He rubbed his midriff. “Kingdoms have risen and fallen since I last ate a meal.”
“That’s a long time between breakfast and dinner, Sire.”
“True.” Cededa rubbed the taut muscles and was rewarded with another loud gurgle. They both laughed.
He took her hand and drew her to him. “Get dressed.” He glanced at the bag she’d brought with her to Tineroth. “Do you have another shift?” She nodded. “A good thing as I don’t think the other can be repaired. Meet me at the library. I’ll return there after my hunt. We can eat, and I’ll translate some of the Partik tomes for you.”
An uneasy frisson scattered down her back, one she couldn’t place. There was something here she should know. Some bit of reasoning that was escaping her. “Sire, what does your hunger mean?”
He kissed her and shrugged as if these cravings were nothing more than trivial news. “It means I am awakening, Imogen.” He gestured to her bag. “Get dressed,” he repeated. “I’ll see you in a little while.”
They ate while sitting on the floor of the library’s vestibule. Dust motes danced in the air above them, reminiscent of the fireflies lighting the city at night. Imogen watched as Cededa picked carefully at the roasted hare he’d provided, slicing off small slivers and eating slowly.
She didn’t blame him. Who knew how his body might react to those first bits of food to pass his lips after so long? At his initial bite, she’d prepared to scuttle out of the way in case he sickened. He didn’t. Instead, his eyes lit up. “This is good.”
“You’ve a decent cook in your kitchens.” She shrugged. “Whoever that might be and wherever your kitchens are.”
Cededa laughed. “You’re the recipient of the most talented hedgewitch magics, Imogen. Niamh would have approved.”
Imogen sighed. “I miss her very much. I’m glad you met her when she was young. The sickness didn’t just take her life. It stole her spirit…diminished her.”
“I didn’t know her that well.” His mouth turned up in a faint smile. “Certainly not in the way I’ve come to know you. What I did know I admired.”
She returned the smile. “She was amazing. Thoughtful, loving, sharp as a well-honed blade and educated. I’d never known any to best her in conversation or bargaining.”
“Did she ever tell you why you were born cursed?”
Imogen shook her head. “No. She only said she was a coward for not telling me.”
He rose abruptly and offered his hand to help her stand. “If you’re done, we’ll return to the palace. Gather up the scrolls you want to bring with you.”
He led her out of the library and across the city’s main avenue. They passed the ruin of the temple that preserved the queens’ names in stone and crossed the green stretch of the abandoned arena where Cededa practiced with various weaponry each morning. When they neared the catafalque with his effigy, she made him stop.
“Every portrait, every statue, any likeness of you has been defaced. Except this one. Why?”
Cededa stared at his likeness in stone, his expression so much like the effigy’s in that moment, Imogen suffered a touch of revulsion. “It was a message. One carved in marble instead of written on parchment, guaranteed to accompany me into this pathetic existence. There was rebellion in all parts of my empire, including this city. I’d led an army to Mir. While I was gone, the mages and ministers left behind emptied Tineroth and proceeded to destroy every likeness of me, except this one. It was no oversight. No accident. They left me a sepulcher I’d never be fortunate enough to use.”
Imogen shivered and hugged herself. “Were you truly so hated?”
Cededa closed his eyes. “I remember those days. Chaos and screaming mobs. Buildings set alight. Temples desecrated. People shouting for the ministers to bring forth the head of the Butcher.” He opened his eyes to gaze upon the effigy. “I think ‘hated’ is too mild a word.” He pointed to the inscription carved on the side of the catafalque. “This is written in Scetaq, the language of curses. It says ‘Here lies Cededa, alive yet dead. May he remember. May we forget.’”
Imogen gaped at him, unease worming its way through the glow of her fascination for her new lover. “What did you do to turn your people against you?”
“Enough to live four thousand years and still regret it. Still grieve it.”
They stood in silence for a moment before he motioned for her to follow him again. This time she didn’t take his hand, nor did he offer it. He led her to one of the tall spires still intact and shrouded in a green veil of ivy. Cededa wrenched the warped door open, snapping brittle hinges with his efforts.
He took her hand, and they climbed a stone staircase that spiraled endlessly upward. When they finally stopped, Imogen leaned against the wall and tried not to breathe in great gulps of dusty air.
“What are we doing?” she wheezed on a thin note. She scowled to see Cededa hadn’t even broken a sweat from the arduous climb.
He opened another door. Light poured into the stairwell’s gloom, along with fresh air. Imogen followed him out onto a balcony and gasped at the sight before her.
Tineroth lay in the afternoon sun, a relic of broken splendor awash in the pale filtered light of a cloudy sky. From her rooftop view, she saw the green crown of the surrounding forest with its strange trees and hidden occupants. Beyond the woods, the deep crevasse with its ribbon of river.
As if he heard her unspoken question, Cededa spoke. “Once I took back the key, the bridge disappeared. When you return home, I’ll summon it again so you can cross.”
Despair rose inside her at his words. Imogen tried to brush it away and failed. She should be glad to leave. She’d be free of her bane and could return to a world populated by others, where there was noise and market days and festivals, rainstorms and changes of seasons and the renewed hope of a normal life.
