Authors: Bruce Blake
“Why are you bothering me? Did I not leave word to be left alone?”
“Yes, of course, but I thought you’d--”
“I neither expect nor want you to think. You are employed to tell me what you know, nothing more.”
Disappointment caused the councilor’s face to sag, and the hurt evident in his visage brought some satisfaction to the Archon, though it was short lived; she knew he would not have disturbed her without reason. The feel of her flesh, the scent of her body insured he would always do what she asked.
“Yes. That’s why I’m here. I’ve heard rumors I thought...whispers you will want to know.”
She crossed the room toward him angrily, this time without noticing the fur of the bearskin rug, then her bare feet slapped the stone floor, carrying her to stand before the so-called Voice of the People. The corner of his mouth twitched, as though her proximity made him want to smile but he held himself in check. The Archon kept her expression stern and unhappy, but did not let on the true loathing she was beginning to feel for this man, for who he was and for the things she made herself do with him in service of furthering her goals.
“What is it?”
“The boy,” he said, his eyes flickering away from her gaze and back. “Graymon.”
The Archon felt her stomach lurch, though her outward appearance showed no reaction. “What about him?”
“They’ve taken him.”
“Taken him?” This time, she spoke the words between clenched teeth as she imagined Therrador going against her wishes, slipping out of the fortress with a band of mounted men intent on rescuing his son. “Who has taken him?”
“The king-bearer and the magician.”
“Impossible,” she snapped. “They should be dead by now. I have set much against them.”
“Apparently they are not so easily killed.”
She glared at him, feeling sure he meant the smile tilting the corner of his lips to mock her. The Archon clenched her fist, struggling to keep herself from slapping the expression off his face. She turned and paced back to the window, felt the rough stone hammering against her feet, the silk robe sandpapering her shoulders and back, the soft fabric tearing at her flesh and adding to her anger until she tore it off, shredding the material and throwing the remnants to the floor. She whirled around to find Perdaro staring at her with lust in his eyes, and her anger multiplied, exploding.
“Find them,” she screamed, her voice reverberating against the walls and startling the man. His dumfounded expression disappeared and his eyes filled with fear. His fear satisfied her.
“Yes, your Grace,” he said bowing shallowly and averting his eyes before hurrying out of the room.
The door creaked closed behind him and the Archon remained standing at the edge of the bearskin rug, staring at the closed door as she seethed. After a minute, she returned to the window, skirting the soft touch of the rug, and looked out across the courtyard again, uncaring who saw her nakedness. The chill air touched her, hardening her nipples and cooling her temper.
Her gaze scanned the area, passing over the soldiers without noticing either them or the citizens of the fortress. Did the boy really matter anymore? She needed him to ensure Therrador’s acquiescence, but he wouldn’t know the boy had been rescued. Truthfully, if she killed him now, the king wouldn’t know until it was too late.
That is it, then. I will kill him when we have him back.
No, it troubled her more to find out the bearer and his magician friend yet lived. How had she not known? After Shariel, she’d trusted they wouldn’t survive Poltghasa and Kanos instead of taking care of things herself; she’d been too distracted with Therrador and other matters to concentrate on them.
“What threat is a dead king to me, anyway?” she said aloud.
No, they weren’t worthy of her concern, not when she still controlled Therrador and they would have to face the entire army of Kanos to reach her or use the boy to manipulate the king.
She smiled to herself, satisfied things were going the way she wanted despite these small setbacks. Her vision would not be denied by anyone, certainly not a farmer and a dead king. She leaned out the window and filled her lungs with cold air.
At the edge of her vision, the Archon caught sight of the six riders and their prisoners again. She leaned father out the window, following their ride through narrowed eyes until they disappeared around a corner and out of sight.
What is it about them?
She continued to stare until a drunken voice distracted her.
“Lookit ‘em teats, Rawl!”
She glared at the men standing below the window looking up at her. The man who had spoken grinned, his eyelids drooping with too much drink, a line of saliva trailing from the corner of his mouth. His companion seemed more sober, his face taut with an expression that suggested he wished he was anywhere else in the world.
