Douglas Niles - Realms of Valor

"Was Othmann a sorcerer?" Myrmeen asked quietly.

"No one seems to know."

"But he trafficked in items of power. I would wager that if he was not well-versed in the Art, he was closely affiliated with someone who was. That person may have been the one who subdued our guards, defeated the spells protecting the gardens, and killed Othmann."

Stralana nodded. "That would make sense, but Elhazir made no mention of a partner. Othmann seemed to run his trade completely alone."

"She's lying or ill informed. What did she tell your men of Othmann's personal affairs?"

"Only that he kept them extremely private. They enjoyed a professional relationship and nothing more."

Myrmeen paused to consider this. "I don't want anyone going into Othmann's shop until I'm through with the blasted delegation this morning. Then I'll join the men there. Oh, and I'll want to talk with Elhazir myself."

The pale-skinned man waited patiently for her next command.

"Evon, I need to visit the gazebo. It would be best if I did it alone."

"Of course. But…"

Myrmeen leveled a cold gaze on her minister. "But what?"

"Nothing, milady," he murmured. Lowering his eyes in respect, Stralana left her and returned to his men.

Alone, Myrmeen walked through the gardens until an elegantly adorned gazebo loomed before her. Carved into the far wall was a representation of a phoenix, her late husband's symbol. She thought of his funeral pyre and the vain, ridiculous hope she had nurtured that somehow he would rise from his own ashes. He had risen only in her heart, where a part of him would remain forever.

But those mournful thoughts were quickly replaced in Myrmeen's mind by shock. Blood spattered the gazebo's walls, marring Haverstrom's phoenix. Whoever had murdered Othmann had left his body in the gardens as a message to her. There could be no other reason for this senseless vandalism.

Anger flooded into her with renewed vitality. Since her husband's death, there had been many times when the pressures of ruling Arabel were too much to bear. She needed a place to which she could retreat, a place where she would always feel safe. The gardens-and this spot in particular-had been that sanctuary. Standing in this gazebo, Myrmeen had always been able to recall the joy, love, and comfort she had found in her husband's arms.

Images raced into her mind. She thought of one morning after invaders had attempted to take the city. Haverstrom had been stabbed, and his healers called it a miracle that he had survived. She could almost hear his voice as he raised his armored fist in the air and railed against his enemies, promising that they would experience the dark miracle of his vengeance. And now she, too, would seek out that dark miracle.

Myrmeen cried out in rage, the shout of a warrior thirsting for revenge. When she had regained control of herself, she placed her hand on the wall for support. Her husband had proposed to her in this gazebo. They'd kissed for the first time in its cool shade….

The sight of what had been done made Myrmeen want to draw blood of her own. Quelling those dark thoughts as best she could, she walked from the gazebo until she came upon a collection of her men, then commanded three of them to strip off their breastplates and give her their padded doublets. They did not hesitate to obey.

On the way back to the gazebo, Myrmeen tore the shirts into strips and paused at a small fountain where she soaked the rags she had made. She returned to the small building and stared at the crimson spatters. Stralana had been over this place; his hesitation earlier told her that much. And since he did not say otherwise, it was safe to assume they gained no clues from it.

Myrmeen began to wipe away the blood staining the white walls. Soon she was covered in sweat and her clothes were ruined. She made several trips to the fountain, but all the water in the Inner Sea wouldn't restore the gazebo to its former pristine condition. And even if she could wash away the blood, the place wouldn't be the same, for she could never wipe away the memory.

"I miss you, Haverstrom," she said, running her fingers lightly over the walls. "But know wherever you are that I will avenge this."

She turned and silently stalked out of the gardens.

An hour later, Myrmeen stood in her throne room, flanked by guards. Evon Stralana and several of his soldiers observed the scene stoically from the back of the room. Two men, a woman, and a collection of almost a dozen cats, both domestic and wild, milled before the throne. The delegation had identified itself as representing a race that rarely revealed itself to mortals-the cat lords.

Myrmeen stiffened, worried that her fear of the jaguar they had brought might become apparent to the animal. She was surrounded by guards and magical wards, but she was quite familiar with the speed and ferocity of such animals.

The female cat lord smiled, apparently sensing Myrmeen's discomfort. She wriggled her gloved fingers, and the jaguar lay at her feet. Myrmeen watched the creature nervously, thinking of Penn Othmann's shredded corpse.

"My name is Siobhan," the woman said. "With me is Niccolo and Sauveur."

Myrmeen nodded as she looked at each of the cat lords. Siobhan's age was impossible to discern. She seemed quite young, but there was a stiffness to her movements quite unusual for one of her race. Perhaps it was the high leather boots she wore; they looked rather uncomfortable.

Still, no one could deny Siobhan's beauty. Her black hair cascaded to her waist, almost lost against her dark but elegant clothing. The woman's piercing, gray-blue eyes fastened on Myrmeen as she pulled her lips into an enigmatic smile. As she bowed her head in greeting, the heart-shaped amulet around her neck bobbed. One side of the riven heart was blood red, the other black.

Behind the lovely Siobhan, Niccolo ran his hand through his thick auburn mane and Sauveur rolled his head, allowing his silver hair to graze his shoulders. Both men were strikingly handsome.

After exchanging pleasantries, Myrmeen asked Siobhan to proceed with her request.

"I cannot," Siobhan replied. "Our lord dominante is not among us. He must have been detained."

The doors burst open, and a devastatingly handsome green-eyed man entered. His features were sharply defined, his cheeks, nose, and jaw strongly chiseled. The man's lips were sensuous and inviting, his eyes the deepest emerald Myrmeen had ever seen. He was dressed in black with gold and light blue trim. His shirt was bright red.

Myrmeen took her throne, and the delegation crowded more closely around her. Siobhan gestured at the dark man. "I would like to introduce Lord Zacharius."

The green-eyed man moved forward, took Myrmeen's hand, and gave it a tiny lick. Myrmeen was startled, until Zacharius winked and added, "People always expect that type of thing from me." He took her hand a second time, gently kissed it, then withdrew.

"Lord Zacharius-"

"Zaz, please. My name is Zaehlas Alandovos Zacharius. But then, it's been shortened over the years. Humans seem to find Zaz most appropriate. Rolls off the tongue easier."

"In this chamber, Lord Zacharius is more fitting."

"As you wish."

Myrmeen sighed. "What may I do for you?"

"You have something we want. Something that belongs to us, actually. We have come to reclaim it. Now, to tell you what we have come to Arabel to find, I must first tell you something of our race. Long ago, wars were fought among the various tribes of the cats. Natural enemies struck out against one another. Centuries of bloodshed ensued."

"By 'the cats,' you mean the cat lords. Your people."

Zacharius hesitated. "Yes. Of course."

Siobhan laughed and knelt down to scratch the ears of the jaguar at her feet. A half-dozen of the other felines meowed jealously. The jaguar yawned, then rolled its head and turned to Myrmeen. There was a startling intelligence in the creature's eyes, and the gaze was almost hypnotic…