Authors: Fiona McIntosh
Gavriel’s attention was caught again by Genrie, who shooshed the other girl away, as her shaking hands were a detriment to setting up goblets and wine decanters. Genrie, by contrast, looked composed. He knew she was one of Freath’s favourites — perhaps that was why she had leapt to his defence when Gavriel made fun of him — but now he wondered if her defensiveness meant she was also his accomplice. Genrie was rather young for her senior position in the palace, and setting tables was far below her but she went about her task with her usual crisp efficiency.
When it was done she had the audacity to curtsey to the queen. ‘Your majesty,’ she said. ‘I know you won’t enjoy the meal but I urge you —’
‘Stop!’ Loethar said, his voice quiet but angry. ‘You, girl. What is your name?’
‘I am called Genrie,’ she replied, looking at him unabashed and unable to hide the defiance in her eyes. Gavriel felt inspired by her courage, even though he feared for her safety. She must be able to see the fresh bloodstains on the rug, not far from where she stood, and imagine from whom they came.
‘Apart from addressing someone you do not have permission to talk to, do you always ignore your ruler?’
‘No, sir. I have never ignored him. Nor would I if he were in this room with us now.’
‘Magnificent,’ Gavriel breathed, even as he realised that this might be the last moment he saw Genrie alive.
A chilled silence had descended upon the room. Gavriel could see Iselda pleading with Genrie through her stare not to inflame the situation any further.
‘How old are you?’ Loethar demanded.
‘Old enough to hate you. Old enough to die for it.’
Loethar stared at her, transfixed. Gavriel was sure most would have begun to tremble — or at least fidget — beneath such intense scrutiny. Finally he spoke. ‘And do you want to die?’
‘No, sir. I want to live long enough to see you die.’
Loethar surprised Gavriel by laughing, and although it was soft, there was a rueful tone in it. ‘Perhaps you will, Genrie.’
‘For what you’ve done to our king, you can be sure that people will queue to be your murderer, me among them.’
Gavriel, amazed by her pluck, watched Loethar nod thoughtfully before saying, ‘I’m sure that’s true.’
‘But it does not seem to frighten you,’ she sneered.
‘That is also true. Now, Genrie, I’ve tolerated your indiscretion because I can appreciate this is an upsetting time. I need you to leave quietly now and take your weeping companion with you.’
‘You haven’t seen what Tilly has seen. She has every right to weep.’ Genrie threw another concerned glance toward Iselda.
‘Nevertheless, get her noise out of here or I’ll ask Master Stracker to take care of it. He tends not to be terribly gentle. I’d recommend that you don’t anger him.’
‘I have no fear. You control him like the dog on a leash that he is.’
‘That feistiness is attractive, Genrie, and I’m going to permit you to live despite your disrespect — for now — but beware it doesn’t become your undoing.’
The servant ignored Loethar. ‘Queen Iselda, whatever happens in the next few minutes, just remember, we are all loyal to the Valisars and no matter what this barbarian says to you — or shows you —’
‘Get her out,’ Loethar said wearily and Genrie was instantly set upon by Stracker, who enjoyed twisting her arm painfully as he pushed her toward the door. She finally — and sensibly — remained quiet, although Gavriel wished he could cheer loudly so she knew someone appreciated her pluck. The queen who was the recipient of all that courageous encouragement just stared at Genrie departing seemingly unresponsive.
‘Ready to eat, Iselda?’
‘I’m not hungry,’ she snarled. ‘What did that girl mean?’
‘Ah, so you were paying attention.’
‘Explain it.’
‘I’m not inclined to. Although I can show you, perhaps.’ Gavriel heard cunning in the barbarian’s tone, and with it came a fresh wave of anxiety that froze him like ice. Fear coursed through his veins and he glanced down at Leo, taking in the slightly open mouth, regular rise and fall of the chest, and limbs scattered haphazardly. The boy was asleep; good.
‘… I don’t like games,’ Gavriel heard Iselda reply.
‘Oh this is no game, Iselda. I am deadly serious. And whether or not you’re hungry I expect you to remain at my table until I have finished.’
‘As you wish. You’re in charge,’ she said dismissively. Gavriel couldn’t blame her; he felt sure that taking this approach of complete disdain was the only defence left to the queen. He reminded himself it was only a matter of hours really since she had delivered a baby. And that baby was already dead to her, she had no idea where her eldest son was, but he was as good as dead the moment he was located. And Piven might as well have been dead for all the comfort he offered. Her king — everything the realm revolved around — was also dead and, horrifically, by his own hand. It would be eating away inside her that Brennus would be remembered for taking his own life. It didn’t sound so heroic and yet Gavriel would attest that preventing Loethar from that final gleeful blow was the most heroic of all acts. Perhaps with this scornful approach, Iselda was rather hoping Loethar would tire of her and have her killed or kill her himself.
