Chapter Eighteen WITCHING MOON

Chapter Eighteen

WITCHING MOON

Week Two, Day Seven

Year 3000

The next morning, Sorin surprised Sachi with breakfast in her sitting room—eggs poached in sweet wine, bacon, and a saucer of sugared plums—along with an announcement.

"An event," he told her proudly. "To welcome you to your new home and celebrate your new status."

As prisoner of the realm? She held her tongue, but her head was already beginning to ache. "What sort of event? A party?"

"A tournament. Mostly jousting and swordplay, with a pageant to follow." He took one of the plum halves and waved it in the air. "I will be competing in your honor, of course."

"That is an honor, Your Majesty." A swordfight could happen anywhere, but Sachi had seen no area at the palace large enough to accommodate a list field—with one possible exception. "Is it to be held in the courtyard?"

Sorin threw back his head with a laugh. "And litter the place with horse shit? The Dragon might do such a thing, but I like to think the Empire is more civilized."

Sachi had to pull her hand away from her fork before she clenched her fingers around the handle like it was a weapon. "I appreciate your commitment to sanitation."

He braced one hand on the back of her chair and leaned closer, still grinning with something almost like affection. "The tournament field is near the overflow barracks on the other side of the mountains. There's a hidden path that leads there, but don't worry. I won't make you walk it with the soldiers and spectators."

Sachi held very still as Sorin pushed a lock of hair back from her temple, then brushed his thumb over her cheekbone. But he only turned to go, ignoring Lyssa's low curtsy as he breezed through the door.

Lyssa straightened and flashed Sachi an encouraging smile. "The Emperor is in a good mood this morning."

"Yes," she answered faintly, and with no small amount of dread. "He certainly is."

Sachi couldn't eat another bite, so she let Lyssa dress her, this time in a gown of ice-blue chiffon and darker brushed satin. A separate bodice embroidered with silver thread and adorned with chains went over it. The long sleeves were tight, fitted by corset-style lacing, with crisscrossing ribbons of pale blue marching up the backs of her arms.

The transportation of which Sorin had spoken turned out to be a floating litter held aloft much like the airship they'd traveled in before. It was luxurious, festooned with roses and silver-and-blue banners featuring a hammer and a crown.

"My sigil," Sorin told her, clasping her hand. "And now yours, as well."

The hair on Sachi's nape rose as she climbed in and settled on the plush pillows. She recognized Sorin's sigil; it hadn't changed from his time among the High Court, when he'd personally built Castle Roquebarre, as well as most of the older section of the capital. It represented his goals, his life's work.

Whereas her symbol had nothing to do with her , with who she was or what she wanted. It had been reduced to what she represented for Sorin—a decoration, an Empress who existed only to look pretty and please him as he ruled his lands.

The litter rose until it floated higher than the tallest tower of the palace, high enough to clear the jagged peaks surrounding them. The air was appreciably thinner, thin enough to leave Sachi's head spinning as she peered out. Far below, a stream of people trudged along a path down from the palace and through a narrow pass.

Sachi made note of its location, just in case, and turned her attention back to Sorin. "How often do you do this sort of thing? Not here, of course, but back in Kasther?"

"Not often. Only on very special occasions."

His tone made it clear how grateful she should be, so Sachi affected mild shock. "You did all this just for me?"

His brow furrowed in irritation. "Didn't I say as much already?"

A slight miscalculation, then. Sachi immediately corrected course. "My apologies, Your Majesty. You did. It's only, I'm not accustomed to such consideration. Not after ..." She trailed off and lowered her gaze.

He took the bait. "Shh. I know, my former brother must have treated you abominably. All is forgiven, my lady."

As predicted, Sorin couldn't pass up an opportunity to malign Ash—or to position himself as the superior god and consort. Sachi hated to hear it, but she couldn't deny that it was a valuable tool, capable of winning any hand, even when she was out of other cards to play.

The litter landed next to the tiltyard, behind an imposing box supported by artistically lathed wooden posts. It had been painted blue and silver, and more standards just like the ones on the litter flew above it. Other boxes surrounded it, ranging in extravagance from very plain to ones decorated almost as resplendently as Sachi's.

Almost.

Sorin helped her out of the litter and led her to a plush bench that overlooked the tiltyard. "I will return before the pageant begins," he promised before dropping a kiss to her cheek.

Then he was gone.

Sachi managed her first deep breath since before breakfast and studied the field. A long barrier had been set up on the bare earth of the yard. At each end, magnificent caparisoned horses with chanfrons guarding their faces stamped and snorted, awaiting their riders. In the distance, tents rippled in the breeze, and servants rushed between boxes with trays of glasses and tankards.

In the box beside Sachi's, the Ice Queen held court with a group of obviously rich, obviously important women, chatting with the nearest one behind a handheld fan. Lyssa had said that Gwynira was one of the more popular of Sorin's proxy rulers, an influential member of the court as well as a god.

Gwynira glanced over and caught her gaze. After a moment, she looked away and snapped her fan shut. After a few murmured words to her companions, she rose and made her way to Sachi's box.

She stopped in the doorway, her expression unreadable. "May I join you, Lady Sachielle?"

