The Prince of Saint Only knelt by her side. “I have dreamed of seeing the beauty of Laijon’s weapons my entire life, Jon. Ever since Tatum Barra told Culpa and me of the Brethren of Mia when we were but children. Ever since my mother told me stories of the angel stones as a child. I have longed to look upon those things most holy, those things that will save us from the savagery of Aeros Raijael’s army. Forgive my impatience, but do you not understand? I must see them with my own eyes.”
“I do understand.” She was taken by the passion in his voice. She looked at Hawkwood. “Perhaps you can take him to the Rooms of Sorrow, if it will but ease his mind some.”
“I do not think it wise,” Hawkwood said.
“Still, I insist,” Squireck said. “I will see Ethic Shroud with my own eyes. And I will once again become a part of the king’s court.”
Jondralyn said, “I fear you will not so easily ingratiate yourself into Jovan’s favor.”
“He must accept me back into his court. It is the law of the arena. And I aim to march out of this room and confront him right now. I promise you, I will. And I will go myself if I must.”
“You will not have to go alone, Squireck.” She grabbed his hand. “I will stand with you. Compromises can be made. Jovan shall see the wisdom in your plan as have I. And when I am recovered enough, Hawkwood will take us both to see Ethic Shroud.”
* * *
Is the nobleman truly brave? The first rule of soldiering is fortitude under hardship and fatigue. Courage is a distant second. Poverty and want are the best school for a brave soldier.
—THE CHIVALRIC ILLUMINATIONS OF RAIJAEL
* * *
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
GAULT AULBREK
18TH DAY OF THE ETHIC MOON, 999TH YEAR OF LAIJON
AMADON, GUL KANA
Though he was still locked in iron cuffs and shackles, after seven days in the cage, Gault was relieved to be out of Purgatory. That was until his eyes fell upon the three torture devices lined up at the far end of Sunbird Hall. Then he wasn’t so thrilled. The menacing contraptions sat before a tall, bulky object covered in white sheets. The Silver Throne of Amadon—even in Sør Sevier they’d heard the rumors that the new king refused to sit upon it.
This was the second time Gault had been in this royal hall. This time he was currently being forced to look straight up at the vaulted, heavy-raftered ceiling a hundred feet above. Forced because Leif Chaparral and two other Dayknights were strapping what the grand vicar had called the “heretic’s tuning fork” under his chin.
The leather belt Leif was tightening around his neck was at least an inch wide and a quarter-inch thick. A five-inch length of iron with two opposing two-pronged forks, tines sharpened to needle points, were attached to the center of the belt. Leif had placed the bottom prongs of the fork against Gault’s sternum, the top tines under his chin, the length of the bar forcing his head back, neck straining, eyes looking straight up.
And that was the cruel trick of the contrivance—how long could a man hold his head in that position before his neck muscles gave way and he impaled his own chin and mouth on the sharpened tines? In Sør Sevier they called this vicious device the “palate impaler.” The gaolers in the dungeons of Rokenwalder used the device in cruel betting games—would the two prongs of the fork pierce the underside of the victim’s chin or jam through clear to the roof of his mouth?
Upon entering Sunbird Hall, Gault had remained quiet. There were no women present, just the king and his retinue of twenty or so knights. The five archbishops of Amadon all stood behind one very dignified-looking Vallè dressed in splendid Vallè robes. There was one other familiar face—Baron Jubal Bruk of Gallows Haven. The baron reclined on a cushioned settee, the tarred stumps of his legs sheared above the knees, arms above the elbows. Gault was surprised to see the two dagger blades still protruding from the black tar of his arms.
Grand Vicar Denarius was there too. Gault had eyed him with contempt. The bald and girthsome tub of fat wore a shit-colored cassock, the silken robes of his priesthood visible at the neckline. His chest was hung with gaudy necklaces of gold and colorful gemstones. That a supposed man of God could so obviously flaunt such gluttony and pride sickened Gault.
But now Gault’s face was forced upward by the palate impaler and all he could see was the ceiling. Chains rattling at his feet, he was marched across the room and forced to kneel before the three other torture devices, hands still cuffed before him. As he knelt, his body and neck were positioned to see the entirety of the hall again, that and the various torture apparatuses before him. Thumbscrews: three of varying sizes. Simple tools really, vises designed to slowly crush thumbs and fingers and other small joints. The bigger vises were used to crush ankles and knees and elbows or heads. Perfect implements for extracting confessions. Gault would not say a word. And surely his captors knew that. Still, they seemed bent on making him suffer.
