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  That got to Opus. A stricken look appeared on his face. “But you won’t, right? You’ll leave the horses outside? I don’t think you could get them up the stairs.”

  “Oh, I can take a horse anywhere,” Rome assured him with a huge smile. It felt good to have the balance shift back to him. “I can show you right now if you want.”

  “No, Macht,” Opus said weakly. “I have never doubted your abilities. I only meant that I thought the horses would prefer to remain with their own kind.”

  “Sure you did.”

  The room Rome found himself in was massive. On the far side were more double doors, opening to a long balcony with potted trees and flowers on it. On one side of the room was a giant bed, buried under a mound of silken pillows and tassels. There were four large wardrobes and thick rugs on the floors. But what drew Rome’s attention first was the mirror. He walked over to stand in front of it. It was very large, taking up a great deal of the wall, and enclosed in an ornate, gilt frame. Below it was a long table with drawers. On the table was an impressive array of combs, brushes, bottles of scented hair oil, powders, scissors and a few things Rome didn’t recognize but might have slipped up here from the torture room in the dungeon.

  “Look at that mirror,” he said with a low whistle.

  “It is impressive, is it not?” Opus said with pride. He actually caressed the frame.

  “That’s not what I was thinking. What’s it for?”

  “Well, I…” Opus stumbled, at a loss for words. “It is for looking at yourself, Sire.”

  “Waste of time,” Rome announced. “I already know what I look like. I’m not likely to forget, am I?”

  Opus looked around, saw that the servant had fled and realized he was on his own. “Of course not.”

  “No wonder Rix was such a miserable king,” Rome continued. “If he spent all day in here staring at himself.” He began pawing through the implements laid out in neat rows on the table. “I won’t be needing any of these. Useless, useless.” He came on a large brush with a silver handle and picked it up. “I could brush Niko with this.” Niko was his favorite horse.

  With a small cry Opus plucked the brush from his hand. “Please don’t jest so, Macht. This is very old. It was a gift from the king of Karthije over a hundred years ago.”

  But Rome was already moving on, surveying the four wardrobes. “All my clothes put together won’t fill one of those,” he said. “I guess I could use one for my armor and weapons. That still leaves two. Even if I brought my saddle and all my tack in I’d still have one left over.”

  “Oh no, Macht,” Opus assured him, moving swiftly to the first one and throwing the doors wide. “These are already full. You can leave your saddle in the stable, I assure you.”

  Rome pushed past him and leaned into the wardrobe. “What’s this? Clothes? Who has this many clothes?”

  “They are yours, Macht.”

  “Mine? When did I order all these?” Rome asked suspiciously. He pulled out a bright red shirt with two rows of silver buttons, wrinkled his nose and tossed it on the floor. “I can’t believe I’d ever get drunk enough to order this.”

  “They belonged to the late king, Sire. Of course, I have had them all cleaned and altered so that they will fit you.”

  “Why would I want that old tyrant’s clothes?” Rome pulled out a yellow shirt with ruffles on the sleeves and let it drop on the floor as well.

  Opus struggled to find firmer ground. Like any general, he could tell when he had lost the initiative and was on the defensive. “You never ordered anything else so I didn’t know what to have made for you. And attire such as this is extremely expensive. I know you are a thrifty man so I thought it wiser to refit than repurchase.”

  Rome paused and grunted. “That makes sense.” Opus straightened. “But I still don’t want all this. Here, let’s make some room for my stuff.” So saying, he took a big armload of clothes out of the wardrobe. Looking around, he saw no good place to put them so he simply dropped them on the floor.

  He went to the next wardrobe and opened it. The first thing he saw was the shoes. Dozens of them on little shelves filling the bottom half of the cabinet. They were in all colors. Some had buckles, some had stripes, and some seemed to have small stones set in them. “God,” Rome breathed. “These are awful.”

  “The latest fashions, Sire.”

