Emissary (44 page)

‘I betrayed you.’ He was desperately grasping at straws, anything to stop her from speaking the truth, and showing him so clearly for the duplicitous person he was.

She touched his long hair, a tear escaping down her cheek as he closed his eyes for fear that he might just reach for her and never be able to let go. ‘I know now that the betrayal you speak of was not of your own making. Zafira and Ellyana created the deception, not you. I can see how sick you’ve been. Sick enough to no longer have the strength to dye your hair and keep running from the person you are. A Galinsean prince.’ She shook her head, seemingly still unable to fully digest the truth. ‘This colour suits you more.’

‘This is dangerous, we can’t,’ he said, unable to finish for the rush of longing that engulfed him, rendering him helpless beneath her fingers that had now moved to caress his soft beard.

‘We might never have another chance,’ she said, shocking him further with her reckless, suddenly mature approach. He tried to tell himself that she was shy, reluctant, that the loneliness of her life and Jumo’s death had provoked her into seeking out the one person who might understand, but the truth was he knew Ana had always been precocious and wise beyond her years. And she was not shy, far from it. She had registered his desire from the first moment they had met and although she hadn’t fuelled it, she had certainly accepted and welcomed it in her quiet, guarded way.

‘When you were flogged for me, do you know you told me you loved me?’ she breathed near his ear, sending fresh currents of fear and lust racing through him.

‘I was dying,’ he groaned in a last-ditch effort of denial.

‘No, you were honest. It was the one occasion I have seen your emotions bared, your expression so free of disguise. You knew you were as good as dead and so it didn’t matter any more and you released the truth of what was in your mind.’

He tried once more. ‘I don’t remember.’

She pulled his chin around, forcing him to face her. ‘I remember it so clearly I clung to it for all
these moons as my touchstone. I kept my veil, spattered with your blood, as a means of keeping you alive for me. And before you succumbed I told you I loved you back, Lazar. And unlike you, I never lie to those I love,’ and she leaned close and touched her soft lips to his.

Lazar, Spur of Percheron, mustered all the courage he had left inside and pushed her back. It took all of his willpower, for he wanted her so badly, he knew he could not fend her off again. ‘Please, don’t do this,’ he beseeched. It was more of a warning.

Ana shook her head sadly. ‘It is done,’ she whispered and this time when she leant towards him there was no resistance. He had nothing left to ward her off with; no more weapons to fight her with, no more armour to shield himself with.

And so he yielded.

He pulled her close and returned her kiss with such passion that starry explosions winked and blinked behind his closed eyelids, his hands cupping her face in his effort to own her. And then, as the moon once again slipped behind the clouds, Lazar surrendered wholly to her warmth that banished the cold whipping at their bared bodies, and to her brightness that burned like a golden fire within him. He knew no other thought but Ana for what felt an eternity; had familiarised himself with every inch of her young, velvet-like skin, kissing it and making her laugh throatily as he mumbled, ‘This bit belongs to me.’
He had not heard Ana laugh like that before and would never know that neither had she. It was the sound of sunshine and calm seas, of blue skies and heavy-scented blossom. It was happiness, it was fulfilment, it was satisfaction, all in one. He told her this and she accused him of sounding like one of Pez’s nonsense rhymes. And as finally their lovemaking subsided into a languorous, sensuous quiet that wrapped itself around entangled limbs, she stroked his damaged back and he lulled her off to sleep humming a Galinsean lullaby.

Lazar, however, did not sleep. He wrapped her nakedness with his robe and wanted to beg the night’s frost to kill him, for if he could not have this moment again, he would sooner die. His melodramatic thoughts eased as time passed slowly and he chose instead to memorise the curves and planes of her face, so childlike in repose. She breathed softly, a wisp of her hair rising and falling with those breaths, and he gently touched her belly in aching jealousy, wondering whether it carried an heir to Percheron.

She stirred at his touch, stretched slowly, sensually, and smiled at him. ‘How long have I slept?’

‘Long enough here,’ he murmured reluctantly. ‘You must go back to the royal tent.’

She began to object but he placed his finger over her mouth. ‘We have put Pez at risk enough. If you are missed he must warn you.’

