She told Michanek of her visions and watched as the look of sorrow touched his handsome face. He had taken her into his arms, holding her tight, just as he had throughout her sickness. Michanek had risked catching the plague, yet in her fever dreams she drew great strength from his presence and his devotion. And she had survived, though all the surgeons predicted her death. True her heart was now weak, so they said, and any exertion tired her. But her strength was returning month by month.
The sun was bright above the garden, and Pahtai moved out to gather flowers with which to decorate the main rooms. In her arms she held a flat wicker basket in which was placed a sharp cutting knife. As the sun touched her face she tilted her head, enjoying the warmth upon her skin. In the distance a high-pitched scream suddenly sounded and her eyes turned towards the direction of the noise. Faintly she could hear the clash of-steel on steel, the shouts and cries of warriors in desperate combat.
Will it never end? she thought.
A shadow fell across her and she turned and saw that two men had entered the garden. They were thin, their clothes ragged and filthy.
‘Give us food,’ demanded one, moving in towards her.
‘You must go to the ration centre,’ she said, fighting down her fear.
‘You don’t live on rations, do you, you Naashanite whore!’ said the second man, stepping in close. He stank of stale sweat and cheap ale, and she saw his pale eyes glance towards her breasts. She was wearing a thin tunic of blue silk, and her legs were bare. The first man grabbed her arm, dragging her towards him. She thought of grabbing for the cutting knife, but in that instant found herself staring down at a narrow bed in a small room. Upon it lay a woman and a sickly child; their names flashed into her mind.
‘What of Katina?’ she said suddenly. The man groaned and fell back, releasing his hold, his eyes wide and stricken with guilt. ‘Your baby son is dying,’ she said softly. ‘Dying while you drink and attack women. Go to the kitchen, both of you. Ask for Pudri, and tell him that . . .’ she hesitated . . . ‘that Pahtai said you could have food. There are some eggs and unleavened bread. Go now, both of you.’
The men backed away from her, then turned and ran for the house. Pahtai, trembling from the shock, sat down on a marble seat.
Pahtai? Rowena . . . The name rose up from the deepest levels of her memory, and she greeted it like a song of morning after a night of storms.
Rowena. I am Rowena.
A man came walking along the garden path, bowing as he saw her. His hair was silver, and braided, yet his face was young and almost unlined. He bowed again. ‘Greetings, Pahtai, are you well?’
‘I am well, Darishan. But you look tired.’
‘Tired of sieges, that’s for sure. May I sit beside you?’
‘Of course. Michanek is not here, but you are welcome to wait for him.’
He leaned back and sniffed the air. ‘I do love roses. Exquisite smell; they remind me of my childhood. You know I used to play with Gorben? We were friends. We used to hide in bushes such as these, and pretend we were being hunted by assassins. Now I am hiding again, but there is not a rose bush large enough to conceal me.’
Rowena said nothing, but she gazed into his handsome face and saw the fear lurking below the surface.
‘I saddled the wrong horse, my dear,’ he said, with a show of brightness. ‘I thought the Naashanites would be preferable to watching Gorben’s father destroy the Empire. But all I have done is to train a younger lion in the ways of war and conquest. Do you think I could convince Gorben that I have, in fact, done him a service?’ He looked into her face. ‘No, I suppose I couldn’t. I shall just have to face my death like a Ventrian.’
‘Don’t talk of death,’ she scolded. ‘The walls still hold and now we have food.’