Blood-Bound [ Lore of Penrua: Book I ]

69

Korvan was so exhausted that his head had begun to ache. He took off his golden circlet and set it on the velvet pillow on the small table next to his bed.

The servants had turned back the covers. It was late; the rose moon was already overtaking the blue. He had stayed up long into the night speaking with Yorek, handling some of the affairs of the realm that had been pushed aside as he focused on the purge of Karelin and the rebel king. The emperor stood looking down at the folds of the white sheets lain open for him, overlapping the embroidered coverlet.

Esaria had made that coverlet. It had taken her almost a year. He reached out and trailed his long fingers over the pattern: red roses and stars. It was his device, but she had worked the stars in gold rather than in silver. Gold had always been her color.

Esaria.

As his hand moved over the blanket, his wedding ring gleamed in the light filtering in through the window. He remembered seeing it gleam just so, once before ...

... Korvan has reached to pick up a book he sees lying on Esaria's pillow. He normally never comes in until his wife is already abed, but he has come early to their chamber tonight. He sleeps more now than he will in the coming years, for he has a younger man's mind, free of burdens.

Curious, he turns the book over in his hands. He has not seen it before; certainly it is not one that he has given her. He searches for a title on the cover of the book, but there is none. He opens the front cover and leafs through a few pages. It is poetry.

As he shifts the book in his hand, ready to put it back, something slips halfway out from between the pages. It is a folded piece of paper, unsealed.

The page it marks is a poem. Korvan has no interest in poetry; he has little use for such sentimental nonsense. This one, as he finds when he skims it without interest, is a poem about spring—the usual superficial, meandering language, all about flowers blooming, the warmth of the sun, and so on.

It is so like Esaria to waste her time on such frivolous things. But it keeps her sweet, he thinks, and he smiles.

He unfolds the slip of paper, expecting to find some note his wife has made to herself about the poem. Instead, the note is in an unfamiliar hand. There is no signature, just a few brief lines.

"You are the radiant Sun;

At your glance, Gentle Lady,

I am set afire."

Korvan feels cold. Distantly, he is aware of what this means, but his mind is slow to grasp it.

A sound at the door draws his attention, and he quickly stuffs the note into the pocket of his jacket.

"Good evening, Your Grace," says the empress. She walks into the chamber, the short train of her gown shushing against the rug. First, she curtsies, and her handmaiden also makes an obeisance. Then, rising, Esaria makes a tired gesture. The handmaiden—Korvan cannot remember her name—goes to the wardrobe to search out Esaria's nightclothes.

"Esaria," says Korvan. He can see, even by the dim light of the spirit globes, that she looks tired and ill. She has been thus for some time: withdrawn, distant.

"Yes, Korvan? Oh. You've found my poetry," she says. "I did not think you liked poetry, dear one. Surely you are not reading it."

Korvan does not reply. He watches as Esaria's handmaiden begins to help her undress. Holding the book tightly in one hand, he turns toward the balcony and looks out across the garden. He listens to the gentle domestic sounds: water being poured for Esaria to wash her face; he rustle of cloth, laces, petticoats; soft commands. At last, there comes the sound of a closing door. Esaria's handmaiden has left them.