For the first time since her arrival at Tineroth, it rained. Unlike the low fog that encased the city each morning and left moisture dripping off the buildings and ivy, this was a true thunderstorm. Lightning flashed to the southwest, and rain fell in sheets, pounding on the palace roof and against the windows.
Most of the time Imogen could predict a storm. Niamh had taught her the old sailor's trick of a morning’s red sky heralding a storm, but in Tineroth the sky only changed with the passing of hours, its filtered light dimming with oncoming night.
Imogen stared out the window from her chamber and saw only darkness. Somewhere in the city, or the forest surrounding it, Cededa hid from her. She hid from him as well, still hot with the humiliation of his rejection, the sudden revulsion he had for her touch. He was mercurial as well as cruel, and Imogen thanked the gods he left her alone before the tears poured unheeded down her cheeks.
Now, her face was awash with the fire of humiliation. He had accepted her forthright, albeit clumsy praise of his appearance with an amused equanimity, even complimenting her more than once on her lack of guile or pretense. But sincere flattery was one thing, demanding he play the role of lover and teacher something else entirely. He had turned on her in an instant, warned her off, and put as much distance between them as fast as he could. Imogen pressed the heels of her hands into her eyes. “You stupid, stupid woman,” she admonished herself.
Niamh might have taught her a world of knowledge, but Imogen’s bane and quiet life had worked against her, leaving her unskilled at reading another person’s subtle cues and body language, especially that of men. And this man in particular.
A new fear clenched a fist around her heart and squeezed. He had rebuffed her, bruising her wrist with the effort. What if he refused to let her touch him ever again? Even if it was strictly to help her break the curse? Panic roared through her at the thought.
Lightning struck close by, blasting the darkness away and illuminating the courtyards and temples nearby in white light. It was gone as quickly as it appeared, followed by a crack of thunder hard enough to make her teeth rattle. Still, it was enough time for Imogen to catch a glimpse of a pale-haired figure striding toward the center courtyard, oblivious to the storm's deluge or its dangerous lightning bolts.
She scrambled for her cloak. She would apologize for any insult cast, any liberty taken. Grovel on her knees if she had to and beg his forgiveness. He’d given her hope in his willingness to break her curse by taking it into himself, where his immortality shielded him from its lethal effects.
“Please, Cededa,” she muttered as she yanked on her boots and opened the door. “Please have mercy.”
An inner voice mocked her invocation. Why would a man so named The Butcher show mercy to anyone?
Imogen raced into the corridor and snatched one of the lit torches off its brackets. The wavering flame offered the only light to break the sepulchral black of the cloisters beyond her door. If she didn't have that, she might well break her neck falling down one of the ever-changing staircases. She growled when a sudden coldness wrapped around her ankles and tugged as if to coax her back to her room. The palace's spectral caretaker. She'd grown used to its presence, the uncanny way it knew her needs and wants without her ever voicing them. But she had no time for it now. Wading through a roiling chill thicker than porridge, she ignored its mute demand and headed for the nearest staircase.
The stairs faded in the next lightning flash. A hallway appeared in their place. Imogen blew out a frustrated sigh as the vapor swirled around her legs, climbing ever higher. It would shroud her completely if she waited much longer. Desperate and frightened, Imogen stamped her foot.
"Your king," she snapped, "is a coward, and I'm going to tell him so. Right now."
She didn't need Niamh's innate magery to sense the surprise rippling through the mist at her words. It rolled back on itself as if uncertain what to do next.
"Let me pass," she commanded.
A hesitation, then suddenly the hallway reconfigured itself into the former staircase. The mist withdrew, hugging the wall as she descended the stairs. Obviously, no one still in possession of their senses called Cededa a coward, but her outlandish statement had served its purpose by shocking her ethereal guardian into letting her go.
By the time she made it to the main doors, the rain outside had settled to a steady drizzle, the thunder a distant rumble paying court to dancing lightning bolts. Imogen's cloak became a sodden weight on her shoulders. She abandoned it at the foot of the palace steps and sped along the main avenue, hoping she might find Cededa before her guttering torch went dark.
Buildings rose on either side of her, crumbling hulks wearing locks of ivy and streaming rain from broken windows. In her torch's failing light, they resembled crippled giants, sentinels that guarded Tineroth's ancient roads. The vistas branching off the main path captured darkness thicker than honey. If Cededa lurked in those black closes, she'd never find him. Cursing his name and begging him to show himself, Imogen splashed through puddles and yanked on her soaked skirts where they tangled around her legs.
Her torch gave a dying sizzle just as she reached a fork in the grand avenue. The last weak flame winked out, leaving her standing in a darkness so oppressive, she couldn't even see her hand in front of her face.
"Damnation!"
Her bellowed curse shot through the black, echoing back to her. As if on cue, her torch ignited in her hands, brilliant orange flames leaping high. Imogen shouted another epithet and almost dropped the torch.
"You've a surprisingly foul mouth, Imogen."
Cededa watched her from across the avenue, his shadowy form illuminated by dancing flames. Still as the statues of his kinsmen, he sat cross-legged atop a massive altar amidst the ruins of a temple. Rain dripped down his bare shoulders and chest, darkening his hair. The Tineroth key glowed silver across his collar bones and on his hand.
Imogen wiped tendrils of wet hair from her face and prepared herself to grovel.