.

She stepped forward before any could stop her, and dealt the Tyrant of Isembaard a stinging slap across the face.