The Deadwalk (24 page)

How could she refuse him the only favor he'd ever asked of her? Especially
after all he'd sacrificed?

She wanted to touch him, to feel him real and solid before her. A memory to
sustain her after he was gone. “I realize that I have been selfish,” she said
softly, “thinking only of what I wanted and not of the sacrifices you've made.
It's not that I don't care, Kayr, just that I am overwhelmed by all that depends
on me. And you are the only person I trust.”

“Which is exactly why I must leave for a while. You've brought Kanarek back
from the dead, Riordan. I've taught you everything I know. I'm certain you will
manage well enough without me. I think it a good idea for you to try.”

“Goodbye then,” she said, refusing to beg, refusing even to cry.

He looked back at her with that tortured expression that tore at her heart.
Then, with typical lack of fuss, he nodded and took his leave.

Riordan watched as Nhaille disappeared through the door. In the hallway, his
footsteps echoed into silence.

Of all the things in her uncertain life, Nhaille was the one she'd counted
on. Like the dreams of home, hearth and family, now he, too, was gone.

She'd misread the situation. Asked of him one thing more on top of all else.

A light knock brought her attention back to the present. “Come,” she called,
steeling herself for more problems, more obligations.

The door opened, revealing a haggard, middle-aged woman with steel-gray
hair.

“Your Majesty.” She bowed in deference.

Riordan smothered her impatience, accepting the title in good grace. That's
how it all began: the bows, the Your Majestys, then reasonable requests that
under their current circumstances were impossible.

“I've come to offer my services as lady in waiting.”

Gods, what next? Another servant was the last thing she needed. Another mouth
to feed, another body waiting for her instructions and guidance.

Riordan forced a smile. “That is kind of you, Madam,” she swept her arm
around the room that was still decorated with regulation-issue blankets and the
accouterments of a soldier. “But as you can see, at the moment I have little
need for the services of a lady in waiting.”

The bedraggled woman took a look at the barren surroundings and smiled. “With
all due respect, Your Majesty, I believe my services are required more than
ever.” Before Riordan could protest she added. “Especially since before you were
born, I was lady in waiting to your mother.”

The quietly spoken words froze the argument on Riordan's lips.

“My mother?”

“You do resemble her, Your Majesty, if you don't mind me saying so.”

“I do?”

“Not your coloring, of course. Her hair was much darker, as were her eyes.
But you do have her graceful build and the same shape of face.”

She took Riordan's hand in hers. Though she disliked being touched, Riordan
found herself surrendering it unquestioningly.

“And her lovely, slender hands.” She gazed up at Riordan as if greeting a
long lost friend.

“I've always wondered what she looked like. It was odd growing up, never
knowing...”

Suddenly she was like a curious child, desperate for information. Her
father's face she could conjure with certainty, even after the horror he had
become. The forbidding crease between his dark eyebrows, the formidable line of
his mouth that warned her he was about to yell at his youngest child sprang
readily to mind. Though her mother had died soon after she was born, Riordan had
always felt that nameless loss. The craving for maternal attention had never
lessened, never gone away.

And now I'm going to be a mother myself. Moraah give me courage, I don't even
know how.

“What was she like?” The words slipped from her lips before she could call
them back. It wouldn't do for the Queen to appear the frightened child she felt
inside.

“If it pleases you, Your Majesty, I would tell you.” She eyed the room
inside.

Riordan stepped back from the door, motioning for her to enter. The woman
took a more thorough glance around the empty room. “My services are definitely
needed here,” she pronounced.

Laughter burst from Riordan's lips. The unfamiliar sound startled her. She
couldn't remember the last time she'd laughed spontaneously, outloud.
Immediately she found herself liking this candid stranger. Oddly enough, her
forthright manner reminded her of Nhaille. Riordan pushed the thought from her
mind. The last thing she needed to think about right now was Nhaille. What lay
ahead in their future together remained to be seen.

“Perhaps you're right,” she admitted with a look at the forlornly decorated
room. And it won't kill me to take an hour off. “Come in then...”

“Zelia-Gorman-Toor,” she offered.

“...Zelia. Tell me of my mother.”

Riordan motioned to the chair by the fire, the only piece of furniture other
than the bed in the room.

“Oh no, Your Majesty, please sit. I couldn't, it wouldn't be right.”

“I insist.” Riordan settled herself against the window ledge. For a moment
they stared at each other awkwardly. Without Nhaille's constant tutelage, she
found she didn't even know how to begin the conversation. Small talk was not a
commander's territory. There were no orders to be given, none to be carried
out.

“Did my mother believe...in the prophecy?” she blurted out, then winced
inwardly at how abrupt it sounded.

