The Axe and the Throne (16 page)

Years Ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“Leave me be!”

It was a response to be expected.

“It is me,” Alther said. “May I come in?”

Alther thought he had given her enough of an opportunity to stew that she may be amenable to some distraction. She did not answer his question, and he waited there some time before he heard the door unlock.

The room always shocked him, looking more as if it belonged to a crazed librarian than a princess. As a boy he had spent little time in his room, certainly not enough to have amassed such a collection of books, placed in seemingly random piles.
Perhaps her birth father had been a curator
, he had mused to himself. Alther had made a game when she was younger of having her close her eyes while he read the title of one of her books, challenging her to find it within the chaos. She always did, though.

“Thank you,” he said, pulling the chair from her writing desk to sit upon.

How can I even be of any comfort to her?
he wondered. Perhaps sitting there was enough. He did not think asking her about Griffin would do any good.

“Why must we stay here?” Ethel asked.

“This is our home.”

“No, it's not,” she said. “Your home is in Rivervale, and a family goes where the father belongs. That
is
where we belong.”

“We belong where the king commands us.
My
father. And I tell you, Rivervale is no better a place than here.”

“You lie.”

He was not offended by her accusation. Had he been in her position he would most likely feel the same, or at the very least wish it to be true—that there was a city to where she could go and be accepted. But if she thought Rivervale was such a place, she was painfully mistaken. If the Adeltian bastard princess was scorned in Adeltia, it would be far worse in Rivervale. Her only chance of peace was to go unrecognized, and that was not a thing he could provide for her.

“I wish I was lying,” he said. “Rivervale is like any other kingdom. That it is a bit poorer than this kingdom does not make it better.”

“I'd rather be poor.”

“I claimed the same when I was a young prince. Do you think I'm lying about that as well? One thing I have come to know with certainty, however, is that any amount you wish to trade places with a common child, that child wishes to trade places with you far worse. And which do you think truly has the right of it?”

He took her sullen silence to indicate her having understood his meaning.

“Why are boys so cruel?” she asked after a silence.

Alther exhaled, giving himself time to think.

“I honestly do not think your brother wishes to aggravate you with the things he says. He merely blurts out what is on his mind. Stephon lacks something when it comes to seeing things from another's perspective.”

“Not him, Father,” Ethel said meekly. “Griffin.”

“He's an idiot. What more explanation is necessary?”

“He is
not
an idiot, though.”

“He is a dullard with no equal, and if he were my own I would see him shamed for such foolishness.”

He could see Ethel was not satisfied with his sentiment.

“Would it make you feel better to know all boys his age make similar mistakes?” Alther asked, not expecting an answer. “I do not think we are born with empathy. We learn it only after we have felt the hurt that we've inflicted on another.”

“How is that supposed to make me feel any better?”

Perhaps it shouldn't
, he admitted.

“There was a girl when I was young—back when I lived in Rivervale, mind you, the place of fairytales.” He beamed her a grin, causing Ethel to blush. “She was ridiculed mercilessly, for what reason I cannot even say other than she dressed a bit matronly. She lived with her grandparents, I believe, who must have been somewhat impoverished.” Alther closed his eyes, rubbing his temples to massage the details back to memory. “After a while she disappeared.”

“She disappeared?”

“I don't mean she really went missing. She was still there, but people had stopped going out of their way to pick on her. Nobody noticed her so much. Oh, her name was Beth—not that that did her any favors either.” Alther took a moment to regret having said that. The name Ethel did not exactly conjure images of youth and grace. “One day she came dressed completely different.
Completely.
She had on a knee-length dress, her hair was done up in some special way, she looked…” Alther saw the face Ethel was giving him, realizing he'd let the story get away from him. “She looked very
pretty
. I knew it was her from the start, but my friend, a far more handsome lad than I, was caught unawares by her transformation. He stopped mid-sentence as he spoke to me to gaze at her, and even went so far as to chase her down and touch her arm. He introduced himself in some boneheaded way that made most girls blush, but her…it made her face light up. I do not know how to describe it, but she came alive for the first time when she saw his interest was sincere…”

Why am I telling her this?
It was too late; he was beyond committed. There were plenty of witnesses that day, but he had never repeated the story, nor did he want to hear it told aloud in its entirety now that he had reawakened his disgust.

Ethel insisted with a look that he continue.

“And so I laughed like a fool and said, ‘That's Beth, you idiot.' Everyone joined me in laughter except the two of them. He was stupefied, but she was crushed. I will never forget her face.”

