The pendant suddenly unfurled from its many knots, and Imogen gasped, nearly spilling the tea when metal ribbons rose to stand at attention in her palm. They began to sway, silver serpents dancing to the unheard tune of a snake charmer. Just as quickly they collapsed and melded for a third time into a new shape.
A tired chuckle escaped Niamh’s mouth. “You see? Even now, the trinket recognizes the name of its master.”
Imogen’s upper lip curled, and she lifted the pendant gingerly by its silver chain. Her hand twitched, an involuntary cupping as if to recapture its treasure. She shuddered and dropped the trinket unceremoniously in the box. It struck the bottom with a thump, and both women heard a soft but clear hiss of protest before Imogen slammed the box closed.
“I can’t concentrate when that thing is constantly jumping up and down in my hand like a trapped spider.” She wiped imaginary dust off her gloves and resumed her seat. “You were saying?”
Niamh’s affectionate smile reminded Imogen of better days. “You were always a squeamish one when it came to insects and worms.”
“It’s the crawly little legs I don’t like. I always have the urge to scratch, like now.” She smoothed the blankets over Niamh’s thin legs and was relieved to see the small blood spots had not spread. “Continue with your tale.”
“It’s no tale, girl, but the truth. Tineroth is real as is her king. His people once called him Cededa the Fair, then Cededa the Butcher, and then they called him no more. Only the carvings on Tineroth’s gates remember him and not by name. He drank the Waters and became the Undying King.”
Chills spread across Imogen’s body despite the room’s stifling heat. She knew the story of the Undying King, an emperor desperate to retain his throne and his power who drank the Waters of Eternal Life. That which should have been a blessing had become a curse.
His true name had been lost in the passage of time and the births and deaths of generations. The idea that a man so old still lived and lingered in an ancient city seen only by ensorcelled eyes raised goose flesh on her arms. That Niamh knew his true name and wanted to send her daughter to him made her shiver.
“He is a great warrior, but most importantly, a great mage,” Niamh continued, ignoring her daughter’s growing unease. She reached for Imogen who clasped her hand. “He can break your curse, Imogen. I know it!” The fervor in her voice was reflected in the glitter of her eyes. “When I am gone, you must find Tineroth and Cededa. Tell him you’ve come to call in a debt owed. The Waters have cursed him with long life and blessed him with great power. He can do for you what I never could, no matter how hard I tried.”
The strength with which Niamh squeezed her hand surprised Imogen and alarmed her. “Peace, Mother.” She bathed the woman’s sweating brow, feeling the dampness soak into her glove and wishing she might comfort her with a bare hand instead of one covered in protective shrouding. “Be still. That’s enough excitement for now.”
But Niamh refused to quiet. “Don’t patronize me, girl,” she wheezed. “I’m not dead yet.” Her dark stare threatened to burn holes in Imogen. “Do you understand what I’m saying? Cededa can give you the life you should have had. No more gloves or isolation.” Her voice faded, and her eyelids drooped as the tea’s mild narcotic effects finally took hold. “A life no longer held prisoner by death.” She said the last on a sigh and fell asleep.
Imogen held vigil for a moment before rising to dump the rest of the cup’s contents into the fire. The flame sizzled and hissed, reminding her of the enchanted pendant in the box. Her thoughts whirled in a soup of confusion and burgeoning hope. She ruthlessly crushed the second, consigning it to the deep recesses of her mind where other false dreams and dead hopes resided. No one—not even an immortal king—could rid her of this malevolence lurking beneath her skin. Imogen doubted she’d receive either aid or mercy from a man whose own people christened him The Butcher.
But Niamh believed in Cededa of Tineroth, and Imogen believed in Niamh. The hope she’d driven back into the shadows refused to go quietly and rose up to float beneath the surface of her more mundane thoughts, lingering there as she brewed a cup of tea for herself and sat at the table admiring daffodils in the guttering firelight. Could an immortal king truly help a woman who’d been born as Death’s handmaiden?