But Zelia seemed unperturbed, even eager to talk about her mother. “Oh yes.
The Queen believed wholeheartedly, even when the King did not.”

“Did she know...I mean was it prophesied that she would die bearing me?”

Zelia nodded solemnly. “Her Majesty knew the dangers. She was willing to
sacrifice her life for her kingdom.”

Silence hung between them.

“Your mother worried a great deal about your fate,” Zelia said after a time.
“But she would be very proud of you now.”

At that moment there was another knock upon the door. Zelia jumped up to
answer it.

One of the restoration crew working on the lower room stood in the doorway.
Dust and soot coated his hair. He looked beyond Zelia to Riordan standing in the
center of the room.

“Your Majesty.” He bowed awkwardly and extended a dust-covered box toward
her. “They found this in a crevice in the wall in one of the second floor
rooms.”

Riordan took the box from his dust covered hands. It weighed more than she
suspected. Handcrafted from silver and copper, it was a handsome thing to look
upon even covered in soot. Someone had obviously put a great deal of love into
its creation.

The delicate lock was crushed, but she managed to pry it open. Inside it was
lined with red velvet and contained only two items, a golden ring and a tiny
miniature of a woman.

Huge dark eyes stared out of a delicate face. A cloud of hair cascaded over
her pale shoulders. Even in the tiny painting, an expression of mirth showed in
the upward turn of her mouth and the gleam in her eyes. This was obviously a
woman who enjoyed life.

“Do you know who this might have belonged to?”

Zelia glanced at the painting in Riordan's hands. “Yes, Your Majesty, that
was Mira.” She paused, glancing nervously from Riordan back to the painting.
“Captain Nhaille's wife.”

“He never told me he was married!” Surprise sprung the words from her lips.
She looked up to find both Zelia and the mason staring at her in the
uncomfortable silence that followed and vowed to censure the next revelation
that threatened to tumble from her lips.

“She died in childbirth,” Zelia said. “Perhaps it pained him to remember. He
lost his daughter as well.”

Suddenly it all made sense: the way Nhaille flinched at the sound of his
given name and shied away from her first furtive touches. He was remembering the
touch of another, Riordan realized. And a daughter who died. In her naivete,
she'd blundered through his feelings, made demands it was nearly impossible for
him to honor.

“And did you know Captain Nhaille?” Riordan asked. “Before I was born?”

Zelia nodded. Riordan looked back to the mason waiting nervously in the
doorway. “Show me the room in which you found this.”

Riordan peered into the shadows of the high-vaulted ceiling. “You're certain
this is the room?”

“Yes, Your Majesty.” The stone mason held his torch high. Striding across the
now cleanly-swept floor, he pointed to a crevice in the brick. “That's where we
found it.”

Riordan slid her hand into the shallow hole in the wall, finding just enough
space to hold the jewelry box. Hastily, she replaced the brick. It seemed like
she was prying into a part of Nhaille's life he'd never meant for her to
see.

Until now she had never envisioned that there might be people left in Kanarek
who knew Nhaille, people who had been part of the life he kept secret from
her.

She looked around the spacious room. It was larger than she expected. Though
all its furnishings had been destroyed, the size of the room alone spoke of
prestige and accomplishment. Being granted a spacious chamber in the king's own
palace was a fine achievement for the young man he'd been then. She tried to
imagine what that part of his life must have been like.

For a time it must have seemed as if he had it all. Success, a place in the
King's esteem, a beautiful young wife expecting their first child. And then it
had all gone suddenly very wrong.

Having no power to fix the damage in his own life, he'd opted to accept the
great deed his King asked of him. He raised the king's child as his own.

And found instead one day, that child was now a woman who had as many plans
for him as his king.

Gods, Nhaille! Why didn't you tell me?

#

Running a kingdom was not so different from commanding an army, Riordan
decided. Days passed. The unfamiliar role became increasingly more comfortable.
She became accustomed to having people around her, no longer jumping at every
voice, or staring at each footfall. Leadership and organization were concepts
she was used to. The challenge she expected to her leadership never came. No one
questioned her claim to the throne. Getting over their initial fear of her,
Kanarekii seemed genuinely awed.

Riordan caught many sideways glances as she passed. People stared covertly at
her silver-blonde hair when they were certain she wasn't looking. She suspected
that only her title kept from from openly touching this being who looked so much
like a Shraal temple painting come to life.

Whispers died as she turned corners, only to start up again once she passed.
The myth walked among them. They listened with great deference to her orders and
her opinions, hanging upon each word as if spoken by the Gods themselves. That
she had actually accomplished the deeds laid out in the prophecy, wielded the
legendary and dangerous Sword of Zal-Azaar intrigued them, even as it made her
lonely in ways she couldn't explain.