“Well, what happened?” Ethel prodded.

“I felt horrible.”

“No! What happened to Beth?”

Alther cleared his throat. “She did not return to classes for several days, and when she did, she was her old self again, if not worse. She never made eye contact with anyone, let alone me.”

“Well, where is she now?”

Alther knew where she was, should she still be alive. She was no ugly girl, that much was true. And like many pretty girls unable to attract a husband, she soon took up the trade that paid best. How many revolting men had she had to endure inside her thanks to Alther's foolish outburst? He had snuffed out not only a light but a life with his laughter, and he would never forgive himself.

“She married an older man and they have some children,” he lied.

“I don't care for older men,” said Ethel.

“No, you misunderstand. I am not comparing you to her. You are… You are a
princess
and she was just some poor girl you claimed to want to trade places with. But the point is that all boys make grave errors. Griffin will come to realize that, and if he does not, then I was right that he is an idiot.”

The two sat in silence. The scent of old papers and bindings gave the room a tranquil feel that lent itself to quiet thought.

“What's Mother's excuse?”

The question caught Alther off guard.

“Her excuse?”

“Yes. Young boys are cruel because they're stupid you said. What about her?”

“Your mother is not cruel to you. She merely wants—”

“What's best for me?” Ethel interrupted with an accusatory tone.

“What she thinks is best would be a better way to put it,” said Alther.

“That's not even what I was asking though. Why is she so cruel to
you
?”

Being forced to marry a man has that effect
, he thought. But even that did not fully explain it. Alther had numerous noble acquaintances with wives compelled to marry for one reason or another who'd come to love them, or at least respect them enough to be civil.
She is cruel because she finds me unworthy and appalling
, he admitted to himself,
as she always has and always will.

“I have told you before that people are inclined to resent being told what to do,” said Alther. “Your mother is no exception.”

“But you do not tell her to do
anything
,” objected Ethel. “You let her make every decision.”

It was for the most part true. Alther scanned his mind for instances where he had actually been firm with his wife and found few of any real consequence.

“I did not let her make you get rid of this.” Alther gestured about the room. “This massive collection of yours. I made sure you were allowed to ride the palfrey your grandfather gave you. I made sure you were allowed to wear what you wished. I have had my share of victories.” He delivered the words playfully.

“I'm allowed to wear what I wish only when inside our home,” she corrected, but she had not been immune to his playfulness and cracked a smile of her own. Then she became serious.

“Would you think less of me if I did as Mother suggests? If I dressed like her, sipped tea, and acted…proper?”

Alther gave a chuckling snort. “Your mother is a good woman. I would not recommend you emulate her every mannerism, but I have no doubt you can tell the good from the bad. Do not ever think that you should do opposite of her in order to please me. I love both you and your mother, and that will not change, whether you wear trousers and ride horses, or wear skirts and embroider. You must do whatever it is you desire to do, and never be afraid to change one way or the other.”

Ethel turned away from him. If there was one thing he hated to see, it was his daughter tearful.

“Plus,” he added, “it might be fun to see her face if you came to supper in a dress and sipped your tea like one of her aristocrat friends. She might be so shocked as to demand you go back to your room and change into something
less
decent.”

Her giggle was the outcome he'd hoped for, and it gave him a pride he seldom achieved. In this foreign land of sweltering heat, hubris, and pretentiousness, Ethel was a lovely oddity. Yet as he looked at his adopted daughter, Alther could not help but wonder: if she had not been born a bastard, if she had not been a pariah among her peers, would she still be the exemplar of innocence? Or would she be the typical Adeltian princess and despise him every bit as much as her mother and the rest?

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

They had been three days at sea on the eighth day of what Titon believed would be their epic journey. Keethro still had other plans.

It had taken four days of fast-paced travel to reach the eastern coast, passing many Galatai clans along the way who wished them well and restocked their supplies. A full day was then spent on the construction of their modest sea vessel, using a design similar to ones they had built together in their youth, with the addition of a large square sail. It had a pointed bow that would cut through water and a simple rudder. Together, these would make straight travel over long distances a simple task. The wood they used was light and buoyant, allowing for the many leaks they would have, given their quick construction. Perhaps most importantly, it had enough room for them both to crouch beneath a simple slanted piece of thatching that would shelter them from any weather; if one were to die on these waters it would likely be from exposure, not from capsizing. The boat came together faster than they'd expected, and they shared pride in their accomplishment before hoisting her into the calm waters of the Timid Sea.

