Shadow War - Deborah Chester [92]
“Stay,” he commanded. “Tell me.”
“The slave has been accused and taken away. He will be silenced.”
“Good. No one believed him?”
“He made his accusations only to the healer,” the shadow said, and tugged against him.
Sien grunted, straining to hold it. “Stay. Tell me more.”
“The servants are afraid. They will send word soon to the palace, asking for help.”
“Will Tirhin recover?”
“Unknown. Without him, I shall die.”
“Will the healer treat him?”
“No. The healer is afraid.”
“Then I must take action.”
“Free me,” the shadow said.
“Not while you are useful.”
“I must return,” the shadow said, and wrenched away.
It vanished quicker than thought, and Sien was left in a huddle on the floor, chilled and clammy from his efforts.
Slowly, breathing hard, he let the spell dissolve. His strength seemed to ebb with it, but he finally forced himself to his feet.
Swaying and shivering, he wiped the sweat from his face and pulled on his robes. He had done enough for now, he thought in satisfaction. Everything was proceeding to plan.
The prince had been too arrogant, too headstrong before. Now, after this lesson the shyrieas had taught him, he would be more malleable. It was a hard lesson to learn, but Sien had been patient enough with him. It was time Tirhin learned who truly ruled this empire.
As for the girl... he was displeased that she had escaped the poison attempt, but it was designed more to frighten and warn the witches than to do serious harm. He planned far more serious damage to the Penestricans before he was finished.
Sien rubbed his hands briskly together. All was going well. Even the Madrun hordes were on schedule, already massing at the border. Soon they would come pouring through.
He lifted his empty cup in a mock salute to Kostimon, the man who had once depended on him, the man who had used him as a bridge to Beloth and the bargain of a thousand years. Kostimon had discarded his old friend Sien of late, however. The emperor preferred to keep his own council, wanted to plot his own schemes alone. He would regret that. Soon he would regret everything.
Sien laughed softly to himself, and poured himself another serving of blooded wine. Kostimon’s days were numbered. It was time to pay the shadow god’s price.
And what a steep price that was. Sien laughed again and drained his cup with a smack of satisfaction. Kostimon had no idea.
Part Two
Chapter Thirteen
The bells of Imperia began ringing at sunrise, filling the air with joyous peals as the new light gilded the rooftops of the city. Already revelers from the countryside thronged the gates; some had spent the night on the road in order to be here in time. The city gates, normally massive and grim, had been cleared of the rotting heads of offenders and festooned instead with garlands of greenery. Just behind the sentries stood wooden tubs filled with tiny muslin bags of dried flower petals. Each person entering was to have a sachet, in order to toss flowers at the empress during her processional. A burly sergeant, his face impassive between the chin straps of his helmet, tossed sachets to eager recipients the way he tossed grain rations to foot soldiers.
The sentries were alert, but not actively checking anyone. Mainly they shouted to keep people in an orderly line, but the gates remained thronged. Women exclaimed over the sachets, and children milled about heedlessly, constantly in danger of being trampled.
Every street was choked with carts, people on foot, people on horseback. There were whole families in their finery, ribbons fluttering in the frosty air, scrubbed children wide-eyed with wonder. Keyed up with excitement, they cheered each time a squadron in burnished armor and crimson cloaks trotted past, forcing them up against the buildings to make way.
Red imperial banners flew from every rooftop and hung from the windows along the coronation route. People were already clustered at second-floor windows, clutching red scarves in their