With one hand on the black-opal-inlaid pommel of his sword, Leif Chaparral loomed over him, admiring his handiwork with the tuning fork. Leif’s face still bore the telltale bruising of their previous encounter. Still his black-rimmed eyes lanced into Gault’s. And he stood tall and proud in the black-lacquered armor and silver surcoat of the Dayknights. The silver-wolf-on-a-maroon-field crest of his tunic marked him as nobility of Rivermeade. Gault had memorized every crest of all the Gul Kana nobles years ago. The heraldry and colors of every Sør Sevier enemy were recorded in The Chivalric Illuminations of Raijael. Not that the information did him any good now.
Jovan Bronachell strode up behind Leif, cloaked in a fur-trimmed cape of harsh gray fastened with a silver brooch of curious workmanship. Decorative ring mail shimmered under a black tunic, and his dark hair fell in thick waves about his shoulders. A simple band of silver crowned his head. He was without doubt the tallest man in the room. “Why is it you fight for the White Prince?” The timbre of his voice was deep.
Gault was hesitant to talk, not just because he didn’t want to reveal anything to these people, but the palate impaler set against his chest and throat gave him pause to move any muscle at all.
“Feel free to mumble or slur your answers if need be,” Leif added. “We’ve nothing but time here.”
But time was the last thing on Gault’s side, his neck muscles were already burning and heaving, trying to stave off the two prongs. But it was a good question. Why do I fight for Aeros Raijael? For honor? For glory? For duty to my homeland? So my heroic deeds in war can be recorded for all time in The Chivalric Illuminations? In the back of his mind, he never did fully believe in Aeros’ crusade, not with what his mother had taught him of the Blessed Mother Mia and the angel stones. Is Laijon even real?
If so . . . he’s certainly abandoned me. . . .
Yes, it was an excellent question Leif had asked. These last ten years Gault had known nothing but war in the name of Laijon’s son Raijael. It was a sobering thought. All his life a warrior, marching and fighting on all manner of stark terrain, sleeping under rain and sun and snows. And for what? Two isles conquered and destroyed, hundreds of nobles dead, their wives and children slaughtered, farms burned, villages pillaged and raped, cathedrals and chapels desecrated. And to what end? To facilitate my own capture and imminent torture at the hands of Jovan Bronachell, a man who by rights probably shouldn’t even be an enemy, but for our perceived tribalism, our two kingdoms’ histories of bloodshed and differences in belief. No, I should not even be here.
Gault wondered what had happened to the crusade he once believed in. That honorable war in the name of Raijael to take back stolen lands. Over time, the braveness and rightness of it all had been stained by the likes of Enna Spades and Aeros himself. Stained with their cruel savagery. But isn’t that how war is waged? The thoughts racing through his head—he knew they were naught but the “simple musings of the weak-minded” that The Chivalric Illuminations constantly warned of.
Leif Chaparral nodded to one of the Dayknights behind Gault. Soon Gault’s cuffed
hands were jerked forward, thumbs forced into the cold iron of the thumbscrews. He did not panic, having learned never to allow terror to worm its way into his head. Oh, there were plenty of times when he was aware of his own fears, like now, but he’d developed a habit of hiding them beneath layers of toughness and indifference. No matter the pain, he would not shout out. He would give them nothing. He’d dealt with pain before. He knew it was only temporary and would eventually go away. Even in death, it would go away. Even if pain lasted days, weeks, or moons, it could be endured.
Jovan gave the nod for the torture to start.
But the pain never came.
Every Dayknight in the room jerked to attention as two figures entered the hall from under the far archways just out of Gault’s periphery. Spearheads were lowered and swords rang from their sheaths as the knights braced for attack. Jovan Bronachell’s body went rigid; his face was riven with rage. Leif’s dark-rimmed eyes narrowed and the grand vicar’s round face went pale. Even Jubal Bruk sat up in his chair. Several Dayknights broke from the ranks, spears at the ready, moving to intercept the two newcomers.
“Stand down!” Jovan’s voice scorched the silence. “Let them come!”
