Lord of Hawkfell Island (Viking Era 2)

“It is about time,” Hormuze said, not moving. “He took long enough.”

But then the silk hanging was ripped aside. The king stood there, weaving on his feet, his face red as blood, his eyes covered with an opaque white film, his throat working wildly for he couldn’t breathe. “You,” he said, staring toward Hormuze.

“Aye, sire,” Hormuze said. “You are still standing. I gave you enough poison to send you on your way in but a moment. You have more strength than I thought you would. The years bred a strong will in you.”

The king hovered between death and bafflement, and he knew it. “I trusted you. I took you in, listened to you, and made you powerful. Why do you kill me?”

“Kill you, sire? Ah, surely not. On the morrow, all will occur just as I told you it would, just as you told all your warriors it would. You will indeed appear before all your men, transformed into a young man as you once were. Behold yourself, sire.”

Hormuze pulled off his beard, ripped open his tunic and unstrapped the padding from his waist. He stripped off all his clothes, then he rubbed at the cosmetics on his face.

Then he smiled, a beautiful smile, a foreign smile, for he had the look of a man not of the north. Ah, but he was a beautiful man. Lean, his body whipcord strong, his muscles strong within his man’s prime.

“I resemble the man you once were, do I not? At least that is what I was told before I came to you, and when I came, sire, I knew even then what I would do, for I had seen her. She was very young, only fifteen as I recall, and she didn’t see me. And I knew then what must be. Aye, look upon my man’s body, young and vigorous, aye, sire, and I will breed sons off her, sons who will rule Ireland and beyond and into the future, just as I told you. Aye, look at me, for soon you will be dead. Since I was never a spoiled little princeling as you were, granted all I wanted with no restraint, no rules, I have no fat on my body, no arrogant moods to make those about me fear me, no belief in how I am more clever than any other man in the land. But I do look enough like you, sire. On the morrow, all will cheer and all will bless Hormuze, the advisor, truly a wizard, who, once he had accomplished your rebirth, he disappeared, perhaps to reappear again in the centuries to come in some other strange land where he will once again work his wondrous magic.”

Sitric stared at him, at the young man who stood naked and proud before him. “I will kill you,” he said, “I will whip you until you are naught but bone and blood at my feet.” He worked his mouth, but there were no more words and no more breath. He fell to the floor, his hands clutching his neck, then his arms were falling away, curling at his sides.

Hormuze walked to him and knelt down. “He is dead. By all the gods, the old fool is finally dead.”

He rose and turned to Mirana. “I know this shocks you. I know you don’t as yet understand. Trust me, that is all I ask. You are pale and afraid, for all this is strange. I am sorry, I had hoped he would die silently, in the other chamber, alone, without you to see him.”

Mirana looked at Hormuze and said calmly, “I am pale, it is true, but I am not frightened. The king is dead, not I. You have played a drama before me and now I understand some of it. But I ask you, Hormuze, why did you select me of all women? You say you saw me when I was very young and began your plans. Why me?”

He smiled at her, and the smile was filled with longing, soft and sweet, but it wasn’t a smile that belonged to her, that belonged with her, in this chamber. It was a smile of long ago.

He said simply, “Because you are the image of my dead wife. Her name was Naphta and she served a great lady of our country. Aye, I speak of Egypt—” He said a word whose sound was utterly foreign to her ears. “She died because this lady was jealous of her, hated her because her lord husband wanted Naphta. She was sly, very sly. She stuck a huza knife—’tis a very small pointed blade—into the base of Naphta’s neck, beneath her thick black hair, knowing no one would discover it. But I did. When I had my beautiful wife in my arms, I examined her and found the small prick and felt the stiff strands of bloody hair. Aye, the lady killed her, just as she had killed others who surpassed her in beauty. She killed my beautiful Naphta. I let it be known that I knew what she had done, even spoke of how she’d done it. I knew then that she would kill me too. I escaped just before her assassins came to kill me and my small daughter, Eze. I came here to the north to seek my fortune. And I found it.”

