Lord of Hawkfell Island (30 page)

Suddenly there was a loud crash from the outer chamber.

“It is about time,” Hormuze said, not moving. “He took long enough.”

But then the silk hanging was ripped aside. The king stood there, weaving on his feet, his face red as blood, his eyes covered with an opaque white film, his throat working wildly for he couldn't breathe. “You,” he said, staring toward Hormuze.

“Aye, sire,” Hormuze said. “You are still standing. I gave you enough poison to send you on your way in but a moment. You have more strength than I thought you would. The years bred a strong will in you.”

The king hovered between death and bafflement, and he knew it. “I trusted you. I took you in, listened to you, and made you powerful. Why do you kill me?”

“Kill you, sire? Ah, surely not. On the morrow, all will occur just as I told you it would, just as you told all your warriors it would. You will indeed appear before all your men, transformed into a young man as you once were. Behold yourself, sire.”

Hormuze pulled off his beard, ripped open his tunic and unstrapped the padding from his waist. He stripped off all his clothes, then he rubbed at the cosmetics on his face.

Then he smiled, a beautiful smile, a foreign smile, for he had the look of a man not of the north. Ah, but he
was a beautiful man. Lean, his body whipcord strong, his muscles strong within his man's prime.

“I resemble the man you once were, do I not? At least that is what I was told before I came to you, and when I came, sire, I knew even then what I would do, for I had seen her. She was very young, only fifteen as I recall, and she didn't see me. And I knew then what must be. Aye, look upon my man's body, young and vigorous, aye, sire, and I will breed sons off her, sons who will rule Ireland and beyond and into the future, just as I told you. Aye, look at me, for soon you will be dead. Since I was never a spoiled little princeling as you were, granted all I wanted with no restraint, no rules, I have no fat on my body, no arrogant moods to make those about me fear me, no belief in how I am more clever than any other man in the land. But I do look enough like you, sire. On the morrow, all will cheer and all will bless Hormuze, the advisor, truly a wizard, who, once he had accomplished your rebirth, he disappeared, perhaps to reappear again in the centuries to come in some other strange land where he will once again work his wondrous magic.”

Sitric stared at him, at the young man who stood naked and proud before him. “I will kill you,” he said, “I will whip you until you are naught but bone and blood at my feet.” He worked his mouth, but there were no more words and no more breath. He fell to the floor, his hands clutching his neck, then his arms were falling away, curling at his sides.

Hormuze walked to him and knelt down. “He is dead. By all the gods, the old fool is finally dead.”

He rose and turned to Mirana. “I know this shocks you. I know you don't as yet understand. Trust me, that is all I ask. You are pale and afraid, for all this is strange. I am sorry, I had hoped he would die silently,
in the other chamber, alone, without you to see him.”

Mirana looked at Hormuze and said calmly, “I am pale, it is true, but I am not frightened. The king is dead, not I. You have played a drama before me and now I understand some of it. But I ask you, Hormuze, why did you select me of all women? You say you saw me when I was very young and began your plans. Why me?”

He smiled at her, and the smile was filled with longing, soft and sweet, but it wasn't a smile that belonged to her, that belonged with her, in this chamber. It was a smile of long ago.

He said simply, “Because you are the image of my dead wife. Her name was Naphta and she served a great lady of our country. Aye, I speak of Egypt—” He said a word whose sound was utterly foreign to her ears. “She died because this lady was jealous of her, hated her because her lord husband wanted Naphta. She was sly, very sly. She stuck a
huza
knife—'tis a very small pointed blade—into the base of Naphta's neck, beneath her thick black hair, knowing no one would discover it. But I did. When I had my beautiful wife in my arms, I examined her and found the small prick and felt the stiff strands of bloody hair. Aye, the lady killed her, just as she had killed others who surpassed her in beauty. She killed my beautiful Naphta. I let it be known that I knew what she had done, even spoke of how she'd done it. I knew then that she would kill me too. I escaped just before her assassins came to kill me and my small daughter, Eze. I came here to the north to seek my fortune. And I found it.”

