Fable: Edge of the World (26 page)

T
he king had come to realize that no matter how exotic the country might be, or how much money and fame one’s captor possessed, prison cells, everywhere, were much the same.

He had been given a cot, filthy and flea-riddled, and a chamber pot that wasn’t emptied nearly often enough. Food and water were offered and the chamber pot removed by means of a small second door at the base of the cell door. It had its own lock, and the king knew that even Rex would be hard-pressed to wriggle through it.

After the first hour of attempting to sleep on the cot, he found the stone floor much more comfortable. There were no windows; the king estimated, given the coolness of the place—the only positive thing about it—he was deep underground. The guard, a large man who resembled Boulder but without his gentleness, spoke only to offer such comments as “Get up, you jackal” or similar pleasantries.

The king remained silent as well. He went over what had happened, trying to figure out how it was that he had been captured. He remembered entering the Pleasure Gardens and
something about a table … and then nothing. His failure to recall the events was disturbing, but not as much as other things he didn’t know: Had his friends survived? What about Percy? Had the sand dragon forsaken the Hero he was supposedly bound to serve? When the king couldn’t fight off the bleak despair any longer, the questions became as dark as the evil that was plaguing Samarkand itself:
Will I ever escape? Do they all think I’m dead?

Will I ever again see my Laylah
?

His brooding was interrupted by the arrival of the Boulder look-alike … and a companion. This man was as slender as the other was bulky, well-groomed, and smelled pleasant.

“I am Ayar,” the smaller man said. “It seems our Great Empress has taken an interest in meeting her royal prisoner. She has ordered that you be made presentable, so that you are fit to enter her august presence.”

“You tell your Empress she’ll see me as I am, or she’ll not see me at all.”

Ayar chuckled. “How amusing you foreigners are! Let me phrase it this way: I am providing you with hot water, soap, towels, a razor, and clean clothing. You may avail yourself of them freely. If you choose not to, Harul and I will clean you up ourselves.”

The king glowered at them, then nodded. “All right. I’ll pretty up for your Empress.” He remembered Ben’s comment about the Empress probably looking like a horse, and added defiantly, “Provided she’s prettied up for me.”

The two men exchanged amused glances. “You may be a king of another country,” Ayar said, “but even you will fall to your knees once you behold her beauty.”

“I doubt that very much,” the king said, and accepted the toiletries passed through the small aperture. He looked down at
the steaming bowl of water, scented with fragrant herbs; at the round cake of soap, the small mirror, the neatly folded towel and the long, sharp straight razor.

In his ravenous and weakened state he briefly fantasized seizing it and cutting his own throat. They would not be able to enter the cell in time to save him. He would thus deny this evil Empress any access to him. But he couldn’t do that to his people. So many of them had died already, fighting for a cause he convinced them to believe in. He could tell himself that he was doing it to protect state secrets from being tortured out of him; that he would remove himself as a game piece in her strategy. But in the end, it was a coward’s way out, at least this early on. Perhaps the Empress could actually be reasoned with; perhaps he would learn some valuable information. As he lathered up the soap and began to shave stubble off his chin, he realized he would never give up hope.

He was the King of Albion. He had a whole nation relying on him and one woman whom he adored. And that was more than enough to keep him going for now.

The monarch had to admit, he felt much better having had a chance to clean up. There was no guarantee that another such opportunity would come his way again for a good long while, and at least he would meet his fellow royal looking like a king.

The clothing was clean and of high-quality fabric, but simple: tunic, breeches, and sandals. He was led up a winding stone stair, then down a long corridor through several doors, then up stone steps again. When the door was opened, he blinked from the brightness after so long belowground with only lamplight for illumination.

As his vision adjusted, he had to struggle to conceal his awe.
Before him was an enormous open chamber. Vaulted ceilings made of carved whitewashed stone arched high above. Frescoes adorned them, a riot of colors in glorious geometric patterns. The pillars were exquisitely carved in meticulous detail, depicting geometric shapes, leaves, and flowers. Healthy foliage grew everywhere, from flowers to fruit trees, and an exquisite smell suffused the area. The sound of bubbling water filled the air, pouring with reckless generosity from an enormous fountain in the center of the room. The chamber opened onto a patio, where clear blue sky could be glimpsed. Comfortable-looking chairs, lounges, and cushions were provided, with low tables that bore platters of fruits and other delicacies.