Niamh’s steady, if frail, breathing comforted her, lulling her into a waking daze where the pop of burning wood and the shifting creak of tree branches outside played a lyrical tune. In the loft, her bed lay empty, the sheets stale and cold. Imogen hadn’t slept there the past four days and her back was beginning to feel the strain of sleeping in her hard chair, but she refused to leave Niamh’s side. She yawned, folded her arms on the table and rested her head on their makeshift pillow. She was asleep in moments and dreamed of silver serpents twining about her legs and arms in a cool, metallic caress. Their scales were slippery smooth and glided over her skin in whispers, like sands shifting on an ancient shore.
A rattling gasp awakened her just as the first red streaks of dawn painted the window. She jerked upright, befuddled with sleep. Her gaze settled on the bed where Niamh’s entire body convulsed and arched beneath blankets soaked in gore from waist to knee.
Imogen raced to the bedside. “Oh gods; oh gods,” she chanted, as she gripped Niamh’s thin shoulders to hold her still. Her mother heaved under her hands, eyes rolled back into her head, mouth wet with blood-flecked spittle.
The thrashing seemed to go on forever. Niamh finally calmed, her sunken eyes still closed in a face made cadaverous and paler than marble. Her breath rattled, pausing in spaces of silence so long Imogen wondered if she had finally slipped the bonds that held her spirit to earth. But Niamh held on—long enough to open her eyes and gaze at her daughter with a pleading expression that made Imogen flinch. “Forgive me, my darling girl,” she rasped.
Imogen stared into those dark, dark eyes with all their memories and secrets and saw surrender. Death was a shadow on the doorstep, one foot already across the threshold, held at bay only by the pain that gripped her mother. Tears spilled down Imogen’s cheeks, dripping on to their entwined fingers. “Oh Mother, there’s nothing to forgive.”
“Help me, Imogen. I am so very tired.”
Imogen gasped out a sob. She released Niamh long enough to remove her gloves. Ivory hands, smooth and unblemished by scars or the sun lifted and meshed slowly with Niamh’s own wrinkled ones, their clasp as lethal as it was merciful.
The older woman smiled gently. For a moment her gaze sharpened, grew clear with wonder. Imogen, caught in that same wonder and bittersweet sorrow of touching her mother’s skin for the first time without gloves, leaned forward and kissed Niamh’s cool forehead. When she straightened, Niamh still wore the smile, but her eyes were blank.
Heedless of the bloody linens, Imogen gathered the limp, fragile body into her arms and greeted the dawn with quiet sobs.
CHAPTER TWO
The descending sun lacquered the Adal harbor in crimson and orange light. From his place at one of the high windows in his library, Prince Hayden watched ships sail slowly into the harbor, accompanied by playful dolphins that rode the slow-treading bow waves. Dwellings clung to the cliff walls on either side of the harbor, their walking paths snaking down the worn rock like ribbons in a woman’s hair. The white-washed walls of houses gleamed in the dying light, and lanterns flickered to life amidst the rise of shadows.
The young prince ignored the picturesque scene before him. He’d viewed it a thousand times, and its glory was lost on him. Instead, he looked beyond the harbor, to the vast sea that swelled with the rising tide and the coming of nightfall. There, past the horizon and out of his reach, were the shipping lanes that provided wealth and riches untold to the neighboring kingdom of Berberi. Hayden’s hands clenched into fists. Those shipping lanes rightfully belonged to the kingdom of Castagher, and if she had the martial power Berberi did, Hayden would wrest them from Berberi by force.
His hands relaxed. There were other ways to gain back what was lost, ways that didn’t require war and bloodshed. He had no wish to be the king his father had been, bankrupting his country to finance wars that only weakened Castagher in the end.
A polite knock at the door signaled his awaited visitor had arrived. “Enter,” he called.
Dradus, Castagher’s highest ranking mage and Hayden’s most trusted advisor, bowed briefly. His sly gaze lit on the prince before passing over the new texts he’d sent from the library of a mage condemned for heresy.
“I see you received my gifts, Sire.”