Mirana just stared at him, unable to believe him, to comprehend his motives. “I look like your dead wife? All this planning, this elaborate scheme and the king's
murder just because I look like another woman? By the gods, this is madness.”

He looked at her with less softness now. “You do not sound like her, but you will soon enough with my tutelage. She never questioned me, never considered any wishes but mine. Her tongue was never sharp in disagreement with me, and you will change, Mirana, doubt it not.

“Aye, her image is preserved in my mind and before mine eyes every day of my life, for our daughter will grow into her image as well. There is already a great resemblance between you and my little Eze, not really in her physical features, but in moments when she is silent and looking off into her dreams. And when she smiles. Then I will have both of you to look upon. I will have my Naphta back with me. I will also have a kingdom and power and wealth. And I will share it with you, Mirana. You did wed with the king. I am now he. Behold your husband and your king. I am now Sitric.”

S
O MUCH WAS
happening, too much, and she was reeling with all that he'd said, all that the king had said. She stared at him now, unable to accept his utter confidence in himself at what he'd done and what he expected others to do. He saw nothing save what he wanted to see, would accept nothing beyond what he had commanded.

“Surely you cannot believe that the people will affirm that you are the king. They would wish to believe it, for it is a magical thing, this rebirth you convinced the king to believe, but the people won't accept it, not once they look at you, not once they are standing close to you. You look foreign, different from us.”

“Do you forget so quickly that you believed me an old man, that all those—including the king—have believed me an ancient relic, an advisor, some even saw me as some sort of priest? They will see and accept, for I will continue to disguise myself and each day I will use less and less disguise. Only you will see me as I truly am, each night, when we come together. Aye, they will become familiar with me, you will see. Soon, very soon, they will be shouting their enthusiasm that I am reborn and given back to them by that magician, Hormuze.”

“No,” she said. “No. The people aren't stupid. They won't believe you are truly Sitric reborn. It's best you face up to it and escape while you still can before they discover that you've murdered Sitric. His warriors have no love for him, but their loyalty is unquestioned. They will surely kill you.”

He was frowning at her, completely unaware and uncaring that he was naked, standing there over the dead king's body as if it were naught but another pillow or a tray of food, something of no account at all. All his attention was on Mirana. He said slowly, “Naphta never questioned my judgment, my decisions. You will not either. She always bent to me, gracefully and naturally, as sweetly as a supplicant worships a god. You will as well.”

“You were wedded to an idiot?”

He struck her hard across her cheek and she reeled sideways, trying to grab onto something to save herself, but there was nothing, only the soft pillows in piles at her feet, the slippery silk draperies beyond her reach, the lush carpets that were thick and deep but allowed no purchase. She sprawled onto her back on the pillows, hitting her elbow on a brazier and knocking it over. Chunks of cold coal fell onto the pillows, blackening the bright reds and golds and blues.

He came down on his knees beside her. He didn't touch her, but she smelled him, a musky odor that wasn't displeasing, only different, and it came from his flesh and from his man's sex as well, close to her, too close to her. She was frightened of him as she hadn't been of the old king, for he was young and strong, he had all the vigor he'd promised the king. He was angry, and she saw that he trembled with his anger, that it required all his will to control his anger. Einar wouldn't have even tried to control his fury. He
would have struck out and maimed and killed, but not this man. This man had exquisite control over himself. She held very still. He said, his voice harsh, barely overlaid with a calm so naked that it chilled her, “Do not ever again speak ill of Naphta. You are not worthy to even say her name. You are nothing compared to her. She was my queen, the most beautiful woman in the world.”

“I understand,” she said. “Your wife was perfection and I bow to your memories of her. But that isn't the point now, Hormuze—”

“You will call me Sitric. Forget it not, Mirana.”

“Very well, Sitric. But heed my words, please.” Ah, she saw that the
please
suited him; he believed her already bending to his will. “I did not know, nor would I have ever realized that you and the old man you pretended to be were one and the same.”

“But you did,” he said slowly, looking down at the back of his hand, where some of the nut dye had smeared. And she'd seen it and wondered at it.

