by Max Irons
“See that you treat Julia with the respect befitting her rank,” she said. “She’s a woman of fine upbringing, not the common tramps you are so accustomed to.”
Iven grunted and nodded.
Galeron’s brow creased. Strange thing to bring up at a time like this. Lady Valerian stalked off, and Iven offered Julia his right arm. She wrapped a bony hand around it, and they proceeded into the hall. Galeron glanced at Lonni. Should he do the same thing? Was it a custom of Rayan society, or just for the nobility? Heat crept up his neck, but he extended his arm.
Lonni raised an eyebrow. “Perhaps there’s hope for you yet.”
She interlocked her arm with his, and they moved forward. The Hall of the Fallen expanded before them, a huge cavernous vista. Columns carved with intricate and multicolored reliefs of battle lined the sides. Two tiered fountains trickled water on either side of the entrance, their contents tinged with red. Galeron stared as they walked past. Blood? No, it couldn’t be. Probably some sort of beet dye in the fountain.
Men and women milled around the entrance, dressed to varying degrees like Iven and Lonni. Some of the ladies had their hair tied up in enormous towering bundles, and many men wore wide-brimmed feathered caps. Unfortunately, Galeron noted with a twist of his stomach, it appeared he was the only one not wearing an over-starched shirt and poufy pants. Several turned to stare at him as they went past. Lonni pressed herself into his arm.
Walking suddenly seemed a difficult task. Where should he place his feet? How far should he step forward? Why am I thinking about this? He stared at Iven’s back and followed him through the crowd of people to a series of long tables and high-backed chairs set up in a horseshoe shape. A raised platform at the end of the hall held another long table, the chairs more ornately decorated and trimmed in gold.
“Is it true?” asked an icy smooth voice. “Can the iron paladin dance?”
Galeron stiffened and turned to the sound. Kolvein leered at him off to his left, and Lonni’s grip on his arm tightened.
“Ambassador Mord,” Galeron said through clenched teeth. “Is there something I can help you with?”
A thin smile revealed several crooked teeth. “How’s your nose healing?”
Boiling blood surged in his gut, and a guttural snarl seeped out of his throat. “Come see for yourself.”
Kolvein chuckled. “I think not, little Broton. Do you know why we are here tonight?”
What was he doing? Some distant corner of his mind wondered why Kolvein wasn’t with King Balen, but creeping rage enveloped that thought.
“I’m here to protect Iven and find a reason to wring your neck,” Galeron said.
“No, you are the reason we’re here,” Kolvein said. “You, with your black sword and your coward’s heart, made tonight possible. Congratulations are in order, wouldn’t you say?”
“You’re five years late,” Lonni said. “Don’t you have somewhere else to slither off to?”
Kolvein’s eyes fixated on her, licking his lips. “In Delktas, women do not speak so to their superiors. Be thankful, young wench, that you are not there, or a whipping would be in order.”
Galeron’s eyes narrowed. “Was that a threat, Delktian?”
He smiled. “I was stating a fact, iron paladin. I’m sure, even with your intellect, you understand the difference.”
“Mind your tongue anyway,” Galeron said.
“I am delivering some helpful information,” said Kolvein. “Yet you accuse me of threatening your lady’s safety. Ill manners for one in a lord’s confidences.”
“I know who my enemies are,” he said.
“Do you?” Kolvein smiled. “Perhaps your assurance is misplaced. How is the milkmaid?”
Galeron dropped Lonni’s arm. How could he know about Melia, and why was he asking? “What does she have to do with you?”
He shook his head in an exaggerated fashion. “Yes, the grave arrogance of southern men. I expected as much. Ponder on this. What kind of paladin can’t protect those he loves?”
Kolvein slid away into the crowd behind them. Galeron rushed after him, squeezing between a few noblemen, and seized his arm.
“Explain yourself,” he growled.
Kolvein sneered. “Deathstalker they called you. I say you are a coward. There is no heroic return for you, no happy ending to your tale. Did you think Delktas would suffer the fall of our greatest mage to a mortal’s hand?”
Galeron swallowed. Kolvein wasn’t answering. He was toying with him.
