Restoration by Carol Berg Read Free Book Online Page B

ruthless father? The father who had indulged his every boyish whim, and then given him to his harsh uncle to raise as a warrior. The father who had condemned his only son to die when Aleksander could not prove his innocence of that uncle’s death, and who had yielded only one fierce embrace when at last the truth came out and the executioner’s ax was stayed. The father who had been unable to face the rigors of ruling after so close a brush with disaster and laid the mantle of empire on a young man who scarcely knew himself. This day would be very hard for Aleksander, far beyond treachery and danger and duplicity. If they had parted in anger, as rumor had it, things would likely be worse.
    â€œTime gives us no indulgence, my lord,” I said at last, speaking softly from my hiding place. “And so I must intrude upon your grieving. I wish I had no need.” His enemies were moving.
    A long while passed before he answered, as if he had a very long way to come from wherever his thoughts had taken him. He did not shift a muscle, thus leaving his voice half muffled by the floor. “Have you a wish to die this day, Ezzarian?”
    Despite the somber circumstance, I smiled. Whatever threat an observer might have noted in those words was belied by their history and the particular dry tone in which he voiced them. When I was a slave and the demon Khelid had afflicted Aleksander with an enchantment of sleeplessness, I had made a choice to venture the half-crazed Prince’s presence to tell him of it. On that day he had spoken those words and meant them ... and come very near fulfilling their mortal promise. Now they were a symbol of the gifts we had given each other.
    â€œThere seems to be a surfeit of death,” I said. “That’s why I’ve come.”
    â€œI cannot leave here before sunset.” His quiet voice was slightly hoarse. It was almost midday, and he had likely taken up this vigil in the middle of the night. “It would do him dishonor.”
    â€œThen I’ll wait until sunset. Though I’ve no cause to love the dead, for the sake of the living I would do him no dishonor.”
    â€œOh, gods, Seyonne,”—the quiet words ripped through the suffocating scents and smokes of death—“what cause have I to love the dead? And yet I would neither move from here nor have the hours pass, because the next thing will be his burning, and nothing will be left of him.” The Prince remained prostrate, as if bound to the cold stone.
    I could say nothing to ease him. My own beloved father had been as different from Ivan zha Denischkar as lush, green Ezzaria was from the Azhaki desert; his death in the Derzhi war of conquest was still my own deepest sorrow. And so I could not guess how much of Aleksander’s loss was love and how much was emptiness. Ivan had been ruler of all the known world for thirty-four years—a lion, a terror, a ferocious and intimidating warrior, the blazing, inescapable sun in Aleksander’s sky.
    Creeping darkness stirred within my head like a cat disturbed from afternoon sleep. No. No. No. Terrified that my murderous madness might explode so near the Prince, I called upon every mental discipline I knew to quell it. I had no time for madness. Kanavar had been spoken. Aleksander was going to die if we couldn’t find some way to stop it. A man needed no prophet’s gift to know this.
    The Prince did not speak again through all the long afternoon, and I would not do so until he gave me leave. Perhaps even enemies and mortal danger needed to wait on grief. But I stayed with him and watched his back. My duty ... and my desire ... was to protect him. It was an unnerving thought that his nearest danger was likely my own hand. I watched that, too.
    When the last remnants of the daylight had faded, leaving only the pale circles of lamplight in the smoky haze, Aleksander stirred. He pushed himself up to his knees, mumbling a soft curse