  “Not to me. What’s in here?” The top half of the wardrobe had little doors covering its contents. Rome opened them and nearly staggered backwards. “What in Gorim’s blackest nightmares are those?”

  “Wigs, Sire. Made from the finest maidenhair.” Opus said it wearily, clearly knowing what reception he would get.

  “Wigs, eh? I thought something crawled in here and died.” Rome took one gingerly between his thumb and forefinger, and pulled it out. It was blond and curly. Rome gave it a little shake, as if expecting it to come to life and bite him. Then he tossed it back and turned around.

  “Well, I will stay in here, if that will make you happy, Opus,” he announced. “But you’ll have to get rid of this stuff. Give it to some orphans or toss it out to let the dogs chew on. I don’t care. Now, I have things to do.”

  “But you haven’t seen the other rooms,” Opus protested.

  Rome stopped and swung around. “Other rooms, you say?” His eyes fell on closed doors on either side of the room. He shook his head. “Another time, maybe.”

  Seven

  “Just more of the same,” Quyloc said. He was sitting at his desk, Rome across from him. After leaving Opus, Rome had gone to his office to speak with him and Quyloc was telling him about his latest meeting with the delegation of nobles. It was always the same three nobles, led by Lord Atalafes. Ever since Rome left with the army on the summer campaign they’d been coming to see Quyloc every few days.

  Quyloc ticked the points off on his fingers. “They’re unhappy because they weren’t consulted before you went on the summer campaign. They’re unhappy because none of them hold any rank in the army. They’re unhappy because they are not part of any of the decision making.”

  “It sounds like they have a lot to be unhappy about.”

  “I’m getting really sick of seeing their faces. I wish I had an excuse to arrest the lot of them.”

  “Your informants haven’t found anything pointing to who was behind the assassination attempt?” Rome asked. The night of the Protaxes ceremony, two men had infiltrated the palace guards and tried to assassinate Rome. Quyloc killed them both with the bone knife.

  “Nothing. They covered their tracks too well. But I’m certain Atalafes was one of them. He’s their leader. There’s no way something like that happened without his knowledge and consent. If you’d just let me arrest him and question him—”

  “Not without some evidence,” Rome cut in. “I won’t be like Rix. While I’m macht no one, no one, gets arrested without evidence. I’m not a tyrant.”

  Quyloc sighed and Rome could see how irritated he was. They’d had this argument too many times before.

  “I understand your desire to adhere to the law, Rome, but what will happen to that law if they succeed next time? Because there will be a next time, you can count on that. And if they succeed, your precious law will mean nothing because they will regain power and things will go back to just what they were before.”

  “That’s a chance I’m willing to take.”

  “But is it a chance you’re—”

  Quyloc broke off abruptly and froze, staring over Rome’s shoulder.

  “What is it?” Rome asked, looking over his shoulder. There was nothing there. He looked back at Quyloc. His old friend hadn’t moved. He leaned forward, over the desk. Quyloc’s eyes were open, but they were utterly blank, empty. He waved his hand before his face, but there was no response.

  “Quyloc?” Then, louder. “Quyloc!”

  Still nothing. He grabbed him by the shoulders and shook him, but Quyloc didn’t react.

  What was going on?

 
Then Quyloc blinked. He looked around, but there was no recognition in his eyes at first. Gradually, he returned to himself and put his hands on his desk to steady himself.

  “What the hell just happened?” Rome asked.

  “I was there.”

  “Where?”

  “The Pente Akka.”

  “Just now? But you were here the whole time.”

  Quyloc was bent forward, rubbing his temples. “I told you, my physical body doesn’t go there. My spirit body is what goes there.”

  “Yeah, which makes no sense to me and never has. I don’t really care either way. Explain to me what just happened and explain it in a way that I can understand it.”

  Quyloc sat back in his chair and looked at him. “I don’t know what just happened. One moment I was talking to you, and the next I was in the Pente Akka. I could hear something coming for me.”