“Speak plainly,” he said.
“No black sword this time, either,” said Kolvein, glancing at Galeron’s waist. “A pity. You’ll want it soon. How did it feel? How did it feel to have the one you loved betray you?”
His knuckles popped. How did he know? Why would he care to know? “This is your last warning. Speak. Plainly.”
“Delktas does not forgive, and it does not forget,” Kolvein said. “You’re a cursed man, and you curse others by your presence.” He smiled. “Every Delktian knows the name Galeron Triste, and every last man has sworn by blood and honor to kill you.”
“Why are you talking to me?” asked Galeron. “If it’s as you say, shouldn’t there be a knife in my back?”
Kolvein rubbed his hands together. “You will die, but I’m going to make you suffer, as my people suffer. You will perish cold and abandoned by everyone you care for. It has already begun.”
Galeron took a step forward. “What do you mean?”
“The milkmaid, a pretty thing, wasn’t she?” Kolvein said. “Haven’t you wondered, Deathstalker? Haven’t you pondered in your darkest moments why she rejected you?” His smile widened. “Davet the cooper heard a rumor, a whisper really, that Galeron Triste was a coward. That he fled battle wailing like a startled goat. He told her. It had to be done. She ought to know that the man she loved was craven.”
Galeron gritted his teeth. He’d been there. Somehow, Kolvein had been to the village where Melia lived. How? Was this the reason? No, no it couldn’t be. Kolvein was lying, and yet…
“Thiery is a tiny hamlet,” Kolvein said. “Rumors spread fast. You might not have heard them, off earning her dowry, but she did.”
He had. Kolvein Mord had been to Melia’s farm. How else could he name the town and Davet as cooper?
“A small bypass on the way to Keenan Caffar. That far removed from the city and ports, no one can tell Delktian from Rayan.” Kolvein sighed. “It was devastating for her to learn the strong warrior she planned to marry had a craven’s heart.” He spread his arms. “Someone had to tell her.”
Something inside Galeron broke, and he surged forward. Royal favor or not, Kolvein had gone too far. Now he was going to die. Galeron’s face collided with a barrier of solid air, and he pounded on it with his fists.
“You did this,” Kolvein said. “Your actions brought about her demise.”
Galeron stopped. The crowd of nobles turned to look at him, but his gaze never wavered from Kolvein’s face.
“The final step in the Deathstalker’s tragic romance,” Kolvein said. “She chose another. How could she not? She replaced you with the town carpenter, a drunkard and a fiend, but women connected with a coward have few choices.”
He licked his lips, as if savoring the last portion of some exquisite meal. Hot bile surged in Galeron’s throat, and his muscles trembled. The crowd of nobles had gone silent. It seemed as if everyone turned their eyes to Galeron and Kolvein. Even the servants stopped, arms full of material and dishes. The Delktian held his audience with a knowing glance.
“He came home in a blistering rage,” Kolvein said. “Dishes shattered, their table tossed on its side. No one knows what drove him, but in his anger, he beat the milkmaid to death.”
Galeron stared at him. Responses flashed into being, and slid away. His mind couldn’t wrap around the thought. Melia, dead? He wondered what she might have done after he left but never put effort into it. Wetness formed at the edges of his vision. She’d rejec
ted him, given him no reason to care what happened to her, yet that was a cruel fate. She’d not deserved it.
“Why?” he whispered.
“You are my enemy, Deathstalker,” growled Kolvein.
“The war is over,” Galeron said.
“The war is never over,” Kolvein said. “Enjoy your evening.”
#
An arm hooked around Galeron’s elbow. Lonni pulled him away from the encircling nobles.
“Let’s go,” she said softly. “Kolvein hopes you’ll do something rash. Isn’t that why he came to talk?”
Galeron swallowed, still watching the last spot he’d seen the Delktian. “I am going to kill him.”
“That’s not helping.” Lonni stopped and grabbed his jaw between her thumb and forefinger, forcing him to look at her. “I heard what he said, and I’m sorry. There’s nothing you can do about it. You don’t even know if he was telling the truth.”