The Archon smiled and held her hand out toward the men, like she would wave to them. The drunken letch raised his hand in return and his companion fell back a step. A grim smile pulled at the Archon’s mouth as she snapped her hand into a fist and jerked it toward her chest. The drunken man spasmed once and fell twitching to the ground.
With a smile on her lips, the Archon spun from the window and walked across the room.
***
Emeline hugged Iana tight to her chest, grateful they’d arrived at the fortress and the end of their arduous journey, but worried at what might happen next. The one soldier—the leader of the band of Kanosee—had had his way with her every night of their trek while the others left her alone, but she didn’t know what he’d expect of her now their trip was done.
“Everything will be all right,” Lehgan whispered leaning toward her. Emeline didn’t respond or even raise her eyes to look at her husband.
The lead rider slid out of his saddle and Emeline tensed. At times, he’d treated her almost tenderly, but she also bore not-yet faded bruises as a result of his passion. As he approached, she looked down at her daughter, avoiding his eyes. He stood before her, hands on his hips, regarding her for a few seconds before he drew his knife from the sheath on his belt.
Emeline flinched away, though it didn’t escape her notice that Lehgan again made no move to protect her. The soldier brandished the knife between them, holding it close enough to her to ensure she saw it. She squeezed her eyes shut and prayed he wouldn’t hurt Iana.
The pressure of the cord around her wrist increased as though someone cinched it tighter, then it disappeared. Emeline opened her eyes and looked at her wrist; the soldier had cut the cord tethering her to his horse and had turned the blade to freeing Lehgan.
“You can go,” the soldier said.
Lehgan took a step away, but Emeline didn’t move immediately. She stared at the man, disbelieving that he would let them go like this. Surely, after all he’d put her through, this must be some sort of trick. She took a tentative half-step away and he moved forward. Emeline froze as the soldier leaned toward her until his face was only inches from hers.
“I’ll miss you,” he whispered. She felt his breath on her cheek, smelled the rank odor of the dried pork he’d eaten for lunch. “My name is Hektor. Remember it; maybe we’ll see each other again some time.”
She stepped away from him, her eyes wide. The soldier smiled and his companions laughed. Emeline felt a sickness in her stomach, but not just for what these men did to her.
This is what people think Khirro is. Because of me
.
Lehgan’s touch on her arm startled her out of her stupor; she hurried away down the boulevard without him, leaving her tormentors behind and her husband to catch up. He did after a moment and walked beside her, silent at first. When they were around a corner, out of sight of their captors, he grabbed Emeline by the arm, forcing her to stop.
“Emeline, I--”
“No.” She jerked her arm from his grasp and stepped away a pace. Their eyes met and she glared, neither of them speaking for a few seconds. “We have to find Khirro.”
Lehgan looked surprised. “What? Why should we find Khirro? No. I need to talk to you.”
She shook her head.
“Emeline.”
“You could have done something.”
He looked at her, his shoulders sagging, eyes turning watery. When he spoke, he did so in a whisper filled with emotion she didn’t trust to be real.
“I should have.”
“We have to find Khirro.”
She walked away, Iana gurgling and cooing against her chest.
Emon Turesti watched the man emerge from the lane, look both directions like he had something to hide, then scurry down the boulevard toward him. Turesti shrank back into the shadows and waited for the man to pass, catching a look at him as he did. Dark, scraggly hair; down-turned eyes.
Hu Dondon.
Sir Alton Sienhin had summoned the Lord Chamberlain as well, though he met with them separately. Why would he not meet them together? Turesti shook his head and peered after Dondon, realizing he would never completely understand the military mind of a man like the general. He’d spent his life in the service of the king—no matter whose ass polished the throne—and sat in on innumerable strategy meetings and war councils, but his role in those was limited to note-taking and nodding agreement, his opinion neither asked for nor wanted. He’d learned much over the years, but many things still remained unclear.
Turesti stepped out of the shadows and hurried to the mouth of the lane, where he stopped and looked back over his shoulder, aware his action bore a striking resemblance to Hu Dondon’s a few minutes before. His limp gray hair brushed the shoulders of his robe as he glanced the other direction to ensure it was also clear of curious eyes. No one followed him. He darted down the narrow lane, sandals scuffing through garbage strewn across the brief path leading to the plain wooden door at the end: his destination.
