Bride by Command (22 page)

“That’s Cayse Trinity. He works for me.” Trinity was her most deadly and trusted assassin, a man who could never die, a man who considered it his privilege to send those whose time had come to their reward, whatever that reward might be. Kristo insisted that some of the potential brides Rikka had ordered killed had survived, but Rikka suspected Lady Leyla had not been among those who’d escaped death. She smiled at the ageless silver-haired man as he dismounted and stalked toward her.

He didn’t look happy. Perhaps he had gone to her house looking for the second payment for his services, and was annoyed that he’d found her gone and had to track her down in order to get paid. No, he was not at all happy. Rikka’s smile faded. Was he talking to himself?

Kristo shouted, but it was too late. In a movement almost too quick for the eye to follow, Trinity drew his knife and thrust it into Rikka’s stomach. The entire long, sharp blade was inside her, having pierced her elegant black dress and cut her insides to ribbons. Blood bloomed quickly but she did not fall, as Trinity held her up with one arm and the knife itself.

“You did not tell me she was a witch,” Trinity whispered. “You should’ve told me. Everything is ruined, now. Everything.”

Kristo pulled Trinity away from Rikka. The blade left her body and she dropped hard, having no control over her damaged body. The life was draining from her; she felt it. And yet she did possess the awareness to see that Kristo did to Trinity what he said he had done to Gyl. He directed one hand in the direction of the assassin, he pointed a slender finger, and in an instant the man and the ground around him turned into a dark green stone shot with what looked to be veins of crystal. She drew up her feet, afraid that she’d be caught up in the transformation and she, too, would turn to stone.

With Trinity taken care of, Kristo turned to Rikka. He looked annoyed at the turn of events, but not particularly displeased. And why should he be? She’d never fooled herself into believing that she meant anything to him.

“I would’ve stopped him sooner if you hadn’t insisted that he was your man.”

“He moved too fast,” Rikka said, looking down at the damage that had been done. “Am I dying?”

“Yes,” Kristo said without emotion. “Not quickly, but you will be dead by nightfall.” He turned to look at the statue in annoyance, then muttered, “Shut up.”

“I didn’t say anything,” Rikka said weakly.

“No, but he did. The bastard still lives in there, and I can hear his thoughts. That’s never happened before.”

“Trinity is . . . immortal,” Rikka said, gasping as speaking became more difficult. Her vision swam.

“Truly? We’ll see about that.” Kristo smiled, searching the ground for a moment and then bending down to pick up a sturdy limb which had fallen from a nearby tree. He hefted the limb in his hands before swinging it with all his might at the stone statue which had once been Rikka’s most trusted assassin. The wood splintered, but there was no damage to the assassin. None at all. Kristo swung again and again. He battered Trinity’s hard form until there wasn’t much left of the tree limb but splinters. The stone was unaffected.

Rikka could wish, a little, that Kristo’s anger had something to do with the fact that Trinity had killed her, but she knew better. He was simply irritated that his plans had to be altered to suit the new situation. He would no longer have her to lead him into the palace—not that she doubted he could find his own way in.

In frustration, Kristo kicked the stone figure Trinity had become. The statue fell to the ground with a thud, but did not break.

“Interesting,” Kristo said as he studied the fallen Trinity. “He should’ve shattered right away, and now it actually looks as if his fingers are beginning to turn back to flesh. Slowly and quite painfully, I’m happy to say.” He turned to face Rikka and dropped to his haunches beside her.

“He would have slit your throat, but he intended to torture you for some wrong you did to him. Something about a witch.”

Lady Leyla.

“He was so intent on you, I don’t think he ever saw me, not until it was too late.”

Rikka looked up at the cold man who had more power than any other she had ever known. “You can save me.”