“You took an arrow, did you not?” asked Titon, looking content. Keethro did not remember the Dogman battle Titon recalled with the same fondness.

“Caught it in the meat of the thigh,” said Keethro.
A reminder of the danger I find when following you.

“It was a fine battle, considering the foe,” Titon reminisced. “A good surprise at least to have them raise weapons for once.”

Keethro snorted. “Yes, I was quite pleased as I limped home over the scree.”
You have a strange notion of what makes for pleasant surprises
, thought Keethro.

“Ha,” Titon cried. “You may have limped to the barrow. We took turns dragging your dead weight home while you drank and cursed your luck.”

Keethro could not help but laugh at himself as the faint memory returned. He turned his gaze toward the coastline. The jagged points of intraversible mountains reached to the sky.

“What else was there?” Titon asked. A silence hung while the two of them tried to remember any story worth reciting.

“Gunnar's goats,” Keethro recalled aloud, feeling the grin that formed on his face.

Titon laughed loudly in response. “That dumb bastard with the pretty young wife—and the even prettier goats!” Titon slapped his thigh. “If he had just ignored the prank it would not have worked, but every time we put one of your sister's skirts on a goat of his, he would become even more furious. He even bothered the elders about it, but they were not fool enough to care. That poor bastard.”

“Aye,” said Keethro.

“You were a clumsy oaf back then, though. How many times did you get snagged on his fence and forced to muck the goat houses by his woman?” Titon asked.

“Just once.”

“No, you damn fool. I remember it well. You must have been caught near half a dozen times. You would get snagged on the same loose wire and wear the same shaggy coat time and again, despite my telling you better.”

“Aye, I was caught maybe five or six times. But of those times I only shoveled goat shit once, and of those times I was only truly a clumsy fool once,” Keethro replied, still wearing his grin, allowing Titon to put together the pieces.

But Titon just looked at him skeptically with half a frown, imploring explanation.

“Young, yes, and pretty as well, his wife was eager to find me punishments that were, well, more
rigorous
.”

Hearing that, Titon burst into a roar of laughter. It was a good story to be sure, but given their circumstances, everything seemed half again as funny as it ought to be, giddy with the prospect of adventure.

“Perhaps her husband truly did prefer his goats then if she was so eager to jump in the sack with the likes of your ugly arse,” said Titon. The mock insult was enough to bring Keethro back to the present, where he was again sailing with a man he intended to kill rather than a friend with whom he intended to find the far corners of the realm. “But you did always have a few secrets when it came to women.”

For a few moments all that could be heard was the gentle rocking of the boat on the waves.

“Aye, but I never did stray from Kilandra's bed.” It was a lie, but it was as good a trick as any for Keethro to try to catch Titon in a lie of his own. “Did you?”
Did you ever stray
into
Kilandra's bed?

“Stray from Ellie?” Titon was fiddling with some splintered wood on the handle of the rudder, his gaze having broken from Keethro. “Never. Not even with a Dogman bitch I intended to kill.” Titon's eyes met Keethro's again. “You do not want to draw the anger of a Storm Wolf. One might suffer less godly wrath after pissing on the River.”

Not even once, old friend?
Keethro left the question unasked.

“What about that boy…Dicun?” asked Titon. “Everyone whispers that he is your bastard, and he certainly looks it.”

It was no small charge, to be a bastard among their people. Should a Galatai woman give birth to a child that was not her husband's, the man would have the right—if not the responsibility—to snuff that child. But the father of the one Titon spoke of died before the truth could be revealed—during a Dogman raid Keethro well remembered.
He was a decent man
, Keethro recalled with some remorse, but he had not once regretted his action that spared the boy.

“Perhaps he is mine. He is a handsome lad. I only claimed to have not strayed from her bed. I never claimed not to have brought someone else into it.”

Titon laughed like a drunken warrior after a triumphant raid, and Keethro joined him with feigned candor as the wind pushed them farther southward.

The sea journey came to an end upon reaching Port Phylan. Though no Galatai were known to have traveled so far south, they were well aware of the existence of this city, often doing trade with its people. Phylan seafarers' unconventional sails allowed them to travel northwards on the Timid Sea in spite of the invariably southward winds, and they would often bring jewelry and glass to the northern coasts in exchange for leather, furs, and Dogman plunder.