All was harmonious, bright, beautiful—Samarkand at its best. Except for the fact that she who dwelt here epitomized Samarkand at its worst.

He turned to say something to Harul, who had led him up here, but the huge man had somehow vanished. The king looked around, puzzled, then saw the cunningly hidden doors set into the white walls.

“So this is the King of Albion,” came a soft voice. It was warm, husky, almost purring, and the king steeled himself as he turned around.

He bowed low. “I am indeed,” he said, straightening. “And you must be the Empr—”

The words died in his throat.

She smiled at him, red lips parting over pearl-white teeth. Her skin was a shade of soft golden brown, her eyes large, deep, and expressive. Gleaming black hair, covered partially by a jeweled scarf the shade of the sky, tumbled to her trim waist. Full breasts, demurely covered, swelled as if in rebellion against the restraining drape of lavishly embroidered silk. Rings, simple but elegant, adorned hands that were decorated with ink made from
a local plant. The king swallowed hard, his mouth having suddenly gone dry and his brain empty of thoughts.

Her smile broadened. “I am she,” she said in that purring voice. She lifted a hand, and with a dancer’s movements indicated that he might sit on one of the lounges.

He nodded. “Th-thank you,” he said. His voice cracked on the last word, as if he were an adolescent again. Indeed, he felt like a gawky teenage boy around this composed, graceful woman. Unable to tear his gaze away from her, he felt for the couch and managed to sit down without falling on his arse.

She sank down beside him. She wore some kind of perfume or oil; the scent was sweet, clean, and intoxicating.

“I hope you have been treated well,” she said. “I regret that circumstances have prevented our meeting ere now.”

“So do I,” the king blurted. Inwardly, he frowned.
Get ahold of yourself! She’s beautiful, yes, but she’s just a woman. Focus, dammit
. “Thank you for permitting me to clean up a bit before our meeting.”

Her smile became mischievous. “I know how I would feel about meeting fellow royalty in such a disheveled condition. I dressed my best for you.” The last was almost … shy. The king tried and failed to suppress a sense of achievement. So, she found him attractive too.
Use that
, his logical self told him.

Her smile faded, and she turned away. “I wish our meeting were under happier circumstances,” she said. “Your effort has failed, and in the most sorrowful of ways. I understand that you fought not just with a devoted army, but with friends as well. We found among the fallen a fair-haired man, an Auroran female, and a teenage boy too young to really fight.” She turned eyes to him that glistened with compassionate tears.

Anguish twisted his gut. Ben, Kalin, and Shan? All of them?

“Your—beast?—has fled, along with the aged Hero he bore. I
do not know how you managed to tame a dragon out of legend, nor where you found Garth, but as soon as it was clear which way the battle had turned, they both took to the sky and vanished. I do not think such creatures are capable of understanding true loyalty. Nor, it would seem, does a once-famous Hero.”

Percy and Garth, too? The king clenched his jaw, hard. He didn’t want her to see how badly this had affected him. He wanted to say something dismissive, but he couldn’t speak.

She reached and laid a gentle hand on his cheek. The perfume from her wrist wafted about him, and he closed his eyes. “We had to defend ourselves. I know you must understand that. But believe me, I grieve that the loss was so personal to you.”

“I want to see them,” he said hoarsely. “The bodies of my friends.”

The Empress looked even sadder. “It is our custom to burn the bodies of the fallen, both our own soldiers and those of our adversary.”

“
Burn?
”

“It is a way of honoring them,” she said, looking confused and retreating slightly, as if hurt. “There was no disrespect. To burn the bodies of your soldiers is to honor them as worthy foes—to give them the same courtesy we give our own fallen.”

He looked down. He lifted a hand to his temple. He felt dizzy, slightly sick. It had to be the news of his friends’ deaths. What else would make him so rude to a lovely lady?

