The Empire (The Lover's Opalus) (5 page)

Chapter 7

On a gray but dry morning, the Emperor did not go to court. He did not visit kings or queens. He did not hear disputes. He did not go to the South for blood sport. Nor did he go west for Praytor the Unmanned’s Ascension. Instead, he asked Raeche to join him and the children for a light repast and recreation on the lawn to the East.

This day, she held her hands to her abdomen while watching Rucha and little Eynow swing in a dangerous contraption made of metal that groaned with each forward motion and looked as if it would cast them into the sky. The sound of it caused her to shiver. The Emperor sat on the ground beside her, laughing.

Her tone evoked the Spirit of Neutrality. “Emperor, have you not a worry?”

“No. The children wear the Spirit of Protection. Taritana blessed them this morning.”

“The children are blessed that she does not reject duties meant for their benefit.”

The Emperor did not respond to her barb. “They will wear it until they are put down for the night.”

Raeche nodded though the knot in her stomach did not lessen. “Has she gone West then?”

Again, he made no answer.

“Strong with the Spirit of Will, my Personal. Do you think her loyalty to the Empire will supersede her desire to save her sister from Praytor?”

“I think, perhaps, that we should have played this way.” He gestured to the children, with the smallest of glances at Raeche.

The Empress licked her lips and took a long breath. In ignoring her question Lanus invited war between them, yet Raeche sensed he meant it as observation alone. Built into that observation was something more important. Eynow’s parents, the king and queen of Innov, had been raised together as children. Taught as one, counseled as one, even bedded down as one in the night. It was the way of the Innov. They surely lived for each other and their offspring, all twelve of them, of which Rucha’s little prince was the eleventh. They had encouraged a closer relationship between the children, though even they had not wanted Eynow to be parted from the family for long.

Eynow had been selected for his lineage: a pedigree that closely resembled the Emperor’s, his age–just nine cycles older than Rucha–his deep connection with Spirit, and his stature as the eleventh child. He would lack ambition or the necessary aggression. Intelligent and kind, he would have a freedom in life that would balance the ruler Rucha would become. Rucha, her father’s daughter, loved fiercely but cruelty paced within her alongside determination and ambition. Hers was a warring nature.

Watching the children now, Raeche was pleased by the Emperor’s invitation. She loved her daughter in truth, and, lately, she had come to accept that Rucha looked, walked, spoke, and felt like the Emperor. Galan had become a pleasantly elusive dream made of sensations and distortions.

The Emperor escorted her down to a picnic where her favorite foods and drinks waited. Sitting in the grass beside her, he smiled at her. Again, he was unfailingly pleasant but sat apart from her and called her Empress. He did not hesitate to look at her but no warmth lit his eyes. She still felt the sparks emanating from him but even they had been subdued. He had invited her here yet she felt as if he only tolerated her presence. The Spirit of Distance stretched between them.

Fury bubbled up within her. No audience watched them in this place; he had no need to pretend he cared or regarded her as more than a burden. She ground her teeth, fisted her hands and rolled her eyes.

The Emperor started a conversation about his last visit to the East. Raeche had not accompanied him. She had sworn she would not go East again until her mother was committed to the Spirit. He spoke of her land, perhaps hoping to elicit nostalgia and calm her. He should have known this was mistake. That place had never been home. She had always been destined for the palace in the North and no one, not even her mother, treated her as one of their own. So Raeche did as she was wont to do. She stopped listening. She closed her ears and gave the appearance of paying attention. This was pure folly as it left her nothing to do but watch his lips. They were full like hers, as if someone from the East had given them to the Emperor’s ancestors generations ago. He had said he wished they had played together when they were children. And he had slipped much closer to her, and his eyes had started to warm while the sparks grew, and he seemed to want…

Spirit help her, but she believed he would kiss her! Spirit take her, but she wanted him to. Raeche shuddered from the intense pull at her breasts and the place between her thighs–a reminder of something she had known only briefly but needed to know again.

He did not kiss her.

“Play for me.” Raeche made her request with a low voice and still body.

“Empress?”

She turned to her husband, her eyes on his. “My Spirit does not sing. Play timra for me.”

The Emperor watched her for a moment before saying, “Yes, little dark one.”

Whenever he called her that, his pale green eyes seemed darker and she was once again showered with little sparks of lightning. In those moments, Raeche believed the Emperor wanted her the way Galan had. Raeche had always wanted to be wanted. Her weakness gave the Emperor power and the Emperor always craved power.

Sitting beside her, he crossed his long legs then raised one hand high in the air. When he drew it down, the timra appeared as if he had drawn an arrow. The delicate instrument was made from the long, round, headless body of the timra–a poisonous serpent found at the south border. Dried and hardened with black sap, the tail was snipped then replaced with a small wooden pipe suited to fit between the lips, and the other end covered by a slotted disk. Tiny, meticulous holes had been bored in the skin on all sides. Fine fibers weighted with bells made from blax tree seeds hung inside the instrument. A player blew into the top, causing the bells to provide a constant soothing timbre beneath the sounds achieved through breath and the dexterous placement of fingers on the holes.

The Emperor brought the instrument to his lips and played. The bells’ deep and subtle ring, coupled with the softest, most fragile notes, caused Raeche to cry and ask her husband to stop playing. But he would not and his eyes commanded her presence as he finished a song too beautiful for her. Her blood-mark throbbed beneath her skin.

When he was done, these words escaped her lips: “I would never betray you.”