“I suppose one night in our own clothes will do little harm,” said Titon. “The shops look to all be closed in any case. Some food and a night's rest then? We'll find some southern dress in the morning.”

“Aye,” said Keethro. “I barely slept a wink on that boat.”

The first inn they came across was not the cleanest looking establishment, but neither were Titon and Keethro the cleanest of patrons. His Grace's Hole, as it was called, had a rowdy crowd gathered in the first floor's eating and drinking area. It had the dark, uninviting atmosphere of a place frequented only by locals, and a mild smell of sweat and spilt ale. Nonetheless, it was a welcome sight.

“Barkeep,” cried Titon upon finding a pair of empty stools. “We will take your heartiest meal and two strong meads. Both meads are for me, though. My friend here prefers the rich flavor of pickled milk.”

It seemed as if everyone in the place was eyeballing them, but Keethro had expected little different.

“Make that a strong mead for me as well,” said Keethro, unoffended by Titon's hackneyed gibe. “I'm feeling oddly virile tonight.”

Failing to appreciate the humor, the barkeep was at least kind enough to oblige them in their request after seeing their coin. They were served their drinks and some house stew. To their surprise the food was quite impressive: a hot mash of chicken and beef, potatoes and carrots, sage and thyme, nearly overflowing the wooden bowls in which it was served. They also received some warm crusty bread that had a light coating of flour still on the surface as if it had been made in a hurry. A generous mound of honeyed butter melted in the middle of each split loaf, steam rising from the gap. Bread was not a staple in the Northluns where there was no land suitable for wheat, and it was a welcome treat whenever they had the chance to trade for or steal some.

Titon raised his mug. “To two brothers, once again spitting in the eye of destiny and charging south for glory!” Keethro raised his mug in kind, and the two men downed their drink and food with a warrior's efficiency.

The drinking did not end there, however. The shadowy, dank conditions of the lively place seemed to darken and become yet more raucous as they continued their quest to empty the bar of all its mead. As Keethro glanced around, he no longer met stares of men, but could not be removed of the feeling that all of the turned eyes he saw had just been aimed at his back.

One ray of light was seen by Keethro amidst the gloomy sea. A barmaid looked in his direction, and he was quick to ensure she noticed he was looking back. Her homely smile was warm and inviting, and her plaits of hair on either shoulder gave her a look of innocence unbefitting her surroundings.
If there are often girls like this in shitholes such as these, I might enjoy these southern lands.

Upon looking to his left to tell Titon he might be absent for a while to tend to some business, he saw his big companion face down on the bar, snoring. Keethro gave his full attention to the bosomy barmaid who approached.

“Your friend all right?” she asked.

“I am afraid he is dead,” Keethro replied.

“Dead? Isn't he breathing?”

“Nay, he is good and dead. I am quite sure of it. He pissed in a river this morning, and now he has drowned himself accidentally in his cup. Happens all the time to Northerners like us.” There was no point in trying to pretend they were from anywhere but the North in their current state of drunkenness and dress.

The perplexed look on the girl's face let Keethro know all his humor had been lost on her.
She is dull, but I'd likely still be a maid if I had always let that stop me.
He changed tactics and showed her a warm smile, which she was happy to mirror.

It was not long before he and the barmaid were headed upstairs. She led him to a bedroom where she slipped into a cozy-looking bed. Then she began to throw her clothing out from under the blankets one piece at a time. Keethro rushed to undress, first kicking off his shoes. As he removed a leg from his trousers, the door to the bedroom swung open again with an unpleasant creak.

Three surly men strode in, all armed with knives, and closed the door behind them. Keethro had a knife of his own, but it was on the belt of his trousers that were now on the floor with one of his legs still through them. Any move he made to get it would no doubt result in all three of the men jumping him with their own blades.

“Here's how this'll work,” said the leader of the men. He was large, top-heavy, and appeared as though he had not bathed for several weeks. He looked like the type of man whose own shit was happy to be free of. “You strip naked, hand over all your money and clothing, and we don't cut either of your heads off.”

Possible scenarios raced through Keethro's sobering mind. He thought about screaming to Titon for help, which he would not hear. He thought of charging the men with his trousers half on and killing them all—a difficult task without being mortally wounded himself. He thought of trying to slam through the weak wooden floor to make a dashing exit, but that was unlikely with his boots now off. He thought of at least killing the girl who had lured him here before the men killed him. That he could do, but it did not meet all his desired criteria.