The Shadow of Theron, page 34
“Thank you, Signor.”
“My pleasure,” he said, and shot a final barb at Marek before taking his seat again.
Marek did not return fire. It was so odd that he wasn’t fighting back. But things were definitely getting worse, and the witness box was packed with people chomping at the bit to have their turn at him. Aleksander wondered what it was going to take to rile him up.
Lothan could barely keep his eyes open. The swirling nausea caused by seeing the temple window’s mysterious restoration was compounded by his possession of the Cerulean Key. He’d shoved it grudgingly in his pocket before leaving his house at the last minute, trying at intervals to build up his immunity to its agonies enough to use it. But then he’d been confined to a cell before being able to rid himself of it.
It was like a shackle around his throat. It robbed him of any rest and produced horrific nightmares of Theron’s Shadow taking the form of his predecessor, his black charger trampling him into the ground. By dawn, he had been bathed in a cold sweat, and utterly drained.
He managed to slip the key under the threadbare mattress of his cell before being collected for his trial. His fingertips still throbbed from the direct contact as if he’d gripped a red-hot poker.
With the peace of being away from it came the overwhelming urge to sleep. But even that was interrupted by the howling in his veins to be nearer the Blood Sword. He couldn’t soothe that ache until he could hold the key in his hand long enough to open his cell. He was being pulled in so many directions his skin felt on the brink of splitting apart. Not to mention that he was being closely guarded, and all of Lighura was itching to stone him.
All except de Castel, the man who had put him there. It galled him, that Lighura’s princeling cared so little about the trouble he’d caused that he couldn’t even be bothered. He was probably off sticking the Alvaró girl. An image arose in his mind, of the two of them laughing as they fornicated on de Castel’s fancy bed in his fancy house.
The picture was chased away when an overstuffed Aruni jostled his way out of the witness box and moved to the front of the courthouse. Lothan craned his neck to snap stiffened joints, and his vision flashed white. He saw stars as the still tender muscles keeping his arm attached to the rest of him screamed.
“I am Brother Sancio of Temple Arun and I’ve been sent as their representative. When the damage to our sacred window was discovered, this so-called magistrate refused the high priestess’s call for swift justice. Many of the people gathered here can attest to that.”
The fat warrior paused and took a stuttering breath. “But what they don’t know is that Marek himself was the one who destroyed it and took the life of our high priestess.”
The gallery erupted in outrage. Their clamoring voices ran together like an ungodly shriek deep in Lothan’s skull, and he fought hard to keep from shielding his brain from the sound with his hands.
“Brother…?”
“Sancio,” he supplied for the chief magistrate.
“Have you proof of this?”
The warrior (it made Lothan snort to think of him as such) nodded.
“I was there when it happened.”
Lothan would have laughed, if he thought his body wouldn’t fall apart from the attempt.
How could I have failed to notice you?
“I was in the nave when I heard them enter. I hid myself in the private prayer booth. I heard him give the order.”
Fuck.
The chief magistrate looked surprised. It was rather unbelievable, even though it was true. Maybe he would get away with it.
“Why would he do that?” the chief magistrate asked the priest.
“For spite, I suspect. The Shadow of Theron had just recently discovered that Marek was the one stealing sacred relics from across Andras. The Shadow was working in tandem with the high priestess, and I was his contact.
Fuck. Fuck.
The priest nodded to another Aruni in the gallery, who stood and lifted a wooden chest onto the magistrate’s desk. It was where Lothan had kept a log of his dark trade and some of the smaller, useless relics. That is, until Theron’s Impostor had sent the mouth of the cave crashing down on itself. He’d assumed the chest had been buried in the rubble.
“I wouldn’t touch any of its contents, Honor,” the priest warned as the chief magistrate reached into the box, then retracted his hand just as swiftly. “Something in there almost cost the Shadow his life.”
“You mentioned the high priestess.”
The priest ducked his head. “High Priestess Beatríz. The Shadow told her of what he’d seen when he retrieved the chest before you. And I told her what I had witnessed in the temple. After Marek refused to see justice done, she summoned him to the temple to confront him.”
The second Aruni pulled something out of her robes—a bloodied, filthy blue rag. Sancio held it up for the chief magistrate to see.
“This is all that’s left of her.”
The courthouse fell silent. It was a single moment of peace, the only one Lothan was allowed.
“Honorable Magistrate…”
“Yes, Brother?”
“I have been directed to tell you, that you cannot hang Lothan Marek.”
The chief magistrate raised an eyebrow. “Can’t I?”
The priest shook his head. “He murdered one of us. His blood is ours to spill.”
“I won’t argue with you on that point.”
“Did you witness the murder of the high priestess?” Lothan asked.
The priest hesitated, but the chief magistrate directed him to answer.
“No. But after what the Shadow told her—”
“Who knows what the Shadow told her? For all you know, he is the murderer you seek, not me.”
“It was you!” the witness insisted. “And it was you who stole the relics from the Goddess!”
Lothan shrugged. “What need have I of relics? I’ve never been a devotee of the temple. Isn’t it more probable that a man who impersonates a god would seek to possess items of a supposedly sacred nature?”