What stupidity! Raeche had betrayed Lanus in one of the most fundamental ways a woman could betray a man. Though she would never willfully bring harm to the Empire, she had also betrayed it when she conceived a child with Galan–even if that great farce had ended well for the Emperor. Shamed by the bitter thought and her awkward, blurted, unconcealed lie, she struggled to understand the impulse that had led her to speak.

She could not look at him. The air surrounding his body changed. Its effect on her changed. The addictive sparks he transmitted to her ceased altogether. She no longer felt anything from him and Raeche grieved for the loss of it.

“I do not love you, Raeche, but I would not betray you.”

Her eyes grew wetter. Tears fell and Raeche did not want him to see them. No one loved her. She knew this. No one ever had. Yet his words cracked her open. She broke. Standing to leave, she felt a warm hand on her bare calf beneath her simple green dress.

The rush of heat over her skin and pain in her heart was a shock to her system. Raeche wanted to fall before him but did not.

“Why do you do these things?”

“What things?” Her voice faltered.

“Why do you provoke me?”

Raeche could say nothing. Her cheeks were hot. Servants looked on, and even Rucha had turned in her seat to watch when Eynow scratched her arm and pointed.

“There was no reason, no reason at all for you to say that.”

Raeche feared she was beyond reason. For cycles, she
had
been provoking him–saying things she should not, interrupting him as he conducted the business of the Empire, and declining his invitations only to show up on a whim, curious how he acquitted himself without her.

Raeche pulled away from her husband’s grasp and discovered a stronger sense of loss than she had ever felt for Galan. She ran, without shoes, back into the palace.

By the time Dark came, Raeche had starved her vulnerability and bolstered her confidence with counterfeit indignation. She stomped into the Emperor’s apartments as he readied himself for bed and complained about Taritana’s overreaching Spirit. When that did not work, she bemoaned Eynow’s weak character and demanded that he be rejected as Rucha’s betrothed. Without response, she hurled an accusation that Eynow spoiled Rucha and had made it so that his daughter would never accept her husband as her equal.

Lanus merely let out a soft chuckle.

She stalked toward him, forcing him to look at her in her sheer black gown that clung to her, emphasizing her naked flesh beneath. When his expression channeled the Spirit of Patience, she reached for those hot sparks, which had become pure addiction to her, but found nothing save tepid air.

Her husband infuriated her.

The following day, she replaced his favorite sword, favorite arrows and favored armor with instruments of poor quality, disguised with Spirit. But she cried when he left for the South with his small war party. She did not want him to die. She used what Spirit she commanded to send him what he needed. The effort sucked her deep into blackness, and she had to be treated by the best Spirit Wielders. As they sent her into a healing sleep, Raeche apologized to the Spirit for her failures. For her irrational behavior. She begged the Spirit to keep her from dreams.

Chapter 8

Raeche was blessed with empty sleep until one morning when her body grew warm and tingled with excitement. The Emperor had returned. She rolled her spine, moaning. Then she reached up and wrapped her legs around her husband. Their tongues touched and she slid her body against his. Her womb clenched painfully as she awaited him. When she woke, she remembered that it had been three rings since she had been touched by a man. Tears fell because the only man she knew was her husband and she had become infatuated with him. Who would not? He was handsome, strong, cold but hot, brave and so smart. He was loved by his daughter so intensely and the very few times he laughed, he made her laugh, too. Women sighed when he strode through the halls or rode out into the courtyard on his mount, even when he looked like the Spirit of Cruelty.

She tried to stay in bed until the violence stirring inside her quieted. Raeche yearned, as she did at times, to hurt him. She did not know how she would–he was far stronger than she, in body and Spirit–but she wanted more than anything for him to feel even half her pain.

When finally she rose, she realized that Dark had come. Taritana had already made her visit because a small plate with pieces of bread, meat, cheese, salted berry sauce, and a pitcher of klova juice were on the bureau.

Her stomach grumbled. She sat at the bureau, eating quietly, examining her mind and body to determine if she felt better or worse. She wanted to see Rucha. Rucha always eased her heart, but the girl was surely asleep. Raeche would not disturb her.

With a sigh she looked around her quarters, her trap, her cage. She paced and grew furious. Then she walked past the dark liquid. It sat on the tall table where Taritana placed important things–or, rather, things from the Emperor. In a clear container, the liquid stirred, sparked as if it were in motion. She eased closer to the squat bottle. It seemed lit from within, flashing red, orange, and brown against the wall behind it. Raeche picked up the small card folded next to it.

A day you do not choose to celebrate, yet a day for which I am thankful. This is not an apology.

The Emperor had written the card in his own hand. For a moment, she did not know what he meant. Then she realized. Each ring on this day, Raeche had been melancholy and inconsolable. This time, it had passed. She had nearly forgotten it. Her birthday, the day on which she had clawed free of her despicable mother only to be shackled to the Emperor.

She lifted the bottle then pulled a heavy stopper carved like three leaves from the top. After sniffing the priceless scent, she dabbed some on her throat and wrists. The smell–wild and calming, like the still center of a forest–warmed her. Extremely rare and usually reserved for formal events, Black Seed Extract was the most expensive scent in the Empire. Yet there was another use for it.

On some special occasions, it was used as drink. Even though she had never tasted the elixir, she had heard of its effects. Black Seed Extract eased the Spirit, opened one to their truest and deepest emotions, darkened the eyes, and rushed a warm current through the body.

She bent to grab a glass from the cooling tray then went to her bed with the Black Seed extract and glass in hand. Tonight, she would have a small celebration of her birthday. After all, she needed to finally sort through the strangeness of these last days, of the tension mounting between her and the Emperor.

A tiny sip from the glass as she sat alone in the center of her bed caused her muscles to relax and she smiled. Yes, this would help.