One was Jondralyn Bronachell, her lone milky eye visible under a bandage-wrapped face. She wore naught but a simple woolen robe tied at the waist and walked with a peculiar slowness. She was escorted by a long-haired blond fellow with a familiar gait. The blond man wore a long dark cloak with its hood thrown back, revealing a harsh and chiseled face. Like her brother the king, Jondralyn was tall. But her cloaked companion made every other man in Sunbird Hall look dwarfish in comparison. And Gault could see the man bore huge muscles under his attire. Jondralyn noticed Gault kneeling before the thumbscrews. But she carried on, her attention clearly on the king.
Gault felt scant remorse for maiming Jondralyn. She’d set the terms of the duel. Terms that Leif Chaparral had not honored. If he was wroth with anyone, it was Leif. Gault had pulled his sword blow and spared the princess’ life in Ravenker. It had been a last-second decision, a decision that would forever cost her an eye, and her beauty. But he did admire her strength in recovery. He had seen her struggle for life aboard the oxcart with Hawkwood. And now, even injured, with her face mostly hidden behind lumps of white bandages, she seemed possessed of grave dignity.
As he watched the princess make her way through the hall, Gault spied four helmetless young knights in the background that he had not previously seen, all four lusty-eyed and leering. The knights snickered at some whispered joke among them. Gault recognized the whisperer. Leif Chaparral’s young brother, Glade—the boy who had followed Tala Bronachell down into the depths of Purgatory. The other boy who’d slunk into the dungeon after Tala—the blond one with the deformed face—had never returned from those dark tunnels. Leastways, not that he had seen.
Tension in the room mounted as Jondralyn and her tall escort stood before the king. The princess had every knight in Sunbird Hall’s attention, spears held at the ready, their eyes ceaselessly scanning both her and her companion from behind the cavernous face guards of their helmets. Jovan angrily raked his fingers through his thick dark hair. His eyes bore into his sister. “I admit, you’ve a surprising amount of courage, Jon, bringing the Prince of Saint Only back into my castle.”
Squireck Van Hester. My own flesh and blood. My cousin! Gault swallowed, felt his neck give way, the tines of the fork piercing the flesh under his chin, warm blood dribbling down. But everyone seemed to have forgotten about him, still kneeling alone over the thumbscrews, tuning fork still at his neck.
“I’ve courage for many reasons, brother,” Jondralyn said, her voice somewhat muffled, mouth half-covered in bandages. “Leastwise more courage than you will ever have.”
“We’ve both suffered at the hands of the enemy,” Jovan said. “The assassination attempt on me. The wounds to your face. Our enemy has struck two blows straight at the center of our kingdom. Though your injuries grieve me greatly, do not so brazenly test my patience by casting insults my way. I am still your king, the one who made sure you received the greatest of medical care, the one who insisted you be allowed to recover in your own chamber, the one who now rains justice down on the foul Sør Sevier monster who so brutalized your face.” Jovan’s eyes now fell on Gault.
Squireck Van Hester met Gault’s gaze too. Does the giant even recognize me? They had never before met, but in the Prince of Saint Only’s one glance, Gault could see the look of his own mother, Evalyn Aulbrek. It was in his cousin’s eyes and the tilt of his blond head. Gault’s mother and Squireck’s father, King Edmon Guy Van Hester, were brother and sister. Evalyn Van Hester was betrothed to Agus Aulbrek of the Sør Sevier Nordland Highlands as a young girl. She’d given birth to Gault and his younger siblings in the far north of Sør Sevier, never to see her own homeland or kin again, not before the blades of assassins claimed her life.
Though Gault had always known of his lineage and relation to the kingdom of Adin Wyte and Ser Edmon Guy Van Hester’s Throne of Spears, he’d had no qualms about fighting in Aeros’ armies against his own blood kin. He’d never felt any sort of fealty to his uncle Edmon. He had never met the man nor sworn any allegiance to him. Sør Sevier was Gault’s homeland: Agus Aulbrek his father, Aevrett Raijael his king, and Aeros Raijael his lord. And for what? A lifetime’s allegiance to Aeros had thus far netted him naught but betrayal. His connection to Adin Wyte had been one of the reasons Ava Shay claimed Aeros would betray him. And my trust—haunted and betrayed by a blond girl’s kiss. The prongs of the tuning fork pushed deeper into his chin, and his neck was now trembling.