Iselda seated herself as required. She ignored Loethar’s gesture for some wine. ‘Freath, am I to understand that you are in cahoots with this usurper?’
‘Are you still so ignorant, Iselda, that you believe I would be on your side?’ the aide replied.
At this the former queen leaned back sharply, as if struck. Her voice was filled with shock when she finally spoke. ‘You betrayed us?’
‘He’s not that courageous, my lady,’ Loethar offered, setting down the decanter and reaching for his goblet. ‘He is an opportunist. He has seen who rules the realm now — the Set, in fact — and has thrown in his lot with me.’
‘Freath!’ she exclaimed. ‘What have they offered that you could turn on us?’
Freath smiled grimly. ‘They have given me you, Iselda. You are my prize.’
‘Me?’ she stammered, her voice tiny, disbelieving. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘Oh come now, highness, don’t be coy,’ Freath cajoled. ‘You’ve looked in the mirror often enough. But more importantly, you have used me as a slave when I was glad to be your servant. You ignored me when I would have been happy just to have a passing smile of thanks from you. I have served you since you arrived at the palace as a young bride. I protected you from the detractors who said you were the wrong choice for Brennus and I made sure of your strict care for all your confinements. I have been a loyal, diligent guardian…far more than a simple servant. But I do believe you wouldn’t even recall my first name, not that it was ever spoken between us.’ His final words came out like a hiss.
‘I … I …’ Iselda stared at him, frowning, confusion clearly battling with her private thoughts.
‘Go on, try and remember it,’ he jeered.
Iselda settled her features to banish the puzzlement and instead nodded as her composure returned. ‘You’re right. I don’t know it. Nor do I care to ever have it register in my mind again, let alone pass my lips. You are treacherous slime, lower than the dirt that clings to Piven’s boots. You’re not worthy of my breath so I shall not waste any more of it on you.’
‘Excellent,’ Loethar said. ‘I’m glad that’s settled. Freath, you may leave us. After tonight I shall have Iselda sent to your chambers.’
Gavriel felt the bile rise to his throat. He forced it back down as Loethar continued.
‘The Vested will be here by daybreak. You have the choice of two. Make it quick or I’ll renege on our offer. You’re not that important to me, Freath. I’m simply allowing that you may be useful.’
‘I can be very useful, sire, if you’ll give me a chance.’
Iselda sneered, muttered something beneath her breath.
‘Leave us,’ Loethar commanded. ‘Stracker? Have my meal brought in. Then you too may join the men.’
Stracker nodded at Freath to follow him out. A few moments of tense silence followed during which Gavriel realised he was holding his breath. The door opened and he strained to see one of the large food wagons being dragged in by a near hysterical Tilly. She was shaking so hard she was struggling to put one foot in front of the other.
‘Oh, save us,’ Loethar muttered. ‘Where is the other girl? Where is Genrie?’
‘Refused to serve, now sporting a broken face for her trouble,’ Stracker’s voice answered from the doorway. Gavriel felt his blood boil. Poor Genrie.
Gavriel didn’t hear Loethar’s reply because Tilly, in her hysteria and her clumsiness, had knocked over the huge silver dome that was covering a salver on the wheeled wagon. Gavriel recognised the tall dome as being one of the coverings they used for presenting the roasted swan or stuffed upright otter that was so popular for the royal feasts. The dome was sent clattering across the flagstones, making a terrible ruckus and Gavriel instantly looked down toward Leo, disappointed to see the child sitting up and rubbing his eyes.
‘What’s going on, Gav?’
‘Nothing, go back to sleep,’ Gavriel murmured, but to no avail. Leo was already yawning himself awake and stretching.
‘Let me see.’
‘There’s nothing to see, except —’ And that’s when Iselda began to groan as though in the deepest of pain.
Gavriel looked back, unable to stop Leo, who he knew was now taking in the terrible scene with the same sense of horror and despair. Placed in the middle of the platter was the torso of King Brennus, roasted, his skin blistered and sizzling. His head was badly sunken into his shoulders, and his crown was placed lopsided on the cooked head, the eyes drooping while the mouth gaped, juices oozing from the bubbled, roasted tongue. Gavriel felt his stomach lurch. He dry retched, covering the sound as best he could.
‘It would have taken too long to roast him whole, so I had him cut in half,’ Loethar said conversationally above the din of Iselda’s keening.
Piven arrived at the table with what appeared to be a vague look of curiosity on his face. He was barely tall enough for his eyes to draw level but he tipped his head to one side, absorbing the image before him. As usual he uttered nothing, and his face had already returned to its usual expressionless appearance.