  “How did you get out?”

  “I’m not sure. It was like, from the corner of my eye I could see the Veil and there was an opening in it—probably the one I came through—and it was closing fast but I threw myself at it and somehow I made it out.” His gaze was haunted. “If I hadn’t made it, I’d be trapped there. I’d never get out.”

  “But why wouldn’t you just leave the way you did every other time?”

  “Because I didn’t have the spear to cut the Veil. Without it I can’t get out any more than anything else in there can.”

  “A whole lot of what you’re saying I don’t understand. If you need to cut the Veil to get out, don’t you also need to cut it to get in?”

  “No, I don’t. For some reason, from this side I can just step through. But to get out I have to cut an opening.”

  “Okay, if you say so, I can accept that. But how did you get there to begin with? Didn’t you say you have to picture the Veil in your mind or something to go there? Did you do that by accident?”

  “No, I didn’t do it by accident. I try not to think about that place at all. The place terrifies me. I never want to go there again.”

  “So something on the other side is doing it, something’s dragging you through.”

  “I think it’s the hunter.” Quyloc proceeded to tell Rome what happened a couple nights before, how he was there in his dream and the thing stung him.

  “Why didn’t you tell me this before?” Rome asked when he was finished.

  “Because I thought it was just a dream. Lowellin thought so too.”

  “Obviously it was more than that.”

  “Yeah.”

  “What are you going to do?”

  “For starters, I’m not going there unarmed ever again.” Quyloc stood up and went through the door into his quarters. When he emerged a minute later, he was carrying the rendspear. “I’m keeping this on me all the time.”

  “That works for now, but it doesn’t solve the problem.”

  “You don’t need to tell me that.”

  “I’d say this all has to do with whatever stung you. Somehow it poisoned you or something. The venom is giving the hunter a way to get a hold of you.”

  “That’s what I’m thinking,” Quyloc replied.

  “So then the question is, how do we get the venom out of you?”

  “I have no idea.”

  After Rome left, Quyloc opened his shirt and looked at the spot on his chest where he’d been stung. There was still no sign of a bite; the skin was unbroken and normal-looking.

  He had his spear, but at what cost? Would he ever be free of the place or was it just a matter of time before it trapped him?

  Eight

  Cara paused in her work and sat up to rub her back. She was scrubbing the stone foot paths of the estate, a task clearly designed more for humiliation than anything, as the stones’ appearance did not noticeably change with the scrubbing. They also seemed endless, running here and there over the entire expanse of the estate. Her hands were red, her knees and back were sore and there was nothing to look forward to but more of the same. She was working on one of the walkways near the front of the estate, not too far from the front gate, so when the Tenders emerged from breakfast and headed out for the morning service, they passed fairly close to her. Cara looked up as they approached.

  At their head was the FirstMother, who did not so much as look at her. Behind her was Velma, who gave her a sorrowful look before turning her face away. Adira stared at her with those intense, burning eyes, an unreadable expression on her face. Near the end of the procession were her friends. Owina looked at her sadly, Karyn seemed not to notice her, and Bronwyn gave her only a short, distant look. At the very end of the line was Donae. She had her hand pressed to her chest and a dazed look on her face. She must have received her sulbit last night. It looked like she had been crying.

  The women filed out the gate with their phalanx of guards and it occurred to Cara that she didn’t have to do this. She could put the brush down and walk right out the gate too. She wasn’t a prisoner. They wouldn’t stop her.

  But in reality there was nowhere to go. She had no friends or family in Qarath. What blood family she’d had was lost in the distant past. There were still Brelisha and Siena, back at Rane Haven, but that wasn’t really a choice. She could never travel that far alone. She might as well be a prisoner for all the options she had.