“Gods,” he murmured, wishing he’d chosen to wear breeches and boots, as the cold weather demanded.
He hiked up the bottom of his robe to prevent it from trailing through the trash, and picked his way toward the door, pausing when he reached it. A rime of frost glittered on the door’s handle and he felt the chill of it melting under his fingers as he grasped the handle, wondering if the door would be locked.
It wasn’t.
Turesti pushed the door open, stepped across the threshold, and quickly swung it closed behind him to shut out the cold and any prying eyes.
“Ah, I see you received my invitation, Smoke.”
He spun around, instinct throwing his hands up defensively. The light of a taper sitting on a shelf mounted high on the left wall illuminated the bushy mustache and ruddy face of Sir Alton Sienhin, commander of the king’s army.
“You know I hate it when you call me that, Sir Alton.”
“Yes. Yes I do.”
Turesti surveyed the small room. Mostly empty shelves stood against three of the walls: a store room, picked clean by the war effort and not yet restocked. He’d have to poke fun at Hu Dondon, the Lord Chamberlain, the next time he saw him.
The next time I see him when the two of us aren’t skulking about.
Sir Alton sat on a foot stool in the far corner of the room, but rose when his guest entered. He wore a full set of leather and chain mail; his ever-present sword hung on one hip, a dagger on the other side, and Turesti wondered why he would be clad thus. Sienhin took a step toward him and the High Chancellor tensed involuntarily.
“The kingdom has gone for a shit.”
The knight’s choice of words caught him off-guard and Turesti stifled a laugh. Though true and obvious, the general’s flair for the melodramatic often struck him as funny.
“Sir Alton,” Turesti said, relaxing a little, “this is not news. We are--”
“Perdaro is in league with the Archon.”
The robe around Turesti’s shoulders suddenly felt as though an alchemist had transformed its gold threads into lead. His shoulders sagged and his gaze slid toward the floor.
“Hahn? It can’t be. I’ve known him since he was a child. I--”
“Nothing is as we think, Smoke. The king has opened the gates to the enemy and the Archon holds his son captive. One of his most trusted advisors plots against the kingdom. Sir Matte is dead. These are desperate times and I need to know if you are worthy of my trust.”
“Of course,” Turesti said looking up into Sienhin’s gauging eyes. “I’ve lived my entire life for the kingdom.”
Sir Alton regarded him; a minute passed in silence. Finally, the general nodded once. Turesti’s shoulders relaxed and he released his held breath.
“I will leave in two hours to go to Achtindel, and I will return with an army.”
“You’ll be seen leaving,” Turesti said, surprised. “You won’t get through the guards at the gate.”
“I’ll not be going out the gates.”
Turesti’s eyes narrowed, his head tilted slightly to the right. The general looked at him without speaking.
“The tunnels?” Turesti finally asked.
“Aye. There’s one from this very room that will lead me straight outside the walls. There I’ll get a horse and be in the capital in a few days.”
A thought occurred to Turesti and he suppressed a shudder. “And you’re telling me because you want me to accompany you?”
A laugh burst out of the general hard enough to make his mustache quiver. He slapped Turesti on the shoulder.
“No offence, Smoke, but if I’m taking anyone, it wouldn’t be you.”
“Hu, then?”
“No, not him, either.” Sir Alton’s eyes narrowed, his hand dropped off Turesti’s shoulder and his cheeks took on the pink hue they acquired whenever he became deadly serious, which was often. “Don’t tell Dondon what we spoke of. It’s best not to trust anyone.”
Turesti’s eyes widened. “But I saw him leaving. You already spoke to him.”
The knight’s glare bore into the older man, making him want to shrink away, but he held his ground. Turesti imagined that, if Sienhin’s mustache didn’t hide the majority of his jaw, he’d see the general grinding his teeth.
“For the sake of the kingdom, keep our conversation to yourself.”
Turesti nodded vigorously. “Of course.”