“He was,” Galeron said. “He knew the town, the cooper’s name, and…” He inhaled sharply. “That drunk Wiatt always had a temper.”
She released his face. “You don’t mention much about your life outside the wars.”
“There’s a reason I don’t talk about it.”
“Did you know?”
He shook his head. “The last I heard, she was alive and unmarried. That was the day I left.”
“Why does Kolvein call you ‘iron paladin?’” asked Lonni, changing the subject. “Isn’t that a compliment?”
“Iron’s as common as sand in Delktas. There are huge deposits everywhere, just lying around,” Galeron said. “It’s what their society is built around. It’s also an insult to them. I’m common, nothing at all remarkable.”
Lonni nodded. “I don’t know if I would say that.”
“Galeron,” called Iven. “Grab your seat.”
With a last glance at the spot where Kolvein vanished, Galeron moved to join Iven and Julia.
Once they and the nobles had seated themselves at the long tables, rams’ horns sounded, and King Balen and Queen Tulia made their appearances in the Hall of the Fallen, Arlana trailing behind them. She didn’t look any worse for wear. Galeron felt the sudden urge to stand, but, seeing that no one else did, he held himself steady. Behind the king and queen walked several figures in scarlet robes emblazoned with the black sigil of a drake. Two of them were male, and the third might have been female. All of them had shaved heads, so it was difficult to tell.
“Highest ranking mages from Aleor,” whispered Iven, who sat to Galeron’s left. “I overheard Kolvein’s speech. We’ll get the northern rat, don’t you worry.”
Galeron grunted. “Thanks.”
The wielders of high power took their seats on the platform table. Kolvein sat to the king’s left, and he met Galeron’s gaze, winking. Galeron scowled and wished there was something to be done about the rage boiling in his gut.
“He’s manipulating you,” said Lonni.
“I know that,” he mumbled. “I’ve seen this game before.”
“Yet you’re falling for it.”
“It’s a good strategy.”
“His or yours?”
Galeron sighed. “Both.”
Kolvein’s presence antagonized him enough. Was he telling the truth, or had his jab been meant to shake Galeron’s confidence? Icy shards floated through the river of hot blood coursing in him. There was no way to know that much detail without some truth to his story. How could they have found him, found Melia, after the war? Weren’t all the Delktians driven back behind the mountains? Galeron bit his lip. That didn’t mean anything. Couriers could brave mountain passes.
It wasn’t my fault, but, yet, it was.
By ending the necromancer, he’d marked himself for Delktian vengeance, and the ones he cared for suffered because of it. An entire nation wanted him dead. Perhaps Kolvein exaggerated, but if so, it wasn’t by much. Delktians cared far too much for national honor. With no alternatives to break free, they would send men to hunt him. He would spend his entire life looking over his shoulder, waiting for a knife in the back.
Galeron rubbed his forehead. He couldn’t act like anything was wrong, couldn’t let Kolvein shake him. He had a job to do. His task came first, just as it always had. Gather information, listen, and question. That is my goal. Worry and guilt would wait until he finished.
“We gather this night to remember and to celebrate,” boomed King Balen. He raised his golden chalice over his head. “To the fallen.”
The nobles raised their own goblets in response. “To the fallen,” echoed around the hall.
Servants bustled about, carrying trays and platters with every kind of food imaginable. Meats of all varieties, steamed vegetables, fresh fruits, and pastries powdered with sugar swooped and dove as nobles called out for their favorite dishes.
“This is a light meal?” asked Galeron.
Iven shrugged. “Light by Rayan standards, I suppose. Enjoy yourself.”
Galeron filled his platter with freshly steamed fish and a few other dishes he didn’t recognize, even though his stomach twisted at the thought of eating. He had to maintain the illusion. Wine flowed like the spring thaw, and the hall buzzed with animated conversation. He kept his ears open, but nothing beyond a few disjointed words reached him. Eavesdropping would be difficult in an environment like this.
The presence of alcohol did loosen Julia’s lips, however.
“Where have you gone?” she asked Iven.
“Oh, here and there,” Iven said. “Galeron and I’ve been to Broton, Azizi, Soterios, and even the Han Empire once.”