She nodded and sat up. ‘I hadn’t thought that I’d put him in danger. You’re right, Tariq sleeps lightly.’

‘And Mal…er, Tariq, he—’

‘You wanted to say Maliz, am I right? So you believe this tale that I am Lyana?’

He shrugged and she could see no guile in his gesture. ‘I don’t know what to believe, Ana. Pez believes it.’

‘Earnestly,’ she said sadly. ‘But I think he’s going to be disappointed.’

Lazar nodded. ‘So do I. If you were who he thinks you are, then the Grand Vizier would have already made his move.’

‘And how do we know that Tariq is Maliz anyway?’

‘Ah, well, I think in this respect Pez has some argument. I have known Tariq for almost a decade or more. This is not the Tariq of fifteen moons ago. This is entirely a different man, who looks the same and has the same tone of voice but doesn’t even use the same words or mannerisms that Tariq did. I am a keen observer of people and although most would not pick up on the subtle changes, I have—even in the short time I have been with the new Tariq.’

‘So you believe in Maliz, his existence, I mean?’

He nodded. ‘Yes, and as firmly as I believe in Iridor’s existence—I have seen Pez as himself and as the owl. The magic is real.’

She frowned. ‘Maliz did touch me.’

‘Which is why I don’t believe you are Lyana. Poor Pez.’

‘He keeps telling me that you are involved too.’

He grimaced. ‘I don’t see how. I think once he discovers the real Lyana, he’ll forget about us.’

‘Who can she be?’

‘If she is at all,’ he warned.

‘Ellyana is real. She obviously believes Lyana rises.’

‘Yes, none of it makes sense,’ he admitted. He sighed as he unfurled his arm from around her. ‘Time will tell.’

‘Lazar.’

‘Yes?’ he replied, distracted in pulling her robe over her shoulders, keen to get them both dressed and out of danger of discovery.

‘I have loved you since you came down that incline to our hut and laid claim to me.’

‘Ana, you are so young, you have—’

‘Don’t. Tell me the truth. There are no witnesses, just us.’

He stood, robed himself and then pulled her to her feet, taking the long pause as some precious time to formulate the words he had wanted to say to her since that same moment when his very breathing felt as though it had been arrested at the sight of her. He also remembered Jumo’s dying words—owed it to his beloved friend to honour that request.

‘I have known what I thought was love only once before. It brought nothing but grief. But what I feel for you I now realise is true love because it never stops hurting.’ He kissed her hand. ‘But if this is all we can have, then I take the pain and I thank all the gods of the world for giving me this time with you. Yes, I love you, Ana, I always have and I will continue to do so from a distance until I take my last breath. You never need to doubt me.’

He allowed her to throw herself once again into his arms and they remained in that embrace, fighting back their tears, for several minutes before he disentangled himself. ‘What we have had, no-one will ever take from us. I wish I’d had more courage to resist you so that neither of us need feel such loss, but I will never regret these hours and I thank you for giving me the gift of yourself.’

Before she could speak again, he pushed her towards the camp. ‘Now go, I beg you. Return as silently as you came.’

‘And you?’

‘Soon, I promise.’

He watched her retreat down the dune until he lost her into the darkness before he turned his back on her and wept. He had lied to her. He was not grateful, for the fleeting gift of herself was a curse and it would haunt him forever with an unrelenting taunt of what he had tasted but never would again.

And something else. The voices were back and calling strongly to him now. He heard them more clearly at this moment than he had ever heard them previously. Until now they had sounded distant, unintelligible, as if muffled. Now, as Ana left him, they rumbled clearly in his mind.

Release us, Lazar,
they called to him.

In his ire, in his understanding that Ana had given herself to him once and once only, in his fury at losing Jumo in such helpless circumstances, and at his sense that this whole journey was one of hopelessness, he asked the same question he had previously but this time he demanded an answer:

Tell me who you are or leave me alone!

He hadn’t expected a response and when it came he wished he had never posed the angry question.

I am Beloch.

I am Ezram.

I am Crendel.

I am Darso.

I am
…the list continued, all names of the mythical creatures of the Stone City of Percheron that he had always admired.