Mirana just stared at him, unable to believe him,

to comprehend his motives. “I look like your dead wife? All this planning, this elaborate scheme and the king’s murder just because I look like another woman? By the gods, this is madness.”

He looked at her with less softness now. “You do not sound like her, but you will soon enough with my tutelage. She never questioned me, never considered any wishes but mine. Her tongue was never sharp in disagreement with me, and you will change, Mirana, doubt it not.

“Aye, her image is preserved in my mind and before mine eyes every day of my life, for our daughter will grow into her image as well. There is already a great resemblance between you and my little Eze, not really in her physical features, but in moments when she is silent and looking off into her dreams. And when she smiles. Then I will have both of you to look upon. I will have my Naphta back with me. I will also have a kingdom and power and wealth. And I will share it with you, Mirana. You did wed with the king. I am now he. Behold your husband and your king. I am now Sitric.”

30

SO MUCH WAS happening, too much, and she was reeling with all that he’d said, all that the king had said. She stared at him now, unable to accept his utter confidence in himself at what he’d done and what he expected others to do. He saw nothing save what he wanted to see, would accept nothing beyond what he had commanded.

“Surely you cannot believe that the people will affirm that you are the king. They would wish to believe it, for it is a magical thing, this rebirth you convinced the king to believe, but the people won’t accept it, not once they look at you, not once they are standing close to you. You look foreign, different from us.”

“Do you forget so quickly that you believed me an old man, that all those—including the king—have believed me an ancient relic, an advisor, some even saw me as some sort of priest? They will see and accept, for I will continue to disguise myself and each day I will use less and less disguise. Only you will see me as I truly am, each night, when we come together. Aye, they will become familiar with me, you will see. Soon, very soon, they will be shouting their enthusiasm that I am reborn and given back to them by that magician, Hormuze.”

“No,” she said. “No. The people aren’t stupid. They won’t believe you are truly Sitric reborn. It’s best you face up to it and escape while you still can before they discover that you’ve murdered Sitric. His warriors have no love for him, but their loyalty is unquestioned. They will surely kill you.”

He was frowning at her, completely unaware and uncaring that he was naked, standing there over the dead king’s body as if it were naught but another pillow or a tray of food, something of no account at all. All his attention was on Mirana. He said slowly, “Naphta never questioned my judgment, my decisions. You will not either. She always bent to me, gracefully and naturally, as sweetly as a supplicant worships a god. You will as well.”

“You were wedded to an idiot?”

He struck her hard across her cheek and she reeled sideways, trying to grab onto something to save herself, but there was nothing, only the soft pillows in piles at her feet, the slippery silk draperies beyond her reach, the lush carpets that were thick and deep but allowed no purchase. She sprawled onto her back on the pillows, hitting her elbow on a brazier and knocking it over. Chunks of cold coal fell onto the pillows, blackening the bright reds and golds and blues.

He came down on his knees beside her. He didn’t touch her, but she smelled him, a musky odor that wasn’t displeasing, only different, and it came from his flesh and from his man’s sex as well, close to her, too close to her. She was frightened of him as she hadn’t been of the old king, for he was young and strong, he had all the vigor he’d promised the king. He was angry, and she saw that he trembled with his anger, that it required all his will to control his anger. Einar wouldn’t have even tried to control his fury. He would have struck out and maimed and killed, but not this man. This man had exquisite control over himself. She held very still. He said, his voice harsh, barely overlaid with a calm so naked that it chilled her, “Do not ever again speak ill of Naphta. You are not worthy to even say her name. You are nothing compared to her. She was my queen, the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“I understand,” she said. “Your wife was perfection and I bow to your memories of her. But that isn’t the point now, Hormuze—”

“You will call me Sitric. Forget it not, Mirana.”

“Very well, Sitric. But heed my words, please.” Ah, she saw that the please suited him; he believed her already bending to his will. “I did not know, nor would I have ever realized that you and the old man you pretended to be were one and the same.”