  Cara went back to work, surprised that she did not feel more upset about this realization. The truth was she didn’t want to go anywhere. Owina, Donae, Karyn and Bronwyn were still her family. That hadn’t changed. They had chosen differently than she had, but the facts didn’t change. No, she wanted to be here, where she was. This way she could still keep an eye on them. She didn’t know if there was anything she could do, but she could at least be here for them.

  Cara worked mindlessly for some time, letting the monotony of the work lull her. She was hardly aware when the Tenders returned from the morning service, so lost was she in her own world. It was later, pushing midday, when a commotion at the front gates drew her attention.

  Larin had never dreamed leather armor could be so hot. He always thought the soldiers in their leather armor with the rows of metal studs looked strong, powerful. He never thought they were just hot. But he was. Sweat was dripping down his back, gathering under his arms. And the armor chafed too. He was going to have blisters on his shoulders, he just knew it. He shifted the long pike he held to the other hand and reached up under his armor, trying to shift it to a better position.

  “Stop fidgeting,” Haris hissed. Haris was the other guard on the gate to the Tender estate this morning. “You’re supposed to stand still. Don’t you know anything?”

  “But it’s making sore spots,” Larin whined. “And I’m sweating. Can’t we move into the shade?” The shade was just a few steps away, retreating up to the wall. When they’d first gone on duty a couple of hours ago the shade had stretched clear out to the street. Now it was behind him, and not doing him any good at all.

  In answer, Haris slapped Larin on the back of the head with his free hand. “You’re here to guard the gate, you nin. Not the wall!”

  Larin rubbed the back of his head where Haris had struck him. It didn’t hurt, not really. But it was embarrassing. “You’re always acting like you’re better than me,” he complained. “We both signed up on the same day.” Larin had come to town with a wagonload of potatoes for the market. Dad hadn’t come with him that time, on account of his having a bad ankle from where he stepped in the gopher hole and Ma stayed at the farm to look after him and the little ones.

  He’d gotten barely halfway to the market when the wagon got stuck in a huge mass of people gathered in a square and cheering. Larin liked crowds, so he stood up on the wagon seat and craned his neck to see what was going on. Some woman was giving a speech, telling how she and the other Tenders would protect them all from the bad things that were coming. That sounded fine to Larin. He’d seen the people streaming in from the west along the road in front of his parents’ farm, and some of them had told him stories. He knew someth
ing was going wrong. When the woman finished talking, she said how she and the other women needed strong men to protect them while they fought the badness. Well, Larin got down off the wagon on the spot and pushed his way up to the front. Weren’t many who were bigger or stronger than Larin, his folks were always telling him. And he wouldn’t mind getting away from the farm either. Dad was always yelling at him and Ma treated him like he was some kind of purblind idiot.

  “Maybe we did,” Haris replied. “But they put me in charge. Do you remember why?”

  “It coulda happened to anybody,” Larin said sullenly.

  “But it didn’t. It happened to you.”

  So he broke a door. The door to the barracks he shared with two dozen other guards. He thought it was locked. He thought they locked him out to make fun of him. And when he yelled at them to let him in and they all just laughed, he got a little heated. He finally put his shoulder into it and smashed the thing clean out of the wall. That was when the others pointed out to him that the door opened outwards. It wasn’t locked; he was just forgetful. It could have happened to anybody.

  “I still don’t see why we have to stand here in the sun.”

  But Haris wasn’t listening. He was staring at the women approaching the estate.

  There were three of them and they came striding up like they owned the place. The one in the lead was dressed in a red robe. Behind her, the other two were dressed in bright yellow robes slashed with black. They appeared to be twins.

  When the lead woman’s eyes fastened on the two guards, both men took an involuntary step back. Haris’s pike dipped. Now Larin really wanted to go stand by the wall. He wanted to hide there, actually. But he remembered his duty. He was here to guard the Tenders so they could concentrate on fighting Melekath.

  He stepped forward, one hand held out to stop the women’s advance. “Here now,” he rumbled. “You can’t come in here without permission.”