“Watch your tongue, Marek,” the chief magistrate warned.
Lothan took a deep breath and focused the trickle of energy he had left into his soothing tone. “Have I said anything wrong, Honor? How are you to accept the second-hand testimony of one who, by his own admission, was not present for the crimes I stand accused of?”
“But I heard you—”
Lothan ignored the braying man and squared his gaze on the magistrate. He had only a few seconds to turn this in his favor.
“If this Shadow has seen so much, let him come forward, without his mask, and give testimony against me. You can hardly refuse to question this man before handing me over to the temple. You must hear from him directly. You cannot deny me that.”
If it had been anyone other than the chief magistrate, Lothan would not have been strong enough. But he had preyed on his weakness before; he already knew the way in. And as for the Shadow—he wouldn’t dare. The minute he took off his mask, Lothan had him.
It had been necessary, but Lothan pushed himself too far. He clenched his fists so hard that his nails sliced into his palms. But without something concrete to divert his attention, he was going to faint.
What he heard next put a smile on his lips.
“Brother Sancio, are you able to contact the Shadow?”
He hesitated. “He has always been the one to contact us, Honor.”
“But can you get a message to him, and convince him to present himself?”
The priest hesitated even longer. His eyes drifted to the priestess who’d carried the chest to the magistrate. She struck Lothan as too thin to be a warrior, with a bony face and pale hair that was almost white.
A fine pair of warriors—a pig and a waif.
The waif made an almost imperceptible dip of her head. Lothan raised a curious eyebrow.
“I can,” the priest said at last.
Lothan glared at him.
You’re going to die, piggy. I will enjoy making you squeal.
Lysandro found the doors of the playhouse locked. He pounded on the wood and called out for Sera. But it was Fabien who answered. Lysandro slumped in his boots.
“Gods,” Fabien said. “You look awful.”
“I need to see her,” Lysandro said. He could scarcely hold himself upright in the entryway and braced himself against the marble columns.
Fabien looked behind him, muttered something under his breath that Lysandro didn’t understand, then stepped out into the open, closing the door behind him.
“It’s not a good idea,” Fabien said.
“Fabien,” Lysandro begged. “I have to see her.”
The doge sighed. “It will do more harm than good. Give her time. Give me time.”
“You can’t keep her from me.”
Fabien tilted his head, his eyes full of sympathy. “Lysandro. I love her. I love her as much as a man like me possibly could. I offered to make her a dogessa. She’s told you that, hasn’t she?”
Lysandro wanted to retch. But he simply nodded.
“That offer still stands. I could take her from here and you’d never see her again. I’d do my duty by her, get with child, and then—” Fabien shrugged. “She’d be free to have as many lovers as she desired.”
Lysandro was definitely going to retch.
“She’d be miserable for the rest of her life. She wants…”
“What does she want?”
Fabien blinked. “I seem to recall something about unwavering loyalty and affection, all the days of your life.”
Lysandro held his breath. Had Fabien overheard, or had she told him what he’d said? What did it mean if she had? Lysandro shook his head; this conversation was making him lose his mind.
“How can I give her any of those things if she won’t speak to me?”
“She will. But…not now. I’m sorry. I am on your side in this.”
Lysandro doubted that. He didn’t try to hide it.
“I wish for her happiness above all else. Look, why don’t you go eat something? You look as if you’ve missed a meal or two.”
A full stomach wouldn’t bring Sera back to him. He didn’t see the point.
“Go now. I’ll do what I can.”
Lysandro put his weight on the door, holding it open. “Broken glass.”
“What?”
“Tell her, it was glass from a broken window. She will understand.”
Lysandro almost collapsed when the door closed in his face.
Fabien returned to the stage, where the lush pillows that belonged to a make-believe desert camp were strewn about the floor. Pirró sat up as he entered.
“How is he?”
“Why do you care how he is?” Sera snapped.
Fabien ignored her. “Like he’s been struck by a runaway coach.”
Sera’s face went white. “What do you mean? Is he hurt?”
“I thought we didn’t care,” Pirró said.
Sera clucked her tongue.
“He’s fine,” Fabien answered, reclining beside Pirró. “In body, perhaps. In heart and mind, though…” Fabien shook his head.
Sera dropped back onto the silken pillows. Her headache was creeping in again. She had thought she didn’t want to see him. But now that he’d come and gone, she regretted sending Fabien to the door. Lysandro’s devastatingly handsome face, marred by sorrow, was etched on the back of her eyelids. The impression made fresh tears threaten to fall, just when she thought she’d finished crying.
He’d reached for her, in those last moments, but she’d backed away, stung by his broken promise to end his masquerade. Remembering the pain in his eyes as she had done so sliced right down to the bone.
This is his fault, she told herself once more.
“He’s sorry, Sera,” Fabien said. “He’s falling apart without you. What more could you want?”
She wanted Lysandro to tell her the truth. To look her in the eyes and confess to being the Shadow of Theron and explain why he had courted her night and day with the promise that he would reveal himself, but yet still refused, even when she could stand it no more. Why? Why the mask, and the secrets? She could think of only one reason.
