Kingsbane (Empirium 2)

Where are you? she asked, afraid to know the answer.

Come find me, he replied, and then he was gone, along with the fire and the foreign winter.

Rielle knelt in the dirt, her breath coming high and fast, a sheen of sweat coating her skin.

The Archon regarded her with one raised eyebrow. “In all my years, Lady Rielle, I have never seen someone pray quite so violently.”

She smiled at him, her jaw aching with tension. “Such is the strength of my devotion, Your Holiness.”

• • •

Corien did not speak to Rielle the third night, in the Firmament, nor on the fourth night, in the House of Light.

Each moment of silence sent her tired thoughts spiraling. What were his intentions? Where was he hiding? He was playing a game with her. He had a plan, and she could not see it.

In the House of Light—Audric’s temple, the temple of sunspinners and the Lightbringer, the temple of the Sun Queen—Rielle knelt on a gold-fringed cushion before a marble statue of Saint Katell and bore down on her prayers with a vengeance.

Corien wouldn’t speak to her? He would tease her with horrifying visions, with the tender touch of his voice, and then abandon her? Fine. She would pray, then. She would pray as no one had prayed before.

Except that praying had never come naturally to her. It required a quieting of the mind she found tedious and nearly impossible. Over the years she had forced herself to learn—at first out of fear of her father, then out of love for Tal, and then, at last, because she had to begrudgingly admit that praying did help focus her mind. Praying kept her power docile, her mind smooth as a river stone.

Her mind was anything but smooth that night. Corien had dropped an anchor into her, hooked himself to her thoughts, and the ripples of that grew, and grew, until her prayers roared and wailed.

Later, feeling wild, Rielle went to Audric. She led him upstairs, to the fourth floor, where a small sitting room overlooked the northern ballroom. She whispered her desires to him, elated when he gently pressed her back against the velvet curtains. She kissed him until her lips were sore. She tugged at his trousers.

“Someone will hear, my love,” he murmured, his kisses trailing down her neck.

She threaded her fingers through his curls, held him to her. If he didn’t hurry, she would fly apart. “Let them hear,” she gasped, and hoped Corien could hear most clearly of all. “Let them all hear how I love you.”

• • •

The next evening—sore, delirious with exhaustion, smiling to herself in a way that was not entirely appropriate for a temple—Rielle allowed the Archon to help her into the warm water of the Baths, and together, they prayed to Saint Nerida.

Overhead, worshippers walked the three open mezzanines of the Baths, the slender stone columns lined with heavy sprays of purple blossoms. Fountains spilled softly into the praying pools; the quiet trill of birdsong floated down from the rafters.

Rielle was comforted, her mind quieter than it had been in days.

O seas and rivers! she prayed, drawing her hands through the smooth water. O rain and snow! Quench us our thirst, cleanse us our evil. Grow us the fruit of our fields. Drown us the cries of our enemies!

She had barely finished reciting the words when Corien arrived.

His words snapped like tinder. How are you feeling today, my dear? Tired? Aching?

Rielle opened her eyes. Night had fallen. The temple was empty. Snow fell through the open ceiling, quiet and even, dusting the surface of the water.

She shivered. Her thin prayer robes clung to her, crusted with ice.

“Are you going to talk to me, truly?” she called out. “Or just play games and send me nightmares?”

Behind her, a soft splash. She turned to see Corien approaching her through the water, in a dark robe of his own.

“This is no game to me,” he said, his voice low and thin. He reached her more quickly than he should have been able to. Her head spun, and her foot caught on a slab of ice. She stumbled; he caught her wrist, held her against him.

“Release me at once,” she commanded.

He obeyed, his breath puffing in the frigid air. He bowed. “Forgive me. Sun Queen.”

Suddenly she found herself blinking back tears. “I don’t understand you. You’re frightening me, and I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he said at once. “Though you wish that you did.”

“Why are you tormenting me? Because I burned you that day?”

He laughed. “You could burn me a thousand times, and I would still want you for my own.”

She shivered from the cold, from the frightening beauty of his voice. “Why do you want me? Because I can tear down the Gate for you? Because you can use my power to destroy my race?”

Corien reached for her face, then paused. “May I touch you, Rielle?”

She let out an impatient cry and captured his face in her hands. “There. I’ve touched you myself. Now, answer me!”

His pale gaze seemed suddenly tired to her eyes, and ancient. He turned into her touch, pressed a kiss to her palm.

“Come find me, darling child,” he whispered against her wrist, “and I’ll tell you everything you wish to know, and more.”

Then he was gone. The water was warm again, the evening light a cheerful violet, the temple halls humming with prayers.

“My lady,” said a nearby worshipper, wide-eyed, “are you all right? You’re crying.”

“Sometimes my power moves me to tears,” Rielle replied, her voice thick, her hands trembling under the water. “For it is a gift from God, from the empirium, and it brings me indescribable joy.”

• • •

Her feet carried her automatically to Audric’s room that night, but when she found him, she could not bear to wake him.

He slept peacefully, sprawled across the bed, his face soft and his curls in disarray. A book lay open on his stomach—The Great and Terrible Legacy of Our Blessed Saints. Three others sat on the bedside table. Papers and pens, small scraps of paper marking pages of import. He had been reading for her, taking notes for her.

She went to him, eyes burning, throat aching, and kissed his brow. He stirred softly, but slept on.

She fled, her body taut and aching. She wished she did not love him so completely. If she didn’t, she would not have hesitated to wake him.

• • •

Instead she went to Ludivine, telling her baffled guards to wait outside. They had grown used to her nighttime wanderings, had become marvelously discreet, but she knew her mood was frantic, crazed. Evyline must have sensed it. are you? she asked, afraid to know the answer.