“Nay, I merely believed you had an illness of some kind, nothing more. But listen to me, Hor—Sitric, surely there are old men back at the court who well remember what the old Sitric looked like as a young man. They will denounce you.”

He drew back, sitting on his haunches. He was too close to her, the smell of him was too close. He was smiling. He reached out and touched his fingertips to the red mark on her cheek. Even his fingers smelled of the heady musk scent and she wanted to draw back, but knew it would anger him if she did. She would bide her time.

He said, “I am sorry to bring you pain, but it was short-lived and necessary, you must realize that. You will not question me again, Mirana. However, what you
just said is worthy of my listening and my response to you will prove my greatness. I am not a man who makes mistakes. Over the past two years I have cleansed the king's court of eleven old men, all his cronies since they were boys. I used different methods in all their deaths. All believed them natural deaths, for they were old, after all, that, or accidents. Now there are none left who remember him at my age, none. Three decades is a very long time. As for the men who know him now, why I will age and they will as well and none will remember, for time erases images. I will succeed, doubt it not.”

There was pleasure and triumph in his dark eyes, and now something more, something that made her breath catch in her throat. He was suddenly looking at her with a man's lust. She didn't want to look, but she did. His man's rod was swelling from the thick black hair at his groin, jutting toward her. Odd how it was that the hair at his groin was thick and black and wiry, yet there was no hair on his chest and the hair on his head was as black and soft as the silk pillow beneath her hand.

“The king,” she said, and shuddered.

He frowned at her, distracted from his purpose, and rose to stare down at the old man's body, drawn up tightly in his final spasms, the muscles of his face showing his agony at his death moment, his eyes filmed, and wide with shock and pain. “Even in death he offends me,” Hormuze said. “You will remain there, Mirana, and I will move him. Do not move.”

She watched him drag the king's body from the small chamber. She didn't doubt for an instant that he'd planned this for a very long time. Old Sitric's body would never be found, of that she was certain. She closed her eyes a moment. What would she do?

He was gone for a long time. When he came through the silken draperies, he wore a long robe of vivid green silk, belted at his waist. He was carrying a silver tray with two silver goblets on it, goblets of exquisite design.

“I have brought us wine that came from a land you have never learned of, Mirana. It will calm you and make the night pass pleasantly between us. You will not be afraid that I will savage you. I took three slave girls last night to drain my passion.” He saw that she would question him, and added, “No, Mirana, I did not let them see me as I am now, for if I had, then I would have had to kill them, and I do not approve unnecessary death. They used their mouths on my rod and left me immediately after. I have told you to trust me, to know that I am a brilliant man. I will be careful not to hurt you overly. Here, Mirana. You are now my wife, my Naphta, and my queen. Drink to us. Drink to the king and queen.”

She took the goblet and lifted it to her mouth. She smelled the deep cloying sweetness that rose to her nostrils like thick steam from the red liquid. There was a stench to it and she knew fear, deep grinding fear. She looked up at him. “I do not wish to drink this.”

He tightened. Mirana saw it not only in the thin line of his mouth, but the long sinewy muscles of his body. Even his voice was taut and stiff and hard when he spoke. “You will do as I bid you. You are my wife now and you will never say nay to me. Do you understand me, Mirana?”

“I understand you very well, but I am myself, Hor—Sitric—not this woman you believe I resemble. I can never be her. You loved her, this Naphta. I am not she. You even said that I wasn't worthy of her. It is true. Please, look at me, listen to me.”

“You are just as I wish you to be. All other things—those small movements with your hands, the way you will laugh, the way you will bow your head to me in pleasing submission, the way you will look at me when you wish to give me pleasure with your body—all these things I will teach you. You are an apt pupil. As for her spirit, I know you have it not nor will you ever have it, but you will become sufficient. You will obey me in all things. You will do just as I bid you. I have a daughter, Eze, who even now carries her mother's expressions—your expressions. You will care for her as if she were your own, and as she grows older, she will be more and more like her mother, as will you, and I will have both of you to remind me of my Naphta. That is all.”