“Perhaps I could, if I had the time, but alas, Arthes and my destiny call,” he said in an offhand manner. “I do wish I could stay, as there is much still to be decided. Will you still be living when your assassin regains the use of his body? Will he have the chance to torture you, as he plans, or will you disappoint him by dying before he can take his knife to you again? He will be so annoyed if he wakes and finds you already dead.” Kristo glanced back at the fallen man. “Oh, look, one hand is almost flesh again. How extraordinary. Usually those I turn to stone go to pieces quite easily. Like your Gyl. One good tap and he fell into more pieces than I could possibly count. Of course, like the others I have killed in that manner, he was already dead. At least, I think so. Do you think being shattered in such a way would be painful if there was, in fact, any life remaining?”

Tears filled Rikka’s eyes.

“If you have any romantic notion that Gyl will be awaiting you in the afterlife, I would set it aside. Knowing you both, I am quite certain that you’re headed to two different segments of the Land of the Dead. You might see me where you’re going, one of these days.” He patted her cheek. “No time soon, I hope.”

Rikka cut her eyes to the side and saw that Trinity was indeed changing. Most of his body remained stone, but his hands flexed and she saw a bit of silver hair flowing across the ground and catching the wind.

The loss of blood had weakened Rikka. If Kristo would help her onto her horse and take her to Arthes for proper medical care, she might be saved. He would not take her anywhere, of course. She had doomed herself the moment she’d chosen him over Gyl; she knew that now. Gyl would’ve moved heaven and earth to save her; Kristo cared for no one but himself. She should not be surprised. It wasn’t as if he had ever made secret of that fact.

“You could help me,” she said.

“There is no time, My Lady,” Kristo said without a care. “Arthes awaits. Besides, it would be cruel to rob your assassin of his revenge. According to the ramblings of his maddened mind, he seems to be most deserving of it.” He grinned. “I have always been a great supporter of revenge, as you well know.” He stood and brushed the dirt from his robe. “I do wish I could wait to see what happens next. Will you bleed to death before Trinity can exact his revenge? Will he find the satisfaction he seeks when he regains the use of his immortal body?”

Rikka licked her lips, suddenly and completely afraid. “Kill me,” she whispered weakly. “It is the least you can do after all we’ve meant to one another.”

Again, he smiled. “Lady Rikka, I do hope I never misled you. You mean nothing to me. Nothing at all.”

Kristo left her lying there and collected not only his horse but hers as well. He did not attempt to collect Trinity’s horse, which remained loyally nearby. Rikka tried to call him back to her but could not. She could only watch him ride away, taking the road to Arthes, finishing the journey she had begun so long ago.

When she was alone, she looked again at Trinity. His arms were flesh again, as was a portion of his legs. His face and torso remained stone, and he could not move much. Neither could she. With every drop of blood she shed, she grew weaker and closer to death.

The race was on.

EVEN
though Jahn missed their small room over the tavern, living in the palace had its advantages. Tonight, when the rain fell and lightning lit the sky, he did not have to run through the storm to get to Morgana. He did not have to protect her gift, which might be ruined by even one rain-drop.

“Do you like it?” He held up the gown he’d had made for her, a simple and elegant frock of a dark blue fabric that draped as softly as Morgana’s hair. There were no embellishments, no beads or feathers or gems. This gown was, like the woman who was meant to wear it, flawlessly elegant.

After another long day in the laundry, Morgana was tired. He wanted her to be busy; he wanted her to work if that was what she wanted to do, yet he hated to see her weary. Her eyes lit up at her first sight of the gown, and then she shook her head. “It’s too expensive, I’m sure. You should return it.”

“I can’t,” Jahn said, draping the gown across one of the dining chairs. “I bought it from a man who’d taken it in trade from another man whose wife didn’t like the color. It was a real steal, I tell you. It cost almost nothing.”

“Really?” Again, there was a light in her eyes.

He should’ve waited until he revealed his true identity before giving her lavish gifts, but she deserved so much more than he had given her so far. One gown was surely not too much.

Jahn sat on the other dining chair, near the one which now held the blue gown, and with a little encouragement Morgana joined him, perching on his knee. Perhaps he should be less entranced by her than he’d been when he’d first claimed her, but he was not. If anything, he wanted her more than ever. He began to unbutton her yellow dress.

“You should try the new dress on,” he said, “to see if it fits.”

“I’ve never had anything quite that color,” she said, looking at him, not the gown.