‘Why?’ Iselda managed to growl through her sobs.
‘Well, if you must know, my lady, it is my intention to consume your husband. Now as odd as that sounds, it has merit. You see, contrary to what history tells us, I believe all Valisars possess special enchantment — some more than others, I’ll grant you.’
‘You are deluded!’ Iselda stammered. ‘Brennus had no powers.’ And then she gave herself entirely over to her grief, weeping, bent double as though in physical pain. Gavriel noticed that her breathing soon became shallow and rapid as her gaze turned suddenly unfocused.
‘Well, just in case,’ Loethar said quietly, ‘I think I’ll start with his heart, unless of course you feel that it belongs to you?’ There was absolutely no mirth in his words and Gavriel did not know whether he meant it in jest or was genuinely asking her permission. He would never know, for as the barbarian king began carving away the cooked flesh of the royal, Gavriel gagged, running around the corner to bring up the stinging, acid liquid that burned his throat.
But one person kept rigidly watching the shocking scene. Leo held his position, eyes wide, mouth agape, his expression hard to read as Gavriel returned, wiping his mouth.
‘Leo,’ he whispered, shaking with distress for the boy.
‘Today I make a soul promise,’ Leo uttered and his voice was so torn with savagery that no whisper could hide it. ‘But I will only carry it out when I am a man, old enough and strong enough to stand shoulder to shoulder with the barbarian who eats the flesh of my father. Until then I am a shadow, I am invisible to him. He shall never know my identity until the day I look him in the eye and tell it to him before I kill him. Witness my soul promise, Gavriel.’
Gavriel was so taken aback he couldn’t even stop Leo’s blade. In a blink the boy was pushing it into Gavriel’s hand.
Gavriel shook his head, horrified. Again Leo didn’t hesitate. With his friend’s hand still closed around the hilt he grabbed the blade, opened his shirt and dragged the blade across his chest, slicing open his own flesh, blood blooming instantly in its wake. Leo winced but he did not cry out. Gavriel opened his mouth in a silent groan, staring at the young blood on his hand, all over the knife.
The soul promise was the weightiest oath anyone could make. It required a living witness to perform the cut, achieve a deep wound across the chest to signify the scarring of the soul. Now Gavriel and Leo were bound in blood, through the most savage of oaths.
‘I am a king in exile,’ Leo muttered, uncaring of the blood that ran freely down his chest. ‘And he will feel my wrath.’
Kirin nudged Clovis. ‘Look. What do you think’s going on up there?’
Clovis gazed upward toward the battlements as a tiny bowl of what looked to be dust was upended. The dust caught the soft late summertide breeze and was borne away.
‘I don’t know. You’re the one who can get into people’s heads,’ he grumbled.
‘Ssh!’ Kirin cautioned. ‘And you’re the one who sees things.’
‘I see nothing other than a woman who could be the queen.’
‘What?’ Kirin squinted as he concentrated. ‘You’ve seen her?’
‘Only from a distance and in paintings.’
‘No, I don’t think so. That woman looks like she’s feebleminded. Look at how her mouth hangs open.’
‘I can’t see as well as you, Kirin. Your eyes are younger.’
‘Well, what I can tell you is that Loethar’s on the rooftop and Stracker’s next to him. Promise me you’ll steer clear of him.’
‘As if I have a choice,’ Clovis commented absently. He’d never told Kirin that it was Stracker who slaughtered his family. Although Kirin seemed excited by their loose plan to work against the barbarian king, Clovis was tired from the enforced walk to Penraven, and anxious about what awaited them here.
They were being herded through the vast main gates of Penraven, where in a moment of whimsy perhaps, Cormoron — the original great king of the Valisar dynasty — had installed an impressive bell in one of the huge pillars and a shadow timepiece in the other. It was famous throughout the Set and attracted a lot of travellers. Clovis noticed that there were in fact four of these great dials in the massive pillar to the left and he quickly realised this meant that anyone, inside or outside of the palace, could know the exact time of day. What a marvellous piece of ingenuity. It intrigued him that something so simple as light and shadow could inform people of something so complex as the hours of the day. He didn’t have time to appreciate the ornate, richly-coloured artwork that adorned the face of the timepiece that pointed east, welcoming people to the city, although he’d heard much about its beauty and the brief glance he was afforded told him it was magnificent. He reminded himself to check on the opposing face which he’d heard was made of the stunning, creamy white marble from quarries to the northeast of exotic Percheron. The marble dial had been a gift from Percheron to Penraven on the occasion of the marriage of one of its princesses to King Brennus.