Restoration by Carol Berg Read Free Book Online Page A

thought to profit from this death, and it was clear who looked to profit the most—the same one who had been summoned to answer charges of conspiracy not two days previous, the same one who had been the object of the Emperor’s screaming rage when closeted with him before last evening’s meal, the same who had refused to sit at his father’s table a mere three hours before the deed was done.
    The rustle of my wings quickly scattered the gossips. The falcon was the symbol of the Emperor’s Denischkar house, and those who noted me cast their eyes nervously to the heavens beyond my wings, as if expecting Athos himself to follow and render judgment on the cowardly villain responsible for this most heinous of all crimes—regicide, the murder of the god’s own voice on earth.
    I found Aleksander in the Hall of Athos, a vast columned temple dedicated to the sun god, built in the heart of the palace gardens. The soaring dome was sheathed with gold inside and out, and pierced with slits and delicately etched windows so that on every moment of the sun’s path, sunbeams fell like fine lacework upon the floor. The thick stone walls held the coolness of the night just past, and the high windows and broad doorways drew in whatever fair breeze wandered over the city. I settled in one of the slots in the gilded dome. Far below me spread a vast floor of shining white marble, inlaid with patterns of cool green malachite. On it lay two bodies, one draped in gold and one in red, both mortally still. As if Athos’ own beams were insufficient to the day, the two were surrounded by a thousand burning lamps of gold and silver, some set upon the floor, some hung on the forest of columns that supported the dome and the arched vaults of the side temples, some dangling from lamp stands of wrought silver and bronze. Among the lamps were braziers, burning sweet herbs and incense, so that wafting gray-green smokes obscured the mingled light of morning and the flickering death flames. At the great arched doorways that opened onto the Emperor’s gardens stood guards, their naked backs rigid and their spears crossed. The silence was absolute.
    My falcon’s heart racing, I shot downward toward the two still figures and took a closer view. Raptor’s instinct told me that only one of the two was dead. Ivan zha Denischkar, the one in gold. He lay upon a golden bier, four rampant lions with amethyst eyes holding up the comers, and he was draped in cloth of spun gold, adorned by a falcon worked in silver thread. The long white braid that lay over his right shoulder was unadorned, and a finely crafted sword, well used and plain, lay lengthwise on his body, hilt upon his chest. His face was cold and still. No sign of death terror for this man, stabbed by a gelded bodyslave as he was prepared for bed.
    Aleksander lay facedown upon the stone floor, his long, lean form laid out square to his father’s body. His arms were stretched to either side, the scarlet robe of mourning spread gracefully like the plumage of a fallen bird. His long red braid—the outward symbol of a Derzhi warrior’s manhood—was gone, cut off, leaving just enough fiery red hair to touch the floor, like a shaggy curtain to protect his private grief.
    I settled on the floor close beside the bier, behind a giant bronze statue of the sun god’s horse. Shielded from view by the statue’s massive base, I shifted back to human form. Again it took far too long, and I was near prostrate after, sweating as if I’d run ten leagues in the desert. My senses were near overwhelmed by the thickly scented smokes and perfumes, and I felt as if someone had slapped on blinders and stuffed my ears with wool as I reverted to my own sight and hearing.
    I leaned against the block of marble and waited, trying to shake off the unhealthy disturbance of my shifting. The Prince had not moved since my first glimpse of him. How did he mourn his cold and