“He doesn’t love me.”
“Oh, yes. Yes he does,” Fabien said.
“He wants me to believe that.”
“Come now, girl. You’re being ridiculous.”
“He lied to me,” she insisted.
“Did he? Did he ever tell you something that wasn’t true?”
“He didn’t tell me all.”
Fabien laughed. “That is not the same. Believe me, there is an ocean between those things. Secrets are often necessary. Sometimes they hurt. It’s a sign of how deeply involved you are with another person.” Fabien gestured to Pirró. “No man alive has hurt me more than he has.”
Pirró grimaced, but Fabien smoothed it away with a gentle hand. “But what hurts most is his absence.”
Fabien was right about that. It was killing her to push Lysandro away. All she wanted for him was to catch her in his arms and never let go. But she had to know his heart.
“He’s desperate to talk to you. He wasn’t even making sense.”
“What do you mean?” Sera asked.
Fabien folded his hands behind his head. “He said to tell you it was glass from a broken window. Said you would understand. Do you?”
His arm. The bleeding.
Sera stifled a sob. The only broken windows in Lighura were buried in the rubble of the magistrate’s office. Only one person could be responsible. There was no way to admit to that without also admitting he was the Shadow. Is that what he would have done, if only she’d come to the door?
Merciful Faelia, what have I done?
“I’d say she does,” Pirró said to Fabien as Sera sprang from the floor. But she came back down just as fast again, and hard, as her ankle snagged on the ropes of their imaginary tent.
Sancio took a long, circuitous route to Lysandro’s house to avoid any prying eyes. Time was, this winding path would have left him purple in the face by the time he’d reached his friend’s doorstep. Now, with only a few steps more to go, his body ached to run.
He was shocked to see the surgeon open the door.
“Why are you here? Is he sick?”
Rafael tilted his head. “You’d better come see.”
The surgeon led Sancio to Lysandro’s rooms. They were bathed in darkness, though it was midday. Sancio saw his friend crouched on the floor with his back against the wall, his eyes closed.
“He won’t eat, or drink… you’ll be lucky if he speaks to you.”
“I’m not hungry.”
“You haven’t eaten in almost two days. You must want something.”
Rafael bit his tongue as Lysandro flinched, and tears pricked his eyes.
“Sorry. I didn’t mean—”
“Lies.”
Rafael furrowed his brow. “What?”
“All those poets, Morçan, Al’ataine, de la Vega…they sing songs of the great triumph of love, its tenderness, the way it fills your soul…”
“Lysandro,—”
“They lie. They never said how much it hurts.”
Sancio pressed his lips into a thin line. Lysandro’s pain was palpable as he spoke, choking on his own words. Seeing him like this made all kinds of complicated feelings churn in his gut. But he didn’t have time for any of that.
“I’m sorry Lysandro. Truly. But at least now you can focus on more important things.”
Rafael shoved him with his elbow. “Don’t be so callous.”
“It’s not callousness. It’s the truth.”
“More important things…” Lysandro said faintly.
“Yes.”
“Like what?”
“Like what? Like putting the nail in Marek’s coffin, before he raises Argoss?”
Lysandro shot him a hard look. “He is not Argoss reborn,” he said firmly. “He’s just a man. An insidious man who happened upon an insidious weapon.”
“And can wield it?”
Sancio bit the inside of his cheek to stop him spilling his guts in retort. Instead he answered in the only way he could.
“He might get away with everything. He’s demanded that the Shadow testify in full view of the village and the chief magistrate agreed.”
“Why in Arun’s name did he do that?” Rafael cried.
“Because he’s the chief magistrate. He must be seen to be fair. My words weren’t enough. It wasn’t me who’s seen the worst of what he’s done.”
He couldn’t tell the whole village who he was. Not when Sera still didn’t know.
“What will he fear if you don’t?” Sancio pressed. “What more will he do to exact revenge on those who tried to hang him? Or your father, who brought him to the chief magistrate’s attention?”
Lysandro’s legs shifted on the floor. Sancio’s words had the intended effect. But Lysandro wouldn’t admit it now, not until his hurt and his angry pride subsided. Sancio knew that.
“You know what you have to do, you don’t need me to tell you,” he said as he turned to leave. “Just be quick about it, before it’s too late.”
“Sorry,” Rafael said when he was alone again with Lysandro. “If I’d known he was going to be like that I wouldn’t have let him in. He does have a point though.”
“Rafael—”
“You have to stop this,” he pleaded. “You’re going to end up killing yourself.”
“Rafael,” Lysandro repeated.
“Yes?”
“Go away.”
He shook his head, then did what he was asked without saying more.
Lothan watched as two of the men who had been hired to keep an eye on him almost came to blows.
“Ah, shut up, will you? Just ‘cause you got the keys don’t make you better’n me.”
“If it doesn’t, why don’t you have ‘em then?”
“I’ll tell you what I have, a right hook that’ll knock that stupid grin off your face.”
“You’re just upset because you’ve gotta answer to me now.”