After all she'd done for Kanarek, she was still an outcast. At last she'd
come home, only to find herself still in exile.

And though she appreciated the respect granted to her, she ached for
Nhaille's company, for the companionship of someone who accepted her for the
person she was and not the stuff of myth or legend.

Visions haunted her. She closed her eyes each night to dreams of towering
Shraal cities teeming with tall pale inhabitants. Each night she wandered their
winding streets, a traveler out of place and time. Vivid dreams hovered in her
mind upon awakening. Even in memory she could smell the many-layered scent of
the market place, the incense burning in the High Temple. It was as if in her
dreams the fabric of time warped to encompass this strange Shraal descendant
whose ravaged city now lay in ruins like the once vibrant city of Bayorek.

I have more in common with the Shraal than my own subjects.

She banished the black thought from her mind, admonishing herself as Nhaille
would have done had he been there.

Penden's messenger arrived the next morning. Marik-Rau, it seemed, despaired
the loss of his kingdom and his son. The morning guard had arrived to find him
hanging by the sash of his robe.

The news saddened her. Another life lost, she thought darkly. Haven't enough
been lost already? Was there no good that could be gleaned from the Shraal's
great accomplishments? She wandered her dreams in search of Shraal virtue.

#

The shining city stretched before her. In some lucid section of her mind
Riordan realized she was dreaming, as she had every night since she'd returned
from Hael. She placed a tentative foot on the crystal staircase that led to the
palace. Gilded doors opened before her. In her dreams she was always welcome
among the Shraal, though they said nothing to her, only watched her with
luminous gray eyes as she moved among them.

Labyrinthine corridors swallowed her into the bowels of the palace. She
glided forward, feet barely touching the ground. Pulled by an invisible string
she floated onward, not knowing where she went, and strangely unafraid.

Ahead in the blinding white corridor, there was movement. A shadow moved in
the threshold of a doorway. She came to an abrupt halt before the dark form,
surprised to find a woman standing suddenly in front of her.

Green eyes locked with hers. An expression she recognized. Oddly familiar,
yet different.

Nhaille's eyes, she realized with a jolt. Some relative of his, perhaps. She
certainly inherited his height. They stared at each other, assessing.

Riordan looked closer, noticing suddenly the high cheekbones and stubborn set
of the mouth was her own. Our child, she thought, understanding at last.

Riaan someone whispered in her mind. The dream shattered like glass.

#

Nhaille looked down at Riordan's slight form curled up in her father's huge
bed. A fist closed around his heart. So like him she looked with her mouth set
in a stern line even in sleep. And yet, he could see her mother's image in the
slenderness she retained even in pregnancy. If he looked closer still, he could
see Mira in the way her hand rested protectively over her stomach.

The three barbs twisted within him. So many memories here in Kanarek. Ghosts
mocked him from all corners.

Time to put the ghosts to rest. Time to put aside the ruin of his life and
start new.

But then Riordan had reached right out of fate itself and sent him spinning
down a path he'd never envisioned.

He had hoped that some time apart might cure them of their forbidden
attraction to each other. Or at least dull it long enough so they might do what
was proper. Instead, it had sharpened his longing for her. And made Riordan feel
even more that he had abandoned her. Less than halfway in his journey to the
forest house he'd turned back, realizing that everything he wanted, everyone he
loved, was in Kanarek.

Looking down at her, he ached to reach out and smooth a strand of silken hair
from her cheek. He longed to protect her from the cruel reality of her life. For
Riordan it would never be over. In Kanarek, she was Queen. The entire kingdom
looked to her for guidance.

And who will protect her from me?

How could he have broken that sacred oath? How could he have let himself
believe it was she who desired him.

However misguided, she wanted him still.

Dare he take what she offered? Dare he make one last grasp for the life that
eluded him so long ago? Riordan had already made that choice for him. He had
only to agree. Riordan, once she'd set her mind upon something would not be
dissuaded.

Forgive me, Arais. I should never have let her love me.

#

Riordan came awake with the suspicion she was no longer alone. Her hand
closed around the hilt of sword that rested against the bed. A heavy hand
settled upon her shoulder.

“You have no need for the sword, Riordan.”

Firelight gilded the edges of his hair. It burned higher than it had when she
fell asleep. The dampness made his wounded arm ache, she remembered. But that
he'd been there long enough to stoke the fire disturbed her. Being around so
many people dulled her senses to the routine commotion of the palace.

“You came back.” She sat up slowly. “Why so soon?”

Nhaille smiled wryly. “Solitude wasn't the luxury I remembered.”

“I knew you'd be bored.”