Come find me, he replied, and then he was gone, along with the fire and the foreign winter.

Rielle knelt in the dirt, her breath coming high and fast, a sheen of sweat coating her skin.

The Archon regarded her with one raised eyebrow. “In all my years, Lady Rielle, I have never seen someone pray quite so violently.”

She smiled at him, her jaw aching with tension. “Such is the strength of my devotion, Your Holiness.”

• • •

Corien did not speak to Rielle the third night, in the Firmament, nor on the fourth night, in the House of Light.

Each moment of silence sent her tired thoughts spiraling. What were his intentions? Where was he hiding? He was playing a game with her. He had a plan, and she could not see it.

In the House of Light—Audric’s temple, the temple of sunspinners and the Lightbringer, the temple of the Sun Queen—Rielle knelt on a gold-fringed cushion before a marble statue of Saint Katell and bore down on her prayers with a vengeance.

Corien wouldn’t speak to her? He would tease her with horrifying visions, with the tender touch of his voice, and then abandon her? Fine. She would pray, then. She would pray as no one had prayed before.

Except that praying had never come naturally to her. It required a quieting of the mind she found tedious and nearly impossible. Over the years she had forced herself to learn—at first out of fear of her father, then out of love for Tal, and then, at last, because she had to begrudgingly admit that praying did help focus her mind. Praying kept her power docile, her mind smooth as a river stone.

Her mind was anything but smooth that night. Corien had dropped an anchor into her, hooked himself to her thoughts, and the ripples of that grew, and grew, until her prayers roared and wailed.

Later, feeling wild, Rielle went to Audric. She led him upstairs, to the fourth floor, where a small sitting room overlooked the northern ballroom. She whispered her desires to him, elated when he gently pressed her back against the velvet curtains. She kissed him until her lips were sore. She tugged at his trousers.

“Someone will hear, my love,” he murmured, his kisses trailing down her neck.

She threaded her fingers through his curls, held him to her. If he didn’t hurry, she would fly apart. “Let them hear,” she gasped, and hoped Corien could hear most clearly of all. “Let them all hear how I love you.”

• • •

The next evening—sore, delirious with exhaustion, smiling to herself in a way that was not entirely appropriate for a temple—Rielle allowed the Archon to help her into the warm water of the Baths, and together, they prayed to Saint Nerida.

Overhead, worshippers walked the three open mezzanines of the Baths, the slender stone columns lined with heavy sprays of purple blossoms. Fountains spilled softly into the praying pools; the quiet trill of birdsong floated down from the rafters.

Rielle was comforted, her mind quieter than it had been in days.

O seas and rivers! she prayed, drawing her hands through the smooth water. O rain and snow! Quench us our thirst, cleanse us our evil. Grow us the fruit of our fields. Drown us the cries of our enemies!

She had barely finished reciting the words when Corien arrived.

His words snapped like tinder. How are you feeling today, my dear? Tired? Aching?

Rielle opened her eyes. Night had fallen. The temple was empty. Snow fell through the open ceiling, quiet and even, dusting the surface of the water.

She shivered. Her thin prayer robes clung to her, crusted with ice.

“Are you going to talk to me, truly?” she called out. “Or just play games and send me nightmares?”

Behind her, a soft splash. She turned to see Corien approaching her through the water, in a dark robe of his own.

“This is no game to me,” he said, his voice low and thin. He reached her more quickly than he should have been able to. Her head spun, and her foot caught on a slab of ice. She stumbled; he caught her wrist, held her against him.

“Release me at once,” she commanded.

He obeyed, his breath puffing in the frigid air. He bowed. “Forgive me. Sun Queen.”

Suddenly she found herself blinking back tears. “I don’t understand you. You’re frightening me, and I hate you.”

“You don’t,” he said at once. “Though you wish that you did.”

“Why are you tormenting me? Because I burned you that day?”

He laughed. “You could burn me a thousand times, and I would still want you for my own.”

She shivered from the cold, from the frightening beauty of his voice. “Why do you want me? Because I can tear down the Gate for you? Because you can use my power to destroy my race?”

Corien reached for her face, then paused. “May I touch you, Rielle?”

She let out an impatient cry and captured his face in her hands. “There. I’ve touched you myself. Now, answer me!”

His pale gaze seemed suddenly tired to her eyes, and ancient. He turned into her touch, pressed a kiss to her palm.

“Come find me, darling child,” he whispered against her wrist, “and I’ll tell you everything you wish to know, and more.”

Then he was gone. The water was warm again, the evening light a cheerful violet, the temple halls humming with prayers.

“My lady,” said a nearby worshipper, wide-eyed, “are you all right? You’re crying.”

“Sometimes my power moves me to tears,” Rielle replied, her voice thick, her hands trembling under the water. “For it is a gift from God, from the empirium, and it brings me indescribable joy.”

• • •

Her feet carried her automatically to Audric’s room that night, but when she found him, she could not bear to wake him.

He slept peacefully, sprawled across the bed, his face soft and his curls in disarray. A book lay open on his stomach—The Great and Terrible Legacy of Our Blessed Saints. Three others sat on the bedside table. Papers and pens, small scraps of paper marking pages of import. He had been reading for her, taking notes for her.

She went to him, eyes burning, throat aching, and kissed his brow. He stirred softly, but slept on.

She fled, her body taut and aching. She wished she did not love him so completely. If she didn’t, she would not have hesitated to wake him.

• • •

Instead she went to Ludivine, telling her baffled guards to wait outside. They had grown used to her nighttime wanderings, had become marvelously discreet, but she knew her mood was frantic, crazed. Evyline must have sensed it.