Still seated as she left him, Cededa shoved the Senet board off the bed. “Yielded and conquered.” Like all things in this interminable existence, it was a hollow triumph.
The mist that had carried Imogen outside the palace seeped into the chamber and stopped in front of Cededa. He watched as it converged and thickened, melding into the spectral form of a woman dressed in the gown of a Mir aristocrat.
Her voice was a zephyr’s breeze through trees, a shifting of many voices that spoke as one. “What did you tell the girl?”
He rose from his place at the table. “I told her of Mir.”
The wraith’s shape changed, twisting in on itself in an agitated spiral. “She will hate you now, and she will leave.”
Cededa’s short huff of laughter held no humor. “She’s free to go if she wishes. She has no interest in the Waters and none who’ll believe her if she tells their tale. My debt to her mother will be repaid if she leaves of her own choosing.”
“She can redeem you.”
He smiled. “I’m beyond redemption, Gruah. You know that.” He cocked his head. “When did you stop hating me?”
A ripple passed through the ghostly shape. “When you began to grieve for us, Cededa. The king you are now should have been the king to rule us then.”
“A fine wisdom I realize now, four thousand years too late.”
“Four thousand years ago, you wouldn’t have listened to such wisdom.”
The mist began to thin, sinking to a shapeless, swirling tide. It floated toward the door, pausing at Cededa’s “Wait.”
He waded into the vapor until it floated around his knees. “Will you ever forgive me for Mir, wife?”
A pale ribbon separated itself from the vaporous mass. A chill caress drifted over Cededa’s cheekbone.
“No, Sire. Such a thing isn’t possible—not now. ”
He sighed. “Indeed.”
The ribbon retreated, swallowed into the greater mist. It floated out the door, disappearing into the cloisters’ shadows. Cededa followed its path until he reached the palace doors. Once outside, he surveyed the city cloaked in darkness. Imogen was nowhere in sight. Above him, the moon hid her mocking face behind a veil of clouds.
A distant sound teased his sensitive hearing. Imogen. Somewhere in Tineroth, Death’s handmaiden wept for the massacred.