So he had a child to remind him continually of his dead wife. She knew there was nothing for it. He'd planned this for three years, and all had gone as he'd foreseen, except for one very important thing that hadn't been in his control. He'd trusted Einar. He hadn't realized what a vicious savage her half-brother could be, hadn't realized that he couldn't be believed or trusted in his word or his dealings. Also, he'd overlooked chance. Mirana looked at him straightly. She said, not unkindly, “I am already wed to Rorik Haraldsson. My half-brother, Einar, lied to the king. I was stolen from him and then returned, but I am not a virgin, Hormuze—aye, allow me to call you by your real name now—nor am I the king's wife or your wife. I am Rorik's wife. I love him. I owe him my loyalty and my loyalty is his forever, no other man's. Believe me, Hormuze, for I would not lie to you. He is my husband. He is looking for me even now, and he will find me. I am not the virgin you wanted. I am no maiden to fill your needs. I'm sorry, but I cannot change things to suit your pleasure.”

“
No!
You lie!” He lurched to his feet, hurling the goblet away from him. The deep liquid arced in a stark clear red, then dissolved, splashing onto the pillows, staining the soft yellows and whites and golds with bloodred. He reached down and jerked her to her feet. Her silver goblet slipped from her fingers. She felt the wet of it on her bare feet.

He jerked her against him, and his long fingers were around her throat. “You lie,” he said, then he kissed her hard. He was talking against her closed lips, cursing, for she knew the fury of the sound if not the meaning of his words. “You lie,” he said again, louder now, and he was shaking her even as his mouth was devouring hers, as if he wanted to consume her and kill her as well and she was growing light-headed at the tightening of his long fingers around her neck.

Suddenly, he released her and shoved her hard away from him. She fell back onto the pillows. Her fingers massaged her sore throat. She didn't move, didn't speak, just waited to see what he would do.

He paced, the flap of his long robe opening, and she saw the black hair on his legs and his man's rod, limp now against the bush of black hair at his groin.

“I will kill Einar,” he said. “But first I will know if he knew of this.”

“He knew. I told him. He counseled me to suffer the old man's mauling and pretend to a virgin's pain to save myself. None of this was my doing, Hormuze. Einar only told me of his agreement with the king yesterday. I told him the truth but he wanted to be the king's brother-in-law. He wanted the power and the wealth.”

“You swear to me that you are not a virgin? That you are truly wedded to this Rorik Haraldsson?”

“I swear it to you.”

She wondered then if he would kill her. He could try, she thought. She would fight him until there was no more strength in her body.

But he hadn't moved to her. He was still pacing, and she knew he was thinking, plotting, trying to decide his best course of action.

She said, “Let me go, Hormuze. Return me to my husband. I belong with him, not with you nor with any other man. Only him. I love him. Please understand.”

He turned then and stopped. He smiled down at her. “Oh no,” he said. “I won't ever let you go.”

“Aye, you will.”

At the sound of Rorik's voice, Mirana cried out, unable to help herself. Hormuze whirled about to see one of those massive Viking warriors standing there, all golden and bronze and large, too large, just standing there, at his ease, confident and calm, ready to kill if called to, his eyes on Mirana—nay, on Naphta—and there was hunger in his eyes, more hunger than a man should ever have for a woman. Hormuze recognized it because he'd felt it himself for his beloved wife. It was then he heard a child's voice. It was then he heard Eze. He knew fear greater than he ever had in his life.

“Rorik,” Mirana said. “You came. By all the gods, I prayed you would come. I prayed you would come for me.”

“Of course I would come for you. I would search the earth to find you. You are my wife.” He turned to Hormuze and looked silently at the other man for a very long time. Finally, he said over his shoulder, “Hafter, bring Eze.”

Hormuze wanted to fling himself on the huge Viking, even though he would have no chance against such a man, but it didn't matter, the Viking had taken his Eze, he had to kill him, he had to.

Eze came into the chamber, her hand held by another one of those Vikings, this one more golden, less controlled, Hormuze knew, than the other man. He could tell simply from the way he held himself, the clenching of his muscles, the expression in his eyes, those damned blue eyes that most Vikings had, guileless eyes, beautifully light and clear, yet he knew these Vikings could kill as quickly and eagerly as they could love or laugh or drink their mead.