"Please do." It would offer both a distraction and an opportunity to find out more about the Empire. "I don't really know anyone else yet."

Gwynira arched one eyebrow as she rounded the bench and settled next to Sachi. "Why would that matter? You're to be the Empress. You could command anyone's attention or entertainment on a whim."

"I'd rather not have to command it."

The woman sighed and tilted her head back. "Please don't tell me my first impression was correct, and you really are this soft."

Genuine, uncomplicated amusement drifted through Sachi for the first time in days. "Yes, I suppose. And no."

Trumpets sounded, signaling the beginning of the event, and Sorin rode onto the field on a great white beast of a horse. It was bigger than any stallion Sachi had ever seen, fully armored in addition to his chanfron, and draped with more silver-and-blue cloth emblazoned with hammers and crowns.

The sheer size of the animal was stunning, but it was the way the horse moved that made her gasp. Despite his size, he moved with impossible grace, so light on his feet that she wouldn't have blinked if he'd spread wings and taken flight.

"A Rehes charger," Gwynira murmured. "Demir breeds them. They're stronger than any other mount you can find, but graceful and fleet as a hart."

Sorin rode forward, a long metal lance balanced upright at his side. He guided his horse to a stop in front of the box and slowly tipped the lance toward Sachi. "Will you honor me with your favor, Lady Sachielle?"

Lyssa had blushingly pressed a fluttering length of silver ribbon into her hand earlier. Sachi pulled it from her bodice now as she rose, then tied it around the end of Sorin's wicked-looking weapon with a shy smile.

Thunderous applause rang in her ears as she reclaimed her seat, but she couldn't stop thinking about the cold bite of metal. "I thought it was customary to tilt with a wooden lance. This seems ..."

"Dangerous?" Gwynira supplied smoothly. "Deadly? A bit like cheating?" At Sachi's startled glance, she nodded. "Oh, yes. His opponents will be wielding those fragile wooden lances."

Sachi looked out at the field. For the first time, she saw that men were only lining up for the joust at one end of the list, and that Sorin was riding toward the other. Then she noticed the expressions on the men's faces. The ones who had not yet lowered their face shields were pale, their lips bloodless with fear and dread.

And no wonder, for none of them stood a fighting chance against the Emperor, and they knew it . What could have been a show of bravery and sportsmanship had been twisted into a series of challenges that Sorin could not lose. And Sachi was willing to bet that if anyone did prove to be a superior rider and manage to unseat him, the consequences would be grave, indeed.

Gwynira's murmuring voice broke the tense silence. "You play your role well. When you look at Sorin, I could almost believe that you want this. Him. But you don't, do you?"

Sachi met her gaze and found the other woman studying her—thoughtfully, a bit quizzically. As if she didn't quite know what to make of the future Empress's revulsion. Sachi swallowed hard and cast about for any appropriate reply.

But Gwynira stopped her with an upraised hand. "No, please. It isn't your performance; that is impeccable. But ... What is it they call me? The Ice Queen?" She tilted her head, then lifted one shoulder in a shrug. "I understand what it is, that's all. To be frozen. And like recognizes like."

Sheer, absolute loathing for Sorin seeped from every pore of Gwynira's body, and Sachi spoke without thinking. "What did he do to you?"

But Gwynira turned away to face the field as a loud noise announced the start of the first match. Sorin dropped his lance and urged his horse forward, hurtling toward his opponent. The other rider's lance shattered, and he tumbled from his mount with a scream.

Sachi tried to watch, she really did. She made it through three matches before the first man went down with blood streaming out of his helmet, and she had to look away.

But still, the carnage went on.

"There used to be another member of Sorin's court, you know," Gwynira whispered.

The day was warm, but gooseflesh still rose on Sachi's arms, and she had to resist the urge to rub it away. "Yes, I suffered his acquaintance."

Gwynira made a soft sound of denial. "Not Nikkon. This was many, many years ago. Her name was Isa, and her power was like nothing any of us had ever seen. It was only a trickle, barely enough to summon an effect."

Sorin wasn't the sort of person who maintained allies who could not serve his purposes. He would jettison a weaker god in an instant and describe it as shedding deadweight. "Did he—?"

Gwynira went on, as if Sachi hadn't spoken. "The thing is, she could command the light of the Dream and the darkness of the Void. And when she used them together, she was strong, so strong. And magnificent." Her eyes glittered as she sucked in a sharp breath. "Do you understand, Princess?"

Yes, more than Gwynira could ever know. Together, Sachi and Zanya had survived abuses that could have killed them, even should have, a hundred times over. But staying together had saved them.

And she understood something else from Gwynira's rough voice and the frozen droplet trembling on her cheek. "You loved her."

"I worshipped Isa." It was a flat statement of fact. "And Sorin murdered her."

The pain in the matter-of-fact words hit Sachi like a blow, and her chest ached. "I'm sorry."

Gwynira stared at her in open confusion. "You truly are , aren't you?" Then she turned in her seat to face Sachi. "Can you do it? Stop him?"

"I don't know. But I'm going to try."