She’s not what she seems to …

And the vague thought was gone, replaced with chagrin at his discourtesy. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snap at you. I’m just … shocked. And saddened.”

She seemed to be thinking. “One moment, please,” she said, and rose with a soft rustle of clothing. She went to one of the doors in the wall and knocked. Another guard the king did not
recognize appeared, nodded, and withdrew. The Empress returned. “We have not yet honored the boy. You may see his body if you wish. As for the others, it seems my guards did retrieve some of their personal items. Shall I have these brought in?”

No
, he wanted to shout,
I don’t want to see Shan. I don’t want to see proof that my friends died because of me
. Instead, he somehow managed to say, “Yes.”

A few moments later, the door opened again. Several guards, looking solemn and respectful, entered. Two of them carried a stretcher covered with a white linen cloth. Another carried a crate, which he put on the ground and proceeded to open.

Slowly, with jerky movements, the king made it over to the stretcher. Steeling himself, he pulled the covering off.

Shan’s face was pale. He had died from a single, well-aimed shot, right to the heart. At least death had come swiftly for him. “I’m sorry,” he whispered to the still figure. “I’m so sorry. Garth was supposed to take care of you. You deserved so much better than this.” He turned to look at the crate, and his heart ached even more.

“Vanessa,” he murmured. Ben would never let his beloved rifle be taken from him, not while he was still—

“Who?” The Empress stepped beside him, offering comfort.

“The gun,” the king said. “Ben named his gun Vanessa.” He forced himself to continue looking through the items and grew still when he found one of Kalin’s distinctive bracers. Gone. All of them, gone. And Percy, apparently released from his duty, had fled to freedom; and Garth, to return to the peace of his monastery.

His shoulders suddenly bowed from the weight of it all. “This was a fool’s errand,” he said. “I never should have come.”

“Leave us be,” the Empress said to the guards. They obeyed, silently bearing Shan and the crate back through the door in the
wall, vanishing as if they had never been present. The Empress slipped the king’s arm through hers and guided him back to the lounge. He sat heavily, guilt threatening to crush him.

Gentle fingers touched his chin as the Empress turned his face to hers. He felt a quick, inappropriate jolt of pleasure at the touch. She was so beautiful …

“I grieve for all that you have lost,” she said, “but … perhaps some good may yet come of it. Now that I have met you”—and she smiled softly—“I see that we were not truly ever meant to be enemies. Let us then be allies—Samarkand and Albion.”

He couldn’t look away. He was falling into the pool of leaf brown that were her eyes, breathing in her scent, hearing her voice become huskier.

“Perhaps … more than allies, if you would like,” she whispered. Slowly, her face drew closer to his, her breath sweet. “We can rule together. No one will be able to stand against us. All will be ours, to enjoy and share …”

She was so beautiful, and the king found himself enraptured by her red lips as she spoke. He leaned forward, his heart pounding, and bent to kiss—

—Laylah—

He didn’t love this woman. He loved Laylah—wise, gentle, strong, brave Laylah. He didn’t want to surrender his kingdom—he wanted to rule it well, keep his subjects safe …

His eyes, half-closed, snapped fully open, and he drew back. He felt as though cold water had been thrown on him, but he welcomed the refreshing, purifying shock of it. Suddenly, the rich scents, so pleasant before, seemed cloying; the luxury over the top when so many in Samarkand were dying terrible deaths from the darkness.

“My, my,” he said, anger sharp and cold in his voice. “You are quite the little temptress, aren’t you?”

Her eyes fluttered open and her soft expression, all warmth and surrender, grew cunning.

“I am,” she said, “and all you need to do to satisfy that temptation is to yield. All will be given unto you, Your Majesty. I find you pleasant to look upon, and the power we can wield together will please him as well.”

He felt like he was awakening from a deep sleep. “Him?” he said, seizing on the word. Was she merely a tool of some larger, darker power? “Of whom do you speak? Is the darkness not yours to command?”

Now even the cunning playfulness vanished. “I tire of the game,” the Empress said abruptly. “You had your chance. Years from now, when you are old and your joints scream in agony, when the only sight left to you is the inside of your prison cell, you will remember this day and weep for all you could have had.”