“It will shimmer against your skin,” he said, kissing her bare shoulder as he pushed the yellow sleeve down.

Without warning Morgana laughed out loud. “And where will I wear this fine shimmering dress? To the laundry? Perhaps to the market?”

Jahn did not laugh as he continued undressing her. “You will wear it for me, love.”

As he worked at the fastenings on her yellow gown, she pushed off his vest, then moved to his trousers to work on the ties there.

“Why are you undressing me?” he teased. “I don’t plan to try on any dress.”

“Neither do I.” She straddled him. “Not until much later.”

 

 

AS
he had for several previous nights, Rainer waited outside the door. The maids who always saw to her at night were gone, their job done. It wasn’t as if any of them remained any longer than was necessary. When Danya was certain no one was about, she invited him in. Since that first evening there had been no more crying jags, no more breakdowns, and he had never again asked her what was wrong or criticized her dress or makeup.

But he was there. In the secrecy of her room they talked about little things that had no meaning. What foods they liked, what season of the year was their favorite and why, which of the ministers’ daughters had the funniest laugh or the most bizarre fashion sense. And so on. He told her to call him Angelo, his given name, and sometimes she did. In public they never spoke. Deputy Rainer might nod to her in the dining hall, and she might do the same in his direction, but this friendship with Angelo—if that’s indeed what it was—was private. It was as secret as her deal with the hooded man.

Danya kept expecting Angelo to make demands, but he did not. He asked nothing of her. On occasion he’d kiss her on the forehead before he left her alone for the night, and on other occasions he simply bowed to her formally, as if she were already empress and he was her loyal servant.

Beyond this room, nothing had changed. Danya continued to assert herself with the palace residents. She continued to demand to be treated well, to demand only the best from all those around her. If she had truly thought to seduce the emperor, she’d been disappointed, since he was rarely about—and she’d had no time at all alone with him. That was just as well. The hooded man promised she’d be empress, so she left that chore to him.

She waited. She waited for the hooded man’s demands and the return of her son. And for a few precious nights, Angelo Rainer helped her to find and hold onto a bit of sanity, and for that she loved him. A little.

 

MORGANA
carried her midday meal—a large slice of bread with cheese and fruit, all wrapped in a square linen napkin, and a big mug of cider—outside the laundry room to sit and eat. It was too pretty a day to stay indoors. She wanted to breathe in the fresh air, and seeing the newly washed sheets whipping in the wind was somehow soothing. None of the other girls joined her on her outdoor excursion. In the early days she had hoped they might be interested in her beauty consulting business, but she’d quickly learned that they had other concerns. When they had the time to converse, they spoke of babies and grown children, of sewing and cooking, and, in Natties’s case, of the aches and pains that came with age.

Morgana enjoyed having a little time to herself, so she often stepped outside to eat alone. As was usual, one of Jahn’s friends happened along. Today it was Blane. She was not as naive as her husband seemed to think she was. Every day she ran into someone who insisted on walking with her to and from the laundry. Every day that she chose to eat outdoors, one of his friends happened by. Jahn was as protective as ever, and had asked these men to keep an eye on her when he could not. She might chastise him for being overly protective, but since his concern only proved that he cared, she did not.

“Hello, Blane,” she said cheerfully.

He nodded to her, respectful and a little shy.

“Would you join me?” She held out her napkin, showing him her meal. “There’s more here than I can possibly eat.”

“No thank you, My Lady,” he said with a crisp bow. “I have already eaten.”

She smiled at him and patted the ground beside her. “Sit with me, then, if you have the time. And stop calling me ‘My Lady.’ ”

He sighed at that request. After a moment’s hesitation he did sit, a few feet away. “How is the, uh, laundry?” he asked.

“Never ending,” Morgana said as she broke off a piece of bread and popped it into her mouth. “Tedious. Necessary.” She shrugged her shoulders. “It certainly doesn’t make for interesting conversation. How is your lovely wife?” She’d met Blane’s lady once, when he’d brought her to the tavern for a bit of advice on a rash on her shoulder. She was a nice woman, and as shy as Blane himself was.