Maliz stirred. He had never been a deep sleeper but these hot days and cool desert nights, as well as all the fresh air and constant activity, were combining to ensure he slept far more soundly than he could ever remember. Still, something
had disturbed him, and as he lay in his small, suffocating tent, he considered what could have woken him. There were no sounds outside, save the gentle spit and crackle of the fire. It would be out by morning and no doubt Lazar would be sending people all over to scour for anything combustible. He had already warned that they may have to live from now on without warmth at night or any heated food. The Spur had urged the Elim to cook up stocks of flatbread in case the lack of fire material became reality.

Maliz shook his head clear of the mundane—he was really beginning to think like a man, he berated himself—and focused on what had disrupted his sleep. He had been enjoying these cool desert nights of slumber but had also learned long ago to trust his instincts. If there had been no sharp noise to awaken him, what had shaken him from pleasant dreams? And now that he thought about it, he had not come to from his unconscious state gradually. He had been woken abruptly. He had simply opened his eyes in shock as if reacting to a loud noise or a nudge.

He knew it was useless trying to probe. Imprisoned so completely within Tariq he had none of his magics to call upon. He almost wished he could inhabit some old wretch again, one of those temporary, disposable hosts he used in his dormancy—simply to have the freedom to range outside of his body, just once even. But no, he had committed to the Grand Vizier and so he
had to rely on wit and cunning…and touch, until Lyana herself had risen and provided his power.

And that’s where this thought dwelled. Lyana. Had something occurred with her that had somehow fractured the status quo of the present spiritual world? She could not have risen or he would instantly feel his magic quicken within him. And yet something niggled; something he couldn’t latch on to, as if it hovered at the periphery of his vision. He sat up, shaking himself fully from the dozy sense of comfort beneath his blanket, and tried to pay attention to what was ranging through his mind.

Lyana.
He tracked back through past centuries. Her rising had always triggered the same response—a violent one—an arrival of his magic that made him suck in air as though gasping for his last breath or as if someone had punched him hard in the belly. But Lyana’s rising had not woken him or he would be feeling the effects and the orgasmic sensation of his powers coming fully to him. And yet this disturbance had the hallmarks of Lyana. It was abrupt, it had not announced itself and now it remained hidden. He desperately wanted to believe it signalled her rising but he remained impotent, so it couldn’t be.

Now he did hear a soft footfall outside and quickly pulled back his tent flap, all of his frustration poured into the action.

Ana jumped. ‘Oh, you scared me, Grand Vizier.’

He frowned. ‘What are you doing, Zaradine?’

‘Relieving myself,’ she said airily, her expression suggesting it was none of his business. ‘I had hoped not to disturb anyone. I’m sorry I woke you.’

He considered. ‘Did you make a noise?’

She frowned in thought.

Maliz tried to sound more friendly. ‘It’s just that something did wake me, and I was trying to work out what it was.’

She gave a sheepish shrug, all but her eyes hidden behind her veil. ‘Forgive me, I did trip over your tent rope on my way to that dune,’ she lied as she pointed to the near distance. ‘I’m so sorry.’

He waved his hand towards her. ‘It is nothing to forgive.’ He yawned. ‘I was just enjoying a nice dream, I think, and was sad to be pulled from it.’

She giggled softly in pretend amusement. ‘Can you remember your dreams? I rarely can.’

‘I remember everything, Zaradine. In this one I was a god, with immense power, and I had just persuaded a horde of beautiful nymphs to visit my mountain palace in the sky.’

In the dying glow of the fire, he noticed her eyes widen slightly at his words. Possibly she was shocked by the image he described, or was it the mention that he was a god? He noticed the hesitation before the smooth answer. ‘And now you tease me, Grand Vizier.’

He smiled indulgently and for good measure touched her arm. Nothing! This girl was definitely not Lyana. ‘I do. Actually, I was an old man, chasing after a rather lovely young creature who was understandably running with all her might from me.’

He saw her eyes reflect soft amusement now. ‘I think you’re far more charming and attractive than you give yourself credit, Grand Vizier. There would be plenty of women, I’m sure, who would find you irresistible.’