"Then take this." Gwynira pulled a slim bundle of dark-gray silk from her cloak and passed it to Sachi.

Pulling the silk aside revealed a plain dagger with a leather-wrapped handle. Hiding it within the voluminous folds of her skirt, Sachi eased it only a few inches from its scabbard. The blade was of folded steel in an intricate, swirling pattern, and it practically vibrated with an energy she recognized.

It was Void-steel, but not just Void-steel. This blade had been folded together with bits of the Dream, as well.

Gwynira's voice dropped, turned urgent. "The scabbard is enchanted and will keep the blade hidden from Sorin's senses. Do not draw it until you're ready to use it." The tear that hung on her cheek melted, slipped down her face. "You'll likely have only one chance, Lady Sachielle. Spend it wisely."

"I will." Sachi hurried to rewrap the silk and ease the dagger into her sleeve, where it could rest along the underside of her forearm, concealed by the gathered chiffon and the lacing. "I—"

But by the time she looked up, Gwynira was gone. She didn't return to her box, and no one came to take her place. Sachi was left alone, with her racing thoughts and the butchery on display before her.

She cast about for a distraction, any distraction, but there wasn't a single one that justified removing her full, pleased attention from a tournament held in her honor. So she watched as Sorin battered opponent after opponent, until the screams of men and horses alike echoed in her mind. Lyssa brought her a tray of food, which she could not bring herself to touch, and a bottle of wine that she dared not drink.

On today of all days, Sachi had to keep her wits fully about her.

Finally, the long barrier was dragged away from the field. The swords came out, and pages raked over the dirt to cover the dull puddles of blood. Sorin entered the field once more, armed with a beautiful blade that glinted in the slanting afternoon light.

He stood in the center of the field while other armed men streamed in after, taking up their positions surrounding him. Another trumpet, and the melee began. Steel rang, drowning out grunts of effort and cries of pain or triumph.

As Sachi watched, a man faced off with Sorin. He aimed a skillful blow at his Emperor, and Sorin barely managed to bring his sword up in time to block it. The swing should have been enough to drive Sorin back, or even disarm him. Instead, the blade shattered when it made contact with Sorin's, and the man fell to his knees.

More trickery, perhaps even magic this time. Sachi wouldn't be surprised if Sorin had had Varoka fortify his blade with the same sticky webs of the Dream that suffused his castle walls.

She couldn't watch any more. She stared ahead at the field, but saw none of it. She simply existed until the trumpets blew again, declaring His Imperial Majesty the victor of the melee. She rose with everyone else, smiling and applauding as Sorin celebrated his victory.

Instead of raking the puddles, the pages simply left them this time, and Sachi understood why. It would have taken forever to uncover fresh, dry dirt. So they merely cleared the field of limbs, broken armor, and viscera before moving a wide stage in to conceal the blood-soaked patch of earth.

It seemed like an intermission of sorts. Spectators milled about, chatting and laughing, as Sachi sat, stone-still, her hands folded in her lap. Part of her considered that she might join the throng of people, attempt to glean something useful from their chatter, but she didn't have the heart.

Besides, she suspected that Sorin would want her to be waiting patiently for him when he returned.

He arrived half a candlemark later, dressed in fresh finery, his hair still curling wet over his collar. A wide, pleased smile curved his lips as he slid onto the bench beside her, and Sachi responded in kind.

"Did you enjoy the tournament?"

"Parts of it more than others." The truth, followed by a truth that would serve as a lie. "Your performance was stunning."

"All for you, my darling. As is this." He gestured toward the stage, where a frame had been erected and a curtain hung, hiding the bulk of it until the performance. "It's called The Final Battle . I wrote it myself. You might recognize some of the characters."

Sachi's toes went numb as music played and the curtain parted. A man with obviously dyed red hair stood against a group of four men and three women. Their costumes were lavish, and too on the nose to be mistaken for accidental resemblances.

The High Court.

The play began, a simplistic melodrama in which Sorin's character faced off against each member of the High Court in turn, delivering blistering monologues about their struggles against progress as he beat them down to the stage with a large war hammer.

The vague smile on Sachi's face almost slipped when she felt a light touch on her knee. The back of Sorin's hand, grazing her leg.

"I won't rush you," he whispered, his breath hot against her ear. "You needn't concern yourself on that count."

"You're too kind to me, Your Majesty." She heard the words, heard her own voice, placid and serene.

"But when you're ready . . ."

Sachi stared straight ahead as the actors dressed as her family pantomimed death. She stared as Sorin's hand crept from her knee to her thigh, then tightened, his fingertips digging into her flesh through all the layers of her clothes.

She stared straight ahead and let her mind wander. She went somewhere else, someplace where the only thing she had to be aware of was the comforting weight of her gifted dagger tucked up her sleeve.

Later, when she could come back to her own body, she'd make plans. Perhaps it was time to visit Ash and Zanya again. Sachi had hesitated because it was so hard to find her way back from them when she wanted so desperately to stay . But she'd learned so much, and some of it might be able to help them.

Yes. She would go see them tonight, when she'd managed to escape into the safe oblivion of sleep. It was the smart choice. The tactical choice.

And she needed it.