“I’ve never been outside of Keenan Caffar,” Julia said. “I want to travel, but I never get the chance. Mother says it isn’t proper for a lady to have such an adventurous spirit.”
Iven snorted. “Your mother might be a nice woman, but she’s got no sense of fun.”
Julia giggled. “You might have too much of one. What else could possess you to make a Broton your paladin?”
“People keep talking about that,” Iven said. “I wasn’t here for all the excitement. I didn’t even know Princess Carys died until this morning. What happened?”
Galeron’s ears perked up. Keep it up, Iven. He stared at his fish intently.
“Well, it’s not nice to talk about,” Julia said.
“It never is, but I don’t want to make any more missteps. I embarrass my house enough as it is.”
She paused. “The Broton diplomat was seeing Princess Carys, but that had been court gossip for quite a while. They must have had a lovers’ spat, because one morning, the princess didn’t come to breakfast. King Balen and his guards went to investigate, but they found the door locked and heard no answer from inside. The guards beat the door down, and when they were almost through, a sudden explosion sounded from the chambers. The king and his men broke through and found the Broton ambassador dead, shot with his own weapon, covered in blood, and Princess Carys on the bed with her throat open.”
Julia stopped.
“What happened next?” asked Iven.
Galeron glanced over at her. She downed more of her wine and then said, “The king was furious. He ranted and raved for days, swearing to get revenge on Carys’s murderer. Queen Tulia wanted to investigate the matter, but King Balen swore it was a Broton plot. He’s been sending letters to King Soren, but no one has responded until the Princess Arlana arrived in court yesterday.”
Iven grunted. “I’m surprised the king didn’t declare war then and there.”
“There’s no proof,” said Julia. “At least, that’s how Queen Tulia explained it to the nobles. With the ambassador dead, and no weapon save his firelock found in the princess’s bedchambers, King Balen can’t definitively say the Brotons killed her.” She drained the last of her wine. “But who else could it be? The room was locked from the inside.”
“A sad tale,” Iven said. “No parent should have to bury his child. I’m sure Princess Carys’s funeral was a hard matter for the k
ing.”
Julia shook her head, splaying hair across her face. “There was no funeral.” She brushed her locks from her eyes. “King Balen couldn’t bear to see her lying in state, so they immediately placed her in the royal crypt.”
Galeron frowned. Royal funerals weren’t skipped over lightly. He bit into a carrot and chewed. This story changed the more he learned. Fletcher had been alive moments before he was discovered in the bedchambers.
“There was no one else in the room, correct?” asked Galeron.
Julia frowned. “What do you mean?”
“When King Balen found Carys and the ambassador, there was no other way for anyone to get in her chambers, right?”
“Right,” she said. “She lived on the fourth floor of the palace, and her window is solid glass. Why do you ask?”
“Galeron loves a puzzle,” Iven said. “Tell me more about yourself, Julia. Would you ever like to travel?”
The conversation veered away from the murder, but it sounded like the killer, whoever it was, had intended for Fletcher to get caught with Carys’s body. The plan had gone wrong, though. He’d killed himself before he could be captured. Galeron bit his lip. Fletcher, even if he was truly having an affair on his own time, should have been a light sleeper. It was part of the training all informers went through. How could someone have snuck in unnoticed? Even if the stroke that slew Carys was clean and swift, she would have woken. Death was never silent.
He flexed his mental muscles, but the answer remained just out of reach. His mind continued to drift from Carys’s murder to Melia’s. He scowled and shoved the thought deep into his head. He could think on it later. Who benefited from Carys’s death? With a locked room and an unsuspecting informer, could she have killed herself? Why would she do that?
Galeron sighed. Time slipped away, and he was no closer to solving the puzzle than he had been when he got off the ship.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
Galeron knew he was in trouble when the musicians started dragging their instruments over into a corner. Several harps hummed as their owners tuned them, and lutes and fiddles soon followed. His heart dropped somewhere around his toes as men and women rose from their seats and crossed into the large open floor of the hall, men guiding the ladies by one arm. Iven rose and walked with Julia to join the growing crowd of people.