“ ’Tis you who is the monster, brother,” Jondralyn said. “ ’Tis you who bears responsibility for my injuries. Purposely sending me away with Leif Chaparral, a man who looks to naught but his own self-interests. ’Tis you who is the monster.”
“Gault Aulbrek is the monster!” Baron Jubal Bruk—the limbless man who had gone forgotten on the settee—shouted. “ ’Twas Gault and the other foul creatures who slithered over from Sør Sevier like snakes! Look what they’ve done to me! Gault deserves the same as he gave me!”
Jubal was wrong. ’Twas Enna Spades who’d left him limbless. She’d forced his own son to do the dismembering. Gault wondered if Jubal even knew Jenko was still alive and fighting on the side of Aeros Raijael, fucking the woman who’d caused Jubal’s very torture.
“Gault should be a free man,” Jondralyn said. “I set the rules of our spar. He won fairly. Leif agreed to set him free. The honorable thing would be to let him go now.”
“Let the enemy go?” Leif cackled. “That’s absurd.”
“Culpa Barra heard you swear the oath,” Jondralyn spit. “Gault should be freed.”
“Culpa is as big a traitor as Squireck,” Leif scoffed. “As is Hawkwood!”
“No knight of Sør Sevier should ever go free!” Jubal Bruk roared again. “I’ve seen their cruelty! I am evidence of their wickedness before Laijon!”
“Baron Bruk is right.” Jovan’s eyes narrowed to slits, his gaze locking onto Squireck. “You dare show your face in my hall again, before the Silver Throne, cowering behind the protection of my sister?”
“I cower behind no person.” Squireck stepped forward. Dayknights imposed themselves between him and the king, spears lowered at his chest.
Squireck stopped his advance, one long finger pointing behind Jovan. “The Silver Throne is covered under white sheets, as you cower under the thumb of the grand vicar and the Vallè ambassador.” He straightened his posture. “Or do you cloak the Silver Throne in sheets because you know you are unworthy of it?”
“The throne is covered in white out of respect for my father who died—”
“You defile your father’s memory!” Squireck’s voice thundered through the hall.
Leif Chaparral drew his sword. “I should open you from neck to gullet, Squireck Van Hester.”
“I would snap that sword over your head!” the Prince
of Saint Only bellowed.
“You dare challenge me?”
“It is no idle threat I levy, Ser Leif.” Squireck’s eyes were humorless.
“Enough!” Jovan shouted. “Hold your tongues, every one of you!”
“I will not hold my tongue.” Squireck’s attention was again on the king. “I’ve come to demand my freedom. I’ve come to demand my right to resume my place in your court. The right that I have earned in accordance with the laws of the arena and the Arena Incantations bestowed by our very own grand vicar, whom you revere. I ask for nothing else. Only that which I deserve. That I triumphed in the arena against all odds speaks to my worthiness in the eyes of Laijon.”
It seemed the air was taken out of the room at his brief but impassioned speech.
“Do not listen to him, my lord.” Leif turned to Jovan. “He is untrustworthy. Full of schemes and secrets.”
“And tell us, Leif,” Jondralyn said, “what secrets do you hide from your king? What recent lapses in duty do you keep from my brother?”
Squireck grabbed her by the arm, the look he shot her one of concern. He turned to her brother. “What say you to the demands of the arena champion?”
“This whole situation indeed vexes me.” Jovan looked to the grand vicar. “Squireck Van Hester proudly admitted to the murder of Archbishop Lucas. And lies to the Silver Throne cannot be tolerated. Such treachery cannot go unpunished.”
The grand vicar bowed to Jovan. “I am inclined to agree with Squireck.” At his words murmurs ran through the crowd of knights. However, Jovan did not look at all surprised by the pronouncement. The vicar continued. “With all due respect, my king, there has been growing unrest in your ranks regarding our treatment of the champion of the arena. Despite the Prince of Saint Only’s murderous confession after the fact, the law of the arena is clear. The Arena Incantations bestowed by the authority of the grand vicarship shall not be set aside. Truth is, the majority of the people wish to see Squireck Van Hester restored unto the court of the Silver Throne.”
The Blackest Heart Page 25