A Burning Sea by Theodore Brun (i am reading a book txt) 📕

her like a chasm in the floor. One with no way around it. Suddenly she wished this man wanted to kill Erlan, that it were Erlan’s life she were bargaining for and not his freedom. That would make it easier. But wasn’t a life condemned to slavery a kind of living death? For a man like Erlan, it would be.

She raised the chalice between them and moved towards the balcony. ‘You like to surround yourself with beautiful things, don’t you?’

He chuckled to himself, apparently amused that she wanted to spin out this game a little longer. ‘It’s true, I am a man of wide appreciation. Beautiful things. New things. I like to drink from all cups.’

She stood leaning against the stone pillar, looking out through the fluttering gauze, looking north to the straits whose surface glittered in the late morning sun. Her fingers went to the amulet around her neck, its little silver arms warmed by her skin. It was Erlan’s amulet. His call to her.

She felt Arbasdos move behind her, caught his strong scent in her nostrils. She was aware of his breathing, shallower than before. Glancing down, she saw thick jewelled knuckles curl around the stem of her chalice and gently prise it from her gasp.

‘This, then, is your price,’ she said softly, still looking away.

He took hold of her arm. ‘You have my word,’ he said, and pulled her back inside, letting the chalice fall to the floor. . .

Outside, the bell of the Holy Peace was ringing the midday when he helped her back into her stola, then wound her palla round her shoulders and arranged it over her arm. ‘I could develop quite a taste for all things northern, I think,’ he said. He had a complacent smile playing around his lips. ‘Of course, business is business but. . . we should do this again. For pleasure next time.’

‘I think not,’ she said, her voice cold as winter. ‘You will have Erlan Aurvandil delivered to my chambers in the palace by sundown tonight, clothed and in good health. If not, the emperor shall know he has a cuckold for a daughter. Do you understand?’

He snorted, the colour draining from his face. ‘You’re bluffing. You wouldn’t have the nerve.’

‘By all means, put me to the test. Your choice.’ She went to the door. ‘By sundown tonight. Good day, general.’

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

Erlan awoke with a shiver. He had been dreaming again. Absurd dreams of freedom and hope. The beach again. The beach where it had all begun. But instead of Inga’s laughter carried on the wind gusts, it was Lilla walking there, the hem of her cloak trailing in the surf, her long blonde hair blowing sideways like a war-banner, and as she drew closer he saw she was wearing a shirt of ring-mail. She looked taller. Stronger, somehow. A world away from the wretched maiden stripped naked whom he’d plucked from the darkness beneath the Earth. She cupped her hands to her mouth and called out, but the words were lost on the wind. She called again. The wind rose against her, the waves grew taller, folding onto the strand with a violent crash. . .

The second bucket of water brought him fully to his senses. His hair was plastered to his head.

‘You alive down there, slave?’

‘I’m here, you bastards,’ he muttered.

There was a chuckle far above. ‘It’s your lucky day, Northman.’ And a couple of heartbeats later, a rope fell into his lap.

The sky was already reddening in the west by the time he was being marched across the Augustaion towards a constellation of gleaming columns and archways and tiled roofs that made Arbasdos’s mansion on the north side of the promontory seem little better than a goat stall. The Great Palace, seat of the emperor, house of the king of kings. . . Only kings? By the stars, it looked a home more fitting for the gods.

Erlan gazed at it all in a trance. He hadn’t eaten a morsel in two days. They had at least let him drink, and washed and clothed him. He looked as clean as he had in a long time. Perhaps more so since he’d never been garbed in white before. The wounds across his back still hurt. Thick scabs had begun forming over the divots of flesh torn from his hide. They itched worse than a rash of ringworm.

Silanos had been there, overseeing it all, but giving little away. ‘Someone wants to see you,’ was all he had said, with an enigmatic smile.

It seemed too absurd to hope that his case had somehow come to the notice of the emperor. But who else could it be, dwelling in this mountain of marble and brick?

It was late. Shadow had started to shroud the halls and courtyards of the palace by the time Arbasdos’s escort handed him over to the palace guard. There was a short exchange, out of earshot, and then four men assembled around him and off they went again. He had to quicken his step to keep up with his new escort, his heavy limp ringing out of kilter with the brisk tramp of their hobnailed sandals. These new guards knew where they were headed; it seemed to him that they led him away from the larger halls of the palace towards a quieter wing on the southern extremity of the complex of buildings, passing servants in a hurry to get the oil-lamps lit along the corridors and around the porticos and terraces overlooking the palace gardens. At last, and abruptly, they came to a halt in front of a heavy door of black ebony strengthened with brass studs.

The captain of the patrol banged a leather-grieved fist against the door and, without waiting for an answer, turned the latch and pushed it open.

‘In here,’ he said curtly and stood aside.

Uncertainly, Erlan passed him. The guard pulled the door shut behind him and he listened to their synchronised steps march away into silence.

He stood perfectly